Mesmerized Read online

“Right. So, I’ll be here. We’ve got a lot of business to handle, you and me.”

  “There’s nothing for us to handle.” She brushed past me, her shoulder crashing purposefully into my arm. “I already told you I’m not selling, and I won’t change my mind.”

  When I didn’t respond right away or move toward the door, she spun on her heels with her hands on her hips. The glower was back in all its glory, emerald rays of hatred shooting into me like lasers.

  “There’s always a price.”

  She snarled her upper lip. “Is that why your daddy named you Cash, because he knew that was all you’d think about?”

  I barely held back the wince at how close to the target she’d hit. Instead, I just smiled wide and backed to the door, pausing only when I reached the threshold. “I’ll be seeing you soon, darlin’.” With that, I left her to stare at my departing back in a delicious rage.

  The Bullfrog Bay Bed & Breakfast, less affectionately known as the Frog Hotel, was only two blocks from Auras. I’d already had my bags delivered there after my flight landed, but I hadn’t checked in yet, so I decided to walk the short distance to my new temporary residence. It would give me the chance to peruse the area where I intended to soon build a brand new Pennington’s.

  Taking in the sight of the shops, even with their closing advertisements, I wasn’t surprised by Gretchen’s displeasure at the idea that it would all be gone. There was an undeniable charm in the vintage buildings — the old-world architectural details in the form of inaccessible second-story balconies and brick-and-stone construction were visually appealing.

  I felt like I’d stepped back in time, like it wouldn’t have been at all surprising to see horse-drawn carriages wheeling down the road rather than cars. Even the pedestrian walks were a mixed flavor of the good old days and Pleasantville. Neat concrete flowerbeds boasted colorful chrysanthemums with painted pumpkins nestled at their bases, wooden benches with wrought-iron legs and arms proudly displayed sponsor plaques, and every built-in public trash can was so clean it could have passed as right off the conveyor belt. I wondered if I’d be swarmed by bicycle cops if I dared to drop a gum wrapper on the curb.

  On the bench at the corner of Market and Rhodes, where a now-closed bakery that was our first acquisition sat dark and unoccupied, was an elderly man. His cane rested at an angle beside his thigh, and he was rocking back and forth slightly while humming under his breath. He was a heavy-set gentleman with eyes so droopy and age-creased that he might have been sleeping. I cast him a friendly smile of unspoken greeting as I passed just in case he was paying attention. He didn’t seem to notice me, but while I waited for cross-traffic to cease, he halted his humming.

  “That’s a funny suit.”

  I didn’t react right away. When I looked over my shoulder, though, he was staring directly at me through his squinted eyes.

  “You think so?” I wasn’t sure what else to say because I couldn’t believe someone would actually say such a thing to begin with.

  He shrugged heavy shoulders and reclined back against the bench slats. “I s’pose we’ll be seeing more of you fancy people soon ‘nough.” From the little fanny pack dangling off the handle of his cane, he took a pipe and a book of matches. He lit the match with an expert swipe, ignited the already-packed tobacco in the pipe, and puffed. “Damn town going to hell in a handbasket these days.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked with interest, turning around to face him properly.

  “You got eyes, don’tcha?” He waved the pipe all around him, motioning at the stores in varying states of closure. “Corporate money’s done gone and took over. Ain’t nothing left no more but that hippie shop down the way, and good for her for sticking to her guns.”

  He sounded angry, bordering on belligerent, but the downturn of his mouth and lines on his forehead were sad. His resentment was only a symptom of his sorrow, and I was insightful enough to realize this man was mourning the loss of a town he had probably called home for the last half of the century, if not longer.

  In my experience, most members of the older generation tended to buck against change, so I decided to reply with logic rather than emotion to dismiss my twinge of guilt.

  “It might be nice to finally have some local conveniences, though.” I recalled some of the earlier documentation of the area in my files back at Pennington’s headquarters. “Making the drive to Escanaba must be a pain in the ass.”

