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

by Opal Carew

  “So… is that okay with you?”

  She nodded. Like a crazy woman. If she even thought about trying to open her mouth to thank him, he’d think she was a crazy woman because she was trying really hard not to burst into Hoover Dam-like tears.

  Even Naughty Girl shut up, and Jolie thought she caught a sniffle or two from her.

  “Okay then. That’s settled.” He dumped the shredded check into the trashcan, then sidled close enough to peer over her shoulder. “Are those crêpes?”

  Chlorine and essence du Todd tickled her nose and the little fine hairs on the back of her neck started doing the “Todd Lambada” dance, which had the added benefit of heating her from the inside out so her tears sizzled out of existence.

  “Yep. One of my specialties.” She turned around and, smart boy, he scooted out of her way. Trying to regain whatever composure she had left, she spooned some of the fruit into the center, rolled the crêpe and drizzled more of the strawberry/orange juice over it. She handed him the plate and he took a seat.

  “How about whipped cream with this?” he asked.

  Whipped cream. She stifled a groan as she opened the fridge and grabbed one oh-so-innocent-looking white container. Somehow she was going to have to spoon the little pre-fabbed temptation over his crêpe, but, by God, her imagination went steaming into overdrive and Naughty Girl came back to life with a vengeance.

  Images of spooning it over him flashed in her brain, followed shortly thereafter by images of licking it off.

  She grabbed a theoretical stranglehold on Naughty Girl’s throat and told her to knock it off. That is not a good idea.

  Though, that tanned shoulder would look supremely scrumptious slathered in white, fluffy—

  “Jolie?”

  Face flaming, she tossed him the container. She was not going near the guy.

  Chicken.

  “Nice catch,” she mumbled in an effort to appear somewhat normal and not like an incredibly grateful, overly-horny, under-sexed, sorry excuse for an employee.

  “Are you joining me?” asked Mr. I-have-no-idea-my-chef-is-a-quivering-mass-of-hormones.

  “Uh, okay. Let me flip this and I’ll be right over.” And she’d sit at the far end of the table.

  “So what do you have planned today?” asked Mr. Chipper. “I’m going to be pretty occupied in the attic, so, if you don’t mind, you can just leave me a sandwich. I’ll grab it when I take a break.”

  Dab, dab with the fruit, roll, roll with the crêpe, and she was ready to brave breakfast with Brawny. Darn if the guy didn’t pull out the chair next to him.

  So much for avoidance tactics.

  “If you’re sure… I do have some pages to write—I mean, some notes to organize.” Oops.

  “Pages? What are you writing? A cookbook?” His tongue gathered the whipped cream from the corner of his mouth.

  Mind back on the task at hand, Jols. Which would be pulling her sandaled foot out of her mouth. Pages to write. Sheesh.

  “Yes. I’m working on a book. For the pastry shop I want to open.” Sure, she could throw some recipes in her manuscript. She’d seen people do that, where they began a chapter with a family recipe. She wasn’t quite sure how she’d work it into the story, but if she did, she wouldn’t be lying.

  “Be sure to include these crêpes. They’re great.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Are there any more?”

  “In the warming drawer.”

  He walked to the drawer, bent over to open it, and, man! What a view. His back was muscle-slick, a slight rise on either side of his spine, flaring in at his waist. His butt tightened, his thighs tightened, his calves tightened, and a few body parts of her own did some tightening—which sent one riotous bundle of flames from her heart, through several key points nearby—literally—down through her belly to dance along one very tingly area between her legs.

  She really needed to stop noticing those things.

  “These are very good,” he said as he sat at the table again.

  Could she not get a break? Heck, her nipples were welcoming him back, for Pete’s sake. Could she have some time for them to calm down before he had ’em up and dancing?

  “Thanks,” she mumbled, shoveling the rest of her crêpe in. She was out of there as soon as she finished one last bit of juice. Pseudo-cookbook, here I come.

  That was her story and she was sticking to it.

