Sex and the Psychic Witch

by Annette Blair

  “Since you told me you stopped thinking with your man brain—which, if you ask me, is a blatant misrepresentation of the facts—I didn’t expect you to produce any heirs.”

  “You know nothing about me.”

  “You did mention celibacy.”

  “In the present tense, and nearly so.”

  “So the future’s up for grabs? Pardon the pun.”

  “No, damn it.”

  Her eyes got so big and deep, he could fall in and die happy. “You already have an heir!” She spoke with such certainty, the hair at his nape stood and saluted.

  Chapter Eleven

  “YOU’RE fishing,” King said, a weak defense at best. Who was she to say he had heirs?

  “No, I’m using the sense I was born with, and it says there’s no reason for you to sell this place, because you have heirs who’d want it.”

  “Your intuition is faulty. This is hardly a profit-making proposition.”

  “You’re avoiding the subject of heirs, but that aside, homes are for living in not for making a profit.”

  “There you go. My point exactly. Generations have tried and failed to live here. They worked to make this castle a home, part of Paxton family life and legacy, but misfortune dogged them the way it dogs me.

  Spending time here caused my ancestors physical and emotional harm. Husbands and wives—whole families—left, alienated from the castle and from each other. Many of them separated, never to reunite.”

  Harmony nodded as if she knew the reason why.

  “What?” King asked.

  “Gussie likes to stir things up, and not in a good way. She can be downright malevolent, if you get on her bad side, which you obviously have. Keep that in mind when you think about signing on the dotted line.”

  “If you say so.” King tried to guess at the hellcat’s game. He doubted she had a vintage clothing store.

  Her motives were something he needed to discover. “Feel free to stick around for a few more hours,” he said. “You lost time tending my . . . wound, and I appreciate it, but you haven’t had much of a chance to look for vintage clothes.”

  He went back into the dressing room to check the clothes racks for pillaging and plundering. “Looks like you barely got started. This is a small piece of the castle’s vintage-clothing pie,” he said. “What’s a few more hours? I could get you to the Beverly Airport by nine, then to Salem by ten.”

  “I . . . it’s a tempting offer, but—”

  He knew she’d decline. She didn’t want him to see there was no vintage clothing store. You know what; he could prove that right now. He took a random gown off the rack, whipped the sheet off it, and held it up. “What do you call this?”

  “A beaded flapper dress, circa 1920. Why?”

  “Value?”

  “Today? Or when it was new? I’d need to examine it for condition and maker to give you a fair price for the vintage market. Is this a test?”

  “Yes.” King replaced the flapper number and showed her a navy gown. “On sight, tell me what you know about this one.”

  The hellcat grinned, and the devil in him rose to attention.

  “That’s a Worth,” she said. “Designed and produced in Paris. It cost big bucks around 1860, and it costs big bucks vintage, just because it’s sturdy enough to stay on that hanger. How’m I doing?”

  King checked the label, saw she was right, and shoved the dress back on the rack.

  “Hey, take it easy. I definitely want that one.”

  “But you said it was big bucks.”

  “I’ll give you a supplier’s fair price. I have a market for it. You don’t. A successful businessman like you knows we both have to make a profit.”

  King cursed beneath his breath. “You passed.”

  “With only two dresses? Are you kidding? My sister Vickie was harder on me when she was teaching me about vintage clothing and accessories. Test me some more. This is fun.”

  “Okay.” He led her to the cabinet that closed off the tunnel to the east wing. “Name the geegaws in the cabinet.”

  Her eyes actually twinkled. “That’s a sterling vinaigrette geegaw, a buttonhook geegaw, a fan geegaw.”

  “Enough with the sass.”

  As if to prove she didn’t have it in her to obey, she removed the stick she’d called a fan from the bottom shelf, and with a flick of her wrist, it became a fan after all. She covered her face with it to flirt with her eyes—very effective—then she gazed demurely down.

  If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was checking out his package, the thought giving her something bigger to contemplate. Damn, she had an effect on him.

  King coughed with a rare shot of embarrassment, denied the warning in his head, and turned back to the case. He pointed to several more mysterious women’s accessories from the last century.

  “Tussy-mussy,” she said, “a tiny vase for flowers that women wore on their dresses. That’s a jewelry casket; it opens at that latch. See?” She grinned like every straight-A student he’d ever hated. “The shoe is a snuff box.”

  “Please. The shoe’s a knickknack.”

  “It’s a snuff box shaped like a shoe.” She took it from the case, opened the top, and shoved it under his nose. “Smell.”

  King reared back, sneezed, and pulled out his handkerchief.

  She laughed, a sound he liked too much.

  “You win,” he said.

  “What do I win?” asked the enchantress, giddy with success.

  “You win a few more hours to go through the castle, and my belief in your knowledge of vintage clothes, if not my belief in your shop.”

  She shrugged. “Like it matters. A few more hours to search would help, but staying here alone with you doesn’t seem prudent. Nothing personal.”

  “I kiss you senseless and bare my ass to you, and you’re afraid to stay alone with me?”

  “I rest my case.”

  “You make me sound like a pervert.”

