Witched at Birth--A Paris, Texas Romance Read online

  Still as the hot Texas day. Awkward and lasting what felt like forever.

  “Why are you here, Winnie?” he finally asked, his voice sounding weary to her ears. Yet, when he looked at Lola, there was so much love, even in between the scolding, he was like a different person altogether.

  “Because your aunt is a sadistic, spiteful pain in my ass?” Why was she here? Not just in Paris, but right back with Benjamin Yagamawitz in her face?

  “No. I mean in front of my sister’s house in a car with an ad for a feminine product plastered all over it.”

  “We have arrived at your destination, Weenie!” Jacques interrupted again, his voice rising.

  Winnie finally looked at the navigation system, squinting at it in the last of the day’s harsh sun.

  Huh. She had arrived at her destination. 3422 Foghorn Road. Then she looked at the mailbox at the end of the long driveway. That’s when a deep dread settled in the pit of her stomach.

  No. No way. Not even Baba Yaga was that vicious—that cruel.

  Oh, Winnifred. Of course I am.

  Simultaneously, Ben’s phone beeped a text, making him reach for his back pocket to pull out his cell. As he scrolled the text, Winnie rechecked the information Jacques’ screen displayed.

  Yep. It read 3422 Foghorn Road.

  Ben grunted, his jaw clenching. “I’ll kill her.”

  “Who?”

  “Yaga.”

  More dread swirled in her stomach. “She didn’t.”

  He nodded his head, his eyes icy chips of blue. “Oh, she damn well did. This,” he pointed up the driveway, “is where you’ll be staying until your parole is up on Halloween.”

  Her once-rumbling-with-hunger stomach became a boiling vat of acid. “At Lola’s? Maybe it’s just me, and maybe it’s because I haven’t slept in what feels like a hundred years. And yeah, yeah, I know I smell like a horse farm, but why would Yaga put me in the same town, let alone the same house as you? I blew your warehouse up. Is she crazy? Why are you everywhere I am in this damn town?”

  “Because, Winnie Foster, I’m your babysitter.”

  Well, abracadabra.

  Chapter Seven

  She was astounded, like someone had punched her in the gut. “My babysitter? As in, keep tabs on me. I thought that was what BIC was for?”

  “You mean Greta?”

  “Is that her name? Short lady, wears clothes that should be on someone’s kitchen window, worst haircut this side of the Mason Dixon, barks orders like a seal, has Nazi-ish properties?”

  Ben actually smiled, and she hated when he did that—because he’d once smiled at her that way, and it was all just bullshit. None of it was sincere. “Yeah, that sounds like Greta.”

  “I thought she was the bitch in charge?”

  “She’s in charge of you during the day. I’m the night watch.”

  “I’m a little lost. Why are you at Lola’s?”

  “This was my sister and her husband’s house. She ran a halfway house for witches much like yourself. You know, the ones who are certifiable and blow things up?”

  Suck it up, Foster. Take the beating you deserve and be quiet. She gripped the frame of the window of the Pacer to keep from zapping his delicious mouth shut. “And?”

  “And the house is empty of witches with issues right now. Has been since my sister and her husband were killed. But Yaga just informed me, in the way Yaga does, that you’re my first case.”

  Killed? His sister had been killed? How horrible for Lola. How horrible for Ben, no matter how horrible he was. That explained why Lola had said she didn’t have a mother.

  Her heart twisted into a knot in her chest.

  But whoa, Nellie. Redirect. His case? “Your case? What the hell does that mean, Ben? You’re no halfway-house counselor. You’re a software developer.”

  He shoved an angry hand into his dark hair. “My major was in psychology. Just like my sister Moira’s. I’m a certified therapist. I just fell into software design by accident and decided I liked it more than I did counseling. When my sister and her husband died, I told Yaga I’d take care of Lola and the house until we could figure something out. Because, you know, I didn’t have a place of business anymore anyway since you blew it to smithereens.”

  Grudge, grudge, grudge. “So you’re my therapist?” What the fresh hell? How could she possibly share the reasons for the things she’d done when her therapist was part of the reason she’d done them? This had to be some kind of joke, and when she got her hands on Yaga, she was going to wring the damn Pretty in Pink right out of her.

