“Hi, there!” Rissa sang out happily. “Please leave a message at the beep, and—”
Cutting off the recording, Melissa sent an e-mail and then a text message. Impatiently she waited for a response, but nothing happened. Okay, that settled the matter. Rissa always answered right back unless she was incredibly busy at work, having sex, or stone dead.
Yanking the scrunchy out of her hair, Melissa fanned her long tresses out with both hands to start drying, then hit speed dial again.
“’S up, boss lady?” a sleepy voice answered, a thick Scottish accent helping to slur the words.
“Bad news, Mack. I have to leave town, so you’re going to be in charge of the store for a few days,” Melissa said, marching out of the bathroom and across the living room. “Maybe a week or two.”
“Before the Solstice?” Angus MacTeague demanded, the fake accent vanishing as he became wide awake. “Shitfire, Mel, who’d ya kill, and do you need any help hiding the body?”
“Thanks, but it’s nothing like that this time,” Melissa answered demurely, throwing open a closet and yanking out a battered old suitcase. “A friend needs help, that’s all.”
“Hiding a body?”
“Hopefully not,” Melissa admitted honestly, dropping the luggage onto a four-poster bed, then flipping back the lid. “But I’ll bring a shovel just in case.”
“Don’t forget the quicklime.”
“Have I ever?” she laughed, opening the top drawer of her nightstand and pulling out a pearl-handled revolver. Etched into the steel barrel was the ancient phrase of power, Be just and fear not.
“You flying?”
Swinging out the cylinder, she checked to make sure the revolver was fully loaded. “Gotta drive. Unfortunately.”
“Taking along Lady Magenta?”
“A girl’s best friend,” she muttered, closing the steel cylinder with a jerk of her wrist.
“Look, you want some backup? I owe you big for pretending to be my girlfriend all these years to my narrow-minded family.”
“Thanks, but take care of the store,” Melissa stated, unearthing a cardboard box full of ammunition and then a Ziploc sandwich bag. The two silver bullets nestled inside the plastic gleamed mirror bright. “I’ll be just fine.”
“Where you going?”
“To start with, Savannah,” she stated, tossing everything into the suitcase. “But after that, it’s anybody’s guess ...”
CHAPTER SIX
With a nervous laugh, Rissa and Colt stepped apart, and then stopped, unsure of what to do next.
“I’m Clarissa Harmond,” Rissa said, looking up at the tall man. He towered over her the way the Colossus had Rhodes. “Rissa ... to my friends.”
“The driver’s license says Emile Coltier, but I’m Colt to just about everybody else,” he grinned back, offering a hand. “Harmond—are you related to the owner?”
Singular? Then he knew about Grandfather. “Yes, Henrietta Harmond is my grandmother,” Rissa said, and they shook. His grip was firm, and she tingled at his touch. Just because a boy is holding my hand? What am I, sixteen? Then she looked into his sky-blue eyes. Oh, to be sixteen again ...
“Mrs. Harmond is a lovely woman, and a major benefactor to the city. She and your grandfather ...” Colt tactfully paused until she gave a nod. “They have helped save more of our wonderful old homes than I could ever count.”
“They do love this town,” she agreed.
“And please allow me to apologize for this woeful state of dress. Last night, I had an accident with a gypsy,” Colt said, keeping hold of her hand for just a few moments longer than really necessary.
Rissa noticed and fought back a smile. “Was she driving a beer truck?”
“Something like that,” he mumbled, looking away at the floor and then the ceiling.
Scowling darkly, Rissa wondered what was making him so uncomfortable, then checked to make sure her shirt wasn’t on backwards or something. She had gotten dressed in a hurry. The shirt was right-side out, but she had not put the bra back on, and a nipple was peeking out from a gap between the buttons.
Brassiere ... now! Rissa mentally thundered. The ring grew warm, she felt the magic flow through her veins, and instantly her breasts were firm and secure once more—with the white lace bra on the outside of her shirt. Inside my clothing! On the skin!
“Sorry I took so long,” Rissa said in forced calm as the bra disappeared and her shirt swelled. “But I was answering the mail.”
