“Are you a ghost?” Gwen asked

The stranger smiled, his teeth glittering brilliantly white in the half darkness, making her heart trip. “Not a ghost,” he said, stepping closer. “I think you’ll find I’m very real.”

Gwen didn’t move away, couldn’t move away.

“Want me to prove it?” the man continued.

Before Gwen could answer, she felt him grasp her fingers, bringing them up and pressing them against his cheek. “Aren’t ghosts supposed to be cold?”

She nodded weakly, gauging the rough warmth of his skin. He was definitely not cold. In fact he was just the opposite. Hot. Magnetic. Seductive. Her fingertips scraped across the stubble on his cheek in a helpless, subtle caress.

Gwen had never felt so exposed—or so excited. At this moment she honestly didn’t know if she’d make one sound of protest if this total stranger took her in his arms.

And it looked as if she was about to find out….

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.

“Toldja no kids would recognize you as Glenda the Good Witch.” Aunt Hildy rolled her eyes as she again examined Gwen’s pink dress and the long ringlets she’d curled into her hair.

“But everybody’s seen The Wizard of Oz.”

“Bo-o-o-ring. You gotta stop playing it safe. You’re a hot tomato, sugar lips. You just need to get back to normal, be daring like you used to be.”

She ignored the lecture on not playing it safe—lord knew, she’d been hearing it almost daily for almost two years, since her parents’ untimely death had shocked her into a life of safety and solitude. The ugly public breakup with her former fiancé had also made her “tuck up inside her shell like a pansy-ass turtle,” as her Aunt Hildy liked to say.

She didn’t mean to play it safe. In fact, recently she’d 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 she’d laid eyes on it.

“You should’ve dressed up as that singer Madonna,” Hildy added. “Moe says you coulda superglued some of them big, pointy ice cream cones over your ta-tas and looked just like her in one’a her bustiers.”

Gwen also ignored the ta-ta remark. She didn’t want to think about the possibility of supergluing anything to her breasts. Particularly since the suggestion had been made by Moe. Her great-aunt’s 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.

Hildy’s 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, Hildy’s own parents had done nothing to help her when she’d been thrown into jail, only grudgingly letting her come home after she’d served her three-year prison sentence.

Aunt Hildy’s life hadn’t gotten much easier once she was released. Never allowed to forget she’d disgraced the family, her sadness had led to deep depression, and eventually a nervous breakdown. She’d 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 aunt’s 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.

“How would Moe know about Madonna?” she finally asked, knowing demonstrations of affection made Hildy uncomfortable.

“TV.”

She turned out all but one light in the foyer, partially to prevent her aunt from seeing her amusement. “Of course. Moe loves TV, I remember.” Personally, when she was in Moe’s position, Gwen hoped television would have no part of her existence. A world without TV—no reality shows, no WWF smack-downs and no Jerry Springer—sounded like heaven to her. Then remembering the Madonna bustier suggestion, she added, “You know, those ice cream cones would break in no time flat.”

Hildy thought about it. Finally, her eyes narrowed and her brow pulled into a frown. “That dirty old geezer. He always was…”

“Never mind, Aunt Hildy. I’m sure he didn’t mean anything.” No way did she want to get into a discussion about Aunt Hildy’s former associates tonight. Yes, she’d loved the stories as a kid…the gorier the better. Hildy used to call her Gruesome Gwen because she’d been so fascinated by the wicked old days. She’d learned all anyone could know about prohibition, the benefits of a Tommy gun, how many men Pretty Boy Floyd had murdered and John Dillinger’s penis size before her eighteenth birthday.

The penis size thing was still pretty interesting.

But she hadn’t had time for stories since they’d moved here.

“All the candy gone?”

“Just about. I’m glad you insisted on buying so much.” Gwen lifted the nearly empty bowl, casting a rueful eye to one lone piece of bubble gum and a few forlorn-looking Tootsie Rolls. “I never knew there were so many kids in Derryville.”

