The Zombie Billionaire's Virgin Witch (Zombie Category Romance) (10 page)

He
laughed, but it wasn’t amusement that sent the hairs prickling on the back of
her neck.  No, this was a male warning, a sensual sound of malice that
made her toes curl in her sensible non-skid soled shoes.  “I did, at
first, but then I tasted your skin and answered the question for myself.”

“Oh.”

“You
said that already, Clare,” he chided gently against her shoulder.  She
cursed the plain T-shirt she wore, wishing for some plunging neckline instead
so he would have more skin to torment.  “Well?”

“Neither,”
she sighed out.  “I thought you knew me better than that by now.  I’m
a cotton and denim kind of girl.”

“But
if you
could
wear the most sinfully beautiful, sexy lingerie, what would
your answer be?”

Her
poor starved and greedy heart yearned with every fiber of her being to indulge
in naughty, sinful panties.  Oh, the sexy things she’d wear if she
could!  Corsets, gloves, thigh-high stockings…  She’d wear them all
every single day, reveling in how desirable and feminine she felt.

“You
could, Clare,” he whispered against her ear again, a slow seduction surely as
evil as what the serpent whispered to Eve at the tree of life.  “You could
wear something absolutely shocking beneath your clothes and nobody but you
would know.”  He paused, deliberately letting a hot gust of air fill her
ear until she shivered.  “And me.”

I
shouldn’t answer.  I shouldn’t say a single word!  I should jerk my
shoulders away and demand he exit my kitchen without a moment’s delay.  I
should…

For
one sweet moment, she leaned back enough to feel his chest broad and hard
against her back.  Covered, safe, protected…  How sweet it would be
to have that chest hot against her skin, her body caged beneath his against a
soft mattress…

Yiorgos…
  She let
the moan of his name echo in her head but the only word she said aloud was,
“silk.”

He
tightened his arms slightly in what might have almost been an embrace. 
“That’s my wicked little witch.”

Then
he was gone as quickly as he’d come.

The
next day, she blushed every time she saw him but he made no mention of their
undergarment discussion.  Meanwhile she had her granny panties firmly in
place, thank you very much.  In fact, she deliberately wore her oldest,
plainest pair she could find with the most coverage as a strict reminder.

To
herself.

She
was fully prepared for him to saunter into the kitchen late tonight.  What
she didn’t expect was for him to bring two glasses of wine and a present. 
That silver and pink wrapped box mocked her, snickering about how weak this
twenty-seven-year-old virgin really was.

“Do
you have anything left to eat?  I’m starving.  I’m sad to say I
missed dinner entirely thanks to a business call from London.”

Oh,
he certainly knew the right things to say to a kitchen witch.  She
couldn’t help but plate up some nice roasted chicken quarters and fruit salad
she’d stashed in the walk-in fridge for the staff lunches tomorrow. 
Seated across from him at the island once again, eating an extremely late
supper, sipping her favorite wine, and stealing glances at that present like a
kid on Christmas Eve, she realized…

This
is very much a date.

Her
cheeks went crimson at the thought, earning an amused uplifting of his
eyebrows.  “What?”

Terror
clutched her throat in a vise, and her stomach quivered uneasily.  She’d
been dreading this talk, putting it off after Helga’s demonstration for as long
as possible.  Avoiding the issue of his possible attraction—even if only
to her food—had not made the problem disappear.

The
pink bow on the slim, flat lingerie box practically winked at her.

"Impossible,"
she whispered.

"Nothing
is impossible if you want it badly enough."  His smoldering eyes
said,
Oh, baby, you will definitely want it…me…badly enough.

"What
are we doing here?"

He
gave her the smug grin he usually reserved for his most belligerent playboy
act.  "I believe we're eating, Ms. Remy.  Technically, they’re
leftovers, but they’re still very tasty."

Blinking
away frustrated tears, she pushed her plate away and met his gaze head
on.  "Was Helga right?"

