Hex and the Single Girl (2 page)

“I don’t like the word ’power,”’ said Emma. “Makes me sound like a mutant.”

“You are a mutant,” said Daphne. “I’ve never seen orange eyes before. Except on a cat.”

“They’re
amber,
” corrected Emma. “And my
skill
is called telegraphopathy.”

“Like a telegraph?”

Emma nodded. “I transmit images over a short distance—the distance between my brain and yours. I can’t receive.

And I can’t send thoughts or words or movies. Only still pictures. Images can be powerful, though. And dangerous.

Which is why I use my skill to help people. For the greatest good.”

“Romantic love,” said Daphne.

“It’s all you need,” said Emma, although she managed to muddle through without it.

“Is that what you really believe, or the rap you give to clients?” Daphne asked. She paused in front of a framed diploma on the white wall behind Emma’s desk. “Certificate of authenticity from the Berkeley School of Extrasensory Perception.”

“According to my testers, I’m one of a kind,” said Emma. “The only confirmed telegraphopathist in the world.”

Daphne asked, “Do you ever send the wrong picture?”

Emma shook her head. “I have complete control over what I send and when. Don’t worry about accidents. They never happen.”

“You mentioned a contract?” Daphne checked her watch again.

Emma went to her desk and found a standard contract printed on The Good Witch, Inc. stationery. She filled in the name, date, payment schedule, and handed the sheet to Daphne.

The blond read the contract on the spot and signed. Most women took a day. But Daphne did so hate to waste time.

“Call me tomorrow after you’ve looked through the folder,” said Daphne. “I have meetings all morning with the SlimBurn people, but I can get to your photographer’s studio in the early afternoon.”

Emma’s jaw dropped. “You do the ads for SlimBurn diet pills?”

The blond nodded. “You like them?”

“I’ve seen them.”

“We’re in the same kind of business, Emma,” said Daphne, smugly. “We both use the power of image. I do it to sell a product. You do it for the greater good.” She said the last two words with sirloin-thick sarcasm.

“The
greatest
good,” said Emma.

“If you say so,” mocked the blond.

“I want you to swear right now that your intentions are honorable and that you are genuinely, humbly, painfully in love with this man,” said Emma, pointing to the folder on the couch. “I won’t take the case otherwise.”

“I am. In love with him,” said Daphne.

Emma stared at her, wanting to believe. She inhaled deeply, looking for the odor of a lie, but could still only pick up the lingering scent of greenbacks. “The photographer’s studio is also on Waverly Place, right across the street,” she said. “He’s got racks of costumes and props there, so you don’t need to bring anything.” Emma handed Daphne a card with the address. “He’ll bill you separately.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” said Daphne. She picked up her tote and headed for the door. “One more question, before I go.”

“Yes?”

“Do you use your power—
skill,
whatever—to make men fall in love with you?”

“Am I self-serving? Just the opposite, Daphne,” said Emma. “I put all my energy and concentration into my job. I’m devoted to my clients and work around the clock on their cases. The truth is, I simply don’t have time for a love life of my own. Besides, I derive huge satisfaction in helping other women find happiness.”

The blond blinked. Then, with a loud snort, she started laughing and kept at it for way longer than necessary.

When she pulled herself together, Daphne asked, “Has that little speech fooled anyone? Ever?”

Chapter 2

B
rain fuzz. That’s what Emma called the post-transmission cranial snowstorm. Along with that, she sometimes felt ravenously hungry (like now). Or desperately horny (like always).

She pulled off her boots, padded to the center of the room, placed a supportive hand over each tit, and jogged in place.

Exercise was the only way to clear away the fuzz, something about blood flow to the brain.

“Wish I had my camera,” said a voice at the doorway.

Emma turned to see her best friend, the photographer Victor Armour. He’d let himself into her apartment (he had a key) with the stealth of a mouse.

He asked, “Did I surprise you?”

With her super ears, Emma had heard the elevator doors opening on her floor, the footsteps in the hallway, the key tumbling into the lock, and the door creaking open.

“You got me that time,” she lied, still jogging in place. “Did you see a cool, leggy blond in a tight gray suit in the lobby?”

“You pass the ’talk test,’” said Victor. “Just read about it in the
Times.
If you can exercise and talk at the same time, you are not a fat slob loser.”

