Smoking Hot
Sommer Marsden
Van really wants to dislike her blind date, on principle of course. So naturally she really likes Sean Tierney on sight. Her thoughts automatically go from zero to naughty when they meet. He’s a tall, green-eyed blond who drives a smoking-hot classic car.
Speaking of smoking hot, the Halloween party he takes her to turns into a nightmare. Not because it’s a blind date, but because the whole thing goes to hell when a ghost in the shape of evil black smoke starts taking out the guests. Van decides she’d like to live to see another date with sinfully handsome Sean and she learns there’s something to be said for life-affirming sex. Lots and lots of life-affirming, we-may-die-here-so-lets-do-it-while-we-can sex.
An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
www.ellorascave.com
Smoking Hot
ISBN 9781419929335
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Smoking Hot Copyright © 2010 Sommer Marsden
Edited by Helen Woodall
Cover art by Syneca
Electronic book publication July 2010
The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Smoking Hot
Sommer Marsden
Dedication
To the man, of course. My smoking-hot guy minus all the chaos and fear. :) Forever and ever amen.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my fat, red wiener dog. He sat and listened to me read this book aloud to him on multiple occasions (as I wrote it) and never ever tried to make a break for it. He even allowed me to walk him daily and still held his head up high. Also, thanks to my kiddos for loving me even when I keep saying, “Wait a minute…wait a minute…okay, now! Talk now!” And the usual suspects: The man, P.S. Haven, Alison Tyler, Scarlett Greyson and ghost hunters everywhere. I know a bunch of them. :)
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Godzilla: Toho Co. Ltd.
Mustang: Ford Motor Company
Valium: Hoffman–LaRoche, Inc.
Chapter One
I have to admit, when I opened the door to Sean, I almost shut it again. I had told Clarice tall, dark and handsome. She’d gotten one out of three. Sean Tierney was tall and blond and so pretty I felt like a troll doll.
“Hi there,” I said, faking a smile, calculating sixty different ways to string Clarice up by her thumbs and torture her.
Green, green eyes flashed at me, making me think of feral cats and wild things slinking in the night. Okay, so that was a pretty damn sexy image and looking at Sean Tierney was not hard to do.
“Hi, there, to you. Van, is it? Did I get that right?”
I nodded. “Yep. Like the shoes.”
“Short for…” He waited, toeing the threshold of my home with a big, beat up black boot. Boots. Nice. So, Clarice gets a point. That’s two points. One for the eyes, one for the boots.
“Vanessa. Vanessa is way too stuck-uppity for me. So it’s been Van since, oh, about kindergarten.”
He looked me up and down and I considered shutting the door again. I’m usually the captain of the ship. The one in charge. I say jump and my date says how many times. But the way Sean Tierney looked at me, I felt like I should buckle my seat belt and hold on. I cleared my throat and he smiled—his full lips a pale shade of pink. Rather striking for a guy, and hot as hell with the green flashing eyes and the shaggy wheat-colored hair.
“Are you dressing up?” he asked, shifting gears. “Are you?” I countered, suddenly feeling not so sure of myself. Less annoyed with Clarice, more annoyed with myself for being so rattled by a pretty boy.
Sean glanced down at himself, faded jeans, charcoal-gray button-down, cuffed casually, left to hang loose over the jeans and beat-to-shit motorcycle boots. “Nope. Not unless I have magical powers. But you know…ladies—” he caught himself and stopped, another heart-pounding smile spreading across his lips.
“Ladies what?” I snapped. “They get all googety over dressing up?” Why was I getting so cross? Why was I being such a bitch? Why, oh why, were my panties so wet? Damn!
“Googety?”
“I made up a word for ya,” I sniped. And then just for fun, “Is there a bike to go with those boots or are you one of those men?”
He stepped back as I stepped out and locked the door behind me. No, I was not going to let him in, so sue me.
“Those men?” he asked. He looked handsomely confused and for some reason that annoyed me more. How dare this stranger I did not want to go out with anyway have the nerve to make me be attracted to him. For shame.
“The ones with the boots and the leather cuffs and—” I snorted to show my derision, “the wallets on chains and no motorcycle to show for it.”
He smiled, laughing softly and put his hand on my lower back to guide me down the wooded path from my townhouse to the parking lot. He might as well have put a match to my skin. The pressure and electricity from his hand on my body was like licking a light socket. Or so I imagined. I was having a hard time concentrating with him touching me. Which simply pissed me off, if you must know.
“I do have a bike. An Indian. Was my dad’s. I got it when he died.”
I stalled out, verbally and physically. I turned to him, “Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. Anyway, I do have a bike but I didn’t bring it because some folks are pretty anti-bike and I didn’t want to start our date with me asking to borrow your car because you’re afraid of motorcycles. I figured if we hit it off…next time.”
