by Leslie Kelly
“He’s not coming back,” I whispered, tempted to get up and put on my sweats and socks. And my coat.
But even the cold couldn’t keep my mind off warm, intimate thoughts for too long. Not now that a gruff-talking, black-eyed stranger had brought every sexual urge I possessed out of hiding and started them all doing a kick line deep inside my body.
Somehow, though, I knew it wasn’t just desperate sexual hunger keeping me awake. I couldn’t stop thinking of my host’s dark haunted eyes. He’d been gruff—abrasive, yes—but he was practically wrapped in an aura of wounded sadness, lashing out at the world but only hurting himself.
I knew, deep inside, that he needed warm, gentle hands to heal him. Just as I knew I needed hot, strong hands to heal me.
We were exactly what each other needed. Exactly.
“Oh, God,” I whispered, staring up toward the ceiling, lit by a bit of watery moonlight that had finally emerged now that the worst of the storm had passed. “I can’t leave here tomorrow.”
If I had known where my host’s bedroom was, I might have risked pulling some kind of female trick. Racing to him in a sexy nightgown to tell him I saw a mouse or something. Lame, I know. But desperate times called for desperate measures.
Unfortunately, I didn’t know where the man was. And in this huge house which, he informed me as he led me upstairs, had forty-two guest rooms, I wasn’t likely to stumble over him.
Suddenly hearing a creaking sound in the hallway, I sucked in a breath, convinced he was about to knock on my door and ask me if I wanted him to keep me warm with his big, hot body. I thought the sound—footsteps—paused in front of my doorway, and held my breath for the longest time.
The door never opened. The footsteps never moved away. And I figured my overactive imagination had been running away with me again.
He wasn’t coming back. So I had to stay beyond tonight, had to get him to let me stay…for both our sakes.
I ran over several different scenarios. Calling my professor and having him appeal to the man was probably not going to help. Lebeaux didn’t appear to be the helpful type, like his uncle had been. So he probably wouldn’t encourage anyone snooping around in his house, digging up secrets about its past.
Maybe the secrets of the house would be enough, though. Because my host hadn’t revealed by so much as the flicker of an eyelid that he had any idea who I was talking about when I’d called him a serial killer. Perhaps he didn’t even know about the bloody secrets hidden in these walls.
“So I’ll tell him,” I muttered. “I’ll tell him and he’ll be so fascinated he’ll let me have the run of the place.”
Including his bedroom. Wishful thinking, I know. But I couldn’t help it.
Have I mentioned that I’m fricking horny?
It wasn’t just how badly I needed to get laid that had me scheming in my bed well into the night. I was sexually attracted to the man like I’d never been to anyone else. And I was fascinated by him. Why was he hiding out here in this drafty old place all alone? Why was he so secretive, so angry?
Then there were the scars.
Oh, you can bet my imagination had been on overdrive about those. Had he been mauled by an animal?
No. Not enough gouges to be claws.
A car accident?
The injuries seemed too precise and limited.
Shot. Or stabbed.
As much as I hated to admit it, I believed that could be the answer. The scar on his face looked thin and wicked, as if a blade had traced a quick route from his hairline to the corner of his eye. And the one on his chest wasn’t as long and looked more surgical, as if he’d had to be cut open to have something removed. Like a bullet?
Yeah, yeah, I was going off on tangents. See an appendix scar and imagine a shootout at the OK Corral, that was my m.o.
Only, that wasn’t any appendix scar unless the man’s appendix had decided to take up residence near his heart. And the darkness in his eyes wasn’t from someone who’d had some minor little surgery.
He’d been wounded. Physically and emotionally. I knew it like I knew every word on the menu at my folks’ restaurant.
But I didn’t know enough, I wanted to know more. Had to know more. Like any good researcher, I was filled with curiosity.
Like any hot-blooded woman, I was filled with desire.
I wasn’t leaving here until both had been satisfied.
