Hex the Halls: A Paranormal Christmas Anthology

by Deanna Chase

  Reese removed his wicked hands long enough to help her onto the edge of the desk. Then he was lifting her shirt, unsnapping her bra, and freeing her breasts. His mouth ravished her aching nipples, but his hands stayed on her hips, tilting her back as he maneuvered between her legs. Both of them were still entangled in their own jeans, but who wanted to take the time to get undressed?

  Abby wrapped her hand around the thick length of his cock and stroked vigorously, wishing that very soon, say within the next five seconds, Reese would be stroking her.

  Wish granted. Reese slid his cock inside her and didn’t attempt a slow seduction. She wanted it fast, and apparently, he did, too, because he plunged into her quickly, shuddering and groaning.

  Abby pressed her knees against his hips and wrapped her arms around his neck, unable to do more than hang on for the ride. His strokes were limited by the constriction of their clothing, but he was, nevertheless, effective in revving her engine into overdrive. The orgasm slammed through her—a sudden, exquisite rush of pleasure that overwhelmed her ability to think, to breathe.

  “Oh Abby!” Reese penetrated deeply, stilling, trembling, his fingers digging into her hips as he came, his face buried in her shoulder as he strove for breath.

  They held onto each other. After a while, Abby’s heartbeat returned to normal and she could use her lungs again. Reese lifted his head and looked at her. His stunned gaze reflected her own amazement. Maybe he had hot, sweaty, incredible sex all the time, but until this moment, she had never experienced the kind of soul-stealing pleasure she found with him.

  “Whoa,” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  He moved back just enough for her to scoot off the desk; he bent down and pulled up her panties and jeans, zipping and buttoning. Then he reached around her back and re-hooked her bra, pulling down her tee shirt with obvious reluctance.

  Even at half-mast, it was impressive. She handed him some tissues from the box on her desk. After he cleaned himself and threw away the tissues, he righted his clothing.

  She smiled, hoping he saw the promise shining her eyes. “I didn’t get to wear the lingerie.”

  His lips hitched into a grin. “My bike’s outside. And I brought an extra helmet—just in case.”

  “We’ll go to my house.” Abby grabbed her purse, tucked the lingerie box inside it, and she turned off the lamps, following Reese out. It only took a sec to lock up the office. Reese waited for her in the aisle. He snagged her hand as she joined him and waved his free arm at the décor. “This is a lot of pink.”

  “Yeah.” Abby tried to see the chapel through Reese’s eyes. The walls were painted a light shade of pink. Five rows of white pews lined up on each side of the aisle, draped with ribbon and silk roses. In the front, a 20-foot by 20-foot platform offered enough room for a podium, a preacher of choice and the couple speaking their vows. The backdrop was a huge mural of a single pink rose, dew on its petals, the lush green of its stem the only color contrast in the space.

  “Don’t tell anyone, but I like pink. There’s a particular shade I have in mind, too.” Reese leaned down and captured her lips; she gladly indulged the eagerness of his mouth. Joy and lust wound through her, coiling inside her belly, arrowing down to her core.

  No matter what happened next, this moment was perfect.

  The front door creaked open and a female voice purred, “Mr. Cadwell, have you officially tied the knot with Abby Reed?”

  7

  The stupid-ass question shattered the perfect moment.

  Reese leapt away from Abby as if her skin had turned acidic. She didn’t blame him for reacting that way, but it still made her feel rejected—like a secret mistress denied public affection.

  They both turned and found an ecstatic Rachel Monroe standing less than a foot from the front door, a small digital camera in her hands. Obviously, she had clicked off a few shots of them kissing. Chances were good the nitwit had a mini-recorder somewhere on her person, too, and was waiting for one of them to utter a phrase or two that could be misconstrued.

  “Did you sign a prenuptial agreement, Mrs. Cadwell?” asked Rachel with sadistic delight. “Did Reese promise to save your failing business in exchange for a quickie marriage?”

  Abby rolled her eyes. The woman was crazy and her logic flawed. “This is private property. Please leave.”

