by Leslie Kelly
“Yes?”
He reached up and touched her throat, sliding his finger up to caress her earlobe as he leaned closer, until their mouths were a breath apart. Then he filled that miniscule space with a whisper. “I’m afraid if I told you that, I’d have to kill you.”
3
IF I TOLD YOU THAT I’d have to kiss you.
Only, he hadn’t said kiss, had he? No, surely he’d said kill. But Gwen didn’t care. Kiss was what flashed in her mind. Kiss was what echoed in her brain, tempting her to be outrageous. A kiss might be daring enough to test that sexiness, that womanliness, that had eluded her since her failed engagement.
So, kiss she did. When the possible ax murderer who’d just threatened her life leaned close until their breaths mingled, she grabbed his face and proceeded to kiss the lips off him.
Of course, she’d known he was joking with the killing part. In spite of the aura of danger, she’d felt sure from the moment they’d started speaking that he was no threat to her. At least not physically. Mentally? Well, in that respect, she wasn’t so sure. Her libido had been on high alert all night. An unusual occurrence for a woman who hadn’t had sex in over a year.
But she was entitled. She hadn’t done a single daring thing today. Besides, it wasn’t like she was getting engaged to a cheating bastard—again. She was just stealing a kiss. One kiss.
Twining her fingers in his hair, she tugged him closer until their lips could meet fully. He tasted dangerous and delicious. She didn’t get too serious, just slid her lips against his, letting them part the tiniest bit, but no further. His body was close, a thin aura of awareness the only thing separating them. He made no effort to pull her tighter, letting her take what she wanted.
So she took. Without thought, without common sense, with only a bit of Halloween-and-moonlight-inspired madness.
Finally, after what could have been five seconds or five minutes, she pulled her mouth away. She felt no embarrassment. She’d kissed a stranger. Not a big deal in the scheme of things, right? She hadn’t robbed a bank, or fled from the police or been around during a shootout. Unlike some members of her family.
“Okay,” she said with a soft sigh.
“Okay?” he asked, looking surprised—but not displeased.
“Yes. That was my one impulsive act for the day.”
“That was it, huh?”
She nodded. “Yep. One a day’s my quota.”
He frowned. “Too bad.” Reaching up, he traced the line of her jaw with the tip of his finger. “But, you know, it’s only an hour until midnight. Wanna stick around and see what impulse you feel like giving into tomorrow?”
Naughty. Very naughty. She liked that about him. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten it out of my system. One kiss was all I needed.”
“That’s like saying all you need is one piece of rich, decadent chocolate.” His voice thickened. “Some things just scream to be tried again.”
She nibbled her lip. He was right. With some things, one was never enough. And this man’s kisses could be more addictive than chocolate. “I’ve done enough trying for one night. At least now, if you end up killing me, I’ll die after having enjoyed a nice kiss.”
He tsked. “I only kill bad guys.”
Though she suspected he was teasing, his voice sounded somewhat serious. “I’m not a bad guy.”
“No, you’re the mysterious, sultry, kissable innkeeper whose story I don’t yet know.” He spoke so strangely, playfully almost, fitting in with the surreal mood she’d felt all night.
“I don’t have a story.”
He brushed a long tendril of hair off her face, his fingertips lingering on her temple. “Everyone has a story.”
“What’s yours?” She clarified. “Or, at least, what of yours can you tell me without needing to do me in?”
He laughed softly, and her breath hitched at the low, resonant sound. She liked the way this man sounded as much as she liked the way he looked.
“Maybe I don’t have a story, either.”
“You have ‘story’ written all over you.”
“Too bad it’s not in braille,” he said, all flirtatious charm. A twinkle in his eye dared her to follow his meaning.
She did…and chuckled. “Okay, Mr. Stone, you’re very entertaining, but I do like to know something about the men I stumble over in darkened kitchens and kiss against their will.”
“Who said it was against my will?”
“You certainly didn’t ask for it,” she pointed out.
