Maudlin's Mayhem (Bewitching Bedlam #2)(3)

“Yes, sir,” I said meekly.

“And don’t you and Sandy go eating it all before we have a chance to offer it to the paying customers. I can’t just whip another one up in the middle of the day, you know.” He paused, leaning against the counter next to me. “Did the two of you really eat the entire pan of lemon bars I made? I’m glad you liked them, but it’s a wonder you both aren’t puking your guts out.”

“We have a high tolerance for booze and sugar, built up through centuries of practice.” I wrinkled my nose. “Don’t guilt trip me about my love for food and drink.”

“I won’t, if you quit complaining about the fact that I want to make sure you’re safe,” he shot back.

I rolled my eyes. “We have strange men in the house anyway. That’s what it means to own a bed-and-breakfast. Don’t forget, we take in strangers and give them a place to sleep. Maybe kindly old Mr. Mosswood is a serial killer.”

Aegis laughed, setting the bowl down. “Oh, Maddy, I love you. You crack me up. If Mr. Mosswood is a serial killer, then I can walk out into the sun and just get a nice tan.”

Mr. Mosswood was rapidly becoming a long-term guest. He had checked in three weeks ago, and kept extending his stay. He was slight, about five-seven and thin as a reed, and he was quiet and polite to the point of annoying. He wore a suit and hat that reminded me of something out of the 1950s—and I had lived through the fifties, so I knew they were genuine vintage.

Mr. Mosswood had thinning hair and wore round glasses. I thought of them as spectacles, because he seemed to be stuck in a time period long past. He was human, and he said he was gathering information for a book he wanted to write about the history of Bedlam. He paid on time, tipped well, and was a tidy man, so I welcomed him as long as he wanted to stay.

“Don’t you dare. Seriously, though, you never really know. Some of the worst killers have been the quietest. I’m sure Mr. Mosswood is thoroughly benign, but we know nothing of his background.” I leaned forward. “But he proves my point. He’s staying here, and he’s up and around while you’re sleeping. If he were a murderer, you wouldn’t be able to save me during the day. So why worry when I interview someone for a housecleaning job?”

Aegis pressed his lips together, regarding me as though I was an annoying gnat, and I knew I had won the argument. Finally, he plastered a kiss on my forehead, then bopped my nose with his finger. He smelled like musk and cinnamon, like dark knights on an autumn evening. My knees quivered as I stroked a long strand of his wavy jet black hair back from his face. His eyes were pools of coffee, tinged with crimson around the edges, and he was strong and fit, with a voice that made me melt.

“You know, you should finish making that pie, before the egg whites go flat,” I murmured.

“I don’t care about the egg whites,” he whispered, gathering me into his arms.

I squirmed, feeling him press hard against me. The egg whites might be going flat but something else wasn’t. But I didn’t complain as he carried me up the stairs, ending the conversation with a long, sweaty session in bed.





THE NEXT MORNING, I slid into my new jeans—black stretch denim with a lot of give to accommodate the padding of my butt, which was, as I liked to call it, curvalicious. I pulled on a short-sleeved V-neck silk shirt with cap sleeves. The deep green set off the teal of my eyes, and the rich brunette of my hair. I also had big boobs, which was fine with me. In fact, I was about as hourglass as they came, in terms of my figure.

I scooched my feet into a pair of black leather ballerina flats—I was about five-eight so I could do flats without feeling short—and fastened my pentacle around my neck, along with a rope of moonstone beads. The pentacle was about two inches in diameter and stood out against my shirt. I fastened on freshwater pearl chandelier earrings, then took a few minutes to slap on a quick ten-minute face at my vanity.

Bubba was next to my makeup mirror, watching. He cocked his head as I pursed my lips to apply my lipstick—a bright fuchsia. I hated any pinks that weren’t magenta or fuchsia, but neon colors and jewel tones rocked my world.

“Mrow.” Bubba reached out one paw to tap my arm.

I paused, trying not to jog the lipstick onto my face. “Bubs, hold on. I’ll feed you in a minute. I’m almost done.”

Bubba waited a beat until I raised the lipstick to my lips again, then—more firmly—smacked me on the hand with his paw.

“Bubba! Look at what you did!” I frowned at my reflection. A bright pink line of lipstick ran jaggedly down my chin. “Gee thanks, Bub.”

As I reached for the makeup remover, I swear, Bubba snickered at me. He pulled his paw back, then began to groom it as though he had no clue what I was talking about.

“That cat is a menace.” Franny rose up beside me. As in, through the floor, to hover a foot above it.

I jumped. “I told you to stop doing that! And Bubba’s not just a cat. He’s a cjinn.”

Franny was the house ghost—or B&B ghost, now that I’d converted the place. And she was moody as all get out, always finding something to bellyache about. But over the past six months, I had actually gotten used to the depressed spirit and she had lightened up a little.

I poured a little makeup remover on a cotton ball and wiped the lipstick off my face. “I haven’t seen you for a couple of days. Where have you been keeping yourself? You can’t leave the house, so I know you weren’t on vacation.”