Sex and the Psychic Witch
by Annette Blair
ISBN: 0425216632 

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CHAPTER ONE

“Sorry, Dracula.  That one’s mine.”

The costumed yard sale vampire looked up, tripped, and took a header into an appliance-box of Koosh balls, taking the clothes rack—and the gown calling Harmony Cartwright’s name—down with him.  She thought he’d get the gown, after all, but it slipped from its hanger and floated on a phantom breeze into her hand. 

Harmony helped him up.  “We didn’t mean to startle you.” 

Triplets attracted attention, but in identical mini dresses, black front-lace corsets, striped stockings, and black spikes, they tended to stop traffic, even without their pointy hats.  The vamp was no exception.  His face as red as his lips, he firmed his spine, eyed them like freaks under glass, and moved on.

“This is a costume yard sale for charity,” Harmony called after him.  She appealed to her sisters.  “It’s not like I put a klutz spell on him.”

“Probably thought he was hallucinating,” Storm said.  “We should be used to it.” 

“Anywhere but Salem, and we’d think he was weird.”  Harmony hugged her psychic prize.  “But I got the gown!  It wanted me.  It really did.” 

Storm faltered.  “I hope you mean that you wanted it.”

“Nope.  It’s meant to be mine.  I don’t know why, yet.”

“Here she goes again,” Storm said turning to hug an oak in Druidic appeal and looking toward its branches.  “Help!” 

Yes, Storm was making a bit of a scene, but in their musketeer youth, when feeling like curiosities under glass wore thin, they’d decided to give the curious something to talk about—and Storm, as it turned out, enjoyed a talent for the outlandish.

Destiny patted the oak, apologized, and took Storm’s arm.  “You’re slipping, kid.  I knew she was chasing psychic bait when she missed that rare Dior handbag.  Harmony, I see stormy seas ahead for you now.  Don’t drag us under with you this time, ‘kay?”

Harmony gave her clairvoyant sister a hair flip with attitude.  “I can swim.” 

Storm scoffed.  “Into a swamp of eternal stench, you can swim.” 

“Okay, I agree, my psychic instincts make for some rough sailing. 

“And shipwrecks,” Storm added.  “Remember when we gave that widower the ‘be good’ letter from his dead wife?  Totally blew his honeymoon.  And I’m pretty sure it was your idea to chase that psychic duck across Gallows Hill.” 

Destiny elbowed Storm, but Harmony huffed.  “An old letter calls my name, I deliver it.  Your psychic gifts get us into trouble, too, both of you.”

“I know.  I love answering unspoken questions.”  Storm grinned and fluffed her blonde wig.  “I forgot how dressing alike and screwing with people’s minds jazzes me.  It’s almost as much fun as being a spike-haired Goth.  Not that I plan to start conforming.”

“Don’t worry,” Destiny said.  “I now see very rebellious roads ahead.”

“More rebellious than normal?” Storm asked. “What’s with the changes in our futures?”

“Holy hemlock!”  Destiny reached for Harmony’s bag.  “I’ll bet it’s the gown.”

Harmony grasped the bag and hurried past their vintage clothing and curio shop toward the house behind it, dodging her sister’s grabby hands as she did. 

Storm followed, shaking her head.  “You two are acting sixteen instead of twenty-six, and for once I’m not the attention-getter.”

Destiny stopped and saw the tourists watching them.

Harmony raised her chin, but lowered her voice.  “I’m keeping the gown.  Change is good.  If Dad hadn’t stopped paying our college tuition and disappeared, we wouldn’t have gotten kicked out of school or come looking for Nana.  But he did, and we did, and though Nana was gone, and Vickie didn’t even know she had half sisters, she took us in.”

“And ended up with the man of her dreams,” Storm added.  “I’d like to think we helped.”

Harmony did a double take.  “That’s debatable, but eight months ago, Vickie owned The Immortal Classic, and we were homeless.  Now we have a home, not to mention co-ownership of the shop.  I repeat.  Change is good.”

“Sometimes,” Destiny said, giving up.  “I do like running the Classic.” 

“You mean you like bossing us around,” Storm said, “but that’s okay.  I find it amusing to ignore you.”

Harmony climbed the steps to the kitchen door.  She didn’t work in the shop.  Her psychic gift—reading old objects and their dead owners through proximity and touch—made that impossible.  Warring vibes from so many objects in one place made her head spin and stomach churn.  Being psychometric often felt like a curse, but sensing objects with negative vibes made her a great buyer.  Customers appreciated positive-energy vintage, whether they realized it or not.  “Hurry,” she said.  “I wanna try on the gown before you open the shop.” 

In her room, Harmony held the gown in the mirror before her.

Storm scoffed.  “Nobody’s gonna buy that ugly thing.”

