by Leslie Kelly
Still, the gray sky looked forbidding. The small amount of daylight oozing in through the heavy velvet draperies was weak and watery, bathing the room in shadows that even the strongest lamp could not banish. Since the power had been on this morning when he woke up, Simon hadn’t bothered lighting a fire in the hearth, so he didn’t even have that golden glow to bring the room to some acceptable level of illumination.
“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered as he sat at his desk and opened his laptop. Booting it up, he watched closely as the screen came to life. As the familiar blue desktop and icons appeared, he released a breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding.
“Nothing,” he whispered, laughing a little at how ridiculous he’d been last night to think he’d really seen the photograph he thought he’d seen on his computer.
But as he breathed deeply in relief, he caught a strong whiff of a strange, spicy odor. Recognizing that bitter orange scent he’d smelled before, his pulse began to pound in his temple. The thought of a sudden migraine—which was often signaled by strange smells—made him want to thrust his fist through the computer screen and howl.
He’d never suffered severe headaches in his life until Charleston. Then again, he’d never felt a knife slice his face open and a bullet tear through his chest before then, either.
“Not today,” he muttered, remembering how he’d practically willed an attack away the night before.
This time, he was careful to close the laptop, not wanting any surprises when he opened his eyes. Then he lowered his lashes, leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his temples, willing the pounding away.
He waited for several long moments, concentrating on his breathing. Then, slowly raising his head, he opened his eyes.
The pain had eased. The computer was exactly as he’d left it. Everything was normal.
Except… “What the hell?” he mumbled, quickly rising from the chair. Feeling a little dizzy, he dropped a hand to the surface of the desk to steady himself. Then he looked toward the window again, wondering if his mind was playing tricks on him.
Never taking his eyes off the bit of glass revealed between the heavy drapes, he moved toward it. Where he’d just seen…had thought he’d seen… “No. It was just a trick of the light.”
There was no one there. He could still hear Lottie on the phone in the next room. He hadn’t seen a woman passing by the window, moving slowly as if drifting across the veranda.
He hadn’t.
“Simon?”
Spinning around quickly, he let go of the desk, almost losing his balance. Before he even straightened up, Lottie had darted across the room and slid an arm around his waist to steady him. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” he said. “Just fighting off a headache. Got up a little fast.”
She could have let go. He was steady and perfectly capable of standing on his own. But she didn’t. She stayed there, with one hand splayed on his back, the other on his stomach, her fingertips perilously close to the waistband of his pants.
His breathing grew choppy again, though not because of any phantoms in the windows or strange smells. It was entirely due to her—the warmth of her body pressed against his, the brush of her hair on his cheek.
Once again, her closeness reminded Simon how very much he missed human contact. Eroticism.
He wanted to drag her sweater off, and his shirt along with it. To lay her down on his desk and explore every inch of her body, feasting on those magnificent breasts, burying his face in her stomach. And lower.
“You’re too thin,” she murmured, her fingers tracing patterns on his hip. “Hard as a rock, but you look like you’ve been sick.”
He said nothing, trying to work up the strength to tell her he was fine and she could let him go.
Or to just grab her hand and bring it to his mouth to kiss her palm and nibble her fingertips.
“What’s wrong? Are you sick?”
Knowing she was asking about much more than his unsteadiness, he remained silent. He wasn’t about to bring this beautiful woman into the hell of his reality. Better to have her think he’d been in some kind of accident than to know the truth about him. The dark, vicious truth. “I’m fine.”
“Okay, keep your secrets,” she murmured. Then, with a frown of regret, she stepped away. “But if you’re feeling dizzy, maybe it’s because of whatever incense you were burning in here.”
Though he’d been about to step away from her, Simon suddenly couldn’t move. His whole body rigid, he asked, “What did you say?”
“Well, I guess it was incense. There’s a funny smell in here.”
He grabbed her wrist, holding her tight. “You smell it?”
