Not too bad. She looked a little bit like Snow White, but that had always worked for her. It was what she’d dressed as for every Samhain since she could remember. Now, if she could just find her damned broom. The thing had been in the shop twice already in the last three months. She hoped it didn’t dump her in Bangladesh. That would not be good for her complexion or the Gargoyle Masque.
She looked at the closed copy of
Weekly Warlock
and sighed heavily. She’d much rather be dealing with this version of Dred Shadowins. Not only did she have to deal with Dastard Dred, as she’d called him, but she had to deal with her broom. Her broom was a timid little thing, afraid of heights. Pretty much worthless, but every time she tried to trade him in, his bristles quivered tearfully and she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
Middy found her broom hiding from her in the back of the shoe closet. She knew she was lucky to have found him because the back of that thing led to another dimension. At least, that’s what the sock gnome had told her when she’d caught him stealing one of her thigh-highs. She’d threatened him with dirty gym socks; they never wanted those.
For good reason, she supposed.
Middy soothed the broom out of the corner and got him ready to go. She hopped on him sidesaddle because he had traditional sensibilities, not at all like some of the newer models who were more than happy to have witches’ thighs clamped tightly on both sides of the steering shaft. And she wondered then if Aloe Hugginfroth’s broom could apply for hazard pay. That, too, could possibly have been a black hole to another dimension.
CHAPTER TWO
The Appointment
Shadowins Towers were located on the mortal side of Kansas City, Missouri, because Dred liked to be in the middle. He found that the middle was always the easiest road to travel and he could veer off to either side at a moment’s notice. This applied to politics, business, magick, and women. He especially liked to be in the middle with women, in the middle of two women if he had his way.
And he usually did.
He wasn’t sure what perversity had caused him to demand Miss-Cherry-Would-If-She-Could bring the pitch for the Gargoyle Masque. Dred already knew that he was going to give her the money. Even he couldn’t resist all of those sad-eyed, snot-nosed little creatures who were oddly endearing with their pleas for help. He wouldn’t go so far as to say that he liked other people’s spawn, but they were interesting in their own way, and unpredictable.
He was also aware that at times, he was indeed a twisted bastard. Of course, that hadn’t stopped him from making his demands when Vargill had called sniveling about Butterbean’s dumbassery. How in the name of hell he’d gotten caught with that slag Aloe Hugginfroth was beyond him. It wasn’t that he hadn’t had his turn with the talented witch, because he had. All warlocks had their share of vices, but that didn’t mean they needed to be displayed like Solstice lights on a tree.
He hadn’t really thought much about Middy Cherrywood since their days at the Academy. Dred had been such a spoiled little shit, and now that he thought about it, he wasn’t sure that much had changed where he was concerned. He’d realized that plenty had changed with Middy when he’d seen her a month or so ago at a luncheon and damn if she wasn’t mouthwatering. Of course, there was the fact that her panties might be the only ones that he hadn’t been in as far as the magickal world was concerned.
He was running out of new dishes to try and she was most definitely a dish.
He’d always thought Cherry-Would-If-She-Could, but now he wondered if Cherry-Had, and if she would again with him? Dred knew that she was going to be a challenge and that whetted his appetite for more, much more.
He knew she would be prompt so he waited for her in what they called the Broom Closet. It was a small room where magickal folk could travel back and forth between the mortal and magickal worlds unmolested.
Dred wasn’t disappointed. She arrived with one minute to spare looking like she’d just crawled out of his bed.
Her lips were plump and pink, as if she’d just been kissed thoroughly, and her hair was slightly mussed. Wait, no. If she’d just crawled out of
his
bed, her hair would look like she hadn’t brushed it in years and she wouldn’t even be able to sit a broom. He flashed his trademarked Shadowins’s smirk. That was how she was going to look tomorrow morning.
She was going to be wearing that same berry-pink silk blouse, but it would be buttoned wrong. They usually missed one or two after a night with a warlock of his prowess. He’d bet that the tail of the blouse would just skim the tops of her thighs and would be an enticing invitation to see what else she had to offer in that exact shade of pink.
