Some Practical Magic Read online

  “They seat authors alphabetically for these group signings,” he commented evenly. “It’s not a big deal.”

  Jennifer sniffed, laying the book signing information with deliberate care onto the table by her plate. “She’ll ride your coattails, mark my words. Her sales aren’t a fraction of yours, and she’ll milk sitting next to you to boost her sell-through.”

  Mick leaned back in the booth and crossed his arms over his chest. “She writes nonfiction. Sitting beside me will help her how?”

  “The pity factor.” Jennifer’s posture had stiffened with her tone. “Your fans will pity her, sitting there without a customer while they wait in line for hours to get your autograph. They’ll feel compelled to step over to her line—after they’ve gotten your book, of course—and buy hers.”

  Realizing logic wouldn’t work, Mick chose to ignore Jennifer’s rant. “Can we talk about this later? This dessert has my name on it.”

  If anyone could actually swell with indignation, it was Jennifer Bodin. “For God’s sake, can’t you focus on your career? That cheesecake can wait.”

  “No it can’t.”

  Jennifer flushed. “What’s a stupid dessert in comparison to—”

  “Making tons of money?” Mick leaned forward, picked up his fork and said deliberately, “I’ve focused on writing for twenty years. Now, I want to eat this before it spoils.”

  Jennifer’s crossing her arms over her ample chest snapped Mick’s gaze up and drew his eyebrows down. It was more her expression than her mirroring his previous gesture that made his stomach churn with tension.

  “Cassandra Hathorne is an award-winning columnist,” he stated flatly. “Her books have sold millions, and she doesn’t need me to help her sell more. Give it a rest.”

  The blonde’s expression immediately turned to a pout. “I just have your best interests in mind, darling.”

  “I thought we dispensed with the ‘darling’ tag two months ago.” At Jennifer’s look of stubborn determination, Mick’s anger at her posturing flared, and he added brusquely, “Ms. Hathorne isn’t a competitor. She appeals to a completely different audience. A mostly female, homemaking audience.”

  “Of course she’s a competitor.” All remnants of a sulk disappeared, to be replaced by cold business savvy. “The buying public only has so much money to spend. Since you both sell the same product, she’s competition. You’re vying for the reader’s hard-earned dollar.”

  Mick studied the woman that, up until two months before, he had been engaged to marry at Christmas. Just over five-feet tall, she was beautiful and curvaceous, with cornflower blue eyes and a mouth that, when not turned down in a pout, begged to be kissed. She’d been his publicist and manager for four years, his lover for two, and his fiancee for just over six months. He loved everything about how she managed his writing career, but he’d been foolish to think that his love of her professional abilities could carry over into a personal relationship.

  Once they’d announced their engagement, it had become apparent that Jennifer was more interested in his net worth than she was in his individual value. As a business manager, her attention to detail made her second to none. But Mick realized he needed equal personal attention. Equal affection. And he needed to return them. Nearly four months ago he had discovered he didn’t love Jennifer for herself, either, but for what she’d done for his career. So the fact that she loved his alter-ego, M. S. Kazimer, and all the wealth and prestige that went with that name, rather than Mirek Sandor shouldn’t have bothered him so much. But it did. They were quite the pair. Maybe they deserved to marry each other.

  He mentally sighed and stopped that line of thinking. Their engagement was over. Nothing would change that. Fortunately, God hadn’t even joined them before they were split asunder.

  He studied the pretty blonde a moment. “I’ll likely sell a disgusting number of books on this tour, regardless of who sits next to me. No point in getting upset about seating arrangements.”

  “You should be off by yourself. Not only is that witch-person next to you, but Robert Whitman—whoever he is—is on the tour, too.”

  “He’s new. Promoting his first book,” Mick said stiffly. Mention of Whitman made his entire body clench. His stomach churned, making him glad he hadn’t started eating his cheesecake. “Our publisher wants him on this tour with some of its big guns, to give his career a boost.”

  Jennifer’s eyes lit up like a zealot’s at a church revival. “You’ve just made my point. He’ll really profit from your fame. I certainly hope you’re being compensated in some way.”

