The Zombie Billionaire's Virgin Witch (Zombie Category Romance) (2 page)

“Mom,
I can’t!”  Clare hated the tears burning in her eyes as badly as she hated
Michelopoulos.  “He killed Daddy.”

“Don’t
be absurd.  Your father died from cancer that had been developing for
years.  We just didn’t know it.”

“Daddy
never got sick until he lost the restaurant and his power.  What if the
cancer spread so rapidly because his power couldn’t keep it in check any longer
once he lost the ring?  Daddy would still be alive if it wasn’t for that
stupid bet.”

She’d
never understood why he would even consider such a risky, foolhardy bet. 
If he refused to sell
Remy’s
, why on earth would he consent to the
possibility of losing it to his greatest enemy?  It just didn’t make
sense.

“If
it helps,” Helga said in her gentle voice that she reserved for her sickest
patients, “I saw your father myself at least a year before he lost the
restaurant.”

Helga
was a powerful kitchen witch, but she was an even more impressive healer. 
Few wizards could claim more than one talent, which is why she was one of the
most powerful wizards in the world.

“You
did?”  Clare swiped the tears from her cheeks.  “Why didn’t you tell
me?”

“It
was his wish to not burden his family with his illness.  In fact, he made
me promise not to tell you that he was dying so he could choose to tell you in
his own way.  If I’d known that you blamed Mr. Michelopoulos, I would have
told you immediately.  I can heal many things, dear, but I couldn’t help
your father.  The cancer was virulent and barely responded to my
magic.  I delayed the inevitable as long as possible.  The restaurant
bet was his last gamble to try to protect you.”

“Too
bad he lost.”  Selma’s voice cracked with bitterness and anger.  “The
fool should never have risked his family ring.  Clare, you have to get it
back.”  She softened the edge in her voice, leaning across the table to
take her daughter’s hand.  “Don’t you want to have a family someday? 
Fall in love, get married?  You can’t as long as we don’t have the Remy
ring.  You’re the last.  If you don’t have children, the Remy talent
will die with you anyway.”

Clare
pulled free of her mother’s grasp and stood, moving away from the table. 
Emotion tore at her chest until she couldn’t breathe.  Of course she
wanted a family.  She didn’t want to be the last Remy, no matter how
powerful she might be in the kitchen.  But everything she knew about
Yiorgos Michelopoulos warned her to stay far, far away from the man.

Because
of the rivalry between their restaurants—so she’d told herself—she’d done her
research long before her father’s death, hoping to find the man’s
weakness.  A billionaire playboy, Michelopoulos’s picture had been
splashed on every newspaper and celebrity rag at one time or another. 
Gorgeous, rich, and charismatic, of course the man was irresistible.

He
discarded women as easily as he bought a new restaurant or hotel, right before
he fired everyone regardless of how long they’d been there in order to hire his
own staff.  Year after year, she’d watched her father accept his plaque
for
Remy’s
starred status, and each year, Michelopoulos had brought a
new date to every ceremony.  Not just the Missouri awards either—she’d
read every article about every reward he’d ever won, and always, a new beauty
clung to his arm.

He
was the kind of man who always got want he wanted, used it, and then tossed it
in the compost bin on his way to the next conquest.  He expected to be
sought and lusted after, not just for his money but his looks as well.

The
last kind of man a woman, who must remain a virgin at all cost, should be
around.

Deep
down, she couldn’t deny a visceral reaction to the man.  Even as a
teenager, she’d felt the pull of his magnetism.  Although she wouldn’t
admit it, she still had a few of those wild and crazy dreams of him stashed
away in a corner of her mind.

Dreams
she’d had before her father had died and lost their family ring—and her key to
a passionate life—at the same time.

“Clare,”
her mother began in her wheedling voice.

“I
need to speak to Helga,” Clare cut in without turning around. 
“Privately.”

“But—”

“I
insist, Mother.  It’s wizards’ business.”

Selma’s
loud sniff proclaimed her hurt at the sharp reminder to her lack of status, but
Clare refused to regret her mother’s own decisions.  Her mother had known
exactly what the cost would be if she chose to marry.  What she did regret
was always feeling like her mother held a grudge against her for losing that
power, especially when Clare faced a childless, loveless life herself.

Helga
always managed to strike straight to the heart.  “What are you afraid of,
dear?”

She
took a moment to gather her thoughts while buttering another piece of crusty
rustic bread.  “He wants something from me.  It has to be some kind
of trap, and I don’t like going in blind.”

“As
he says in the letter, he needs your help at
Remy’s
.”

Clare
turned around, leaning against the counter.  “That man would rather cut
off his right hand than ask for help.  He hates
Remy’s
.  I’m
surprised he didn’t shut it down when he won it from Daddy.”

“The
bet wouldn’t allow either restaurant to be shut down.”

Clare
arched a brow at her mentor.  “How much about that bet do you know?”

“Your
father was my patient.  I knew what he was trying to do, but he swore me
to silence.”

