Any Witch Way She Can Page 6

  Deciding she’d had more than enough of this bastardized game of Marco Polo, Randy reached out and grasped the edge of the desk. She hauled herself up carefully and traced the smooth surface of the wood toward the corner until she felt the cool metal of her grandmother’s banker’s lamp.

  “Yes,” she muttered, and being very careful not to tip it over, she traced the curve of the neck up to the base of the lightbulb and found the switch with trembling fingers.

  She flicked it on.

  For an instant, even the dim, shaded light of the desk lamp blinded her, and Randy blinked against the reflexive tears that welled in her eyes. More curses echoed behind her and she spun around just in time to see Harold yank himself out of Michael’s weakened grip.

  The older man stumbled into the bookshelves lining the wall behind him and struggled to catch his breath. His previously immaculate navy suit looked like he’d just stripped it off the body of a bum, wrinkled and askew with buttons missing and hems torn. His tie had disappeared completely, one shoe lay in the center of the floor where he and Michael had recently struggled, and his hair resembled that of Albert Einstein after a close encounter with an electric socket. His sneering face looked flushed, and Randy could see where he’d be sporting a hell of a black eye in a few more hours.

  Michael looked a bit disheveled himself, Randy decided, but on him, it was sexy.

  “I always knew better than to trust you, Michael,” Harold panted, his lip curled into an expression that made him look like a disgruntled jackass, which Randy supposed was pretty much what he was. “You’re so much like your self-righteous father. Neither of you ever understood what it takes to get ahead in this world.”

  “That’s a hell of a statement from someone who’s spent most of his life trying to take what his own brother built through work, talent, and integrity. Even after he died, he was still a better man than you,” Michael said. Randy could see his hands clenching into fists at his sides, but he kept his cool no matter how much it was costing him. “What you should have realized was that I’d never let you get away with cheating your way to the top any more than he would have.”

  Harold laughed, the kind of braying, slightly manic laugh the villain always gave just before he made his last, desperate bid for freedom. Randy couldn’t decide whether or not that counted as a good sign.

  “You’re a good deal too late,” he crowed, sneering at his nephew. “I’ve had months to advance my plan. The votes have already swung my way. All I need is one more triumph over that Berry bitch, and I’ll have both Councils eating out of my hand.”

  “But you’re not going to get one more triumph, Uncle Harold. It’s over.”

  The older man’s face clouded with rage. “It will be over when I’ve left you both dead!”

  Some instinct made Randy drop behind the apron of sturdy old oak in the same instant that Harold raised his hands and shouted a word she didn’t understand. She had no trouble, though, understanding the impact of something powerful hitting the wall above her head, just about where she would have been if she’d remained standing. She also understood the acrid tang of the smoke that told her anything standing where she had been would now be raining down on her like ashes from Mount St. Helens.

  The disadvantage of having good reflexes, though, meant that the desk now effectively blocked Randy’s view of the rest of the room. She couldn’t see what Michael was doing or whether he needed her help. All she could do was listen and pray that he had ducked as quickly as she had.

  “Randy!” His voice made her scramble to her knees and peer cautiously around the side of her barricade. The coffee table and a couple of armchairs obscured her view, but she could still make out that Michael remained in one piece and that Harold appeared to be gearing up for another attempt to change that. “Smash the bug!”

  The bug? She was afraid for his life, and he wanted her to swat flies? Had he sustained some kind of a head wound?

  “No!”

  It was Harold’s cry of protest that jogged her memory. In a rush of motion, she stood and lunged for the small, abstract glass sculpture beside Adele’s phone. Even before she touched it, she felt the energy that pulsed off of it, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Harold turn abruptly and throw himself at her with a screech of protest.

  Her hands closed over the cool glass and lifted high above her head. Later, she would think it would have been much more satisfying if she’d planned it this way, but what happened was frankly a total accident.

  She intended to hurl the sculpture to the bare wooden floor beside the desk and let it shatter into a million pieces, but Harold’s thick skull just got in the way. Instead of throwing the sculpture to the floor, she bashed it hard against the man’s skull and felt it come apart in her hand. Harold’s cry died in mid-utterance, and he collapsed into a heap at the side of the desk.

  Michael actually stepped on him in his haste to get to Randy.

  “Are you all right?” he demanded.

  “I think—” She looked down at her hand and broke off. “Oh, shit.”

  Her hand looked like it had gone through a paper shredder. She had blood and bits of glass everywhere and even as she looked at it, the hand began to tremble.

  Michael’s curse was much pithier.

  The door flew open and banged into the wall behind it. A crowd of onlookers gathered in the entryway.

  “What’s going on in here?” Adele demanded, pretending to be shocked at the sight in front of her. “What’s happened to Harold?”

  At least, Randy assumed she had started off pretending, but when her gaze fixed on her granddaughter’s bloody hand, the shock turned genuine.

  “To hell with Harold,” Michael growled, not bothering to look in Adele’s direction. He’d already begun stripping off his shirt, and he used the cloth to wrap around Randy’s hand in a makeshift bandage. “He’s not hurt, just unconscious. But Randy is bleeding. We need to get her to the emergency room. She should have stitches.”

