RAZZLE DAZZLE

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  Contents:

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

  17 18 19 20

  Epilogue

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  One

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  “I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life.” The beveled glass of the conservatory echoed with the ring of Mason’s voice.

  Titania Alexander, called Tish by friends and something rudely sexual by her few enemies, hadn’t seen her son so irritated in years, not since she’d brought home her past lives counselor and the poor woman had tried to regress him during dinner.

  Mason tossed down the last swallow of his cup of coffee and glanced back and forth between Tish and his sister, Miranda.

  “Which of you came up with this idiotic plan?” he demanded, fixing Tish with a steely stare that had caused more than one accountant to slip into an unintelligible mumble. “Let me guess—you, Mother?”

  “Really, Mason. There’s no reason to make it sound like we intended something criminal.” Tish stroked Magus, the delicate, white Persian cat who had curled up on her lap. The resulting purr immunized her against Mason’s sarcasm. No wonder witches had always kept cats as familiars. “But yes, giving Caroline a love potion was my idea. We know how important this is to you.”

  “It’s your own fault,” Miranda chimed in from her seat at the far end of the couch. “If you didn’t have such a disturbed aura, you wouldn’t need a love potion to get Caro to marry you.”

  “Listen to yourself. Auras. Love potions. You sound like some Gypsy psychic con artist.”

  “True Gypsies make excellent psychics,” said Tish. “However, we hardly qualify as Gypsies. Or as con artists.”

  “No, just witches.”

  “Yes, darling,” she said patiently. “Miranda’s right, though. With your negative vibrations, you need all the help you can get. Perhaps a ritual cleansing.”

  “Tish.” Miranda brightened. “What a perfectly marvelous idea.”

  “Mother,” Mason growled under his breath. “She’s our mother, not your girlfriend.”

  Miranda ignored him and leaned forward, her bare toes curling on the antique Lavar rug in her excitement. “We can ask Raven to do it.”

  A snort of laughter escaped Mason. “Raven Brightwater. God, I wish I knew what she was smoking when she picked that name. Look, ladies, I don’t have any control over you and your weirdness, unfortunately, but leave me out. And leave Caroline out. Our relationship is moving along just fine.”

  “But she said no,” Tish pointed out.

  “It’s just a tactic. We’re negotiating.”

  Miranda frowned. “You make it sound like a merger.”

  “More of a joint venture,” said Mason. “Alexander Industries meets Wick Technologies.”

  “The whole thing is positively mercenary.”

  Mason met his sister’s accusation without a trace of apology in his cool blue eyes. “It’s also mutual. You can be certain Caroline plans to get exactly what she wants out of this partnership. Just as I do.”

  “That’s a very callous attitude,” said Tish.

  “It’s also a very realistic one, Mother, and one that served human society very well for thousands of years. I should think you’d appreciate it, what with your predilection for archaic practices.”

  Tish looked away and sighed. “I had hoped for something better for you.”

  “This is the best, for all of us.” He set the juice glass on the Louis XIV table to his left. “Think how many crystals you’ll be able to afford once the power cell gets to market.”

  “We don’t do crystals anymore,” Miranda said.

  “Oh, that’s right. Well, newts’ ears and dogs’ toes for the coven, then.”

  “That’s ‘eye of newt and toe of frog,’” said Miranda, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth despite her brother’s efforts to bait her. “With a degree from Harvard, I should think you’d at least get your clichéd Shakespearean stereotypes correct.”

  “Whatever. As long as none of that brew ends up in Caroline’s highball.”

  “Since you don’t believe in the Craft anyway, what harm can a few herbs do?”

  “The point is that you believe in it and, as a result, feel entitled to meddle.” He turned back to his mother. “I want a promise. No interfering in my life. No spells, no incantations, and no love potions.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. I mean it, Mother. None. I don’t know what you put in that”—he pointed toward the tiny blue bottle whose unfortunate discovery had led to this conversation—“but I took a sniff, and it smells pretty peculiar. I don’t want you poisoning Caroline by mistake.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly. We’d never—”

  “Mother, I’m warning you.”

  “Oh, all right,” Tish said, her shoulders sagging in defeat. “No potions or spells.”

  “No interference of any kind,” repeated Mason.

  “Of any kind. You have my word.”

  Mason’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Do you have any fingers crossed?”

  She held out her hands and waggled her fingers like a pianist loosening up, then touched the center of her chest. “No, but I will cross my heart if you’d like.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” He glanced at his watch and stood, and once again Tish thanked the gods that he’d inherited his father’s commanding six feet instead of her own piddling five. “Now, I promised Caroline I’d show her the rose garden.”

  “It’s terribly hot, darling. You should have some iced tea sent out for after you finish your walk.”

  “Good idea. But first…” He reached past her and grabbed the little blue bottle, and, before she could muster a protest, he dumped it in the potted palm and returned the empty vial to its spot. “Much better. No temptation. We’ll see you later.”

  He headed out, his lips curved into a rather smug smile.

