Any Witch Way She Can (2 page)

“I'm disappointed there's no eye of newt,” Randy announced from her seat on the floor in the living room to no one in particular. The apartment was still empty, and the man of her dreams nowhere in sight. She optimistically chalked that up to the fact that she hadn't gotten around to casting the spell yet.

The instructions had been surprisingly complicated, and the list of necessary ingredients, minus any newt eyes, had proven a momentary setback. It named several items Randy had never heard of and more than one whose existence she frankly doubted. Still, no one had ever said the road to Prince Charming didn't contain some potholes—just look at what Cinderella had gone through!—but she knew that when she got there, it would absolutely be worth it.
He
would absolutely be worth it.

For once in her life, Randy had gone into something fully prepared. She'd actually read through the entire spell twice and made a mental list of what she would need to cast it, and she'd gathered her ingredients ahead of time, something she never did when cooking or, you know, packing. Normally she was a fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants kind of girl, but she wanted to do this right. Otherwise, there'd be no point in doing it at all.

The book's instructions were elaborate, but Randy had determination and a certain level of adrenaline on her side. She'd cleared off her cousin's coffee table, a low, round expanse of mahogany that shone dark red in the light of the dozen flickering candles she'd placed on its surface. She'd turned all the lights off, per the spell, even though that meant squinting to read the text in the uneven illumination of the candle flames.

On the plus side, the heat the candles threw out certainly kept the chill away.

Fidgeting in anticipation, she bent to the book and read aloud.

“‘In a shallow silver bowl full of moon-bright river water…' Check.” She pulled the stainless steel mixing bowl she'd brought from the kitchen a little closer and poured water almost up to the brim. Cassidy would never miss those bottles of Evian, and seriously, where in Manhattan was someone supposed to get “moon-bright river water”? The Hudson? Get real. The candle cast a nice little glow over the surface. That would do.

“‘Place seven scarlet petals from a fully bloomed red rose.' Check.” That one was easy. Quinn, bless his besotted heart, brought his wife flowers so often, his florist had named the latest baby after him. In fact, there were so many of the things around the apartment that Randy threw in an extra handful. Might as well do things right.

“‘Add half of what you need and of what you want a quarter, for love is never lasting that on whims of fancy grows.'”

She glanced down at the two lists the spellbook had instructed her to make: one contained two columns of the things she thought she needed in a man; the other outlined in four corners of a second piece of paper all the things she
wanted
in a man. And she was just supposed to throw out most of these?

Yeah, right. No way was she giving up “sexy.” Especially not since she'd put it on both lists.

She tossed the two complete lists into the bowl and watched the paper slowly darken and sink into the water, dragging rose petals down with it. Her heartbeat quickened.

“‘To the mix add heartsease and a single tear of Venus…'”

Okay, those had been challenging, since Randy wasn't sure what the hell either of them was supposed to be. She'd had to improvise. Venus, she knew, had been the goddess of love, the Roman equivalent of Aphrodite. She remembered vague stories from a unit on classical mythology in her high school English class, something about seduction and sensuality. After a moment of thought, she'd settled on a drop of the very expensive perfume Cassidy kept on the top of her armoire. That had to be close, right? It made a certain amount of poetic sense to Randy, at least. Carefully, she tilted the bottle until one drop rippled the surface of the water.

Her substitute for heartsease was more prosaic. She threw in an antacid. It eased heartburn, didn't it?

“‘A tablespoon of honey and a pinch of bitter tea…'” Easy-peasy, thanks again to Quinn in all his tea-swilling Irish glory. The two ingredients turned the water an interesting shade of gold, but maybe it was supposed to look that way?

“‘A dash of salt to savor…” Randy picked up the ceramic Tweety Bird salt shaker and bounced it vigorously over the bowl. “‘And a bit of rue for patience…'”

At this, she scowled. “‘Rue' what? McClanahan?”

Wait, didn't to rue something mean to regret it? How the hell was she supposed to add regret to a bowl of soggy stationery? Clearly some witch had not thought this spell out thoroughly.

“Eh, I'll just skip it,” she scowled at the flickering candle. Suddenly the warmth it gave off felt more like an inferno than a tiny flame. “It's only one ingredient. And I think by this point the idea of me being patient for this whole thing is ridiculous anyway. What's the worst that could happen?”