  ***

  Todd closed the French door behind him, the slate patio warm beneath his bare feet. He breathed in the first scent of gardenias in the garden outside the study. The landscapers had been busy the other day. Freshly planted rose bushes filled the hollow beneath the study’s bow window. He wondered what color they’d be when they bloomed. Probably white. For some reason the homeowners’ association had a thing for white flowers, but he didn’t know why. Maybe he’d call the contractors and get them to substitute some of the more colorful varieties.

  If he cared enough. It was, after all, just a house.

  He caught a glimpse of Jolie through the study window as she rounded the corner to head upstairs, her long dark hair flowing after her like a horse’s tail streaming down the homestretch. Great; her exuberance was back.

  He couldn’t figure out what had happened during breakfast. One minute she’d been all smiles, her eyes sparkling like amethysts at the thought of baking cookies for the kids; the next, the light-heartedness had vanished and she’d become withdrawn. Almost unsure.

  He replayed the scene as he climbed the outside stairs to the garage attic.

  The whipped cream. That was when she’d gotten that funny look on her face.

  Oh, hell. Did she think he was making fun of her?

  He paused on the landing to pull the key from his swimsuit. He’d been surprised at himself when he’d taunted her with the “whatever” in the lobby of his offices, but then she’d shot back the whipped cream comment and it’d taken on joke status between them. At least, he’d thought so.

  Hell, he was so out of this male/female thing. With Trista, it’d been as natural as breathing. There’d never been the coyness, the doubts, the should-he/shouldn’t-he questions.

  Not that he was going down that route with Jolie, no matter how pretty she was, but he’d felt that same repartee with her.

  Obviously, she hadn’t.

  As the moving company van pulled into the driveway, Todd unlocked the door and slid it open. Dust particles danced in the sunlight as he took in the stacks of white-sheeted canvases lining the walls of the stark white room.

  He was sick of the blandness. His house was full of non-colors, his garden was a tribute to white, now this place.

  Trista’s death had leached the color from his life.

  He wanted it back.

  Chapter Fourteen

  At lunchtime, a still-shirtless Todd in a pair of low-hanging, faded-almost-white denim shorts joined Jolie poolside where she was working on her book.

  “Mind if I join you?” he asked.

  She slammed the notebook shut. Darn. Her hero, Tom, had finally started flowing from her pencil—some angst, a character flaw, and just a hint of the stubbornness that was going to keep him from realizing true love when he saw it.

  She’d been having trouble getting Tom and the heroine together, so she’d decided to use what had brought her and Todd together—not that she was in any way comparing the two. One, of course, was fiction and the other, quite out of her league. But now, halfway through that scene, Todd stepped into view and—

  “Jolie?”

  “Huh? Oh, um, sure. Go ahead.” She swept her hand over the chair.

  He took the seat, parking his platter and iced tea glass on the white wrought-iron with a soft clink.

  “Cookbook?” he asked as he swallowed a bite of the roast beef and Swiss sandwich she’d left for him, the muscles in his strong, corded neck flexing.

  She nodded, sliding the notebook off to the side.

  “Secret cookbook?”

 
; Funny boy. “No.”

  “Secret recipes then? Or don’t you want me to see how much butter you used for the crêpes?” The killer smile was back and her thighs quivered.

  Her thighs quivered? Really? She never would have thought thighs could quiver. She’d read those words in a romance novel—probably a Regency since heroines were notably shy and virginal—and found quivering thighs to be a bit overdone. But apparently it really was possible.

  “No secrets,” she said. That he need know about anyhow. “I just don’t like anyone looking at my stuff until it’s done.” She rested the pencil on top of the notebook. “Is your sandwich okay?”

  With another bite in there, he nodded.

  “Good. How’s the clean-out coming?”

  He and the three workmen had been ensconced in the attic since right after breakfast. From her bathroom window, she’d seen Todd pause before entering the place where he stored his paintings. It must have been really hard to go in there.

