WITCH IN THE HOUSE
Jenna McKnight
Contents
Chapter 1
Like a lemon drop on speed, the maid of honor…
Chapter 2
Anthony searched high and low for Mason throughout Sunday and…
Chapter 3
Mason spent his first hour at Mystic Manor soaking up…
Chapter 4
Why is Pierce Brosnan naked in the house?”
Chapter 5
Through the big mullioned window in the study, Jade watched…
Chapter 6
You say you’re staying up at Mystic Manor?”
Chapter 7
Mystic Manor. You’re staying there? Nice place.”
Chapter 8
Mason had been eavesdropping? What was up with that?
Chapter 9
Anthony huddled beneath a bottom row of Jade’s soft sweaters…
Chapter 10
Mystic Manor? Say, we’re sort of in the same business.
Chapter 11
Mason stood on his side of the threshold with one…
Chapter 12
Well that was awkward.”
Chapter 13
Jade abandoned Annie’s fifteen-year-old station wagon in a restricted zone…
Chapter 14
Mason barged into Anthony’s room, relieved to find him there.
Chapter 15
Oh, hey. We forgot your Jeep.”
Chapter 16
Eureka!
Chapter 17
B&B Owner Dies Second Time
Chapter 18
Pink hearts, as agreed. Cupids with arrows.
Chapter 19
Mason was having a perfectly good wreck-diving dream when the…
Chapter 20
The money’s a dead end,” Anthony said, sprawled in a…
Chapter 21
It hurt that Mason hadn’t confided in her. Jade wondered…
Chapter 22
Sleep began to elude Jade again. So did common sense,…
Chapter 23
Annie jumped into the passenger seat of Mason’s car. “Drive.
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Jenna McKnight
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
L ike a lemon drop on speed, the maid of honor darted across the front of the church, her yellow toe-length dress rustling with every step. The guests’ heads swiveled in unison as they tracked her agitated progress through the opposite archway, after which they turned to each other and resumed whispering. Not calm, smiling, happy-to-see-these-two-finally-going-to-tie-the-knot wedding speak, either.
Mason Kincaid, the groom, handled it like a pro; ten minutes earlier, he’d retreated to the choir loft in the back of the church. Only his best man knew where he was, and that was because he’d followed him. Something about doing his job.
Mason was standing shoulder to shoulder with Anthony now, feet spread comfortably, hands in the trouser pockets of his tux, watching another lemon drop rustle across the nave below.
“There goes another one,” he remarked.
Organ music played softly in the background, as if it were quite normal for bridesmaids and groomsmen to buzz back and forth across the church before the ceremony, half of them chattering on their cell phones, the other half comparing notes while frantically waiting for call backs.
“Yellow dresses, black tuxes,” Anthony mused over the swarm of activity. “Looks like a hornet’s nest, my friend.”
“Please. Don’t say that in front of Brenda.” Mason raised his arm, absentmindedly lifting his sleeve and pronating in one smooth motion.
“I think you can get tennis elbow from that,” Anthony said.
“From what?”
“Checking your watch every thirty seconds. What? Don’t tell me you thought Miss Terminally Late would be on time once in her life.”
“Yes,” Mason said, nodding with absolute certainty, turning the bezel on his watch, as if doing so would somehow make Brenda more aware of the time. “We discussed it at the rehearsal last night.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And in the car on the way to dinner.” Mason felt the need to substantiate his statement because Anthony was shaking his head with a look that said, You poor sap. “On the way home, too. She swore she wouldn’t be late.”
He never knew whether to worry about Brenda when she wasn’t on time or wring her neck when she finally arrived, but constant repetition had dulled the tendency to worry. Except this time she’d promised. She’d never promised before.
All her friends were here. All she’d talked about for weeks was “her day.” She loved fresh bouquets, candlelight, and ribbon. Her apartment had turned into a veritable testing lab for all three in her quest to mix the right sizes, right widths, right textures, blah blah blah. More than once, Mason jolted awake thinking he was the star attraction at a funeral.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if Brenda had consoled him, but forty-two long, lonnng days ago she’d gotten the crazy idea that “waiting until our wedding night” would somehow make it more special. This, after five years together.
He had to hand it to her, though. Every female guest—and several of the men—stopped in surprise just this side of the door, oohing and ahhing at the end result. The small, intimate Pensacola church normally inspired hushed hellos and quiet whispers, but today it was transformed into a vibrant, living hothouse, plush with cascades of white and yellow roses, mile upon mile of white ribbon, and row upon row of white tapers.
And just think, after today, life would go back to normal. After a week of sex, sun, and scuba diving, Brenda would move into his condo, not a candle, flower, or ribbon in sight.
Five forty-five. Fifteen minutes to go. She’d promised.
Candle flames flickered and fluttered along the center aisle as ushers escorted a few last-minute, wide-eyed guests to their seats.