Hildy tugged her wig off and patted a strand of white hair into her bun. “And every one of them had to come here.”

Gwen couldn’t count the number of times a group of children had come to the door tonight, looking uniformly terrified but so excited they couldn’t stand still. Each time, they’d 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, “Trick or treat.”

They’d 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 they’d moved here last February.

“I’m bushed,” Hildy said, rubbing at her hip, visibly fatigued. “You think you can close up for the night, sugar lips?”

Nodding, Gwen kissed the old woman’s forehead, wishing she’d realized sooner that Hildy wasn’t feeling well. “Go on.” 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, “Don’t forget to thaw out the muffins so they’ll be ready for the morning.”

“I won’t forget.”

But, of course, she did.

JARED REACHED Derryville very late, due to Friday night traffic on the interstate, but he didn’t worry. This gathering was set to last the whole weekend. Besides, since he wasn’t expected, it would be easier to slip inside—in character—to surprise his cousin. If he got the chance, he could manipulate the “evidence” 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 hadn’t 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 Mick’s game of “figure out who the killer is before you get murdered yourself.”

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 didn’t 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 didn’t make much sense. Little Bohemie Inn. Spoken aloud, however…“Little Bohemian. Cute, Mick.”

He paused at the bottom step. “Finally gonna get to see the inside,” he murmured. His mind tripped back to long, restless nights when he’d lie awake in his bed, imagining the horrors buried beneath the floorboards of Miser Marsden’s house.

What would old man Marsden say if he knew one of the town’s 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 he’d tried to write while in college.

He’d never seen the inside of the house—though 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. They’d 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 hadn’t 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 wasn’t 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 door—or worse, knock.

Without another thought, he turned and made his way around to the back of the house. He’d just stepped through an unlocked back door when he realized he wasn’t alone.

A figure in white—either a ghost or the most attractive female he’d ever seen—stood 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 she’d been silhouetted in the doorway, he’d 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 hadn’t 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 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.”

3

IF I TOLD YOU THATI’d have to kiss you.

Only, he hadn’t said kiss, had he? No, surely he’d said kill. But Gwen didn’t care. Kiss was what flashed in her mind. Kiss was what echoed in her brain, tempting her to be outrageous. A kiss might be daring enough to test that sexiness, that womanliness, that had eluded her since her failed engagement.

So, kiss she did. When the possible ax murderer who’d just threatened her life leaned close until their breaths mingled, she grabbed his face and proceeded to kiss the lips off him.

Of course, she’d known he was joking with the killing part. In spite of the aura of danger, she’d felt sure from the moment they’d started speaking that he was no threat to her. At least not physically. Mentally? Well, in that respect, she wasn’t so sure. Her libido had been on high alert all night. An unusual occurrence for a woman who hadn’t had sex in over a year.

But she was entitled. She hadn’t done a single daring thing today. Besides, it wasn’t like she was getting engaged to a cheating bastard—again. She was just stealing a kiss. One kiss.

Twining her fingers in his hair, she tugged him closer until their lips could meet fully. He tasted dangerous and delicious. She didn’t get too serious, just slid her lips against his, letting them part the tiniest bit, but no further. His body was close, a thin aura of awareness the only thing separating them. He made no effort to pull her tighter, letting her take what she wanted.

So she took. Without thought, without common sense, with only a bit of Halloween-and-moonlight-inspired madness.

Finally, after what could have been five seconds or five minutes, she pulled her mouth away. She felt no embarrassment. She’d kissed a stranger. Not a big deal in the scheme of things, right? She hadn’t robbed a bank, or fled from the police or been around during a shootout. Unlike some members of her family.

“Okay,” she said with a soft sigh.

“Okay?” he asked, looking surprised—but not displeased.

“Yes. That was my one impulsive act for the day.”

“That was it, huh?”

She nodded. “Yep. One a day’s my quota.”

He frowned. “Too bad.” Reaching up, he traced the line of her jaw with the tip of his finger. “But, you know, it’s only an hour until midnight. Wanna stick around and see what impulse you feel like giving into tomorrow?”

