Under Lock And Key

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Ever heard of the telephone game?”

“I don’t get it.”

Of course not. “How do you get rid of a witch?”

Impatience wrenched the contact’s pretty features into their true plug-ugliness, so Ray gave the brainless cockroach its answer. “With a witch-hunt.”

Chapter Two

A noise disturbed Melissa’s gloomy thoughts. Her ears, tuned by years of living nearly alone in her immense castle, picked up the discordant sound. She listened, wary, then plopped her paintbrush into a jar of water. Someone was at the gatehouse.

The same thing happened every year around this time. The seasonal storms and the threat of tornadoes made a perfect backdrop for the dares and counterdares of local high-school kids. What could be more ghoulish than catching a glimpse of the witch when the heavens roiled with evil?

Why couldn’t they leave her alone? What had she ever done to them?

Fists tight at her sides, she marched down the creaky wooden steps. She’d had enough and wasn’t going to take the taunts this time. They wanted the witch; they’d get the witch. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she donned her black poncho, its hood strategically placed for the best effect. She grabbed the flashlight on the small table by the door and strode across the courtyard.

Melissa paused by the gatehouse door, listening for the telltale noise of the thrill seekers’ presence, and heard nothing. Flashlight in hand, she readied to illuminate her pale face and set the fear of God into the little hoodlums.

She threw open the heavy door, placed the flashlight in its most effective position for fright and gave them her best cackle. She expected shrieks of terror. Instead, she heard a soft moan like that of a wounded animal. Turning her light on the crumpled body at her feet, she took in the bloody face and muddy clothes.

Stiletto-sharp instincts honed by pain and hatred told her to shut the door and ignore the wounded man on her doorstep. She didn’t need a stranger intruding on her privacy. Frenzied lightning, followed by a deep rumble, seemed to second her decision. The wail of tornado sirens from town added urgency.

Melissa stood frozen, grasping the door like a lifeline. If she left him there, he might die. The sky quieted. The hard beating of her heart and the shallowness of her breath replaced the thunder. Pollen-laden rain streamed down her face.

Sighing regretfully, she crouched next to the man. As much as she’d like to, even the witch in her couldn’t leave a wounded man out on a night like this.

“Grace!” Her shout competed with a new crash of thunder and the whip of the wind for her housekeeper’s attention. “Grace!”

At six feet, Grace Jackson towered above many men. Her checkered past afforded her as much notoriety as Melissa’s reclusiveness did. Most townsfolk had learned to fear Grace Jackson’s wrath as much as Melissa’s alleged hexes.

The door to Grace’s apartment opened. “What are you doing down there, child?”

“I need your help. I can’t move him by myself.”

“Him? What are you talking about?” Grace snapped on the dim light above the stairs and moved down the creaky wooden steps with a lightness that belied her two-hundred-pound bulk.

“Lordy!” Grace whistled. “What happened to him?”

“Don’t know. I found him on the doorstep.”

Grace bent down to examine the man draped across the top of the steps. She swiped the mud off his cheek. “This man’s gonna bring trouble. I feel it in my bones.”

“Trouble or not, we need to get him out of the rain.”

With a sigh, Grace hefted the stranger up in her capable arms. “Take his feet.”

They moved him inside, then Melissa closed and barred the door behind them.

“Upstairs to my apartment,” Grace said, adjusting her grip under the man’s arms.

Melissa nodded and helped Grace carry him to her apartment. Once they’d settled him on the bed in the spare room, Melissa was only too glad to let Grace take over. A stranger—a man, at that—was something she’d rather not deal with. Especially not tonight when the longing for normalcy stirred such deep cravings.

She stood, intent on returning to her own tower, when Grace looked up at her and said, “What are you waiting for, girl? I’m gonna need your help.”

“Me?” Melissa brushed a hand to her chest. “What for?”

“He’s deadweight, honey. I can’t strip him out of them wet clothes by myself.”

Melissa reluctantly shed her poncho, shaking off the excess water before she hung it on the knob.

“I’ll need more light,” Grace said.

Melissa nodded, then extracted a black silk shawl from her pocket and carefully arranged it around her face, leaving only her eyes uncovered before Grace turned on the light in her spare room.

