Chapter Fourteen
HE didn’t need Harmony. Didn’t need anybody. He hoped she didn’t take the job. King paced the construction site the morning after offering her the job, while the wind—or Gussie, if the sexy nutcase was to be believed—wailed as loud as a bloodthirsty banshee.
Earlier, two of his men got into such a heated argument, they’d beat the crap out of each other, and he’d had to put them in the chopper and take them to Boston to get stitched up. He’d expected Harmony to be here waiting by the time he got back.
One o’clock. She wasn’t coming, then.
If she didn’t take the job, he didn’t know how he’d finish restoration without someone getting hurt. Gussie was on the rampage today. Worse than ever.
King wished he could walk away and leave the place to rot, Gussie along with it. But all his life, he’d harbored a foolish, nagging need to restore his godforsaken heritage and bring it back to glory.
How plucking stupid was he? He rubbed the back of his neck. Look at him, substituting ridiculous, barely positive words for barely negative ones. What was wrong with the real word, anyway? He was positive he liked to do it, and he’d tell miss sexy two shoes so, if she ever showed. Maybe he’d let her fulfill her threat and “pluck” the starch out of him.
If she didn’t come, he’d never finish. Too bad. This would make a great home for someone who liked ghosts. Some people went nuts over that kind of thing. He wasn’t one of them. Besides, he’d bet Gussie only wailed with a Paxton in residence, not that she’d stopped when he went to Boston that morning. According to his men, she’d wailed louder.
Where was the sexpot? What if she didn’t take the job? Maybe if he raised her wages . . . Damn his men for forcing his hand and making him offer the job to her in the first place. And damn him for liking the idea of having her around.
He wondered how cohabitating would have worked out for them. Probably best he didn’t know. She’d freak if she ever saw the suite. She might quit on the spot, though she was anything but a quitter. An hour in her company, and he’d learned that lesson.
He’d dreamed about her last night. Hot . . . hot, hot, hot. A sensual, cold-shower-required, damned-near wet dream. Bad . . . bad, bad, bad. You’d think he was thirteen again.
God, he wanted to take her to bed.
If she showed, he’d be forced to build a second suite. He couldn’t afford to lower his guard and give in to an attraction he suspected—feared, hoped, prayed—could be cataclysmic. Getting mixed up with a woman that seductive could only lead to trouble. Especially one as crazy as this one. Around her, crazy was contagious. Better she should stay in Salem.
King went outside, crossed the old bridge over the sludge moat—soon to be a rose garden—and stopped at the top of the steps to the boat dock. With a hand over his eyes, he gazed toward Salem. Sailboats, yes. Water taxis, no. Where the hell was she?
He walked the perimeter of the castle, every lopsided, stone-set, mismatched wing, and stopped to gaze toward Marblehead. He’d thought he could count on Harmony . . . after one day. Great guns, his fantasies about her ranked right up there with dragons, unicorns, and flying pigs.
Relieved she hadn’t taken him up on his offer, he went back inside through the kitchen to tell cook there wouldn’t be two for dinner. He’d restore the castle without Harmony. His men would get along or get out.
A crash sent him running to the great hall, where he found a free-for-all fistfight. No holds barred. Swearing and cussing, and . . . silence.
The wind stopped wailing. The men stopped fighting, looked surprised, and broke their choke holds. A couple stanched the flow of blood or wiped sweat from their brows. A few bent over, hands on knees, to catch their breaths. Only one thing they had in common. They were all smiling.
A goddess in the great hall.
Harmony Cartwright in the flesh, trailed by guards and gardeners, two-fisted luggage bearers all, putting a mountain of suitcases down around her . . . and going back for more? “How the hell many suitcases did you bring?”
“Enough.” Counter to his request, Harmony’s tight royal blue V-neck tee said, Here Comes Trouble. She faced his crew, shifted her hips, raised her arms, and said, “Here I am, you lucky boys.”
They cheered and applauded, and she took a bow.
King gritted his teeth at her rebellious shirt and late arrival. He shouldn’t be happy to see trouble. “It’s about time,” he said. “Look at this mess. My men have been fighting all morning.”
“You think it’s easy to find three water taxis at one time? I wasn’t leaving my luggage on the dock for the next taxi, like the first driver suggested.” She held up three fingers. “Three, at one time.”
“Curt,” King said, taking Harmony’s arm. “Open the cooler and take a break before going back to work. When the men have rested, have a dozen of them bring Miss Cartwright’s bags up to the suite.” All thirty-three plucking mismatched pieces.
“Planning to stay for the millennium?” he asked her. “Or did you bring empty suitcases to carry your vintage clothes home in?”
“Heck no. I’ll get them home later. I brought the essentials—clothes, shoes, toiletries, makeup. There’s no Shoppers Heaven next door, you know.”
“Hey, boss,” Curt said. “What do you want me to do with the cats?”
King turned, wondering if Curt got punched in the head during the brawl. “What cats?”
“My cats,” Harmony said.
“You brought cats? Are you out of your mind?”
“They’re sweet cats.”
“No cats.”
“Hey, I came to live with mice, I brought cats. They go, I go.”
“How many?”
“Tigerstar and her kittens, Gingertigger, Caramello, and Warlock. They’re too young to be away from her. Do we stay or do we go? Think about it. We’ll wait outside for your answer.” Trouble in blue spikes picked up her cat carrier and let the castle doors slam behind her.
Gussie wailed fit to wake the dead—her blooming peers, damn it!
His men pretended to work as he went to the door and opened it.
Free from their crate, three bouncing baby felines chased butterflies, their tails, and each other, while the brat lounged on the castle steps, filing her nails—white nails crowned by rainbows.
With her head tilted toward the water, her blonde hair curled under her chin and covered her face on his side. Sexy. Man-hardening. He should know. Legs that went on forever, catching some rays, kicking his libido into high gear, overriding the sanest fury he’d ever experienced.
“Cartwright,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.
She stood, as graceful as the queen of . . . the castle . . . and when she and her quartet of felines came back in, those cats held their chins as high as the sexpot did.
“My castle is your castle,” King said with visionary dread.