The
arrogance smoothed from his face into something much harder to read. 
“Right about what?”

“You
would make me say it,” she grumbled, her cheeks flushing. 

“Of
course,” he purred in a low voice that strummed her spine.  “Ask me,
Clare.  You’re right—it’s beyond time we talked about this.”

Her
cheeks burned hotter but she wasn’t embarrassed, exactly, just emotionally
charged. 
My blood pressure must be sky high right now.
  “When
we first met last week, you made it very clear that I wasn’t your type.”

“I
said you weren’t my
usual
type, which, quite honestly, was a mistake in
judgment.  One I don’t make very often, because you’re a tempting, sexy
siren, and I’ve been finding it harder and harder to resist hauling you back
into my arms.”  Whatever look had shocked itself onto her face made him
chuckle.  “Meanwhile, I believe you called me an alphahole.  That
certainly doesn’t sound like I’m your type, either.”

“Not
my
usual
type,” she conceded, trying to smile coolly.  Not as shaky
as she felt on the inside.  “If it’s my cooking…”

“It’s
not,” he broke in.  He leaned forward and slowly stretched out his hand
across the narrow island, giving her time to withdraw.

But
she didn’t want to pull away.  She hungered for touch and warmth, laughter
and passion, all the things a woman of her age should be able to have with
whomever she chose.

His
long, elegant fingers slid over the back of her hand, his fingertips lightly
tracing the hills and valleys of her knuckles.  Such an innocent touch,
but it made her voice thick in her throat so she could hardly talk.  “I
thought you liked my cooking.”

“I
love your cooking.  But that’s not the only thing going on here.”

“It’s
not?”  Fine trembling spread across her shoulders and her eyes ached from
staring so hard at him, willing, begging him to say it.

“Should
I kiss you again so you can feel it too?”

She
squeezed her eyes shut, swamped by the memory of his mouth, hot and wet
pressure threatening to drag her under.  Shuddering, she made herself open
her eyes so he could see the truth.  “No.”

He
didn’t cease stroking her hand, but his voice gentled like she’d never heard
before. “Why not?”

“Mr.
Michelopoulos…”

“Surely
you can call me Yiorgos now that you’ve had your tongue in my mouth.”

She
couldn’t help the rough moan that escaped.  “Stop it.”

“Stop
what?”  He taunted, low and soft yet insistent, as ceaseless as his
fingers on her skin.  Somehow her hand had flopped over like a cat
stretched out in a window seat, soaking in the rays of summer sun. 
“Telling you the truth?  Would you rather we walk around like two immature
idiots screeching at each other because the sexual tension was destroying our
control?  Instead, we can sit here like two reasonable human beings and
decide how quickly I’ll have my mouth on yours again.  Although I admit,
I’d rather not have you smashed up against the wall outside, but in my bed.”

She
clutched his hand to stop the incessant stroking that was making her
insane.  “I’d like that very much, but I can’t, Yiorgos.”

His
eyes filled with black flame when she said his name.  Turning his hand in
hers, he clasped her firmly, as though he was afraid she’d leap up and run from
him.  “Why not, Clare?”

How
much should I tell him?

If
she admitted that she’d lose her power—and thus her ability to break his curse,
assuming she found a way—he’d do the only possible reasonable thing.  He’d
back off. 
I’m off limits if he wants to free Remy’s of whatever
ill-will might linger here.

Exactly
what I want.

Right?

She
swallowed the cold, hard lump in her throat.  Her eyes burned, hot and dry
and scratchy.  “I never dreamed that a man like you would want ever want
me.”  He opened his mouth but she stalled his response by squeezing his
hand and rushing ahead while she still had the courage to put the brakes on his
ardor.  “Magic comes from the overflowing well within.  But that well
will dry up quicker than Texas in a drought if I lose my virginity.”

For
long moments, he didn’t move, not a single muscle in his face twitched, no
breath moved his chest. 

