Page 2 of Under Daddy's Spell

Everything settled a moment later, except for her nerves.

Eager to get on solid footing and find out what the heck was going on next door, she descended the ladder.

With one rung to go, a high-pitched whirring started. The shelves vibrated, books teetered, and several more fell. Although a wall separated her from what had to be a drill, it was so loud she wouldn’t have noticed the jingling of the bell over her front door if it didn’t stop as suddenly as it started. ?

Tessa glanced at the curved mirror mounted near the ceiling in the front corner. When she didn’t see anyone, she stepped off the bottom rung and moved to the center aisle. From there, she had a view of the front door, a few display tables, and half the reading nook.

“Hello?” she called, still not seeing anyone.

“I’m here to see Brent Delacroix,” a gravelly voice demanded.

“I...um...” Surprised by this request, she started forward because her dad had moved to Boston seven years ago. “He works out of one of our other locations, out of state. I’m Tessa Delacroix, his daughter.”

“Do you still buy used books?”

“Yes. As long as they are good quality, or what I call gently used.”

She emerged from the aisle and rounded the display of the new Gillian Knight bestseller then came to a lurching halt. A man stood in front of the register, holding a large box. With him at least half a foot shorter than her 5’4” frame, she could only see his legs and from the chin up, but the box hid the rest. ?

“Don’t stand there gaping, girl. I haven’t got all day.”

Tessa blinked at his bluntness, but her own manners were lacking. Not realizing she’d been staring until he pointed it out, she blushed furiously.

“How may I help you?”

He hefted the box onto the counter. “These are all first editions in excellent condition. You’ll find no fault with the covers and spines. Some are collector’s items. One dates back to the eighteenth century.”

Intrigued, Tessa rushed to the box and took off the lid. On top was a copy ofGreat Expectationsby F. Scott Fitzgerald. Her stunned disbelief turned to excitement, but crushing disappointment quickly followed.

Shaking her head, she replaced the cover. “I’m a small, independent shop, sir. I couldn’t possibly afford anything so rare. May I suggest—”

“One dollar.”

She couldn’t have heard him correctly, probably deafened from the drilling and banging that had resumed. “Excuse me?”

“I’ll sell you the lot of them for one American dollar.”

Gaping at him yet again, she asked, “Is this a joke?”

“Do I look like a man with a sense of humor?”

Hardly. The dark scowl on his craggy face matched his dark hair and black suit. And she’d bet one hundred times his American dollar that laughter hadn’t formed the deep lines around his mouth.

This was the rare opportunity her business-minded mother always told her to watch for and never pass up, but she hesitated. Who in their right mind sold a box of first editions, much less one hundreds of years old, for a dollar?

“What’s the catch?” she asked, raising her voice to be heard over the noise.

“No catch.” He scowled suddenly and looked around. “What’s that infernal racket?”

“Construction in the vacant shop next door is my guess, but I’m not sure. It just started a few minutes ago.”

“What a pity for you. I can barely hear myself think!”

“My apologies,” she replied automatically, always in placating-mode with her customers. Right now, the hammering and drilling were the least of her concerns. “Why are you as good as giving away valuable first editions?”

“I have my reasons,” he muttered.

“But—”

---