The Zombie Billionaire's Virgin Witch (Zombie Category Romance) Page 2

  “Too bad he lost.” Selma’s voice cracked with bitterness and anger. “The fool should never have risked his family ring. Clare, you have to get it back.” She softened the edge in her voice, leaning across the table to take her daughter’s hand. “Don’t you want to have a family someday? Fall in love, get married? You can’t as long as we don’t have the Remy ring. You’re the last. If you don’t have children, the Remy talent will die with you anyway.”

  Clare pulled free of her mother’s grasp and stood, moving away from the table. Emotion tore at her chest until she couldn’t breathe. Of course she wanted a family. She didn’t want to be the last Remy, no matter how powerful she might be in the kitchen. But everything she knew about Yiorgos Michelopoulos warned her to stay far, far away from the man.

  Because of the rivalry between their restaurants—so she’d told herself—she’d done her research long before her father’s death, hoping to find the man’s weakness. A billionaire playboy, Michelopoulos’s picture had been splashed on every newspaper and celebrity rag at one time or another. Gorgeous, rich, and charismatic, of course the man was irresistible.

  He discarded women as easily as he bought a new restaurant or hotel, right before he fired everyone regardless of how long they’d been there in order to hire his own staff. Year after year, she’d watched her father accept his plaque for Remy’s starred status, and each year, Michelopoulos had brought a new date to every ceremony. Not just the Missouri awards either—she’d read every article about every reward he’d ever won, and always, a new beauty clung to his arm.

  He was the kind of man who always got want he wanted, used it, and then tossed it in the compost bin on his way to the next conquest. He expected to be sought and lusted after, not just for his money but his looks as well.

  The last kind of man a woman, who must remain a virgin at all cost, should be around.

  Deep down, she couldn’t deny a visceral reaction to the man. Even as a teenager, she’d felt the pull of his magnetism. Although she wouldn’t admit it, she still had a few of those wild and crazy dreams of him stashed away in a corner of her mind.

  Dreams she’d had before her father had died and lost their family ring—and her key to a passionate life—at the same time.

  “Clare,” her mother began in her wheedling voice.

  “I need to speak to Helga,” Clare cut in without turning around. “Privately.”

  “But—”

  “I insist, Mother. It’s wizards’ business.”

  Selma’s loud sniff proclaimed her hurt at the sharp reminder to her lack of status, but Clare refused to regret her mother’s own decisions. Her mother had known exactly what the cost would be if she chose to marry. What she did regret was always feeling like her mother held a grudge against her for losing that power, especially when Clare faced a childless, loveless life herself.

  Helga always managed to strike straight to the heart. “What are you afraid of, dear?”

  She took a moment to gather her thoughts while buttering another piece of crusty rustic bread. “He wants something from me. It has to be some kind of trap, and I don’t like going in blind.”

  “As he says in the letter, he needs your help at Remy’s.”

  Clare turned around, leaning against the counter. “That man would rather cut off his right hand than ask for help. He hates Remy’s. I’m surprised he didn’t shut it down when he won it from Daddy.”

  “The bet wouldn’t allow either restaurant to be shut down.”

  Clare arched a brow at her mentor. “How much about that bet do you know?”

  “Your father was my patient. I knew what he was trying to do, but he swore me to silence.”

  Nibbling on the soft inner crumb, she let her mind run wild. Even now, Helga might be keeping secrets about that blasted bet. If Daddy knew he was dying, and he was trying to protect her, what did he hope to accomplish with a bet that risked not just their livelihood but also their magic? “Do you know what Daddy would’ve won if Remy’s had taken the fifth star that year?”

  “Michelopoulos’s casino hotel and restaurant in Kansas City, as far as I know.”

  Clare frowned. Yeah, the casino was worth a fortune compared to their little family restaurant, but they’d never cared about money or fame before. There has to be something else he was trying to win. But what?

  “The details of the bet aren’t really what you’re concerned about, dear, and we both know it.”

  Her cheeks colored at the chiding note in her mentor’s voice. “Let’s just say Michelopoulos’s reputation precedes him.”

