Under Her Spell

Under Her Spell

Isabella Ashe

STARFISH PRESS

Copyright © 2012 Isabella Ashe

Other contemporary romances by Isabella Ashe:

Into the Arms of a Cowboy

Almost Paradise

The Candidate’s Wife

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real people, living or dead, are purely coincidental. All characters and events in this work are figments of the author’s imagination.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Other contemporary romances by Isabella Ashe

Free first chapter: Into the Arms of a Cowboy

PROLOGUE

Listen to this one, Zachary Callahan said, waving a magazine clipping in the general direction of his managing editor. It's a doozy.

He swung his feet off his desk and swiveled around in his chair, almost knocking over the towering pile of mail he'd been sorting. Without pausing for a response, he read aloud in a sarcastic tone: 'Want to cast a spell on that special someone? Longing to enchant him, ensnare him, bring him to his knees -- or at least drag him to the altar? A few drops of amber liquid may hold the key to your romantic dreams.'

Love potions? Martin Ambrosio raised his eyebrows, allowing his fingers to slip from the computer keyboard mid-sentence. That's nothing new. I've seen hundreds of ads promising instant amour.

Yeah, but this isn't an advertisement. It's an interview with some woman in Marin who's selling her supposedly 'magical' concoction right and left. Everyone the reporter interviewed swears the stuff never fails. They say every single person who drinks it falls passionately in love. Zach laughed bitterly. Too bad I didn't have a vial of that when Eve was still around.

Martin winced at the reference to Zach's ex-wife. You can't fall in love if you don't have a heart, he pointed out.

Zach chuckled, but it wasn’t a happy sound. You've got a point there. Anyway, the lady who makes the love potion is taking credit for half a dozen weddings in Cypress Point alone.

Cypress Point? Isn't that one of the little towns on the coast?

Just an hour or so north of here, Zach said. He stuck the article to the bulletin board above his desk with a green thumbtack. Maybe I'll go check it out this weekend. Sounds to me like this, uh . . . . He paused and squinted at the article. . . . This Bryony Lowell could use a reality check. How are we for space in the next issue?

Martin glanced over the Skeptical Observer's assignment sheet for May, which he'd taped to the side of his computer monitor. Well, we've got the big cover story on the UFO sightings in New Mexico, Chad Hunt's article debunking faith healers, and a freelancer investigating that Canadian cult. Pretty heavy stuff. We could definitely use a Zachary Callahan special. How about covering the love potion thing for your column?

Yeah, maybe. Zach stretched, catlike, then leapt to his feet. He crossed to the window in a few swift strides and stared out at the vast window taking up an entire wall of the magazine's office. Gazing out on the bustling city streets below, he let out a deep sigh.

Business people in their dark suits mingled with vagrants clutching cardboard signs and tourists, cameras around their neck, scurrying toward Fisherman's Wharf or Golden Gate Park. The city teemed with life -- everyone was going somewhere. Everyone but Zach Callahan.

Zach? It would make a great column. You could write one of those funny but deadly pieces that made you so famous. It just might win you another trophy from the American Magazine Association. You're up to what, seven of those things now?

Zach grinned at his friend's attempt to cheer him up. It was true that he'd had to purchase a new mahogany case to hold the Skeptical Observer's growing collection of plaques, trophies, and awards. He was proud of the magazine. When he had purchased it five years ago, it had been barely dozen or so photocopied pages a month, poorly edited and packed with typos. The subscription list barely numbered in the hundreds. Martin and a part-time receptionist made up the entire staff.

Now the magazine burst at its glossy seams with national advertisers and went out every month to thousands of scientist, academics, and truth-seekers around the world. Half a dozen staff writers and two photographer were out on assignment, and freelancers were begging for a chance to contribute. The quality of writing had improved along with the layout. As editor and publisher, Zach saw to that. He insisted on personally reading every article before it went to press.

Sometimes Zach felt like he and his reporters were the only sane people in a world gone mad. Some days it seemed that everyone was raving about angels, witchcraft, aliens, and other New Age mumbo jumbo.

Zachary Callahan knew better than to believe in a fuzzy, feel-good world where magic was possible. He preferred his own orderly universe, where nature followed certain laws and there was no room for fantasy. He'd dedicated his life to proving that cold, hard scientific fact reigned supreme. The magazine's financial success was simply a happy consequence.

So why did he feel so empty? Zach stared out the window without seeing the buildings across the street. Sure, his personal life was a mess. He dated a lot, even earned quite a reputation. The gossip columns were full of his escapades. San Francisco buzzed with rumors that his latest conquest might win his heart. But since the fiasco with Eve three years ago, he hadn't been able to trust a woman enough to make a commitment.

