“No, but a check will be fine.”
Jade quoted a rate that had no business outside of New York or L.A. And when Anthony dropped the pen in surprise—not much surprised him, but the Mystic Manor web site had been all about botanicals and zip on the B&B—Annie stepped forward and said, “Ah, Jade, they’ll be so busy doing their own thing, don’t you think we could offer them the discounted rate?”
Jade’s face went from What discounted rate? to Oh. Sure.
“Of course,” she said, pasting on a smooth smile. “Annie’s absolutely right.”
Lie number three. In less than five minutes!
Mason could feel Anthony itching to get back to backgrounding, which, due to the haste in which they took this job, he hadn’t had time to complete. Not their normal MO, but life didn’t always work out by the book.
“Please, bring your things in and make yourselves at home. Mystic Manor prides itself on hospitality,” Jade said with a warm smile, which faded a bit each time she looked Mason’s way.
They had better than they’d hoped for—practically the run of the house. He and Anthony could be in and out all hours of the day and night. They could even wander into other rooms with no more explanation than, “An eagle flew this way. I thought maybe I could get a better shot from here.”
As long as the rooms weren’t rented, of course. But then, if Jade Delarue was hiding letters from a missing spouse, they wouldn’t be in those rooms. Mason had to work on the assumption, though, that if he had been here anytime in the last six years, he might have left something behind. And that could be anywhere between the rafters and the cellar floor.
Or she could be hiding communication from a co-conspirator, because one thing was certain: Jade’s husband hadn’t disappeared alone.
When Mason unzipped his parka, Jade graced him with a smile, somewhat at his expense.
“What?” he asked.
“We’re generally not so formal around here.”
He looked down at himself, not a clue as to what she meant.
“The eagles don’t expect a tux.”
“The tux is for you, sweetheart,” he said with a wink. He started a grin, too, until it pulled at the tender gash on his cheek.
“New style?” Jade cocked her head, her grin equally sassy.
Damn, he liked sassy. If he was going to have half a chance of seeing this job through, she needed to stop talking and let him get a good night’s sleep to clear his head.
“Or do you always keep it rolled up in the trunk?”
Great. Witty banter, and he was at a distinct disadvantage.
Jade stepped very close, staring at the gash on his cheek. She smelled delicious, and it took all the willpower he could muster not to lean in and sniff her hair. He might have been dumped at the altar just hours ago—time spent unconscious didn’t count—but he’d have to be dead not to take a minute to admire this lovely creature gazing up at him. And right now, he very much did not want to be dead.
“I’ll make you something to put on that. It’ll heal faster and won’t leave a scar.”
“I’m using one of those antibiotic creams.”
She didn’t roll her eyes but looked as if she wanted to.
“Up and to the left.” Jade handed him a beaded lanyard with an old-fashioned brass skeleton key and something else.
“What’s this?”
“A mini dream catcher.”
“Oh, goody. I’ll dream about a mini fire instead of a big one.”
This fire was as dangerous as it was magnetic. In Jade’s presence, sporting a hangover to end all hangovers, Mason again felt like a stupid, misguided mosquito. If he wasn’t careful, he’d land on her, fry his guts out, and bite the ground in a pile of dust. Not pretty.
He had to move away, get away, get his wits about him so he could deal with her. Bed. Alone. Sleep.
“Do you dream about fires often?”
“Forget it.” Mason bounced the key in his hand and headed for the wide staircase.
“Your luggage?” Jade prompted.
“Warm bed,” Mason replied.
Though sleep could be far from coming. Of the three women left behind on the same day six years ago, all had remained single—given their looks, what were the odds?—and two of them were in this house, right now.
It was going to be a pleasure getting close to Jade.
Chapter 3
M ason spent his first hour at Mystic Manor soaking up bone-melting heat in a gleaming, old-fashioned, claw-footed bathtub. The tiled bathroom was large, stocked with plush man-size towels in an assortment of browns and greens. A beribboned basket of small packages bearing Mystic Manor Botanicals labels offered bath salts for sleeping, dreaming (a choice of lucid or calm), and healing. Mason wondered what happened if you mixed them.
