Trick Me, Treat Me

Dear Reader,

I am a Halloween junkie. I love being scared, and I love scaring other people. At my place we go all out—big haunted house, graveyard in the front yard, guillotine on the driveway. I have as many boxes of Halloween stuff in my attic as I do Christmas decorations.

So when Harlequin gave me the green light for a Halloween-themed Temptation novel, you can bet I was excited. But if I was going to do it, I wanted to do it right…meaning it had to have everything I love about Halloween and romance all mixed up in one tempting little package. And that’s just what Trick Me, Treat Me is. There are costumes and quirky characters, a haunted inn, mistaken identity, amnesia, secret agents, gangster molls, arms dealers and even a few ghosts. Not to mention a lot of heat…

So grab your pointy hats, hold tight to those broomsticks and be prepared for a lot of fun. You’re about to go on a wild ride….

Happy reading—and happy Halloween!

Leslie Kelly

Trick Me, Treat Me

Leslie Kelly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This one’s dedicated to all the talented writers

who’ve helped me so often along the weary writing road.

To Marilyn, Mia and Laurie, who’ve been there since day one.

To Camille and Jill, who are always willing to

drop everything and give me a quick read.

And to Julie, Janelle and Karen,

who helped me shape this idea from the start.

Long live the Plot Monkeys!

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue

Prologue

October, this year

FIFTEEN-YEAR-OLD Rosario Sanchez was destined to be the worst maid in the world. She hated washing floors, loathed vacuuming and would rather stick a spike in her eye than clean other people’s toilets. She’d long dreamed of being a hairstylist. “I’d love to take some bleach to Angel Fuentes’s head, so she’ll look like the puta she is,” she muttered.

But no. No classy hair salon job for Rosario. After high school, she would take her place in the family cleaning business, like a rich girl would take her place at a debutante ball. Rich she wasn’t.

Generally, life sucked. Still, sometimes her after-school job had perks. Like now. She sat in a Chicago penthouse owned by a writer who’d spent the last year overseas researching horrible murders for his next bestseller. She peeked at his photo on the back of his latest book. “Mr. Winchester you are muy delicioso.”

He was hot, even if he was old—at least thirty. He had dark hair, chocolaty eyes. Tall and mysterious, he was a man to sweep a maid off her feet, like in that Jennifer Lopez movie.

She’d like to help him write a new kind of book. “Romance,” she said. Fantasizing, she reached into a giant bag of potato chips. Crumbling a handful of greasy chips on to the front of her sweater, she moaned, “Come and feast on me you big, sexy man.”

Rosario eventually picked the crumbs off, popping each one into her mouth with her fingertip. They were Lay’s, after all.

Grabbing the remote, she glanced around and cringed. The penthouse looked like it had been the scene of a huge party. Probably because it had. Last month. The night Manuel Diaz had dumped her for that bitch Angel. “Puta,” she said aloud this time.

She’d have to clean the place eventually. But not for a while. Her mother trusted her enough never to check anymore to make sure Rosario was performing her after-school dusting, watering and mail sorting duties at the penthouse. It wasn’t like it needed real cleaning with it having been empty so long. The owner wasn’t due back until late January—three months. She had time.

Grabbing the remote, she settled in for an hour of soap watching. Before she could even turn on her favorite show, however, she heard the door open. And nearly wet her pants.

Mr. Winchester is home early!

“Rosario?”

Worse. “Mama?” She groaned, a long, low sound holding both terror and dismay. This was definitely worse than the owner coming home. He, at least, wouldn’t smack her in the head with a purse the size of a suitcase, like the one Mama carried.

A long stream of invective—all in Spanish—spewed from her mother’s mouth. Rosario knew enough of the language to pick out several words, the kindest of which were lazy and useless.

Then the door opened again and her grandmother walked in. From worse to catastrophic.

“Mr. Winchester comes home tomorrow! What do we do?” Her mother sobbed in what Rosario considered pure melodrama.

