Bedspell

James grinned in the darkness of his bedroom. Yep. It was definitely the blonde who’d flirted with him earlier. Her body made contact with the mattress and he sensed rather than saw that she was naked.

“Why don’t you switch on the light?” He’d love to get a look at her.

“I like the dark,” she whispered. “And it’s very dark in here.” When her voice hitched in excitement, it seemed clear that having sex with him was high on her list of priorities. There was nothing that James loved more than being on a woman’s “to-do” list.

But he was a gentleman at heart. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing here?”

She laughed. “Oh, you want me to consent.” She leaned over, her scent engulfing him. “I do, gorgeous.”

For a second everything went silent. Yes, this cinched it. Sex was on her agenda. Heat pooled in James’s belly and teased his groin. When he’d gotten into bed tonight, getting lucky had been the last thing on his mind….

He tossed back the covers, feeling a sleepy stir of air hit his naked body. “Abracadabra,” he said. “C’mon in….”

Dear Reader,

There’s nothing funnier or sexier to me than the idea of finding a stranger in your bed…especially a gorgeous hunk of a man you’ve never seen before, with whom you’ve shared the best passion of your life!

I hope you’ll enjoy this addition to Temptation’s great WRONG BED series. When a woman casts a spell for a night of hot, sizzling sex, she gets everything a woman might want in such a bed partner—except it’s the wrong bed and the wrong guy. Or is he?

I had loads of fun with this one, so I hope you will, too!

Very best,

Jule McBride

Books by Jule McBride

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

866—NAUGHTY BY NATURE

875—THE HOTSHOT*

883—THE SEDUCER*

891—THE PROTECTOR*

HARLEQUIN BLAZE

67—THE SEX FILES

91—ALL TUCKED IN…

Bedspell

Jule McBride

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

1

“AREN’T PARTIES AT THE MET absolutely fab?” mused C.C.

“Divine,” returned Diane.

“Those chicks in Sex and the City have got nothing on us,” chimed Mara.

“Stick around for just a few more minutes….” As Signe Sargent continued serving cocktails to costumed people sidling up to a makeshift bar, she glanced at her girlfriends, all wearing cat costumes. Through floor-to-ceiling windows behind her, light from the nearly full moon and star-scattered sky poured into the room, illuminating the ancient stone Temple of Dendur, brought from the Nile and reassembled in the Met’s Sackler Wing, as part of the museum’s permanent collection.

“We’d love to stay—” C.C. reached to adjust the pointed cat ears nestled in her silken shoulder-length hair “—but while our kitty-cat costumes still look fresh, we’ve got to get downtown to Gus’s gig.” Gus was the owner of the bar nearest Signe’s walk-up in the Village.

Diane, who’d flipped open a compact, was checking her lipstick. “I wish you weren’t working, Sig. You could go with us.”

“Thanks for sneaking us onto the guest list,” put in Mara.

Diane closed the compact, then tilted back a champagne flute, drained it and placed it on the tray beside Signe. “Sneaking in here was risky, but definitely worth it,” she pronounced, flashing a business card she’d managed to get from one of the hot, circulating bachelors.

Afraid her boss might recognize her friends’ names, since the bash, given by a computer mogul, was strictly for New York’s crème de la crème, Signe had signed everyone in under false names.

“It’s definitely one of the better parties we’ve crashed this month,” agreed C.C. with a sigh.

“Amazing hors d’oeuvres,” added Mara.

After filching another pumpkin-shaped tart from under her workstation, Signe nodded, munching. “I still haven’t seen Gorgeous Garrity.”

“You will,” assured C.C.

Maybe. Signe’s eyes settled on the windows behind her opening onto Central Park. In full autumnal glory, the park was beautiful, the trees bursting with color. Gold and russet, they glimmered with night dew and framed a moon so romantic that even the most jaded New York cynic might swoon. It was the perfect backdrop for propositioning Gorgeous. So, where was he?

Signe’s gaze returned to the cavernous room—the ancient Egyptian tombs, the stone statues of guardian goddesses and the temple itself. As mystical as the moon, Dendur stood just as it had for thousands of years, its yellow stones covered in hieroglyphs.

