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Bedspell
Jule McBride


Signe Sargent has it made in Manhattan. Fab girlfriends to hang out with, a line on a hot new job and a crush on Gorgeous Garrity, the Big Apple's #1 bachelor. Except he's not quite responding to her charms, so for fun Signe casts a love spell on him.Amazingly that night she gets her man– in bed–for some very good sex! Problem is that next morning it's clear he's the wrong Garrity brother. James is a mere Park Ranger, no wealthy business exec. Signe wanted Frat Boy; she got Nature Boy instead. Though James is very appealing….Meantime James can't believe how quickly he's fallen for sexy Signe after just one night together. Is it love, magic or her wacky spell that worked too well?And what happens when the love spell wears off?









A sexy female voice singsonged, “Hello, gorgeous.”


James grinned in the darkness of his bedroom. Yep. It was definitely the blonde who’d flirted with him earlier. Her body made contact with the mattress and he sensed rather than saw that she was naked.

“Why don’t you switch on the light?” He’d love to get a look at her.

“I like the dark,” she whispered. “And it’s very dark in here.” When her voice hitched in excitement, it seemed clear that having sex with him was high on her list of priorities. There was nothing that James loved more than being on a woman’s “to-do” list.

But he was a gentleman at heart. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing here?”

She laughed. “Oh, you want me to consent.” She leaned over, her scent engulfing him. “I do, gorgeous.”

For a second everything went silent. Yes, this cinched it. Sex was on her agenda. Heat pooled in James’s belly and teased his groin. When he’d gotten into bed tonight, getting lucky had been the last thing on his mind….

He tossed back the covers, feeling a sleepy stir of air hit his naked body. “Abracadabra,” he said. “C’mon in….”


Dear Reader,

There’s nothing funnier or sexier to me than the idea of finding a stranger in your bed…especially a gorgeous hunk of a man you’ve never seen before, with whom you’ve shared the best passion of your life!

I hope you’ll enjoy this addition to Temptation’s great WRONG BED series. When a woman casts a spell for a night of hot, sizzling sex, she gets everything a woman might want in such a bed partner—except it’s the wrong bed and the wrong guy. Or is he?

I had loads of fun with this one, so I hope you will, too!

Very best,

Jule McBride




Books by Jule McBride


HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

866—NAUGHTY BY NATURE

875—THE HOTSHOT* (#litres_trial_promo)

883—THE SEDUCER* (#litres_trial_promo)

891—THE PROTECTOR* (#litres_trial_promo)

HARLEQUIN BLAZE

67—THE SEX FILES

91—ALL TUCKED IN…


Bedspell

Jule McBride






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Contents


Chapter 1 (#u504d4efd-eb51-59ee-9ad7-65bd02a2f193)

Chapter 2 (#u672a5cff-84e7-5b00-a695-fd791e5b236e)

Chapter 3 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)




1


“AREN’T PARTIES AT THE MET absolutely fab?” mused C.C.

“Divine,” returned Diane.

“Those chicks in Sex and the City have got nothing on us,” chimed Mara.

“Stick around for just a few more minutes….” As Signe Sargent continued serving cocktails to costumed people sidling up to a makeshift bar, she glanced at her girlfriends, all wearing cat costumes. Through floor-to-ceiling windows behind her, light from the nearly full moon and star-scattered sky poured into the room, illuminating the ancient stone Temple of Dendur, brought from the Nile and reassembled in the Met’s Sackler Wing, as part of the museum’s permanent collection.

“We’d love to stay—” C.C. reached to adjust the pointed cat ears nestled in her silken shoulder-length hair “—but while our kitty-cat costumes still look fresh, we’ve got to get downtown to Gus’s gig.” Gus was the owner of the bar nearest Signe’s walk-up in the Village.

Diane, who’d flipped open a compact, was checking her lipstick. “I wish you weren’t working, Sig. You could go with us.”

“Thanks for sneaking us onto the guest list,” put in Mara.

Diane closed the compact, then tilted back a champagne flute, drained it and placed it on the tray beside Signe. “Sneaking in here was risky, but definitely worth it,” she pronounced, flashing a business card she’d managed to get from one of the hot, circulating bachelors.

Afraid her boss might recognize her friends’ names, since the bash, given by a computer mogul, was strictly for New York’s crème de la crème, Signe had signed everyone in under false names.

“It’s definitely one of the better parties we’ve crashed this month,” agreed C.C. with a sigh.

“Amazing hors d’oeuvres,” added Mara.

After filching another pumpkin-shaped tart from under her workstation, Signe nodded, munching. “I still haven’t seen Gorgeous Garrity.”

“You will,” assured C.C.

Maybe. Signe’s eyes settled on the windows behind her opening onto Central Park. In full autumnal glory, the park was beautiful, the trees bursting with color. Gold and russet, they glimmered with night dew and framed a moon so romantic that even the most jaded New York cynic might swoon. It was the perfect backdrop for propositioning Gorgeous. So, where was he?

Signe’s gaze returned to the cavernous room—the ancient Egyptian tombs, the stone statues of guardian goddesses and the temple itself. As mystical as the moon, Dendur stood just as it had for thousands of years, its yellow stones covered in hieroglyphs.

“I met a Rockefeller,” Diane said.

Signe nodded, still scanning the crowd for Gorgeous. While it wasn’t generally known, the museum was available for private parties, at least if they were given by the city’s movers and shakers. Tonight, faces recognizable from magazines and the news were everywhere.

“I met Ghardi,” Mara was saying. “You know? That shoe designer who does the retro-platforms with the gaudy bows on the toes?”

“C’mon, you guys,” said C.C. “If we don’t get downtown nobody will be left at Gus’s, and I want to see the costumes.” Greenwich Village’s pre-Halloween parade was tonight, and there was bound to be stragglers.

“So many parties,” said Diane. “So little time.”

“And there will be even more on Halloween night,” agreed Mara.

“I’m glad they have the downtown parade early.”

Signe pressed a martini into the furry paw of a man in a bear costume, then a cosmopolitan into the black-gloved hand of a witch, and then she glanced between her friends again and grinned, since they all looked so vixenlike in matching black jumpsuits. Tails were pinned to their fannies; they’d found headbands with ears attached; and whiskers were drawn on with black eye pencil. Black masks covered their eyes.

Not that the women looked the least bit alike. C.C. was petite with russet hair she blew so straight that it always looked as if she’d ironed it, while Diane—the one men usually drooled over first—was tall, blond and statuesque. Mara, with her strong, angular bones and clear skin, was good-looking enough to get away with keeping her brown hair conveniently short, eschew makeup and dress in a wardrobe that Diane always termed “grunge-inspired.”

“I really wish I could go with you,” Signe said regretfully. “Are we still having breakfast tomorrow?”

As C.C. nodded, a hank of reddish hair spilled over her shoulder. “Want to meet at Sarah’s on the West Side? They’ve got those wicked apple tarts.”

Everybody agreed.

“And what about the wiccan thing?” asked Signe. Through the business Diane had opened the year before, Wacky Weekends, she offered novelty getaways for bored Manhattanites. She’d just heard of a solstice event in the Catskill Mountains hosted by a group of women from New Jersey. Since the group’s monthly gatherings might appeal to her clientele, she’d asked her friends to help her check it out.

“It’s this upcoming weekend,” said Diane. “So, we’d better firm up our plans.”

“I’ll rent a car,” said C.C., who was the only one of the four women who enjoyed driving.

“Get a convertible,” said Signe. “It should still be warm enough.”

“Indian summer’s going to hold through the weekend,” offered Mara. “It said so on the news.”

“We’ll all chip in for the car,” continued Diane.

Signe nodded. “What should we bring?”

“Aspirin,” C.C. quipped. “It’s rumored that the New Jersey wiccans serve a herbal root beverage that kicks butt.”

