Hex and the Single Girl (3 page)

“This is bad,” said Emma.

“This is great! The cool blond—she’s after Dearborn?” He was practically peeing his pants with excitement.

“No wonder she’s paying me so well,” said Emma. “How am I going to get near him? He’s probably got body guards.”

She remembered that Daphne said she’d help her get access to him. But what of his revolving bedroom door? Would his head be so crammed with libidinous memories that the Daphne pictures—however risqué—wouldn’t register?

Emma didn’t have much experience meddling in the minds of visual artists. Dearborn’s logic was bound to be more circuitous.

Victor was thinking the same thing. “William Dearborn might be the one man on the planet who’s immune to your mental manipulation,” he said.

“Don’t underestimate me,” she said.

He shook his head. “I’d never do that. But don’t underestimate him either.”

Chapter 3

H
offman Centry sipped his wine. “Are you sure you don’t want to order an entrée?”

Emma had engulfed most of the plate of appetizers Hoff ordered for them to share. He barely got his fork in.

“I can’t believe I ate the whole thing,” she said, backing away from the food. “I was hoping to come off as classy.”

“You do look classy,” he assured her. “Like a high-priced gun moll.”

She laughed and then smiled prettily at him.

He stopped talking and stared. This happened sometimes. She’d gone without shades tonight, and Hoff was stuck in her eyes, his own glazed over, his mouth slightly open.

“Ahem,” she said. “Would you get me another beer?”

He snapped back to reality. “Right away,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Do not move from this spot.”

Emma checked out the joint from their booth. Hoff had taken her to Ciao Roma, an Italian lounge/restaurant nestled between Chinatown and the Financial District, blocks away from the border of Little Italy. According to Hoff, Ciao Roma was one of the best-kept secrets in Manhattan. Judging from the empty tables and lonely barstools, the secret might be too well kept. She watched Hoff talk to the ancient white-haired bartender who looked like he’d uncorked many thousands of bottles of Chianti in his lifetime. As if on cue, he and Hoff looked at Emma at the same time.

Emma busied herself by eating. She popped a tentacle of calamari between her cherry-colored lips just as Hoff returned with her beer and another glass of wine for himself. Instead of sitting opposite her, though, Hoff slid in next to her. His thigh touched hers under the table.

She said, “It’s stuffy in here.”

“We can leave,” he said. “Go to your place.”

“No!” she said, way too quickly. “I’m still eating.” She ate another tentacle.

Hoff was patient. Hoff was polite. Hoff was raised to be respectful of women. He looked good in a black cashmere jacket, lavender shirt and flat-front khakis. Emma had enjoyed their friendly not-dates and wanted to keep him in her life. But the only way to make sure of that was never to be alone with him.

The bartender left the room.

Hoff said, “Finally, we’re alone.”

She tried diversion. “Tell me about this top-secret project. The one you’re so busy with at work.”

He said, “It’s a non-fiction book called
Smoke and Mirrors.
The author is Seymour Lankey, the former CEO of Riptron Electronics. You must have read his name in the newspapers. Huge corporate scandal. Cooked accounting books.

Criminal investing practices. An executive cover-up, embezzlement, six hundred million dollars missing from the pension fund.”

“I’m familiar with the case,” said Emma in a small voice.

“You look sick all of the sudden,” said Hoff. “Is it the calamari?”

“I’m fine.”

He continued, “In the book, Lankey claims he’s been railroaded by a junta of second-tier execs that accused him of stealing and hiding the missing money. All of them, including Lankey, are in prison, convicted on criminal charges.

There’s a class action lawsuit pending—brought by Riptron employees and small investors. But even if they win, the plaintiffs won’t see a penny unless the missing money is found.”

“Is this a hardcover book? Retails for twenty-five dollars?” she asked. He nodded. “With my share of the settlement, if I ever get it, I’ll buy a copy.”

“Oh, Emma!” said Hoff. “Not you!”

“I was one of the so-called small investors,” she said. “To the tune of one hundred thousand dollars. I lost my life savings.”

Hoff whistled. “Sorry to hear that. A hundred grand. You make that much excess cash consulting? I’m still not clear on what exactly you consult about. You always change the subject.”

She hadn’t told him much about The Good Witch, Inc. She was loath to launch a conversation about her special ability.

