Stab at Love

by Kristine Mason

  Frowning, he took a step back. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “Nope. I’m sure those practiced lines work very well for you. But honestly, they’re not necessary for me. I do want you to think I’m attractive, even beautiful, but please don’t use lines you’ve used on other women.”

  Instead of being hurt or taking offense, curiosity lit his gaze and the corner of his mouth turned up in a half grin. “I don’t need to use lines. If I want to fuck a woman, I only need to suggest it. And if that’s all you want, we can check into our rooms, get at it, then call it a weekend.”

  Good. He could be just as direct as her. “That’s not all I want from you. I’m sorry. That was rude of me. I’m not used to those sorts of compliments. I’m used to men taking what they want from me, then leaving.”

  He moved closer, invading her space. She loved how big he was, how he eclipsed the warm May sun and sent a shiver down her spine. “Anything I say to you will be the truth. I don’t lie. And I don’t use people. I’m nothing like the men you’ve known.”

  The intensity in his eyes should have disturbed her because it was too soon for him to look at her as if he actually cared. Desire, sure. She understood that. After all she wasn’t ugly. But they’d just met last night. Granted, they’d ended up talking for hours, and, of course they had chatted away during the hour’s drive from Norfolk to Williamsburg. Still, he shouldn’t look at her as if he adored and cherished her. She loved that he did, though. The electricity between them thrilled her and gave her hope.

  Years ago, Grandma had told her there was no such thing as love at first sight, yet Mom had claimed that when she’d met Dad, she’d known the instant he looked at her that she would marry him. And the moment Ash had looked at her from the stage last night, she’d known it could be Kismet, that he could be her future. Destiny had caused the wind to blow the charity auction ad off a boutique window so it had landed at her feet. Fate had had her looking into that same boutique’s window and staring at the stunning emerald dress she’d ended up wearing. And now she was staring into the eyes of a man whose nearness gave her butterflies, whose smile spread warmth throughout her body, and whose gaze made her heart skip a beat.

  She reached up and rested her palm along his soft beard. “I believe you,” she finally said, meaning it. “And I also don’t lie or use people.”

  He turned his head slightly and kissed her palm. “I think you might be trouble.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “I haven’t even kissed you yet, but I already have a feeling once I do, you’re going to have a hard time getting rid of me.”

  She twined her arms around his neck as if she had the right, and as if they’d been together for years. “Then I guess I won’t need the handcuffs and chloroform I planned to use to kidnap you so I can keep you locked in my attic.”

  His smile filled her palm. “Looking for a sex slave?”

  “I’m looking for a good solid man who I can trust and love,” she said, and didn’t care if it was too much, or that his smile fell. What she’d just told him was the truth, and if knowing she was on the market for a man and searching for a real relationship had him rethinking this weekend, that was okay. She would rather know where she truly stood with men, this one in particular, than have her heart broken. “Who knows? If you’re lucky, you might be that man.”

  If he were lucky? God, the woman was incredible. He might lock her in his attic. Keep her. Love her. Fuck her. Photograph her. Let her live. He didn’t know what it was about Ivy, but she had him more than intrigued. Deep in his gut, he knew he should pretend he had a sudden case of the flu, then lock himself in his suite for the weekend, take her home Sunday and forget he’d ever met her. She wasn’t the type of woman he usually dated or killed. Those tended to be sophisticated, sometimes worldly women who were looking for hot sex and excitement, not love or a husband. He certainly wasn’t husband material. On the surface, perhaps. But, beneath it all, beat a cold black heart that pumped poisonous blood through his veins. It fed into his brain, made him lust for the kill, for the power he held over life and death. And right now, his infected brain and black heart weren’t so sure they wanted Ivy Ellis dead.

  Because she would probably expect it, he smiled and placed his hands on the small of her back. “I was fortunate that you were the winning bidder, so I’m feeling like luck might be on my side.” What the hell? Why not bring on all the charm? It didn’t matter if he said too much or led her to believe they might possibly be meant for each other. One of two things could come of it… She’d be dead within a week, or he could keep her around until he was done with her.

