Free Sex and the Psychic Witch by Annette Blair Page B

wives—whole families—left, alienated from the castle and from each other. Many of them separated, never to reunite.”
    Harmony nodded as if she knew the reason why.
    “What?” King asked.
    “Gussie likes to stir things up, and not in a good way. She can be downright malevolent, if you get on her bad side, which you obviously have. Keep that in mind when you think about signing on the dotted line.”
    “If you say so.” King tried to guess at the hellcat’s game. He doubted she had a vintage clothing store. Her motives were something he needed to discover. “Feel free to stick around for a few more hours,” he said. “You lost time tending my . . . wound, and I appreciate it, but you haven’t had much of a chance to look for vintage clothes.”
    He went back into the dressing room to check the clothes racks for pillaging and plundering. “Looks like you barely got started. This is a small piece of the castle’s vintage-clothing pie,” he said. “What’s a few more hours? I could get you to the Beverly Airport by nine, then to Salem by ten.”
    “I . . . it’s a tempting offer, but—”
    He knew she’d decline. She didn’t want him to see there was no vintage clothing store. You know what; he could prove that right now. He took a random gown off the rack, whipped the sheet off it, and held it up. “What do you call this?”
    “A beaded flapper dress, circa 1920. Why?”
    “Value?”
    “Today? Or when it was new? I’d need to examine it for condition and maker to give you a fair price for the vintage market. Is this a test?”
    “Yes.” King replaced the flapper number and showed her a navy gown. “On sight, tell me what you know about this one.”
    The hellcat grinned, and the devil in him rose to attention.
    “That’s a Worth,” she said. “Designed and produced in Paris. It cost big bucks around 1860, and it costs big bucks vintage, just because it’s sturdy enough to stay on that hanger. How’m I doing?”
    King checked the label, saw she was right, and shoved the dress back on the rack.
    “Hey, take it easy. I definitely want that one.”
    “But you said it was big bucks.”
    “I’ll give you a supplier’s fair price. I have a market for it. You don’t. A successful businessman like you knows we both have to make a profit.”
    King cursed beneath his breath. “You passed.”
    “With only two dresses? Are you kidding? My sister Vickie was harder on me when she was teaching me about vintage clothing and accessories. Test me some more. This is fun.”
    “Okay.” He led her to the cabinet that closed off the tunnel to the east wing. “Name the geegaws in the cabinet.”
    Her eyes actually twinkled. “That’s a sterling vinaigrette geegaw, a buttonhook geegaw, a fan geegaw.”
    “Enough with the sass.”
    As if to prove she didn’t have it in her to obey, she removed the stick she’d called a fan from the bottom shelf, and with a flick of her wrist, it became a fan after all. She covered her face with it to flirt with her eyes—very effective—then she gazed demurely down.
    If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was checking out his package, the thought giving her something bigger to contemplate. Damn, she had an effect on him.
    King coughed with a rare shot of embarrassment, denied the warning in his head, and turned back to the case. He pointed to several more mysterious women’s accessories from the last century.
    “Tussy-mussy,” she said, “a tiny vase for flowers that women wore on their dresses. That’s a jewelry casket; it opens at that latch. See?” She grinned like every straight-A student he’d ever hated. “The shoe is a snuff box.”
    “Please. The shoe’s a knickknack.”
    “It’s a snuff box shaped like a shoe.” She took it from the case, opened the top, and shoved it under his nose. “Smell.”
    King reared back, sneezed, and pulled out his handkerchief.
    She laughed, a sound he liked too much.
    “You win,” he said.
    “What do I