by Jodi Redford
He mentally tracked back to the mysterious shaking of the kitchen counter, right when Jemma was com—
Oh fuck.
Jemma shook her head before rubbing her temples. “Wait a sec. Griff isn’t the first man I’ve ever had sex with. Why the hell wasn’t my energy triggered long before now?”
A premonition of doom barreled down on him like a Mack truck. He swung his gaze in Clarissa’s direction, his tongue fumbling to form the words that’d hopefully stall the revelation looming on the horizon. Shit, why didn’t he come clean with Jemma when he had the chance?
The words finally found their exit, but Clarissa beat him to the delivery. “Because Griffin isn’t just any man. He’s your familiar.”
Chapter Four
Jemma blinked at Clarissa, trying to make sense of the word. “My what?”
“Your familiar.” Clarissa frowned. “Why do you look like this is news to you?”
“Uh, because it is.” Jemma glanced toward Griff and noticed his deer-in-headlights expression.
“I don’t understand.” Clarissa plunked her hands on her hips. “You said you knew that I had Griffin before you did.”
“Well, I only assumed you guys had sex. Griff mentioned your relationship was complicated.” She shrugged. “Sex is often complicated.”
From the way Clarissa gaped at her, she wondered if a foot had suddenly sprouted from the top of her head. She resisted the urge to check and see.
“Griffin was my familiar before I gifted him to you. That was our relationship. Good goddess, we most certainly did not have sex.” Clarissa’s tone implied that the mere idea was sacrilegious.
Relief swept through Jemma, until she remembered Griff’s big, fat, honkin’ secret. She peered up at him, unable to mask the hurt ballooning inside her. “This is what you were keeping from me earlier, isn’t it?”
He opened his mouth and quickly snapped it shut again, his jaw working. Frustrated by his unwillingness to communicate, she started toward the porch steps. Griff caught her arm, stalling her retreat.
“I thought you’d be weirded out by it, Jemma. Especially after…well, you know.” The rawness of his voice matched the agony in his eyes.
“Why would I be weirded out?”
Peach chortled, drawing everyone’s attention. “Hello. He’s a cat. Sort of weird.”
A series of choking coughs seized Jemma. Once she got them under control, she stared at Griff. “A cat?” Finally the light bulb clicked on in her brain. “Oh my God, you’re that kind of familiar. Like the talking cat on Sabrina, the Teenage Witch.”
“Actually, Salem the cat wasn’t a true familiar,” Peach piped up. “And he’s way funnier than our Griffin.”
Jemma swayed, the world tilting at a crazy angle around her. “I had sex with a cat.” Worse than that, it was the best sex of her life. I’m going to spend years in therapy for this.
Griff’s arms suddenly encircled her, pressing her against the solid, steadying presence of his chest. “Let’s get you inside so you can sit down.” Not giving her the opportunity to argue, he herded her inside the mansion. They crossed the marbled entry, and he led her into a small parlor outfitted with a high-backed ruby-red velvet sofa and matching wingchairs. He settled her in one of the chairs and hunkered in front of her, his worried gaze sweeping her face. “You’re right, I should have told you. I’m sorry.”
She rolled her lips tight, not quite ready to let him off the hook. “Is there anything else you’re not telling me? You’re not having a tawdry affair with your neighbor’s Persian, are you?”
He tunneled his fingers through his hair, leaving the strands in disarray. “This is why I didn’t want to tell you. I knew it’d be too much for you to take.”
“It wouldn’t be if I’d had some warning. Did you ever consider that, you blockhead?”
Griff hung his head, looking miserable.
Clarissa entered the room, bearing a glass of lemonade. She passed it to Jemma. “Here, you could probably use this.”
Grateful for anything that’d distract her from the fact that her life had turned several shades of crazy, Jemma sipped the tart beverage and watched while Clarissa gathered her hair into a ponytail. Clarissa caught her eye and smiled. “How about an official tour of the house before dinner?”
The mention of food made her queasy but she nodded anyway. She stood, the ice cubes in the glass clinking. For the next twenty minutes Clarissa played gracious hostess, taking her from room to room. But as beautiful as the décor was, Jemma couldn’t get over the feeling that she was trapped in a surreal nightmare that she had no prayer of waking from. Griff seemed well attuned to her uneasy thoughts because he stayed close to her side during the entire tour, his quiet strength a steady buffer against her escalating anxiety.
