Hex the Halls: A Paranormal Christmas Anthology

by Deanna Chase

  He buried his face into her neck, breathing in the scent of her hair before lifting his head. “What kind of perfume is that?”

  Dazed, still riding the train to Lustville, she blinked up at him. “I don’t wear perfume.”

  “It’s gotta be your shampoo. It’s driving me crazy.” He dipped down for another taste of her neck then she felt his tongue trace her collarbone.

  “Natural, unscented. I buy it at the health food store.”

  “Then it’s you.” He sat up abruptly, leaving her flat on the seat, limbs askew. “Shit. What am I doing?” He looked at her, utterly appalled, and grabbed her by elbows, jerking her upright so fast she nearly got whiplash. “I’m sorry, Abby. Damn it. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  Abby wanted to laugh and cry. She wasn’t one of those rapid fans dreaming impossible dreams about a movie star. She wasn’t wishful or foolish, either. Only someone living on Mars could escape the media-covered battle going on between Reese and his ex-girlfriend. The silly bitch did everything possible to keep her name in front of the celebrity-greedy public—all in the name of making a buck. The last thing he’d want is the possibility of another scandal. Reese Cadwell Ravishes Fan in Limo. Yeah, that’s exactly what he didn’t need. He was already fighting to maintain his dignity against Bonnie’s crass revelations. What little privacy he had before she’d done the talk-show circuit had been shredded.

  For all Reese’s glamour and good looks, she’d glimpsed the terrible loneliness in his eyes. Not even his considerable skills could hide that kind of unhappiness all the time—at least not from someone who’d known the same kind of pain. And still, her heartbeat refused to slow and the burning desire to jump his bones rioted through her.

  “It was a helluva kiss—one that didn’t happen,” she said, straightening her dress and forcing a grin to her lips. “Don’t regret a second of it, you hear?”

  “Didn’t happen, eh?” He smiled, shaking his head as a chuckle escaped. “Like I said, Abby, you’re something else.”

  * * *

  “C’mon, Ralph from Morocco,” Rachel Monroe peered at the young man’s gold tag then at his pale Anglo-Saxon face. “If you’re from Morocco, I’m from Mars.”

  “Welcome to Earth,” he said, flashing a polite smile.

  The security guard wore a tuxedo and stood strong, tall and stoic in front an elevator. The very elevator she’d seen Reese Cadwell and his mystery date enter just a few minutes ago. She hadn’t gotten a good look at the woman’s face, but she recognized the silver shimmer of the dress. Anger surged anew as she thought about the “aw shucks” lady from the restaurant who’d sent her on a wild goose chase. Honestly, when would she learn to spot a liar? With all her coverage of the Hollywood sect, it should be second nature to spot a fake. Hah. If everyone acted fake all the time, what the hell was real?

  “Look, Ralph. I’ll slip you a hundred bucks.” The last hundred bucks she had in her bank account. The Star Weekly didn’t pay for lowly reporters like her to go on trips to Las Vegas. She was here on her own dime trying to snoop out a story that would get her noticed. So far, her single biggest accomplishment was being the lucky reporter to answer the phone when Bonnie Braden called. She’d spent the last six months converting Bonnie’s whines into juicy scandal. Blech.

  Ralph remained stoic. In fact, she swore she saw amusement flicker in his blue eyes. Who was she kidding? Ol’ Ralph from Morocco wouldn’t tell her where the restrooms were located for one measly Ben Franklin.

  “Mind if I hang out?” she asked.

  “You can whatever you want, ma’am.” He grinned, baring his teeth like a growling dog. “Except enter this elevator.”

  * * *

  When the elevator to his private suite slammed to a knee-jolting stop, Reese found his arms full of the luscious Abby Reed. Her purse flew out her hand and the black lace wrap slithered to the floor. Oh no. Surely this wasn’t—

  The elevator joggled and squealed upward another couple of feet before halting roughly. He and Abby fell to the floor, a tangle of snagged clothing and bruised shins. He found himself on top of her, his face pressed into her ample cleavage as he fought for breath. He sucked in the scent of Abby—the scent that made no sense and shouldn’t exist because she didn’t wear perfume or scented lotions, soaps, or shampoo. He’d already asked. “Gotta be the detergent,” he muttered, his lips scraping the soft skin just above Abby’s breasts. Washes her clothes in cinnamon apple Tide. Yeah. That’s it.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  He lifted his head and looked at her. “Crazy, isn’t it? The elevator stalled.” He was such a liar—even though it was fib-by-forgetfulness.

