Demon Hunting with a Dixie Deb - Lexi George Page 0,62
decided, observing the play of the muscles in her calves and thighs.
She reached the stairs. One, two, three, four steps and she was on the porch. A Dalvahni warrior kept his wits sharp and his body in prime shape through rigorous physical training. Grim was no exception. Nonetheless, his heart raced from watching her climb.
She planted her hands on her hips. “Y’all hurry up. I’m hungry. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we eat.”
Evan and Taryn had stopped to inspect a shiny black motor vehicle parked in the driveway. The Kirvahni seemed fascinated with motorized carriages.
Shaking off his lust, Grim left the two of them to their perusal and joined Sassy on the porch. The front door was painted dark green and surrounded by glass panels. A brass sign by the entrance read LAW OFFICE OF JAMES R. MARVIN, LLC.
Grim opened the door and ushered Sassy into a room appointed with plush furnishings. A plump woman with a sagging bosom and coiffed black hair sat behind a writing table. The receiver of the device humans called a telephone was pressed to her ear. She glanced up, her lips parting in surprise when she saw Grim. A pink chunk of some half-masticated substance was visible in her open mouth.
“Mother-of-pearl,” Sassy said. “Look at the way she’s eyeing you. Like you’re Tiffany’s and she’s got carte blanche.”
The door opened before Grim could decipher this bit of nonsense, and Evan and Taryn entered the office behind them.
The receptionist’s jaw dropped when she spotted Taryn’s hunting garb. Grim made a mental note to speak to the Kir about her attire.
“Easy, toots.” Evan raised a hand, cutting off the matron’s unspoken question. “We’re with them.”
“That’s right.” Sassy bounced up to the desk, her curvaceous body radiating energy. “I’m Sassy Peterson. I’m here to see Mr. Marvin.”
The woman behind the desk glanced down at a chart. “Peterson? You were scheduled for yesterday.”
“Car trouble.” Sassy gave her a blinding smile. “Don’t you hate when that happens? Cars can be such fussy old things.”
“Um . . . yes.” The woman looked uncertain. “He’s with another client at the moment. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
She pushed a button on a box and spoke a few words. A moment later, an interior door opened, and an older human male with wavy silver hair and a nose like a bloodhound rushed into the room.
“Ms. Peterson, are you okay?” The man’s ruddy face was creased with worry. “Your parents have been frantic. I feared the family curse had caught up with you.”
“Superstitious nonsense, Mr. Marvin.” The speaker was an aristocratic older female. She followed the male human into the antechamber. “There is no Peterson curse.”
She wore a black dress that reached her knees. The simple garment showed her excellent figure and legs to advantage. Her cropped silver hair was artfully tousled.
“I think a family curse would be exciting.” Sassy radiated energy and enthusiasm. “How do you know it’s not true?”
“I know because I’m a Peterson.”
Sassy’s eyes widened. “Mother-of-pearl, are we related?”
“Blake Peterson was my brother,” the woman said. “I’m Susan Grace Peterson Gordan Gordan Cherry Woody Harwood. I’m your aunt—your great-aunt, to be precise, and I’m here to buy the mill.”
Chapter Twenty
Sassy stared at the haughty stranger. She had an aunt, an actual Peterson. Someone who could satisfy her curiosity about her father’s family. Someone alive. Not a ghost like Junior, who popped in and out at the drop of a hat. Not a dog like Trey, who barked and ran off into the woods to chase squirrels.
This Susan Peterson blah blah Harwood wanted to buy the mill. Awesomesauce, right? Sign the paperwork and sail back to Fairhope. Mission accomplished. Best of all, the business would stay in the family.
Then why was her stomach dancing the fandango?
Like any princess of perk worth her salt, Sassy was able to judge the moods of others. The matronly receptionist, for instance, was in full-blown hormonal flux over a certain Grim-sicle, and Jim Marvin was a-twitter about something, although Sassy did not know what.
Mrs. Harwood? She was a no-go. The woman was encased in emotional Kevlar. Her smooth, unlined complexion indicated intimate knowledge of good skin care, and she had impeccable taste in clothes. Her vintage Chanel LBD and Jimmy Choo pumps screamed assurance. A diamond the size of a walnut sparkled on one manicured hand. From appearances, the woman had money and lots of it.
But clothes and jewelry do not a person make, Sassy reminded herself. Melba Hampton owned half of