“I’m not selling it.  I told you, it wants me . . . and it energizes me.”

“I feel the energy force,” Storm admitted.  “I’m pooped just sharing it.”  She flopped back on the bed.  “Things are always calling you, but you do a lot of running in the opposite direction.  What’s up with the gown?”

“It needed my help?”  Harmony pulled the gown over her head, freed her hair from its neck, and the aged gold linen fell over her hips as if making love to her figure.  But when she looked in the mirror, she saw her path disappear behind her.  Oh.  No way back . . . yet expectation rode the prickles attacking her limbs.  Smoothing the wrinkled fabric morphed anxiety to anticipation, a good sign, since touch sharpened her psychic awareness. 

“Pay attention to the signs,” her sisters said, employing their personal communication device, a fine-tuned triplet telepathy.

“The owner’s name was Lisette,” Harmony said.  “She sewed every stitch.”  From a lace scallop beneath her breasts, the waist slimmed then widened slightly.  At knee level, vertical pleats fell from a repeat of the scallop.  She smoothed a sleeve point and turned to her collection of wall mirrors.  Ancient mirrors sometimes reflected images from objects with a strong sense of their owner.

Four walls of antique mirrors, and nothing.  Nada.  But looking back in the full-length mirror, Harmony saw, reflected from an oxidized octagon mirror, a pair of frantic hands undoing the gown’s hem.  She lifted the hem with an empathetic panic. 

“I saw that,” Storm said, and Destiny nodded.

Harmony plucked at the brittle threads.  “No!  Don’t help.  Thanks, but I’m supposed to do it myself.”  Harmony’s lungs tightened as if the sea were trying to swallow her whole.  She coughed, cleared her throat, and a gold ring fell into her hand. 

She straightened, breathing easier, and held the ring palm up.

“A naked guy in a come-and-get-it pose,” Storm said, describing the piece.  “My kind of jewelry.”

“A nude male in a full-bodied but empty embrace,” Destiny murmured, taking the ring to the window.  “You know . . . I think this is part of a Celtic puzzle ring.  If the other half were here, the two halves, one with a man, and one with a woman, both embracing air, would have snapped together to form a ring with an embracing couple.  This is a pricey find.  Look at the craftsmanship.”

“It’s engraved,” Harmony said, “with the words Love Eternal.”  She grasped the ring, sat on the bed, closed her eyes, and touched her fist to her brow.  “Lisette was afraid,” she said as the mattress gave on either side—her sisters lending their physical and extrasensory support. 

As Harmony slipped the Celtic band on her wedding ring finger, a green paisley haze formed behind her eyelids, the haze writing and hissing, racing her heart, hurting her head, until it took the form of a woman trapped in a sphere of dark discord.  A flash of lightning revealed a castle behind her, then a black pit into which Harmony fell. 

Her sisters called her name, but she couldn’t seem to find them. 

When Harmony opened her eyes, Destiny sat on the floor cradling her.  “You okay?”

“What happened?”  Harmony accepted a hand up and a glass of water. 

“You took a graceful slide into oblivion and scared the hell out of us,” Destiny said.

“What?  No Prince Charmy to kiss me awake?  Bummer.”

“Prince Smarmy, you mean.”  Storm handed her a painting depicting the castle from her vision, sitting high on an island in the background. 

Harmony touched her sore head.  “I never liked that painting.”

“It reeks of bad vibes.”  Storm sat and held it for them to see.  “Not only is this the castle from your vision, Lili, our witch ancestor painted it.”

“Terrific,” Harmony said, getting off the bed.  “Exactly the kind of sweeping, psychic multiple-directive I’ve always dreamed of getting.  Not!”

“So,” Storm said, “are you taking the witch-broom express?”

“To the castle?  Me?  I’m not going there.”

“You blacked out just envisioning it,” Des said.  “You’d be nuts to go.”

Harmony frowned.  “What happened to paying attention to the signs?”

“I’m agreeing with you,” Des explained.  “No use looking for trouble.”

“No use accepting the psychic mandate the universe just handed me?”

“You’re the one who said no.  I’m supporting your decision.”

Harmony turned on her.  “You’re thinking I should go.  You think Harmony against discord makes sense.  I bring peace wherever I go, you’re thinking.”  Her voice rose involuntarily.  “This is blooming fate, you’re thinking, damn it!”

Destiny raised a brow.  “Is that what I’m thinking?”

“Screw the castle,” Storm said.  “It’s scarier in fact than it is in the painting or in your vision.  I’m the psychic who sees and hears the present, don’t forget, and I don’t like the potential for either at that place.”

“What do you hear?” Harmony asked.

“A wail like a death rattle.”

Harmony stopped pacing.  “I’ll bring a gun.”

