Chapter Three
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.”