  “If the bare ass doesn’t fit, try the Braille boob-reading.”

  “Hey, there were extenuating circumstances, which you damned well know.”

  She patted his chest. “I’m screwing with your mind again. But staying alone at night with a man I don’t know, in a castle I don’t know, with attacking toys . . . Nah.”

  “Wise girl.” He’d be wise to let her go home with the crew for the same reasons, not to mention his out-of-character, out-of-control attraction. “We wouldn’t be alone,” he said, despite his good intentions.

  “I have a live-in cook. Her husband’s the head gardener. The guards you charmed with your . . .

  cleavage, was it? They live here as well.”

  He’d found the peacemaker’s Achilles’ heel, judging by her look of interest. His libido did a happy dance while his common sense shook its sad head. “Tell you what,” King said, “after the construction crew leaves, you can meet the residents and tell them we’re working late tonight. That way, you can pillage and plunder while I finish my work. Deal?”

  She extended her hand. “Deal.”

  King shook it, and ducked.

  Harmony looked down at him with a furrowed brow. “What was that about?”

  “Hell if I know. When I kissed you, I got shot in the ass. For shaking your hand, I expected nothing less than a goose egg the size of Rhode Island.”

  “It’s true,” she said. “Gussie would rather we weren’t in accord, because discord is her MO, but she expended a lot of energy in the toy room, so I don’t expect we’ll hear from her for a while.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “A ghost needs time to regain her energy, like a man after sex.”

  “You’re a laugh a minute, you know that?”

  “I got a million of ’em.”

  “Spare me.”

  “How can you doubt my sincerity after today? There’s proof of Gussie all over the castle.”

  “What pro
of?”

  “For one thing, nobody has ever finished refurbishing this monstrosity. What makes you think you can succeed where your ancestors failed?”

  “I can handle the accidents, the arguing, and wailing—unless you’re here so I don’t have to. I’m stronger and more determined than my ancestors. I have the killer instincts to get the job done.”

  “Do you expect to find buyers with killer instincts to live here?”

  King reared back. “Now you’re just being mean.”

  “Me? I’m being a realist. Look at your butt. Oh, sorry, that’s anatomically impossible. Sit on it then and tell me you don’t believe Gussie can stop you. She won’t let you finish restoration, never mind letting you sell the place to strangers. She doesn’t even like you here.”

  “So why doesn’t she mind you?” King asked. “Crap, listen to me, talking as if she actually exists.

  Besides, she doesn’t like you. Look how she scared you today.”

  “She toyed with me. She wounded you.”

  “Nevertheless,” he said, “she— it—whatever—was quiet today for the first time in a century.”

  “You know the reason for that, right?”

  “None that I’ll admit to . . . in the event of a sanity hearing.”

  “Fine, don’t admit it, but if I stay, you’ll at least know you’re safe for the evening. Whether you know it or not, you need protecting.”

  “The hell I do!” He touched his throbbing butt. “Well. Good job so far.” Half of him wanted to pretend he needed the annoying brat so she’d minister to him again—he guessed that was his man-brain half. But the real-brain half—the military-trained businessman with no heart—knew he’d best stay rank-on stubborn and keep a safe distance where the sexpot peacemaker and his overactive libido were concerned.

  Unfortunately, for the sake of getting the place finished, he needed to chance keeping the seductress around. “So you’re staying after the men go tonight,” he confirmed. “You want to; you know you do. So you will, right?”

  “To keep you from getting brained, yeah.”

  “Something tells me,” King admitted, “that I’m more than likely to get brained by you.”

  “There is that.”

  Chapter Twelve

  HARMONY had enjoyed her evening at the castle, but she was on her way home, now, mission not accomplished. Done. Finis.

  She’d seen enough signs from Gussie to know she should go back, but time had run out, so what excuse would she give when she showed up tomorrow?

  Paxton started his jet-powered Eurocopter and winked. “I always watch out for flying brooms here,” he said. “Kidding. They’re not bad in the summer, but come October, you can’t get airspace around here.”

  Harmony smiled at his joke and wondered what he’d think if he knew he’d made a witch joke to a witch.

  They’d had a good evening, her searching for vintage clothes, and him doing paperwork. And they were more attracted to each other than they’d been earlier. How weird was that? If she wasn’t reading his mind, she’d never believe it.

  He looked powerful and commanding, controlling his helicopter, his pride and joy obvious; he became one with the beast as they rose straight up and off the island.

  Darkness had set in by then, and the lights of Salem beckoned, though they’d fly over it to the Beverly Airport and take a car back.

  “We’re cruising at about a hundred and twenty-five miles an hour,” Paxton said, but Harmony was so enthralled with watching him, she wasn’t inclined toward chitchat. He enjoyed flying so much that his defenses were down. He didn’t worry about putting up walls in the sky. He liked her sitting beside him,

  and he admitted as much to himself.

  His mind was full of the two of them spending time at the castle, and not purely for keeping Gussie quiet.

  Over the course of the flight, he relived their every embrace, and by the time they landed at the Beverly Airport, she was as aroused and ready as him. He’d conjured up some pretty impure thoughts about getting her back in his arms.

