A Little Light Magic (2 page)

Nick Santangelo certainly fit the image of the Knight of Swords, the card representing the immediate future. The Knight was dark and confident. Doris’s boss had been that and more. Tori didn’t think much of his attitude, but she had to admit the man was hot. He was in his midthirties, maybe, but not going soft like a lot of men his age were. His chest was solid, his hips lean. His tanned forearms were sprinkled with dark hair.

And he had very nice hands.

It was a thing with her—guys’ hands. She always noticed them. Nick Santangelo’s were large and capable, with long, graceful fingers. She puzzled over that for a bit. Hands like his belonged to an artist, not a tradesman.

He didn’t wear a wedding ring.

She had no business noticing that. He wasn’t her type at all.

But he’d been checking her out. No way she could have missed it. For a while there, his eyes had been glued to a point about eight inches below her chin. And she hadn’t missed the look on his face when she’d explained about her crystal vision.

He thought she was a kook.

Not that she cared. Truth be told, she was used to it. A lot of people—okay, most people—didn’t see life the way she did. Part of her was glad the man had turned down her job. He was entirely too appealing on a physical level, and she wasn’t looking for a quick hookup. That was how things had started out with Colin—they’d hooked up, and before she knew it, pow! She was in love and changing herself to suit his moods.

She felt a twinge of pain in her midsection. She laid her hand over her stomach and blinked back tears. No, she wasn’t looking for quick sex and all the heartache it brought.

But she
was
looking for a contractor. She couldn’t open her shop without one. Too bad every Jersey man who knew how to use his nail gun was booked solid through September.

Maybe another tarot reading would shed some light?

Then she thought of the last Weird Zone tour she’d led with Colin before things went sour. They’d been camping with a group of vampire wannabes near a decrepit Louisiana bayou mansion. Weird Zone’s local sources insisted the house was a vampire sanctuary. The whole thing turned out to be a hoax, but the trip into the swamp hadn’t been a total loss. Tori had discovered a Cajun witch living in the mansion’s gate house, and the old woman had taken a liking to her. She’d shown up at the campsite the morning Tori and Colin were packing the tents, insisting that Tori accept a gift: a bundle of seven hoodoo candle magic spell kits the witch had assembled and blessed herself.

The spells would keep their magic no more than a year, the witch had told Tori. Tori had promised to use them before their power faded. She’d given the old woman her sincere thanks and packed them away. That had been last September. Soon after, all the drama with Colin had begun, and the old witch and her gifts had slipped Tori’s mind. Until she was packing for Aunt Millie’s funeral and found them stashed in the bottom of her spare backpack.

In three months, the hoodoo mojo would be gone. So if Tori was going to use the old witch’s gift, she’d better do it soon. And right now, with her money almost gone and her plans for the shop stalled, a little magic was just what she needed.

But where were the spell kits? Somewhere in the chaos she currently called home. Tori had spent nearly all her savings on merchandise for the shop, and as a result, boxes were everywhere—stacked in the front room, crammed into the dining room, shoveled into the smaller of the two tiny bedrooms.

She started hunting, and found the spells—and this had to be a good omen—in the first box she opened. There were seven gris-gris bags in all, each one a different color: green, red, orange, black, yellow, blue, and white. The handwritten tag on the white bag indicated the spell was to be used to call for help.

That seemed appropriate.

She unwound the twine holding the white bag closed. Inside she found a white candle about eight inches long, a small cotton pouch labeled,
Sugar
, and a scrap of rolled parchment. She rolled out the paper and bent her head over the spidery script.

Place the candle on a ceramic plate.
Sprinkle sugar all around.
Set the plate higher than your head.
Light with a wooden match.
Help will soon arrive.

That didn’t seem too difficult.

Miraculously, she found an old box of wooden matches in the kitchen. There was no shortage of chipped ceramic plates. But where to cast the spell? The stepladder was the only thing higher than her head, so she dragged it to the center of the front room and set the candle on top. She climbed three shaky rungs, matches in hand.

Help will soon arrive….

Later, Tori figured this was the exact point in time where she screwed up the spell. When she lit the candle, she really should have been concentrating on the shop. The trouble was, she’d been in such a funk all day, missing Aunt Millie and trying not to dwell on how alone she was in the world now that her last living relative was dead and her relationship with Colin had gone up in flames. When the spell’s instructions echoed in her head, her heart replied with one word.

Family.

