Honey House

by LAURA HARNER

  I looked around the patio and noticed Quinn entering with a willowy blonde on his arm. I only had a moment to wonder if she was his date before Gabrielle swept me away from the safety of my new friends to introduce me to the latest arrivals.

  “How do you do? I’m Katherine Carmichael, please call me KC.” I offered a hand. The woman looked at it just long enough to be rude. Just as I was dropping mine, she languidly raised her own, forcing me to make a second effort to take her hand.

  “My name is Susan. Please don’t shorten it. I find nicknames rather juvenile. Perhaps you should visit my store, Elegant Rocks. I’m sure I could find you some suitable pieces,” she drawled, eyeing my bare throat and ear lobes.

  Hey, if I didn’t own it, people couldn’t steal it. That was my motto. She was deliberate in her snottiness, but I’d been treated like the help before. I knew her type and she didn’t intimidate me. I took a long look at her hand clutching Quinn’s arm, her perfectly painted red nails digging into his golden tanned forearm. I smiled. This was going to be like stealing candy from a baby.

  I took a step forward, and she flinched slightly, before pulling away, as though she feared I might strike her. I squirmed between her and Quinn, placed both of my hands on his forearm, and turned the two of us away from her. With a flutter of lashes to support the innocence of my statement, I looked up and said, “Poor Quinn, I’m sure she didn’t mean it about your nickname.” Then I dragged him to the fire pit, well out of Susan’s reach.

  He was shaking when I let loose of his arm, and I glanced up expecting to see fury all over his face. Instead, he was struggling to keep his face composed; it was laughter making those big shoulders shake. With his back to Susan, he grinned at me. It was the first genuine show of any emotion other than supreme irritation he’d aimed my way.

  “Okay, round one to you, Miss Carmichael. I’d watch my back if I were you, though. Susan isn’t known for her gentleness around other women; around other things, yes, around other women, not so much,” he added with a throaty growl.

  “Oh really? What types of other things?” I asked sweetly, as if I cared. Why had I just stuck my nose in their business? I didn’t care if he wanted to boff some woman old enough to be his…okay, maybe not his mother, but surely, she was old enough to be his older sister. Much older sister. It was just Susan’s catty attitude that got to me. I didn’t even like the muscle-bound sheriff. Although looking at him in his dark gray slacks, and form-fitting jade sweater, I had to admit, he did clean up well.

  “Oh, you know,” he said, lowering his head conspiratorially. “The things that make a man feel—”

  “Excuse me, Sheriff, I see my date,” I said and walked to Jason, leaving Quinn hunched over, whispering to where my ear had been an instant before. He looked startled that I’d walked away, but I didn’t want to hear his sexual innuendo. I’m no prude, far from it. However, Sheriff Quinn was not my idea of safe sex. Besides a condom, safe sex included a man who didn’t try to intimidate me every time I turned around and a man who could be depended on to leave when the time was right.

  I certainly didn’t need a man for my happily ever after. If I ever decided to settle down—a situation I highly doubted—but if I did? The man would be my partner and my equal in every sense.

  The rest of the evening passed uneventfully. I met a banker, several artists, a chef, a spa owner, and the head of the Chamber of Commerce. There was only a small moment of awkwardness when Gabrielle’s husband Raymond asked Jason about the story he was investigating. No one seemed particularly thrilled that it might be turning into an exposé on several of the local paranormal businesses.

  Jason was clearly uncomfortable revealing too many details, but everyone already knew he was investigating the sweat lodge deaths. No one minded if Ted Sparks, the self-proclaimed new age guru, went down for what he’d done. In fact, everyone here seemed to think he was guilty of killing the four people who died after paying him thousands of dollars for a “spiritual cleansing.” The real problem was no one was sure what other businesses Jason was targeting.

  The conversation dwindled, then into the relative silence that sometimes occurs in a crowd, Quinn said, “Miss Carmichael has a bit of her own experience with paranormal business, isn’t that right?”

