Dead and Loving It

by MaryJanice Alongi

“Then you’ve won the lottery today, pal. And you never answered my question. What are you up to?”

  He reached out, and his big hand closed over her small, cold one. His thumb burrowed into her palm and stroked it. Her stomach did another slow roll, one she felt distinctly lower. “Why, I’m seducing you, of course,” he murmured.

  Multiple internal alarms went off. “Who are you?” she said, almost gasped.

  “No one special. Just a lord looking for his lady.”

  “Oh, you’ve got a title, too? Well, of course you do. That’s the way this day is going.”

  “It’s Laird Kilcurt.”

  “But your name is Kilcurt. Isn’t your title supposed to be completely different? Like Alec Kilcurt, laird of Toll House? Or something?”

  He laughed. “Something. But my family does things a little differently. Too bad…I like the idea of being laird of chocolate chips.”

  The waiter came, refreshed their drinks, and put down the two dozen oysters she’d ordered. She pulled her hand away, not without major reluctance. She figured this was her first and last date with the man, so she’d ordered recklessly. He’d probably flip out when the bill came. He probably spent all his money on clothes and, given his trim waistline, only ate porridge once a day.

  Wrong again. He nodded approvingly at the ridiculous size of her appetizer. He was leaning back in his chair, studying her. He had, if it was possible, gotten even better looking since morning. The expensive coat was off, revealing a splendid build showcased to perfection in a dark gray suit. His brogue, she noticed, came and went, depending on the topic of conversation.

  “You haven’t lived in Scotland your entire life,” she observed, sucking down her second daiquiri. Normally not a big drinker, she felt the need for booze today.

  “No. My family often had business on Cape Cod, so I spent a lot of time in Massachusetts. And I went to Harvard for graduate school. I’ve probably lived in America as many years as I’ve lived in Scotland.”

  Titled, gorgeous, rich, smart. Was she on Candid Camera, or what? “That makes sense…I noticed your accent comes and goes. I mean, sometimes it’s really faint, and sometimes it’s pretty heavy.”

  “It’s heavy,” he replied, “when I’m tired. Or angry. Or…excited.”

  “Okay, that’s it,” she said, slamming down her glass. “Who are you? What do you want with me? I made eighteen thousand dollars last year. I’m poor, plain, cursed with childbearing hips—and ass—and I’m prospect-less. What the hell are you doing with me?”

  His eyes went narrow. “I’ll have to find the people who convinced you of such things. And have a long chat with them.”

  “Answer the question, Groundskeeper Willie, or I’m out of here.”

  He looked puzzled at her pop culture reference, but he shrugged and answered easily enough. “I’m planning to spend the day getting you into my bed. And I’m thinking about marrying you. That’s what I’m doing with you, my charming little chocolate treat.”

  She felt her mouth pop open and felt her face get red. If this was a joke, it was a pretty mean one. If he was serious, he was out of his fucking mind. She seized on the one thing she could safely question. “Chocolate treat?”

  “Your eyes are the color of really good chocolate…Godiva milk, I think. And your hair looks like fudge sauce. Rich and dark. It contrasts nicely with your pale, pale skin. Your rosy cheeks are the…cherry on top.”

  She downed the rest of her drink in two monster gulps.

  Chapter 4

  I’m sorry,” she groaned. Sweaty strands of hair clung limply to her face and temples.

  “It’s all right lass.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t fret. I’ve been puked on before.”

  She groaned again, this time in complete humiliation. She hadn’t thrown up near him. Hadn’t thrown up around him. Had actually barfed on him. On him!

  “You promised to kill me,” she reminded him hoarsely. The elevator doors slid open, and he scooped her easily into his arms and carried her down the hallway. “Don’t forget.”

  His chest rumbled as he choked down a laugh. “Now, I didna promise to kill you, sweetheart. Just to take you up to my room so you c’n get your strength back.”

  “I’ll be all right once I get off my feet,” she lied. Death was coming for her! She could feel its icy grip on the back of her neck. Or was that the ice from her third—fourth?—daiquiri? “Just need to get off my feet,” she said again.