  “It’s not that. It’s w-what you just did.” Her hands fluttered around her face like escaped birds. “The breathy-kissy thing.”

  Reese noticed the sensual flush of her skin from cleavage to neck. Whoa. Passion thickened within him and arrowed straight into his hardening cock. He cleared his throat. “Yes. Well.”

  “Either get off me or do it again. If you do it again, don’t stop.”

  She wasn’t moving suggestively, wasn’t trying to sexily influence him into losing his mind. No. He was losing his mind all on his own. After what Bonnie did, he’d be an idiot to trust another woman he knew well, much less a stranger who inspired such mind-fogging lust. It was stupid and insane to slide his palm up, up, up the sparkly dress that denied him direct access to her body.

  Stupid to allow his restless fingers to stroke the underside of her breast.

  Insane to scoot up so that his hard-on nestled against the vee of her thighs.

  Stupid to lower his head against her neck and nibble the flesh.

  Insane to flick his tongue against the sensitive spot behind her ear.

  Her moan sent pleasure-heat surging through him, filling him with a primal desire to claim this woman.

  Fuck it. Stupid and insane would be his mantra for the next few hours . . . because he was taking Abby Reed to his bed, damn the consequences.

  * * *

  “Are there surveillance cameras in here?” asked Abby as Reese rained tiny kisses on the swell of her cleavage, stopping only to dip his tongue in the space between her aching, way-too-sensitive breasts. Her nipples tightened. Oh baby. She wasn’t out of her dress yet—hell, he hadn’t even touched a naked boob, and she felt ready to go over the edge. Then he did the breathy-kissy thing and she nearly melted into a puddle of lust-delirious ooze.

  “Reese. The, uh, wow … yeah, that’s good.” Spine-shivering excitement clawed through her and she dipped her hands into his open blazer, stroking the hard muscles hidden by his T-shirt. “Oooh. Right there. Could you—oh yeah. That’s the spot.” His tongue inched under the black lace bra, teasing her poor neglected nipple by only swiping the areola.

  Wait, wait, wait. Cameras. Getting filmed having wild monkey sex in an elevator might distract the press from Reese’s fight with Bonnie, but he didn’t need another scandal—and neither did she. Her wedding chapel business was already on the skids because of her ex-husband’s petty revenge schemes. She didn’t need to complicate matters by giving the bastard more grist for the mill.

  Reese pulled down the dress just enough to reveal her nipples straining against the bra. His fingers stroked one taunt peak through the lace, agitating it with the pressure of his fingers and the abrasion of the material. Sensations ricocheted—an onslaught that left her trembling with fiery need.

  “I think we should stop. “ The words issuing from her mouth were low and hoarse and unconvincing. “In a minute. Or five hundred.”

  Reese didn’t answer. His mouth surrounded the aching nub and began a sensual attack that left her mindless with pleasure. She untucked his T-shirt and dragged her hands across his six-pack stomach. Smooth skin and hard muscle quivered under fingertips. She snaked along the edge of his jeans, sliding her hands over his tight ass and squeezing. Yowzer.

  He switched his attention to her other breast and, with an unerring aim, his hard
-on pushed against her clitoris in just the right away. Little orgasmic waves quaked. She couldn’t believe how close she was to coming, and damn, if he kept rubbing his cock on her like that, she just might.

  “You have the most beautiful breasts,” he muttered before beginning another dizzying wave of nipple torture. His pelvis moved slowly, dragging his jean clad across her dress-protected, but throbbing clit. WHAM! She grabbed his buttocks and ground into his cock, flying over the edge into an orgasm that left her breathless and blind.