“Don’t tell me that Mrs. Harmond has finally gotten a computer?” Colt asked, trying not to look her way.
Wow, an actual gentleman. I may faint. “A computer? Good lord, no! She hates the things. I was writing a letter. Ink on paper. Retro is very chic these days!” He still wasn’t looking her way, so she added, “Unfortunately, I got ink splattered all over my shirt. See?”
With a strained smile, Colt briefly looked at her, then paused, blinked, and did the eyebrow thing again.
“Something wrong?” Rissa asked innocently.
“Didn’t ... I mean, wasn’t ...” Colt swallowed, then closed his eyes to chuckle. “No, there’s nothing wrong, dear lady. Nothing at all. It has just been a very, very long day.”
While mine is just starting, Rissa noted, thinking about the letter waiting in the tallboy. She was impatient to get back, but also having a nice time chatting with Colt. He didn’t seem to mind her smartass comebacks, and those blue eyes ...
“Is your grandmother at home?” Colt asked, looking at the second-story balcony. “I wanted her authorization to make some changes to our conversion plans.”
“Still asleep, the poor dear. A summer cold.”
“Those are the worst.”
“Bet your as—” Rissa cleared her throat. “Yes, indeed, they are.”
If he noticed the change in bathos, Colt gave no indication.
“Is Grammy having the house redone?” Rissa asked, glancing around. She certainly hoped not; the mansion was beautiful. Rissa disliked the word perfect; nothing was ever perfect, but this wonderful old building came mighty close.
“Great day in the morning, modify the Harmond House?” Colt laughed in mock umbrage, a hand to his heart. “Are you mad, woman? That would border on treason! I wouldn’t change a thing here for any price. Robert E. Lee slept under this very roof! As well as that damn Yankee bastard.”
Spreading her hands, Rissa tilted her head and waited for enlightenment.
“Sherman,” Colt said as if that was enough, then frowned. “General William Tecumseh Sherman, the destroyer of Atlanta ... you know, the Civil War?”
“Oh, that Sherman!” Rissa relented, dimly remembering the name from the David O. Selznik classic movie. “I mean, there have been so many Yankee bastards ...” She grinned.
“Yes, there have,” Colt replied sadly, then brightened. “Anyway, your grandmother and I are changing your grandfather’s hunting lodge into a resort for weddings, honeymoons, anniversaries and such.”
“So you’re converting from one blood sport into another?” she asked mischievously.
“Not a big fan of weddings, eh?”
“Allergic to taffeta. By the way ... will it be open in time for your own wedding?”
“My what now?” Colt asked, then panic clearly hit. “Oh, no, no—no—no! My dear lady, please be firmly assured that I am not, and never have been, engaged to marry anybody. Ever!”
Crossing her arms, Rissa said nothing.
“That was merely a story cooked up by Colette for the TV reporters! She’s ... ah ... playful,” Colt finished lamely.
“Colette,” Rissa said in cold monotone.
“Just a friend,” Colt said quickly.
In spite of what she had recently seen on television, Rissa felt inclined to believe the man. But that was when she noticed that there was frost on the inside of the windows, and she could now see their breath.
“Drafty,” Colt said with a shiver.
“Oh, that’s just the
air conditioner,” Rissa joked, quickly thinking warm thoughts. “There must be a short circuit in the controls.”
A split second later, a soothing summer breeze blew through the entire mansion, carrying the fragrant aromas of freshly cut grass and flowering dogwood trees ... along with the salty tang of an ocean beach.
Oops. “See?” she chuckled. “All better!”
“Better, my ass, this is incredibly dangerous,” Colt growled, brushing back his hair. “A short this bad could burn down the whole block! I better take a look.” Without further comment, he started for the main hallway.
“That’s not necessary!” Rissa said, stepping in the way. “Ah ... the repairman is coming tomorrow.”
“Better safe than barbecued,” Colt replied grimly, sidling by to stride down the rows of doors and archways.
