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

  Also in the curtains hanging on the windows; a soft, buttery yellow, spanning the two windows overlooking the front yard of the house—which was an enormous old Victorian. On her way up the drive, even as tired as she was, she’d admired the wide front porch painted a subtle gray, which held white rockers and pot after pot of plants in various varieties. Hanging pots of fuchsia and pink fist-sized geraniums swaying with a breeze that had struck up.

  It really was beautiful, and so different from her ultra-modern, silver-and-black apartment, now abolished because she hadn’t earned it—she’d conjured it.

  “You’d better move it. Didn’t Ben say dinner was at six sharp?” Icabod asked from his seat on the rocking chair in the corner beneath a picture in needlepoint that read, “One Spell At A Time.”

  Her eyes flew to the alarm clock on the nightstand. “That’s exactly what my babysitter said.”

  “Now, Pooh Bear, remember what we talked about in the car. Don’t be grudgy.”

  “I’m trying. But I don’t see how I’m supposed to sit across the table from him and not want to make him permanently bald and toothless.”

  “You can make someone permanently bald?”

  Winnie chuckled, moving toward the rocker he sat in and straightening his head as she kneeled on front of him. “I can. It’s an old spell, and it can’t be undone either.”

  Icabod whistled. “You frighten me.”

  “I should. I was pretty scary.” And that was the truth, but it wasn’t just her temper, it was her outlook on life, her disregard for anything other than herself that was the real scary in this.

  “Aw, look at you growing, Winnie,” Icabod said in a hushed tone.

  Tears sprang to her eyes again. She didn’t want to grow anymore. It hurt to grow. She just wanted to…

  What did she want? What was Winnie Foster going to do when her time was served? Where would she go if she didn’t have some magic to whip up a place to be?

  She shook her head and gently poked Icabod in the stomach. “I have to go before the Commander in Chief writes me up for insubordination. You okay up here alone?”

  “I spent almost twenty-eight years in an attic in a box. I think I can handle an hour while you’re gone for dinner. The question is, are you going to be okay?”

  Winnie smiled and rose. “I’ll be fine. I made it through kindergarten crazy today, I think I can manage whatever dinner brings.”

  “It smells like spaghetti night.” He made a smacking noise with his unmoving lips.

  “You freak me out.”

  “I’m a talking Cabbage Patch doll. You should be freaked out.”

  She chuckled again, hiking up her skort. “Okay, I’m out. But I’ll be back later.”

  As she made her way across the wood-planked floor, Icabod said, “Thanks, Winnie.”

  She looked over her shoulder at him, his blank eyes staring back at her. “For what?”

  “For asking after me. It was nice.”

  Winnie smiled, gritting her teeth to keep from bursting into tears again. “You’re welcome,” she whispered before closing the door behind her.

  Chapter Eight

  Lola was setting the table when Winnie entered the kitchen, her fingers making a fork dance in the air.

  Winnie blinked her eyes, forcing the fork to clatter to the plate below. “You’re going to poke someone’s eye out, Lola. No magic for something as simple as setting the table.”

  Ben turned from the stove, holding a spoon covered in red sauce, his fitted navy blue shirt hugging his pecs, his jeans kissing his thickly muscled thighs. “Wow. Look who’s preaching right and wrong,” he said on a chuckle.

  “What does preaching mean?” Lola asked, sticking her tongue out at Winnie when she caught the vibrating wave of magic only true witches can see, coursing through Lola’s fingers. Winnie held it in her palm before extinguishing it in a puff of purple, glittery smoke, her signature spell buster.

  His eyes met hers, a question in them when he saw the ball of sticky mess her hair was. “It means Miss Winnie’s teaching you a lesson, and she’s right. You know how to set a table without using magic.”

  Winnie didn’t even bother to show her surprise when he agreed with her. Instead, her eyes scanned the length of the kitchen. Warm and inviting, it was done in an old farmhouse style with a farmer’s sink, whitewashed cabinets with antique copper pulls, and a long rectangle of a table fit for at least twelve people.

