The Gems of Vice and Greed (Contemporary Gothic Romance Book 3)

by Colleen Gleason

  “Yes I have…and guess who I’ve been watching it with.” Leslie allowed herself a full-blown grin as she swiped a miniature almond scone from her aunt’s plate.

  “Not Declan!”

  “Yes, Declan. But there was no removal of any articles of clothing. At least…not yet.” She sat back and enjoyed the reaction from the two older ladies. “Rufus chaperoned, and he frowns on jumping into bed on the first date.”

  “Praise God,” Orbra said, her face lighting up with hope. “Please let us know when the rest happens so I can live vicariously through you. I want every minute detail.”

  “That’s gross, Orbra,” Leslie told her, laughing.

  “Hey…when you get to be my age and your lady bits have all shrunk up because your husband can’t find his way around down there anymore, you gotta have fun somehow. Even if it’s just in your head.”

  “Okay, okay, TMI,” said Leslie, holding up a hand while still laughing.

  “And when you get to be my age and half the people in this town think you’re a lesbian just because you have short hair—which I am not, not that there’s anything wrong with that—”

  “Who thinks you’re a lesbian, Cherry?” Leslie hooted. She was laughing so hard that her sides were aching. It felt so good after yesterday’s grief-filled day. “Have they been in your company for more than five minutes? You’re the most hetero woman I’ve ever known.”

  “Oh, some woman who was staying at Sunflower House over the summer tried to back Cherry in a corner after one of her hot yoga classes last August. She was trying to get her to help her with some position—”

  “It’s called an asana.”

  “—that required some—ahem—major skin-on-skin contact.” Orbra refilled the teacups on the table. “The way she talks, you’d think it happened every day. No one’s hit on her since Gilda first came to town, and that was, what, ten years ago? Twelve? You don’t give off a lesbian vibe at all, Cherry, dear.”

  “Fifteen, as a matter of fact. Soooo…Declan was over? When?” Cherry grabbed a teacup from a nearby table so Orbra could pour a cup for her niece.

  “Yesterday,” Leslie told them. Then she went on to tell them everything. Even the part about the ghost and the gale-force winds. She figured she might as well—they’d badger her until she did anyway. Plus, maybe that would get them off her case.

  “And then after he left, look what I found inside the broken stair.” She pulled a tissue-wrapped article out of her bag and unwrapped it.

  “Is this the other glove? Matching the one you found before?” Cherry asked, taking it.

  “Yes. It’s the same length, and the buttons are the same—see, they’re those little round brass ones with tiny floral designs stamped on them. I was taking it over for Gilda to look at, but her shop is closed.”

  “She’s sick today—she called me this morning because it was her turn to bring the refreshments to the Chamber of Commerce meeting and wanted me to sub for her. Figured I could bring something from the tea shop, I suppose. Hate those damned meetings—at the butt-white crack of dawn they are. Six thirty! ‘So we get the business out of the way so we don’t miss our own business,’ is what Regina always says.” Orbra shook her head with disgust. “I was gonna skip myself, but then I had to go since Gilda asked me. Regina wasn’t there either—she’s in Chicago at an auction for one of her clients who wants some Frank Lloyd Wright piece she made sure to tell me about”—Orbra rolled her eyes—“and Trib left early to meet a produce truck. And Aaron never comes, and so that just left me, Emily Danube—who didn’t look very happy, and now I know why—Jinny from KnickKnack Clothes, the ladies from the B&Bs on Fourth, and Mildred, and Cherry. Oh, and Brad. What’s the reason for the damned meetings if no one comes, I want to know?”

  “I was there. For the whole thing,” Cherry said primly.

  “That’s because you get up at the crack of dawn every day anyway to do your meditations and star and planet salutations and green smoothies,” Orbra grumbled. “And now I’m hurting for lemon tarts and blueberry scones because I had to bring a bunch to the meeting where no one showed up and I can’t serve them to anyone else now.”

  “I’m so glad I mentioned it,” Leslie said, suddenly glad Orbra didn’t have a walking stick like Helen Galliday. That would be really frightening. She exchanged amused glances with her aunt, who grinned and shook her head.