Diane scoffed. “Forget aspirin. I’ll bring Bloody Mary mix.”

“And forget your bathing suit, Sig,” said Mara. “If it’s warm, everybody’s skinny-dipping in the lake.”

C.C., who hated nature almost as much as Signe, arched an eyebrow. “Lake?” she groused. “What lake?”

“The cabins are on a lake,” explained Mara.

Crinkling their noses, C.C. and Signe exchanged glances. Signe said, “That means insect repellent. I think I’ve got some left over from the last time we were dragged into the wilderness.”

“Good. Oh!” C.C. added. “Don’t forget to bring something belonging to the man you’re casting a spell on. On Saturday night, the wiccans place a boiling cauldron in the center of their magic circle—”

“And we’re all supposed to throw in an object while we read a spell that we’ve written ourselves,” said Mara.

“You mean, to make a man fall for you?” asked Signe, thinking of Gorgeous.

C.C., who wasn’t the committal type said, “Or have sex.”

At that precise moment, Signe’s eyes landed on Gorgeous Garrity, who was standing on the other side of the room, and she sucked in a breath. Since leaving Wall Street to take over his father’s position, running Garrity Enterprises, a conglomerate that owned businesses around the world, Gorgeous had been on the cover of New York magazine, New York Business World and People. He’d also taken a liking to Signe.

“Speak of the devil,” said Mara.

“He’s eyeing the bar,” observed C.C., her voice hitching. “He’s about to come over here, so we’ll make ourselves scarce.”

Signe glanced downward at her gold blouse and silk pantaloons, then ran a hand nervously over the shoulder-length black wig that framed her heart-shaped face, hoping Gorgeous would like the Cleopatra costume. Just contemplating a conversation with him made the pulse in her throat tick wildly, and the thought of sleeping with him…

She sighed. “He’s so rich.”

“Try not to think about it,” coached C.C. “Just think of him as an average American male.”

But Gorgeous Garrity didn’t have an average bone in his body. Each bone, in fact, was long and tailored, just like the sport jackets he wore when he visited the Met during his lunch hour.

“He’s definitely heading this way, as soon as the woman in the milkmaid outfit lets go of him….” Diane murmured.

Signe’s voice hitched. “Only because he wants a drink.”

“Au contraire!” scoffed C.C. “As busy as he is with Garrity Enterprises, he doesn’t have to come to the museum every day to get a cup of coffee at noon. He does it to flirt with you, Sig.”

Signe’s thoughts exactly. “He told me to call him George.”

All three women said, “George?”

“That’s his name.”

C.C.’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know that.”

“Nobody does. Everybody’s called him Gorgeous for years.”

“Well, he’s definitely that,” said Mara. “Here he comes!”

“I don’t want to read too much into this,” Signe said nervously. She was only a waitress in the museum’s café. It wasn’t exactly an esteem-building job, either. She tried not to compare herself to her girlfriends, but over the past year, she’d watched each of them achieve career ambitions. Diane had opened Wacky Weekends, C.C. had begun taking on her own accountancy clients and Mara had become a Realtor.

But Signe wasn’t giving up hope. In college, she’d studied art and library science. While working for the New York public library, she’d kept applying for jobs at the Met with no luck, so she was trying this new tactic. She’d do anything she could to meet the curators and get them to consider her for one of the coveted jobs in the archives department.

She loved everything about this museum. Its dark, gloomy corridors, marble staircases and smell of oil paint all made her heart sing. Just breathing the air inside the cavernous rooms quickened her blood almost as much as Gorgeous Garrity. Spending the past six months slugging coffee and helping at these private parties had finally paid off, too.

Tonight, her boss, Edmond Styles, had told her that one of the archives assistants was quitting. Come Monday morning, when the woman’s two-week notice was official, Signe would be offered the job of her dreams. She was so excited. Edmond knew everything about art, and was reputed to have connections with the Garritys, through the museum, since they frequently donated artwork.

Signe took another deep breath. It would be so wonderful if something—even just one sizzling night of sex—would happen with Gorgeous….

It was a fantasy, of course. Just a dream, but who knew? She could feel her own star peaking, bright on the horizon. Sighing with satisfaction, she drifted her gaze over the pagan statues the computer mogul had borrowed for tonight’s bash. Most had come from private collectors around the city, and all were displayed on lit pedestals. Yes, she’d done a great job, if she had to say so herself. Tonight, presumably anticipating her promotion, Edmond had entrusted her with the responsibility of logging the borrowed artworks into the archives department, arranging them on the pedestals and even flipping the alarm switch that protected the pieces from theft. From start to finish, this display was her baby.

“Those statues are something to behold,” commented Diane, catching her gaze.

“Well hung,” added Mara dryly.

Signe grinned. Most of the figurines were fertility gods with noticeably disproportionate male hardware.

Diane pointed, laughing. “I think I dated him once.”

“You wish,” joked Mara.

C.C’s voice sharpened. “Here comes Mister Wonderful!”

Signe braced herself. “He’s so…out of my league.” While her parents were professionals in Minneapolis—her father was a lawyer, her mother a history teacher—their lives were modest compared to Gorgeous’s jet-setting lifestyle.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” said Mara. “You’ve got that Winona Ryder thing going for you.”

“True.” Everybody thought she looked exactly like the movie actress. “But that might not be a plus. “She was arrested for shoplifting, remember?” Signe said nervously.

“That was years ago,” Diane assured.

Signe barely heard. Her knees weakened as Gorgeous came nearer. He was definitely…well, gorgeous, dressed as a seventeenth-century courtier. A richly embroidered purple cape swirled over a white doublet with a standing ruffled collar. A sword was strapped to his narrow hips, and it thrust from beneath the cape, its sheathed length brushing tight breeches. Signe’s eyes riveted to the pants fly, which was tightly laced over a bulge that the man was hardly bothering to hide.

All three women blew out a shaky breath in unison.

C.C. softly whispered, “You go, girl.”

Realizing that every muscle in her body had tightened, Signe forced herself to inhale as she lifted her gaze, taking in the rakish white-blond wig that hung to his powerful shoulders. He was wearing a conical velvet hat in lush purple.

“Well, we’re off, Sig,” whispered C.C.

“Don’t forget to get something from him,” coached Mara. “His pen. Or a lighter.”

“Something you can throw into the wiccan’s cauldron,” said Diane.

At the thought of casting a spell on Gorgeous Garrity, Signe felt pin prickles actually rise at her nape. Should she cast a spell to marry him, she wondered, or just have sex? “Casting a spell won’t work.”

“Probably not, but it’s worth a try,” said Mara.

C.C. was scissoring her fingers in a goodbye wave. “See you in the morning at Sarah’s. Let’s make it ten o’clock.”

Eyes on Gorgeous, Signe nodded. “See you.”

Her heart was still hammering when Gorgeous leaned casually over the bar a moment later. Somehow she managed to find her voice. “What can I get for you?” She paused. “George.”

He flashed a dazzling, hundred-watt smile that was like something straight out of the movies. “You can get me out of here,” he said confidentially. “If I’m accosted by one more milkmaid who wants a date, I’m going to scream.”

As Signe strained to hear him over the beating of her own heart, she vaguely wondered at the power this man seemed to wield over her. “Get you out of here?” she echoed. “Where would you like me to take you?”

“Where a woman like you could,” Gorgeous said with an easy grin. “We could start with heaven and just take it from there.”

When it came to flirtation, the man had a thousand smooth moves. Every time he got this close to her, Signe felt like Cinderella. Right now, she’d almost chuck her life dream of working at the Met, just to drag him into the cloakroom and divest him of his costume. Who cared what her boss would think? Despite her nervousness, she shot Gorgeous what she hoped was a game smile. “Well, you’ve got to admit that the art’s interesting.”

“Very. I think my uncle Harold lent Jack some pieces.” Jack was the computer mogul.

