Chapter Three

“Well? What did you think of him?” Kara asked when Fenady returned to the shop.

Fen, slinging her bag over the back of a chair, paused before answering. She needed to think about it, for from the moment she’d entered Sebastian Bane’s shop, impressions had flown at her thick and far too fast.

First had come admiration at the appearance and, more, the feel of the shop. Painted in bright colors that included yellow and pink, it had a striped awning outside and old-fashioned ice cream parlor tables with high stools. The air smelled like caramel—from the hot caramel sauce Bane was dumping on her gourmet ice cream flavor for his eager customers, she reminded herself.

The shop felt like a happy place, and the man…

Well, she hadn’t expected him to look the way he did, nor feel the way he did either, for that matter. A real charmer, her grandmother would have said, and a looker too.

A titch above medium height, he had a slim build accented by a fine set of broad shoulders. He wore his sleek hair, which was black as sin, just a bit long, and he had the face of a fallen angel, with a smile to match. That smile contained a spark of something wicked, as did his eyes, just as black as his hair. He made her think of—

Well, he made her think of forbidden and naughty things, like double-dipped ice cream mixed with devil’s food so deep and rich it tasted like sin. Maybe with a cherry on top.

But she couldn’t let that distract her from the issue at hand.

Kara watched her expectantly, so she said, “Oh, Sebastian makes an impression, all right.” And that accent! Fen just bet he could seduce any woman he wanted.

“Well, what did he say about your flavors?”

What had he said? Darned if Fen could quite remember. She’d been too taken aback by her impressions and her anger to recall specifics. “He claimed they’re all his own creations. Of course. What else would he say?”

Looking concerned, Kara came around the counter, drying her hands on a towel. “Well, how can he explain your formulas being so similar? Somebody would have had to be in here, a spy. But nobody’s been back in this kitchen except you and me.”

“I know.” Slowly, Fen looked around her kitchen at the huge freezers, the stainless-steel mixing vats and immaculate surfaces. The pride of her heart. “There’s only one answer. It has to be black magic.”

****

“Come on, Twinkle Toes. Walkies.” At Seb’s call, a large black head appeared around the door jamb. The cat—a tom—weighed in at fourteen pounds and walked like the prowling panther he somewhat resembled.

Every witch needed a familiar. And oh, what a familiar Seb had! Twinkle Toes, a name that spoke more to the animal’s character than his appearance—for he was an amiable beast—had chosen Seb for a companion, appearing out of a downpour one dark night back in Salem, where Seb had roomed when first he emigrated. He’d purred and stropped his large, sodden body against Seb’s legs, and Seb had obediently taken him home for the night. Extensive inquiries the next day failed to turn up an owner, and the cat’s emaciated condition argued he had none.

Seb had taken him to a vet, fed him up, and they’d been together ever since.

It relaxed Seb to walk, and it usually counteracted the stresses attendant in trying to get a new business off the ground. He and T.T. liked to tramp the steep streets, and to stand watching the breakers strike the shore.

But this morning, Seb had an ulterior motive. He wanted to get an eyeful of the competition.

Truth was, ever since Fenady Clark’s visit, he hadn’t been able to get the woman off his mind. What a name! And what an aura she had. He’d sensed strong magic there, along with that banked anger. And as potent a brand of sexual attraction as he’d ever encountered.

All that red hair, all that magical energy, and so much passion. It led a man to imagine things—hot, searing fantasies involving satin sheets and perhaps a judicial application of ice cream.

He’d had his share of encounters with women. They tended to follow him, much the way Twinkle Toes followed him up the shore. Truth be told, he’d been too busy, first working in his parents’ shop and then laboring every hour the gods sent to save for his own, to take full advantage.

A woman like Fenady Clark, though, knocked him back on his heels. Too bad she detested him with such intensity.

Funny thing, though, about the ice cream flavors. If she was telling the truth, and he had no reason to suppose she wasn’t, they’d independently developed very similar recipes. It could be a coincidence—only, Seb wasn’t sure he believed in coincidence.

A ten-minute walk with the cat at his heels took him to Fenady’s shop. The distance, he thought, assured both their shops would be able to thrive—he doubted sunbathers would be willing to walk more than five minutes for a treat, on a warm day.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and surveyed the place. Closed, this early, it still made a pleasing picture, set just above the beach. Miss Fenady had gone for a cosmic theme, whereas he’d opted for traditional ice cream parlor. The tiny wooden structure had been painted pale lavender with deep purple trim. Arcing across the front in white letters on indigo, sprinkled with stars and a sharp crescent moon, was the name Fen’s Fancy Ice Cream Parlor. In one corner of the sign, small enough to escape casual notice, was the caricature of a redheaded witch riding a broomstick.

Seb smiled and nodded. “Nice.” His spirit responded to the look of the place, even as his libido had responded to the woman herself, yesterday—involuntarily, and with considerable intensity.

What was more, he sensed a tingle of magic around the shop. She had a spell of protection in place.

He had to admit, if day trippers came down from Salem, they’d much prefer visiting her shop rather than his. It would be part of the magical experience.

He wouldn’t mind a sample—of her ice cream, he assured himself. Though to be honest, his whole body leaped at the idea of tasting the woman instead.

She wasn’t his type, so to speak. He didn’t believe he had an actual type—or at least, he hadn’t thought so till he laid eyes on Miss Fenady.

But yes, now he thought hazel eyes gleaming with sparks of green malevolence, milky white skin, and hair like a flaming bonfire must be exactly his type.

He slanted a look at the cat, who returned it amiably.

“What do you think, T.T.? Is she going to be trouble?”

The cat didn’t bother replying. He didn’t have to; Seb already knew the answer.