Hoping the man wouldn’t toss me on my ear at dawn before I’d had a chance to wear down his defenses with my vivid serial killer storytelling ability—or my cleavage…hey, I was desperate—I suddenly thought of another stalling tactic. He couldn’t very well make me leave if I was incapable of going anywhere.
Hopping out of the bed, I cringed as my bare toes hit the cold, wood floor. I guess people who’d stayed here wanted the whole authentic shebang. Personally, I’d take a thick plush carpet over icy feet on a splintery floor any day.
Grabbing my purse, I dug around until I found my keys. Trying to tiptoe in case my host’s room was directly below mine and he was down there in his bed, all hard, muscular, and naked—stop it—I made my way toward the window. It overlooked the front parking lot, where my pretty, perky car sat like a freshly cracked yellow egg sitting in a skillet.
This probably wouldn’t work. But it was worth a shot.
The window was the old-fashioned type, thickly paned with warped glass. The paint on the frame was cracking and dingy—fitting in with the aura of abandon that permeated this place. Blowing off some dust, I quickly found the latch and unfastened it. Newer hotels didn’t have windows that opened—probably because of the fear of leapers. This one, though, slid up after I applied a good bit of pressure to it.
A strong, frigid gust of moist wind burst into the room, sending the curtains straight back. My hair, too.
Shivering, I leaned out the window, my keychain in my hand, and prayed I wasn’t too far away. The nifty little safety system my brothers had installed didn’t merely lock and unlock my car remotely. It also had a safety device to prevent theft. The engine could be disabled with the flick of a switch.
So I sent up a silent apology for being so dishonest. I prayed it would work. And I flicked.
Nothing happened. Not a damn thing. I was too far away.
Muttering a couple of really inappropriate words that would make my mother reach for the Ivory soap to wash out my mouth, I fumed a minute, thinking about what to do. This could be a sign from above that I was just not meant to do something so dishonest. Someone up there was telling me so.
Someone down here, however, was saying I just needed to get closer to the car. I guess it was the little fishnet-wearing devil Lottie sitting on my shoulder. She had, throughout my life, been able to tie, blindfold and gag any haloed angel who ever tried to take up residence on the other one.
Not thinking about it for a second longer, in case I lost my nerve, I hurried to the door and opened it, cursing the squeak. The outside hallway was dark, so I turned on the portable lantern Simon had left for me, keeping it on the lowest possible setting.
Fortunately, I was just a few steps away from the stairs, and I quickly made my way down the first flight. Pausing on the landing, I peered over the railing to the foyer below, to ensure the coast was clear.
I saw nothing. Just shadows and shapes in the ink-black night, which was almost enough to send me scurrying back to my room. But I resisted the urge. I simply had to make it down the second flight and out the front door, push a button, then race back up here and leap into my bed before I froze to death.
Speaking of freezing, I really should have put my clothes back on before setting out on this midnight jaunt. I was still wearing just my silky white nightgown with thin spaghetti straps and a plunging neckline.
Hey, I went to bed hoping Simon would suddenly remember he had to tell me something, remember? Had to be prepared. I just hadn’t been prepared to have a maniacal impulse to disable my own car so I could get the chance to stay here for a whil
e.
If I went back upstairs, I might lose my nerve. So I proceeded forward, creeping down one silent step at a time. The door to the office was firmly shut. Only the tiniest hint of a glow was visible beneath it, probably from the last burning embers of the fire. It was after 1:00 a.m., he had to be in bed.
Beneath my bare feet, the marble tiles were like blocks of ice and I hissed with every step. Tiptoeing, I finally reached the door and unlocked it. I said a quick prayer that it wouldn’t squeak, then slowly tugged it open.
No squeak. Thank heaven.
“And they say Chicago’s cold,” I whispered as a gust of damp, frigid air blew in and assaulted me. The Windy City had nothing on this mountain. I needed to perform my act of sabotage and hightail it back upstairs quickly.
