The Naughty Nine: Where Danger and Passion Collide

by Nina Bruhns

  The heads of café patrons at a nearby table swiveled. They probably wanted to see who was so unattractive. Super great.

  “Bien sûre, you are cute,” he continued on, following close on her heels. “You have curly red hair all around your face, and your eyes are blue like sky, but I see you are plump.”

  Plump? Size ten was so not plump. It was healthy. The little pipsqueak had gone too far now.

  “I expect the ballerina, you know, like the true Giselle.”

  Oh, this just got better and better. Insults from a guy who looked like a skunk. Politeness and karma implications be damned.

  “That’s it. I’m out of here.” Giselle moved faster along the sidewalk. The runt trotted just to keep up with her.

  “Hey,” the skunk yelled. “I go with you to your hotel. We can have sex. Sex would be okay.”

  Giselle turned her head. “Get away from me, you little jerk,” she shouted back at him as she ran forward.

  The skunk reached his right arm toward her. Giselle made a left turn to avoid his grasping fingers and slammed into a brick wall. At least that’s what it felt like. But then the brick wall fell backward. Giselle and the wall both tumbled, ending up prone on the sidewalk.

  Giselle looked down to see herself sprawled over a man, not a brick wall. And what a very hunky man. He had to be at least six feet in height. When standing, that is. Her yellow linen shift dress had hiked up and her knees now straddled his waist, the fabric of his jeans rough against the bare skin of her legs. Giselle felt the lean but hard muscle of his body. All very luscious, very male muscle.

  Giselle examined him with fascination. He couldn’t be more than thirty-five years old. Perfect age. Everyone knew men lagged ten years behind a woman in maturity. That made Giselle and the wall the same age.

  Could that wave in the shoulder-length blond hair splayed around his face be natural? The stranger could be an angel with that blond halo. A hokey thought, but she had probably hit her head in the fall. Hokey could be excused by concussion.

  The stranger’s lips were full and fully bitable. Around those lips and over his strong chin, she saw the barest hint of end-of-day stubble. And his nose. Oh, baby, it was perfect. Pleasantly Roman but not too large. The nose was the most important body part on a man. Well, maybe not the most important.

  Next she noticed his eyes illuminated by the overhead streetlight. She couldn’t look away. They had to be the clearest, deepest green she’d ever seen. They were framed by lashes as long as any woman’s. But as his eyes stared upward, Giselle saw something odd. Glazed and lifeless.

  Omigod, had she killed the most scrumptious man she’d ever seen before she even knew his name?

  He moaned. Good, not dead, just injured.

  “What’s your name?” Giselle asked, sitting up.

  “What?” the blond angel croaked.

  Oh, no. He had amnesia. He didn’t know his own name.

  Scanning his body, she saw that the stranger wore a white shirt over jeans. Maybe she should look through the pockets of his jeans for identification. Whoa, that might be fun. He filled them out well. She had to be honest. He filled them really well. It would be fun to search those pockets. But was it wrong to enjoy fishing around in the pockets of his jeans if the guy was injured? Oh, the ethical dilemma.

  As she considered the moral pros and cons, Mr. Scrumptious lifted a hand to feel the back of his head. His hand, with its long, tapered fingers, looked as perfect as the rest of him.

  Plus, he smelled wonderful. A mixture of sandalwood and musk. Giselle gasped in a ragged breath. She suddenly felt lightheaded. The vapors. Wasn’t that what they called a fit of sexual hysteria here in the South? The hard feel of him under her legs and his voice…

  Please God, don’t let him be gay.

  “How do you feel?”

  The stranger’s eyes cleared. “I’m okay.”

  Giselle just stared. Oh, that voice. Speak again, Mr. Scrumptious. A need for that voice filled her.

  “As much as I’m enjoying having you lay on top of me, I think we should get up,” he said, and the sound thrummed inside Giselle.

  His eyes darted down and then up to meet her eyes again.

  Did he just sneak a glance down her cleavage? Yes. Thank you, God. He’s not gay. Normally, Giselle wouldn’t be happy about a strange man ogling her breasts, but under the circumstances, who could blame a man for taking a look. In fact, Giselle decided his ogling was a very good sign. Perhaps she hadn’t injured him too badly. She wanted everything in working order on Mr. Scrumptious.