As Signe tried to imagine a life in which one lent others personally owned priceless artifacts for parties, she glanced around, noting the number of cute, costumed kids who’d been brought to the party by their parents. “Really?” she managed to say.

He nodded. “Among them, the statue of Eros.”

Her cheeks warmed. Given the elongated penis of the fetish, she didn’t exactly want to stare at it, but then, she didn’t want to glance away too quickly, either. If she did, Gorgeous Garrity might think she was what her friends accused her of being—a prude. “I read about Eros in an art history class,” she said, returning her eyes to Gorgeous Garrity’s, which were blue and sparkling. “They say it brings sexual potency to whomever possesses it.” Just saying the word potency while staring into such astonishing eyes made her feel giddy.

His lips curled in a half smile as if to say he was well aware of the fact. “Really? Well, maybe so. Uncle Harold’s been married more than once.”

“Reproductions of the statue are sold in the gift shop. They do a booming business.”

“Even a reproduction may ensure great sex?”

“Apparently.”

His smile broadened. “Do you have one?”

“A statue of Eros?” Her heart missing a beat, she vaguely wondered how she should respond. Imagining Gorgeous in her Village apartment, naked and between the sheets, had occupied most of her dreams lately. Still, despite her girlfriends’ endless admonishments that she should loosen up, she didn’t want to give the impression that she was easy. She had no doubt that women flung themselves at Gorgeous Garrity all day. “No,” she finally admitted. “No Eros reproductions. I can, however, offer other types of potency.”

Gorgeous looked very intrigued.

Lifting a wine bottle, she raised an eyebrow in question.

He considered. “What about a Stoli and tonic instead?”

“Coming right up.” As she fixed the cocktail, her eyes slid over his costume. Most removable items—the sword, hat and belt—were too large or too hard to get for the purposes of the spell she meant to cast on him. She could borrow a pen, or ask for a business card….

Her eyes settled on the edge of a red silk handkerchief tucked in his waistband. Just looking at him, she shuddered. He was big all over. The kind of guy who, naked, would be covered with silken curling hair—all dark blond in his case. His legs were bunched with muscle, probably from playing polo, which Signe knew he enjoyed. He flashed her a smile.

She smiled back. She simply couldn’t believe it. Before she’d started this harmless flirting with Gorgeous, she’d never had sex on the brain—at least not like this. She considered herself sexually healthy, of course, but usually, when it came to men, she was much more practical. Gorgeous, despite his bank account and prospects, had looks that made her nerves quiver.

Schooling her hand not to shake, she gave him the drink, then she stepped back and feigned a sneeze. Without hesitation, he lifted the red handkerchief from his waistband and pressed it to her palm. Making a show of blowing her nose, she smiled. The ploy had worked like a charm. “Why don’t I launder this?” she suggested. “I’ll keep it here for you, since you come in so often.”

“And you’re always here,” he returned with another of those smiles that made her feel as if she was the only woman in the room. “Don’t they give you time off?”

This was his entrée! Was New York City’s most eligible bachelor really going to ask her out? “Actually, yes, they do. I’m going to the Catskills this weekend.”

“Whereabouts?”

“The state park. An area called the Clover Fields.”

“Sounds lucky.”

Was he asking if he could get lucky? “Maybe.” She giggled. “I’m in cabin seven, too. Isn’t that a lucky number?”

“It sure is.”

The cabins only slept three, so she’d decided to let her girlfriends stay together while she was to share with a roommate—one of the New Jersey wiccans—whom she hadn’t yet met.

It might have been her imagination, but Gorgeous’s eyes looked veiled. “Going alone?”

“With girlfriends.” When he looked disappointed, she took a deep breath and plunged on. “Unless you decided to show up.”

“Me? Show up?”

She wasn’t sure if she’d made a mistake. “You know, if you were in the area.”

As if he just so happened to pass the Catskill Mountains every day of the week, he smiled and said, “You know, I just might run into you.”

His eyes locked into hers then. They were the same blue as the ocean under a burning sun hung in a cerulean sky. Breath left her lungs, and full years could have passed before she managed to blink. When she did, it was only because someone in the room had screamed.

“What was that?” she managed, tearing her eyes away.

“The statue of Eros!” shouted the voice as if in response to her question.

Her heart pounding with worry, she shifted her eyes to the pedestal on which the artifact had been displayed moments before, and then she blinked, feeling as if she was watching her life flash before her eyes. She saw Edmond Styles snatching away her promised promotion into the archives department. For a moment, wishful thinking almost made her believe the statue was still there. She could almost see it—about a foot tall, carved of dark wood.

And then she whispered, “It’s gone!”

THE NEXT MORNING, with only a day left until Halloween, Signe found herself shifting uncomfortably in a roller chair in the Met’s boardroom when Detective Alfredo Perez from the Eighty-fourth precinct stopped pacing to cast a suspicious glance toward the overnight bag at her feet. He was tall, pencil-thin, with short, spiky dark hair, ink-black eyes and a handlebar mustache that Signe thought made him look like a Mexican thief from an old spaghetti western.

Not taking his eyes from her bag, he said, “I was going to tell you not to leave town.”

Not a good sign. “Am I under arrest?”

He didn’t bother to answer. “Where are you going?”

She wasn’t sure she should admit it. “A wiccan retreat.”

“Wiccan?”

“Uh…you know. Witches.”

“Ah,” he said. “You’re a witch, then?”

Great. She could see the wheels turning. Detective Perez was connecting this information with the stolen statue, which was pagan. “No, actually, I’m not.” She lunged into a quick explanation of the trip and finished by flashing a smile and intoning, “I do not know, nor have I ever known, any real witches.”

He wasn’t amused. “What about cats?” He slid a grainy photograph toward her, probably reproduced from a security video. It was of her at the bar, talking to C.C., Diane and Mara. Signe hedged. It was bad enough that they thought she hadn’t turned on the alarm, even though she knew she’d done so, but she’d definitely be fired if she admitted to signing friends into the party under fake names.

“I know I turned on the alarm.”

He eyed her a long moment. “Who are these women?”

The man’s distrustful attitude was beginning to unnerve her. “I don’t know.” Surely, it would be proved that she’d flipped the switch on the alarm. If so, she’d be in the clear. Besides, her friends weren’t involved in the theft, and a priceless statue was bound to be found quickly, right? “Whoever took the statue will try to sell it,” she ventured. “Won’t they? I mean, don’t you think it will show up on the black market…?” Noting the pleading tone in her own voice, she let the remark trail off.

“Maybe.”

She took that for a yes, and sighed in relief. No, she wasn’t about to jeopardize her future at the museum by admitting she’d added her friends to a private party’s guest roster, just so they could grab some free drinks, catered hors d’ oeuvres and meet some good-looking rich men.

Detective Perez was staring at her coldly. “What were these cats talking about?”

She thought fast. “Mostly volunteer work.” That sounded positive and upbeat.

His voice sharpened. “And they were volunteering…?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” she managed to say. “But it was clear they were very nice women. Not the sort to steal artifacts. You know,” she continued, the lies not coming easily, “they sounded as if they loved…uh…small children. And pets. I think they even mentioned giving gifts to people less fortunate than themselves.”

“Cat burglars,” he muttered. “Cute.”

Was Detective Perez really considering her friends as suspects? “They seemed like very nice women,” Signe repeated.

His eyes pinned her. “You said they didn’t talk to you.”

“Well—” Her throat constricted, and she swallowed hard. “It was in the way they ordered.”

“The way they ordered?”

“They didn’t sound like thieves.”

“How do thieves sound?”

She searched her brain. “Not like…nice women.”

“Our conversation is getting a little circular.”

