by Leslie Kelly
Especially not from her. Lottie, she’d insisted he call her. Pretty Lottie—short for Charlotte, she’d told him with a disgusted groan—who cleaned up centerfold-quality stunning.
She’d distracted him much of the previous night already. For that, he supposed he ought to thank the woman. For once he hadn’t gone to sleep with the sound of screams echoing in his head or the memory of the slow drip of blood down his face and the taste of it on his lips. The pain of the knife. Or the bullet.
No. He’d lain in his bed long into the night, picturing her silhouetted against the fire, her hair glinting gold under the flames. Her lips pursing out as she dropped her long-lashed eyes closed to savor the warmth. The red sweater plunging between those full breasts and the long legs highlighted by the tight jeans. And then later, wearing that windswept nightgown that had molded tightly against every inch of her body, barely concealing that body from his hungry eyes.
Of course, she hadn’t been wearing any clothes in his dreams. She’d been naked and so had he as they’d explored every inch of one another. His long, deep, erotic dreams had made him wake up in the middle of the night with a hard-on that made it impossible to go back to sleep. So he’d prowled the house a little, as he often did, listening to the creaks and the groans, none of the sounds able to drive out the voice in his head that screamed murderer.
He’d finally forced himself to return to bed, managing to find a few restless hours of sleep that had, once again, starred his houseguest and had, once again, been X-rated.
One bad night had convinced him he didn’t need her hanging around distracting his waking hours, too. But she hadn’t been lying when she’d come back to the front door a few minutes ago—after she was supposed to already have driven away, off his mountain and out of his life.
Not quite believing her claims of car trouble, he’d grabbed the key out of her hand and gone to check for himself.
It was dead. Completely flat. He tried pumping the gas and twisted the key in the ignition again, but got absolutely no response.
“Dammit,” he muttered, popping the hood and getting out the driver’s side door. Ignoring the light drizzle of cold autumn rain, he went around to the front and lifted the hood. He had no idea what he thought he’d find by checking out the engine. What Simon knew about auto repair could be summed up in three letters—AAA.
Still he gave it a shot, figuring the irritating brunette on the porch would expect him to. He tinkered a little bit, knowing enough to see that the spark plugs were connected and the battery looked shiny and new.
“Are you sure you have gas in it?” he asked, swinging his head around to peer at her over his shoulder.
She nodded, not stepping out from her sheltered spot beneath the awning. Staying nice and dry. “Positive. I gassed up less than a hundred miles from here last night.”
Knowing he’d exhausted the last remnants of his automotive knowledge, he slammed the hood down, pocketed the key and strode toward the house.
“No luck?” she asked, her big brown eyes wide and innocent as he joined her on the porch. Her lower lip was jutted out in a tiny pout of frustration.
He wanted to bite it.
He settled for grunting. “No.”
“Gee…it was running just fine when I got here.”
“Do you have an automotive service?” he asked, forcing himself to focus on the objective—getting her to leave—and not on her soft, delicate face and full red lips.
“I do.”
Excellent.
She followed him back into the house. “But I can’t call them.”
“Why not?” he snapped.
She held up a small cellular phone. “No signal.”
Not surprising. One would think that sitting on top of a mountain would give him access to some kind of cellular signal, but his own phone rarely worked. “Use the one in my office.”
That pouty lower lip disappeared into her mouth.
“What?”
“I think the storm knocked out your phone service, too. I already tried.”
Damn. Double damn.
Not taking her word for it, Simon went into the office and grabbed the receiver from its cradle. Nothing. Not even static.
Slamming it back down, he thrust an angry hand through his hair, flinching as the tip of his index finger scraped across his scar. Not from pain, but from the surprise he always felt whenever he was reminded of his close brush with death. And of the visible disfigurement that would always serve as a reminder of who he was and what he’d done.
The hospital had offered to have a plastic surgeon fix his scars up a little better. Simon had turned the offers down, figuring the world deserved to see the real man.
Lottie obviously noticed his reaction. Immediately coming close to him—close enough for him to feel the heat of her breath on his throat and the suggestive scrape of her body against his—she gently reached up and pushed his hair back off his forehead.
Her touch was incendiary. Simon had been touched by plenty of nurses and doctors while recovering from the attack, but he couldn’t recall ever feeling like one of them had started a flaming inferno on his skin.
This woman’s touch did that. Her long, delicate fingers were cool and pale, so why they’d bring instant heat, he had no idea.
Or maybe he did.
“How did it happen?” she asked softly. She didn’t have to say anything more for him to know she was referring to his scars.
“None of your damn business.”
She tsked, not offended by his rudeness. “Are you always so unfriendly? That’s not a very good personality trait for a hotel owner. Even Norman Bates was friendly.”
“I’m not a hotel owner.” Frowning, he added, “Besides, the jury’s still out on the Norman Bates thing, isn’t it?”
“I dunno, I’ve survived so far.”
“The day’s still young.”
She snickered. The woman had one hell of a thick skin.