  “Incidentally, the scones were delicious,” Cherry said brightly. “What are you going to do with the leftovers?”

  Orbra huffed and grumbled. “Probably serve them to annoying people like you two. And maybe Declan, because he’s smoking hot.”

  “So you wanted to see if Gilda could date that glove to see if it was from around the time of Dorothy Duchene, is that it?” Cherry asked Leslie, picking it up again.

  “Yes. And at this point, I’m pretty sure the glove definitely belonged to our ghost. I guess the issue is whether we’re right that it’s Dorothy Duchene. She—it—was pretty—er—adamant when we started talking about whether she’d been pushed down the stairs, and focusing on that specific step. I just…have a feeling those gloves belonged to her. And so did the wrap. And both of them were stolen. Why?”

  Cherry was examining the glove, turning it inside out, looking at the buttons and seams, then put it on the table. “There’s no tag, though you can see where it was cut away. Probably scratched her skin so she got rid of it. The material’s not nylon. It feels like a cotton blend, maybe with some rayon, and the stitching is definitely from a machine. It’s long—past the elbow, so it would go with an evening gown or dress. Not day clothes.”

  “Right. All of which doesn’t really help much—though it doesn’t preclude it from being from the 1920s. They used some machine stitching then.”

  “But would Dorothy Duchene have been wearing long gloves if she was a servant? On what occasion would she have done so? Surely a servant wouldn’t be invited to any sort of formal gathering,” Orbra said, surprising aunt and niece.

  “That’s a very good point,” Leslie replied, sitting up straight, her eyes wide and her mind working. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Guess I’m good for something. S’pose I better get ready for the lunch rush, such as it is.” Orbra got up, grumbling under her breath.

  “Geesh. What’s up with her?”

  “She really hates getting up in the morning. Simple as that. It’ll put her off all day. And Bill’s been on a long haul, so he’s been gone for two weeks already,” Cherry said. Orbra’s husband was a truck driver, a fact that she alternately rejoiced over and grumbled about.

  Just then, the bell over the door jingled and in swept Helen Galliday and her ever-present walking stick, along with Pauline Whitten. They were trailed by Iva Nath, whose blue eyes began to sparkle as soon as she saw Leslie.

  But it was Helen’s companion, whose arm had been commandeered by the old crone’s talon-like grip, that surprised Leslie. John Fischer looked a little like a kitten who’d been captured by its five-year-old owner and was being toted around and shown off.

  “Oh good, you’re here! I was going to ask Orbra if she had any updates on the ghost, but here you are in person,” said Iva, sweeping over to sit at the table with Leslie and Cherry. “And look who Helen and Pauline ran into on their way out of the inn this morning.” She beamed at the writer.

  John looked at Leslie with bald desperation. She took pity on him and sat back down at the table. Maybe she’d be able to help him extricate himself from the busybody ladies.

  She could consider that her good deed for the day.

  Leslie was immediately forced into retelling her story about the glove—though she didn’t go into quite as much detail about the ghost as she’d done earlier—as Orbra brought out tea and scones for everyone. She seemed in a slightly better mood, and Leslie noticed with an inward smile that the small plates were filled with lemon and blueberry scones. Way to go, Orbry.

  Helen was in the middle of interrogating Cherry
about the difference between Pilates and tai chi (pretty much everything) when the bell over the door tinkled again.

  Leslie looked over and a surge of pleasure—and warmth—rushed over her. Her cheeks got unaccountably warm.

  “Well look who the cat dragged in,” Orbra said with a very pleased smile. “Have a seat here, Declan. I’ve got some nice lemon and blueberry scones, just hot and fresh from the oven.” She glanced at Leslie and Cherry as if to forestall any dissenting comments from them.

  Declan pulled up a chair right next to Leslie, and she could feel her pulse kicking up as his jeans-clad leg brushed against hers. “Hi,” he murmured under the guise of scooting his chair closer and sitting down, his breath warm against her cheek.

  “Hi,” she muttered back. “Nice to see you.”

