The Zombie Billionaire's Virgin Witch (Zombie Category Romance) (9 page)

“You’ll
have to hurry, though, dear.”  Helga’s voice didn’t have quite the same
booming quality.  He glared at the woman, straining with every ounce of
will to leap forward and bash her head in.  “He’s very strong.  I
can’t hold him much longer.”

“No!” 
Clare shouted at him, not her mentor. 

Freed
from the spell, he leaped forward, hands outstretched. 
I’ll wring the
woman’s damned neck for trapping me like that!

Clare
crashed into him.  Her arms wrapped around him, her scent rich and sweet,
and the memory of tasting her cake rolled through his mind.  He stilled,
letting her hold him.  Comforting him, he realized, because he was shaking
from head to foot from fighting the witch’s spell.

Closing
his eyes, he sagged against her, just for a moment, soaking in her comforting
scent.

A
heavy thump made her jerk out of his arms and turn to her mentor. 
“Helga!”

The
woman had fallen against the table.  Arms trembling, she struggled around
the edge and fell heavily into his chair.  Clare rushed to her, swiping
unruly auburn hair out of Helga’s clammy face now ghostly pale.

Clare
felt the woman’s pulse, biting her lip.  “Your heart’s beating too
fast.  What can I do to help you?” 

“Nothing,
dear,” the other woman gasped, patting her hand.  “I’m just exhausted. 
He’s like wresting an angry bear, isn’t he?  I’m surprised you haven’t
given up on him already.”

Forcing
himself to move slowly and calmly, he stepped over to the kitchen and asked
Dmitri to bring them a pitcher of ice water and three glasses.  Inside, he
was still a smoldering, roiling volcano of fury.  He’d never been so
powerless before, trapped and vulnerable and unable to protect himself. 
His greatest fears all wrapped up into one wicked witch with a ridiculous
pink-haired skull blazing on her chest and pink polka-dotted tutu. 

Suddenly
he understood some of Clare’s upset.  He’d accused her of casting spells
like that—basically raping him with her magic.  No wonder she’d been so
insulted and horrified.

“I
apologize, Mr. Michelopoulos,” Helga said in a breathy, fragile voice so unlike
the boisterous woman who’d waltzed in earlier.  “That was an extreme
demonstration, but I felt it was necessary, given the urgency of your
situation.”

Reluctant
gratitude twisted in his stomach.  At least she hadn’t blurted the whole
truth out to Clare. 
You see, dear, Mr. Michelopoulos is a walking
corpse, and he needs your magic to break the curse.

“If
you can’t trust Clare, she can’t help you,” Helga continued, her voice
regaining some of its vigor.  “And
Remy’s
deserves the absolute
best.  I couldn’t allow your misplaced trust to interfere in saving her
father’s legacy.  Now you know what subterfuge via magic feels like. 
You also see the extreme wear on the witch attempting such a spell.  If
you can help me to my car, I’ll ask my driver to take me straight home so I can
sleep for a day or two to recover.”

Clare
clucked over her mentor, making sure she had a glass of water first, offering a
shoulder for the woman to lean on heavily as they left.  Yiorgos remained
silent, trying to reconcile everything in his mind.  He’d never forget
that horrible feeling of being controlled by an external force as long as he
lived.

And
he’d never forget the molten heat that filled him whenever he took a bite of
Clare’s cake.  Or looked at her deliciously curvy body.  Even when
she was furious at him, she made him feel like he was intoxicated, more
vibrantly alive than ever before.

Will
I ever be able to smell or taste chocolate again and not think about Clare Remy
melting in my arms?

EIGHT

Her
mentor had compared Mr. Michelopoulos to a bear, but Clare decided that wasn’t
at all the right description for him.  While the kitchen staff worked in a
flurry about her to push out the evening’s dishes, he prowled through the
restaurant like a sleek lion.  Magnificent.  Regal.  And oh so
deadly.

He’d
been shaken enough after Helga’s demonstration to leave Clare alone for the
rest of the afternoon.  They were also too busy for chitchat during the
evening rush.  That didn’t stop him from pacing through her domain every
once and awhile, his dark eyes gleaming with…

What,
exactly?  Which was the crux of her problem.  She didn’t know him
well enough to tell what he was thinking or feeling.  He hid his emotions
too well behind that familiar tycoon exterior.  Did he still suspect foul
play on her part, manipulating his emotions or his libido to accomplish her
wicked plots?  Worse, had he accepted the idea that for whatever bizarre
reason, he might actually be attracted to her?

Because
if the lion decided he was going to feast on her tender morsels, she was
terribly afraid she’d leap right into his vicious jaws, no matter the
consequences.

She
sighed and patted her sweaty brow with a towel.  That’s exactly why she
dressed, talked, and acted like she did.  She had to hide her true nature,
even if she was fooling everybody but herself.

Even
if I burn to find out exactly how Yiorgos makes love.  Slow and long and
tender?  Or sweaty, hard, and fast? 

Both.

Her
cheeks heated and it wasn’t the ovens raising her body temperature. 