  “It’s… coming.” He cleared his throat. “It had to be done, I guess.”

  “So what are you going to do with all the space up there?”

  Darn if he didn’t get a little sprightly. “The light’s good. I was thinking—”

  “Of painting again?”

  “I’m not sure. I might put a chair or two there, maybe an easel and see if I can—”

  He looked away, beyond the pool toward the canopy of green at the back of the property with its wooden bench and some bird feeders. The fountain in the pond on the path from the driveway gurgled as a dragonfly buzzed past.

  “If you can what?”

  “If I can get any of the magic to come out of my fingers again.”

  Having been on the receiving end of Mr. Touch-Feeley’s fingers, she could assure him there was, indeed, magic there.

  Probably something else that wasn’t a good idea to notice.

  “Well, you won’t know ’til you try.” She swiped the manuscript off the table while his attention was focused on the dark green lawn. Mr. Gray did a good job with the yard. “Just get all your supplies out, make yourself comfy, and I bet in no time you’ll be whipping out those canvases so fast you’ll wonder if you’ll ever be able to stop.”

  He laughed and she was thankful for the sound. He wouldn’t be able to pick up a brush if his heart was in his shoes.

  She glanced down. No shoes. Of course.

  “I hope you’re right, Jolie, but we’ll see. First thing, though, I’m going to paint the walls. White is too sterile.” He gathered his plate and glass. “And, God knows, I’ve had enough sterile to last a lifetime.” He stood and pushed in his chair. “Thanks for lunch. It’s nice having you here.”

  And away he went. With her thighs quivering after him. She was such a sucker for the tragic hero.

  But she had to remember he wasn’t a character in a book. That, no matter how inspirational he was for her writing, he was still carrying around a boatload of love for Trista which left about as much room in his heart for someone else as a fortune cookie wrapped around Confucius had for more words of wisdom.

  ***

  Hours later, Jolie was trying her hand at a good ol’ Americana dinner, when Todd poked his sweaty self into the kitchen.

  “Something smells good in here.”

  I’ll tell him what smells good—

  “It’s the herbed stuffing I add to the burgers,” she said, flipping said burgers on the indoor grill. “Or maybe the buttery corn-on-the-cob.”

  “They both sound good. Do I have time for a shower?”

  Only if I can watch.

  Oh, please God, don’t let Naughty Girl have said that out loud.

  “Uh, sure. Yes, there’s time.” Her hands were shaking and it had nothing to do with the ice water she plunged the boiled potatoes and eggs into. Matter of fact, she should probably dunk her entire head in that glacial pool to shock her libido into proper behavior.

  “Do you have enough for the guys?” he hollered from the steps. “I should have said something earlier, but I was occupied.”

  With sweeping the last remnants of his previous life out of his attic. As if she’d expect him to remember something as mundane as eating. “Yes, I’ve made enough. I figured you guys would be hungry.”

  “You’re a godsend, Jolie,” came wafting through the vast emptiness of the foyer as he crossed the hallway above her head, marching into that sanctuary he called a master suite, and she wanted to tell him he was the heavenly apparition she needed in her life.

  But that would be so overly dramatic.

  Though true.

  She managed to get through the rest of the meal’s preparation by focusing on the workmen carting some furniture and plants up the attic stairs and loads of paintings back down. All that work Todd had done and no one to enjoy it. Gosh, she really hoped he would start painting again. It didn’t have to be those beautiful pictures. Maybe he could try abstracts. Charcoal. Stick figures. The what didn’t matter, it was the doing it that did. She just wanted him to find his passion again.

  And then he entered the kitchen and she found hers.

  The khaki shorts, royal blue button-down, and canvas deck shoes were such a good look on him. Very Suburban-Man-Chic which normally would make her heart speed up, but it stopped. Possibly literally. There was a little pain right in the center of her chest when she breathed.

  Then he smiled and the pain dissipated. And her heart rate went back to normal. And then ratcheted up a notch.

