by Cris Anson
An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
www.ellorascave.com
Mischief Night
ISBN 9781419913785
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Mischief Night Copyright © 2007 Cris Anson
Edited by Sue-Ellen Gower.
Cover art by Syneca.
Electronic book Publication October 2007
This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.
Mischief Night
Cris Anson
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Outlook: Microsoft Corporation
Playgirl: Playgirl Key Club, Inc
YouTube: Google, Inc.
Chapter One
“Naked men, Miss Fortier?”
Annabelle Fortier’s breath hitched. Her fingers gripped around the day’s first cup of coffee. Her long legs refused to move her out of the doorway and into her office as she took in the man who stood behind her desk. Her boss Lowell Smith, the man she’d had X-rated fantasies about since she’d come to work here six months ago, held her clandestine Playgirl calendar aloft. Mr. June stared back at her, clad only in his muscular splendor and a sensuous half-smile.
Heat raced up Annabelle’s face. She knew that such a provocative item had no place in an office, but the model reminded her of Mr. Smith—the piercing blue eyes, black swept-back hair, angular jaw—and she used it as a pacifier. Well, okay, as her meditation cue when her workload overwhelmed her. But she kept it inside her top center drawer. Way in the back. Closed.
For a long moment she felt like a schoolgirl caught ogling the star quarterback in the boys’ locker room. Then outrage kicked in. “Why are you rifling through my desk?”
“Please come in, Miss Fortier.”
Electricity arced in the air between them as his intense gaze bored into her. She had the strangest sensation he knew why that particular month was so dog-eared.
“Believe it or not,” he said, a half-smile of his own breaking out, “I was looking for your calendar.”
Finally Annabelle’s sense of self-preservation kicked in and she strode up to him. “My calendar is viewable on everyone’s computer. We have Outlook, remember? I keep all my appointments there, so anyone can see what my schedule is.”
“I already checked it. It didn’t show anything for this evening, and I thought that this might be your…personal calendar. I wanted to be sure before I asked you.”
Not that she’d sully all those hunks by writing on them. Then the dawn broke. “Ask me what?”
“If you’re doing anything tonight.”
Annabelle narrowed her eyes. “Why?” If she had to go to another meeting of the planning board, she’d scream.
He indicated the calendar. “I know now that you’re the right person to ask. Would you like to go to a Halloween party?”
Would she like to go to a party with Studley Do-right? Was water wet? Her mind did a one-eighty.
“I’d love to, Mr. Smith.” Dare she hope he saw her as more than just a competent assistant designer? The heavy-lidded look in his eyes at this moment said he did.
“Good. It’s at the Savidges’ home in Wayne. Eight o’clock.”
Wayne was an upscale suburb of Philadelphia, a place of sprawling mansions and outrageously high property taxes. She’d passed through it, browsed the shops on the Main Line, but had never been invited to a home in the town. This would be a treat. “Is it a costume party?”
“Yes.” He glanced at the gold watch at his wrist. “Take the rest of the day off and find yourself a costume.”
She blinked. She’d never taken a sick or vacation day, often worked late with him, tried to make herself indispensable to this workaholic boss. It wasn’t yet noon and he was giving her all this time to get ready. Her fantasies shifted into high gear.
“Is there a theme?”
“I don’t know. They’re making the downstairs into a haunted house kind of thing. Here’s the invitation. Directions are on the back. You’ll have to present it at the door.”
She would? Fighting to keep any expression from her voice or her face, she parried, “We’ll be going in separate cars?”
“Mr. Savidge is our most influential client. He sent me an invitation that I can’t use because of an important meeting that just came up. I didn’t want to insult him by not putting in an appearance after I had already accepted.”
“But if you can’t go, how will you put in an appearance?”
“The invitation.” He swept an arm in the direction of the invitation lying on top of the sketches on Annabelle’s desk. “Each ticket is numbered in the upper right-hand corner. He’ll know.”
She must have looked like Dumb Dora, because he added, “We both belong to an exclusive club. That’s my membership number. He’ll probably be at the door himself, checking identities. No one is admitted that he doesn’t know.” He smiled at her, the full, kissable lips parting to reveal strong white teeth. “If he asks, you just tell him you’re coming in my place.
“And,” he said almost as an afterthought as he turned to leave, “I’ll try to wind up my meeting early, so I might see you there later.”
At least he’d dangled a carrot in front of her, Annabelle thought later as she returned home with her packages. She had gone to three costume shops before she found something that would knock his socks off—provided, of course, he would actually manage to get there before the party wound down. And since it was a weeknight, she didn’t want to stay too late waiting for him. She had an important meeting tomorrow.
But seeing as how she’d lusted after him from the first day she’d interviewed, and seeing as how Lowell Smith, bachelor extraordinaire, was too involved in work to notice her as a woman—although she admitted having caught him looking speculatively at her when he thought she didn’t know it—she considered this evening a golden opportunity to make him see more than just the MBA in architecture that he’d hired over twenty-some other candidates.