Usually, when he had this feeling of incompleteness, he could lose himself in the work he loved and forget all about it. Skewering a few fraudulent psychics or exposing a couple of greedy messengers from God usually cheered him right up. If that didn't work, he would call one of the many lovely young women of his acquaintance who were more than happy to help him fulfill his physical needs.

This time it was different. His dissatisfaction with life struck far deeper than just damaged pride and a bruised heart. He felt as if a yawning black pit had opened up under his feet. Zach pressed both palms against his throbbing temples, hoping to ease the pain of another headache. He felt like a rope that had frayed at both ends.

Zach? Martin asked again. Are you all right?

Fine, Zach replied, forcing a smile. Just tired, I guess. That last issue was a killer. He turned back to survey the small office, his little kingdom, neat and clean again after the chaos of deadlines.

Two days ago, the desks had been piled high with printouts, scribbled notes, and proof sheets slathered with corrections. The staff had slaved over April's special issue, and he'd put in even more late nights than usual. The results were excellent, but he hadn't had much sleep in the past week.

No wonder you're exhausted, Martin said. Now that it's gone to press, don't you think you ought to have a vacation? I don't think you've taken even a day for yourself in the last five years.

Zach shook his head. I wouldn't know what to do with myself.

Tell the truth. You think the magazine would fall apart if you took a break, Martin said. You think if you left me in charge I'd print the cover art upside down.

Of course not, Zach said with a dismissive wave. I just can't imagine it. Can you see me sitting on a beach somewhere sipping margaritas? Hell, I'd go crazy with boredom for sure. He began pacing before the window, his hands clasped behind his back. That's not for me.

How about a working vacation? Martin suggested.

What do you mean? Zach asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice. He hadn't missed Martin's scheming tone. He turned from the window, fixing the Skeptical Observer's managing editor with the famously steely gaze that always made hucksters and charlatans squirm.

Say you took a trip up the coast, Martin said, ignoring the look. Stay in one of those little bed and breakfast inns, do some hiking, go to the beach, whatever. Take a week, or -- God forbid -- even two. You'll still get back here in plenty of time to edit the next issue.

Zach was already shaking his head.

Hear me out, will you? While you're at it, you can stop in Cypress Point and interview this woman who mixes up love potions. Work on your column whenever you just can't stand to relax and be pampered any more. That way, you won't be wasting a minute.

It's not a bad idea, Zach admitted.

Martin pressed on. You need some time away, Zach. Some fresh air, exercise, time to think. You'll see. I promise you'll be your old self before you know it. I'll take care of everything here.

I know you will.

And if there's an emergency, I'll call you.

All right, Zach said, brightening a little. For the first time in several weeks, he felt a spark of interest. I think I'll do it. I'll leave first thing tomorrow.

Good. Martin looked smugly satisfied. Now go home and pack.

Zach crossed the room to his desk and opened his Italian leather briefcase. He didn't really expect to be gone for two weeks. Four days, maybe a week tops. He'd take along a stack of reading materials just in case he needed the distraction. Into the briefcase went mail, clippings, all the magazines and journal articles he'd been meaning to read.

You're taking all that? Martin asked as he watched Zach add to the pile. This is supposed to be a vacation.

Don't push it, Zach said. I might change my mind.

He grabbed his keys, briefcase, and coat and strode out of the office before Martin could say another word. Outside, he realized that for the first time in weeks he actually felt a sense of pleasant anticipation. He'd never been one to believe in hunches, but he couldn't help imagining that something good was waiting for him just around the corner.

CHAPTER ONE

The teenage girl held the tiny stoppered bottle up to the sun, her kohl-lined eyes wide with hope. Light pierced the glass and cast a tawny prism onto her cheek. So, like, you swear this stuff really works? she asked.

Well, no, Bryony said, and watched the girl's face fall. That is, I've had many reports of success. But it isn't as easy as slipping a dose into a man's glass and watching him fall at your feet. You have to choose the right person, and even then it's not a sure thing. At least, that's what it says in the book where I found the recipe.

There's this guy -- the girl said.

There always was. Bryony sighed. She was beginning to wish she'd never met that reporter for Bay Area Life, despite the fact that business had doubled after the write up. The article had all but promised a legion of desperate people that Bryony's love elixir would change their lives. That story led to others, until Bryony couldn't count the number of reporters who'd called.

On weekends, customers crowded into Heart's Desire in search of perfect, certain love. Others included long, heartfelt letters with their mail order requests. It was up to Bryony to bring them down gently. She felt love was far too complex an emotion to be manipulated by a mixture of herbs and spices.

