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Witchcraft
Witchcraft
Witchcraft
Ebook30 pages28 minutes

Witchcraft

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Backing the wrong horse can be murder. And in this short story, jockey Deakin Kelley is about to be taken for the ride of his life.

Deakin’s bewitched. He’s fallen under the spell of a beautiful woman, one with a sleek figure and a sly, come-hither smile. 

But witchcraft – and obsessive love – are dangerous.
 

LanguageEnglish
PublisherJanet Dawson
Release dateJan 8, 2017
ISBN9781944153069
Witchcraft

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    Book preview

    Witchcraft - Janet Dawson

    Witchcraft

    By Janet Dawson

    ©2002 Janet Dawson.

    Cover by Julia Turner. Photo used under Creative Commons from orchidgalore.

    Witchcraft originally appeared in the anthology Scam and Eggs.

    All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

    When Deakin Kelley stepped onto the terrace, Sinatra’s voice followed, singing Witchcraft. 

    The words felt like fingers stroking the back of Deakin’s neck. He walked to the railing and stood alone, glass in hand, sipping Scotch and looking out at the lights sprinkled over the Beverly Hills. A full moon hung low in the sky.

    He sang the words to the song, thinking he was alone. But he wasn’t.

    The woman’s voice was a low flavorful whisper, somewhere to his right. Let’s dance, she said.

    He glanced in her direction and liked what he saw. Hair dark as midnight fell to her sleek white shoulders. Along with a come-hither smile, she wore a green silk dress, slit high enough on the sides to give him an impressive view of her long legs. Her eyes were the same pale green as the jade pendant nestled between her breasts. Now she kicked off her shoes, held out her arms, and moved toward him, her feet bare on the terrazzo tile.

    He left his glass on the railing, took her hand and circled her waist with his other. He guided her away from the circle of light cast by the lamp above the door, into the welcoming darkness at the end of the terrace. His body molded to hers as they swayed in time to the music. By the time Sinatra finished singing, he was bewitched.

    What’s your name? he asked, his mouth teasing the soft skin of her shoulder. He felt her fingers moving in his hair.

    Ann Barnstable, she whispered.

    He backed away and looked up at her, dismayed. You can’t be Junior Barnstable’s wife.

    You’re right, I can’t.  She shook her head, then tilted it to one side. I don’t want to be. Who do you want me to be?

    Just Ann.

    Plain Ann, then. 

    As she smiled, he thought there was nothing plain

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