Witchy Woman (4 page)

The waiter chose that moment to deliver their sandwiches. Tess dug into hers, giving her something to do besides answer his question.

“You’re superstitious, aren’t you?”

When she looked up at him in surprise, he was pretty sure he’d hit the mark.

He pressed on. “You believe in omens and all that stuff. For some reason, you think the marble cat is bad luck.”

“Yes, that’s exactly it,” she replied after a moment’s hesitation. “A crouching cat is extremely bad luck. Why, my uncle once brought a figurine like that into his house, and—”

“Don’t tell me. He got a splinter and they had to amputate his foot, right?”

She ripped a bite from her sandwich and chewed angrily, swallowed, then took a sip of her water. “You aren’t taking this very seriously. Don’t you believe me?”

“I believe you. I just don’t believe in omens, or charms, or silly superstitions. Where did you learn about such nonsense? And why would an obviously enlightened, intelligent woman like yourself believe in them?”

“It’s not nonsense,” she said, shrilly enough that a woman from a neighboring table looked over curiously.

Nate decided he’d pushed Tess far enough. “Hey, let’s not argue about it. I’m sorry. You have the right to believe whatever you want, and I shouldn’t make fun of it. Truce?”

She nodded stiffly.

Her superstitions were probably a leftover habit from her unconventional childhood, he concluded. When he got to know her better, he would bring up this subject again and see if he could get a little closer to the truth.

Tess actually enjoyed the afternoon, once they got off the subject of that awful statue. As they continued visiting antique shops, she found Nate to be a fascinating and funny companion. He didn’t seem to be an expert on anything, so there were no long, boring dissertations on insurance underwriting or industrial pollution, but he knew a little something interesting about everything under the sun—apparently a by-product of his ten-year freelance-writing career.

“Yeah, I learned early on that if I was going to make a living as a writer, I could never turn down a money-making assignment, even if I knew nothing about the subject matter. Somehow or other, I always learn just enough to get by.”

“So today the lesson is antiques?” she asked.

“That’s right. I’ll get a general feel for things now, and later, as I’m actually writing the story, I’ll ask specific questions. Hey, how about this?” He pointed to a small, mahogany card table. “Twenty-five hundred bucks?” He examined the price tag. “Sheraton, Philadelphia, circa 1800.”

“Hmm.” Tess peered beneath the tabletop, pretending to look for a distinguishing mark. She laid her hand against the bare wood and took a deep breath. The swift impression she received was that of a white-haired man in knickers working on a hand lathe, lovingly tooling a length of mahogany that would become a table leg. As he worked he sang softly.

“Authentic as hell,” she declared as she opened her
eyes. She found that Nate was standing behind her, looking over her shoulder. When she straightened, rather than backing away, he moved in closer, bringing their bodies into light contact. She was about to object when she realized he was only making room for a woman with a baby stroller to pass behind them.

She waited for the moment to pass, as she knew it would, but it seemed to last forever. Nate’s nearness overwhelmed her.

“How can you tell it’s real?” he asked softly, his breath fanning her hair.

How what was real? The table? “The, uh, wood grains. The way they’re matched up, and the patina of the finish.” All nonsense, but the best she could come up with.

At last he moved away. “Damn.”

She took a deep breath and avoided his gaze, certain he would be able to read her wantonness in her eyes. She was actually aroused. She could feel the heat pooling in her abdomen.

With some effort, she brought her mind back to the subject at hand. Another authentic piece. That’s the way it had gone all day. Every item Tess touched reeked of authenticity. Sometimes the vibrations were from former owners, but often she found that her energy tuned in to the actual manufacture of the object, and usually those images were positive, imbued with the artisan’s creative spirit.

Hanging around a bunch of antiques hadn’t been the ordeal she had expected. She wondered if that was because she was calling on her “gift” with a specific
goal in mind. Although she’d had this ability for as long as she could remember, she’d never done much purposeful work with it. Most of the time she simply fought it, trying unsuccessfully to turn it off.

As they exited yet another shop Nate stopped and pointed up the street. “Hey, look where we ended up.”

To Tess’s discomfort, she discovered they had wandered right back to Anne-Louise’s store.

