The Gems of Vice and Greed (Contemporary Gothic Romance Book 3)

by Colleen Gleason

  She was a little out of breath too, and he could make out her lips: they were full and moist, parted in a way that looked sexy as hell, and her hat…that adorable hat was askew, ready to slip off the back of her head.

  He wanted to invite himself inside, wanted to get back at it—and more—but he hesitated. That little voice in the back of his mind reminded him: She’s the client.

  But he told it to shut the hell up and instead reached out to fix her hat. “Can’t remember the last time I made out in a car,” he said in a voice much lower than usual.

  “It’s not very comfortable,” she said, with a little smile. “I’ve got some…some tea inside. And I bought some beer. Would you like to come in?”

  Yes. Oh yes indeedy. Yes, I would like to come in and try this again, without a damn console or stick shift between us—except for mine—and maybe with fewer clothes. A lot fewer clothes. And no bucket seats. A couch would work…a bed, even better…

  But “Yes” was all he said—and then fairly bolted from the car. She’d mentioned tea (tea?) and a beer—not a nightcap, not just a dangling, suggestive invite inside…but, nevertheless, a reason for him to come in. A generic reason. Not a winky-wink, “do you want to come inside and finish this up” invitation.

  What did that mean? He shifted inconspicuously to adjust his erection to a more comfortable position as Leslie came around from her side of the vehicle.

  By the time she got the keys out and let them into the house, Declan’s brain—and hormones—had descended from “this is ah-mazing: curves, heat, wet, sweet—let’s do it!” to a more controlled but no less interested state.

  Thus, when the next thing he knew, she was backing him up against the kitchen island and moving right on in, he froze for just a sec. But when Leslie slid right up against him, and the edge of the granite bumped him in the low back, and he was suddenly accosted by soft woman and the interesting scent of chilly autumn air, Declan had no reservations.

  He bent to meet her lips and went back into that hot, slick world of sensuality and intensity. But the granite edge bothered him, and the fact that she wasn’t damned close enough was even worse…so he caught her by the waist and in one smooth move, turned, lifted, and settled that pretty ass right onto the counter.

  And that worked just fine. She laughed a little against his mouth, but her hands were on his shoulders and her fingers tickled his hair, and things were getting even hotter and heavier and more intense when all of a sudden she gasped and tore away.

  “Oh my God!” she cried, shoving at him and sliding off the counter in one frantic movement. “Declan!”

  He spun, albeit a little slowly because, damn, he’d been into her—into the moment, the taste, the heat, the touch…and that was when he saw it: the mess.

  Down the hall, beyond the kitchen, and everywhere in between: objects strewn about, chairs on their sides, books on the floor…

  Someone—or something—had been there.

  And was very angry.

  ~ ELEVEN ~

  * * *

  Leslie stumbled away from Declan, staring in shock at the disaster that sprawled before her. Every last vestige of pleasure and arousal evaporated as she realized someone had been here.

  “Declan,” she said again, starting down the hallway toward the main foyer. There was not the same upheaval here in the kitchen, but somehow she knew there was more…and it had to be in the front by the staircase and the newly exposed speakeasy room.

  To her unabashed relief, he was there, right with her, taking her by the arm as she made her way with staggering, frozen movements. And then she noticed he was pushing past her, gently easing her back as he moved in front of her, and Leslie realized with a nauseating shock that he was worried the someone was still here.

  The feminist side of her was annoyed that he pressed ahead, but the shocked and, yes, frightened side was kind of okay with it. So she grabbed his bicep (registering how incredible it was) with both hands and walked next to him just as they came around into the foyer.

  It wasn’t quite as bad as she’d feared. A sidelight window had been smashed, presumably so the miscreant could reach in to unlock the door. The tarp had been tossed aside, and the demolition debris on it scattered on the floor. The drywall cover to the speakeasy was tossed aside, and had cracked and crumbled at the edges. The table she’d put near the front door was upended, the neat stacks of paint cans toppled, the contents of her toolbox strewn all over the floor.