  “As my publicist and business manager, you’d already know I’m not,” came Mick’s even retort. “And all this talk of money and compensation and riding my coattails stops now.”

  “I’ve offended you.”

  He shook his head and with a concentrated effort modified his sharp tone. “Look, Jen, I know you’re supposed to promote me. But I’m not exactly failing at the author business. I’ve got more money than I know what to do with.”

  “Then why throw it all away by retiring from writing?”

  At that question, the acid in his stomach did its best volcano impersonation. Knowing he was treading water in a shark tank, Mick worded his answer carefully, putting as much calm conviction into his tone as he could. “When you’ve lost the joy in what you’re doing, you have to stop. Find something else that makes you happy. Writing no longer makes me happy.” At least, writing horror novels doesn’t, he thought grimly. But can I do anything else? What am I if I’m not M. S. Kazimer?

  His quiet declaration didn’t have the effect he’d hoped. He knew it when he saw Jennifer’s flush.

  “I can’t believe you made this decision without consulting me first,” she said, volume increasing with each word.

  Restaurant patrons seated at nearby tables stared at her and then quickly looked away. Mick had the sick feeling they were trying to pretend they weren’t attempting to eavesdrop.

  God, he wanted this nightmare to end. He kept his voice low when he leaned toward Jennifer. “I’ve said this before, but you’ve refused to listen. Listen now. I’m tired of all this. Tired of the deadlines, of the hype, of the pressure to live up to my readers’ expectations. But most of all, I’m tired of creating demented serial killers who leave a grisly trail of victims behind them.”

  “But people adore your stories!”

  “But I don’t anymore. And doesn’t my opinion count for something?” As Jennifer’s silence lengthened and her mouth set stubbornly, Mick shook his head. Fortunately, his business manager couldn’t feel the lump that had settled in his throat. Macho horror writers weren’t supposed to get emotional. He was rather proud of the fact that his voice was steady and matter-of-fact when he said, “You never loved me as much as you loved M.S. Kazimer. And the money and fame that go along with that persona.”

  Looking the part of a long-suffering martyr, Jennifer rose regally from her seat. “Spare me the histrionics, Mick.”

  “I thought that was your ploy.”

  She continued with barely a pause. “You get moody before every tour. Come up to my room, and I’ll see about arousing your interest in being here.”

  “Don’t go that route. We haven’t made love in months—and for the record, I don’t count sex after our increasingly frequent arguments as lovemaking. Personally, I’m not interested anymore in sex for mending fences and not for passion.”

  Her chin rose. “Now you’re being deliberately boorish.”

  “You were the one who broke off the engagement. And now you’re coming on to me in the hotel restaurant.”

  “Sometimes, Mick, you really are a bastard.” She turned on her heel and stalked from the restaurant.

  He watched her leave, his mood sinking further with every step she took. The thought that she didn’t love him had nagged
at him for at least a year. She’d proven his suspicion when he told her this current book, Mortal Sin, would be his last by promptly threatening to call off the engagement if he retired. When he said his decision was final, she’d canceled the wedding.

  Not publicly, of course. He knew Jennifer harbored the idea that she could lure him back to writing—and perhaps back into her bed. But knowing his bank account and international fame meant more to her than his emotional and physical well-being would shield him from her schemes.

  And he had another, far more compelling reason for wanting out. A reason he couldn’t discuss. Not with his family or his friends, not with his former fiancée.

  He snapped his napkin closed and called for the check. Understanding that his affection for Jennifer was mostly due to her skill at running his career, he’d been prepared to call off the wedding. She’d beaten him to it, which hadn’t surprised him much. And if she couldn’t love him for himself instead of for the writing talent that had made him filthy rich and world famous, that was her problem. At the end of the book tour, when he officially announced his immediate retirement, she’d either decide she could live with Mirek Sandor, or take her severance pay and find work as someone else’s publicist.