  “Sweetie, you’re off them.”

  “Oh shut up. What do you know?” she said crossly, getting more and more dizzy as the ceiling tiles raced by. “And slow down. And kill me!”

  “Usually ladies wait until the second date before begging me for death,” he said, straight-faced. He paused outside a door, shifted his weight, and somehow managed to produce the card key, unlock the door, and sweep her inside without putting her down.

  Two hotel maids and a woman in a red business suit were waiting for them. Giselle had a vague memory of the woman in red examining her while the sound of running water went on and on in the next room. She kept fuzzing…that was the only way to describe it. One moment things would be crystal clear—too sharp, too loud—and the next she could barely hear them for their mumbling. It was annoying, and she told them so. Repeatedly.

  “—lukewarm bath will make all the difference—”

  “—just got so sick, it’s verra worrisome—”

  “—mild food poisoning—”

  “—she’ll be okay in no—”

  “—close to your Change for it to be a problem?”

  “—canceled my flight earlier so she can—”

  “—push fluids—”

  She reached up blindly. What’s-his-name

  (Alec? Alex?) caught her hand and held it tightly. “What is it, sweetie? D’you want something to drink?”

  “No, I want you to STOP YELLING! How can I quietly expire if you keep screaming?”

  “We’ll try t’keep it down.”

  “An’ don’t humor me, either,” she mumbled. “Oh, now, what’s this happy crappy?” Because now she was being undressed and helped off the bed. “Look, stop this! Isn’t there an ice bucket or a hammer or something in here? All you have to do is hit me in the head really hard, and my problems will be over.”

  “You’ll feel better in twenty-four hours!” the woman in red screamed.

  “Jesus, do I have to get out the hand puppets so you people understand? Not so loud! And I’ll be dead—dead—in twenty-four hours, thank you very much, and—where are we going?”

  The bathroom. Specifically, the bathtub. She started to protest that a change of temperature in her state would kill her, but the lukewarm water felt so blissful she stopped in mid-squawk.

  And that was all. For a very long time.

  Giselle woke up and knew two things at once: 1) she would burst if she didn’t get to a bathroom within seconds and 2) she was ravenous.

  She stumbled through the darkness into the bathroom, availed herself of the facilities for what felt like half a day, and brushed her teeth with the new toothbrush she found on the counter.

  While she swished and gargled and spat, the day’s humiliating events came back to her. Working the bell, meeting Alec, being wined and dined—and God, he’d been flirting with her!—then throwing up on him (groan) and the table tipping away from her.

  Everything after that was, as they say, a blur. Mercifully so. She wondered where Alec was. She wondered where she was.

  She stepped back into the hotel room—Alec’s hotel room—and stole to the window. She saw an astonishing view of the New England Aquarium and, beyond that, Boston harbor. It was very late—after midnight but well before dawn; the sky was utterly black, but there was little traffic moving.

  So she was on the wharf, then. Probably the Longwharf Marriott. She’d often wondered, walking by, what it would be like to stay there with someone glorious.

  Well, now she kn
ew.

  She turned to look for the light and saw Alec for the first time. He was sitting in the chair by the door, watching her. His eyes gleamed at her from the near dark.

  She screamed and would have fallen out the window if it had been open. As it was, she rapped her head a good one on the glass.

  “Yes, a typical date in nearly every respect,” he said by way of greeting.

  “And a good evening to you, too, dammit!”

  “Morning, actually.”

  “You scared the crap out of me.” When she’d first seen him—it was a trick of the light, obviously—but his eyes had…well, had seemed to gleam in the dark, the way a cat’s did at night. Very off-putting, to say the least. “Your eyes—Jesus!”

  “The better to see you with, my dear. And it’s Alec.”

  “Very funny.” She leaned against the radiator, panting from the adrenaline rush. “Never do that again.”

  “Sorry.” He swallowed a chuckle. “I was watching you sleep. When you got up and made such a determined beeline to the bathroom, I was afraid to do anything that might slow you down. Were you sick again, sweetie?”