Nibbling
on the soft inner crumb, she let her mind run wild.  Even now, Helga might
be keeping secrets about that blasted bet.  If Daddy knew he was dying,
and he was trying to protect her, what did he hope to accomplish with a bet
that risked not just their livelihood but also their magic?  “Do you know
what Daddy would’ve won if
Remy’s
had taken the fifth star that year?”

“Michelopoulos’s
casino hotel and restaurant in Kansas City, as far as I know.”

Clare
frowned.  Yeah, the casino was worth a fortune compared to their little
family restaurant, but they’d never cared about money or fame before. 
There
has to be something else he was trying to win.  But what?

 “The
details of the bet aren’t really what you’re concerned about, dear, and we both
know it.”

Her
cheeks colored at the chiding note in her mentor’s voice.  “Let’s just say
Michelopoulos’s reputation precedes him.”

“And
you’re wondering what it would be like if you didn’t have to remain a virgin.”

Now
she might as well have stuck her whole head in the oven.  “The thought has
crossed my mind.”

Helga
chuckled.  “That’s natural, dear.  All of us thought about it at one
time or another.”

“That’s
not true!”

“Isn’t
it?  Even as the next head of the Remy family, you would be powerless
without your virginity until the ring passed to you.  I’ve known wizards
who lived a decade or more as a mundane until the ring passed to them. 
And let me tell you, their talent paid the price for those years of
inaccessibility.  The cost for passion is high, Clare, very high. 
For all of us.”

“I
know.”  She blew out her breath and pushed away from the counter. 
“Believe me, I’ve heard about nothing else since Daddy died.  I
just…”  Her throat constricted, each word as rough as sandpaper.  “I
don’t think I’m cut out for chastity the rest of my life.”

“No
one ever said you had to remain chaste forever.”

“But—”

“I
said the cost was high, yes.  But not forbidden.”

Clare
shook her head.  “It’s not worth the cost, I get that.”

Helga
stood up and cracked a wooden spoon against her palm sharply, the same way she
brought her class to order each day.  “Have I taught you nothing at
all?  Magic comes from within you.  There is always a cost, depending
on your talent and the spell itself.  We know you can cook all day in the
kitchen and the only cost you must pay is the sweat of your brow.  How do
you feel after a few hours in the kitchen?”

“Tired,
but happy.”

Helga
nodded.  “Like you’ve gone for a nice, long walk, but not exhausted. 
Not like a marathon or triathlon.”

“Exactly.”

“Now
say someone barged into your house this very moment and shot me.  You have
to heal me.  How would you feel performing that kind of magic?”

The
thought made Clare’s stomach clench with dread.  “I couldn’t.”

Helga
cracked the spoon against her hand again.  “You
could
.  It
would hurt terribly.  It’d probably take you days, if not weeks, to
recover, but if your will was strong enough, you would absolutely bend your
kitchen talent into something else.  The pain and effort in that bending,
the cost to yourself, would empower it.  Sacrifice, Clare.  The cost
you pay enables the magic to be bigger and to work on a talent that you don’t
claim as your own if you fully and knowingly embrace the sacrifice.”

Searching
her mentor’s face, Clare nodded slowly, her mind whirling.  “So you’re
saying some people choose to make the sacrifice of their virginity and their
gift for something else, to empower their last magic.”

Slipping
back into her kooky masquerade—for Clare suspected that was exactly why her
mentor dressed so wildly—Helga let out a trilling laugh and bounced toward the
door.  “I’m just saying that for the right man, darling, it might be worth
the cost.  Good luck and let me know how it goes with Mr. Michelopoulos!”

Clare
collapsed heavily in the chair and dabbed her sweaty cheeks with her
apron.  Dealing with Helga was sometimes like running the gauntlet. 
How much worse would it be to deal with an entitled, impossibly arrogant and
gorgeous billionaire?

She
closed her eyes and shivered, while trying to deny that a kernel of insanity
already burned in a deep secret corner of her heart.

TWO

Yiorgos
had doubled his fortune twice over by acting on his gut instincts, and first
impressions were everything.  Staring at Remy’s daughter—the key to his
salvation—he couldn’t help but curl his lips in what he hoped was not too
obviously a sneer. 
This will be ridiculously easy.

The
only word to describe her appearance was frumpy.  If he hadn’t known her
age, he would have guessed her to be closer to forty than not yet thirty. 
Why on earth would a woman deliberately age herself so drastically?  
The shapeless skirt and baggy suit jacket would have been more attractive on a
rubbish heap.

“Mr.
Michelopoulos.”

That
quickly, she rocked him back on his heels.  A woman in an ugly brown suit
and a tight bun should have a prim little voice, not this husky vibrato more
appropriate for whispered innuendoes and sweaty sheets.  Eyes narrowed, he
ran his gaze over her again quickly, looking for something he’d missed.

The
old fashioned A-line skirt
might
hide shapely full hips.  Perhaps
the jacket was baggy on purpose, to disguise her lush breasts.  And while
that tidy bun did make her look like a schoolmarm, he had to admit the toffee
color of her hair was quite pretty.  Pulled back from her face, her hair
couldn’t detract from the sculpted bones of her cheeks and her full mouth.

