The Zombie Billionaire's Virgin Witch (Zombie Category Romance) (5 page)

But
the cost…

Would
that be so horrible if Yiorgos Michelopoulos were the prize?

Blinking
back tears, Clare climbed into her ridiculously frilly pink bed she’d had her
entire life and pulled the covers up to her chin.  She felt trapped in
childhood, forever adolescent, a pimply, awkward teenager burning with
unfulfilled desire.  So unfair to face a cold, lonely life when she
yearned to know passion. 

She
closed her eyes and Yiorgos’s stark, arrogant face rose in her mind.  One
minute the alpha tycoon determined to strip her of everything she hoped and
dreamed without a single care, the next the vulnerable man fascinated with her
gift.  She wanted both sides of him.  She yearned for the challenge
of standing up to the arrogant man used to getting every single thing he ever
wanted with a careless snap of his fingers. 

She
couldn’t wait to see the look on his face in the morning when he read the
contract he’d signed.

She’d
relish the fight.  Already, her muscles burned with excitement, her
breathing quickened.  Every muscle in her body ached with longing.

For
the man?  Or the battle he offered?

She
was terribly afraid she wanted them both.  
No matter the cost.

FOUR

The
swinging door slammed against the wall with a crash that froze the entire
kitchen.

At
the stove, Clare didn’t even turn around.  Her nerves sang with heightened
sensation, energy leaping about her like lightning.  This morning when
she’d arrived, the restaurant had welcomed her with open arms.  It’d
certainly alerted her to the approaching storm.

“You.” 
Yiorgos Michelopoulos stomped over and clamped a hand on her arm, whirling her
around to face him.  “What have you done?”

She
smiled brightly.  “Good morning, Mr. Michelopoulos.  I assume we’ll
be open for business tonight?”

Unshaven
and still in the incredibly tailored suit he’d worn last night that was now
wrinkled beyond repair, he glared down at her.  Eyes blazing, lips tight,
nostrils pinched, he looked like he desperately wanted to wrap his big hand
around her throat and throttle her.

“Out.”

Since
he didn’t release her or look away from her face, she assumed he meant everyone
else but her.  She was actually rather impressed that he kept his tone
even and controlled despite the fire flickering in his eyes.

“Do
you care to explain what happened last night?”

She
batted her eyelashes at him.  “Isn’t that supposed to be the woman’s
question when the man slips away before making her breakfast in bed?”

His
eyes narrowed to obsidian slits.  “As if I’d be interested in a woman like
you.”

Her
heart stuttered, skewered by a pain so severe that he might as well have picked
up the butcher knife and stabbed her in the chest. 
I knew it was
impossible from the very beginning.  If he found me even the least bit
attractive, this whole escapade would be pure hell.

She
let out a little laugh that she hoped was carefree and lighthearted.  “Of
course not, Mr. Rich Beyond Belief.  You were too busy devouring my cake
to spare a single thought about me.”

His
fingers tightened on her arm hard enough that she let the pain flicker across
her face.  Not that he cared in the slightest.  “You drugged me.”

“No,”
she said evenly, refusing to drop her gaze or show any alarm or concern. 
“I bespelled you.”

He
snarled.  “There’s a difference?”

“Surely
a man knowledgeable enough to approach the Wizard Council would know that
there’s most certainly a difference between a drug and a spell.  You knew
exactly what I was before you ever summoned me to
Remy’s
.  You even
ordered me to cook for you.  What did you expect a kitchen witch to
do?  Skin you with my knife instead?”

“What
did you do to me?”  His voice rose with each word until he roared loudly
enough to rattle the stemware.

“I
gave you a dose of your own medicine, Mr. Michelopoulos.  I beat you at
your own game.”

He
let go of her arm.  By the way he flexed and clenched his fingers, he’d
released her before doing serious harm.  “What the hell does that mean?”

Wincing,
she rubbed her biceps, making sure he saw exactly how he’d hurt her.  “You
deliberately wrote up a ridiculously meticulous contract meant to bedazzle me
with terms and money, while waving the deed to
Remy’s
beneath my
nose.  You thought I’d be too stupid to see your game.  Ply the little
lady with some wine, pay a few compliments, smile seductively, and she’ll fall
head over heels into your schemes, right?  Well, wrong. You picked the
wrong patsy this time, Mr. Michelopoulos.”

“I
didn’t agree to a modification to the terms.”

