Trick Me, Treat Me. Leslie Kelly
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Oh, yes, definitely. “Tell me at least one thing. Are you running from something or to something?”
He thought about it for a moment. “I’m not running. But I am pursuing.” He gave her a look of startling intensity, loading his comment with double meaning.
Pursuing. Hmm. A hot romance? A weekend tryst? Mindless, erotic sex with a complete stranger?
“Go on,” she prodded, her voice sounding breathy.
He leaned across the counter, resting his elbows on its surface. Meeting her eyes, as if willing her to believe him, he said, “I’m undercover, Gwen. Deep, deep undercover.”
She lifted a brow. “You’re a cop?”
“It’s a bit more complicated than that.”
When he didn’t continue, she speculated aloud. Lifting her hand, she ticked off her fingers one at a time. “Deep undercover, on a mission, deadly if provoked, not a cop, a hit man or an assassin.” Giving him a cheeky grin, she concluded, “Hmm…you must be a woman armed with a high-limit credit card, scouting out Sak’s the night before their annual one-day sale.”
Not waiting for his response, she walked around from behind the counter and pulled out a chair at the massive, butcher block kitchen table. She sat down, even as the tiny voice in her brain urged her to go up to her temporary room and go back to bed.
Alone. Now.
But even as that voice of caution whispered, she knew she’d ignore it. Tonight was becoming too exciting to consider leaving. The thrill was intoxicating. The danger appealed to a part of Gwen she thought she’d lost forever. She somehow found herself feeling like the wild, uninhibited girl she’d once been, before tragedy and sadness had made her decide—if only in her subconscious—to play it safe and careful, to subdue the wild part of herself that had so often led her into trouble.
The floor was cold against her bare toes, so she lifted her feet, resting them on the bottom rung of the chair. Her white nightgown did an adequate job of covering her hips and thighs, but she kept her hands in her lap, holding everything in place.
But the gown was pulled tighter in this position. Sure, her legs were covered, but they were also outlined by the silky fabric. Her thighs were clearly delineated, as was the slight gap between them. She squeezed them together, watching him notice as he took the chair next to hers.
“That was a good guess,” he finally said, his voice thin.
Good guess. What guess? She suddenly could barely remember her own name, much less what on earth they’d been talking about.
“But I don’t think I’d be tempted to kill someone for buying the pair of shoes I wanted.”
Ahh. Now she remembered. “Have you ever seen the discounts at Sak’s one-day sale?”
He shook his head.
“You might be tempted. Particularly if they’re great shoes and the person who’s buying them looks like one of Cinderella’s stepsisters, jamming a too-tubby foot in because they’re cheap.”
“Possibly, but there are two things wrong with your theory.”
He leaned closer, until his knees almost touched hers, and her hair ruffled with his softly exhaled breaths. God, the man was seductive. Even talking about ridiculous things like hit men and shoe sales, all her nerve endings were at the highest state of alert. No amber here, she was full on red and waiting to see what sensual weapons he had left in his arsenal.
Though she knew she should have left, she didn’t regret staying. She wanted to know what would happen next. What he’d say. What he’d do. And how she’d react to it.
“What two things?” she finally managed to ask, trying to keep a coherent thought in her head. Difficult when she was so distracted by the way his skin smelled, like salty sea air, and the way his breath brought goose bumps to her bare throat.
“First, from what I know of Derryville, I don’t imagine there’s a Sak’s within a hundred miles.”
True. Coming here last winter had been definite culture shock. But small-town life had grown on her. “Point taken.”
“And second, I don’t use my dangerous weapons against anyone but the really bad people. Not greedy shoppers with fat feet, no matter how annoying they might be.”
“For the record I’m not one of those greedy shoppers.”
As if he couldn’t help himself, he leaned closer. She had no idea what he was doing until he touched one of her feet, lifting it off the rung and cupping it in his big, warm hand.
Gwen wasn’t a petite woman, but she thought she did have rather nice, slender feet. Feet which had suddenly become massive erogenous zones, because she ached to feel his fingers higher on her body. Much higher. Between her legs. On her breasts. At her throat. Against her cheek. Everywhere she wanted to be touched by him.
“And you don’t have fat feet,” he said, continuing to stroke her foot, as if wanting to warm her sensitized skin. His touch ignited a flood of sensation that increased the temperature throughout her body. She was left wondering why no man had ever found that incredibly sensitive area…right there. Yes, that spot high on the inside of her foot, near her ankle. The one that almost made her squirm because, though the touch was focused in one location, she was feeling it everywhere.
She couldn’t help emitting a tiny moan. God, if the man’s hands on her foot could make her shift in her seat, because of her body’s damp reaction, how on earth would she handle it if he ever touched elsewhere?
Finally, as if realizing he was erotically touching the foot of a near stranger, he let her go, gently lowering her leg until she rested her heel back on the chair rung.
When she’d started breathing again, a day or two…minute or two…whatever…later, she cleared her throat. Sitting here, being so affected by him, she needed to know more about the man. “Just who do you use your dangerous weapons on, Miles?”
He paused, looking like he was trying to decide how to answer. She recognized the naughty setup she’d provided, and wondered if her subconscious had done it on purpose. Probably. Because she’d certainly been thinking about one of Mr. Stone’s “weapons” in particular, and who she’d like him to use it on.
Uh, yeah, that one. And oh, right, her.
Finally, seeming to decide not to make a sultry comeback in spite of the opening, he frowned. “Can I trust you?”
She nodded. “Even though I grabbed you and kissed you in a moment of Halloween-induced insanity, yes, you can trust me.”
He tsked, as if reminding her that they’d already had that argument. Then, reaching into an inside pocket of his black leather jacket—a well-worn, shoulder-hugging kind of jacket—he pulled out a photo identification card. And a badge.
“You are a cop?”
He shook his head and pointed to a logo. She made out some words, but didn’t recognize them. “The Shop? What’s that?”
“You’ve heard of the FBI, the CIA, the Secret Service, the Department of Homeland Security?”
“Sure.”
“We’re the deepest, darkest subunit of every one of them.”
She raised a brow. “You’re a secret agent?”
His nod was grave. “Yes.”
Gwen’s first thought was that, in spite of his very looks and smooth delivery, Miles wasn’t a very good secret agent. Secret agents didn’t go around telling people they were secret agents on undercover missions, did they? Except, maybe, for Austin Powers. Or James Bond when he wanted to get laid.
Whoa. That mental image distracted her for a good twenty seconds. She was no Bond girl, but the thought was enticing. Gwen Compton didn’t have quite the