“You will not!” Destiny snapped.  “You’ll bring your cell phone.”

“I won’t need a phone.  You’ll come if I need you.” 

“The police won’t.”

“Oh.”  Harmony sat beside them once more.  “You think the castle’s dangerous?”

Destiny sighed.  “Lisette’s hands were trembling.”

Harmony examined their faces.  “Did either of you sense anything else?”

“A dominant male.”  Destiny shrugged.  “Hard features and a hard bod.”

Storm sighed.  “I got an audiovisual of a baby crying in a boat.”  She shrugged.  “I know; I always hear babies crying.  Who knew I’d be the sensitive one?  Harmony, you’re gonna play it safe and stay here, right?”

“When did I ever play it safe?  And what good am I, if I don’t use my psychic gifts?  Psychometry!  Like that’ll help mankind.  No, we agreed to do our best by our gifts a long time ago, so that’s what I’m gonna do.”

“Which is?”  Her sisters asked together.

“I’m going to the castle.” 

“Bad choice,” they said.

“Ignoring my psychic gifts is the worst bad choice I can make.  Accepting a psychic mandate, no matter how ominous, is the least bad.  I’m going.  Destiny already predicted rough seas, so it’s fate.”

“I’ll make you a charm bag.”  Destiny rose, not the least surprised. 

Storm frowned.  “You do know that Paxton Castle is haunted by a witch, right?”

“A fateful opponent.  Geez, what’d I do, win the spook stakes?”

“Hardly,” Destiny said.  “Could be, loser gets the castle.”

“I’ll take the charm bag and raise you Nana’s amethyst ring . . . to protect me from psychic attack and enhance my power.  For you, Storm, I’ll hug every oak between here and the marina.”

“Twice,” Storm said, “and protect yourself with a circle of white light.”

“Make that a sphere,” Destiny said, “and take your wand.”

CHAPTER TWO

King Paxton looked up from his computer screen, jarred by a sudden crisp and eerie silence, the first of his experience in this godforsaken hell-hole.  No construction sounds.  No wailing wind.  No bickering workers. 

Just a goddess in the great hall. 

King gave his ogling crew a fierce scowl, but they stood rooted, all gazes locked on Real-Life Barbie.  And no wonder, considering the man magnet’s startling effect. 

Great guns, he needed his libido coming out of hibernation like he needed a root canal, but he appreciated the rare sense of peace washing over him, though its origin puzzled him.  In his experience, peace and sexual attraction did not go hand in hand.  No need to explore the anomaly or its ramifications.  He couldn’t act on either.  As heir to this creepy kingdom, he needed to get the castle fixed and off his hands, without interruption. 

King stalked the man magnet’s way, invaded her space, and towered over her—a move that had broken better men—but the goddess refused to step back or break eye contact, while the scent of a lush summer garden encircled him.

“Quite an intense, off-with-their-heads look you’ve got going here,” the intruder said.  “Drawbridge, moat, and all.  Gonna put me on the rack in the dungeon?” 

Damn.  He had to respect a woman who could mock intimidation.  “This is a construction site.  You’re keeping my men from doing their jobs.”  King gestured toward the salivating assembly.

She turned and winked at them.  “Go back to work.”  And damned if his men didn’t get to work . . . in accord . . . for the first time since he started this money-sucking project. 

Yes, he’d inherited the bloody fortune the old pirate who built this place had amassed, but he was pissing it away by the second, here.  And he did not need a show stopper . . . well, stopping the show.  “This is a closed construction site, as in ‘dangerous to the general population.’  How’d you get past my guards?”

The goddess raised her chin.  “Never underestimate the power of cleavage.”

King’s attraction upstaged his irritation while his blood headed south.  Avoiding the rush, he turned to his crew.  “My foreman will show you out.”

His foreman neither moved nor blinked.

“I said,” King repeated, eyeballing his right hand hulk, “Curt will show you the door.”

“I know where the door is, Einstein.  I just used it to come in.” 

Curt offered his arm, but with a lethal smile, the man magnet refused and made the brick linebacker blush, her blonde hair shifting like sea waves in a salty breeze, the sight and scent embedding peace like shrapnel into the air around them.

King swore inwardly.  He’d surrounded himself by yes-men and knew what to do with them.  But damned if he knew what to do with the leggy blonde in red spikes, short shorts and form-fitting Proud to be Awesome V-neck tee, invading his castle, undermining his authority, diminishing his sanity, and refusing to budge. 

Normally, he respected the use of sex appeal—under controlled conditions—and in other circumstances, he might request further . . . credentials.  But her timing sucked.

He didn’t need anything else getting in the way of fixing this bad-luck money-pit and selling it before it caused more grief.  He wished to hell he could get it off his hands as fast as he did every other high-end property he bought and restored. 

