A Haunted Romance (4 page)

He walked off.

Chelsea stared after him.
Now what did I do to piss him off?

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the closet where she’d briefly fancied the picture had come from when she’d seen the marks in the dust on the floor. She pulled the door open, expecting it to be empty.

There were three large framed canvases on the floor with their backs to her. On the single high shelf there was a red velvet bag. But it was the door handle that caught her immediate interest. There was a little bar one slid across to lock it…from the inside. She looked at the other side, in case she missed something. There wasn’t even a place for a key. Once someone locked themselves into the closet, there was no getting out. She slid the lock on the back to and fro, and it slid easily, both ways. Odd. The knob and lock looked pretty new, not like they’d been bought last week, but they were shinier than most of the brass door handles in the house.

She shrugged. They must have had the lock around for a bathroom or something and installed it when the old doorknob broke. She lifted out the paintings and propped them up one by one against the wall so she could see them.

Two were landscapes, views of the Blue Ridge. One was very much like the view from her bedroom window, and the other not so much. It was the third painting that captured her attention, however, as much for the frankness of the scene as anything else. A late middle-aged, Rubenesque woman sat naked on a chair, her legs spread apart. Her arm was extended languorously, and at first Chelsea thought that her hand was tastefully covering her private parts until she realized that the woman was masturbating, her fingers disappearing inside her.

It was in something of the same style as the painting on the wall, and she knelt down, wondering if she’d find Simeon Solomon’s signature in the lower right-hand corner again. But instead, it said, quite clearly: T. JOHNSTON.

Her cheeks pinked. Had her aunt commissioned this from Trent? It was a common name; it didn’t have to be him. She looked over the other paintings. The landscapes were better done, she thought, although certainly less sensational. They too bore the identical signature. The one could well have been done from her backyard—or his, which meant that whoever T. Johnston was, he was local. And knew a lot about art to paint in two almost completely different styles. She felt like an idiot, acting as if her college art history class had given her some expertise.

She put the nude back in the closet and took the landscapes downstairs. She’d seen a hook in the living room before. The picture of the Blue Ridge as seen from nearby hung there nicely, giving some character to the empty space. She hung the other landscape on the opposite wall and stepped back to take a look at them, pleased. That, hopefully, would break the ice. Of course, the nude would do it too, but she wasn’t sure she was ready for the discussion that might lead to. Besides, Dalton was coming over in—she looked at her watch—over an hour.

She still hadn’t had breakfast, and her tummy was rumbling. She turned toward the kitchen and saw Trent there in the doorway. She jumped.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle ya.” He chuckled. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Very funny,” she retorted. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to watch you hang the second picture.” He craned his neck around and saw the first. “Pat and Joann had them reversed.”

“I like them better this way.”

“I agree with you, actually.”

“You painted them?”

“Yes.” He bit his lip.

She smiled. He was nervous, probably wondering if she’d seen the other painting. Unfortunately, thinking of it made her blush, which sort of negated any advantage that might give her. His eyes made it clear that he’d noticed the blush too.

“That all you found?” he asked.

“Maybe.”

“Landscapes are my thing, but I do other stuff occasionally.”

“I see.”

“If someone makes a specific request.”

That was more than she wanted to know about her aunt or Joann, whichever it was. Although now she was very curious as to which one of them had commissioned the painting.

She wondered how specific the request was. She had noticed the subject was her body type, even if her titian hair wasn’t exactly her shade. Had that been his preference or Pat’s or Joann’s? Pat had been quite thin. The thought of asking made her face even redder, but the idea of him just staring at her blushing was more than she could bear. His nervousness was kind of cute, though.

Cat Connors wouldn’t be blushing over a picture like that, and neither should she. She was a sophisticated, modern woman. “Don’t worry about it,” she told Trent. “I’ve got no problems with pictures like that. You’re very talented.”

“At lots of things.” He smiled, the tension out of his face.

