Blazing Bedtime Anthology

by Leslie Kelly

  Leslie Kelly’s sexy take on three classic stories. Now available in one volume for the first time!

  My, What a Big…You Have!

  Scarlett Templeton doesn’t believe in fairy tales. That is, until she meets a sexy rogue in the woods, on her way to Grandmother’s house….

  Once Upon a Mattress

  Who’s afraid of the big bad werewolf? Not long-lost princess Penelope Mayfair… Because dark, sexy Lucas Wolf is giving her the best sex of her life! Unfortunately, she’s intended for another. But that’s not about to stop Lucas. After all, everybody knows wolves mate for life….

  A Prince of a Guy

  Hunky rock-and-roller Rafe is sure it’s a case of mistaken identity. After all, he doesn’t know Olivia, the gorgeous woman who accosts him outside his club. But he’d sure like to. So when she assumes he’s her runaway prince and tells him she intends to take him home with her, he’s more than game. Sure, he might not be a true prince. But a few nights in Olivia’s bed make him feel like a king!

  Blazing Bedtime Anthology

  My, What a Big…You Have!

  Once Upon a Mattress

  A Prince of a Guy

  Leslie Kelly

  Table of Contents

  My, What a Big…You Have!

  By Leslie Kelly

  Once Upon a Mattress

  By Leslie Kelly

  A Prince of a Guy

  By Leslie Kelly

  MY, WHAT A BIG…YOU HAVE!

  Leslie Kelly

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 1

  CONSIDERING Scarlett Templeton wrote children’s books for a living, she probably shouldn’t have let herself get caught on camera telling someone to kiss her ass. Then again, since it was Cupid she’d told, and that half-naked little bastard with the arrows had screwed up her life more than once, she didn’t feel too bad.

  Her last breakup, which had been public and ugly, had occurred four months ago, as the smarmy reporter she’d run into at a recent media event must have known. So when he’d asked whether Cupid had set his sights on her for Valentine’s Day, she’d told him what Cupid could do. The quip had ended up all over the Internet, eventually landing on some site called kissmyasscupid.com. She’d become a finalist for the “least romantic woman on the planet” award and a poster child for the anti-romance movement.

  Ahh, well, it could be worse. She could be the poster child for the evil-authors-who-are-corrupting-our-children movement.

  Oh, wait, she was. At least to some people, who didn’t appreciate her seriously twisted humor and dark streak.

  That would include her mother. The woman couldn’t decide whether she was proud or horrified at Scarlett’s success. She’d wanted Scarlett—named after her favorite literary heroine—to write romance novels or sweet, little-girls’ books.

  Yeah, right.

  Having grown up hearing her too-romantic mother weave tales of gallant knights and damsels fair, Scarlett had hit the world with her head in a cloud and glass slippers on her feet.

  Talk about a hard landing. It was a wonder she didn’t still have shards of glass in her toes.

  At thirty, after a dozen years of realistic life, love, sex and relationships, she was over the happily-ever-afters. So the kids’ books she wrote weren’t exactly Mother Goose rhymes or whimsical fairy tales. They were more like dark, twisted fables where Mother Goose could end up in a pot, and the princess would find out her Prince Charming was a two-timing scum-bucket. Most important of all, the princess wouldn’t wait for anybody to save her, she’d get off her butt and do it herself. Or else get eaten by the wolf.

  That was something Scarlett had learned long ago. Save yourself…or get eaten by the wolf.

  “My children just love your books Ms. Templeton,” said the customer in line at Scarlett’s latest never-ending book signing. The tightness of her mouth indicated the woman wasn’t finished. “Though I really don’t understand why.”

  Being a New York Times bestselling writer…wow, what a great job. “Thank you,” Scarlett said, not thrown by the reaction. She focused on the smiling faces of the girls at the woman’s side. “Lady Bethany kicks some serious troll tail in this one!”

