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

by Opal Carew

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. The last thing I’ll do is let go of her memory.”

  Those green eyes, they were a-blazin’.

  Well, some emotion was better than none.

  “But, Todd, if you stop painting, something your wife admired about you, cared about, inspired in you, you are, in essence, putting her memory away. In a box, locked up tight with a key, never to be seen or felt or experienced or shared again. How do you think she’d feel about that?”

  He turned his head, gracing her with the view of his sharp jaw line, the muscles bunching along it. She hoped he wouldn’t crack a tooth, but he needed that food for thought. Because she, as an aspiring writer, someone creative and with—she hoped—talent, she understood how the urge to create overtook everything so that it had to emerge or it’d mess with sleep patterns, consume thoughts, and take over a life. Creative expression needed an outlet. If it were bottled up inside, at some point it’d explode. Or die. And that would be such a tragedy for him.

  There was another minute—or five—of silence, then he sighed and brought his hands back to the table, reaching for his glass of water again. He didn’t take a drink, just kind of swirled the liquid around in the glass.

  “I never thought about it like that.” His voice was low.

  Oh, thank God the words “you’re fired” didn’t come spewing forth. She’d particularly hate a Donald Trump moment right then. Not that there was ever a good time for a DT moment, but now would have been especially awkward.

  Luckily, the maitre d’ picked that moment to show up with their appetizers and drinks, and Todd did the wine twirling/sipping thing. She was not a sommelier, nor would she ever aspire to that particular function. She’d done heavy book research about wines for her career instead of actual sampling, due to an instinctual aversion to the stuff. Actually, she wasn’t big on any form of alcohol unless it was cooked into a dish. Saw too much of the not-so-pretty side effects of a drinking binge—this morning included.

  Though some parts of this morning hadn’t been so bad.

  Mr. Maitre d’ placed the broiled scallops in front of them. Jolie didn’t think she’d ever seen a scallop quite that size, about as big as a four-year-old’s fist. She spun the plate around to study all sides then took a bite. It was like eating a slice of heaven, the texture of flan, with a dark, almost chocolate, roux with a hint of burgundy—au jus for scallops. “I have to get this recipe.”

  Todd added a few “uh hmmms,” but the silence wasn’t strained. Always a good thing.

  Amid the soft lap-lap of the waves, the little chink of utensils against china, she took another bite and it was all she could do not to moan. The scallops were to die for.

  Or it could be because the last ray of sun hit Todd’s profile at just the right angle.

  The man was truly beautiful and all five of her senses knew it. Not to mention the seven layers of skin she possessed.

  She needed to focus on the food.

  “So, where did you get the idea to go to culinary school?” Apparently Todd was on the same wavelength.

  “You know Casteleoni’s downtown?”

  He nodded.

  “I worked there and Bella, the owner, suggested it.”

  “So what else do you do with your time?” Todd asked. “I’m sure cooking doesn’t occupy your entire day.”

  Words failed her. What was she supposed to say? That she was in the market for a hero and oh, by the way, you’re my inspiration to a best-selling happily-ever-after?

  Not if she wanted to stay employed.

  A sliver of sumptuous scallop slid down her throat again and she waved the fork around. “I keep myself occupied. I take classes at the community college.”

  And she did. Just because it was a random semester here and there, he didn’t need to know the details. “I want to open my own pastry shop someday.”

  Or write a best-seller with movie rights.

  “Your own pastry shop. That’s ambitious.”

  “That’s me, Ambitious Jolie.”

  “I thought you were Good Sport Jolie?” he teased.

  He remembered…

  “Good sport, ambitious. Take your pick.” Jolie cleared her throat and squirmed around in her seat. “So, what do you do during the day? We still need to work out a schedule so I’m not in your way.”

  Todd’s eyes narrowed as he stared over her shoulder again.

  “Hello? Todd?” She waved her fork tines in his face.