  The stranger’s bitable lips quirked into a half smile. His arms came up to grasp her on either side of her waist. Tingles zinged through her. “I think for us to get up, we have to move,” he said.

  “Oh, yes. You’re right. I’m soooo sorry.” Giselle enjoyed one last feel of the muscular chest under her hands and the hardness of his legs under her bottom before she started to scramble up. His hands lingered on her waist then moved over her back. His fingers slipped down a bit over her hips and upper thighs before falling away.

  More zinging tingles. Biting her lip, Giselle suppressed a whimper.

  Need, hunger and ache…oh, my!

  They each stood, brushing off. Giselle gazed up at the stranger with her best Princess Di impression and tried to appear coyly flirtatious. She opened her mouth to speak, but another voice intruded. A nasal voice with a French accent.

  “Monsieur, you are a bugger?”

  The stranger looked the skunk up and down. “I hope you mean mugger.” The stranger chuckled. He had a scrumptious laugh. Delicious, like fine liquor and just as heady.

  “Oui. A mugger. That is the word. You intend to attack us?”

  “Of course not,” Mr. Scrumptious sputtered through a chuckle.

  “Then I ask you to get away from my date.” The little skunk puffed up his chest.

  The stranger laughed again and turned to Giselle. “Are you with him?” He pointed at the skunk, his scrumptious eyebrow arched.

  “Definitely not. To the extent we’re in the vicinity of one another is strictly accidental.” Giselle waved at the skunk as if trying to shoo him away. Far, far away. Another galaxy would be too close.

  “You seem to be having a lot of accidents tonight,” Mr. Scrumptious remarked.

  “Well, some accidents are nicer than others.” She moved toward Mr. Scrumptious with a smile, placing herself between him and the skunk. Giselle couldn’t believe her boldness. In fact, she’d practically batted her eyelashes at Mr. Scrumptious. It had been a long time since she’d flirted so outrageously. Try never. Who was she kidding? She was dangerously close to jumping the man and having sex with him right here on the city sidewalk.

  The stranger smiled in return, revealing sexy, white teeth. He moved closer to her, placed a hand on her arm and opened his mouth to speak.

  The skunk came from behind Giselle. “You must unhand my date, Monsieur. She and I go back to the hotel to have the sex before you have interrupted.”

  Giselle saw stars. She almost lost consciousness and had to mentally slap herself before she could respond.

  “We are definitely not going to have sex. We were never going to have sex,” she assured Mr. Scrumptious with a hollow-sounding laugh. She rounded on the skunk. “Scrammez-vous. In case you don’t understand English, that means get lost.”

  “But you say you wish to see my ghost,” Vector said, eyes wide.

  Giselle’s mouth fell open. Her eye twitch began again.

  “I never said I wanted to see your ghost.” Her glance darted between the two men. “I did want to see your ghost ghost but not your ghost ghost.”

  Both men stared at her, confused. She glared at Vector.

  “I don’t know what you think the word ‘ghost’ means. But if you think it has something to do with sex, it obviously doesn’t mean what you think it means.” The timbre of her voice had gone up a few more octaves. If this little twerp didn’t shut up soon, only dogs would be
able to hear her.

  The damage of the skunk had already been done. Like a light switch being flipped, the stranger just shut off. No more sexy smile. No more hand on her arm. He stepped back. Oh, no.

  “It looks like we’re both uninjured. So I’ll be going.” The stranger turned on one heel and walked away. He had a magnificent behind.

  Giselle wanted to tell him to wait, to please come back. She sent her frantic thoughts flying toward him. Her psychic message, as usual, didn’t reach its target. But then how could she send psychic messages when she didn’t have ESP.

  Mr. Scrumptious and his magnificent behind just kept walking away. Giselle stared after him with longing until she could no longer see him in the distance.

  Giselle turned toward the skunk. Her hand itched to slap him. But given his size, she’d probably kill him. Well, so what if she did kill him? Surely, she’d be acquitted at any trial, particularly if there were women on the jury.

  Her gaze must have been as ferocious as her thoughts because the skunk shrunk back. He murmured something inaudible and scuttled away in the opposite direction taken by Mr. Scrumptious.