I felt a blip of disappointment because deep down I truly loved riding on a motorcycle. And riding on an Indian would be so kick-ass. “Oh,” I said, having nothing mean to say about that. He hadn’t brought it to be considerate.
Fudge.
“Where are we going? I know it’s a party but whose party?”
When he stopped in front of a cobalt blue ’66 Mustang my mouth went dry. He unlocked the door and opened it for me. “My friend Patrick’s. New house. So it’s a housewarming slash Halloween hoedown. Are you going to get in?” He waited patiently. A gentleman with a mane of lion-colored hair, supernatural green eyes, pink kissable lips, a motorcycle, a classic Mustang and a tight ass. Not that I had noticed.
“Is this yours?”
“God, I hope so or I might be going to jail.” Then he shocked me by putting his hand on the crown of my head and guiding me gently into the coupe. He shut the door and made his way around to the driver’s side.
“I’m gonna take a wild guess and say you’re a cop,” I said.
He turned those eyes on
me and then white teeth flashed in the purpling light of dusk. Something in my body warmed and okay, my panties got a little wet. He was handsome in my doorway. Stunning in the close confines of the Mustang.
“Was a cop. Now I own a bar.”
“Huge leap from cop to bar owner,” I said, tongue-in-cheek. I knew a lot of cops thanks to an uncle who was high up on the police department food chain. Most of the cops I knew called their favorite bar home, or a close second.
Sean laughed and fired the engine. I’ll admit it, the sound of that puppy starting up triggered a rolling thrill low in my belly. I imagined what it would be like to be all tangled up with Sean Tierney in the backseat. I caught him watching me.
“It’s rude to think dirty things about your blind date so early in the evening,” he said and chuckled. The easy roll of his laughter made me shiver. I tried to cover with a cough.
“Stuck up much? I was totally thinking about this cherry ride of yours,” I lied. Good thing I was a good liar.
He narrowed those feline eyes at me and said, “I don’t buy it. But I’m a gentleman. I’ll let it roll.”
Whew. That had been close.
He guided the majestic steel steed from the parking lot and took a left on Torrington Way. “So you own a bar. What happened? Big scandal? Huge blowup? Drug bust gone awry? Thievery? Did you shoot a man just to watch him die?” I rambled. I was nervous. When had that happened? I had started the night mildly annoyed with Clarice and now I was as nervous as all get out.
My panties rubbed my now tender clit and I shifted on the smooth seat. I was nervous and turned on and locked in a sexy car with a pretty boy. Balls!
“Wow…you don’t have a very high opinion of the boys in blue, do you?” he said.
I had the good manners to blush. “Oh, well, I’m sorry. I’m sure you’re…I was just…well, Sean, I was being an asshole, is what I was being,” I blurted, my cheeks burning.
He put his hand on my leg and patted. “It’s okay. I was joking.” Those fingers were so, so, so very close to my good parts I couldn’t think for a moment.
I cleared my throat, wiggled in my seat, realized that was a huge mistake because it only made my sudden and yes, somewhat inconvenient, arousal that much worse. “So!” I practically screamed and we both jumped. “Why did you go from being a copper to a bar owner?”
Maybe I needed to date more often. I was not dealing well with my attraction to Mr. Tierney.
“It was a dream my dad and I shared. We talked about it and talked about it and plotted it. One day he’d retire and one day I’d retire and we’d open the bar and we’d put all the beer coasters we’d collected over years and years and years under protective plastic to make the bar and then…”
“Your dad died,” I said.
“Yep. So I took a deal they were offering officers who wanted to retire way early and there you go.”
“There you go,” I said, liking him even more. Crap. Why did he have to be pretty and nice and have a fine car and a good heart? Damn him!
He parked in a cul-de-sac and led me to a front door. Red door, number 213, and music literally shaking the windows. “So here we are,” he said.
“Yes. Let’s get down with our bad selves,” I murmured, feeling even more spastic at that moment. What makes me more nervous than liking a sexy guy? Walking into a party chock-full of folks who I don’t know, who all know each other. It is my socially awkward woman version of hell on earth.
He grinned and then he leaned in and kissed me. Right on the mouth. I let him, too, parting my lips for his warm tongue to stroke over mine. I shivered a little from the electricity of that kiss and when he pulled back he said, “I know you’re lying. I know you were thinking dirty things about me.”
“I—” I shook my head. I wasn’t even going to finish that sentence. Even I couldn’t lie about it anymore.
He grinned and pushed the front door open.
* * * * *
It was some dipshit named Ted who opened the box. Patrick, the new owner of the old house, had led everyone down into the basement. It was an old, old, old basement with a semi-dirt floor and low ceilings and hooks on the walls, and let’s face it, it was pretty much an instant horror movie set, just add fake blood and screaming bimbo. So Ted, who’d had his share of spirits for the evening—the kind that live in a bottle—had taken a shine to me. Something that I found horribly annoying and Sean found immensely amusing.