She wanted a big one. She always had. She wanted a mother and father, grandparents, brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, a collection of assorted cousins and in-laws. She wanted the kind of family that loved her because she’d been born to them.

Her wish was impossible, of course. She knew that. She’d lost the family lottery the day she was born. The only way she’d get any kind of family now was if she started one of her own.

Her stomach started cramping again, and she almost let the tears come. But she’d cried a river since she’d miscarried, and she knew from experience that more tears wouldn’t bring back what she’d lost.

Okay, so the white candle was about a foot over her head. It was leaning a little precariously, but she figured it’d be safe enough for a few minutes. She scraped the wooden match against the side of the matchbox. A plume of smoke rose with the sudden flame. She touched the wick. It crackled and caught.

She climbed back down the ladder and set the matches next to the tarot. The Knight of Swords, a dark-haired warrior in full armor, stared up at her. He rode a white horse….

She heard a car stop outside. A second later, heavy footsteps thudded on the porch. She turned as the screen door banged open.

And she stared.

Because Nick Santangelo was back.

He scanned the room, brows knitted, his dark gaze uncertain until it settled unerringly on her. Suddenly, she felt restless. She told herself it was just stray energy from the spell.

He dragged a hand over his hair, rumpling the curls.

“Look,” he said. “I was thinking—”

He stopped and gave a slight shake of his head, as if trying to clear it.

She could hardly breathe. “What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I’d take your job after all.”

He was out of his freaking mind.

Nick knew there was no other possible explanation. He’d been parked in his driveway, talking—okay, well,
shouting
might be a more apt description—at Thomas Southerland on his cell. Southerland had been busting Nick’s ass for the delays on the Bayview job—delays caused by Southerland’s endless parade of change orders. Nick had barely stopped himself from telling the Ivy League architect where he could shove his roll of blueprints. Teeth grinding, he’d snapped his phone closed.

And that was when things got weird.

Because for no good reason, he’d thrown his truck into reverse. Somehow, he must’ve backed out of his drive and made the turn onto Atlantic, because now he was standing in Tori Morgan’s whacked-out witch shop, offering to take on a job he’d had no intention of touching with a fifty-foot tape measure.

“You’ll work on my shop?”

Tori Morgan sounded stunned. But she wasn’t looking at him. She was staring at her broken stepladder, which was now in the center of the room serving as an unsteady perch for a candle. A
lit
candle.

Jesus.
Didn’t she realize the place was a firetrap? And he didn’t see a single smoke detector.

He jabbed a thumb at the ladder. “That’s dangerous, you know.”

“You have no idea,” she replied. But she still didn’t look at him.

He watched uneasily as she climbed three dented rungs and blew out the flame. “Did you find Brad Weinstein’s list?”

“Brad Weinstein?”

“From the building inspector’s office. You did speak to Brad, didn’t you? Middle-aged guy, kind of balding?”

“Oh, right. I’d forgotten the man’s name.”

Why was Nick not surprised?

Tori sifted through her box of papers again. “Here it is.”

He focused on Brad’s dark scrawl. “This isn’t a couple days’ work. More like two weeks.”

“That’s some kind of contractor joke, right? Everything takes two weeks?”

“In this case, it’s the truth.” He was more annoyed than he should have been.

“Oh. Two weeks. Well, I suppose that’s all right. As long as you’re done before the solstice.”

“And that would be…?”

She blinked. “The first day of summer. Doesn’t everyone know that?”

He shot her a look. “We have a problem, then. All my men are working overtime for the next month. I can’t spare anyone for this project.”

Her hopeful expression crumpled. “Oh.”

He was surprised—and irritated—to feel a stab of guilt. “The date’s that important to you?”

“Oh, yes.”

“In that case, I’ll tell you what. This isn’t really that much work. I can do it myself. After hours. If I work every night, I should be able to get you open on time.”

Christ.
Had he really said that? What the hell was wrong with him? He didn’t have time for this. He spent most of his evenings at the office as it was.

But Tori’s face had lit up. Nick enjoyed her smile briefly before it faltered.

“After hours? You mean, like, at night?”

“Um, yeah, I guess. Till around eleven or so.”

Night. A parade of interesting images marched through his brain, and none of them had to do with hanging dry-wall. He sent Tori Morgan a speculative look. Her color had risen, and she was looking everywhere but at him.

Nick started to smile. Maybe there’d be an upside to this job after all.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“I guess not,” she said, still not meeting his eyes. Her hands were moving, as if searching for something to hold on to.