“I’ll cross that off my list,” she said, stopping. “She’s coming to your studio tomorrow.”

“The cool blond?” he asked, flopping onto the couch. “Is she going to give me a hard time?”

“Hard in all the right places,” said Emma.

“Really?” he asked lasciviously. “Show me.”

He held out his hand, wanting Emma to put Daphne’s likeness into his head. She swatted it away and took a seat next to him. “I don’t transmit on command.”

Victor was both Emma’s confidant and colleague. She funneled her clients to him. He snapped sexy photographs of the women, which Emma memorized and then implanted into the minds of the men they desired. Victor liked his job a little too much.

“I thought you had a date tonight,” he said.

“It’s not a date,” Emma corrected. “It’s drinks with a friend who happens to be male.”

“Drinks?” said Victor with disgust. “Who is this jerkoff? He can’t feed you?”

“Hoffman Centry. Book editor at Ransom House. You met him.” Victor gave her the blank look. “Two days ago. In front of the building?”

“Oh, that guy.” Victor grinned. “Totally your type. A sexless smurf you’ll never be attracted to, so you’re safe. Ah, yes, the picture is coming in clearly now.
He’s
not the one withholding dinner. You’re keeping it liquid. I’m sure he’d love to feed you.”

“A tube steak with relish?” she asked.

“A ham boner,” said Victor.

Emma said, “Why does it always have to be about sex with you? Hoff and I are friends. I like spending time with him.

He’s smart and sweet. He smells like Elmer’s glue.”

“What do I smell like tonight?”

She put her nose against Victor’s neck and inhaled. “You smell like…a stallion…cantering across an open prairie…a potent musk rising from your mighty flanks…”

“All that and a hint of Irish Spring,” he said. “It’s been six months since the last time you tried to have sex. You should give the smurf a chance. Maybe it’ll be good with him.”

“I’m not up for another humiliation,” said Emma. “It batters the soul. I’m a deeply sensitive person, as you know, Victor.”

“So you say, over and over again. Get in the shower,” he said. “I’m choosing your outfit tonight.” He stood up, helping Emma to her feet. They went into her (white) bedroom in the back of the apartment. She ducked into the (white) bathroom while he threw open her closet doors.

Victor had an eye for frame, color, and content, which made him a talented photographer. But style was his sixth sense. He could reach into Emma’s cluttered closet and pull out pieces that fit together into a cohesive, kooky whole.

Left on her own, Emma would wear the same black dress and boots every time she went out.

Emma emerged from the shower to find half her clothes on the bed. Victor had not yet found an outfit to his liking.

She watched from the uncovered corner of the bed as he appraised her meager selection.

“Black, black, faded black, graying black, pilling black,” he said, pushing one hanger aside at a time. “Witches don’t have to wear black. You won’t be excommunicated from the coven if you wore, say, red or purple.”

Emma said, “I’m not in a coven. I’m the lone witch. And speaking of other, lesser witches, what’s the Monica update?

”

He shrugged and said, “Her tits are small, she laughs like a donkey, and she doesn’t swallow.”

“She should be shot,” said Emma.

“And get this: Monica said she didn’t believe a Greenwich Village photographer with a two hundred dollar haircut and low-rise jeans could be straight.”

“Small-minded publicist,” said Emma. “Anyone can see that you’re straight but not narrow.”

“Well, I straightened her out,” he said. “Monica will never come below 14th Street again. A-ha!”

Victor had found a red wrap dress under a pile of sweaters on a high shelf.

“What is that?” she asked.

“You don’t know?” He held it up his chest. “Needs ironing.”

“It’s one of my mother’s dresses,” said Emma. When Emma’s mother died eight years ago, her dad had given her a bag with some of Anise’s clothes. The pieces had floated in and out (mainly out) of her awareness, unworn,

overlooked. Until now.

“It’s so red,” said Emma. “And the material is too thin for October.”

“Wear a coat,” said Victor. “You do have an iron?”

“Under the sink.”

He dropped the dress on the bed and went to get the iron. Emma touched the soft rayon, the scent of cinnamon rising from it, as if her Mom were in the room. Emma’s heart clenched. She’d been grappling with her mother’s legacy for nearly a decade already. She preferred not to think about it, especially on not-dates. But she couldn’t easily push those thoughts to the back of her mind if she were wearing Mom’s clothes.