Middy leaned over as she dismounted her broom with the ladylike comportment that the Academy had beaten into her head. He remembered the days when a broom could buck her if she even looked at it too long. Dred caught a glimpse of a lace-edged, black satin bra as she shifted.
He was instantly hard at the sight of the soft swells of her creamy breasts over that naughty black lace. Dred wondered if she liked how that silk felt like against her bare skin, if it taunted her nipples and, further, what shade of pink they were.
Dred decided then that pink was his new favorite color.
Especially when her cheeks flushed the same hue. He would have to endeavor to keep them that way.
He extended a hand to help her from the platform and she looked at it like it was covered in the Ebola virus.
Dred looked down at his hand again to make sure that it wasn’t in any way offensive. No, it wasn’t covered in griffin shit, . . . He’d been petting them before her arrival, but he knew he’d washed his hands. There would be no stealing of corporate secrets here; his griffins would rip out the hearts of anyone set on espionage against Shadowins holdings.
“May I, Miss Cherrywood?” It had been really difficult not to call her Miss Cherry-Would-If-She-Could. He knew that the epithet would light her on fire and her eyes would flash and those tasty blouse gnomes would heave and . . . It would be like a sensual storm for his senses, getting her knickers in a knot.
She was flustered again, but she took the hand he offered and stepped down beside him.
“I didn’t expect you to meet me yourself,” she said as she smoothed her skirt with one hand. Middy tried to pull the other one back, but he wasn’t inclined to let go.
“I can’t have you wandering these secret halls, now can I? The griffins might think that you were up to no good.”
“No good? I’m not the one who has been accused of unpleasantries,” Middy replied calmly.
“Miss Cherrywood, I wouldn’t call murdering a whole village for a Hand of Glory an unpleasantry,” he said, referring to one of the atrocities he was thought to have committed in pursuit of dark magick. Although, if the truth were known, he was actually in possession of that particular item, though he had not acquired it by murdering anyone. “If that’s what you consider unpleasant, I would hate to see what you’d call evil.”
She gasped. “Are you admitting it?”
“Of course not. Why? Do you think I did it? Are you afraid to be alone with the wolf in his den?”
“Should I be?”
“Oh, yes, Miss-Cherry-Would-If She-Could. Be very afraid.” Fuck it. He couldn’t help himself; he wanted to see her face flush and that fire spark in her eyes. Not to mention she deserved it. If she wanted to play hardball, he could play.
It made him almost sick that most of the magickal community believed such horrors about him. He could be a right bastard, to be sure. But if these people really thought that he’d murdered a whole village for one cursed object . . .
Yet, they still came groveling because of his money and position. He hadn’t thought that Middy was one of those.
It occurred to him that he wanted her to think better of him. Dred had this sudden urge to tell her everything that had happened, how
he’d
been the hero of Shale Creek, not Tristan Belledare. It was true that he’d gone to Shale Creek to get the object, but to destroy it, not to use it. Then, it had gone supernova and taken half the population of Shale Creek with it—it would have taken half of the warlockian world if not for Dred’s magick. It had never mattered to him before that anyone knew he was a good warlock, but he wanted Middy to know.
And not just because she’d narrowed her eyes and he thought for a moment he could see curses brewing in their depths. He was surprised and a little intrigued by what she said next.
“Really, I thought we were past all of this juvenile behavior, Mr. Shadowins. Especially since you requested that I come with the pitch from the foundation. Was it just to torment me because you’re still the school bully?” She tapped his chest with a folder of papers that held her presentation.
Oh, he was going to torment her further, all right. He was going to do things to her that would make her scream his name like he was the second coming of Merlin. If he had to bedevil her into it, then so be it. Dred was surprised, almost to the point of heart failure, that she hadn’t melted right there in the Broom Closet when he’d offered her his hand. Most witches did. Hell, most women fell on their backs like any number of shelled creatures and seemed to get stuck, but not Miss-Cherry-Was-Going-To.
