Читать книгу Trick Me, Treat Me - Leslie Kelly - Страница 9

GWEN HAD REMEMBERED the muffins forty minutes after she’d gone to bed in one of the upstairs guest rooms. “Damn,” she’d sworn at her absentmindedness. How could she have forgotten when Hildy had reminded her?

To give herself credit, she had been working awfully hard. Eighty-hour workweeks filled with ladders, paint cans, scrub brushes and sewing machines could drive every thought out of anybody’s head. But it wasn’t anybody who was going to have to oversee breakfast for their guests. It was her body.

Sighing heavily, she’d gotten up, wishing she’d thought to grab a bathrobe from her own room before coming upstairs for the night. Her thin negligee had done nothing to warm her. She’d made a mental note to stop to get the robe before coming back up.

In the kitchen, she hadn’t bothered to flip on the blinding overhead fixture. The lamp in the hallway banished most of the shadows, and she’d left the small light over the stove on, as usual, in case Aunt Hildy needed something during the night.

Now she was inside the room—maneuvering around familiar cabinets and fixtures—and that was when she realized she wasn’t alone. A man stood near the table. A man clothed all in black.

He remained motionless. A shadow. A phantom. A spectral memory of someone who’d stood there decades before.

She instantly thought of Hildy’s ghost friends. When the shadow moved, separating from the inky blackness in the corner, she made out more of his features and gasped. “Good lord.”

Not a phantom. Not a ghost. And, hopefully, not a maniacal murderer out and about doing his gruesome thing on Halloween night. Because he was very tall. Very broad. Very male.

“Don’t be afraid.”

Who wouldn’t be afraid? Alone: check. Dark man in kitchen: check. Spooky house: check. Halloween night: start screaming now.

“Really, you have nothing to fear,” he continued in a voice that was both soft and masculine, soothing and melodic.

Sure. Right. Don’t be afraid, I’m harmless, says the cobra to the little pink mouse. Of course, the little pink mouse might drop dead of a heart attack before the big bad snake had a chance to even nibble on a whisker. She backed up until cornered against the countertop. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“I’m a guest at the inn for the weekend.”

Her whole body began to relax. “A guest?”

Of course. Hildy had checked in several people today. Gwen obviously hadn’t met everyone. She nearly chuckled at her own foolishness. No ghost. No ax-wielding maniac. Just a paying guest. She wasn’t used to the fact that they were an open, operating inn, and she and Hildy were no longer alone in this huge, ghostly house. “Good lord, you scared me half to death.”

“I’m sorry.” He stepped closer, until more light from the hall spilled on to his face. His deep-set brown eyes glittered in the near darkness. Simply mesmerizing.

Then he stepped even closer until his entire face was visible. She caught her breath, held it, then released it on a sigh, knowing she’d never seen a sexier guy in her life.

Each female molecule in her body roared to awareness, reacting to the male sensuality oozing from his body. His cheekbones were high, his chin firm and chiseled. His thick, dark brown hair was a little long, and his cheeks sported a five o’clock shadow, giving him a slightly wolfish look.

She’d always had such a thing for dark, rakish-looking men.

And lordy, the man had the most glorious mouth she’d ever seen. Particularly now, with his eminently kissable lips lifted slightly at the corners as he offered her a tentative smile. The full frontal onslaught of his complete smile could probably rock the ground on which she stood.

“I really didn’t mean to frighten you. Forgive me?”

She’d forgive him anything. Absolutely anything.

Even if he pulls out a chainsaw and a few various and sundry body parts? Get a grip, Gwen. Get out of here now.

That was her inner turtle speaking. She quickly told it to shut up. “The kitchen is one of the private areas of the house.”

His eyes twinkled as he gave her a conspiratorial grin. “Don’t tell on me. You keep my secret and I’ll keep yours.”

Her first instinct was confusion, then panic set in. Gwen kept only one secret—Hildy’s history. But he couldn’t know that. No one did. He had to be bluffing.

She tilted her head and eyed him with every bit of false bravado she could manage. “Why do you think I have a secret?”

He practically tsked. “Everyone has secrets. Besides, I’m an expert,” he whispered, stepping even closer until he was only a foot away. So close she felt his warmth radiating toward her.

She almost swayed toward him, almost let that warmth envelop her more fully. “An expert?” She kept her feet planted, even as some deep, feminine part of her ached to step closer.

