Sex and the Psychic Witch (8 page)

Chapter Fourteen

HE didn’t need Harmony. Didn’t need anybody. He hoped she
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.

She needed to protect the room from Gussie first, so she swept it from east to west, a ritual sweeping away of evil. She sprinkled salt, sage, angelica, and lavender around the room’s perimeters and lit corner candles for protection, peace, harmony, and blessings. Opening the window, she waved her wand and began her chant:

 
Harmony sighed, feeling good about being here.

The remodeled bathroom did have all the conveniences, she discovered a short while later. She changed into a pair of boxers with Storm’s ratty old Plays Well with Others tee, but she left some long johns by her cot in case of a ghostly, ice-age wake-up call.

By the time she settled in, Tigerstar and her hyperactive kittens had installed themselves on the royal blue satin bedspread of Paxton’s manly antique four-poster. Harmony fell asleep smiling.

She heard him come into the room, and she pretended to be asleep as he went to and from the bathroom, preparing for bed.

He swore, and something shattered. Harmony peeked and saw Tigerstar riding his shoulders. That cat could leap, and she’d scared the dickens out of him. Harmony bit her lip against a laugh.

Paxton picked up the broken pieces of . . . an alarm clock, maybe, while Tigerstar used him as a climbing wall when he sat on the bed. Up down. Back and around. A paw in the face. A drawstring chase. Across his lap. A claw to the groin. A pain in the loins.

“Son of a bitch!” King shot to his feet.

Harmony buried her face in her pillow so she wouldn’t giggle. That man was not going to get any sleep tonight.

He went to the bed, whispered to the kittens, and petted them, the sneak. He
liked
cats. “You’re frisky little things, if you’re anything like your mama—your cat mama,” he said, “not the pretty lady who brought you here to screw with me, so let’s fool her and be friends.”

The double-crosser.

Harmony rolled over to face away from him as Paxton came her way. She did not want him to know she was awake.

“Let’s go, Trouble with a capital
T
,” he said as he scooped her up and carried her to his bed.

Huh?

Did he think she was gonna sleep with him?

Chapter Sixteen

HARMONY rode the roller coaster of Paxton’s bare arms while he turned down the blankets on his bed and set her down beside Tigerstar and her kittens. Was he toying with her? She could go for some mutual toying with . . .

Testing the sexual waters, she rolled over, as if in her sleep, trapped him, caught him around the neck, and brought his face to hers.

She might have initiated the kiss, but he took over with gusto. Heat purled through her in rolling waves, bringing her to life and making her hungry for a whole lot more. Withering witch balls, but the man could kiss.

She moaned, and so did he, then he sat beside her to cradle her in his arms and bring the kiss to another level, raising her up, readying her for anything. When he stopped, out of the blue, she whimpered.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know exactly how you feel.”

He walked away, and she got a quick profile of a mighty fine boner. He sat on the cot she’d vacated, scrubbed his face with both hands, turned out the light, removed his sweats, and lay down, his hands behind his head.

The scent of him filled his bed. Bailey’s Irish Cream, spicy aftershave, and a hint of cinnamon coffee. She inhaled and got hot. She turned her face into his pillow and nearly came. He’d slept there last night . . . and dreamed of her.

She turned to watch him in moonlight. His sexual energy was high, his fantasies clear. He wanted to read her by Braille again, without her shirt. Ooh! He wanted her breast in his mouth. He turned her way. He’d like to see her move, see her cute little ass in the air.

Harmony turned on her stomach and raised her knees a bit.

Paxton raised himself on an elbow, as if he couldn’t believe she’d acted out his fantasy. Great, now he was gonna test his power of suggestion.

She tried to block his thoughts, but she was too blooming curious and terribly turned on. Great. Sure, she’d brought her dolphin vibrators, but what good would they do her with him in the same room?