  “Here, let me get that,” he said and she could only nod. If he said her name she was going to melt.

  She held the plate out, his fingers brushed hers, and she sucked in a breath, skin sizzling.

  He stopped.

  Beneath the plate, his hands halted on hers.

  He sucked in a breath every big as the one she did.

  Whoa boy.

  His gaze shot to hers, his brows reaching for the heavens, and darned if she didn’t feel the flickering tendrils of want curling in her belly.

  “Jolie.”

  “Hmm?”

  “I’m… hungry.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Um, perhaps we better, um… “ Todd tugged on her hand and she snapped out of that whirling vortex of chemical hormonal combustion.

  “Right,” She shifted her weight between the re-quivering thighs. “The food. Outside. Let’s.”

  “Yes. Outside.”

  So eloquent, both of them.

  She relinquished the burger plate, scooped up the fixings and trotted after him into the purple twilight as well as quivering thighs permitted.

  The workmen were on their way back up the stairs, their banter breaking the mood. Whatever the mood was. Was it her imagination or had she and Todd been on the same hunger plane back there? She sure as heck hadn’t been talking burgers.

  “Come and get it, guys,” Todd called out as he left the burgers on the table and set to lighting the tiki torches.

  Come and get it. Now there was a command her traitorous heart leapt for.

  ***

  Hands on his hips, Todd stared at the flame on the tiki torch and tried to draw more oxygen into his lungs. What had happened back in the kitchen? If he didn’t know better, he’d swear he’d felt attraction. To Jolie.

  Oh, shit. He did know better and that was attraction.

  Now what the hell was he supposed to do?

  The guys were helping themselves to the meal and he couldn’t seem to muster enough effort to turn around. How could he face her?

  How could he not?

  Had she felt it?

  He swallowed his laugh and ran a hand through his hair and around the back of his neck, kneading it. Of course she’d felt it. He’d known the moment she had. Which had been about two seconds after he had.

  Attraction.

  Desire.

  For a woman other than Trista.

  One who worked for him.

  Oh, yeah. That was brilliant.

  Todd sucked in
another breath and willed himself to turn around. He shouldn’t be surprised; Jolie was gorgeous. And funny. And fun. And bright and sunny—everything that had been missing from his life these last two years.

  “Todd? You said you were hungry?”

  Hungry? Was he?

  He shook the double meaning from his mind and turned around, rolling his shoulders as he walked back to the table. It was too much too soon to make any decisions. He needed to digest this sudden shift.

  “Yeah, I am.” His gaze skimmed her face, then, after the briefest of pauses, he helped himself to the hamburgers. “These smell good,” he said.

  At least his voice sounded normal.

  That’d be one thing that was.

  ***

  Jolie’s face felt as if it was on fire, her breathing was shallow, and her hands were trembling. Not exactly her normal state of being. Before meeting Todd Best, that was. Now? Who knew? It seemed trembling appendages were to be a daily occurrence chez Best.

  Somehow she managed to direct the tremblages (her just-coined term) to a chair and plunked herself in it across from Todd. Let the feasting begin. Of the palate… and the eyes.

  “Where are we taking the paintings?” one of the workmen asked, thankfully yanking her musings from the place they had no business going.

  “To the office. Mike will let you know what he wants where.” Todd helped himself to the fixings for his burger, cocking an eyebrow her way at the scored rind on the pickle. “More garnishing? Cute.”

  “It’s what I do best.”

  “Now there’s a damn shame,” one of the other guys mocked with a suggestive waggle of eyebrows. “Garnishing ain’t high on the list of priorities for my women.”

  “Jolie works for me,” Todd snapped back.

  “Oooo-kay.” Scumm-o snickered.

  “Look here—” Todd leaned forward in his chair.

  “Luigi.” The foreman smacked the table. “Knock it off, will ya? Keep yer trap shut or you’re fired. Don’t go insulting the boss, ya moron.” He looked at Jolie and tipped a non-existent hat. “My apologies, ma’am.”