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tipped over, spilling water on the fancy ingrained table they’d been set on.
    He ran to the bathroom, grabbed a towel and returned to blot up the spill. “See? We can’t do this. We might as well accept our fate. Exercise, bland diet and waiting on ogres. I can see it all now.”
    “Don’t panic,” Willie Jo said. “With a little practice, our magic will be as good as new. Besides, we probably won’t need it at all with Frannie and Sinclair. They’re as good as in love already.”
    “How do you know the Love Dove’s magic isn’t rusty, too?” asked Thomas. “Maybe Sinclair isn’t Frannie’s love-mate. Maybe we weren’t supposed to match Frannie up with anyone . The Love Dove could have screwed us.”
    “Doves don’t lose their magic. They don’t need to practice,” Willie Jo said in a quiet voice.
    Maury patted him on the back. He knew Willie Jo was still suffering from their last, and failed, attempt at love-matching. He wondered why wizards were even needed for the process, because Love Doves seemed to operate just fine on their own most of the time. The same could not be said, however, of wizards.
    The drill was that the Love Dove would fly off and take an object from their next matchmaking project. One would think the process could be speeded up if wizards selected their own humans.
    Wrong.
    Or so they had learned when Willie Jo fell helplessly, totally, inescapably into infatuation with a lovely, black-haired, turquoise-eyed, American actress. Poor Liz Turner.
    Willie Jo’s most fervent wish had been to help Liz find happiness. They’d tried to help her find her perfect match, but without the Love Dove to guide them, they’d more than failed. Maury had lost count of how many disastrous marriages she’d had since they’d butted in.
    Hiding was definitely preferable to failure.

CHAPTER SIX
     
    Frannie took one look at her “room” and freaked. “Your boss is a jerk. You know that?”
    Mrs. Dryndyl’s lazy eye appeared to wander, but otherwise she didn’t react to Frannie’s statement. “I’m sure you’ll be comfortable.”
    Frannie ignored her and turned back to look at the bedroom she’d been given. It was an effing throne room. She’d never in her life seen anything this fancy, elegant—unnerving. The entry hall at Haliday Hall had been daunting, but it was nothing compared with this—excess.
    She couldn’t begin to take it all in. From gold-leafed embellished fir-downs, to gold-leafed decorated pillars framing what looked like a bed a monarch might sleep in, it was all too much. Even the bed itself. It had a gold—and she was sure it was real gold—headboard. Instead of pillows, it had one of those fancy roll things. Overhead, draperies woven from the finest silk and twilled metallic cloth framed the headboard, then extended out to overhang the bed slightly, and even that was festooned with carvings and cupids and gold leaf.
    A plush white carpet, unmarred by any stain or foot print, covered the floor. The furnishings must have come directly out of one of England’s castles, and fresh flowers rioted in expensive crystal vases on every surface in the room. Draperies lined the two windows at the far side of the bedroom with fabrics and carvings identical to those over the bed. An elaborate balustrade framed by the pillars separated the bed from the rest of the room.
    Some people might dream of sleeping in a museum, but Frannie wasn’t one of them. Even a careless footprint might permanently mar the carpet. If she touched anything, she might damage it.
    Sinclair Haliday was pure evil.
    He wanted her cowed, too scared to utter a peep. He’d deliberately tried to throw her off balance by giving her this room. He wanted her intimidated. She should have expected something like this from him after his ridiculous comment about blackmail.
    There was no way she could ever concentrate in this room. The only thing she could think about was the bill she’d get for breakage. Anger made