  “Don’t forget, I was the only bidder.”

  “Like I said, luck was on my side.”

  An explosion echoed off the manor. Ivy jumped and pressed her body against his. She had curves in all the right places. Soft, generous ones. The kind he could hold onto as he buried himself inside her.

  “Looks like they’re doing a reenactment after all.” He could let her go now but wasn’t ready. Her scent reminded him of the lilac bush they’d sat next to last night, and he wanted it all over his skin. “Do you want to go watch, or should we check into our rooms and explore this place?”

  “I’ll go with option number two.” Unfortunately, she let him go and stepped away. “Did you sign us up for the ghost tour?” she asked as he pulled their bags from the SUV. “I went online last night and searched up the manor. I read one review where the guy said he felt something grab his ankle during a tour, but no one was there. His wife thought he’d just bumped against something, but when they returned to their room and he looked at it, there were bruises in the shape of fingers around his ankle.”

  “Now I know why no one else bid for me.”

  “Their loss, my gain,” she replied, then told him what she’d said to the two women standing next to her last night and didn’t hesitate to let the “P” word fly.

  When he laughed, it sounded rusty and unused. How long had it been since he’d genuinely laughed?

  “Sorry,” she continued as they walked up the stairs to the porch. With its size it could be used as a stage for a play or ballet. “I should have at least waited a few days before swearing like that.”

  “I dropped the F-bomb in front of you. Since that wasn’t very gentlemanly of me, I should also apologize.”

  “Yeah, but the way you said it had my imagination going to a very good place.”

  He grinned and refused to stop his gaze from drifting to her breasts, which would fit nicely in his hands. “Where do you think my imagination went when you said pussy?”

  He loved the way slashes of pink formed along her flawless alabaster cheeks. He imagined how those same slashes would be after he’d made her come, saw her long thick auburn hair spilling over her shoulders, tousled and wild from his fingers, her lips swollen and red from his kisses, her eyes dark with desire.

  Desire, not death.

  Yeah, he might have to clean out the attic.

  After he’d checked them in, a woman, who was dressed in Colonial-era clothes and claiming to be Martha Washington, led them to their rooms. Ivy’s room had been painted a cheerful yellow. An imposing four-poster bed adorned with a garish canopy took up most of the room, along with a large wooden dresser. There were four doors—one to exit, another to his room and the other two led to the closet and bathroom they would share. He set her bag on the floor, then walked into his room, which had a similar-style bed, minus the canopy, and wood paneled walls. In lieu of a dresser, there was an uncomfortable-looking settee.

  “These bedrooms belonged to Beaumont and Susannah Abernathy, the original residents of Abernathy Manor,” Martha Washington said, then went on to tell them boring points about how the house had been restored to its initial state, down to the bedding and drapes. From there, she told them how badly Susannah Abernathy had treated her slaves, and how she’d had one of her attendants whipped to the point where the woman had died, but not before she’d p
laced a curse on the house. Legend had it that the slave had haunted Susannah and driven her insane. Then one day, Susannah had thrown herself onto the courtyard from her second-story window.

  He didn’t want a history lesson. He wanted to make Ivy’s cheeks pink.

  Meanwhile, Ivy listened without asking a single question, nodding at all the right times, but after a few moments, she smothered a yawn. “Excuse me,” she said with an apologetic smile. “This is all so interesting, but we should sneak in a nap if we’re going to stay up late for the ghost tour.”

  Martha Washington smiled. “Of course! But if you hear any creaking along your floorboards and don’t see anyone, be prepared for the window to whip open and let in a gust of air. I’ve personally never seen it happen, but we have had plenty of guests and housekeepers claim Susannah is still here, mad as a hatter, just before she kills herself. Enjoy,” she said, then left the room.