It was Ted who yelled, “Hey, Van, baby, look at this old thing!” And snicked the lock back and pried the box wide.
Before it was actually open, someone said, “There’s symbols carved all over it maybe you shouldn’t…”
Yeah, but see, just like in the movies, that never works. Someone always has to open the bad box or the wardrobe or do the spell because they think it’s all horseshit or fake.
So when Ted pried open the box we all waited and…nothing.
“Wow, that’s spiffy, Ted,” I said and Ted grinned. Ted had apparently never heard of sarcasm.
But Sean laughed softly and put his hand on the small of my back. I turned really fast and pressed against him and kissed him. I did it so fast because I wanted to, but turned back so fast because then I could pretend I hadn’t done it.
But Sean yanked me in when I tried to turn and put his hands in my hair. It was sappy movie romantic and yes, it worked. I turned to girl goo in his nice, buff arms and let him kiss me so hard my knees turned to jelly and I gasped like some romance book heroine.
“Ted’s not the only one who’s enamored of you,” Sean said against my cheek.
Then the big shadow came swooping up out of the box and…well, it ate Ted. At least we were pretty sure it did.
Pandemonium.
Ever seen it happen? I have. Just at that moment, a whole horde of drunken people made for the rickety stairs as if they could all mount them at once. The steps were the old-fashioned wooden slat ones. Unfinished. The creepy kind of steps, you know what I mean. The back of each step is open, so you could totally imagine some cold, clammy hand reaching through there and grabbing your ankle. And then it would drag you to your untimely death in the smelly, dusty basement. Those kind of steps.
The third person who hit the middle of the staircase lived that nightmare. A hand made of black smoke and pure intent snagged that girl—a little blonde dressed as a cheerleader for our Halloween festivities—and yanked. I watched her fight like hell, but she was pulled through the narrow space of the stairs in no time at all. Not pretty. Trust me.
“Move,” Sean said in my ear and started the policeman shuffle. He hustled me off to the left, to what appeared to be another door as the swell and crush of bodies parted and folks started making their way for other exits or offshoots of the basement.
He pushed me into a narrow nook that held the boiler. Thank god it wasn’t cold enough for the boiler to be used yet, or it would have been a tad toasty in there.
“Oh my holy shit, what the fuck was that?” I was babbling. I thumbed my cell phone and the screen said out of range…out of range.
“Don’t know, but it looked like smoke. So—“ He was glancing around wildly.
“So? So! So what? You can’t just say that and then leave me hanging here, Sean. My cell won’t work!” I squeaked.
“Van!” he barked.
“What?”
“Shut up and look for rags. Sheets. Carpets. Anything like that. I don’t think any cells are working. Mine’s totally dead. Now move!”
“No need to be rude,” I grumbled, but did as I was told and found a huge pile of shop rags in one corner. There was more screaming coming from outside the door and I winced. I started shoving rags under the door crack just as a black feeler of smoke snaked in. Sean shoved a rug over it and pushed it into the crevice. Thankfully that one tendril snaked back out and was gone.
“You okay?” he asked, taking me by the upper arm.
“I’m having a stroke,” I said very calmly. My heart pounded so hard I
felt ill. My hands shook as I pulled the ends of my long dark hair to try to focus myself. Yank, yank, yank. The sharp bites of pain kept me from melting down but at this rate, I’d be bald before we were free.
He tilted my head back and studied my face. I feared flawed makeup, tears, twitches…boogers. God, I feared boogers. “You’re not having a stroke,” he said and leaned in to kiss me. I took that kiss like a drowning woman takes a life raft. “You’re just scared, girl.”
“Stroke,” I muttered, but I pushed my hands into that unruly surfer-boy hair and yanked so that he retaliated by biting my bottom lip.
“Nope. Just fear.” He pushed his hand into my jeans and I let him. He shoved his warm fingers into my panties, and I moved forward to help him. He buried his fingers inside me and I sighed. “See, fear. You’re so wet.”
“Heart attack, maybe?” I countered. His mouth tasted like summer fruit and handsome man.
“Terror,” he said, flexing his fingers and finding my G-spot. My body was one big nerve ending fueled by adrenaline. I nearly came just from that pressure.
“This would be life-affirming sex,” I said. I rubbed my palm along the front of his jeans, feeling his cock twitch under my pressure. So hard and long and perfect. If we died in flagrante then…what a way to go. We certainly couldn’t leave just yet. So…
“It would. It really would,” Sean Tierney former cop said to me as he pressed me to the dank stone wall beside the door we had just managed to barricade and seal. “I would really like to affirm my life with you, Van,” he said. His fingers worked my button and I tried to help, only managing to gum up the works, until he batted my hand away with a swat of his much bigger one.
“You sweet talker, you,” I said. I grabbed his button fly and yanked hard so that all the little silver discs popped free in one fast motion.
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