  “Ain’t a pain in my ass!” He puffed on the pipe. “Why do you think so many for’ners come up here in the summer? It ain’t ‘cause we got lots of local conveniences. It’s ‘cause we got none. People come here to get away from all that junk. Mark my words, the more these council young’uns let this town change, the less money we’ll see heading our way.”

  I frowned, but I was wise enough to realize I wouldn’t be able to convince this man any differently in the amount of time I was willing to spend trying, so I lifted a shoulder. “I hope that’s not true.” He snorted, and I bid him goodbye, starting to get an understanding of just how difficult my job was going to be here.

  The bed and breakfast was the real-life version of a whimsical fairy tale cottage. Little spires rose from pointed roofs, and an archway donned in climbing ivy guided me to an entrance framed in twinkle lights. A fat ceramic bullfrog held a sign over his bug-eyed head reading WELCOME in thick red letters, and he croaked as I opened the door.

  Behind a white desk decorated in vivid green frogs stood an older woman with chalky hazelnut hair teased into a retro bouffant. She smiled brightly at me as I approached. “Good afternoon. Checking in?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I tugged on my tie to loosen it a touch. “The name’s Cash Pennington.”

  “I thought so.” She smacked magenta lips and looked up from beneath costume-length false eyelashes. I wasn’t sure if she was flirtatious or just friendly, but I wasn’t interested either way. The desire I’d felt when dealing with Gretchen had faded, and it was all business as usual again. “Your bags were delivered to your room a little bit ago. We’ve got you in the Fletcher suite. It was the original owner’s bedroom when he lived here.” She winked. “In human form.”

  “Wonderful.” Maybe it was having just spent some time in a store dedicated to the spiritual, but I was struck with the concern that Old Man Fletcher’s ghost might end up visiting me while I slept during my stay. I dismissed the thought as quickly as it had popped into my head.

  Rather than sliding me a programmed, magnetic keycard as most hoteliers did, the woman dangled a real key in front of my face. The leather strap attached to it included a plastic charm with a beaming frog on one side and the number four written in Sharpie on the back.

  “Head on up. Your room is on the far end of the hallway. We’re serving cream cheese stuffed French toast tomorrow morning for breakfast, and feel free to come find me if you need anything in the meantime. I live onsite in the guesthouse.”

  Something about the way she lilted the last sentence in her scratchy voice made me think it was more of an invitation than a professional sidenote. I thanked her with just a socially acceptable level of courtesy and ascended the creaking stairs.

  At the top was another woman, this one much younger than the last. She was bent over a vacuum cleaner with long, black hair hanging around her face and a caramel-skinned hand trying to yank a hose from its compartment. I started to walk around her, but she grunted with effort and frustration, so I stopped.

  “Need some help, miss?” I reached for the hose myself and twisted. It came free with a reluctant jolt. “There you go.”

  She blinked at me. “Thanks.” It was one word, but I didn’t detect an accent other than the northern Michigan one I’d been encountering since I’d arrived in town.

  I nodded to her and continued on my way to my room. The key slid right into the keyhole, likely from frequent use, and the solid oak door opened to a suite that was probably considered very large in comparison to the other rooms but was more like a closet compar
ed to the suites I usually stayed in. Nautical décor was everywhere, from oars mounted to the wall over the driftwood platform bed to the collage of vintage life preservers between the two windows looking out on the lake. The desk in the corner was topped with antique sextants and was accompanied by a squashy armchair upholstered in white and navy striped fabric.

  The ensuite bathroom was painted to look like waves, and the plush carpet was as turquoise as Caribbean waters. All in all, it was a comfortable room, but it had the air of quaintness to which I just wasn’t accustomed.

  My bags were sitting beside a weathered bureau, but I only retrieved the laptop case before plopping onto the bed. After locating a plug for the charger and firing up the computer, I pulled out my cell to make a call.

  “That truck should’ve been over at Bart’s an hour ago!” The shout made my ear ache just like Gretchen’s had in her store, and I tilted my head away from the phone to save what was left of my hearing. “Hello?”