  “Why would she tell me that right after I said I was going to nap?” Ivy rolled her eyes. “Not that I believe her, but now I’ll probably freak out over every creak and groan the house makes.”

  “And since it’s close to three hundred years old, I’m sure it makes plenty of creaks.” Ash set his bag on the floor. “Would you like to trade rooms?” he asked, when he really wanted to know if she would like to share his.

  “It’ll be fine, thanks.”

  “Well, if you do get a little freaked, you know where to find me. You can sleep in my bed. I can use the settee.”

  She half laughed. “That ugly little thing? If you don’t break it, you’ll have to sleep with your legs dangling over the arms. I told you, I’ll be fine. If I’m not and I have to come to your room, you will not be sleeping on the settee.”

  Desire, dark and dangerous, stirred inside him. Arousing him, it had him wanting her scared, trembling, her green eyes flashing with fright. He wanted to see her fear, taste it as he tasted her kisses, her passion.

  Her glossy lips slid in a slow smile. “What are you thinking about? That’s the second time I saw a wicked twinkle in your eyes.”

  Yes, definitely the attic. There was room enough for a bed and dresser there. But as the thought ran through his mind, another chased after it…

  Ivy is very perceptive.

  What did he care? At this point she would either end up a prisoner in his attic or dead. The tension he’d been carrying immediately lessened, leaving him remarkably relaxed. For the first time in a decade, he could possibly be himself around this woman. He didn’t have to tell her his dark thoughts or what he’d done over the years, but he could drop the mask and let her see him, the wickedness, the stains on his soul…the longing, the loneliness.

  The room became stuffy, claustrophobic. At that moment, he realized he’d been lonely and longing for…something. Whatever that something was, as if she were a vampire, Ivy was sucking it out of him without even piercing his flesh. She was drawing it to the surface, exposing him, forcing him to take a hard look at himself—and he’d only been in her presence for a total of four hours and fifteen minutes. He didn’t know what to do with any of this. Instinct told him to kill her right now before she got inside his head and scrambled his brain.

  He slid his gaze to her delicate slender throat, to the simple gold chain and charm that hung around it. It beckoned him to move closer. He did. Instead of wrapping his hands around her neck and squeezing the breath from her body, his fingertips touched her soft skin as he lifted the tiny charm—a cluster of three small leaves

  Leaves of three, let it be.

  Poison Ivy.

  When he looked at her, she was watching him with interest, with desire. He wanted her to keep staring at him like that. Plenty of other women had, but they hadn’t been Ivy. They’d been normal. Average.

  “Who gave this to you?” he asked, still holding the charm.

  “My grandma,” she said, her eyes still sucking that something out of him, reeling him in, pulling him closer. “The day before she died four years ago. I haven’t taken it off since.”

  Grandmas were supposed to be sweet. They were supposed to bake cookies, smell like cinnamon sugar and give big warm hugs. Not that he would know. The only grandmother he’d known had been his mother’s mother, and like Mother, Grandmother had spent her days with her elitist friends, traipsing the world and going to exotic places, or in one of her cold, opulent mansions. And while Mother and Grandmother, the only family in his life, had seen to their gluttonous needs, he’d been raised by nannies and butlers and been given pats on the back instead of hugs.

  Even if she was somehow infecting his brain with strange thoughts and contaminating his black heart with unfamiliar emotions, there was nothing toxic about Ivy. “Why would she give you something symbolizing poison?”

  Her kissable lips curved into a wry smile. “She was like Susannah Abernathy, mad as a hatter. But I loved her and her twisted sense of humor, so I wear this to not only remind me of her, but to remind me to be like her.”

  “Mad as a hatter?”

  She grinned. “To be trustworthy. She was great at keeping secrets.”

  He looked to the three leaves, then let the charm fall from his fingertips. As he did, he glanced to the hollow at the base of her throat. “Why is your heart racing?”

  “Because of how close you are to me.”

  “Am I too close?”

  Her breath quickened as she stared at his mouth. “You’re not close enough.”