  Dammit. Could this night get any worse? She’d lost the hottest man on the planet. Giselle had never reacted to a man as physically as she had that stranger. Gone, and without even finding out his name. Heck, she couldn’t even stalk him—not that she would, of course—without a name to go on. More important, her job was still in jeopardy. She glanced at her watch. Friday, 8:45 p.m. Soon her job would be as lost as Mr. Scrumptious.

  * * *

  Not wanting to dwell on her career, as it spiraled down the proverbial tube, Giselle decided to have an ice cream sundae. A double ice cream sundae. Comfort food, and Giselle needed a lot of comfort. Sitting in the local ice cream shop, lapping at the creamy, fudgy substance on her spoon, she reviewed the entries on the to-do pages of her planner. Giselle’s eyes skimmed the list and she sighed. She tore the entire page out and crumpled it into a small ball in her fist. She was hopelessly off plan.

  Maybe she should just give up and go back to New York. What was the worst that could happen? She’d lose her job. So what? Then she’d lose her apartment. That wouldn’t be a tragedy. Her parents would probably let her move back home. Omigod. Move back with her parents? No way.

  The cell phone in her pocket sang. A nearby patron sent a dagger-filled glare her way. Giselle grabbed the phone with an apologetic glance at the woman. She groaned when she saw the caller ID. Oh, no. Her boss. She’d talked to him less than two hours ago. She’d seen him less than four hours ago.

  Giselle flipped the phone open. “Hi, boss. Long time, no speak.”

  “Never mind the clever patter.” Good old Willie. Always a charmer. “Talk to me, Hunter. Am I going to get my article?”

  “Everything is going according to plan.” Checking quickly, Giselle noted that her tongue had not cleaved to the top of her mouth as she would have expected.

  “You’re not just blowing smoke up my—”

  “Absolutely not.” She cut in with sincerity.

  Willie made a quick “You better not be” retort.

  “No, boss.” I don’t want to be near enough to that orifice to blow smoke in its direction. Of course, Giselle left this last bit unspoken. She didn’t want to be fired before Monday.

  “I heard that,” Willie said with a barking tone.

  Dammit. He was good. Sometimes she found Willie’s telepathy incredible. Sometimes not. His psychic ability seemed to come and go like a five-hundred-watt radio station. Bluff, Giselle, bluff.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You know what.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Did her voice have the right tone of innocence?

  “Just checking,” Willie said.

  Phew. Relief. Willie’s E.S.P. signal had apparently faded. Willie clicked off without a goodbye.

  Crap. She needed a new plan and quick. Casting her eyes around the room, she noticed a pamphlet on the next table. Abandoned by some patron who’d already departed, she snatched it up. The pamphlet advertised a tour of haunted pubs in Savannah that started in less than half an hour. Perfect. A trifecta of perfect. Savannah history, Savannah ghosts and Savannah liquor. Ideal. Good thinking, Giselle.

  * * *

  Bad thinking, Giselle. The disastrous tour was guided by Miss Sandy. A woman who had to be at least forty-eight years old but pretended to be a blonde bombshell of twenty.

  Miss Sandy flirted with every male in sight and reach. She even batted her eyes at the newlywed Army recruit whose wife looked like she planned to clock Miss Sandy the next time the guide groped her husband’s arm. Gulping drinks down with increasing velocity as the evening progressed, the stories Miss Sandy told grew more and more ridiculous. This tour clearly wasn’t going to give Giselle any valid leads on a ghost.

  The tour group consisted of nine people. There was Giselle, the newlyweds, an elderly couple, and a family that included a mom, a dad and their teenage sons. The group huddled together in the third pub of the night. An inn that had been the frequent residence of seafaring men in the eighteen hundreds, many who failed to survive their struggles with the sea.

  On this night, the tour group struggled to survive the shipwreck called Miss Sandy.

  The guide swigged down her Pink Squirrel in one gulp. “Another drink, barkeep,” Miss Sandy slurred in a heavy Southern drawl. She boosted the front of her eighteenth-century serving wench bustier to fluff up her ample bosom.

  “Anywho. The girl. Can’t think of— What was her name? Amanda? Maybe Amanda. She jumped out the window upstairs. Just ’cause her lover left her.” Miss Sandy wiggled over to the elderly male tourist. “Men are such little rascals, aren’t they?”

