Bespelling Jane Austen

For Pam Rosenthal, my partner-in-crime.

Acknowledgments

Thanks to Susan, Mary and Colleen; and Tracy Farrell and Lucienne Diver.

Introduction

Dear Reader,

When Susan Krinard invited me to participate in this anthology, I knew immediately which Austen I’d choose, pretty confident that no one else would want it. As Austen said, Emma really is “a heroine whom no one but myself will much like,” and therein lies both the genius of Austen and the pitfalls for a lesser writer putting her own spin on the novel. What’s amazing about Emma is that everyone in the novel likes her (with the exception of Mrs. Elton), at least for some of the time. I don’t mind so much that she’s a provincial, meddling busybody (oh, go on, Janet, tell us what you really think) but I knew I couldn’t sustain interest—mine or yours—in a heroine who’s so blissfully unaware of what’s under her nose.

And then there’s Mr. Knightley, the only Austen leading man who you know is going to be a massive bore in bed; even virtuous Edmund Bertram has the promise of more friskiness between the sheets (but then I love Mansfield Park, too).

The answer, I decided, was to give both Emma and George I-hate-my-first-name Knightley a twenty-first-century awareness of themselves and, dare I say it, some acknowledgment of their shortcomings—Emma is very conscious of her situation as the not-so-big fish in the not-so-small pond; Knightley is a success in some but not all areas of his life.

What I took mainly from Austen was her setting of the idiosyncratic village and its social strata, which in this case is the city of Washington, D.C. Perhaps the White House really does need a witch on retainer, and we all know Capitol Hill is full of bloodsuckers….

I hope you enjoy this anthology and my take on Emma, which I had so much fun writing.

Best,

Janet Mullany

Chapter 1

Present Day

Washington, D.C.

Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever and temporarily rich, with a comfortable (borrowed) apartment and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-nine years in the world with very little to distress or hex her.

“SHE TURNED ME INTO A FROG.”

I bit back the comment that he seemed to have recovered.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Elton. I know it’s no excuse, but it is almost full moon, and Harriet tends to be…” I paused and added a description of my assistant that seemed lame as soon as it was out of my mouth. “Difficult.”

“Difficult!” Elton’s shout almost drowned out the sound of early-morning traffic on K Street.

I winced. Harriet, heading for her werewolf time of the month, must have been an intimidating mix of horniness and ferocity.

“I’m so sorry. The agency will give you a full refund and free membership for the next year—two years. We’ll also pay for any dry-cleaning costs or—”

“At least. Look at this shirt! It was blue yesterday.”

“I believe it’s residual frog. It will wear off. I’m pretty sure it’s gotten more blue since we’ve been sitting here…”

Elton was staring at a fly that had landed on the table to investigate a crumb from my croissant. His tongue flickered at the corner of his mouth. He drew back, his chair clattering on the sidewalk.

“Oh, Christ!”

“Can I get you another latte?” The waitress, who had been hanging around nearby, wandered over, gazing at Elton as though she wanted to have his pointy-eared offspring then and there. She probably did; it’s the traditional relationship between elves and humans. I generally cast a mild protective spell over myself when one-on-one with an elf.

Elton waved her away and dropped back into his chair, a horrified expression on his face. I thought he was about to burst into tears.

“Did you see that?” he whispered. “I nearly— I wanted to—”

I patted his hand, hoping the embarrassment of temporary frogness would prevent him from considering legal action. The last thing I needed was some sleazy vamp lawyer sharpening his canines on the agency. “It will wear off, I promise you. I’m so sorry, Elton.”

“Is that all you can say?” He glared at me. “It’s your fault.”

“Of course I take responsibility for—”

He leaned forward, stabbing a finger for emphasis, the tips of his ears quivering. “I only dated Harriet because you wanted me to, Emma. I thought you were interested in me and you were so insistent I agreed.”

“But I never date clients. I—” That’s what Isabella had said. Never, never get personally involved with clients, Emma. It gets sticky. Right. They end up wearing frog-green polo shirts and nearly eating flies blocks from the White House.

“You’ll be hearing from me,” Elton said. He stood. “You’re not doing very well with the agency, are you? You should have stuck to teaching jocks History of Witchcraft 101. I’m sure Isabella would be distressed by this.”

I stood, too, and held out a hand which he ignored. “May I say again how very sorry I am and if the agency can make it up to you in any way—”

But he’d turned and strode away from me, while the waitress chewed her lip ring and glared at me as though I’d ruined her life, too.

MY ASSISTANT CHEWED ON a piece of beef jerky and made a sound that might have been a growl as I entered the office.

I placed my laptop on the desk and was tempted to growl back. Instead, I logged on to review any new memberships that had come in overnight, and considered how best to confront Harriet in her delicate condition.

Once again, I wished that my sister, Isabella, had not left when her husband was invited to join a European magic think tank in Brussels, leaving me to run her dating agency for a year. I’d been quite happy holding down a succession of postgraduate magic lab positions (“cauldron washing,” as my family referred to it) and, as Elton reminded me, teaching a few undergraduate magic courses to jocks who needed the credits. I couldn’t say I was serious about an academic career, but I wasn’t frivolous about it, either. I just needed…time to sort out who I was and what I wanted to do, and that’s what I was still saying five years after my master’s.

One thing was for sure. I absolutely didn’t want to make a career of matching lovelorn paranormals and I found Washington, D.C., with its cliques and rituals and stuffiness, unwelcoming and unfriendly.

I flipped my laptop shut. “Harriet, we must talk about last night. How are you feeling?”

She slurped on a cup of some horrible werewolf brew. “Okay. He was a jerk. I thought he liked me.”

“So did I. I’m sorry. But I lent you my spell book to look at, not to use. You said you were interested in going back to school.”

“He said bad things to me. Like he thought I was stupid.” She hung her head and mumbled something about having a photographic memory at her time of the month.

“Oh, Harriet, you know that’s not true. You’re very bright. But, please remember that turning a client into a frog, however rude or aggravating or insulting they are, must never happen again. I’m afraid Elton may sue us. He was very angry and unpleasant and upset, and I don’t blame him. What if something had eaten him?”

She bared her teeth. “I would have eaten him.” Then her eyes filled with tears. “He said he only dated me because you wanted him to. He liked you, Emma.”

I patted her shoulder and handed her a tissue. “Yes, I know. That’s what he told me, too, and I had no idea.”

“He said he took those pictures of me with his cell because you were next to me.”

I saw that she was about to analyze every episode, every conversation with Elton, and cause herself more pain. “We have to move on, Harriet. I expect Elton will leave the agency—I’ve offered him a full refund, and I hope he won’t make trouble for us. I think he mentioned something about going on vacation soon, so at least he’ll be out of town for a bit and he’ll cool down.”

She sniffed. “You know what elves are like. Bloodthirsty.”

She was right, even if it was the pot calling the kettle black. Elves swarmed through the Pentagon and populated defense contractors; if Peter Jackson got one thing right in The Lord of the Rings, it was the elves, armed to the teeth and marching in military formation; so much for frolicking in the woods wearing pretty jewelry.

Harriet and I set to work, routine stuff of creating pairings on the database for our next gathering and processing new members—our clients got a five-minute “date” with each other at our mixers, at which they’d grade the people they’d met as possible friends (really a polite way of saying they weren’t interested) and possible people they’d like to meet one-on-one. We, of course, would effect the introductions and make sure that compatible people, or rather beings, since the clientele consisted of more than humans, got to spend time with each other.

I wasn’t terribly efficient that morning, replaying my meeting with Elton in my head. I’d missed a major vibe from Elton to myself, and wasn’t my job to detect that sort of attraction? Harriet, with her werewolf nose, could sniff out pheromones (particularly at the full moon), which was particularly useful, but even she’d missed Elton’s real object of desire.

And God, no, I wouldn’t date an elf. All that ego, and his hair products cluttering up the bathroom, not to mention the bloodthirsty instincts and the talent for holding grudges for centuries.

Yes, I was glad Elton was out of town.

To cheer us both up, I suggested a walk along the Mall at lunchtime, and Harriet became quite puppyish at the idea. We strolled down to the Tidal Basin where the cherry trees were preparing for their big showcase of the year and said hello to a few former clients. We, or rather Isabella, had had some particularly spectacular successes with cherry tree dryads and Tidal Basin and Reflecting Pool naiads.

My cell rang. “Hartfield Dating Agency.”

“Oh, Emma. Emma? Sometimes I don’t—I was thinking to myself, I must call Emma and tell her the news, because I know she’ll be so excited and—you’ll never guess what—remember when I told you about my friend, Jane—it was when we had that thing—”

Missy Bates, I mouthed to Harriet as the flow of words on the line spilled out like beer foam down a frat boy’s glass.

“—and she sent me that cute e-mail about what cats would—I sent it to you—wasn’t it darling—and the other one, I hope you sent it on to eight of your best friends for luck—”

“Missy, I’d love to chat, but I’m in the middle of something—”

“Oh, I won’t keep you a moment—but I have to tell you because you’ve always been so interested in Jane and we—Knightley gave me a ride home after that concert at the Kennedy Center and it was so—and then there was a text on my cell saying she—but I forgot the funniest bit—and she says she’ll be here in two days and I’m not sure whether she’s allergic to cats or—so I thought I must introduce her to the agency and then I’ll get three months, or is it four, I don’t remember—because she doesn’t know anyone in town and—Knightley said she was very—but when I—”

“Jane Fairfax? She’s coming to D.C.?”

“Yes, oh, silly me, didn’t I say? I knew you’d be excited—she’s looking for a job at—I had to laugh—when I told Knightley, he—”

“Terrific. And of course you’ll get your additional three months for bringing in a new client, Missy. That’s wonderful. I’d better let you go—”

I stanched Missy’s flood of words with firm promises to extend her membership, cursing the day that I had ever come up with what I had considered a brilliant piece of promotion. My head banged gently, the way it always did after a conversation with Missy, and I took a few deep breaths.

“Jane Fairfax is coming to town?” Harriet asked. “I didn’t even think she was real.”

“In some ways she’s far too real.” I sank into gloom, remembering disjointed tales of out-of-town gatherings and trips, my e-mail bombarded with invitations to view photographs online or follow links to Jane’s latest activities. Even worse, at events Missy pressed me into a corner to relay, word for word (embellished with many odd diversions and comments), conversations with Jane, while I bleated feebly about other clients who might feel neglected.

“Grrr,” said Harriet.

AS WELL AS INHERITING my sister’s job for a year, I’d also inherited her apartment in a gem of an art deco building a stone’s throw from the zoo at Woodley Park. At first I’d thought the strange whooping sounds that woke me at dawn were the gargoyles, until I realized they were the gibbons greeting the new day. I loved the apartment with its huge windows and elegant parquet floors.

I loved the marble and mosaics and gilding of the lobby, the wrought-iron splendor of the dignified slow elevator. I even loved the gargoyles, particularly after I’d drawn the blinds.

There was only one problem with the place, and here he was ambling across the lobby, sporting a toolbelt and carrying a toilet plunger.

“Yo, Woodhouse,” said George I-hate-my-first-name Knightley. Despite his disguise as a janitor, he was the owner of the building. He enjoyed the occasional spot of maintenance as relaxation from the world of high finance—it keeps me humble. Humble! As though any member of that renowned and ancient family of wizards even knew the meaning of the word.

“Hi, George,” I returned, and had the pleasure of seeing him scowl.

“How’s matchmaking?” he asked.

“Pretty good. Mostly. Uh.” Nothing had changed in the ten years since our awkward (on my part, at least) college relationship. I still lost most of my vocabulary around him.

The toolbelt, sitting low and easy on his hips, clad in snug faded denim, was giving me some inappropriate lustful thoughts.

“Was something clogged up?” I asked and wished I hadn’t. Dumb, dumb, Emma. The plunger probably wasn’t a fashion accessory.

“Three-C. Their kid threw his teddy in the can. Is everything okay in Isabella’s? I know she had some problems with the garbage disposal. I could come up—”

“No, no, it’s fine. Really.” Images of him splayed on the kitchen floor, the muscles in his bare arms flexing as he rummaged beneath the sink, flew into my head. I took a deep breath.

“Gargoyles behaving okay?” he asked.

“Yes, fine, thanks.”

“You need to be firm with them.”

“Right.” I backed away. “I’ll be— Good to see you, Knightley. I’ll just, uh…”

He smirked.

I changed direction smartly and headed toward the elevator, not away from it. A vampire, dressed in fuck-me shoes and the sort of dress I wouldn’t dare bend over while wearing, if I dared wear it at all, joined me.

“Sex on a stick,” she said as the door closed.

“I dated him in college.”

She raised her eyebrows and eyed my neck. “Lucky you.”

Not really. Not really lucky at all.

Chapter 2

THE PROBLEM WITH ME AND KNIGHTLEY WAS, IN a word, me.

If I’d met him later, say, now, for the first time, I could have handled him, after working with, and particularly teaching, other insecure snotty Ivy League brats from rich, influential families. That’s what he was then, only I couldn’t see it. I was intimidated by his good looks—lanky, slightly scruffy, with the occasional spot, but still breathtaking—his scarily sophisticated family, his horrible frat house, the casual magic tricks. Never pass someone the box of pizza if you could make it float around the room, loop the loop, release the pepperoni to form their own cute little constellations before burrowing back into the cheese—you get the idea. Our relationship didn’t have a chance. I bailed out at the first opportunity and felt elated and slightly shocked at the expression on his face when I told him we were over. I don’t think Knightley had ever been dumped before.

But after that he was always around. I’d gone to Europe and bumped into him in Rome. And Paris. London, too. I’d run into him on the campuses where I had my cauldron-washing jobs—just visiting friends, of course. Was it coincidence, as he claimed, or something else?

“Guess who owns our apartment!” my sister had cried in absolute joy. She liked Knightley. Everyone did. (And what was all that about Missy Bates getting a ride home with him from the Kennedy Center? Surely he wasn’t dating her. His ear would have fallen off.) Scowling, I tossed my purse onto a chair as I entered the apartment.

“Bite me,” I said to a gargoyle waggling its tongue at me outside the window and snapped the blind down.

I flopped onto the sofa and stared at the photo of me and Isabella shortly before she’d gone abroad, when we’d visited the Washington Monument. She’d insisted that her last weekend in town consist of touristy activities, because when you live in Washington you never go to any of the spots the tourists visit. It’s as unhip as standing on the wrong side of the escalator on the Metro. It was her way of saying goodbye to the city. So there we were, squinting into the sun and wind, big smiles and wavy chestnut hair and blue eyes, two pretty witches on a girls’ day out. (And that was another thing that screwed up things with me and Knightley. Because I was young and dumb, two years behind Isabella and playing ugly duckling to the princess, to mix my fairy-tale metaphors, I didn’t think much of my looks then. At the back of my mind hovered the unworthy thought, What does he see in me?)

The phone rang.

“Emma? Isabella and Jim said I should give you a call when I get into town. This is Frank. Frank Churchill.”

I assessed the voice. Rich, deep, seductive—almost definitely a vamp, something Isabella hadn’t mentioned.

“Oh, yeah. Hi. Isabella said you’d probably call. How are you?”

“Good.” There was a moment’s hesitation. A shy vampire! How cute. “I don’t want to be forward, but I was wondering if you and I could get together for a drink.”

“Sure.” Already I was scrabbling at my daytimer. Now! Tonight! I’ll wear a thong! I took a deep breath and calmed myself. He was a vampire, I reminded myself. Even on a phone call he could assess my pulse and send me into a stupor of lust. “I have an appointment tomorrow afternoon that should end about six, so why don’t you meet me after?” I gave him the name of the bar and he assured me he could find it.

I was being kind to Isabella’s husband’s friend, nothing more. He might even become a client—in which case my interest in him should cease immediately. So he might not become a client after all.

