Trick Me, Treat Me

by Leslie Kelly

  “Gwen will watch him,” Hildy piped in.

  “Of course we will,” Gwen added. She and her aunt were responsible for this mess. Until he remembered why he was here, she wasn’t leaving Agent Stone alone in this house. Even if he’d been b.s.’ing her about who he was and why he was here, he’d still been injured in her kitchen, by her relative. She owed him something.

  If he was telling the truth, he could be in danger, at the mercy of someone. A Russian terrorist. Or a wicked innkeeper.

  He studied her with those dark, knowing eyes, and she wondered just what she’d let herself in for. His voice silky and loaded with meaning, he asked, “You’ll stay with me all night?”

  Gwen gulped, wondering how her aunt or the doctor could miss his implication. “Absolutely.” She cleared her throat, wondering who that weak-sounding stranger who’d answered had been. Squaring her shoulders, she clarified, “My aunt and I will take shifts.”

  “Well, normally I wouldn’t mind,” Hildy said. Then, she smiled like a Cheshire cat, her sharp eyes not missing a thing in spite of her advanced age. She’d undoubtedly noticed the heat between Gwen and the handsome stranger. “But tonight I am so tired.” She rubbed her hip, trying to look pitiful, but an excited glimmer in her eyes gave her away. “My niece looks wide-awake, though. She’ll take good care of you, won’t you, Gwen?” When Gwen frowned, Hildy stepped closer. “After all, remember the old poem? You have Miles to do before you sleep?”

  Gwen groaned. “It’s go, Hildy,” she muttered between clenched teeth. But it didn’t matter. Even the doctor, a stranger, couldn’t miss that blatant a suggestion. The woman’s shoulders shook as she laughed.

  Miles wasn’t laughing. He was, however, smiling. Smiling like a man who had a long night of pleasure to look forward to, rather than a long night of pain and card games, which was what Gwen had envisioned. Had forced herself to envision.

  “So, I take it you and I know each other rather well, Miss Compton?” he asked, his tone silky.

  Aunt Hildy answered. “Nope. You’re complete strangers. That’s what makes it so funny.”

  Gwen willed a zipper to miraculously appear over her querulous old relative’s mouth, but her luck wasn’t that good.

  “Funny, why?” Miles asked.

  “Well, funny that you two were lip-locked before I brained you. Gwen here hasn’t been that close to a man in more’n a year. Way too long for a woman with strong…needs.”

  Oh, God, this had to be a nightmare. Please don’t let my eighty-five-year-old great-aunt be discussing my sexual needs with a complete stranger.

  This time, Miles did laugh. “I think I’m lucky I just got bashed with a bag of pennies, Ms. Compton,” he told Hildy with a rueful shake of his head. “I suspect you have a lot more dangerous tricks up your sleeve.”

  Hildy preened. “I’ve got a story or two.”

  That did it. “No,” Gwen said, stepping close to gently take Hildy’s arm. “No stories tonight, love.”

  Hildy loved to chat. Gwen used to love to listen, would get caught up in the drama, the danger, the thrill, even the gruesome details of Hildy’s criminal associates. But Hildy didn’t realize that not everyone found her past as amusing as she did. One day, Gwen feared, someone would use it against her. To expose her, hurt her, upset the peaceful life they’d created here. Upset the delicate mental state Hildy had worked so hard to achieve and Gwen tried so hard to protect. “Aunt Hildy, I really think you should go to bed now.”

  “All right. And I think you should go to bed, too,” the old woman replied with a wink at the injured man. “She can make sure you’re not loopy in the head from concussion.” She leaned close and whispered in a voice loud enough to wake the ghosts in the basement. “And once you’re sure you’re okay, you make sure to thank her properly for her help.”

  This time, Dr. Wilson snorted, not even attempting to hide her amusement. “All right then, I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said. “Miss Compton, do you have some acetaminophen you can give him?”

  Gwen had already retrieved it. Miles took the bottle from her hand, his fingers lingering against hers one second longer than necessary. He dumped a few tablets into his palm and accepted a glass of water, which Hildy had filled for him.

  “Fine. But no more than that,” the doctor cautioned. Then she turned and walked toward the doorway.