  But nothing significant was destroyed, except—she moaned when she saw it—the brand-new light fixture that had just arrived had been smashed by a randomly flung tool.

  “No,” she cried, suddenly angry instead of dumbfounded. She’d waited four weeks for that damned piece to ship. “My new sconce!”

  Declan had taken her hand, cupping his long, strong fingers around it as he scanned the foyer. She felt the tension in his grip and what was probably anger emanating from him as well.

  “I’m going to check upstairs,” he said in a low voice.

  “I’m coming too,” she informed him.

  They began to climb the steps and learned that even one of the stairs had been destroyed, shifted out of place, and Leslie nearly fell on her face when she stepped on its loose edge and her foot slipped off. Fortunately, Declan’s steady hand kept her from more than a sharp bump when she landed on her shin.

  “What the hell,” she muttered, getting angrier and angrier. “Vandals? Thieves?”

  “Or someone looking for something,” he said, still quiet. She felt rather than saw his eyes tracking sharply from side to side, up then down and around, and noticed that he seemed to be straining to listen.

  Good idea. Stop complaining, she told herself. Listen. Look around. Pay attention.

  It wasn’t the ghost, was it?

  The thought struck her like an icy dart. Surely not…surely…not.

  Unsettled, she nevertheless pulled her hand from Declan’s when they got to the top of the stairs. With a meaningful nod, she indicated for him to go down one hall while she checked the other.

  It was to his credit that he didn’t suggest they stick together. Apparently, the sight of her holding her cell phone firmly in her hand, its flashlight on but the device itself acting as a makeshift weapon, was enough to clue him in that she wasn’t a weak, cowering female. Even though her insides were churning and her knees were a little unsteady.

  If it had been the ghost…what did that mean?

  If it had been a real flesh and blood mortal…what did that mean?

  Leslie saw no sign of life as she poked quietly into each room, just as she’d done yesterday when she and Declan had searched for signs of the ghost being a human prank.

  “This is getting to be a habit,” she muttered when they met up on the balcony.

  His lips moved in a wry smile. “It’s sure as hell not a habit I’d like to continue. Although…” His eyes narrowed as they settled speculatively on her, and Leslie felt a sudden warm shiver at the expression therein.

  She could almost imagine the rest of his unspoken sentence: Although I can think of another habit I’d like to continue.

  Turning to go back down the stairs, she was both appreciative and a little put off that he hadn’t said what they were both thinking. It wasn’t the right time to be pursuing such a topic—after all, her house had just been broken into. But she wouldn’t have minded hearing it put into words from him, even at such an inappropriate time.

  Oh boy. Am I starting to fall for the guy?

  “I’m going to check the speakeasy,” she announced briskly. “I doubt anyone’s still here.”

  “I tend to agree, but be careful just in case.” He was right behind her—and that was where he stayed as she avoided the broken step, curved around at the bottom of the stairs, then ducked and maneuvered her way down the spiral into the speakeasy.

  It seemed much darker than before—maybe because it was night and there was little extra light to filter down from the openin
g above, as during the day. Regardless, Leslie’s little cell phone flashlight didn’t do a great job of illuminating every corner of the room, but once joined by his, their lights commingled readily and delved into most of the dark corners.

  “They—he or she or whoever—were down here,” Leslie said unnecessarily. For even though the room had previously showed signs of disarray, it was obvious things had been disturbed here. “The big painting is crooked—oh, and the other one is gone!”

  Her voice cracked with shock and anger, but almost immediately eased. “Oh, it’s on the floor. They took it down?”

  “Looking for a hidden cache or a safe, I bet,” Declan said.

  “The jewels,” she said. “It has to be.” She looked at him, allowing the irritation and apprehension to show in her eyes. “That’s what comes from articles being splashed all over the paper, I guess. All the treasure hunters come out of the woodwork like—like spiders.”