  “Not your therapist, per se. We’ve been involved, that would be unethical. I’m your place to stay, your babysitter, so to speak, until Yaga can get someone out here to take my place.”

  Now she was angry. This was cruel. To put her in close quarters with the man she’d thought was “the one” and his reincarnation-of-the-Exorcist niece. And why in all of sanity would Baba Yaga put her in a house with the man she’d baldly told Winnie she wasn’t right for?

  Winnie shoved the door open, caring little that it almost fell right off its rusty hinges. She hopped out of the car and shook her head, her legs wobbly, her stomach so empty she was dizzy from lack of nourishment. “I won’t do it. Not a chance in the universe I’ll stay here with you.”

  But you will, Winnifred. If you don’t, I’ll tether you to the house against your will, and you won’t like it.

  Why are you doing this to me? I’m abiding by every rule you set forth. I’m doin’ my time, as they say. Why are you putting me in a position where I have to be in the same house as the man… Forget it. Just get out of my damn head!

  Winnie stuck her finger in her ear to rid herself of Yaga’s intrusion and looked to Ben. “Forget it. I’ll do what I have to do. Tell me where to go, literally, not figuratively, and I’m there. I just want a shower and at least eight hours under my belt so I can face those pre-pubescent terrorists and that poor, overworked, exhausted Miss Marjorie tomorrow.”

  She climbed back into the car to move it up into the driveway, so angry she was trembling, and turned the key—to nothing.

  The engine wouldn’t turn over. Perfect. Not only was she going to be forced to live out her sentence with Ben in her face, her sweet, sweet ride was kaput.

  Ben leaned an arm on the car, his face a bit softer. “It’s not a long walk. The house is just up the driveway behind the trees. Can I help you carry anything?”

  No. She would not allow him to be kind to her, to make her think he gave a damn one way or the other about her.

  “Winnie? Let me help you with your things.”

  Now she was fighting tears. Big, ugly tears. Because she really had nothing. Absolutely nothing but some empty Red Bull cans and a bag of leftover pork rinds. “It was all confiscated at the prison. I don’t have…anything.” Not a damn thing.

  “You have me, Pooh Bear. You’ll always have me,” Icabod said softly.

  And that’s when she almost broke. Pressing a fist to her eye, she refused to cry in front of Ben. “Just go be sure Lola’s all right. I’ll be up in a minute.”

  Ben didn’t say anything, but he lingered for a moment before he turned and began making his way back up the driveway.

  As she watched him disappear behind the enormous row of trees, his rugged good looks and body fading away, she finally let her tears flow. They rolled down her face in hot splashes, dropping to her lap to mar her filthy orange jumpsuit.

  Reaching for Icabod, she pulled him close to her chest and sobbed. Anything would have been better than serving the last of her time with Ben in charge. Solitary would have been better. Cellblock X with all those homicidal, imbalanced maniacs would have been better.

  Anything but Ben.

  “Aw, Winnie. Don’t cry.”

  “I can’t do it, Icabod. No way can I stay in a house with that man.”

  “You can and you will. Know why?” he responded, his voice muffled against her chest.

  “I don�
��t know why. Tell me why.”

  “Because you’re just like your mother. She was tough, Pooh Bear. So are you.”

  Winnie rubbed her nose against the top of Icabod’s head. “How would you know what she was like?”

  “Your dad. He used to talk about her all the time, to your grandmother, and sometimes to your mother’s picture. At least, I think it was a picture of her he kept by his bed. He really loved her. He really loved you, too. He just didn’t know how to help you. But he wanted to, Winnie. He wanted that more than anything, and he told your mom that often.”

  She squeezed her eyes tight to thwart the memories of her mother; of the pain she’d caused her father for so many years. “I was awful to him,” she said, her voice hitching.

  “You were the worst. But you can be better, and being better means serving your time, and serving it the best way you know how. Even if you want the gatekeeper to die a thousand fiery deaths.”

