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Overview
Emma sees naked people (not necessarily a bad thing!)
Emma Hutch's upscale Manhattan clients call her the "Good Witch." Her uncanny telepathic abilities enable her to plant images into unsuspecting minds, which has made her New York's most successful professional matchmaker. After all, what bachelor, confirmed or otherwise, could deny his true destiny when the woman he can't seem to stop thinking about suddenly appears right in front of him? Now an all-too-perfect blonde socialite needs Emma's help to snare the most eligible single man in the city -- all in a day's work for the Good Witch.
Except William Dearborn -- visual artist, software genius, total hunk, and dedicated hedonist -- is not so easily snared. And he's becoming a little too interested in the desperate matchmaking sorceress who's been following him all around town incognito. Emma doesn't have to be psychic to know what's going on in his mind. William's having very wicked thoughts indeed about the Good Witch . . . and Emma likes it! But she's got to resist his special brand of magic . . . or else her witchy career is going up in flames.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780061841026 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | HarperCollins |
| Publication date: | 10/13/2009 |
| Sold by: | HARPERCOLLINS |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 320 |
| Sales rank: | 796,229 |
| File size: | 434 KB |
About the Author
Valerie Frankel has written over thirty books, including three New York Times bestsellers. Her articles have appeared in O, The Oprah Magazine; Parenting; Self; Glamour; Allure; and the New York Times, among other publications. She lives in Brooklyn with her family.
Read an Excerpt
Hex and the Single Girl
By Valerie Frankel
HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.
Copyright © 2006 Valerie FrankelAll right reserved.
ISBN: 0060785543
Chapter One
On a clear day, Emma Hutch, thirty-three, could see forever -- give or take a few yards. Technically, she had 20/10 vision in both eyes. If a normal-sighted person could spot a dog in the street from half a block away, Emma could read the license plate number on the truck that swerved to avoid hitting it. Emma's hearing was also sharp. With the clarity of a diamond, she could eavesdrop on her neighbors talking, singing in the shower, or going at it. At her will, having learned over the years to filter out extraneous noise, she ignored them. Sometimes, though, she listened. Even more dynamic, Emma's sense of smell had both strength and acuity. She could detect a pinch of cilantro in a stew or a waning blossom in the wind. Upon meeting new people, her nostrils could sniff out their essential goodness -- or badness.
At six o'clock (on the nose), Emma opened the door of her apartment to Daphne Wittfield, a new client. Instantly, her nasal membranes sprang to attention.
Daphne Wittfield smelled like money. Great green piles of it.
"I am so glad to meet you," said Emma with a big smile, hopefully not too desperate. "Please, come in."
The tall blond gave Emma the once-over twice. "You don't look like a witch," said Daphne. Her eyesnarrowed. Like every other part of her, they were narrow to begin with.
Emma was dressed in a black turtleneck, jeans, black high-heeled boots, and blue-tinted sunglasses. She said, "We gave up the pointy hats back in 1567."
"But you look harmless. Bloodless." Daphne paused. "That concerns me. And this apartment. It's all white."
Emma said, "Makes it easier to find myself." She waited for Daphne to laugh. Nothing. "Why don't we sit? Get to know each other better."
The two women walked across a white shag carpet to the plump white couch piled with white fluffy pillows. The blond shoved the pillows to the side and sat, crossing her long legs at the knee. Emma guessed Daphne was in her late twenties with skin as tight as an apple peel, puffy lips, a pert nose. Her buttery hair was expertly streaked. The client seemed custom designed from the top down. Then again, for all Emma knew, Daphne and her high, hard breasts were one hundred percent authentic. Emma didn't have EPSP (Extra Plastic Surgery Perception).
She sat next to her client on the couch, smiled brightly, and rubbed her palms on her jeans. For some reason, Daphne made her nervous. Emma took a deep breath, inhaling the client's odor of crisp bills. It calmed her down, but not enough.
"What's with the sunglasses?" Daphne asked. "It's been dark out for an hour."
Emma instinctively touched her blue shades. "Most people find the color of my eyes to be a bit distracting."
"Do they?" asked Daphne, amused (apparently, she was not most people). "Let's see."
Emma took off her glasses with a theatrical flourish. She almost said, "Ta-da!"
The blond gasped when she set her eyes on Emma's. She recovered quickly and said, "Yes, quite dramatic. Put the glasses back on now."
Replacing them, Emma said, "Before we get into the nitty-gritty, I have to object about the pace you want. I prefer to go slow. Do the research. Observe from a distance and then make contact."
"On the phone you said you'd start immediately."
"Pressure makes me nervous, and, frankly, I've felt queasy from the moment you walked in the door. But then again," Emma reflected, "it could be hunger."
Daphne asked, "Are you trying to jack up the fee?"
Emma hadn't thought of that. "What if I am?"
"I offered double your usual rate."
"But that was before we met."
"It's been three minutes!" said Daphne. "Are you the Good Witch or a judgmental bitch?"
"Can't I be both?" asked Emma.
Daphne checked her watch. Frowning impatiently, she reached into her black leather tote, extracting a manila envelope with the Crusher Advertising logo. From that she removed a stack of one hundred dollar bills and fanned it like a deck of cards.
"That explains the smell," said Emma.
With the authority and condescension of a Fortune 500 company vice president, which she was, Daphne said, "Five thousand now. Five thousand when the job is done. You will agree to work my case exclusively for two weeks. I want three hits a day, seven days a week. If you fail to secure me a first date in that time, you won't get a second payment and I'll trash your reputation all over town."
Emma considered her options. She said, "I don't work on Sundays."
"Three hits a day, six days a week," corrected Daphne. "I'll get you access -- invitations to parties and events, reservations at restaurants. It's an aggressive approach. But I hate wasting time."
Emma longed to grab the bills and rub them all over her naked body. Only an hour ago, just as the October sun set, she'd gone through her mail and found a third ("final") foreclosure warning from Citibank. But Emma hesitated. She had rules about new clients. They had to (1) have good referrals, (2) seem deserving of her help, and (3) be motivated purely by love. If Emma were to take the cash from Daphne, she'd be breaking at least two of her rules, and possibly three. Violating her principles would hurt Emma's sense of ethics. But losing her beloved Greenwich Village one-bedroom would hurt much, much more.
She took the money, of course. Who wouldn't? She took the money, and maybe she'd regret it later, but right now, Emma thought, holding the stack in her hand, she felt immense relief. And humble gratitude.
"Thank you, Daphne," she gushed, squirreling the bills in her side table drawer. "I want you to know that this isn't just a business transaction. We're initiating a personal relationship, too. I provide my clients -- my friends -- with emotional services as well. A hand to hold. A shoulder to cry on. We can talk every day, a few times a day, if you need emotional support. I'm available. I listen."
Continues...
Excerpted from Hex and the Single Girl by Valerie Frankel Copyright © 2006 by Valerie Frankel. Excerpted by permission.
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