Midnight Hunter. Kait Ballenger
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Hunky nerd? He couldn’t get past the fact that she really thought of him that way. He always thought of himself as just a nerd, plain and simple. God help him. “I’ll help you, if you help me.” He said it before he could stop himself. He had decided working with her was stupid, yet here he was, making the offer, anyway. That was exactly what the problem was: she muddled his decision making. But he couldn’t bring himself to turn her away when she so clearly needed protection. He wasn’t the type of man to do that. She may have been a witch and he a witch hunter, but regardless, he would not stand by while any woman, witch or not, was attacked. He would figure out how to control his inappropriate feelings.
She raised an eyebrow at him. “Who says I need your help?”
“Why else would you bring this to me? Last night you wanted nothing to do with helping me, but I figure from the way you shivered at the thought of this tarantula possessing you that you’re either extremely afraid of spiders or afraid of someone using you for black magic against your will, and that seems like something that a normal person would want help from a witch hunter for.”
“You’re intuitive. It’s kind of disgusting.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “But you’re right. It’s both. I just don’t like admitting I’m afraid of anything.”
One side of his mouth lifted into a half grin. He wasn’t surprised by that. She didn’t seem like the type to want to flaunt any weakness. Everything about her, even down to her sexy punk-rock appearance, screamed strength and resilience, and an assurance in her own self that only came from a person owning up to who they really were and not giving a shit what anyone thought. That was part of what drew him to her. “Arachnophobia is common, and as for someone trying to possess you with their familiar, I would be scared, too, and I’m not easily scared.” He smiled fully this time. “I’ll help protect you from whoever is after you, if you help me with my case.” He held out his hand. “Deal?”
She stared at his hand but didn’t take it. “I don’t know, Dr. Grey. I wouldn’t want to jeopardize your career by getting too personal.”
As intuitive as she seemed to think he was, he couldn’t quite understand the emotion behind her voice. “We’ll be professional colleagues outside of the classroom, but when we’re here on campus, you’re still my student and I’m still your professor. We can maintain a distance we’re both comfortable with. You can call me Shane when we’re alone and Dr. Grey otherwise, if that makes you feel better.”
“And you’ll stop calling me Ms. Sanders when other students aren’t around, right?”
He nodded.
She reached out and took his hand. The feel of the soft skin of her palm against his jolted electric desire through him until he was certain his cock would break free of his jeans and push against the underside of his desk at any moment.
“We’ll have to experiment with different distances to determine what we’re comfortable with, Shane,” she said, emphasizing his name.
He gave a single nod. If he moved another muscle, he might pull her across his desk until she straddled him in his executive chair. Experiment with different distances? That sounded like some sort of naughty invitation, but he knew better. She’d made it clear she wasn’t interested when she’d said he had a big ego.
Hadn’t she?
* * *
VERA RELEASED DR. GREY’S, er, Shane’s hand like it was on fire. Never in her life would she have said a handshake could be sexy, but somehow that one managed to be. And really? Had she really said that cheesy-ass line about experimenting with distance? Gosh, she hoped it hadn’t sounded as desperately horny out loud as it did now in her head.
It was bad enough that she was as stereotypically attracted to him as any other girl in his classes, but even worse that she continued to be even after he had made it clear he wanted to maintain a professional distance from her. Besides, they couldn’t be more opposite. Handsome business-casual professor. Gothed-out strip-club bartender. Professor. Student. Hunter. Witch. Intelligent PhD. Barely passing grades for a bachelor’s she would probably never earn if she kept going at this rate. The list went on and on.
Reminding herself that if it weren’t for the familiar sitting on his desktop, she wouldn’t be here, she sighed. “So what happens next?”
He leaned back in his chair and stared at the edge of his desk, thinking. “First, I need to know about your involvement with the black-magic covens in the area. Since you’re helping me, you have my word that I won’t report any of your activities to the Execution Underground, but I need to know.”
She frowned and lied straight through her teeth. “I told you already—I’m not involved with them.” Considering his clear opinion of her already, she couldn’t bring herself to admit she had a problem, that she had fallen back into old habits just before he showed up on her doorstep and had been itching to go back again ever since he’d left. He wouldn’t understand. No one ever did.
He nodded. “Okay, so despite not being involved with them—and good for you for staying away from them. I know how hard it can be to break an addiction...” He smiled at her.
She nearly cringed. The kindness in his eyes, as if he truly was happy for her, killed her. But how could he possibly know how hard it was?
“Despite that...do you know anything at all about any of them? Heard anything through the magical grapevine, maybe?”
“Magical grapevine?” She chuckled. “Damn, you really are a nerd.”
He laughed. “Unapologetically.” He held his hand up, fingers separated in the sign of a true Trekkie.
She snorted. “Wow. Yeah, supernerd. Better not show that to your adoring fans in your classroom, though. You might break their hearts and crush their girlish dreams.”
He shook his head. “I still can’t wrap my head around that.”
She shrugged. “Of course you can’t. You may be smart, but like all other nerds before you, you’re some kind of idiot savant, completely oblivious to the hordes of big-boobed sorority girls who take your class because they think you’re cute. The fact that you haven’t realized their intention is to stare longingly at your tight little ass instead of caring about the subject matter would be unbelievable if it weren’t completely predictable.”
He stared at her as if she’d grown three heads. “I’m glad I’ve been blissfully ignorant until now. But, that aside, we have two orders of business—figure out where that familiar came from and who’s targeting you, and start digging deeper into this case.” He reached inside his black computer bag and removed a manila envelope. He pushed it across the desk toward her.
She picked it up, slid out a folder and flipped to the first page just as David Bowie’s “Fame” sounded from inside his shirt pocket.
“Bowie, huh?” Not a bad choice. Probably one of the most influential artists still alive.
He reached for his phone. “It’s one of my fellow hunters and I swear he has more David Bowie T-shirts in his wardrobe than Bowie’s had tours, and considering Bowie’s been famous since the seventies, that’s saying something.” He answered the phone. “Hey, Ash.”
She returned her attention to the folder. Inside lay an article from the Democrat and Chronicle. She scanned the headline and read through the brief paragraphs. She shuffled through the other papers—a toxicology report, lab results and a coroner’s report on the murder victim discussed in the article.
When Shane pocketed his phone again, she set the papers down on the desk in front of him. “So a guy goes cuckoo-for-Cocoa-Puffs crazy and thinks his dead wife is haunting him just before he’s murdered? I don’t get what this has to do with black magic.”
Shane slid everything back into the manila envelope and slipped it back inside his bag. “I didn’t, either, at first. I thought maybe he was actually being haunted, so I brought it to the attention