“Okay, then. I can start Monday afternoon. Five thirty. If that’s okay with you.”

She sighed. “I guess it’ll have to be. How much will it cost?”

“What’s your budget?”

She named a ridiculously low figure, and he didn’t even care.

“I’ll work with it.” He tapped the paper in his hand. “Can I keep the list?”

Tori let out a breath. “Sure. Be my guest. Keep it.”

Nick flashed her a grin.

“Okay, great. See you Monday.”

Women are the heart of any family.

The Santangelo women were arguing again.

Nick paused just inside his front door. The unrelenting rise and fall of feminine voices, more than anything else, told him he was home. He paused at the foyer table, dropping his wallet and emptying the change from his pocket into a jar he kept there for that purpose. He sometimes thought that if the women in his family ever stopped bickering, his house would collapse.

He didn’t pay any particular attention until he realized they were talking about him.

“Come on, Mimi…” Leigh said to her grandmother.

Nick could hear the exasperation in his mother’s reply. Rita enunciated each word slowly and clearly. “Leigh, forget it. Your father will never allow it. You know how he feels about Jason.”

“He’ll let me go if you say it’s okay!”

Nonna’s voice intruded, thin and pointed as a needle. “Where
is
Nicky? This chicken, it’s shriveled like a prune.”

Leigh’s voice came again, wheedling. “But I have to go! I promised Jason I’d be there.”

Jason again. Christ. Nick wished to God he’d never heard that kid’s name. He started for the kitchen with angry strides, his blood pressure rising with each step.

Rita’s voice rose. “Leigh, give it up already. Your father will never agree—”

He reached the doorway. “What won’t I agree to?”

The conversation came to an abrupt halt as three pairs of eyes, belonging to three generations of Santangelo women, turned toward him.

Nick’s right temple started to throb.

“What won’t I agree to?” he repeated a little louder when no answer was forthcoming.

“Nothing,” Leigh muttered. She grabbed a serving spoon and fork off the counter and turned to toss the salad.

“Nicky. At last.” Nonna laid a hand on his arm. “
Grazie a Dio.
I was about to call the cops.”

“I’m not that late, Nonna.” He planted a kiss on his grandmother’s withered cheek and allowed her to tug him to the head of the table. There was no way he was getting away with a quick sandwich now. He’d start World War III if he tried to get back to the office before Nonna’s chicken was reduced to bones and gristle. And with Leigh’s newest drama, whatever it was…
Damn.
He’d be lucky to get back to the office by nine.

Nonna forked chicken onto a serving plate while Rita pulled garlic bread from the oven. Nick, frowning, watched Leigh fling lettuce and tomatoes onto salad plates. If the waistband of his daughter’s shorts were rolled down any farther, he’d be seeing parts of her he hadn’t come face-to-face with since her diaper days. The thought made him slightly ill.
Goddamn it all to hell.
She hadn’t dressed like that before
Jason
.

Leigh turned to place the salad on the table. Moodily, Nick watched her. A father didn’t like to notice such things, but he could hardly deny the fact that Leigh had inherited her mother’s bustline. Cindy’s breasts had fried Nick’s brain in high school, and he had no doubt that Leigh’s assets were destroying a similar number of brain cells in Jason MacAllister’s thick skull. If all this was God’s idea of a sick joke, Nick wasn’t laughing.

He stared down at his salad.
Christ.
He wasn’t old enough for this. Damn it, he was only thirty-five. Other men his age were still changing diapers and coaching Little League. But Nick had been a horny, seventeen-year-old idiot when he’d gotten Cindy pregnant. Which was not a comforting thought, given Leigh’s horny, seventeen-year-old idiot boyfriend.
Your father will never agree….
Nick didn’t know what Leigh’s latest plea involved, but he was dead certain he wasn’t going to like it.

Nonna presented Nick with a plate. “This chicken shoulda been eat a half hour ago. Don’t blame me if it’s ruined.”

“I’m sure it’s delicious, Nonna,” Nick said, forking meat onto his plate. “You couldn’t cook a bad meal if you tried.”

A smile cracked Nonna’s face. “You’re a good boy, Nicky.” She sank into her chair and bowed her head while he muttered grace.

“Amen.” He took a piece of garlic bread and offered the basket to his mother.

Rita shook her head. “I’m on the Flat Belly diet. You know that, Nicky.”

He eyed her enormous salad, sprinkled with sunflower seeds and topped with a naked chicken breast. “Don’t you think you’ve lost enough weight, Ma? How much is it, now?”