Logic, good sense, and good business told him to cut free, and fast, but a secret rebelliously-undisciplined part of him—the part he struggled to keep firmly in check—wanted to embrace the legacy of the castle and find the fundamental peace inherent in its structure and location. 

Peace; he’d spend his last dime to find.  Hell, he was beginning to see it in this woman like a mirage, but he’d never find peace in a sexy diversion and provoking schedule glitch, blonde goddess or not.  Besides, the castle’s tortured past ground peace into the dust on every surface.

Everyone who walked into the place seemed to argue—the only reason he didn’t fire his bickering crew.  Dissension had conspired for generations against anyone who entered here, as if this eerie madhouse—now, suddenly and amazingly silent of the wind wailing like a ghoul—refused to cooperate.

And if that wasn’t insane, King didn’t know what was.  Yes.  Yes, he did.  Insane was being magnetically—and he meant that literally—attracted to hot little miss sexy pants with attitude.  Hell, she had his men drooling instead of arguing.  Screw that, she had his blood making a u-turn, so the loss to his brain made him dizzy.  “Out!” he shouted, pointing the way.

Make-Me Barbie folded her arms and raised a brow.

“Have it your way,” King said, lifting her—ramrod straight—off her feet and carrying her out the door, her fine ass filling the palm of one happy hand, her tight shirt riding low at its neck and high at her waist, so he couldn’t help but eyeball her lush breasts while the raw silk of the skin at her waist burned his fingers and threatened to cut him off at the knees. 

He moved fast, certain nothing could keep her quiet for long, not even shock.  Steam rose between them where their bodies touched, the sizzle in their bold eye-to-eye causing a jolt of pure sexual energy. 

Like the sea, her eyes changed color with her mood.  He watched it happen.  A bright aquamarine glint fit the mischievous smile she’d given his men, but when fury replaced shock, her eyes took on a stormy sea shade, more green than anything, then a muted gray blue rolled in like a fog when the heat of their connection hit her.

Their connection?  He set her down with a teeth-jarring thud.  “Sorry.”

“Sorry?” she snapped, her latent blush ruddy.   “Who do you think you are?  King blooming Kong?  Get your hairy, gorilla hands off me.  I hate being touched.” 

The hell she did, but he’d forgotten to let her go.  Damn.  He retrieved his hands so fast, he saluted and did an about face.  Only thing to do now: retreat with mock dignity. 

Safe inside the castle—a ludicrous oxymoron—King closed the iron-bound door . . . on his lust and the intruder’s outrage, both too perilous to consider.  Aghast at the botch he’d made of showing her out, he dug deep into the cooler for a soft drink, wiped his face with an icy hand, and took a cold swig, almost relieved the sexpot was gone.  But before he took another, the crew’s arguments resumed as did the wind’s demented wail.

King swore and turned back to his computer, but the doors squealed open behind him, and silence cut the familiar tumult to a spine shiver.

Dread and elation warred for prominence as he turned. 

She was ba-ack. 

He pointed her way out.

The siren in spikes folded her arms and stood her ground.  “There’s a For Sale sign outside.”  Her chin of pure stubborn came up.  “I’m a prospective buyer.  I’d like a tour, please.”

King looked from her to his amused, newly distracted men and figured that nothing constructive would get done . . . unless he got ‘trouble’ the hell out.  He swore, anticipated her side step, and swept her off her feet, removing her in the way a groom carries his bride over the threshold—God help him.

He tried not to enjoy her elbow jabs to his chest, the shape of her kicking legs, or the feel of her corn-silk hair beneath his arm at her back.  Hell, he tried not to inhale her spell-binding scent.

He took her farther from the castle this time, set her down easy, and let her go without a commanding order.  But like a horny teen high on hormones, he caught her eye and imagined a game of sex for sport, her on his team, and on that treacherous thought, he headed back to the castle.

“You’re making a mistake,” she called after him.  “I can be a team player.  I can even be the cheerleader.  Give me an O.”

The castle doors shut on the sight of her, cheerleading arms in the air, breasts pointing his way.  King’s heart raced faster and louder than the wind’s newest wail.  What the?  He thinks of sex as a team sport, and she says she can be a team player?  A cheerleader?  Give me an O for . . . orgasm?  He freaking wished.  Talk about scary, like fate, or kismet, or . . . disaster.  Sex for sport with that one would be like sailing on the Titanic.

Meanwhile, the wail now cut through his headache like a saber, nearly but not quite eclipsing his crew’s renewed bickering.  “Son of a sea witch!”

His foreman came up to him.  “There’s something about that woman.”

“Yeah,” King snapped.  “She’s stacked.  Great rack, nice ass.  Dime a dozen.  What’s your point?”