  Gwen followed her into the hall, leaving Hildy to say good-night to Miles. She wanted to talk to the doctor, but she also wanted to escape Miles’s amused—but deeply knowing—stare.

  Surprisingly, Mick Winchester stood right outside the door. She hadn’t realized he’d come downstairs. Dr. Wilson obviously hadn’t, either. A faint flush crawled up the woman’s pretty face, pinkening her pale cheeks.

  Ahh…another hapless female fell victim to Mick’s boyish charm and smart-ass grin. She almost chuckled, liking that the shoe was suddenly on the other foot. For a confirmed bachelor and self-confessed ladies’ man, Mick was a likable guy, even if he was too flirtatious for her taste. The lady doctor could do worse if she was looking for a playmate during her holiday weekend.

  “Well?” Mick asked.

  Dr. Wilson quickly explained her diagnosis.

  Mick’s eyes widened and he shook his head in disbelief. “You’re saying Hildy knocked out a grown man with a bunch of pennies? God, this is too bizarre to be anything but a joke. He’s faking the amnesia, right?”

  The doctor shook her head. “I don’t think so. It’s not unusual for there to be some mental confusion when someone’s knocked out cold with a blow to the head. I’m sure he’ll remember and will laugh over this in the morning. These cases aren’t as dramatic as in the movies. They’re generally short-lived…hours, at most. I feel sure he’ll be fine soon.”

  Mick didn’t look convinced. He glanced at his hand, in which he held a wallet—probably his own—and a wrinkled, water-stained manila envelope. Gwen couldn’t make out any writing on the envelope, just a jack-o’-lantern sticker. The wallet was easier to understand. He’d probably grabbed it in case he’d had to make an emergency trip to the hospital. That didn’t surprise her. For a shameless ladies’ man, Mick was a pretty nice guy.

  “You’re sure he’s not faking?” he asked Dr. Wilson.

  “I’m sure about the injury to his head. And the bruise on his shoulder from where he struck a chair while falling.” The pretty doctor lifted a hand to scrape a long strand of hair away from her face. Mick’s concern for the man in the kitchen seemed to be momentarily tempered by his fascination with the way the woman’s shirt pulled tighter against her body as she moved. He watched her with palpable interest.

  Gwen almost laughed again. The randy flirt. She didn’t know whether to be amused or relieved that he hadn’t commented on her own skimpy nightie. Though, of course, he had noticed it. She’d seen him give her a thorough once-over when she’d exited the kitchen.

  “So, you had a chance to talk with this man before he was injured?” he asked her once he’d finally stopped watching Dr. Wilson with frank appreciation in his eyes.

  Talk? Oh, yeah, they’d talked. Her pulse quickened as she remembered the conversation she’d shared with Miles. How she could have been so totally lost to time and place, to propriety and her own self-preservation, she didn’t know. All she knew was that if her Aunt Hildy hadn’t knocked the man out, she might not have left the kitchen after he’d kissed her good-night.

  At least, she might not have left alone. Because in his arms, for those last few seconds before he’d crumpled to the floor, she’d contemplated inviting him to come upstairs with her. If not for Hildy, they might right now be involved in the kind of erotic bedroom activities she’d only ever fantasized about. In spite of having been with a few other men in her life, she’d sensed from the first that the intense, dark, handsome secret agent could make her feel things she’d never felt, try things she’d never tried.

  How bizarre for a woman who’d grown so accustomed to playing it safe. How strange
that she’d never doubted, not for one moment, how much he’d wanted her, in spite of the serious blow her self-confidence had taken during her last relationship.

  How naughty that the very good-girl innkeeper, for one night had wanted to be very, very bad.

  Too late now.

  Then she thought of the hours stretching before them. She just as quickly forced that flash of speculation out of her mind. She’d be sitting up with him tonight as a babysitter. Nothing else. The man probably had a concussion, for God’s sake. He couldn’t remember his own name, much less hers! And he certainly wouldn’t be up to fulfilling the erotic fantasies of a lonely woman while sporting a colossal headache.

  Pity.