Naughty. Very naughty. She liked that about him. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten it out of my system. One kiss was all I needed.”

“That’s like saying all you need is one piece of rich, decadent chocolate.” His voice thickened. “Some things just scream to be tried again.”

She nibbled her lip. He was right. With some things, one was never enough. And this man’s kisses could be more addictive than chocolate. “I’ve done enough trying for one night. At least now, if you end up killing me, I’ll die after having enjoyed a nice kiss.”

He tsked. “I only kill bad guys.”

Though she suspected he was teasing, his voice sounded somewhat serious. “I’m not a bad guy.”

“No, you’re the mysterious, sultry, kissable innkeeper whose story I don’t yet know.” He spoke so strangely, playfully almost, fitting in with the surreal mood she’d felt all night.

“I don’t have a story.”

He brushed a long tendril of hair off her face, his fingertips lingering on her temple. “Everyone has a story.”

“What’s yours?” She clarified. “Or, at least, what of yours can you tell me without needing to do me in?”

He laughed softly, and her breath hitched at the low, resonant sound. She liked the way this man sounded as much as she liked the way he looked.

“Maybe I don’t have a story, either.”

“You have ‘story’ written all over you.”

“Too bad it’s not in braille,” he said, all flirtatious charm. A twinkle in his eye dared her to follow his meaning.

She did…and chuckled. “Okay, Mr. Stone, you’re very entertaining, but I do like to know something about the men I stumble over in darkened kitchens and kiss against their will.”

“Who said it was against my will?”

“You certainly didn’t ask for it,” she pointed out.

“I didn’t ask the cheerleading squad at my high school to flash me and my buddies, either.” He grinned. “Some things you want are just obvious.”

“Like that second piece of chocolate,” she admitted, conceding the point. Then a gentle warmth spread through her as she focused on the want part of his statement. He wanted her. Or he’d at least wanted her kiss. So, she wasn’t the only one affected by the seductive atmosphere in the air tonight.

Trying to turn this strange encounter into something more normal, she stepped away from him and walked to the huge storage freezer. Opening it, she pulled out a tray of frozen pumpkin muffins. After she’d set it on the counter, she glanced over her shoulder, aware that he watched every move she made.

“Breakfast?”

She nodded. “You are staying the entire weekend?”

“Yes.”

She wondered if he could tell she was pleased. Then she sighed. “We’ve got a full house. It’s going to be busy. I’m sure I’ll be dead tired by Sunday night.”

He laughed, as if she’d made a joke. “Right. Dead tired. I probably will be, too.” Though she raised an inquiring brow, he didn’t elaborate. “So, who else is here for this holiday weekend? Just who is sleeping in this house tonight, other than the innkeeper, the ex-movie stars…and me?”

She nibbled her lip as she thought about it, trying to remember everyone who’d checked in. So many faces—some familiar, but some having come into Derryville for only this one event. A weekend magazine mention of the new haunted inn had appeared in a Chicago paper in time to get them several last-minute reservations. People appeared willing to travel a long way to spend a night in a haunted house on October 31. A spooky B & B was perfect for grown-ups who wanted to give in to their deep-rooted need to revisit childhood and scare themselves silly on Halloween. Without giving up pampering and comfort, of course.

“Well, in addition to the older couple, there’s a pretty young doctor,” she said, remembering the woman she’d shown to the Lady in Red room. “Someone who says he’s an archeologist, and one woman who works at a museum. An older man with a thick foreign accent and a psychic from New Orleans. A couple of local residents. My aunt checked the rest of them in.”

They’d been busy getting everyone settled, plus hosting their spooky cocktail hour in the front parlor, for which everyone had dressed in costumes. She hadn’t had time to question Hildy about who the other guests were. She’d said her hellos, chatting briefly with the Derryville residents who’d come for their grand opening. After serving drinks and hors d’oeuvres, she’d gone to change into her own costume for the trick-or-treaters.

