by Vivi Andrews
Jo nearly swallowed her tongue. His parents! He’d said that they showed up for ribbon-cuttings, but it hadn’t occurred to her that they would be here. Much less that he would introduce her.
Of course, he couldn’t introduce her as a normal person. No, he had to tell them she was the crazy ghost girl. Jo shot him a glare, but his mother interrupted her ire with a coo of delight.
“Oh, Wyatt, how wonderful!” She stepped forward and clasped Jo’s hands between hers. “My dear, I cannot tell you how long I have hoped Wyatt would meet someone who would help him get in touch with his spiritual side.”
And suddenly Wyatt’s attachment to Moonbeam, for all her eccentricities, made much more sense. Physically, the two women bore very little resemblance to one another. Wyatt’s mother had the same suburban chic style her own mother was such a fan of. But it was clear that she and the new-age Moonbeam were kindred spirits.
Jo forced her face into a polite smile, restraining the urge to kick Wyatt in the shins for springing his parents on her like this, and said, “I’ll admit I am good with spirits. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Haines. Mr. Haines.”
Wyatt clearly got his doubting nature from his father. The elder Mr. Haines looked at her as if she had just escaped from the nuthouse, which didn’t seem fair considering his wife’s fanciful nature. He remained stoic until the petite Mrs. Haines landed an elbow in his gut forcefully enough to knock him back a step. “Nice to meet you,” he grunted. Clearly Wyatt had not inherited his schmoozing ability from this parent.
“We were just about to go do the speeches and the ceremonial stuff,” Wyatt said to her, his fingers still entwined with hers in spite of the cameramen strolling through the reception snapping candid photos. “My mom’s going to do the actual cutting this time, but I need to say a few words. If you stand over there, you should be able to see everything.”
“Cool.”
He squeezed her hand and started to move toward the podium, but Jo tightened her fingers around his. “Hey, Wyatt? Is this where Gone with the Wind was shot?”
He laughed. “No. But just to be safe, stay off the stairs.”
The man had seen Gone with the Wind. His mother had clearly done her job well. Except for the fact that she had missed the necessary Whoopi Goldberg aspect of his social education.
Wyatt and his parents picked their way toward the platform, where a bright red ribbon had been hung between the banisters on the wide staircase. Wyatt moved behind the podium and the room immediately fell silent. The man had presence, no doubt about it.
He launched into a practiced speech about the benefits a Haines Hideaway brought to the community then segued into the individual benefits that would be bestowed on their lucky customers, waxing poetic on the value of a unique resort getaway.
Wyatt was completely in his element. She watched him work the crowd, perform for the cameras, and overall be the perfect face for his company. Her stomach tightened nervously.
He needed her now, but what would happen after they’d solved his ghost problem? He would go back to his world of private jets and boardrooms and she would go back to being the eccentric Goth ghost exterminator. There wasn’t any point of intersection in their lives.
For some reason, that thought made Jo’s throat close off. She couldn’t let herself think too hard about why. Instead, she pushed her way through the crowd, making a beeline for the exit. She needed space, an escape from the curious eyes that had followed her ever since she had arrived on the arm of one of America’s most eligible.
The closer she got to the exit, the fewer people crowded around her. Jo walked faster and faster until she was nearly running in her high heels when she burst through the side door into an empty hallway. She stumbled to a stop, leaning against the wall and panting as if she’d just run a marathon.
On the wall opposite her hung a large gilt-edged mirror. Jo stared at the stranger reflected there, her heart tightening in her chest. Who was that woman in the coordinated peach outfit? It wasn’t Jo Banks, that much she knew.
How had she gotten here, dressed up like Conformist Barbie, smiling for the cameras? Why did she like him so much, even when he was being an arrogant prick? How had he carved such a huge chunk out of her heart in such a short amount of time?
So what if he was smart and witty, loyal and hardworking, determined and far more open-minded than even he knew he could be? That didn’t mean she loved him.