He nodded. “Absolutely. And I know one secret of yours. I don’t imagine many people know you visit the kitchen dressed so…interestingly…late at night.” His dark eyes grew darker. His jaw grew tight, and she heard the faint, ragged rasp of his breath.

Gwen followed his pointed stare, looking down at her body, clad in the silkiest, softest white nightgown she possessed. Then she swallowed. Hard. Seeing herself as he must be seeing her.

The deeply slashed neckline glittered with tiny pearl-like beads that picked up and reflected the meager light in the room. The fabric clung across her breasts, which were pushed high, plumped up and spilling over because of the tight bodice.

She could have claimed it was the cold autumn night that made her nipples pucker so tightly against the gown.

She could also have claimed to be engaged to Ben Affleck and having an affair with Brad Pitt. That didn’t make it true.

Though she thought of how foolish she’d been not to grab her robe, a deep-rooted part of Gwen liked the admiration in his eyes. Her track record with romance was damned pathetic. The blow to her confidence brought on by her broken engagement had killed her instinct to even try to attract the opposite sex.

How funny. She now remembered what she’d once so very much liked about attracting the opposite sex. That look in a man’s eye. The one that promised more than any words could. And hinted he could back up his unspoken promise anytime, anywhere.

Maybe even here and now.

“I didn’t remember to bring my robe,” she finally said, wondering how a perfect stranger could bring out the woman she’d thought was lost forever. “I should get it.”

“Don’t go to any trouble on my account.” The intensity in his voice made the words less playful than he may have intended.

Watching his jaw clench, she sucked in a quick gulp of heady night air. How amazing that a man’s stare could make her heart trip over itself as it beat restlessly within her chest. But not with fear. This was pure, one hundred percent excitement.

Gwen smoothed her hand against her nightie, nervously fingering the material. Its slickness slid between her fingers. The gown fit tightly to her hips, then fell in undulating waves to the floor. Two slits made the fabric gap from ankle to thigh. With every shift, another bit of skin would be revealed. Tempting. Tantalizing. Heightening the anticipation as any self-respecting wedding night negligee should.

Fate. Fate or one of the ghosts in this house had made the pipe in her room break right over most of her clothes, damaging all her nightgowns except this one…the one she was supposed to have worn on her honeymoon. The one she’d kept after she’d canceled the wedding, sold her dress, hocked her ring and delivered the cake to a homeless shelter.

Because, after finding her bastard of an ex giving more than dictation to his secretary a few days before their wedding, she’d needed one sultry, seductive, feminine thing, to remind her she was a desirable woman. His cheating had made her doubt herself. The nightie gave her confidence, though no one had ever seen her in it. Until now. And judging by the raw want in his eyes, this stranger definitely thought she was a desirable woman.

How amazing. How exciting. How…enticing.

Still, she wasn’t stupid. This was risky business. She didn’t know who this man with the hungry eyes was.

He seemed to sense her sudden misgivings because he stepped to the side, turning slightly away. He was now far enough that she didn’t feel his warm breath on her skin. She shivered, wondering how she could miss the warmth of the stranger when by all rights she should be running like mad to her room.

“I really am sorry for frightening you.”

“It’s okay.” Her voice sounded weak, breathy and nervous. She cleared her throat, then realized she meant it. “It’s fine. I wasn’t afraid. Not really.”

She should have been, she knew that. She was alone in her nightgown, late at night, in a dark, quiet house, with a stranger. The normal reaction should have been fear. But for some reason his height didn’t intimidate her. His breadth didn’t, either, though his chest looked broad enough to tap-dance on. No doubt, this man, clad in skintight black fabric from his neck to his shoes, should have caused concern.

Maybe because she’d been burying the sensual part of herself for so long, Gwen had reacted with instant, unrelenting attraction. The kind that could turn stronger women than she into complete fools.

“What are you thinking?”

“That finding dark, handsome strangers in the kitchen late at night just doesn’t happen to women like me.”

He didn’t laugh, or even smile, at her frankness. “And I don’t often stumble across stunning blondes in nighties when I visit country inns. Or are you, perhaps, the ghost of this inn?”

“I’m entirely real.” Then she paused. It was, after all, Halloween. The whole town believed she lived in a haunted house. She’d grown accustomed to strange happenings that had given her more than one sleepless night in recent months. And there were her aunt’s spectral friends to consider. “Are you a ghost?”