The candle sputtered, and Randy glared at it before reading the final instruction. “‘And stir three times with willow for to bring thy love to thee.'”

Okay, this was it. Taking a deep breath, Randy lay aside the book and picked up the wooden spoon she'd found in the kitchen drawer. She couldn't swear it was made of willow—how the heck could a person tell?—but it was a wooden implement specifically designed for stirring. What could be more appropriate?

Ignoring the disconcerting heat of the candles and the unexplained buzzing in her ears, she bit her lip and slowly lowered the spoon into the disintegrating mess in Cassidy's mixing bowl. With her heart in her throat, she stirred three times and repeated the phrase the book had instructed to seal the spell.

“‘As I will, so mote it be.'”

That's when the room exploded.

“Well, well. What have we here? A late arrival?”

Randy frowned into the blackness and tried to remember where she was. She couldn't see anything, but she could feel a distinct chill in the air and something hard and rough under her legs. She could also hear. Oh boy, could she hear, because those questions had been asked in a voice as dark and smooth as cocoa.

But why didn't she recognize it? She really ought to recognize a voice that made her want to purr, shouldn't she?

Her frown deepened.

“Miranda Louisa Berry! What exactly is the meaning of this?”

Okay, that voice, she recognized.

Stifling a groan, Randy forced her eyelids open. That took care of the blackness, but no matter how many times she blinked, she couldn't manage to brush away the pinched, disapproving face of her grandmother that currently hovered over her.

“Oh, shit.”

“Miranda, I will thank you to watch your language in my home.”

In “her” home? She was at her grandmother's house? How the hell had she managed that? The last thing she remembered was sitting cross-legged on Quinn and Cassidy's floor casting that silly love spell. “Shit in a shitstorm!”

“Miranda!”

Randy struggled to prop herself up on her elbows and glanced around her. Not only was she in her grandmother's house, she was in the harridan's formal entry hall lying smack dab in the middle of the hideously expensive oriental carpet that covered the marble floor. Being stared at by at least two dozen people in formal wear. And she still had on her pajamas. No wonder she was freezing.

“Young lady, pick yourself up off the floor this instant. You are causing me a great deal of embarrassment in front of my guests.”

“So what else is new?” Randy muttered, but she found herself pushing to her knees anyway. That was how things always went with Adele Berry. No matter how much Randy wanted to thumb her nose at the old biddy, she inevitably found herself obeying the woman's orders as if Randy hadn't managed to come of age more than fourteen years ago. Adele's power of arrogance both awed and mystified mere mortals.

“Allow me to assist you.”

The cocoa voice slid over her skin again, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room. In fact, that seemed to rise every time it spoke, and this time the speech came accompanied by a lean, tanned, masculine hand that extended into her line of vision from somewhere above her.

High above her.

Craning her neck, Randy followed the sleeve of a dark, severely tailored tuxedo jacket up to a chest of impressive breadth before finally resting her gaze on a face that made the word “breathtaking” sound insipid.

The man had the features of a fallen angel, all dark and chiseled and so perfect they verged on beautiful. Only the somewhat heavy and sharply arched brows and the wicked twist decorating his mouth saved him from any taint of the feminine. His eyes helped, too, all deep and blue and twinkling with naughty humor.

“Take my hand, Miss Miranda.”

Worrying that she might have drool dripping off her chin, Randy resolutely dragged herself back to reality and clasped that strong, warm hand in hers. Then she had to worry if anyone else had noticed the way she'd shivered the instant her hand had touched the stranger's. The jolt of electricity that coursed through her at the contact could have lit up the Empire State Building for a week.

Judging by the widening of his wicked grin, the man at the other end of that handclasp had definitely noticed.

She allowed herself to be lifted to her feet, the pile of the carpet under her bare soles somehow helping her to regain her composure. “Randy,” she said, using her free hand to brush back a tangle of her strawberry blonde hair. “No one who knows me actually calls me Miranda.”

“Randy, then. My name is Michael. And I must say it is entirely my pleasure to meet you.”

The hand clasping hers squeezed briefly before retreating with a gentle slide of fingertips across her palm. It made her thighs clench together.

Dear Lord.