Grace sat beside the unconscious man on the twin bed. “Help me hold him up so we can see where he’s hurt and get them wet clothes off him.”

“Grace?” Melissa’s voice wavered with uncertainty.

“Missy, we gotta see how bad he’s hurt,” Grace answered with a touch of impatience. She ran her hands over the prone figure with the practiced ease of a nurse. Melissa watched, fascinated by the man on the bed.

He was a beautiful creature—the epitome of the tall, dark and handsome hero in those romantic movies her friend Dee insisted on sharing with her once a week.

Even with his brow furrowed in pain, his face had a quality of strength. The impression came from the high cheekbones, the sharp cut of his jaw, she decided, and rated his bone structure as excellent. His long eyelashes lay against smooth skin that was too pale to be healthy. Only the slightly sardonic twist of his mouth and the drying blood on his forehead marred the perfect proportions of his oval face. Drawn to those full lips, she tried to imagine how they would taste. She frowned. Where had that thought come from?

“What do you suppose happened to him?” Melissa asked to distract her wayward thoughts.

“Looks like a car wreck. Weather like this, wouldn’t surprise me none.” Grace finished her inspection and covered him with the blanket. “I don’t think he’s too bad off,” she continued. “Left wrist sprained, two bruised ribs and probably a concussion, judging by the bump on his head. If he don’t wake up soon, I’m gonna have to take him to the hospital.” Grace pointed to the side of the bed near the man’s middle. “Go sit there.” Grace gently held the stranger up. “You do the buttons.”

With shaky fingers, Melissa fumbled with the buttons of his denim shirt. Light and shadow played over pectorals whose pleasing definition had her itching for a pencil and paper. Her frown deepened. He was a man. She didn’t draw men. The spray of dark hair centered on his torso mesmerized her. She followed its course until it disappeared in the waistband of his jeans. After a moment of hesitation she unbuckled his belt, unsnapped the button of his fly and pulled down the zipper just enough to free the shirttail. With curiosity, she noted how the soft dark line of hair continued down into his navy shorts, automatically cataloging the fascinating lines made by bones and muscles over stomach and hips. She sucked in a breath at the painful purpling bloom of bruises over his left ribs.

With the shirt loosened, Grace leaned the man forward so that his head lay on Melissa’s shoulder. He moaned in pain. Instinctively Melissa wrapped her arms protectively around his waist and trembled as his body relaxed against hers. He was heavy on her chest, and she tensed under the weight as Grace proceeded to remove the shirt.

Relax. He can’t hurt you; he’s unconscious. Watching all those romantic movies hadn’t prepared her for the solidness of a man or for the irrational feeling of loss sinking through her like a rock in spring mud.

“Push him back easy,” Grace ordered. “I’m gonna go get some bandages for that cut.”

With a small sigh of relief, Melissa did as Grace asked. While Grace was gone, her gaze returned once more to the stranger’s lips. Artistic analysis, she told herself. Her hand reached for her heart and she knuckled the soft pining ache there. He’s not the one, she thought. He can’t give you what you want—no one can.

She started to move away, then found her hand—as if it had a mind of its own—wandering toward that beautiful face. With a fingertip, she traced the edge of the bruise on his forehead, trailed down the sharp definition of his cheekbone and found his mouth. A study of proportion, she told herself, and tried to push away the notions of heat and softness and stark maleness. Would he begrudge her a moment of fantasy?

With uncharacteristic abandon, she loosened her shawl and gave in to temptation. A spark of electricity ran between them when she touched her lips to his. A small gasp escaped her as she jerked back in surprise. When she kissed him a second time, his lips felt cold and lifeless.

Just as well, she thought. He was no Snow White waiting for a wake-up kiss, and she definitely wasn’t Princess Charming. Love at first kiss was the invention of movie-makers. Everyone knew that. When he woke up, he’d most likely think he’d landed on the set of a horror movie, not some sort of romance. Still, she couldn’t resist one last touch, this time with her finger to his lips.

His eyes fluttered open and he mumbled, “Lindsey, don’t leave me, Lindsey.”