She raised her eyebrows and decided to call his bluff, just like Cat would. She walked toward him, her face turned up so she could see his features better. He was a lot taller than she was. “Like what?”

He put his arms around her waist, pulled her closer, and kissed her. His lips were soft but insistent. When she parted her lips, his tongue slipped inside and licked right down the center of hers. She turned her head, her tongue swirling against his. He tasted sweet and earthy, and she wanted more.

He pulled her harder against him. She could feel the bulge in his jeans pressing against her belly. When she wiggled, it grew even more pronounced. For her. He wanted her. She wasn’t used to men feeling that way about her, but then, she didn’t usually check in quite so intimate a way either.

He picked her up as if she didn’t weigh a thing. At first she thought he was going to carry her to the bedroom, but he headed the other way, into the dining room instead. He set her down on edge of the sturdy table. She hadn’t been aware of spreading her legs but somehow he was between them, his hardness rubbing the crotch of her jeans.

His hands slid up under her shirt, lifting it and pushing her back. She laid her head back against the table, arching her back to meet his hands. Her nipples tightened beneath his touch as he bunched the shirt up over her breasts.

She’d started wearing front hook bras after she’d written her first book. It had been necessary to make the logistics work in one scene, and ever since then she’d thought about how wonderful it would be if that scene happened to her. When he unhooked her bra and cupped her bared breasts, all the extra shopping seemed worth it. His fingers rolled her nipples until they were past tight and were aching for his touch. She ground her pussy against his hardness. Either there was some padding in there or he was very large.

I hardly know him.

“We shouldn’t be doing this…” she said, hoping he’d tell her why she was wrong.

“Why on earth not?”

“Good point.”

She moaned a complaint when his hands left her breasts but stopped when she saw that he was unbuttoning his shirt. He looked damn fine without his shirt in the way, well-defined muscles everywhere.

She tried to get the button of his jeans undone. It had been so long since she’d been with a man, and she was almost ready to burst just from rubbing against him. She wanted him inside her first, and the only way to make sure she had time for that was to stop grinding. But it felt so good. She'd passed the point where it mattered; all she wanted to do was feel him against her one more time, that would do it. One more time.

He backed away. She growled at him.

He didn’t waste his time. He yanked her boots off and then unzipped her jeans and removed them and her cotton briefs with one smooth pull. He pulled his own jeans open.

“You’re not wearing underwear,” she said. And you’re fucking huge, she thought, but to say it would have been too cliché.

He grinned at her. “It gets in the way.” He fished out a condom package from his pocket—either he carried them with him all the time or he’d come prepared for the possibility he might manage to seduce her. He unrolled it over his cock expertly with just one hand. She recalled Dalton’s comments that Trent was a voracious ladies’ man.

Well, she was a lady.

She wasn’t going to make a habit of it, but right now, it was going to feel awfully good to have his cock deep inside her. She was dripping for him. And aching.

He positioned his cock right at her entrance, but instead of just thrusting, he rubbed her swollen clit with his thumb, bringing her to the edge again. She grabbed for his hips, trying to pull him in, but he just waited, maddeningly, taking her ever higher but not quite giving her release.

He entered her with one smooth stroke, slow and steady, stretching her. He was longer and thicker than her toys at home and so much warmer. Having him fill her was all it took. She came, screaming, the sensations rippling all over her body.

He rode out the last contraction of her pussy and then moved inside her, thrusting in and out, his hands roaming over her body and lingering to play for a few seconds every time they came to an erogenous zone. Her whole body was starting to feel like one big erogenous zone.

Astonishingly, Trent's eyes were open the whole time. Her ex had always closed his eyes, no doubt imagining some perfect model’s body while he relieved himself inside her. For a man used to getting women in bed with him, Trent was astoundingly interested in her body, as if he was memorizing her curves. His hands didn’t avoid her rounded tummy or her full hips. He seemed to want all of her.

She lifted her hips and pushed back against his thrusts, finding a rhythm with him. His smile indicated his approval. What had once seemed so big inside her was starting to feel just right.
I could get used to this.