Shivering, I stepped right outside the door, whimpering at the frigid wood floor of the verandah. When I quickly pressed the button on the keychain device, a single flash of the headlights on my car told me it had worked. I was just thankful the horn hadn’t beeped the way it did whenever the car was remotely locked.
Not that it probably would have mattered. The storm had certainly eased, but low rolls of thunder continued to churn in the sky and silent bolts of lightning appeared here and there to brighten up the night. The rain no longer came down in sheets, it merely sluiced a steady drizzle of icy moisture onto the already soaked ground.
I liked storms. Oh, not driving in them, obviously, but I liked looking at them. Smelling that electric scent of power and feeling the moisture in the air before the first drop of rain fell. When safely under shelter, I often liked to watch lightning dance across the sky in the distance, knowing I was safe and it couldn’t reach me. Getting a bit of a thrill by pretending maybe it could.
But it was late, I was freezing and I needed sleep. Tomorrow would be a big day, the make-or-break time when I had to put all my skills to work to get my host allow me to stay. The car trick would buy me some time. The rest was up to me.
Turning to head back inside, I bit back a scream when I saw a door opening farther down the verandah, one room past what I knew was the office. The white curtains hanging on the French door blew wildly in the night, dancing in the wind, creating a strange misty fog of fabric. And through that fog of fabric stepped a dark figure.
I couldn’t move. Not one inch. I stayed there just outside the front door, watching the figure emerge about twenty feet away. It wasn’t until after he’d disentangled himself from the sheers that I knew for sure it was my host.
He was dressed as he’d been earlier, but his white long-sleeved shirt wasn’t buttoned at all and it blew out behind him just as the curtains did. He didn’t flinch, didn’t make any concession whatsoever to the frigid air. He simply walked to the railing and looked up at the sky.
I’d thought at first that he’d heard me, or seen the flash of headlights, but he never even looked my way. I remained frozen still, not moving for fear I’d attract his attention and have to explain what on earth I was doing out here. In my nightgown. My very sexy, filmy nightgown that was pressed against every inch of my body because of the wind.
Hmm.
Not even really deciding to do it, I cleared my throat. He jerked his head, saw me standing there and just stared. Hopefully the wind and my slinky nightgown were doing nice things for my butt and hips.
He was silent for so long, I began to wonder if he’d been sleepwalking. Finally, unable to take the tension, I came up with a quick explanation for my presence.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my own voice cracking. Clearing my throat I said, “I hope I didn’t wake you. I, just…remembered I hadn’t locked my car.”
“Lottie?” he said, coming closer.
The hesitation in his tone told me he was confused, as if he’d thought I was someone else. Who that someone else could be at this hour in this desolate, abandoned place, I had no idea. “Yes. It’s me. I am so sorry if I woke you.”
He continued moving toward me, his bare feet making no sound on the wet planked floor. Still he made no concession to the weather, his shirt continuing to blow around him, as did his thick hair.
The man looked dangerous. It’s-the-middle-of-the-night-and-he’s-a-stranger dangerous. But somehow, I didn’t care. I made no effort to leave and had no virginal, self-protective instinct to cross my arms over my chest. How could I when the glorious man was staring at me like a seductive wolf at a plate of lamb chops?
Reaching my side, he finally murmured, “You shouldn’t be out here.”
“Neither should you.”
He raked a slow, thorough glance down my body, obviously able to see my breasts almost to the nipples in the low cut gown. The thing fit well, with a supportive bodice that pushed my already more than generous curves up to Penthouse quality heights and I could probably hold up a flagpole with my tight, overflowing cleavage.
I’d often thought how silly men were about women’s breasts. More often than not, I’d considered mine a nuisance whose sole purpose was in getting out of speeding tickets or picking up a fellow college student. Those guys always reminded me of ten-year-olds, as they did their usual rub-squeeze-twist-see-what-I-get-to-play-with thing that they all considered foreplay.
Now, however, I was feeling different. Lebeaux wouldn’t be like that, I knew it. He would know exactly how to touch me to elicit only feelings of blissful pleasure and pure eroticism.