Also in the basket were MMB soaps, shampoo, lip balms, bath sachets for energy, peace, breaking habits—
“Give me a break,” he muttered.
The tub filled while he poked through the basket. Nothing labeled Brenda Reject, Black Weekend from Hell, or Abducted to Siberia. One was for nightmares, though. If that didn’t fit the bill, he didn’t know what would, so he untied the ribbon and dumped it into the water. The white stuff disappeared and left behind little brown and green floaty things.
A candle had been left burning, same as in the bedroom. Mason had blown them out before he’d even turned on the water, thinking, What, one insurance check isn’t enough? Now Ms. Delarue wanted to set fire to the house and blame it, oh so innocently, on a candle accident? The fire marshal would have a field day with the number of candlesticks left behind. From the foyer up to his bathroom, Mason had counted at least three dozen potential hazards.
As worn down as he was, he still wouldn’t be able to sleep until he prowled the entire house later and blew out every goddam one.
Insurance money—what was wrong with people?
It wasn’t as if Jade could just sell the property and leave the country on a yearlong round-the-world cruise, luxuriously ensconced in the Presidential Suite. A house like this, in this area, who’d buy it? Who could afford it? Add its total replacement value to the death benefit, though, and the sexy Ms. Delarue could relocate to Europe. Or a Caribbean island. Hell, she could buy a whole damn island and burn all the friggin’ candles she wanted.
Although…Mason pictured Jade in a bikini, with him, on a sandy beach, and warmed up far beyond tub temperature. He had a great eye for detail, even if he was, at the moment, supplying instead of observing. He dressed her in a forest green bikini, to match her eyes. Then, hell, he figured a nude beach would be a lot more fun and ditched the suit.
It wasn’t Aruba, but it beat running around in the snow in a two-day-old tux. He’d nearly had heart failure when he woke up in the hotel room with the naked bartender, but every pearly shirt stud had been in place, his cummerbund still on, and the bartender swore all they’d done was drink to broken hearts.
Mason topped off his water a couple times as it cooled down. He was fighting a chill from hours of standing out in the snow because Anthony said they had to at least look as if they’d been out doing their fake job.
This was a great idea. Already he felt more like himself. He didn’t even mind the herbs sticking to his chest like brown and green freckles.
An hour later, he rooted through his suitcase and found his black warm-up suit; better for prowling around the house after Jade went to bed. He wasn’t sure yet if this contract was on the up-and-up or a bullshit assignment designed to keep him busy until he was sober again. Whichever, he needed a nap before he got started. He’d just flopped onto the queen-size bed when Anthony delivered a deep bowl of homemade soup.
“Nice furniture,” Anthony said. The bed and dressers were old and elegantly carved, yet heavy, not feminine and delicate. “My room, too. Bet these are original.”
Mason couldn’t have cared less. More alert now that he’d washed away two days of stink, he slipped into the pants and frowned at t
he bowl. Cream soup was for sissies, but other than a small bag of peanuts on the airplane, Mason wasn’t sure when he’d eaten last. Anything that smelled that good had to be lethal.
“You think it’s wise, eating her cooking?”
“It’s not as if her husband dropped dead,” Anthony reasoned.
“Who knows? Maybe she made their last meal before they left.”
“Then there’d be a car. And bodies.” Anthony wafted the soup beneath Mason’s nose. “Taste it. You won’t care.”
“Still, it’s cream soup.”
“Come on, Jade ate from the same pot. Besides, she only just met us, and it’s not as if my uncle advertised for a stakeout team. She couldn’t be suspicious yet.”
“What is it? Potato?” Mason leaned close and sniffed. “Clam chowder?”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s the herbs that make it.” Anthony shrugged. “At least that’s what she said. C’mon, man, you haven’t eaten worth a damn. You’ll need energy to search this place. It’s huge. Probably has hidden passageways and hidey-holes. Maybe secret entrances. Hell, maybe even tunnels.”