  The floor had braided rugs scattered throughout and more pictures done in needlepoint with life-affirming statements.

  She yawned, fighting the heavy fatigue settling in her bones and the loud rumble of her stomach. “So tell me how I can help?”

  Ben cocked his head, the scent of his musky cologne reaching her nose when he leaned in front of her to place the pot of sauce on the table. “New hairdo?” he asked.

  Her hand flew self-consciously to her hair; a matted ball with some stray strands trailing along the side of her face. “Might have warned me there was a timer on the shower and the bathroom sink needs to be fixed.”

  He laughed then, a flash of white teeth from between his luscious lips. “What’s the fun in that?”

  “You suck,” she muttered under her breath while Lola gathered napkins from a drawer on the opposite end of the kitchen.

  “And you have crispy hair. The timer is set for eleven minutes exactly. That’s plenty of time for you to wash your hair.”

  Maybe for heathens it was plenty of time. “I’ll set my watch. Oh, wait, I can’t. Because I don’t have a watch—or clothes that fit me.” She pulled out the waistband of the skort to indicate how big they were.

  “But you have clothes,” he reminded, pulling out a chair for her. “Besides, ruffles are all the rage, aren’t they? Lola seems to like them.”

  “Lola’s five.”

  “Six,” she corrected, hopping up into her seat and putting her napkin in her lap.

  Be grateful, Foster. You’re not in a Pacer with no air conditioning, and you’re mostly clean. “You’re right,” she conceded, folding her hands in front of her.

  She ignored his look of surprise as he passed her the bowl of pasta. “Is this on a timer, too?”

  Pulling out his chair, he settled into it and shook his head. “No. But we encourage you not to hog it all.”

  Winnie scooped up a ball of glutinous pasta and plopped it on her plate, keeping her lips sealed as tightly as possible, passing it to Lola then adding sauce. It was still hard in places, making it difficult to twirl on her fork, but it didn’t matter.

  Her stomach welcomed it with open arms.

  Lola, on the other hand, had a very specific opinion on it. She made a face when she took her first bite. “It’s hard. Sghetti’s s’posed to be soft. Mommy’s was always soft,” she added, her eyes filling up with tears.

  Ben sighed, and for the first time since she’d seen him again, he looked frazzled, worn out completely. And sad, as though nothing he did had pleased Lola up to this point. “I know, Lola-Bell, and I’m sorry. I’m not a very good cook, am I? But I try. I really do.”

  Lola’s lower lip quivered and she blinked her eyes. “I miss Mommy.”

  Winnie swallowed her clump of pasta, fighting the warmth Ben’s concern for Lola and her discontent brought, and fighting her own emotions about Lola and the sadness in her voice. And she totally agreed. Ben’s pasta was pretty bad.

  Without thinking, she swirled her finger in the air and pointed at Lola’s plate, turning the clump of hard noodles into a steaming work of art straight from Italy. “Try that, munchkin,” she said, smiling with encouragement.

  Lola took a hesitant bite, but then her eyes lit up and she grinned. “This tastes just like Mommy’s did! Thank you, Miss Winnie!”

  Her heart clenched then, tight and uncomfortable and, more importantly, unfamiliar.

  Maybe she was having a heart attack.

  “Mind doing that to mine?” Ben asked hopefully, shooting her that compelling sm
ile he’d once used when he was trying to talk her into seeing a movie she didn’t want to see.

  “Almost as much as I’d mind death.” With that, she dug into her plate of crunchy, lumpy pasta and smiled at Lola fondly when she asked for seconds.

  She stood at the sink, rinsing the dishes and loading the dishwasher, and Ben’s chest tightened again. It was plain to see she was exhausted, her legs wobbled at the knees and she kept grabbing the sink to hold herself upright.

  Yet, Winnie kept going, loading dish after dish. She’d surprised him when she didn’t whip up a new plate of pasta for herself and instead ate the mess he’d made of dinner one chewy, brittle bite at a time, never once complaining.

