Witchy Woman (9 page)

“What, you mean that kick?” He shrugged. “Tai kwon do. Haven’t practiced it in a while, but I guess I still got it.” He led her through the back door of his building, swaggering only a little.

“Whatever it was, thank you. You might’ve just saved my life.” The memory of that knife poised inches from her face, her throat, gave her chills.

“Yeah, well, next time give him the purse, all right?”

“The purse?” Tess trooped after him up the stairs, her familiar little vinyl purse clutched against her. She knew she was supposed to be on her way home, but all she could think about was the cozy security of Nate’s apartment and the warmth of that brandy hitting her stomach. “He didn’t want my purse. He wanted the Crimson Cat.”

“Huh? He didn’t say that. He said you had something he wanted.”

“Nate, didn’t you recognize him? He’s the man who was hanging around outside Judy’s town house.”

“I don’t … I mean, I don’t think so. It was dark. How could you tell?”

“I just could. He wants that statue, and apparently he’s willing to do violence to get it.”

“If that’s the case, why didn’t you offer to let him have it?” It was clear from his tone that he didn’t buy what she was saying. They reached his door, and he opened it to allow her inside.

Tess shook her head. “Giving him the statue wouldn’t work. It would only make things worse.”

“How do you know? Who is he? Why would he want the statue if it’s cursed? If you’re going to tell me a wild story like this and expect me to believe it, you’d better be more consistent.”

“He’s a Gypsy,” Tess said. “That’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

“Uh-huh.” Nate dropped onto the couch and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He was wildly attracted to this woman, and he didn’t want her to be crazy, but he was beginning to think she was. And he didn’t need to be involved with a nutcase. He’d dated a paranoid schizophrenic once. She’d seemed so normal at first. Then she’d exhibited behavior he termed “fanciful.”
Then
things had started to get weird. When she’d started talking to Joan of Arc, he’d been outta there.

“A Gypsy crafted the original curse,” Tess said in a perfectly sane, rational tone of voice. “I seem to remember something about Gypsies being immune to it. They can use the statue’s power for evil purposes.”

“Are you making this up as you go along?” Nate couldn’t help asking. But he was tired, and he wasn’t practicing his usual restraint when dealing with a skittish subject.

Tess folded her arms and dropped into the club chair. “Just forget it.”

“I’d like to, for now, anyway. I’m beat.” He offered her an apologetic smile. “Listen, why don’t you crash here tonight? I’ve got a foldout couch in my office.”

“I should go home,” she said, her voice cool around the edges. “I’ll call a cab and have it pick me up right at your door.”

Common sense dictated that Nate let her go. But something in him wouldn’t release her alone into the night to take her chances. “Look, Tess, if some crazed, knife-wielding Gypsy is after that statue, I don’t think you should go home alone,” he said sensibly. “He might still be lurking outside, ready to follow you.” He didn’t believe this whacked-out story for a minute, but why take chances? After all, Tess might not be a witch, but she was incredibly—what?—
knowing.
How had she known he wanted to write a story about Moonbeam? One minute she’d been talking about her mother, the next she’d been hurling accusations at him.

“Hmm, you might have a point.” She shivered. Then she yawned. “Would you mind if I used your phone to call the hospital? I want to check on Judy. Then I think I’ll take you up on your offer. You can point me toward that foldout sofa you mentioned.”

He nodded, relieved. This was a first for him—a beautiful woman spending the night in his apartment, in her own bed. He pointed out the phone in the kitchen, then checked all the door and window locks, just to be on the safe side.

Judy’s condition was unchanged, Tess reported after calling the hospital. That, at least, was partially good news, Nate thought. Maybe by removing the cat from—he stopped himself, appalled at the direction his thoughts had taken. Was he starting to believe in this malarkey?

Like the gentleman he wasn’t, Nate found clean sheets, then led Tess into his disorderly office and helped her make up the bed. At one point they both grabbed for a pillow at the same time, and their hands brushed. At that precise moment Nate had a flash of intuition himself, a distinctly X-rated one. He saw a vivid mental image of him and Tess together, naked, lying on this very bed. He smelled her perfume. He
felt
her warm breath against his neck.

They both recoiled from the accidental touch at the same time and stared at each other.

