Witch in the House

by Jenna McKnight

  “All right?” she asked, her breasts in very near approximation to his face, so the stuff could’ve smelled like a skunk and he wouldn’t have cared.

  “I don’t know. What is it?”

  “Healing Ointment.”

  “Nice generic name. Never heard of it.”

  Her eyes glowed with pride. “I make it.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Alum, echinacea, goldenseal. Glad you asked?” she asked with a teasing grin that Mason wanted to kiss.

  “Can’t be too careful these days.” He warned himself to back off. It wasn’t working.

  “The recipe’s been in the family for generations. Nothing in here’ll hurt a big strong man like you.”

  Okay, she may not have said “big” and “strong.” So sue him. And the only thing in here now that could hurt him was her, because if in a moment of weakness he got lucky with the target and Anthony found out, it’d take more than hard liquor to dull the pain. Not to mention more than three butterflies to hold him together.

  Jade dipped the tip of the swab into the jar and transferred a small amount to her index finger.

  “You’re tall, even without your boots.” He grabbed her hand, stopping her as she reached for him.

  Studying him, Jade tipped her head in a way he found too enchanting, too distracting.

  Damn, he should have kept his mouth shut. Apparently alcohol numbed the discretion gene.

  “Photographers notice those kinds of things,” he said in his defense.

  “Ones who can focus maybe.”

  “I haven’t had a drink since last night.”

  “Let me guess. Last night ended well after the sun was up.”

  He grinned in spite of the pain. “Maybe even after I was on the plane.” So nice of Anthony to have taken a long bathroom break.

  “Let me do this.”

  “What’s the rush?”

  “I have to go hide the liquor.”

  Reluctantly, he released her hand. “I’m done drinking.”

  “Didn’t help?”

  “I’m really not much of a drinker.”

  “Could’ve fooled me. Hold still now.”

  She bent toward him and touched the gash under his eye with a soft, rhythmic, tapping motion.

  “Do you have a license for this?” he asked, looking down her sweater.

  “Dabbing 101. They teach it at the junior college.”

  “And you passed?”

  “Hm, you know, when I saw you downstairs, I thought you fell on the ice or something. Now I’m thinking someone punched you.”

  As Jade leaned closer, Mason thought maybe he owed Brenda a big thank-you. A pale pink bra should look virginal, but Jade’s was low-cut and cupped the nicest pair of breasts this side of the equator.

  Her hair smelled herbal, but unlike something out of a commercial shampoo bottle, this scent was cleaner, more distinct and more subtle at the same time. Didn’t make sense, but hey, she was inches away from finding herself tumbled on that big ol’ bed over there, so forget clear thinking. Prolonged abstinence in conjunction with as much alcohol as he’d ingested over the weekend—he’d be lucky if he could get the job done right.

  “Ow!” Mason’s hand flew to his face, and his brain scrambled to figure out how Jade had slapped him without moving her arm. And how the hell she knew she should.

  “Oh, that couldn’t have hurt that much.” Jade laid the stripped-off butterfly on the marble tabletop and had the gall to reach for his face again.

  Mason didn’t think she was coming at him with a sassy pat. He threw himself into Reverse, tipping the chair back on two legs until it hit the wall.

  “Hm,” Jade said, following, leaning close, but forget looking down her sweater.

  “Stop! You pull off any more and it’ll open up again.”

  Jade tilted her head sideways for a different perspective, her lips pursing in a little moue as she gave the matter some thought. “That wouldn’t be all bad. You pulled it crooked, you know. Want me to fix it?”

  “Get away!”

  He must have looked horrified, because she laughed and said, “Just kidding. You looked so serious. How’d you do this anyway?”

  He watched her warily, delaying his answer until he knew she wasn’t just trying to distract him for another strip-and-run. Also, he had to make up something good.

  “It was my own darn fault. I got in a hurry. You know how the eagles come in for a fish, wings open, talons spread. Great shot. Didn’t want to miss it. Wasn’t watching where I was going and tripped.” He fell silent.

