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serious.
    “You can’t put a price on a human life.”
    “Exactly.”
    “Exactly what, sir?”
    He took a long breath as if readying himself to explain something to an annoying child. “If you were to return the sheik’s generous gift, he would see it as an insult. If you send it back, he’ll believe you don’t consider his life worth the cost of the gift.”
    “Pardon me, but that’s a bunch of…hooey.”
    “What is hooey?”
    “I think you know.”
    The PM cleared his throat. “Why don’t you see it as payment for services rendered?”
    “Technically, the sheik never hired me.”
    “Bronwyn, please. This is tiresome. You can’t return the gift because it would be a high insult. Accept his generosity.”
    What the hell could I say to that? The sheik’s life is worth a hundred jets. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but taking a gift like this throws off the whole karmic balance.
    The PM continued, “I do remember the sheik’s concern that your Cessna couldn’t travel overseas. Should your services be needed in an emergency, he didn’t want you to have to wait for a commercial flight.
    “And as far as the services rendered, I think if you check your packages today you’ll see a contract that hires your services for a rather lengthy duration.”
    I walked through the house to the living room where I found several unopened packages. I’ve always been bad about mail. Most of the FedEx drops are potion supplies and I hadn’t checked them in days.
    Sure enough there was one from Dubai.
    Great.
    “Bronwyn, are you still there?”
    “Yes, Prime Minister.”
    “I’ve got to go. Is this matter settled?”
    “No, sir, but until I can figure out an alternative, I’ll keep the jet.”
    “Good.” He disconnected.
    I sat there staring at the contract.
    I wouldn’t sign it. After careful inspection I discovered he wanted to pay me a hefty fee—about twenty times my regular amount. But he wanted me at his beck and call.
    I don’t work that way.
    Needed some time to think things over and I wanted to talk to the sheik. Maybe I could straighten all this out over the phone.
    Left a message with Miles to get me the sheik’s phone number. Now I just had to figure out what I’d say to the man.
    Oh, and the other reason I can’t sleep. Dr. Sam. A gorgeous hunk of beef who turned my insides into goo tonight at our dinner with Kira and Caleb.
    Something about him. Gomer Pyle he wasn’t. The dinner is all a blur, except that I remember having sexy thoughts about giving the good doc a lap dance.
    There’s just one problem—I think he’s a warlock. He definitely had shields I couldn’t penetrate, which indicates someone with a fair amount of magical power.
    If that’s the case, he’s off the I-want-to-have-sex-with-you list. I don’t do warlocks, after that guy in college tried to drain all of my powers and leave me for dead. Then there’s the whole gang of warlocks who trussed me up like a pig on a spit and hung me up as a sacrifice. I just have no happy thoughts where warlocks are concerned.
    It’s a shame because I felt this raw, sexual connection with him. Something I’ve never experienced before with another magical being. And we talked about everything—books, movies—and we had so much in common. I’d worn my I’m-a-slut red top, with the V to the breastbone, and my new Seven jeans. But his eyes never ventured down to my chest, or if they did I didn’t see them. He stared into my eyes the whole time we talked.
    Even now I can’t stop thinking about him. Argh!
    3 P.M .
    Potions: 30
    Spells: 3
    I’ve been working on a new potion to help with memory loss. Margie, who works over at the nursing home in the hospital, is a friend of Kira’s. They were coming out of the Piggly Wiggly yesterday morning as I was going in.
    Anyway, Margie told me the saddest thing about working with the elderly is they don’t remember who they were—or are, for that matter.
    “Mr. Gunther is this old man who