Nodding, she didn’t tug away, didn’t look at him as if he were crazy or hurting her, which he knew he might be.
He released her wrist. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.” Then she turned and looked around the room, sniffing again. “It’s gone. But I would have sworn I smelled this sweet, nasty odor, like overripe fruit when I first came in the room.”
“Oranges,” he said, keeping his voice low and steady, not revealing just how much her words meant to him.
“Yes, that’s it. Like orange blossoms dying on a tree.”
Simon didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t say anything for a moment, so he merely stared at her.
For three months now, he’d been associating the strange smells with his migraines—figuring they were figments of his imagination, his brain’s way of preparing him for the onslaught to come.
That was the easier explanation. The other was that he was simply losing his mind, going crazy out of guilt and rage. Smelling things that weren’t there just as he’d been seeing and hearing things that weren’t there.
But now this beautiful dark-haired woman was telling him she smelled it, too. He hadn’t imagined it, his brain hadn’t invented it. Which made him wonder just what the hell was going on in his house.
“Lottie,” he murmured, not even thinking about the words before he said them. “Why don’t you stay awhile?”
5
Lottie
I WAS STAYING.
Even though I had no idea why Simon had changed his mind, I wasn’t about to argue with his suggestion that I stick around. Especially not after what had happened in his office, when I’d realized just how unsteady on his feet he’d really been.
I had been hot for the man since the minute I landed in his arms when I arrived. Now, though, I was feeling something else for him. Concern, protectiveness, I guess. Funny, since he did his best to project this big, angry, growly guy persona. But I knew, somehow, that he was in trouble.
With five older brothers and loads of male cousins, I knew how men reacted to being sick. They hated being helpless, and usually raged forward through fevers or accidents until they fell over in a heap and were no good to anybody, including themselves.
Something told me that’s what Simon Lebeaux had been doing. I hadn’t been kidding when I’d said he was too thin. Oh, his build was amazing—I could feel the rippled muscles of his stomach when I’d put my hand there.
Hmm…my, oh my, had it been tempting to slide my hand lower. Maybe pretending it was an accident. Just to see if he was as stunning from the waist down as he was from the waist up.
Aside from his strength, however, I had really noticed a hint of gauntness. I didn’t doubt that he was recovering from some kind of accident, like the ones I’d been visualizing in my room the previous night. And though I’d asked if he’d been sick I knew, from the scars, that in actuality he’d been injured—stabbed or shot.
Why he’d chosen to lock himself away in this creepy old house to recover all alone, I had no idea. But he wasn’t going to be alone anymore.
“It worked, I’m staying,” I whispered, laughter bubbling up inside me as I made my way to the kitchen.
I probably should have been feeling a lot of Catholic guilt over the whole car thing, but somehow, I couldn’t. “It’s for his bene
fit, too,” I said, trying to convince myself that my lies were well-justified.
No lies were, I knew that. But my presence was going to help him, not hinder him. Whether he liked it or not, I was going to at least see that the man got a few proper meals and took care of himself for a few days.
Maybe by helping take care of him physically, he’d open up about what was going on in his head. I know, wishful thinking. Men aren’t cut out for that. But I could always hope. Because one thing was sure, something was weighing heavily on him and it wasn’t just his health. When I’d mentioned smelling the incense, he’d looked ready to drop to his knees and propose to me, as if he thought I shouldn’t have noticed the odor but was thrilled that I had.
I wouldn’t mind having the man on his knees in front of me. Proposing something sinful. Then doing it.
Shutting my eyes, I leaned against the kitchen doorway, which I’d just closed behind me, and let my head fill with possibilities. I was staying in a secluded, private place with a dark and sensual man. A man like no one I’d ever met, who I wanted with every molecule in my body.
I just had to make him want me, too. Last night—when he’d kissed me—he’d wanted me then. Oh, he’d definitely wanted me.
But in the daylight hours, Simon Lebeaux was much more in control of himself. Curse the luck.
“Lottie? Everything all right?”