JANE FAIRFAX STIRRED HER GINGER ALE. We sat at a table in a courtyard that was part of a restaurant converted from a Foggy Bottom carriage house. Above us a vine curled new tendrils on a trellis and geraniums and ivy tumbled from a hanging basket.

Jane was gorgeous, as unlike plain, dumpy Missy as I could imagine, tall and slender with a yard of long, dark, rippling hair and huge violet eyes. Her ice cubes gave off small sparks and she blushed.

“Sorry.”

“That’s okay.” Interesting. Only a witch who was upset about something would spontaneously leak magic.

“You see, Emma…” she fiddled with her straw some more. “I’m not into dating at the moment. It was Missy’s idea.”

Most people who are given a free trial membership said that, so I nodded encouragingly. Who wants to admit that they’re hard up for company of the opposite sex?

“I’m here to explore some job possibilities and I have to find an apartment, and…well, I’m busy.”

“Of course.” I went into my standard spiel. Since everybody here claimed to be busy, or too important, to think of dating, that really didn’t mean anything, either. “But because you’re new in town this is such a great opportunity for you in terms of networking and establishing a social circle. You can make some valuable friendships and professional connections with Hartfield Dating Agency. And for a busy professional like yourself it can be very hard to find the time or resources to do that on your own.”

“I guess so.” She sighed. “I’ve just ended a fairly serious relationship. I’m not sure I’m ready….”

“Oh, absolutely. I understand.” I beckoned to a waiter who was standing nearby staring at Jane to bring us fresh drinks. “This might be a good time to have some fun, Jane. Find some people to hang out with. We’re not in the business of pairing people up who don’t want to be paired up—we’d lose all our clients that way!”

She smiled for the first time at my pathetic joke.

“So,” I continued, flipping through my daytimer, “let’s see what we can do for you. The first thing I’d suggest is that you and Missy come to our next mixer. It’s very low key and you’ll have a fabulous time even if you don’t meet any males you’re interested in. We hold our mixers in the private room here; it has a great atmosphere and our clients always enjoy themselves. Strictly between the two of us, Jane, is there any being you wouldn’t consider dating, or hanging out with?”

She pushed her glass away, the ice cubes giving a pale green flash. “No vampires.”

“Okay. I’ll keep that in mind. They’re not everyone’s cup of tea, I know.” I felt a mild fizzing excitement at the thought of my six o’clock cup of tea. “And you’re welcome to attend as an observer and not participate in the timed meetings; in fact, I’d recommend it for the first time. You can see how things work. Some clients like to go straight to a lunch date and skip the mixer, but usually they’re people who have a very clear idea of their ideal mate.”

We talked a little more business—she agreed to fill out our online survey in the next few days, where she’d give the agency more information on her interests and background, but since she had been referred by an existing client, that was more of a formality than anything else.

Generally at this point clients, particularly female ones, would open up, feeling more relaxed with the process. I asked about her work as an economist, and received a mind-bogglingly complicated answer at which I nodded thoughtfully and assumed an intelligent expression. I tried not to look at the display on my cell to see what time it was, while wondering if Jane’s lack of personality had anything to do with her failed relationship. Finally, after she’d prodded her ice cubes with her straw a little more, she murmured that she had another appointment, we shook hands and I saw her leave with a sigh of relief.

As she headed for the exit into the main part of the restaurant, a man stepped through the doorway and held the door open for her.

He watched her leave.

“What are you doing here, Knightley?” I asked.

“Looking for my date. Wow. Who was that? One of your clients?”

“Possibly. I don’t think your date is here. Try the main part of the restaurant.”

“Oh. Yeah.” He looked around the courtyard as though finally realizing that a couple in a corner, oblivious of everything but each other, and I were the only occupants. For a financial wizard he seemed to have trouble counting. “She was really hot. Maybe I should get you to fix me up.”

“The application’s online, Knightley.” I ostentatiously looked at my cell. “I’d love to chat, but I have another appointment in a few minutes.”

“Sure.”

He held the door open for me as I made my way into the restaurant and retired to the restroom to replenish my lip gloss and fluff out my hair. For a brief moment I considered fixing Jane and Knightley up together. She was really hot. They’d deserve each other. She could talk economics while he described his toilet-plunging technique.

Armed with a minor spell to prevent me presenting my jugular in the first five minutes, I sauntered back out into the courtyard. To my annoyance, Knightley was still there, in conversation with someone who could only be Frank Churchill.

They both turned as I approached. “Good seeing you again, Frank,” Knightley said. He looked at me and smirked. “Have a good time, sugar.”

Sugar? “I think your date’s in the bar, Knightley. Big chest, blonde?”

“That’s her. See you.”

“Bye,” I said, and the word turned into a sigh as Frank Churchill bared his teeth in a smile.

My first thought was that I should have used a stronger spell, my second was that I didn’t care. My third, as common sense took over, was that I’d better be careful.

He was gorgeous. More gorgeous than vamps have a right to be, with dark blue eyes and dirty blond hair, tall and lithe. He made Knightley look ordinary. He had charisma up the wazoo and he hadn’t even said anything to me yet.

He pulled out a chair at a nearby table. What he did say was quite ordinary, except for his voice, which was even better than on the phone, rich and molten like a great dessert. “You look so like your sister. How’s she doing?”

“Oh, good, good,” I babbled, fortunately landing on the chair as my knees gave way. “I didn’t know you knew Knightley.”

“I met him at Iz and Jim’s place. That’s the funny thing about D.C. We all know each other. It’s like a collection of villages.” He snapped his fingers and the waiter, who’d previously ogled Jane, now seemed to have made a radical change in sexual preference. Frank murmured an order and the waiter left.

“You’re ordering for me?”

“You’ll like it.” He leaned one arm on the table. I stared, awestruck, at the golden hairs on his forearm. Would he notice if I bent forward and licked them? “Talking of mutual acquaintances, wasn’t that Jane Fairfax who was just here?”

“Yes, you know her?” White-hot jealousy shot through me. How dare he notice another woman when I was here!

“Sure. She was here visiting Missy one time. Iz and Jim had us all over to dinner.”

I couldn’t imagine Missy babbling away to this beautiful man; I suppose she used some sort of protection, because even the most amateur of witches knew how to do that.

“Isabella said you were her legal advisor for Hartfield,” I said, attempting normal conversation, “but she didn’t tell me much else about you. Where are you working now?”

He mentioned a major law firm in town and I nodded. Vamps do well as lawyers, having a natural rapaciousness and a penchant for long, billable hours, well into the dark.

“Better than driving a cab,” he added, with a grin and flash of white canines, mentioning the other favored occupation of vamps.

At that point, the waiter and a colleague returned, bearing an ice bucket and a tray of food, and spent much time fussing around, staring at Frank, and making sure we had everything we needed (or everything Frank needed). Finally, having run out of napkins and cutlery to press unnecessarily upon us, they left.

“Champagne?” I squeaked.

“I thought you’d like it.” He eased the cork off with barely a suggestive froth, and poured. He raised his glass to mine. “To success.”

“To success,” I echoed.

I stared at the plates of hors d’oeuvres. “Who do you know in the kitchen? They never cook stuff like this for the agency.”

“Vamp by the name of Angelo, sous-chef,” Frank said. He picked out a delectable little pastry item. “Mention my name. Open up.”

Somehow I managed not to lick his fingers as they brushed against my lips.

Heaven, I thought. I’m in heaven. A vampire was gazing into my eyes, plying me with delicious food and drink, and I had enough enchantment to keep me safe (probably) while I could enjoy the nuance of danger that came with the moment.

“I’ve wanted to meet you for years,” Frank said.

“Why?” I sprayed phyllo crumbs lightly over the table.

“Iz talked about you. Your family’s so proud of you.”

“They are?” I was dumbfounded. Iz was the one with the successful business, the handsome husband and the great apartment.

“Oh, yeah. And, well, I had a bit of a crush on Iz, and…”

“I seemed like the next best thing?”

There’s nothing quite as comic as an embarrassed vamp. He blushed and flapped his hands in an ungraceful sort of way. “Oh, God, no. I’m sorry. No, no. I mean, that if someone like Iz said her sister was so terrific, then you had to be really something.”

“I hope I live up to your expectations.”

He refilled my glass and stared into my eyes. “You will.”

With a great effort I stopped myself sliding under the table in a boneless heap of desire. It was only standard vamp stuff, I reminded myself, his biological destiny. In a way he couldn’t help himself. He’d be coming on to the geraniums in the hanging basket if I wasn’t here—and even as I thought that, petals showered onto the table like drops of blood.

“You’re good,” I said, “but please don’t read my mind.”

“Okay. Sorry.” He picked out another delectable edible for me.

I knew I shouldn’t. This time I let my tongue touch his fingers.

“Bad girl,” he said softly, and I saw his canines touch his lips. “Bad, hungry girl.”

“Can I get you anything else, sir?” Our waiter insinuated himself into our private circle of lust, effectively breaking the moment.

“No, we’re fine,” Frank said. “So tell me how the agency is doing, Emma. Any new clients?”

I didn’t tell him about Elton, but I gave him a rosy picture of my successes, or, to be honest, near successes, hoping he was being a gentleman and not probing my mind. He nodded approvingly at my referral promotion, and laughed when I told him that so far my only success was Missy Bates.

Dusk was falling and so was I, or at least thinking about falling down with Frank on top of me. I rose, attempting a bright professionalism. I intended to walk home to clear my head before diving into a cold shower. “This has been great, Frank. I’ve really enjoyed meeting you, but I’d better get going.”

He tossed a couple of bills onto the table. “I’ll put you in a cab.”

We made our way through the restaurant and onto the street, where Frank raised a finger and a cab drew up—vamp-to-vamp efficiency. I would have had to jump up and down waving both arms in the air for a good ten minutes.

His knee brushed against mine as we settled in the backseat and I feared my protective spell was wearing a little thin. He took a strand of my hair and tucked it behind my ear. “So, if I became a client, do you think Jane Fairfax and I would suit each other?”

“Oh, please, Frank, I’m not the madam of a bordello. Besides, she doesn’t seem like your type.”

“Ah. And what do you think my type is?”

“Once you’ve filled out the agency survey I could give you a better answer. For instance, I’d need to know if you wanted to date outside your subgroup.”

He moved closer to me. “Definitely, and I think you know my type. Blue-eyed witches with curly hair.”

“I don’t date clients, Frank.”

He nodded. “Then I think I’ll postpone becoming a client. Sorry.”

The cab drew up at my apartment building.

“I’ll see you to the door,” he said.

“Oh, you don’t have to—” I wondered if I should invite him up for a drink, but supplies were low in the apartment. I didn’t have anything nearly as good as that champagne; in fact, it was more likely that I had a half-full bottle of diet soda and some stale wine I was saving for cooking. I might as well be offering him a drink of me, which I probably was, and which might not be that good an idea.

He took my hand as we walked up the mosaic steps to the entrance. “I’ll call you. Let’s have dinner soon.”

“Great. Yeah. I’d like that. I—”

His kiss was soft and sweet with enough of a touch of elongated canine to graze my lip and hint at danger and wildness. It stopped my babbling immediately.

“Good night.” He stepped into the shadows and disappeared.

“Show-off,” I muttered as I pushed open the door into the lobby.

To my surprise, Knightley emerged from the elevator, his face full of disapproval. There, I thought, was someone who didn’t score tonight.

“Hi, Dad, sorry I’m late,” I chirped.

“Very funny, Emma. Do you really think it’s smart to mess with vampires?”

“About as smart as messing with pneumatic blondes, Knightley.”

“It’s hardly the same,” he said with the arrogant tilt of the head I disliked so much. “You don’t even know Churchill. What’s that on your front?”

“You used to have a better grasp of anatomy— Oh, shit.” I dabbed at the unpleasant-looking blob on my white shirt and wondering, horror-struck, how long it had been there. “Eggplant, I think.”

“Hope you didn’t get any on your friend the vamp,” he drawled. “Good night.”

Chapter 3

“AND THEN WHAT HAPPENED?” HARRIET ASKED as we set up for the mixer, the first I’d hosted. I was nervous about it, even though I was following Isabella’s instructions to the letter.

“I changed my shirt.” I flipped open my laptop and turned on the wireless connection. “Can we stop this table wobbling?”

“You took your shirt off in front of Knightley?”

“No. Back in the apartment.” I ducked under the table with a folded-up piece of paper and wedged it under the leg.

“You really like this Churchill guy,” said Harriet in one of her rare moments of intuitive wisdom, followed by one of her normally clueless statements. “But not as much as you like Knightley.”

I was saved from having to respond by the arrival of a shy, vaguely hairy person with a badly knotted tie and a copy of the Washington Paranormal Paper in his hand. “Uh, hi. Uh, I have the coupon.”

“Great. Welcome to Hartfield Dating Agency, Mr.—” I glanced at his credit card. “Mr. Martin. If you decide to sign with us after tonight, your $20 admission will be discounted from a six-month or more membership. Now, I’ll need your address and phone number, please…” My heart sank as I typed in his information. Even for a werewolf, a species not known for its social skills, he was homely and painfully shy.

Harriet beamed at him with great interest, which made him fidget and blush under his facial hair. “Here’s your name badge and a drink ticket. The bar’s over there, I’ll show you, and snacks—”

“To your left,” I interrupted her. “Have a great evening, Robert.”

“Bob,” he mumbled and peered at Harriet’s name badge. “I…”

“Go have fun,” I said, and steered him past us and into the room. I introduced him to a small group of regulars who stood in a circle discussing sports. I took a quick look around. It looked good—candles glimmered softly on tables and clients chatted happily together. The doors stood open to the courtyard where Frank and I had sat a few nights before; it was going to be warm enough again to sit outside.

Harriet scowled at me when I came back to the table. “Why did you do that? I liked him. He smelled good.”

I was tempted to remind her of her last dating adventure, but didn’t want to upset her. “Frankly, Harriet, I think you can do better than that, whatever his scent is like.”

We both watched as a woman approached, leaving damp footprints in her wake. She wrung out her clinging wet garments, which sprang into the shape of a cute spring dress and her bare feet assumed strappy sandals. A toss of her limp greenish hair achieved a miraculous sheen and bounce. As a final touch, her minimal breasts swelled into a high, round swimsuit-issue pair. She handed us a coupon.

As I took her details, I motioned her to come closer. “You might want to lose the boobs. False advertising.”

The naiad grinned and deflated her breasts. “Okay.”

Some regulars came in—one pair holding hands, and I felt a swelling pride that they might be leaving us soon, for entirely all the right reasons.

“She’s so hot,” the male of the pair, a vampire whispered to me. “And her blood— Oh, my God, Emma, you wouldn’t believe how—”

“I’m so happy for you,” I said, pleased that the relationship had become serious. “Now go have fun.”

That, I reminded myself, was the downside of dating a vampire. Eventually, the issue of blood, or rather my blood, would come up with me and Frank, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for that sort of commitment. So far things had been casual—lots of texting and flirtatious e-mails. He’d sent flowers, which had made the gargoyles hoot with laughter. We’d talked on the phone. A lot. And tonight…well, after our mixer, Frank and I had plans.

“Hi, Emma.” I was jolted out of my pleasant reverie by a familiar voice.

I met the gaze of a pair of hard, obsidian eyes framed by blond hair and pointed ears. “Oh, Elton. It’s good to see you again.”

To my relief none of his clothes were frog-green. He had an equally beautiful woman on his arm, another elf. He tossed a coupon and a $20 bill onto the table and gave a small, unpleasant smile. “For Augusta. I believe I’m still a member.”

“Hi, welcome. I’m afraid we don’t take cash. It says here on the coupon…”

“How quaint,” Augusta said. “Elton, you didn’t tell me what a cute little place this is.” She looked at me. “I love that dress. I thought it was so darling when it came out last year.”