  “Drew, I’m surrounded by Yankees, man.” Our relationship was well past cordial greetings.

  I heard a barking laugh on the other end with absolutely zero sympathy within it. Drew Wexler was my best friend and had been since childhood. We had more of a brotherly connection than a friendly one in that we tended to make digs at one another and spend our time getting up to no good as opposed to bonding over deep, meaningful talks or heartfelt moments, but both of us would drop everything for the other if the occasion called for it.

  “Tell’em they suck, and the Rangers are gonna take it.” He chuckled at his own remark.

  “Not the baseball team. Worse.” I skimmed a glance around the room. “I’m in Michigan.”

  There was a beat of silence in which I could hear the shouts of workers in the background. Drew owned a high-profile commercial construction company in Tulsa, and it was rare to have a conversation with him uninterrupted by workers or contractors needing direction. “What the hell are you doing in Michigan, trying to take over Ford?”

  “No, I’m trying to take over this woman’s property for a new Pennington’s location. Taking over Ford would probably be easier, though.”

  “She got her heels dug in?” He spat, probably a shoot of tobacco juice from his chew habit.

  “Heels dug in, hands cuffed to the pipes, and a voodoo curse in place is more like it.” I shook my head. “This one’s got some spice.”

  Drew snickered. “That ain’t all bad. Every man wants a little spice.”

  “This is business, man, not personal.”

  He laughed his raucous, barking laugh again. “Cash, I’ve known you a long time. I know what you like, and you like some spice.” He sounded way too smug. “Is she good-looking?”

  I thought of that hair, those eyes. That body.

  “Yeah. I mean, she’s all right. She’s not bad.”

  “Uh huh. You’re into it.” I could practically feel him smacking me in the back of the head like he would have if we’d been side by side. “Ask her out, see what she says. I’m curious how different northern women are from country girls.”

  “I’m not here to ask her out. I’m here to convince her she ought to sell her property. It’s the first major move I’ve had to make since I took over for Dad, and I’m not about to be made a fool by a stubborn gypsy.”

  He made a noise of interest, a hum that rose and fell in an arc, and spat. “A gypsy, now that’s a change of pace. You’ll have to let me know how she rides.”

  I could’ve called him out on his inflated misogyny because Drew had a habit of talking big in front of me and other friends but bowing down to the needs and wants of the women he dated, but the suggestion of “riding” Gretchen had summoned a mental image I enjoyed too much for my own good, and I was distracted.

  To remind him as much as myself, I reiterated, “It’s just business.”

  “Right.” He yelled something unintelligible to someone, then returned to the conversation. “So, when’re you coming home? Sarge just bought a ’67 Camaro. Says he wants to race your Barracuda for pinks.”

  “Sarge has to wait. I’m here until Gretchen agrees to sell, and Lord knows when that’ll be.”

  “Gretchen, huh?” He was back to being smug. “That’s a good southern name.”

  I imagined I was jamming my elbow into his side. “Yeah, well, I’m here to get what I want, and I’m not leaving until I do.”

  We talked for a few minutes more, then hung up to get back to our respective work. I settled back against the pillows and rested the laptop on my outstretched legs to start sifting through emails and mulling over ways to get Gretchen to give in.

  My vision seemed to swim a little as I absently scanned the text in front of me, and I realized I was rather tired even though it wasn’t dinnertime yet. Closing my eyes for a moment, I wondered what my father would have done if he had been in Fawn instead of me.

  ***

  There was a knock on the door.

  I slowly opened my eyes and groaned. My muscles had already relaxed, and I didn’t want to get up, but I shoved the computer off my lap and clambered to my feet. It was probably housekeeping with extra towels, or maybe the suggestive owner was hoping to get asked inside.

  The person standing outside my door underneath the stained-glass hallway light was neither. It was Gretchen.

  “So, I was thinking.” She laid a hand on one hip and flattened her forearm against the doorjamb. “I don’t want to do this back-and-forth anymore. I’ll sell you the store. But it’s not money I want.”

