Trick Me, Treat Me. Leslie KellyЧитать онлайн книгу.
all night. An unusual occurrence for a woman who hadn’t had sex in over a year.
But she was entitled. She hadn’t done a single daring thing today. Besides, it wasn’t like she was getting engaged to a cheating bastard—again. She was just stealing a kiss. One kiss.
Twining her fingers in his hair, she tugged him closer until their lips could meet fully. He tasted dangerous and delicious. She didn’t get too serious, just slid her lips against his, letting them part the tiniest bit, but no further. His body was close, a thin aura of awareness the only thing separating them. He made no effort to pull her tighter, letting her take what she wanted.
So she took. Without thought, without common sense, with only a bit of Halloween-and-moonlight-inspired madness.
Finally, after what could have been five seconds or five minutes, she pulled her mouth away. She felt no embarrassment. She’d kissed a stranger. Not a big deal in the scheme of things, right? She hadn’t robbed a bank, or fled from the police or been around during a shootout. Unlike some members of her family.
“Okay,” she said with a soft sigh.
“Okay?” he asked, looking surprised—but not displeased.
“Yes. That was my one impulsive act for the day.”
“That was it, huh?”
She nodded. “Yep. One a day’s my quota.”
He frowned. “Too bad.” Reaching up, he traced the line of her jaw with the tip of his finger. “But, you know, it’s only an hour until midnight. Wanna stick around and see what impulse you feel like giving into tomorrow?”
Naughty. Very naughty. She liked that about him. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten it out of my system. One kiss was all I needed.”
“That’s like saying all you need is one piece of rich, decadent chocolate.” His voice thickened. “Some things just scream to be tried again.”
She nibbled her lip. He was right. With some things, one was never enough. And this man’s kisses could be more addictive than chocolate. “I’ve done enough trying for one night. At least now, if you end up killing me, I’ll die after having enjoyed a nice kiss.”
He tsked. “I only kill bad guys.”
Though she suspected he was teasing, his voice sounded somewhat serious. “I’m not a bad guy.”
“No, you’re the mysterious, sultry, kissable innkeeper whose story I don’t yet know.” He spoke so strangely, playfully almost, fitting in with the surreal mood she’d felt all night.
“I don’t have a story.”
He brushed a long tendril of hair off her face, his fingertips lingering on her temple. “Everyone has a story.”
“What’s yours?” She clarified. “Or, at least, what of yours can you tell me without needing to do me in?”
He laughed softly, and her breath hitched at the low, resonant sound. She liked the way this man sounded as much as she liked the way he looked.
“Maybe I don’t have a story, either.”
“You have ‘story’ written all over you.”
“Too bad it’s not in braille,” he said, all flirtatious charm. A twinkle in his eye dared her to follow his meaning.
She did…and chuckled. “Okay, Mr. Stone, you’re very entertaining, but I do like to know something about the men I stumble over in darkened kitchens and kiss against their will.”
“Who said it was against my will?”
“You certainly didn’t ask for it,” she pointed out.
“I didn’t ask the cheerleading squad at my high school to flash me and my buddies, either.” He grinned. “Some things you want are just obvious.”
“Like that second piece of chocolate,” she admitted, conceding the point. Then a gentle warmth spread through her as she focused on the want part of his statement. He wanted her. Or he’d at least wanted her kiss. So, she wasn’t the only one affected by the seductive atmosphere in the air tonight.
Trying to turn this strange encounter into something more normal, she stepped away from him and walked to the huge storage freezer. Opening it, she pulled out a tray of frozen pumpkin muffins. After she’d set it on the counter, she glanced over her shoulder, aware that he watched every move she made.
“Breakfast?”
She nodded. “You are staying the entire weekend?”
“Yes.”
She wondered if he could tell she was pleased. Then she sighed. “We’ve got a full house. It’s going to be busy. I’m sure I’ll be dead tired by Sunday night.”
He laughed, as if she’d made a joke. “Right. Dead tired. I probably will be, too.” Though she raised an inquiring brow, he didn’t elaborate. “So, who else is here for this holiday weekend? Just who is sleeping in this house tonight, other than the innkeeper, the ex-movie stars…and me?”
She nibbled her lip as she thought about it, trying to remember everyone who’d checked in. So many faces—some familiar, but some having come into Derryville for only this one event. A weekend magazine mention of the new haunted inn had appeared in a Chicago paper in time to get them several last-minute reservations. People appeared willing to travel a long way to spend a night in a haunted house on October 31. A spooky B & B was perfect for grown-ups who wanted to give in to their deep-rooted need to revisit childhood and scare themselves silly on Halloween. Without giving up pampering and comfort, of course.
“Well, in addition to the older couple, there’s a pretty young doctor,” she said, remembering the woman she’d shown to the Lady in Red room. “Someone who says he’s an archeologist, and one woman who works at a museum. An older man with a thick foreign accent and a psychic from New Orleans. A couple of local residents. My aunt checked the rest of them in.”
They’d been busy getting everyone settled, plus hosting their spooky cocktail hour in the front parlor, for which everyone had dressed in costumes. She hadn’t had time to question Hildy about who the other guests were. She’d said her hellos, chatting briefly with the Derryville residents who’d come for their grand opening. After serving drinks and hors d’oeuvres, she’d gone to change into her own costume for the trick-or-treaters.
He seemed amused. “So, we have a couple of movie stars, a doctor, a mysterious foreigner, a professor type and a psychic?”
“And the ghosts, of course,” she added, wondering if her tone had made it sound like she’d thought the foreign-sounding man was mysterious. Because, truthfully, that was what she’d thought when she’d met the man, who was probably sleeping peacefully on the third floor. But she’d hate to think her personal reactions to her guests were so easily discerned.
“Oh, yes, of course, mustn’t forget the ghosts.” He obviously thought she was joking.
She could have explained, but how could one explain the unexplainable? Hildy did a much better job of that, anyway. Mr. Stone would likely get an earful about the ghosts at some point; she didn’t want to spoil the mood now by getting into details about spooks. He probably already thought she was crazy for kissing him. He didn’t need any more evidence that he’d landed in the Twilight Zone here at the Little Bohemie Inn.
“So,” he said, “I guess you’ll claim this is your average, everyday collection of guests at an inn?”
She countered with a pointed stare. “No less average than your everyday assassin.”
“I’m not an assassin.”
“Hit man?”
He rolled his eyes. “Please.”
She waited, raising an expectant brow.
“All