“It’s my sister’s,” I said and could have kicked myself.

Harriet growled at their backs.

“Don’t let them bug you,” I said, hoping they wouldn’t bug me, either.

But despite the unwelcome presence of Elton and Augusta, the conversation level in the room behind us was warm and friendly, lots of laughter and the sound of chinking glasses. I did a quick magic scan and couldn’t detect anything unusual, other than a bit of magic showing-off by males trying to impress females—tricks with ice cubes and cutlery and so on. The evening was going well. More regulars arrived, and a few more who had been lured in by the advertisement.

As usual I heard Missy Bates before I saw her.

“…oh, I am so clumsy—Jane if you could just—Knightley you are so very—oh and look there’s our Emma, how are—you see how my shawl caught on the purse and I—but of course Knightley—and then Frank…” A tightly knotted group approached, Missy and Jane, and to my surprise, Frank and Knightley.

“Twenty-buck special.” Knightley offered his credit card. “Hi, Harriet. You’re looking good.”

Frank, engaged in disentangling Missy’s shawl from the clasp of Jane’s purse, looked up and gave me a smile that tingled all the way to the soles of my feet. “Emma,” he purred.

“Hi, Frank.” I dropped Knightley’s credit card and scrabbled beneath the table to retrieve it in an undignified way. Knightley was busy introducing Jane to Harriet; I didn’t think he’d noticed.

“I thought I’d like to see you in action,” Frank said. He offered his credit card. I waved it away.

“I’ll be rather busy. I don’t know if I’ll have time to talk to you much.”

“I’m sure it will be worth the wait,” he said with a smoldering look that almost made me giggle.

“You shouldn’t turn down business,” Knightley addressed me for the first time.

“And how are you, George?” I responded. “I didn’t know you were available.”

He put his arms around Jane and Missy’s shoulders. “I’ve come to keep these two lovely ladies company.”

Missy squealed a little in excitement and the unfortunate shawl began a downward slide, as did her bra strap. Jane, elegant and beautiful in a plain black dress that made me feel over-dressed in comparison, seemed indifferent.

“I think I’ll go inside and make sure things are going okay,” I said to Harriet and followed the group inside. I ran through my usual checklist—made sure waiters were distributing trays of canapés, that people had drinks and that no one stood terrified in a corner. Those, I dragged out from their isolation and made introductions. After all, they were there to meet new people, and I’d spent a long time memorizing details about my clients so I could introduce them and get them talking to each other. I left Elton and Augusta alone. I also left Jane and Missy alone—Missy was running off at the mouth as usual, and I figured that if Jane did want to be an observer only, then she was about as safe as she could be from unwelcome advances. Very few dared breach the Bates conversational defenses.

And, to my annoyance, I had Missy Bates on the books for at least three more months since she’d brought Jane in as a client. Not for the first time, I wondered why Isabella had tolerated Missy for so long. Generally, Isabella would have had a quiet lunch with a client like Missy and explained that it wasn’t fair to keep taking her membership fee. Missy never had more than one date with a prospective mate—males ran from that continuous prattle—and it didn’t seem fair to keep her hopes up. It wasn’t fair to the agency, either, I reasoned, having someone as dowdy and vocal as Missy around. On the other hand, she seemed quite happy hanging out with Knightley and now with Jane.

I saw Harriet enter and sniff the air. I’m not sure how she could detect Bob Martin among the many scents at her disposal, but she did—I saw her start across the room.

I got there first. “Bob! Are you having fun? I’d love you to meet Celia.” I led him to the naiad whose breasts had achieved their former centerfold glory.

He stared at her and spilled some beer.

“You’re both new, so why don’t you tell each other a bit about yourselves? Great!”

Harriet stopped in midstride and glared at me. At the same time, Augusta seemed to notice her for the first time, and said, quite loudly, “That one? Oh, my God, Elton. That funny little furry thing?”

They sniggered with each other, their heads bent together. I started toward Harriet but Knightley got there first. He took her hand and led her onto the open space near the speakers where a few couples were already dancing.

Knightley, dancing? He never used to dance. He was quite good at it, too, twirling Harriet around and then bending her into a sort of modified tango swoop that made her giggle.

The two of them made me feel like a chaperone at a high-school dance.

I needed a drink. I made my way to the bar, where Frank sat, and ordered a martini. Hoisting myself onto the barstool I slid off my shoes and wiggled my toes. All in all, I was quite pleased with the way the evening was going. People seemed to be enjoying themselves; a few couples I had introduced had retreated to corners for quiet conversation. Celia, the naiad, had abandoned Bob and was winding herself around someone who could only be a vamp on the dance floor. Bob had found some other werewolves to hang out with. I deserved a quick break, after which I planned to make a few more introductions.

Then it struck me that Frank hadn’t said a word. I turned to him and saw he was staring at Missy and Jane.

He noticed me looking at him and smiled. “Sorry. I was miles away. Is her hair real, do you think?”

I looked at Jane’s luxuriant dark waves of hair. “I guess so. I hadn’t really thought about it.”

My first reaction was to wonder if I’d overdone the protective spell I usually assumed for gatherings that would involve vamps and elves. Although the spell would wear off as the evening progressed, I really hadn’t expected to find Frank so, well, dull tonight. His dangerous vampire charm had evaporated and he seemed to be finding the ice cubes in his glass more interesting than me. At any moment I expected him to go home, claiming his fangs ached.

I placed my empty glass on the bar, consulted my folder, pushed my feet back into my shoes and, with Harriet’s help, searched out the clients who’d requested one-on-one meetings. We settled them at tables in the courtyard, where there were fewer distractions and a more romantic atmosphere, and supplied them with scorecards. They had five minutes to impress each other.

I watched nervously. Some people could do this well; others went into babbling rants of the best and biggest spell they’d cast or a quick delivery of their resume, as though they were applying for a job. Their scorecards had suggested talking points, to which some clients stuck with dogged determination.

“I have a cat,” a witch sitting at a table nearby blurted out to the vampire who sat opposite her. “Do you like cats?”

“I’ve never…” he replied. “I’ve heard their blood is… I mean…” They both glanced at their scorecards. “Do you attend sports events often?”

I restrained myself from slapping my forehead. I wasn’t trying to listen in, but I did like to keep an eye on things. Celia had signed up for a membership, to my delight. I paired her first with a cute elf who proceeded to lecture her about his job writing government proposals, which she met with an equally tedious account of day-to-day life at the Federal Reserve. All going well, in fact.

My stopwatch beeped and I signaled my clients to move to different tables.

Harriet appeared with a plate of canapés that we shared, and I had another martini. As our clients met their last prospective partner, I could overhear Jane and Missy preparing to leave.

“I’m fine. We can walk.”

“But your shoes—they’re so cute but I—or a bus, it’s only a few—but then we’d have to—or maybe Knightley can give us a ride—although—”

“I expect he’ll want to stay. It’s still quite early.”

“Oh! You mean—well, I have to get up early tomorrow but maybe—or do you think Emma may—”

“I don’t think she drove. No, it’s okay, really. We can walk. When I’ve bought a car—”

“Oh, but parking is so—and the one-way streets are—you know what Knightley said—it was when we—oh, no, it was after that, I think, because I remember he offered to—I couldn’t walk in those heels, Jane, but then you’re—”

At this point Knightley joined them and gallantly offered them a ride home. My stopwatch beeped again, I collected my clients’ scorecards and Missy, Jane and Knightley moved into the courtyard. Missy started on a long-winded discussion on how she and Jane really didn’t need a ride home.

Knightley insisted and Missy shut up for a few minutes. The three of them paused as Missy began to rummage through her capacious tapestry purse.

Frank wandered out into the courtyard and came to my side. He gave me a light kiss on the cheek. “Shall we leave soon?”

Jane slipped in her high heels on the cobbles of the courtyard and Knightley moved to her side, taking her arm.

“Well,” said Missy, “I wonder if—but that’s what you do—Emma, I do hope you will find Jane—she’s shy but some people think she’s—she doesn’t talk much, although as I said to Knightley—you had to laugh, Emma, I—”

“Lovely to see you,” I said firmly. “I might have someone for you to have lunch with soon. I’ll call you. Thanks again for bringing Jane.” My duty was done.

“Give me five minutes,” I said to Frank.

Oh yes, my spell was definitely wearing off. I was aware of Frank’s warmth and his hand briefly on my hip; the flash of fang in his smile. I touched base with Harriet, who was deep in conversation with a pack of werewolves, with Bob Martin gazing adoringly at her, and retrieved my purse and laptop from behind the bar. After I’d settled up with the restaurant, I did one last round of the room, promised to call people who had met someone they really liked but whose name they couldn’t remember and finally escaped.

Frank stood in the courtyard, light from a lantern glinting off his hair and accentuating the handsome bones of his face. I stopped for just a moment to admire him. Oh, God, he was gorgeous. Tall and lean, elegant in a dark blue shirt and dark pants, with his suit jacket slung over one shoulder. I’d never gone much for men in suits before—possibly because I didn’t know how good a man in a well-cut suit could look (besides, men in suits reminded me of Knightley when he wasn’t in janitorial mode). He didn’t wear a tie; his shirt was unbuttoned at the neck because vampires liked to show off their own throats. I’d never really seen the appeal before myself.

I was quite sure he knew I was looking at him: that stillness, the pose, was for my benefit. He turned a little so that the light caught his throat and smiled at me. Oh, yes, very definitely a vamp on the prowl.

“Are you hungry?” I asked.

He raised his eyebrows. If he’d been human, my question would have been the equivalent of asking him if he had an erection (and to be honest, I was quite interested in that, too).

“Uh, I mean, it’s late for dinner, but if you like we could…I have some stuff at my apartment, or…” I was embarrassed now by my tactless question. “I’ve pigged out on canapés, so I’m okay.” Real attractive, Emma.

He crossed the courtyard to my side in that unnerving flash of movement I could never get used to in vampires. “You’re more than okay.” He took my chin in his hand and turned my face to his. I fervently hoped that my canapé pigout had not included anything with garlic.

And then he kissed me to stop me from blurting out anything else that was stupid or not in the Big Book of Vampire Etiquette and the entire world shrank to that moment, the man whose mouth caressed mine, and his feel and taste. I was dazzled.

“I think,” he murmured, “we should go to your apartment as soon as possible. And, yes, I’m quite hungry.”

Oh, my God. He was everything my mother and sister had warned me against, the big, bad sexy vampire, and my protective spell had almost entirely faded away.

His arm around me, we went onto the street where he did the vampire-cab thing again.

We kissed all the way to my apartment and I noticed that Frank made no effort to hide his fangs from me—although how could he have done so when they grazed my lips and tongue. The cab driver flashed his own fangs at us when we arrived and growled something that made Frank laugh.

“What did he say?”

He grinned. “It doesn’t translate very well, and it’s rather crude. He was, er, congratulating me on my fangs and wishing me well for the night.”

“You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?” I fumbled for my keys, wishing I hadn’t asked.

“I’m a vampire. I can’t help my biological destiny.”

“You mean I’m your biological destiny tonight?”

He grinned again, all charm and fangs. “Exactly. Don’t look so annoyed.”

I didn’t stay annoyed for long, not when Frank kissed me in the elevator and we emerged, me dazzled and weak-kneed, on the fifth floor. My hands were shaking so much I could hardly unlock the apartment door. I led him into the large living-and-dining space and placed my laptop and purse on the table.

A chorus of whistles and hoots met us from the gargoyles.

Frank strode to the window. “Shut up! One more word from you lot and you’re gravel!”

There were some awed whispers and then dead silence.

A little light from outside filtered into the room, and I’d left a lamp on in the bedroom. Frank tossed his jacket onto a chair and turned to me, eyes glittering in the dim light.

“You asked me before if I was hungry.”

“Yes.” I backed against the refrigerator door, the metal cool against my shoulders. I should really move away if I wanted to open it, but my brain didn’t seem to be working very well. “Can I get you anything?”

He walked toward me with the cool, male strut of an aroused vamp. Oh, he was hungry, definitely hungry, fangs out, and hard when he pressed against me. “I think…I think tonight I’ll have dessert first.”

I shivered with fear and desire. “Frank, I’m not using any protection. My spell for the evening wore off.”

He nibbled at my mouth, my neck, my ear. “Don’t worry. You haven’t dated a vampire before, have you?”

“Not really. No.” There was no point in lying to him.

“Two things to remember, Emma. I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to, and I can guarantee you won’t think about Knightley anymore.”

“I don’t think about Knightley!” I exclaimed with great indignation.

“You thought about him in the lobby.”

“Well, yeah. I did, but… Here’s a third thing to remember, Frank. You don’t read my thoughts.”

“Okay. Do you want to cast yourself some protection?” This was the most awkward question of a paranormal encounter, which made the condom thing ludicrously easy in comparison.

“No.” I unbuttoned his shirt and touched his hot skin. He smelled delicious, of sweat and male and arousal. Now I wanted to bite him.

“Okay.” His hands slid up my thighs, under my short polka-dot dress. “I’ve been wanting to do this all night. I watched the way your dress moved when you walked. I loved watching you cross your legs when you sat.”

He hooked his thumbs into my panties.

“Condoms are in the bedroom,” I gasped.

“We won’t need them for a while.”

He was right. I stopped thinking about anyone except Frank. And then I stopped thinking at all.

Chapter 4

“EMMA?”

I opened my eyes. The darkness of night had given way to the slate gray of early morning. The sound of traffic outside had diminished and from the direction of the zoo, a gibbon gave a tentative early-morning whoop.

“I have to go.” Frank sat on the edge of the bed, wearing his shirt and boxers. His hair was mussed and he looked sleepy and rumpled.

“Okay. I could make coffee,” I said, hoping that he would make me coffee and bring it to me in bed and then I could get his clothes off.

“No, it’s okay. You go back to sleep.”

“What do you have to do at…” I squinted at my clock. “At four in the morning?”

“Racquetball at five, then get a couple of billable hours in before a breakfast meeting.”

“I’d love to make you late, counselor.”

He leaned over to kiss me in a friendly sort of way, not a fang in sight. “I’d love that, too, gorgeous, but I have to get going.”

I watched him step into his pants and button his shirt, and then pause in front of the mirror, although I wasn’t quite sure what he could actually see there, to shove his hair into a semblance of tidiness. All very graceful and sexy, just a normal vampire morning after. He sat on the bed again to put his socks on, keeping out of my reach.

I would have loved to pull him back into bed with me, but I felt tired and sated and slightly sore—naturally a vamp would know some positions I’d only seen on the Internet, and some that I don’t think anyone had seen anywhere. And I liked to look at him, this exotic male creature wandering around my bedroom.

“I’ll text you.” He bent to kiss me and nuzzled my neck. “God, you’re so sexy.”

I heard his footsteps across the parquet floor then muffled by the rug in the living room, followed by the sound of the door opening and closing.

Frank’s most recent nuzzling at my neck seemed to have resulted in a sting rather like a minor burn. I touched it with my fingers.

Oh, holy shit. I leaped out of bed and ran into the bathroom. God, I looked a mess, mascara ringing my eyes and my hair on end, no wonder he couldn’t wait to get out of the apartment. And there on my neck, were two little puncture wounds and a trail of dried blood. No bruise—a vamp who knew what he was doing wouldn’t bruise you.

I couldn’t believe it. Sometime during the night I’d let him bite me. He must have thought I was an absolute slut, and by vamp standards I was, letting him bite me on the second date. Oh, God. Would my name and number be written in vampiric runes on the walls of every legal office men’s room in D.C.?

Worse yet, I couldn’t remember him doing it, let alone giving him permission. What was that he’d said? I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to.

So I could only conclude that I’d allowed, or, worse, asked him to bite me. And while Frank was busily fulfilling his biological destiny I had had unprotected (in the magical sense) sex. What else might I have done, or said, that I couldn’t remember?