“I didn’t ask the cheerleading squad at my high school to flash me and my buddies, either.” He grinned. “Some things you want are just obvious.”
“Like that second piece of chocolate,” she admitted, conceding the point. Then a gentle warmth spread through her as she focused on the want part of his statement. He wanted her. Or he’d at least wanted her kiss. So, she wasn’t the only one affected by the seductive atmosphere in the air tonight.
Trying to turn this strange encounter into something more normal, she stepped away from him and walked to the huge storage freezer. Opening it, she pulled out a tray of frozen pumpkin muffins. After she’d set it on the counter, she glanced over her shoulder, aware that he watched every move she made.
“Breakfast?”
She nodded. “You are staying the entire weekend?”
“Yes.”
She wondered if he could tell she was pleased. Then she sighed. “We’ve got a full house. It’s going to be busy. I’m sure I’ll be dead tired by Sunday night.”
He laughed, as if she’d made a joke. “Right. Dead tired. I probably will be, too.” Though she raised an inquiring brow, he didn’t elaborate. “So, who else is here for this holiday weekend? Just who is sleeping in this house tonight, other than the innkeeper, the ex-movie stars…and me?”
She nibbled her lip as she thought about it, trying to remember everyone who’d checked in. So many faces—some familiar, but some having come into Derryville for only this one event. A weekend magazine mention of the new haunted inn had appeared in a Chicago paper in time to get them several last-minute reservations. People appeared willing to travel a long way to spend a night in a haunted house on October 31. A spooky B & B was perfect for grown-ups who wanted to give in to their deep-rooted need to revisit childhood and scare themselves silly on Halloween. Without giving up pampering and comfort, of course.
“Well, in addition to the older couple, there’s a pretty young doctor,” she said, remembering the woman she’d shown to the Lady in Red room. “Someone who says he’s an archeologist, and one woman who works at a museum. An older man with a thick foreign accent and a psychic from New Orleans. A couple of local residents. My aunt checked the rest of them in.”
They’d been busy getting everyone settled, plus hosting their spooky cocktail hour in the front parlor, for which everyone had dressed in costumes. She hadn’t had time to question Hildy about who the other guests were. She’d said her hellos, chatting briefly with the Derryville residents who’d come for their grand opening. After serving drinks and hors d’oeuvres, she’d gone to change into her own costume for the trick-or-treaters.
He seemed amused. “So, we have a couple of movie stars, a doctor, a mysterious foreigner, a professor type and a psychic?”
“And the ghosts, of course,” she added, wondering if her tone had made it sound like she’d thought the foreign-sounding man was mysterious. Because, truthfully, that was what she’d thought when she’d met the man, who was probably sleeping peacefully on the third floor. But she’d hate to think her personal reactions to her guests were so easily discerned.
“Oh, yes, of course, mustn’t forget the ghosts.” He obviously thought she was joking.
She could have explained, but how could one explain the unexplainable? Hildy did a much better job of that, anyway. Mr. Stone would likely get an earful about the ghosts at some point; she didn’t want to spoil the mood now by getting into details about spooks. He probably already thought she was c
razy for kissing him. He didn’t need any more evidence that he’d landed in the Twilight Zone here at the Little Bohemie Inn.
“So,” he said, “I guess you’ll claim this is your average, everyday collection of guests at an inn?”
She countered with a pointed stare. “No less average than your everyday assassin.”
“I’m not an assassin.”
“Hit man?”
He rolled his eyes. “Please.”
She waited, raising an expectant brow.
“All right, I’ll tell you what I can. But you can’t mention this to anyone unless you trust them implicitly. No one can know I’m here yet.” He lowered his voice. “It could be dangerous.”
Dangerous. Oh, yes, definitely. “Tell me at least one thing. Are you running from something or to something?”
He thought about it for a moment. “I’m not running. But I am pursuing.” He gave her a look of startling intensity, loading his comment with double meaning.
Pursuing. Hmm. A hot romance? A weekend tryst? Mindless, erotic sex with a complete stranger?