He tried a different tack. “I apologize; I didn’t realize it bothered you. I was merely attempting to make you more at ease by bringing up our childhood memories.” Dred was surprised that he hadn’t choked on that word. He never apologized and if he had to for social reasons, it was always a double-edged jibe. In this case, though, he found that he was actually a little sorry. Or that’s what he assumed the heavy feeling in his gut was.
He didn’t like it one bit.
She rewarded him with a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Shadowins. Now, if we could just go to your office, I will try not to take up too much more of your time.”
“I was actually thinking we could do this over lunch. My schedule is very full today and this is the only time I have between meetings. I made reservations at a lovely little winery.” Most women loved the winery. He preferred a good, solid beer himself, but whatever.
She looked torn and unsure of herself. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“You have to eat, right? I know I do. I thought we were past juvenile behaviors, Miss Cherrywood.” He’d had to bite down to keep the other name from coming out of his mouth. He loved to say it and he loved the look on her face and the way her eyes flashed with fire. . . . “We’re two adults having a business lunch.” When she still looked unsure, he whipped out the big guns. “Think of the children.”
She sighed and agreed. Dred had to wonder how long that little line was going to work. He knew he needed to play with it until he broke it. Hopefully, he’d have her screaming in tongues beneath him by then.
CHAPTER THREE
Lunching and Midnight
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Middy re-gretted them. He pulled her flush against the hard expanse of his body and secured his forearm just beneath her breasts. The heat of his arm burned her and she wanted to get away from him, but she wanted to get closer, too. She wanted to rub herself against him and make him ache the same way she ached. Middy was hyperaware of his breath on her neck, the way she could feel his every touch, every casual brush of skin to skin, and how her body fit into his in just that perfect way that said they were meant to fuck.
She almost tittered aloud. It made her giggle to refer to it that way. Middy still wondered how people could do all of those things to each other and still look one another in the face in the morning. She’d heard some wild stories from her friends that had to do with the chocolate starfish and someone’s tongue. It disgusted her and intrigued her at the same time.
After thinking all of those dirty things about Dred Shadowins, she had a tough time looking him in the face. Those were just dirty little fantasies, she reminded herself.
He smelled so good, just like sandalwood, patchouli, and something else that she couldn’t name. She wondered if he was having the same kind of reaction to her. Scratch that with a brick—she
wanted
him to be having the same kind of reaction
. Needed
would have been a better word still, but she wasn’t quite ready to admit that where even her own brain could hear it.
On the plus side, she had recourse that he didn’t. She could go home and play with Centerfold Dred to her heart’s desire. Or, more accurately, her clit’s desire. Her heart certainly had nothing to do with it.
Teleporting usually made her nauseous and she was glad that it wasn’t a power she’d been gifted with. For one horrible moment on the way to the winery, she thought she was going to spew all over Dred. It would serve him right, of course, but it would be her very own brand of chunky humiliation. It actually wasn’t so bad—the teleporting, not the spewing—when she had that hot, hard body behind her.
She felt so small and safe. Probably because he was a scary, enormous Viking-looking bastard with those shoulders and that jaw. . . . He had snowflakes in his eyes. Or maybe it was steel? He was the thing that went bump in the night. The monsters under the bed were worried about coming home from a long day at work and finding
him
under their own beds.
It wouldn’t be so horrible if she found him under hers.
Okay, that was it. The final straw. The next time she had an impure thought about Dred Shadowins while in his presence, she was going to go home and light both of those issues of
Weekly Warlock
on fire. So help her, Circe!
His fingers splayed across her stomach and she felt light-ning through her veins that ended between her thighs.
Middy was so hot for him, she was sure that her hair was going to burst into flames.
She was so acutely aware of his every breath, she didn’t even notice how they got into the winery, whom they spoke with, or even how they’d been seated. He was looking at her now like he expected some sort of answer.