Jo dropped her head back against the wall, fighting back a wellspring of unwelcome emotion.
She couldn’t be the woman in the powder-blue suit for Wyatt and he would never want the Goth girl, but why should that make her feel as if her heart were shattering like a glass ornament?
She just wanted to be accepted for who she was. The last thing she needed was a lifetime of pretense. Or worse, ridicule. And that was supposing he would even want her. The way he had kissed her last night and held her hand today might be confusing her heart, but her mind was in fine working order. Wyatt was all wrong for her. She knew that. So why was she still so confused?
With a little luck, his ghost problem would be solved soon and she would be out of his life. She’d only known him a matter of days. She should be able to forget him just as quickly. He would certainly forget her.
A shuffling sound at the opposite end of the hallway, accompanied by the wafting scent of lavender, pulled Jo out of her musings. She looked up in time to see a brightly colored scarf disappearing from view.
“Moonbeam!” Jo shoved herself away from the wall and shoved her worries to the back of her mind. She took off down the hall, giving chase as well as she could in toe-pinching color-coordinated heels.
Chapter Twenty-Six: The Road to Hell is Well Paved
Jo clattered into what appeared to be an unused pantry just in time to see Moonbeam stashing a small, heart-shaped pendant on the top shelf.
“Ah-ha! Caught red-handed!”
Her triumph was ruined somewhat when one of her heels caught in a groove in the floor. Jo’s ankle rolled and she stumbled as Moonbeam gave a startled yip, the chair she’d perched on to reach the highest shelf tipping precariously.
Jo caught herself and instinctively reached out to steady Moonbeam. She belatedly realized she might have more luck intimidating her subject if she weren’t so visibly concerned about her wellbeing—or such a hopeless klutz in heels—but by then Moonbeam was already clambering down off the chair in a flutter of scarves.
“Jo! My stars, you startled me!” She waved one bangled wrist toward the ballroom. “What are you doing so far from the party?”
Jo blocked the door, slapping what she hoped was a suitably menacing expression on her face. “I could ask you the same thing.”
“Me?” Moonbeam gave a twittering laugh, apparently unfazed by Jo’s attempt at menace. “I was just doing my own little ribbon-cutting ritual. I like to put a little good luck charm in each of the inns. Wyatt would never admit it, but I just know that the positive energy from my charms is what makes our guests feel so welcome.”
“You can drop the act, lady. I know all about your talismans.”
“Talismans?” Moonbeam asked, in a disturbingly convincing impersonation of innocence.
Jo’s annoyance with the new-age secretary ratcheted up another few degrees. Was it possible this whole mess—the ghosts in the house, the ghosts in Wyatt, the entire situation that had led Jo to fall for the worst possible man in the world for her—was all due to misguided good intentions? Could Moonbeam have been trying to help?
Jo narrowed her eyes, looking for some twinge of guilt in Moonbeam’s wide-open face. She wanted someone to blame. She needed someone to scream at.
“Where did you get that charm?” she demanded.
Moonbeam stared at her intently. “Are your chakras blocked, dear? You seem awfully tense today.”
“The charm, Moonbeam.”
The secretary pursed her lips, put out by the interrogation, but before Jo could resort to torture, she
spoke. “I always get my charms at Prometheus Unbound. They have the best selection in town.”
Jo grimaced. Of course. That stupid, unethical warlock. And he was away making merry over Samhain so she couldn’t even walk into his shop and plant her fist in his face for what he’d done to her life. “And the charm you put in the kitchen at the Victorian? Did you get that one from Prometheus?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
Moonbeam’s pout over being raked over the coals melted into a delighted smile. “How did you guess I’d already placed a charm at the Victorian? Could you sense the positive energy? There were some Episodes of unpleasantness during the renovations, so I brought the charm I had selected for the Victorian over early. Good luck to counter the bad.”
“The Episodes started before you left the talisman?” Jo paced in a tight circle in the pantry. “I suppose if Angelica and Teddy were responsible for the first Episodes, then that might make sense. It could still be the talisman drawing the others and fighting me,” she muttered to herself.
