Sex and the Psychic Witch

by Annette Blair

Amusement deepened his laugh lines, though she could hardly call his look a smile. “I like a woman with claws. Bring ’em on, Hellcat.”

  A psychic mandate with all the trimmings and a hungry panther, too. “I have only one stipulation, providing I take the job. I’m not sleeping on one of those moldy old mattresses.”

  “There’s a newly remodeled suite on the fourth floor with fresh bedding and all the conveniences.”

  “Bathroom? Shower? TV? Tub? Doors that lock?”

  “Everything except regular TV and cable, but it’s got a flat screen and a great collection of movies.”

  “Now that I think about it, locks wouldn’t keep Gussie out, anyway. Hey, I’m not sleeping alone in the castle with a negative ghost witch.”

  “I’ll stay as long as you do. I sleep there half the time, anyway.”

  “Are you suggesting we share a suite?”

  “It would up the odds,” he said. “Two against Gussie.”

  “That’s true, but she hates you. For me, that would be like sharing a suite with ghost bait.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  Harmony sat forward and knocked on the privacy window, so it rolled down. “Driver, take the next right. Wharf Street. My house is the big Victorian with the wraparound porch.”

  The limo came to a stop, and Harmony still hadn’t accepted the job, because she didn’t want Paxton to see how eager she was.

  He told his driver to wait, got out, and saw the shop. “The Immortal Classic Vintage Clothing and Curio

  Shop,” he said and looked back in the car. “My apologies.”

  He came around and held her door open.

  “As you see. I live and work here,” she said, glad to prove him wrong, though she did have other motives for going to the castle, but she had no reason to split hairs. “I live behind the shop,” she said pointing the way.

  At the kitchen door, he took her key and unlocked it for her. She thanked him but stayed on the stoop.

  “I’ll think about your offer,” she said, “and you’ll know tomorrow, one way or the other.”

  She read the consideration he gave to her lips, which didn’t surprise her, but she also saw his intent to keep things strictly business between them—a big disappointment. She liked him, even if she’d only known him for a day. She would always know where she stood and what challenges she would face with King Paxton.

  “We start work early,” he said as he went down the steps, stopped, and turned back to her. “Harmony, about sleeping arrangements. If you take the job, you should know that the suite—”

  “I don’t want to work for you,” she said.

  Paxton came up a step. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I don’t want to be your employee. I’d rather be your equal. If I go to sort your vintage clothes and keep your ghost quiet, I go as an independent contractor.”

  Paxton’s shoulders relaxed. “That can be arranged. Same figure, on a per diem basis?”

  Harmony gave a half nod. “I’ll sign a contract.”

  “I’ll have one ready, in case you decide to take the job. But . . .” His gaze veered once more to her Proud to Be Awesome T-shirt. “You should know that I dislike clothes that make a literal statement.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” She opened the door.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I want every literal-statement shirt you can find,” Harmony told her sisters as they helped her drag her suitcases up from the basement the next morning. “As long as they’re tight and V-neck.”

  “That about sums up all our shirts,” Destiny said. “You want the suggestive ones?”

  “Especially the suggestive ones.”

  “This sucks,” Storm said. “Des, tell her that going back to that place is chancy.”

  Destiny looked thoughtful. “There are chances . . . and there are chances.”

  “That’s a lot of blooming cryptic help,” Storm snapped.

  Harmony handed the rebel a suitcase to fill. “That’s Destiny.”

  “How witchy is the ghost?” Storm piled in the shirts. “Is she as scary as me?”

  “Scarier. She hovers over the castle running roughshod over anyone who steps inside. Hang around long enough, and you become as negative as she is . . . unless I’m there.”

  “And the guy who offered you the job?”

  “Thinks he’s the center of the universe. A brass-ass technocrat who barely looked up when I went inside. Then he stalks my way like a loose-limbed panther, despite the finest steel rod money can buy shoved up his ass.”

  Storm chuckled. “Hey, you’re starting to sound bitchin’, like me.”