  His wife glared at the spot where Miss Sandy’s bosom rubbed against her husband’s arm. Then she glowered at Miss Sandy. The tour guide took no notice. She didn’t notice any of the women.

  Miss Sandy cooed to the man. “I could tell you such stories about what those players got up to when I was with the Chicago Bears Cheerleaders. Oooh, they were somethin’ else.”

  “Was that before or after you ran the Boston Marathon, Miss Sandy?” Giselle asked mockingly.

  Miss Sandy went on in happy oblivion to Giselle’s tone. “Oh, that was after. That was just five years ago.”

  “What were you? Their den mother?” Giselle asked it under her breath, but the elderly man’s wife heard and snickered. Miss Sandy ignored Giselle.

  “Anywho, the ghost of this inn likes to steal fancy lingerie out of the luggage of the ladies who stay here.”

  Yeah, sure. How preposterous was that story. It was probably just the bellmen taking panties to get their jollies.

  “Just like I said before, those men are just little rascals, even in the afterlife,” Miss Sandy trilled.

  “I thought you said the ghost was a woman.” Giselle rubbed her forehead where an ache had begun to form.

  “Oh, yeah,” the guide said absently.

  “Miss Sandy?” One of the teenage boys raised his hand. “Why do they call the city Savannah?”

  The tour guide paused, her eyebrows furrowed. She looked up and to the left as if searching her memory for a moment.

  “I’ll be getting to that later,” Miss Sandy said with a sniff. “Well, it looks like I’m not getting any more drinky poos here. On to the next pub.”

  Miss Sandy turned on her heel and almost toppled over. The newly groom caught her arm and righted her. “Thanks ever so much, sweetie pie.” She fairly purred in his ear and then ambled on. The newly bride elbowed her husband in the side and stalked after the guide.

  At the next stop, the basement of a Revolutionary War era home that had been converted to a restaurant, Miss Sandy led the group past the piano near the entrance. The group continued around the comfortable seating area next to the fireplace and stopped at the bar in the corner.

  Miss Sandy slammed her hand on the counter and demanded a Pink Squirrel. Giselle ordered a
glass of merlot. In order to cope with the rest of this tour, she had to have a drink.

  “Why is this house pink?” It was the elderly gentleman. He got a glare from his wife for his trouble.

  The tour guide’s eyes narrowed and she swayed a bit. “The guy who built it was a communist,” Miss Sandy finally answered.

  Giselle could feel her teeth clench. “There were no communists in the seventeen hundreds.”

  The bartender placed a half-full wineglass on a cocktail napkin in front of Giselle. She smiled at him gratefully, picked it up and took a soothing sip.

  “Well, he must have been gay then,” Miss Sandy said with a stern look in Giselle’s direction. Then back to the sing-song voice. “Anywho, the ghost that haunts this place likes to order a beer and drink it here at the bar. The customers think he’s a rein– rein– rein—”

  “Re-enactor?” the newly groom supplied.

  Miss Sandy grinned drunkenly. “That’s it. They think he’s a…what you said, ’cause he’s dressed like he’s from the Revolution. But once he has that drink, he just wanders hisself over to the Colonial Cemetery. Then he stands on his grave and just poof.” Miss Sandy puckered at the word “poof” and tried to blow. But her lips were apparently too numb from alcohol and wouldn’t form the requisite moue. “Anywho, he’s gone.”

  Absurd. Giselle doubted that a ghost would be mistaken for a re-enactor. A ghost lacked the substance to be mistaken for a person. Just more bunk from Miss Sandy.

  “Excuse me. I’d like to get by,” a husky male voice said into Giselle’s ear.

  She moved in a reflex motion to her left. “Oh, sorry,” she said, turning slightly to make the apology. Omigod! Mr. Scrumptious. “Oh. Hi.” She smiled at him broadly. Maybe she hadn’t lost him after all.

  “Uh,” he grunted, moving past her and the group to take a seat at the bar a couple of steps away. Giselle followed him with her gaze and saw him order a beer. He didn’t so much as glance her way.

  “Who is that?” Miss Sandy squawked over Giselle’s shoulder.

  “I don’t know,” Giselle said, wishing she did.