Tall, Dark and Paranormal: 10 Thrilling Tales of Sexy Alpha Bad Boys

by Opal Carew

  About the only part of her that was.

  “I’ve made the reservations. We have to go,” he said as if declaring World War III. “I’ll unpack the rest of the things,” came out like orders in a military campaign. “You go ahead home and get ready. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “But... but... but... “

  Really, Jolie, just ’cause the guy has a magnificent one, you don’t need to harp on it. Get your mind out of the boxers and into this conversation.

  Naughty Girl was lecturing her?

  “Lunch,” Jolie managed to spit out. Finally.

  “I’m perfectly capable of throwing a sandwich together.”

  “Well, um, okay. Of course you are. But the dishes. I can do the dishes.”

  His shoved his hands into his pockets. “I said I’d get to them. And I will.”

  First the dinner location, then the whipped cream fiasco. It was probably in her best interests to just agree with him and get the heck out of there.

  She side-stepped toward the patio door with an ungraceful lunge to grab her purse off the tabletop where it had fallen over. “Well, if you’re sure, then. I mean, if you really want to go to The Midnight Maiden, I guess I can’t stop you.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Is there a problem with The Midnight Maiden? It’s where you said you want to go, right?”

  “Problem?” Did she just squeak? That was so not attractive. He nodded. “No. No problem. Seven is fine. I’ll be ready.”

  Of course she couldn’t exit gracefully. The darn purse got caught on the French door handle as she closed it and she had to make another exit. How mortifying.

  God, she was only trying to do a good deed. She yanked open her car door and sat, banging her knee on the steering wheel of her Bug. The guy didn’t have to take her there. There were a zillion restaurants in the city; any one of them would do.

  She turned on the ignition, the sputtering rumble rumble sounding as agitated as she felt. Why did he have to have his heart set on that one?

  She backed out of his driveway and headed out of the cul-de-sac. Well, it wasn’t as if she had a say in the matter anymore. She’d tried. Now all she had to do was kill time until dinner. Thank goodness for Mr. Griff’s book. That ought to keep her occupied.

  At the stop sign, she reached for her purse and opened it.

  The book wasn’t there.

  Oh crud. It was sitting on Todd’s kitchen table, right next to the bag of capers and spices.

  Great. She was batting a thousand today. First she asked him to take her to his wife’s favorite restaurant, then she innuendo-ed all over the place with whipped cream, and then she left a love story sitting out in plain view.

  Why didn’t she just rip the guy’s heart out and be done with it?

  ***

  Todd stared at the bags on his counter after Jolie left.

  It was so quiet.

  Too quiet.

  Funny, he hadn’t noticed the silence before today. It’d just been. Now, it screamed at him.

  He grabbed the closest bag and removed sea salt, garlic, a bunch of parsley.

  Get over it, Best. He couldn’t use chatter to fill the space in his life. No matter how pretty the chatterer.

  He’d lied to Mike earlier. Jolie wasn’t cute; she was gorgeous. Tall and lithe with a ballet dancer’s frame, Jolie had a beauty he could appreciate with his artist’s eyes. Perfect bone structure, creamy skin warmed by a curtain of mink hair, those eyes… He still hadn’t figured out what to call that color.

  He exhaled and pulled a bunch of fresh basil from the bag. The last thing he should be thinking about was the color of his chef’s eyes. For all he knew, she had a boyfriend somewhere who wouldn’t appreciate Todd’s observations.

  And he had no business looking at another woman.

  His gut clenched. Damn it all. When would it stop? He wasn’t being unfaithful to Trista by finding another woman attractive. He knew that. It just hurt so damned much that he couldn’t let go.

  A yellow flyer clung to the band around the oregano. St. Gabe’s Church was having its annual fundraiser again. He’d participated every year—well, every year that he’d been painting. He’d done one special picture for the art auction, painted just for the church. A one-of-a-kind, never-to-be-done-in-print piece.

  Those paintings had brought in enough money to launch a daycare, a shelter, and fully fund the school. It’d been Trista’s idea.

