“Stop,” he said in a voice that would normally have stopped me but just then, it didn’t, “You come any nearer to me, Mathilda, I won’t be responsible for what I do.”
I finally stopped, crossed my arms on my chest and leaned my torso back.
Then I taunted, “Yeah? What? Are you gonna spank me?”
Bad idea.
He pushed away from the Jag and came toward me.
“Don’t tempt me,” he warned.
I started toward him again.
“I’m a thirty-four year old woman, Ash, with responsibilities.”
We stopped, barely a foot apart, Ash’s face thunderous.
“And you took one of those responsibilities into danger today, Mathilda. You nearly got your Spellbound killed and your sister and your friend and yourself. Have you lost your mind?”
“Of course not!”
“You could have fooled me.”
“Listen, Ash –”
“Don’t do it again.”
“Try and stop me.”
We were head-to-head by then, him standing angrily over me and me standing belligerently under him.
Another staring contest.
“You’re so damn bossy,” I said because I couldn’t take it anymore.
“I’m quite serious, Mathilda, you do that again and I won’t be responsible for my actions.”
Then he walked away.
Ack!
* * * * *
And then:
A couple of strong cups of coffee later, I stood in the Plush Parlor talking to Althea with Ash standing (very close) behind me, wearing his broody face.
“Why am I here?” Althea asked.
“We came to your cottage to talk to you then men started shooting at you. We had to get you to a safe place,” I said.
“They weren’t shooting at me, fool, they were shooting at you.” (Althea)
Fool?
Nice.
“Well, even if they were shooting at me, they didn’t seem to care who in the house they hit, including you.” (Me)
She grumbled but she did it uttering no distinct words.
“And, until we know what’s happening, you’re safer here.” (Me)
Ash’s hand settled on the small of my back, his fingers curling into the waistband of my jeans.
“He thinks it’s not such a good idea, having a member of the Edwards Coven staying at The Gables.” (Althea)
“You’re right, I don’t.” (Ash)
She cackled. Honestly, I swear to the goddess, she cackled.
“The Wilding Men. Always been spare of word, abundant of honesty. Bodes well for you, lass.” (Althea)
“Not when you’re asking if your butt looks big in a pair of jeans, it doesn’t.” (Me)
She cackled, again.
The cackles were loopy and I guessed it definitely was a cottage where she cooked kids in pies, not the other sort.
“Do you know where Agatha Darling is?” (Ash)
Humph. Butting in on my interrogation.
“No.” (Althea)
“Do you know who made that wand for her?” (Me)
“She got her wand in a ceremony, just as you did.” (Althea)
“Not the magical one, the one that plugs into the wall and shoots out electricity.” (Me)
Her eyes widened for a brief moment before she smacked her lips together and said, “I need a drink.”
“I do too.”
I was shocked to hear Ash agree with her but not so shocked when he guided me out of the room by using his hand, my belt and my jeans.
Very seriously horning in on my interrogation.
“I don’t like it, her staying here.” (Ash)
“I didn’t ask you.” (Me)
Staring.
Then a deep sigh. (Ash)
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said in a way that stated he thought I didn’t.
Then he walked away.
The next time I saw him, he was back in the Plush Parlor sipping whisky with Althea and she was three sheets gone.
I put Paulina and Octavia on to protecting The Gables against Althea and went to the Tower Room.
The day hadn’t been tremendously successful (by a long shot) so there was work to be done.
* * * * *
The Dinner Party:
Some ungodly hour the next morning, Viv was shaking my shoulder telling me to get up, phelf, phlaf, phloof.
(I didn’t hear what she said because I turned over and put a pillow over my head.)
Then, later, Mom was shaking my shoulder.
“Get up! Aidan’s been waiting in the sitting room for twenty minutes!”
Aidan?
I looked at the clock.
It was six fifty-two in the bloody morning.
Six.
Fifty.
Two.
In the a.m.
Who came for a visit at that hour?
I got up, ignored my robe, ignored my slippers, ignored my comb and brush and stomped down the stone stairs and charged into the sitting room.
Aidan was standing by the fireplace looking like a Kenneth Cole advertisement (without the gayness).
“What?” I snapped.
He turned to me and smiled.
I was wearing the aforementioned defensive end’s jersey that he left behind when he dumped me (well, perhaps he didn’t exactly leave it behind, more like it found itself stuffed behind my chest of drawers until I knew he was well and truly gone and then I meant to burn it but ended up using it as a nightshirt). It was oversized, over-washed and absolutely comfy.
I ignored the smile and asked, “Do you know what bloody time it is? It’s before bloody seven in the bloody morning! I was up until bloody goddess knows when, bloody-well working on saving the world…”
In about two strides, he crossed the room, grabbed me, hauled me into his arms, held me close to his body and kissed me.
Hard.
And wet.
None of the sweet, professorial mucking about but straight into the juicy, heady, full-on lip and tongue action.
Oh. My. Goddess.
Yum-mee.