The
last of the dessert plates went out, leaving her a minute to catch her
breath.  Of course Michelopoulos just happened to prowl back through the
kitchen, probably trying to scavenge a plate for himself. 
Lord help me
if he finds out where I stashed the Death by Chocolate Cake.

“Why
do you hide your body beneath such shapeless clothes?”

Heat
scalded her cheeks and she spluttered.  “That’s none of your business.”

“You
said you thought you were chubby.  Are you ashamed of what you look like?”

To
keep herself busy and her body distracted, she buried her hands in the sink and
began washing the last of the dirty pots.  “Not at all,” she finally
said.  “I’m a kitchen witch and I love food.  I’m never going to be a
slender slip of a girl and I’m totally fine with that.”

“Then
why hide?”

She
wanted to blurt,
I’m not hiding…  But I am.  Oh, I am.  I
must.
  “I’ve learned it’s much better to appear normal and innocuous
to the world around me, Mr. Michelopoulos.  Most people don’t even think
wizards exist, let alone that I can do what I can with magic.”

“Ms.
Kettlewich doesn’t hide.”

Clare
let a grin quirk her lips.  “Absolutely not.  She’s wild, loud, and
in your face.”

“You
could be, too.”

She
rinsed the pot and set it into the rack.  When he picked it up and started
to dry it, she nearly fell over with shock.  “That’s not me, Mr.
Michelopoulos.  I’m a much quieter sort of person.”

“Out
of necessity or choice?”

“Both.” 
She handed him the next pot and he brushed his fingers over the back of her
hand.  She couldn’t help but suck in a deep breath and hope he didn’t
notice the zing sparking between their skin.  “Some people like to be the
center of attention, the star of the show.  I’m much more happy hiding in
the kitchen and churning out the food.”

“But
how do you know if you’ve never been the center of attention?”

“The
very thought gives me hives,” she said flatly, drying her hands on her
apron.  “I’m doing exactly what I’m meant to do.”

His
dark eyes searched her face, and she was terribly afraid he saw right through
all the disguises she thrust at him to keep the world at bay.  “And if you
gain
Remy’s
in our little venture…?”

“I
can’t imagine anything better than taking over my father’s restaurant, unless
I’m able to teach at the Academy as well.”

“I
assume the Academy is very exclusive and demanding.”

“It
is.  The trials alone are more like a marathon than a job interview.”

“Tell
me about them.”

She
tilted her head, trying to figure out why he wanted to know. 
Curiosity?  Or was he trying to find a way to slither out of the contract
with some bizarre moonlighting clause or something?  “The Wizard Council
runs the Academy and all of them teach in their specialty.  To be honest,
a training position at the Academy is a starting point for anyone who’s being
groomed to step onto the Council someday.”

“So
if you make it into the Academy, you’ll basically be Helga’s heir apparent.”

“Exactly. 
It’s a huge step in my career, the same as winning a coveted five-star rating
for your restaurant.  It won’t be the end of the world if I don’t make it
in this time but…”

He
waited silently, which was oddly harder for her to resist than if he’d belligerently
demanded the answer he wanted.

“I
don’t know what I’ll do if I don’t make it into the Academy.”

He
didn’t frown, exactly, but the lines deepened on his face.  She was
starting to recognize more of his tells.  When he acted the lordly tycoon,
he was lying or hiding something he didn’t want her to know.  When those
lines appeared between his eyes, he was thinking.  Plotting.

And
that’s a very scary thing.

Over
the next few days, Yiorgos made it a point to show up in the kitchen randomly
and frequently.  There was so much about Clare Remy that intrigued
him—because it just didn’t make sense.  She was like her fabulous
cake—deep and rich and mysterious, layer after layer.  The ugly clothes
were just the frosting, far less tasty than her buttercream, and hiding the
more delicate cakes underneath.

I’m
determined to unwrap her, layer by layer, until I find what she’s hiding, so
far deep down that even she may not know.

One
of his favorite tools to use in order to judge a person’s character better was
a sort of word association game.  Dmitri would still play with him
occasionally but he wasn’t a challenge any more.  He knew Dmitri inside
and out.  The man wouldn’t be able to surprise him again.

Clare,
on the other hand, was a wealth of surprises that he couldn’t resist trying to
unbury.

Pausing
at her shoulder as she chopped vegetables, he asked, “Merlot or Chablis?”

Her
mouth quirked into that crooked grin.  “What’s the protein?”

“None. 
The wine is just for sipping.”

She
nodded slightly.  “Neither.”

His
eyebrows raised slightly but he didn’t pester her with another question. 
Yet.  Part of the game was baiting her into playing with him, and if he
pushed too hard, he couldn’t trust her answers.

He
waited until the kitchen was in full swing, hot and frantic and crowded as
everyone scrambled to satisfy a packed house.  Clare was plating perfectly
cooked lamb chops with the sous-chef dressed the garnish.  They had rows
of dishes to do and little time to chat.

“Champagne?” 
He raised his voice above the clamor, although she didn’t look up from her
work.  “Or Shiraz?”