  “Oh c’mon! You win a date with Reese Cadwell that lasts all night and suddenly you’re kissing him in a wedding chapel.” Rachel’s gaze turned sly. “Maybe this whole thing was a set-up for Reese. You know he has problems with his ex-girlfriend and you figure you’d screw him, too, and make a quick buck, right? I know! You’ll shut up about what happened at the Bellagio if he’ll put up the cash.”

  Abby glanced at Reese. His jaw was clenched, but other than that, he’d fallen into a loose-limbed slouch and remained stoically silent. Did he really believe she was capable of such betrayal? After what they’d shared, would he think she’d trade her memories and feelings for money? Bonnie had done just that—and she’d been involved with Reese for more than a year. Why should Reese trust Abby—a woman he’d known less than 48 hours?

  Abby thrust her hand into her purse and dug around for the cell phone. For a brief, angry moment, she wished it was a .22 so she could pop Rachel and bury her sorry carcass in the desert.

  She flipped open the phone and dialed 911. “Yes, I’d like to report an intruder at The Wedding Veil. There’s a woman on my property refusing to leave and I’d like to press charges for trespassing.”

  Rachel raised the camera and snapped off some more shots. She hastily backed away, and then she whirled around and burst through the door, leaving it open as she booked down the street, melting into the shadows.

  “She’s gone, officer. No, I don’t want to make a report. Thank you for your help.” Abby clicked off her phone and put it away. She inhaled a fortifying breath before facing Reese. “I would never, ever—”

  “I know.” Reese’s expression was neutral, his gaze carefully shuttered. “I’m sorry, Abby. I made a mistake.”

  “I don’t consider anything that happened between us a mistake.” She felt sick to her stomach. Rachel’s surprise verbal assault had forced reality into their little fantasy world. Now they both had to remember that Abby was a nobody—a not thin, not blonde, not rich nobody, and Reese Cadwell was a movie star. She swallowed the hot ache lodged in her throat and blinked back tears.“What will happen when Rachel’s story breaks?”

  “I don’t know. But the best way to handle bad publicity is to stay silent and wait out the shitstorm.”

  “Sage advice.” She tried for a grin and failed. Damnation! She wasn’t an actress and had never really been good at hiding her emotions. Waiting for Reese to leave was pure torture. Why the hell was he dawdling? Her chest hurt and her eyes felt puffy, and if she didn’t get chocolate in the next five minutes, she was gonna lose it completely. Gathering her courage, she stuck out her hand and Reese grabbed it, shook firmly and let go quickly.

  “It’s been a pleasure,” she said, with just a touch of wicked.

  A smile ghosted his lips. “Ditto.” Then he turned and walked away, never looking back.

  * * *

  At 11 a.m. on Monday, Reese met his agent, Irwin Sark, for lunch. Lunch with Irwin was always in the man’s spacious, but chaotic office, ordered in from local eateries, and usually included the weird Hollywood fare Reese abhorred. Sometimes, living in Los Angeles was like living on a different planet.

  Irwin owned the Creative Artists Collective Agency and had been Reese’s agent for 15 years. He was big and loud and sported fat gray moustache. He wore expensive jogging suits and cheap sneakers, like cigars and gold jewelry, and was one of the sharpest men alive on the planet.

  Irwin was responsible for getting him the role of Fred in Will and Fred’s Superlative Travels, a modest success in his early career, which continued to have a cult following. Unfortunately, that film had also been responsible for Reese being t
hought of as a doofus-without-a-clue, a perception he tried to fight with a combination of offbeat roles in small productions and big budget action films. Fast had been his break-through into the A-list. Still, he hoped that one day soon, he’d be able to take off time from his movie career and act on stage. He had a particular yen to play the Scotsman in the Scottish play.

  “Burgers,” said Irwin, pointing at the Styrofoam boxes on his desk. “With French fries or American fries or whatever the hell we’re callin’ ‘em these days.”

  Reese grinned. Finally! Something he wouldn’t gag on. He opened the box and salty, beefy steam wafted from the carton. Toasted sesame seed bun, thick meat patty, loaded with veggies, and served up with wedge-cut fries.

  “What’s up?” asked Reese as he hoisted the mondo burger. “You never order decent food. Where’s the tofu alfalfa sprout bean curd salad with gluten-free wheat crackers?” He took a bite and chewed. Nothing like a slab of beef to cheer up a guy who’s having a tough time forgetting about a certain woman.