Grandmama glared. “We get to work now.”

Rosario did. Thankfully, her mother soon got too wrapped in getting beer stains out of the living room carpet to yell at her anymore. She’d escaped, at least temporarily, into another room.

It was while halfheartedly scrubbing the office floor that Rosario found a pile of dusty-looking envelopes against a wall. Several pieces of unopened mail had fallen from the desk. Mail Rosario was supposed to deliver to Mr. Winchester’s secretarial company. She’d forgotten. For…uh…weeks…surely no more.

The postmarks said the items were a year old.

As she rifled through them, she thought quickly, fighting back panic. “Sales circulars…that’s okay…oh no, bills. Paid now,” she muttered and thrust them into a garbage bag. That left a few personal-looking items, including a thick manila envelope with a jack-o’-lantern sticker on it. “Maybe he’ll think it’s for this Halloween.” Her voice held a pathetic note of hope.

“What you are doing?”

Caught! “Some mail fell back here,” she whispered.

Grandmama muttered a wicked-sounding curse that would likely result in black hairs sprouting out of Rosario’s back. Or warts on her chin. Again. Then she stalked over and seized the mail. Sighing, she shook her head and raised her eyes heavenward, a picture of visual piety. “We leave it in God’s hands.”

Grandmama, however, apparently thought God’s hands were full enough with piddling issues like world peace, the stock market and the prayers of hopeful lottery players. She seemed to want to help him out. Reaching into the bucket Rosario had been using to wash the floor, she retrieved a sponge full of dirty water. Rosario watched, shocked, as her grandmother smeared the sponge over the exterior of the remaining envelopes.

“No telling when they came,” the old woman said. “Lost. Ruined by bad weather. He throws them out himself. No blame.”

Her grandmama was helping her? Not calling to Mama to come and deliver more shouts or bruising swings of her handbag? Rosario clutched her grandmother’s skirt. “Thank you.”

In response, she got a smack in the head with a wet sponge.

“You’re fired.”

1

A few days later

JARED WINCHESTER wished the weather was warm enough to merit the brilliant blue of the autumn sky. But in spite of the clear day—such a change from the dark Russian skies he’d seen for the past year—the temperature was brutal. Too bad. He’d have loved to put down the top on his convertible for the drive to Derryville.

He settled back in his leather seat, one hand on the steering wheel. God, he’d missed his car. Almost as much as he’d missed the sunshine.

His trip to research the Glanovsky serial killer case had come to an end a few months early due to interference from the government. But not early enough. He’d returned a couple of days ago just in time to go from freezing cold Russian autumn right into freezing cold Chicago winter. It’d been more than a year since he’d felt warm.

Perhaps it was appropriate, considering he’d soon be writing a book about one of the coldest crime sprees the former Soviet Union had ever seen. The Soviets hadn’t liked to admit to such western aberrations as serial killers, so they’d done some covering up over the years. Jared had uncovered a lot. Enough that the present officials had gotten antsy and stopped cooperating. “Let it go,” he murmured, not wanting to let frustration over bureaucracy affect his drive to his cousin’s party.

With a tap of a button, the car filled with a blast of good old head-banging hard rock from the good old U.S. of A. His favorite music, though few would believe it. Damn, home felt good. Put a six-pack of real beer in the trunk, and a fast-food burger made of real beef in his hand, and he’d be set. It was time to reclaim his normal life. Get out of the world of a serial killer, at least until he had to begin writing the book he was contracted to deliver next spring. Beer and burgers would help.

“Some mind-blowing sex wouldn’t hurt, either.”

Not that he’d been celibate in Russia. He’d had a little fling with a detective who had a thing for cowboys. It had been fun, though she’d been disappointed that he’d refused to have sex while wearing boots and a ten-gallon hat. Not to mention spurs.

But it had been too long since he’d enjoyed slow, sensual sex with someone who liked to curl up together afterward. Martina, the cowboy groupie, had preferred to go arrest people after a hot romp. Jared was out of the arresting people business. Way out. And he had no interest in returning to it.