This time, he did smile, his teeth glittering brilliantly white in the half darkness, making her heart trip again. Maybe her question hadn’t been so ridiculous. No man this seductive could just stumble across her path. Not with her luck when it came to men.

“Not a ghost. I’m very real.” He stepped closer again, until the tips of his shoes almost touched her toes. His pants brushed her gown; she could almost feel his leg against hers.

She didn’t move away, even as the word dangerous flashed through her mind.

“Want me to prove it?”

Before she could answer—and Gwen couldn’t say what her answer would have been—she felt the man grasp her fingers. He lifted them until she was almost touching his face. Then he pressed her fingers against his cheek. “Aren’t ghosts cold?”

She nodded weakly, gauging the rough warmth of his skin, wondering if he’d read her mind when she’d thought earlier about how sexy his five o’clock shadow looked. “You’re not cold.”

Not cold. Hot. Magnetic. Seductive. Her fingertips scraped across the roughness of his cheek in a helpless, subtle caress.

“And spirits don’t breathe, do they?”

Without warning, he moved her hand until her fingers brushed his lips. God, those lips. The other part of his face she’d found so arousing. Gwen’s knees grew weak and shaky. She grabbed the counter with her free hand, then focused on the soft breath touching her fingertips as he slowly exhaled.

“Ghosts are also transparent,” he continued, his voice so quiet, she almost had to strain to hear him. “I would say I’m pretty solid.”

She knew what he meant. But he didn’t come closer to let her feel just how solid he was. He was letting her decide. So she did. Not making a conscious decision to do so, she moved her feet forward, until her legs nearly cupped one of his.

Definitely solid. Hard. Thick and hot between her thighs. She wobbled on her bare feet and let out a long, shuddery sigh.

Oh, he was much more dangerous than any ghost. And here she was, reacting like every stupid bimbo in every scary movie ever made. Not running for the door when the killer’s clanging around in the attic, but heading up the stairs toward the danger instead.

She scooted her feet apart, rubbing her calf against his pants…taking another step closer to the danger in the attic.

“See? I’m not a ghost.” He turned her hand, staring at her wrist. Then, slowly, he drew it to his mouth and brushed his lips over the pulse point. She couldn’t say for sure, but she thought she felt the tiniest flick of his tongue on her skin. Or else she imagined it, because she wanted to have felt it.

She moaned. No, he was not a ghost. But oh, heavens, with his breath caressing the tender skin of her wrist, she suddenly understood the seductive appeal in all those vampire novels.

“You’re obviously not a ghost, either,” he whispered before lowering her hand to her side. “We’re both flesh and blood.”

Once he’d let her go, Gwen took a tiny, physical step backward. And tried to take a great big mental one.

The stranger seemed to realize what he’d done…kissing the wrist of a stranger with the kind of sensual awareness Gwen had only ever read about in sultry novels. He met her stare, their eyes sharing knowledge of the boundaries they’d already crossed.

This was more dangerous than any supernatural threat. Because, at this moment, Gwen honestly didn’t know if she’d make one sound of protest if he tried to take her in his arms.

To be completely honest, she doubted it.

JARED DIDN’T KNOW that he’d ever met a more desirable woman. Or, at least, not one he had ever desired more. She was curvy and feminine, made more so by the outrageously seductive nightgown she wore. Her hair was a mass of golden curls. It tangled around her face, tumbling over her shoulders, creating a peekaboo curtain over the high curves of her perfect breasts. She had eyes the color of his favorite brand of whiskey—golden brown, almost amber—and a delicate face with hints of strength in the cheekbones and determined little chin.

She was not petite, so he couldn’t say why he found her delicate. Maybe it was the trembling of her lips, the hint of fear in her voice. But the fear couldn’t hide the awareness between them from the moment they’d laid eyes on each other.

Who she was, he couldn’t say. He’d never seen her before, so she probably wasn’t from Derryville, unless she’d moved here recently. He planned to find out. Not just her character for this murder party. But her real identity. He had to know what kind of woman would get so into this weekend that she’d talk ghosts and play the frightened but seductive innocent.