  “You were outside?” She frowned.

  “You have an eagle that comes indoor and poses?”

  “That’s funny.” She tipped her head the other way.

  “That’s me. Great sense of humor.”

  “No, I mean it looks funny. There’s fiber in it, like carpet lint. You sure you fell in the snow?”

  “I may have landed on a scarf.”

  Jade ripped off the second butterfly.

  “Hey! That’s not dabbing, it’s torture.”

  “That’s a 200-level class. I passed it, too. Come on, baby, one more.”

  “It’s the last one holding my face together.” He was smart enough to put his hand over it and leave it there.

  “Your skin’s already holding. We should get those fibers out, though.”

  Jade took hold of his wrist as if she could simply push his hand away, and he, with lightning speed, used the connection as leverage to throw her off-balance and tumble her onto his lap.

  Okay, she was quicker than he was. If that didn’t convince him to sober up the rest of the way—fast—nothing would. Jade didn’t fall in his lap, but he was having fun lying to himself. She caught herself with her free hand on his bare chest, though, which was almost as good. Then she demonstrated there was some lightning speed in the room after all, but it was hers as she regained both feet a good yard from his knees.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Reflex action.”

  “Yeah. What’s an eagle photographer without great reflexes?”

  Mason could tell it was a point of honor with her not to run out the door like a scared girl. This was her house, after all. He was a guest who could be evicted at any moment; not something he wanted to explain to Anthony or his uncle.

  “I haven’t always been a photographer,” Mason said, hoping for mysterious and just dangerous enough that she wouldn’t ask questions. Because when it came right down to it, if he had to lie to get a job done, he would, but lies had a way of complicating things.

  Jade studied him for a moment, and maybe because he kept his ass glued to the chair, she went off guard. She wasn’t hanging around for round two, though.

  “You know what a dab is now,” she said, turning toward the door. “Keep the jar.”

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” Alone in the hall outside Mason’s room, Jade thumped herself upside the head.

  She ran her index finger over the outside of his door, tracing a pentagram thereon as she said, “Back to the way before; this shall be no more.”

  She was used to word-of-mouth guests, people who knew she had only their best interests at heart. Women liked her because she was candid. Men came with a well-defined goal they couldn’t attain on their own and therefore looked at her as a means to an end instead of a member of the opposite sex.

  She should have turned Mason away before he’d brushed the snow off his collar. But Annie, whom she’d maim later, had pulled her to the side of the foyer and reasoned with her.

  “It’ll be easier to get rid of him if he stays here,” she’d said.

  “If he stays here, then he’s here.”

  “I mean permanently. Think about it. He’s right upstairs. You have total control over his room. His bed. Botanicals aren’t my thing, Jade, but even I know there’s something you can slip between the sheets—”

  “Of course!”

  Jade had several herbs that would do the trick. She had a pile of
internet orders to fill tonight, but she’d bump this to Priority One. He’d be history by noon tomorrow.

  “And if that doesn’t work,” Annie added, “there’s always his food.”

  Jade had forced a smile on her face and welcome in her voice, and she’d let him stay. But as she’d discovered when she’d grasped his wrist moments ago, it wasn’t only Mason she was fighting. She’d been so darned specific when she’d cast the spell.

  A man who lights my fire.

  Oh yeah, she’d gotten him all right. He was right there on the other side of the wall. Finally, after six years of waiting, her libido had perked up, her heart had sped up, and she’d probably radiated all kinds of pheromones that said, Take me, I’m here, I haven’t had sex in six years, and you look like the man who could make up for it.

  Too bad she had to send him packing.

  Chapter 4

  W hy is Pierce Brosnan naked in the house?”

  Jade wasn’t the first Delarue to live on catnaps, so a middle-of-the-night phone call from her mother didn’t take her by surprise. The naked part did, though; had her fingers pausing right over the keyboard while she wondered how her mother could possibly know.

  Was Mason naked right now?