  Mick seemed to notice the way she’d gotten lost in her own thoughts. A slight smile curved his lips, as if he knew what she was thinking. She cleared her throat, finally remembering his question. “We spoke briefly.”

  “Uh-huh.” Then he crossed his arms and leaned on the banister. “And he told you his name?”

  She nodded.

  “Did he say anything else?”

  The doctor still stood there, listening to their conversation, but Gwen wasn’t sure she was doing it out of concern for her patient. No, Dr. Wilson had been surreptitiously doing some looking of her own in the past few moments. At Mick.

  “Not really.” Then she frowned, remembering something. “It’s strange, Aunt Hildy says she didn’t check him in, but I can’t ask him about it. Thankfully we do have a vacant room.”

  “Well, I think I’ll go back upstairs,” the doctor said. Then she looked at Mick. “Funny, I’m not as tired as I was when I went to bed a couple of hours ago. Must be all the excitement. I might have to finish that brandy I took up with me after the cocktail hour, Miss Compton.” But she never took her eyes off Mick. And Gwen saw a flash of something in her eyes. Interest? Maybe. Heat? Definitely. Perhaps even acceptance, though, as far as she could figure, no question had yet been asked.

  Shockingly, Mick didn’t offer to escort her to her room.

  “Good night, Doctor,” he murmured, looking regretful. “Gwen, can we talk for a minute?”

  The doctor stiffened, probably as surprised as Gwen was. Mick let out an audible sigh as she walked away. He obviously realized he’d lost out on something.

  “You must really want to talk,” Gwen said. “You just gave up about as close to a sure thing as I’ve seen in a long time.”

  Mick gave her a cheeky wink. “The night’s young. And I’m good at apologizing.” Then he got serious. “I have something to tell you. Something about that stranger in the kitchen.”

  Her breath immediately caught. “What about him?”

  “I know who he is.”

  Oh, lord. Aunt Hildy had said something. “Listen, Mick…”

  “And I know why he didn’t check in. He wouldn’t, not right away, until he made sure it was safe. But I know why he’s here, because he came to meet me.”

  This time, confusion made her tilt her head. “You?”

  Lowering his voice, Mick leaned close.

  “Yes. I’m his contact here in Derryville, Gwen. Agent Stone and I are working together.”

  7

  OKAY, SO HIS NAME was Miles Stone, and for some reason he’d been in the kitchen of a bed-and-breakfast, making out with a gorgeous blonde in a negligee, when her old lady aunt had nailed him with a bag of pennies. He’d gone down for the count. And he’d come to with an empty memory bank and an ostrich egg-size lump on his skull, as well as the biggest bitch of a headache he’d ever experienced.

  Or, so he thought, since he couldn’t remember any previous headaches. Nor could he remember anything else. But at least the headache had faded in the hour since he’d taken the medicine and come upstairs to one of the bedrooms in this B & B.

  He’d been dressed all in black. The beautiful innkeeper and her dotty aunt seemed nervous for some reason. And he’d supposedly been carrying a gun. So…he had a lot of questions.

  Why did his own name, Miles Stone, ring no bells in his mind? What was he doing at a bed-and-breakfast with no luggage—as he’d discovered when he’d been escorted to this empty room. Why would he have a gun? Why wasn’t he carrying a wallet in his back pocket? Why would Gwen Compton be so cautious, listening for every creak, peering around corners as she led him upstairs?

  Why had they been making out in the kitchen when, by God, every molecule in his body screamed that he should have had her in a bed? Naked. Panting.

  Maybe most important, who was she to him and how would she react if he picked up where they’d left off before the aunt had interfered?

  Unfortunately, his companion didn’t appear inclined to answer a damn thing. “You’re sure you don’t want me to try to find you something else to sleep in?” Gwen asked, her eyes shifting to stare everywhere in the room but at him, sitting in the bed with a sheet draped loosely over his legs and hips.

  She’d scrounged up a robe somewhere and had covered up that skimpy white nightgown of hers. Too bad.

  “I’m fine. And decent,” he replied carelessly.