Curt rubbed his nose to hide his grin, and King cursed himself for showing his colors. 

“The air seems to change when she comes in,” Curt said.  “The place feels . . . sociable.  Even the wind quiets down . . . like it wants her here.  And the crew?  Did you see them working together for a couple’a minutes there?  Both times?”

“Impossible.”  King frowned.

“Bet you a day’s pay.”

To add to Curt’s challenge, the wind wailed louder than King remembered, even as a boy when it scared the starch out of him, until he realized that the castle, or its wind, or both, wouldn’t hurt him, which it/they/she didn’t . . . until he became a man. 

The howl now became so strident, dust streamed from the age-ravaged ceiling, sending the crew running for cover.  What kind of wind could rattle a ceiling in a structure with granite walls three feet thick?

King eyed the castle doors, swore, and went after the sexy interloper, wishing to hell he wasn’t glad for the excuse to get her back, however ludicrously lame.

From the shadow of the castle, King admired the sway of her fine ass as the goddess  made her way toward the cement steps leading to the dock at their base, sunshine filtering through her blonde hair like a halo.  How to get her back inside when he’d made such a point of throwing her out?  She turned, hearing his footsteps and backed away as fast as he approached. 

When he picked up his pace, the seductress in scarlet ran, stopped short of heading down the steps, and he plowed into her.  Afraid she’d take a tumble, he pulled her from the edge of the stairs, and lost his balance.

He fell back, and she landed on top of him . . . all their contrasting parts in sync, his rising to the occasion. 

“Withering witch balls,” she said, raising herself on her arms and looking down at him.  “Killing me is not the answer, and neither is groping my—”  She reared back and scrambled off him.  “That’s not the answer, either!”

He got up as quick as she did.  “Uh, sorry,” he said.  “I’m a man.  It’s a reflex.  What can I say?  It has nothing to do with you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Well, it does, because you’re . . . you’re . . . bootylicious?”

“You just keep the compliments coming, don’t’cha?”

He raised his hands.  “I can’t seem to stop myself.”

“Your big mouth, clumsy gorilla feet, and that loose cannon you keep in your pants should be registered as lethal weapons.”

King coughed to hide his amusement, as foreign as a fishbone in his throat, which didn’t keep him from admiring the angry rise and fall of her breasts. 

The small skiff motoring toward Salem seemed to make the mad, bad, and furious-to-behold, lady in red take out her cell phone and walk around, checking for a signal, which gave him a fine view of her curvaceous lines from every angle. 

“I can’t get a blooming signal!”  She clamped the phone shut—her narrowed eyes telling him she’d rather clamp it on something meaty . . . like his loose cannon. 

“Sorry.”  He shook his head.  “No signal on the island.” 

“Can I use your landline then?”

“Generators supply electricity but no phone lines from the mainland.  The Paxtons liked it that way.  Tells you something about them, doesn’t it?”

“Screw the Paxtons.”

Screw this Paxton.

“That was my ride home.”  She pointed toward the retreating boat.  “The ghoulish howl you had going there must have scared Captain Jerk away.”

He’d never heard the wail outside.  “You heard it out here?” 

“You got that straight.  Scared the birds from the trees.  Hey, forget the wail, I’m stranded, slam it.  How am I supposed to get home?”

“You have a weird vocabulary.”

“Negative words invite negativity into your life, so I try to be positive.”

“Withering witch balls?” he asked.

“Oh, that’s harmless.  It’s like suffering succotash.  Succotash can’t suffer, and witch balls can’t wither.”

“Okaay,” King said.  “Slam it?”

“Basketball term.”

“Screw!  You said screw.”  He had her now.

“I like to screw.  Screwing is good.  Feels good.  It’s positive.”

Trying not to hyperventilate, King rubbed his chest.  He didn’t know what to make of her.  Part of him wanted to screw—as in get the hell out—and the other part wanted to screw . . . as in get the hell in . . . her.  “Glad we got that straight.”

“Now, about my ride home?”

“Right.  I’ll take you in my helicopter later tonight, or you can catch the five o’clock water taxi back to Salem with the construction crew from hell.”

“Why don’t I just swim back?”

“Or you could swim back.  Don’t bite any sharks on the way.”

“I’ll take the crew, thanks.”

King tested the bristle on his chin, and like a horn dog cadet after maneuvers, he wished he’d shaved that morning.  Great guns; he didn’t even know her, and she’d dragged him into a kinetic minefield of heat-seeking testosterone ready to explode on contact. 

She sat on an outcropping of rock overlooking Salem Harbor, crossed her legs, dangled one red high heel, and improved the view tenfold.  After running her fingers through her hair to push it from her face, she looked back at him.  “Why did you chase me, anyway?”

“You ran, so I chased.”