“So, why are you here? In the kitchen, I mean? Were you looking for a snack?” She apparently wanted to normalize the conversation. Jared watched as she reached for the light switch on the wall and flipped it up. But nothing happened, no overhead fixture brightened the shadowy room. “Must have blown a bulb.”

Undeterred, she stepped to another cabinet. She seemed familiar with the room, because she felt her way, pushing a switch and turning on a small lamp beside a wall phone. When added to the stove light and the illumination from the hall, the room no longer seemed as dim and mysterious.

Better able to see, he was unable to resist casting another leisurely glance at her, studying her long, wildly curling hair, her bare throat and her shoulders covered only by the tiny spaghetti straps of her nightgown. Then lower. He found himself almost wishing she hadn’t turned on the extra light. Because now, there was no way to disguise his instant male reaction.

He watched her twist her own fingers together, then smooth them over her gown, clenching the fabric. He knew she was resisting the urge to pull her hands up to cover her breasts. She didn’t want him to see her awareness.

Impossible. He didn’t know her name, but he knew a whole lot about her, just the same. She was beautiful. She was intoxicating. She was exciting. She wanted him.

Really, what more did a man need to know?

Besides, she wasn’t indecent, not at all. Her nightgown was thin, but not transparent. He’d seen plenty of women in dresses that covered less. So, no, it wasn’t her apparel that made the situation so damned provocative.

It was the heat in what should have been a cold room. The awareness between two strangers. The purely physical reaction that made it tough to think, tough to breathe. Neither of them was doing a good job at hiding that physical reaction. Her, with the goose bumps on her exposed skin, the pointed tips of her nipples against her silk gown making his mouth water. Him, wondering if he was going to burst the seam of his pants.

“Don’t tell me,” he finally said, respecting her unspoken wish to slow things down. “You’re a movie star, stopping at the inn on the way to your next film location.”

He earned a slight laugh. “Not by a long shot. Though, we do have a couple of old-time movie stars staying with us this weekend. At least, that’s who they say they are.”

He nodded, not surprised. The cast of characters widened…how creative of Mick to bring Hollywood into the mystery. Putting his curiosity about the other players in this game aside, he continued to speculate on this particular one. “So, are you a bride on her wedding night, with a jealous husband about to burst through that door?”

She shook her head.

“A woman being gaslighted by some wicked man and a maid?”

“Uh-uh.”

He thought about it, wondering what other possible scenarios his cousin might have come up with for his cast of characters. “Please tell me you’re not a Rapunzel type who’s eventually going to need rescuing from a high tower. Because heights and I don’t like each other very much.”

She laughed softly. “I’m just a simple innkeeper.”

“Ahh.” He reached out and touched her hair, picking up one long, curly gold tendril. Then he smiled, thinking of one of his favorite Charlie Brown movies from his childhood. “Do innkeeper’s wives have naturally curly hair?”

She didn’t react to the joke, didn’t even seem to have heard him. Her eyelids fluttered, then closed.

God, this was getting intense again. He dropped his hand.

When she opened her eyes, instead of answering his teasing question, she focused on the wife part. “I’m not married.”

“Me neither. Not even involved.”

She murmured something that sounded like good.

“So, what’s your name? Why are you here?” she asked.

“The name’s easy.” He almost gave himself away by laughing as he attempted a James Bond accent. Connery, of course—the classic Bond. Moore had been a caricature, Brosnan was merely okay. And he couldn’t even remember the name of that other guy. “The name is Stone. Miles Stone.”

She didn’t even seem to notice the hideously bad joke his cousin had foisted on him with the name: milestone.

“I’m Gwen Compton.”

He gave her a half smile. “Nice to meet you, Gwen.”

Her lips curled up at the corners and her amber eyes twinkled in the muted light. “It’s nice to be met.”

Though Jared Winchester—the private, introspective author—would probably have then propelled the conversation along more normal lines, he decided to keep playing the game. He’d use this mystery scenario to be more outrageous, more provocative than he might normally be with a woman he’d just met.

Miles Stone answered, not Jared Winchester. “As for the second part of your question…what am I doing here?”

He stepped close again, until he felt her calf brushing against his pants. She licked her lips, but didn’t step away.

“Yes?”

He reached up and touched her throat, sliding his finger up to caress her earlobe as he leaned closer, until their mouths were a breath apart. Then he filled that miniscule space with a whisper. “I’m afraid if I told you that, I’d have to kill you.”