Actually, Bryony wasn't sure she believed in her potion's magical properties. She'd mixed up the first batch out of sheer curiosity, after discovering the recipe in a tattered old book on love magic. Even the astonishing results hadn't convinced her beyond a shadow of a doubt. Maybe the rash of marriages among friends who'd tested the mixture were nothing but coincidence. That reporter hadn't thought so, though, and neither did the eager customers drawn to her shop by the article.

I'll take it, the girl said. It can't hurt to try, right? Nothing else has worked, and maybe . . . . Well, you never know.

Bryony moved briskly behind the counter and rang up the purchase. She gently placed the cut-glass bottle into a nest of rose-colored tissue paper and slipped the lid onto the silver box. Her heart went out to the girl, as it did to every customer suffering the pangs of unrequited love. Best of luck, she said.

The teenager slipped the box into her purse. Thanks. I'll need it. The chimes rang above the door as she left the shop.

By the time the chimes settled, Bryony had picked up the novel next to the cash register, a wonderfully romantic retelling of Beauty and the Beast. She loved fairy tales, with their brave heroines and happy endings. She could lose herself in them for hours. The hardest part was returning to the real world. When the chimes rang again, announcing another customer, Bryony barely glanced up.

Zach let the door close behind him and scanned the tiny shop. Stepping into Heart's Desire was like entering another world. Outside, the orange California sun blazed down, drenching the quaint little seaside town of Cypress Point in glaring light. The growl of traffic and the chatter of beachgoers filled the brine-scented air with noise. Even mid-week, the town was clearly a popular tourist destination.

Inside Heart's Desire, however, he found himself enfolded by soft Gregorian chants and tantalizing smells. Delicate, musky smoke from a stick of burning incense wafted his way. His feet sank deep into the rich, velvety red carpet. Glass tables and cases bore heavy loads of merchandise, from dainty crystals on necklaces of silk to exquisitely carved sandalwood sculptures. Another section of the store displayed candles, incense, and perfumes. Packets of herbs and spices, from chamomile to myrrh to yarrow, dominated the back wall.

Zach browsed the selection of books on a shelf and managed to stifle a snort of disdain at the titles. Witchcraft, herbal medicine, astrology, aromatherapy -- just the sort of nonsense he would expect to find in an shop specializing in love potions.

He browsed for several minutes, posing as just another tourist. That was part of his strategy. Charlatans tended to clam up around the publisher of The Skeptical Observer, while they spoke frankly -- and often hung themselves with their own words -- when he masqueraded as a potential customer. It wasn't completely honest, but he told himself it was the only way to expose the frauds he wrote about in his columns.

When he'd made a full circle from the front door to the counter, he cleared his throat to get the clerk's attention.

Bryony marked her place with one finger and looked up, her professional smile fixed firmly in place. May I help you? she asked.

Then her eyes registered the man before her, and her smile wavered. He was tall and slim with shoulders so broad they strained at the cloth of his white polo shirt. He had a strong, arrogant square face and dark, curling hair cropped sensibly short. Bryony's eyes dropped to his chest, where the shirt's first button was undone, and noticed that the hair on his chest was equally dark. She had a sudden urge to reach out and touch it, then felt heat rising to her cheeks at the thought.

He set his hands on the edge of the counter and leaned forward, obviously enjoying her discomfiture. He had the air of a man used to making women blush. Bryony stared down at his elegant, long-fingered hands and then slowly raised her eyes to meet his. They were the color of strong coffee without cream, serious but not lacking in humor. At the moment, they sparkled back at her with amused authority.

As a matter of fact, you may help me. I need to speak with a Ms. Bryony Lowell. His low-pitched voice was polite but commanding, his tone that of a man used to being obeyed. Something about this man made her edgy, almost nervous. It had been a long time since she'd been near someone so compellingly masculine. He seemed to fill the shop with his energy.

That's me, Bryony said, trying to keep her voice from squeaking.

For the first time, he seemed to lose some of his smooth assurance. You're Bryony Lowell? I expected -- that is, you aren't the person I imagined.

Zach had imagined someone older, heavily made up and costumed to play a part. The lovely young woman before him didn't jibe with his expectations in the least. She was slender and lithe, but with a hint of feminine curves under her soft, flowing dress of green and gold Indian cloth. She had a delicate heart-shaped face and full lips that trembled on the edge of a smile. Her green eyes were wide and dreamy, framed by thick golden lashes. She had braided her red-gold hair into a plait that fell down her back, but wavy tendrils pulled loose to frame her face.

Zach found himself wondering what it would be like to kiss that pink flower of