“Thirty pounds. I’ve got another five to go.”

Nonna snorted. “Stop with the diet already. You don’t eat enough to keep a bird alive. A woman needs a little padding on her bones. You want my advice? Get rid of them hormone pills. They’re making you
pazza
.” She shook her head, but her tight gray curls didn’t shake with it. “And all that exercise!
Santa
Madonna. No woman should lift weights.”

“I think Mimi looks great,” Leigh offered.

She was right, Nick realized. Rita did look great, but the weight she’d lost was only part of it. She’d also gotten contact lenses, dyed her hair, and acquired a bright, clingy wardrobe. He eyed her fingernails, done in red, with fake tips. Or maybe they were real. Who the hell knew? The effect of all the changes was unnerving. Aside from a few laugh lines, Nick’s mother looked much the same as she had fifteen years ago.

Nick didn’t like it. It made him feel like he’d gone back in time himself, to the year he’d turned twenty. The year Cindy had left him, the year his father had dropped dead. It was a year he didn’t like to think about.

“And what was wrong with how your grandmother looked before?” Nonna demanded of Leigh. “She was fine. She don’t need to starve. She’s gonna get sick.”

“I’m okay,” Rita said through clenched teeth.

Nick knew better than to enter the estrogen-fueled debate. He kept his head down and ate. He was half-finished with his meal when Rita set her napkin down next to her barely touched plate. She rose, her chair scraping the tile.

“I’ve got to go,” she said.

“Go?” Nick asked. “Go where?”

“Church.”

He eyed her. “On a Thursday night?”

“I’m on the committee for the Fourth of July crab bake.”

Leigh nearly choked on her Diet Coke. “What? No way. You swore you were blowing that off this year. You said—”

“Never mind what I said. Fiona Hennessey begged for my help.”

“You’ve hated Fiona Hennessey since middle school,” Nick pointed out.

“Yes, well, that’s the very reason I couldn’t say no when she begged.”

Nonna was clearly displeased. “If Rita’s going out, who’s gonna drive me home? I can’t sit around here all night. I need to watch that new
Survivor
show.”

“Leigh can take you home,” Rita told her.

“No, I’ll do it,” Nick said, dropping his napkin on the table. “I’m headed back to the office anyway.”

Nonna waved a disapproving hand. “Office, office. Always that office. It’s like you’re married to that job. You work too much, Nicky. When you gonna get a new wife? I want to see a great-grandson before I die.”

“Talk to Alex,” Nick muttered. “Or Zach.” Hell, even his youngest brother, Johnny, was more likely to fulfill that wish than Nick was. The very last thing Nick needed was another kid. Leigh had been more than enough to handle since day one. Another like her, and he’d have a stroke.

“Okay, then,” Rita said. “Don’t anybody wait up for me.” She disappeared into the living room. A moment later, Nick heard the front door slam.

Leigh stood. “Nonna, you go ahead with Dad. I’ll do the dishes.”

Nick raised his brows at his daughter’s sudden attack of domesticity. So she wanted him gone, did she? He wasn’t about to let her off the hook so easily.

“
Grazie, carina,
” Nonna said. “Nicky, don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

She disappeared in the direction of the bathroom, towing her handbag behind her. She’d carried the bag, a plain black patent-leather trapezoid with a big gold clasp and stiff, semicircular handles, ever since Nick could remember. The thing held the world.

Nick pushed his plate toward the center of the table, his eyes on his daughter. “So,” he asked her. “What is it I’m not going to agree to?”

Leigh headed to the sink with a stack of plates. “If you’re not going to agree to it, why bother talking about it?”

“Because I’m your father, that’s why. What’s up?”

She turned, still clutching the dishes. “Jason’s having a graduation party. All the seniors are going.”

“You’re only a junior.”

“Exactly! That’s why I have to go.”

“Aren’t Jason’s parents on a cruise?”

“Yes. But Beth is home from college. She’ll be there.”

“Jason’s sister is what—twenty-one?”

“Yeah. She’s an adult.”

“Oh, right. An adult who’ll buy the beer and disappear into her bedroom with her boyfriend. The next thing you know, you’ll be with Jason in his bedroom.”

“Oh!” Leigh’s blue eyes flashed daggers at him. “That is so unfair.”

Nick leaned back in his chair. Christ, but Leigh looked more and more like Cindy every day. The long, straight blonde hair, the blue eyes, the high cheekbones. And, of course, the figure.