  She touched the brown jasper on her desk, the small stone sitting there as of an hour ago to reduce stress over the whole Pierce-Brosnan, light-my-fire fiasco, as well as to strengthen her personal energy. Incense burned slowly on a censer on the file cabinet.

  “Hello? Jade?”

  “Is this a trick question?”

  She shifted the cordless phone to her shoulder and resumed her e-mail. Next weekend’s guest had heard about the snowstorm and wondered whether he should go online and purchase Arctic wear before his arrival. She was sooo tempted to tell him she’d do a spell and make it all go away by then.

  “I saw him in the bathtub,” her mother stated.

  “Congratulations. I see you’re getting the hang of scrying.” Not Mona’s strong point.

  “Finally. I met this lovely English gentleman—anyway, he’s very good, don’t change the subject. What kind of spell does a movie star need?”

  “He’s a clone, Mom.”

  Her mother chuckled. “Has to be in two places at once, huh? No wonder you charge so much for spellcasting. Well, I always like his movies, but you’ll have to tell me which ones are the clone.”

  “The clone doesn’t act.”

  “You know, that’s interesting, because I got a sense that he isn’t who he appears to be. I guess that’s it. What does he do, then?”

  “Photographs eagles. Some kind of freelance photojournalist.”

  Her mother hummed. “No, that’s not it.”

  Jade’s fingers stilled on the keyboard as she considered, then dismissed, the warning bell raised by her mother’s certainty. “Yes, that’s exactly it.”

  “Maybe you should look closer.”

  No way she was telling her mother she’d screwed up; not after that comment.

  If she had to botch a spell, it was lucky she did it in February. When her parents had divorced, they’d handed off Mystic Manor to her—far be it from them to figure out how to save it from auction. They’d agreed to visit on alternate months. This was her father’s month, to use or not; regardless, no mother.

  “Maybe,” Jade said, “you need more time on the crystal ball.”

  “I’m using water,” Mona replied, too off in her own world to take offense. “I’ll let you know what I see. Oh, before I go, I mailed you a package. Be sure it doesn’t sit out in the weather when that horrid mailman finally gets there. It’s, ah, something you don’t have, if you get my drift.”

  Meaning, the importation of which would raise eyebrows, so her mother was being discreet.

  “Now, just one last thing before you go back to your e-mail—”

  How did she know? Jade’s fingers shot off the keyboard before she realized her mother must have heard the keys clicking. That had to be it.

  “Lucky guess.”

  “Whatever you say, darling. Now you know I’ll be back the first of March, so if you have more clones up your sleeve, be a sweetheart, won’t you, and get Sean Connery for me?”

  Mason stole out of his room, dressed all in black, carrying a small flashlight. His head felt clearer now that he’d cleaned up, eaten, and caught a few hours of sleep. His steps were sure.

  His sanity was in question. A stupid mosquito—what had he been thinking?

  He hadn’t been. Alcohol-induced fear was to blame, that’s all. Jade was a Siren; beautiful, alluring, mesmerizing. If he wasn’t careful, the end result could be the same, but at least this way it was a more interesting game.

  Today’s mission: find proof that Jade Delarue’s husband was or was not dead. Then he’d fly straight out of this frozen wasteland and head for some quality dive time with a sunken wreck. He had a date with a wreck. Submerge. Forget everything.

  Knowing where to search in the house wasn’t a problem. It was amazing what people stuffed into their drawers. Mail they didn’t have time for. Mail they meant to answer later. Receipts for things they never should have charged in the first place because charges left trails.

  Fortunately, many crooks were a little light in the IQ department. Jade looked pretty smart, though. Mason doubted she’d leave a letter from a “dead” husband lying around, but you never knew. He’d look anyway because he was nothing if not thorough.

  Was it legal? Was it admissible evidence? Hell, no. But it was a no-brainer that if he unearthed a postcard that said, “Tahiti’s nice this time of year. Can’t wait to see you. Bring the money,” the widow would drop her claim. Simple leverage. If that didn’t work, the insurance execs would pay him until he found something admissible, at which time they’d prosecute. Either way, they’d be a million dollars happier. Three million, if the postcard led to the others.