  “And you’re wondering what it would be like if you didn’t have to remain a virgin.”

  Now she might as well have stuck her whole head in the oven. “The thought has crossed my mind.”

  Helga chuckled. “That’s natural, dear. All of us thought about it at one time or another.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Isn’t it? Even as the next head of the Remy family, you would be powerless without your virginity until the ring passed to you. I’ve known wizards who lived a decade or more as a mundane until the ring passed to them. And let me tell you, their talent paid the price for those years of inaccessibility. The cost for passion is high, Clare, very high. For all of us.”

  “I know.” She blew out her breath and pushed away from the counter. “Believe me, I’ve heard about nothing else since Daddy died. I just…” Her throat constricted, each word as rough as sandpaper. “I don’t think I’m cut out for chastity the rest of my life.”

  “No one ever said you had to remain chaste forever.”

  “But—”

  “I said the cost was high, yes. But not forbidden.”

  Clare shook her head. “It’s not worth the cost, I get that.”

  Helga stood up and cracked a wooden spoon against her palm sharply, the same way she brought her class to order each day. “Have I taught you nothing at all? Magic comes from within you. There is always a cost, depending on your talent and the spell itself. We know you can cook all day in the kitchen and the only cost you must pay is the sweat of your brow. How do you feel after a few hours in the kitchen?”

  “Tired, but happy.”

  Helga nodded. “Like you’ve gone for a nice, long walk, but not exhausted. Not like a marathon or triathlon.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Now say someone barged into your house this very moment and shot me. You have to heal me. How would you feel performing that kind of magic?”

  The thought made Clare’s stomach clench with dread. “I couldn’t.”

  Helga cracked the spoon against her hand again. “You could. It would hurt terribly. It’d probably take you days, if not weeks, to recover, but if your will was strong enough, you would absolutely bend your kitchen talent into something else. The pain and effort in that bending, the cost to yourself, would empower it. Sacrifice, Clare. The cost you pay enables the magic to be bigger and to work on a talent that you don’t claim as your own if you fully and knowingly embrace the sacrifice.”

  Searching her mentor’s face, Clare nodded slowly, her mind whirling. “So you’re saying some people choose to make the sacrifice of their virginity and their gift for something else, to empower their last magic.”

  Slipping back into her kooky masquerade—for Clare suspected that was exactly why her mentor dressed so wildly—Helga let out a trilling laugh and bounced toward the door. “I’m just saying that for the right man, darling, it might be worth the cost. Good luck and let me know how it goes with Mr. Michelopoulos!”

  Clare collapsed heavily in the chair and dabbed her sweaty cheeks with her apron. Dealing with Helga was sometimes like running the gauntlet. How much worse would it be to deal with an entitled, impossibly arrogant and gorgeous billionaire?

  She closed her eyes and shivered, while trying to deny that a kernel of insanity already burned in a deep secret corner of her heart.

  TWO

  Yiorgos had doubled his fortune twice ove
r by acting on his gut instincts, and first impressions were everything. Staring at Remy’s daughter—the key to his salvation—he couldn’t help but curl his lips in what he hoped was not too obviously a sneer. This will be ridiculously easy.

  The only word to describe her appearance was frumpy. If he hadn’t known her age, he would have guessed her to be closer to forty than not yet thirty. Why on earth would a woman deliberately age herself so drastically? The shapeless skirt and baggy suit jacket would have been more attractive on a rubbish heap.

  “Mr. Michelopoulos.”

  That quickly, she rocked him back on his heels. A woman in an ugly brown suit and a tight bun should have a prim little voice, not this husky vibrato more appropriate for whispered innuendoes and sweaty sheets. Eyes narrowed, he ran his gaze over her again quickly, looking for something he’d missed.

  The old fashioned A-line skirt might hide shapely full hips. Perhaps the jacket was baggy on purpose, to disguise her lush breasts. And while that tidy bun did make her look like a schoolmarm, he had to admit the toffee color of her hair was quite pretty. Pulled back from her face, her hair couldn’t detract from the sculpted bones of her cheeks and her full mouth.

