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âSam seemed to like it,â Hildy said with a suggestive wag of the eyebrows.
Sam Winchester was Hildyâs eighty-seven-year-old gentleman friend. He and Hildy had been âstepping outâ together for a few months, which Gwen was glad about. Hildy might be too old to settle down, marry and have the children sheâd never had, but she certainly wasnât too old for a little romance, a little happiness. Heaven knows she hadnât had much of either one in her life.
âToldja no kids would recognize you as Glenda the Good Witch.â Aunt Hildy rolled her eyes as she again examined Gwenâs pink dress and the long ringlets sheâd curled into her hair.
âBut everybodyâs seen The Wizard of Oz.â
âBo-o-o-ring. You gotta stop playing it safe. Youâre a hot tomato, sugar lips. You just need to get back to normal, be daring like you used to be.â
She ignored the lecture on not playing it safeâlord knew, sheâd been hearing it almost daily for almost two years, since her parentsâ untimely death had shocked her into a life of safety and solitude. The ugly public breakup with her former fiancé had also made her âtuck up inside her shell like a pansy-ass turtle,â as her Aunt Hildy liked to say.
She didnât mean to play it safe. In fact, recently sheâd begun trying to do at least one spontaneous, risky thing each day, even if it was only wearing a darker shade of eye shadow, or a thin, filmy blouse on a windy October day. With a bra.
She could also admit, if only to herself, that it probably was the old Gwennie who had fallen crazy in love with this dark, gothic-looking house from the moment sheâd laid eyes on it.
âYou shouldâve dressed up as that singer Madonna,â Hildy added. âMoe says you coulda superglued some of them big, pointy ice cream cones over your ta-tas and looked just like her in oneâa her bustiers.â
Gwen also ignored the ta-ta remark. She didnât want to think about the possibility of supergluing anything to her breasts. Particularly since the suggestion had been made by Moe. Her great-auntâs best pal. The dead gangster whose ghost currently made his home in their basement.
She supposed there were worse ways Hildy could spend her golden years than talking to the ghosts from her past. She was just thankful Hildy had lived to see her golden years. And that Gwen was around to take care of her and share them with her.
Hildyâs family had disowned her when she was a disgraced teenager, having fallen in with a notorious gang of Chicago bank robbers back in the thirties. From what Gwen could gather, Hildyâs own parents had done nothing to help her when sheâd been thrown into jail, only grudgingly letting her come home after sheâd served her three-year prison sentence.
Aunt Hildyâs life hadnât gotten much easier once she was released. Never allowed to forget sheâd disgraced the family, her sadness had led to deep depression, and eventually a nervous breakdown. Sheâd spent years in and out of mental institutions. Something Gwen still had trouble fathoming, considering Aunt Hildy had been a smiling, gentle presence through her whole life.
She put her arm around her elderly auntâs frail shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze. Gwen was too grateful to have the slightly zany, but deeply loving old woman around to quibble over trifling matters like talking to a dead gangster. Hildy was the only family she had left. And Gwen would do anything to make her final years happy, tranquil ones. Anything to help Hildy forget that her family had once betrayed her.
âHow would Moe know about Madonna?â she finally asked, knowing demonstrations of affection made Hildy uncomfortable.
âTV.â
She turned out all but one light in the foyer, partially to prevent her aunt from seeing her amusement. âOf course. Moe loves TV, I remember.â Personally, when she was in Moeâs position, Gwen hoped television would have no part of her existence. A world without TVâno reality shows, no WWF smack-downs and no Jerry Springerâsounded like heaven to her. Then remembering the Madonna bustier suggestion, she added, âYou know, those ice cream cones would break in no time flat.â
Hildy thought about it. Finally, her eyes narrowed and her brow pulled into a frown. âThat dirty old geezer. He always wasâ¦â
âNever mind, Aunt Hildy. Iâm sure he didnât mean anything.â No way did she want to get into a discussion about Aunt Hildyâs former associates tonight. Yes, sheâd loved the stories as a kidâ¦the gorier the better. Hildy used to call her Gruesome Gwen because sheâd been so fascinated by the wicked old days. Sheâd learned all anyone could know about prohibition, the benefits of a Tommy gun, how many men Pretty Boy Floyd had murdered and John Dillingerâs penis size before her eighteenth birthday.
The penis size thing was still pretty interesting.
But she hadnât had time for stories since theyâd moved here.
âAll the candy gone?â
âJust about. Iâm glad you insisted on buying so much.â Gwen lifted the nearly empty bowl, casting a rueful eye to one lone piece of bubble gum and a few forlorn-looking Tootsie Rolls. âI never knew there were so many kids in Derryville.â
Hildy tugged her wig off and patted a strand of white hair into her bun. âAnd every one of them had to come here.â
Gwen couldnât count the number of times a group of children had come to the door tonight, looking uniformly terrified but so excited they couldnât stand still. Each time, theyâd pushed forward one unlucky little soul to be their spokesman. The voice would tremble, the eyes would sparkle with fear. Eventually each would muster up the courage to whisper, âTrick or treat.â
Theyâd peer around her, trying to get a look inside the infamous house, which had cleaned up rather well after months of work. Well enough to open their inn before the end of the year, as she and Hildy had hoped when theyâd moved here last February.