  He’d slept like the dead, not stirring until almost first light, hours past when he’d intended. Had to be the soup. Or the ointment. The Widow Delarue probably’d drugged him and rifled his gear to see if he was who he claimed to be. He’d been in no condition to pack for this trip, but Anthony would have done so accordingly: bird books, cameras and assorted photography paraphernalia, laptop, warm clothing, fake membership cards to writing organizations, fake letter from an editor. If she looked, Jade would find everything in order.

  Creeping along the hall, he kept next to the wall where the floorboards were less likely to squeak. It almost didn’t matter. He turned a corner and came upon a black dog standing guard. Huge was an understatement. This beast stood as tall as an Irish wolfhound and as broad as a bull mastiff. Possibly crossed with a buffalo.

  Mason plastered himself against one of the built-ins that lined the hall, caught in a staring contest with an animal that showed no expression, that didn’t squint at a flashlight beam shining in its face. Its bent-over ears didn’t so much as twitch. Tail didn’t wag; didn’t even go up or down. It stood to reason that Mystic Manor couldn’t stay in business if the dog ate the guests. Still, when he approached it, Mason used every precaution; gently, quietly, hand extended for a sniff. Show no fear.

  Easier said than done when the dog dove for his crotch. He didn’t think a sharp “No!” was going to cut it, and shooting it was out of the question, so he sort of danced past it sideways, twisting and turning, keeping one knee cocked and ready for a throat jab while doing a body slide along the wall.

  He didn’t breathe again until he was safely downstairs, and then not for long because there were clear sounds of someone moving around in the back of the house.

  Mason went on instant alert as a drawer opened, closed. Then another. Dishes clattered, flatware jangled.

  Too noisy to be Anthony, who wouldn’t be searching the kitchen anyway. His job was backgrounding, and chatting up residents when he was “taking a break from the writing,” as he’d tell them. Mason’s generally was behind-the-scenes black bagging, because he attracted more attention,
though he did do the occasional legwork. It wasn’t his fault that people, when they saw him, tended to say, “Bond. James Bond,” ask for his autograph, and question where his accent was.

  Neither of them even suggested tapping Jade’s phone. No way they’d violate federal wiretapping regulations just to save someone else’s money.

  Water turned on, gushing into the kitchen sink.

  It was too much to hope for—the missing husband arrives in the middle of the night and roots around for the insurance check. Case solved.

  Aruba, here I come!

  Getting the check converted to cash before anyone was the wiser would pose little trouble for someone wily enough to vanish without a trace and stay hidden for six years. Especially with three involved. It was no secret that the best way for three people to keep a secret was if two of them were dead.

  Hours further removed from his alcohol-induced stupor, Mason recalled that the check hadn’t been issued yet. And unless the dead guy hummed soprano and believed brewing coffee was key to going unnoticed, someone else was in the house.

  Mason went into character, popping through the door like a freelance photojournalist intent on beating the sunrise.

  “Ahhh, thought I smelled coffee,” he said heartily.

  The short woman emptying the dishwasher was about fifty, maybe sixty at the outside. She used blond highlights to camouflage the gray. She was very thin, probably from the amount of energy she burned as she flitted around the kitchen, exuding an eternally pleasant and helpful personality.

  “Mornin’! Oh. Oh my!” She pulled a pen out of her apron and stretched out her arm, clearly indicating that he was to sign it in lieu of a piece of paper. “Heard you was here to photograph the eagles. Figured you’d be up early. Guess that’s a cover story.” She winked. Her perpetual smile grew wider, her eyes brighter. “Coffee’s ready. Hope you like it strong.”

  “I’m not who you think—”

  “If not, I can brew another pot. Won’t take but a minute. Go on. Sign it.”

  Good Lord, if she didn’t slow down, her head would start spinning. Hoping to calm her, he spoke slowly. “I’m Mason Kincaid.”