  “Hmm. What I do. Well, let’s see. I work out, check in with Mike. Correspondence, bills. That sort of thing. Whatever people do in their lives, I guess. Nothing out of the ordinary.” He shrugged, then met her gaze.

  There was nothing ordinary about the full force of those green eyes. Focused on her, a glint of determination in there—just to come up with his daily schedule?—that, for a second, she forgot her own name. Well, no, not really, but what had they been talking about? Something about ordinary things—

  Flash!

  A burst of a light pierced the dusky sky, zinging into her eyes, and Todd grabbed her hand—not in a good way—and pulled her down to the deck as if they were being bombed.

  “Mr. Best, can you tell us who she is? Does this mean you’re painting again? Can I get an interview? A quote—Hey! Get off me! Give that back!”

  Now what? Todd could claim being ordinary all he wanted, but she knew differently. The man was still a celebrity, and this little brouhaha proved that the Fates agreed with her.

  Chapter Nine

  Son of a bitch. How’d they find him?

  Todd rubbed his thumb and index finger over his eyes, trying to readjust his vision to the gray violet of the night, the same color as Jolie’s widened eyes. He squeezed her hand and stood. “Stay down.” He hated subjecting her to this circus more than he hated going through it.

  He patted her shoulder and strode over to the two waiters holding a squirming, cursing man between them. The white lights ringing the edge of the boat and the residual from the flash made it tough to see who the man was. Not that it mattered, because anyone writing about him was the problem.

  “We’re sorry about that, Mr. Best,” one of the waiters said at his approached.

  Todd raised his hand. “You aren’t the ones who need to apologize.” He glared at the reporter.

  “Ken Shaw with In The Spotlight.” The reporter yanked his arms free from the waiters and stuck out his hand. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about—”

  “I know what you’d like, Mr. Shaw.” Todd ignored the hand and crossed his arms over his chest. “What I’d like is some privacy. Any idea whose wants I care more about?”

  “Yeah, but look, people are curious. You’re a story—”

  “No, you look, Mr. Shaw. I’m not a story. I’m a person. And the lady with me is a person. Neither of us cares what your readers are curious about. She has nothing to do with the art world. Nor, frankly, do I any longer. That’s your story. Period.” Todd held out his hand. “I’ll take the photo, if you don’t mind.”

  “No way. That’s my meal ticket for the month. Maybe I’ll see you around this place.”

  “Mr. Shaw, this area is clearly marked Private.” One of the reasons he and Trista had frequented it. “That includes the taking of unauthorized photographs. I’m sure management would be more than happy to contact the authorities should I care to press the matter.” Todd flared his palm. “The memory card.”

  The two waiters, who could pass for bouncers at any of the downtown clubs, cracked their knuckles. Todd had to cough to cover his laugh, but the theatrics worked. Shaw glanced between them, then at the railing.

  “It’s not worth it, Shaw. Hand it over. And while you’re at it, you can tell me how you knew where I’d be.”

  ***

  Todd returned to the table, batting 500. Shaw hadn’t leaked his source—Todd hadn’t really expected him to. He’d hoped, but at least he’d gotten the memory card. He ran the slim plastic rectan
gle between his fingers. Pity it was digital; he’d relish ripping a roll of film from the back of a camera, but this was more civilized.

  He didn’t feel civilized.

  “What was that about?” Jolie looked at him from her chair.

  “I thought I told you to stay there.” He pointed to the deck behind their table.

  “As in literally? I thought you meant at the table.” She placed her purse beside her plate. “So what was that?”

  Todd reclaimed his seat and stretched the napkin across his lap, then leaned toward her. “Look, I’m sorry. This morning, the reporters, everything.”

  “I’m okay. It’s fine. I—”

  “No, it’s not fine. It’s a hassle. It’s invasive and callous. I’ll understand if you want to reconsider.”

  “Reconsider?”