They ascended the grand staircase to the mansion’s second level and Clarissa halted, her hand curving around one of the pineapple-shaped newels topping the banister. Compassion softened her features. “I know you must be frightened coming here, but please know you’ll be protected from Nettie and her zombies. Beyond the safety your coven sisters provide, I also sent for an additional guard this morning. Logan should be arriving any second.”
Griff gave a strangled choke, his aura of soothing comfort dissolving in a flash. “You’re assigning Logan Scott to Jemma?” Incredulous fury sliced like a hot blade through his tone.
Clarissa’s eyes turned frosty. “Yes. Do you have a problem with it?”
“You know damn well that I do.”
“Tough shit.” Turning her back on Griff, Clarissa continued strolling down the hallway, her posture regal. “Come on, Jemma. I’ll show you to your room. Since Fiona, Jade and Constance are in New Orleans, you’ll be the only coven sister occupying this part of the mansion for the next week. You’ll have plenty of privacy.”
Unsure what to make of the pair’s odd exchange, Jemma hurried after Clarissa. She caught up with her outside one of the many bedrooms making up the east wing.
“This was Lillian’s bedroom. I figured it would be appropriate that you should have it.” Clarissa swung open the door and stepped inside.
Jemma followed after her and gasped at her first glimpse of the sumptuous room. The space made her bedroom back home look like a closet for a mouse. Pivoting, she gaped at the enormous armoire situated in front of the nearest toile-patterned wall. Shuffling another half turn, she noticed a huge canopy bed in the same matching cherry wood as the armoire. Panels of sapphire blue silk cascaded from the bed’s intricately carved posts and pooled onto the floor. An adjacent chaise lounge offered the perfect spot to curl up for a good read or nap.
“This room is a decorator’s wet dream.”
“I’m glad you like it.” Chuckling, Clarissa pointed to the armoire. “I made sure to stock it with hangers but if you need more just let me know.”
Jemma grimaced. “That won’t be necessary. What I’m wearing is all I have with me.” Despite Griff’s assurances that no dead relatives would be staked out at her house waiting to pounce, she’d opted not to risk any of her body parts for some fresh clothes.
“Not a problem. I’ll work on getting a new wardrobe put together for you,” Clarissa said, stepping toward the doorway.
Griffin blocked her path. “We need to talk.”
Clarissa’s gaze flicked in Jemma’s direction. “Later. Help her settle in.”
His jaw locked tight, Griffin stepped aside, allowing Clarissa to exit. Taking in his stiff posture and the way he was grinding his molars, Jemma deduced that he was still ticked about the upcoming arrival of Logan Scott. Crossing to the chaise, she slumped between a pair of plump pillows. “Who is Logan?”
Griff scowled. “Clarissa’s pet.”
Okay, either that was code for down-and-dirty-fuck-buddy or Logan Scott was another familiar. “Is he a cat too?”
A fresh set of thunderclouds darkened Griff’s face. “No. Wolf.” He spit the last word between his teeth like it was the filthiest of oat
hs.
She gaped at him. “As in werewolf?”
He gave a curt nod and her head spun. With everything thrown at her today, she probably shouldn’t be shocked to discover werewolves existed. Crap, at this rate she half-expected Frankenstein and Dracula to be joining them for tea and finger sandwiches.
“You don’t like Logan.” Which was odd. Griff got along with pretty much everyone.
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“Why?”
“He’s an asshole.”
She rolled her eyes. “Can you be more specific?”
“He’s a huge asshole.”
Okay, clearly she wouldn’t get anything more definitive from him. “Is it normal for a werewolf to be a familiar? I thought they were all supposed to be like you—a cat.”
“Familiars can take any shape. Cats are the most popular, but occasionally you’ll get the odd wolf, bear, raven and such. Your former guardian, George McStravick, was a beaver.”