“What was his name again? Couldn’t have been Delarue.”
“Her husband? Doug Stockard. Now eat!” Anthony’s phone vibrated on his belt, and he checked the caller ID. “For cripe’s sake, call your sister, will you?”
“Tell her I’m okay.”
“You’re not okay.”
“Then tell her I’m alive.”
“I’ve talked to her five times, at least. She wants to hear it from you. C’mon, man, she won’t quit leaving messages on my phone.”
“Persistent, isn’t she?”
“Yeah. Reminds me of someone. Where’s your phone?”
Mason shrugged. He used just the tip of the spoon to taste the soup. That was all it took.
“Oh. Oh my.” Mason took the bowl before Anthony decided he wanted seconds. “I’d say no wonder she charges so much, but no meal’s worth those rates.”
“True. What could she offer for—oh, hey, you think maybe we stumbled across a high-class bordello? And she’s the madam?”
“I didn’t think anything could beat Aruba,” Mason said, grinning in spite of the pain beneath his eye. “I was wrong.”
Mason pulled the corded phone onto the bed and settled against the pillows, warm and somewhat content after the soup. Physically, anyway. Emotionally was another matter, but he didn’t want to go there. He’d talk to his sister for a few minutes and then crash.
“When you stormed out of the church, I couldn’t tell if you were in a murderous rage or suicidal,” Jen said when he called.
“Me either. I went to a bar to figure it out.”
A soft sound of amusement traveled the wire. “Made everything come clear, did it?”
“For a while.”
“You all right? You sound like a gruff old bear.”
“Polar bear. Anthony says we’re in Missouri, but I don’t know. All this snow? Could be Alaska.”
Jen sighed, knowing she’d get no more out of him on that score. “Do you hate Brenda?”
“I hired a hit man.”
“Seriously, Mason. I have to see her at the Ladies’ League meeting next month, and I don’t know whether to say hello or bitch slap her.”
“Damn, that sounds good. Can I come watch?”
Sometime in the course of his long soak, he’d decided he didn’t hate Brenda. The big revelation was that he’d never loved her either. What she’d done and how she’d done it was pretty mean, but when it came right down to it, she’d started cutting the cord six weeks ago when she’d made him wait—not to mention the break before that—and then on Saturday night she’d severed it completely. He’d held up his end, putting on a tux, waiting at the church.
What the hell was I thinking?
She came to his room later that evening, when Mason was alone. By “she,” he was hoping it was Jade knocking softly on his door, not Annie. Not that there was anything wrong with Annie, but how would he know since once he’d seen Jade, he’d barely looked in Annie’s direction.
She didn’t slip through his door without turning on the light, which would have been a great finish to the hooker fantasy he’d worked over in his mind after Anthony left. Instead, she waited quietly when he said, “Just a sec.”
He was still in his running pants, still warm enough from the bath and the soup that he didn’t need a shirt. Hey, if she found that erotic and wanted to run her nails over his bare chest, who was he to stop her?
She could be like a spider after its prey, the big kind, the ones that run it down and capture it, and hell if he didn’t mind so much. That’s how he knew he was in trouble. He didn’t care. Even if she was a black widow who’d screw his brains out and then kill him, at least he’d die satisfied.
Widow. Oh shit, he thought as Anthony’s briefing came back to him. Sure, sure, he was here to stake out her house and everyone in it, not enjoy the fringe benefits, but he’d been fasting for a long, long time.
If one could call this a house. He’d read the brochure, which wasn’t an advertisement; more like a thank-you for staying here, and by the way, here’s a little history about us. Mid eighteen hundreds, ancestor immigrated to this country, took up shipping on the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers, made a fortune in that and lumber, and so on. The first Mr. Delarue could have built along Millionaire Row in Hannibal with the other bigwigs, but “he and his new bride treasured their solitude” and chose this bluff instead, “where they could take advantage of the natural light needed for the conservatory.”
