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Her mother had said that she’d run out of ideas. She’d told Pandora before she left to be the keynote speaker at the annual Scenic Psychics conference that the store was hers now. And it was up to her to decide what to do with it.
After sixty years in the family, close up shop and sell the property.
Or fight to keep it going.
Her stomach pitched, but of the two, she knew there was only one she could live with.
“I can’t give up. This is all I have, Kath. Not just my heritage, given that Moonspun Dreams has been in the family for four generations. But it’s all I’ve got now.”
“What are you going to do? And what can I do to help?” Both questions were typical of Kathy. And both warmed Pandora to the soul, shoving the fears and stress of trying to save a failing business back a bit.
“I don’t know. I’ve been racking my brain, trying to figure something out.” Her smile quirked as she gestured to the small table in the corner. Rich rosewood inset with stars and moons, part of the table was covered by a brocade cloth and a handful of vividly painted cards. “I’ve finally reached the point of desperation.”
Kathy’s eyes widened. Pandora had sworn off all things metaphysical back in high school, claiming that she didn’t have the talent or skill. The reality was that Cassiopeia was so good at it, nothing Pandora did could measure up. And she’d hated knowing she’d never, ever be good enough.
“What’d the reading say?”
“Tarot really isn’t my forte,” she excused, filling her mouth with the sweet decadence of her éclair.
“Quit stalling. Even if you don’t have that psychic edge like your mom, you still know how to read.”
That psychic edge. The family gift. Her heritage.
Her failure.
“The cards weren’t any help,” she dismissed. “The Lovers, Three of Swords, the Tower, Four of Wands and the Seven of Swords.”
The éclair halfway to her lips, Kathy scrunched her nose and shrugged. “I don’t understand any of that.”
“I don’t, either.” Pandora’s shoulders drooped. “I mean, I know what each card means—I was memorizing tarot definitions before I was conjugating verbs. But I don’t have a clue how it applies to Moonspun Dreams. It doesn’t help me figure out how to save the business.”
Yet more proof that she was a failure when it came to the family gift. Handed down from mother to daughter, that little something extra manifested differently in each generation. Leda, Pandora’s grandmother, had prophetic dreams. Cassiopeia’s gift was psychic intuition.
And Pandora’s? Somewhere around her seventeenth birthday, her mother had decided Pandora’s gift was reading people. Sensing their energy, for good or bad. In other words, she’d glommed desperately onto her daughter’s skill at reading body language and tried to convince everyone that it was some sort of gift.
Despite popular belief, it hadn’t been her mother’s overdramatic lifestyle that had sent Pandora scurrying out of Black Oak as soon as she was legally able. It’d been her disappointment that she was just an average person with no special talent. All she’d wanted was to get away. To build a nice normal life for herself. One where she wasn’t always judged, always found lacking.
Then she’d had to scurry right back when that nice normal life idea had blown up in her face.
“You’re going to figure it out,” Kathy said, her words ringing with loyal assurance. “Your mom wouldn’t have trusted you with the store if she didn’t have faith, too.”
“The store is failing. We’ll be closing the doors by the end of the year. I don’t think it’s as much a matter of trusting me as it is figuring I can’t make things any worse.”
Pandora eyed the last three cream-filled pastries, debating calories versus comfort.
Comfort, and the lure of sugary goodness, won.
“These are so good,” she murmured as she bit into the chocolate-drenched creamy goodness.
“They are. Too bad Mrs. Rae only bakes when she’s pissed at her husband. Black Oak has a severe sugar shortage now that she’s retired.” Kathy gave her a long, considering look. “You worked in a bakery for the last few years, right? Maybe you can take over the task of keeping Black Oak supplied with sweet treats. You know, open a bakery or something.”
“Wouldn’t that be fun,” Pandora said with a laugh. Then, because she was starting to feel a little sick after all that sugary goodness, she set the barely eaten éclair on a napkin and slid to her feet. “But I can’t. I have to try to make things work. Try to save Moonspun Dreams. Mom was hoping, since I’d managed the bakery the last two years, that maybe I’d see some idea, have some brilliant business input, that might help.”
“And you have nothing at all? No ideas?”
Failure weighing down her shoulders, Pandora looked away so Kathy didn’t see the tears burning in her eyes. Her gaze fell on the dusty box she’d hauled in earlier.
“We’ve got a leak in the storeroom,” she said, not caring that the subject change was so blatant as to be pathetic. “Most of the stuff stored in that back corner was in plastic bins, so it’s probably seasonal decorations or something. But this box was there, too. It’s my great-grandma’s writing, and from the dust coating the box, it’s been there since she moved away.”
“Oh, like a treasure chest,” Kathy said, stuffing the éclairs back in the bag and clearing a spot on the counter. “Let’s see what’s in it.”
Pandora set the box on the counter and dug her fingernail under one corner of the packing tape. Pulling it loose, she and Kathy both winced at the dust kicking them in the face.
