Chapter Two

“Sebastian Bane?”

“Yes?” Seb spun when he heard his name spoken behind him, a smile still on his face. His shop—Wicked Good Ice Cream Shoppe—was surprisingly busy for so early in the season, perhaps because the afternoon had turned unexpectedly warm. His new flavors were selling like mad, and he couldn’t be happier.

But as soon as he met the stare of the woman standing behind him, his euphoria evaporated. Now that he thought about it, he’d felt her come in—a disturbance in the atmosphere—even among all the happy customers.

She looked and felt angry, though she held it well in check behind an icy wall, so cold it bordered on hostile. Quite apart from that, she immediately captured his interest, with her willowy body and gorgeous hazel eyes, fringed by long auburn lashes. Her other beauty—a mane of deep red hair—she wore pinned back in a neat ponytail. But Seb could imagine it down around her slender shoulders. Oh, yes, he could.

His eyes narrowed. Who was she, and why aim all that ill will at him?

He glanced at his assistant, Ryan, before stepping away from the counter and the crowd of customers. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Reaction flickered in her eyes, a clear response, though Seb couldn’t have said to what. With an edge, she declared, “I thought I’d better come and introduce myself. I’m Fenady Clark. And you’ve been poaching my business.”

“I beg your pardon?” Seb tended to become overly British and intensely polite when on his guard—the legacy of being born and bred in the north of England—and the energy this woman brought to his shop certainly had him on guard now.

She dragged a crumpled sheet of paper from her oversized handbag. Seb recognized it immediately as one of his flyers, the ones he’d passed out at other businesses all around town. This was his first year in Rockpool, though he’d cut his teeth in his family’s ice cream shop back home. He understood how important it was to become established, and to strike up harmonious relationships with the other local business owners, especially in such a small community as this one.

So he turned a charming smile on his visitor. He knew his smile was charming because countless women had told him so. If he had advantages in life, he saw nothing wrong with using them. He sketched a small, slightly ironic bow as he said, “Miss Fenady, I have no idea what you mean by poaching, but if you’ll explain, I’m sure we can come to an understanding.”

“Poaching.” She repeated the word with some emphasis. “Also known as theft. I’m asking you to stop now, before things get any uglier than they already are.”

A measure of Seb’s good humor fled. “You’re accusing me of theft?”

She visibly sought to exert control over her emotions. “Certainly I am.”

“Then I think you’d better explain.”

“I’ll be happy to. Let me begin by saying I’m the owner and proprietor of Fen’s Fancy Ice Cream Parlor.”

“Ah.” Comprehension took light in Seb’s mind. “The other ice cream shop.”

She nodded. “The competition, so to speak. Now, I’m not afraid of a little competition…”

“Glad to hear it.”

“But as I was here first—”

Seb interrupted her. “You’re sure about that, are you?”

“Yes. I leased my property back in March.”

“I’ve had mine since last autumn, actually.” Seb waved a hand airily. “No matter. I’m more than certain, at the height of the season, there will be business enough for both of us.”

“It isn’t that.” Rage sparkled in Fenady’s eyes, and it took Seb aback. The woman had power, and magical power at that. Well, well—two witches in the same small town, pursuing the same vocation. Who would have thought?

“As I say, I’m here,” she said through gritted teeth, “to demand you stop poaching my ice cream creations.”

Demand? Suddenly, Seb’s back went up. He didn’t get riled often, knowing all too well the importance of keeping his spirit on an even keel. But who did she think she was, marching into his shop, throwing around demands and accusations?

“That’s the second time you’ve done that—accused me of stealing,” he said icily. “I’m no thief. Perhaps you’d better explain further.”

She waved the flyer at him. “Marsh. Mallow. Magic,” she fairly snarled. “With a cinnamon stick, no less. That’s virtually the same recipe I just developed and called Marshy Magic—”

“Just what are you implying, Miss Fenady?”

She tossed her head. “Haven’t you been listening? You’re stealing my ice cream flavors. And I want it to stop.”

Indignation joined the anger brewing in Seb’s chest. “I may be a lot of things, Miss Fenady.” A creative genius, if he did say so himself. A walker of the old magical path, a dyed-in-the-wool Wiccan. That meant he believed in putting good out into the world. “I’ve told you, I’m no thief.”

“Then how is it you list, here, flavors I’ve formulated?” She slapped the flyer.

“I don’t know.” He treated her to a snarl of his own. “Maybe you’re stealing my ideas, rather than the other way round.”

“How dare you? I started dreaming up those formulas when I was twelve years old.” She began a recitation. “Pistachio Dream. Whipped Almond Cloud. Both of those—or versions of them—you’ve put out, even while they were still just prototypes in my kitchen. Vanilla Victory, with—”

“With a touch of licorice?” Seb asked, in dawning horror.

“Yes.” Pure fury glared at him from her eyes. “Do you mean to stand there and tell me that’s coincidence?”

“No, I wouldn’t call it that.” On the contrary, Seb was starting to think some other force must be at work here, one that fairly lit him with curiosity. However, the customers waiting in line had begun turning their heads, their attention drawn by the raised voices.

“Look, Miss Fenady, can we go somewhere and discuss this like reasonable—er—persons?”

She gave him a scathing look that started at his feet and worked all the way up to his black head. “You think you can beguile me?”

Actually, that was exactly what Seb hoped to do, if only to calm her down.

“You haven’t a hope,” she barreled on. “Anyway, we’re done here. I want you to withdraw those flavors I’ve named and go back to—oh, I don’t know, maybe your own creations.”

Like hell he would—those were his creations, as well as some of his best sellers. Anyway, he’d already dipped into his advertising budget for the lush flyers and wasn’t about to bin them. The rage simmering in his blood threatened to spring to flame. However, the customers could overhear them all too easily, here.

Not the impression Seb wanted to make.

His anger spoke when he said, “I’m afraid I must insist: I myself created those flavors. All my flavors.”

“Can you prove it?”

“I don’t quite see how. They just came to me.” Again he waved his fingers. “Via inspiration.”

She snorted. “Well, I can prove they’re my creations. So you’d better cease and desist selling them, unless you want trouble.”

“Trouble?” he repeated.

“Yes.” She widened her gorgeous eyes at him and repeated the word with relish. “Trouble—of the most cosmic kind.”