  Intrigued by the inconsistencies, Yiorgos gave her a slow, smoldering smile.

  The little witch stiffened like he'd called her a vile name. Instead of blushing or flirting, she brushed past him without another word and strode into the kitchens as though she owned the place.

  "Make yourself comfortable," he said dryly, following her through the swinging door. Unfortunately, he didn't expect her to stop just inside, so he nearly flattened her. He closed his hands on her hips to steady her, and yes, he might have pulled her back against him a moment or two. Her curves made a very nice handful, an unexpected pleasure after dating tall and slender women for years.

  For the barest moment, she softened against him, nestling in like a kitten. Then she inhaled sharply and leaped away like he'd goosed her. Cheeks on fire, she waved a hand at the sinks loaded with dirty dishes. “This is a disgrace! My father’s probably rolling over in his grave!”

  “Indeed,” Yiorgos drawled out in his most charming voice. Remy should rot in hell for what he’s done to me! “We’ve had a bit of a… problem. That’s why I contacted you, Ms. Remy.”

  “This isn’t a problem. It’s a travesty. No wonder you’ve been having issues—this kitchen is filthy!”

  The few remaining kitchen staff stood frozen like deer in headlights. No one had ever stood up to him…in his own kitchen, no less…and survived. Clenching his jaws to keep from barking out his demands, he simply waited to see what she’d do.

  He didn’t have to wait long. She marched over to the wall and pulled down a fresh apron hanging on the line of hooks. She removed her misshapen suit jacket, revealing an ugly pink blouse the color of Pepto Bismal, and snapped the white linen apron into place. Rolling up her sleeves, she gave an accessing look to each of the staff shaking in their boots.

  “You.” She pointed a finger at the chef paid a small fortune to fail so dismally. “Clean the stoves. And you,” she jerked her head at Dmitri, “assign a crew to start mopping the floors. We can’t possibly hope to cook anything in a kitchen so wretchedly filthy.”

  When she walked over to the sink mounded with stainless-steel pots coated with grease and baked on gunk, Yiorgos could only stare. He’d assumed she’d give the hard jobs to his people and take the supervisory role, getting in her digs verbally as many times as possible. But she tackled the nastiest job with nary a complaint.

  In fact, he’d be damned if she wasn’t happy.

  The whole atmosphere already seemed different. The air felt lighter, cleaner, as though the restaurant recognized her in some way. Maybe the little witch was already working her magic on Remy’s.

  If so, she’ll be working on me as soon as I can learn how to break this curse.

  Walking into Remy’s was like coming home to find her beloved childhood memories burned to the ground and plastered with an asphalt parking lot. They’d at least left the kitchen organized the way she remembered, but she’d never seen the place in such a shambles. Were these silly men afraid of a little hard work? A little elbow grease? Or was Mr. Michelopoulos too rich and gorgeous to get a smudge of dirt on his spotless white shirt that likely cost more than her car?

  Meanwhile, Remy’s was gobbling up her magic like a person who’d been stranded in the desert and almost died of thirst. She wasn’t alarmed though, because the natural flow felt right, not dangerous. Remy’s had been nurtured by her father her entire life. She could almost feel him working beside her, his blue eyes twinkling with excitement at the new dish he’d thought up. Blinking back tears, she set the pot into the rack and reached for the next…

  Only to realize the rack was empty.

  She looked about the room, checking on everyone else’s progress. The fancy east-coast chef had polished the tops of the stoves until they shown like mirrors. The floor gleamed. Someone had taken the initiative to wipe down the massive refrigerators. Even the butcher block gleamed with a faint coat of oil to seal and protect.

  While Mr. Impossible loomed in the corner, alternatively scowling and talking on his phone. The wretched man hadn’t even bothered to pick up a broom.

  Drying her hands on a towel, she gave him an appraising look. “What do you think, Mr. Michelopoulos?”

  He gave a cursory glance about the spotless kitchen. “I thought you were a cook, not a housekeeper. Make me something to eat.”