Mason’s four-year-old niece broke out of safekeeping and tore down the aisle, her new Mary Janes raising a clatter on the narrow wooden steps as she climbed to the loft. Mason turned toward the uncontrolled sobbing that punctuated each step before Lily launched herself into his arms and buried her head against his neck.
“Aw, did seeing all those people scare you, sweetheart?” Mason crooned. He cuddled Lily against his chest, patting her tiny back.
Hand him a Glock and point him in the right direction, and he was a fierce adversary, a warrior. Hand him Lily, though, all warm and trusting and smelling of baby shampoo, and paternal emotions arose out of nowhere to throw him a curve. Every time. When he looked at strangers’ kids, he didn’t feel warm and fuzzy and think about having his own. Not even when he had sex with Brenda.
Used to have sex, he amended.
“Tell you what,” he said softly, aiming to console the little girl. “You don’t have to walk up that big, long aisle if you don’t want to.”
Quietly, Anthony sang, “Brenda’s gonna kill you.”
“She’s only four.” Mason fell into a slow, automatic sway, soothing his nap-deprived little niece. “You’d better let my sister know I have her.”
Anthony handled that by cell phone, ending the conversation with, “He’s right beside me. Really. He’s fine.”
“Don’t tell me. She was afraid I took off.”
“She says it’s in my job description to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Mason grinned, as if Anthony would even try. After all, they were guys. They had a bond, an obligation to respect each other’s freedom. They left most of the this-is-for-your-own-good bullshit to parents and siblings.
“Hate
to disillusion you,” Mason said, “but I believe you’re supposed to ensure a clean getaway if I change my mind.”
“No way, man. Brenda’d hunt you down like last time.”
“She didn’t hunt me down. And what do you mean, like last time? We were on a break.”
“She did hunt you down—you’re just too stupid to know it. She found out where you’d be and paraded another man in front of you. I warned you; you told me to stuff it. You fell for it hook, line, and sinker. This ringing any bells?”
Mason tugged at his collar, thinking it was awfully tight and maybe he should have rented a larger size. No way Anthony was right.
“I’m guessing it’d be bad luck to throw my best man off the balcony minutes before the wedding, so I want you to know I’m resisting.”
Anthony snickered.
“Aren’t you supposed to be supportive today? It’s, you know, in the job description.”
“Hey, I’m supportive,” Anthony said. “I’m not telling the maid of honor where you’re hiding. Geez, does Brenda know about her?”
Mason cast a nervous glance toward the steep, narrow stairs guarding him from his fiancée’s girlfriend. Women threw themselves at him every day; he could handle that. But Brenda’s best friend? That was murder waiting to happen. He just wasn’t sure whose.
“Relax, she’s up front with the others,” Anthony said. “Oops, looking this way.”
Mason stepped back from the rail, hoping he’d been quick enough to elude her sights. “Go tell her you couldn’t find me.”
“She saw you.”
“She can’t see fifty feet without her glasses.”
“Is that in my job description? You have to let me know these things because if I’m supposed to be looking out for you, my friend—”
“Let’s put it this way—if she comes after me, you have to throw yourself between us.”
“Take the bullet, as it were?”
“Absolutely.”
“Like when that moray eel came at us, and you ducked?”
“I was diverting its attention.”
“From you maybe.” Anthony raised his hand briefly to acknowledge someone below. “Relax. Ken just told her it’s me up here.”
At six o’clock, Lily got a second wind. She wiggled out of Mason’s arms and scampered off to watch the organist.
At the same moment, in the nave below, a skinny, uniformed courier marched up the center aisle between the tall, beribboned candelabra. In a nasal, high-pitched voice, he called out, “Message for Mr. Kincaid. Is there a Mason Kincaid here?”
“Uh-oh,” Anthony intoned. “Another eel.”
Mason cocked his head, assessing the situation in about one second flat. “You don’t suppose emergency rooms send couriers, do you?”
“Don’t think so, buddy.”
“Police departments?”
“There isn’t a cop alive who’d be caught dead in that getup.”
“Morgues? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m waiting to see if you duck again or see what it says.”
“Oh, I can guess what it says.”
Mason stared at Anthony until he finally sighed and said, “You want me to get that for you?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
“Okay, but don’t kill the messenger. Meaning me, not him.”
Anthony thumped down the stairs, with purpose if not speed. As he entered the nave, a hush fell over the church. You could hear a boutonniere drop as everyone, guests and wedding party alike, held their breath and craned their necks for a better vantage point.
The hell with reflecting. Mason was on the move now, nervously pacing the limited space in front of the choir benches, watching everyone below like a condemned man contemplating the crowd circling his gallows. The wedding party grouped into a tight pack near the altar, a couple of whom whispered into their cell phones, though who was left to call was anyone’s guess.
The guests scooted along the pews, sliding toward the center aisle in their Sunday best, cramming together so they’d miss nothing. And when Anthony accepted the envelope from the courier and glanced upward, all heads turned toward the rear of the church. All eyes raised to the loft. And just as quickly, upon seeing Mason, everyone turned back around, their whispers more urgent.