  The realization that the latter scenario was the most likely to happen made his heart thud dully in his chest. But he set his jaw and squared his shoulders. Jennifer was going to spend this book tour mounting a furious campaign to keep him writing, but he wouldn’t cave in. Couldn’t. Mirek Sandor was not a coward; he could resist his former lover’s persuasion.

  But he’d sure as hell rather be facing a deadline for the editor from Hades than Ms. Jennifer Bodin on a mission that involved money.

  “YOU’RE SITTING next to M. S. Kazimer at all the signings.” Endora studied the book tour itinerary as the limo Cassie’s publisher had sent sped them from the airport to their hotel near the Seagate Convention Center in downtown Toledo. “Wow.”

  Cassie’s head snapped around to look at her now very human familiar. “The M. S. Kazimer? As in, ‘Every-word-I-write-turns-into-a-best-seller’ M. S. Kazimer?”

  “The very same.”

  “Did you arrange that, oh business manager of mine?”

  Endora shrugged shoulders encased in a bright red suit jacket that perfectly complimented her steel-gray hair. Her ability to wear clothes that always harmonized with her coloring amazed Cassie. For Cassie herself, shopping solo was a recipe for fashion disaster. Fortunately, Endora was always more than happy to shape-shift into human form and accompany her.

  Today, Cassie wore a royal blue suit coat with black slacks and a brightly colored silk scarf. As the tour moved south, she’d packed accordingly with lighter weight—and lighter colored—clothes. Of course, Endora had picked them out for her. Thank the goddess for color analysis, and a friend with a good eye for style.

  “You know I’d take the credit if I could, Boss,” Endora was saying of the signing arrangements, “but I can’t. Luck of the alphabet, I guess.”

  Cassie sat back against the limo’s plush leather seat. “That man’s some kind of alchemist, I’m sure of it. He can certainly transform his imagination into gold.”

  “Good looking.” Endora passed Mick’s press kit photo to Cassie, who immediately sat straight up, studying it as if she thought it might speak to her.

  “I’ll say!” She continued to stare.

  “I heard that.”

  “Heard what?”

  “Don’t give me that ‘What are you talking about?’ deliberately blank look. I heard your heartbeat.”

  One dark brow deliberately winged up. “Heartbeat?”

  “Come on, Cassandra,” Endora teased. “Your heart went into overdrive when you got a look at ol’ M.S. here.” She flicked the back of Mick’s press photo with her index finger. “It’s beating a regular tattoo right now.”

  Cassie shrugged. “He is very good looking . . .”

  “No, he’s devastatingly handsome. Admit it, you could go for a hunky human male like M. S. Kazimer in a split second.”

  “I’ll plead the Fifth.” Cassie looked at the picture again. “Or I’ll drink a fifth, so I don’t go into groupie overdrive at the signings and turn into a simpering puddle at his feet.”

  “I knew it,” Endora crowed, then started chanting, “Cassie and M.S., sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G—”

  An elbow to the ribs brought an end to her banter.

  “Great Mother Goddess, Endora, grow up! Okay, the guy’s gorgeous. But he’s probably married and the father of five.”

  Still snickering, Endora glanced at Mick’s bio. “Says here he’s forty years old and single.”

  “I thought I read somewhere that he’s engaged.”

  “Engaged is not married. That means he’s fair game. Grrrrr . . .”

  Giving up any hope of heading off Endora’s line of thinking, Cassie returned to studying the photo. “Black hair and blue eyes. Quite a combination.”

  “I prefer tiger-striped fur and yellow eyes, but then, that’s just me.” Her familiar grinned at the face Cassie made. “Ever read any of his books?”

  “No! That psycho serial killer stuff scares me to death.” She shuddered. “Disgusting.”

  Endora snorted. “You’re hopeless. A witch who’s afraid of the dark? Who’d a thunk it.”

  “I’m not afraid of the dark. I just can’t stand to read novels about crazy people killing regular people.”

  “Of course not. Such actions would indicate that your precious human race aren’t all saints.”

  Cassie’s lips pursed indignantly. “E tu Brute? You’re sounding just like my mother.”