So she went vague. “It’s a matchmaking service,” she explained. “I help women and men take the first step.”

“How can we take the first step?” he asked.

She said, “We’ve gone out six times.”

“Whenever I touch you,” he said, “you tense up.”

“Hoff, we’re friends.”

“You’re not attracted to me.”

“You’re adorable, Hoff. I just don’t want to risk our friendship.”

“I haven’t been thinking of you as a friend, Emma,” he said. “My feelings for you are unfriendly.”

And now he was going to say, “have sex with me or forget the whole thing.” She’d lost more potential friends this way. But she’d rather lose a man to an ultimatum than a botched sexual encounter. She decided to give him her usual excuse for sexual aversion, which served the dual purpose of turning him off and placing the blame solely in her own lap (as it were).

“The truth is, Hoff,” she said gravely, “I’m anorgasmic. I can’t come. Freud would have called a woman like me frigid.”

“You can’t come?” he said, incredulous. “Never?”

“Can we drop the subject?”

“Of course,” he said. “But I want you to know, Emma, that your inorgasmia—”

“Anorgasmia.”

“Your
anorgasmia
is not deterring me. In fact,” said Hoff with seriousness, “I think I can help you. I know I can. Give me a chance.”

“Not a good idea,” she said.

“Why?” he said.

“Trust me,” she said. “Sex with me will not be fun for you.”

“I’ll have an excellent time,” he said. “And so will you. I promise.”

“What if you break your promise?” she asked.

“You can spank me,” he said.

Emma laughed. Well, he hadn’t flinched. He was made of tough stuff. Perhaps Victor was right. She was due for another attempt. Maybe sex with sincere, sweet Hoff wouldn’t be a disaster. A shot of optimism buoyed her hopes. Or maybe it was the three beers now making themselves known to her bladder.

“Would you excuse me for a minute?” she asked.

He slid out of the booth to let her get by.

Just then, a group of around ten people banged through the restaurant doors. They were loud and probably drunk. The men were dressed down, except one guy in a skinny brown suit. The women, laughing and stumbling on platform

sandals, jiggled in halter dresses under faux-fur coats. A pair of the high-haired women peeled off from the cluster and stumbled sloppily, yet fetchingly, to the bar.

Hoff said, “So much for being alone.”

“I’ll be right back,” she said, and walked through a large, dark, deserted banquet room in the rear of the restaurant toward the neon sign that hummed, “Ladies.” She entered the dim room and locked the door behind her.

After using the facilities, Emma washed her hands and examined herself in the mirror. She did resemble a gun moll, with the big eyelashes and red lips. She liked how she looked and wanted desperately to be admired, appreciated, loved. The things all women craved.

Emma decided then and there to give Hoff a shot. She might wind up with another mess to clean up, but she was tipsy enough—and he was smitten enough—to push fear aside.

A knock. She said, “One second.”

Emma swung the door inward and stepped into the dark banquet room. Suddenly, strong arms circled her waist from behind, lifting her off her feet. They carried her into the darkest corner of the deserted room. She couldn’t see a thing (Emma’s vision could go great distances, but nowhere in the dark). Before she could react or speak, soft lips pressed against her throat, moving quickly up the side of her neck until they found her cherry-colored lips.

Hoff was much more daring than she realized, Emma thought. She struggled a bit against the force of his kiss and the arms around her waist, her ribs crunched, lungs compressed. He pulled back momentarily, giving her a chance to breathe, and then plunged in again, lifting her higher off her feet, sealing her mouth with a dizzying smack.

She sank into it, against him. Her entire lower half ignited as if she’d waded into a pool of fire. Hands on her lower back, pressing her tighter against his body. A hand on her ass, lifting her higher. How had she not noticed that Hoff was so tall? Or that he’d stopped smelling like glue and had taken on the scent of toasted marshmallow? She held on, her arms around his neck. Behind closed eyes, she saw red flames that licked and swirled into white tips. Each passing moment sent the flames higher.

And then a shrill scream. “Get your hands off him!”

Emma felt herself falling out of his arms, landing on her feet, but not squarely. She could make out the shape of a woman in front of her. For once, Emma hadn’t heard her coming.

“Liam! What the fuck is going on here?” demanded the female silhouette.

