Trick Me, Treat Me. Leslie Kelly
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a chainsaw and a few various and sundry body parts? Get a grip, Gwen. Get out of here now.
That was her inner turtle speaking. She quickly told it to shut up. âThe kitchen is one of the private areas of the house.â
His eyes twinkled as he gave her a conspiratorial grin. âDonât tell on me. You keep my secret and Iâll keep yours.â
Her first instinct was confusion, then panic set in. Gwen kept only one secretâHildyâs history. But he couldnât know that. No one did. He had to be bluffing.
She tilted her head and eyed him with every bit of false bravado she could manage. âWhy do you think I have a secret?â
He practically tsked. âEveryone has secrets. Besides, Iâm an expert,â he whispered, stepping even closer until he was only a foot away. So close she felt his warmth radiating toward her.
She almost swayed toward him, almost let that warmth envelop her more fully. âAn expert?â She kept her feet planted, even as some deep, feminine part of her ached to step closer.
He nodded. âAbsolutely. And I know one secret of yours. I donât imagine many people know you visit the kitchen dressed soâ¦interestinglyâ¦late at night.â His dark eyes grew darker. His jaw grew tight, and she heard the faint, ragged rasp of his breath.
Gwen followed his pointed stare, looking down at her body, clad in the silkiest, softest white nightgown she possessed. Then she swallowed. Hard. Seeing herself as he must be seeing her.
The deeply slashed neckline glittered with tiny pearl-like beads that picked up and reflected the meager light in the room. The fabric clung across her breasts, which were pushed high, plumped up and spilling over because of the tight bodice.
She could have claimed it was the cold autumn night that made her nipples pucker so tightly against the gown.
She could also have claimed to be engaged to Ben Affleck and having an affair with Brad Pitt. That didnât make it true.
Though she thought of how foolish sheâd been not to grab her robe, a deep-rooted part of Gwen liked the admiration in his eyes. Her track record with romance was damned pathetic. The blow to her confidence brought on by her broken engagement had killed her instinct to even try to attract the opposite sex.
How funny. She now remembered what sheâd once so very much liked about attracting the opposite sex. That look in a manâs eye. The one that promised more than any words could. And hinted he could back up his unspoken promise anytime, anywhere.
Maybe even here and now.
âI didnât remember to bring my robe,â she finally said, wondering how a perfect stranger could bring out the woman sheâd thought was lost forever. âI should get it.â
âDonât go to any trouble on my account.â The intensity in his voice made the words less playful than he may have intended.
Watching his jaw clench, she sucked in a quick gulp of heady night air. How amazing that a manâs stare could make her heart trip over itself as it beat restlessly within her chest. But not with fear. This was pure, one hundred percent excitement.
Gwen smoothed her hand against her nightie, nervously fingering the material. Its slickness slid between her fingers. The gown fit tightly to her hips, then fell in undulating waves to the floor. Two slits made the fabric gap from ankle to thigh. With every shift, another bit of skin would be revealed. Tempting. Tantalizing. Heightening the anticipation as any self-respecting wedding night negligee should.
Fate. Fate or one of the ghosts in this house had made the pipe in her room break right over most of her clothes, damaging all her nightgowns except this oneâ¦the one she was supposed to have worn on her honeymoon. The one sheâd kept after sheâd canceled the wedding, sold her dress, hocked her ring and delivered the cake to a homeless shelter.
Because, after finding her bastard of an ex giving more than dictation to his secretary a few days before their wedding, sheâd needed one sultry, seductive, feminine thing, to remind her she was a desirable woman. His cheating had made her doubt herself. The nightie gave her confidence, though no one had ever seen her in it. Until now. And judging by the raw want in his eyes, this stranger definitely thought she was a desirable woman.
How amazing. How exciting. Howâ¦enticing.
Still, she wasnât stupid. This was risky business. She didnât know who this man with the hungry eyes was.
He seemed to sense her sudden misgivings because he stepped to the side, turning slightly away. He was now far enough that she didnât feel his warm breath on her skin. She shivered, wondering how she could miss the warmth of the stranger when by all rights she should be running like mad to her room.
âI really am sorry for frightening you.â
âItâs okay.â Her voice sounded weak, breathy and nervous. She cleared her throat, then realized she meant it. âItâs fine. I wasnât afraid. Not really.â
She should have been, she knew that. She was alone in her nightgown, late at night, in a dark, quiet house, with a stranger. The normal reaction should have been fear. But for some reason his height didnât intimidate her. His breadth didnât, either, though his chest looked broad enough to tap-dance on. No doubt, this man, clad in skintight black fabric from his neck to his shoes, should have caused concern.
Maybe because sheâd been burying the sensual part of herself for so long, Gwen had reacted with instant, unrelenting attraction. The kind that could turn stronger women than she into complete fools.
âWhat are you thinking?â
âThat finding dark, handsome strangers in the kitchen late at night just doesnât happen to women like me.â
He didnât laugh, or even smile, at her frankness. âAnd I donât often stumble across stunning blondes in nighties when I visit country inns. Or are you, perhaps, the ghost of this inn?â
âIâm entirely real.â Then she paused. It was, after all, Halloween. The whole town believed she lived in a haunted house. Sheâd grown accustomed to strange happenings that had given her more than one sleepless night in recent months. And there were her auntâs spectral friends to consider. âAre you a ghost?â
This time, he did smile, his teeth glittering brilliantly white in the half darkness, making her heart trip again. Maybe her question hadnât been so ridiculous. No man this seductive could just stumble across her path. Not with her luck when it came to men.
âNot a ghost. Iâm very real.â He stepped closer again, until the tips of his shoes almost touched her toes. His pants brushed her gown; she could almost feel his leg against hers.
She didnât move away, even as the word dangerous flashed through her mind.
âWant me to prove it?â
Before she could answerâand Gwen couldnât say what her answer would have beenâshe felt the man grasp her fingers. He lifted them until she was almost touching his face. Then he pressed her fingers against his cheek. âArenât ghosts cold?â
She nodded weakly, gauging the rough warmth of his skin, wondering if heâd read her mind when sheâd thought earlier about how sexy his five oâclock shadow looked. âYouâre not cold.â
Not cold. Hot. Magnetic. Seductive. Her fingertips scraped across the roughness of his cheek in a helpless, subtle caress.
âAnd spirits donât breathe, do they?â
Without warning, he moved her hand until her fingers brushed his lips. God, those lips. The other part of his face sheâd found so arousing. Gwenâs knees grew weak