“I ran because you chased.  Are you nuts?”

“I’ll have to plead the fifth on that, especially since my foreman thinks you’re a calming influence on the crew and the wail.  Come back inside long enough to prove him wrong.”

“Hell no.  You just threw me out.  Twice.  Besides, you’ve got yourself a lose/lose situation.”

“Come again?”

“Don’t I wish.”

King stilled.  Since she admittedly like to screw, she must mean—  Nah, she couldn’t.  God, he needed a woman.  Any woman . . . except this one.  She was a nutcase . . . who could bring him peace?  “What do you mean, a lose/lose situation?”

“You’re bound to lose that bet.  Rather than humiliate you, I’ll just sit here and wait for my ride home.”

“For seven hours?”

“Rather the deep blue sea than the devil.”

Just what he needed, a sultry brat with attitude pursing her full, sassy, kissable lips his way.  He’d never seen a face that looked both so innocent and seductive at the same time.

King went over and hefted her back into his arms.  No hardship there.  Carrying her over the threshold was starting to grow on him . . . which meant he should toss her like a live grenade.

She looked him in the eye.  “I said, I hate being touched.”

“Sure you do.  That’s why you’re fighting me, right?”

She resisted on cue, a token struggle at best, a seduction at worst, or was it the other way around?  King got into the sport of her letting him manage her until her every curve and hollow were imprinted on his sensual memory banks, not to mention his physical ones.  She wanted inside, and damned if he didn’t want her there.  No.  He wanted details about her sudden appearance . . . and her vital statistics . . . and he wanted inside . . . her.

The hell he did!

He dropped her like a hot dish—exactly what she was—and when she hit the pallet of foam insulation, she bounced and swore.

“You’re a regular hellcat,” he said, rubbing his thigh where she’d kicked him.  “I think I’m gonna bruise.”

She shot to her feet.  “Too bad; I was going for blood.”  She swiped her blonde waves from her eyes, and like a Salem sorceress, she brought him under her spell—him and every other man—her breasts heaving as she pulled air into her lungs. 

“Hey,” he said, tearing his gaze away.  “It’s quiet.  Damned if the ghoulish wail hasn’t stopped.  Curt was right.  Go figure.  No arguing crew.  No wailing wind.”

“Wailing wind?”  Like the feline that got the cream, the hellcat grinned, nearly knocking him on his figurative ass.  “Oh, that wasn’t the wind,” she said, too smug for his peace.  “Did you think that was the wind?  No, no, no, no, no.  That’s one mighty pissed-off ghost.  I hear she was quite the witch in her day.”

King laughed.  His men didn’t. 

He extended his hand, despite the warning in his head, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.  “King Paxton, and you are?” 

“It is King?  Are you kidding me?  But not Kong, right?”

His men broke into smiles, but King snapped his fingers, and they went back to work.  He gave the brat his fiercest I’m-gonna-fire-your-ass scowl, because this frightening sense of peace he felt around her invited him to let down his guard.  “And you are?” he repeated, a little louder, a lot more determined.

“Real scared.”  She gave him a flirtatious wink, and he wondered what color her eyes turned in passion.

“Name?” he snapped like a ranking cadet high on his own importance. 

She clicked her heels and saluted.  “Cartwright, Harmony, sir.”

“At ease.”  King unclenched his fists, once, twice, three calming times, exercising his hands to relax them.  “Harmony, is it?  As in musical, melodious, sweet, pleasant, peace—not peaceful.  No way.” 

“Give yourself a salute, soldier, or is that anatomically impossible?”

King turned toward the crew, almost hoping they’d argue again, or the wind would wail, or a wall would fall in, anything.  For the first time in his life, he sought the castle’s personal brand of torture, but no go.  “You’re not kidding,” he said.  “That wail hasn’t stopped in a hundred years.”

She gave a half nod.  “I seem to have a knack for calming people, pets . . . entities, as it turns out.  It’s a gift, but don’t let it go to your head.  Pick me up, again, and I’ll deck you.”

“Is that any way to be positive?”

“I’m positive I’ll deck you.”

“That’s better.”  King picked up a blueprint, instead of her.  A calming effect, his ass, and yet . . .  She’d been both calming and tormenting him since she walked in.  She was no ordinary goddess.  This one packed a warhead that could disarm even him—peace—if his “harmonious” crew and the blessed sound of silence were any indication.  But anyone who could disarm his self-protective instincts became the enemy.  Without his defenses, he’d never have endured his family, military school or his own stupid mistakes. 

He was a survivor, to the death, but he had a feeling this woman could jeopardize even his killer instincts. 

He tossed the print back on the makeshift plywood table and wished he could kick a sawhorse to ease his frustration.  “I need to know who you are.  And I presume you have a reason for being here.”  King tried to ignore the challenge the peacemaker presented, sexual and otherwise.  “After all, you didn’t take a water taxi out here by accident.”