Griff’s casual announcement nearly made her fall off the chaise. “Mr. McStravick was my familiar? And a beaver?” Come to think of it, she did recall him having some seriously bucked teeth. George had been her parent’s next-door neighbor, right up until he died of a heart attack ten—
She stared at Griff, the puzzle pieces starting to click together. “You were sent to me as his replacement.”
He nodded. “Normally a witch chooses her own familiar, but since you had no knowledge of the ritual, one needed to be assigned to you. So just like George was gifted to you from your mother’s best friend, I was gifted to you from Clarissa.”
“She didn’t mind giving you away to me?”
A humorless laugh huffed from Griff. “She was probably ecstatic about it.” He gave a sardonic twist of his lips. “In case you didn’t notice, Clarissa and I often don’t see eye to eye.”
His admission prompted her thoughts to shift to the tense scene on the porch, when Clarissa berated Griff for not keeping his cock in his pants. “Did you know that sleeping with me would unlock my magic? Is that why you didn’t make a move on me before last night?”
He appeared dumbstruck by her question. “No, not at all. Jesus, do you honestly think I would have risked your life just to get some sex if I’d known?”
Just to get some sex? Her stomach cramped at the almost off-hand way he’d said those words, as if he considered the incredible night they’d shared to be less memorable than watching paint dry.
“I never attempted to make love to you because it’s forbidden, Jemma. Familiars can’t have sex with their witches. It’s written in our contracts.”
His announcement managed to shake her from her glum musings. “You guys have contracts? You’re kidding me.”
“It’s a necessary evil. A long time ago a familiar attempted to steal his witch’s powers after gaining her love and trust. The contracts were devised as a safeguard to protect against something like that happening again.”
“You and I don’t have a contract.”
His shoulders hitched in a half-shrug. “Our situation is unusual. And technically Clarissa is still my main boss. Her contract holds precedence.”
She leaned back on the chaise and folded her arms. “Hmm, I never thought of it in terms of either of us being your boss. Does this mean if I tell you to do something, you have to do it?”
“Depends on what you want.”
She ran her fingers over the smooth fabric of the chaise, recalling how the rippling contours of Griff’s abdomen had a similar silky texture. Much like his cock. She licked her lips. Cat or not, Griff definitely was the proud owner of a body that begged to be touched. Maybe this whole boss thing had its advantages. “What if I want you to strip for me?”
He blinked. Twice. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Jemma—”
“Or maybe I want you to crawl over here and give me a bath…” she tiptoed her fingers along the front of the T-shirt he’d loaned her and grazed her suddenly stiff nipples, “…with your tongue.”
Griff shuddered so hard he nearly toppled over. She bit her bottom lip, hiding her grin of victory. If he thought all they had between them was some meaningless sex he could easily forget, she’d happily prove him wrong.
A deep, masculine chuckle floated into the room. Whipping her head around, Jemma stared at the man standing in the doorway. She took in his snug, faded jeans and black T-shirt. I’m the guy your mama warned you about was emblazoned dead center on his chest, the convenient disclaimer drawing attention to his sculpted pecs and the barbed-wire tattoo encircling his upper arm. Add all that to the rumpled midnight-black hair and neatly trimmed goatee, and her suspicions were sealed that he routinely had women dropping their panties every time he crooked a finger.
Lowering his mirrored Ray-Bans, the stranger revealed eyes in an unusual shade of amber. A predatory smile stretched his full lips. “Now that’s an offer too good to pass up, sugar.”
Chapter Five
If Logan Scott continued visually undressing Jemma, Griffin was going to ram his fist down the son of a bitch’s throat. Barely restraining his snarl, he stomped to the chaise and tugged Jemma close. “The offer isn’t open to you, dickhead.”
Logan sauntered into the room, his annoying-as-shit smirk widening. “Pity, because you’re not the only one with an oral fixation, Catman.”
Griffin’s hand clenched in anticipation of punching through the cartilage of Logan’s nose. As if she’d foreseen the knockdown-dragout on the brink of eruption, Clarissa strode through the doorway and glanced at Logan. “I thought I heard your bike outside.”
Logan’s gaze drifted down Clarissa’s length. He made no bones over the fact he was visually devouring the curve of her thigh like it was a tasty T-bone. “Decided the hog needed some fresh air.”
Jemma scooted forward on the chaise. “What do you ride? My dad has a vintage Indian that’s practically a member of our family.”