At least he’d noticed. Reaching down, she clutched the handle of her overnight bag. As she did, she thought of Gorgeous for the first time since the interview had begun. He’d been truly kind after the theft was discovered, and while he’d never again referred to her invitation, she was sure she’d seen something promising in his eyes. Ten to one, he was going to turn up in the Catskills tonight. “Look, Detective Perez, I’d like to help—I really would—and if you need to speak to me again—”

It was the wrong time for her cell to ring. Wincing apologetically, she slid a hand into her purse and drew out the phone. Quickly opening it, she whispered, “Hello?”

“I’m on my way in a fabulous yellow convertible,” chortled C.C. “I’ve already picked up everybody else. Be in front of the Met in ten.”

As she powered off, Signe wrenched her gaze from the grainy photo of her friends in their cute cat costumes. Detective Perez’s dark eyes were still scrutinizing her, and even without a mirror, she knew she looked guilty. Lying had never been her strong suit. When she was little, she’d actually spent hours practicing telling untruths in the mirror. It had never helped. At the age of seven, her own father had made her swear on a Bible he used for his legal work that she’d never attempt to play poker.

“If we’re done,” she ventured, “I’ve really got to go.”

“One more question.”

“What?”

“How’s your sex life, Ms. Sargent?”

Her eyes widened. “My sex life?”

“Yes,” he said. “Your sex life, Ms. Sargent. It’s where—”

Quickly, she raised a hand, murmuring, “Uh…no need to explain.” After a stunned moment, she added, “Oh.” Was Detective Perez wondering if a lack of potency was her motive? Did he really think she’d stolen the statue of Eros to enhance her life in the bedroom?

Heat flooded her cheeks. “It’s…” Virtually nonexistent right now, except for my dreams about Gorgeous Garrity. “Fine,” she said decisively. “No problems there.” Unless you considered that her mother called every Thursday night like clockwork to see if she’d met “a nice young man,” which meant someone professional and well employed, with a bright future.

Before Detective Perez could asked any more embarrassing questions, Signe lifted the overnight bag, butterflies taking flight in her belly as she thought of Gorgeous Garrity’s handkerchief, which was tucked next to her panties.

Just as she reached the door, the detective said, “Has anyone ever mentioned that you look like Winona Ryder?”

“Yes.” Plastering an innocent smile on her face, she felt sure the wheels in his brain were spinning once more, and that he, too, was making the shoplifting connection. “They have.” For good measure, she added the word “sir.”

Sighing in relief, she exited the archives department and followed the few remaining tourists who were being shunted toward the revolving front doors. She was going to be late to meet her friends now. Rounding the grand staircase, she glanced upward, her eyes suddenly stinging as they settled on the Tiepolo painting in the upstairs gallery. What if her dream to work here didn’t materialize?

It had to. She loved everything about this place. The press of the crowds. All the tourists. How the scary, long, dark corridors went on forever, fading into shadowy marble staircases. She’d wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of her life in this building, cataloging artifacts, but now she—not to mention C.C., Diane and Mara—was a suspect in a heist. Things couldn’t get much worse. Or at least she thought so before she heard Edmond Styles behind her.

“Signe?” he called. “May I have a word?”

Definitely ominous. Taking a deep breath, she kept her eyes on the security guards stationed before the brass revolving doors opening onto the autumn sunlight, then she forced herself to turn around. “Of course, Mr. Styles.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said solemnly. “But I just spoke with Detective Perez, and until this matter is cleared up, we’re going to have to let you go.”

“LOOK AT THE BRIGHT SIDE,” Diane whispered philosophically.

“What bright side?” Signe considered herself a cup-half-full person, but she hadn’t yet found one. It was hours later and the women were standing in a clearing in the woods, surveying a magic circle fashioned from broomsticks laid end to end.

Between sips of spiked herbal-root beverage, Diane kept her voice to a hushed whisper, so as not to upset the more earnest witches in attendance. “If you’re fired, Sig, you can spend next week helping me with the Manhattan Men program.”

“You’ve got a point,” admitted Signe.

“You’ll be on the payroll, and it will cheer you up.”

Manhattan Men, the program Diane was offering through her business, Wacky Weekends, was an intensive week-long experience designed for businessmen who had more money than culture, and who wanted to learn how to present themselves with more class. Next week was the program’s test run, and so far, six men from around the country had signed up. Their dates—C.C., Mara and Signe, as well as some other friends—would show the rich bachelors how to impress business associates. Between learning how to dress, order in restaurants and select fine wines, they were in for a week long extravaganza that would include trips to art openings, operas and high teas.

“Mara and I are taking vacation time, so we can participate,” reminded C.C.

“Sounds good,” Signe managed to say, still upset over the work suspension, and took another sip. The herbal-root beverage definitely had a bite. She frowned. “What do you think is in this?”

Diane didn’t hesitate. “Pure grain alcohol.”

Doubtful, Signe thought. She rarely drank. “It doesn’t taste like it.”

“You wait,” said C.C. darkly.

For once in her life, Signe decided she might not really mind tying one on. Besides, Gorgeous hadn’t stopped in on his lunch hour, as he usually did, but then maybe that meant he planned to surprise her tonight. She sighed. In the car, on the drive to the mountains, a heated debate had taken place, and all the women decided not to speak to Detective Perez and see how things played out over the next week. If the thief still wasn’t caught and Signe wasn’t reinstated in her job, then they’d reconsider their strategy. Despite stories and movies to the contrary, they’d reasoned, priceless artifacts rarely really vanished. Surely, they were too hard to sell. All they had to do was wait for the police to find Eros.

C.C. knocked back her herbal root beverage, then fanned herself. “It’s hot out here.”

“Remember last Christmas?” said Diane. “It was seventy degrees.”

“Global warming,” explained Mara. “At least we can skinny-dip in the lake after the ceremony.”

The ceremony. Signe’s eyes settled on the huge black kettle in the center of the magic circle. Beneath it, a fire roared. Reaching into the back pocket of her cutoffs, she withdrew Gorgeous Garrity’s handkerchief and the spell she’d written. “It’s not very good,” she whispered. Since it concerned Gorgeous, she’d meant to spend quality time on it, but her concern over the missing Eros statue and Detective Perez’s sudden entrance into her life had distracted her.

“You really can’t expect yourself to write a good spell,” Diane commiserated, “not when so much is going on in your life, Sig.”

So true. Wishing she’d done a better job, she moved up in line, watching Mara. Following the protocol of the New Jersey wiccans, Mara removed one of the brooms, which was functioning as a gate. After opening the symbolic door, she closed it behind her and walked toward the boiling cauldron. When she reached the pot, she tossed in a jock strap that had belonged to her ex-boyfriend, Dean. Even though the breakup had been definite, he still wouldn’t quit calling. Unfolding the spell she’d penned, Mara began to read:

“Dean, I hate to be unkind

But it seems I haunt your mind.

Oh, SoHo man I’ve left behind,

May this spell break our binds…”

“Get ready,” C.C. whispered. “You’re next, Sig.”

Signe nodded, taking one more anxious glance around. While Minneapolis had its share of sprawling state parks in the middle of the city, she’d never frequented them. She was a city girl, born and bred. The woods made her nervous. She found herself thinking of insects. Wildcats. Bears. You name it. Her imagination always ran wild.

Fortunately, tonight, the herbal beverage was mitigating her anxiety. In fact, the more she drank, the more she got a warm, fuzzy feeling deep in the pit of her stomach. Right now, the rustic log cabins that were barely visible through the tall trees looked inviting, even though Signe’s roommate had canceled at the last moment, since one of her kids was sick. That meant Signe was going to wind up sleeping in a cabin all by herself. Not that she couldn’t join her friends, but the beds were single and it would be uncomfortable.

Being alone would be fine, she told herself. It was safe. No men were around. Regarding the retreat, most of the women looked less like witches and more like soccer moms from New Jersey who wanted a girls’ night out, away from their husbands and kids.