“Go on,” she prodded, her voice sounding breathy.
He leaned across the counter, resting his elbows on its surface. Meeting her eyes, as if willing her to believe him, he said, “I’m undercover, Gwen. Deep, deep undercover.”
She lifted a brow. “You’re a cop?”
“It’s a bit more complicated than that.”
When he didn’t continue, she speculated aloud. Lifting her hand, she ticked off her fingers one at a time. “Deep undercover, on a mission, deadly if provoked, not a cop, a hit man or an assassin.” Giving him a cheeky grin, she concluded, “Hmm…you must be a woman armed with a high-limit credit card, scouting out Sak’s the night before their annual one-day sale.”
Not waiting for his response, she walked around from behind the counter and pulled out a chair at the massive, butcher block kitchen table. She sat down, even as the tiny voice in her brain urged her to go up to her temporary room and go back to bed.
Alone. Now.
But even as that voice of caution whispered, she knew she’d ignore it. Tonight was becoming too exciting to consider leaving. The thrill was intoxicating. The danger appealed to a part of Gwen she thought she’d lost forever. She somehow found herself feeling like the wild, uninhibited girl she’d once been, before tragedy and sadness had made her decide—if only in her subconscious—to play it safe and careful, to subdue the wild part of herself that had so often led her into trouble.
The floor was cold against her bare toes, so she lifted her feet, resting them on the bottom rung of the chair. Her white nightgown did an adequate job of covering her hips and thighs, but she kept her hands in her lap, holding everything in place.
But the gown was pulled tighter in this position. Sure, her legs were covered, but they were also outlined by the silky fabric. Her thighs were clearly delineated, as was the slight gap between them. She squeezed them together, watching him notice as he took the chair next to hers.
“That was a good guess,” he finally said, his voice thin.
Good guess. What guess? She suddenly could barely remember her own name, much less what on earth they’d been talking about.
“But I don’t think I’d be tempted to kill someone for buying the pair of shoes I wanted.”
Ahh. Now she remembered. “Have you ever seen the discounts at Sak’s one-day sale?”
He shook his head.
“You might be tempted. Particularly if they’re great shoes and the person who’s buying them looks like one of Cinderella’s stepsisters, jamming a too-tubby foot in because they’re cheap.”
“Possibly, but there are two things wrong with your theory.”
He leaned closer, until his knees almost touched hers, and her hair ruffled with his softly exhaled breaths. God, the man was seductive. Even talking about ridiculous things like hit men and shoe sales, all her nerve endings were at the highest state of alert. No amber here, she was full on red and waiting to see what sensual weapons he had left in his arsenal.
Though she knew she should have left, she didn’t regret staying. She wanted to know what would happen next. What he’d say. What he’d do. And how she’d react to it.
“What two things?” she finally managed to ask, trying to keep a coherent thought in her head. Difficult when she was so distracted by the way his skin smelled, like salty sea air, and the way his breath brought goose bumps to her bare throat.
“First, from what I know of Derryville, I don’t imagine there’s a Sak’s within a hundred miles.”
True. Coming here last winter had been definite culture shock. But small-town life had grown on her. “Point taken.”
“And second, I don’t use my dangerous weapons against anyone but the really bad people. Not greedy shoppers with fat feet, no matter how annoying they might be.”
“For the record I’m not one of those greedy shoppers.”
As if he couldn’t help himself, he leaned closer. She had no idea what he was doing until he touched one of her feet, lifting it off the rung and cupping it in his big, warm hand.
Gwen wasn’t a petite woman, but she thought she did have rather nice, slender feet. Feet which had suddenly become massive erogenous zones, because she ached to feel his fingers higher on her body. Much higher. Between her legs. On her breasts. At her throat. Against her cheek. Everywhere she wanted to be touched by him.
