Leslie Kelly - Trick Me, Treat Me

As he walked to the porch, he noticed a small sign. Mick had gone all out, having a fake sign painted for his inn. In print, it didn’t make much sense. Little Bohemie Inn. Spoken aloud, however…“Little Bohemian. Cute, Mick.”

He paused at the bottom step. “Finally gonna get to see the inside,” he murmured. His mind tripped back to long, restless nights when he’d lie awake in his bed, imagining the horrors buried beneath the floorboards of Miser Marsden’s house.

What would old man Marsden say if he knew one of the town’s most famous residents had used descriptions of his home in his earliest horror-writing efforts? The Marsden house, with its dusty turrets, so dark and imposing against even the sunniest summer skies, had definitely been inspiring when it came to writing spooky tales. But practically nobody knew about the stories, long buried in trashed periodicals or out-of-print slasher rags. Jared was now on the bestseller lists with nonfiction, not the dreck he’d tried to write while in college.

He’d never seen the inside of the house—though not for lack of trying. He and Mick had climbed the rickety outside steps up to the wide, creaking wooden porch to ring the doorbell once, years ago. They’d done it on a double-dog dare, to see if old man Marsden really did have a Doberman named Killer, trained to bite the nuts off any boy stupid enough to trespass on his property.

Marsden hadn’t answered. Neither had Killer. Which left Jared with hope that he might someday be able to father a rugrat or two. He also hoped that if there were any ghosts in the Marsden place, Killer wasn’t among them.

A dog howled in the distance and he had to laugh at his own start of surprise. Shaking off old memories, he put one foot on the step, then paused. Miles Stone, superspy extraordinaire, would never walk through the front door—or worse, knock.

Without another thought, he turned and made his way around to the back of the house. He’d just stepped through an unlocked back door when he realized he wasn’t alone.

A figure in white—either a ghost or the most attractive female he’d ever seen—stood a few feet away. Jared froze, watching her move into the kitchen, unaware of his presence.

She was clad in a shimmering gown, and her golden hair was long and wildly curled against her curvy body. While she’d been silhouetted in the doorway, he’d gotten a glimpse of a sweetly soft face complete with full pouty lips. Every male instinct he possessed came to attention instantly in a way he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

Remaining in character, Miles Stone prepared to do what any James Bond would do. Find out who she was. Remove any weapons she might be carrying.

Then get her into bed.

GWEN HAD REMEMBERED the muffins forty minutes after she’d gone to bed in one of the upstairs guest rooms. “Damn,” she’d sworn at her absentmindedness. How could she have forgotten when Hildy had reminded her?

To give herself credit, she had been working awfully hard. Eighty-hour workweeks filled with ladders, paint cans, scrub brushes and sewing machines could drive every thought out of anybody’s head. But it wasn’t anybody who was going to have to oversee breakfast for their guests. It was her body.

Sighing heavily, she’d gotten up, wishing she’d thought to grab a bathrobe from her own room before coming upstairs for the night. Her thin negligee had done nothing to warm her. She’d made a mental note to stop to get the robe before coming back up.

In the kitchen, she hadn’t bothered to flip on the blinding overhead fixture. The lamp in the hallway banished most of the shadows, and she’d left the small light over the stove on, as usual, in case Aunt Hildy needed something during the night.

Now she was inside the room—maneuvering around familiar cabinets and fixtures—and that was when she realized she wasn’t alone. A man stood near the table. A man clothed all in black.

He remained motionless. A shadow. A phantom. A spectral memory of someone who’d stood there decades before.

She instantly thought of Hildy’s ghost friends. When the shadow moved, separating from the inky blackness in the corner, she made out more of his features and gasped. “Good lord.”

Not a phantom. Not a ghost. And, hopefully, not a maniacal murderer out and about doing his gruesome thing on Halloween night. Because he was very tall. Very broad. Very male.

“Don’t be afraid.”

Who wouldn’t be afraid? Alone: check. Dark man in kitchen: check. Spooky house: check. Halloween night: start screaming now.

“Really, you have nothing to fear,” he continued in a voice that was both soft and masculine, soothing and melodic.

Sure. Right. Don’t be afraid, I’m harmless, says the cobra to the little pink mouse. Of course, the little pink mouse might drop dead of a heart attack before the big bad snake had a chance to even nibble on a whisker. She backed up until cornered against the countertop. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“I’m a guest at the inn for the weekend.”

Her whole body began to relax. “A guest?”

Of course. Hildy had checked in several people today. Gwen obviously hadn’t met everyone. She nearly chuckled at her own foolishness. No ghost. No ax-wielding maniac. Just a paying guest. She wasn’t used to the fact that they were an open, operating inn, and she and Hildy were no longer alone in this huge, ghostly house. “Good lord, you scared me half to death.”

“I’m sorry.” He stepped closer, until more light from the hall spilled on to his face. His deep-set brown eyes glittered in the near darkness. Simply mesmerizing.

Then he stepped even closer until his entire face was visible. She caught her breath, held it, then released it on a sigh, knowing she’d never seen a sexier guy in her life.

Each female molecule in her body roared to awareness, reacting to the male sensuality oozing from his body. His cheekbones were high, his chin firm and chiseled. His thick, dark brown hair was a little long, and his cheeks sported a five o’clock shadow, giving him a slightly wolfish look.

She’d always had such a thing for dark, rakish-looking men.

And lordy, the man had the most glorious mouth she’d ever seen. Particularly now, with his eminently kissable lips lifted slightly at the corners as he offered her a tentative smile. The full frontal onslaught of his complete smile could probably rock the ground on which she stood.

“I really didn’t mean to frighten you. Forgive me?”

She’d forgive him anything. Absolutely anything.

Even if he pulls out 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. “The kitchen is one of the private areas of the house.”

His eyes twinkled as he gave her a conspiratorial grin. “Don’t tell on me. You keep my secret and I’ll keep yours.”

Her first instinct was confusion, then panic set in. Gwen kept only one secret—Hildy’s history. But he couldn’t 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. “Why do you think I have a secret?”

He practically tsked. “Everyone has secrets. Besides, I’m an expert,” 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. “An expert?” She kept her feet planted, even as some deep, feminine part of her ached to step closer.

He nodded. “Absolutely. And I know one secret of yours. I don’t imagine many people know you visit the kitchen dressed so…interestingly…late at night.” His dark eyes grew darker. His jaw grew tight, and she heard the faint, ragged rasp of his breath.