  Suddenly weary—for what did this mean going forward? more break-ins?—she climbed back up the spiral stairs. Was this only the beginning of treasure hunters? Would every bit of marketing or publicity she did for the bed and breakfast bring out more of the gem seekers?

  “Leslie.” Declan took her arm as soon as he emerged from the hidden doorway. “You need to report this. And…I don’t know if you should stay here alone tonight.”

  She forced a grin, suddenly fighting the desire to surge into his arms. She really could use a hug—and that was not a usual condition for Leslie van Dorn, badass CEO. “Is that your idea of a good pickup line?”

  His smile was a little tight, as if he too were just as worried. But he winked and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. Even his touch sent a comforting shiver over her shoulders, and his finger strayed along the sensitive skin of her throat. “I wish. Don’t forget, I have an impressionable teenage girl at home. I have to set an example.”

  Leslie felt a tiny twinge of something. Not disappointment, but more like admiration for a man who was willing to put his daughter ahead of his own hormones. “Right. It might be a little hard to explain if you didn’t come home tonight. ‘Yes, Stephanie, I’m sleeping at your boss’s house tonight.’”

  He smiled, but it was different this time. Warmer. “If I had it my way, it would be more like ‘I’m sleeping with your boss tonight,’” he said. He held her eyes with his, the black-flecked green of his irises bold and filled with truth.

  To her surprise, Leslie felt her cheeks heat and a flush rise over her chest. “Well, you certainly don’t beat around the bush, do you?” she murmured, then gave him a quick, saucy look before turning away.

  Reality. Back to reality.

  “I’ll call the police,” she said, looking down at her phone. But before she dialed, she stopped, exhaled, and looked up at him.

  He was watching her with a look that made the bottom of her belly drop down low and sharp and deliciously…then it was gone. But the heat still banked behind his eyes when he met hers once more.

  “What is it?” he asked, the avid interest fading from his expression.

  “You don’t think… Well, I suppose there’s a chance it was…” She glanced up the stairs as if to see some supernatural manifestation taking shape at the very thought of it.

  “The ghost?”

  “Yes.”

  It was his turn to draw in a breath then exhale. “I think it was someone very mortal. I’m not discounting that there’s a—a haunting, for lack of a better term. But if you’re thinking poltergeist or something like that—”

  She was already shaking her head. “No, I don’t think it’s a poltergeist. Just a plain old unsettled, unhappy ghost. The closest thing to a pubescent girl around here is Stephanie, and she’s only been here that once for our interview. That’s the way the poltergeists manifest, right? Through hormonal, pubescent—and troubled—young girls.”

  “That’s what they say,” he replied. Now it was his turn to glance up the stairs. Then he looked at her. “Whether or not there’s really a ghost, I think this mess was made by a person who thinks there’s something hidden here. That old legend about Red Eye Sal—I’m assuming you’ve heard about it.”

  “Yes, I have. I’m pretty sure those jewels in the paintings in the speakeasy are the ones of legend. There was a topaz necklace that definitely existed—it was stolen about thirty years ago from a high school girl after her prom.”

  Declan frowned. “I think I remember hearing about that. A friend of mine’s brother use to tease us about going into the woods at night, telling us that was where a girl got strangled or something.”

  Leslie shivered, suddenly very cold. Her fingers felt like ice. All at once, everything felt so repressive here in this unsettled foyer, with the open speakeasy doorway leading down into darkness, and the place in shambles—a sign of ugliness and violation. It struck her so sharply that she felt a nauseating chill and eerie, hair-raising sensation.

  She glanced toward the top of the stairs and stilled. Her breath caught, and she grabbed blindly for Declan. Was that a faint light? Something shimmering?

  “Leslie?”

  She exhaled. Nothing was there. Or…whatever had been there, ever so faint, was gone. “Let’s sit down,” she said, and abruptly turned. The kitchen, she hoped, would be more inviting. At least it was her place, her space: rebuilt, reconditioned, and stamped with her own intention and caring.