  “Uh, no. And about this afternoon—”

  “When you—er—gifted me with your daiquiris and oysters and swordfish and hash browns and tarte tatin?”

  “Let’s never speak of it again,” she said determinedly.

  He laughed, delighted; stood in such an abrupt movement if she’d blinked she’d have missed it; and crossed the room. In another moment, he was holding her hands. “I’m so glad t’see you’re better,” he said with such obvious sincerity she smiled—for the first time in hours, it seemed. “I was worried.” Except in his charming brogue, it came out sae glad tae see yerrr betterrrrrr. Ai wooz worred.

  “I’m pretty damned glad to be feeling better myself. God, I’ve never been so sick! I guess I’d be a terrible alcoholic,” she confessed.

  “It wasna the alcohol. The doctor said it was food poisoning. I’fact, this hotel is full…quite a few guests of the restaurant suffered from the oysters and are resting up because of it.”

  She thought she ought to pull her hands out of his grip, but she couldn’t bring herself to take the step. His hands around hers were warm—almost hot—and looking up into his unbelievable face was just too good right now. “What doctor? Was she the lady in the red dress? I remember someone in red who wouldn’t stop with the shrieking…”

  Alec’s lips quirked in a smile. “Dr. Madison is a verra soft-spoken woman, actually. You were just sensitive to noise while you were sick. I called her when you—uh—”

  “Remember. We’re not speaking of it.”

  “—became indisposed,” he finished delicately, but he wouldn’t quit smiling. “She helped me take care of you.”

  “Oh.” Touched, she squeezed his hands. “Thanks, Alec. I guess I was a lucky girl to be out with you.”

  “Lucky?” The smile dropped away. “It was my fault you got sick, so the least I could—”

  “Your fault? Held me down and shoveled in the oysters, did you?” she said dryly. “Hardly. In case you haven’t noticed the inordinate size of my ass, I’m a girl with a healthy appetite. I got so incredibly sick because I ate so incredibly much.”

  He squeezed her fingers in response. She had a sudden sense of crushing power held in check. “I adore your ass.” Ai adorrrre yuir arse. Was she crazy, or was his brogue getting thicker by the second? What had he said? That it came out when he was angry or…

  Or…

  She snatched her hands out of his grip. “Paws off, monkey boy. Time for me to get the hell out of here.”

  “I’d prefer it if you didn’t call me that,” he said, mildly enough. “It’s quite an insult where I come from.”

  “They’ve got a real mad-on against monkeys in Scotland, eh? Whatever. Gotta go now, it’s been fun, buh-bye.”

  “Can’t go.” He folded his arms across his chest and smirked at her. “Your clothes were quite ruined in the incident-that-shall-ne’er-be-named.”

  For the first time, she realized she was wearing a flannel nightgown. It had a demure lace collar that scratched her chin, and the hem fell about three inches past her toes. How could she not have noticed this before? She’d just used the bathroom, for God’s sake. Sure, she’d had to pee so bad nothing else had registered, but…she made a quick grab and found she was wearing her old panties beneath the gown. Whew!

  His eyebrows arched while she groped herself, but he wisely said nothing. “The doctor said you needed rest and quiet until you—er—purged your—”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  “Anyway.” He turned brisk. “I had the staff send up something for you to sleep in.”

  Any thoughts he was embarked on sinister seduction fled as she fingered the gray flannel. She felt like an extra on Little House on the Prairie. “Thanks.” She smiled in spite of herself. “Flannel?”

  He shrugged. “It’s cold where I come from. I wanted you to be comfortable.”

  “And I am,” she assured him with a straight face. “But I would be more comfortable if I got the hell out of a stranger’s hotel room.”

  “Stranger?” He grinned at her, all devil and mischief. “After all we’ve been through today? Shame!”

  She laughed; she couldn’t help it. Quick as thought, his hand came up and caught one of her curls. He pulled it and watched it spring back. Uck. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t, now.”

  “No, really…I know, I look like Bozo the Clown on mescaline. If Bozo didn’t have red hair. And was really short. And was a woman. You should see it in the summer…giant fuzzball! Hide your children!”