  Todd sat back in his chair and drew a hand through his hair. “Working for me. Trust me, it’s not fun having your life bantered about in the papers. There’s always some photographer looking for a quick buck from some national trashmag. You just met one. It’s only going to get worse. I shouldn’t have brought you out tonight.”

  “Well I’m glad you did. I wouldn’t have seen this place if you hadn’t. And that guy was so far away he probably didn’t get anything printable anyway.”

  “Good Sport Jolie to the rescue.” Todd tossed the memory card onto the table. “Well, at least I got this, so it doesn’t matter what he saw.”

  “The memory card? What are you going to do with it?”

  Todd picked it up. “How about I toss it overboard?”

  He cocked his wrist but Jolie wrapped her fingers around his arm. “Wait.”

  It was the shock of her touch that stopped him. Her fingers were warm, soft. The way she leaned forward, her turquoise dress contrasting with the cream tablecloth, the swell of her breasts being pushed up—

  What the hell was he thinking?

  He pulled his arm free, an instinctual reaction because he certainly didn’t think about it. Hell, all he could think about was how wrong it was to notice her breasts.

  “That’s not environmentally friendly, Todd,” she continued, obviously unaware of the wrong direction of his thoughts since she linked her hands on the table right beneath her breasts, pushing them up even more. “You can’t just toss it in the river. What if everyone else did? The fish would die of poisoning. Then the bigger fish would die, and so on until you’ve disrupted the food chain.”

  She sat back and her dress re-situated itself, thank God. The blood rushed back into his brain as she put things in perspective again with her concerns. Where had she been two years ago when his life had gone to shit? He could have used some unbridled optimism then.

  Not that he would have listened.

  “You’re right. The last thing I need to do is enable that reporter to cause any more damage—to me or the environment.”

  “I’ll just put it in my purse until we get home—uh, back. Then you can dispose of it.”

  Home. When had he called that place home? It was just a place to sleep, store his clothes, and eat. But yes, she’d been at home in his kitchen. Had moved right in, basically, and made herself a part of the scene.

  Wait a minute. Could she be a plant? Shaw’s source maybe?

  She raked the card toward her purse with her nails, but he stopped her, hating what he was thinking.

  “Wait, Jolie.” The last two years had really done a number on him, but lessons learned… “I’ll hold onto that.”

  “Uh, okay.” She slid the plastic to him, a twist on those pink lips.

  “Thanks.” He shoved it into his pocket, then picked up his fork, but just as quickly put it down. Was she really here for the chef position or working for someone—something—else?

  “Really, Jolie, I won’t hold it against you if you want out. I’ll write you a glowing reference.”

  “Why would you think I’d want out? It’s really no biggie.” She speared a forkful of scallop.

  If she was a plant, she’d want to stay. Of course, if she wanted the job, she’d want to stay, too. He really hated not being able to trust anyone. He fiddled with his fork, then tapped the tines against his plate. “Jolie, about this morning—”

  “You already apologized. It’s forgotten.” She twirled her fork every bit as expressively as she did her hands.

  “Not that. You never answered my question. How did you get in my house? And without me hearing you?”

  She raised her eyebrow. The fork stopped mid-twirl and she didn’t even seem to notice when the scallop dropped to her plate.

  Hell, he was going about this all wrong. But still, she’d started today. Today. Mike wouldn’t have been that callous to send someone out on this day. It was too coincidental and he didn’t like coincidences. No one had tried this angle before, but it made sense and the timing was right. “So how’d you get in? Why today?”

  Jolie took her time placing her fork on the plate and dabbing the corner of her mouth with the napkin. She smoothed it across her lap, then looked at him, the usual brightness missing from her eyes. “I used the key the agency gave me for the side door. They said to start first thing this morning so I did. Any other questions?”

  Todd studied her. Indignation, the requisite glower… She was either a very good actress or telling the truth.

  He was sick of worrying about it. She hadn’t asked a zillion questions like the reporters, his other chef had left, and it was perfectly reasonable for the agency to send someone over since today wasn’t anything special on their calendar.

