The Zombie Billionaire's Virgin Witch (Zombie Category Romance) (16 page)

Curiosity
made him ask questions he wasn’t sure that she would answer…or that he’d care
to hear the truth.  “If I’m so difficult, why did you curse me in the
first place?  Wouldn’t any man do?”

“Not
at all.  Sacrifice, Mr. Michelopoulos.  It powers the spell. 
Emile Remy was willing to risk his entire inheritance in order to cast this
spell for his daughter’s future.  Clare, on the other hand, was willing to
risk everything in order to save you.  She had to love you beyond any mild
attraction or lust she might feel for any other man in order for the sacrifice
to power the spell.”

“But
how did you pick me?  How did you know she’d love me and that I would love
her?”

The
batty old witch winked at him.  “There’s a spell for that too.”

FOURTEEN

The
Academy witch trials were too much like a public execution for Clare’s
nerves.  Or reality television.  Either way, a new personal level of
hell.

If
having the most powerful witches and wizards in the world sitting at an arched
table watching her every move wasn’t enough to rattle her nerves, the upper
tier of the teaching kitchen had been opened to the general wizard
public.  Past and current students crowded in, eagerly watching as she
moved about the shiny testing kitchen.  All they needed were some lights
and cameras and they could start a new
Iron Chef
trend.

Hopefully
they sat too far away to notice how badly her hands were shaking.

After
practicing until she nearly fell asleep propped up against the counter, she had
to admit that Helga had been right.  Her magic wasn’t gone, not like she’d
thought.  It was simply buried deep down inside her.  Each time she
tried to access the gift, it was like wading through hip-deep mud while
carrying boulders, just to bring up a drop or two of talent. 

However,
her fingers remembered what a chef’s knife felt like.  Her hands
remembered how to rock the blade quickly and smoothly to dice vegetables. 
And of course her taste buds definitely still worked. 

Timing
had been the hardest thing for her to master without ready access to her magic,
which forced her to refine her menu plans.  She couldn’t pick dishes that
were too simple, or else the Council would be disappointed in her level of
expertise.  Yet she couldn’t pick something so complex that she lost track
of time and forgot a crucial step in the rush of preparing a full three-course
dinner. 

Even
more importantly, she had to remember to pace herself, because already her
knees trembled. 
And I still have the most difficult dish to pull off.

In
the end, she’d decided to use Yiorgos’s Greek background for inspiration. 
The appetizer had included soft, warm pita bread lightly fried in a pan until
the outside was crispy, olive tempanada, and paper-thin slices of lamb with all
the gyros fixings.  For the main course, she’d seared tender filet of beef
topped with caramelized onions, a rich Gorgonzola cream sauce balanced by a
balsamic reduction, and served over fresh handmade linguini. 

So
far, everything had gone well.  She was sweating from the strain, but she
hadn’t burned or messed up anything.  As far as the audience was
concerned, no one but Helga and her mother could possibly know that she’d done
it all with very little magic at all.  But for this, her pièce de
résistance, she had to use every drop of magic she could muster.

She
closed her eyes a moment.  Immediately, Yiorgos’s face rose in her
mind.  Dark eyes blazing with heat despite the scowl on his face, tempting
her to provoke the beast even more.  He’d taken everything from her
father, but then accidentally given her so much back.  She’d come into her
full confidence as a kitchen witch in
Remy’s
kitchen, and as a woman in
his bed.  Beyond her wildest dreams, he desired her.

He
loves me.

Taking
all that heart-rending emotion, she drew on the wellspring inside her, pulling
as hard as she could on the shimmering gift.  A thick wall of concrete and
boulders met her touch, but beyond, she could sense the power.  Through
tiny cracks in the wall, her magic trickled, and she gathered up as much as she
could.

Hopefully
it’ll be enough.

As
she put the final layer on top, she had to rest a moment against the
counter.  Breathing heavily, she wiped her brow with the tail of her
apron.  Her knees shook in earnest, but she forced her body to
cooperate. 
Just a little longer, and I can rest.  I can sleep for
a week.  Or maybe…  If I were really getting a wish-come-true, I’d
crawl into bed with Yiorgos and find out how much he really likes chocolate
frosting.