Since he had no serious woman in his life, and hadn’t kept in touch with any of the less serious ones, that need would have to wait. The difficulty with relationships was one of the toughest parts of his job. Not just because of the travel, but because most women couldn’t take what he did. The crimes he researched, his ability to reconstruct horrific events…well, he hadn’t met a woman yet who’d even tried to understand. And the fact that he tended to be a pretty introverted guy could throw a woman off. He spent nearly all his time doing research and writing. His social skills were pretty rusty.

Sure, women understood the paycheck, the penthouse, the cars, the cash. But not the man. Never the man.

That probably wasn’t too surprising. His own family had a tough time understanding the way his mind worked sometimes. When his parents had asked why he was leaving the bureau a few years back, he’d tried to explain. Being raised in a family of cops had made him develop a fascination with crime from a young age, even though Derryville hadn’t exactly been crime central.

The fascination, however, wasn’t so much in solving crimes, but rather in understanding the psychology behind them, in putting the pieces together to figure out not only what had happened, but why it had happened. And, perhaps, in preventing something similar from happening again.

That pretty much summed up why the FBI hadn’t been for him, while writing true crime novels was.

Glancing at his open briefcase, he ignored the stack of files and photos from the Russian case, which he should have left at home. Instead he focused on the smeary padded envelope—the reason for this trip. “Mick, you are one crazy son of a bitch.”

Leave it to his cousin to plan an outrageous Halloween party. A murder weekend. Complete with thrills and chills at a bona fide haunted house. Right up Jared’s alley. Time had, after all, recently called him the Stephen King of the nonfiction world. As a big fan of King for years, he’d taken it as a huge compliment.

The key wasn’t the murder, thrills and chills. Knowing Mick, this weekend would be pure fun. Low stress. And with Mick’s love for practical jokes, a lot of laughs. Just what he needed.

The plans for the party were intricate. The envelope contained realistic-looking fake ID, and a dossier on his character. There were maps, coded messages, even a photo of the bad guy—an international arms dealer—he was allegedly pursuing.

Jared looked the part, too. He’d dressed all in black. And he’d found props, including a small, fake handgun that was really a cigarette lighter, and some stuff he’d gotten when researching a book on old Chicago organized crime—a side interest he dabbled in when he got the chance.

He kept thinking of his destination. The Marsden Place.

Mick had set up a scenario with a group trapped at a spooky inn for a weekend…in the old Marsden house, the scariest building in their hometown. He couldn’t imagine a less inviting inn. Except on Halloween. Tonight it would be just about perfect.

Mick was a real estate agent. He’d been trying to sell the house for two years, since the former owner had died. But nobody with any common sense would want it. Talk about white elephants. It had needed tons of work a decade ago…he couldn’t imagine how the house looked now. “Probably just right for a murder party.”

Mick might be the theatrical one, but Jared was up for a challenge. His cousin’s invitation had been a thinly disguised gauntlet. Since he’d known Jared was supposed to be gone until January, he was daring him to come home to Derryville early.

Derryville. Funny, he’d once considered his hometown a two-stoplight dump, from which he’d longed to escape. Somehow, his feelings had mellowed once he’d built a new life elsewhere. He’d enjoyed his few trips home over the years, even if he hadn’t been able to resolve a few longstanding family issues.

A trill of his cell phone interrupted his thoughts. “Hello?”

“Jared! I didn’t wake you, did I? Not sure what time zone you were in. Moscow—is that ahead of us or behind?”

He recognized the voice of Alice McCoy, his literary agent and friend. “Ahead. Eight hours. But it’s okay, I’ve been home almost two days. And I’ve readjusted to all things American, except the tendency to supersize portions of absolutely everything.” He sipped from a Super Big Gulp he’d picked up when stopping to gas up for the trip. “But I’m remembering why I like it.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re back. We’ve got tons to do.”