  She was pretty sure he was the first man whose mind intrigued and seduced her. But why was he thinking about her at the castle in the future?

  She guessed she should try to draw him out. Give him a reason to get her back there.

  A short while later, as he led her to a black stretch limo, Harmony sensed a need to take the lead, because his walls were going up again. He helped her into the backseat, got in beside her, and his driver shut the door.

  “I did a lot of searching during those few extra hours tonight,” she said, “and I found some prime vintage gowns.”

  “Good. Head for Salem, Ed,” Paxton told his driver. “Pickering Wharf.” He turned back to her. “I got a lot done, myself, probably because I wallowed in the rare quiet. I liked the castle tonight for the first time in years.”

  “Your men could have accomplished a lot, if they’d stayed as late as we did.”

  “Ever since I met you,” Paxton said, “I’ve had the strangest feeling that you can read my mind. You’re brilliant, you know. I could use somebody like you on my team.”

  “I thought I pissed you off.”

  “Oh, you do, but listen. You’re right. The men could have gotten a lot done tonight. They worked like gang-busters in the quiet peace today. No arguments, which never happened before. Not when my grandfather rebuilt the east wing or his father added the west, or when my father added the boathouse.”

  “Who added the mismatched addition that makes one side of the castle look like a drunken sailor rambling toward the sea?”

  “Nicodemus, Gussie’s husband. But he had a method to his madness. A landmass once connected Paxton Island to Marblehead, and an old steam train carried the family back and forth from the mainland.”

  “That’s hard to imagine.”

  “The engine and parlor car are in the east wing. The toy room leads to the train shed. I would have showed it to you, if I hadn’t gotten—” He looked at his driver. “Distracted.”

  Paxton’s wink gave her a sense of intimacy. He asked Ed to lower the privacy window, and she shivered like a teen on her first date. When he took her hand, Harmony wondered if he’d try to read her by Braille again. “Let me get to the point,” he said. “I have a business proposition for you.”

  That sounded sexy. Not!

  “If I could keep the men working harmoniously for as many hours as we worked today, I could finish the restoration and sell the place before summer’s end.”

  “Providing Gussie lets you.”

  “Precisely, which is why I’d like to offer you a live-in job at the castle.”

  Live in? He’d hit her with dumb surprise. How could she have missed the live-in part?

  But she hadn’t missed it; she’d wallowed in it, fantasizing along with him, not realizing that the best way to live the fantasy was to live together.

  “With you in residence,” he explained, “my crew could work every day instead of arguing. The men are always up for overtime pay, and longer hours would make them happier than getting along.”

  The thought made her heart skip a beat. “Live in?”

  He wasn’t revealing all his motives. He wanted to know more about her ring, and, okay, about her, too.

  His men believed she appeased the ghost, and they’d threatened to quit if he didn’t hire her, which annoyed the hell out of him, but at least he didn’t take that out on her. She intrigued him and—her favorite incentive—she’d jump-started his recently dormant libido. Yay. “So you want me to be, like, your secretary or something?”

  “No, it’s a much easier job than that. I want you to hang around. Go through the clothes and geegaws,

  catalog and price them. Buy what you want and tell me what to charge for the rest.” He squeezed her hand. “All you have to do is show up and treasure-hunt every day. Piece of cake.” He shook his head.

  “Damned if I don’t feel as if I�
��m hiring a witch doctor.”

  “A witch peacemaker, you mean.”

  “Do I?”

  “You betcha. A ghost tamer.”

  “Okaay.”

  “And my wages?”

  “Hungry, are you?”

  Reading his own libidinous take on the question, she raised a brow. “As hungry as you.”

  He spontaneously defrosted, masking his ruddy flush with a brusque cough. She’d almost made him forget his men had forced him into this, which he would always resent, which meant her job might not be as easy as he tried to make out.

  “Wages?” she repeated.

  “I don’t know what to call your job to put a price on it.”

  “I’ll be keeping your construction crew working. What do you pay your foreman?”

  “Curt’s job is way more complicated, so how about I pay you fifteen dollars an hour, and you name your price for the clothes you want?”

  “Fifteen an hour for twenty-four hours a day? Because I’ll be keeping Gussie quiet twenty-four/seven . . .

  if I take the job.”

  “Rob me blind, why don’t you.”

  “I’m just saying . . .”

  “Let’s say I don’t pay you while you sleep eight hours a night.”

  As serendipitous as the chance to buy his vintage clothes, the extra pay would help her and her sisters expand the store, plus she could work on her psychic mandate at the same time. “Done,” she said.

  “About the vintage clothes? Suppose I want them all? If I take the job.”

  “You have no idea how many there are. It could take you months to find them all.”

  Was he dangling a castle full of vintage clothes like a carrot before her? Because, frankly, dangling himself would be enough. Oh, the eye candy in that vision. Swoon.

  “Here’s the deal,” she said, thrilled, but trying to be practical. “Fifteen dollars an hour for sixteen hours a day, it is, but if you ever snap your fingers at me the way you snap them at your men, my claws will come out.”