  “Thanks. He wears clothes as black as his hair and more expensive than our van.” Harmony pulled out her sock drawer. “His eyes are clear and whiskey bright, and his voice . . .” touched her everywhere, made her shiver and—“He’s closed to emotion, but I can read him, because he’s attached to the castle.

  He’ll be a challenge.” One she couldn’t wait to tackle. “He’s not happy about having me around. He thinks I’m trouble.” She raised the shirt she’d set aside: Here Comes Trouble. “I’m wearing this to work today.”

  Storm touched her heart. “I’m so proud.”

  Trouble ahead, Harmony’s sensible side shouted. Free-spirit psychic witches didn’t mesh well with tight-assed technocrats. But she didn’t care. If she was gonna get burned, let the smoldering begin.

  “You know how, when we meet a new guy, we nail his potential after two minutes, no first date

  required? Well this guy’s got true potential, if I can loosen him up. Anybody mind if I take the toys from that obsession party we gave? I’ve got a hard nut to crack.”

  “As long as you don’t really crack his nuts.”

  “Guess that depends on his performance. Besides, someone has to teach him to be spontaneous. He’s way too controlled. I plan to enjoy removing that steel rod from his spine.”

  “And that’s the only rod you have designs on, right?” Des laughed. “As if we didn’t know.”

  “She’s gonna melt his brass ass,” Storm said. “When can we meet him?”

  Harmony wasn’t ready to tell Paxton that blondes like her came in a three-pack. “You’ll know when it’s time. Rent a boat, but don’t leave it by the cement steps. There’s a landing on the west side, with a small Gothic door not far away. I’ll unlock it when I know you’re coming. Let’s play three musketeers when you get there; use the ‘power of three as one’ before Gussie suspects I’m not alone. Wear matching outfits, and bring one for me. Storm, don’t forget your blonde wig.”

  Des sat on one of Harmony’s suitcases to zip it. “So do you know why you were sent there?”

  “At least part of it is to persuade Paxton to keep the castle in the family. I think another part is to set the castle free of Gussie—or to set Gussie free of the castle. I sense there’s more, but I’m still working on instinct. Your job, while I’m playing ghost tamer, is to think about ways for us to help Gussie move on.”

  “Be careful,” Des said. “It’s a plus that you can quiet her, but it’s frightening as well. You’re polar opposites. I don’t want you getting hurt. She might be stronger than you.”

  “I think she is. But you’ll know if I need you. I’m not worried, so you shouldn’t be.” Gussie was not only stronger than her, she was quite possibly stronger than the three of them together—which she wouldn’t tell her sisters—especially if she read the dolphin symbolism correctly, and the sea provided her with an unlimited energy source.

  It was all quite scary, but Harmony felt useful for the first time in her life, and she’d deal with whatever unimagined ghostly manifestation jumped out at her . . . when it jumped.

  She grinned. Besides, Paxton Castle contained some mighty powerful perks, and one of them was King-sized . . . she hoped.

  Chapter Fourteen

  HE didn’t need Harmony. Didn’t need anybody. He hoped sh
e didn’t take the job. King paced the construction site the morning after offering her the job, while the wind—or Gussie, if the sexy nutcase was to be believed—wailed as loud as a bloodthirsty banshee.

  Earlier, two of his men got into such a heated argument, they’d beat the crap out of each other, and he’d had to put them in the chopper and take them to Boston to get stitched up. He’d expected Harmony to be here waiting by the time he got back.

  One o’clock. She wasn’t coming, then.

  If she didn’t take the job, he didn’t know how he’d finish restoration without someone getting hurt.

  Gussie was on the rampage today. Worse than ever.

  King wished he could walk away and leave the place to rot, Gussie along with it. But all his life, he’d harbored a foolish, nagging need to restore his godforsaken heritage and bring it back to glory.

  How plucking stupid was he? He rubbed the back of his neck. Look at him, substituting ridiculous, barely positive words for barely negative ones. What was wrong with the real word, anyway? He was positive he liked to do it, and he’d tell miss sexy two shoes so, if she ever showed. Maybe he’d let her fulfill her threat and “pluck” the starch out of him.