Diane’s elbow caught her in the ribs. “Mara’s done, Sig. You’re next.”

Miming Mara’s movements, she, too, headed for the circle. Using a broom as a gateway, she entered the magic area, then replaced the broom and approached the cauldron. A wave of heat hit her, warming her cheeks as she peered over the edge. Floating under the bubbling surface, she could make out a pager, a cell phone and a Brooks Brothers tie. The jilted fiancée of a dentist had dropped in his Water Pic, after reading a spell that included the words: “You thought I was the hostess with the mostess. Now I’m wishing you halitosis.”

One overzealous redhead had tossed in the keys to her husband’s Lexus, realizing too late that she’d borrowed his car to come to the retreat. Another had offered the last lock of her boyfriend’s hair before he’d gone prematurely bald, in the hopes that his hair would grow back.

Signe took a deep breath. Shutting her eyes, she conjured an image of Gorgeous Garrity, and for a blissful moment, she forgot all about the missing potency statue, Detective Perez and the fact that she was—hopefully temporarily—unemployed. What if Gorgeous did come to the mountains tonight? She breathed out shakily, imagining how his hands might feel on her body.

Their conversation had been preempted by the theft of the statue, but before that, Gorgeous had sounded as if he was seriously considering a trip up here. Turning toward the wiccans, she cleared her throat, straightened her shoulders and read:

“O, ye spirits, do hear me

In a crystal ball do see

An eve of sexy revelry

With a man I call Garrity

And if we should be good in bed

I beseech ye, we should wed

And now that this has all been said

I give this handkerchief of red.”

Turning, she dropped the handkerchief into the boiling water, then had the strangest falling sensation, as if a rug had been jerked from beneath her feet. Her breath caught as it went under the bubbling surface of the water, the pointed tail of it swirling once before it was lost.

Surely it was nothing—just fanciful thinking, as if the spell might work—nevertheless, the hairs at her nape were prickling her warm skin when she exited the circle. The feeling lingered as Diane cast a spell to make her business, Wacky Weekends, thrive, and as C.C. angled for another promotion. Only when the women began stripping and running into the lake did the feeling start to dissipate.

As C.C. pulled a sundress over her head and weighted it down with a rock, Signe said, “wouldn’t it be kind of creepy if these spells really worked?”

Mara was wiggling out of her shorts. “Creepy?”

Signe shook her head. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “Back there, I got this…weird feeling. Like it was real. Like it’s going to work.”

“And you’re going to marry Gorgeous Garrity?” asked Diane.

“Or just sleep with him?” asked C.C.

“You wish,” chimed Mara. “C’mon, get undressed.”

That changed the subject. “I’m not swimming in that lake.”

Mara shot her a long look. “Why, may I ask?”

Signe laughed. “Because when I free-associate, lakes make me think of words such as rocks, fish and slime.”

“No excuse,” declared C.C. “If I can do this, you can.”

“What the heck,” Signe said on a sigh, stripping off her shorts and panties, and glancing around as she downed the last gulp from her pewter mug. “What if someone sees us?”

“There’s nobody out here,” assured Diane.

C.C., wearing her bra and panties, grabbed her friends’ empty mugs and said, “I’m getting us all refills before I get in.”

The stuff was definitely tasty. Usually, Signe didn’t indulge much, but her friends were right. This was a girls’ night. No men were in the woods. And the lake really was beautiful, the crests of its softly lapping dark waters glinting with light from the glowing full moon. If Gorgeous Garrity really did show, he probably wouldn’t mind if Signe was just a little tipsy….

The alcohol seemed to be making her quite bold.

“Make mine a double, C.C.,” she suddenly called.

And then she pulled off her panties and, tired of the other women teasing her for being relatively body conscious, she made a point of throwing the scrap of silk to the night breeze. As a gust of wind caught her underwear, Signe ran for the water.

Which meant her back was turned when C.C. returned with the drinks and pulled the age-old camp joke of hiding the rest of Signe’s clothes.




2


“WICCANS,” JAMES MUTTERED derisively. They’d kept him awake half the night. The park ranger yanked the sheet toward his bare shoulders. Every month, he braced himself for another full moon—and their meetings. Half the women were man-haters who tried to place curses on men they’d once loved, and the other half were determined to charm men to the altar, the one place James had vowed never to go.

Even worse, this month the women had arrived right on the heels of James’s Wildcat Capture Team certification test, and he’d wanted to spend tonight celebrating. Alone. With only Mother Nature for company. He’d meant to work on the mystery novel he was writing, too, but that had turned out to be a no-go, because of the noise outside.

At least he’d passed the wildcat test. Cats had become a real problem in the park lately, and if you didn’t know what you were doing, you could get hurt capturing them. One ranger nearly had his eyes clawed out; another got cat-scratch fever, which James had never thought was a real illness until now. As it turned out, it was caused by bacteria transmitted by cats. Yes, indeed. You definitely had to watch out for felines.

Just this morning, James had caught a mama with six kittens and hauled them down to the animal-habitat people who would find homes for them. Over the past few weeks he’d wound up keeping two that had gotten into fights in the woods. Both of them looked domesticated, and James hated the fact that their owners had brought them to the park to dump them. Why he had such a soft spot for strays, he’d never know, but maybe it was because he was a black sheep in his own family.

As the orange tabby jumped onto the bed, James blew out a perturbed sigh. Even in the dark, he could tell by how its paws hit the sheets that it wasn’t the smaller black kitty. “Show some mercy,” he muttered, even though there was clearly no hope tonight where sleep was concerned.

The wiccans were still out there, hooting and hollering, which meant he was going to have a real cleanup job tomorrow. The items these women left after they’d cast spells on their poor, unsuspecting targets was enough to chill any man’s blood. Wrist-watches. Money clips. Television-remote channel changers. Once he’d even found a Swiss Army knife, which, given his attachment to the one he’d carried since his teen years, had seemed like an unusually low blow. Wasn’t anything sacred to these women? he wondered.

Every month, as he cleaned the park, he would count his lucky stars that he’d never gotten married. On that score, fate had been most kind.

Sex, of course, was another matter. A man could never get enough sex. And James had to admit that the wiccan women always looked tempting when they got loopy on the herbal-root beverage they made every month, and then jumped into the lake naked. Suddenly, he squinted. Speaking of the lake, had he just heard something drip? It sounded like…

Water? Stifling a groan, he pressed his face farther into the pillow, deciding it was just his imagination. Or the night breeze. Maybe it was starting to rain.

Then he heard it again, just a faint plip-plop. Tilting his head, he glanced in the direction of the sound. It was definitely water. Had one of the cats gotten into the kitchen sink? Maybe. They kept trying to drink from the tub faucet. Rolling, James tried to see into the room. There was a full moon outside—a haunting, romantic full moon of the sort that might conjure werewolves and vampires for the Halloween night—but the curtains were closed against it, and the blinds drawn, so the room was pitch black.

His voice was husky with sleep. “Is somebody there?”

All at once, the plip-plop sounds ceased. The night turned silent except for the sounds of the woods that he loved, the whir of insects and the rushing breeze. He heard an owl hoot.

And then somebody hiccoughed.

“Uh…” He blinked. “Who’s that?” He hadn’t heard the door to his cabin open. Was one of the wiccans lost? A Cheshire grin made his mouth broaden. Ah. Maybe it was his lucky night, and the blonde who’d stopped earlier, asking for directions…

A sexy, singsong voice called out, “Hello, gorgeous.”

Yep. It was definitely the blonde. He listened as Ms. Plip-Plop neared, heading toward the bed. And him. As her steps stilled and her body made contact with the mattress, he sensed, rather than saw, that she was naked. He had no idea how he knew that was true. She just sounded naked. He listened more carefully as her bare skin brushed against the sheets.

“Uh…are you lost?” he asked in a sleepy croak.