  “KC,” Gregory laughed, “you’ve been holding out on me. What’s your specialty? Crystals? Vortex tours?”

  It pissed me off that Quinn would bring up my past in such a public way. Was he going to expose all my secrets? My parents? Jail? Shit.

  I just smiled, so Quinn continued, “Miss Carmichael is a rather famous psychic. Our very own fortune teller.” He turned that amber gaze on me, his look mocking, and quirked an eyebrow. He was angry that I’d walked away from him earlier. This, his look said, was his revenge.

  Susan, apparently eager to twist the knife, said, “Oh please, let’s have a demonstration of your…talents.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” I said, trying to keep my voice casual. “I think my hands are full enough with running the Honey House. I put away my Tarot cards and crystal ball,” I added lightly.

  Gabrielle asked who wanted dessert, and the conversation moved on. I risked a glance at Quinn, wanting to incinerate him on the spot. He was looking at me, too. I raised my glass in a mocking salute, and he returned the gesture. I’d embarrassed him earlier, and his retaliation was swift. We both knew he could have told more, but he’d stopped. He was holding back ammunition for future skirmishes. Round one was over, and we’d both drawn blood.

  ****

  Jason and I turned to each other in the quiet after the last of the dinner guests had left. He was a handsome man, with short auburn hair, warm brown eyes, and a great smile. It was clear he wanted me, but I wasn’t sure the feeling was mutual. Living at the Honey House complicated the situation. He could invite me to his room, which would make it seem very much as if I was agreeing to sex. We could go to the great room, which would make it seem as though I was saying no to anything too personal. Or, we could go to my place, which was a definite maybe.

  He stepped forward and placed his hands on my waist, and very slowly lowered his mouth to mine. His kiss was gentle and warm, like everything about him. “I don’t want this evening to end yet, KC,” he whispered.

  “Come to my place,” I whispered back. “We can have a nightcap and talk.” I knew I was sending mixed messages, but damned if I wasn’t receiving mixed messages from my own body.

  We held hands, and the warm flesh against flesh was nice in the increasing chill of the night air. When we entered my apartment, Jason turned and pressed me against the door. He placed one hand on either side of my head. When I didn’t stop him, he slowly lowered his mouth to cover mine. Then gentle Jason suddenly wasn’t quite so gentle anymore. He kissed me long and hard, and pressed something equally hard against my stomach.

  I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him closer, moaning softly into his mouth. His kisses were warm and wet, and it had been a long time since someone had wanted me like this. Jason slid his hands underneath my sweater, and caressed my back, before slowly sliding to the front and palming my breasts through my bra, his thumbs rubbing against my nipples.

  Pulling back from the kiss, he whispered against my neck, “I want you, KC.”

  His words brought a touch of reality back to me. This was supposed to be my maybe place, and I had walked in and telegraphed yes…yes…yes. I tried to pull further back, but I was stuck between a hard door at my back and a hard Jason at my front nuzzling my neck.

  “Jason, wait. Please, let’s slow down for a minute, okay? Let me get us that drink I promised.” I pushed at his shoulders to add emphasis.

  With a shaky breath, Jason released me. I led him to the couch and went to the small kitchen. “Macallan or Irish Cream?” I asked. A man’s drink said a lot about him.

  “Irish Cream, I don’t even know what Macallan is,” he laughed.

  I laughed too, but knew that was one strike against him.
I’d gotten used to drinking top shelf on the cruises, and there was no finer single malt whisky, in my book. While I poured the drinks, Jason busied himself with something on my coffee table.

  When I joined him on the couch, I was dismayed to see what had captured his attention. The book on how to read Tarot cards was prominently displayed, and I knew I hadn’t put it there. Who would have done that? I flashed to that single mocking brow, raised so perfectly and knew. Damn, Quinn. Time for damage control.

  “Do you believe you can read the future or is it an act?” Jason asked, flipping through the pages.

  I sighed. “I think for most readers it’s an act. They learn to watch people, ask questions, and then answer the questions vaguely or use the client’s own desires to predict happiness. There’s no harm in it. Everyone walks away happy in the end.”