“I met a Rockefeller,” Diane said.

Signe nodded, still scanning the crowd for Gorgeous. While it wasn’t generally known, the museum was available for private parties, at least if they were given by the city’s movers and shakers. Tonight, faces recognizable from magazines and the news were everywhere.

“I met Ghardi,” Mara was saying. “You know? That shoe designer who does the retro-platforms with the gaudy bows on the toes?”

“C’mon, you guys,” said C.C. “If we don’t get downtown nobody will be left at Gus’s, and I want to see the costumes.” Greenwich Village’s pre-Halloween parade was tonight, and there was bound to be stragglers.

“So many parties,” said Diane. “So little time.”

“And there will be even more on Halloween night,” agreed Mara.

“I’m glad they have the downtown parade early.”

Signe pressed a martini into the furry paw of a man in a bear costume, then a cosmopolitan into the black-gloved hand of a witch, and then she glanced between her friends again and grinned, since they all looked so vixenlike in matching black jumpsuits. Tails were pinned to their fannies; they’d found headbands with ears attached; and whiskers were drawn on with black eye pencil. Black masks covered their eyes.

Not that the women looked the least bit alike. C.C. was petite with russet hair she blew so straight that it always looked as if she’d ironed it, while Diane—the one men usually drooled over first—was tall, blond and statuesque. Mara, with her strong, angular bones and clear skin, was good-looking enough to get away with keeping her brown hair conveniently short, eschew makeup and dress in a wardrobe that Diane always termed “grunge-inspired.”

“I really wish I could go with you,” Signe said regretfully. “Are we still having breakfast tomorrow?”

As C.C. nodded, a hank of reddish hair spilled over her shoulder. “Want to meet at Sarah’s on the West Side? They’ve got those wicked apple tarts.”

Everybody agreed.

“And what about the wiccan thing?” asked Signe. Through the business Diane had opened the year before, Wacky Weekends, she offered novelty getaways for bored Manhattanites. She’d just heard of a solstice event in the Catskill Mountains hosted by a group of women from New Jersey. Since the group’s monthly gatherings might appeal to her clientele, she’d asked her friends to help her check it out.

“It’s this upcoming weekend,” said Diane. “So, we’d better firm up our plans.”

“I’ll rent a car,” said C.C., who was the only one of the four women who enjoyed driving.

“Get a convertible,” said Signe. “It should still be warm enough.”

“Indian summer’s going to hold through the weekend,” offered Mara. “It said so on the news.”

“We’ll all chip in for the car,” continued Diane.

Signe nodded. “What should we bring?”

“Aspirin,” C.C. quipped. “It’s rumored that the New Jersey wiccans serve a herbal root beverage that kicks butt.”

Diane scoffed. “Forget aspirin. I’ll bring Bloody Mary mix.”

“And forget your bathing suit, Sig,” said Mara. “If it’s warm, everybody’s skinny-dipping in the lake.”

C.C., who hated nature almost as much as Signe, arched an eyebrow. “Lake?” she groused. “What lake?”

“The cabins are on a lake,” explained Mara.

Crinkling their noses, C.C. and Signe exchanged glances. Signe said, “That means insect repellent. I think I’ve got some left over from the last time we were dragged into the wilderness.”

“Good. Oh!” C.C. added. “Don’t forget to bring something belonging to the man you’re casting a spell on. On Saturday night, the wiccans place a boiling cauldron in the center of their magic circle—”

“And we’re all supposed to throw in an object while we read a spell that we’ve written ourselves,” said Mara.

“You mean, to make a man fall for you?” asked Signe, thinking of Gorgeous.

C.C., who wasn’t the committal type said, “Or have sex.”

At that precise moment, Signe’s eyes landed on Gorgeous Garrity, who was standing on the other side of the room, and she sucked in a breath. Since leaving Wall Street to take over his father’s position, running Garrity Enterprises, a conglomerate that owned businesses around the world, Gorgeous had been on the cover of New York magazine, New York Business World and People. He’d also taken a liking to Signe.

“Speak of the devil,” said Mara.