“I
asked you if I could modify the agreement in front of a witness.  Shall we
call Dmitri back in here?  If I need him to testify in a court of law,
I’ll subpoena him.”

“I
was under duress.  No court in the world would award rights to a witch
who’d deliberately bespelled her target by plying him with…with…”

“Chocolate
cake?  Oh, how dreadfully sinister of me.  Seriously, do you think
your high and mighty reputation can withstand such a ridiculous case, Mr.
Michelopoulos?  I can see the headlines now: 
Tycoon bamboozled by
kitchen witch; claims the chocolate cake did him in.
”

He
slammed his fist down on the island so hard that a stainless steel bowl fell
off and clattered on the floor, spilling sliced potatoes all over the spotless
tile.  “Hear me now, witch.  I cannot…will not… give you that damned
ring.  Never!”

The
woman didn’t comprehend what she’d done.  What an absolute mess.  The
mild headache he’d awoken with this morning had blossomed into a full-fledged jackhammer
slamming into his skull.  When he’d scanned the contract she’d signed last
night to make sure all was in order, he’d nearly given himself an aneurism.

The
cunning witch had tricked him out of the ring.  The one thing he must
absolutely not remove from his finger.  Barely biting back the foulest
curse words he knew, he twisted the signet on his finger and seriously
contemplated removing it.  Let her see the full nightmare she threatened
him with.

But
doubt and caution prevailed.  Did she know what her father had done to
him?  Would she hate him even less—or more because of the abomination he’d
become?  Why the hell did he care what she thought anyway?

Oh,
he knew.  He just didn’t want to think about it.

So
few people dared to challenge him.  He couldn’t recall the last time
someone had met him head-on in a contractual negotiation and won so stunningly
well.  His pride might argue that she’d used trickery and witchcraft to
accomplish it, but he had to admit she’d impressed the hell out of him. 
Even at his worst, she hadn’t backed down from the force of his anger.

No. 
She stood toe to toe with him.  That kind of courage, in a woman, no less,
was a heady challenge for a man like him.  He couldn’t resist the lure of
her gauntlet.  What lengths would she go in order to win?  How
sweetly would she submit when he ultimately defeated her?  Would she wilt
into surrender…or simply use that moment of victory to knee him in the crotch?

Pacing
the length of the kitchen, he shoved the ring harder onto his finger.  Not
yet.  Until he better understood his opponent, he couldn’t risk playing
his worst card so soon.  If he revealed the desperation behind his
scheming, she’d have the upper hand.  For all he knew, she’d take his
story to the press, the Wizard Council, anyone who’d listen, and there were
plenty of moneygrubbers who’d be willing to pay a princely sum for dirt on the
Michelopoulos tycoon.

Why
did she want the damned ring anyway?  Sentimentality?  Or something
more sinister?  After the display of her power last night, he couldn’t in
good conscience give her a single advantage, especially something so powerful
as to make his body rot a little more every single day.

“I
must have my father’s ring.”  She spoke quietly but with firm
resolve.  The little fool even dared to step closer, laying a hand on his
arm.

He
whipped his head around and snarled at her.  “You’ll never have it as long
as I’m alive.”  Which might not be much longer. 
God, let me
simply die instead of roaming the world as a rotting corpse.

“Why
not?”

He
gritted his teeth, fighting down the rising beast.  He was losing control
of himself and the creature he was becoming.  The thought made his hands
shake and she squeezed his arm soothingly, as if she could see the turmoil
straining in him.  “After your game last night, I know you’re a smart
woman, Ms. Remy.  You figure it out.”

“All
right.” 

Thankfully,
she released him, but he could still feel the warm outline of her palm on his
forearm despite the layers of clothing.  While she paced slowly about the
kitchen, she rolled her hands up and down in the apron.

“I
ate at your casino restaurant in Kansas City once.  You weren’t there, of
course—too busy jetsetting around the globe on business, I guess.  My
father made friends with our waiter and finally convinced him to let us see the
kitchens.”

“Tell
me who it was, and I’ll fire the traitor.”

She
flashed a look over her shoulder at him that…  Impossible.  Had the
woman actually stuck her tongue out at him?