Mason no longer cared if they saw him. He’d done everything Brenda had asked. He’d committed to taking their relationship to the next level. He’d learned to navigate through the disarray in the apartment without complaint. He’d let her have her six weeks of chastity. He’d agreed to no more than four dives while they were on their honeymoon. After all that, he damn well didn’t deserve getting stood up on his wedding day!
When Anthony stopped before him and proffered the envelope, Mason couldn’t bring himself to touch it. “Read it,” he said, already planning which bar he’d drink dry tonight.
“Could be personal.”
“It sure as hell better be.”
“All right, all right,” Anthony said, feigning calmness that did nothing to reassure Mason. “Just remember what I said about killing the messenger. No throwing me over the rail or anything.”
“Would you just get it over with?”
Anthony slipped his finger under the flap and pried it open. He pulled out several pages, looked them over, and said nothing.
“To me,” Mason snapped.
“She’s pregnant.”
That knocked the wind out of Mason. He’d thought he’d known what was coming, in spite of all the time and expense and planning Brenda had put into the scene below, but pregnant? That sure as hell wasn’t it.
He slumped onto the first choir bench. He had trouble catching his breath to speak.
“But we—We were careful, you know. We—”
They’d talked about kids. They hadn’t agreed on how many; that was a topic for down the road. Neither of them had said, “But if we get pregnant soon, it’s all off.”
“She’s feeling sick, is that it? Just can’t make it today?” Mason hated the hopeful tremor in his voice, because he knew in his heart that a little nausea didn’t justify a courier instead of a phone call.
Anthony shook his head. As the quiet stretched between them, he asked, somewhat hopefully, “You want me to go? You know, give you some space?”
If she didn’t want him, fine. But she wasn’t taking his child, maybe a little girl as sweet as Lily, and—“So why isn’t she here then?”
Anthony sighed, guyspeak for “Don’t make me tell you this.”
“There’s more?”
Anthony nodded, stepping away from the edge of the loft, strategically keeping the stairs at his back for a quick getaway. “Remember Lyle Thomas, the guy Brenda paraded around to make you jealous?”
“It’s his?”
Mason accepted that with mixed feelings, a small part relief, a large part anger at Brenda for toying with him. One second he thought he was going to be a father, the next he wasn’t. One minute he was about to be married, the next he wasn’t. He eyed the rest of the pages in Anthony’s hand, and when he spoke next, any hint of a tremor was long gone.
“I’m guessing that’s not all. Hell if I can imagine what’s left, though.”
“His bill.” Again, Anthony proffered the pages.
“He’s billing me for knocking up my fiancée?” Mason bellowed, forgetting what great acoustics the church had. As his outrage permeated the far corners, it set off a riptide of two hundred guests snapping around in their seats.
“No, idiot. Well, I don’t think so.” Anthony shuffled through the pages quickly. “Flowers. Flower arranging. Candles—ooh, that could be code, you think? Ribbon. Labor, delivery—hmmm, the sign of things to come. Setup. Who knew he was the florist, huh?”
Mason snatched the bill out of Anthony’s hand and quickly scanned to the last page, where Brenda’s flowing script instructed him to pay the bill in full within thirty days. Underlined, for God’s sake. And then circled in red.
&nbs
p; “That’s it. I’m outta here. See that Lily gets back to her mom, okay?”
“Sure, but, uh, I think—I mean, it’s my job to remind you—”
“What?”
“Mason, you have to go downstairs and tell the guests.”
“I think they heard.” Mason ripped the bill down the middle and tossed it in the air. Torn pages floated over the wall to friends and family below. “You coming with me?”
“Where?” Anthony dialed Lily’s mother.
Mason stripped off his tie. “The nearest bar. Better yet, I have two tickets to Aruba—you choose.”
Late the next morning in northeastern Missouri, Lyle Thomas ran through the front door of Jade Delarue’s historic home and made a beeline for the nearest fireplace.
“Brenda backed out!” he shouted with unrepressed glee, popping around the walnut-paneled study like a live wire, brushing snow off his butt and legs because he’d slipped and fallen on the way in. “Can you believe it? I can’t believe it. I get another chance!”
“So, no wedding last night,” Jade said, grinning at his exuberance.
Lyle’s excitement was catching, even though she’d expected this very outcome. Unlike Harry Potter or Samantha Stevens, Jade didn’t wave a wand around or twitch her nose, set things on fire, or summon quirky physical manifestations that talked back, but she did know her stuff.
Lyle threw his arms around Jade and hugged her soundly. He lifted her off the carpet and swung her in a circle.
“She called last night and said she loves me and she was crazy to think she should go back to Mason. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I am so happy my sister dragged me here and made me tell you everything and made me let you help!”
When Lyle set Jade back on her feet, she ran her fingers through her hair, attempting to restore some kind of order to soft, dark spirals that seized any opportunity to go their own way.
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