The next morning, Claire found a pair of Dean’s underwear hanging off the doorknob as she left her suite. The imp must’ve spent the entire night dragging them up from the laundry room in the basement.
“I hope you gave yourself a hernia,” Claire muttered, pulling them free.
Briefs, not boxers. Navy blue with white elastic.
“Boss?”
They wouldn’t mash down into a small enough ball to bide. Keeping her right hand and its contents behind her, Claire turned. “What?”
“We’ve got lots of eggs, and I have to use them. I wondered if you wanted me to make you some for breakfast.”
“Fine.”
“How do you want them?”
“I don’t care.” He was wearing one of his brilliant white T-shirts and jeans, totally unaware of how good he looked. Briefs not boxers. Given how tightly his jeans fit she should have been able to figure that out on her own.
“Scrambled?”
“Fine.”
“With garlic and mushrooms?”
“Whatever.”
Dean frowned. “You all right?”
“Fine.”
He leaned left.
She shuffled just enough to cut down his line of sight “Was there anything else?”
“Uh, no. I guess not.”
“Good. You go ahead.” Her right arm started forward to wave him away but she stopped it in time. “Go on. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Shaking his head, Dean disappeared down the hall.
Twenty years old, Claire reminded herself whacking the back of her skull against the door.
The hollow boom of the impact echoed throughout the first floor.
“Boss?”
“It’s nothing,” she called. Rubbing the rising bump, she contemplated doing it again. She’d had the perfect opportunity to prove the existence of the imp. There could be no other explanation for the underwear delivered to her door. So why, she wondered, had she acted like such an idiot?
“It’s this place; it’s messing with my head.” Opening the door, she tossed the underwear into the sitting room. She’d figure out a way to get them back into Dean’s laundry, later.
“Souvenir?” Austin asked as the briefs sailed by and landed on Elvis.
“Thang you, thang you vera much.”
“You can both just shut up.”
“They put over the top, how do you say…plaster board?” Jacques announced, pulling his head back out of the wall. “But the works for the elevator, they are all here.”
“Should I start uncovering it?” Dean asked eagerly.
Claire shrugged. “Why not.”
“Great, I’ll go get my hammer.”
“And what will you be doing, cherie,” Jacques asked as Dean ran off, “while he bangs out his frustrations on the wall?”
“I don’t think Dean has frustrations.” She ducked under the counter flap, heading for the phone. “But to answer your question, I’m going to finish packing Augustus Smythe’s knick-knacks away.”
“To make the place your own, yes?”
“Yes.”
“So you are reconciled to staying here?”
An empty cardboard box dangling from one hand, she paused on the threshold, unwilling to take the final, symbolic step into the sitting room. “I might as well be, I haven’t any other choice.”
“You are needed here, Claire.”
When she turned, he was standing right behind her. A step forward would take her right through him. His eyes had gone very dark and he was wearing the smile that made her stomach feel like she’d swallowed a bug.
“I could reconcile you.” His hand caressed the air by her cheek. “It would take so little power.”
At first Claire thought that the bells she heard were the ringing of desire in her ears, but then, over Jacques shoulder, she saw the front door open.
“Yoohoo!”
She stepped forward, teeth gritted against the chill, Jacques de-materializing as she moved. There was no way Mrs. Abrams could’ve missed seeing him.
“Did you see that, Carlee, dear?”
“See what?” Claire asked.
“Nothing. Never mind. Of course you didn’t.”
Prepared for an argument, or possibly even hysterics, her satisfied chuckle confused Claire completely.
“I just came in to tell you that you’ve got guests. Two young men. I was on my way in from my Tuesday morning hair appointment—I like to get there early, you know, before poor dear Sandra gets tired—and I saw their car go up the driveway and I knew you’d want to know immediately. That’s funny.” Head cocked, she swiveled it about like an orange bouffant radar dish. “I don’t hear Baby. He does so love to welcome your guests as they get out of their cars in the parking lot.”
“Does he welcome them the way he welcomes the postman?” Claire wondered.
“Don’t be silly, dear, there’s a fence in his way. I’d best go check on the poor thing.” Pausing on the threshold, she pointed back toward the gleaming oak counter. “You should put some paint on that dear. All that bare wood looks somewhat indecent don’t you think?”
The two young men weren’t much taller than Claire, although they had a wiry build and self-confident grace that suggested their height had never been an issue. Both had sharply pointed features, an eyebrow lying across each forehead with no discernible break, and short dark hair that picked up the light as they moved so that it seemed the very end of each individual hair had been dipped in silver.
Claire relaxed as a quick dip into identical gray eyes showed not only a lack of evil intent but that they carried significantly less darkness than the general population.
“You guys twins?” Dean asked, wandering over to the counter, hammer in hand.
“Actually,” said one.
“We’re triplets,” said the other. “I’m Ron, never Ronald since that clown came on the scene, and this is my brother Reg. We’re in town for the sportsman’s show that’s at the Portsmouth Center this week.”
“Randy had a previous commitment,” Reg explained with a toothy grin. “But we’d like a room. Our grandfather stopped here some years ago, and he spoke very highly of the place.”
Must’ve been before Augustus Smythe took over, Claire thought When Dean glanced her way, she had to hide a grin. It was obvious he was thinking the same thing. “All of our rooms are doubles,” she told them making a mental note to have Jacques search the attic for a set of twin beds. “If you mind sharing, we could give you a deal on two rooms.” It wasn’t like the second room would be needed for other guests.
“Sharing’s fine.”
They were in constant motion and she’d lost track of which was which. “Breakfast is included in the price.”
“Great but all we really need you to do is…”
“…throw half a dozen raw eggs into a blender.”
“We’re in training.”
For what? Salmonella? But they were guests, so all she said aloud was, “Well, if you’ll give us a few minutes, we’ll get room one ready for you.”
“No hurry.”
“We’re going for a run down by the lake.”
“We’ve been on the road since dawn and…”
“…we don’t do so well sitting still that long.”
“We’ll be back in about an hour.”
Ron, or possibly Reg, grinned up, way up, at Dean. “See you later, big fella.”
Reg, or as it were, Ron, nodded at Claire. “Ma’am.”
They bounded out the door together. Claire had never seen anyone over the age of three actually bound before. Feeling a little out of breath, although she hadn’t moved from behind the counter during the entire exchange, she wondered just when exactly she’d become a ma’am.
“Cool guys,” Dean said. “Lots of energy. Should I go up and do the room?”
And was Boss really any better?
“Boss?”
Not really. “Why not? Has to be done.”
She walked over to the desk as he went upstairs and dropped into the chair. Keep your distance, she reminded herself. The way things have turned out, he’ll be moving on long before you do.