  When she floated down from the euphoria, she found Reese staring at her. She was grateful to see the desire-drugged look in his eyes. He was as turned on as she—thank God.

  “Did you just do what I think you did?”

  She nodded; the back of her skull thwacked the floor. Ouch. Shit. “It’s been a while.”

  His pleased expression was rife with manly pride.

  She smiled at the typical male reaction and patted his behind as if to say, “Good boy.” What a fine ass. Her body was ready for Round Two, but her thoughts remained sluggish. What had been so important just a second ago?

  “CAMERAS!” she shouted.

  Reese was so startled by her scream that he toppled off her. He laughed as he scooted into a sitting position. Abby sat up, too, and leaned against the back wall of the elevator. Her thighs still trembled. In fact, most of her still trembled. “What’s so funny?”

  “There aren’t any cameras in this elevator. My suite is exclusive—not even the whales get to use it.”

  Whales referred to the über rich gamblers that every Vegas hotel catered to. They spent thousands, sometimes millions, of dollars and in return, they got exclusive perks no one else could hope to have. If the suite was off-limit to whales … she swallowed the knot in her throat.

  She’d been so busy trying to act cool and collected around a man most women would never get to meet, she hadn’t thought about the fact he was a millionaire. Not only a millionaire, but also one of the world’s most popular actors and one of the hottest bachelors in Hollywood.

  The nervousness she’d avoided most of the evening slammed into her. Reese Cadwell just gave me an orgasm. Had could she have lost sight of the fact she was with a mega super star? One that wouldn’t have looked twice at her on the street or in a bar or—or anywhere. She’d thought she wasn’t wishful or foolish. Hah. She was both!

  “What’s wrong, Abby? You look pale.”

  The concern in his voice sounded real. Was it? Could a man like Reese who faked emotion for a living mean what he said or did? She nibbled her lip. “I-I just realized I was rolling around on the floor with Reese Cadwell. I’m sorry. You made it very clear you weren’t interested and I—“

  “No. Don’t.” He gaze darkened, but with what emotion she couldn’t name. “I can’t make you any promises. But … but for tonight, if you want, I’ll just be Reese and you can just be Abby. No regrets, you hear?”

  “No regrets.” She smiled at his use of the same words she’d said in the limo. God, she was so relieved that he still wanted her. Her ex-husband had accused her of being a cold fish in bed, one of many excuses he used to justify his affairs. She’d learned through painful experience that almost nothing Dale said was true. Why had she believed it when he called her frigid? That lie was now revealed. A handsome man, a near stranger, had just brought her to an amazing climax without taking off her clothes.

  She looked at the row of numbered lights above the door. They were three floors away from the “P.” Wow. Penthouse suite. Of course, she might not get to see it. Now that she and Reese weren’t attacking each other, she realized they were trapped. Where the hell was the rescue squad? “Good thing I’m not claustrophobic. How long does it usually take for someone to notice there’s a problem?”

  “Damn. I got distracted.” He opened a small panel just below the elevator buttons and picked up a red phone. “Hey, Fred. It’s Reese. We’re stuck. I didn’t pull the stop switch. You what? Er … yeah, I can see why you might think that. Thanks.”

  He hung up the phone and cleared his throat. “Apparently, Fred got us confused with … another couple—yeah, some other people—who, um, usually request that the elevator stop working for about half an hour.”

  He looked embarrassed. Dare she think Reese was the one who enjoyed an “accidental” stalled elevator?

  Clunk! The car wrenched for a split second then began a smooth ascent. Reese rose and helped her to stand. The mere touch of his palm made her tingle with excitement. He picked up her purse and wrap, handing them to her and allowing his touch to linger before slipping his fists into his jean pockets. Then, they stood side by side, waiting in companionable silence.

  “No cameras, eh?” she asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Security mistook us for a different horny couple.”

  “Seems so.”

  Abby quelled the laugh bubbling in her throat. “Forgot to tell them not to do it, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah.” He sighed. “I swear it wasn’t a cheesy play to get into your panties. I haven’t been to Vegas in a long time and the last girl was….” He stared at the rows of elevator buttons, studying them as if they were a complex math problem. Oh-ho. So the last girl had been that insipid Bonnie Braden.