  Both girls burst into a cacophony of excited chatter, all of which Scarlett genuinely appreciated. She didn’t write for the parents, she did it for the kids. Her reader was the girl who didn’t look like Rapunzel, the one who had enough brains to chop her damn hair off and climb down out of that tower herself.

  “I saw you on YouTube,” the older of the girls said in a whisper, trying to avoid being overheard by her mother. “And I voted for you in the contest on the kissmyyouknowwhatcupid site.”

  Oh, joy. She was well on her way to being crowned queen of stone-hearted bitches, helped along by adoring little girls.

  “You know,” she said, wondering if it was too late for damage control, “I was in a bad mood when I said that. You should probably take it as more of a warning of what happens when you don’t watch what you say and when you say it. Especially in front of a camera.”

  The girl nodded. “Oh, sure.” But the sparkle in her eye said she was still titillated. Then, when their mother harrumphed in impatience, the girl and her sister hurried away.

  “You okay?” asked the owner of the quaint French Quarter shop where Scarlett always did signings for her new releases.

  Scarlett shook her right hand and flexed her fingers. “If my hand can hold out, I guess the rest of me can.”

  The book-signing was only scheduled to last until four. It was now almost six. But Scarlett would never get up and leave when her young fans had waited patiently to speak to her.

  “Well, it has to end soon. We’re almost out of books,” said the middle-aged woman who probably didn’t understand Scarlett’s stories, either. But she definitely understood the cha-ching of the cash register. “We have only two copies of your newest release left and we’ve sold out of all your backlist titles, too.”

  “Great, thanks again,” Scarlett said as a customer handed her one of those last two books to sign. She did, then watched the man leave and waited for the next person. But there was no one else. Four hours and two hundred books later, she was done.

  Rising, she stretched her back, which ached from sitting in the same position for so long. As she glanced at her watch, she realized she was running very late. Having decided to pay a surprise visit to her elderly grandmother for the weekend, she’d hoped to arrive before dark.

  Granny lived in the middle of the bayou and swore she wouldn’t leave until she was hauled out in her coffin. The route ran through miles of swamp, with roads only a few yards from ’gator-and-snake-filled water. Scarlett really didn’t like driving out there at night. She needed to hustle if she was going to pick up the tabloids and junk food Granny always demanded and hit the road before it got too late.

  Before she could hop to it, though, a voice interrupted. “I see I have procured the very last copy.”

  Startled, she glanced over and saw a stranger standing on the opposite side of the table.

  It was all she could do not to stare because he was such an odd-looking man. She’d written a book once that turned the Rumpel-stiltskin story upside-down. In it, a clever milkmaid and her gnome-like friend conspire to trick an evil king out of his ill-gotten gains by pulling off a straw-into-gold scam. This guy could play her Rumpel in the movie.

  Slight and diminutive, he probably stood as high as the base of Scarlett’s throat, and she was five-six. His slumped shoulders furthe
r reduced his height and were emphasized by the long, thin gray hair that hung past them.

  It got better. His protruding eyes were a murky grayish-green, and a hairy mole dominated one cheek. He boasted the most unusual nose she had ever seen. It curved down like a spotty, flesh-colored banana, the tip almost reaching his upper lip.

  His clothes were old-fashioned—a navy worsted-wool three-piece suit, a walking stick, and a bowler hat. And he wore on his lapel a small pin—a beautiful, highly crafted set of wings that almost appeared to be made out of straw-spun gold.

  He was, without doubt, the strangest-looking person she had ever seen. And she adored him at once. “Fantastic! I don’t have any say in casting, but oh, wow, I will make a recommendation.”

  One brow went up over a rheumy eye. “I beg your pardon? I came simply to buy a book.”

  She hesitated, wondering if she’d really made a mistake. Leaning over to take the book from his hand, she got close enough to check for cosmetics, spirit gum on the prosthetic nose, or the line of a wig.

