Witchy Woman Read Online Free PDF Page A

like that—postwar junk from Japan.”
    He could tell she was lying. Why? he wondered.
    “If you’re really interested in acquiring an accent for your home,” she continued, “I could help you pick out a quality piece, something that would be a good investment.”
    “But I don’t want an investment,” he argued, enjoying the spirited banter, wondering how far he could push her. “And I don’t care how old it is. I like that cat. It would look good on my bookshelf.”
    “Believe me, you wouldn’t like it once you got it home.” Her voice had taken on that ominous quality that intrigued him and gave him the chills at the same time.
    “What makes you so sure?”
    The waiter chose that moment to deliver their sandwiches. Tess dug into hers, giving her something to do besides answer his question.
    “You’re superstitious, aren’t you?”
    When she looked up at him in surprise, he was pretty sure he’d hit the mark.
    He pressed on. “You believe in omens and all that stuff. For some reason, you think the marble cat is bad luck.”
    “Yes, that’s exactly it,” she replied after a moment’s hesitation. “A crouching cat is extremely bad luck. Why, my uncle once brought a figurine like that into his house, and—”
    “Don’t tell me. He got a splinter and they had to amputate his foot, right?”
    She ripped a bite from her sandwich and chewed angrily, swallowed, then took a sip of her water. “You aren’t taking this very seriously. Don’t you believe me?”
    “I believe you. I just don’t believe in omens, or charms, or silly superstitions. Where did you learn about such nonsense? And why would an obviously enlightened, intelligent woman like yourself believe in them?”
    “It’s not nonsense,” she said, shrilly enough that a woman from a neighboring table looked over curiously.
    Nate decided he’d pushed Tess far enough. “Hey, let’s not argue about it. I’m sorry. You have the right to believe whatever you want, and I shouldn’t make fun of it. Truce?”
    She nodded stiffly.
    Her superstitions were probably a leftover habit from her unconventional childhood, he concluded. When he got to know her better, he would bring up this subject again and see if he could get a little closer to the truth.
    Tess actually enjoyed the afternoon, once they got off the subject of that awful statue. As they continued visiting antique shops, she found Nate to be a fascinating and funny companion. He didn’t seem to be an expert on anything, so there were no long, boring dissertations on insurance underwriting or industrial pollution, but he knew a little something interesting about everything under the sun—apparently a by-product of his ten-year freelance-writing career.
    “Yeah, I learned early on that if I was going to make a living as a writer, I could never turn down a money-making assignment, even if I knew nothing about the subject matter. Somehow or other, I always learn just enough to get by.”
    “So today the lesson is antiques?” she asked.
    “That’s right. I’ll get a general feel for things now, and later, as I’m actually writing the story, I’ll ask specific questions. Hey, how about this?” He pointed to a small, mahogany card table. “Twenty-five hundred bucks?” He examined the price tag. “Sheraton, Philadelphia, circa 1800.”
    “Hmm.” Tess peered beneath the tabletop, pretending to look for a distinguishing mark. She laid her hand against the bare wood and took a deep breath. The swift impression she received was that of a white-haired man in knickers working on a hand lathe, lovingly tooling a length of mahogany that would become a table leg. As he worked he sang softly.
    “Authentic as hell,” she declared as she opened hereyes. She found that Nate was standing behind her, looking over her shoulder. When she straightened, rather than backing away, he moved in closer, bringing their bodies into light contact. She was about to object when she realized he was only