Must be the cognac, Nate thought, though liquor had never given him hallucinations before.

Then Tess laughed self-consciously, breaking the spell. “Sorry. I’m behaving as if you’re Jack the Ripper or something.”

“Forget it,” he said, glad that for once her sharp, observant eyes had missed the hasty withdrawal of his own hand.

He yawned expansively. “See you in the morning, okay? If you’re up before me, feel free to make coffee. I can’t hold my eyes open another second.”

“Me, neither.” She gave him an oblique, thoughtful look as he retreated from his office. “Thanks for your help tonight. I might’ve, um, overreacted a few minutes ago. You’re not Jack the Ripper, just a sneaky reporter, and there are worse things.”

“Thanks. I think.” Talk about damning with faint praise.

He headed for his bedroom, stripped hastily, and flopped into his unmade bed, figuring that after the day
he’d had, he would sleep for a week. Then he proceeded to stare at a wrinkle in his pillowcase for what seemed like hours, his mind awhirl, his body primed for something that wasn’t
about
to happen.

Tess awoke feeling much more clearheaded. She took a shower, and even though she had to put on yesterday’s clothes afterward, she still felt fresh and quick-witted.

Nate’s bedroom door was closed, so she figured he must still be asleep. Rather than wake him, she wandered around his living room to see what she could learn about him. She resisted the urge to use her gift to glean information. That somehow didn’t seem fair when he couldn’t do the same with her. Instead, she relied on the old-fashioned tools of observation and logic.

He liked to read—everything from Mark Twain to Stephen King, and
lots
of biographies and other nonfiction. He also had an extensive and varied CD collection, including Bach, Al Jarreau, and … Twisted Sister? And magazines. He subscribed to everything Publisher’s Clearinghouse offered.

His furniture was good-quality stuff, though not the latest style. He went for neutral colors, clean lines. His housekeeping was adequate, though not compulsive. Dust lurked in some of the more remote corners of the room.

On to the kitchen, a little square of linoleum barely big enough to turn around in. Standard bachelor fare
here, including the obligatory six-pack of beer, some stale bagels, one lonely egg, ketchup. Toaster pastries. Chocolate-nut bars. A half-empty gallon of ice cream. So he had a sweet tooth.

Beyond that, she couldn’t draw any conclusions except that he was a typical guy when it came to feeding himself.

A gurgling noise behind her made her jump and gasp. She whirled around, expecting to see something awful. Instead she found the coffeemaker. She could only conclude that her host was indeed awake. Her suspicions were confirmed when she heard the front door open and close. She peeked around the corner of the kitchen to see Nate standing in the living room, wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants and running shoes, studying the front page of the paper. A damp T-shirt was slung around his neck.

The skin of his torso looked so smooth and tan, she found herself wanting, actually
wanting
, to lay her palms against it and feel the warmth and vitality beneath them.

Though she was positive she hadn’t made a sound, he looked up. “You’re awake.”

She nodded. “You’ve been outside?”

“Went for my run.”

“How was it?”

“Fine. Oh, you mean, did anything bad happen? No. I wasn’t struck by lightning, no garbage trucks tried to run me over, and I especially didn’t see any knife-wielding Gypsies bent on mayhem.”

Tess realized she was holding her breath. She released
it, focusing on slow, steady breathing for a few seconds. He was making fun of her, but her relief that nothing had happened to him overrode her irritation. Anyway, she’d learned as a child, ostracized from her peers because of her strange ways, not to respond to teasing. “I’m glad you’re all right,” she said sincerely.

He laid the paper down on the coffee table and came toward where she lurked in the kitchen doorway. “Were you really worried about me?” he asked. He stood close enough to her that she could smell the faint muskiness of a healthy male after exertion. The scent was surprisingly pleasant. She could almost feel her hormones bursting into bloom, her own body producing answering pheromones.

“Um, yes,” she managed. “I know you don’t take this curse stuff seriously, but I do.”

“I’ll admit, you had me a little spooked last night. But it’s a lot less scary, now that the sun is shining. It’s a beautiful day out there.”

He flashed her a grin, then slipped past her into the kitchen. He grabbed a mug from a stand, then pulled the half-filled carafe away from the coffeemaker and stuck the cup directly under the spigot without spilling a drop.