  As the sun began to set in front of her outside the window over the sink, the last bit of orange and purple daylight touched her hair that, even stiff from leftover shampoo, was thick and glossy. He remembered the way that hair had trailed over his belly, along his thighs, and he instantly stiffened, gritting his teeth to ward off the erotic image of the one time they’d made love.

  To this day, he didn’t understand where everything had gone wrong—or why she’d blown up his warehouse. They’d had an incredible evening three nights before everything in his life went haywire, and by the time he was able to get in touch with her, Yaga had already locked her up.

  Yaga offered no explanations, refusing to talk about a prisoner because it was confidential. He’d asked to visit Winnie in jail once he’d cooled down enough to want to ask questions, but his aunt had taken all her visitation rights away.

  Over the last few months while coping with Moira’s death, he’d questioned how he could have fallen for someone who was so vindictive—who’d fooled him into believing she was honest.

  But he came up empty-handed every time. Yaga assured him Winnie hadn’t used one of her spells or love potions to snare him, which meant he was a crappy judge of character.

  That tortured him far more than anything else. He’d be damned if he’d let it happen again.

  But seeing her tonight, so vulnerable, so determined to abide by the rules yet soft and concerned for Lola, reminded him of the first night he’d met her.

  She’d been dressed in a white Grecian dress with gold shoes, her raven hair refusing to stay piled on top of her head. Her laughter from across the room had called to him, light and tinkling. It soothed his ears and propelled him toward her, and when he’d finally seen her up close, his mouth watered and his damn head spun.

  She was everything. Soft, feminine, funny, curvy, beautiful. Two glasses of wine and a dance or two, and they’d begun dating.

  Two dates afterward, he knew he was in love.

  Three months later he was planning to ask her to marry him.

  And then it had all gone to shit.

  He’d do well to keep remembering that when he began getting soft like he was right now, watching her close the dishwasher, press the on button and lean forward, her head hung low.

  She rolled her head on her neck then suddenly stood up straight, heading for the French doors leading out onto the back patio, where there was a fire pit and ten acres of land.

  Ben followed her, because he couldn’t help himself, keeping as far back as he could until she stopped in the middle of his sister’s gardens. She pressed her hand to the side of her long neck and paused, the way she’d done so often when she was thinking about something.

  Then she breathed a breathy sigh as though she’d discovered something. The gardens were a mess without Moira here to handle them, the way she did everything else. He really needed to hire a landscaper—because Moira would have wanted that.

  She’d loved her gardens, fashioned after a traditional English garden that she somehow managed to maintain even in the grueling Texas sun. Often, when he’d come to visit, he’d find she and Lola and one witch-in-rehabilitation or another out here having a tea party under the twinkling lights she’d dressed each tree with.

  His eyes followed Winnie’s back, one hand holding up her waist and the other touching the remnants of dead roses and sagging clematis. When she turned to take in the small thatched-roof cottage Moira had built, where she housed her bulbs and dried hydrangea, he caught sight of a tear slipping down her cheek, silhouetted in the sun’s fiery descent.

  Fuck. There went that clutch of his gut again.

  Time to leave, Yagamawitz. Get the hell out of here and leave her the hell alone. It’s dangerous to feel sorry for a psychopath.

  “Uncle Ben?” Lola called from the back door, saving him from doing something foolish.

  He turned and headed back to the house, scooping her up and hauling her over his shoulder fireman style, inhaling the scent of her freshly washed hair. “Aren’t you supposed to be brushing your teeth, s’ghetti breath?” he teased.

  “I did. Now it’s story time. Do you think Miss Winnie would read to me tonight?”

  He tried not to take the sting to his heart personally. Winnie was a new toy Lola wanted to play with—he got it.

  But he’d done everything short of conjure up real live actors to bring to life her favorite stories. “Didn’t you like it when I made it rain meatballs in your bedroom?”

  She giggled against his back as he carried her up the stairs and dropped her on her pink-and-yellow-covered bed. “They hurt a little,” she confessed when he tickled her stomach, making her belly laugh.

  Dropping down beside her, he gazed at his niece, this sweet, compliant child who’d become difficult and angry, defying his every rule, and still he was nuts about her. Just as nuts as he was the first time he’d held her in his arms when she was first born.