He lifted his head. “I’ll be back tonight at seven. I’m taking you to a dinner party. It’s evening dress. Will you be able to do that?”
Er, wha?
I was still reeling from the kiss; my arms were still around his neck, my fingers still in his hair, my body still flat against his. My jersey was up around my waist and one of his hands was cupping my ass.
Yes, cupping my ass.
And it felt nice.
“Matty?” he prompted.
Ack!
“Evening dress? Like, gowns?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I nodded.
Of course I could do evening gowns. I didn’t work in retail for twelve years with nothing to show for it.
Then he was off.
What a way to wake up.
* * * * *
Fashion Show:
I installed everyone I could find into my little lounge and put on the Versace that took me three months of determined saving, a fifty percent off sale and my twenty-five percent employee discount to afford.
Yays all around (except Althea who shook her head disapprovingly).
Next.
I tried my Ralph Lauren little black dress. It was ready-to-wear but it was fabulous.
Everyone loved it (except Althea who again said not a word but shook her head).
Next.
The Dolce and Gabbana (yes: everyone else, no: Althea this time with a burp, charming).
Next.
The Vintage Valentino that I’d uncovered at the very back room on the very back rack of a used clothing shop. (Yes: everyone else, no: Althea).
Next.
The circa-70’s Halston I picked up when my drag queen friend retired (Althea: no).
Ack!
I was running out of evening wear!
It would appear that I would have to pull out all the
stops.
I teetered on my vanity stool, pulling the big, shiny box out of the back of the top shelf of the wardrobe.
I unwrapped the layers and layers of tissue and pulled out…
The Chanel.
I’d had to beg, borrow and steal (okay, not steal) to get it and when I did, I promised myself I’d never wear it. That I would be happy just to own it, just to know it was there.
I didn’t want to expose it to the possibility of such common things as sweat, wine spills and snags.
It was too precious for any of that.
But, if nothing else would do…
It was matte black, exquisitely heavy, flowing silk. The long skirt was cut on the bias, giving the silk even more personality. Sleeveless with a boat neck, it clung beautifully to the body. At the back, there was a deep vee that ended at the base of the spine. There was a simple, not extravagant, gather at the vee which flowed down the back of the skirt into the eensy, weensy train.
I swept up my hair and added a tangled choker of slim, sleek, teeny, jet beads.
I put on my black mules that had toes so pointed and heels so stiletto, they could be used as a weapon.
Then I walked into the lounge.
Finally, Althea nodded.
It took the next three hours, eleven phone calls and some hair pulling to find an evening bag that both worked with the dress and held my wand. (Pandora’s slim, long, thin beaded number – very posh.)
Sorted.
I opened the door to Aidan when he arrived.
He took one look at me and said, “Nice frock.”
Humph.
Nice frock!?
Probably had dinner with Karl Lagerfeld last night or something.
* * * * *
The dinner party was in Bath.
Bath is one of the most beautiful cities in the world. It was all built out of this lovely, creamy stone, all of it from the same quarry and its architecture was absolutely regal.
And it had a Prada store.
* * * * *
“Aidan!” Douglas Addison said when we’d been admitted into a lovely, large house on Bath’s Royal Crescent and escorted into the drawing room.
“Doug,” Aidan replied.
Ack!
All hearty handshakes and me trying to be cool while scanning for Agatha Darling.
“Miss Honeycutt, this is a delightful surprise,” Douglas murmured while kissing my fingers, he straightened and turned to Aidan. “Aidan, you didn’t tell me you were bringing this ravishing lady.” Then his eyes came to me. “You look beautiful.”
The last bit was said low and with feeling, for my ears only. Again, not flirty, just a heartfelt compliment.
What was he playing at?
“Let’s get you drinks, shall we?” Douglas suggested before I could reply to his compliment and off we went to the bar where I got a real vodka martini in a chilled glass with an olive stuffed with an almond (chic touch). Aidan and Douglas talked while I continued to try to find her or sense her – whichever worked.
“She’s not here and won’t be,” Aidan whispered in my ear.
I started paying attention to my immediate surroundings to see Douglas was off to welcome more guests and I turned to Aidan.
“What is this, why are we here?” I asked.
“It’s a dinner party,” he answered.
“That’s lovely and dinner parties are nice and all but I’ve got people shooting at me,” I informed him.
“See that person over there?” he asked what I thought was bizarrely while he dipped his head at an Asian dude.
I nodded.
“Chinese Ambassador,” Aidan said.
Whoa.
“That lady?” he went on and dipped his head at a woman. “Conservative MP and Foreign Secretary for the Shadow Cabinet.”
Holy shit.
“That one?” More dipping-of-head. “Funded one of the Venezuelan coups of the 90’s.”
Holy shit.
Discreet dip-of-head: “Russian arms dealer.”
Another dip-of-head: “Runs an exclusive bordello in Bangkok.”
Holy Den of Vipers, Batman!
Last dip-of-head: “Brilliant scientist, or perhaps more interesting to you, someone who could harness enough electricity to shoot a lightning bolt out of what appears to be a wand.”