“It’s a good thing you’re not in this for the long haul,” she said with a cheery smile. “Because the hospitality industry makes a big deal about having a positive attitude and I don’t think you’re cut out for it.”
As if he’d want to be. “I’m crushed.”
She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “I should know. My family’s in the restaurant business—Santori’s, on Taylor Avenue in Chicago. It’s my second home…if I’m not at my apartment, I’m at the restaurant.”
He assumed she had a point.
“Anyway, one thing I know, you have to have a certain type of look to succeed in the service industry.”
“A look?” he asked, feeling dizzy from her jabbering.
“Yeah, you know, one that says you know how to smile.”
His lips twitched. But he quickly pushed them down into a frown. “Do you ever shut up?”
“I’m the sixth child. No. I never shut up. I learned at a young age that if I want to be heard, I just have to keep on talking.”
“Well you’re certainly adept at it.”
Shrugging, she asked, “What’s your name?”
The sudden subject change startled him enough that he finally managed to tug himself away from her. Away from her breaths. Her stares. The brush of her lush breasts against his chest. The smile that had made him rock a little on his feet. “What?”
“Your name,” she said as she slid down to sit on the arm of the leather couch. “Your first name.”
“It’s Simon.”
“Well, Simon,” she said, “it looks like we have a problem.”
He quirked a brow. “We?”
“I have a problem with my car, and you have a problem with a houseguest.”
“Okay. We.” Not seeing any way around it, he mumbled, “Get your stuff. I’ll drive you down into town. You can call a repair shop from there.”
“And then what, wander around some small Pennsylvania town with the crazy name of Trouble for hours waiting for my car to be towed and fixed?” Before he cou
ld answer, she added, “And is it really called that? The map wasn’t mis-printed or anything?”
“Yes. Yes. And no.”
Obviously zoning in on the answer she didn’t like in that succinct response, she glared. “There’s no reason I can’t wait here. I’ll stay out of your way. You won’t even notice me.”
Fat chance of that. She might as well have said he wouldn’t notice it if a bird took up residence on his head. “Forget it.”
Continuing as if he hadn’t spoken, she added, “And by the time you drive me down the mountain, the phone service will probably already be back on, so there’s really no need. We’ll wait it out for a little while.”
The woman just couldn’t take no for an answer. “Are you hard of hearing?”
“No.” She smiled, a gleam making those brown eyes sparkle. “Just used to having to be stubborn to get what I want.”
The way she emphasized the word want made him curious about just what she did want. When she licked her lips and shifted, his curiosity doubled. Crossing his arms and leaning back against his desk so he half sat on the edge of it, directly above her, he decided to ask her, “So what is it you want, Miss Santori?”
Her lips parted. As she licked at them, Simon could see a slow hint of color rising into her creamy cheeks.
“I don’t want to be any trouble.”
“Too late.”
“But if I have to wait around for a couple of hours, I’d much rather do it here—where I can perhaps do some of the work I came all this way to do—rather than at some nasty, greasy garage in town.”
It made sense. For her. Not for him.
As if seeing he was about to refuse, she hurriedly added, “I’ve come so far, and if I go back empty-handed, not only am I out the cost of the trip, but I won’t get paid.”
“What kind of employer is this professor of yours? It was his responsibility to make sure the arrangements were confirmed.”
She sighed. “I know. But it’s a private project. He’s old and doesn’t have much money. I certainly can’t ask him to pay me for work I didn’t do.”
She sounded surprisingly sincere. And the hopeful look on her face made him curious enough to ask, “So what, exactly, is it you think you can do here in a few hours?”
That color rose a little higher and her gaze shifted. She stared somewhere in the vicinity of his throat, then looked down. He could almost feel her stare rolling over his body, from his neck, down his chest, across his lap.
If he didn’t know better, he’d very much suspect Miss Santori wanted to inspect something other than the history of this house. When she lifted her eyes and boldly stared into his, he suspected that something was him.
Ridiculous. He was an embittered, scarred, surly man—as she seemed fond of pointing out. And she was a young, fresh, smart-mouthed student with a smile as bright as the sun and a figure that could make a grown man fall down and beg. She’d kissed him back last night simply because he’d startled her, or else she was grateful he’d let her stay.
He hadn’t seen what he thought he’d seen. He was simply transferring his own heated attraction onto the woman, which only proved how jaded his experience—and solitude—had made him.
She finally cleared her throat. “I’m here to learn more about Josef Zangara.”
“Who?”
She looked surprised. “He owned this house and, with a partner named Robert Stubbs, turned it into a hotel back in the nineteen-thirties.”
At last, a name he recognized. “Stubbs was my mother’s grandfather.”
Her surprise turned to shock. “Oh, God, I had no idea! The house has been in your family that long?”
“I suppose. I grew up out west and never even visited here until after my mother died. At that point, I decided I wanted to try to get to know her only brother better. My uncle Roger mentioned that the house had been handed down from his grandfather.”