  “What kind of tea do you want, Dec?” asked Orbra. Leslie couldn’t help but notice she hadn’t asked anyone else their preference, and she grinned to herself again. It seemed as if everyone liked the guy.

  “I’ll have some of your special autumn blend that you were serving at the football game,” he said. “Though I’ve recently begun to enjoy chai tea as well.” His leg bumped purposely against Leslie’s. “And could I get it to go? I just had to stop in for a sec—I wanted to let you know,” he said, turning to Leslie, “that I need you to take a look at one of the pieces for the stair railing. I can’t go any further with the project until you give me the go-ahead on it. It’s at my workshop.”

  “Oh, sure,” she replied, managing not to sound too eager. “I’m pretty swamped today, but I could probably stop by sometime this afternoon.” There was the definite sound of a snicker, and Leslie slammed the toe of her shoe into her beloved auntie’s shin beneath the table. And if she caught Orbra’s ankle on the way, that was nothing more than a two-for-one.

  “It won’t take long,” Declan said, though the look in his eyes belied that statement. Fortunately, he wasn’t looking at anyone but Leslie.

  “All right. What time is good for you?”

  “Say, two o’clock? Then I’ll still have quite a bit of daylight to keep working after you give me the go-ahead.”

  Leslie was aware of Cherry shaking with suppressed laughter—apparently she could read a double entendre into anything—but she managed to keep her own expression impassive. “Sure. That sounds good. I’ll be there around two.”

  “Great. See you then. Thanks a lot for the tea, Orbra,” Declan said as he stood to accept the to-go cup. He brushed a kiss onto the sturdy Dutch lady’s cheek, then gave a general wave to the group and said his goodbyes.

  “Leslie’s gonna get laid, Leslie’s gonna get laid,” Cherry chanted into her ear.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Orbra muttered, hands on her hips. She looked as disappointed as if it were she who wasn’t going to get laid. “Don’t the kids get out of school at two thirty, and get home before three?”

  Cherry’s face fell, and her brows knitted together in disappointment. “Damn. That’s too chancy, anyway. We don’t want him rushing things.”

  Leslie merely smiled to herself, for she knew something the other ladies didn’t.

  It was Thursday, and Stephanie Lillard had pom practice on Thursdays—right after school, until six p.m.

  At least.

  ________

  Leslie pulled up to Declan’s house at two o’clock sharp. Her stomach was filled with butterflies in the same way they’d been the first time she’d had to do a press conference after the public offering was announced.

  Only this time, the butterflies were much softer and more pleasant, and were accompanied by a soft pang of anticipation whenever she remembered the way Declan had looked at her this morning. As much of a planner and organizer as she was, Leslie couldn’t ever remember having actually planned a sex date.

  Especially the first time with a man.

  It was a heady feeling.

  She got out of the car and was heading toward the workshop when the door of the house opened. Declan stood there, looking…just incredibly delicious. So handsome, so solid and male and inviting.

  Their eyes met across the way, and she felt a zing sizzle through her as she turned to walk toward him. He leaned against the doorway, wearing a heather-blue t-shirt that fit him just right and charcoal-gray jeans that rode low on his hips. No shoes. His hair was damp and he was clean-shaven.

  “I thought you’d be in the workshop,” she said, half to be sassy and half because she was afraid she’d say something else that would betray the nerves and anticipation she was feeling.

  “I wanted to get cleaned up before you got here.” His eyes didn’t leave her; they were practically eating her up as he stepped back to allow her to walk through the door. “I was all sweaty and dirty.”

  “Well, that’s a shame,” she said, dropping her voice to something low and throaty as he closed the door behind her. She walked through the entryway mudroom and into a bright and cheery kitchen, utterly and jubilantly aware of how he watched her.

  “And why is that?” Declan asked, sliding an arm around her from behind. With his other hand, he moved the hair off one side of her neck, combing it with his fingers so it fell over the opposite shoulder.