  “You shouldn’t worry about getting into my panties. You know why?”

  Reese looked at her, his head tilted, his gaze questioning. “Why?”

  A soft ding announced their arrival and the doors opened. Abby sashayed into the foyer, pausing to look over her shoulder. “I’m not wearing any.”

  3

  No panties. No panties. No panties. Reese stumbled out of the elevator, barely noticing its doors swooshing closed behind him. Under that, that, that dress she’d been walking around bare-assed and … his heart stuttered as he considered what else under the dress was uncovered. He staggered forward like he’d had one too many martinis then, strangely nervous, he halted and watched Abby’s progress across the foyer.

  If he hadn’t known better, he’d think she was an actress playing to the camera. The sexy walk, the eyes glinting with naughty promise, the careless tossing of her wrap, purse, and heels onto the floor—she didn’t bother to look back at him. She strode through the right doorway, into the living room, and left him standing there like a dumped prom date. His gaze strayed to the left doorway, the one that led to the bedrooms, then returned to the foyer.

  What the hell did Abby expect him to do? Collapse to the floor in a lustful faint? Possible. The blood had already seeped from his brain into his penis. He was man enough to admit to some dizziness. Or maybe she wanted him to run after her, rip off his clothes, and tackle her onto the nearest piece of furniture.

  His aching hard-on jerked inside his jeans, an enthusiastic “yes” from the organ now controlling him.

  “Reese? Are you coming?”

  Get moving, you idiotic bastard.

  Desire was heavy and thick, a metallic longing that weighed him down and made him feel sluggish and weak and stupid. He walked, zombified, until he made it into the living room.

  It was empty. Er … empty?

  He stopped a couple of feet from the huge couch that bisected the cozy space from the bar area with its cushy stools, black marble countertop, and liquor-loaded shelves. In front of the bar were several groupings of chairs and tables—all sizes and shapes and colors—meant for party goers to relax, mingle, and converse. His gaze floated over the empty chairs. No Abby lounged on that curved red chaise, the one with infinite possibilities as a sex chair. He imagined her there—a come-hither look in her eye, her dress hitched up just enough to reveal the pale slope of her inner thigh.

  He turned to the other side of the room. The large brown leather couch faced a white-marble fireplace. On either side of it were two wingback chairs, one burgundy, the other striped with colors that matched other decorations in the room—dark red, rich gold, deep brown, hunter green. Several fragrant logs stacked on the left were an ode to December
, but right now, he was hot enough to burn down the entire suite.

  To the left of the setting were three tall cherry wood bookshelves crammed with popular fiction, biographies, classics, and many pretentious, expensive leather-bound hardbacks that had titles like “Shakespeare” and “Aristotle” written in scrolled gold. A singular chair, large and puffy, its covering green crushed velvet, waited forlornly for a reader to settle down for a quiet evening. No Abby, though, so he lost interest in the charming library.

  To the right of the fireplace, close to the floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the Strip, was a baby grand piano, its white keys gleaming in the low lighting of the room. The shiny black bench probably hadn’t had a butt on it since Liberace—who had owned the piano and the bench for a brief time. At least that was the story the bellboys always told him.

  “Looking for me?”

  Reese turned and saw Abby watching him. White-hot longing burned through him, more intense than the sizzling hunger that had claimed him minutes ago. He’d made love to beautiful women. To famous women. To rich women. He’d never felt this … primeval. He didn’t want to make love to this woman; he wanted to claim her. He wanted to own her—body and soul—even if it was for just one night.

  “Reese? You look like I do when I go to Ethel M’s Chocolate Factory.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Hungry.”

  He said nothing, merely smiled and took her hand, leading her into the sumptuous bedroom. To his astonishment, and the approval of his dick, she bent down and lifted the edge of her dress until the silver material danced around her thighs, hiding the evidence of panties. Had she been serious about lack of underwear?

  His heart almost stopped. She was wearing stockings. Not pantyhose. Stockings. He toed off his loafers, ripped off his socks. He unzipped his jeans, pulled them down and flung ‘em away.