âIâm bushed,â Hildy said, rubbing at her hip, visibly fatigued. âYou think you can close up for the night, sugar lips?â
Nodding, Gwen kissed the old womanâs forehead, wishing sheâd realized sooner that Hildy wasnât feeling well. âGo on.â Hugging her aunt again, she took care to be gentle with those fine, delicate old shoulders, on which Gwen had leaned more than once as a girl.
As Hildy walked away, she said, âDonât forget to thaw out the muffins so theyâll be ready for the morning.â
âI wonât forget.â
But, of course, she did.
JARED REACHED Derryville very late, due to Friday night traffic on the interstate, but he didnât worry. This gathering was set to last the whole weekend. Besides, since he wasnât expected, it would be easier to slip insideâin characterâto surprise his cousin. If he got the chance, he could manipulate the âevidenceâ and pin the crime on Mick. Guilty or not.
Mick deserved some payback for the Maxwell Smart stuff.
He cut off his headlights as he drove up the hill leading to the old Marsden house, not even fully realizing he was holding his breath as the imposing building came into view.
It hadnât changed. Dark and angled, it was an architectural monstrosity that had never fit in with the quaint mid-western town. It overlooked Derryville like a crouching dragon guarding its village for its supply of tasty virgins.
Several cars were parked in the lot at the side of the house, evidence of the party underway. The building appeared dark, so it was possible some people had retired for the night. Or, perhaps, they were busy being bumped off in Mickâs game of âfigure out who the killer is before you get murdered yourself.â
Jared got out of the car after tucking his keys up behind the sun visor. As soon as he had a chance, he planned to come back and move his Viper into the garage. He also left the invitation and his wallet in the glove box, intending to be in character as of this moment. He didnât worry about anyone stealing anything. This was Derryville, after all.
As he walked to the porch, he noticed a small sign. Mick had gone all out, having a fake sign painted for his inn. In print, it didnât make much sense. Little Bohemie Inn. Spoken aloud, howeverâ¦âLittle Bohemian. Cute, Mick.â
He paused at the bottom step. âFinally gonna get to see the inside,â he murmured. His mind tripped back to long, restless nights when heâd lie awake in his bed, imagining the horrors buried beneath the floorboards of Miser Marsdenâs house.
What would old man Marsden say if he knew one of the townâs most famous residents had used descriptions of his home in his earliest horror-writing efforts? The Marsden house, with its dusty turrets, so dark and imposing against even the sunniest summer skies, had definitely been inspiring when it came to writing spooky tales. But practically nobody knew about the stories, long buried in trashed periodicals or out-of-print slasher rags. Jared was now on the bestseller lists with nonfiction, not the dreck heâd tried to write while in college.
Heâd never seen the inside of the houseâthough not for lack of trying. He and Mick had climbed the rickety outside steps up to the wide, creaking wooden porch to ring the doorbell once, years ago. Theyâd done it on a double-dog dare, to see if old man Marsden really did have a Doberman named Killer, trained to bite the nuts off any boy stupid enough to trespass on his property.
Marsden hadnât answered. Neither had Killer. Which left Jared with hope that he might someday be able to father a rugrat or two. He also hoped that if there were any ghosts in the Marsden place, Killer wasnât among them.
A dog howled in the distance and he had to laugh at his own start of surprise. Shaking off old memories, he put one foot on the step, then paused. Miles Stone, superspy extraordinaire, would never walk through the front doorâor worse, knock.
Without another thought, he turned and made his way around to the back of the house. Heâd just stepped through an unlocked back door when he realized he wasnât alone.
A figure in whiteâeither a ghost or the most attractive female heâd ever seenâstood a few feet away. Jared froze, watching her move into the kitchen, unaware of his presence.
She was clad in a shimmering gown, and her golden hair was long and wildly curled against her curvy body. While sheâd been silhouetted in the doorway, heâd gotten a glimpse of a sweetly soft face complete with full pouty lips. Every male instinct he possessed came to attention instantly in a way he hadnât experienced in a long time.
Remaining in character, Miles Stone prepared to do what any James Bond would do. Find out who she was. Remove any weapons she might be carrying.
Then get her into bed.
2
GWEN HAD REMEMBERED the muffins forty minutes after sheâd gone to bed in one of the upstairs guest rooms. âDamn,â sheâd 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 anybodyâs head. But it wasnât anybody who was going to have to oversee breakfast for their guests. It was her body.
Sighing heavily, sheâd gotten up, wishing sheâd thought to grab a bathrobe from her own room before coming upstairs for the night. Her thin negligee had done nothing to warm her. Sheâd made a mental note to stop to get the robe before coming back up.
In the kitchen, she hadnât bothered to flip on the blinding overhead fixture. The lamp in the hallway banished most of the shadows, and sheâd left the small light over the stove on, as usual, in case Aunt Hildy needed something during the night.