  He was eyeballing her hair. “I’d like to see it in the summer.”

  “Okey-dokey,” she said, humoring him, “and I would love to see my uniform. I can wear my Santa suit on the subway home.”

  “At two o’clock in the morning? Alone?” He sounded mortally offended. “I think not. Besides—” His voice became sly. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  Hungry! Oh, God, no one in the history of Santa bellin’ for bucks had ever been this hungry. She actually swayed on her feet at the thought of eating.

  “That’s my girl. Let’s call room service. Anything you want.”

  “I’ll have to get my wallet—”

  He frowned forbiddingly. “Do not get your wallet.”

  “Fine. We’ll fight about it later. Where’s the menu? God, I could eat a cow.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  She ordered a steak au jus, rare, with mashed potatoes and gravy, broccoli, and half a loaf of wild rice bread. “This is going to be really expensive,” she warned him. “Are you sure I can’t…?”

  “Quite sure. It’s such a relief to be with a woman who eats.” He sat beside her on the bed and sighed. “I’ll never understand the American custom of starvation. You’re the richest country in the world, and the women don’t eat.”

  “Hey, not guilty. As you can see by the size of my ass.”

  “Tempting. Let’s see how well you do with your dinner first.”

  She glanced uncertainly at him and caught his low-lidded look. It seemed incredible, but the man was actually turned on at the thought of her nontoned ass. His words hadn’t been enough to convince her, but his thickening brogue was telling.

  It was all very strange. Not to mention marvelous. And oh-so-slightly alarming.

  Chapter 5

  She did very well. Polished it all off and then ordered ice cream. He watched in pure delight. And thanked God again he was nowhere near his Change.

  Keeping his hands—and mouth!—to himself was beginning to be a sore task. It hadn’t been a problem when she’d been so miserably ill, but she was obviously feeling better…he could hardly talk to her; his tongue felt thick in his mouth. She was just so—just so adorable—alive and sexy and fragrant. When he’d tugged on one of her glossy curls, it had taken nearly everything he had to keep from plunging both hands in her hair and taking her mou
th.

  He’d been wild with worry for her and hadn’t left her side for a moment since she threw up her lunch on his shoes. He was going to see that chef ’s head on a pike—or his name on a termination slip—before the sun set again.

  “That’s better,” she sighed, patting her mouth with a napkin. It was a lovely mouth; wide-lipped and generous. When she smiled, her upper lip formed a sorceress’s bow. He had to concentrate very hard on not sucking that lip into his mouth. “Now about my imminent departure. Not that you haven’t been a perfect gentleman. Because you have. Yes, indeedy! But, bottom line, I haven’t known you for twenty hours.” She stood and began pacing. “So I’m definitely not sleeping in your hotel room. Anymore, I mean.”

  “S’dona sleep,” he teased, catching her hand and pulling her toward him. Her dark gaze caught him, held him. A line appeared between her eyebrows as she frowned. He kissed the line.

  “Now listen here, Grabby McGee…ah!”

  He kissed the sweet slope of her neck and was lost. He might not have been, had she not instinctively leaned into the caress of his mouth. He reached up, found the soft splendor of her hair, and caught her mouth with his. She smelled like surprise and vanilla-bean ice cream.

  “Oh, God,” she said, almost groaned, into his mouth. “You’re like a dream. The best dream I ever had.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.”

  “What? I’m sorry, your accent—” She giggled and kissed his chin. “It’s so thick I can barely understand you. Which, by the way, I’ll take as a compliment to my own massive sexiness.”

  “Y’should. Stay with me.”

  “I can’t.” She was wriggling—regretfully, but still wriggling—out of his grasp. Trying, anyway. He had no trouble whatsoever keeping her in the circle of his arms. “I’m sorry. I’d love to. I can’t. Leggo.”

  “But you must.” He found her breast—not easy, given its encasement in sensible gray flannel—and cupped it in his palm. The firm, warm weight made his head swim. “You’re for me and I’m for you, lovely Giselle. Besides, I’m not going to let you leave.”