“And you don’t have fat feet,” he said, continuing to stroke her foot, as if wanting to warm her sensitized skin. His touch ignited a flood of sensation that increased the temperature throughout her body. She was left wondering why no man had ever found that incredibly sensitive area…right there. Yes, that spot high on the inside of her foot, near her ankle. The one that almost made her squirm because, though the touch was focused in one location, she was feeling it everywhere.
She couldn’t help emitting a tiny moan. God, if the man’s hands on her foot could make her shift in her seat, because of her body’s damp reaction, how on earth would she handle it if he ever touched elsewhere?
Finally, as if realizing he was erotically touching the foot of a near stranger, he let her go, gently lowering her leg until she rested her heel back on the chair rung.
When she’d started breathing again, a day or two…minute or two…whatever…later, she cleared her throat. Sitting here, being so affected by him, she needed to know more about the man. “Just who do you use your dangerous weapons on, Miles?”
He paused, looking like he was trying to decide how to answer. She recognized the naughty setup she’d provided, and wondered if her subconscious had done it on purpose. Probably. Because she’d certainly been thinking about one of Mr. Stone’s “weapons” in particular, and who she’d like him to use it on.
Uh, yeah, that one. And oh, right, her.
Finally, seeming to decide not to make a sultry comeback in spite of the opening, he frowned. “Can I trust you?”
She nodded. “Even though I grabbed you and kissed you in a moment of Halloween-induced insanity, yes, you can trust me.”
He tsked, as if reminding her that they’d already had that argument. Then, reaching into an inside pocket of his black leather jacket—a well-worn, shoulder-hugging kind of jacket—he pulled out a photo identification card. And a badge.
“You are a cop?”
He shook his head and pointed to a logo. She made out some words, but didn’t recognize them. “The Shop? What’s that?”
“You’ve heard of the FBI, the CIA, the Secret Service, the Department of Homeland Security?”
“Sure.”
“We’re the deepest, darkest subunit of every one of them.”
She raised a brow. “You’re a secret agent?”
His nod was grave. “Yes.”
Gwen’s first thought was that, in spite of his very looks and smooth delivery, Miles wasn’t a very good secret agent. Secret agents didn’t go around telling people they were secret agents on undercover missi
ons, did they? Except, maybe, for Austin Powers. Or James Bond when he wanted to get laid.
Whoa. That mental image distracted her for a good twenty seconds. She was no Bond girl, but the thought was enticing. Gwen Compton didn’t have quite the ring of Pussy Galore or Alotta Fagina, but she was at least dressed for the part. Her hair—normally flat and straight—did look extremely fabulous tonight, due to the leftover Glenda the Good Witch curls. And she’d kissed him like some bold, confident mystery woman. Not to mention they’d met under rather unusual circumstances. In a dark kitchen. On the spookiest night of the year. When she was half-naked.
Well, no wonder he’d started to act like James Bond!
“I wouldn’t have told you this,” he continued, “but I need your help. I need an ally inside this house.” Reaching down, he picked up a dark briefcase. She hadn’t even noticed it.
While she watched silently, he opened the case. She glimpsed a manila envelope, in which appeared to be a number of papers and photos, with notations in a foreign language. The case also contained some sort of radio and electronic devices.
Miles pulled out a photograph, placed it on the tabletop, and pushed it toward her with the tip of one finger. “Boris Rockinova. Ex-KGB agent turned international arms dealer.”
Gwen stared at the picture, a black-and-white 8 x 10 of a middle-aged, balding man. Normal-looking. He could have bagged her groceries or sold her a car and she’d never have given him a second look. She raised a doubtful brow. “He’s a terrorist type?”
Miles nodded, retaining his serious expression.
“And you think he might be here? In Derryville?” She heard the skepticism in her own voice.
“I think he might be right here…in this house. Our contacts say he’s set up a meeting here this weekend with potential buyers, including a high-level member of an organized crime group from New York. We don’t have the identity, but we know he’s working with a woman. This woman, code name Miss Jones, is supposed to make contact with him to arrange a weapons buy in preparation for a crime planned for the port of New York.”
