Hex Appeal (4 page)

“No way I'll share the passenger seat with Irma, and the bench seat isn't wide enough for all four of us.”

“Except if I sit there, she'll distract you while she's groping me.” They walked up the sand toward the restaurant parking lot. “I like my idea better.”

“Better than her complaining that I'm hogging the seat. I'll have to find a way to get the dog to ride in the trunk. That should be fun since he appears to be afraid of small spaces.” Her laughter floated across the air. “I'm not used to seeing you look so dapper. It's a nice change from the jeans and T-shirts you seem to live in nowadays.”

He inclined his head to her compliment. “Thank you.”

She dug her toes into the sand as she walked. “Yes, very sexy in that dark dangerous way.”

Nick chuckled and shook his head. “I'm not going to get lucky tonight, am I?”

She turned around and danced backwards. A broad smile lit up her face. “We'll see.”

***

Coffee. She needed lots of coffee. Turn the Pacific Ocean into dark rich French roast or chocolate mint that she could swim in. She wasn't fussy.

Jazz's eyelids felt glued together the next morning as she made her way down to the kitchen. Krebs sat at the table with a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him. Jazz went straight for the mug sitting by the plate and held it reverently in both hands as if the contents held the gift of life.

“That's my coffee.”

“I don't care.” She didn't bother to inhale the caffeine fumes. She slugged it back.

“What did you do last night?” He stared at her more rumpled than usual pajamas and hair sticking every which way. “Your eyes are carrying a whole set of luggage there. Maybe even a few steamer trunks.”

She plopped in a chair and rested her cheek on the table. “I don't think I slept very well last night.”

“Ya think?” He picked up the mug and refilled it along with filling a second mug for himself, which he placed well out of her reach. “Maybe you and the vampire should consider tapering off on the hot and heavy sex. Does he look as bad as you do?”

“There was no sex, no hot and heavy, no nothing,” she mumbled against her hands. “Nick got a call during our drive back and he had to see a client. All I remember is coming home and falling asleep, but it wasn't a nice sleep.” She frowned as she tried to recall what exactly disturbed her rest. She mentally backtracked through her evening. Drive up the coast. Ick factor with the dog slobbering all over her during the drive. Tanning-bed bronzed Thad hitting on her. Nick. Romantic dinner by candlelight. Walk on the beach and some serious making out. Nick driving them home and ignoring Irma's complaints that Nick wouldn't take up as much room next to her as Jazz did. Jazz threatening to banish the ghost to the trunk with the dog. Then there was that one last attempt on Nick's part to persuade her to stay at his place, which was incredibly tempting, but after what happened the previous night, Jazz had no difficulty in saying no. Then by the time she got home all she wanted to do was collapse on her bed. Even washing her face seemed like too much work.

And now she was sucking down coffee as if it was the only thing between her and sanity.

Right about now, it just might be.

Krebs sighed and pushed his plate over to her, then got up and started fixing a second batch.

“You didn't look much better yesterday. What's going on?” In no time he had eggs scrambled and bacon straight out of the microwave for himself.

“Just having trouble with sleep.” She picked at her food. “Maybe I shouldn't have asked for a loaded baked potato to go with my Surf and Turf. Or have eaten Nick's lobster. But then it could have been the Kahlua cheesecake,” she thoughtfully concluded.

“Gee, ya think?” Krebs looked a little green. “Oh, you got a call on the house phone.” While they each had private phone lines, a central line was installed for any calls considered not personal. “Seems she couldn't get you on your cell or any other way and wanted to make sure you'd call her back.”

“Who?”

“Thea. She's the romance novelist, right?”

Jazz groaned. She guessed there was also an urgent “contact me” message on the wallmail, but she hadn't bothered looking at it when she got home. Of course, Thea's idea of urgent was 180 degrees different from hers. To Thea, a broken nail or learning her hairdresser was out of town was fodder for a breakdown. And if one of her books fell off the NYT list, well, get the designer straitjacket ready, because Thea would be curled up in a corner in a fetal position convinced her life was over. Jazz was convinced that Thea created the word diva. As a world-famous historical novelist, she had found her niche. Of course, it helped she had her own true experiences and stories from her witch sisters as material for her books. Seven hundred years of romantic adventure gave her plenty of inspiration without having to do any serious research. It also provided her with a penthouse apartment in Manhattan, flats in London, Paris, and Milan, along with a couture wardrobe and an incredible collection of bling that rivaled JLo's.