He caught her disturbing withdrawal, her long ginger lashes at half-mast, her eyes the smoky blue gray of doubt.  She bit her bottom lip as if . . . seeking a plausible excuse.  He could almost see the lie forming. 

“Um . . . vintage clothes,” she said in a rush.  “Got any lying around the castle?” 

He’d never heard a worse excuse for a fake accidental meeting.  “Bullcrap.” 

“Oh oh, you just invited a bunch of poop down on you.”

He gave her a look.  “Methinks its name is Harmony.”

“No, people love old clothes.  Some collect them.  Some use them for costumes.  I sell them.”

Hell, she was making it up as she went along. 

King went back to his laptop and took a sip from his empty foam coffee cup.  Crushing it with his embarrassment, he shot a basket in one and decided to play the scented sexpot’s way, to see if he could wrap his mind around her tactics . . . or himself around her. 

“I’ve got rooms of old clothes,” he said, pretending to ignore her for his computer.  Hiding from her, was he?  Hell, he was gonna need a shrink after an hour in her company.  “You’re stuck here anyway,” he said, typing nonsense in his spreadsheet, “so you might as well look around upstairs and see what you can find.  Go ahead.  The place is nothing if not sound.  Just stay up there until I come for you.  Contrary to what you’ve seen, a construction site is dangerous.”

“Good Goddess!” she said.  “I have a castle to pillage?”

King raised his head and caught a smile that could melt glass. 

“That’s it!”  Short-circuiting, and forfeiting whatever wits he had left, he indicated that she should precede him up the circular stone stairs, out of hearing and sight of his men.  At the landing to the balcony above the great hall, he stopped to press the elevator button.  He hadn’t wanted his men to see them get on the elevator downstairs.  Too cozy, which he didn’t intend.  He intended to get the truth out of her.

She peeked toward the balcony.  “One more flight to the living quarters?” she asked.  Oblivious to his fury?  Or pretending to be? 

She preceded him into the elevator, and he pressed Five for the tower. 

“Retro elevator,” she said, tracing the diamond shape of the gated door.  “Turn of the century?  The twentieth century, I mean?”

“Good guess,” he said.  Halfway up, he hit Stop.

“Hey, we’re between floors.”

He pinned her to the wall, one arm on each side of her head.  “You pillage, and I plunder?  Is that your game?”

She frowned, her confusion real enough.  “I beg your pardon?”

Confused as well, King forged on, stubbornly entrenching himself.  “You are way out of your league, here.  I don’t know which one of my ex-friends is playing matchmaker this time, but I’m not in the market.”

“You sure think a lot of yourself, Your Heinieness.”  Her deep curtsy made him feel like a horse’s ass, as she intended.

He gave her a hand up, and held on too long, but she didn’t pull away.  One or both of them stepped closer.  He wasn’t sure which, but he did know that he wanted to kiss her . . .

Out of the question.

With an apology on the tip of his tongue, her ring caught his eye and he became transfixed.  He ran a thumb over it.  “Where did you get this?”

She pulled away, flipping her hair, hitting him in the face with corn silk and giving him a peppermint high.

His body went on red alert.  All systems go.

“What do you care?” she snapped.  “You’re not in the market.”

 * * *

Harmony had suspected that the ring might be her ticket to fulfilling her psychic mandate, and judging by her host’s shock, she might be right.  “Are we getting out of the elevator?”

Paxton backed against the control panel, denying her access, and slipped his hands into the pockets of his classy black slacks.  “That’s up to you.”

She shivered at the hottie’s frosty demeanor; talk about a contradiction.  His square, unforgiving chin, and his soft-worn tee, as black as his hair—despite the dusty construction site—made him look like Satan come to call. 

Granted, the negative energy in this place had long ago created a type of karmic quicksand, the kind that sucked you under before you could call for help, but her presence had calmed some of it, so why was he so upset?  

She had a psychic job to do, whatever it was, yet her host seemed to be doing his best to stop her.  She couldn’t tell him the real reason she was here, a lie of omission he probably sensed.  Between the two of them, there were enough karmic vibes and raging pheromones to hamper anybody’s endeavors, never mind a mandate as nebulous as hers. 

The pheromones, she couldn’t help.  A physical sexual pull was just that, and theirs carried enough energy to light New York.  She’d deal with that later . . . or not.

She did, however, need to understand his karmic vibes.  “I realize you’re a Paxton,” Harmony said, “but how closely are you connected to this place?”

“I own it, lucky sucker that I am.” 