He seemed amused. “So, we have a couple of movie stars, a doctor, a mysterious foreigner, a professor type and a psychic?”

“And the ghosts, of course,” she added, wondering if her tone had made it sound like she’d thought the foreign-sounding man was mysterious. Because, truthfully, that was what she’d thought when she’d met the man, who was probably sleeping peacefully on the third floor. But she’d hate to think her personal reactions to her guests were so easily discerned.

“Oh, yes, of course, mustn’t forget the ghosts.” He obviously thought she was joking.

She could have explained, but how could one explain the unexplainable? Hildy did a much better job of that, anyway. Mr. Stone would likely get an earful about the ghosts at some point; she didn’t want to spoil the mood now by getting into details about spooks. He probably already thought she was crazy for kissing him. He didn’t need any more evidence that he’d landed in the Twilight Zone here at the Little Bohemie Inn.

“So,” he said, “I guess you’ll claim this is your average, everyday collection of guests at an inn?”

She countered with a pointed stare. “No less average than your everyday assassin.”

“I’m not an assassin.”

“Hit man?”

He rolled his eyes. “Please.”

She waited, raising an expectant brow.

“All right, I’ll tell you what I can. But you can’t mention this to anyone unless you trust them implicitly. No one can know I’m here yet.” He lowered his voice. “It could be dangerous.”

Dangerous. Oh, yes, definitely. “Tell me at least one thing. Are you running from something or to something?”

He thought about it for a moment. “I’m not running. But I am pursuing.” He gave her a look of startling intensity, loading his comment with double meaning.

Pursuing. Hmm. A hot romance? A weekend tryst? Mindless, erotic sex with a complete stranger?

“Go on,” she prodded, her voice sounding breathy.

He leaned across the counter, resting his elbows on its surface. Meeting her eyes, as if willing her to believe him, he said, “I’m undercover, Gwen. Deep, deep undercover.”

She lifted a brow. “You’re a cop?”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

When he didn’t continue, she speculated aloud. Lifting her hand, she ticked off her fingers one at a time. “Deep undercover, on a mission, deadly if provoked, not a cop, a hit man or an assassin.” Giving him a cheeky grin, she concluded, “Hmm…you must be a woman armed with a high-limit credit card, scouting out Sak’s the night before their annual one-day sale.”

Not waiting for his response, she walked around from behind the counter and pulled out a chair at the massive, butcher block kitchen table. She sat down, even as the tiny voice in her brain urged her to go up to her temporary room and go back to bed.

Alone. Now.

But even as that voice of caution whispered, she knew she’d ignore it. Tonight was becoming too exciting to consider leaving. The thrill was intoxicating. The danger appealed to a part of Gwen she thought she’d lost forever. She somehow found herself feeling like the wild, uninhibited girl she’d once been, before tragedy and sadness had made her decide—if only in her subconscious—to play it safe and careful, to subdue the wild part of herself that had so often led her into trouble.

The floor was cold against her bare toes, so she lifted her feet, resting them on the bottom rung of the chair. Her white nightgown did an adequate job of covering her hips and thighs, but she kept her hands in her lap, holding everything in place.

But the gown was pulled tighter in this position. Sure, her legs were covered, but they were also outlined by the silky fabric. Her thighs were clearly delineated, as was the slight gap between them. She squeezed them together, watching him notice as he took the chair next to hers.

“That was a good guess,” he finally said, his voice thin.

Good guess. What guess? She suddenly could barely remember her own name, much less what on earth they’d been talking about.

“But I don’t think I’d be tempted to kill someone for buying the pair of shoes I wanted.”

Ahh. Now she remembered. “Have you ever seen the discounts at Sak’s one-day sale?”

He shook his head.

“You might be tempted. Particularly if they’re great shoes and the person who’s buying them looks like one of Cinderella’s stepsisters, jamming a too-tubby foot in because they’re cheap.”

“Possibly, but there are two things wrong with your theory.”