“Neither!” 
She yelled back at him.

Pushing
his luck, he asked again.  “Cabernet sauvignon?”

She
blew a dangling tendril out of her face but still didn’t look up at him. 
“No.”

So
he glided out of the kitchen to leave her in peace, but he couldn’t resist
smiling.  He had a pretty good idea, now, not only of her taste in wine
but her temperament. 
Anyone who’ll take the time to answer inane
questions while extremely busy deserves a gold star for patience.

With
the evening coming to a close, he found her still in the kitchen tidying up
long after she’d sent everyone else home.  Silently, he helped hang the
rest of the pots and sharpen her knives.  She looked tired tonight, but
pleased, he decided, noting the soft glow in her eyes despite the slower,
heavier pace she set now that the rush was over.

At
the back door, she picked up her jacket—another huge boxy shapeless creation to
hide the magnificence of her backside in tight jeans.

“I
don’t think you’ll need the coat any longer,” he said softly, watching her
face.  It was a balmy spring night, but that’s not what he meant.

Ignoring
him, she started to put it on, so he took the opportunity to hold it up for
her, earning a tired smile of thanks.  Engulfed in a jacket big enough for
them both, she hesitated at the open door.  “Have you figured out the wine
yet?”

Slowly,
he smiled with genuine amusement.  “Moscato.”

“Moscato
d’Asti is my favorite.”  She laughed softly.  “How’d you know?”

Sweet
and bubbly, just like you, if only I can find the way to uncork you.
  He
shrugged.  “Just a hunch.  Good night, Clare.”

Deliberately,
he used her given name, hoping she might rise to the challenge and use his name
in return.

“Good
night, Mr. Michelopoulos.”

Nodding,
he didn’t allow the smile to spread on his face. 
If she knew how much
I enjoyed the challenge of winning her over to using my name, then she wouldn’t
have thrown down the gauntlet.

Without
her even knowing how it began, Clare found herself immersed in his games. 
Surely that’s all they were.

He
can’t possibly be seriously…pursuing…me.

It
had started so innocently with the wine question.  One day, he asked
chocolate or caramel.  Well, duh, chocolate, obviously, or she would have
created Death by Caramel Cake.  Strawberry or raspberry?  Cheddar or
brie?

Before
she knew it, he wasn’t asking food questions, though.  Again, the
questions were so innocuous…at first…that she hadn’t been alarmed.  Skirt
or dress?  Tank or T-shirt?  Blue or green? 

Boxers
or briefs, Mr. Michelopoulos?
  She mused to herself, washing the
last of the dishes. 
Or better yet, how about nothing at all…

She
loved the quiet late-night hours alone in the kitchen.  Around her, the
restaurant seemed to sigh with pleasure, as satiated as the customers she’d
sent home with full bellies to sleep off the mild intoxication of her magic
with sweet dreams.  She didn’t mind managing the last details of the
nightly clean-up duty, simply so she could revel in the aftereffects of well-used
magic.

With
her hands deep in soapy water, she could close her eyes and imagine she was in
a hot tub, soaking in the glorious pleasure curling around her.  Heat and
relaxation, strong muscles, a powerful masculine body to lean back against…

She
came to with a jerk only to realize the last part had not been a daydream.

Yiorgos
loomed behind her, his arms braced on either side of her body on top of the
sink, caging her against the counter.  Even though he didn’t lean against
her or touch her more than the subtle brush of his arms against hers, she could
feel the heat radiating from him.  And of course, she felt the implicit
threat of his much bigger, stronger body that could overpower her at a moment’s
notice.

His
warm breath fluttered over her neck and ear, sending her heart into
police-chase acceleration.

“Satin
or silk?”  He whispered with the barest brush of his lips against her ear.

Shivering,
she clutched the pot tighter in both hands, fighting the temptation to drop the
dirty dish and whirl around to busy her soapy hands into helping him out of his
clothes.  He’d discarded the suit jacket he typically wore during the
dinner service.  The long sleeves of his fine white shirt were rolled up,
baring the cords and tendons of his powerful forearms.

Such
a careless display of masculine beauty left her knees weakened.  Her body
moistened, muscles tightening and softening at the same time.  She could
all too easily imagine those arms braced on either side of her head as he
thrust into her body.

“Wha..what?”

“Satin,”
he whispered more fully against her ear with a low chuckle of male
amusement.  “Or silk?”

Her
brain just wouldn’t work.  She couldn’t put the words together into
anything that made sense to her.  “Neither?”  Her voice sounded too
squeaky and unsure, so she spoke more firmly.  “I don’t have experience
with either of them.”

“Are
you sure?”  He nuzzled her neck just below her ear, trailing moist
tendrils of fire through her skin.  “Because you feel like silk against my
mouth.”

“Oh.” 
God, I’m such an idiot.  Smooth, calm, cool, that’s so not me.
 
Heat crisped her ears and she tried for a breezy, nonchalant laugh that sounded
like a croaking duck.  “I thought you might have meant underwear or
something.”