“Let’s go in and ask Anne-Louise where she got that vase,” Nate said. “That should be a good lead.”

“Oh, I don’t think—”

“I won’t tell her it’s a fake, not until I have proof. Hey, what’s wrong? You’re all pale.”

She wasn’t surprised. Just the thought of going near that cat made her head spin.

“Oh, no, not the statue again.” He sighed impatiently. “You don’t even want to be in the same store with it?”

“No, I really don’t,” she said, knowing how ridiculous he must think her.

“You know, that’s a pretty severe phobia you’ve got.”

“It’s not a phobia,” she protested.

“Aversion, then. It’s not so uncommon. I did a story once about phob—er, I mean, aversions, and you’d be surprised how many people have them. Did you know our former mayor is afraid of elevators? The editor of
Boston Life
can’t go into a parking garage without breaking into a sweat. And my mother is terrified of moths.” He laughed at that.

“It’s not nice to laugh about such things,” she told
him icily. “But I suppose you don’t have any irrational fears.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” He shoved his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans and looked around, reminding her of a little boy about to confess that he’d gotten into the cookie jar.

“Well, go on,” she urged. “What are you afraid of?”

He shuddered. “Graveyards.”

“Well, that at least makes sense. I’m not overly fond of them myself.” They were filled with vibrations left by mourners, and sometimes with the darker residues of death itself. “A cemetery is a very sad place.”

“Not sad, terrifying. I know that’s not a rational, adult reaction, but there it is.”

“And my reaction to the stone cat is just as illogical and just as real. You should be able to understand that.”

He nodded, conceding the point. “Okay. Would you mind standing out here for a minute while I run in and ask Anne-Louise where she got the vase?”

That was a compromise she could live with, Tess supposed. “Okay. But promise me you won’t look at the statue.”

He winked. “Be back in a minute.”

Tess paced the sidewalk outside the store. It hadn’t escaped her attention that Nate hadn’t promised. She wouldn’t be surprised if he came out of that store with the Crimson Cat. It would be just like him to buy the damn thing to show her that it wasn’t bad luck—for her own good, of course. To cure her of her so-called phobia.

Then again, maybe it was irresponsible of her to have left the cat statue where it was, to tempt innocent people like Judy and Nate. Maybe if she talked to Anne-Louise, the woman would tuck the figurine away somewhere where no one could find it. Of course, the longer Anne-Louise kept the statue, the more severe her own contact with the curse.

Tess was still trying to decide if she was ethically bound to act in Anne-Louise’s behalf when Nate emerged from the shop less than five minutes later, empty-handed. She couldn’t help breathing a sigh of relief that he hadn’t bought the cat.

“Got it,” he said triumphantly as they continued up the sidewalk. “Anne-Louise bought the vase from some slick dealer out of New York—even gave me his card. Oh, and you don’t have to worry about the cat anymore. She sold it.”

Tess stopped abruptly. “Sold it? When?”

“Just a couple of hours ago. I was thinking of buying it, just to prove to you—”

But Tess wasn’t listening. She did an about-face and headed back to the shop.

“What the hell?” Nate demanded, two paces behind her.

She jerked open the door, sending the chimes into a frenzy, and walked straight up to Anne-Louise. “Who did you sell that cat statue to?”

Anne-Louise’s welcoming smile faltered. “I don’t know who bought it. I was taking a late lunch, and my assistant handled the sale.”

Tess softened when she realized her abrupt manner
was offensive to the innocent shopkeeper, herself a victim of the cat’s curse if that cast on her leg was any indication. “Is there a credit-card receipt?” she asked gently. “A check, maybe?”

The other woman’s smile returned. “No, I believe the transaction was in cash. My assistant, Jenny, just left, but she’ll be back on Monday if you want to ask her about it then. If one of her regular customers bought the statue, she’ll know who.”

“Yes, I’d like that.” Tess fished in her bag for a card. “Would you have Jenny call me first thing Monday morning?”

“Of course, but why are you interested in who bought it?”

“I, uh …” Oh, dear. Now she’d have to tell another lie. Lying was getting to be a habit lately.

“She knew I liked it,” Nate supplied, “and she wanted to buy it for me.”