She lifted the flaps. Kathy gave a disappointed murmur even as Pandora herself grinned, barely resisting clapping her dirty hands together.
“It’s just books,” Kathy said, poking her finger at one.
“My great-grandma Danae’s books,” Pandora corrected, pulling out one of the fragile-looking journals. She reverently opened the pages of the velvet-covered book, the handmade paper thick and soft beneath her fingers. “This is better than a treasure chest.”
“Oh, sure. Piles of gold coins, glistening jewels and priceless gems is exactly the same thing as a box of moldy old books.” Still, Kathy reached in and pulled a leather-bound journal out for herself, flipping through the fragile pages. Quickly at first, then slower, as the words caught her attention.
“These are spells. Like, magic,” she exclaimed, her voice squeaking with excitement. “Oh, man, this is so cool.”
A little giddy herself, Pandora looked over at the book Kathy was flipping through. “Grammy Danae collected them. I remember when I was little, before she died, people used to call her a wisewoman. Grammy Leda said that meant she was a witch. Mom said she was just a very special lady.”
“Do you think she really was a witch?” Kathy asked, glee and skepticism both shining in her eyes.
“I’m more inclined to believe she was one of the old wives all those tales were made from.” Pandora laughed. “Despite the rumors, there’s nothing weird or freaky about my family.”
She wanted—desperately needed—to believe that.
“But wouldn’t it be cool if these spells worked? Say, the love ones. You could sell them, save the store.”
“It’s not the recipe that makes a great cook, it’s the power,” Pandora recited automatically. At her friend’s baffled look, she shrugged. “That’s what Grammy always said. That words, spells, a bunch of information … that wasn’t what made things happen. Just like the tarot cards don’t tell the future, crystals don’t do the healing. It’s the intuition, the power, that make things happen.”
“I’ll bet people would still pay money for a handful of spells,” Kathy muttered.
“They’d pay money for colored water and talcum powder, too.” Pandora shrugged. “That doesn’t make it right.”
“Maybe you can offer matchmaking or something,” Kathy said, studying the beautifully detailed book. “People would flock to the store for that kind of thing.”
For one brief second, the idea of people believing in her enough to flock anywhere filled Pandora with a warm glow. She wanted so badly to offer what the other women in her family had. Comfort, advice, guidance. And a little magic.
Then her shoulders drooped. Because she had no magic to share. Even the one little thing her mother had tried to claim for her had been a failure.
“I’d let people down,” she said with a shake of her head. “Hell, when it comes to love stuff, I even let myself down.”
“You can’t let that asshole ruin your confidence,” Kathy growled, lowering the book long enough to glare. “It wasn’t your fault your boyfriend was a using, lying criminal.”
“Well, it was my fault I let him dupe me, wasn’t it? If I was so good at reading people, I’d have seen what was going on. I wouldn’t have let the glow of great sex cloud my vision.”
Just thinking about it made her stomach hurt.
She’d thought she was in love. She’d fallen for Sean Rafferty hard and fast. The bakery owner’s son was everything she’d wanted. Gorgeous. Funny. Sensitive. Her dream guy. She’d thought the fall was mutual, too. Great sex with an up-and-coming pharmacist who seemed crazy about her. He didn’t care that she didn’t have any special gift. And she hadn’t cared that she couldn’t seem to get a solid read on his body language. He’d said plenty. Words of love, of admiration.
Then Sean had been busted in an internet prescription scam. And, as if her shock of misreading him that much hadn’t been enough, they’d informed her that she was under arrest for collusion. Apparently, her own true love had run his scam using her computer IP address, and then told the police it was all her idea. It’d taken a month, a pile of lawyers’ fees and the word of one of Sean’s colleagues shooting for a plea deal to convince the cops that she’d been innocent. Clueless, gullible and stupid, but innocent.
His mother firing her had been the final straw. Whether she fit in or not didn’t matter, Pandora had needed to come home.
“What’s that book?” Kathy asked, clearly trying to distract her from a confidence-busting trip down memory lane.
Pandora gave an absent glance at the book in her lap. Faded ink covered pages that were brittle with age. Some of the writing she recognized as Grammy’s. Some she’d never seen before. Then, a tiny flame of excitement kindling in the back of her mind, she flipped the pages. “It’s a recipe book.”
“Oh.”
“Make that Oh!” Pandora angled the book to show her friend the handwritten notes above the ingredient list. “These are recipes for aphrodisiacs. Better than love spells, these don’t rely on a gift. They just require a talent for cooking.”
“Oh, I like that. Maybe you can whip up a tasty aphrodisiac or two for me?” Kathy said with a wicked smile. “I’d be willing to pay a pretty penny for guaranteed good sex.”
“Hot and fresh orgasms, delivered to your door in thirty minutes or less?” Pandora joked.
“Sure, why not? Maybe your éclairs aren’t quite as amazing as Mrs. Rae’s, but you’re still a damn good cook. So why not use that? Use those recipes? Put the word out, see what happens. If nothing else, it’ll stir up a little curiosity, right?”