Jerking upright, I whirled around and saw him standing on the other side of the kitchen. “Where did you come from?” I asked, wondering how on earth he could have gotten past me when I was blocking the damn door. And how pink my face must be considering I’d just been picturing the man naked and tied to my bed. Or tying me to my bed. Either way would work.
Like I said, I’d only had meat and potatoes. The closest I’d ever come to kinky sex was when my very first lover got a little overanxious with his repetitive, boring thrusting, missed the mark and almost went in the back door. Yow.
Simon cleared his throat. And my face probably went from pink to flaming red as I wondered what on earth the man would say if I admitted what I’d just been thinking about.
He pointed to what I had thought was just a pantry. “Hidden access to the office. My uncle used to use it since this was his private part of the house and he liked to stay away from the public areas when he could.”
I’d already figured he was sticking to the private rooms. Much of the hotel was closed and obviously unused—like a larger, professional-size kitchen and an adjoining room that appeared to have once been a small restaurant.
“Secret passages. This place is like a Clue game board.”
“There’s no conservatory,” he murmured, completely straight-faced, though his voice held that same hint of wry humor I’d caught once or twice before.
I couldn’t help grinning. “And hopefully no candlesticks.”
“Lanterns only,” he replied. “Though I am afraid I do carry a rope in my back pocket.”
And a lead pipe in his front one? Now I knew he was joking because when I laughed out loud, he joined me. He actually laughed.
Oh, Lord, if the man had been handsome somber, he was absolutely amazing when he laughed. Though he still hadn’t shaved and that layer of stubble on his jaw had thickened and filled in a bit, I could still see a pair of dimples in his cheeks.
Dimples. In this man’s cheeks.
It was like seeing him for the first time, and deep inside, I felt something flutter and uncoil in my stomach. Not lust—not this time, anyway. But a warm appreciation for the man I’d just caught glimpses of beneath the surly facade.
The man I wanted to get to know better.
“Well, I’ll be sure to watch out for your…rope, then,” I said with a saucy wink.
His eyes glittered and for a second, I thought he was going to reply with a flirtatious comment of his own. But he quickly stiffened, the glint of humor fading away, as if he’d just remembered who and where he was.
I didn’t want him to retreat into himself again so soon. “So, any warnings about where I should watch my step so I avoid tripping over the bodies?”
“I’m quite sure you don’t have anything to worry about. Seaton House has hardly been a hotbed of crime, not since your Mr. Zangara was in residence, at least.”
His voice was so smooth, sometimes holding a tiny hint of an accent but most times just sounding sexy and self-assured. Very educated. Cultured.
“Where are you from, anyway?” I asked.
His eyes shifted and he walked to the fridge, helping himself to a bottle of water. “I grew up in California. Now I live—most recently I lived—in Baton Rouge.”
So why are you here? That was the next question, but I wasn’t going to ask it. I’d already sensed he was shutting down, so I quickly backpedaled, wanting him relaxed. Open and happy.
Naked wouldn’t be bad, either. But I’d get to that later.
“You said your mother was Robert Stubbs’s granddaughter. I knew he and Zangara had children around the same age. I just didn’t follow Stubb’s family line. Did your mother ever mention remembering him from her childhood?”
“No.” He opened his water bottle and lifted it to his mouth. As he sipped, I watched the movement of his throat, saw every swallow, noted the way the cords of muscle flexed beneath his skin. My legs wobbled a little bit even though I was wearing sneakers instead of my high-heeled boots.
When he’d finished, he added, “She hated this house. She told me once that she wished the whole place had gone up in flames when a big section of the third floor was destroyed by fire when she was a teenager. She never came back after marrying my father and moving out west.”
“Maybe because she knew its history.”
“Probably. It wasn’t exactly the kind of thing for a bedtime story. And the few times my uncle talked about their family, it was to say their grandfather was a miserable, mean-spirited, miserly son of a bitch.”