  All that work for nothing. Tish stared after Mason as her daughter slid around to join her at the end of the couch. They’d timed everything so carefully, inviting Caroline to visit this particular weekend so that the elixir could be freshly prepared beneath a waxing moon, as close as possible to the summer solstice. It was simply too bad Mason couldn’t see how their efforts would benefit them all. She sighed. “I worry about your brother sometimes.”

  “He’s so damned responsible,” said Miranda, strangling a tapestry pillow that was apparently standing in for Mason.

  “That is a good trait,” Tish said in her son’s defense. “If your father had exhibited a tad more of it, the company would be more sound and Mason wouldn’t be in such a desperate position.”

  Malcolm had been a good man and an excellent husband and father, but he had lacked greatly as a businessman. Early on, he had become obsessed with developing a power cell that would change the world. He sunk all the company’s cash—and most of his personal fortune—into worthless patents and borrowed more for R&D that led nowhere. When he died, Mason had been saddled with a company that could barely service its debts.

  The truly sad thing was, Malcolm had had the patent for a great power cell all along, but hadn’t recognized the possibilities. Mason had found the records in a file, but now he couldn’t develop it either, because Alexander Industries had no cash flow. The company was slowly bleeding to death on out-of-date products and facilities more suited to the 1960s. They had enough to live on, thanks to some cleverly designed trusts, but Caroline Wickersham and her fortune were the company’s only hope for new life.

  “But does he have to carry the responsibility thing so far?” Miranda asked. “Here he is planning to get married and he doesn’t even care that his wife-to-be isn’t in love with him.” She sighed. “But then, apparently
he isn’t in love with her, either. I mean, I knew he wasn’t head over heels or anything, but I did think he was at least fond of Caro. Apparently he’s reserving his affections for her bank account.”

  “I know, I know. But he’s doing his best to take care of us all, darling, in what is a very bad situation. We should be grateful.”

  “I am. But it’s so … unromantic.”

  “I’m afraid Elizabeth left him sour on romance.” Tish didn’t even like saying her former daughter-in-law’s name.

  “I suppose.” Miranda reached for the empty bottle and sat staring at its cobalt glow. The silvery script on its side glistened in the sunlight that filled the conservatory: For Love. “I’m starting to think we made a mistake with this.”

  “I don’t think so, dear. We followed the instructions in the Book of Shadows very carefully.”

  “No, not that. I mean, maybe we were wrong in assuming that only Caro needed a dose.” Miranda paused for dramatic effect. “Methinks big brother could benefit as well.”

  Titania sat up a little straighter, contemplating the prospect of a true love match between Mason and Caroline Wickersham. Perhaps. Despite what Mason had said, Tish knew they shared some interests beyond the boardroom: Tennis. French food. The Arts Alliance.

  Perhaps it could work. Perhaps they could have the best of both—a corporate combine that would keep the family fortunes intact and ensure Mason’s happiness. After all, magick held the most power when it benefited the greatest number.

  “I wish he hadn’t made us promise not to interfere,” Miranda said.

  “Actually,” Tish said carefully, “he only had me promise. I don’t think you ever said a thing.”

  Miranda lifted her eyebrows. “I believe you’re right. He must be slipping.” She shot a wary glance toward the door where her brother had disappeared and held up the empty bottle. “You know, there’s at least this much of the elixir left in the bowl from last night. I never dumped it out.”

  Tish toyed with a strand of her daughter’s thick blonde hair for a long moment while she turned over the possibilities in her mind. Perhaps.

  “I do want Mason to be happy,” Miranda said softly.

  Tish took a deep breath. “Then you should help him, my darling. So mote it be.”

  “So mote it be.”

  *

  Yet another crisis averted at the Alexander Asylum for the Criminally Eccentric.

  Mason stood on the terrace, blowing off the tension that had gathered in his shoulders over the past two hours, and considered his mother and his sister. The witches.

  For Love. For the love of Pete was more like it. When was this going to stop?

  Before witchcraft, there had been crystals and past lives, and a couple of years before that, they had been women who ran with wolves. Literally: they’d kept two on the property, until neighbors complained about the howling and the animal control people had stepped in. Three years before that, they had drummed. Constantly. The thought of it still made his head pound.

  All in all, witchcraft had seemed pretty innocuous—until this morning.

  Thank God he’d spotted Mother with that bottle before she’d had a chance to dump it into Caro’s coffee. And then he’d had to sit there, with the bloody thing in his pocket all through breakfast, chatting with Caroline and waiting for a chance to confront his two personal sorceresses to see if they’d really been planning what he thought they had. Unfortunately, they had. As if things weren’t bad enough.

  “As if what weren’t bad enough?” asked a carefully modulated voice.

  Mason turned abruptly. “Caroline. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were out here yet.”

  “Obviously.” The musky notes of her signature perfume wafted around him as she stepped closer. “What’s so awful that you’re talking to yourself?”

  “The weather,” Mason improvised quickly. Why not? They were in the throes of an early heat wave, the temperature over eighty already this June morning. Seattle usually didn’t get heat like this until August, if at all. “I heard a weather report while I was inside. It’s supposed to get even hotter, if you can believe it.”

  “Good.” She ran one red-lacquered fingertip down into the vee of his open shirt collar. “I like it hot.”