  “I don’t need stitches,” Randy protested, knowing it was probably a lie, but she also knew from the quivering sound of her voice that she was probably going into mild shock.

  “Let me look at that,” a woman said, pushing forward and striding briskly to Michael’s side. She had curly, sand-colored hair that had been cut short, a decided air of competence, and freckles on what looked like every inch of her skin.

  Randy didn’t think she’d ever seen the woman before, but when Michael glanced at her, his expression shifted into distinct relief.

  “Betsey,” he practically sighed. “Thank god you’re here. Do you think you can do something with this?”

  Randy frowned as he passed her hand over to the stranger. “Do something? Like what? Finger painting?”

  Betsey chuckled. “I’m sure you could do that yourself, hon, but Michael here was asking if I could fix it.” She unwrapped the shirt from Randy’s hand with great care. “I’m a witch, too. Healing work is my specialty.”

  Randy tried not to look skeptical. “Abraca-Bacitracin?”

  “Not quite, but I like that one. Mind if I use it in the future?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Michael hovered over her the entire time Betsey worked. He winced every time the witch hummed and actually whimpered when he saw the tiny shards of glass lift from Randy’s flesh and dissolve into thin air. Randy had to admit the entire experience may have been more traumatic for him than it was for her. By the time her hand looked as if it had run into nothing worse than a kitten with a bad temper, Michael looked as white as a sheet and had little drops of sweat glistening on his forehead.

  “All set,” Betsey announced cheerfully. “Just keep it clean and slap a bandage over the really bad spots for a couple of days and you’ll be good as new.”

  “Thanks.” Randy rubbed her thumb over a long, pink scratch and grinned. I have to admit, I’m impressed.”

  The witch wrinkled her nose. “Thanks, but it’s just parlor tricks. Luckil
y, there wasn’t any nerve or tendon damage, or I would have had to send you to the hospital. I’m great with first-aid, but not so much with the major wounds.” She sighed. “Power is a fickle mistress.”

  Adele appeared at Betsey’s side and squeezed the other woman’s hand. “Be that as it may, we’re all grateful,” she said. “I wish there were something I could give you in return.”

  Betsey’s expression took on a hint of speculation. “That’s not necessary, but if you wanted to explain to me why Harold Devon is lying unconscious on the floor with a minor scalp wound while we all ignore that fact, I wouldn’t tell you to shut up.”

  Adele smiled a bit grimly. “That’s a bit of a long story, Betsey, my dear. One that I think calls for more of my best brandy.”

  Michael had seized Randy’s hand almost the minute that Betsey released it, and he wasn’t satisfied until he’d examined every inch of it to make sure she hadn’t missed a single wound. Once he was satisfied, he lifted it to his lips and pressed a tender kiss into her palm.

  Randy felt it all the way down to her toes.

  “If you don’t mind, Adele, I think Randy has had enough excitement for one night. She needs some rest.” Michael laid a hand against the small of Randy’s back and urged her toward the door. “I’m sure you can explain all this without us. If you’ll excuse us?”

  For the second time that night, Michael began to shepherd Randy away from a crowd of her grandmother’s curious guests. She had no reason to protest, but this time her grandmother stopped her before she’d taken three steps.

  “Miranda.”

  Adele placed her hand on Randy’s arm and hesitated. Looking down, Randy noticed for the first time how that hand had grown older. It bore wrinkles and age spots on the pale, delicate skin, but its grip remained sure and unexpectedly tender.

  “Randy.” Now Adele’s voice softened, and Randy raised her head in surprise. “I want to…to thank you. For your help tonight. You did me a great favor.”

  Her grandmother’s voice sounded rough and awkward, but none of that mattered. Randy could feel her heart fluttering almost nervously, and she realized that what mattered wasn’t the ease with which Adele was saying this; it was that she was saying it at all.

  “You’re welcome,” she managed, and her own voice was rough. She cleared her throat.

  Tentatively, Adele leaned forward, paused, then closed the distance and pressed her lips to her granddaughter’s cheek. Randy’s heart stopped for a split second, then resumed beating with even greater strength.

  When Adele pulled back, her eyes almost looked misty. “I would very much like it if you would come for dinner on Sunday.” She glanced at Michael. “Both of you, if you’d like. But you especially, Mir—…Randy. It would make me very happy.”

  For the first time in her life, Randy couldn’t quite manage to speak. She nodded instead.

  “Good.” Adele took a deep breath and stepped back, resettling her commanding air like a cloak onto her shoulders. “You go up to bed. I’ll handle everything else down here.”

  “Good,” Michael muttered, resuming their trip to the door at a greatly increased pace. He walked slightly behind her, masking the way his hand slipped from the small of her back to caress her bottom through the red silk of her shorts. “Because there are a few things I intend to handle upstairs.”

  Chapter 11

  Sheesh. All the man had to do was touch her, and Randy was ready to trip him and beat him to the floor.

  It amazed her. It baffled her.

  It made her want to weep with joy.