Trying not to roll her eyes in exasperation, Rissa hurried along. She caught up with Colt just as he yanked open a plain white door and started down a flight of brick stairs into the dark basement. They were halfway down when the overhead fluorescent lights flickered into operation.
More magic? Rissa wondered, then saw a pressure switch on the stairs.
The walls of the basement were made of massive tan stones, apparently joined without mortar, and the floor was a wood parquet even nicer than the ones Rissa had seen upstairs. Numerous brick walls divided the basement into small areas, but there were no doors, just open archways.
“This way!” Colt shouted with a wave. “I helped install these walls when I was a teenager just learning the trade.”
“You used to be a bricklayer?”
“No, a stonemason,” he said with a note of pride.
Obviously, there was a major difference, but she had no idea what it was. Following closely, Rissa found a room filled with rows of wine racks, hundreds of dusty bottles pointing downward. The next area held suitcases, hatboxes, and a dozen old-fashioned steamer trunks, the lids plastered with overlapping stickers from around the world.
“I keep forgetting that the Harmonds are originally from England,” Colt said, stooping his head to get through an archway.
Were they? Rissa had no idea. That certainly explained the Mousehole reference. He seemed to know more about her family than she did. “Well, I was born in Chicago.”
“Ah, nice place. Excellent jazz.”
“You’re a blues man?”
“Ma’am, the South invented jazz,” Colt replied proudly, passing by a hulking great furnace and going directly to a large humming box connected to a maze of gray air ducts. “Here she is. Any flashlights about?”
Never having been down here before, Rissa sent a command to the ring, and put a hand behind her back where it would be out of sight. Her finger tingled for a moment, and a flashlight slapped into her palm. “Here you go.”
“Thanks,” Colt muttered, thumbing it on. Even in the fluorescent light, the blue-white halogen beam was almost painfully bright.
“Help me, Obi Wan, you’re my only hope!”
“It does resemble a light saber, doesn’t it?” Colt chuckled, waving the flashlight about and making humming noises.
Covering her mouth, Rissa could not help but laugh. She was starting to like him more and more, and not because he could bench press Mt. McKinley. If Colt made a pass at her down here, she would have no choice but to succumb to his manly charms and then ravage the poor fellow until the following dawn.
“Aside from jazz, what else are you into?” Rissa asked, casually, wondering if that old wives’ tale about men with large hands was true.
“Reading, mostly. I have a huge library,” Colt said, going to a fuse box and pulling a lever. “Knowledge is power!”
“So is 440 direct current. Be careful.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Instantly, the overhead lights died and velvety blackness filled the basement. The flashlight beam was the now only source of illumination.
“I especially like mysteries, thrillers, historicals, anything well written,” he said, the beam bobbing back to the air conditioner. “And I collect cars.”
“Model cars?” Rissa asked, listening to the thick silence. It was getting kind of creepy down here, and she moved a little closer to the light ... and him.
“No, antique cars,” Colt said, setting the flashlight on a pipe so that the beam shone on the control box. “Duesenberg, Bentley, De Soto, Hupmobile, anything odd or special.”
She had no possible reply to that. At least he didn’t collect skyscrapers, or, worse, diesel locomotives. Why, yes, only this morning I purchased Amthrax ... now that would have been genuinely awkward.
“How about you?” Colt asked, lifting up the lid and easing both hands into the maze of wiring and sensors.
“Well, I do read a lot,” Rissa said truthfully. “But mostly I collect movies on DVD: indie flicks, foreign language films, fantasy, comedy, romance ... I’m a walking film encyclopedia. Go ahead, ask me anything.”
Fiddling with things in the box, Colt took a minute before replying. “All right ... who did the music for The Sting?”
“Ha! Trick question. It was written by Scott Joplin, but played by Marvin Hamlish.”
“Damn, you are good,” Colt grunted, pulling out a control element to inspect it in the harsh light. “Okay, how about a really tough question?”
“Fire away.”
“Do you have a significant other?” Colt asked, sliding the element back into place with a hard click.
“No boyfriend at the moment,” Rissa replied, delighted at the direction their conversation was taking.
“Good to know,” he said, rotating a sensor. “Can you bring the flashlight closer?”