He leaned closer, until his knees almost touched hers, and her hair ruffled with his softly exhaled breaths. God, the man was seductive. Even talking about ridiculous things like hit men and shoe sales, all her nerve endings were at the highest state of alert. No amber here, she was full on red and waiting to see what sensual weapons he had left in his arsenal.

Though she knew she should have left, she didn’t regret staying. She wanted to know what would happen next. What he’d say. What he’d do. And how she’d react to it.

“What two things?” she finally managed to ask, trying to keep a coherent thought in her head. Difficult when she was so distracted by the way his skin smelled, like salty sea air, and the way his breath brought goose bumps to her bare throat.

“First, from what I know of Derryville, I don’t imagine there’s a Sak’s within a hundred miles.”

True. Coming here last winter had been definite culture shock. But small-town life had grown on her. “Point taken.”

“And second, I don’t use my dangerous weapons against anyone but the really bad people. Not greedy shoppers with fat feet, no matter how annoying they might be.”

“For the record I’m not one of those greedy shoppers.”

As if he couldn’t help himself, he leaned closer. She had no idea what he was doing until he touched one of her feet, lifting it off the rung and cupping it in his big, warm hand.

Gwen wasn’t a petite woman, but she thought she did have rather nice, slender feet. Feet which had suddenly become massive erogenous zones, because she ached to feel his fingers higher on her body. Much higher. Between her legs. On her breasts. At her throat. Against her cheek. Everywhere she wanted to be touched by him.

“And you don’t have fat feet,” he said, continuing to stroke her foot, as if wanting to warm her sensitized skin. His touch ignited a flood of sensation that increased the temperature throughout her body. She was left wondering why no man had ever found that incredibly sensitive area…right there. Yes, that spot high on the inside of her foot, near her ankle. The one that almost made her squirm because, though the touch was focused in one location, she was feeling it everywhere.

She couldn’t help emitting a tiny moan. God, if the man’s hands on her foot could make her shift in her seat, because of her body’s damp reaction, how on earth would she handle it if he ever touched elsewhere?

Finally, as if realizing he was erotically touching the foot of a near stranger, he let her go, gently lowering her leg until she rested her heel back on the chair rung.

When she’d started breathing again, a day or two…minute or two…whatever…later, she cleared her throat. Sitting here, being so affected by him, she needed to know more about the man. “Just who do you use your dangerous weapons on, Miles?”

He paused, looking like he was trying to decide how to answer. She recognized the naughty setup she’d provided, and wondered if her subconscious had done it on purpose. Probably. Because she’d certainly been thinking about one of Mr. Stone’s “weapons” in particular, and who she’d like him to use it on.

Uh, yeah, that one. And oh, right, her.

Finally, seeming to decide not to make a sultry comeback in spite of the opening, he frowned. “Can I trust you?”

She nodded. “Even though I grabbed you and kissed you in a moment of Halloween-induced insanity, yes, you can trust me.”

He tsked, as if reminding her that they’d already had that argument. Then, reaching into an inside pocket of his black leather jacket—a well-worn, shoulder-hugging kind of jacket—he pulled out a photo identification card. And a badge.

“You are a cop?”

He shook his head and pointed to a logo. She made out some words, but didn’t recognize them. “The Shop? What’s that?”

“You’ve heard of the FBI, the CIA, the Secret Service, the Department of Homeland Security?”

“Sure.”

“We’re the deepest, darkest subunit of every one of them.”

She raised a brow. “You’re a secret agent?”

His nod was grave. “Yes.”

Gwen’s first thought was that, in spite of his very looks and smooth delivery, Miles wasn’t a very good secret agent. Secret agents didn’t go around telling people they were secret agents on undercover missions, did they? Except, maybe, for Austin Powers. Or James Bond when he wanted to get laid.