  “But what about you, KC? Is that how you do it? Do you tell fortunes at the Honey House?” Jason asked. His eyes were full of disappointment.

  Suddenly fed up, I said, “Look, Jason, I don’t owe you any explanations. It’s not like we’re in a long-term relationship and I’ve been lying to you. We’re just getting to know each other. Before I took over the Honey House, I was a psychic for a cruise line, providing entertainment through fortune telling. Sometimes I had a little luck and could “see” something about the client that was different from the regular reading.” I made little air quotes to emphasize my point. “If I saw something, I shared it with them. That’s all. It was entertainment.”

  “And is it all entertainment?” he asked softly. “Will you read for me, KC?”

  I shrugged. I could see that tonight was going to hell in a hand basket. Journalist Jason was on the scene. My “maybe” place had turned into a big fat “not-tonight-and-probably-not-ever-in-this-lifetime” place.

  “Give me your hand, and I’ll try.” I held my hands out expectantly, and he placed a hand in mine. Instantly there was a flare, and I knew I would be able to read him. Closing my eyes, I pulled my hands back slightly from his and let the heat rise. I don’t know how else to describe it. I held my hands, palm facing palm, about three inches apart, and Jason’s hand hovered between mine. Images and impressions flashed in my mind. “You have one brother, and someone else. Maybe a half sister? I can’t see your mom, but your dad is still important to you.” I concentrated a bit more, there wasn’t much there, almost as though after asking me to read, he’d changed his mind now and was hiding from me.

  “This newspaper job is important to you. The article that you’re writing about the sweat lodges is an audition, of sorts. That’s why you want it to be so much more, why you’re digging.”

  I quit talking and worked at not reaching out, but rather letting any other impressions flow over me. Suddenly, the images came, a fast-forward slide show. I had a quick image of Jason holding a newspaper, with his article and byline above the fold: Juniper Springs Hoax. Another image appeared of Jason under the bright moonlight, standing alone on the giant boulders that edged the eastern boundary of the Honey House property. A blur of motion as something hit him and took him down. Jason on the ground, his body broken, blood everywhere. Then nothing, just a great blackness. Aw, shit. I hate when I see bad things.

  The connection between us went cold and dark. The red-hot connection was doused so abruptly that my hands actually felt icy, and I rubbed them against my legs to warm them.

  Jason laughed, a little self-conscious sound before dropping his hand to his side. “So,” he said. “I guess I got my answer.” He wore an expression I’d not seen from him yet. Was that bitterness twisting his handsome face?

  My stomach hurt and my head pounded with sudden tension. What was it that I’d seen? What was that blackness? What had attacked him? All of my other visions had been fairly straightforward when they’d come. This one had started that way and then went downhill fast.

  “What answer do you think you got, Jason?” I asked quietly.

  “That it’s complete bullshit. Just like every other story I’ve looked into around here, it’s all bullshit. Every bit of information you told me is publicly available. You just find out who your mark is, gather as much information as possible, and then feed it back in a spooky setting.”

  I was starting to get pissed. Mostly because he was partially right. That was how fortune-telling scams were run. I just happened not to be pulling one.

  “Jason, I didn’t research you ahead of time and that stuff about your family and job just came to me. I told you it doesn’t work every time. Just with some people. And it wasn’t all I saw,” I added reluctantly.

  He held up his hand in a stop gesture. “Don’t say any more, KC. I really don’t want to hear it. Next thing you’re going to tell me is I’m going to meet a dangerous stranger or take a voyage. Just stop. I don’t think I’m the right man for you. I don’t have the stomach for lies.”

  Stung, my eyes blazed with tears. “I think it’s best for you to go now.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve got a story to write.”

  Chapter Four

  It had been several days since Gabrielle’s dinner party, and I was no closer to answers about why I was here. My mornings all started the same way. I made coffee, brought out the breakfast trays, and sat staring into my mug, waiting for the caffeine buzz to hit. Quinn would arrive a few minutes later, throw the paper on his table, pour a cup of coffee, and sit for an uninterrupted hour of reading, sipping, and eating.

