Trick Me, Treat Me. Leslie Kelly
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âI would say Iâm pretty solid.â
She knew what he meant. But he didnât come closer to let her feel just how solid he was. He was letting her decide. So she did. Not making a conscious decision to do so, she moved her feet forward, until her legs nearly cupped one of his.
Definitely solid. Hard. Thick and hot between her thighs. She wobbled on her bare feet and let out a long, shuddery sigh.
Oh, he was much more dangerous than any ghost. And here she was, reacting like every stupid bimbo in every scary movie ever made. Not running for the door when the killerâs clanging around in the attic, but heading up the stairs toward the danger instead.
She scooted her feet apart, rubbing her calf against his pantsâ¦taking another step closer to the danger in the attic.
âSee? Iâm not a ghost.â He turned her hand, staring at her wrist. Then, slowly, he drew it to his mouth and brushed his lips over the pulse point. She couldnât say for sure, but she thought she felt the tiniest flick of his tongue on her skin. Or else she imagined it, because she wanted to have felt it.
She moaned. No, he was not a ghost. But oh, heavens, with his breath caressing the tender skin of her wrist, she suddenly understood the seductive appeal in all those vampire novels.
âYouâre obviously not a ghost, either,â he whispered before lowering her hand to her side. âWeâre both flesh and blood.â
Once heâd 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 heâd doneâ¦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 theyâd already crossed.
This was more dangerous than any supernatural threat. Because, at this moment, Gwen honestly didnât know if sheâd make one sound of protest if he tried to take her in his arms.
To be completely honest, she doubted it.
JARED DIDNâT KNOW that heâd 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 whiskeyâgolden brown, almost amberâand a delicate face with hints of strength in the cheekbones and determined little chin.
She was not petite, so he couldnât say why he found her delicate. Maybe it was the trembling of her lips, the hint of fear in her voice. But the fear couldnât hide the awareness between them from the moment theyâd laid eyes on each other.
Who she was, he couldnât say. Heâd never seen her before, so she probably wasnât from Derryville, unless sheâd 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 sheâd talk ghosts and play the frightened but seductive innocent.
âSo, why are you here? In the kitchen, I mean? Were you looking for a snack?â 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. âMust have blown a bulb.â
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 hadnât 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 didnât want him to see her awareness.
Impossible. He didnât 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 wasnât indecent, not at all. Her nightgown was thin, but not transparent. Heâd seen plenty of women in dresses that covered less. So, no, it wasnât 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.
âDonât tell me,â he finally said, respecting her unspoken wish to slow things down. âYouâre a movie star, stopping at the inn on the way to your next film location.â
He earned a slight laugh. âNot by a long shot. Though, we do have a couple of old-time movie stars staying with us this weekend. At least, thatâs who they say they are.â
He nodded, not surprised. The cast of characters widenedâ¦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. âSo, are you a bride on her wedding night, with a jealous husband about to burst through that door?â
She shook her head.
âA woman being gaslighted by some wicked man and a maid?â
âUh-uh.â
He thought about it, wondering what other possible scenarios his cousin might have come up with for his cast of characters. âPlease tell me youâre not a Rapunzel type whoâs eventually going to need rescuing from a high tower. Because heights and I donât like each other very much.â
She laughed softly. âIâm just a simple innkeeper.â
âAhh.â 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. âDo innkeeperâs wives have naturally curly hair?â
She didnât react to the joke, didnât 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. âIâm not married.â
âMe neither. Not even involved.â
She murmured something that sounded like good.
âSo, whatâs your name? Why are you here?â she asked.
âThe nameâs easy.â He almost gave himself away by laughing as he attempted a James Bond accent. Connery, of courseâthe classic Bond. Moore had been a caricature, Brosnan was merely okay. And he couldnât even remember the name of that other guy. âThe name is Stone. Miles Stone.â
She didnât even seem to notice the hideously bad joke his cousin had foisted on him with the name: milestone.
âIâm Gwen Compton.â
He gave