  His dick stirred. In another few seconds it would be painfully hard, and that worried him. The conflicting emotions running through him were too difficult to decipher and he was concerned about what he would do to her once he was buried in her heat. Would he lose control as he had with Elena? Wrap his hand around her throat, come as the life drained from her body?

  No. He was no longer twenty-five, and now had experience and maturity on his side. Plus, he wasn’t ready for her to be dead yet.

  “But I don’t want you to think less of me for saying that,” she quickly added as those sexy pink slashes stained her cheeks again. “I don’t sleep with every guy I meet, and certainly not on the first date. To be honest, although I’ve dated, I haven’t had sex in two years.”

  Two years? His erection pressed against his jeans. “How many men have there been?” he asked, even though it wasn’t any of his business. He didn’t know why, but he wanted her to be his business.

  Her eyes narrowed slightly, but there was no anger there, just curiosity. “What right do you have to ask me that question? I would never ask you. Frankly, I don’t care how many notches you have on your bedpost.”

  He leaned in and kissed the ivy leaves resting against her pulse point. His balls tightened when she shivered, then swallowed against his lips. “Because I want to be the last and only man who will ever touch you again,” he said, knowing it was the truth.

  Whether she lived or died, there would be no one else but him.

  Chapter 3

  STUNNED INTO SILENCE, Ivy stared at Ash.

  Anything I say to you will be the truth. I don’t lie. And I don’t use people. I’m nothing like the men you’ve known.

  No, he was nothing like the men she’d known. She’d figured that out the moment their gazes had collided from across the room. He was a confident, intense individual who apparently saw something he wanted, then went for it. And he wanted her.

  I want to be the last and only man who will ever touch you again.

  But was it the truth? Had telling her he didn’t lie and wasn’t a user been the truth? If she actually had friends and was able to tell them what he’d said, and what he was saying now, they would scream, “Run! Something isn’t right with the man.” Her bellyful of butterflies said otherwise. Yes, it was too soon for him to say the things he’d said, or for him to declare he was the only man for her, but she loved it. Most men hemmed and hawed about their intentions. They couldn’t put a name to their emotions or were too scared to make an attempt. As Ash had said, he wasn’t like most me
n. And she agreed.

  “How can you be so certain?” she finally asked. “We’ve known each other for maybe a total of five hours. You might not like the way I kiss.”

  He cracked a small smile. “I doubt that. But to be safe, you should kiss me.”

  She’d kissed plenty of men but had only had sex with three. While she preferred her partners to be the aggressor, the idea of taking the lead sent a buzz of anticipation straight to her core. She pictured herself on top of him, riding him, setting the pace and using her body to pleasure him. Saw herself taking him into her mouth, teasing and pleasing him.

  She licked her lips and stared at his mouth. “I’ve been with three men,” she admitted.

  “Were you in love with them?”

  “I thought I was, otherwise I wouldn’t have had sex with any of them. The only reason I’m telling you something that isn’t any of your business is because I want you to understand that I don’t have sex on the first date. Or the second, for that matter. I like to ease into the physical side of a relationship, not have my partner thinking I’m easy.”

  All true, except she didn’t want to take anything slow with Ash. She wanted an explosion of butterflies.

  “Do you think I brought you here to seduce you? Fuck you for the weekend, then walk away?”

  There was something about the way he said the F word that made her sex throb. Everything the man did or said had that effect on her. “You brought me here because I was the only bidder,” she reminded him.

  “You didn’t answer the question.”

  He stood so close, his warm breath puffed against her lips. She couldn’t think straight while he invaded her space, his big body and clean scent practically surrounding her. Maybe it was time to stop thinking. She’d spent her adult life thinking and planning, mapping out her future, and yet she was still alone. She thought about how Destiny and Fate had conspired to bring her and Ash together. Was it possible the life map she’d once created had finally put her on the right road, and that road had led to him? She wouldn’t know unless she gave him—them—a chance.