  Clare ground her teeth together to keep back the obscenities threatening to blurt out of her mouth. The man thought he could just order her around like…

  She sighed heavily. Like I’m a member of his staff, which I technically am. Until I can find a way to wrest that damned ring off his finger.

  Swallowing hard, she examined the larder. His staff kept a wide array of ingredients, although many of the cold foods were past their prime. Greens lay limp and dark in their bin and the shriveled carrots bent in her hands. However, the onions, potatoes and garlic passed inspection. Oh, and they’d stocked some nice butternut squash.

  Magic flowed from her fingertips, sparking recipes and plans until she couldn’t help but smile. A nice roasted squash soup, a simple shepherd’s pie, finished with a piece of her famous chocolate cake.

  If he can speak a single word of disdain after sampling such a menu, I might as well give up the idea of ever teaching at the Academy.

  THREE

  Yiorgos drummed his fingers on the linen tablecloth. Waitstaff moved about the dining room, lighting candles at each table even though he’d already decided not to open the doors tonight. The Remy witch might have been able to clean the kitchen that stubbornly refused his staff’s ministrations, but that didn’t mean she could cook.

  Even if she did make something passable for dinner, he doubted whether she could run the kitchen for the evening dinner rush.

  He snorted. Who was he fooling? They hadn’t had an evening rush at Remy’s in over a year. If they had a dozen customers, it would be a miracle.

  Finally, Clare Remy came out of the kitchen. She’d donned the ugly suit jacket again, but he couldn’t regret that she’d covered up that wretched pink blouse, even though she did have a fine full-figured shape. He pushed to his feet and inclined his head, determined to be polite if it killed him. He even took her hand in his and brushed his mouth against her knuckles. Smooth satin met his lips, not harsh water-logged skin. Strange, that her hands would be so perfectly smooth and beautiful after scrubbing all those greasy pots.

  The prim and proper schoolmarm would have hissed and jerked her hand away at such intimate contact. Instead, he swore Clare Remy dared to return his polite caress by stretching out her fingers to trail along his throat as she withdrew. Candlelight did magnificent things to her face, highlighting her high cheekbones and sculpted lips. Her dark eyes gleamed like mysterious dark pools of unplumbed depth. Like a forgotten spring just waiting to be discover
ed and sampled. By me.

  Surprised at the carnal turn to his thoughts, Yiorgos firmed his resolve. If the little witch was ripe for seduction, then surely she’d tumble all the quicker into his scheme as well as his bed. Settling back in his chair, he watched her with veiled eyes. She didn’t flinch from his smoldering, penetrating gaze, yet she didn’t blush and simper either.

  What manner of woman was Clare Remy? An innocent virgin or a prim old maid? A seductress? Despite his many years of experience, he honestly couldn’t tell. Which made him all the more curious to know her. To explore her thoughts and wants as much as her luscious body.

  He allowed a smug smile to flicker on his lips, deliberately trying to antagonize her. “I hope your meal lives up to my expectations.”

  She smiled back at him, amusement glittering in her eyes. “My food will exceed your wildest dreams.”

  “What’s on your menu, then?”

  “Roasted butternut squash soup, followed by shepherd’s pie.”

  He arched a brow at her and curled his lip with even more disdain. “Peasant fare.”

  She leaned forward slightly and lowered her voice to a husky timber that made his body harden with interest. “Delicious peasant fare. I caramelized the squash in the oven and roasted the garlic until it’s sweet and melt-in-your-mouth delicious.”

  The tip of her tongue teased the corner of her lips, and he swore she gave a little sigh of pleasure. She gripped the snifter of dark amber liquid in front of her, stroking her fingers over the glass until he had to shift in his seat.

  “The ground lamb is lean and browned, yet not dry. Rich gravy flavored with wine, carrots, fresh rosemary. Topped with whipped mashed potatoes rich with real cream and butter.”

  She let out a long, slow breath and raised the glass to her lips. He’d filled her glass with a healthy dash of Metaxa Private Reserve, not waiting to see if she could stomach such liquor. She threw it back with practiced ease, her eyes falling shut. Licking her lips, she gave him a smoldering smile and set the glass back down. “And I haven’t even gotten to dessert yet.”