Logan chuckled. “A man after my own heart. Mine’s a Harley Fat Boy. Nothin’ like 3000 rpms of horsepower between your legs.” He winked. “Just say the word and I’ll give you a ride like you’ve never experienced, sugar.”
A low growl rumbled from Griffin. Jemma frowned at him. Hell, whatever it took to get her to stop smiling at Logan. Didn’t take much to encourage the bastard.
Clarissa issued a silent warning with her eyes. “Why don’t we all go downstairs? Gloria’s got just about everything set for supper on the veranda.” Clearly expecting her suggestion to be obeyed, she exited into the hall. After pinning Logan with an I’ll-kick-your-ass-later glare, Griffin stood and offered Jemma his arm.
Downstairs, they piled around the large folding table that’d been set up for the occasion. Griffin noticed the bemusement stamped on Jemma’s face as she took in the array of food. He squeezed her hand beneath the table. “You okay?”
“I have zombies after me and Clarissa’s throwing a smorgasbord. Don’t you find that a little…weird?”
“It’s a southern thing. You’ll get used to it. Now how about a biscuit?” He reached for the platter holding the bread assortment just as a flea-bitten bloodhound came hurtling out of nowhere. The mutt knocked into the table, sending food flying. Paying no heed to the shouts and curses aimed at him, the dog chomped onto a piece of fried chicken and dashed off.
Clarissa scrambled for the wobbling pitcher of lemonade and swore a blue streak when it toppled, spilling the beverage all over. “Damn it, Peach, how many times do I have to tell you to quit feeding that mutt? He’s never going to leave with all the free handouts you keep sneaking him.”
“But I like Floyd. He reminds me of my poor departed Linus.”
Griffin caught Jemma’s questioning look and leaned close to her ear. “Mr. Peach.”
Jemma nodded. “Ah.”
Still grumbling, Clarissa tried mopping up the mess with her napkin. Giving up, she wadded the soaked paper in her hand and scraped back her chair. “I’m going to have to r
eplace the lemonade.”
“Make mine a brewski, shug.” Logan cupped his hand toward his mouth in the universal symbol for tipping back a cold one.
Shooting her pet a hard glare, Clarissa stalked into the mansion.
“So, Jemma…” The way her name rolled off Logan’s honeyed tongue made Griffin’s hackles rise. “Clarissa mentioned you had one hell of a scare this mornin’.”
Jemma dropped her uneaten biscuit onto her plate, leaving Griffin with the strong temptation to chop Logan’s balls off for bringing up the damn zombie attack. Apparently realizing his stupid blunder, Logan leaned sideways and patted Jemma’s knee. Griffin stared at the offensive hand, imagining each of Logan’s fingers broken and bloodied.
“Don’t you worry on it any, darlin’. I’m here now and completely at your service.”
Griffin tugged on Jemma’s seat, forcing Logan’s hand to fall. “The only one who’ll be servicing Jemma is me.”
Logan’s eyebrows lifted, indicating he’d gotten the double meaning loud and clear. Clarissa trotted back out onto the porch, her fight-busting radar obviously getting a workout. She plunked the container of lemonade on the table before passing Logan his beer. He looked at the label and grimaced. “Nonalcoholic?”
Clarissa’s smile was syrupy. “You weren’t specific, shug.”
Logan twisted the cap off the beer bottle, the resulting pop and fizz from the escaping air muffling his grumble.
“Everyone keeps promising me that I’m safe here. But frankly, I don’t feel safe anywhere.” Anxiety trembling in Jemma’s voice, she inched her plate away. “I don’t want to spend the rest of eternity hiding out from a ghost and her zombies. I have a life and family waiting for me back home that I can’t just abandon.”
Helplessness seized Griffin. It killed him that he couldn’t give her the peace and security she’d known before her world came tumbling down—all because of him. If he could go back in time and not give in to his overwhelming passion for her…
Ah Christ, would he be able to control himself? He’d wanted Jemma with an almost painful intensity from the first moment he’d set eyes on her all those years ago. Every day since then had been both heaven and hell. He’d basked in their friendship, savored every innocent touch, all the while aching for so much more.