Now she was inside the roomâmaneuvering around familiar cabinets and fixturesâand that was when she realized she wasnât 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 whoâd stood there decades before.
She instantly thought of Hildyâs ghost friends. When the shadow moved, separating from the inky blackness in the corner, she made out more of his features and gasped. âGood lord.â
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.
âDonât be afraid.â
Who wouldnât be afraid? Alone: check. Dark man in kitchen: check. Spooky house: check. Halloween night: start screaming now.
âReally, you have nothing to fear,â he continued in a voice that was both soft and masculine, soothing and melodic.
Sure. Right. Donât be afraid, Iâm 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. âWho are you? What are you doing here?â
âIâm a guest at the inn for the weekend.â
Her whole body began to relax. âA guest?â
Of course. Hildy had checked in several people today. Gwen obviously hadnât met everyone. She nearly chuckled at her own foolishness. No ghost. No ax-wielding maniac. Just a paying guest. She wasnât used to the fact that they were an open, operating inn, and she and Hildy were no longer alone in this huge, ghostly house. âGood lord, you scared me half to death.â
âIâm sorry.â 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 sheâd 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 oâclock shadow, giving him a slightly wolfish look.
Sheâd always had such a thing for dark, rakish-looking men.
And lordy, the man had the most glorious mouth sheâd 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.
âI really didnât mean to frighten you. Forgive me?â
Sheâd 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. âThe kitchen is one of the private areas of the house.â
His eyes twinkled as he gave her a conspiratorial grin. âDonât tell on me. You keep my secret and Iâll keep yours.â
Her first instinct was confusion, then panic set in. Gwen kept only one secretâHildyâs history. But he couldnât 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. âWhy do you think I have a secret?â
He practically tsked. âEveryone has secrets. Besides, Iâm an expert,â 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. âAn expert?â She kept her feet planted, even as some deep, feminine part of her ached to step closer.
He nodded. âAbsolutely. And I know one secret of yours. I donât imagine many people know you visit the kitchen dressed soâ¦interestinglyâ¦late at night.â 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 didnât make it true.
Though she thought of how foolish sheâd 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 sheâd once so very much liked about attracting the opposite sex. That look in a manâs 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.
âI didnât remember to bring my robe,â she finally said, wondering how a perfect stranger could bring out the woman sheâd thought was lost forever. âI should get it.â
âDonât go to any trouble on my account.â 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 manâs 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 oneâ¦the one she was supposed to have worn on her honeymoon. The one sheâd kept after sheâd 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, sheâd 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. Howâ¦enticing.
Still, she wasnât stupid. This was risky business. She didnât 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 didnât 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.
âI really am sorry for frightening you.â
âItâs okay.â Her voice sounded weak, breathy and nervous. She cleared her throat, then realized she meant it. âItâs fine. I wasnât afraid. Not really.â
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 didnât intimidate her. His breadth didnât, 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 sheâd 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.
âWhat are you thinking?â
âThat finding dark, handsome strangers in the kitchen late at night just doesnât happen to women like me.â
He didnât laugh, or even smile, at her frankness. âAnd I donât often stumble across stunning blondes in nighties when I visit country inns. Or are you, perhaps, the ghost of this inn?â
âIâm entirely real.â Then she paused. It was, after all, Halloween. The whole town believed she lived in a haunted house. Sheâd grown accustomed to strange happenings that had given her more than one sleepless night in recent months. And there were her auntâs spectral friends to consider. âAre you a ghost?â
This time, he did smile, his teeth glittering brilliantly white in the half darkness, making her heart trip again. Maybe her question hadnât been so ridiculous. No man this seductive could just stumble across her path. Not with her luck when it came to men.
âNot a ghost. Iâm very real.â 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 didnât move away, even as the word dangerous flashed through her mind.
âWant me to prove it?â
Before she could answerâand Gwen couldnât say what her answer would have beenâshe felt the man grasp her fingers. He lifted them until she was almost touching his face. Then he pressed her fingers against his cheek. âArenât ghosts cold?â
She nodded weakly, gauging the rough warmth of his skin, wondering if heâd read her mind when sheâd thought earlier about how sexy his five oâclock shadow looked. âYouâre not cold.â
Not cold. Hot. Magnetic. Seductive. Her fingertips scraped across the roughness of his cheek in a helpless, subtle caress.
âAnd spirits donât breathe, do they?â
Without warning, he moved her hand until her fingers brushed his lips. God, those lips. The other part of his face sheâd found so arousing. Gwenâs 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.
âGhosts are also transparent,â he continued, his voice so quiet, she almost had to strain to hear him. âI would say Iâm pretty solid.â
She knew what he meant. But he didnât 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 killerâs clanging around in the attic, but heading up the stairs toward the danger instead.
She scooted her feet apart, rubbing her calf against his pantsâ¦taking another step closer to the danger in the attic.
âSee? Iâm not a ghost.â 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 couldnât 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.
âYouâre obviously not a ghost, either,â he whispered before lowering her hand to her side. âWeâre both flesh and blood.â