Hannibal didn’t have natural light? News to him. Probably news to all the Hannibalites, too.
Conservatory; sounded like a doozy of a plant room. Maybe the madam had orgies in there.
Mason opened the door, expecting to see exactly who and what he got, except in his pruny, oversoaked condition, Jade’s black curls shone like tempting tendrils, no, fingers really, curling at him, beckoning him to step closer, to cross the threshold and follow her to her room, which would be dimly lit with a romantic glow, a red scarf draped over a small lamp—
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” she said, staring at the left side of his face. “I noticed the light under your door.”
She spoke quietly, as if there were other guests nearby whom she didn’t want to disturb. That wasn’t helping keep Mason’s thoughts in check. She was still in snug, fashionable jeans and a very soft-looking sweater. Pink. Feminine. None of that helped either.
“It’s best to start tonight,” she said.
Mason swallowed hard and didn’t realize for a couple seconds that she had something in her hand. She was holding it out for him to take, but it was only a small jar, and if he took it, she might leave, so he didn’t.
When Jade reached out and touched his hand, lifting it from his side so she could give him the jar, Mason lost the power of speech. Oh, man, he was in trouble if things were starting out this way. The last time he’d felt like this, he’d been ten years old and found out the hard way that you have to learn how to swim before you jump in the deep end.
It was only because he had a hangover, because he’d drunk every meal since Saturday night, and then some. If he could last until tomorrow, he’d be fine. He’d be stronger tomorrow. He’d be himself. All business. All professional.
Jade’s touch was soft, her skin silky. The tiny jar that she set in his palm held her body heat and warmed his hand.
“There you go,” she said with a small smile that fed his fantasies. “Just dab a little on that cut tonight and again in the morning.”
He stared at the jar for a couple more seconds while he evaluated how helpless he could appear without overdoing it. Gashed face, two days of whiskers, but squeaky clean—he was guessing he could get away with a lot.
“How much is a dab?” he asked.
“A little bit.”
“Yeah, but how little?”
Jade sighed. It was a good sigh, the kind a woman makes when she
knows maybe her leg’s being pulled but doesn’t mind too much.
“I wouldn’t want to mess up,” Mason added, handing the jar back. He’d perfected the little grin, the little shrug of his shoulder that said, I’m just a man. Help me.
“You don’t look so good.” Jade’s brow creased with concern as she slipped past him into the room. “Does your head hurt? You’d better lie down.”
Okay, he was lying to himself. She’d said “sit.” The quilt was already turned down and the bed rumpled. He didn’t want to push his luck, so he chose one of the two upholstered chairs by the small round table at the window.
Jade disappeared into his bathroom, and Mason couldn’t come up with any reason why except every lascivious scenario he’d already imagined, thanks to Anthony, until she returned with a cotton swab and her hair bouncing about her shoulders.
She started to unscrew the lid, but stopped mid-turn. Mason followed her gaze to the table, to the dead candle.
“I need to relight that,” she said. She gestured over her shoulder. “The one in the bathroom…?”
“Don’t bother relighting them.”
“It’s no bother. I just don’t understand why they’re not burning.”
“I blew them out.”
She looked alarmed. “You blew them out?”
“I cupped with my hand.” He smoothed his fingers over the tablecloth. “See? No wax.”
Jade’s alarmed look dissipated, though in all honesty, Mason didn’t think it was the no-wax comment.
“It’s traditional to burn candles tonight,” she said, turning her attention back to his gash. “It’s a holiday.”
“What? Isn’t it, like, Groundhog Day or something? I don’t like candles.”
Jade grinned. “You never invited a woman over for dinner and lit a pair of tapers?”
“It’s a recent issue.”
When she opened the jar, he wrapped his fingers around her wrist and pulled her close—under the guise of smelling the ointment, of course. He didn’t intend to get his face slapped. Man, that’d hurt.
Witch in the House Page 4