At least I didn’t feel light-headed—he couldn’t have taken very much blood. It was more of a token bite, a vamp marking his territory, a cute little drama starring Frank as a mutt and me as a fire hydrant.

What an idiot I was.

I returned to the bedroom, stripped off the sheets and hurled them into the laundry basket, trying to ignore the seductive wafts of male vampire and sex that rose from the linen.

Then I stepped into the shower, turned on the water as hot as I could stand and stayed there for a very long time. Never again, I swore. I would not let Frank Churchill’s fangs, or any other part of his anatomy, near me. I would keep my clothes on and swaddle myself in enchantment when in his presence.

Pink, squeaky clean, wearing a fluffy blue bathrobe that dated from my undergraduate days and that only one man had ever seen, I wandered into the kitchen and made coffee. My cell phone, lying on the table, made the annoying buzzing sound that indicated I had a text message.

If it was from Frank, I decided, I’d delete it immediately. Fervently hoping that his opponent would crack his handsome skull during his racquetball game, I pressed the plunger of the coffee press down and splattered hot liquid down the front of my bathrobe and all over the kitchen counter.

R U OK?

It was my sister. I couldn’t say I was relieved, because if she had picked up on my distress, I’d have to offer some sort of explanation. Or maybe there wasn’t anything witchy in Isabella’s message at all, only that she was concerned because I hadn’t e-mailed or called in the last few days. I’d been too busy sending flirty little messages to Mr. Frank the Fang.

I mopped up the counter, poured myself a cup of coffee and decided to delay things by sending her an e-mail. I then made the discovery that my laptop, half in and half out of its bag, was turned on, the lid cracked open. I was sure—fairly sure—that I’d put the bag down on the table when Frank and I entered the apartment. I knew my thoughts had been on something other than checking my e-mail or playing computer games.

Maybe Frank had woken even earlier than I thought and checked his e-mail, but he had a highly sophisticated cell that did everything except make toast. So why would he want to use my laptop? And not say anything about it?

I touched my fingertips to my violated neck. This wasn’t good, any of it. And I wasn’t going to e-mail Isabella, because she’d immediately wonder what I was up to before six in the morning—she knew better than anyone how I could hardly bear to drag myself out of bed before it was fully daylight. No, I’d drink my coffee, do the laundry and go to the gym. I would not hang around the apartment becoming paranoid and imagining the worst. I’d made a mistake, that was all, and I hoped I’d learned something from it.

And, however much I might deny my stupidity, I’d had a terrific time in bed with Frank (the bloodsucking creep). I almost regretted that I couldn’t remember the biting.

“OOH, FLOWERS!” SAID HARRIET with her usual grasp of the obvious.

They were indeed obvious, a small forest of sunflowers, roses and hydrangeas, a few birds of paradise poking out of the top, and some orchids to round everything off. I hoped they weren’t for me. The bouquet, which lost a few blooms squeezing through the office doorway, screamed Put a ton of the fanciest flowers in the biggest vase you have to impress the little lady.

Frank’s pre-deflowering bouquet had been an understated cute masterpiece of Shasta daisies.

“Who are they from?” Harriet was almost jumping up and down with excitement.

“Frank,” I muttered as I opened the card.

For my delicious sexy Emma.

I sent him an e-mail: Thanks for the flowers. Emma.

A perky out-of-the-office reply bounced back to me. Frank, it appeared, was out of town until after the weekend, something he’d neglected to tell me this morning. A night of great sex did not compensate for being made to feel like a fool the next morning, something I’d learned ten years ago, or thought I had. A pen cracked in my fingers with a small flash of fire. I was reminded of Jane Fairfax’s sparking ice cubes.

“I like your scarf,” Harriet said. Obviously, she was dying to know if there were any telltale marks beneath.

I took cover behind the monstrous blooms that took up most of my desk. “Thanks. We have a lot of e-mails to answer from last night. Can you see if you can find a nerdy sort of male for Missy Bates? I more or less promised her a lunch date.”

I made my obligatory gushing phone call to the restaurant to thank them for last night and see if anyone had left any personal items behind—cell phones, the occasional dental retainer or pair of eyeglasses, and once, according to my sister, a single shoe, as though Cinderella had attended.

“Thanks again, and we’ll see you in two weeks,” I finished, about to disconnect the call.

“Two weeks?”

“Is that a problem?”

I could hear the rustling sound of pages being turned. “I’m sorry, Miss Woodhouse. I have it here that your next event was canceled.”

“Canceled? How about the next one?”

More rustling. “We don’t have any more bookings for you until September.”

“Oh, no.” This must have been something Isabella forgot to tell me about. Maybe the restaurant had misunderstood, thinking that with Isabella abroad, the agency’s bookings should be canceled. “Do you have any evenings this summer where we could have the party room and a few tables in the courtyard? Please?”

They looked, I begged, cajoled and threatened, but it was no use. Hartfield’s bookings, if they had ever existed, had disappeared into thin air. I glared across the office at Harriet who was making soft amorous growling sounds on the phone, and finally plucked a flower from the bouquet and threw it at her to get her attention.

“What’s up?” she said.

I explained the situation to her.

“Why would Isabella do that?”

“I don’t know.” Maybe it was why she’d called this morning. “We’d better get to work on finding another location. Can you call the Washington Paranormal Paper and the Post about our ads, please—keep the space but tell them we’ll send new copy. And let me know if you think of somewhere suitable—you know the city better than me.”

Two hours later my desk was giving off occasional sparks and a bird of paradise wasn’t looking too good after spontaneous combustion followed by a dousing with cold coffee.

“Nothing,” I said. “They’re either too expensive or they just won’t work. Any luck?”

“Well…there is one place.”

“Great! Where?”

“The roof of your building. I know Knightley rents it out on weekends and it’s really nice.”

“Harriet, you’re brilliant! Did you call him already?”

She shook her head. “I think you’d better talk to him.”

“Why? Okay, no big deal.”

I left a message on his work phone, thinking feverishly. We could have an awning for shelter against the evening sun—the vamps would throw hissy fits if we didn’t provide some shade. There was a clubhouse on the floor below we could use for the one-on-one, five-minute sessions, or if it rained, and we’d have the events catered, get some pretty flowers in containers for decorations—it would work brilliantly. Just so long as Knightley agreed, and if Thursday nights were available. Or at this point, any night. I scribbled figures on my notepad, figuring out the cost of more e-mail blasts, bigger ads, more promotion.

Right on cue the agency’s bookkeeper, Larry, called. “Hi, Emma. We have a few problems.”

“Problems? What sort of problems?”

“I’m having trouble reconciling things. I’ll e-mail you the details. I’m fairly sure we can sort it out easily. Take a look and get back to me.”

My heart sank. From only my few weeks at the agency I knew I was in for hours of cross-checking and poring over reports.

I took a break and tried calling Isabella, but got her voice mail. I assured her I was fine and so was the agency, and that we’d talk soon.

Finally, I retrieved a message from Knightley saying he’d drop by my apartment with contracts over the weekend and to call him back—our first piece of good news all day. I called back—straight onto his voice mail, of course—and told him I’d be home the next morning.

I asked Harriet what she was doing for dinner.

She smirked. “I have a date.”

“Not that Bob Martin guy, I hope.”

“Actually, yes. Is there a problem with that?” She bared her teeth.

“So long as he isn’t a client. He seems really nice, but don’t you think he’s a bit—” short, shy, hairy “—I mean, I think you might get bored with him.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. What are you doing?”

“Going out to dinner on my own.” It was a split-second decision. I didn’t want to talk with anyone—Harriet would have been okay because then we could have talked business and I wouldn’t have had to put on a front of everything being great. I wanted some good food and wine and solitude.

“Not with Frank?”

“He’s on a business trip.”

She nodded. “How about Knightley, then?”

I made a face.

ISABELLA’S E-MAIL THE NEXT morning made me whoop with glee and hit the print button.

Knightley knocked on the door at almost exactly the same time.

“Look!” I flung the door open and handed him the picture.

He frowned. “A snowstorm in a cone?”

“You have it the wrong way up. Look. It’s a baby. Isabella’s baby. I’m going to be an aunt!”

He gazed at the picture, now the right way up. “That’s a…?”

“Yes. That blob is my niece or nephew. Isn’t that great?”

“Oh, wow,” he said, his voice soft. “A baby.”

“You are such a girl,” I said, elbowing him. His gray eyes were filled with tears.

He sniffed. “It’s amazing. Do you think that’s an arm or leg?”

“Possibly. I think it pretty much looks like a shrimp.”

He laid a manila folder on the kitchen table. “Do you want to call her? I can always come back later.”

The phone rang and I grabbed it, thinking it might be Isabella.

“Emma? Oh, Emma. You’ll never—I can’t believe—I said, ‘Jane, there must be a mistake, you—’ but the guy from the dealership—and we don’t have a—you must come—” the sound became muffled.

I waved at Knightley who was edging toward the door. Missy Bates, I mouthed. I covered the phone. “I think she’s in some sort of trouble.” I took my hand away. “Missy. Missy? Are you there? I think you have the phone upside down. Okay. What’s wrong? Take a deep breath. Start over.”

She responded with another flood of words. Even for her, this was incoherent.

Knightley took the phone from me. “Knightley here. Calm down, Missy, tell me what’s wrong.”

He frowned as she shrieked and babbled. Eventually, she had to pause for breath. I heard, quite clearly, “And you’re in Emma’s apartment? Oh, that’s—I’ve always thought—but…” and she was off again.

“Okay,” Knightley said. “We’ll be over. Twenty minutes.”

“What’s going on?” I said. “Is she hurt? It’s not one of her cats, is it? Have they called 911?”

He shook his head. “No, it’s not that sort of emergency. No one’s hurt. It’s something to do with Jane. Come on, I’ll drive.”

I stuffed the ultrasound picture into my jeans pocket and we ran out to the elevator. Knightley’s BMW was parked a couple of blocks away.

“This is very impressive,” I said, settling into the leather seat. “No Doritos on the floor. No apple cores in the ashtray. You’ve come up in the world, Knightley.”

“Put on your seat belt.” He eased the car out into the Saturday-morning traffic.

If we hadn’t been on our way to help a distressed friend, with the additional worry of not knowing exactly what her problem was, I would have enjoyed the ride. In a year or so, when Isabella and Jim were back in town, we could bicycle, towing a toddler in a brightly colored cart, or take him or her to a café where we’d sit at an outside table in the sunshine. They might even have a dog, like the couple running with a golden retriever loping along beside them. Later, my niece or nephew could be one of those kids in a car crammed with sports or music gear, on their way to soccer or orchestra. And me…Aunt Emma. I liked the sound of it.

But I wondered where I’d be then; would I still be in D.C.? Would I have found someone special and be contemplating a family of my own?

Knightley tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he expertly steered the car west across town. We turned onto Wisconsin Avenue, sleazy and cheerful, tourists browsing sidewalk displays of watches and beads and designer knockoff purses, and then onto one of the picturesque cobbled side streets.

“I’ve always liked these old houses,” he commented. “Not worth what you pay, though. I’d like something with a bigger yard.”

I wondered if he, too, was daydreaming about a future family.

A few more turns and we were on the block where Missy lived. Knightley slowed as we both started to look for a parking space.

To my surprise Missy and Jane were outside on the brick sidewalk. For a moment I wondered if they’d locked themselves out. I could hear Missy talking and talking, and still hear her when Knightley squeezed his car into a tight parking space and we opened the doors. As we walked toward them, I could see that Missy was excited rather than agitated.

She ran to us, talking all the while “…such a surprise—I have no idea—but Jane, do come here and tell—I was outside picking up the newspaper when—and this weekend she—”

“Someone gave me a car,” Jane said.

She gestured at a bright, yellow, shiny VW Bug parked outside their house.

“That’s so cute!” I said. “Lucky you! Who’s it from?”

“We don’t know!” Missy cried. “Such a surprise—they delivered it this morning and Jane and I were getting ready to—you know she’s been looking at cars, and I said—and the insurance is paid for a year—” She tugged at my sleeve and whispered, “Emma, I think it’s from her ex-boyfriend—you know, the one who—but she’s probably told you already, and my feeling is she—oh, look at Knightley, he’s so cute….”

I didn’t often agree with Missy, but the sight of Knightley, sleeves rolled up and peering inside the hood at the Bug’s engine, in serious conversation with Jane, was rather nice. His butt, a little too skinny when I knew him, had improved immensely.

“Congratulations, Jane,” Knightley said, rolling his sleeves down and buttoning his cuffs. “Welcome to driving in D.C.”

“Oh, you’re so funny! You must have some iced tea—coffee—no, stay to lunch. Jane, do we have some—or maybe we should celebrate by—Emma, you must be—”

“We’re fine, Missy,” I said, knowing that once trapped in her cat-filled house we would be there for hours. “Knightley and I have something to do. I mean, I have and so does he,” I added, noticing her look of delighted interest. “Congratulations, Jane. It’s a lovely car.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. She stroked the car’s shiny surface and looked at Knightley with a shy smile. “You didn’t need to come over, but it was great to see you. It’s just that Missy was so excited and we wanted to share the news.”

“No problem,” Knightley said, grinning back like a fool. “We’ll see you later.” Out of earshot, he muttered, “That’s absurd. She’ll spend hours trying to find a parking spot near the house and the shocks won’t last a month on those cobbles.”

“It’s a great car,” I said.

“Maybe, but whoever gave it to her wasn’t thinking straight.” He clicked the remote to unlock the car doors. “Do you want to grab some lunch?”

“What?” I stared at him. “You’re asking me to have lunch with you?”

“Whatever,” he muttered and opened the car door for me.

“I mean, it’s only ten-thirty.”

He shrugged and pulled away from the curb with a screech of tires. “Take a look at that contract and give it back to me,” was all he said on the ride home. “Call the office next week if you have any questions.”

Back in the apartment I called Isabella and we squealed together on the phone, talking about her due date and if she’d be back in the States by then, and how soon she’d know whether it was a boy or a girl. I assured her that the business was going fine, just fine, and that yes, I’d met Frank, and he seemed like a really nice guy, Knightley was fine and the gargoyles were quiet.

I had to go through the same sort of subterfuge when Mom and Dad called a bit later that day. By then, I sat at the dining-room table scattered with reports and statements and saw that, indeed, in the last few weeks, something had gone very wrong with the business’s finances. Money had disappeared, apparently into thin air. I’d have to tap into the savings, and lose considerable interest, to make the expenses for the rest of the month.

The worst thing was that I couldn’t talk to anyone about it. Normally I took my problems to Isabella, but she was so happy now I couldn’t tell her I’d possibly screwed up her business. I hadn’t been in town long enough or had enough leisure time to make friends, real friends in whom I could confide. The only person I knew well here was Knightley and there was no way I would share this misery with him. He was far too fond of taking over. Just a few hours ago he’d taken the phone from me and calmed Missy down—something I might have been able to do without his interference, given time and patience. And someone like Missy, creating crises and fluttering around helplessly offering iced tea and adoring giggles, only made him worse.

Knightley hadn’t really changed much in the past ten years. He was still the superior, arrogant privileged male, and, worse, he could still jerk my chain.

Chapter 5

“YOU LOOK TIRED, EMMA.” FRANK CHURCHILL, his face full of concern, put his hand over mine as he slid into the leather booth opposite me. When he’d called and asked to meet, I’d suggested this bar on Capitol Hill where dark oak paneling, leather and the dark-suited clientele precluded any sort of romantic atmosphere.

I was protected by so much magic I could as well have been wearing armour. His touch had absolutely no effect on me; today, he looked like a fairly good-looking guy and that was all. I had only agreed to meet him because after my weekend with the books, followed by a meeting on Monday with my accountant and another this morning with the bank, I needed lunch and a break. I didn’t want a big helping of vampire charm; I wanted a burger and fries.