  He crumpled the flyer in his fist. That was why he hadn’t participated since her death. It brought it all back—the times they’d gone together, his first unveiling of the painting, her excitement like a child on Christmas morning, as if he’d painted it just for her.

  Of course, he had painted it just for her. Every landscape had been painted for her, through the eyes of his love. He wanted to give her the beauty she’d seen in him, for the faith she’d had in him.

  He folded the brown bag and stuck it on top of the others. He should get the food put away and maybe grab a swim. Exercise, a good sweaty workout, always helped to clear his mind, something to do with endorphins. Whatever it was, he’d better get to it. Jolie had had enough to deal with already; he shouldn’t bring his troubles to dinner.

  Life went on.

  And so would he.

  Chapter Seven

  Jolie heard the vroom vroom of Todd’s car and grabbed her watch off the bedside table. Six forty. Crud. She had to hurry; no telling what could happen to the Dream Machine outside her less-than-desirable-address apartment complex if she kept him waiting.

  She marked her page and headed to the one small window allotted her by Mr. Murphy, the avaricious landlord (which explained how fifteen mostly vacant apartments could fit in a building designed for half that number) and peeked out.

  Sure enough, there he was. Man of her dre—her heroine’s dreams.

  Sheesh, for someone who required thirty minutes max to get ready, she should have been able to squeeze those eighteen hundred seconds somewhere in the last four hours. But no. She had picked up a favorite book and wham! the world disappeared.

  Jolie rushed back to the bathroom, grabbed the curling iron for two little flips, brushed some mascara on and, oh what the heck, grabbed the tube of pink sparkly lipstick. Sugar Plum Ice, Sugar Plum Gloss, some sweet fruity name. She was a flurry of flicking hands and twitching hair and then into the sink went the magic wand of hairdos, the magic wand of eyelashes, and the newly acquired magic wand of lips. Yeah, she was definitely destined to write fairytale happily-ever-afters.

  His footsteps ching-ed against the metal steps in the stairwell. What the heck did she do with her shoe? She’d chosen the turquoise dress and her kicky yellow flats just wouldn’t do. Silver sandals would have to suffice. Well, one of them anyway. Where was that other one? She lived in an eighteen by eighteen foot box—how far could one footless shoe go?

  Shadows flickered beneath her door. Great, he was there and she was still shoeless.

  She kicked a pillow that God-knew-why decided to spend the day on the floor, and luckily found the other one.

  She wasn’t normally this disorganized, but for some reason she was all thumbs trying to get ready for this date—dinner.

  It’s a dinner, Jolie. Nothing more.

  Tell that to her hormones.

  Todd knocked.

  “Be right there,” she said, trying not to break her neck as she slid Foot into the sandal. Of course, she shoved the little thong thingy between the wrong toes, so she had to do it again.

  Shoe on, she took a quick breath and found herself going all 1950’s glamour goddess before opening the door, brushing the hair from her forehead and running her hands down the dress. If she’d had a mirror by the door she would’ve glanced into it and puckered her lips, brushing at the corner with her pinky finger in case any lipstick was smudged. But, no mirror, so Todd would have to take her with smudged lipstick or not.

  Oh, take me, take me.

  And it was with that thought that she op
ened the door.

  Hellooooo.

  Naughty Girl was on the mark with that assessment. The man was looking good. Really good. Sinfully good. The kind of good that could get a good girl into trouble.

  And she was so trying to be a good girl.

  “Hi,” Jolie said, trying to keep the husky glamour goddess from emanating from her throat à la Anne Bancroft in “The Graduate.” Or Mae West with her “Come up and see me sometime.”

  Would it be too clichéd to lean back against the door frame? Probably. Not to mention pathetic. He thought she was, quote, “cute, I guess.” Not the most inviting reason to do a come-hither.

  Plus there was the job she had going with him. And that was all she had going with him and as soon as Naughty Girl listened up and paid attention, they’d all have a much better evening.

  Well, no, that wasn’t true. They’d probably have the best time if she took Nasty’s advice, but that couldn’t happen.