  Her brazen suggestiveness, so out of sync with the cool exterior she presented, would have excited Mason a lot more if he hadn’t known it was a tease. She did it all the time, and not just to him. It was her way of testing men, to see if they were interested—and thus, interesting.

  He started to prove his interest with a kiss, but she turned away. “Shall we go see the posies?”

  “Let me make a call first.” He reached for the phone that hung by the door and punched the buttons that would raise the kitchen staff. As he ordered iced tea for later, he observed the woman he intended to marry.

  Caroline Wickersham was as polished and elegant as obscene amounts of new money could make a woman. From the tip of those perfectly manicured nails to the toe of her Italian shoes, she reeked of expensive afternoons with personal fashion consultants and long weekends in spas.

  Her personality was just as polished: pure business over a well-hidden base of spoiled brat, the product of an upbringing that combined a practical mind and a superb education with the most outlandish catering a widowed and newly rich father could heap onto his only child. She was used to demanding and getting the best of everything, from ponies to sports cars to the top job in her daddy’s biggest company.

  Now all Mason had to do was finish convincing her that she wanted him. Or rather, that she wanted the house.

  At something just under five acres, the Alexander estate, with its eighteen-room European-style manor house, was one of the largest in the Highlands, Seattle’s most private of private enclaves. Residence in the Highlands was a highly guarded prize, not quite as hard to come by as it once was, but still granted only to those with the money and cachet to get past the membership committee.

  Caroline wanted in, and she wanted in badly. She certainly had the money—in quantities that most of the inmates would envy. Unfortunately, cachet was lacking: not only were the Wickershams so nouveau that the ink on their calling cards was still wet, but her father had rolled over the chairman of the committee in the process of a corporate takeover, an unforgivable faux pas. If Caro was going to live in the Highlands, she was going to have to marry her way in. Mason intended to be the route to her fondest wish—in exchange for Wick Technologies’ help in getting the power cell to market.

  Things had progressed to a point; this weekend was designed as a teaser, a taste of the Highlands life to whet her appetite and get her to make that final decision. Mason had checked every detail, down to the orchids in her room. He was ready to woo and bribe and beg Caroline if necessary.

  This had to work. He’d tried to get the money everywhere he could think of, from banks to private sources, but no one was willing to touch AI without collateral, and there simply was no more. If Mother and Miranda screwed this up with their damned silly witchcraft, he was going to string them up by their thumbs.

  Hiding his desperation behind a smile, he led Caro toward the gardens. The first part of the path wound beneath firs and cedars older than the century, and after the blazing white of the terrace, the shade beneath them felt as cool as a mountain glen. They wandered for a while along the maze of paths, amid hostas and ferns and an array of shade-loving blossoms Mason couldn’t name. Off toward the tennis court, a lawn mower roared monotonously.

  “Your gardener works on Saturdays?” Caroline asked.

  Mason glanced toward the sound. “Not usually, but he dropped a rock on his foot and we have some service coming in while he’s off. They had to work us in.”

  “I met with my R&D people yesterday,” she said as she ruffled the fronds of a sword fern. “They finished running the numbers on the power cell.”

  “And?”

  She left the shade and strolled off across the lawn toward the white fretw
ork gazebo that sat in the middle of a huge wheel of rose beds. “If it does half of what they said, you’re about to become more famous than the Energizer Bunny.”

  Mason followed, holding his tongue and waiting for her next gambit. She glanced over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “What? No sales pitch?”

  “You’ve heard everything I have to say. You know we need Wick’s help to make this go. And you know what Alexander Industries has to offer in return.”

  “What I’m more interested in right now,” she said, turning so suddenly that he had to put his hands to her waist to keep from knocking her over, “is what you have to— What is that smell?”

  Mason sniffed. There was definitely something rank in the air. “Manure?”

  “Mason, dear, I’ve been around horses all my life. That is not manure.”

  “No, you’re right. It must be something for the plants, though. Mother insists on organic amendments.”

  “It’s awful.”

  He took her hand. “Come on. We’ll go down to the terrace. The iced tea should be waiting.” He waved toward the dining room window, where he could see his mother peeking around the curtains. She quickly stepped back into the shadows. Caro chuckled.

  Unlike the stone terraces that abutted the house, the lower terrace, tucked away at the bottom of the property, was a sweep of perfectly manicured grass that overlooked Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountains beyond. A long, vine-covered arbor shaded the far end of the terrace, and in its cool shadow sat a table, its white linen cloth bright against the pattern of dark leaves and purple clematis blossoms. A crystal pitcher full of tea sparkled mysteriously in the dappled light.

  “Privacy. Beautiful view. And no smell.” Caroline moved into his arms and smiled up at him in a deliberately predatory way. “Now, what was that discussion we were having? Ah, yes. What you have to offer. Personally, that is.”

  They’d been playing this game for weeks, and suddenly Mason had had enough. With a growl of impatience, his lips came down on Caro’s with bruising force.

  A soft exhalation of surprise and excitement warmed his mouth, and Caroline curled her fingers into his collar and tugged him toward the arbor.