A truck swerved too close from the other lane, nearly cutting Jared off the road. As he tapped the horn, he hoped his secretarial service had paid up his insurance. They hadn’t done much else right—hadn’t even forwarded his damn mail, for weeks.

Alice obviously heard the horn. He could almost hear the muscles of her face pull into a frown. “You’re in your car.”

She sounded as disapproving as his fourth-grade teacher, who’d liked to make him write, “I will not make up stories that frighten other children,” a half-million times on the chalkboard.

“Yes.”

“Why aren’t you sitting at your desk writing this fabulous new book that’s going to make you rich…er?”

“I’m taking a brief trip. Going to my hometown.”

“Haven’t you traveled enough?”

“It’s my favorite holiday. Don’t I deserve a break? I’ve been invited to a murder mystery party for Halloween weekend.”

She laughed, her smoky voice thick from decades of cigarettes and expensive bourbon. “Right up your alley, so I guess you’re allowed. Does your family know you’re coming?”

He heard the unasked question. Does your grandfather know you’re coming? “No.” And it was probably just as well since his relationship with his grandfather had grown decidedly strained over the years. Another reason for accepting Mick’s invitation. It was past time to mend that fence, to fix that broken relationship.

Jared had gotten friendly with a grizzled old Russian lieutenant over the past several months. On Saturday nights, Nicolai liked to drink vodka and reminisce about the family he’d lost because of his obsession with his career. Every word he’d spoken had reminded Jared that it was time to extend an olive branch to his grandfather before it was too late.

“You’re going to show up unannounced?” She sounded surprised that her reserved client would do something so impulsive.

Yeah, it was slightly out of character, which was what he needed. “Actually, I’m not going to show up unannounced. Miles Stone, the secret agent who’s a cross between James Bond, Austin Powers and Maxwell Smart is showing up unannounced.”

Another low laugh. “Bond I get, given your looks.”

He grinned. It wasn’t a compliment. A disgruntled Alice had once told him he was much too good-looking to be taken seriously as a brilliant criminalist.

“And I guess you probably like women as much as Powers. But, I gotta tell ya, you’re too young to remember, but I’m not. Maxwell Smart wasn’t the best secret agent in the world.”

“Which is why my obnoxious cousin mentioned him.”

“Gotcha. Is that why you didn’t RSVP? To get even?”

“Nah. Mick has no idea I’m back. He knew I was supposed to be overseas until after Christmas. He sent the invitation to taunt me about missing my favorite time of year. Again.” He smiled evilly. “He deserves to have a guest crash the party.”

“Hope he doesn’t kick you out of his house.”

“It’s not in his house. The party’s taking place in the house of my childhood nightmares.”

As expected, the bloodthirsty sixty-year-old, who loved his books, was immediately intrigued. “Tell me more.”

After he had, she said, “Is your cousin in the habit of having private parties in the houses he’s got listed for sale?”

Actually, he didn’t imagine Mick would give something like that a second thought. “The house is in trust with a lawyer. I’m sure he got permission.” Since he and Mick hadn’t spoken in ages, Jared didn’t know how he’d finagled the use of the house for the weekend. But he’d bet there was some back-scratching involved.

In Derryville, back-scratching was involved in every deal. From which fireman would drive the big rig for the Labor Day parade, to who got to flip the switch for the Christmas tree in town square, Derryville was a microcosm of the good old American barter system. It didn’t trade in goods…just favors.

God, it all sounded so appealing. The very sameness, the normalcy that had made him long to escape years ago was exactly the balm his battered spirits needed right now. Home. It was so blissfully, soul-soothingly simple. Easygoing and peaceful. Exactly what he needed after a year of crazy but wonderful Russian cops, and just plain crazy criminals. Which is exactly what had made him decide to accept his cousin’s invitation.

He could hardly wait for the weekend to begin.

“HURRY HOME NOW. It’s after nine. Chief Stockton won’t want to see any ghosts and goblins on the street so late.”

