Free Would-Be Witch by Kimberly Frost Page B

of the car, including the windshield.
    “Thanks. I wasn’t wet enough, you know,” I grumbled. I wasn’t really mad at Mercutio, of course. I was soaked and scared. If I couldn’t unspell those people, they might die. And I didn’t want multiple homicide on my record before I was even old enough to rent a car. I just know those Hertz people wouldn’t understand.
    I backed my car up and swung the wheel toward the exit, turning up my windshield wipers. They whipped back and forth, hardly able to keep up with the rain. I squinted and drove determinedly through water two inches deep in the streets. I passed Sycamore and turned onto Palm.
    When I got to Bryn Lyons’s sixteen-feet-tall gate, I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to go inside, but my options weren’t really all that extensive, so I pushed the security buzzer.
    “Hi there. It’s Tammy Jo. I was here earlier. I’d like to come up to the house again.”
    The security guy told me to wait. Probably going to check with the boss man. I looked down at Mercutio, who licked the scratches and water on my legs.
    “I don’t think that’s gonna help, but thanks,” I said, rubbing his head and neck.
    The gate swung open, slow and steady and pretty damn ominous in the rain. I thought again about the list. I wasn’t supposed to be going here. And definitely not twice in one day.
    I followed the circular drive to the front of the house and got out. The sky dumped another few buckets of water on my head as I ran to get under the porch awning. The front door opened. I knew what I must look like. I was soggier than bread pudding, but nowhere near as tasty.
    The butler crinkled his eyes at me, probably thinking I was going to mess up his floor if he let me in. But Bryn walked up and shouldered past him to open the door wider.
    “Hi,” I said, shivering.
    “Jenson, get towels,” Bryn ordered, and the butler shuffled off. Bryn ushered me in. The house was overly air-conditioned and colder than a meat locker. My teeth chattered.
    Merc sidled in behind me. Merc wasn’t shivering, but then he had the advantage of being furry.
    “I n-need help,” I chattered, trying not to shake as goosebumps conquered every inch of my skin.
    “Come,” Bryn said, leading me across his very expensive Mediterranean tile. I left dirty, wet footprints like a toddler who’d been making mud pies.
    “I’m sorry about the floor.”
    “Don’t be. Mrs. Freet, my housekeeper, has been waging a personal war against dirt for thirty years, and she’s had too many easy victories in this house. Mobilizing the maids and their mops for the foyer will be the highlight of her month, I promise you.”
    I giggled, feeling slightly better. He opened a door and looked in.
    “Closet,” he said and shook his head. He opened another door. “Here,” he said, and we went into a large laundry room.
    Bryn slipped off his black suit coat and rolled up the sleeves of his expensive blue shirt.
    “What are you doing?”
    He stepped forward and pulled my tank top out of my shorts and dragged it up.
    “Hey!” I squeaked, grabbing the fabric and yanking it away from him and back down over my bra.
    “You’re wet and cold. I wouldn’t want you to catch pneumonia,” he said, reaching for me again.
    I slapped his hands away and stepped back. “Just a darn minute. Last I checked I could dress and undress myself.”
    “Sure, but wouldn’t you be warmer if I helped?”
    My jaw dropped open. I was in the middle of a crisis with people in a fever-coma. I was counting on Bryn Lyons to be my savior, not some normal red-blooded guy who noticed that frostbite had my nipples hard as arrowheads.
    “Look, I’m in trouble.”
    “Clearly.”
    “And I didn’t come here for you to put your Urban Cowboy moves on me.”
    He grinned and folded his arms across his chest. “Tamara—”
    “It’s still Tammy Jo!” I snapped and then blushed in embarrassment as Jenson appeared and frowned at me for yelling at the boss. Jenson