It was a crazy idea. Aphrodisiacs? What the hell did Pandora know about sex, let alone sexual aids? The last time she’d seen Sean, he’d been behind bars and, probably for the first time in their relationship, honest when he’d told her that she’d been easy to use because she was naive about sex.
So unless it was a how-to-survive-and-thrive-alone, a do-it-yourself guide to pleasure on a budget, Pandora had very little to offer.
But could she afford to turn away from such a perfect idea?
Her mother would say she’d found this box, this idea, for a reason. Could she take the chance and ignore fate?
Pandora puffed out a breath and looked around the store. This was her heritage. Maybe she didn’t have a gift like the rest of the women in her family, but couldn’t this be her gift? To save the store?
While her brain was frantically spinning around for an answer, she paced the length of the counter and back. On her third round, Paulie lifted his black head off the carpet to give her the look of patience that only cats have.
“I guess we should do some research,” she finally said.
“Don’t you have all the recipes you need in that book?”
“I’m sure I do. But I need to find out what kind of food is going to lure in the most customers. Then I can use the recipes to add a special dash of aphrodisiac delight.”
As she reached under the counter to get a notepad and pen so she and Kathy could brainstorm, she had to shake her head.
Wasn’t it ironic? It was because of sex that she’d had to run home and now sex was going to be the thing that saved that home.
Two months later
“I NEED A FAVOR … A sexual favor, you might say.”
The words were so low, they almost faded into the dull cacophony of the bar’s noise. Pool cues smacking balls and the occasional fist smacking a face were typical in this low-end dive. Sexual favors were plentiful, too, but usually they involved the back room and cash in advance.
Caleb Black arched a brow and took a slow sip of his beer before saying, “That’s not the way I roll, but Christmas is coming. Want me to slap a bow on the ass of one of those fancy blow-up dolls and call it your present?”
Hunter’s dead-eyed look didn’t intimidate, but it did make Caleb hide his smirk in his beer. Caleb was known far and wide as a hard-ass dude with a bad attitude. But when he was around Hunter, he came off as sweetness and light on a sugar high.
The man was a highly trained FBI special agent swiftly rising in the ranks thanks to his brilliant mind, killer instincts and vicious right hook.
He was also Caleb’s college roommate and oldest, most trusted friend. Which meant poking at that steely resolve was mandatory.
“Okay, crossing blow-up doll off my shopping list,” Caleb decided. “But you should know that my sexual favors don’t come cheap.”
“From what I’ve heard, dirt cheap is more like it.”
Caleb’s smirk didn’t change. When a man was as good as he was with women, he didn’t need to defend his record. Knowing Hunter would get to the point in his own good time, Caleb leaned back, the chair creaking as he crossed his ankle over his knee and waited.
Always quick on the uptake, Hunter pushed his barely touched beer aside and leaned forward, his hands loose on the scarred table between them. Even in the dim bar light, his eyes shone with an intensity that told Caleb the guy was gonna try to sucker him in.
But Caleb had learned suckering at his daddy’s knee.
“You’re coming off a big case, right?” Hunter confirmed.
Not quite the tact he’d expected. But it wasn’t his game, so Caleb just nodded. And waited.
“Word is you’ve hit burnout. That you’re taking some time off to consider your options.”
The smirk didn’t shift on Caleb’s face. But his entire body tensed. He wasn’t a sharing kind of guy. He hadn’t told anyone he was burning out except his direct superior, who’d sworn to keep it to himself.
“Word sounds like a gossipy, giggling teenager,” was all Caleb said, though. “Who’s the gossip and when did you start listening to that kind of crap?”
“It’s amazing how much information you can pick up through speculation.” Hunter sidestepped. “So while you’re considering those options, maybe you might be interested in doing a friend a favor?”
“I’m more interested in lying on a beach in Cabo with half-naked women licking coconut-flavored oil off my body,” Caleb mused, taking another swig of beer.
“What if I used the owe-me card?” Hunter asked quietly, his gaze steady on Caleb’s. Intimidation 101.
Last week, Caleb had faced down a Colombian drug lord who’d preferred to blow up the building he stood in than be arrested when he found out his newest right-hand man was actually DEA.
It would take a lot more than 101 to make Caleb squirm.
Then again, he did owe Hunter. Back in their first year of college, Caleb had been a better con than a student. Overwhelmed by the realities of college life, he’d cheated on his midterm psych project. Hunter had caught him. He didn’t threaten to turn him in. He didn’t lecture. He simply threw Caleb’s own dreams back in his face until he’d cracked, then helped him pull together a new project. He hadn’t snagged the A he’d hoped for, but Caleb had found a new sense of pride he’d never known. Shit.
Caleb hated unpaid debts. Especially sappy emotional ones.
“Cut the bullshit and get to the point,” he suggested.
Realizing he’d won, Hunter didn’t gloat. He just leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his own beer. “You’re from a small town in the Santa Cruz Mountains, right? Black Oak, California.”
It wasn’t a question, but Caleb inclined his head.