I stared at the little man with a bald patch and a poorly fitting tuxedo.
“You’re joking,” I breathed.
“No,” Aidan replied.
Jeez oh Pete.
What should I do?
Cast a spell?
Zap him to make the rest of his hair fall out?
Or just walk up to him and punch him in the nose?
“Calm down, Matty.” Aidan was positioning himself between me and the mad scientist.
I tipped my head back to look up at him. “Okay, I’ll ask again, why are we here? Are these your friends?”
“Doug is.”
“Is this his house?”
“Leased.”
I thought of all the rentals I’d experienced and looked around. I didn’t even know you could rent anything this fine. Then I looked back at Aidan.
“Why is Senator Addison here with all these people?” I asked.
“He’s a politician, Matty, he’s working.”
It turned my stomach and excited me, all at the same time.
A gorgeous woman in Gucci sidled up to Aidan and kissed his cheek then she purred, “It’s been too long, darling.”
I stared.
Fuck me, she was the well known, anorexic pop princess who’d hit a lull in her career and was cruising on publicity fuelled by pictures of her on topless beaches (and other, less savory, photos of her alighting from cars in tight, short skirts with legs spread and no undies, ick).
She didn’t say “darling” like Aidan said “darling”. To me, her “darling” was far more simpering and fake.
Introductions were made, she and I sized each other up and found each other lacking.
I seriously needed another martini.
Tout suite.
* * * * *
Some rude boyfriend told me this: “Martinis are like nipples, one’s not enough and three are too many.”
He may have been rude but it was good advice.
As you may have noticed, I’m not big on taking advice.
* * * * *
We eventually went into dinner and Aidan, unfortunately, was seated all the way down the table from me and next to the pop princess. (Ack!)
This, he did not seem to be too bothered about. (Bastard!)
Douglas Addison was at the head of the table and for some insane reason I was seated to his right. The brilliant scientist dude was across from me.
Okay – so there I was, perfect positioning for anything I wanted to do such as transforming him into a toad or throwing my soup at him.
Instead: introductions, food, wine, small talk, more food, more wine, more small talk, more wine and then more wine.
“So, Mathilda, how are things at your café?” Douglas asked.
“It’s a coffee house and they’re very well, thank you,” I answered snottily.
He smiled kindly at me.
Bee-zar.
“Mathilda is a prodigious baker,” Douglas told the scientist dude.
“Is that so?” scientist dude said without even attempting to feign interest.
“Oh yes. I’ve heard her oatmeal cookies are particularly spectacular.”
The scientist grunted.
And I thought, perhaps drunkenly, that Addison was taking the mick. I mean, I wasn’t an ambassador or an arms dealer or a coup organizer or the madam of a famous brothel but I could damn well make a fucking good cookie.
“Are you being funny?” I leaned in to ask. “Because if you are, you aren’t.”
“No Mathilda, Aidan told me –”
“Mathilda?” the Scientist dude interrupted as if even after a formal introduction and an hour of conversation my name
just seeped into his consciousness. “Mathilda?” he repeated.
He was staring at me, the light dawning.
“Yes, ‘Mathilda’ that’s me,” I told him.
His eyes widened, the big dweeb.
Oh hell, I thought, why not?
“You’re a scientist aren’t you? What do you do? Research?”
Martinis are like nipples…
“Er, no.”
“Development?”
One is not enough, three too many…
“No… no, I –”
“Oh wait, yes, I’ve heard about you. Yes, and, should I say, your wand worked very well. Congratulations. Very painful.” I turned to the man on the other side of me, incidentally, the Russian arms dealer. “That man, with his lovely intellect used it, not to find a cure for cancer, but instead to make a weapon shaped like a magical wand but instead it shoots lightning.” The arms dealer looked perhaps a bit too interested.
I turned back to the mad scientist. “You should be proud.”
His eyes got bigger.
“I was thinking the other day, I mean, you don’t mind suggestions do you?” I asked and didn’t wait for an answer. “Anyway,” I said, gesturing madly. “Next you should invent one that squirts acid. I think that would be an excellent idea.”
His face started to get red.
“Or, wait! How about fire? No, no… bolts of electricity are better than fire, more dramatic. You were smart to go with that. Don’t you think?” I asked, turning to the arms dealer.
He spluttered.
“What am I saying? Of course you do.”
I then leaned forward to the scientist and drunkenly stage-whispered, “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.” (Hardly, since I’d just told everyone.) Then I gave him a big wink and pretended to zip and lock my lips and throw away the key, nearly hitting the dealer with my hand.
I turned to Addison. “Until, that is, the strand of what’s left of his hair that I got from his jacket gets into my caldron.”
Then I threw back my head and laughed as insanely as I could muster.
Which was pretty insanely, thank you very much.
Everyone was staring at me.
I didn’t care. Mainly because how dirty politicians, flesh peddlers and icky skanks felt about me wasn’t high on my priority list.
Then I asked a passing server, “Would it be possible if I could I have another martini?”