“Hmm, odd,” Anne-Louise mused. “First no one wants it, now everyone does.”

“Was there someone else inquiring?” Tess asked.

Anne-Louise nodded. “A man came in here not thirty minutes ago asking Jenny about the statue. I only heard bits and pieces of the conversation, but he claimed the cat was stolen from him, and he wants it back. He was most upset when he found out it had been sold.”

What could that mean? Tess wondered frantically. Once someone had rid himself of the evil creature, why would he purposely seek it out again? She knew, from hearing family stories, that the statue was almost impossible
to get rid of. And the curse, once it was visited upon you, remained with you forever. Damn, now she wished she’d paid more attention when Morganna had tried to teach her about this stuff.

“Did he tell you his name?” she asked.

“I believe it was … Tristan. Tristan Something. He was a swarthy gentleman, very, er, strange looking.” Anne-Louise waited expectantly, perhaps hoping for some explanation from Tess. But Tess could think of nothing else to say. The man’s name and description meant nothing to her.

“Are you ready to go?” Nate asked, sounding decidedly impatient.

“Yes, I’m done.” She thanked Anne-Louise and they left. She noticed, as Nate held open the door, that he almost put his hand to her waist in a gentlemanly gesture, to guide her out of the store. Almost, but not quite.

She found herself almost aching for that incidental touch, which was exceedingly odd. She usually tried very hard to avoid touching. One of the things she had liked about Nate, one of the things that made her feel so comfortable with him, was that he kept his hands to himself.

Tess glanced at her watch. “I should be getting home,” she said. “I don’t like riding the T after dark by myself.”

“After what happened last week, I don’t like riding the T, period.”

She gave him a mischievous grin. “Better watch
out. You’ll be developing another phobia before you know it.”

He waved away her concern as ridiculous. “I’ll get over it. Anyway, on a day like today, why travel underground?”

“So you don’t have to find a parking space,” she quipped.

“I found one. Why don’t you let me give you a ride home?”

The idea appealed to her in more ways than one. He’d been a perfect gentleman so far. She had no reason to believe his behavior would change if she got into a car with him.

“Okay,” she said, realizing as she did so that she was reluctant to say good-bye to Nate. It was almost as if some invisible cord was now drawn between them, pulling insistently at her, urging her closer, closer.

He smiled broadly, showing her a flash of white teeth. “Great. I’m parked just …” He paused, and a frown creased his brow. “Wait. I forgot to tell you—I rode my Harley today. Is that okay?”

A motorcycle? Absolutely not! If she rode on the back of his bike, she would have to hold on to him … wrap her arms around him. And while the picture now forming in her mind was dangerously intriguing, that much physical contact could be disastrous. If he wasn’t the type to guard his thoughts, she would probably know everything he was thinking.

Just now she didn’t want to read his mind. What if he was thinking something vulgar about her? So many of the men she had touched, even casually, carried such
lewd thoughts that it had turned her off completely. Even worse, she might discover that Nate wasn’t in the least attracted to her.

“I’m a careful driver, really,” he was saying. “And I have an extra helmet.”

She shook her head vehemently. “I can’t, I really can’t. I’m sorry.”

He nodded his understanding. “I’ll accept that. And I won’t even tease you about having a phobia.”

“An aversion,” she corrected him. “And a perfectly logical one. Everybody knows motorcycles are dangerous.”

Again he nodded, appearing resigned. Then, unexpectedly, he grasped her hand. “There are a lot of antique stores in Boston. We could do this again.”

She was so shocked that at first she couldn’t answer. It wasn’t the gesture that surprised her, or his invitation. It was the nonverbal communication that had knocked her speechless. From the moment of skin-to-skin contact, she had felt a rush of such friendly, unthreatening warmth and affection that for once in her life she didn’t immediately try to tug her hand from another’s grasp. She also felt the force of his desire, which commingled with her own.

“Tess?”

“Uh, yeah, I’m open,” she finally managed, somewhat ungracefully, she thought, but her intelligent mind had gone all mushy.

She fairly floated home. This was the first time she had ever felt optimistic about her romantic prospects. If Nate Wagner could hold her hand and leave her
feeling euphoric, maybe they could touch in other ways.