“You like coffee?” he asked. “I made enough for two.”

“Yeah. Thanks. Unlike certain impatient people, though, I don’t mind waiting till it’s brewed.” She found herself smiling at the sheer irrepressibility of her host.

He smiled back, then sobered. “Have you checked on Judy this morning?”

She was ashamed to say she hadn’t.

He put the coffee carafe back where it belonged, then handed her the cup he’d just filled. “Here. I’ll make the call this time.”

“I wrote the number down on the pad by your phone.”

She sipped the dark, exotic brew. Kenyan. She always thought of elephants when she drank Kenyan coffee. That’s how she knew. She found a chair at the small dining table tucked into a corner of the living room.

“Her condition is still listed as serious,” Nate reported after he’d hung up. “But she’s hanging in there.”

Tess swallowed the tightness in her throat. They simply had to beat this curse thing, once and for all, or they would lose Judy. Then, who could tell who the next victim might be? Nate, herself, or whatever heir Judy had named in her will? But to defeat the curse, she needed some specialized help. Tess by herself wasn’t strong enough or knowledgeable enough to take the right course.

She knew only one person who was.

Nate left her alone for a few minutes while he took his shower. When he came back into the living room, smelling of soap and shaving cream, Tess took a long, slow breath of him. For some reason, the pure, male essence of him was comforting.

“So,” he said, “last night you said you’d help me
get this statue out of my trunk and out of our lives. I was thinking—if we ground it up—”

“Good heavens, no!” Tess objected. “Then each piece of the statue would carry the curse. We would magnify the evil hundreds of times.”

Nate shrugged. “Guess I don’t know curse protocol. Okay, then, what if we drive out to some deserted woods and bury it six feet deep?”

“I don’t think that would do it. Regardless of where it is, it would still belong to us. And we might unwittingly do harm to the person who owns the land.”

Nate scratched his head. “We’re kind of running out of options here, kid. What do
you
suggest? Remember, you did offer to help me get rid of the cat.”

Tess couldn’t believe what she was about to suggest. But Nate was right—they
were
running out of options. “I think we’re heading at this thing from the wrong angle. The trick isn’t to get rid of the cat. We have to get rid of the curse.”

He looked at her skeptically. She’d known all along that he didn’t believe in the curse, that he was humoring her, but still, his obvious skepticism stung. She didn’t want him to think she was certifiable.

“And how, pray tell, does one get rid of a curse?” Nate asked.

“I haven’t the vaguest idea. But I know someone who would know.”

“Yeah? Who’s that? ’Cause I’m not too keen on involving anyone else.”

“You just don’t want anyone else to think you believe in curses and magic,” she challenged him.

He shrugged. “Well, there’s that.”

“Don’t worry. The person I want to visit couldn’t possibly think you’re crazy, ’cause she’s crazy enough for all three of us.” Tess tried to smile. She didn’t want to scare Nate away from her plan. Sometimes even the bravest of men were reduced to quivering when faced with insanity.

“You mean Morganna?”

Nate, clever guy that he was, had figured it out. And he didn’t appear even slightly hesitant. In fact, his eyes gleamed with anticipation.

Nate could hardly believe his luck. He’d searched everywhere for the whereabouts of Morganna Majick, with no luck. An interview with her would add an important dimension to his story about Moonbeam.

If he actually went through with the story.

He still wanted to, but he’d realized the night before that he would have to use care if he wanted to keep from hurting Tess. She’d raised a valid point about protecting her reputation for the sake of her career.

Well, he could continue doing research, couldn’t he? He’d sort out the details and the ethics later. “So, Morganna’s still around.”

“She’s around,” Tess said with a grimace. “At the Dowling Mental Health Facility. Her official diagnosis is schizophrenia. But if you ask me, she’s just plain old possessed.”

“Plain old, huh?” As if possession were an everyday occurrence. “Spirits? Demons? That kind of thing?”

“No! I’m not talking
The Exorcist
here. It’s just that, well, there’s someone else inside her, someone mean and evil. Not the mother I remember from my early childhood. Mildred DeWitt was kind and loving and, well, open-minded. Okay, she was a little weird. But then she started calling herself Morganna, and she changed completely.”