The Zombie Billionaire's Virgin Witch (Zombie Category Romance) (8 page)

 “Has
she done something to make you doubt her ability?”

“Not
exactly.”  He hesitated, trying to think of a way to disguise his true
intentions, but he decided that perhaps the truth might be best in this
case.  “Honestly, I’m rather overwhelmed by her power.  The rest of
my staff doesn’t seem to be affected, but I made the mistake of ingesting too
much of her food the first night, and I’ve been out of sorts ever since. 
I’m wondering if I’ve lost some of my independent will.”

Ms.
Kettlewich snorted.  “You mean you think she’s compromised you? 
Well, Mr. Michelopoulos, I’ll be right over.  I have to see this with my
own eyes.”

SEVEN

It
was one thing to have her mentor pop into her kitchen and sample her
dishes.  It was an entirely different situation to have the same mentor
cook something in
her
kitchen…and put it up side by side against
hers.  Clare fumed silently, her back stiff and hands trembling with
nerves.  Magic pulsed so thickly in the kitchen that she could barely
breathe.

Michelopoulos
loomed in the corner watching everything with avid gaze and that hateful
smirk.  He couldn’t wait for her to screw up.  He must be planning to
humiliate her in front of her mentor.  Did he think if she flunked his
little test that they’d disqualify her from the trials?  Quite
possibly.  In fact, she could be politely dismissed at any time. 
Only the finest teachers ever went on to work at the Wizard Council’s
Academy. 

Her
fingertips pulsed with magic, weaving the intricate layers of cake together,
sealing in the deathly goodness of her chocolate cake.  Of course she
hadn’t been able to resist making the same cake that had defeated him before, a
blatant slap on the bull’s nose.  If he wanted to put her up against the
most powerful witch in America, then he’d best be prepared for the
consequences.

I
hope he doesn’t try to eat three pieces again.  I think this one’s even
more powerful than the last.

Emotions
did that—they fueled the magic into something else, serving as a catalyst for
an even more extreme magical reaction.  With all her anger and doubt
pulsing through her gift, she had no idea how well…or badly…the cake would turn
out.

Until
they stood before their plated dishes waiting for Mr. Michelopoulos to sample,
Clare had no idea what her mentor had prepared.  One look at the perfectly
shaped truffles on the dish made her heart sink. 
I’m fired. 
Might as well hang up the apron forever.  Maybe Wal-Mart is hiring.

“Before
you begin sampling,” Helga said, “Might I make a suggestion?”

He
winced at the intensity of her voice, even more as he scanned her attire. 
Today, Helga had dressed in black and pink.  For her, a more subdued
palette.  Of course the skulls and hearts made up for the missing rainbow
effect.  “Of course, Ms. Kettlewich.”

“I’m
a healer as well as a cook.  If you’re seriously worried about your health
because of Clare, I should evaluate you before and after you taste the dishes.”

“That’s
a very good idea.”  He cast a smug smirk at Clare, and she fisted her
hand, aching to punch him again.  This time, in the nose.  “I’m very
concerned about the effects of that chocolate cake in particular.”

Helga
placed a hand on the top of his head and closed her eyes.  Goose bumps cascaded
down Clare’s arms, making her shiver.  He didn’t react at all, which
seemed strange after the way magic flared each time he touched her.  She’d
assumed he was a sensitive, one of those rare humans who had no power but could
sense it in others.

“I
sense nothing new in your condition, Mr. Michelopoulos.  None of Clare’s
magic lingers in you or affects your body in any way.”

Clare
made a mental note that her mentor had found nothing
new
. 
Which
means she’s examined him before.  He’s definitely being affected by this
Remy curse, then, but how?

Warily,
he picked up his fork and cut into her chocolate cake.  He hesitated, the
fork hovering before his mouth, and met her gaze.  Eyes hard and cloaked
with suspicion, he slipped the bite into his mouth.  For a moment he
didn’t chew, simply allowing the flavors to melt on his tongue.

His
eyes flared.  His skin darkened, and even feet away, Clare could see the
flutter of his frantic pulse in his neck.  A yawning pit widened in her
stomach and she swayed slightly, shaken. 
Dear God, what did I do to
him?  Maybe I really am poisoning him.