  “Yet another service I, as your trusty familiar, supply,” Endora stated blandly. “I must continually assure that your plane returns from Fantasy Island.”

  “How many lives have you got left?”

  The Cheshire grin returned. “More than enough to do my job.”

  “I was afraid of that.” Cassie moved to hand Mick’s photo back, then paused, staring at it again. She gave a low whistle. “He’s hiding something. Something very dark.”

  “Let me see that.” Endora snatched the photo from Cassie’s fingers. Flipping it over, she held it to the limo’s interior cabin light to see Mick’s image from the back. She glanced at Cassie. “You’re right. His aura’s got a definite darkness to it.”

  “I don’t sense it as being something evil inside him, though.”

  Endora shrugged, then returned Mick’s picture to the press kit. “Hard to tell from a photo. But you’re the witch, not me.”

  Cassie’s laugh was more like a snort. “You’re practically as much witch as I am.” She winced mentally when she saw how uncomfortable her remark had made Endora. The time was fast approaching when Cassie’s familiar would have to deal with a critical issue, but that was months away, and Endora didn’t seem overly concerned with the deadline. Instead of making matters worse by bringing attention to her gaffe, Cassie opted for a light tone when she added, “Everyone I know protects some secret. Why would M. S. Kazimer be any different? He uses a pseudonym. But then, so do I.”

  Her comment had the desired effect. Seeing Endora stiffen, she knew the cat was going into her familiar’s role of witch protector. There was no need. But knowing Endora—despite her sarcastic manner and unorthodox ways—took her responsibilities to Cassie seriously was comfortably reassuring. Dora was a good friend, too.

  “You know the reason for a pseudonym.” Endora’s voice held a touch of heat. “What might happen if you ever revealed your true nature to a human?”

  Cassie’s upheld hand staved off Endora’s rising fervor. “You’re preaching to the choir, here, Dora. You know I’m extremely careful. But everyone has secrets. M. S. Kazimer certainly does. And since I’ll be sitting next to the most prolific
and popular writer alive today, I should familiarize myself with his history. Just in case his ego’s as big as his bank account, and I have to practice my ego-reduction skills.”

  Endora bristled. “You’re as good a writer as he is.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, pal, but he could very well not share your exalted opinion of my skills.”

  “If he’s obnoxious to you, I can put a hex on him. Turn him into a zombie for you. I know you don’t like doing that kind of stuff yourself.”

  Cassie knew Endora was only half-joking. “His fans might grow concerned when his body parts started dropping off at autographing sessions.”

  “You’re right. I’ll have to be more subtle . . .”

  Cassie reached over and gave Endora a quick, affectionate hug. “Thanks for being my friend.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “And no hexes.”

  “Spoilsport.”

  Two

  “ENDORA, STOP THAT,” Cassie hissed, elbowing her familiar in the ribs. Her cat, still in human form, sat perfectly still, staring unblinkingly at the huge aquarium in the hotel lobby. Cassie elbowed her again. “Endora!”

  “Huh?” Endora turned almond-shaped green eyes to her friend.

  “You’re doing it again!”

  “Doing what?”

  “Well, acting like a cat.”

  “I am a cat.” Endora’s gaze strayed back toward the huge assortment of tropical fish swimming placidly in the tank not five feet away. Her nose twitched.

  Cassie shook her head. “Right now you’re my manager. My very human manager. So, start managing. Go yell at some incompetent underling, or sign some book order manifest. I swear, you haven’t moved a muscle in ten minutes.”

  “This tour is being run with military precision. There are no incompetents for me to terrorize.” Licking her palm, Endora smoothed back her hair. It was the exact color—a dark, steel gray—as in her feline form. Not the ultra-white, pigment-challenged hair the aging referred to as gray. Hers was a startling, striking shade. Coupled with her green eyes and feline walk, Endora’s human form always turned male heads wherever she went. “The hotel’s first-rate, the bus would make a rock band’s tour bus look like a V W beetle, and all your needs are being seen to. There’s really nothing for me to do on this trip.”