Trick Me, Treat Me. Leslie Kelly

before lowering her hand to her side. “We’re both flesh and blood.”

      Once he’d let her go, Gwen took a tiny, physical step backward. And tried to take a great big mental one.

      The stranger seemed to realize what he’d done…kissing the wrist of a stranger with the kind of sensual awareness Gwen had only ever read about in sultry novels. He met her stare, their eyes sharing knowledge of the boundaries they’d already crossed.

      This was more dangerous than any supernatural threat. Because, at this moment, Gwen honestly didn’t know if she’d make one sound of protest if he tried to take her in his arms.

      To be completely honest, she doubted it.

      JARED DIDN’T KNOW that he’d ever met a more desirable woman. Or, at least, not one he had ever desired more. She was curvy and feminine, made more so by the outrageously seductive nightgown she wore. Her hair was a mass of golden curls. It tangled around her face, tumbling over her shoulders, creating a peekaboo curtain over the high curves of her perfect breasts. She had eyes the color of his favorite brand of whiskey—golden brown, almost amber—and a delicate face with hints of strength in the cheekbones and determined little chin.

      She was not petite, so he couldn’t say why he found her delicate. Maybe it was the trembling of her lips, the hint of fear in her voice. But the fear couldn’t hide the awareness between them from the moment they’d laid eyes on each other.

      Who she was, he couldn’t say. He’d never seen her before, so she probably wasn’t from Derryville, unless she’d moved here recently. He planned to find out. Not just her character for this murder party. But her real identity. He had to know what kind of woman would get so into this weekend that she’d talk ghosts and play the frightened but seductive innocent.

      “So, why are you here? In the kitchen, I mean? Were you looking for a snack?” She apparently wanted to normalize the conversation. Jared watched as she reached for the light switch on the wall and flipped it up. But nothing happened, no overhead fixture brightened the shadowy room. “Must have blown a bulb.”

      Undeterred, she stepped to another cabinet. She seemed familiar with the room, because she felt her way, pushing a switch and turning on a small lamp beside a wall phone. When added to the stove light and the illumination from the hall, the room no longer seemed as dim and mysterious.

      Better able to see, he was unable to resist casting another leisurely glance at her, studying her long, wildly curling hair, her bare throat and her shoulders covered only by the tiny spaghetti straps of her nightgown. Then lower. He found himself almost wishing she hadn’t turned on the extra light. Because now, there was no way to disguise his instant male reaction.

      He watched her twist her own fingers together, then smooth them over her gown, clenching the fabric. He knew she was resisting the urge to pull her hands up to cover her breasts. She didn’t want him to see her awareness.

      Impossible. He didn’t know her name, but he knew a whole lot about her, just the same. She was beautiful. She was intoxicating. She was exciting. She wanted him.

      Really, what more did a man need to know?

      Besides, she wasn’t indecent, not at all. Her nightgown was thin, but not transparent. He’d seen plenty of women in dresses that covered less. So, no, it wasn’t her apparel that made the situation so damned provocative.

      It was the heat in what should have been a cold room. The awareness between two strangers. The purely physical reaction that made it tough to think, tough to breathe. Neither of them was doing a good job at hiding that physical reaction. Her, with the goose bumps on her exposed skin, the pointed tips of her nipples against her silk gown making his mouth water. Him, wondering if he was going to burst the seam of his pants.

      “Don’t tell me,” he finally said, respecting her unspoken wish to slow things down. “You’re a movie star, stopping at the inn on the way to your next film location.”

      He earned a slight laugh. “Not by a long shot. Though, we do have a couple of old-time movie stars staying with us this weekend. At least, that’s who they say they are.”

      He nodded, not surprised. The cast of characters widened…how creative of Mick to bring Hollywood into the mystery. Putting his curiosity about the other players in this game aside, he continued to speculate on this particular one. “So, are you a bride on her wedding night, with a jealous husband about to burst through that door?”

      She shook her head.

      “A woman being gaslighted by some wicked man and a maid?”

      “Uh-uh.”

      He thought about it, wondering what other possible scenarios his cousin might have come up with for his cast of characters. “Please tell me you’re not a Rapunzel type who’s eventually going to need rescuing from a high tower. Because heights and I don’t like each other very much.”

      She laughed softly. “I’m just a simple innkeeper.”

      “Ahh.” He reached out and touched her hair, picking up one long, curly gold tendril. Then he smiled, thinking of one of his favorite Charlie Brown movies from his childhood. “Do innkeeper’s wives have naturally curly hair?”

      She didn’t react to the joke, didn’t even seem to have heard him. Her eyelids fluttered, then closed.

      God, this was getting intense again. He dropped his hand.

      When she opened her eyes, instead of answering his teasing question, she focused on the wife part. “I’m not married.”

      “Me neither. Not even involved.”

      She murmured something that sounded like good.

      “So, what’s your name? Why are you here?” she asked.

      “The name’s easy.” He almost gave himself away by laughing as he attempted a James Bond accent. Connery, of course—the classic Bond. Moore had been a caricature, Brosnan was merely okay. And he couldn’t even remember the name of that other guy. “The name is Stone. Miles Stone.”

      She didn’t even seem to notice the hideously bad joke his cousin had foisted on him with the name: milestone.

      “I’m Gwen Compton.”

      He gave her a half smile. “Nice to meet you, Gwen.”

      Her lips curled up at the corners and her amber eyes twinkled in the muted light. “It’s nice to be met.”

      Though Jared Winchester—the private, introspective author—would probably have then propelled the conversation along more normal lines, he decided to keep playing the game. He’d use this mystery scenario to be more outrageous, more provocative than he might normally be with a woman he’d just met.

      Miles Stone answered, not Jared Winchester. “As for the second part of your question…what am I doing here?”

      He stepped close again, until he felt her calf brushing against his pants. She licked her lips, but didn’t step away.

      “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 THATI’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