Mathilda, SuperWitch (Mathilda's Book of Shadows #1)(63)



“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 ni**les, 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 f**king 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 ni**les…

“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.

Kristen Ashley's Books