Whoa. That mental image distracted her for a good twenty seconds. She was no Bond girl, but the thought was enticing. Gwen Compton didn’t have quite the ring of Pussy Galore or Alotta Fagina, but she was at least dressed for the part. Her hair—normally flat and straight—did look extremely fabulous tonight, due to the leftover Glenda the Good Witch curls. And she’d kissed him like some bold, confident mystery woman. Not to mention they’d met under rather unusual circumstances. In a dark kitchen. On the spookiest night of the year. When she was half-naked.

Well, no wonder he’d started to act like James Bond!

“I wouldn’t have told you this,” he continued, “but I need your help. I need an ally inside this house.” Reaching down, he picked up a dark briefcase. She hadn’t even noticed it.

While she watched silently, he opened the case. She glimpsed a manila envelope, in which appeared to be a number of papers and photos, with notations in a foreign language. The case also contained some sort of radio and electronic devices.

Miles pulled out a photograph, placed it on the tabletop, and pushed it toward her with the tip of one finger. “Boris Rockinova. Ex-KGB agent turned international arms dealer.”

Gwen stared at the picture, a black-and-white 8 x 10 of a middle-aged, balding man. Normal-looking. He could have bagged her groceries or sold her a car and she’d never have given him a second look. She raised a doubtful brow. “He’s a terrorist type?”

Miles nodded, retaining his serious expression.

“And you think he might be here? In Derryville?” She heard the skepticism in her own voice.

“I think he might be right here…in this house. Our contacts say he’s set up a meeting here this weekend with potential buyers, including a high-level member of an organized crime group from New York. We don’t have the identity, but we know he’s working with a woman. This woman, code name Miss Jones, is supposed to make contact with him to arrange a weapons buy in preparation for a crime planned for the port of New York.”

“Who is she?”

“Not sure.” He glanced down at her body. “But I know she’s not you. The communication we intercepted says the woman will identify herself to our suspect by her code name, Miss Jones, and will reveal a star-shaped birthmark on her right collarbone.”

She followed his stare toward her own low neckline and grinned. “Good thing I’m not wearing a turtleneck.”

He nodded, not cracking a smile, still intense and secretive, focused on his mission. “A very good thing.”

The heat in his stare told her he wasn’t merely talking about any phantom birthmark. She swallowed hard, trying to focus on their conversation, not the attraction still snapping between them. “How can you know all this?”

“We know a lot about the people in this inn this weekend,” he admitted. “That elderly couple?”

She raised an inquiring brow.

“Counterfeiters.”

Her jaw dropped.

“Double-check any money they give you.”

“They paid with a credit card,” she murmured, still not fully able to wrap her mind around this whole crazy scenario.

Maybe this guy was loco, maybe he was playing games with her, perhaps he was even an escapee from a mental institution. Maybe he was playing a big fat Halloween prank. Her instincts said there was more to this story than he’d said, that his charm hid as much as it revealed. Conventional wisdom told her she should be on the phone, out the door or arming herself with something sharp. That’s certainly what any quiet turtle would do.

To hell with that.

She forced the thought away. Gwen wasn’t stupid enough to react foolishly out of a need to do something reckless and exciting for a change. But something about his story rang true, though she suspected he hadn’t told her everything. Perhaps he was telling her only as much of the truth as he could.

He had identification, a briefcase full of documents and, if she wasn’t mistaken, what looked like surveillance equipment. He was also intense and charming, suave and smooth-talking. Obviously intelligent, adept at slipping in the shadows.

The CIA, or the Shop, or whatever it was, could do worse. So it wasn’t entirely impossible. And if there was any chance, whatsoever, that Miles was indeed who he said he was, she might have a dangerous criminal sleeping under her roof.

An international arms dealer, along with the ghosts, was enough to ruin any fledgling inn. At least for the 51.5 weeks of the year not involving Halloween. And that didn’t even take into account the whole “being murdered in her bed” scenario.

“All right,” she finally said. Her voice sounded both a little skeptical and a little afraid. “I’ll help you, Mr. Stone. I’ll be your ally this weekend. Tell me what you want me to do.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.