  He exhaled, letting it go. Unless she gave him reason to be suspicious, he’d take her at face value. With those expressive eyes—and those irrepressible hands—he didn’t think she was pulling one over on him. “I guess they got the dates wrong, because I thought I wasn’t supposed to have anyone here this week.”

  “Well, that can be easily arranged.” She crumpled her napkin and slid sideways off her chair.

  He grabbed for her hand. “Jolie. Wait. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “Oh, I think you did.”

  He exhaled. Snagged. “Okay, maybe I was testing the waters. I know you didn’t have anything to do with that.” He pointed back to where Mr. Shaw had made his less-than-gracious exit. “It happens more than I’d like. I’m sorry.”

  She perched on the edge of the seat, those violet eyes turning as dark as the night behind her. Without the twinkling stars. He’d done that and he felt like a heel for it. The one person who apparently didn’t have an agenda with him today, and he’d insulted her.

  He was a real prince. “Please stay.”

  “Why don’t you just give them an interview and have it over and done with?” she asked, re-positioning the napkin after a few seconds’ consideration.

  “Because I don’t think it’s anyone’s business but mine how I spend my days or what I do with my life. Talking about her isn’t going to bring her back.”

  No, but painting might.

  He shoved the thought from his head. Painting wouldn’t bring Trista back, it’d bring it back. The shock, the anguish, the desolation.

  He couldn’t go through that again. He just wanted to move on with the rest of his life.

  ***

  Jolie jabbed another forkful of scallop. She plopped it into her mouth, then grabbed her napkin to spit it into. Too cold. Great, she couldn’t even enjoy her first—and probably last now that it’d forever be associated with his suspicions —meal at this place. How dare Todd insinuate—

  But what about the novel?

  That was different. It wasn’t as if anyone would know it was him when it got published. If it got published; there were no guarantees. By then, she’d be long gone anyway, and this would be just one in a string of assignments. No one would ever know Todd was the inspiration.

  Uh huh.

  She refused to feel guilty about something she hadn’t yet done, so Naughty Girl could just keep quiet.

  “Well, hello
there!” exclaimed a chipper voice at her side.

  Mr. Griff? What was he doing here?

  Well, thank goodness for it because the last thing she needed to be doing was wrestling with her conscience about something she might or might not do at some point in the future, cluing Todd in to the fact that she might not be what he thought she was. Or maybe she really was what Todd thought she was, thereby getting herself fired for something she hadn’t even done yet.

  “Miss Gardener?”

  “Hi,” she said, turning all perky, as if she hadn’t just had one of the heaviest discussions of her life, complete with unwarranted—sort of—guilt complex. “What brings you here, Mr. Griff? Are you meeting someone for dinner?” And how’d he get past the bouncers?

  He slapped his leg and laughed as if she’d said the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “Oh, no.” He wiped the corner of his eye. “I came to give, er, get something I left behind. And there it is.”

  He scurried over to a bench behind her beneath the pretty white Christmas lights, his serviceable black shoes clicking along the deck, retrieving something large, flat, and rectangular. He stuffed it under his arm then scampered back. He always seemed to be moving about with new verbs she’d never really thought of before. At the grocery store he’d clambered off the floor, now it was scurrying and scampering. What would he try next? Scuttling?

  “Who’s he?” Todd asked, his eyes narrowed.

  Great. Now he was back to wondering if she was involved in some covert spy mission. “Relax. That’s Mr. Griff. The one who gave me the book. Not a reporter.”

  Mr. Griff reached them with his large, rectangular something.

  “What on earth is that, Mr. Griff?” Jolie asked.

  “Curiosity killed the cat, Cat.” He wagged a finger at her.

  “Her name is Jolie,” Todd corrected.

  The little guy had a cat-ate-the-cream grin. “Her middle name is Catherine.”