“I am tired,” I said after we’d ordered. “Things are pretty busy. How was your trip?”

“Oh, good, good.” He nodded. His face was unreadable behind his wraparound mirror sunglasses. “That’s actually why I wanted to meet.”

The waitress placed our burgers on the table, mine cooked medium-well and Frank’s rare. I started in on the side of onion rings I’d ordered.

“There’s something I have to say to you, Frank. I don’t remember giving you permission to bite me, although I suppose I must have done, but I’m wondering what else I don’t remember about that night. If there’s anything else you think I should know, please tell me now.”

He ran his finger around the neck of his beer bottle. Without any protection I think I might have swooned. As it was, I saw it only as a cheap vampire trick.

“I’m sorry. You were so sexy, Emma. You smelled so delicious. I asked when—when I thought you wouldn’t say no to anything.”

“I trust you’re not implying it was my fault—that I was so sexy and delicious I made you do it? And you waited three nanoseconds before I had an orgasm to ask me? I was really upset when I found the bite marks.”

“Give me a break, Emma.”

“No, Frank. You give me a break. Give me some honesty here, or I’ll order a stake, and it won’t be one with fries.”

“Christ,” he said. “You’re so hostile.”

“Do you blame me?” I eyed the furniture in the bar, wondering if I’d worked out enough recently to rip off a chair leg and plunge it into Frank’s immaculate shirt front. “So was there anything else unusual that you or I did that night? You didn’t invite any of your buddies in, for instance, and put a spell on me so I’d blank that out, too?”

“Of course not! I can understand that you’re mad,” he said, and I wished I could believe what he was about to say. I didn’t really think I’d been the victim of some vampire orgy, but I wondered what I might have said to him. “You were gorgeous, we had a great time and I…well, I am what I am, Emma. A shallow bite, a little blood, is very erotic during sex for a vampire. I think you must know that. I gave in to temptation, and I’m sorry. You’re pretty magicked up at the moment, aren’t you?”

I nodded, my mouth full of burger.

He sighed. “I’m sorry I’ve lost your trust.”

I waved the waitress over. “Can you bring us some ketchup, please? No big deal, Frank, it’s not as though we have any sort of future together.”

He dipped a fry into the bloody juice on his plate. Eeew.

The waitress returned with the ketchup and Frank looked appalled as I slopped a generous amount onto my fries. “Remind you of anything?”

“Emma, what can I do to convince you that I am sorry for upsetting you?”

I considered what he could do. I couldn’t bitch at him indefinitely; it seemed childish. He knew now I was mad at him, and I hoped he had some idea why, and that he wouldn’t do the same thing to another nonvamp. I’d prefer to end our relationship, such as it was, on a friendly note. “Are you going to eat that pickle?”

He smiled and turned his plate, pickle side toward me. “Help yourself.”

“But why did you want to see me, Frank?”

“Well…” he picked at the label on his beer bottle. “When I went back to the L.A. office this weekend, they offered me a partnership.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks. But the problem is…” another pause.

He leaned forward and gazed into my eyes. “You know why this makes things complicated for me. I don’t have to explain it to you. You’re so intuitive and smart and I’m sure you’ve already…well, I don’t need to say any more.”

In my opinion he’d have to say a lot more to explain whatever it was he was trying to say, but he nodded emphatically as though he’d given me a perfectly adequate explanation. Enjoying my sudden and unexpected reputation as a person of high intuition and intelligence, I could only murmur that of course I understood, before diving into my fries again.

We parted with a friendly kiss on the cheek—there was no dangerous vamp sizzle at all, to my relief—and I returned to the office to find Harriet in tears.

“Clients have been calling me up and complaining,” she wailed.

“About what?”

“They said we sold their e-mail addresses.”

“What?” This was serious. We never, ever sold or traded an e-mail address. “What sort of material have they been getting?”

She sniffed and showed me an e-mail that had been forwarded to her.

Attention, Washington DC paranormal singles!

A new sophisticated urban solution for finding that special someone!

Save the date now for our debut event, Friday, June 17, 6:30 at the Vineyard Restaurant.

www.elfinlove.com.

“What lame copy,” I commented. “And that’s at our location—our old location. What’s going on?”

Harriet clicked on the link to a site full of gorgeous swirly patterns and tinkling music. “Oh,” she sighed. Her eyelids fluttered and her head dropped forward.

I caught her before she fell out of her chair, and clicked her browser off.

Harriet blinked and shook her head. “Sorry, what did you just say?”

“Please don’t visit that site again. It seems to have some sort of magic virus. Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine. I was having a great dream about me and Bob. We were dancing in a beautiful cave hung with satin and velvet drapes, and elves were giving us goblets of wine and delicious cakes.”

“How clichéd,” I commented. “You’d think elves could have come up with something different in the past thousand years or so. But that’s not what worries me.”

Harriet gasped. “Oh, no, Emma, do you think my computer is infected?”

I assured her it wasn’t her fault, while hoping we wouldn’t lose too much data. Once I’d started the enchantment virus application, I told Harriet to take the rest of the day off, since it would take several hours of computer time.

After she’d left I began to shake. What if we’d both looked at that site and I hadn’t been protected? Would we be lost in some sort of romantic elven dream, sprawled helpless on the floor?

I was pretty sure Elton, with his IT background, had something to do with this nasty trick, but I’d already had one uncomfortable confrontation that day and didn’t have the energy for more. By Friday, though, I’d be ready to get myself magicked up and attend the debut event of elfinlove.com, just to see what was really going on.

The enchantment virus application popped up its report on the screen and I breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was intact. So something had gone right—actually two things had gone right this week: I’d messengered over the signed contract and a deposit to Knightley for the rooftop rental, and Harriet and I had worked our way down the list of extra services we needed for the location—catering, plants, awning, valet parking and so on.

On an impulse I picked up the phone and called Knightley.

“I didn’t thank you for the roof rental.”

“That’s okay.”

“No, really, it’s going to be great. And you gave me a very reasonable rate.”

“You’ll have more overhead there. You won’t save a whole lot. In fact, it may cost you more.”

“Maybe.” I examined the chipped polish on my toenails. Another thing to do. My legs were looking a bit prickly, too. And then something made me ask, “What are you doing on Friday evening?”

“This Friday? What do you have in mind?”

I told him about the spam, but glossed over the possible misuse of my client list, and that now Hartfield Dating Agency had competition.

I heard clicking sounds. “Yeah, I got it, too. It’s in my spam folder. They probably hit every known paranormal single in town.”

“Don’t click through! You’ll wake up in seven years and a day with your keyboard attached to your forehead and a fried hard drive.”

He laughed. “I’m tougher than that. Sure, I’ll go with you on Friday. Sounds like fun.”

“A singles’ bar full of elves? I don’t think so. This is business, Knightley.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, I forgot. I’ll meet you in the bar.”

I said goodbye to him and disconnected. A date with Knightley—what was I thinking? But it wasn’t a date. It was business, as I’d told him. Harriet would probably have accompanied me, but she was out of her depth with elves—I’d learned that the hard way. I could have gone on my own, but I was finding out that although I might pride myself on my self-sufficiency, sometimes it was nice to have a friend.

Or, if not a friend, someone who knew me.

KNIGHTLEY, BEING A GENTLEMAN, had arrived at the bar early so I wouldn’t have to wait alone at the mercy of prowling elves. Sure enough, a group of them were having an impassioned conversation about something highly technical—I know it involved Java, and I didn’t think they meant coffee, but I couldn’t understand much more than that. I could have walked in stark naked and they wouldn’t have noticed.

I’d put quite a bit of thought into what I should wear. Not the short-skirted polka-dot dress that I’d worn (for the first part of the evening) when I’d taken Frank home. A suit looked too formal. Definitely not jeans or shorts. Remembering Jane Fairfax’s elegance, I finally settled for a plain black linen dress, chunky bracelets that looked like ivory and small gold earrings.

Knightley sat at the bar, one ankle propped casually on his knee, reading the newspaper. A glass of beer stood at his elbow. Now and again an elf or vamp, usually a female, glanced at him, but he paid them no attention. He looked good in a pair of khakis, a blue-and-white striped shirt, his bare feet in loafers. I felt myself give a little sigh.

He looked up as I approached. “Why, Miss Moneypenny!”

“Very funny. Is that beer shaken or stirred?”

“What are you drinking, Woodhouse?” He pulled out a barstool for me with his foot.

I ordered a zinfandel.

“Did you see this in the paper?” He pointed to an article in the Metro section of the Post. “A lot of people fell asleep at their computers on Tuesday afternoon. Some odd phenomenon, apparently.”

“The junk mail.”

“Yeah. Not good. And now it looks like you have serious competition.” He folded the newspaper and laid it on the bar. “Are you magicked up?”

“Yes.”

“Shall we go in?” He stood and offered me his hand.

I hadn’t touched his hand in that way for years. I’d forgotten how my hand, not particularly small or delicate, felt that way when his long fingers were wrapped around mine.

“I’ll get this,” I said as we approached the check-in table. “Business expense. Oh, hi, Augusta. Fancy seeing you here.”

Augusta, wearing a tight strapless violet leather dress, sat at the check-in table. “Thirty dollars, please. Oh, Knightley,” she cooed. “We don’t have nearly enough males here. Don’t you look good enough to eat!”

“And I don’t?” I said. “Oh, hi, Elton. How are you?”

“What are you doing here?” Elton gripped my elbow and steered me to one side.

“Research,” I said. Being manhandled by a beautiful, blond, pointy-eared thing with such gorgeous, fathomless dark eyes wasn’t so bad, even if it did make me think in clichés.

Someone else grabbed me. “Go magic up some more,” Knightley hissed in my ear. “You’re not even in the door and you’re falling apart.”

“Oh, bite me,” I muttered, and saw a male vamp look at me with interest. I shot into the bathroom and locked myself into a stall—I’d never been much good at administering self-enchantment in public.

When I emerged, to my surprise I saw Jane Fairfax applying lip gloss at the mirror.

Our reflected eyes met.

“Is Missy here?” In a way I hoped she was, because then she’d become Elton and Augusta’s problem, not mine.

“No.” She didn’t sound very friendly.

The door opened and Augusta sashayed in. “Oh, there you are, Jane. Don’t hide in here, honey. There are lots of lovely males out there.” She admired her own size-two reflection, and whined for our benefit, “God, I look huge today.”

Neither Jane nor I supplied the obligatory cries of how thin she looked, and, on the contrary, we were the fat ones.

“I wish I had your hair,” she said to Jane.

“Your hair is great,” Jane said dutifully.

I was tempted to tell Augusta that I wished I had large, pointy ears like hers.

“You haven’t called the senator yet,” Augusta said.

I busied myself with mascara to disguise the fact that I was blatantly eavesdropping.

“I’m not sure whether that’s the sort of job I want. My background is—”

Augusta interrupted with an elvish tinkling laugh that set my teeth on edge. “Oh, honey, it’s a fabulous opportunity. I’ve told him all about you and—”

“I’ll think about it,” Jane said.

“Let’s have lunch soon. I’m really concerned that you haven’t been making the right sort of contacts.” This with a nasty look at me.

“Jane, come and say Hi to Knightley.” I zipped up my makeup purse.

She gave me a cool glance. “Maybe later, Emma.”

“Okay.” Thinking the two of them probably deserved each other, I joined Knightley outside.

He handed me my glass. “Mostly elves and vamps. I don’t know how many of your clients are here.”

“I met Jane Fairfax in the bathroom. Augusta is trying to get her to take a job with some senator.”

“You should make friends with her. She doesn’t need to hang out with someone like Augusta.”

“I don’t think she likes me very much. I don’t know that she likes anyone much.”

“I guess you know Frank Churchill’s leaving town,” he said, a little too casually.

“Yes, he’s going back to L.A.”

“Are you okay with that?”

“I’m fine.”

“Good. I always thought he had a thing for Jane.”

“Jane?” I stared at him. “I don’t think so. She doesn’t even like vamps.”

“Didn’t you notice the way they looked at each other? She used to live in L.A., too.”

“It’s a big place.” He was kidding. Jane Fairfax? “I thought you had the hots for Jane.”

“She’s nice enough,” he said. “But a bit tight-lipped. I took her out to dinner the other night and she didn’t have much to say.”

“That’s normal if Missy was talking all the time.”

“Missy wasn’t there.”

And then I got it. Knightley had had a date date with Jane and the realization made me feel odd, even though I’d joked about him being attracted to her. I remembered the way he’d smiled at her when we went to see the new car.

We entered the party room, which had an entirely different atmosphere from Hartfield’s mixers. Magic was thick in the air, and waiters circulated with drinks that sparked and smoked. Vamps lurked with blatantly exposed fangs. Elves shimmered with danger and beauty, and as we entered, a couple of females approached Knightley, tossing back their manes of gorgeous blond hair.

I grinned. “Looks like you’ll be busy. I’m going to take a look around.”

He winked at me.

I made my way through the room and looked for current clients.

“Ah, a sweet little witch,” a vampire crooned.

“She is bitten,” another commented. “But not taken.”

In other words, I was a slut who put out for vampires. My vamp clients would know, too, although I hoped they would never be so crass as to mention it to me.

“Come play with us.” An elf stroked my arm.

“No, thanks. Hey, do elves like blonde jokes? I have a really funny one—” He snarled and turned away.

I placed my empty wineglass on a tray and looked around to see what Knightley was up to. He was at a table with a female elf draped all over him and a female vamp, fangs bared, on his other side. He had a big stupid grin on his face.

In front of him was a goblet of one of the sparkly blue drinks, half-full.

I hoped he knew what he was doing. I made my way through the room, noticing that most of the crowd were vamps and elves, with a few witches and wizards—not a werewolf or naiad or dryad in sight. In other words, Elton and Augusta were after an elite, powerfully magic clientele, and so far, none of my clients had bitten (so to speak).

That could change, however. I resolved to do more targeted promotion to vamps and elves.

Swatting away a few heavy-breathing vamps, I returned to Knightley’s table. “Are you ready to leave?”

His eyes were heavy-lidded and sleepy. He blinked at me.

“Knightley!”

“Ignore her,” cooed one of the vamps at the table—he’d accumulated another one during my trip across the room.

I resorted to a spell that had been common in our college days—a simple enchantment that made the recipient feel as if their head had been dunked in a bucket of ice water, recommended for friends falling asleep in class.

The effect was electrifying. Knightley shot to his feet, shaking his head. His chair tipped over behind him with a loud clatter, and the two vamps, hissing, jumped back.

The elf pouted and tossed her hair. “He was mine,” she said, as though she was in first grade and I’d taken away her candy.

“Sorry. Come on, Knightley, let’s go.”

“Sure. See you later,” he said to his companions. “Where did you get that spell from, Woodhouse?”

“From you. You taught me that one in college.”

“Yeah, but…” he followed me outside, where the polluted night air of Washington smelled almost sweet after the heavy, magic-charged atmosphere we’d just left. He took a deep breath, as though clearing his head. “I was protected. You shouldn’t have been able to break through that.”

“Not protected enough. They were all over you like a cheap suit.”

“Bull. I was having a good time. They were nice girls.”

“Nice girls? Those vamps were about to have you as a late-night snack and the elf—God knows what she had in mind for you.”

“Shall we get a cab?”

“Don’t change the subject. No. I want to walk.”

We walked together in silence for a while.

“The thing is, Woodhouse,” he said as we turned onto Connecticut Avenue, “is that they were pretty potent—”

“Aha! You admit it!”

“Well, yeah. Okay. But I let them, to a certain extent. I was having fun.”

“Yeah, I did notice that.”

He ignored me. “And, as I said, I was magicked up.”