  There was nothing. Either the man had a makeup artist to rival any in Hollywood, or he wasn’t wearing a costume.

  “I, uh…sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

  “I sometimes am,” he replied, with a smile so enigmatic, Scarlett could only stare in confusion. “I do like your books. They’re oddly shaped and eccentric…like me.”

  She couldn’t help but chuckle along with him.

  “There is, of course, a definite lack of romance in them.”

  “Yes, there is.”

  “You’re not a romantic? You don’t believe in true love?”

  She bent over to the book, opening it to the flyleaf. “Romance and true love belong in fairy tales. I don’t believe in any of it, which is why my books are dark and realistic.”

  He tsked and shook his head, as if she’d disappointed him. “Ah, well, I’m sure you have your reasons. Now, will you please inscribe the book to C? Just the letter will do.”

  Embarrassed to have mistaken him for an actor, Scarlett signed the man’s copy. “You got here just in time. I was about to leave.”

  “Going out of town, are you?”

  Surprised that he hadn’t assumed she was going home, since she was a well-known author living right here in New Orleans, she mumbled, “I’m off to visit my grandmother, actually.”

  “Ah. A visit to Granny. Are you bringing her sweeties?”

  Sweeties? Had this guy stepped out of a time machine or what? “She’s a chocoholic,” she admitted, “and a potato-chip junkie. If I show up empty-handed, I’ll be in big trouble.”

  He laughed softly. “We old ones do like our treats.” He reached for the book, and their fingers brushed. For such a frail-looking old man, his skin gave off a strong, almost electric vibe. As crazy as it seemed, the contact left her hand tingling. Her thoughts snapped and sizzled in her head.

  “I suppose Granny told you not to stray from the path.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “I mean, to remain on the main road through the forest.”

  “It’s a bayou,” she said, wondering why she felt as though she’d just been injected with an overdose of caffeine.

  “Sometimes straying from the path can lead to adventure.”

  Paths and adventure, forests and sweeties. The images jumbled. She suddenly wanted to get out of there, away from the odd man and into the refreshing air outside. “I have to go.”

  He smiled and extended his hand. “I so enjoyed our chat.”

  She really didn’t want to touch him again, but courtesy demanded it. Slowly reaching out, she braced for more of that strange reaction—not revulsion, in any way, despite his appearance. On the contrary, she expected—and got—more of that strange, sizzling energy.

  Then, with a tip of his hat and a tiny smile, he was gone.

  The feeling, however, didn’t go away. The intensity increased. Her back pain was gone, any fatigue forgotten. Even the rainy weather didn’t bother her. She merely flipped up the hood of her trendy red raincoat and walked to a local shop for the latest rag sheets and junk food.

  Armed and ready to meet even Granny’s exacting standards, she got into her car for the drive out of New Orleans. Night had definitely fallen, and she had second thoughts about driving that route after dark. The trip was a surprise, so Granny wasn’t expecting her, and she could easily have waited until morning.

  But the darkness didn’t intimidate her. Instead, she whistled as she drove, tapping her fingers on the padded leather steering wheel of her convertible.

  Stray from the path…stray…

  The strange words whispered into her subconscious for some reason, though she tried to focus on Granny’s delight at seeing her, her next book, on not killing that reporter for asking her about Valentine’s Day.

  She almost missed the road sign. Dark green with sloping cursive lettering, unlike any sign she’d ever seen; it appeared a good five miles before the exit she normally took. She couldn’t remember ever having noticed it before. It listed the name of the town closest to Granny’s—Hastings.

  Well, sort of. “Hastings Towen?” she mused.

  Somebody needed to fire their sign painter.

  She considered exiting. The sign claimed the distance to be much shorter than the route she usually took. Fewer miles through the swamp was a good thing. But it seemed so strange that she hadn’t seen the marker before, and her senses went on alert, telling her not to.

  The exit wasn’t so much an off-ramp as a quick veering away from the highway. She almost drove past it. Almost listened to her sixth sense and continued on her way, not comfortable with trying out an unfamiliar road at night.