“He’s eyeing the bar,” observed C.C., her voice hitching. “He’s about to come over here, so we’ll make ourselves scarce.”

Signe glanced downward at her gold blouse and silk pantaloons, then ran a hand nervously over the shoulder-length black wig that framed her heart-shaped face, hoping Gorgeous would like the Cleopatra costume. Just contemplating a conversation with him made the pulse in her throat tick wildly, and the thought of sleeping with him…

She sighed. “He’s so rich.”

“Try not to think about it,” coached C.C. “Just think of him as an average American male.”

But Gorgeous Garrity didn’t have an average bone in his body. Each bone, in fact, was long and tailored, just like the sport jackets he wore when he visited the Met during his lunch hour.

“He’s definitely heading this way, as soon as the woman in the milkmaid outfit lets go of him….” Diane murmured.

Signe’s voice hitched. “Only because he wants a drink.”

“Au contraire!” scoffed C.C. “As busy as he is with Garrity Enterprises, he doesn’t have to come to the museum every day to get a cup of coffee at noon. He does it to flirt with you, Sig.”

Signe’s thoughts exactly. “He told me to call him George.”

All three women said, “George?”

“That’s his name.”

C.C.’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know that.”

“Nobody does. Everybody’s called him Gorgeous for years.”

“Well, he’s definitely that,” said Mara. “Here he comes!”

“I don’t want to read too much into this,” Signe said nervously. She was only a waitress in the museum’s café. It wasn’t exactly an esteem-building job, either. She tried not to compare herself to her girlfriends, but over the past year, she’d watched each of them achieve career ambitions. Diane had opened Wacky Weekends, C.C. had begun taking on her own accountancy clients and Mara had become a Realtor.

But Signe wasn’t giving up hope. In college, she’d studied art and library science. While working for the New York public library, she’d kept applying for jobs at the Met with no luck, so she was trying this new tactic. She’d do anything she could to meet the curators and get them to consider her for one of the coveted jobs in the archives department.

She loved everything about this museum. Its dark, gloomy corridors, marble staircases and smell of oil paint all made her heart sing. Just breathing the air inside the cavernous rooms quickened her blood almost as much as Gorgeous Garrity. Spending the past six months slugging coffee and helping at these private parties had finally paid off, too.

Tonight, her boss, Edmond Styles, had told her that one of the archives assistants was quitting. Come Monday morning, when the woman’s two-week notice was official, Signe would be offered the job of her dreams. She was so excited. Edmond knew everything about art, and was reputed to have connections with the Garritys, through the museum, since they frequently donated artwork.

Signe took another deep breath. It would be so wonderful if something—even just one sizzling night of sex—would happen with Gorgeous….

It was a fantasy, of course. Just a dream, but who knew? She could feel her own star peaking, bright on the horizon. Sighing with satisfaction, she drifted her gaze over the pagan statues the computer mogul had borrowed for tonight’s bash. Most had come from private collectors around the city, and all were displayed on lit pedestals. Yes, she’d done a great job, if she had to say so herself. Tonight, presumably anticipating her promotion, Edmond had entrusted her with the responsibility of logging the borrowed artworks into the archives department, arranging them on the pedestals and even flipping the alarm switch that protected the pieces from theft. From start to finish, this display was her baby.

“Those statues are something to behold,” commented Diane, catching her gaze.

“Well hung,” added Mara dryly.

Signe grinned. Most of the figurines were fertility gods with noticeably disproportionate male hardware.

Diane pointed, laughing. “I think I dated him once.”

“You wish,” joked Mara.

C.C’s voice sharpened. “Here comes Mister Wonderful!”

Signe braced herself. “He’s so…out of my league.” While her parents were professionals in Minneapolis—her father was a lawyer, her mother a history teacher—their lives were modest compared to Gorgeous’s jet-setting lifestyle.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” said Mara. “You’ve got that Winona Ryder thing going for you.”

“True.” Everybody thought she looked exactly like the movie actress. “But that might not be a plus. “She was arrested for shoplifting, remember?” Signe said nervously.

“That was years ago,” Diane assured.

