Wicked Business Read Online Free Page A

might be lurking in the dark somewhere between me and my car, waiting to snatch me.
    If I’d let Diesel spend the night, he would have protected me against all sorts of drooly, knuckle-dragging, bloodsucking monsters. Problem was, who would protect me from Diesel? Diesel was six foot three inches of mouthwatering, heart-stopping male temptation. He was annoying, charming, pushy, practically leaking testosterone, and he always smelled great. He also was off-limits. According to Diesel, if two people with exceptional abilities do the deed, one of them loses all their special skills, and there’s no way to tell which one will lose. It’s a total bummer, because if I could be sure it would be me, I’d be happy to make the sacrifice. Unfortunately, if it was Diesel and I had to save the world all by myself, I’d be up the creek without a paddle.
    I peeked out the front window at my car. It was sitting under a streetlight only a few steps from my door. No sign of Wulf or Hatchet. Houses were dark across the street. Most of Marblehead was still asleep. Cat was leaning against my leg.
    “What do you think?” I asked Cat. “Is it safe?”
    Cat blinked, and I took that to mean yes .
    I opened the door and cautiously stepped outside. I had a plan. If someone came rushing at me, I’d hit him with my purse and kick him in the crotch. I suppose I should alsoscream, but I hated to wake my neighbors. I locked my door, quickly walked to my car, and jumped behind the wheel. No one came rushing at me. But Wulf appeared out of nowhere, standing motionless, holding my door open, looking down at me.
    I couldn’t muster enough air to scream, and kicking Wulf in the crotch wasn’t an option.
    “This isn’t a safe place for you,” Wulf said, his voice soft and seductive. “And this life you’ve chosen has limitations. If you played for my team, you would have no limitations. I could give you a new car, your own bakery, a house that doesn’t lean downhill.” He paused and his eyes softened a little. “I could give you normalcy.”
    My upper lip broke out in a cold sweat. How did he know I craved normalcy? I reached for the car door and found myself staring at Wulf’s perfectly pressed pants. Not a wrinkle in sight. My eyes were at package level, and it was like Baby Bear’s bed, not too big and not too small. It looked just right .
    “Thanks,” I said, forcing my attention to move to his eyes. “I’m good.”
    Thirty minutes later, I rolled into the small lot behind the bakery and parked. Light poured out the open back door of the building and flour floated in the light like fairy dust. Clara was already at work.
    Clarinda Dazzle is the latest in a long line of Dazzleswho have operated the bakery, stretching back to Puritan times. She owns the historic building, and she lives in a small apartment on the second floor. She’s forty years old. She’s twice divorced, currently single. She’s my height at 5′5″, but she seems taller, in part because of her hair. My hair is blond and straight as a pin. Clara’s hair is black, shot with gray, possibly shoulder-length, but it’s difficult to tell due to the frenzied curls and sheer mass of it all. She’s part Wampanoag Indian, but it’s a very small part.
    I exchanged my sweatshirt for a white chef coat and wrapped a chef apron around my waist.
    “It’s our usual Monday,” Clara said. “Extra pretzel rolls and strawberry cupcakes.”
    I was already measuring out flour. “I’m on it.”
    Clara and I don’t talk a lot in the morning. Machines whir and hum as bread dough is mechanically kneaded and cake batter is mixed. I move from collecting ingredients to preparing baking pans to shaping yeast dough, my mind focused on the task at hand and the day all bright and shiny in front of me. Usually. Hatchet and Wulf were intruding today. My thoughts kept turning to swords and keys and ugly threats and perfectly pressed pants.
    “Are you okay?” Clara asked. “You’re