“What was that, dear?”
Jo waved away the question, coming out of her musings and turning back to her subject. “Moonbeam, I need you to tell me exactly what Prometheus said the effects of the charm you placed at the Victorian would be.”
“I remember exactly.” She beamed. “I selected that charm with particular care. It will draw the spirit of innocence and youthful joy into the house.”
“That’s all?”
“Isn’t that enough? I thought Wyatt could particularly use some youthful joy, the old stick in the mud.”
“Yes, I’m sure that would do him good,” Jo agreed unenthusiastically.
That was it then. Moonbeam had booby-trapped Wyatt’s inn with the purest intentions. Jo’s disappointment knew no bounds. She’d wanted so badly for there to be an ass that deserved a ghost exterminator kicking.
“Moonbeam, where exactly in the kitchen did you pu—”
Her words were cut off by the pantry door slamming against the wall as it was thrown open. Wyatt stood in the doorway, looking dapper in his designer suit and wearing a frown that could qualify as a major seismic event.
“Damn it, Jo! I thought I could trust you not to corner her while I was giving my speech. How many times do I have to tell you that Moonbeam isn’t at fault here?”
“Actually, she—”
“When I said that you could talk to her today, I didn’t think you would interpret that as locking her in a storeroom as soon as I turned my back.”
“I don’t think that door has a lock,” Jo pointed out, but Wyatt wasn’t done ranting.
“How difficult is it—”
Jo was through being taken to task for something she had done right. She shouted over his tirade, silencing him with the venom in her voice. “Mr. Haines, if you would just shut up for a minute, you might learn something.”
His jaw dropped. Clearly Wyatt was not accustomed to anyone telling him to shut it. Jo’s mood lightened considerably in the face of his gaping shock.
“Moonbeam was just about to tell me where exactly in the kitchen she put the good-luck charm.”
Wyatt’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click. His upper body tipped back until his shoulders connected with the wall. He groaned. “A good-luck charm,” Then he swore viciously.
Her sentiments exactly.
“Wyatt!” Moonbeam gasped. “Language!”
Jo and Wyatt turned as one toward Moonbeam.
“Moonbeam,” Jo said as calmly as she could manage, clinging to patience. “Why don’t you tell us exactly where you hid the charm, how you activated it, any instructions you might have received about deactivating it, and anything else you think might be helpful?”
The secretary’s face was suddenly wreathed in confusion. “Why would you want to deactivate it?”
“It isn’t a good luck charm,” Wyatt explained gently.
Moonbeam’s face drained of color as realization dawned. “But I don’t…what could it…how…” Her eyes widened as she took in the ramifications of that simple declaration. “The other charms!” She quickly scrambled up onto the chair and grabbed the heart-shaped pendant off the top shelf. “Are they all cursed? What have I done?”
“There haven’t been any Episodes at the other inns to indicate there’s anything wrong with the other pendants,” Jo hurried to reassure her. “But to be on the safe side, we’ll have one of Karmic Consultants’ witches check each of them out. Later. Right now we need to focus on the one hidden at the Victorian. Where is it, Moonbeam?”
“In the floor.”
“In the floor?” Jo asked as Wyatt groaned and banged his head back against the wall.
“Well, under the floor,” Moonbeam clarified. “Beneath the center tile.”
“We retiled the kitchen,” Wyatt grumbled. “It was one of the only renovations we were actually able to complete.”
Jo looked askance at Moonbeam. “You couldn’t just put it in a drawer?”
“Things were being torn up and taken out all the time,” she protested. “I didn’t want the charm to be lost. That’s why I usually wait until the renovations are complete.”
“And the activation? Did you say any words? Hold it a certain way? Light a candle?”
“No candles, but I was supposed to say a phrase three times. The instructions said the charm would be more powerful, bring more luck, if I said the words.”
“Why three times?” Wyatt wanted to know.