  “Didn’t feel like salad,” said Irwin. “I ordered Boca Burgers.”

  Reese frowned. “What the hell is a Boca Burger?”

  “A meatless patty made with soy protein.” Irwin took a bite and sighed in pleasure. “Damned good.”

  “You suck.” Reese put down the sandwich and picked up a fry. “Are these made from real potatoes?”

  “Organically grown, but yeah, they’re real potatoes.”

  Reese chewed on a fry. “So why the meeting, Irwin? I’m still slated for Devil Rogue, aren’t I?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Irwin waved a chubby paw. A gold ring glittered on his pinky, a huge square diamond in the middle of the thick band. “You know how you’ve wanted to do Macbeth? Well, Trillion Studio is putting up the cash for the film version.”

  “You’re not shitting me, are you? Because I’ll kill you if you’re joking about this.”

  “I’m not. Macbeth is yours, but there are a few things Trillion wants—and you get one guess what the numero uno request is.”

  “Settle with Bonnie.”

  “She’ll zip her lips for the right price. Harrow House offered her half a mil for the rights to her tell-all book.” Irwin’s gaze locked onto Reese’s. “You’re richer than God. Pay off the bitch and get her tied into a legal knot so tight that if she burps, it’ll put her in breach-of-contract. Then you’ll get your dream project made on Trillion’s dime.”

  Maybe Irwin was right. Hell, Reese couldn’t work up annoyance toward his ex much less the anger that had roared through him six months ago. Bonnie and her machinations all seemed like a bad dream. She was a wound healed. But Abby, sweet cinnamon Abby … he still felt raw about her. His thoughts were crowded with images—the dimple revealed when she smiled, the way her breasts looked topped with whipped cream, the glitter of tears in her eyes when he said good-bye.

  What was wrong with him? He’d had one-night stands before. Hell, he’d had one-weekend stands before. What was so different about Abby?

  Forget about it.

  Forget about her.

  “Earth to Reese.”

  He shook his head as if doing so might realign his thoughts. “How much does Bonnie want?”

  “A million.”

  Considering Bonnie knew his net worth, he was surprised she’d settle for a mil. Hollywood had been good to him the last few years. He was making $20 million a picture these days. While Bonnie’s antics no longer infuriated him, he was still loathed to give in to what amounted to blackmail.

  “Reese, you’ve been in the biz long enough to understand the difference between truth and perception.”

  “Bonnie stoked the media fires, not me.” Reese’s words lacked heat. He had the money for the settlement, he wanted to do the movie, and Bonnie no longer had the power to hurt him—on any level. “I’ll pay her. And you know what? The only thing Bonnie wants more than to be rich is to be in a big budget film. Get her a part in the movie.”

  Irwin’s mouth dropped open and his moustache twitched. Then he grinned. “You’re brilliant, kid. It’ll show everyone you’ve made nice and she’ll want to promote the movie, drawing attention away from her sudden silence about you.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “Once you settle with Bonnie, maybe you can work out a deal with whats-her-face … that Gabby person....”

  “Abby. There’s nothing to settle. She signed a confidentiality agreement.”

  Irwin wiped his fingers on a napkin and leaned back into his chair. “The sharks are scenting blood again thanks to Rachel Monroe’s crappy exposé.”

  “I saw the special edition they released this morning. The pictures weren’t that good.”

  “They don’t have to be. It’s the story that delivers the worst sting. I can’t believe you agreed to that win-a-date nonsense. ”

  Reese abandoned all pretense of eating and waited for his agent to drop the next bomb. Dread whispered through him, a cold dagger gouging his spine. “What else, Irwin?”

  “Your weekend bedmate is hosting a press conference today.”

  An immediate denial died on his lips. Why did he feel compelled to defend Abby? Screw the confidentiality agreement—he’d believed her, in her word. Lust had fogged his brain and, yeah, he’d abandoned his common sense, but still, deep in his soul he’d really believed that Abby wouldn’t sell him out. Aw, hell. He set himself up by agreeing to the contest—and by giving in to his sexual whims.

  “What did you expect?” asked Irwin. “Rachel was right about Ms. Reed’s bad financial situation. She’s in debt, out of options, and you’re her meal ticket.”