Did the rich keep to schedules? she wondered as she drove down Lancaster Avenue in Wayne at exactly eight p.m. Should she arrive on time? Fashionably late? Or maybe, she thought sourly, she should concentrate on the directions to be sure she arrived at all. This was the last week in October, so darkness had long since fallen, and even though the streets were well marked, they certainly weren’t spotlighted.
She found the address in short order and steered her little two-seater into a driveway which carved a semi-circle out of a lawn still green and raked free of fallen leaves. Luxury cars were parked off to the side by valets, one of whom hurried to her door. Maybe she wasn’t rich, but her hair was. Instead of her usual braid or French twist that was her work style, it fell in soft auburn curls halfway down her back, accenting the vivid green of her eyes.
As she slid out of the seat, her costume rode up her long, slender legs. The valet gave her an appreciative once-over and made Annabelle feel a little better. She would have fun tonight, with or without Mr. Smith.
The front door was opened by a strikingly handsome man dressed all in black, including a cape slung across his shoulders—either a vampire or a man on his way to opening night at the opera. He held out his hand and assisted her across the threshold.
“And who do I have the pleasure of welcoming?” he said in a deliciously se
xy baritone.
Oops! She needed to present the invitation. “Annabelle Fortier,” she replied, fumbling in her beaded purse for the ticket.
He glanced at it. “Lowell will be joining us later?”
“I hope so,” she blurted out, then added, “he was upset that he had to meet a client at the last minute.”
“Understood. May I take your wrap? By the way, I’m your host, Robert Savidge.”
“A pleasure.” She turned and allowed the pashmina to slide off her shoulders.
“I knew Lowell had exquisite taste.”
Annabelle turned around, a question in her eyes at the comment.
“You will undoubtedly be the second-most beautiful woman here tonight,” he said smoothly. “After my fiancée. You look like a wood sprite, or a fairy. Or…I know, the delicate creature on that water bottle who’s kneeling at the edge of a pond to see her reflection.”
Annabelle could feel her face heat up at his compliment. If only Mr. Smith would see her in such a light. But maybe he did. The way he’d looked at her while holding that calendar…
She felt her costume suited her. It consisted of a short white slip with white silk squares applied here and there like dangling handkerchiefs, and tiny wings of gossamer thinness tacked on near her shoulder blades. And white stiletto sandals that wrapped up around her ankles.
“Would you like a mask?”
“I think not.” She considered her eyes her best asset and didn’t want to hide them, but more importantly, she wanted to be sure Mr. Smith didn’t mistake anyone else for her. If he showed up.
The hint of a smile played around her host’s lips then he ushered her from the foyer into a large living room. “Help yourself to something to eat and drink, then when you’re ready, please walk through that door…” he indicated one on the far wall, “and enjoy our Haunted House Tour.”
As a budding architect, Annabelle considered how one would make a haunted house out of this 1900s mansion. With fourteen-foot-high ceilings and a foyer bigger than her living room, she could just imagine room after room sprawling out in an H, perhaps. Or a U.
Draining the last sip of champagne, she sauntered to the door and walked through.
The door slammed shut behind her and she found herself in pitch-black darkness. Instinctively she reached her arms out and was reassured to feel a velvety wall on her left. She wasn’t claustrophobic, but it was slightly unnerving.
“Okay,” she muttered. “It’s only a figment of someone’s imagination. Skeletons will pop out and clack their bones, no doubt I’ll brush against synthetic cobwebs, there’ll be maniacal laughter and rubber-hose snakes. You can do it. Move it, feet!”
They did. She trailed fingertips over the velvet, feeling it curve to the right. Directly ahead, a vignette appeared, lit by a dim blue light. Annabelle stopped abruptly. A naked, voluptuous blonde woman stood under the spotlight. Behind her, a vampire—her host?—curved his black-clad arms around the woman’s waist. Her chin was raised, exposing a graceful neck. The man dipped his head and opened his mouth, displaying, yes, she was sure, fangs. He sank them into the white throat and Annabelle flinched. Tears of blood dripped at the point of contact. The woman undulated her hips and the man slid his hands down her belly to the soft blonde hair below, and the lights faded.
Annabelle took a deep breath. Wow! This was like no haunted house she’d ever tripped through.
“Please keep moving,” said a disembodied voice.
Right. She was pretty sophisticated, she wouldn’t let a little thing like a naked woman being stroked and bitten and bloodied throw her off stride.
She took a few more steps, then when nothing happened, a few more. Suddenly the front of her bare thighs hit what felt like a barrier of open hands, cool and dry, one from each side of the corridor. She stopped in shock, pressed her hand against the wall to keep a grip on reality. Two other hands closed in on the backs of her legs, big, masculine hands whose fingers briefly tightened against her muscles. Their palms ran lightly down her legs, front and back, to her knees then back up, brushing under the hem of her costume and against the crotch of her panties with light, teasing strokes. Her pussy tingled, shocking her more.