“I’m not putting that on,” she announced when Victor returned to the bedroom, a hot iron in his hand.

He said, “You’re wearing it.” He put a towel on her dresser and the rayon frock upon it. In a few swift strokes, he made the dress look new. He wrapped it around her and tied the bow expertly just above her hip. A quarter inch of her lacy black bra showed. She started to pull up the neckline to cover it, but Victor said, “NO! Do not touch. Leave it exactly like that.”

Victor picked black patent pumps and red, sucking-on-cherries lipstick. He stroked the makeup on thick and blow-dried her bronze waves straight, training strands to dip into her décolletage.

He steered her toward the full-length mirror on the inside closet door.

“Yes, this is a hell of a dress,” she said, gazing at herself. “Yes, I am a hell of a woman.”

“This Hoff won’t be able to keep his smurf mitts off you,” said Victor. Seeing her expression, he added, “Keep thinking about how hot you look. Maybe you’ll excite yourself.”

“You talk as if I don’t want a relationship, as if I purposefully date men I’m not attracted to. And it’s not a date. It’s drinks with a friend who is male.”

“I thank God every day that you never jerked me around like this poor preppy,” said Victor, turning on the TV. “My cable’s out. Don’t worry. I’ll be long gone by the time you bring home the smurf. And I’ll hang up these clothes so you can use the bed.”

She left him to his channel surfing. With a few free minutes before she had to leave, Emma went into the living room and opened the folder Daphne left for her.

The top sheet was an 8x10 glossy black and white publicity photo of the man she’d be stalking for the next two weeks.

He wore a dark jacket, white shirt, and a skinny tie. No ring. Good. (Emma refused to work on married men.) She guessed he was in his mid to late thirties. His hair was dark brown or black, foppish, bangs hanging in his blue or green eyes. He was slender with fine bone structure. His expression was confident, but not effete, a mischievous schoolboy all grown up. In his eyes, she detected a mix of intelligence and ego.

It was an undeniably handsome face. Emma would come to know it as well as her own. She’d follow him. When

opportunity presented itself, she’d touch him and transmit a sexy image of Daphne into his head. Emma had

committed to three hits a day, except Sundays, for two weeks—or until he asked Daphne on a date, whichever came first.

If he were like sixty percent of the men Emma had worked on before, he would call Daphne within ten days. If a guy found himself picturing the same woman nearly naked multiple times a day, day after day, he’d reach the logical conclusion that
he must be in love with her.
Or, at the very least, in lust. And it would follow that the man would ask his love/lust object on a date. Emma would receive a second payment. Then she’d wish her client the best of luck and bow out. As she explained before accepting any case, her job was to create the spark that the client would then fan into a flame. Once the relationship began, Emma’s involvement ended. It was in the contract.

She looked up from the photo and around her cherished white sanctuary. Women in love had paid for every stick of furniture in it. Her income, like most freelancers, was cyclical. She’d been on a down swing for a while now. With her nest egg evaporated (another story), Emma hovered on the brink of losing what she loved most. She needed Daphne’s money badly. This case had to go smoothly.

Victor wandered into the living room and into the galley kitchen. She watched him pull a Diet Coke out of the fridge.

Emma held up the glossy for him to see. “My new target.”

Victor took a sip and glanced over. He then spit a mouthful of soda on the kitchen floor.

“Hey! I just Swiffered that!” she said.

He rushed over and snatched the photo from Emma’s hand. Shaking it, he asked, “You don’t know who this is?”

She scanned the photo. No recognition. She looked down at the dossier stuffed with press clippings and an address list, including his home(s), office(s), favorite restaurants, dry cleaner, coffee shop, bank, movie theaters. She read the name on his bio.

“William Dearborn,” she said. “Oh.”

“You’ve heard of him?”

“Of course. I don’t live under a rock. I live on top of one.”

“He’s an artist and designer. He invented the best-selling software for editing digital photographs. I use it every day! I collect postcards of his paintings! He’s a legend, a fucking genius, stinking rich. He’s slept with more beautiful women in the past week than I will in my lifetime.” Victor got quiet. “He’s my idol,” he whispered reverently. “I worship the shit on his shoes.”