It's In His Kiss

Although she was only partially visible at the moment, preferring to affect a sort of shimmery, translucent look so as not to let on how very good at materializing she’d become, Rosebud offered an innocent look. “Me? I thought I was on suspension. Isn’t there anyone else you’d rather give it to?”

“The place is hoppin’ all summer. We need every hand on deck.”

“Hand? On deck?” Rosebud echoed doubtfully.

“Every girl has to pull her weight, darlin’. So far, you have one notch in the Bedpost Book. Total. One notch,” Miss Arlotta said grimly. “We been here 109 years and you got a sum total of eighteen black marks, no gold stars, and one lousy notch. And I’m still not convinced that one wasn’t just dumb luck.”

Rosebud said nothing. As a matter of fact, her one notch in the Bedpost Book, for successfully helping a guest couple turn up the heat on their honeymoon, had been an accident. Annoyed with a young woman who simply would not shut up, Rosebud had filled up the bathtub and knocked her into it. She figured the little twit had to be quiet if she was under water. How was she supposed to guess that the silly groom would find his dripping wet bride particularly erotic?

“Let’s just say you aren’t exactly hotfootin’ it on the road to that Big Picnic in the Sky,” the boss went on. “After the way you spun the bed around on the last couple I gave you, I ought to leave you on permanent suspension. Scared the living daylights out of ’em and sprained the groom’s leg when he tried to jump out.”

“I really deserve suspension,” Rosebud agreed, batting her eyelashes and trying to look contrite. The truth was, she liked being suspended. As long as it lasted, she was free to read and watch movies to her heart’s content. And she was expecting the six-hour DVD of Pride and Prejudice to arrive at the front desk any day. Surely her suspension could last long enough to get through Pride and Prejudice.

“If you don’t ever get your ten notches in the Bedpost Book, me and the judge are stuck here like two pigs in tar, right along with you,” Miss Arlotta explained impatiently. “You know that. This ain’t just for you. Me and the judge can only move on after all you girls are gone.”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts. Everybody knows you’re not carrying your load. That crazy Flo, who hasn’t been happy a day since 1895 on account of her corset problems, has got more notches than you. You’re a smart girl, Rosebud. I’m giving you a job that ought to be a walk in the park.”

Bad choice of phrase, considering the goal they were all trying to reach was the Big Picnic, where they looked forward to walking in the park throughout eternity. Rosebud wasn’t so sure about it, however. She wanted to be certain there was a wide-screen TV and a stack of DVDs and books waiting or she didn’t really want to go.

The madam interrupted her thoughts, snapping, “You better make this one work, Rosebud, or I don’t know what I’m gonna do with you. Get off your fanny and go see the bride. Name of Vanessa Westicott. She’s rich and spoiled, just like you used to be, so she ought to be a kindred spirit.”

Rosebud chewed her lip. Funny how she could still feel pain when she bit down, considering the lip wasn’t technically there. “I don’t suppose there’s any way to get out of this?”

“Nope. Get to it. She’s in the lobby, looking over the place right now. While she gets showed around, you can give her the once-over and think up a plan.” Miss Arlotta narrowed her eyes. “With all those books you read, you ought to be real good at that.”

“MAYBE I CAN GET this over with and get my notch in the Bedpost Book lickety split, just in time for my DVDs to arrive,” Rosebud mused as she wafted down to the lobby.

She saw a group of the other ghostly girls lounging around in what had once been their front parlor, as transparent and indistinct as their lingerie, but she didn’t join them. The only two she’d really liked among the bunch—sweet Sunshine and cantankerous, shoot-from-the-hip Belle—the one who’d been smoking the cigar in the parlor on the day Rosebud arrived—had already passed over the threshold into the Great Beyond. And the others were so dreary.

She hadn’t realized, when she’d signed on for this job all those years ago, that hookers were not, as a rule, incredibly bright. Flo and her whining about her too-tight corset (stuck that way until someone figured out how to loosen her ghostly corset strings) got old very quickly, while Mimi and her fake French accent and Desdemoaner, nicknamed for all the caterwauling she used to do while in the throes of passion, were downright annoying. And then there was the Countess.

“Countess, my eye,” Rosebud griped, just thinking about it. “I have more class in my little finger than that chippy has in her entire body.”

Flo, Des, the Countess, even lush and lovely Lavender…All they ever talked about was men. They seemed to enjoy helping hapless couples jump the hurdle into marital bliss, but they also whined constantly about how much they wished they could get in a few licks with the grooms they were assigned. Which was, of course, against the rules.

The rule itself didn’t bother Rosebud nearly as much as all the complaining about it. She didn’t have much sympathy for the hapless honeymooners they were supposed to be helping, but she wasn’t going to pine over how sad it was she didn’t get to engage in spectral sex with their grooms, either.

But for the moment…For the moment, she was going to have to see about this Vanessa person and make some move to help the poor, pathetic girl with her honeymoon, at least enough to earn another notch in Miss A’s infernal Bedpost Book and keep the boss off her back for a while. Even Rosebud, the least successful ghostly good-time girl in the place, knew very well that Miss Arlotta and the Judge wielded mighty powers. Nobody was sure where their authority came from or exactly what they were capable of, but they all knew not to mess with Miss A.