Resolutely she pressed forward. The hands gave way and she almost bumped into a wall. The hallway apparently made a ninety-degree angle. Following it, she saw a red glow and another vignette. As she approached, she felt her jaw drop. Another naked woman came into view. She was kneeling on a cushioned platform, cheek resting on a pillow, ass haystacked in the air. Her arms stretched forward. Red scarves tied to unseen posts held her immobile. A well-built man in tight leather pants and nothing else stood behind her, holding a wooden paddle.
Annabelle must have gasped, because the tableau came to life. The man swung his arm, and a resounding smack echoed through the dark hallway. And another, and another. The woman wiggled as if to demand more, and the man complied. Annabelle could see the red marks blossoming on the woman’s pale ass cheeks and thighs as the paddle struck again and again. Then the red light darkened to maroon then black then disappeared altogether.
Wow! What kind of club did Mr. Smith belong to? Was he a regular participant in such activities? Did he think this was the best way to see if she wanted to join in the…fun? And how would he—and she—have responded if he’d accompanied her through this journey?
Oh God, that’s what he meant when he’d said, “the right person to ask” while he waved Mr. June in front of her nose. He was warming her up—she hoped—for some extracurricular activity. In the back of her mind Annabelle thought it a good thing her costume was so skimpy. Just thinking of what they could do together had her blood heated until she probably had a rosy glow all over her skin. If she had worn, say, a body suit or a form-fitting cat costume, she’d be too hot to move.
Shaking her head, she continued walking. And bumped into a body.
The full Monty. A full-frontal, naked male body.
Instinctively she moved to regain her balance in the darkness, clasping massive muscled arms in her grip. Holy Hannah. Definitely a male, because she felt the probing jut of his manhood aimed right between her legs.
His hands went around her, connected with her butt, and he lifted her with the greatest ease, rubbing her against his hard-on, up and down in slow, sensuous movements. The faint scent of sandalwood and aroused male wrapped around her.
She couldn’t help it. She dipped her head, lowering her lips to the side of his head and licked whatever she could reach. His neck, smooth-shaven. The lobe of his ear, which she gently tugged with her teeth.
Common sense warred with her awakening lust. Did they time how long it took to traverse this Haunted House? Who was this anonymous man? Maybe she could have some fun in the dark…
Sheesh! She must be out of her mind. What if Mr. Smith was waiting for her at the end of the tour and she took forever to come out? She’d never be able to look him in the eye again.
So with no small regret, she pushed herself away from his rock-hard pecs, his washboard abs, and felt his reluctance as he gently set her back on her feet. And just like that, he disappeared behind a hidden escape hatch.
Now she just hoped the end was in sight. What if the other guests would be watching to see her reactions? Should she act lust-filled? Shocked? Jaded? Heck, maybe they’d snicker. Or ignore her. Or maybe they’d be doing in public what had been hinted at within these black confines.
Keeping her fingers in contact with the left-hand wall, Annabelle came to an opening. Faced with the prospect of making a U-ey or following the other side of the wall, she peered closer to see how wide the opening was. Maybe the wall continued after an interval. Or it could be a doorway she should walk through.
She gripped the jamb and swung her body to the left to explore the opening, her right-hand palm out in front of her. And connected with what was unmistakably a woman’s heavy, full breast. By now Annabelle was so attuned to her sensual side and the darkness was so complete that she didn’t rec
oil. Instead, curiosity asserted itself. She stroked it, hefted its weight in her palm, grasped the nipple between thumb and forefinger to test its resilience.
The woman in turn fondled Annabelle’s breasts with both hands. Lightning streaked from her nipples to her pussy and her hips jerked. She felt moisture gathering in her panties. Any more stimulation, she thought, and it would be rolling down her thigh.
As if her hip movement were an invitation, the woman grasped Annabelle’s waist, bent down and found Annabelle’s breast with her mouth. It was too much. Although she was far from a prude, she’d never entertained the idea of dallying with another woman. She took a step back to give herself time to absorb the possibility of a woman-on-woman encounter.
Again, the performer took her cue from the guest and faded into the darkness, leaving her alone and tingling.
“Please enter through the opening,” the same disembodied voice instructed.
It took Annabelle a moment to move her feet. She had the presence of mind to reach out both arms to discover the parameters of the darkness and found that the path indeed turned back on itself. Like a cornfield maze, she thought. Except tactile, not visual. Okay, she could deal.
Or not.
Because the sight that greeted her at the end of the short hallway infused her with a longing to hold and be held, to be kissed, caressed, to be loved.
Or at least fucked.
She shook her head to clear it. It wasn’t like her to use such words. She didn’t consider herself crude or earthy or promiscuous. But at this moment in time, with these stimuli, with the hope that Mr. Smith and his intense look would be at the end of her journey…
Gingerly she approached this new tableau, warmed by golden lamplight. Two men and a woman were arrayed on a bed, the woman lying face to face and on top of one of the men, the other kneeling to one side, caressing both of them. All three had the glossy bodies of models and all looked intent on their mission—kissing, touching, moving body parts one against another in apparent bliss.