The lights came on. Emma blinked and registered that a dozen people were streaming into the banquet room. A

platinum blond was standing in front of her, huffing, puffing. She was gorgeous, skinny, tall, and furious. She stamped heels sharp enough to pick teeth with, her mouth twisted and her sea-blue eyes roiling in fury. Despite the

malevolence, the woman’s powdered skin and pink lips made Emma think of a strawberry Pop Tart, right down to the red sprinkles of her sequined mini-dress. Emma doubted, however, that this woman had a fruity, gooey center.

A tall man in a brown suit was standing next to Emma. His lips were smeared with cherry lipstick. Hoffman Centry, weirdly, was only just now coming into the back room from the bar. Emma realized with a start that the tall guy, this Liam, was who she’d been kissing. He gaped at her, his eyes and mouth round Os.

Feeling embarrassed, exposed, and freezing cold, Emma hugged herself. The front of her dress felt clammy and damp.

She looked down, horrified to see that, from neckline to hem, the fabric was soaked.

“Liam, you’re all wet!” said the Pop Tart.

True enough, his jacket was covered in dark blotches and his shirt was ringed with sweat. His shaggy hair was damp, and his forehead dripping.

Hoff was pushing through the crowd, gawking at Emma’s wet dress, and then looking at the equally soaked man next to her. He asked, “Are you all right?”

She croaked out, “I’m okay.”

The crowd of people, giggling nervously, did laps with their eyes at the principal players in this mini-drama. Emma dared to glance at the Pop Tart’s angry scowl, at Hoff’s frown of concern, at the man who’d mauled her. He was still staring at her with jade green eyes, seemingly unaware of everyone else in the room, or that beads of sweat were streaming down his neck.

With a faint English accent, he said, “I was a fireball rolling down a smoking mountain.”

No one else spoke for a few seconds. Then Hoff placed his jacket around Emma’s shoulders and said, “I’ll take you home.”

“I thought he was you,” she said feebly.

Liam said to the Pop Tart. “And I thought she was you. You did tell me you were going to the bathroom.”

“I had to get my purse out of the limo first,” she said. “And how do you expect me to believe that you could mistake
me
”—she placed her pink shell of a hand on her skinny collarbone—“for
her
”—pointing an accusatory finger at Emma’s plump chest—“even in the dark?”

Good question. Emma would have loved to listen to his answer. But Hoff tugged her back into the front room of the restaurant, grabbed her coat, draped it over his jacket on her shoulders, dropped a hundred on their table and propelled her through the door of the restaurant. She could hear the tall man stammering for an explanation all the way out.

Sure enough, a limo idled at the curb. They walked quickly past, Emma still shivering, even with two coats on.

Hoff said, “If you were going to mistake another man for me, you couldn’t have chosen a more impressive substitute.”

“You know that guy?” she asked.

He seemed surprised by her question. “You don’t?”

He had looked familiar, but he’d been wet and unhinged. Plus, she’d been so embarrassed, she could barely look at him.

“I’m not sure,” she said.

Hoff said, “That was William Dearborn!”

Oh, no. “That woman called him Liam.”

“Short for William,” said Hoff. “He must have some kind of glandular problem. Sweating like that.”

She groaned. “You think he got a good look at me?” she asked.

Hoff laughed. “I’m sure the sight of you with a soaking wet dress plastered to your very female form is now and forever burned into his brain.”

Shit. So much for anonymity. She’d have to use her most exotic disguises with him.

Hoff hailed a cab, and they got in. He gave the driver her address and said, “So you really thought William Dearborn was me.”

“I sure didn’t think he was him!” Dearborn was the very last man on Earth Emma wanted to be noticed by.

“And you liked kissing him?” asked Hoff.

“It was okay.” It was the best kiss she’d ever had.

“So you’ll probably like kissing me,” said Hoff.

Without waiting for the go-ahead, Hoff planted one on her, a squishy, gurgle kiss that made Emma think of Liquid Plumber unclogging the kitchen sink.

She pushed him away—gently, with the strength of ten butterflies, not wanting to offend—and said, “I need another drink.”

Chapter 4

A
s soon as they’d reached her apartment, Emma changed out of her wet dress. She put on a two-piece pajama set, tops and bottoms, navy blue fleece with a snowflake pattern. Not sexy stuff at all. Nonetheless, when she padded in her PJs into the living room, Hoff said, “Let me give you a backrub.”