Gwen Compton waved at one last straggling group of trick-or-treaters as they skipped across her front lawn. They laughed and yelled, kicking crunchy brown leaves out of the way in their haste to make it to just one more house before heading home.

The full moon cast gentle illumination on the road leading down the hill, so she didn’t fear for the children’s safety. The road wasn’t busily traveled. Only their guests—all of whom were already settled in for the night here at the bed-and-breakfast—used it. The moon was aided in its quest to brighten the night by softly glowing streetlights, which had miraculously escaped the mischief night BB guns that had taken out many of those downtown.

She watched the kids dart from puddle to puddle of light, pausing beneath the lamps to grab one more bit of candy, to toss out the odd apple or exchange a lollipop for a jawbreaker. Probably all of them were jamming chocolates into their mouths in spite of their parents’ dire warnings to let them check their candy before they ate it. In a town like Derryville, who could blame the kids? The only slightly scary thing about this peaceful Illinois place was the house in which she stood. Her home.

Shutting the door, she sagged against it and sighed, both relieved the evening was over, and also slightly sad to see it come to an end. Her first Halloween in the spookiest haunted house in town. Her home, which she adored—dark corners, scary turrets, strange creaky noises and all. And it had been a resounding success.

Of course, they probably wouldn’t have a single guest for the rest of the year. But she knew when they opened last month that Halloween would be a sellout, given the house’s reputation. They’d come close to meeting her prediction. Only two of their thirteen rooms remained vacant. That had proved fortunate. A broken pipe had caused a flood in her room, forcing her out. She’d have to stay upstairs for a few days.

“Aww, dangit, they’re gone. Think that’s it for the night?”

Glancing up, she hid a smile. Her great-aunt Hildy was peering out the window, looking mad enough to spit.

“I think so.”

“Rats. I didn’t make it outside in time to sing to that last group.” The old woman shook her head. “Knew I shouldn’ta had that second frankfurter for dinner. I been in the bathroom half the night and missed mosta the fun.”

Not particularly caring to hear about the bathroom habits of an old lady, Gwen turned to lock the front door.

“I still think I shoulda got that psycho killer mask and a chainsaw and chased the little devils down the hill.”

“You would have fallen and broken your hip.”

Her great-aunt shot her a look that demanded an apology. Gwen refused to give her one. Spry and in physically perfect condition or not, Hildy was eighty-five years old.

“You coulda done it,” Hildy finally said. “The old Gwennie would have.”

The old Gwennie. Hmm…Gwen remembered her. Sometimes she even smiled when she thought about that wild, free-spirited person who’d been hell on wheels as a teenager, rebellious and daring as a young adult. Who’d loved hack-em-up thriller movies, and had once dreamed of being in the FBI so she could outwit her own Hannibal Lechter.

Gone. Long gone. Somehow that person had become a quiet, rather sedate woman who ran an inn with her elderly relative and did nothing more exciting than occasionally go out without wearing a bra.

But that was okay. Everyone had to grow up sometime.

“I like this costume better on you, anyway,” Gwen replied, not responding to Hildy’s remark. She gave her great-aunt a visual once-over, studying the spiked, shocking-pink wig, and the thigh-high white patent leather boots sticking to the skinniest pair of old lady legs this side of a refugee camp. Combined with the glitter makeup on the woman’s eyes, the red leather skirt, white spandex top and pink feather boa, Hildy made quite a picture. Seeing Aunt Hildy as a punk rocker had probably been more effective at giving kids nightmares than any chainsaw wielding maniac could ever have.

“Sam seemed to like it,” Hildy said with a suggestive wag of the eyebrows.

Sam Winchester was Hildy’s eighty-seven-year-old gentleman friend. He and Hildy had been “stepping out” together for a few months, which Gwen was glad about. Hildy might be too old to settle down, marry and have the children she’d never had, but she certainly wasn’t too old for a little romance, a little happiness. Heaven knows she hadn’t had much of either one in her life.