  By the time they reached the stairs, her skin tingled and her heartbeat had reached the speed of sound. On the landing, she had to press her thighs together to ease the ache between them. And when her back hit the same mattress he’d pinned her to earlier, she had already decided that if he didn’t come inside her in the next fifteen seconds, she was going to die of a brain aneurysm. Her circulatory system had not been designed to take this kind of pressure.

  Her head spun, her senses swam, her ears rang, and she didn’t give a damn about any of it. All she cared about was the man above her, touching her, loving her, the fact that it was absolutely vital to the continuation of life itself that he never stop.

  It was like they were picking up exactly where they’d left off before. The hand between her legs shifted, one finger withdrawing only to be replaced by two. She moaned and arched into the penetration, dazedly acknowledging that nothing in her life had ever felt so good. So right. God, if she could find this without a stupid love spell, maybe it was a good thing it had backfired. If sex with her dream man would be better than this, she wouldn’t be able to live through it.

  She wouldn’t even be able to live through this if he didn’t hurry it up.

  Tearing her mouth from his, she sucked in a desperate gulp of air and slipped her hand between them until she cupped the ridge of his erection. Then she squeezed, half a caress, half a warning. “Seriously, you need to hurry up and get inside me. Like, now.”

  He shuddered above her and blew out a tortured breath. “Right. God, you’re right.”

  His hand withdrew from her to strip her shorts off and toss them carelessly aside. Before her hips hit the mattress again, he had his own trousers down and was kicking them off with equal haste. Randy fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, getting enough of them open that the rest popped off when she shoved the halves aside and set her palms against the smooth ridges of his muscular chest.

  He was too far gone to let her continue for long. Impatiently, he brushed her hands away and slid his own between her thighs, hooking them in his elbows and pushing her knees high as he settled himself against her.

  Randy’s breath froze in her chest at the first press of bare flesh to bare flesh. Her eyes widened and her heart stuttered and time spun away more crazily than it had when she’d cast that spell. It seemed to slow and stop all around them as he shifted and pressed within her. His gaze locked with hers, blue eyes burning into brown, as he sank deep and deeper still until he came to rest hilt-deep inside her.

  She pressed her hands against the tops of his shoulders, not to push him away but to brace herself against something solid as the world spun crazily about her. When he moved against her, beginning a slow, lazy rhythm specifically designed to drive her out of her mind, she realized the grip was futile. Her nails dug into his skin and her hips rose and she gave herself up to the amazing, glorious sensations of fullness, of rightness, of completion, that having him inside her created.

  Every movement lifted her higher, pushed her further into a cloud of desire. The arousal shocked her with its strength, but it was nothing compared to the astonishing realization that she could no longer imagine being with anyone else. It was as if by coming inside her, he had pushed away every other memory, every other desire and set himself up in their place. He filled every corner of her, not just of her body, but her mind. And her heart.

  Restlessly, she shifted, bringing her knees even higher, tightening her body around his, trying to absorb his very essence into her skin, into her self.

  She heard him gasp and bite off something that may have been a curse, felt him stroke deeper, move faster. The tension between them coiled like a spring ready to snap. Randy felt it sweep over her, carry her along like a cresting tide toward shore.

  Arching beneath him, she struggled to match his pace, then to urge him faster. Hands clutching him to her, she lifted herself into him, wrapped herself around him and threw herself into her climax, knowing even as her mind went blank that he followed her into the sunburst.

  Miranda Berry had fascinated him from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her, and Michael knew that wasn’t going to change anytime soon. And he wasn’t just saying that because she currently lay damp and spent and panting beneath him. Really. There were a lot of other things he admired about her, and he was sure he’d be able to list them all just as soon as he remembered his name and how to control his muscle and skeletal syste
ms.

  He had to admit that when he’d come to Adele Berry’s dinner and meeting, he hadn’t expected to end the evening buried in his hostess’s granddaughter, but he couldn’t regret it either. He’d never been half so content in his life.

  The end of the scene downstairs provided the icing on his personal piece of cake. It made him ridiculously happy to see the wounds between Adele and Randy beginning to mend, and he intended to be there to witness each and every one of them heal over. At least half of their previous problems, he suspected, had to do with how much the two women had in common, though he still wouldn’t say as much to either of them under threat of torture. Hell, he wouldn’t mention it under real torture. The one who heard it would probably disembowel him, and then she’d get angry.

  In the short time he’d known Randy—all of about five hours now—he’d seen how much of her grandmother she had in her, and he suspected it was an awful lot more than either of those women would be prepared to acknowledge. They both possessed sharp tongues, iron wills, and the kind of innate dignity that made weak men quiver and strong men wary. In Adele, those qualities aroused his respect.

  In Randy, they aroused something entirely different. And if he didn’t stop thinking about it, neither of them would be able to walk in the morning.

  Shifting carefully, Michael pressed up on his palms and eased their bodies apart, coming to rest at her side. He draped one arm across her to keep her close and forced his eyes open just enough to look at her.

  She was adorable. Her hair was tangled, her cheeks flushed, and her mouth open as she fought to calm her breathing. She looked like she’d been thoroughly laid, which of course pleased Michael to no end. If he had his way, she was going to spend an awful lot of time looking just like this until they were both too old to remember how it worked.