  If she didn’t come, he’d never finish. Too bad. This would make a great home for someone who liked ghosts. Some people went nuts over that kind of thing. He wasn’t one of them. Besides, he’d bet Gussie only wailed with a Paxton in residence, not that she’d stopped when he went to Boston that morning.

  According to his men, she’d wailed louder.

  Where was the sexpot? What if she didn’t take the job? Maybe if he raised her wages . . . Damn his men for forcing his hand and making him offer the job to her in the first place. And damn him for liking the idea of having her around.

  He wondered how cohabitating would have worked out for them. Probably best he didn’t know. She’d freak if she ever saw the suite. She might quit on the spot, though she was anything but a quitter. An hour in her company, and he’d learned that lesson.

  He’d dreamed about her last night. Hot . . . hot, hot, hot. A sensual, cold-shower-required, damned-near wet dream. Bad . . . bad, bad, bad. You’d think he was thirteen again.

  God, he wanted to take her to bed.

  If she showed, he’d be forced to build a second suite. He couldn’t afford to lower his guard and give in to an attraction he suspected—feared, hoped, prayed—could be cataclysmic. Getting mixed up with a woman that seductive could only lead to trouble. Especially one as crazy as this one. Around her, crazy was contagious. Better she should stay in Salem.

  King went outside, crossed the old bridge over the sludge moat—soon to be a rose garden—and stopped at the top of the steps to the boat dock. With a hand over his eyes, he gazed toward Salem.

  Sailboats, yes. Water taxis, no. Where the hell was she?

  He walked the perimeter of the castle, every lopsided, stone-set, mismatched wing, and stopped to gaze toward Marblehead. He’d thought he could count on Harmony . . . after one day. Great guns, his fantasies about her ranked right up there with dragons, unicorns, and flying pigs.

  Relieved she hadn’t taken him up on his offer, he went back inside through the kitchen to tell cook there wouldn’t be two for dinner. He’d restore the castle without Harmony. His men would get along or get out.

  A crash sent him running to the great hall, where he found a free-for-all fistfight. No holds barred.

  Swearing and cussing, and . . . silence.

  The wind stopped wailing. The men stopped fighting, looked surprised, and broke their choke holds. A couple stanched the flow of blood or wiped sweat from their brows. A few bent over, hands on knees, to catch their breaths. Only one thing they had in common. They were all smiling.

  A goddess in the great hall.

  Harmony Cartwright in the flesh, trailed by guards and gardeners, two-fisted luggage bearers all, putting a mountain of suitcases down around her . . . and going back for more? “How the hell many suitcases did you bring?”

  “Enough.” Counter to his request, Harmony’s tight royal blue V-neck tee said, Here Comes Trouble.

  She faced his crew, shifted her hips, raised her arms, and said, “Here I am, you lucky boys.”

  They cheered and applauded, and she took a bow.

  King gritted his teeth at her rebellious shirt and late arrival. He shouldn’t be happy to see trouble. “It’s about time,” he said. “Look at this mess. My men have been fighting all morning.”

  “You think it’s easy to find three water taxis at one time? I wasn’t leaving my luggage on the dock for the next taxi, like the first driver suggested.” She held up three fingers. “Three, at one time.”

  “Curt,” King said, taking Harmony’s arm. “Open the cooler and take a break before going back to work. When the men have rested, have a dozen of them bring Miss Cartwright’s bags up to the suite.” All thirty-three plucking mismatched pieces.

  “Planning to stay for the millennium?” he asked her. “Or did you bring empty suitcases to carry your vintage clothes home in?”

  “Heck no. I’ll get them home later. I brought the essentials—clothes, shoes, toiletries, makeup. There’s no Shoppers Heaven next door, you know.”

  “Hey, boss,” Curt said. “What do you want me to do with the cats?”

  King turned, wondering if Curt got punched in the head during the brawl. “What cats?”

  “My cats,” Harmony said.

  “You brought cats? Are you out of your mind?”

  “They’re sweet cats.”

  “No cats.”

  “Hey, I came to live with mice, I brought cats. They go, I go.”

  “How many?”