“I thought this evening's invitation list was quite exclusive, Adele.” A man of average height and above-average conceit stepped away from the crowd and raked Randy's figure with an insulting gaze. “We have serious business to discuss, after all. Business that will affect the Council. This is hardly the time for…uninvited guests.”

The insult dispelled the energy between Randy and Michael and had her turning narrowed eyes on the source of the interruption. “And I thought you had to have balls to affect the Council. After all, my grandmother is so very good at it, and if that's not evidence, I don't know what is.”

The man puffed out his chest and took a threatening step forward, but Adele stepped in front of him and raised a quelling hand. “Please, Harold, excuse my granddaughter. I can assure you I will deal with this interruption with all possible speed.” Her bejeweled hands gestured to a set of double doors that had been thrown open in welcome farther down the hall. “Friends, let us continue our migration into the sitting room to relax after the excellent dinner my chef prepared. I have a very fine bottle of brandy I would be pleased to share with all of you. If you will.”

Of course, her guests fell in like obedient little soldiers and filed into the other room. Not that several of them didn't cast curious glances in Randy's direction, and Harold continued to stare daggers at her. Adele, though, pretended not to notice as she herded everyone before her. Then she shut the doors behind the last of them and rounded on her granddaughter like a prizefighter swinging his way off the ropes.

“I demand an explanation for this behavior!” she hissed, stalking forward at a march that conclusively proved she had no need of the cane she never went anywhere without. “You have pulled some outrageous stunts in your day, my girl, but I do believe that tonight you may have outdone yourself. Do you have any idea who those people were in the group you so obscenely burst in upon?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Randy noticed that Michael hadn't joined the others in the sitting room but propped himself against the wall near the doors, arms folded over his chest and a very interested expression on his face. Adele, though, was too worked up to realize that she and her granddaughter were not completely alone.

Randy had been down this road too many times to mention it. You never knew when the presence of a witness might be the only thing preventing a murder. Might as well take advantage of it. “I dunno, Adele. They looked like the same old bunch of stiffs you usually invite to dinner. Was the president of the Weird Fuckers Society here tonight?”

“I told you to watch your mouth. Your father might not have raised you to behave like a civilized person, but I'll thank you to pretend to the title while you are under my roof.”

While she might be one of the women in her family who didn't have fur, Randy could feel something rising on the back of her neck that felt remarkably like hackles. “My father raised me perfectly well,” she growled, clenching her hands into fists. “He was at least willing to love his kid no matter what she turned out to be, which is a damned sight more than I can say for you!”

“Ladies.” Michael stepped forward, an easy smile on his face, and a hard, glittering expression in his eyes. “I'm certain no one needs to work themselves up over this.”

Adele turned on him, her expression going predictably regal and discouraging. “This is a family matter, Mr. Devon. It is none of your concern. If you would step into the sitting room, someone will help you to a glass of the excellent brandy I have already mentioned.”

As a grand dame of Manhattan's Other Society and a long-time member of the Council of Others governing that society, Adele's tone of voice made it clear she was not a woman used be being gainsaid.

Michael Devon's response made it clear he didn't give a damn what she was used to. “Ah, but it's such a lovely family, ma'am. You can hardly be surprised that a man like me might take an interest in it.”

“And neither of you should be surprised when I leave to let you duke this out,” Randy said, giving the two of them a tight smile. She appreciated the sexy Mr. Devon's help, but she could take care of herself. And her grandmother's disdain had stopped hurting her feelings a long time ago. Turning on her heel, she stalked toward the front door.

“Where do you think you're going?” Adele demanded. “I haven't finished with you yet.”

“You finished with me the second I was conceived, because you knew I wasn't going to fulfill the family legacy, so let's not kid ourselves.”

“Whatever I may or may not have done, young lady, I'd much prefer that you refrained from airing family grievances in front of my guests. Though I suppose that must be too much to ask of you.”

Randy snorted and reached for the doorknob. “You can take your martyr complex and shove it up your—”

A large hand covered hers. “Though I hesitate to appear as if I don't believe you can take care of yourself, Randy, you may want to delay leaving for the moment. It's nearly freezing outside, and…ah, I believe you may have neglected to bring your coat.”