Signe barely heard. Her knees weakened as Gorgeous came nearer. He was definitely…well, gorgeous, dressed as a seventeenth-century courtier. A richly embroidered purple cape swirled over a white doublet with a standing ruffled collar. A sword was strapped to his narrow hips, and it thrust from beneath the cape, its sheathed length brushing tight breeches. Signe’s eyes riveted to the pants fly, which was tightly laced over a bulge that the man was hardly bothering to hide.

All three women blew out a shaky breath in unison.

C.C. softly whispered, “You go, girl.”

Realizing that every muscle in her body had tightened, Signe forced herself to inhale as she lifted her gaze, taking in the rakish white-blond wig that hung to his powerful shoulders. He was wearing a conical velvet hat in lush purple.

“Well, we’re off, Sig,” whispered C.C.

“Don’t forget to get something from him,” coached Mara. “His pen. Or a lighter.”

“Something you can throw into the wiccan’s cauldron,” said Diane.

At the thought of casting a spell on Gorgeous Garrity, Signe felt pin prickles actually rise at her nape. Should she cast a spell to marry him, she wondered, or just have sex? “Casting a spell won’t work.”

“Probably not, but it’s worth a try,” said Mara.

C.C. was scissoring her fingers in a goodbye wave. “See you in the morning at Sarah’s. Let’s make it ten o’clock.”

Eyes on Gorgeous, Signe nodded. “See you.”

Her heart was still hammering when Gorgeous leaned casually over the bar a moment later. Somehow she managed to find her voice. “What can I get for you?” She paused. “George.”

He flashed a dazzling, hundred-watt smile that was like something straight out of the movies. “You can get me out of here,” he said confidentially. “If I’m accosted by one more milkmaid who wants a date, I’m going to scream.”

As Signe strained to hear him over the beating of her own heart, she vaguely wondered at the power this man seemed to wield over her. “Get you out of here?” she echoed. “Where would you like me to take you?”

“Where a woman like you could,” Gorgeous said with an easy grin. “We could start with heaven and just take it from there.”

When it came to flirtation, the man had a thousand smooth moves. Every time he got this close to her, Signe felt like Cinderella. Right now, she’d almost chuck her life dream of working at the Met, just to drag him into the cloakroom and divest him of his costume. Who cared what her boss would think? Despite her nervousness, she shot Gorgeous what she hoped was a game smile. “Well, you’ve got to admit that the art’s interesting.”

“Very. I think my uncle Harold lent Jack some pieces.” Jack was the computer mogul.

As Signe tried to imagine a life in which one lent others personally owned priceless artifacts for parties, she glanced around, noting the number of cute, costumed kids who’d been brought to the party by their parents. “Really?” she managed to say.

He nodded. “Among them, the statue of Eros.”

Her cheeks warmed. Given the elongated penis of the fetish, she didn’t exactly want to stare at it, but then, she didn’t want to glance away too quickly, either. If she did, Gorgeous Garrity might think she was what her friends accused her of being—a prude. “I read about Eros in an art history class,” she said, returning her eyes to Gorgeous Garrity’s, which were blue and sparkling. “They say it brings sexual potency to whomever possesses it.” Just saying the word potency while staring into such astonishing eyes made her feel giddy.

His lips curled in a half smile as if to say he was well aware of the fact. “Really? Well, maybe so. Uncle Harold’s been married more than once.”

“Reproductions of the statue are sold in the gift shop. They do a booming business.”

“Even a reproduction may ensure great sex?”

“Apparently.”

His smile broadened. “Do you have one?”

“A statue of Eros?” Her heart missing a beat, she vaguely wondered how she should respond. Imagining Gorgeous in her Village apartment, naked and between the sheets, had occupied most of her dreams lately. Still, despite her girlfriends’ endless admonishments that she should loosen up, she didn’t want to give the impression that she was easy. She had no doubt that women flung themselves at Gorgeous Garrity all day. “No,” she finally admitted. “No Eros reproductions. I can, however, offer other types of potency.”

Gorgeous looked very intrigued.

Lifting a wine bottle, she raised an eyebrow in question.

