Something Witchy This Way Comes: A Jolie Wilkins Novel (34 page)

I shook my head and pooled into a chair by the door. “Maybe if you hadn’t left early to go on your date, I wouldn’t have had a visit at all.”

“Well, one of us needs to be dating,” she said, knowing full well I hadn’t had any dates for the past six months.

“Let’s not get into this again …”

“Jolie, you need to get out. You’re almost thirty …”

“Two years from it, thank you very much.”

“Whatever … you’re going to end up old and alone. You’re way too pretty, and you have such a great personality, you can’t end up like that. Don’t let one bad date ruin it.” Her voice reached a crescendo. Christa has a tendency toward the dramatic.

“I’ve had a string of bad dates, Chris.” I didn’t know what else to say—I was terminally single. It came down to the fact that I’d rather spend time with my cat or Christa than face another stream of losers.

As for being attractive, Christa insisted I was pretty, but I wasn’t convinced. It’s one thing when your best friend says you’re pretty; it’s entirely different when a man does.

And I couldn’t remember the last time a man had said it.

I caught my reflection in the glass of the desk and studied myself while Christa rambled on about all the reasons I should be dating. I supposed my face was pleasant enough—a pert nose, cornflower-blue eyes, and plump lips. A spattering of freckles across the bridge of my nose interrupts an otherwise pale landscape of skin, and my shoulder-length blond hair always finds itself drawn into a ponytail.

Head-turning doubtful, girl-next-door probable.

As for Christa, she doesn’t look like me at all. For one thing, she’s leggy and tall—about five-eight, which is four inches taller than I am. She has dark hair the
color of mahogany, green eyes, and rosy cheeks. She’s classically pretty—like cameo pretty. She’s rail skinny and has no boobs. I have a tendency to gain weight if I eat too much, I have a definite butt, and the twins are pretty ample as well. Maybe that made me sound like I’m fat—I’m not, but I could stand to lose five pounds.

“Are you even listening to me?” Christa asked.

Shaking my head, I entered the reading room, thinking I’d left my glasses there.

I heard the door open.

“Well, hello to you,” Christa said in a high-pitched, sickening-sweet, and non-Christa voice.

“Afternoon.” The deep timbre of his voice echoed through the room, my ears mistaking his baritone for music.

“I’m here for a reading, but I don’t have an appointment—”

“Oh, that’s cool,” Christa interrupted, and from the saccharine tone of her voice, it was pretty apparent this guy had to be eye candy.

Giving up on finding my reading glasses, I headed out in order to introduce myself to our stranger. Upon seeing him, I couldn’t contain the gasp that escaped my throat. It wasn’t his Greek-god, Sean-Connery-would-be-envious good looks that grabbed me first, or his considerable height.

It was his aura.

I’ve been able to see auras since before I can remember, but I’d never seen anything like his. It radiated from him as if it had a life of its own—and the color! Usually auras are pinkish or violet in healthy people, yellowish or orange in those unhealthy. His was the
most vibrant blue I’ve ever seen—the color of the sky after a storm when the sun’s rays bask everything in glory.

It emanated from him like electricity.

“Hi, I’m Jolie,” I said, remembering myself.

“How do you do?” And to make me drool even more than I already was, he had an accent, a British one. Ergh.

I glanced at Christa as I invited him into the reading room. Her mouth had dropped open like a fish’s.

My sentiments exactly.

His navy-blue sweater stretched to its capacity while attempting to span a pair of broad shoulders and a wide chest. The broad shoulders and spacious chest in question tapered to a trim waist and finished in a finale of long legs. The white shirt peeking from underneath his sweater contrasted with his tanned complexion and made me consider my own fair skin with dismay.

The stillness of the room did nothing to allay my nerves. I took a seat, shuffled the tarot cards, and handed him the deck. “Please choose five cards and lay them faceup on the table.”

He took a seat across from me, stretching his legs and resting his hands on his thighs. I chanced a look at him and took in his chocolate hair and caramel eyes. His face was angular, and his Roman nose lent him a certain Paul-Newman-esque quality. The beginnings of shadow did nothing to hide the definite cleft in his strong chin.