She
feared he might not believe her.  “You can ask Helga if you doubt me.”

“So
you’re telling me that all the powerful wizards on the Council are virgins?”

“Not
all, but only because they’re the heads of their families.”

“Explain.” 
His voice was clipped, and he gripped her hand harder.

It
might be a silly thought, but she hoped he was unconsciously trying to keep
her.  “Magic is inherited through the great families.  Only the head
of the family will be able to retain his or her power regardless of their
intimate relationships.  Since I’m the last Remy, our cooking magic will
end either with my virginity or with me on my deathbed.”

“If
you’re the last Remy, why aren’t you the head of your family?”

She
tried to smile but her lips and face felt too tight, the skin pulling and
skewing her attempt at wry humor.  “Because you have the Remy signet
ring.  If I lose my virginity, I’ll be powerless without my family’s
ring.”

He
jerked his gaze away and stared down at the thing on his hand like it was the
foulest, largest cockroach he’d ever seen.  “No wonder the wretched thing
has cursed me.”

She
didn’t ask for him to give it to her yet again.  Because if he could, he
would.  It would solve both of their problems.  If she had the ring,
she’d be able to indulge in the passion he offered, and she might even be
powerful enough to break whatever curse held him.

His
mouth twisted into a painful grimace, but it was her fingers getting crushed in
his grip.  “What a hopeless mess.”

She
wanted to cry, but the pain etched into his face made her resist indulging in
something that would only hurt him more.  Her throat ached like she’d
swallowed broken glass, but she forced the words out.  “I’ll help you
however I can.  I’ll go through all my father’s papers and books to see if
he left any explanation about what he did.  I’ll even stay to help
Remy’s
get the star—”

He
jerked free and stood so he could pace furiously back and forth.  “I don’t
give a damn about that bloody star!  That was just an excuse to get you
here.”

“If
there’s a way to break the curse, I’ll need my magic to do so.”  Her
muscles ached like she’d run in a marathon, but she pushed to her feet and
began clearing the dishes.

“Leave
it,” he said flatly, not turning to look at her.

“But—”

“Leave
it!”  He roared louder, his hands balled into fists.  She’d never
seen his face so dark and hard, stone cold even while his eyes blazed like
black pits of fire.  “I pay dozens of people who’ll be more than happy to
finish cleaning up in the morning, but I can’t find any other adorably sexy
witch to ruin with my lust.  Go home, Clare.  Go home before I do
something stupid and ruin what chance we both have for happiness.”

She
stared at him a minute, her heart breaking.  She’d come so close to living
out her most outlandish fantasies.  To have a gorgeous, rich man who
wanted her, who didn’t mind the extra pounds she might carry, who lusted after
her as much as her most fabulous dessert and effortlessly sensed her secret
need to be conquered. 

One
kiss had been enough to confirm that Yiorgos would be a phenomenal lover,
strong and passionate and fiercely dominant.

Now
I’ll never know.

Ignoring
the anger marring his face, she stepped up to him and lightly kissed his
cheek.  “Even though it’s impossible, thank you.  Thank you for
wanting me.”

He
groaned deep and low in his chest and tipped his head down so he could rest his
forehead to hers, but he didn’t put his hands on her.  Too much
temptation.

“I
want you more than I’ve ever wanted a woman in my entire life, Clare.  If
only—”

She
placed her fingers against his mouth.  “I know.  If you could, you
would.  If I could, I would.  There’s nothing else to say.”

He
turned his head side to side, letting his mouth rub her fingers.  “At
least take the package I put together for you.”

She
wanted to refuse.  It would kill her to see what sexy lingerie he might
have picked out for her and know that he’d never see her in it. 
I’ll
never be able to wear sexy lingerie for any man, let alone him.

Tears
clogged her throat, but she forced herself to smile, although it was wobbly and
hurt as much as her aching throat.  “It’s my turn to play the word game,
then.  Never, or someday?”