  She inhaled a shuddering breath, catching a faint scent of her mother’s old perfume. She’d worn Beautiful by Estee Lauder—sometimes dabbing a bit of it on Winnie’s wrist when they’d played dress up. The memory made her smile and squeeze Icabod harder.

  “So let’s do this, okay, Pooh Bear? I’ll help. The whole way.”

  “O…Okay.”

  “Good. Now get off me. You smell so rank, if I could puke I’d dump all over you. Not to mention, your nose is running.”

  Winnie laughed.

  Really laughed.

  She would do this.

  Strangely, she found she wanted to do this.

  “Aunt Yaga? What the hell?” Ben yelled into the phone over the Billy Idol song playing in the background.

  “I can’t hear you, Sugarlumps! Doin’ my cardio for the day. I have to or I’ll never keep up with the lazy slugs in cellblock X!”

  “Why is Winnie here?” Why would his aunt put Winnie, the woman he’d been so damn sure he was going to marry, here? Right under his nose, after she’d literally blown his world up?

  And even though she’d trashed his warehouse, even though she was a mess of Kotex pads and greasy hair, he still felt that pull. That damn magnetic, undeniable pull. Just like the one he’d felt when he’d seen her at that mixer her friend had organized.

  “Gotta run, my precious boy!” Yaga panted into his ear. “Might be out of touch for a little while—but if an emergency arises, you know what to do. Be well and kiss Lola for me!”

  A dial tone buzzed in his ear, ending their call. And as always with his Aunt Yaga, he had no answers. No rhyme or reason why she’d brought Winnie to Paris.

  He dropped down on the couch by the enormous windows overlooking the top of the driveway. Watched as Winnie trudged upward, carrying a doll in her arms.

  Saw how defeated she looked. How small she appeared in a prison jumpsuit and one bare foot, and he wanted to make everything better. He wanted to drag her into his arms and make insatiable love to her.

  But he wouldn’t, because she was off her rocker. He still wasn’t sure what had led to her to do something as rash as blowing up his warehouse. No, he hadn’t called her the day after they’d made love, but he’d left word of his whereabouts with the temporary secretary he’d hired to get things up and running.

  Fuck it. He was done trying to figure out Winnie Foster and her crazy antics. He’d spent what felt like a million consecutive nights doing just that, and refused to make this a million and one.

  None of that mattered now. Yaga had assured him Winnie was safe to be around Lola, and if he kept his distance, it would be okay. Now more than ever, stability was important.

  For Lola.

  Her knock at the door had him torn between calling Yaga back and demanding she take Winnie the hell out of here, or letting her in because Lola really seemed to like her.

  She’d talked the better part of the afternoon about the new Miss Winnie at school and how she’d told Jerry Calhoun if he didn’t help at cleanup time she’d turn him into a gargoyle.

  Threats weren’t something he advocated to invoke cooperation, and likely, Miss Marjorie was in for a rash of complaints from parents come tomorrow, but they’d made Lola sit up and take notice. Not to mention, she’d eaten her cantatrope—all of it, according to Greta.

  On some level, whether Winnie knew it or not, she’d connected with Lola and hatched a begrudging respect from her. He wanted to foster that, not chase it away.

  So he’d let her in. But he damn well wouldn’t like it.

  Pulling the door open wide, he almost barked a laugh at the two spots of red on her cheeks. “Welcome to Moira’s Home for The Out-of-Control Psycho Witch.”

  She gave him that look, the one that said she wasn’t up for his crap, and huffed out a breath. “Not now, Yagamawitz. I’m hot and I hate you. So show me where I’m supposed to go and I’ll go.”

  “Up those stairs and to the left—third door down. Yaga said she left you some clothes and shoes in your bathroom. Sorry to tell you there’ll be no more Kotex-pad slippers for you. Bet that’ll make your fancy French shoes very happy.”

  She looked up at him then, her blue eyes on fire and narrowed in his direction. “Okay, so let’s get a couple of things cleared up before I go upstairs and fall into a coma. I’ll do whatever I’m told to do, even though you’re the one telling me to do it, and I like that about as much as I like the color orange and looking out at the world through cell bars. But we have to have some ground rules.”

  He grinned, because he knew it made her want to blow something up. “Funny you should mention ground rules. I’ve got a list of them.”