Against her will, Randy found herself glancing down at her clothing, the white tank top with the slogan “How 'bout these apples?” emblazoned over two pieces of bright red fruit that had been printed in strategic and eye-catching locations. Her silk shorts of the same color barely qualified as more than tap pants, and her legs were bare down to the tips of her cherry-red toenails. Not exactly the clothes for schlepping back across town to Cassidy and Quinn's apartment.

Although she'd probably get a few offers to help her work off her cab fare.

Still, never let it be said that she failed to out-stubborn the very woman who had passed the trait on to her. “I'd rather freeze to death than stay here,” she scowled. “I know exactly how welcome I'm not, so I'd rather go back to my cousin's apartment where I know I
am
welcome. Even if I get hypothermia along the way.”

Adele made a sound of disgust. “For heaven's sake, Miranda, can't you leave Cassidy and Sullivan alone for one night? They leave for Ireland tomorrow and will have more than enough to do preparing themselves and the twins for the trip without having you drop in unexpectedly. Have a little consideration for once.”

Too pissed off even to point out Adele's mistake about the travel plans of the granddaughter the old woman actually approved of, Randy shook her head and twisted the doorknob. “Screw you, Adele.”

She tugged, but the door never budged.

“Please.” Michael laid a free hand on her shoulder. “It's much too cold to go outside like that. I'm sure we can find something else for you to wear before you leave.”

“What? Wear something of my grandmother's?” Randy glared. “I'm certain she'd tell you the fabric would burst into flames the moment it touched my skin. If I didn't break out in hives at the same instant.”

His mouth quirked. “Your grandmother does not strike me as the kind of woman to be caught unprepared. I feel certain she would have something set aside in case one of her guests was to meet with emergency. And failing that, I understand she has a live-in housekeeper. I'm sure she would be willing to lend you a pair of sweatpants, at the very least.”

Trish would be happy to do so, Randy knew. But damn it, he was ruining her dramatic exit.

He must have seen the hesitation in her face and decided to press his advantage. “I'll even do the asking for you. Please. It would be silly to leave like this.”

Looking up into those dark blue eyes, Randy found herself relaxing enough for a ghost of a smile to quirk her lips. “Right, because everyone loves a Mexican standoff.”

“I hear ammo makers are nuts about them.”

His smile made her stomach give a funny little flip. Actually, everything about him made something in her flip. She hadn't felt this on edge, this instantly attracted to a man since…ever.

“Michael, I beg you will forgive my granddaughter's appalling manners and let her go to the devil in her own way,” Adele announced, punctuating her statement with a thump of her cane. “I can assure you that is what she will do regardless.”

Randy opened her mouth to reply in language that probably would have sent her straight where her grandmother had just predicted, but Michael stopped her with a gentle pressure from the hand on her shoulder. Her mostly bare shoulder.

She shivered.

“Mrs. Berry, I can assure you that you have no reason to apologize,” he said, his voice all smooth and elegant, two things Randy had never much gone for in men. Before. “I take no offense at your granddaughter's behavior. I find her charming.”

Adele's snort might not have been ladylike, but it was expressive.

Randy ignored it. “You're not so bad yourself,” she said, wishing she'd met this man in a bar or a club or a prison. Anywhere but in her grandmother's house. “But really, I think we'll all be a lot happier if I just leave.”

“I won't be,” he murmured, his voice and his glance turning intimate while the hand on her shoulder tightened. “In fact, I would be very unhappy indeed.”

That time, her stomach flipped, her thighs clenched, and her vision blurred, but Randy Berry was made of stern stuff. She pulled herself together through sheer force of will. “I appreciate that, and trust me, if you think I'm not going to slip you my phone number before I leave, you're kind of an idiot, but I do have to leave. I'll be fine. It's not like I'm going to walk home. I'll call a cab.”

“You appear to have left your purse somewhere alongside your coat.”

She scowled. “Shit.”

“Isn't that just like you?” Adele said, her tone disapproving. Not that she ever spoke to Miranda in any other way. “I suppose you would have the driver take you to Cassidy's home and then expect her or Sullivan to pay your fare as well? Your lack of consideration is truly astounding, Miranda. I don't know why your cousin puts up with you, but I can assure you that if she and her husband were too busy to attend my dinner this evening, they would certainly not have time to deal with one of your escapades.”