  This morning there was an edge to Quinn.

  “Miss Carmichael,” he said on his way to the coffee.

  “Sheriff,” I replied. We’d never given up our formal titles for each other. I think we both thought the distance was as comfortable as we would ever be with each other. Gabrielle said it was sexy as hell. Whatever.

  I was just contemplating sneaking off for another hour of sleep when the front section of the Sunday paper landed unceremoniously on my table. I jumped and my coffee sloshed, splashing the front page.

  “What the hell? Watch what you’re doing,” I practically snarled. Mornings were not my best time to be social.

  “Read it,” he said.

  I opened my mouth to protest, took one look at Quinn’s unyielding face, and knew he wouldn’t relent until I looked at whatever it was he wanted me to see.

  It was Jason’s article. Wow! He’d made the front page, above the fold, and had a byline. Good for him. Even if it was a slow news day, this was a big break. Then the headline penetrated my morning brain. HAVEN for HOAXES—

  I flipped the paper and saw a small photograph of the Welcome to Juniper Springs sign and a picture of the sweat lodge. Showcasing the two images together seemed a bit harsh.

  I started reading, expecting the article to be a rehash of the Ted Sparks scandal, and in some ways, it was. Jason began with a brief history of Ted and his Mecca for the Chosen Ones retreat.

  The article explained that Native Americans had used sweat lodges in ancient and sacred rituals meant only for them. Sparks had bastardized the process by building his own version of a sweat lodge, using concrete blocks and heavy canvass. He charged his followers between five and ten thousand dollars a person to crowd into the 400-square foot structure, where his flunkies would stoke the fire while Ted chanted self-actualization nonsense. Two hours later the faithful would emerge, spiritually and financially cleansed. Last summer, four people died and twenty more were hospitalized from severe heat stroke. Sparks was in prison awaiting trial.

  The article was well written, infusing the right amount of facts and personal accounts by the victims to draw the reader in. I thought Jason had done a bang up job, until I got to the conclusion:

  Ted Sparks was not the only business in town to profit from the exploitation of others. A recent spate of reported paranormal activity has brought throngs of tourists to the small community of Juniper Springs. Business is thriving for those operating ghost sighting tours of cemeteries and burial grounds. People wait weeks and pay thousands of dollars for a “Vo
rtex infusion,” a type of blood exchange with an allegedly supernatural being.

  Even the local bed and breakfast seems to be in on the act. The prognosticating proprietor is an ex-convict and a member of a family long associated with perpetrating fraud on unsuspecting victims for profit. Her close ties to the local sheriff may prevent anyone from examining her activities too closely, but there is speculation she will soon be operating a fortune-telling scheme from her hostelry.

  Over the next six weeks I will bring you stories of some of these businesses and expose how the operators use the increasing interest in paranormal activities to trick otherwise sensible people into parting with their hard earned cash.

  Next week: A look at “The Way They Were,” a hunting lodge that purports to take guests on a photo safari of actual werewolves.

  Slumping against the back of the chair, I stared numbly at the paper for a long time after I finished reading. I don’t know how Jason had found out about my juvenile record, but to call me an ex-con in the press was harsh. The only person whose fortune I’d read was his, and Lord knows I did not have a relationship with the local sheriff.

  “Seems your boyfriend likes to kiss and tell, Miss Carmichael. Where is Jason this morning? In town and back in your bed?” Quinn’s voice vibrated with anger.

  “He’s not my boyfriend. We had one date at the dinner party, and I haven’t seen or heard from him since. No thanks to you.”

  Quinn blinked. Whatever he was expecting, it hadn’t been that.

  “What exactly do I have to do with whether your boyfriend wants to see you?”

  “You know what you did. Going into my apartment and putting the book on fortune telling on the coffee table? Once he saw that, he was no longer interested in me.”