His fingers left her breasts just when she was convinced that one more touch on her sensitive nipples would push her over the edge again. She moaned in frustration and desire, wanting to come again, wanting him to come inside her. His smile was confident, even mischievous as he ran his fingers along her sides, almost but not quite tickling. He wouldn’t just keep her wanting, would he? She was so close. And despite his calm, she could hear his breath getting more ragged as he thrust inside her. She squeezed him, tightening her pussy around him.

Two can play this game.

His eyes widened, and his mouth opened to take in more air. His hands moved too, one cupping a breast, squeezing it, the other running roughly over her clit. The next squeeze she gave his cock was involuntary. He came with her, his cock pulsing inside her while she shuddered around him.

She spoke first when their throes subsided. “Oh. Wow.” Any gift she might have for words was far, far away.

He grinned at her. He pulled out and looked around.

“Only trash can in the house right now is the one in the kitchen,” she told him.

He slipped off the condom. “The more quickly you get fully moved in, the better,” he said. He didn’t bother to zip up his jeans before heading to the kitchen to dispose of the rubber properly. When he came back, though, he was all zipped up.

Next time I’m not the only one who’s getting naked. As if there will be a next time
. She felt a bit abandoned until he scooped her up off the table. There wasn’t any furniture to cuddle on downstairs, and nothing but a sleeping bag upstairs, but that didn’t bother him. He knelt on the floor, holding her tight.

She turned and kissed him. It wasn’t a mind-blowing kiss like the earlier one, but his lips felt right against hers. She smiled and let herself relax.

There was a knock on the door.

She looked at the clock. If it was Dalton, he was fifteen minutes early. She scrambled out of Trent’s arms and pulled on her panties.

“Expecting company?” Trent asked, not moving.

“Dalton Cornick,” she said. “He said he’d repair some plaster upstairs for me.”

Trent chuckled. “You’ll have every unattached man in Selby jumping through hoops for you soon.” His voice was light, but underneath it all, Chelsea detected a trace of annoyance.

“Ha. Hardly!” Chelsea got the rest of her clothes on, except for her boots.

“I’ll head back outside and get back to work,” Trent said, grabbing his shirt. “I brought cleaning stuff too. It’s in the back of my truck if you want to use it.” He walked out to the kitchen, obviously intending to leave by the back door.

I wonder why he’s avoiding Dalton
? Chelsea shrugged, checked to make sure everything was in place, and went to get the door.

* * *

She’d made huge progress downstairs. The shelves were dusted, and she’d swept most of the cobwebs from the ceiling. She’d mopped the floors with oil soap.

Trent had the back all tilled and was pulling weeds from the loosened dirt.

The place was starting look downright hospitable.

Last she’d seen, Dalton was just about finished with the plaster. He was very meticulous—he wasn’t going to do a half-assed job, even if it took him a bit longer, it seemed. She didn’t think he suspected what she and Trent had been up to, but she wasn’t entirely sure. He wrinkled his nose a little as he came in. Did she smell like sex?

She heard a huge crashing noise from upstairs, then a yell. She dropped her mop and ran upstairs, trying her best to skip over the section she’d mopped and not completely succeeding. Dalton lay on the ground, his leg trapped underneath a ladder. It took Chelsea a moment to make sense of what she was seeing. The ladder led to the attic and was attached to the attic door, which she hadn’t noticed before. They were the kind that was designed to pull down.

Dalton squirmed out from under the ladder before she could reach out to help. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” asked Chelsea. “The ladder coming down? Yeah, that was noisy.”

“No, just before that.”

Chelsea shook her head. She could hear running up the stairs. Trent must have heard the crash too, even from outside. Or Dalton’s yell.

“There was this voice. ‘Begone,’ it said. Really spooky voice, I thought you were playing a prank on me, and the next thing I know—oh, look, it’s Trent Johnston.”

“Thought I heard a woman screamin’, so I came up to take a look,” Trent drawled. “But I see it was just you.”