  “You’re going to call the police now, right?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’ll do that.” She made good on her words, sitting at the sturdy kitchen table—thank God whoever broke in hadn’t dared to inflict damage on her beautiful table.

  Declan had gone to the fridge—the stainless steel side-by-side big enough to hold a horse—and opened it. “Beer? Or do you have wine—or even better, whiskey? Might be just what you need. A little toddy in your tea.” He glanced around to give her a reassuring grin, but before she could respond, the police station answered her call and she had to give it her full attention.

  To her shock and utter embarrassment, as Leslie began to form the words “My house was broken into,” her voice stretched and broke, and she felt tears burn the back of her throat. It was as if by saying the words, it had become permanent. Real. Inescapable. Someone had come into her home.

  But by the time she finished the call, her tones were firmly back to confident business mode. She felt a little foolish for showing such weakness at the beginning, but then again…she’d been violated. Her home, her space, her world had been violated.

  “Try this.” Declan set a cup in front of her. It was steaming, and it smelled really good—of cinnamon and cardamom, honey, and some very strong liquor. “I—uh—used one of those chai tea things for your coffee maker, and added a good dollop of whiskey and honey and lemon.”

  Leslie took a sip, and her eyes widened. It was good. Really good. And the whiskey…it burned delicately through her body, having the immediate effect of relaxing her. It was almost as warm and luscious as Declan’s kisses. The thought of that added desperately needed warmth and pleasure to the moment.

  “I took the liberty of calling your aunt,” he said, leaning against the island. He had a longneck in his large, freckled hand, and Leslie felt a spark of affection that he’d made her a fancy drink and settled for his own twist-off beer. “She’s coming over.”

  “I’ll bet she is,” Leslie said wryly, and took another fortifying sip.

  “Listen, Leslie…I hate to bring this up, but…Brad’s article about you and the bed and breakfast. That was published before we found the speakeasy.”

  She nodded slowly. “I know. Obviously whoever broke in here knew about it—where it was. How to find it. Which could be good or bad, I guess,” she said, heaving a sigh. “Good in that it would limit the intruder to being someone in a defined group—someone who heard about the hidden room within the last day or two. Bad because…well…”

  “Yeah.” He drummed one set of fingers on the granite island. “So who knew about it? Bes
ides me, of course.” His grin was a little crooked, but his eyes were serious. “And I didn’t mention it to anyone except Brad, just casually—and that was tonight, while we were up in the press box during the second half of the game.”

  So he’d been talking about her to Brad Beatty, had he? Leslie’s whiskey-softened thoughts swam into a contented little cove and nestled there as she drank again from the spiked tea. Then she was dashed with cold water and brought abruptly back to the ugliness at hand.

  “Who knew about it? Well, Aunt Cherry and Orbra, of course. And Iva Nath and presumably her husband Hollis—you don’t know them, but they’re friends of mine and of Cherry and Orbra’s. Small world, running into them here,” she added. “The Underwhites and Trib. They were all there when I was telling Cherry and Orbra about it—the day you and I found it. Later that night we were all at Trib’s.” She frowned. “I can’t think of anyone—oh, wait, the man who’s staying at Sunflower House. John Fischer. I guess he’s really the author Jeremy Fischer, who writes—”

  “The Bruno Tablenture books? Really? He’s here in Sematauk?”

  “That’s what the rumor is. He and Iva came over today, to look at the speakeasy—so they actually saw how I opened up the door and went down.” Leslie bit her lip. “A famous writer wouldn’t jeopardize his career by breaking into a house, would he? Plus, why would he need the gems anyway—he’s got to be doing pretty well with all those movie deals and a new release every year.”

  “Right,” he said very casually. “Was there anyone else here at the time who might have seen the opening to the speakeasy? Any contractors? The UPS guy—did he deliver your light fixture? Anyone?”

  She shook her head. “No. Even Iva’s husband Hollis didn’t come—not that I would suspect them for even a minute. Iva’s all about the ghosts and Hollis only cares about his law firm—and her.”