She
paused a moment to examine the cake with a critical eye.  As far as she
could tell, it was as good as the original Death by Chocolate Cake she’d made
for him.  Only he would be able to tell if she’d succeeded without her
full magic or not.  Would he still feel compelled to eat piece after
piece? 

As
she cut the first piece, the unthinkable happened.  She knicked her thumb
with the serrated knife.  Not badly, but the red mark was glaringly
obvious.  Gasps and whispers rumbled through the auditorium. 

A
real
kitchen witch would never cut herself with her own knife.

For
a moment, she stared at that tell-tale sign of her failure, eyes burning hot
and dry.  Everyone knew, now.  She’d lost her gift.  Would it
affect the Council’s decision?

Pushing
down her doubts, she wiped the blood onto her apron and picked up the knife
again like nothing had happened.  As she cut and served the other pieces,
the whispers died down, but anxiety hung like a distant storm threatening to
break.  Or maybe that was only her nerves as she waited for the Council to
confer.

The
bearded judge on the end only ate a few bites of his cake.  Did that mean
he hated it?  Helga ate all of hers, but she could be forcing it down just
to make her student look more acceptable.  The whispers went on and on, a
steady annoying drone that started a headache at her temples.  Biting her
lip, she refused to give in to the stress and rub her forehead.

Helga
stood and the whispers died down.  Silence stretched, while everyone
simply looked at her.  Sweat trickled between her breasts, and she hid her
hands in her apron. 

“Clare
Remy, step forward.”

Lifting
her chin a bit higher, she calmly walked forward and stood before the arced
table.  None of the judges knew her but Helga, and they were all adept at
hiding their emotions.  She had no idea what the outcome was.  Heart
hammering, she searched her mentor’s face, but even Helga managed to keep her
face deadpan. 

“The
Council has a few questions for you before we make our final decision.”

Not
usual, but not entirely unheard of, either.  She nodded and cleared her
throat, ready to confess her crimes. 
Yes, I lost my virginity. 
I’m not a kitchen witch any longer.  No, I don’t have my father’s
ring.  No…

“What
do you call that cake, young lady?”

She
turned her attention to the bearded man on the end.  He looked to be
approximately forty years old, but he sounded older, like a grandfather. 
Ages with wizards could get tricky, especially for those who could cast
illusions.  “Death by Chocolate Cake, sir.”

He
harrumphed.  “Appropriately named, then.  That much chocolate could
kill somebody.”

Her
cheeks burned but she let out a low laughter meant to titillate.  “Or
convince them to kill someone for me.”

The
other judges smiled and a few even chuckled.

Helga
let out her trademark belly laugh.  “Why, I think it might even sweeten
you up, Bronson.” 

Clare
swayed slightly before she caught herself and stiffened her spine. 
Bronson March was one of the oldest and most talented druids left in
Europe.  Just to have him taste her food was an honor, let alone to have
him sit on the judgment panel for her trials.

“I’ve
had the honor of tasting this cake many times,” Helga said more formally. 
“I noticed you made a slight change to the recipe but I couldn’t tell what it
was.  Would you elaborate?”

“Cinnamon,”
she whispered, clearing her throat again to gain some volume.  “I added
just a touch of cinnamon.” 
For Yiorgos.
 

“Interesting,”
one of the other female judges said around another bite.  “Yes, I do taste
it.  Too much would have made the cake too bitter.”

“And
you would have lost the exquisitely tart zing of raspberry,” another said.

“Too
many layers.”  Bronson said loudly, drawing everyone’s attention back to
him.  Then he winked at Clare and picked up another bite.  “But very
good, young lady.  I think I’ll be going home about ten stone heavier this
trip.”

“Thank
you, Mr. March,” she managed to say without stumbling over her tongue like an
idiot.

“Well,
shall we make it official?”  Helga stood and looked down the table at each
of the other judges.  One by one they all nodded.  She raised her
voice so everyone in the auditorium would hear.  “Clare Remy is hereby
accepted into the Wizard Council Academy!”