“If someone cursed her, she's on her own.” She drank more coffee and picked up a slice of bacon, waving it like a banner. “She's a twit. I love her, but she's still a twit.”

Krebs grinned. “She said something about coming out to L.A. and wanting to get together for dinner. She also said I'm more than welcome to join the two of you.”

“The woman is a witch piranha.”

“I'll have you to protect me.” He refilled their coffee mugs. “So, are you going to tell me why you couldn't sleep last night? Because, I'm serious, Jazz, you look like hell.”

“Thank you so much,” she snarled, but without the heat she normally could conjure up. She was too tired even to send the plates to the sink so that they could wash themselves. She rinsed them off and placed them in the dishwasher.

“Then go back to bed.” He stretched his arms over his head.

She shook her head. “Can't even if I want to. I've got a job up in the Hollywood Hills. Remember when I eliminated Martin the Sleazebag's cursed cookie jar? Seems word got around.”

“Aren't you afraid someone in the film industry will decide to make a movie about you? Or write a book?”

“I take care of that in my own little way. The idea might strike them, but it leaves as quickly as it arrives.” She dug her fingers into her scalp and rubbed vigorously. The copper-red waves floated upward as if hit by an electric shock.

“Does Nick like football or soccer?” Krebs asked, sipping his coffee.

Her still sleep-deprived brain tried to assimilate the question. “Huh?” Not articulate, but at the moment she couldn't do any better.

“Football. Soccer. Usually accompanied by beer and chips, but I guess he'd want to skip that part. I know the games are during the day, but you said he can go out on cloudy days and the weatherman said this Sunday will be overcast. I thought maybe he'd like to come over and watch the game with me.”

Jazz tried to picture Nick sprawled on the leather couch in the family room, knocking back a brewski and munching on nachos. Well, munching on the nachos wouldn't happen, but he could show up wearing a football jersey in honor of his favorite team with his face painted in team colors. She added a blooming beer belly to the picture. The illusion shattered inside her mind like glass.

“I—uh—I don't know.”

“Can I have his phone number? Invite him over?”

Jazz's first thought was to give him a reason why he couldn't call Nick, but Krebs knew what Nick was, had even heard a very edited story of what happened out at the Reeves' estate, so could she really lie to him and say no, he and Nick couldn't have a play date? She grabbed a piece of paper off the notepad by the phone and scribbled across it.

“Most of the time his answering machine picks up, so just leave him a message. Maybe some guy bonding is what he needs now.”

“Sheesh, Jazz, show some enthusiasm here,” he groused. “You'd think we were going to have some hookers in.”

“For all I know you will.” She rolled her eyes as she carried her coffee mug out of the kitchen. Considering the way things had been going lately, she wouldn't be at all surprised this weekend to see Nick parked on the couch, beer can in one hand and that plate of nachos in the other. And wouldn't that make a fun Kodak moment?

As she crossed her bedroom, she determinedly kept her gaze from the blank wall that seemed to glow and throb with the graceful script scrawled across it.

Where in Hades are you? Wallmail me
now!

“Later, Thea,” she muttered, almost running to the bathroom as if her witch sister could see her from 3500 miles away. Still, with Thea anything was possible.

Jazz ignored her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she went through the motions of showering and washing her hair. As she stood under the spray, she thought back to her restless night. She knew she'd had odd dreams but couldn't recall any of them, which was uncommon for her since she usually remembered her dreams in detail. She practically drowned herself in peppermint-scented body wash, hoping the sharp fragrance would wake her up.

By the time she dressed and amped her makeup with a glamour illusion to cover the bags under her eyes, she felt ready to kick some magick ass.