No answer. Something metallic hit the wood of the bedside table. Had she removed a ring? If so, she probably hadn’t come here for idle chitchat. Good. His breath caught as anticipatory heat tunneled through his veins. No doubt, this really was the blonde who’d stopped by the ranger station earlier, asking for directions. He could swear he’d just caught a whiff of that enticing musky perfume she’d been wearing. The woman had been driving a refurbished Mustang, and while she’d been coy about not divulging her name, she’d flirted with him for a full half hour before heading to the parking area designated for the wiccans.

Still blinking sleep from his eyes, James scratched his chest. “Since you’re up,” he murmured throatily, “why don’t you switch on the light? It’s by the door.” He’d love to get a look at her.

There was a long silence. For a second, he could almost imagine that the woman had disappeared. Or that he’d been dreaming, after all. But no…she giggled again. Just the sound was enough to make him smile. It was a giddy, high-pitched schoolgirl’s giggle, and it didn’t take a state trooper with a Breathalyzer to figure out that she’d imbibed plenty of herbal-root punch.

“I like the dark,” she whispered.

“The dark’s good,” he conceded. Yeah. It had to be the blonde. Who else would come into his cabin this way?

“And it is very, very dark in here,” she slurred. When her voice hitched with excitement, it seemed clear that having sex with him was high on her list of priorities, which was fine with him. There was nothing James loved more than being on a woman’s “to-do” list.

His eyes narrowed. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Why?”

“Because as tempting as you are, I’d draw the line if you’re about to do something you might not do stone cold sober.”

She hiccoughed loudly. “What a gentlemen.”

“Not really. But I do like a consenting partner.”

Her voice turned reedy, catching with promise. “So, you want me to consent?”

“Yeah.”

“I do, gorgeous,” she murmured solemnly.

For a second, everything went silent, as if the room itself had suddenly inhaled a sharp breath. Yes, this cinched it. Sex was on her agenda. The heat in James’s veins started localizing, pooling in his belly, teasing his groin and making him strangely conscious of the hairs on his bare legs, then the tingling between them.

Half asleep, he remembered how she’d looked earlier when she’d gotten out of her car to ask directions. Her short silken hair had been the color of freshly harvested wheat, and it had lifted with the breeze, while the strong sunlight had done wonders for the rest of her, outlining her nipped-in waist and the gentle flare of her hips. She had sweet, enticing slopes of breasts, and each time she’d moved, rays of light had shined through her blouse, looking like fingers caressing her as the breeze ruffled the fabric. As he sucked a breath through his teeth, James’s mouth dried. When he’d gotten into bed tonight, getting lucky had been the last thing on his mind….

He waited for her to make another move.

Every month, these wild women came tearing into the park, their engines roaring, shouting ribald comments and tossing back drinks like sailors. The next morning, they were always hungover. Usually, they decamped as quietly as church mice, as if something so much as turning on the car radio might make their heads explode. They always left, swallowing down aspirin and leaving a wake of lost clothes in the woods. James kept a finders-keepers bin of bras and panties in the main office, but so far, no one had shown up to claim them. This was the first time a witch had actually propositioned him. He couldn’t have felt more beguiled.

She was still paused at the edge of the bed.

If he’d known she was coming, he would have changed the sheets, but seeing as it was too late, he tossed back the covers, feeling a sleepy stir of air hit his naked body. “Abracadabra,” he said, “c’mon in.”

Another giggle sounded.

In the darkness, he couldn’t see so much as an outline of her body, so he only sensed it when she leaned forward. “Hocus pocus,” she teased. As her splayed hand hit the mattress, a water droplet splashed his face.

“You’re one wet witch,” he said.

And then she stumbled. Uttering a barely audible gasp of surprise, she lurched headlong on top of him. If he hadn’t reached instinctively and looped his arm around her waist, she would have gone over the other side. As it was, one hand caught her hip, and the other, her arm. Settling her on top of him, it was his turn to gasp.

She was naked. Clammy. She sucked in a breath and murmured, “I’m so sorry,” but she didn’t really sound sorry about crashing into him. He wasn’t the least bit sorry, either. She said, “I’m wet and cold.”

“We’ll have to warm you up.”

Every lake-drenched inch of her was searing into him. “You’ve been swimming,” he said, his voice lowering seductively. He couldn’t believe that this sexy woman was right on top of him, her breasts cushioning the hard muscles of his chest, the sweet, taut tips of her nipples nestled down in his chest hairs. Her belly was molding to his. And below…

Crisp hairs brushed his thighs, teased the space right below where he most wanted to feel her. The tantalizing crush of her pelvic bone threatened to destroy any shred of reason. James had no idea what he’d done to deserve this midnight gift, but it must have been something good. Probably giving all those kitty-cats homes. Silently, he thanked the goddess to whom these women always seemed to pray. His next shaky breath hit the air, sounding like a whistle.

“I was swimming naked, gorgeous,” she clarified.

“Sorry I missed seeing you.” Just imagining moonlight dancing on her skin was enough to give him another shove toward the edge of sanity.

Her chortling laughter came again. “You don’t mind?”

“That you were swimming? Or that you were naked?”

“That I was naked in the park.”

Did she think he’d really assert his authority as a ranger and arrest her? “Not in the least,” he assured her.

Feeling her body move against his gave him the slightest pause. Earlier, at the ranger’s station, he’d thought she was a larger woman, taller and with fuller breasts, but then sundresses could be deceiving, and the airy fabric had swirled around her legs, nearly reaching her ankles. Maybe that had made her look taller. Now he realized she was just a wisp of a woman. Five-five at the most. Had she been wearing high-heeled sandals? He squinted, thinking back to their meeting, trying to remember, but he couldn’t….

And then he wasn’t even trying. He couldn’t think at all. Her mouth came closer; soft pants of breath that smelled like sassafras teased the rim of his ear, and then the enticing moist, pointed tip of her tongue wetted a spot…right before she blew on it. He shuddered. Unable to take her teasing, he lowered his hands on her back, gliding them downward on either side of the most delicate spine he’d ever felt, until he hit her silken backside.

“No panties,” he whispered.

“You don’t have any panties on, either, gorgeous,” she whispered, laughing with another burst of pure hilarity.

He sure didn’t. Her splayed hands thrust into his hair, and when he reached up to touch her short locks, he realized they were as wet as the rest of her. As droplets fell from her skin onto his, they heated right up, sizzling as if they were oil hitting a griddle. When her mouth touched his, he knew he was moments from losing the last vestiges of male control. Not that he cared about hanging on to it. He was as hard as a rock, and her slick, waiting heat was calling to him like a siren’s song.

“I’m not really a witch,” she confessed raspily.

“Could have fooled me.”

Thrusting his hands from her nape, up into her hair, he stopped talking and drank in her kiss…deeply…more deeply. The softest lips he’d ever plundered parted under the pressure, and she opened for him, her tongue darting outward and sliding against his. An involuntary moan was wrenched from somewhere deep inside his chest, as if it had been buried there, hidden and lodged inside him for his whole lifetime—until this very moment, when this witchy woman pulled it out.

His mind blanked. He could barely believe this was really happening. He didn’t even know her. And yet this felt like so much more than just a kiss with a stranger. Need burst in him. Raw hunger as the open-mouthed kiss turned hotter, wetter and greedier. Electricity that no man would deny was sparking between them. Moaning, he grasped her backside and pulled her closer still, right to his hard, waiting heat. “I want inside,” he whispered, his voice strained, completely foreign-sounding to his ears.

Her heart was hammering against his chest. The thought came from nowhere: one love, one heart. She said, “Me, too.”

Melting, he skated the never-ending kiss downward, from her mouth, to her cheeks, to her neck, and then he shifted his weight, rolling her to her side, so his itching palm could mold her breast.