I wanted that. I wanted this dark, sultry stranger to stroke me, to run his fingertips down my cleavage, then catch my nipples between his fingers and lightly squeeze them. I shivered, feeling the tips of my breasts get hard and tight against the silk and could think of nothing else but how amazing it would feel if he were to lick me there, sucking hard while dropping a hand between my legs.
“What are you really doing out here?” he asked, his voice low, almost a growl.
“I told you.”
“You came down here, dressed like that, just so you could do something to your car?”
At last, a question I could answer honestly. “Yes, I swear to you, I did. I didn’t intend to stay out here and was heading right back to my warm— To my bed. But then you came out.”
“And you decided to…stay?” Not waiting for an answer, he lifted his hand and brushed the back of his fingers on my shoulder. “You’re freezing.”
Freezing? Oh, no. I felt very, very hot.
I could have made some lame well, you could keep me warm comment, but we were already way beyond that level of silly, light flirtation. Instead, I inched closer to him, using his body to block the wind, smelling the warm, masculine scent arising from his skin. His shirt continued to whip around and now I could see more of the scar just below his collarbone. Not to mention the ripples of muscle and taut, wiry hair.
I couldn’t resist. Lifting a hand, I laid it flat on his chest, feeling the beat of his heart. And his heat.
He didn’t say anything. He merely acted. Without a word of warning, he slid both his hands into my hair, cupping my head and tugging me forward. Any gasp of surprise I might have made was drowned out by my own heart, which thudded like crazy as he lowered his mouth to mine.
Then our lips met. Opened. Tasted. Thunder pounded…or maybe it was just the low roar of pleasure rolling through me.
The rain picked up again and lightning flashed somewhere nearby. I wasn’t aware of any of it. I couldn’t focus on anything except the warm lips and smooth tongue giving me such pleasure.
I’ve been kissed. A lot.
This wasn’t kissing. It was sex of the mouth.
Groaning, I rose on tiptoe, loving the strong, steady way he cupped my head, fingering my hair as his tongue plunged deep. I savored it, licking and sucking, sharing each breath with him, certain I’d never experienced anything more exciting in my entire life.
And then it was over. He ended the kiss, yanked his hands back and put them on my shoulders. Spinning me around, he literally pushed me through the door, into the house. Muttering, “Go to bed before you fre
eze,” he turned and stalked toward the open door, where the white curtains still whipped furiously in the night wind.
With one final, heated glance in my direction, he disappeared inside.
4
Simon
SHE HADN’T BEEN LYING. Her damn car wouldn’t start.
When his unwanted houseguest had informed him this morning that there was something wrong with her bright, shiny and new-looking car, Simon had half suspected she was lying. The woman was nothing if not determined to stay here and dig up whatever secrets her professor had sent her to find. She’d started in on him while sipping the coffee he’d grudgingly shared with her before escorting her out the door.
He’d brushed aside her suggestion that she stay and tell him more about this house he’d inherited from his uncle.
He was more tempted than he’d wanted to let on, mainly because of the strange things he’d experienced lately. But a long restless night—during which he’d been tormented by just how amazing she’d tasted when he’d given in to his insane impulse and kissed her—had convinced him it wasn’t worth the risk. Having her under his roof would be torture of the worst kind, since he just couldn’t trust his own judgment these days.
He wanted her. He’d wanted her from the minute he saw her and now that he’d had her in his arms, he only wanted her more.
Aside from her physical attractions, he wanted some of that brightness—light and life—that seemed to envelop her like an aura.
But he didn’t trust her. He trusted no one.
Besides, he wasn’t entitled to her. He didn’t deserve her.
So he’d convinced himself this morning that it was best to let her go. That he didn’t need to know anything more about Seaton House than what he already knew. After all, this wasn’t his home, it was merely a shelter. A refuge from the storm his life had become since he’d been released from the hospital in July. He didn’t give a damn if Jimmy Hoffa were buried in the basement. He simply didn’t want to hear about it.