  True. She couldn’t see anything through the dark green sheet. Even if she could, he wasn’t naked. He was apparently a boxer-briefs kinda guy. Thank goodness. He’d have hated to strip out of his black jeans and see tighty whities, or, God forbid, something hideous like a leopard-print thong. At least, whoever he was, he didn’t dress like a loser.

  But she’d stepped out of the room to let him undress, so she didn’t know what his underwear of choice was. Yet. Since she’d returned, her cute little rear had been perched at the edge of a chair, as if she intended to flee if he moved off the bed.

  “I’m fine, Miss Compton. Now, how about you and I stop staring at each other and get down to business?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  He raised a disbelieving brow. Sure she didn’t. There’d definitely been some mutual staring during their small talk about the weather, the inn and the merits of acetaminophen over aspirin when it came to concussions and penny-induced headaches. But every time he tried to make the conversation more informative, or more personal, she looked away and clammed up.

  “I mean, let’s cut to the chase,” he said. “You’re not telling me something. I want to know what it is.”

  She shook her head. “That’s not a good idea. We just have to get you through the night. You should be able to sleep soon, it’s been almost two hours since the, uh…unfortunate incident.”

  That was one way to put it.

  “Your speech isn’t slurred. Your eyes look normal. You seem well enough to go to sleep in another hour or so.”

  Leaving him wondering how they might fill that hour.

  “And tomorrow you should wake up and remember everything.”

  He wasn’t sure he liked the way she said everything. “What if I don’t? Remember by tomorrow, I mean.”

  He regretted the question when he saw her stricken look.

  “You have to remember. It’s dangerous…”

  “Dangerous?” He sat up straighter.

  “I didn’t mean to say that.”

  “You said it. Look, I’ve had enough of this. I might have a lump on my head and a lack of personal data at my disposal, but I’m not on my deathbed.” Throwing the sheet back, he stepped out of the bed, not caring that she gasped at the sight of his body, clad only in his gray boxer-briefs.

  Not giving her a chance to get up and leave, he walked around her and planted himself in front of the door. Crossing his arms in front of his chest, he merely looked at her. If she wanted out, she was gonna have to go through him. “Just because my memory’s gone, doesn’t mean I’m stupid. I know there’s something more than meets the eye going on here. Start talking.”

  She stared up, not rising from her chair, as if her legs had suddenly turned to mush and she didn’t trust herself to stand. She didn’t touch him…not with her hands. But right now, standing with his waist at about the level of her head, he knew wh
at was meeting her eye. She continued to look, with eyes full of hunger and heat, making no effort to disguise the way her lips parted and her breaths grew ragged.

  The already palpable awareness between them skyrocketed.

  Damn. Getting out of the bed had been a big tactical error. No way he could focus on getting answers, not when he couldn’t even hide his reaction to her blatant interest.

  She noticed that reaction. Considering the size of his hard-on, a person standing a block away could notice it.

  Her body shook, her nipples puckering to twin peaks below her gown. His mouth went dry with want. Had he tasted that sweet spot? Had he sucked her nipples, rolled them on his tongue? Had he cupped her, licked her, sampled every inch of her?

  Not knowing if it had happened was hell. Not knowing if it would happen again was worse.

  A flush washed over her. She didn’t appear to notice that one sleeve of her silky robe had slid down, baring her shoulder, the curve of her neck, and the low-cut neckline of her gown. Standing above her, he was unable to look away, imagining her touching him with her hands, her mouth, as well as with her hungry eyes.

  In her lap, her fingers clenched together, inching higher, almost of their own will, toward the apex of her thighs. As if she had a need to fulfill. Even if she had to do it herself.

  The thought sent even more blood rushing to his groin. And he gleaned one more fact about himself. He had a big…

  “Don’t you think you should get back into bed?” she asked, her final word almost a squeak.

  Bed. Yeah. That’d work. If only it weren’t abso-friggin’lutely impossible. “You’re killing me,” he growled.

  His world-class hard-on wasn’t going away until he did something about it. Or until she did. Which couldn’t happen. Until he knew who he was—if he was married, an escaped convict or a sex fiend—he could not touch her.

  One thing was for sure. He was definitely straight. Because he could picture making love to this woman in more positions than you could find in the Kama Sutra and still not get enough of her.