“Sure.”

“Sarcasm isn’t attractive, Woodhouse. So you used a very primitive spell that broke through the magic of two vamps, one elf and my protection. I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you.”

“I don’t. I’m not much of a field practitioner. Teaching the Theory and History of Magic 101 is about my level.” We walked up the steps to the building, and Knightley fumbled with his keys.

“You’re saying it was a fluke?”

“I guess.”

Knightley held the door open and we walked into the lobby.

“But maybe I shouldn’t have done it,” I said. “There’s an equally good spell that makes the recipient think they’re asleep and their hand is being dipped in water.”

He grinned. “I remember that one.”

We lingered, waiting for the elevator. “Come up to my place,” he said. “It’s early and I need a drink to wash away the taste of that blue elfin martini.”

Why not? I was curious to see his apartment anyway.

I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this. True, there was some sort of weight-lifting arrangement on view through an open door, but the living room was furnished with a blend of antiques and dark green leather. Oriental rugs lay on the wooden parquet floor, and paintings and prints hung on the walls. Not a flat-screen TV in sight, although I suspected it was kept in the huge antique armoire against one wall.

“This is really nice,” I said, sinking into one of the leather couches.

Knightley handed me a glass of wine. “Is this okay?”

“Thanks. Great furniture,” I said, wondering what we were going to talk about.

He sat beside me. “A lot of it’s family stuff. My mother asks after you now and again. She always liked you. She said I shouldn’t have let you get away.”

“Your mother liked me?” I couldn’t believe it. “Do you remember when we met your family for brunch? She spent half her time looking down her nose at me and the other half waiting for me to use the wrong fork.”

“That’s just her way.” He shifted beside me. “Why did we break up, Emma? I never really understood it. I liked you. You liked me. And I thought, for a first time, we didn’t do so badly.”

“It wasn’t my first time.”

“Oh, yeah. The captain of your high-school debating team.” He made a face.

“Chess team, actually. Wait, what are you saying, Knightley? I got your cherry?”

He rescued my wineglass as I whooped with laughter. “Well…yeah. It was my first time. I mean, going all the way. So why did you break up with me right after?”

“It wasn’t the sex.” I really shouldn’t be sitting next to Knightley talking about sex, whatever his taste in interior design, or, more likely, his taste in interior designers combined with a huge budget. “That was perfectly fine, in my rather limited experience at the time.”

“Thanks. I guess.” Then he said, “I was actually rather relieved you broke up with me. You scared the hell out of me. You were so smart and self-sufficient and I felt inadequate.”

I stared at him. “You felt inadequate? God, Knightley, if you knew how scared I was then of—of everything. I was terrified of everything, including you.”

He gave a rueful grin. “It’s a pity we didn’t ever talk to each other properly.”

I shook my head. “It wouldn’t have worked. We would only have gotten ourselves more scared.”

There was a pause while I tried not to look at him. I was finding Knightley, the grown-up version, that is, disturbingly attractive.

“I’m hungry,” he said. “How about you? I’ll get us something.”

He went to the kitchen. In a very short time he returned with a plate of cheese and crackers and another plate of grapes and cherries. The wine bottle was tucked under one arm.

I stood to help him. Oh, God, I was standing perilously close to him, and our knees, mine bare and his khaki clad, brushed against each other.

I took the plates and placed them on the coffee table.

I sat, a little farther from him, and to my surprise, talked about that night.

“I knew it was magic. I knew that with your family you’d be able to do stuff like that at the drop of a hat. And it was great—the candles and the flowers all over the room—all those orchids and flowering vines and the music. I mean, no one has a room like that unless they’re gay and majoring in botany with a minor in drama. It was gorgeous.

“And then I woke up in the morning and the illusion had faded. All I saw was a college kid’s room, with your socks on the floor and your lacrosse gear on the wall and…”

“Wait. You’re saying you wouldn’t have broken up with me if I’d put my dirty socks in the hamper?”

“No, they were last night’s socks. Mine were there, too.”

“At least I took off my socks. You have to give me some points for finesse.”

“You’re so obsessed with your performance. Like I said, it was okay.”

He grimaced.

I continued, “I thought, Why did he bespell the room with all those candles and flowers to impress me? I was scared. I couldn’t live up to those expectations. So I got up and left before you woke, and then broke up with you in the cafeteria.”

He shook his head. “Oh, shit,” he said. “And I thought you couldn’t possibly want to have sex with me unless I put on some amazing magic show for you. I can’t believe we were both so dumb.”

He leaned forward and kissed me.

Chapter 6

“SORRY,” WE BOTH SAID.

Then we kissed again, a sweet welcome-home kiss after ten years apart. He still tasted as good and he made that familiar, purring sound in his throat. But he kissed now with authority, cupping the back of my head in a wonderfully gentle and possessive way, the fingers of his other hand trailing on my knee.

“I really don’t think this is a good idea,” I said, breaking away from him.

“Absolutely.” Knightley got very interested in the cheese and crackers and I watched his hands with some regret as they cut cheese into neat slices.

Sighing, I took a cherry and raised it to my lips.

He laid down the cheese knife and took my wineglass from my hand. “Allow me to assist you with that.”

I nearly swallowed the cherry pit in my surprise as Knightley rolled me onto my back and kissed me for real, wet and hungry and urgent, our mouths open to each other, his hands at my breasts, mine clamping onto that butt I’d admired a few days ago.

He raised his head, the cherry pit clamped between his teeth.

“I was about to tie a knot in the stem with my tongue,” I said.

“I’m sure you could. Shut up, Woodhouse.” He got rid of the cherry pit and we kissed some more. He felt great, hard and muscular and insistent against me, one thigh between mine. I pulled his shirt from his pants and ran my hands over the smooth skin of his back.

His hands fumbled at the zipper the back of my neck. “Honey, you’ll have to sit up if I…”

“You’ll have to get off me….”

“No.” He rolled me to my side, undid the zipper in one smooth motion and fumbled at my bra strap with the other.

“Front loader, Knightley.”

“Nice.” My dress at waist level, he viewed my black lace bra with approval before unfastening it. “Oh, very nice,” he mumbled, my breasts in his hand.

“You have more hair on your chest.” Having unbuttoned his shirt I shoved it off his shoulders.

“I’m older. More mature. Much better in the sack.” He lifted my hips to get the dress, hopelessly wrinkled now, out of the way. “Pretty boring panties, Woodhouse. You weren’t planning on getting lucky tonight.”

It was the most erotic sight in the world, Knightley kneeling between my outspread thighs, his fingers hooked in my white cotton panties, and pulling them down, the leather of the couch smooth and supple against my skin. I worried for about a tenth of a second that I might be developing a leather fetish.

I changed my mind. The most erotic sight in the world was Knightley, with cherry smears around his mouth, bare-chested, unbuckling his belt, unzipping and freeing himself from his boxers.

“I’ve missed you so much,” I gasped.

“Which bit of me?” And he was on me again, and this time there were no clothes in the way, but the slide of our skin together, a perfect match, and his mouth on my breasts. He dipped his fingers between my legs and I took his cock in my hand, silky smooth, familiar. Welcome home, Knightley. We kissed again, and it was clumsy and exciting, the first time all over again, but better.

“Wait a moment.” He snapped his fingers and muttered a few words.

Something flew to the table, splashed into a wineglass and bounced into the brie.

“Show-off,” I muttered as Knightley retrieved the condom. “You couldn’t have just fetched it like a normal person?”

“What, and waste more time?” He ripped the foil open. And then he was inside me with one glorious smooth slide. “Oh, Emma. Oh, my God, you’re so lovely.” He stopped. “Is this okay?”

I hooked my legs around his. “More than okay. Can I go on top in a bit?”

“Sure. Anything you want. Use me. Plunder me.”

I giggled. I’d never had sex like this with anyone, I’d never laughed while feeling that I could cry as easily, or lost track of time in the contemplation of a man’s skin and hair and smell. Yet it wasn’t perfect. We almost fell off the couch, scrambled around into other positions and knocked the plate of crackers onto the floor. He wanted to climax, I could tell from his breathing and the sweat that broke out on his chest and arms, but I wanted to savor each thrust, each long slide and retreat.

And then I felt the urgency, too, and pressed his fingers where we were joined and rode him to a fast, hard climax that made me yelp in pleasure and surprise and a little pain, too, as everything clenched and released and clenched again.

“God, Woodhouse,” he said, and thrust into me, his eyes widening and then fluttering closed. “Oh, God, you’ll kill me.” And he went perfectly limp and laughed, just as he’d done ten years ago.

Only now he made love like a man, not like a boy.

After a while Knightley eased himself off me. Something warm and soft floated onto me, a throw of some sort, and I lay in a pleasant stupor, eyes closed, listening to the sounds of Knightley moving around, the toilet flushing, the click as he turned on a lamp.

He sat on the couch next to me, lifting my legs onto his lap. I opened my eyes. To my disappointment he’d put on his boxers again, but he looked good. Really good. Even better, he’d brought more condoms with him.

“That was nice,” he said.

“It was.”

He bent to pick spilled crackers from the floor. “So what happens now?”

“We do it again?”

“Great, but I thought we’d better have a talk about things in case I meet you in the cafeteria tomorrow and you’ve changed your mind.”

“I doubt it. I don’t find you nearly as threatening now.” I rubbed my foot along his thigh.

“But I don’t know if you’re ready for a relationship with me,” he said.

“You don’t know if I’m ready?” This was an interesting reversal on the usual excuse. “What makes you think that? It wouldn’t have anything to do with Jane, or Missy, or any of the other women you’re dating?”

“I have been dating other women. I expect you’ve had relationships with other men, too. We’re both adults. But I know I’m ready to commit myself to someone in a real relationship, when the right woman comes along. I’m just not sure whether it’s the right time for you.”

“Oh.” I remembered how I dumped Knightley in the cafeteria, how his goofy grin had faded to a look of hurt and bewilderment. Now I knew how that felt. “And why don’t you think it’s the right time for me? What makes you think you know me better than I know myself?”

“Okay. Let me ask you— Are you ready for a relationship with me?”

I hesitated. “I don’t know. It’s not you, it’s with anyone. But if it was with anyone, it would be you. Probably.”

He gave a pained grin. “See? At least you’re honest.”

“Oh, shit, Knightley. I’m sorry.” I knelt and put my arms around him. Here I was, hurting him again.

He hugged me back and wrapped the throw around me. “Besides, I think you might have to sort out your career priorities, too. You have a lot of untapped, undisciplined power you’re not even aware of.”

“I don’t think so.” I felt even more uncomfortable.

“Others agree. Isabella, for one. Missy.”

Missy! What the hell did she know? She probably used magic to open the cat food if she lost the can opener.

“I really don’t want to talk about it right now,” I said.

“Okay. Come here,” he said, and pulled me onto his lap. The throw slid to the floor.

We kissed, quite sweetly and gently, for a time.

“Maybe I should go,” I said.

“You don’t have to. I have more crackers.”

“I really can’t resist that, Knightley.”

“About your magic powers… Do something for me. Make something move. Go on, show off some.” He grinned at me.

“Sure.” I stroked his thighs and licked his ear, letting my bare breasts press into his arm. “How about this?”

“Inside my shorts doesn’t count.” He pushed me away, giving me the chance to see that things were indeed on the move in his boxers. “Try across the room.”

“Okay.” I focused on a vase on top of the armoire and concentrated, letting the words of the spell form in my mind.

The vase wobbled, shifted.

We both ducked as it launched on an impromptu circuit of the room, scraped a couple of pictures off the wall and smashed into pieces on the parquet floor.

“Christ! I didn’t say wreck the joint, Woodhouse. Moving it a couple of inches would have done quite well.”

“Sorry. Was it very expensive? It was real ugly.”

“Family heirloom. I never liked it much, either.”

Waving away my offers to help clean up, he fetched a broom and dustpan and swept the floor. “If we have sex again, Woodhouse, should we wear hard hats?”

“Come here and find out.” I grabbed him as he approached and yanked down the boxers.

He gave a happy groan as I took him in my mouth and stroked him with my tongue. I’d been too shy and inexperienced that first time—ew, who’d want to do that?—but now I knew what to do. I wanted to give him what I could, without reservation, without expectations.

He groaned some more and placed his hands on the back of my head, guiding me.

“Get a condom,” he said, his voice breathless. “I have a bed. It’s bigger than the couch.”

“There’s plenty of room here once I’m on top of you.” I let out a moan as I lowered myself onto him.

He moaned back.

We both laughed.

“That’s so good.” He nuzzled my ear, my neck, then stopped. He was absolutely still.

“What’s wrong?” I said, although I knew. Those small purple marks on my neck had not faded.

“Did Churchill do that?” His voice was dull and angry at the same time.

“Yes.”

“You let him?”

I wasn’t about to admit that I’d been fooled, or, worse, that I probably would have let Frank do it anyway. “I don’t think it’s any of your business.”

He pushed me off him. I wouldn’t have thought a man wearing only a condom could look intimidating or superior, but Knightley managed to achieve both. “How could you have been so dumb? You’re dealing with vamps on an everyday basis and they’ll know. It explains why you had so many vamps checking you out tonight—”

“Nothing to do with my natural attraction, of course.” I grabbed the throw and covered myself, feeling stupid and exposed and vulnerable.

“Realistically, no. You’re pretty enough but you’re nothing compared to most vamps, or even most elves.”

“And naturally you’d know.”

“And that’s none of your business.”

I grabbed my dress, dropped it over my head and zipped it up enough to stay on me. I found my bra and balled it up into my hand. My panties were somewhere on the floor, but I wasn’t about to start crawling around to find them.

Knightley pulled on his boxers. “You need to set a spell—normal protection won’t help. I’ll e-mail one to you.”

“Thanks, but you really don’t have to bother.” I found my purse and shoes and headed for the door.

He got to the door first and opened it for me. “And there’s another thing you’re not being honest about, Emma. I had a chat with Harriet the other day and from what she told me, I think your business is in trouble. Stop flouncing around and ask for help, for God’s sake. I can—”

“Things at Hartfield are fine, just fine. You know Harriet isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer—”

“Maybe not, but she has a great deal of smarts in her way. More than her employer, in my opinion.”

“Thanks a lot, Knightley. Like you said, I don’t need a relationship, particularly with you. Thanks for the drink.”

I turned and ran, but the last thing I saw was Knightley standing in his doorway, looking like a GQ model in his boxers, but with a look of desolation on his face that shocked me. The last thing, that is, until my eyes blurred with tears, and I jammed my thumb against the elevator button, praying that he’d come after me and praying equally hard that the elevator would arrive first.

I heard his door close.

I cried in the elevator, and when I got to the apartment collapsed onto the kitchen floor and cried there.

Outside the gargoyles whispered and giggled.

I was too wrapped up in my own misery to tell them to shut up.

Chapter 7

“IT’S GORGEOUS, EMMA. YOU’RE SO CLEVER.”

As Harriet and I gazed at the rooftop, I allowed myself a brief pat on the back. She was right. It was gorgeous. “Give yourself some credit, too, Harriet. You put in a lot of legwork on this and it was your idea. And you found us another caterer when the first one backed out.”

She grinned. “And that dryad asked for a second lunch date with Missy Bates.”

I shuddered. “He must be insane. Maybe he photosynthesizes while she talks.”

Harriet turned away and fussed unnecessarily with a lantern on the table. “You’ve seemed sort of…down this week. You’ve been going to the gym a lot.”

“I’m fine.” After I’d been to the gym and been hit on by five vampires, two of them female in the locker room, I’d cast the spell in Knightley’s e-mail. I’d thanked him and waited for a reply. Nothing. I hadn’t seen him around the building and I didn’t know whether I wanted to.

What I did know was that in some strange sort of way I missed him.