  A rush of satisfied happiness passed through me, but I tamped it down. Instead, I quirked a brow. “What’ll make you happy, then, darlin’?”

  She stared at me long and hard like she was mulling over the terms of the agreement. Then, without warning, she launched herself at me, throwing her arms around my neck and meeting her mouth with mine. The thin, metal bangles on her arms clanked against each other, but I drowned the sound out by slamming the door closed behind her and pulling her body against me.

  We were walking, clumsily, stumbling over each other’s feet to get to the bed. In a frenzy, our hands worked in unison to undress the other until we were bare skin on bare skin. Her breasts were rounder and plumper than they’d appeared beneath her loose bohemian clothing. I threw her back onto the mattress and buried myself in them, popping a nipple into my mouth.

  She moaned.

  I was already steel, prepared to take her, and the moan sent my desires into overdrive. Shimmying down her belly, I slipped my tongue between her folds. I just wanted a taste. She moaned again, and I was crazed.

  My hand found my cock, the base where I was thickest. Her legs spread wide for me to welcome the whole of me in, and I sought her pussy like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

  I thrusted.

  Her head shot back. I bit into the swell of throat beneath her chin and slammed deep.

  A moan rolled from the very place where my teeth claimed her flesh.

  Another thrust and another moan sent a mirage of colors streaking before my eyes. I caressed her curves as I took her, relishing the way my hands undulated over breast and hip and thigh. This woman was an ethereal goddess from the spiritual plane itself, and I had her beneath me to pleasure and tease to my heart’s content. It was a gift straight from Olympus.

  Nails clawed into my back. I breathed in her earthy, floral scent and licked a trail along her collarbone. Her head was still back, turned upward so I couldn’t see her expression, but the tones spilling from her lips told me all I needed to know.

  The heat of our bodies was building to volcanic proportions, and I was verging on a climax too powerful for words. She raised her hips to meet my ministrations. Her core was tightening around me. I wasn’t going to last much longer.

  She cried out. An orgasm crashed through her to pummel me right in the groin, and I had to grit my teeth to stop myself from finishing right then and there. I wanted to see her first, to see her face as she succumbed to her rapture. Taking
her chin between my thumb and forefinger, I tugged gently, urging her to lower her head. She obliged me.

  It wasn’t Gretchen at all. It was the face of a witch, mangled and green and twisted in a hysterical cackle.

  I woke with a shout, pushing myself up against the pillows behind my back to escape the ghoulish creature. My laptop was still lying undisturbed on my legs, and my cell phone was next to me on the blanket where I’d dropped it after hanging up with Drew.

  Nobody else was in the room with me, but I was painfully hard and had the creepy feeling I was being watched.

  It took me a moment to realize I’d fallen asleep and an even longer moment to realize I hadn’t slept with Gretchen — neither the human nor the witch version — at all. She still was refusing to sell her property, and she still thought I was a corporate scumbag.

  But she’d somehow made it into my head.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Gretchen

  The weekend had come to an end, and I was left with a respectably full cash register, a slightly smaller inventory, and a nagging feeling of edginess.

  After Cash stopped into Auras on Saturday, I’d spent the rest of the afternoon irritated and short-tempered. Abby hadn’t even had the nerve to ask any questions about him because she’d been too busy jumping at every request I made in an effort to maintain peace.

  Sunday was no better, but my irritation was coupled with touchy anticipation, and every chime of the door opening had me whipping around to see if it was Cash. I knew he was going to come back. I just didn’t know when, and if the number of tarot cards and crystal balls in my apartment and shop was any indication, I wasn’t one who cared for the unknown.

  Now that it was Monday, Auras was extremely slow as per usual for a weekday out of tourist season, so I’d left it in the capable hands of my other employee, Benji, in favor of sending myself to the beach for some much-needed yoga and meditation.

  Benji was my age, twenty-five, but he was still in college on his way to becoming a pharmacist. When I initially read his resume, I’d been skeptical about hiring him. People in the medical field were often nonbelievers of spiritual powers and energies, and it was a must that anyone working for me had to at least have an interest in the subject.