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me.”
    She didn’t look at him again, just nodded and headed back to the house. He watched her go, enjoying the swing of her hips and the jiggle of her round butt. Her ponytail bounced as she walked. His boiling temperature went up a few degrees. Then he forced himself to think of something else besides bedding Miss Phil Spencer.
    Suddenly, it hit him. She’d claimed she was a witch. He shook his head and looked after her again, although by now she’d disappeared into the house. A lot of women claimed to be witches and belonged to a Wicca group. He didn’t believe in that sort of thing himself, but he figured to each his own. He wondered if she belonged to a cult and what part she played. What did they do, ride their broomsticks into the forests and light fires and chants wicked spells against their enemies? Their spells seemed to work because he was hooked as surely as if she’d thrown a line into the water and he’d greedily snared the bait.
    Hell, he didn’t believe that. He was an intelligent man with both feet flat on the ground. She was right about one thing. He had plenty of his own trouble without worrying about her illusions. The truth was, she was as batty as her sisters. He was sorry now he’d agreed to do the job. He shrugged. He could use the money. He’d get it done and be gone from this witch’s lair.

 
    Chapter Four
     
     
     
    Christ, what was she doing?
    She didn’t need another man in her life right now or ever. She’d had enough lowlifes to last her a lifetime, but Beck Crawford wasn’t a lowlife. How did she know for sure? Well, she didn’t, she just sensed he was a standup guy and when she studied him there wasn’t any kind of negative aura about him to warn her off. He was just a man. So why this sudden, all-consuming passion for him? And how long would it last? She should grit her teeth and tough it out until her fancy changed yet again and she was panting after some other man. Not Beck Crawford. He wasn’t her type. What was she thinking?
    But the memory of his kiss—the masculine scent of him, the feel of his hard body, of his arms gripping her tightly against his chest—was all too appealing to just discard. She’d go find another man she decided, one as sexy and manly as he was, and she’d fuck his brains out. Then she’d be over Beck. What kind of name was Beck anyway? What kind of mother named her baby Beck? Since Phil had no interest or experience with children, she hadn’t a clue what a mother would call her child. Still, she scoffed at his name because it was the only thing she could find to criticize and because she halfway liked the name. It sounded strong and direct—like the man himself. Oh, hell!
    She went upstairs and changed into a lovely, tropical flowered sundress, cut low with delicate pinks, tans and sage green colors, and held up by spaghetti straps and what God had given her as a woman. She tied on strappy, mile high wedge sandals that said fuck me and a floppy brimmed straw hat that shaded her eyes and made them look enigmatic and headed down to the village.
    She stopped first at the bank where she asked to see the assistant manager. His name was John Smith, a solid, regular name and he was attractive with good teeth and flirty eyes, despite the ring on his finger. Maybe his wife had left him or they were separated or had an open marriage or whatever. At least, she’d do some exploring. She wasn’t especially set against bedding a married man. As a witch, she considered herself above such complicated morality. She’d never even considered the pain she might cause some other woman. She’d just never made love to a married man before and didn’t really want to start now.
    John was there and welcomed her with the same come-hither glances he’d given her before. She discussed the possibility of changing some of her accounts to get a better interest rate and all the while he spouted numbers, he held her gaze overlong and managed to look down her dress