When she attempted to circumvent him and hit the Down button, Paxton took her wrist in a grasp she found both gentle and stimulating.  Now she was more turned on.  No.  That couldn’t be right.  She hated being touched, except by her sisters . . . and, apparently, by Brass Ass McGrumpy. 

Slam it!  He’d breached her protective circle of light, and she hadn’t realized it.  She’d forgotten about keeping herself protected, or her sphere of white light remained intact, and she didn’t need protecting from this guy.

As she watched, Paxton’s luminous whiskey eyes probed hers . . . and didn’t she want to give him . . . everything he wanted.  His gaze touched her physically, stroking her brow, her lips, parting them . . .  

Harmony struggled from her sensual stupor.  She knew better than to meet a man on a spiritual plane.  Yet this didn’t seem to be the same man.  Had she dreamed his ego trip of a short while ago, his certainty that this was a setup?  Because now he was simply annoyed . . . and horny . . . and curious . . . and horny . . . no ego involved.

Given his captivating gaze, not to mention his charisma and his body sculpted by a master, she could see why unwelcome setups might plague him.  She also understood why he ran.  Women chased him.  Not the other way around.  Sometimes he let them catch him, and when he did, he used them—for sex, nothing more. 

Not a one had ever touched his heart.  Sex for sport, as he’d thought outside.  Wait!  She’d heard his thoughts?  Her heart skipped a beat.  Oh, oh. 

News flash—she could read him. 

Hot flash—mutual-attraction city going up.  High rise under construction.  Hold on to your underwear.

Good Goddess, she was sensually, sexually, and most important, cosmically hot-wired to the hunky tight-ass.  If she let her emotional barriers down, she was screwed . . . literally.

Why didn’t that sound as bad as it should?

She might ordinarily think about jumping his bones, but under the circumstances, in the midst of her psychic mandate, she shouldn’t even consider it.  Should she?  

Um, yeah.  He was the best prospect she’d had in . . .  Withering witch balls, he was the best prospect she’d ever had. 

Warning!  When flying into the teeth of a cosmic sexual attraction, mistakes . . . of cosmic proportions . . . could be made. 

Slow down, she told herself.  No knee-jerk reactions here.  Take a deep breath.  Think.  And try to make some blooming sense of this.

Why, of all the people she came across, could she read him? 

She usually read people who owned the old objects into which she came in contact—dead people.  Long dead.  So why could she read this living, breathing hunk of hundred-proof testosterone, this earth god who filled his molded black T-shirt like a workout model? 

“You own the place alone, right?” she asked, to be sure.  “No partners or siblings co-own it with you?”

“That would be too easy,” he said.  “I’d love to pawn the nightmare off on a relative.  There isn’t a one of them who doesn’t deserve it.”

Her suspicions were getting the better of her.  “Did you spend a lot of time here as a very young child?”

“If you must know, I was born here.”

Holy astral plane!  “Why not in a hospital?”

“I arrived early in what the record books call the hundred-hour snowstorm, February 26, 1969.  Storm surges of hurricane proportions.  Couldn’t get my mother to the mainland, but what does that have to do with—” 

His beeper went off.  “My foreman needs me.”  Paxton hit the elevator’s Down button and stopped on the second floor.  Before he got out, he turned to her.  “Stay.”

“Woof,” she replied, as she stepped on the landing to watch him run down the stairs, admiring his loose-limbed, pantherlike gait, his butt as tight and fine as his pecs.  Hot and hunky Hurricane Paxton, whose spirit and ownership so permeated this ancient stronghold that he became her very own psychic pot of gold.

When he’d released her wrist to leave, she was surprised she’d let him hold it for so long, but now she felt bereft, foolish her, and reading him became difficult, which shouldn’t surprise her.  Proximity always shed light on a psychometric’s impressions, and touch clarified them.  Touch brought images, scents, sounds, and emotions into focus.  Positive vibes uplifted her.  Negative vibes depressed and sometimes made her ill. 

For that reason, the only physical contact she allowed and trusted were her sisters’ . . . until King blooming Kong.

In a castle overflowing with negativity, he had touched her.  And not only had she allowed it, she’d welcomed and wallowed in the skin on skin contact.  Like water in the desert, she’d welcomed it. 

Who knew she’d been so parched?

She hated being touched.  She hated being carried, and she particularly hated having her space invaded—her father had said she was a horror of a screaming baby—but when Paxton had taken her outside earlier, then back inside again, she'd had to force herself to stop being passive by pretending to fight him.

His touch warmed her.  To cinders, it could warm her.  If he put his mind and man brain, into it, who could tell what kind of inferno they could create. 

Wha’d’ya know, her psychic gift had led her to a horny hunk with a lockbox of lifetime secrets and assessing Jesus eyes . . . a man as instantly and magnetically hot for her as she was for him, though he’d never admit it, not to himself, and especially not to her. 

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