He considered. “What about a Stoli and tonic instead?”

“Coming right up.” As she fixed the cocktail, her eyes slid over his costume. Most removable items—the sword, hat and belt—were too large or too hard to get for the purposes of the spell she meant to cast on him. She could borrow a pen, or ask for a business card….

Her eyes settled on the edge of a red silk handkerchief tucked in his waistband. Just looking at him, she shuddered. He was big all over. The kind of guy who, naked, would be covered with silken curling hair—all dark blond in his case. His legs were bunched with muscle, probably from playing polo, which Signe knew he enjoyed. He flashed her a smile.

She smiled back. She simply couldn’t believe it. Before she’d started this harmless flirting with Gorgeous, she’d never had sex on the brain—at least not like this. She considered herself sexually healthy, of course, but usually, when it came to men, she was much more practical. Gorgeous, despite his bank account and prospects, had looks that made her nerves quiver.

Schooling her hand not to shake, she gave him the drink, then she stepped back and feigned a sneeze. Without hesitation, he lifted the red handkerchief from his waistband and pressed it to her palm. Making a show of blowing her nose, she smiled. The ploy had worked like a charm. “Why don’t I launder this?” she suggested. “I’ll keep it here for you, since you come in so often.”

“And you’re always here,” he returned with another of those smiles that made her feel as if she was the only woman in the room. “Don’t they give you time off?”

This was his entrée! Was New York City’s most eligible bachelor really going to ask her out? “Actually, yes, they do. I’m going to the Catskills this weekend.”

“Whereabouts?”

“The state park. An area called the Clover Fields.”

“Sounds lucky.”

Was he asking if he could get lucky? “Maybe.” She giggled. “I’m in cabin seven, too. Isn’t that a lucky number?”

“It sure is.”

The cabins only slept three, so she’d decided to let her girlfriends stay together while she was to share with a roommate—one of the New Jersey wiccans—whom she hadn’t yet met.

It might have been her imagination, but Gorgeous’s eyes looked veiled. “Going alone?”

“With girlfriends.” When he looked disappointed, she took a deep breath and plunged on. “Unless you decided to show up.”

“Me? Show up?”

She wasn’t sure if she’d made a mistake. “You know, if you were in the area.”

As if he just so happened to pass the Catskill Mountains every day of the week, he smiled and said, “You know, I just might run into you.”

His eyes locked into hers then. They were the same blue as the ocean under a burning sun hung in a cerulean sky. Breath left her lungs, and full years could have passed before she managed to blink. When she did, it was only because someone in the room had screamed.

“What was that?” she managed, tearing her eyes away.

“The statue of Eros!” shouted the voice as if in response to her question.

Her heart pounding with worry, she shifted her eyes to the pedestal on which the artifact had been displayed moments before, and then she blinked, feeling as if she was watching her life flash before her eyes. She saw Edmond Styles snatching away her promised promotion into the archives department. For a moment, wishful thinking almost made her believe the statue was still there. She could almost see it—about a foot tall, carved of dark wood.

And then she whispered, “It’s gone!”

THE NEXT MORNING, with only a day left until Halloween, Signe found herself shifting uncomfortably in a roller chair in the Met’s boardroom when Detective Alfredo Perez from the Eighty-fourth precinct stopped pacing to cast a suspicious glance toward the overnight bag at her feet. He was tall, pencil-thin, with short, spiky dark hair, ink-black eyes and a handlebar mustache that Signe thought made him look like a Mexican thief from an old spaghetti western.

Not taking his eyes from her bag, he said, “I was going to tell you not to leave town.”

Not a good sign. “Am I under arrest?”

He didn’t bother to answer. “Where are you going?”

She wasn’t sure she should admit it. “A wiccan retreat.”

“Wiccan?”

“Uh…you know. Witches.”

“Ah,” he said. “You’re a witch, then?”

Great. She could see the wheels turning. Detective Perez was connecting this information with the stolen statue, which was pagan. “No, actually, I’m not.” She lunged into a quick explanation of the trip and finished by flashing a smile and intoning, “I do not know, nor have I ever known, any real witches.”