About the only thing she’d gotten from Nick was her temper.

He sighed. “I don’t want you to get hurt, honey.”

“Jason wouldn’t hurt me! He loves me.”

Nick’s temper flared. “Oh, come off it, Leigh. How many girls do you think he’s told that one to?”

“One!
Me.
But you—Oh!”

She slammed the stack of dishes on the table. A soggy tomato flew off the top plate and struck Nick in the chest.

He jumped to his feet as it slithered down his shirt. “Jesus, Leigh!”

“God! You just won’t understand! You never do. You won’t even
try
!”

Nick tried to keep his reply calm, but didn’t quite succeed. “I understand better than you think. And that’s exactly why you are not going to an unchaperoned party with a muscle-bound lifeguard whose neck size is larger than his IQ.”

“Jason’s not dumb! He’s going to Rutgers in the fall.”

“That’s right. He’s leaving, Leigh. Do you really think he’s going to spend his Saturday nights texting you? Get real. He’s gonna find someone else. It’s inevitable.”

Leigh looked away, but not before Nick saw a shimmer of tears in her eyes.

“Ah, Christ, honey, I didn’t mean…” He reached for her, but she took a quick step back and his fingers closed on air. She was always dodging him these days. He couldn’t even remember the last time she’d let him touch her, let alone give her a hug, the way he had when she was little.

She hugged herself, blinking furiously at a point over his head.

Nick felt like kicking himself. Or better yet, kicking
Jason
.

“Look, honey, I’m just trying to protect you.”

“Don’t bother. I can take care of myself.”

He ran a hand over his face. She couldn’t take care of herself, not by a long shot, but there was nothing else he could say to her now that wouldn’t make things worse.

“Look, I’ve got some work to do at the office after I drop Nonna off. I should be home by eleven. Will you be okay here alone?”

“Let’s see…yeah, I think I can manage.”

He ignored her tone. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He paused. “No visitors. Understood?”

Leigh’s expression hardened. “Yes. Can I go now?”

Nonna chose that moment to reappear, her handbag clutched to her chest. Her knowing eyes darted first to Leigh, then to Nick.

“
Dio in cielo,
” she said. “I missed a fight.”

Look before you leap.

Tori had heard that maxim about a zillion times from Aunt Millie, but she’d never really listened.

Maybe she should have.

She flung silver paint onto a cloud as she berated herself for fooling around with magic she didn’t really understand. She really should have considered the consequences of lighting that candle before she struck the match. But who would’ve thought it would work so fast?

The brush slipped, smearing silver into blue. She frowned at the damage, then gave up. She’d fix it later, when she was calmer.

At least she had a contractor who would get her shop open before the solstice. The tarot had, as always, been right on the mark.

She collected her brushes and washed them out in the bathroom sink. The faucet leaked, which was annoying, but she had no idea how to fix it. She was sure that Nick Santangelo did. The thought only annoyed her further.

She couldn’t get him out of her mind. But why? He certainly wasn’t anything like Colin. Colin had a wiry kind of energy she’d loved, and an irreverence toward authority that she wholeheartedly shared. Nick? The man had a solid, conservative look about him. His pressed chinos and white golf shirt (complete with company logo embroidered on the left breast) made about as boring an outfit as she could imagine.

So why was her stomach doing backflips? She didn’t want to know.

She tried to push him out of her thoughts. No luck. He filled her head as completely as he’d filled Aunt Millie’s front room. He didn’t belong in either place. He was too tall, too dark, too conventional. Too cynical. She thought of his curly hair and large, capable hands.

He was too sexy. Definitely too sexy.

He was too busy to do her job during the day.

And didn’t she know what he was up to with that? How could she not? It had been written all over his face. He was a guy, after all.

He wanted sex.

To be honest, the idea was not without its appeal.

She gave the dripping faucet one last, savage yank. The last dribble of water just wouldn’t stop, no matter how hard she twisted. The kitchen sink wasn’t much better—the thing dripped night and day. There were a ton of other things wrong with Aunt Millie’s house—light switches that didn’t work, doors that stuck, a doorbell that didn’t ring, a roof that leaked.

She wanted to fix them all, but the truth was she’d spent too much on merchandise for the store, and what savings were left had to cover the cost of the building inspector’s list
and
pay the mortgage she’d inherited along with the house—not to mention her own living expenses. At least until money from the shop started coming in. Little luxuries like working faucets would have to wait.