“Ah,” he murmured simply, caressing the silken slope of the underside, then lifting her from beneath and angling down his head to better suckle. After pressing the liquid, searing heat of his mouth to her straining nipple, he used the tip of his tongue to flick it to the bud, then he circled it until her seeking hips were arching; she was silently begging now, for what she’d come here to get.

“Are you sure I’m not dreaming?” he managed to whisper, gliding an open hand down the most succulent body he’d ever felt twining around his own. Wanting to touch each inch of her, he fantasized using his mouth and fingers to make her writhe. “I want to see you wild,” he murmured.

“Wild?”

“Yeah.” The crazy woman had taken the risk to come in here wet and naked, and now that she’d lit his fire, he intended to make it well worth her while. He definitely didn’t want her to walk away, feeling sorry for her nocturnal visit. Sliding a hand between her legs, he felt his body boil as his fingers dipped into her warm, running honey. She was so ready that he drew in a sharp, satisfied breath…and then he began to probe.

“No—” She exhaled the word, making his blood dance. He stopped immediately, and she giggled. “I meant yes, gorgeous.”

“You’re sure you’re real?” He was almost beginning to doubt it. No woman had ever made him feel so good. And while the blonde had looked promising, this was more than he’d hoped for. Her every touch was arousing so much more than sexual need. She was conjuring darker things. Like the need to possess. To frustrate and toy with her until she was begging him for satisfaction only he could give.

“I’m real,” she said.

“Who are you?”

“You know who I am, gorgeous.”

He did. At least he recalled her asking directions. But he wanted more now. Her name. Her address. Her phone number. The promise that he wouldn’t wake to find her gone.

Before he could say so, her hand reached down, sending him crashing into shuddering oblivion as slender fingers curled around his length. She grasped him firmly. Stroked. He nearly screamed. Vaguely, he wondered if she’d said something. He wasn’t sure. The friction of her hand, the way she was rising to meet the ministrations of his own touch, was more than he could bear. Each ridge was pleasured, her nails skimming over flesh until the whole world narrowed focus. There was only her and him. Alone in the middle of the woods on a dark night drenched in moonlight. There was no sound save soft pants as they climbed.

He pulled her back on top of him. Swallowing hard, since his throat was raw, he whispered, “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I cast a spell on you, gorgeous,” she admitted.

“You really think I’m gorgeous?”

“Of course you are,” she murmured.

“You cast a spell on me?”

“That’s why you’re in my bed.”

She was in his, but he didn’t correct her. Not when he was so flattered. None of these wiccans had ever cast a spell on him before, at least not so far as he knew. “You cast a spell because you wanted to have sex with me?”

“Yes,” she murmured, nibbling his lips and groaning as she slid her hands into his chest hairs again. Releasing a moan, he curved his hands slowly over her hips, then down shapely, sexy legs. Fire surged through him once more. Waves of heat seemed to roll through him, only to be drenched by the water still dripping from her body.

“You’ve got leaves in your hair,” he said huskily.

“Take them out.”

He did. One by one, he lifted out the dry twigs and brittle leaves that had lodged in her short, wet locks as she’d come from the lake. “You were lucky not to get caught in the brambles,” he said, even though his mind was really on the deft movements of her now rolling hips. “Whatever you threw in that cauldron,” he added, his lips capturing hers once more, as the damp curve of her belly cradled his, “it’s definitely working its charms.” Reaching, he stretched an arm toward the bedside table and pulled out the drawer.

She startled, her hands tightening on his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin. He imagined them, how they’d feel moments from now, raking down the rest of his back. This was one wildcat whom he’d gladly let claw him to ribbons.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Condoms.”

“Good thinking.”

“Mere habit,” he assured. With her in the bed, any logical thought was truly eluding him. Feeling bereft with her body warmth gone from his, he readied himself, then hauled her back on top of him, simply saying, “Ride me.”

Again, that maddening giggle sounded. “Like a broomstick?”

He laughed. “You witch, you.”

Her tongue traced his lips, silencing him, sending another shock of awareness through his system. “O, ye spirits bring to me,” she whispered huskily, “a night of sexy revelry.”

So, that’s what she’d asked for. “I think we can manage that.”

Her laugh was tempered by need now. “All night?”

“There won’t be a thought in your pretty little head until dawn,” he assured her, then he added, “I’ve only got one question.”

“What?”

“Well, men and women can do an awful lot of things together,” he began. “So, which of those things do you want to do first?”

Her tone was strangely dark, lusty. “You mean, seeing as we’re going to eventually do them all?”

“Yeah.”

He heard her intake of breath. “Man’s choice.”

He urged her closer. “You on top, then. And later…” As his words trailed off, everything except the spellbinding woman vanished from James’s mind—he forgot his wildcat capture team certification and the hours he’d spend tomorrow, cleaning up after the wiccans—and he touched a thumb to his bedmate’s chin, tilting back her head and spiraling kisses down a slender neck that, beneath his tongue, had the smooth consistency of fresh cream.

As her knees bracketed his hips, she exhaled an excited rush of breath. “Later?” she urged as she positioned herself above him and slowly impaled herself, sliding downward on his shaft until he could no longer bite back another moan.

“Everything,” he promised hoarsely, seeing himself tongue-kissing every inch of her legs, then burying himself between them, tasting her while she drowned in pleasure. He saw her kneeling before him, too, tasting him with the same abandon. Maybe they’d head outside, right before sunrise, and he’d take her, hard and fast, against a tree, until both of them got so crazy with lust that they’d start howling at the moon.

After all, it was Halloween.

“Sliding down the broomstick,” she whispered. He would have laughed, but he simply couldn’t. His blood was pumping too fast, his mind racing with fantasies about the woman who kept calling him gorgeous. The tight, slick folds of her body were enveloping him, stealing away his breath. His arms swiftly circled her back. Squeezing her tightly, he hauled her even closer against him and rolled, so that he was on top of her. Unwilling to simply lie back and take the pleasure, the way he’d initially asked, he realized he wanted to be the one to give it.

“Hold me tight, you wicked little witch,” he coached as he thrust deep inside her, feeling her open all the way. “Because the man you’ve beguiled is about to show you some midnight magic.”

WHAT HAD HAPPENED?

Signe slid a hand down her belly, as if she half expected to find that her own body parts had vanished in the night. Whew! That herbal-root punch had really packed a punch. C.C. hadn’t been lying! Nor Diane, who’d said it contained grain alcohol. Signe felt as if she’d been run over by a Mack truck. Which was just as well. She’d actually forgotten about the stolen statue and Detective Perez for a few blissful hours. Now she tried to slit her eyes open, but decided it was just too painful. Yes, she was going to have to spend all day pressing thin slices of frozen cucumber to her eyelids.

This was why she never drank. While the herbal-root beverage had been great going down, she now felt as if a heavy cement block had lodged in the space where her head used to be. Except that couldn’t really be the case, since her head was pounding. It felt as if an army of little men were inside it, trying to bash their way out with hammers.

Everything hurt. A big white hole seemed to exist where her memories once were. It was as if she’d become a cyborg from the movies, whose brain existed only on a CD-ROM. Now she was simply waiting for her memory element to reconnect….

Just opening her eyes hurt. Breathing hurt. Her skin hurt.

Everything.

Except the dream. If her lips didn’t hurt, too, Signe would have smiled. She’d actually dreamed that Gorgeous Garrity had been waiting for her in bed. She’d whispered the words to the spell she’d cast, and they’d made love. Not just the wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am kind of love, either. But no-holds-barred sex that had lasted all night long.

It seemed so real.

Astonishingly real, she decided with a frown. In fact, the more her memories came back in snatches, the more it seemed as if the event had happened. Was she going crazy? Or had Gorgeous taken her up on her offer and come to the Catskills?

She was still in too much pain to open her eyes.

She could remember his touch, though. Every kiss, every sexy smell. Big strong hands had stroked every inch of her. His hairy chest had teased her breasts in a way that actually made her…have an orgasm?