  “You ready?” he asked.

  “What? You can’t tell? Well, gosh, I didn’t think the fifteen minutes I was missing in my normal routine would show that drastically. See what happens when you get caught up in a good story? Pages fly by and the time even quicker. Before you know it, you’re missing dinner—and obviously necessary primping time—because you’ve got to find out if Lady Hammonton sashays across the crowded ballroom right into the oh-so-dashing Jeremy Godfield’s arms and—”

  “Jolie?”

  Okay, let the floor open up and swallow her whole right now.

  “Um… right. Sure. I’m ready. Just let me grab, um… my bag.” Luckily, she’d had the forethought to hang her bag on the closet door so she wouldn’t have to do the throw-the-clothes-all-over-the-bed/sofa thing in front of him.

  Bag in hand, she stepped through the door, pulling it shut behind her. “All ready,” she told him.

  “You look very nice,” was what he told her in return, the upward curve of his lips drawing her attention to the sparkle in his green eyes and those crinkles at the corners.

  And there went her knees to mush.

  It only took four words. Four words! How did he do that? She’d have to remember that one and throw it in her book somewhere. Turn heroine’s knees to mush in four simple words, by Todd Best.

  “Uh, thanks.” Uh? Uh? Good God, Jolie, your vocabulary is regressing. “You look pretty spiffy yourself.” Khakis with a forest green golf shirt tucked in the waistband showed off his upper body quite nicely. Not that she was supposed to be noticing. That “she was human” excuse was getting a bit thin.

  It was a breezy night with the soft wind off the river, perfect for cooling the summer air. The early arrivals to the evening cricket chorus warmed up their “instruments” from the grove of elm trees behind the parking lot, Jolie’s heels clicking a soft rhythm along the pock-marked cement walkway. At the top of the steps to the asphalt, she turned to look at Todd and darn if she didn’t touch him on the arm. His touchy-feely-ness must be catching. “We’re eating outside, aren’t we? I hope so. I love to watch the stars come out.”

  He tested the railing then pulled his hand back as it shook in the loose moorings of crumbling concrete, and lightly gripped her elbow instead. “Sure. We can eat on deck if you want.”

  “Thank you. Oh, look.” She pointed to a flock of birds fluttering in for a landing. “How cute! Pigeons.”

  “Pigeons are cute? That’s a new one,” Todd laughed. “Most people I know think they’re pests.”

  “You must hang around city people. They call them rats with wings, but I think pigeons are pretty, with their soft gray feathers and all those jewel tones in their necks. I like to feed them. Appreciative little things, though I have to remember to stay away from parked cars when I bring them leftovers, ’cause my neighbors are not so appreciative.”

  “You seem to have a penchant for feeding things,” he said as he held open the door to the Dream Machine.

  That was a first. Never had a man opened a car door for her.

  Showed the kind of guys she dated. Not that there’d been too many, anyway, but yes, there had been a few and she’d been “curious,” but once she saw what it was all about, she’d decided she was going to better herself so she had a choice of an improved caliber of men. If only her mom had had the same epiphany.

  “I guess I just like to feed God’s creatures.” Plus their begging for scraps ran a little too close to home with memories of her childhood, so, yes, she fed them.

  She slid into her seat, swinging her silver sandaled feet into the car, looking for a way to change the subject before becoming lost in the miasma that was her past. “Oh, look how the sky is laced with all those pretty shades of pink and orange and red.”

  “Um hmmm,” Todd said, slipping into his tan leather seat beside her.

  “Pretty non-committal for a guy who paints for a living.” She pulled the seatbelt across her chest, latching it in place.

  “Do you have a music preference?” Todd reached for the radio.

  Okay. Ixnay on the artistic talk. But music worked. “I enjoy classical.”

  “Classical,” he returned, sans emotion, his fingers stilling.

  Oh, dear God, she’d done it again. Trista must have been a big classical fan. Restaurant, book, music…

  Just shoot her now.