Hmm. From what I had found so far, that sounded exactly like Zangara’s partner, who’d come from my hometown of Chicago.
“So what happened to Zangara’s family?” he asked, looking interested in spite of himself.
“After your great-grandfather bought them out, his wife and son moved somewhere down south to start a new life. I tracked the boy up to the nineteen seventies in Atlanta, then lost him.”
Crushing his plastic water bottle, he asked, “How do you do that, anyway? Tracking people?”
“It’s not that difficult, especially in the Google age. If you have someone’s social security number and date of birth or death, it’s a breeze tracking their whole work history through the social security administration.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Makes it a little tougher, but if you know approximately when and where they were born, and you’re patient, old newspapers, land transfer paperwork, marriage licenses—they can all come into play. Of course, family bibles and personal correspondence can help, too.”
He nodded absently, then rubbed his jaw. “If you don’t find what you need in the storage room in the basement, check out the attic. There’s an access door at the north end of the third floor corridor.”
“A spooky old attic?”
With a wry look, he admitted, “Complete with cobwebs, old dressmaker’s dummies and wooden trunks big enough to hold one of those bodies you’re so worried about.”
I grinned. “Cool.”
“You’re a morbid little thing, aren’t you?”
At five-eight, I wasn’t used to anyone calling me little. But since this guy had a few inches on me, not to mention many pounds of solid muscle, I decided it was appropriate. Besides…I sort of liked it. “Not morbid, I just like mysteries. Like to dig into the past and see what I can find out. I loved puzzles as a kid.”
“And the game Clue.” Opening the refrigerator door again, he poked around a little bit, then closed it without retrieving anything.
Realizing he was hungry but wasn’t going to make himself a meal out of the hea
lthy foods in the fridge, I rolled my eyes. Typical man. If there weren’t any cold leftover pizza, he couldn’t be bothered to eat anything. Mmm, pizza. I already missed my pop’s deep dish. And though I’d been happy as a bunny to get away from them for a while, I already missed my family a little bit. Even my lunkhead brothers.
Deciding to make sure he got at least one decent meal today, I pushed past him. “Go sit down.”
His eyebrow shot up.
“I’ll make us lunch. It’s the least I can do since you’re letting me stay.”
When he didn’t move toward the table, I put my hand on his chest and shoved, just as I would have with one of my brothers. Only, like my brothers, Simon was a big man. And whether he’d lost weight or not, he was a sold hunk of muscle. So he didn’t budge.
That didn’t mean I took my hand away. No, I sort of left it there, splayed on his broad chest, feeling his heartbeat against the tips of my fingers. Beneath his thin, loose shirt, I could feel the raised skin of his other mysterious scar, and something made me move my index finger up and down it, as if I could ease away any last remnants of pain.
He didn’t say a word, didn’t move a muscle. He simply stared at me, his breaths slow and steady, making his chest rise and fall beneath my touch. Those dark-to-the-point-of-blackness eyes blazed as he stared at my face. He appeared ready to rip my hand off for daring to put it on him.
Or rip my clothes off and take me up against the refrigerator.
I swallowed, using all my determination to remain completely motionless, knowing the wrong move would break the intense moment. He’d back away, storm out of the room or simply retreat back into casual conversation.
And I didn’t want that. I wanted him to go forward, not retreat.
Finally, moving so slowly I almost didn’t realize he was doing it, he stepped closer. It wasn’t until I felt his shoes touch mine that I understood why my leg was suddenly feeling so warm. It was because his was so close, his body radiating heat. At the brush of his chest across my sweater, my nipples tightened and my breasts felt heavy.
I have often complained over the years about inheriting the more-than-generous Santori women’s cup size—and the back problems that go along with it. But right now, I saw the benefits. Because while he hadn’t taken me in his arms, our bodies were touching, ever so delicately. That light scrape of his shirt on the very tips of my nipples was more sensual than any heavy petting I’d ever experienced. The almost-there caress heightened the anticipation. And the tension.