Free Love Spell by Stan Crowe Page B

little guilty however, so she settled back into her proper, business-like mindset.
    “Well, it’s… complicated,” he began, looking everywhere but at her. “Oh, and are your eyes normally that blue, or do you wear those cosmetic contact lenses?”
    Her heart fluttered, and she spun her monitor back toward her and pretended to examine some minutia, hoping to hide the unwelcome blush.
    “In a nutshell,” he said, “I’m looking for someone.” The moment passed.
    “Very good,” she said, trying desperately to keep things on track. “Tell me about this person of interest you seek.”
    He reclined in his chair, rubbing at his chin. “Where would you like me to start?”
    “A name and basic physical description would be good.”
    Clint chewed his lower lip. “Fey. Ancient. Certifiable.”
    “Fey what?”
    “Aunt Fey.” He shrugged.
    Lindsay frowned again. “You are familiar with the concept of surnames, correct?”
    The client sat back in his chair, looking slightly offended. “She didn’t tell me, okay. She only said ‘Aunt Fey, with an e.’ That was it. We didn’t exactly discuss life, the universe and everything.”
    Lindsay entered additional notes. “How long have you known this ‘Aunt Fey’? Is she from your father’s side, mother’s side, or your aunt through marriage?”
    “Whose marriage?”
    “Yours.”
    The jerk laughed. “Look, Self…”
    “I’ve already asked you to please call me Miss Sullivan.”
    He waved it away. “Look, I’m not married. Your search should have made that pretty clear.”
    Lindsay growled at herself, angry for already losing ground against him so soon.
    His left hand came up, fingers spread. He pointed at his bare ring finger to make his point. “Why do you think I even made that wish in the first place? Your snooping makes it pretty clear that women don’t exactly flock to me. They really don’t know what they’re missing, though.”
    Focus on typing case file notes, girl , Lindsay commanded herself. “What about this ‘wish’ you mentioned?” she asked flatly.
    In an instant, he looked like a caged animal. “Look, I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”
    How strong is his will, these days? she wondered with an internal smirk. If she could make him squirm a bit…
    She drilled her gaze into his (Lindsay, don’t look at the eyes! ) Mercifully, he glanced away. After a long, awkward pause, he cracked.
    Score another for Lindsay!
    “Fine, fine,” he said. “You want to know? Here’s the whole story. I was walking along the bay one Saturday night, after a Giants game. I tell ya, they slaughtered the Padres.”
    “Relevant facts only, please.”
    He rolled his eyes. “Fine, whatever. So I’m minding my own business, walking through a parking lot, when out of nowhere, this… chicken… fireball… thing nearly takes my head off.”
    Excitedly, she started taking notes.
    “What? You’re not even going to ask?”
    She shrugged. “Truth is stranger than fiction.”
    “In this case, definitely,” he said with a snort. “So after barely dodging death by poultry, I figured someone might need to chat with my fist, and then see about getting their food handler’s permit.
    “All I saw was some old tour bus painted up like an alley wall in Compton. I knocked on the door until some freaky woman finally answered. I don’t know where she escaped from, but I know better than to mess with people who look like that.”
    Ah! Something useful. “People who look like what, exactly?” Lindsay intoned carefully.
    He shrugged again. “Maybe four-nine. Might have gone to school with your grandma. Ratty, braided hair, weird clothes—I think she even had a couple of bells sewn on. And she had these wild, red eyes.”
    Lindsay let her incredulity show.
    “What?” he asked. “You’re okay with flaming chicken, but you choke on the idea of red eyes? Don’t tell me you’ve never seen that.”
    “Only in photographs,” Lindsay remarked. “It’s glare