  “Todd, really, it doesn’t matter.” She reached for his hand and a thousand fires started under her skin. The guy was potent, so she ripped her hand away and stuffed it in her lap. How could she feel like that while he was remembering his wife? How could she feel like that at all? It just wasn’t a good idea, no matter how she tried to rationalize it. “We don’t need music. Or you can put on anything. Rap, hip-hop, Alternative, Top 40, I don’t care. Whatever you want.”

  “What I want is... “ He blew out a breath and sat back in his seat, his hands clenching the steering wheel, eyes closed, mouth tightening.

  This was so not a moment she wanted to be a part of. She had to leave.

  She undid her seatbelt and scrambled for the door handle. She couldn’t be witness to this. It was too personal, too intense.

  “What I want, is dinner.” He turned her way with the barest semblance of something called a grin and nodded at the seatbelt hanging over her shoulder. “Want to buckle up?”

  “Um… all right.” She re-attached the seatbelt. If he wanted to pretend that flashback didn’t happen, she could too, though who were they kidding?

  “Oh, here.” Todd did a funky sliding/grabbing movement over the seat. “I assume this is yours.” He handed her something small, rectangular, and paperback, and she wanted to slink under the seat.

  “Unless you ordered The Dashing Rogue from the grocery store for dinner tonight?”

  If she could order a dashing rogue for dinner, Todd would be her first choice.

  Yeah, yeah, bad idea.

  “Sorry. It must have fallen out of my purse. Thanks.” She shoved it under her thigh. “A new bookstore opened down the street from Arena’s Grocery and the owner gave it to me.”

  “So, do you read those or was he just giving out anything?” Todd started the car and backed out of the parking spot.

  This would be the perfect time to tell him she was writing one, but did she really want to do that? She couldn’t afford him to ever link himself to her story—not with the whole “I don’t want my life to be an open book” comment. He wouldn’t be too thrilled to show up in the pages of her manuscript, disguised or not, so she better make sure he had no cause to recognize himself.

  “I’m a big fan of romance novels,” seemed like a safe answer since he’d caught her reading one on her first day.

  He couldn’t take exception to that, right?

  ***

  Jonathan Griff stared at the figures on the television screen in his sparse apartment. Guardians didn’t need many comforts. He wouldn’t even have the television if it weren’t absolutely necessary. Having given Bixby his laptop after Bixby had accidentally flung his into the
river dodging that dog, and the human economic downturn having inspired tightening of gold-braided belts in the Celestial Realm, Jonathan had had to put in a request for a retro model television to be able to monitor his Charges. Rafael had raised his brow when he’d first seen it, but the archangel was nothing if not supportive.

  Though how much longer Rafael would be patient with him, Jonathan didn’t know. He wasn’t quite sure what the criteria was for earning his wings, but he was going to try his hardest.

  Starting with getting these two on the same wavelength.

  Eye twitching, he’d cringed when Jolie shoved the book under her leg. He’d thought for sure the romance novel would help, but if she kept forgetting it or hiding it, the notion wouldn’t take hold. And Todd had totally dismissed the flyer.

  Jonathan tapped his index fingers together then steepled them beneath his chin, resting his elbows on his knees. He needed another angle on this. Those two were in want of some serious help.

  ***

  Todd ran a hand through his hair, then hit the turn signal at the entrance of the complex. Romance novels. That figured. “So, you’re one of those.”

  “Those?”

  “Happily-ever-after types.” A horn blared as the driver swerved around him. Stupid kids, doing fifty in a thirty-five-mile-an-hour zone. Thought they’d live forever.

  If they only realized.

  “Well, yes, I do hope for happily-ever-afters.” Graceful hand movements accompanied Jolie’s words as if the words alone weren’t enough to convey her hopefulness. Someone ought to bottle that enthusiasm as an antidote for depression. “Sure beats the alternative. Who wants an unhappily-ever-after? You have to find something good in any bad situation. Otherwise why bother doing anything? So, when life gets a little too real, it’s always nice to hop into a book where you know things are going to end up okay, no matter how bad they seem.” She dropped her hands into her lap, the fingers interlaced.