Yes, he’d barely touched her, and she’d gone off like a rocket. He’d lit her up like a sparkler on the Fourth of July. She’d burned and sizzled.

“Whew!” she mouthed.

As he’d pushed inside her, she’d felt as if a thousand massaging fingers were probing her, driving her toward new, dizzying heights of ecstasy. But that was crazy! Sex was never that good! She was healthy, of course. But a long time ago, Signe Sargent had realized that men were human and had their pretty obvious limitations.

Last night, however…

Had the spell affected their bed play? They’d gotten so down and dirty that just thinking about it made her whole body flood with heat once more. She could almost hear his voice, saying, “I’m about to show you some midnight magic.” And boy, had he!

Maybe there was something to this wiccan stuff, she thought, her heart skipping a beat. If it improved sex to this degree, she would certainly become an adept. As soon as she got back to the city, she’d get her own spell book. The dream really did seem so sharp, vivid and full of detail…

She registered a musty smell. “Cats?” she mouthed.

She opened her eyes a fraction. Just enough to see that this wasn’t her cabin. Uh-oh. She ceased to breathe, and her aching body felt frozen in panic. Now she couldn’t shut her eyes if she wanted to. Where was she? The curtains were different from those in her cabin, she realized, and somebody lived here. Full-time. No…this was no part-time camper, and this somebody was messy.

Without even moving her head, she could tell that the place was a wreck. A closet door was open, and a man’s clothes were inside. Not the kind of man’s clothes that might have brought her comfort, either, such as Brooks Brothers suits and Hermès ties. This man’s shirts were made out of plaid flannel. Yards of it, indicating he was quite sizable.

Dirty jeans were on the floor. Canoe paddles were propped beside the door, near mud-caked steel-toed work boots. An open can of soda was perched on a sofa arm. Not very promising. Had she really walked into the wrong cabin? And slept with some strange man, thinking he was Gorgeous Garrity? And how could such a thing have happened…when her friends swore there were no men out here in the woods?

Her eyes slid to the bedside table, landing on a graduation certificate, and she made out the words: Wildcat Capture Team Certification. Whoever he was, he’d certainly captured her last night.

Feeling desperate for a drink, she took in a desk stacked with books and strewn with papers, and then she saw the disabled cats. Two of them. An orange tabby with its head bandaged and both front paws bound in gauze. The other was missing a leg. Telling herself to remain calm, she pressed a hand to the mattress and tried to roll over. As she did so, she pressed a hand to her head, also. She felt something that didn’t belong there and removed it.

“A leaf,” she mouthed. Great. More exploration turned up brambles and a twig. Glancing down, she realized her legs were mud-streaked from the swim in the lake. Yes. It was all coming back to her now….

Then he snored.

It was not delicate snoring, the kind C.C. and Diane could both be guilty of after they’d had too much to drink…the kind that would have assured Signe that she’d wound up in the other cabin with her girlfriends.

No.

This was chesty male snoring that said he was at least six feet tall and packed with muscles of the very type that she’d felt holding her tightly last night. Trying not to make a sound, she fought the pain as she craned her neck and glanced over her shoulder.

When she saw him, her heart hammered harder. Who was he? The sheet was pulled only to his thighs, and getting a gander at his physique, she couldn’t help but think of the fertility statue Detective Perez thought she’d stolen. No wonder sex had felt so good….

His skin was as smooth as glass and tanned the color of toasted walnuts. He was definitely gorgeous. Just not the Gorgeous…Gorgeous Garrity. Which meant she had to get out of here. Escape, while he was sleeping. She’d just run….

But her eyes lingered. He had great hair. Thick and medium-blond, it was decidedly too long; soft curls that had felt like heaven against the insides of her fingers were brushing the skin of his shoulders, gleaming like summer sun. Faint light, slipping through the closed curtains, was dancing in the strands, and for a brief moment, she watched as if spellbound.

She forced herself to blink rapidly.

Glancing around, she searched for her clothes, then remembered she’d lost them at the lake. She’d come here naked, thinking this was her cabin, and he must have thought…

She was someone else.

Yes. He’d seemed to be expecting her. Great. This was the sort of jam C.C. always got herself into. But nothing such as this had ever happened to Signe. What would C.C. do? The answer was just as clear as it had been a moment before: run. Trust your instincts, Sig.

Soundlessly, she edged her legs over the mattress, wincing when her feet hit the wood floorboards, making them creak. She glanced over her shoulder again in panic, but the man hadn’t moved. So far, so good. Standing, she stared covetously at the sheet on his legs, wishing she could risk taking it, to cover herself. How far was her own cabin from here?

She tiptoed toward the door, wincing as she took a silent step, then another. She was halfway across the room when she heard the groan of mattress springs, and then a gruff voice saying, “Going somewhere?”

She froze, uncomfortably balanced on the balls of her bare feet, her fisted hands at her sides, deeply conscious of the fact that she was naked, and that it was no longer dark in here. Her backside was exposed, and while she didn’t exactly want to be a coward, she didn’t want to turn around and face him, either.

He said, “You can borrow a shirt if you want.”

Her eyes cut to the closet. It was tempting, but if she borrowed a shirt, she’d feel obligated to return it. “Uh…thanks, but I’ll manage.” Another wave of mortification overcame her when she heard her voice. It sounded weak and gravelly.

“You sure?”

How could he sound so normal? Had he forgotten how they’d spent the better part of last night? She still hadn’t managed to move. She’d remained standing in the middle of his cabin, perched on the balls of her feet. Venturing another quick look over her shoulder, she wished she hadn’t. The sheer force of the man’s over-the-top good looks was—unfortunately—enough to pivot the rest of her body around.

For a long second, she just stared. And then her foggy mind caught up with the rest of her body, and she realized he was seriously checking her out. She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling like an idiot. Casually, she drew one leg in front of the other.

The slightest smile lifted his lips, almost as if he was getting a kick out of her discomfort. She blew out a surreptitious breath, wondering what to do next. His face was strong and broad, framed by blond curls, and his jaw was firm and square, his eyes, the kind of hazel that could turn brown or amber, depending on the light. She felt tempted to crawl right back into bed with him.

Then she remembered the flannel shirts, steel-toed boots and disabled cats. The man might be amazing in bed, but he was not the type with whom a reasonable New York woman could make a lasting future, and Signe was practical. What she wanted most was a future. Reminding herself that she was in enough trouble already, since she was temporarily suspended from the Met, not to mention a prime suspect in the theft of a priceless statue, she edged backward, toward the door.

He huskily said, “I thought you were…”

Someone else. The words hung in the air. Somehow, despite her embarrassment, she managed to keep the smile plastered on her face. “Nope.”

His thick eyebrows knitted. “Have we even met?”

She really couldn’t stand here in front of him much longer, naked. “Nope,” she said again.

He slowly sat, pulling the sheet with him, thankfully covering his lower half and bunching the pillow behind him, as if anticipating a lengthy conversation with her, and while she hated to disappoint him…

She’d almost reached the door, but she couldn’t help but ask, “And you are?”

“Name’s James,” he said. For the space of a suspended heartbeat, the whole world slid off kilter and she could swear he was going to add, “Bond. James Bond.” But instead he said, “The park ranger.”

“The park ranger,” she echoed in a hoarse whisper. Of course. How could she have imagined that her magic spell had conjured Gorgeous Garrity? “I see.”

He was starting to look offended. “Who did you think I was?”

“Gorgeous,” she managed. “I thought…”

He flashed a grin that did remarkable things for his already remarkable face. “Thanks.”

“No,” she managed to say, realizing he’d thought she was referring to his good looks. “I mean…” But probably it was better not to explain she’d mistaken him for Gorgeous Garrity, a man a park ranger in the Catskills would have never heard of. “I mean…uh…”




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