But where was the sexually inept bride-to-be? Rosebud glanced around the check-in desk, but she didn’t see her target. She saw two front desk clerks, a bellman and several couples who were clearly honeymooners. One coosome twosome was canoodling on a velvet settee behind a potted palm, while another groom had his bride in his lap while he fed her little tidbits of crackers and cheese from the buffet set up for the cocktail hour. Everybody else was more of the same. Lovey-dovey, gooey-schmooey. Rosebud rolled her eyes. Clearly they didn’t need help. Other than that…

The only other person in the lobby at the moment was a man by himself. Oooh. Yummy. Dark suit, dark hair, tall, broad-shouldered, and quite delicious to look at from the back side.

She squinted at him, wishing she knew how to get new spectacles over the Internet. The ones she’d passed over with were the best 1895 had to offer, but they left the modern world a bit too fuzzy.

Especially when there was something this good to look at.

She swooshed past the potted palm couple, making the woman shiver and cuddle closer to her husband. Rosebud ignored them, intent on getting a better look at the intriguing man by the window. But he was still facing the other way, pulling back one of the heavy drapes to gaze out the front window of the Inn.

“Turn around,” she whispered, vainly attempting to plant thoughts in his head. If only Belle were still here. She was so good at that.

Unfortunately Rosebud didn’t share Belle’s skills. Manipulating gadgets and electronics, remembering and recreating music she’d heard only once, a knack for remaining unnoticed by Miss Arlotta’s all-seeing eyes, and the ability to make herself so 3-D it would knock your socks off…. Those were her talents. Not that they did her a particle of good at the moment.

Rosebud cocked her head to one side, trying to figure out why she was so intrigued by this man. Yes, she liked the looks of him, but it was more than that.

She felt oddly drawn to him. It was the strangest thing. She just had to know who he was, what he was doing there, and especially what he looked like. All of him, dadblast it!

“First time for everything,” she murmured. Out of all the men who’d wandered through the Inn over the years, this was the first one who’d made her feel this curious warmth, this shiver of anticipation and…And what seemed to be lust.

“It’s not lust,” she said under her breath. She wasn’t like the other girls with their constant urge to merge. “Just curiosity.”

Maybe if she blew on his neck. Or in his ear. Or flickered the lights in the parlor. How about a little jolt of electricity transmitted through a pinch to his adorable derriere? If she gave him a tiny shock, surely he would have to turn to face her.

She checked behind her to see if any of the other girls had noticed him (or her fascination with him) but they seemed to be intent on some silly bickering over a card game in the far corner. She was safe for the moment, if she could just get him to turn around…

“You’re supposed to be looking for a woman.” Miss Arlotta’s aggravated tone rang in Rosebud’s ear, making her jump. “Tell me, does that gent look like a woman?”

“Not even a little,” Rosebud responded without thinking.

“The gal you’re looking for is in the ballroom,” the boss interrupted. “She’s about decided she doesn’t want her wedding here. If she walks, your goose is good and cooked. So get a move on.”

Much as she hated to tear herself away from the mysterious man at the window, Rosebud knew she had no choice but to leave him behind. Drat.

“Miss A told me my bride was in the lobby,” she complained out loud, reluctantly floating away from the man at the window. “How was I supposed to know she’d be in the ballroom?”

“Did you hear that? I could swear I heard a female voice talking about the ballroom, right in my ear,” the woman with the crackers whispered as Rosebud swooped past. “And I can feel a chill.”

“They say this place has ghosts,” her husband told her, holding her close.

Real wizards, those two. But Rosebud had forgotten herself for a moment. Apparently her long suspension had made her people skills rusty. Inaudible, you ninny, she told herself. Neither seen nor heard. She managed to keep her mouth shut as she flashed into the ballroom to catch up with her new assignment.

And there she was. The bride du jour.

“I don’t like the looks of her at all,” Rosebud remarked as she sailed up to take a position behind the main chandelier. “She looks like the Countess, doesn’t she? And every bit as snooty.”

Vanessa Westicott looked sharp, in every sense of the word. Her hair, as dark as Rosebud’s own, was pulled back into a severe knot at the back of her neck. From the pained expression on her face, the knot was too tight. She was pretty, very thin, and dressed in a snappy little black outfit with a skirt that Rosebud found scandalously short. And the woman was wearing high-heeled, pointy black boots that were not going to be comfortable as she toured the Inn.

Right now she was peering up at the chandelier Rosebud was swinging from, pinching her mouth together and making her unhappiness quite clear to one of the hotel’s wedding coordinators, a sweet young woman named Beth, who was giving her the grand tour.

“Wicked Witch of the West,” Rosebud whispered, swirling around the woman for a closer look. She’d watched The Wizard of Oz a few weeks ago, so the image was fresh in her mind. “All she needs is a green face.”

“What did you say?” Vanessa turned on her guide. “Green plates? Why in the world would I want that?”

“I didn’t say anything about green plates.”

“Well, I don’t like this ballroom, no matter what color scheme we use on the table settings,” Vanessa snapped. “The lighting is terrible.”