  “She’s not Bonnie.”

  Irwin shrugged. “Bonnie’s never managed to get live coverage from the E! Channel.” He gestured to the flat screen television that hung on the wall opposite the desk. “It starts at four o’clock.”

  Four and half hours. Reese turned around in his chair around and looked at the big screen. Turned off, it looked like an abstract metal painting. He faced Irwin, trying to stall the sense of trepidation crawling through him. He couldn’t help but think of the famous line from the first scene in the Scottish Play. “Fair is foul and foul is fair.”

  Which would Abby be … fair or foul?

  8

  Abby stepped out from the chapel’s office. The pews were filled with people—mostly reporters, but also a few gawkers. More than one camera crew had arrived, too. Damnation. Her heart pounded fiercely and she felt nauseous. Would she be able to go through with this?

  “You’re doing the right thing,” said Gina, standing next to her, surveying the chaos.

  “Then why does it feel wrong?”

  “Because taking risks and changing your life sucks.”

  A chuckle burst from Abby, overriding the wail of despair lodged in her throat. She pressed her trembling lips together and straightened. She took a step forward, but Gina grabbed her arm.

  “Before you go face that madhouse, take this.” Her sister placed a chocolate truffle in Abby’s hand. “I have an emergency box stowed away. We’ll crack it open after this mess is over.”

  Abby popped the truffle into her mouth and chewed. Instant calm filled her as the sweet melted. “Oh yeah. That’s the stuff.” She swallowed, swiped her teeth for good measure, and grinned. “How’s my smile?”

  “Truffle-free. Go get ‘em, girlie.”

  Sean waited for her on the platform, standing to the left of the white wood podium. His smiled encouragement as she leaned forward and spoke into the microphone.

  “This morning a story appeared in the Star Weekly linking me with Reese Cadwell. Ms. Monroe, the illustrious—” she said the word in a tone that suggested she really meant idiotic—“ reporter penned an article that was entertaining if you like fictional accounts.”

  “Ms. Reed,” yelled a young man from the back row. “Are you saying Ms. Monroe lied?”

  “She strung together coincidence, mistaken impressions, and innuendo with consummate skil
l,” replied Abby. “I did win a date with Reese Cadwell. I did spend Friday evening with him. Truth be told, he’s as handsome as the devil, but nowhere near as ornery.”

  Laughter rippled.

  “Mrs. Monroe has pictures of you exiting the Bellagio in a rumpled evening gown. It is well known that Reese keeps a suite at that hotel. You can’t deny the pictures of you and Reese Cadwell kissing in this very chapel. If you’re challenging the veracity of the Star Weekly story, how do you explain the photos?” The question came from a blonde woman in the front row. Next to her was a cameraman, his video-cam pointed straight at Abby. She exhaled a nervous breath and clenched the sides of the lectern.

  “Bellagio has good craps and I roll a mean pair of dice,” said Abby. “Tourists aren’t the only ones allowed to have fun in Las Vegas. We locals enjoy the tables, too.”

  “And kissing Reese Cadwell in a wedding chapel?” persisted the blonde.

  “As Ms. Reed said,” Sean interjected, “Ms. Monroe’s article may have included mistaken impressions.”

  “Who are you, sir?”

  “My name is Sean Donnelly and I’m the new owner of this chapel. In the fall, it will reopen as the Chapel of Love, Too.” Sean smiled. He was dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, his longish black hair worn down mimicking Reese’s hairstyle.

  The blonde’s eyes narrowed. Abby could practically see the gears whirring in the woman’s mind. Go ahead, honey, make the leap…

  “You bear a resemblance to Mr. Cadwell. Will you confirm that you were the man in the chapel on Saturday night?”

  “I’ll only confirm that Rachel Monroe isn’t a very good photographer.”

  Chuckles erupted from the crowd.

  “Ms. Reed, did Reese give you any details about his relationship with Bonnie Braden?” asked an older gentleman standing in the aisle. He held a pencil and small notebook at the ready, but his expression was one of jaded boredom.

  “No,” said Abby, tamping down the flare of anger. “But I’m sure you’ll find all the information you need in the back issues of Star Weekly—if you trust Rachel Monroe as a reliable source.”