  “I can’t wait to absorb every last word like it’s my gospel. But I’m talking my personal ground rules. Leave me alone. I’ll follow your list, you rules, your whatever, but I have nothing else to say to you. I’m not talking to you. I’m not arguing with you. I’m not anything with you. I’m serving my time and that’s it. I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me here. Not here in Texas where it’s eleventy-bazillion degrees, and not here in this house with you. Just so we’re clear.”

  She was mad. Damn her for being so beautiful and hot when she was mad. His gut stirred, that same stirring she’d driven him insane with while they’d dated.

  “Crystal. The list of rules is posted on your door. I’ll see you back down here for dinner at six sharp.”

  “I’m passing on dinner and going straight to dead-to-the-world. Thanks anyway.”

  “Aw, but you can’t pass on dinner, Winnie, because it’s your night to do the dishes. It’s on your list of rules.”

  “You suck.”

  “You blow things up.” He raised an eyebrow, forcing his eyes to stay on hers rather than watch her breasts when she heaved a breath of disgust.

  “You deserve to have things blown up.”

  “Better go grab that shower. Take two. You need it.”

  “Take a hike. I need it.”

  He grinned wide. “Still as witty as ever.”

  “And you’re still not as witty as ever. So, if you’ll please excuse me now. I’m going to go read the list and plot the coup of the witch world—Baba Yaga’s death.” She paused for a second, and put her hand on his arm for a brief moment. “Also, I’m really sorry about your sister and her husband,” she offered softly before she breezed past him, stomping up the stairs lined with pictures of his sister and Lola, carrying her doll tucked close to her chest.

  Ben watched the sway of her gorgeous ass, perfect even in a baggy jumpsuit, and hated himself for missing her.

  With an ache he couldn’t rid himself of.

  The shower had a timer.

  She’d been in the process of lathering her hair for the second time when something dinged and the water shut off. They didn’t even have timers on the showers in prison, for hell’s sake.

  Now she was standing in the middle of the bathroom, considering rinsing her hair in the toilet as an option because the water in the sink was nothing more than a trickle.

 
Son of a bitch.

  It would be really easy to snap your fingers and fix that, Winnie… That voice inside her head, the one she’d listened to for far too long, encouraged.

  No. She clenched her teeth and tightened the towel around her. She would not use her magic for anything, not a single thing, that had anything even remotely to do with herself. She wasn’t going to give Baba Yaga or Ben even a teeny-tiny loophole to keep her imprisoned any longer than she was supposed to be. And she wasn’t losing her immortality.

  She’d just have crunchy hair.

  Looking over at the tall rack in the corner of the fresh, white-tiled bathroom, she noted a shelf with her name on a label. A small stack of clothes sat on it, and as she crossed the room, she prayed that stack had some underwear. She’d decided to burn the ones she’d had on for almost two days straight.

  Pulling out a red shirt, she groaned. It was a sleeveless shirt, gingham just like BIC’s, only hers had ruffles all down the front of it. Big, unflattering ruffles.

  Pulling the shirt over her head, she assessed her choices. There was the pair of sweats that read, “I Like Big Butts” on the seat of them, several pairs of parachute pants, and three skorts, in white, blue and green.

  A skort.

  As she stepped into the white pair, she hiked them up around her waist, noting they were too big. Sifting through the pile on the rack, she prayed for a belt but only found a tie that matched nothing else on the shelf.

  This was her lesson in humility. For all the designer clothes she’d created out of thin air, for all the shoes and magically disappearing salon bills, this was her penance.

  A skort.

  Fine. She could wear a skort and ruffles with the best of them. Hanging her towel up, because the rules posted on her door had been adamant about orderliness or she’d lose her one towel, she swung the door open and padded to her room.

  It was spacious, considering the cell she’d once shared with Zelda, and decorated with inspirational pictures on the wall done in needlepoint. Clearly, Ben’s sister Moira had cared about the witches she took in.

  It was evident in the worn but brightly colored periwinkle blue, yellow and red quilt on the bed, in the plant she was to care for while she was here, sitting on a small round table by the window with a doily beneath it.