He didn’t take the cards. Instead he just smiled, revealing pearly whites and a set of grade A dimples.

“You did come for a reading?” I asked.

He nodded and covered my hand with his own. What felt like lightning ricocheted up my arm, and I swear my heart stopped for a second. The lone red bulb blinked a few times then continued to grow brighter until I thought it might explode. My gaze moved from his hand up his arm, and settled on his eyes. With the red light reflecting against him, he looked like the devil come to barter for my soul.

“I came for a reading, yes, but not with the cards. I’d like you to read … me.” His rumbling baritone was hypnotic, and I fought the need to pull my hand from his warm grip.

I set the stack of cards aside, focusing on him again. I was so nervous, I doubted any of my visions would come. They were about as reliable as the weather anchors you see on TV.

After several long uncomfortable moments, I gave up. “I can’t read you, I’m sorry,” I said, my voice breaking. I shifted the eucalyptus-scented incense I’d lit to the farthest corner of the table and waved my hands in front of my face, dispersing the smoke that seemed intent on wafting directly into my eyes. It swirled and danced in the air, as if indifferent to the fact that I couldn’t help this stranger.

He removed his hand but stayed seated. I thought he’d leave, but he made no motion to do anything of the sort.

“Take your time.”

Take my time? I was a nervous wreck and had no visions whatsoever. I just wanted this handsome stranger to leave so my life could return to normal.

But it appeared that was not in the cards.

The silence pounded against the walls, echoing the
pulse of blood in my veins. Still, my companion said nothing. I’d had enough. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

He smiled again. “What do you see when you look at me?”

Adonis
.

No, I couldn’t say that. Maybe he’d like to hear about his aura? I didn’t have any other cards up my sleeve … “I can see your aura,” I almost whispered, fearing his ridicule.

His brows drew together. “What does it look like?”

“It isn’t like anyone’s I’ve ever seen before. It’s bright blue, and it flares out of you … almost like electricity.”

His smile disappeared, and he leaned forward. “Can you see everyone’s auras?”

The incense dared to assault my eyes again, so I put it out and dumped it in the trash can.

“Yes. Most people have much fainter glows to them—more often than not in the pink or orange family. I’ve never seen blue.”

He chewed on that for a moment. “What do you suppose it is you’re looking at—someone’s soul?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. I do know, though, that if someone’s ailing, I can see it. Their aura goes a bit yellow.” He nodded, and I added, “You’re healthy.”

He laughed, and I felt silly for saying it. He stood up, his imposing height making me feel all of three inches tall. Not enjoying the feel of him staring down at me, I rose too and watched him pull out his wallet. I guess he’d heard enough and thought I was full of it. He set a hundred-dollar bill on the table in front
of me. My hourly rate was fifty dollars, and we’d been maybe twenty minutes.

“I’d like to come see you for the next three Tuesdays at four p.m. Please don’t schedule anyone after me. I’ll compensate you for the entire afternoon.”

I was shocked—what in the world would he want to come back for?

“Jolie, it was a pleasure meeting you, and I look forward to our next session.” He turned to walk out of the room when I remembered myself.

“Wait, what name should I put in the appointment book?”

He turned and faced me. “Rand.”

Then he walked out of the shop.

Funny and feisty witch Jolie Wilkins is back—or rather, she’s back to her humble beginnings. Propelled into the past to her old Los Angeles fortune-telling shop, Jolie has no idea she possesses extraordinary powers, and she definitely doesn’t remember becoming Queen of the Underworld. But at least she has two incredibly sexy men vying for affection: Rand Balfour, who looks very familiar, though Jolie can’t place his gorgeous face, and Sinjin Sinclair, who is tall, dark, and perfect … except for the fangs
.

Yet despite her steamy love life, Jolie can’t shake the sense that something is not quite right—like she’s stuck in a déjà vu gone terribly awry. As both men race against time—and each other—to win Jolie’s heart, the fate of the Underworld hangs in the balance. And Jolie’s decision can either restore order or create an absolute, drop-dead disaster
.