“Numbers have power. Repetition is a common way of activating spells,” Jo told him, her attention never wavering from Moonbeam. “Do you remember the words?”
“Fortuna regna-something?”
“Latin?” Surprise filled Jo’s tone. “Are you sure?” Most witches preferred forms of Gaelic to the language of the Church that had suppressed and oppressed magic workers for centuries. But then Jo ran the words through her rusty knowledge of Latin. “Luck rules.” She grimaced. “That sounds like Prometheus. I don’t suppose there were deactivation instructions.”
“No,” Moonbeam said. “Sorry.
Jo looked at Wyatt, where he was still propped up by the wall. “You all right, champ? You’re awfully quiet over there.”
Before Wyatt could reply, Moonbeam was at his side, words tripping over one another as they leapt out of her mouth.
“Mr. Haines, I’m so sorry, sir. I only meant the best. You know I would never do anything to hurt Haines Hideaways. I love this company. I love my job. Please don’t fire me.”
Jo’s breath caught in her throat. It hadn’t even occurred to her that Wyatt, who had so staunchly defended Moonbeam last night, might turn around and fire her. But this was Wyatt “It’s not personal, it’s business” Haines. She studied his face closely, looking for clues about which way he would decide, caring more than she should about this symptom of his humanity. Or lack thereof.
Jo found herself silently urging him to forgive, silently begging him to be the man she knew he could be. She was lightheaded from holding her breath when he finally spoke.
“I’ll expect a detailed report, including the location and description of all the other charms you have placed in the various Haines Hideaways on my desk when I arrive tomorrow morning. Jo and I have a plane to catch, but why don’t you stay and enjoy the opening? Tomorrow is early enough for you to start looking into finding us a reputable contractor we haven’t already managed to run off for the Victorian.” When Moonbeam realized what he was saying, relief suffused her face. Wyatt gave her a small smile. “It would be a real nightmare trying to get the Elm Street Inn up and running without you.”
He turned to Jo and took her hand, tugging her after him. She was bubbling over with disproportionate quantities of giddy pleasure. He was a good man, a forgiving, human man. Maybe there was hope for them after all.
They were slipping out the side door where a car was waiting to take them to the nearby airstrip before Jo put a sentence together.
“I hope you weren’t att
ached to the kitchen floor.”
Wyatt snorted. “I’ll rip the tiles up with my fingernails if I have to.”
“I think a crowbar will suffice.”
She stumbled on the steps, the ankle she’d turned in the pantry wobbling, but he caught her easily. His arm wrapped around her waist and he lifted her nearly off her feet. Held pressed against his side, Jo was tempted to swoon for the first time in her life. Luckily, Wyatt was oblivious to her girlish flutterings. He propped her back on her own two feet and continued down the steps, releasing her waist, but keeping his hold on her hand.
“I love having a plan,” she said, because she had to say something. If she didn’t, he might think that him pulling a Prince Charming on the steps actually meant something. Or worse, she might think it herself. “Nothing like a good plan,” she continued brightly. “Especially when the plan involves demolition.”
“You’re in a good mood,” he said suspiciously, holding the limo door for her.
“You didn’t fire Moonbeam,” she gushed, squeezing his hand before climbing in.
“Do you have any idea how long it would take to train her replacement?” he said gruffly.
“You’re just a big softie.”
“I’m practical. I’m already accustomed to Moonbeam. The office’s productivity would suffer if we upset the rhythm.”
“You’d have to buy all new furniture if your new secretary had angle-conducive chi,” she teased.
“She’s a wonderful executive assistant,” he insisted stubbornly, but a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth.
“She’s good for you,” Jo declared. “You need someone you’re a little afraid of running herd on your soul.”
“I’m not going to try to decipher what you just said.”
“It’s a good thing,” she assured him. Then Jo realized she’d just used Queen Martha’s famous catchphrase.
She frowned darkly. Four fricking days and he’d turned her into Martha Stewart, color-coordinated outfits and ankle-wrenching heels included. Just like that, her good mood evaporated.