  Leslie gave a delicious little shiver when his mouth slid delicately along the exposed side of her throat, nibbling lightly from ear to the curve of her shoulder. Pleasure and heat shuttled through her like sensual, feathery tickles, and she closed her eyes, leaning back against him. “Because,” she murmured, “I have a feeling you’re going to get all sweaty again. And I’m hoping for a little dirty too.”

  He gave a little laugh against her skin, warm and moist, then settled in to really taste and nibble, licking and sucking gently on the most sensitive, delicate spot beneath her ear.

  Leslie sighed and shivered, her hands braced against the counter in front of her as liquid pleasure coursed through her, heading directly south. He was crowding her gently against the kitchen island, and she felt heat and muscle and the fact that he was very happy to see her. She smiled and moaned when he slipped his naughty, slick tongue around to trace the inside of her ear.

  “Declan,” she murmured.

  “Yes?” he replied, moving his mouth away even as one hand slid around to cover her breast, pressing and molding it gently in his hand.

  “Didn’t you have something to show me?” she purred, half sighing, half smiling with pure, unadulterated pleasure as he found her taut nipple through several layers of fabric.

  “I most definitely do,” he replied, pressing himself more firmly into her backside. “How about I get right to showing you?”

  “I think that’s an excellent—”

  Her words were cut off when he spun her around and pulled her close to cover her lips with his. But she hardly even had time to enjoy the full mouth-on-mouth kiss, for he swung her up in his arms—in those solid, muscular, bulging arms attached to those impossibly broad, square shoulders—and carried her out of the room.

  She kicked off her shoes on the way, hearing the satisfactory thumpity, thumpity as they clunked to the floor in the hall. And then she wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his throat—this time to taste and kiss and lick, instead of to sob and sniffle.

  “Much better,” she murmured as Declan eased her onto the bed in his room. The windows were covered with privacy blinds that let the afternoon sunshine filter in. It illuminated the man standing in front of her as she looked up at him from where she propped up on her elbows.

  “Better than what?” he asked, joining her on the bed, sliding up to lie next to her, one hand bracing his head. The other hand took its time and skimmed along her belly to her hip and thigh, then moved back up—this time gliding under her sweater and the tank top beneath it.

  “Better than me bawling into your shoulder,” she said, arching a little as he found the lace of her bra, cupping the swell of her breast with a large, warm hand.

  “I don’t know about that,” he said with a la
scivious smile. “At least when you were doing that, you weren’t wearing one of these contraptions.” He tugged at the plastic clasp and let it recoil back against her.

  Leslie laughed. “I didn’t think you’d noticed.”

  “Oh, I noticed that you were out of uniform, my little general. I most definitely noticed.” He eased up and over her, pushing the hair away from her face, one thigh sliding between hers and fitting very snugly against the crotch of her thin leggings. Leslie’s eyes widened at the stab of pleasure from the pressure there, and he smiled back, slow and hot and filled with promise as he used both hands to ease up the two layers of clothing, baring her belly and then her dark blue bra. It was trimmed with white lace and barely covered her.

  “Very nice,” he murmured. “Very, very nice. I was hoping you’d stay away from red. It’s so very…”

  “Clichéd?” she muttered, tugging at his tee. It came loose from the waistband of his jeans, and she said, “You called me a general? Then I order you to take off this shirt.”

  He eased back and complied, and Leslie mentally swooned at the beauty of his bronze-gold torso. Oh my God, she thought. Cherry’s going to be so jealous.

  “What are you laughing about?” he demanded, trying and failing to sound offended.

  “Nothing,” she said, wriggling out of her sweater and tank top. “Nothing at all.”

  She tossed away her clothing and then they were skin to skin, there on the bed. He flipped open the front-clasp bra and sighed with pleasure when her breasts swelled open and free, with two hard, dark pink nipples that just begged to be kissed and touched.

  He didn’t disappoint, taking his time to taste and suck and tease. All the while, Leslie slid deeper into a hot realm of arousal. The center of her pleasure, the hot juncture of her thighs, swelled and throbbed against his knee, which he still pressed strategically against her. Declan nudged her a little and she moaned, and the next thing she knew, he was yanking the elastic waist leggings down over her hips with ease.