Helga
laid two fingers on the side of his neck.  “Increased pulse, blood
pressure rising, as well as body temperature.”  She smirked, though, and
shot a wicked wink over her shoulder at Clare.  “Normal side effects of
arousal.  Well done, Clare.”

Rough
as sandpaper, his voice tore into her, each word shredding at her pride. 
“So she is bewitching me.  I knew I couldn’t trust the little witch!”

“Oh
I didn’t say arousal was a side effect of her magic, Mr. Michelopoulos.” 
Helga smugly stepped back to her place by Clare.  “The only magic I sense
working in you is the natural endorphin high created by extremely good
food.  A kitchen witch knows how to imbue each bite with that indescribable
feeling of luxury and delight through taste alone.  You just happen to be
aroused by such feelings.”

His
face was so dark that Clare began to wonder if a vessel would burst in his
forehead.  At least he had the world’s most skilled healer at hand to heal
any aneurism he gave himself.  “What exactly are you saying, Ms.
Kettlewich?”

“You’re
a man, Mr. Michelopoulos,” Helga replied slowly, enunciating carefully like he
might be too stupid to follow along.  “You find her sexually
attractive.  These feelings are increased when you taste her magic.” 
She laughed, a deep-belly chuckle that rumbled into a roar of amusement. 
“You should see your face.”

Now
Clare did sway on her feet, so much so that her mentor laid a steadying hand on
her arm.  If his face was red, hers must be purple.  The tips of her
ears felt crisped and charred, like they’d exploded into flame.

“Are
you saying that kitchen magic makes me…”  He sounded like he was
strangling.  “That even if I taste
your
dish…”

“Find
out,” Helga taunted.  “If you’re brave enough.  Eat the one drizzled
with white chocolate first.”

His
hand trembled as he stretched it out toward the plate.  Studiously, he
avoided looking at either woman.  Clare held her breath, afraid and yet
filled with hope and delight, followed quickly by drowning doubt and
confusion.  He’d kissed her, yes.  She’d felt his response
then.  But his words and manner said otherwise.  Was he that
accomplished in deceit? 

The
truffle was the perfect size to eat in one heart-stopping bite.  She had
to admit she was pretty impressed with his courage when he did just that. 
Hands placed palm down on the table, he closed his eyes and waited while the
chocolate melted on his tongue. 

She
didn’t need her mentor’s healing gift to see that he didn’t react.  His
skin was already returning to its normal hue and his fingers no longer
trembled. 

He
cracked an eye open.  “Well?”

“You
tell me,” Helga replied.

“It’s
a wonderful truffle.  The filling is sweet and rich yet not
overpowering.  I taste cherries, sweet and tart at the same time. 
Very good.”

“But…?”

He
finally glanced at Clare, his eyes hot, and then her mentor.  “Not like
her cake.”

Helga
nodded sagely.  “Try the truffle rolled in crushed hazelnuts.”

He
did so more confidently this time.  His lean, long throat swallowed down
the chocolate, mesmerizing Clare so that it took her a minute to notice that
something was wrong.  He breathed rapidly and sweat dotted his brow. 
White-knuckled, he gripped the edge of the table like his life depended on it.

Helga
glided closer and planted her hands on the table, leaning down to present him
with her impressive cleavage. “Now you feel the full effect of a love spell,
Mr. Michelopoulos.” 

He
averted his face, gripping the table so hard that wood creaked.  As though
he would tear it apart.  To get away from her?  Or to keep himself
from leaping across it and taking her to the ground? 

“It’s
not very pleasant, is it?  No honest witch would ever prepare such a spell
for anyone because they’re so unpredictable.  A man is as likely to
suddenly fall in love with a cup, a chair, the first object he lays eyes on
after tasting the spell, rather than the intended target.  A woman casting
such a spell is likely to find her man with his pants around his ankles humping
a tree rather than eagerly awaiting her with open arms.”

He
squeezed the table so hard his shoulders shook, his fingers digging in like
claws. 