SO WE WERE ALL SET for our first mixer on the rooftop of Box Hill Apartments, made gorgeous with plants and candles, a cheerful awning and, I hoped, lots of attendees.

My walkie-talkie crackled. Ramon, an employee of Knightley’s who was stationed in the lobby, informed me that five guests were coming up in the elevator. Harriet positioned herself at the table to sign them in, and I went over to the boom box and selected a CD. Vintage Sinatra, I decided, right in keeping with the retro decor of the building. I slipped the CD into the slot and hit Play.

Seconds later I winced as very loud, very explicit rap blared out.

Missy—naturally she would be one of the first to arrive—mouthed something at me.

I hit Eject and shrieked, “Sorry!”

The rap kept booming and grinding, obscenely detailing what the rapper wanted to do to his bitch as the CD slid out.

I checked the CD. Yes, it was Ol’ Blue Eyes, or should have been. It was fine last time I listened to this particular CD, spooning in Cherry Garcia and undoing a trip to the gym.

“Oh, shut up!” I screeched and pulled the power cord out.

Mercifully, it stopped.

I gave the boom box a dirty look. I’d never heard of an enchanted boom box, and besides, it had worked perfectly well just yesterday.

No need for music at the moment. I called the caterers, who were using the kitchen attached to the club room on the floor below, and instructed them to bring trays of hors d’oeuvres in. Drinks were set out on a table. I mingled with the guests, flirting slightly with vamps and elves, and discussed bark viruses with Missy’s dryad. His human form was a slightly scruffy-looking professor type, whose fingers had a twiglike appearance.

To my annoyance, Augusta and Elton arrived, each with an arm linked through Jane Fairfax’s. She looked as beautiful and remote as ever. Missy rushed over to them and started gabbing on about Jane’s new car. Augusta and Elton exchanged a smirk over Missy’s bobbing head.

“Emma?”

I almost jumped out of my skin. “Frank! What are you doing here?”

“Maybe I couldn’t keep away.” He leaned in and kissed my cheek.

I stepped back. It was such a fake theatrical gesture and I wondered who he was trying to impress. “I thought you were on the West Coast.”

“Not yet.” He looked over at Jane and Missy, who’d moved over to the drinks table.

“So who do you think gave Jane the car?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I think she has a secret admirer.”

“Is it you?

He laughed. “I think it’s Knightley.”

“Excuse me, I think I’d better put some music on.” I was suddenly so furious with him I wanted to scream.

I fumbled through my collection of CDs. Something upbeat and fun, that’s what I wanted. Something brainless.

To my horror, as the CD began to play, I realized that instead of hearing rumors through the grapevine we were witnessing the fall of Valhalla, all brass and bombast.

“Oh, Wagner—such an unpleasant man—did you see the—”

“Sorry, Missy.” I hit Eject, thumped the boom box on the top and broke a nail, and finally ripped out the power cord. “There’s something wrong with—”

“Emma, I hope you don’t mind me saying—I have always—that is—”

“I’ll catch you later, Missy,” I said firmly. “There are some new people here and I must say hello to them.”

At that moment there was a piercing shriek from a guest. I rushed over to the naiad who stood staring horrified at the plate in her hand. “It moved!” she said.

“What moved?” I asked.

She screamed again, nearly deafening me. “It’s doing it again!”

And then I saw it. The miniature crab cake on her plate shivered, broke and released a black, glistening slug that oozed out onto the white porcelain.

I screamed, too, and looked around wildly for a waiter as she dropped the plate. “I’m so sorry. That’s horrible. I can’t apologize enough. I—” A waiter, alerted by the screams and crash of breaking china, came to our side. “Clean this up, please.”

Harriet put her arm around the sobbing naiad, whose watery state was returning with the excess of emotion. I called the caterers on my walkie-talkie and asked them to come and clear away the food immediately. As I did so, other people gave expressions of disgust and put their plates down fast. Something rapid and furry darted out of the fruit centerpiece on the drinks table with a whisk of long, naked, pink tail.

“Was that a rat?” someone asked in disbelief—the exact words you want to hear at a party.

“At least the drinks are okay,” someone else said, and at that very moment the glasses of white wine on the table started frothing and steaming. Boiling liquid spread onto the white tablecloth, turned a lurid green and then burned through to the wood.

There were more screams now and a surge of movement toward the elevators.

“I’m sorry,” I shouted. “Let’s please all try and keep calm.”

I was feeling anything but calm.

Next to me, a slender young witch grabbed my arm and shrieked.

“What’s wrong?” And then I saw the tips of her toes trail along the floor and lift, as she was raised into the air. Still clutching my arm, her entire body lifted and for a moment her terrified face was level with mine.

Someone else grabbed me from the other side and pulled me away, breaking her hold. She floated away like a screaming helium balloon.

“Others are going up, too,” Frank Churchill said, still gripping my arm.

I muttered a simple falling spell with no result.

“Emma, I think—if I may—you should—”

“Missy, I’ll talk to you in a moment.” I tried to stop panicking. A good half-dozen of my guests were airborne, others hanging on to the parapet of the building for dear life. A potted hibiscus rose into the air to join the floating men and women. From below, gargoyles compared views up skirts.

“Emma—” Missy hoisted a bra strap into position, adjusted her eyeglasses and cleared her throat. “When we have little unpleasantnesses at work—I think you know what I—don’t you think you should—or maybe Knightley can—”

“Missy, I’m busy dealing with a crisis here, if you haven’t noticed. Will you please just butt out. This really isn’t the time for one of your dumb conversations about nothing. Would you mind going home and talking to your cats.”

She flushed a deep red. “Okay.”

It was the shortest statement I’d ever heard from her. She turned on her heel, tossing her fringed shawl over her shoulder with what might have passed for defiance from anyone else. She paused by Jane, who was hanging on to the parapet like grim death, and said something briefly to her. They both glared at me, and then left, arm in arm.

Missy wasn’t affected by the magic. Why not? But I didn’t have time to think about that right now.

I tried another spell, this time casting a net that caught my unfortunate floating guests and returned them to the rooftop. It was by far the most complicated and exhausting spell I’d ever cast. Dizzy with effort, I turned and collided with a waiter who held a large tray of plates and food. We both landed sprawling in a mess of lettuce, slugs, broken china and taramasalta, and his tray floated serenely into the sky. Beside us a vampire thudded to earth and thrust his business card into my hand. I wasn’t sure whether he was offering to sue or represent me.

“Sorry,” I muttered. I took stock of my ruined party. Harriet, muttering werewolf curses, clutched the parapet with one hand.

“What a disaster!” Augusta, who looked as though she had stepped from the pages of Vogue, not a hint of squashed slug on her, and, thoroughly earthbound, laid a hand on Elton’s sleeve. “Shall we go home, darling?”

Harriet and I helped the last of our guests into the safety of the elevator, apologizing as much as we could.

“I suppose you’ll fire me now,” Harriet sniffled. “I hired the caterers. I did check out their references, Emma. I swear it.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” I wiped a smear of slug from her face with a relatively clean corner of a tablecloth. I thought it more than likely we’d both be job hunting pretty soon. “Why don’t you go home.”

What a mess. The caterer was also in tears. “There’s no way I could have cooked live slugs into crabcakes,” she said. “All of our ingredients are organic. I can’t explain the rats. They must live in the building. I can’t afford a lawsuit, Ms. Woodhouse. I’ve worked so hard—”

“I’m sorry. I really am.” Nobody was sorry for me, I reflected sourly. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ll probably lose my business, too, after this.”

“And—and some sleazy vamp gave me his card and said he’d represent me pro bono in exchange for a little nibble!”

I shook my head and left her to clean up.

I knew who was responsible for this and I was going to make him pay. I grabbed my cell phone and called the number of Knightley’s apartment, and then his cell when all I got was his voice mail.

I ran down the one flight of stairs to Knightley’s apartment and banged on the door. “Open up!”

After a while the door opened. Knightley stood there, barefoot, wearing a pair of baggy khaki shorts and a ripped old T-shirt, with a pair of rimless eyeglasses on his nose. Even as mad as I was, the thought, Aw, he’s so cute flew through my mind and then flew straight out.

“You bastard!” I spat out. “You fucking Neanderthal overgrown frat boy! You’ve just ruined my business. You bastard!”

“Emma?” He took off the glasses and slipped them into the pocket of his T-shirt. “Emma, what are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about. You—”

“Come inside. You’re bleeding.”

I was what? I glanced down and saw a trickle of bright red blood pooling on the floor at my feet and then I felt the sting on my knee.

“Come on, Emma.” He took my hand and made a face, probably because my hand was covered with black slime. “What the hell have you been doing?”

He drew me inside and pushed me onto the couch.

“I’ll bleed on your leather,” I said stupidly. My knee hurt now, and so did my palms and one elbow.

“Stay there.”

He went away for a couple of minutes, returning with a washcloth and a first aid kit, and attended to my cut knee and grazed hands. “That might need stitches,” he said, applying a bandage. “Now tell me what’s going on.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not, Emma. You come in here making wild accusations, and I’ve had the window open. I could hear all sorts of weird stuff and the gargoyles were going wild. I’m going to have a heck of a time getting them back in line.” He glared at me.

Well, he had patched me up after I’d screamed at him. I guess I owed him. I told him about the magic tricks someone had played on the food and drink, and the enchanted boom box. And the floating guests.

“Are they still up there?” He interrupted me.

“No, I got them down using a spell from Hairy Elizabeth of Thycklewaite.”

“Harry who?”

“A fifteenth-century werewolf mystic who specialized in net-casting spells. I think I could have improved the landings, though I don’t think anyone got more than a few bruises. I—”

“Shit.” He crossed the room to his bookcase and pulled out a tattered encyclopedia of magic. The last time I’d noticed the venerable leather tome was as he fumbled with my bra strap in his dorm room and then it had a gigantic orchid growing from the cover.

“Hairy Elizabeth of Thycklewaite,” he read. “Few modern practitioners risk attempting the elegant complexity of Elizabeth’s spells. Greatly respected during the fifteenth century for her skill with herding, fishing and knitting spells, Elizabeth also ran a successful perfumery business much favored by the local nunnery…. Okay. So why did you think I was responsible?”

“Because…” I leaned my head back against the leather of his sofa. “Because it seemed like a frat-house prank.”

“A frat house prank that could ruin your business. Isabella’s business. Emma, do you honestly think I’d do something like that?”

“No,” I whispered. I couldn’t figure out whether he despised me or whether I’d hurt him again, but now I was ashamed of my accusation. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s other stuff going on, too, isn’t there? You got all riled up when I asked about your finances the other day. I know it was intrusive of me, but my offer to help still stands.”

So I told him about the mysterious disappearing money and the other problems we’d had—the cancellation of our usual venue, the computer virus, the possible theft of our e-mail list.

He nodded. “Do you see how this all adds up? Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

I nodded. Now it all made sense, and it wasn’t good. “Yes. A curse.”

“Who the hell would want to put a curse on Hartfield?”

“Well…” I told him everything else. “Harriet did turn Elton into a frog a few weeks ago.”

“She did what? Harriet? Oh, come on. She’s only a friendly little werewolf.”

“I let her look at my spell book and she was almost at her time of the month, so she had great power. I believe she used the Frog Variant of Buckaroo Velmsley Witherington-Hughes of Texas because it did wear off after a while, although—”

“And then Elton brings gorgeous Augusta back into town to start his own agency. Did he hack into your e-mail list, too?”

I muttered, “I don’t think so. I think he got Frank Churchill to do it for him. I noticed someone had been at my computer when he…when he was in my apartment.”

“Oh, Christ,” Knightley said. “Change your password as soon as you can.”

“Okay.”

He sighed. “You don’t even have a password, do you?”

“Well, I—”

He reached for his cell phone. “We’d better get hold of Missy right away.”

“Missy?” I said stupidly.

“Yeah, Missy, the most powerful witch in D.C.” He had her number on speed dial. “Why else do you think she’s on retainer at the White House? Hey, Missy, it’s Knightley.”

The White House? Missy?

A shrill barrage of sound emerged from his cell phone.

“Uh…what? Oh shit, I’m sorry. Look, Missy, I… No, I don’t…. Yeah, of course. I’m sorry…. I’m sure she… I understand….”

Missy’s rant continued, Knightley nodding and making placatory sounds.

He turned off his cell and gave me a long, steady look. “You’ve screwed up badly, Emma. That was the dumbest and most unkind thing you’ve done in all the time I’ve known you. She was crying.”

“Look, she may be the power behind the throne, but she’s an embarrassment and a liability to Hartfield. I don’t know why Isabella kept her on the books so long. She—”

“Quit blustering,” Knightley said. “Admit you’ve screwed up and go do something about it. And maybe when you’ve learned to ask for help, you can get your life, and your sister’s business, back in order.”

“Okay, okay. Thanks for the repair job.”

“Emma.” He sprang to his feet and blocked my way. “Just like the last time, off in a huff.”

“No, you were in a huff.”

“Yeah, I was. I guess I am now. I have good reason to be. But I wasn’t the one who flounced off.”

“It’s your apartment. Obviously, you wouldn’t be the one leaving.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, Knightley. I don’t. I’m sorry I doubted you, I really am.” One quick step and we’d be touching. “Have a good evening.” I leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth before running for the safety of the elevator.

Chapter 8

THE NEXT MORNING I WAS OUTSIDE MISSY’S HOUSE, with an apology gift—a large box of chocolates and a pair of guest towels embroidered with cats. I knew she’d be home, but she wasn’t answering the doorbell. I wasn’t sure, but I thought a lace curtain moved.

I plucked my cell phone from my pocket and called her number.

No reply, but I wasn’t surprised.

One of Missy’s neighbors, fussing over a boxwood in a pot outside his front door, gave me a curious look. Great, pretty soon someone would call the cops.

I gave the front doorbell one more push and then something brushed up against my ankles, making a soft crooning sound. I glanced down and met the green-eyed stare of one of Missy’s cats, a gigantic calico that liked to sit on your chest and breathe cat-food fumes into your face.

“Hildegard!” I said. “Who’s a good kitty, then?”

I scooped her up into my arms and stepped back from the front door, just to make sure Missy could see. Her windows were open so I was fairly sure she could hear.

“Shall we visit Uncle Knightley? You’re his very favorite kitty cat.”

I took a step toward my bicycle, parked on the brick sidewalk. “You’ll fit nicely into this carrier….”

The front door flew open, revealing a stone-faced Missy. “That’s a dirty trick, using my cat to gain access to my house, Emma.”

Hildegard gave a mew of pleasure and poured herself from my arms onto the sidewalk and disappeared inside the house, while I stood there dumbfounded at the emergence of a complete and unfriendly sentence.

“And it’s Ermintrude, not Hildegard.” Missy turned and walked away back into the house, leaving the door open.

I took this as an invitation to follow, wheeling my bike into the dim narrow hall. I followed the whine of an electric can opener to the kitchen, a modern addition at the back of the house, where Missy spooned cat food into three china bowls. She set the dishes on the floor and the cats swarmed toward them.

I set the gifts on the counter. “Missy, I’ve come to apologize. I was way out of line. I’m very sorry I hurt your feelings.”

She nodded.

I floundered on, “And I need your help. Badly.”

“I see.” She walked away from me into a tiny secluded walled garden at the back of the house. A small cast-iron table and chairs stood on a flagstone patio, and herbs and roses tumbled from containers.

I followed.

“Your sister and I are great friends,” she said.

My face heated. “Yes, I’m sorry.”

“She’d be very—how is Isabella?”

“Very well. In fact—” I reached into my backpack “—I thought you’d like to see this. I’m sorry it’s a bit crumpled. I’ve been carrying it around.”

Her face softened as she looked at the picture of the ultrasound. “Oh! How—and when is she due—I suppose she doesn’t know yet if it’s a boy or—we must have a drink—and something to eat—I have a—no, I think Jane and I ate the last—let me have a look, or—”

“Oh, please, I’d like to take you out to lunch.”