“Sure.” As she did, Rissa said, “My turn. I’ve always wanted to know, in the production model of the Duesenberg ... is Colette the supermodel or the tall redhead?”
Checking the play on the timer, Colt snorted a laugh. “She’s the blonde, and no more a supermodel than I am.”
They were standing alongside each other now, and Rissa could feel the heat from his powerful body. There was an aura of strength about Colt that only partially came from his sheer imposing size.
“Too beefy for Dior?” Rissa asked teasingly.
“Bad knees. Never could make it down the catwalk intact. It was a career killer.” “Poor baby.”
“The redhead is Laura Stone, the best PA in the business. She’s my right hand, and worth her weight in selenium.”
“Don’t you mean gold?”
“Selenium is more expensive than gold.”
“Ah ... then you two are not ...” Rissa left the sentence unfinished.
Closing the control box, Colt slowly turned around and Rissa went very still. They were inches apart, with only their faces illuminated by the reflected glow of the halogen beam. She had been braced for beer breath, and willing to try and make the most of it. But instead he smelled like spearmint combined with Irish coffee, not at all offensive.
“If we were a couple,” Colt said softly, his eyes shining, “I would not be here pretending to fix the air conditioner.”
She smiled. “Good answer.” Barely able to breathe, Rissa felt a wonderful fluttering in her stomach and reached up to touch his scar.
Colt kissed her palm, then tenderly pulled her close, almost lifting her from the floor.
Utterly thrilled by the playful show of strength, Rissa only barely managed to not squeal. Their bodies were pressed firmly against each other, and she could feel his growing passion. Clearly, that old wives’ tale was very true. Yeah, truth!
Suddenly Rissa was very thankful that she had gotten her monthly shot at the GYN. It’s been a long time between boyfriends, but better safe than sorry!
“My god, you’re beautiful,” Colt said, brushing back a coil of her hair.
Moistening her lips, Rissa looked up at the amazing, sexy, funny man ... and recoiled in surprise.
Hidden under the collar of his shirt was a strange glowing symbol that visibly pulsed with power
. She instantly recognized it as one of the mystic figures carved into the tallboy: an ampersand combined with a treble clef.
“What is that thing on your neck?” Rissa asked, the delicious heat of the intimate moment fading away.
“Beg pardon?” Colt asked, touching the front. “Is there a spider or something?”
“You know damn well what I mean!” Rissa snapped, breaking loose of the embrace and backing away. “What’s going on? Who are you?”
“What are you talking about?” Colt demanded loudly, rubbing his entire neck as if trying to dislodge something. “Rissa, you know who I am!”
“Do I?” she muttered suspiciously. There flashed into her mind the terrible image of Colt pulling off a mask to reveal the grinning face of the antiques dealer from the bus, and a cold shiver ran through her body extinguishing any lingering embers of passion.
“Look, I have ID, if that’s what you mean,” Colt said hesitantly, pulling out an alligator skin wallet. “Honest, I’m not pretending to be me ...”
“Put that away and get out,” Rissa snarled, clenching her hand into a fist and brandishing the ring. In the murky shadows, she could see the eyes of the dragon start to glow.
“My apology if I went too fast,” Colt said, tucking the wallet back inside the tuxedo jacket. “But I thought that you and I ... Was I wrong? Don’t we have ... Rissa, what just happened here?”
There was the sound of genuine regret in his voice, and Rissa felt a twinge of guilt. She almost lowered the ring when a classic line of dialogue from Shakespeare came unbidden to mind: “Smile, aye, and be a villain.” Hamlet, Act I, Scene V.
“Lights!” Rissa barked in renewed anger, and the overhead florescent tubes instantly erupted into full operation.
“How did you do that?” Colt asked, stunned, raising a hand to shield his eyes.
“Start walking or start dying,” she growled menacingly, feeling the spirits of Sergio Leone and Clint Eastwood by her side.
Colt frowned. “I know that Western ...”
“Last chance. Move it or lose it.”
Belle, Book and Candle: A Fantasy Novel by Nick Pollotta Page 6