When the phone rang at ten minutes to seven, I wasn’t surprised. Nope, I figured that Sinjin Sinclair, the most handsome and charming man who had ever stepped into my life, had probably just come to his senses and realized he didn’t want to take me out for dinner after all. Maybe he’d suffered from a slight brain freeze the night before when he’d been awaiting roadside assistance at my tarot-card-reading shop, and that was why he’d asked me out.

So when he phoned to say he was lost, I was
surprised—not so much that his navigational skills were lacking but that he actually wanted to go through with this. Okay, I know what you’re thinking—that I must look like a troll, or something equally heinous … Well, I’m not a troll by any stretch of the imagination, but I’m also not the girl who stands out in a crowd. I’m more the girl next door—or at least I live down the street from the girl next door.

Okay, I’m probably being a little too hard on myself because I have been told that I’m attractive and I know I’m smart and all that stuff, but I’m still nowhere near Sinjin Sinclair’s league.

But back to the phone call. After Sinjin said he would be at my door shortly, I hung up and then stood in the center of my living room for a few minutes like a space cadet, gazing at the wall until I’m sure I looked like a complete and total moron.

But while it might have appeared that nothing much was going on in that gray matter between my ears, appearances can be deceiving. Thoughts ramrodded my brain, slamming into one another as new ones were born … 
What am I doing? What am I thinking? What do I possibly have to talk about with a man as cultured and refined as Sinjin Sinclair? Moreover, how am I going to eat in front of him? What if I choke on an ice cube? Or I sneeze after taking a mouthful of salad and spray carrot chunks all over his expensive clothes?

Jolie Wilkins, calm down
, I finally said to myself, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath.
You are going to go on this date, because if you don’t, you’re never going to forgive yourself. And, furthermore, Christa will most definitely murder you
.

I inhaled another deep breath and forced myself out of my self-inflicted brain coma, staring toward the mirror as I took stock of myself for the umpteenth time in the last hour. Christa, my best friend and self-proclaimed fashion advisor, had left twenty minutes ago after chastising me about my current getup. Yes, she’d tried to force me into what amounted to shrink-wrapping, complete with stiletto heels that were so narrow they could double as weapons. Then, after that attempt had failed, she’d tried to get me to go with a flame-red corset dress that was so tight, I couldn’t walk—and breathing was out of the question. So yes, I’d defeated the raunchy-clothing demon but I couldn’t say I felt very good about my victory.

I sighed as I took in my shoulder-length blond hair and the fact that the curl Christa had wrestled into it only minutes before was already gone. It could be described as “limp” at best. My makeup was nice, though—Christa had managed to talk me into a smoky eye, which accented my baby blues, and she’d also covered the freckles that sprinkled the bridge of my nose while playing up my cheekbones with a shimmery apricot blush. She’d lined my decently plump lips in a light brown and filled them with bubble-gum-pink lipstick, finishing them with a pink gloss called “Baby Doll.”

There was a knock on my front door, and I felt my heart lurch into my throat. I took another deep breath and glanced at my reflection in the mirror again, trying not to focus on the fact that I was anything but sexy in a black amorphous skirt that ended just below my knees, black tights, and two-inch heels. Even though my breasts are decently large, you couldn’t really tell in my gray turtleneck and black peacoat.

Maybe I should have listened to Christa …

Another quick knock on the door signaled the fact that I was dawdling. I pulled myself away from my reflection and, wrapping my hand around the doorknob, exhaled and opened it, pasting a smile on my face.

“Hello,” I said, hoping my voice sounded level and even-keeled, because the sight of Sinjin standing there just about undid me. A tornado was rampaging through me, tearing at my guts and wreaking havoc with my nervous system.

“Good evening,” the deity before me spoke in his refined, baritone English accent. His eyes traveled from my eyes to my bust to my legs and back up again as a serpentine smile spread across his sumptuous lips.

“Um,” I managed, meaning to add a
How are you?
to the end of it, but somehow the words never emerged.

Sinjin arched a black brow and chuckled as I debated slamming the door shut and hiding out in my room for the next, oh, two years, at least.

“You look quite lovely,” he said, with that devilish smile as he pulled his arm forward and offered me a bouquet of red roses. “These pale in comparison.”

My hand was shaking and my brain was on vacation as I reached for the roses, but somehow I did manage to smile and say, “Thank you, they are really beautiful.”