Intrigued
by the inconsistencies, Yiorgos gave her a slow, smoldering smile. 

The
little witch stiffened like he'd called her a vile name.  Instead of
blushing or flirting, she brushed past him without another word and strode into
the kitchens as though she owned the place.

"Make
yourself comfortable," he said dryly, following her through the swinging
door.  Unfortunately, he didn't expect her to stop just inside, so he
nearly flattened her.  He closed his hands on her hips to steady her, and
yes, he might have pulled her back against him a moment or two.  Her
curves made a very nice handful, an unexpected pleasure after dating tall and
slender women for years.

For
the barest moment, she softened against him, nestling in like a kitten. 
Then she inhaled sharply and leaped away like he'd goosed her.  Cheeks on
fire, she waved a hand at the sinks loaded with dirty dishes.  “This is a
disgrace!  My father’s probably rolling over in his grave!”

“Indeed,”
Yiorgos drawled out in his most charming voice. 
Remy should rot in
hell for what he’s done to me!
  “We’ve had a bit of a… problem. 
That’s why I contacted you, Ms. Remy.”

“This
isn’t a problem.  It’s a travesty.  No wonder you’ve been having
issues—this kitchen is filthy!”

The
few remaining kitchen staff stood frozen like deer in headlights.  No one
had ever stood up to him…in his own kitchen, no less…and survived. 
Clenching his jaws to keep from barking out his demands, he simply waited to
see what she’d do.

He
didn’t have to wait long.  She marched over to the wall and pulled down a
fresh apron hanging on the line of hooks.  She removed her misshapen suit
jacket, revealing an ugly pink blouse the color of Pepto Bismal, and snapped
the white linen apron into place.  Rolling up her sleeves, she gave an
accessing look to each of the staff shaking in their boots.

“You.” 
She pointed a finger at the chef paid a small fortune to fail so
dismally.  “Clean the stoves.  And you,” she jerked her head at
Dmitri, “assign a crew to start mopping the floors.  We can’t possibly
hope to cook anything in a kitchen so wretchedly filthy.”

When
she walked over to the sink mounded with stainless-steel pots coated with
grease and baked on gunk, Yiorgos could only stare.  He’d assumed she’d
give the hard jobs to his people and take the supervisory role, getting in her
digs verbally as many times as possible.  But she tackled the nastiest job
with nary a complaint.

In
fact, he’d be damned if she wasn’t
happy
.

The
whole atmosphere already seemed different.  The air felt lighter, cleaner,
as though the restaurant recognized her in some way.  Maybe the little
witch was already working her magic on
Remy’s
.

If
so, she’ll be working on me as soon as I can learn how to break this curse.

Walking
into
Remy’s
was like coming home to find her beloved childhood memories
burned to the ground and plastered with an asphalt parking lot.  They’d at
least left the kitchen organized the way she remembered, but she’d never seen
the place in such a shambles.  Were these silly men afraid of a little
hard work?  A little elbow grease?  Or was Mr. Michelopoulos too rich
and gorgeous to get a smudge of dirt on his spotless white shirt that likely
cost more than her car?

Meanwhile,
Remy’s
was gobbling up her magic like a person who’d been stranded in
the desert and almost died of thirst.  She wasn’t alarmed though, because
the natural flow felt right, not dangerous. 
Remy’s
had been
nurtured by her father her entire life.  She could almost feel him working
beside her, his blue eyes twinkling with excitement at the new dish he’d
thought up.  Blinking back tears, she set the pot into the rack and
reached for the next…

Only
to realize the rack was empty.

She
looked about the room, checking on everyone else’s progress.  The fancy
east-coast chef had polished the tops of the stoves until they shown like
mirrors.  The floor gleamed.  Someone had taken the initiative to
wipe down the massive refrigerators.  Even the butcher block gleamed with
a faint coat of oil to seal and protect.

While
Mr. Impossible loomed in the corner, alternatively scowling and talking on his
phone.  The wretched man hadn’t even bothered to pick up a broom.

Drying
her hands on a towel, she gave him an appraising look.  “What do you
think, Mr. Michelopoulos?”

He
gave a cursory glance about the spotless kitchen.  “I thought you were a
cook, not a housekeeper.  Make me something to eat.”

Clare
ground her teeth together to keep back the obscenities threatening to blurt out
of her mouth.  The man thought he could just order her around like…

She
sighed heavily. 
Like I’m a member of his staff, which I technically
am.  Until I can find a way to wrest that damned ring off his finger.

Swallowing
hard, she examined the larder.  His staff kept a wide array of
ingredients, although many of the cold foods were past their prime. 
Greens lay limp and dark in their bin and the shriveled carrots bent in her
hands.  However, the onions, potatoes and garlic passed inspection. 
Oh, and they’d stocked some nice butternut squash. 

Magic
flowed from her fingertips, sparking recipes and plans until she couldn’t help
but smile.  A nice roasted squash soup, a simple shepherd’s pie, finished
with a piece of her famous chocolate cake. 

If
he can speak a single word of disdain after sampling such a menu, I might as
well give up the idea of ever teaching at the Academy.