Witchy Woman by Karen Leabo Page A

“fanciful.”
Then
things had started to get weird. When she’d started talking to Joan of Arc, he’d been outta there.
    “A Gypsy crafted the original curse,” Tess said in a perfectly sane, rational tone of voice. “I seem to remember something about Gypsies being immune to it. They can use the statue’s power for evil purposes.”
    “Are you making this up as you go along?” Nate couldn’t help asking. But he was tired, and he wasn’t practicing his usual restraint when dealing with a skittish subject.
    Tess folded her arms and dropped into the club chair. “Just forget it.”
    “I’d like to, for now, anyway. I’m beat.” He offered her an apologetic smile. “Listen, why don’t you crash here tonight? I’ve got a foldout couch in my office.”
    “I should go home,” she said, her voice cool around the edges. “I’ll call a cab and have it pick me up right at your door.”
    Common sense dictated that Nate let her go. But something in him wouldn’t release her alone into the night to take her chances. “Look, Tess, if some crazed, knife-wielding Gypsy is after that statue, I don’t think you should go home alone,” he said sensibly. “He might still be lurking outside, ready to follow you.” He didn’t believe this whacked-out story for a minute, but why take chances? After all, Tess might not be a witch, but she was incredibly—what?—
knowing.
How had she known he wanted to write a story about Moonbeam? One minute she’d been talking about her mother, the next she’d been hurling accusations at him.
    “Hmm, you might have a point.” She shivered. Then she yawned. “Would you mind if I used your phone to call the hospital? I want to check on Judy. Then I think I’ll take you up on your offer. You can point me toward that foldout sofa you mentioned.”
    He nodded, relieved. This was a first for him—a beautiful woman spending the night in his apartment, in her own bed. He pointed out the phone in the kitchen, then checked all the door and window locks, just to be on the safe side.
    Judy’s condition was unchanged, Tess reported after calling the hospital. That, at least, was partially good news, Nate thought. Maybe by removing the cat from—he stopped himself, appalled at the direction his thoughts had taken. Was he starting to believe in this malarkey?
    Like the gentleman he wasn’t, Nate found clean sheets, then led Tess into his disorderly office and helped her make up the bed. At one point they both grabbed for a pillow at the same time, and their hands brushed. At that precise moment Nate had a flash of intuition himself, a distinctly X-rated one. He saw a vivid mental image of him and Tess together, naked, lying on this very bed. He smelled her perfume. He
felt
her warm breath against his neck.
    They both recoiled from the accidental touch at the same time and stared at each other.
    Must be the cognac, Nate thought, though liquor had never given him hallucinations before.
    Then Tess laughed self-consciously, breaking the spell. “Sorry. I’m behaving as if you’re Jack the Ripper or something.”
    “Forget it,” he said, glad that for once her sharp, observant eyes had missed the hasty withdrawal of his own hand.
    He yawned expansively. “See you in the morning, okay? If you’re up before me, feel free to make coffee. I can’t hold my eyes open another second.”
    “Me, neither.” She gave him an oblique, thoughtful look as he retreated from his office. “Thanks for your help tonight. I might’ve, um, overreacted a few minutes ago. You’re not Jack the Ripper, just a sneaky reporter, and there are worse things.”
    “Thanks. I think.” Talk about damning with faint praise.
    He headed for his bedroom, stripped hastily, and flopped into his unmade bed, figuring that after the dayhe’d had, he would sleep for a week. Then he proceeded to stare at a wrinkle in his pillowcase for what seemed like hours, his mind awhirl, his body primed for something that