The feeling lasted until she stepped outside and stared at a disaster. Ear-splitting yowls warred with deep-throated barks.

“No, no, no, no, no,” she muttered, running into the yard and almost twisting her ankle in a freshly-dug hole. She ran toward the southern magnolia tree that dominated a corner of the yard where the ghostly dog pushed against the trunk with his front paws while barking at a ball of furious fur hunched on a high branch.

“Pepper! My Pepper!”

“Damn!” Jazz muttered, racing to the tree and avoiding the many holes in the grass at the same time. “It's all right, Mrs. Sanderson,” she called out to the silver-haired woman peering over the fence.

“Why is my Pepper acting as if something's after her?” the woman asked looking bewildered. “My baby's afraid of heights!”

“I'll get Pepper down and bring her over to you,” Jazz promised, forcing herself not to look at the dog who'd finally stopped barking and now watched her with his head cocked.

“Maybe I should stay here and assure her everything will be all right. She's so frightened,” Mrs. Sanderson's voice quavered.

“You're upset and it could be making her more upset. Go in and fix yourself a cup of tea. I'll get her right now.” Jazz gave the elderly woman a tiny magickal nudge to encourage her to no longer be a witness to what Jazz needed to do.

“Perhaps you're right.” She turned away and made her way to the house.

Jazz waited until she heard the patio door slide shut then looked up at the white Persian cat who stared at her with the fury only a cat could display.

“Down you go. Ignore your foe. Because I say so, damn it!” She held out her hands and the cat landed in her arms. “Ow!” She eyed the scratches on her arms. “A thank you wouldn't have hurt,” she muttered, before she glared at the dog. “You get in the carriage house right now. Bad dog!”

As Jazz crossed the yard to head next door, she muttered the words to restore the grass to its usual pristine lush greenery.

“This is why I don't have pets,” she growled.

***

“My land, these aren't houses around here. We're looking at mansions from the Travel Channel.” Irma's mouth dropped open in shock as they drove up the winding road. Heavy wrought-iron gates and call boxes set at the end of driveways barred unwanted visitors.

“Most of them are multi-million dollar estates,” Jazz said, wishing the house numbers were easier to read. But then, up here residents tended to pay the big bucks for privacy. She glanced at the sheet of paper scrawled with the directions Patrice Sanibel had given her. “We need to find a 1920s Spanish-style house with the name Hacienda Nights. It will be on a bronze plaque by the gates.”

Irma fumbled in her handbag and pulled out a pair of blue catseye glasses complete with blue rhinestones along the flared edges.

Jazz groaned. “Irma, you're dead! You don't need glasses anymore!”

“That's what you think. I keep putting off using them and I'm not going to do that anymore.” She practically hung over the open window to peer at the houses. “Do you think they all have swimming pools?”

“It's a law out here,” she quipped.

Irma's head whipped from side to side. “Will we see Marilyn Monroe's house?”

“One, this isn't a celebrity sightseeing tour. Two, she lived in Brentwood.”

Jazz finally pulled over to the side of the road and held out her hand, palm curved upward. “Who needs a GPS?” she gloated. “Bouncing ball of light. Find house of Spanish night. Do it fast and do it right. Because I said so, damn it!” The moment the words left her lips, a glowing purple ball the size of a baseball appeared in her palm. It rose slowly into the air and zipped over the T-Bird's hood. “I shouldn't have used the word fast,” she muttered, quickly pulling out onto the road.

“Up there, on the left.” Irma pointed toward a road sign.

Jazz made a quick turn, staying on the fiery heels of the glowing ball that now slowed down and hung in the air in front of gates guarding a driveway that curved upward. “Thank you,” she called out. The ball winked
you're welcome
and disappeared.

Jazz pushed the call button, identified herself, and waited for the gates to swing open.

“Can I go in with you?” Irma asked.

“No.”

“Can I wander in the gardens?” She peered at the colorful flora surrounding the house.

“No.” Jazz parked the car in front of a curve of concrete steps leading to the front door. A smaller ornate gate stood at the bottom. “I don't need my client freaking out if she happens to sense you.”