“How sweet, but Gregory—you know, such a lovely—he is such a—quite surprising, his—the girth, you know is so very—coming to pick me up at one—so Knightley thinks you have a curse—his e-mail—I try not to be prejudiced against elves, but invariably they cause—it really is too bad—”

“Knightley thinks you can help, and I’d be very grateful.”

“Yes, of course—I’ll get my—I know I put it—” Still talking, she went back into the kitchen and came back out with a cell phone and an appointment book.

She sat down at the table and gestured to me to sit. “Knightley? It’s Missy and dear Emma is… That’s what I thought…. Let me see.” She flipped through her appointment book. “The sooner the better…. Tonight… And we need another… Oh—do you think…” She glanced at me. “If you’re sure…. Yes, yes… Well, an academic background is very… But for this sort of… Of course I do trust your judgment…. If you really…Okay.”

She laid the phone down on the table and gave me a long, speculative stare. “Most interesting—that is—certainly not my choice but dear Knightley—you are to be the third, Emma—if you agree, that is—”

“The third what?”

“The third witch of the three needed to break the curse—but of course you know—that is, Knightley thinks it should—”

“Of course it should be me. It’s my business—my sister’s, I mean.”

“That’s not the—I don’t know that—”

“You think I’m not good enough.”

She nodded. “There are some dangers and—well, academic knowledge only provides—but Knightley thinks—he has some doubts, naturally….”

She thought I wasn’t good enough. And Knightley hadn’t even mentioned the possibility of me being the third of the trio of witches who would tackle a curse. The old, familiar resentment prickled and irritated. Once more he had made a high-handed decision without even telling me what he intended or consulting me. And then reason set in: he was right. I hated to admit it, but he was right, I hadn’t asked for help when I needed to and I’d been stupid enough to think Missy a silly, long-winded twit.

Missy, a cat on her lap, was cooing over the guest towels. This, I reminded myself, was the most powerful witch in Washington, D.C. I’d had no idea.

“Moonrise, in the lobby of your apartment,” Missy said, fingers buried in the cat’s fur. I hoped she wasn’t digging for fleas.

“Okay. And, uh, thanks.”

“Variant seventy-three of Claudius the Unhealthy’s Charm against Elfin Practices,” Missy said.

“No!”

She raised an eyebrow making me want to squirm in embarrassment.

I said, “It’s okay, but I think Variant seventy-five has the edge, and we should add in the postscript.”

She nodded and I wondered if she’d been testing me, particularly when she replied with complete coherency. “Absolutely correct. Now I remember that seventy-three has that unfortunate loophole regarding invisibility. Thank you for your timely reminder, Emma. Seventy-five, then. I’ll brief Knightley.”

AFTER SPENDING THE REST of the day in the necessary purification rituals, I waited in the lobby for Knightley and Missy that evening. My robe was bundled up under one arm—I didn’t want to give the tenants any ideas. I’d already received a few curious glances after the catastrophe of the night before and my stomach rolled queasily at the thought of what might happen later.

The elevator door opened. Knightley, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, holding a rolled-up robe in one hand, stepped out.

“Woodhouse.” He acknowledged my presence with a curt nod. He smelled faintly of mint and verbane and his hair was still damp. He sprang forward to open the outside door as Missy arrived.

This was a Missy new to me. She carried an aura of power that made my spine tingle. “Ready?” she asked.

We rode up to the rooftop in silence. Knightley produced a key to open the door, and as he inserted it, sprang back, swearing and shaking his hand. “Burned me,” he explained.

Missy must have seen the look on my face. “Courage,” she said, slipping her robe over her head. She took the key from Knightley and shook the loose sleeve over her hand to protect her skin.

The door flew open bringing a gust of wind and a swirl of dead petals and ash. Knightly and I, having donned our robes, followed Missy out onto the rooftop.

Yesterday it had been a scene of chaos and panic; tonight the air was thick with magic and menace. As we joined hands, a gust of foul-smelling wind blew in a dark cloud, blotting out the city lights and the stars. Elfin laughter rang out and thunder muttered and crackled.

As we chanted, the concrete surface of the rooftop changed, becoming soft and moist. Near us in the shadows something moaned and heaved. Knightley’s hand gripped mine a little more tightly.

Missy and I exchanged glances. We couldn’t interrupt the incantation, but we both knew something was getting at Knightley and gnawing at his defenses.

The wind rose to a howl and hail spattered and bounced around us. A bright crack of lightning was followed by a rolling burst of thunder.

Knightley fell to his knees. No, he wasn’t falling, he was sinking—sinking into what had been solid cement a few minutes ago, as if he were in a quicksand. His hand loosened in mine.

“Knightley!” I screamed, hoping Missy’s power was strong enough to do the work of three.

There was nothing else for it—I had to do what I’d only explained in classrooms, in front of yawning, sleepy undergraduates, as a very advanced technique that, should any of them care to pursue a higher degree in magic, might be within their grasp. I was pretty sure it wasn’t within mine, but I had to try.

I left my body.

I hurtled up into the darkness, into the swirling clouds that stank of magic. Below me three figures stood, one glowing almost as bright as her head of vivid reddish hair—Emma Woodhouse. The second gave off a bright, steadfast light, and the other, Knightley, oh, Knightley, please come back—was half-transparent, battled by elfin malice. The two women chanted the spell.

From above, I concentrated on Knightley and spoke the words that would strengthen him, a spell of return and identity. A spark lighted on Emma’s arm—my arm, the arm of the real Emma down below, and ran across our joined hands like flame running along paper.

Beautiful, vicious elfin faces appeared out of the darkness. He doesn’t love you, Emma…. He thinks you’re second best…just like your family does…. Not as smart as Isabella, not as pretty… Why should he care about a girl who lets a vampire bite her…? Let it go, Emma, admit you failed….

The spark of light that bound me to Knightley wavered and turned a pale, unhealthy blue. Knightley, who had gained a little more opacity, faded.

The elfin voices continued, whispering poison, sapping my resolve. He’s embarrassed he made love with you, Emma…. You were right, ten years ago…. You won’t fit into his world…. He’s wondering how to break it off with you now…. He feels sorry for you….

I gathered my strength as the dark, evil-smelling cloud swirled around me, obscuring the figures below as they chanted the last lines of the postscript.

“You’re wrong!” I shouted. “I take back what is mine, I declare your curse as worthless as your elfin mischief and fantasies, as puny and pathetic as my love for Knightley is strong. I love him even if he doesn’t love me back. Now go!”

A bolt of silver blue lightning shot from the dark cloud, scorching my face and sizzling my hair, spinning me around in a vortex of pure energy and tumbling me head over heels down, back to earth, into the arms of a blessedly solid and real Knightley. The air was scented with the fresh, earthy smell of freshly fallen rain and the familiar city sounds, sirens and traffic, rose up from the streets.

“Shit, Woodhouse,” he said, “what the heck did you do?”

“Very impressive,” Missy said. “Most—well, I think that should—everything should be okay now—Isabella will be—Knightley, I think I should take a cab—no, no, I insist, there’s no need for you to—or maybe Jane—but she has a date with—a cab will do quite—”

I was too tired to interrupt. There was something quite comforting in Missy’s endless stream of chatter. I followed them to the elevator and pressed the button for my floor. “I’m really tired. I need to sleep. Missy, thank you so much. You, too, Knightley.”

“Yes, but—” I couldn’t tell what he was thinking or what he wanted to say. All I wanted to do was fall into bed and sleep and sleep. Something came back to me from my class notes, about how energy was depleted after performing a taxing spell, and there were various methods, herbal concoctions, for instance, that could help, and many witches developed their own recipe for such occasions….

“Emma!” Knightley had followed me into my apartment.

“Sorry, good night.” I dropped my robe onto the floor, then my T-shirt. “Sorry, I’m taking my clothes off.”

“Yeah, I— Emma, there’s something I…”

“Go away.” I fell into my bed.

Someone pulled the bedclothes over me, smoothing my hair from my forehead—strange and scratchy, that lightning bolt had singed it. “Thanks,” I managed. “Turn out the light.”

OH, GOD. I REALLY HAD TAKEN my clothes off in front of Knightley last night, everything except for yesterday’s polka-dot panties, which somehow didn’t seem appropriate for the practice of complex magic. And now the phone was ringing and I was in dire need of a herbal concoction—a simple caffeine drink, coffee, lots of lovely hot coffee with huge amounts of cream—but I rolled over to get the phone anyway.

“Emma!” My sister’s voice was high and strained.

“What’s up?” I sat up. “You—you’re okay? The baby?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” But her voice said otherwise. “Is Knightley there?”

“No, of course he isn’t. Why would—” There was a sudden, thunderous knocking at the door of the apartment. “Hold on, Iz, someone’s at the door.”

“It’s Knightley. Go answer it. Stay on the line.”

“Is this some sort of variant of pickles and ice cream?”

“Shut up and do as I say.”

I paid a quick visit to the bathroom and was greeted with the sight of charred hair and a red nose from last night, but I pulled on the embarrassing fluffy blue bathrobe and headed for the kitchen while Knightley—I supposed it was Knightley—continued to hammer on the door.

“Now what are you doing?” my sister said.

“Filling the kettle. I need coffee.”

“Hurry up!”

I put the kettle on to boil and headed for the door. Knightley stood there, unshaven and with dark circles under his eyes. “Has she told you?” he barked at me.

“Huh? You want some coffee?”

“Tell him I haven’t told you,” Isabella said.

I wrapped my head around that. “I’m to tell you that she hasn’t told me whatever it is that’s dragging me out of bed at…” I looked at the clock. “Oh. One-thirty in the afternoon. Here, talk to Isabella.” I handed him the phone. “I have to grind beans.”

The shriek of the coffee grinder filled the kitchen. I dumped the old grounds from the coffee press into the sink and rinsed it out. Knightley looked appalled at my unfastidious habits.

“Will you tell me what’s up?”

“Isabella said I should be here when we told you,” he said.

“Okay.” I sat at the kitchen table, suddenly afraid. “Tell me what?”

The buzzer that indicated someone was calling me from the front door of the building went off, sounding horribly loud. It was a courier, demanding my signature on something. “I’ll go,” said Knightley, looking as though he’d rather be anywhere but in my kitchen, seeing my slatternly housekeeping and horrible blue robe.

“Okay,” I said, in possession of the phone once more. “Will you stop messing around and just tell me, Iz?”

She made a strange bleating sound that included Knightley’s name.

“Tell me, please.”

“It’s Frank,” she said in a sudden burst.

“Look, I know he—” He nearly ruined your business. So did I.

“You don’t understand.”

“No, I won’t until you tell me.” I gazed at the kettle, willing it to boil.

“Frank and Jane Fairfax are engaged.”

“What?”

“I’m so sorry.” She was babbling now. “We had no idea—well, actually Knightley did and I think Missy might have had a suspicion. Missy called me about an hour ago and she was so very concerned about you because, well, I encouraged you to—”

“You didn’t encourage me to do anything,” I said. “You told me Jim’s squash partner might call and it might be nice if he and I went out for a drink. Don’t be dumb, Iz.”

There was a strange gulping sound on the other end of the phone. For a moment I wondered if it was morning sickness before I remembered it was early evening in Brussels, and then, with a sudden, excited rush realized I had just accused my sister, the perfect, beautiful, clever Isabella, of being dumb (something I hadn’t done since I was eleven).

“Okay,” she said. “You mean—you mean it’s okay with you?”

“I think he’s a charming creep but okay as vampires go, and she’s someone who can’t ask for help.” Just like me. “I think she could probably do better.”

“Oh, thank God,” she said tearfully. “I was afraid you’d be hurt. I mean, Frank is really cute, and…”

“I wouldn’t throw him out of bed for eating crackers,” I said with impeccable timing just as Knightley came back into the apartment.

She giggled. “I’m so relieved. We were all afraid you were involved with him.”

“It explains why Jane was so cool toward me. Hey, Iz, will you send me your brownie recipe?”

“It’s stapled inside my James Beard cookbook. I’m so glad you’re okay. Give Knightley a hug from me. Jim and I have to go out and I’d better find something that fits. I’m eating like a pig and everything’s too tight. I can’t drink the beer here anymore but I’m still eating frites at every opportunity.”

“She told you about Churchill?” Knightley asked when I got off the phone.

I poured boiling water into the coffee press. “Yeah. You are such a pair of drama queens.”

“You mean—you mean you’re okay about it?”

“Of course I’m okay about it. I wasn’t in love with him or anything.” I let him do unspeakable things to me up against my refrigerator and in my bed and enjoyed every moment, but I didn’t think it tactful to say aloud to Knightley who was doing the possessive male glower, much to my delight.

“Ah.” He nodded and looked considerably happier. “Good.”

“So what was the courier delivery?” I hesitated, torn between grabbing the envelope from his hands and pushing down the handle of the coffee press.

“You’re supposed to stir it after it’s sat for three minutes,” Knightley said, handing me an envelope.

“Too bad. Do you want a cup?”

He poured while I opened the envelope. Inside was a truly miraculous and groveling letter from the manager of the bank that held the agency’s account, deeply regretting the unfortunate mistake that had been made, attributed vaguely to a computer error during a system update. The interest I had forfeited would be restored and our savings account given a higher interest rate backdated to the beginning of the year, and if there was anything else they could do, etc., etc.

“Good news?” Knightley asked.

“Oh, yes. Read this.” I handed the letter to him.

He frowned as he read. “They’re probably afraid you’ll sue. Maybe you should.”

“No way. I’d rather have an embarrassed bank that’s desperate to keep on my good side. Besides, if I sued I’d have to hire a vamp.”

“True.” He became intensely interested in his coffee. “Emma, I have something to say.”

“If it’s about taking my clothes off last night, it’s okay. Would you like an English muffin?”

“No, thanks. What I have to say, Emma, is…” he lowered his eyes and muttered, rather like Missy Bates in full spate, “I’m really sorry I underestimated you and I’ve been overbearing and you saved me last night and I wanted to thank you and—”

“Cool it, Knightley. Aren’t you forgetting something?”

He looked panicked. “Uh. I… You’re an amazing witch. You have extraordinary powers. Missy told me what you did last night. Even she’s never dared try that. If you hadn’t done it, I think I’d have…disappeared, or something.”

“I had to do it, Knightley.”

“Of course. To lift the curse.” He nodded.

God, he was dense today. “There’s another reason, too.”

My English muffin popped out of the toaster.

“Oh, shit,” he said. “I love you, Emma.”

“I was wondering when you’d get around to saying it.”

“Shut up. I love you. I’ve always loved you, even if you still have that ratty blue bathrobe—”

“I love this robe.” I dropped a large dollop of jam onto my English muffin. “I’ve never worn it for anyone else.”

“Anyone else would go screaming into the night. I’m man enough to take the fluffy blue robe, Emma. We’ve ten years of wasted time to make up for.”

“I love you, too.” I wished I hadn’t chosen that moment to take a big bite of my English muffin. I swallowed, and said it again. “I love you, Knightley. I think you’re right about my magic skills—I’ve never accepted that I do have talent in that area, so I’m going to ask Missy for some advice. And I really want to see Hartfield grow, and—”

“And?”

“I want you, too, if you’ve time for a very busy woman. And I’d appreciate it if you quit telling me what to do all the time.”

“I’ll try,” he said. “I know I’m sometimes an arrogant, overbearing jerk. I want to look after you, Emma, but last night you looked after me, and it made me…”

“Humble?” I suggested.

“Happy. Horny. Hopeful.” He took me in his arms, squishing the last of the English muffin between us. “Congratulations, Ms. Woodhouse. Hartfield Dating Agency has made another great match.”

Outside, the gargoyles cheered.