  Stray.

  At the last possible moment, though, she veered. The car’s tires skidded on the gravelled surface but quickly regained traction as the highway became a pitted road. Ahead of her lay a winding, narrow thoroughfare overhung with sagging willows and skeletons of dead trees looped with tangled Spanish moss. It was dark and deep and unfamiliar.

  In her stories, when the heroine was confronted with two paths, one bright and sunny and the other scary and full of mystery, she always went to the dark side.

  Too bad Scarlett wasn’t one of her heroines.

  She decided to swerve right back out onto the highway, because, though lined with marsh on either side, the regular route was still a solid, well-maintained river of blacktop. Unlike this version of hell’s Yellow Brick Road.

  Stray.

  She intended to go back. Really. But instead, she kept driving. And driving. Straight into the woods, almost into another world, a primeval one far from civilization. Soon the haunted trees seemed to close in behind her and she lost sight of the lights from the highway.

  The curved canopy of trees nearly blocked out the sky, obscuring the bright, full moon overhead. The forest—it suddenly felt like a dense wilderness more than a typical marsh—crept closer to the road, until it seemed to hug her car in its green embrace. The throughway narrowed to the width of her single vehicle, meant for only her to drive.

  A voice kept telling her to turn around. A louder one—stray—refused to allow it.

  The electric tension that had driven her out of the store earlier didn’t diminish. Instead, with each mile she drove, it built, making her heart beat faster and her breathing more ragged.

  “What is happening to me?” she asked, wondering where the sensible, no-nonsense, no-romance Scarlett had gotten to. Why was she so excited? Why hadn’t she turned around while she still had the chance? Why didn’t she care?

  There was no time to answer. Not even in her own head, because suddenly, in the trees a few yards ahead of her, she saw something. She had an impression of movement, then a shadow splitting the night.

  The shadow took physical form as it sprang out of the woods, leaping directly into her path.

  Jet-black hair. Feral, almost reddish eyes. Ripples of muscle across a powerful torso.

  Impossible!


  She screamed and swerved.

  And crashed.

  CHAPTER 2

  HUNTER THIBODAUX had been following his quarry for nearly a month. He’d picked up the trail soon after the suspect had arrived in New Orleans, followed him to Houston, then Arizona. Now he was back where he’d started, in the swampy marshlands of southeastern Louisiana.

  He could have saved himself the effort and just waited here for four weeks, because Hunter had known the prey he sought would return to this place with the next full moon.

  In that time, however, two policemen had lost their lives. Hunter had been too late to stop the murders. But suspecting who the third target would be, and staying close to his quarry, he’d managed to prevent that last murder from taking place. The heat he’d provided had stopped Lucas Wolf—the suspected killer Hunter was chasing—from carrying out his deadly mission of vengeance.

  If, indeed, he was guilty. Something Hunter just didn’t know yet, despite the circumstantial evidence.

  That Hunter hated the man whose life he’d protected didn’t change the fact that he’d done the right thing. Preventing a murder made the weeks of stalking, tracking and lying in wait worth it. Even if he had come up empty-handed.

  Not anymore, though. This cat-and-mouse game was coming to an end. He’d catch Lucas—on this side or on the other. He was experienced in both. Licensed to carry a weapon in both. A successful bounty hunter in both. And since he was no longer a cop, he was even able to skirt the edges of the law occasionally to get his man.

  He’d just never imagined that he’d ever need to hunt this particular man. And part of him wondered if he’d even been able to do it.

  “Are you guilty, Lucas?” he whispered into the near silence, the words barely touching his lips. “Could you be that ruthless, even with good reason?”

  It was possible. Even probable. Lucas had been in a bloody, vengeful mood after the murder of his younger half-sister Ciara. Just a kid in the wrong place at the wrong time, she’d seen something she shouldn’t have and had paid for it with her life.