The Kitchen Witch by Annette Blair Page B

night, but Jag wanted Logan to get out of bed and go meet the police at the west entrance.
    Logan hung up and swore. "That man would pass the buck, if God were next in line."
    Logan cursed again as he tossed the covers aside and rose. He shouldn't be called a producer, he should be called a jack-of-all-trades, or of whatever trade Jagger Harrison Gardner didn't feel like doing, or taking responsibility for. Logan didn't even want to be a producer. He wanted to make documentaries, not ride shotgun over other people's creativity, or lack thereof. He certainly did not want to do station walk- throughs at half-past freaking
midnight
.
    As he pulled on his jeans, he remembered that he needed a sitter. Man, he hated to wake Mel. She'd seemed so tired when she said good night, but she had promised she'd sit if he needed her, and he honestly did. Besides, he wanted to make sure that she felt better.
    It took quite a while to get her to answer her door, and when she finally did, she looked groggy enough to be walking in her sleep.
    Logan couldn't stop his grin.
    She looked like a little girl with her wild, fly-away hair tumbling to her shoulders, though that's where any likeness to childhood ended. Her long, shapely legs were as bare as her feet. Her breasts sat proud and free, her nipples making hard points against a soft tan T-shirt, long enough to cover essentials and short enough to inspire dreams. A Salem favorite, the shirt depicted a witch, artfully inviting him "in for a spell."
    Logan's body said a quick and emphatic yes; his saner self knew better. "You have no idea how much I would like to take you up on that invitation," he said, making Mel's sleepy brow furrow in confusion. "But I've been called in to work. Can you—"
    "Problem?"
    "More like some cat tripped a burglar alarm. Routine."
    That was all the explanation it took before Mel nodded and started on her comatose way up the stairs. Logan shut her door and followed, thoroughly enjoying the splendid view from down below.
    Enjoying it too much. Not good, the way his body reacted to the sight and scent of her. Downright dangerous, as a matter of fact. As soon as he made sure Mel found his sofa without breaking her neck, he would grab his keys off the dresser and—
    Melody about stopped his heart when she made straight for his room and crawled into his bed. Ignoring his jumbled covers, she lay on her belly, raised a knee, hugged his pillow like a lover, and went back to sleep.
    For an eternity of throbbing beats, Logan's heart sped and his palms sweat, while he stood mesmerized in the doorway of his bedroom, staring at Melody Seabright's little silk-clad ass out there jump-starting his libido.
    Logan wiped the sweat off his brow. This had to be the wildest turn-on of his life, he thought, especially now that he knew the way her skin felt against his. She looked like a gift from the gods, and man, did he ever want to unwrap the package.
    Too bad he couldn't, especially while she slept. If he did, he would be taking advantage. A lowlife. Extremely low.
    Logan's sigh of regret filled the room.
    Then he brightened. He should cover her up, so she didn't catch cold. Good idea. As he approached her, Melody shifted in the bed, about stopping his heart, and ended up facing the wall, aiming her cute little bottom his way.
    Logan savored the sight—Melody Seabright half naked in his bed—a dream come true. No, a nightmare, since he couldn't touch, anyway. Besides, he had to leave.
    Too bad he couldn't seem to move. Did bewitchment have a residual effect? he wondered. Because he would swear that something—something strong—kept him from moving his legs.
    Calling himself a fool, Logan tested his theory and, of course, he could move. Funny thing, though, he didn't end up stepping away from Melody at all, but toward her, and the closer he got, the stronger the pull.
    The burnished glow of her sleek skin made a sharp contrast to the white of his sheets and the black of her scant