“Luckily,”
Helga said lightly as she retreated to stand by Clare, “the spell doesn’t last
long.  Keep your eyes closed another minute or two, Mr. Michelopoulos, and
the spell will dissipate.  Notice, however, that you were able to resist
its affect.  You possess a very strong will, sir.  Very strong
indeed.  I kept the spell small and contained, but they’re very
unpredictable and powerful.  You felt it immediately and withstood its
assault.” 

Clare
clasped her hands in her apron and tried not to look at him.  His struggle
tugged at her, some deep instinct drawing her toward him to help.  But
this kind of help would only get them both into serious trouble.  His
reaction to her cake convinced her of the very real danger threatening her
every single moment she stayed at
Remy’s
with him.

If
I get out of this assignment intact with my power, it’ll be a miracle. 
The last thing I need to do is mesh myself in Helga’s love spell.

Finally
his breathing no longer rasped so loudly.  He raised his face and glared
at them both.  “That was…evil.”

“Yes,
yes it was,” Helga said with a laugh.  “But you need to feel the
difference so you’ll understand what you’re feeling from Clare.  You also
mentioned that you feared your will was compromised.  Shall we begin the
last stage of the demonstration?”

He
swallowed hard and looked down at the last truffle on the plate like it was the
most revolting creature he’d ever seen.  “Actually, I’m not particularly
inclined to do so.”

“It’s
a very small spell, Mr. Michelopoulos.  Just enough to give you a taste so
you’ll know what to watch for if any witch tries to override your
independence.”

Clare
couldn’t restrain the gasp escaping her lips.  Such spells were certainly
whispered about, but she’d always thought them fairytales.  It certainly
cast a different light on her mentor, exposing an unexpected mar with its harsh
glare.

How
large a part did Helga play in Daddy’s unfortunate bet?  Was his cancer
truly beyond her healing? 

Yiorgos
stared at Clare, searching her face.  She gave him a small shake of her
head. 
Don’t do it.  There’s no need.

“All
right.”

He
doesn’t trust me.  Why should he?  Why does it even matter?

As
he slipped the truffle into his mouth, she swore a piece of her heart cracked
off and crumbled to dust.

Horror
tightened Yiorgos’s throat.  His eyes bulged.  His heart hammered
frantically in his chest.  A feeling of such impotent rage crashed through
him that he couldn’t breathe.  His mind whirled and raced, searching for a
way to reach his body, but he couldn’t move.  He rolled his eyes
desperately, trying to get Clare’s attention. 

She
can stop this.  She can help me.

She
jerked forward as though she heard his silent scream for help, but her mentor
grabbed her arm and held her back.

 “Stand
up,” the older witch said.

With
all his will, he screamed at his body to stay put.  He strained every
muscle, rebelling, fighting, but he jerked to his feet like a marionette.

“Walk.”

His
breath rasped, his skin crawling with revulsion, yet he couldn’t stop. 
His leg moved forward, jerky and stiff, but it moved.  He walked.  No
matter how much he wanted to break free.

Is
this what it feels like to be raped?  This horrible inability to stop
what’s happening to me? 

The
violation of his body…his will…made him insane with rage.

“Do
you like this feeling, Mr. Michelopoulos?”

No
, he screamed
inside his mind. 
No, a thousand times no!
 

But
no word escaped his throat—because she hadn’t allowed it.

“Say
yes,” she said.

With
a twitch of her witchy fingers, she dragged the word out of him.  “Yes.”

His
throat felt raw, like the word had ripped flesh on the way out.  Sweat
trickled down his back, plastering his shirt to his body.

“Clare,
dear, what is it you want most from Mr. Michelopoulos?  Ask now and I’ll
make him give it to you.”

Dread
crushed his chest, boulders stacked until he couldn’t breathe.  Not the
ring.  He couldn’t bear if she saw him rotting, dead, flesh hanging from
his bones.

“No,”
she whispered, her voice quivering as badly as his straining body. 

He
would have sagged with relief if the witch allowed him to, but Helga waved her
fingers, forcing him to whirl around in a giddy circle.

“Ask,
Clare.  He can’t resist me now.  He’ll give you whatever you want
with a smile on his face.”

His
mouth rose in a garish clown smile, his cheeks aching with strain.