  “Tigerstar and her kittens, Gingertigger, Caramello, and Warlock. They’re too young to be away from

  her. Do we stay or do we go? Think about it. We’ll wait outside for your answer.” Trouble in blue spikes picked up her cat carrier and let the castle doors slam behind her.

  Gussie wailed fit to wake the dead—her blooming peers, damn it!

  His men pretended to work as he went to the door and opened it.

  Free from their crate, three bouncing baby felines chased butterflies, their tails, and each other, while the brat lounged on the castle steps, filing her nails—white nails crowned by rainbows.

  With her head tilted toward the water, her blonde hair curled under her chin and covered her face on his side. Sexy. Man-hardening. He should know. Legs that went on forever, catching some rays, kicking his libido into high gear, overriding the sanest fury he’d ever experienced.

  “Cartwright,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

  She stood, as graceful as the queen of . . . the castle . . . and when she and her quartet of felines came back in, those cats held their chins as high as the sexpot did.

  “My castle is your castle,” King said with visionary dread.

  Chapter Fifteen

  RAISING the bar on her determination to take the starch out of Paxton, the first thing Harmony did after arriving—as soon as the opportunity presented itself—was find Paxton’s briefcase and replace his dull silver paper clips with pink penis paper clips. A small victory, but a start.

  Penis paper clips might not unstarch him for good, but he might actually crack a smile.

  After that, she spent the afternoon in the west wing’s nautical library searching for any mention of her ring, Gussie, or Lisette in Nicodemus Paxton’s ship’s logs.

  Perusing them, she saw that Nicodemus spent years at sea, bringing Gussie gifts from all over the world on the rare occasions he came home. Harmony sensed he’d never completely given Gussie his heart, while his life, he’d given to the sea. Oh, he brought toys home in hopes of a family, but they never had one, which helped explain Gussie’s discontent. On the other hand, if he rarely came home, no wonder they didn’t have children. Sheesh.

  Harmony brought one of the logs upstairs that night as she followed
Gilda the deaf cook up to the suite she’d yet to see.

  “The boss said to tell you he’s flying to the mainland for supplies,” Gilda shouted at the landing. “Won’t be back till late.”

  “Thanks,” Harmony replied as loud, wondering why Paxton had kept his distance all day, outside or off-site, which could be her imagination, since she was jumpy about their living arrangements.

  Harmony went in first and stopped dead. “All the conveniences?” Her hands on her hips, she surveyed the room. “It doesn’t even have walls. It’s a blooming dormitory!”

  Gilda nodded. “Cots, in case of a storm or a late work night.”

  Great, Harmony thought. She might get to share with the whole crew. Lucky blooming her.

  “Boss man owns the bed, so choose your cot, and I’ll make it up.”

  Harmony took her bedding from Gilda. “I’ll make up the one farthest away from him.”

  “I might be seventy, but I’m not dead,” Gilda shouted close to Harmony’s ear, as if whispering. “I’d take the cot closest to boss man.”

  “Not me. He called this a suite. I was gonna put the feisty feline four in their carrier for the night so they wouldn’t pester him,” she yelled, “but to hell with that! They were cooped up all morning waiting for the boats, weren’t you, babies?” She cuddled Gingertigger. “As far as I’m concerned, King Kong deserves no such consideration. Have at him, psycho cats.”

  Gilda shook her head. “You’re really gonna stay?”

  Harmony realized this was an unorthodox situation, but besides fulfilling her psychic mandate, she was too curious about Gussie to quit, plus she had some added monetary, and hunky, incentives. “Of course I am. You’re only a bell pull away, you said. You do hear the bell, right?”

  Gilda chuckled. “I hear it.”

  “Fine. I’m staying, and I’m gonna give boss man what he deserves.”

  Harmony intended to explore the mutual attraction she and Paxton were cooking up—over an open flame, they were cooking—but Gilda didn’t need to know that. She thanked Gilda and made up a cot as far away from Paxton as she could get . . . temporarily. This is where she was meant to be. She touched her ring and thought about sharing the room with the hunk. She liked the idea of two against Gussie. Plus there was the psycho-cat entertainment factor.