“We
were awestruck.  That kitchen had nothing but the latest and best
equipment.  You must have poured half your fortune into the stoves alone,
and the refrigerators went on and on.”  Her rich voice lured him in,
wrapping him up like a kid in a toasty quilt, listening to a bedtime
story.  “Row after row of exotic vegetables, fruits I’d never heard of let
alone tasted.  It was like a gourmet fairyland.  I remember feeling
guilty, because I loved
Remy’s
so much, but I coveted that larder. 
I wanted to try the blood oranges our markets never carried.  And those
thick meaty fish steaks!  Still on ice, they smelled fresh out of the
ocean, not fishy like our supplier’s.”

She
turned and faced him, her gaze searching his.  He couldn’t help but shiver
at the faint angel wings brushing over his face.  Her magic?  Or merely
his own fanciful response to her tale?  Or the woman herself?

“The
produce was fresh and gorgeous, not wilted.  I would have eaten off the
floors, and the stainless steel shone like mirrors.  Yet when I came to
Remy’s
last night, it looked like the greasiest truckstop on the freeway.  So I
have to wonder if you’d allow a kitchen to disintegrate into disorder and filth
out of spite?  Because you hated my father’s success so very much? 
Or was there something more sinister happening here?”

“You
tell me.”

“What
did my father do to you, Mr. Michelopoulos?”

Fury
cascaded through him, crushing him beneath boulders of regret and
frustration.  Nothing he did could stop this curse.  It didn’t matter
how much money he possessed or how many businesses he owned worldwide, nothing
could save him.

Nothing
but this fearless little witch who intrigued him like no woman he’d ever met.

Decision
made, he squared his shoulders and faced her.  “Your father cursed me, Ms.
Remy, and I need your help to break it.”

Frozen,
Clare stared at him, trying to connect her beloved chef father with someone who
Yiorgos claimed had cursed him.  “A curse is a serious spell.  Daddy
wouldn’t have cast such a spell lightly.”

“Explain.” 

The
way he barked his commands made her arch a brow at him, but she chose not to
engage him in this battle.  He was an extremely arrogant and self-assured
man used to getting every single thing he wanted it, the moment he ordered
it. 
Thankfully, he doesn’t want me.
  She ignored the twisting
cut of the knife in the general region of her heart.  “It’s going to be a
lengthy conversation, Mr. Michelopoulos.  Would you like a pot of tea
while we talk?”

“When
are you going to start calling me Yiorgos?”  Briskly, he turned to an
expensive barista-quality espresso machine that hadn’t graced the kitchen in
her father’s time.  “Besides, tea is for stuffy old ladies in silly
hats.  I’ll make a cup of coffee that’ll grow hair on your chest, while
you explain how a curse works.” 
So I can break it.

He
didn’t say the last aloud, but now his carefully worded contract began to make
more sense.  He desperately wanted to break this so-called curse, and he
suspected she might know how to do so.  Even if her father had cursed
Yiorgos—which she highly doubted—she didn’t have a clue how to break it.

Of
course, Michelopoulos didn’t…couldn’t…know that.  If he suspected she was
of no use to him, she’d be kicked out of
Remy’s
so fast she wouldn’t
even have time to remove the apron.  She’d certainly lose her chance of
regaining not only the restaurant but the Remy family legacy as well.  If,
and that was a huge if, the man would uphold the contract he’d signed, arguably
under duress.

She
didn’t know much about the real man behind the famous tycoon façade, but she
suspected he valued his word of honor above winning this war with her father
that had gone on way too long.  

“If
I’m going to have motor oil in a cup, then I need lots of cream.” 
Laughing lightly at the scowl he shot over his shoulder, she pulled out a
carton of half and half from the fridge.   When he set the steaming
cup of coffee in front of her—straight jet black and so strong just the smell
of it made her eyes water—she poured as much cream as possible into the cup so
that it nearly overflowed.  “Besides, you never gave me permission to use
your Christian name, Mr. Michelopoulos, and according to our contract, you’re
my employer.”

The
furrow between his eyes deepened into formidable caverns.  “That contract
is null and void.”

“Oh,
thank God,” she breathed out heavily, letting her shoulders slump.  “I was
afraid I was going to be stuck working for you.”

“You
are,” he retorted without any real heat.  He drew up a high stool opposite
her at the large island.  Sipping his cup, he closed his eyes—evidently in
bliss, not revulsion.  For the first time since she’d arrived yesterday,
he appeared more human and less the caricature of the billionaire
playboy.  If he was deliberately letting her peek into his real life in
order to sway her into helping him, it was working.