She slid from the arm of the couch, landing on the seat of the sofa, appearing deep in thought. “Fascinating. So you have a serious connection to Stubbs. I hadn’t gone too far with him since Zangara is the focus of the book.” She looked up, beginning to smile, her expression excited. “You might be able to help me more than I thought. Stubbs knew Zangara better than anyone.”
Growing interested despite himself, he murmured, “Who was this Zangara character again?”
She didn’t even look up. “A serial killer who slaughtered fifteen women and buried them on the grounds of this estate.”
Oh. Was that all.
“Are you joking?”
She shook her head. Simon slid down to sit beside her on the couch. “You’re serious? This house was owned by a serial killer? Why have I never heard of him?”
She turned to fully face him, lifting one leg and tucking her foot beneath her cute ass, then draping her arm across the back of the couch. “That’s what my professor’s book is about. Twentieth century serial killers who somehow didn’t make it in the history books. There was so much interest in the H. H. Holmes case because of that world’s fair book last year, he thought now would be a good time to pursue this project, which he’s been thinking of doing for years.”
Stories about murderers and their crimes were not high on Simon’s reading list, so he had no idea what book she was talking about. Nor could he spend much energy thinking about it, not when she was so animated, leaning forward until he caught the floral scent of her hair and the spicy sweetness of her skin. Her bent leg almost brushed his own, her knee about an inch from his thigh, and Simon had to resist the urge to drop his hand over it. To cup that leg, tug her over onto his lap and settle her astride him.
If he ever made love to this woman he wanted to do it just like that. With her naked, riding him, her hair loose and wild around her face and her nipples close enough to feast upon.
He shook his head hard, forcing himself to focus on her job rather than his wild fantasies of something that was not going to happen. “What is it you think you can find here at the house?”
She looked around the office, which had once been the mansion’s library. The shelves still bulged with dusty hardback books—novels, resource periodicals, ledgers and journals. She didn’t have to say a word. He instantly got her point.
“You really think you can find something useful?” he asked, finding himself a little caught up in her excitement, against his own better judgment.
She nodded, leaning closer, her eyes sparkling. “I do. Zangara has been a real mystery. We know he did it—the bodies were found buried on the grounds along the cliffs and he was convicted of the murders. But no one ever knew why. And he was executed without ever even admitting his guilt.”
Simon remained quiet, not sure how to respond to this truly unexpected revelation. He apparently didn’t have to. Lottie wasn’t finished.
“Even his partner, your great-grandfather, could never offer any explanation as to why he might have done it. He was one of the star witnesses in the trial because he’d found one of Zangara’s kidnapping victims, who’d managed to escape, cowering in his office.”
“So, what, you think you’re going to find this Zangara’s secret journal, in which he revealed all of his dark, twisted thoughts?”
She grinned. “That’d be good.” Shrugging, she added, “But no, I don’t expect that. Your uncle’s letters said there were boxes and boxes of old correspondence, newspapers, guest registries and scrapbooks. I have no idea what I might find in them, but I would like to look.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, thinking of her request. He had work to do today—his publisher had been incredibly patient waiting for him to turn in his latest installment in his Guide to Southern Cities series. But they wouldn’t wait forever. And he needed to get the project done, not only for his career but because he needed to put Charleston behind him in every way. He was practically recovered physically. It was time to work on his mental recovery, and getting back to work was a big part of it. Having her here for even an hour mor
e would be a complete distraction.
He prepared to say just that. But somehow, something else came out of his mouth. “All right, Lottie.”
Her smile widened. And he immediately regretted not having better control of his vocal cords.
Quickly trying to do some damage control, he continued. “I’ll give you a few hours to look through the boxes of papers in the storage room, and you can take what you need with you. But as soon as the phones come on, you call for repairs.” Knowing he was about to wipe that smile off her face, he added, “And if we don’t get phone service soon, come hell or high water I’m driving you into town this afternoon.”
THE PHONES CAME BACK ON at noon. Going to tell her, Simon found Lottie down in the basement storage room, where he’d left her this morning. She’d been sitting on the damp cement floor, surrounded by boxes, with papers strewn on every available surface, including her lap.
She’d looked so disappointed when he told her she could call for a tow truck that he nearly regretted making her leave. He quickly squelched the regret. Allowing her to stay would be a colossal mistake, not only because he needed to work, but also because she was too much of a damned temptation.
He just couldn’t handle someone like her. Not now. Not yet.
He’d learned a life-altering lesson about letting himself be tempted and blinded by his attraction to a beautiful woman. While he didn’t envision Lottie pulling a knife or a gun on him like the blonde in Charleston, he wasn’t ready to let himself put it to a test. He wouldn’t be vulnerable again anytime soon, not to anyone.
Deep within himself he acknowledged the final reason he wouldn’t let her stay. Because a part of him wanted her to. And he didn’t deserve to get something he wanted.
He had blood on his hands. A woman was dead because of him.
No. He didn’t deserve the kind of lightness and sunshine Lottie Santori would bring into his world.
After leading Lottie to the phone in the small, private kitchen, he returned to his office. The drizzle from this morning had turned into an afternoon deluge, but thankfully no thunder or lightning threatened to knock the power out again.