The
din that ensured was a blur.  Clare smiled and hugged and thanked
everybody endlessly.  Her mother squeezed her so hard she couldn’t help
but cry a little.  Mr. March actually kissed her cheek and whispered that
he’d very much like the recipe for Death by Chocolate Cake if she’d be so kind
as to write it down for him.  So many faces blurred and finally Helga took
pity on her and shooed everyone away.

“Classes
don’t start for three weeks, dear.”  Helga kissed both of her
cheeks.  “I don’t expect to see you anywhere near your new teaching
kitchen for at least two full weeks, do you hear me?”

She
nodded and hugged her mentor again.  “Thank you,” she whispered, fighting
back tears.  Happy, exhausted, elated, yes, but deep down, she could feel
the throbbing echo of loneliness.  It would have been nice to share this
moment with Yiorgos.

“I
hope you can forgive me for everything we put you through.  Emile wanted
nothing but the best for you.”  Helga gave her one last squeeze and headed
for the door, leaving her in the quiet kitchen to clean up.  “He’d be
proud of you,”

As
she started cleaning up, peace began to fill into the cracks anxiety and stress
had left behind in her spirit.  She’d never felt so tired after cooking,
yet completely replete at the same time. 
I did it, Daddy.

“I
hope you saved a piece for me.”

The
low, distinctive voice behind her made her whirl around so fast she almost
dropped the soapy cake pan.  “Yiorgos,” she whispered, her throat
aching.  “You came.”

“Of
course I came.”  He leaned against the counter, divinely gorgeous without
even trying.  Today he’d dressed simply in jeans and a long-sleeved cotton
shirt with the sleeves rolled up.  He might be trying for casual, but he
still looked too elegant for words. 

And
she couldn’t miss his secret message to her. 
Denim and cotton. 
My kind of clothes.

“Nothing
would keep me from you, not wild horses, zombie curses, or crazy kitchen
witches who refuse to tell me where you are.”

She
turned back to the sink, determined to be strong.  Looking at him would
prove hazardous to her health.  “There’s one piece left.  You’re
welcome to it.”

Nerve
endings danced up and down her spine, demanding she sneak a quick peek to see
where he was.  Whether he’d moved closer or not.  While her mind
whirled frantically. 
What does he want?  Why’s he here?

“I
don’t mind if I do, sweetheart.”

The
sound of his endearment curled inside her like a wicked flame.  She washed
faster and forced an edge to her voice.  “I’m curious to see if you think
it’s as good as the one I first made for you.”

She
tracked his approach through the faint footsteps.  Her body screamed
flee,
run for your life!
  But her pride made her stay.  Oh, all right,
along with the aching need spreading through her core at the sight of
him.  She grabbed the next dish and scrubbed it furiously.  Stupid
hormones.  To think she’d once
wanted
to feel such overwhelming
desire for a man.

He
hopped up on the counter and sat right beside the sink.  She stared at him
a moment, her mouth hanging open with shock.  “You’re going to get wet.”

“Don’t
care.”  He held the piece of cake in his bare hand and took a delicate
nibble like he was dining on the finest china.  “Hmmm.  I do sense
something different.”

“Cinnamon,”
she retorted with enough bite that he raised his brows.  “You must have
heard Helga comment on it earlier.”

“Oh,
I do taste cinnamon, but there’s something else.  Something…”  He
took another bite and swished it around in his mouth like he was a
sommelier.  “Sweeter.”

“I
don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Well,
it could be my naughty imagination.  You see, I keep having this recurring
dream where I’m smearing buttercream frosting on a certain witch and licking it
off her sumptuous body.  I’m sure I’ve never tasted anything sweeter or
better than that.”

She
slammed the pot down into the water, splashing both of them.  “It’s over,
Mr. Michelopoulos.”

He
didn’t even scowl at being relegated back to formality.  “Weren’t we good
together?”

“It
was the magic.”

“Oh,
I see.”  He nodded thoughtfully and took another bite of cake.  “So
why is this cake just as good as the one you used to poison me?”

“I
did not poison you.”  It was hard to talk when one was gritting her teeth
together to keep from punching a gorgeous Greek.  “We’ve been over
this.  And the cake isn’t as good.  It can’t be.”