He imagined her getting out of bed and “strutting” to his cot, removing her clothes, piece by slow piece. She stripped him naked and took his man brain into her mouth, then she climbed on and rode him like a blooming bucking bronco while he lay there and let
her
do all the work!

“Geez!” she said, sitting up. “I’m a witch, not a call girl.”

He jumped and shouted at the same time, which pretty much woke her to her big-mouthed stupidity.

“What?” He threw off his covers and charged her bed, his boner a sight in moonlight. “What did you say?”

“Put some clothes on,” she snapped.

He growled. “Forget the clothes.”

“The theme for the night,” she mumbled as she pulled the covers to her chin. “Did I tell you that I talk in my sleep? It’s insane, the things I say.”

“Did you say you’re a call girl or a witch?”

“If we weren’t sleeping in a blooming dormitory, you wouldn’t have heard—”

“Harmony.” His low-toned warning meant she was treading water in that swamp of eternal stink again. Besides, he rarely, if ever, used her name.

And what could she use for a defense? Tell him not to
fantasize
?
That
would get her out of trouble. Not.

Fortunately, the cats came to her rescue as if they sensed her need. Gingertigger stretched out on her head like a hat. Caramello sprawled across her chest, and Warlock curled up at the apex of her legs, which she was forced to spread. Figures, the only male cat in the bunch, and he liked her crotch.

But Paxton liked cats, so she felt reasonably safe answering. “Well,” she said. “I’m
not
a call girl.”

“Why would you say such a thing?” he asked.

“Because I’m not.”

“Not that. You practically—”

“What?” she asked. “I practically what? I said I talk in my sleep.” And she sure hoped she’d remember to do it again, so he’d believe her.

“Are you a witch?”

“Withering witch balls, do you have to ask straight-out?”

“Do you have to use
withering
and
balls
in the same sentence? The combo makes me nervous as a . . . cat. And of course I have to ask straight-out. What other way is there to ask?”

“You could beat around the bush a little?”

“Give you some wiggle room, you mean?”

Damn. He knew her pretty well. “Something like that. Because, sometimes it’s . . . You know, Paxton, you’re practically naked. Great pecs, by the way.”

“Only the pecs are great?”

“Well, no actually, I’m seriously impressed by your dic—”

“Wait a minute,” he said. “No changing the subject. You’re not overdressed either, by the way. Plays Well with Others, my ass. Now, if the shirt said Great Rac—never mind. There’s no such thing as a witch.”

“Like there’s no such thing as a ghost? Your left butt cheek says different. How can you come from Salem and not believe? Did you never step into that city? It’s full of witches who think they’re . . . witches.”

“Are you?”

“Absolutely certain that witches exist. Yes.”

“Do you think you’re one of them?”

She sighed heavily. “There are some things I can’t deny, and that’s one of them. I’m a witch.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? That’s a helluva thing to keep from an employer.”

“You’re not my employer. I’m an outside contractor, remember? So, in what religion were you raised?”

“A Methodist. What difference does that make?”

“Did you introduce yourself to me by saying, ‘Hi, I’m King Paxton, and I’m a Methodist’?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, I don’t say, ‘Hi, I’m Harmony Cartwright, and I’m a witch.’ ”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“It most certainly is. Are you always this negative, or is it only when you’re here at the castle?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I figured since Gussie spreads negative like frosting, you’d been iced.”

“Yet you’re a regular Pollyanna. Are you immune because you’re the same?”

Harmony laughed. “Hello! Gussie and I are polar opposites. My
gift
is peace and her
curse
is strife. There are different kinds of witches, like there are different kinds of Methodists. Some break the law, some don’t. Some do good, some do evil. I’m a white witch. I believe that anything I do, good or bad, comes back to me times three, so I try to do good. I live and let live, give and take fairly, and harm none.”

“I take it Gussie’s not a white witch?”

“I don’t blooming think so.”

“Are you a hocus-pocus witch, with spells and stuff?”

“I can make your penis grow.”