  Pulling the covers up over her, he said, “Maybe we could ask Miss Winnie tomorrow night. I think she’s pretty beat tonight. Okay?”

  “Miss Winnie was in jailed. Ephraim Bonner said his mom told him.”

  Ephraim Bonner had a mother who should have the word “gossip” hyphened onto her name. Loud, rude, nosy, it was no wonder the other witches in town stayed away from her. Thanks to her, he’d have to explain the magic penal system to Lola long before he was ready. “Yes. Miss Winnie was in jail.”

  Her dark eyes were thoughtful. “She doesn’t look bad. I thought only bad people went to jail.”

  “Sometimes really good people make mistakes, Lola-Falola, but then they realize they made a mistake and they try to make it better.”

  Lola cupped his face, rubbing her nose against his. “That’s what Mommy said, too.”

  Mommy would know. She’d believed in her soul there wasn’t anyone she couldn’t rehabilitate. He wanted her to freely discuss Moira even when it hurt, but it was damn hard. Maybe just as hard for him as it was for Lola.

  Lola positioned herself on the bed, pulling her favorite teddy bear under her chin. “I think I’m too tired for a story tonight, Uncle Ben,”

  He pointed to his cheek and grinned. “Okay, give your old Uncle Ben a kiss and off to sleep.”

  Lola kissed his cheek, her eyes closing before she’d even tucked her hand under her chin.

  He reached over and turned off the light, rising to stand and take one last look at his niece.

  God, she looked just like Moira.

  How was he ever going to be able to watch her grow up and not compare the two?

  Love, Aunt Yaga had said at Moira’s funeral. How much he loved Lola would help him overcome the pain, and someday, he’d smile rather than hurt when he remembered his only sister.

  He padded back down the stairs, looking away from the multitude of pictures hanging in the stairwell—some of them of Moira, Brad her husband and Lola, laughing. Some of them of Moira and Brad with the witches they’d helped rehab.

  There was laughter in the pictures, bright smiles, so many happy times. No one left Moira’s feeling anything less than important. He’d never be able to continue that legacy. Yaga better find a replacement soon.

  Speaking of rehab and naughty witches, he went back in search of Winnie before he locked up the house for the nig
ht.

  Flipping on the strands of lights in the trees, he wandered into the garden where he’d last seen her to find her curled up in a small ball on one of the wrought iron chairs Moira had proudly told him she’d found at a garage sale while Brad groused about her constant need to rehab even junk.

  Winnie’s hands were tucked under her chin just the way Lola’s had been, her light snoring suggesting she was deep in sleep.

  What the fuck was he going to do about Winnie Foster?

  What was he going to do about how he felt about this woman—how strong her gravitational pull was?

  For now, he was going to carry her upstairs and put her to bed. She’d been through a grueling forty-eight hours; he wasn’t going to make her take the long walk up to her room.

  Gathering her in his arms, fighting a bark of laughter at her sticky hair, fighting harder the tight pull of his body with hers pressed to it, he headed back inside and up the stairs to her bed.

  Setting her on it, he drew the blanket folded at the end up over her and fought more of those primal urges she evoked. The way the soft swell of her breasts rose and fell, her nipples—nipples he’d tasted—a shadowy outline against her ugly, ruffled red shirt, enticing him.

  He’d only had the one taste of her, but it was enough to keep his cock hard long after she was gone. He wanted to peel her panties off and slip his fingers inside her, taste her swollen flesh, drive into it over and over.

  But Winnie Foster was bad news. She had a bad temper, she was flighty, and worst of all, she was a loose cannon. He couldn’t have that in Lola’s life permanently.

  When he turned to leave, he spied the doll she’d been carrying, sitting on the rocker by the window. A Cabbage Patch doll. He remembered them from when his sister was little. She’d had adoption papers for it and everything.

  The doll stared at him as though it saw his damn soul. He’d seen a lot as a warlock. It wouldn’t surprise him if the doll could see his soul.