Trick Me, Treat Me (11 page)

When the man had left, closing his door behind him, Miles had made his move. Climbing up one more branch, he’d maneuvered over and lowered himself to the window ledge.

Then he’d looked down.

Bi-i-i-i-g mistake. Huge.
Gigantic
mistake. Error of epic proportions here.

Overwhelmed by the spinning sensation of vertigo, he’d lost his concentration. His foot had slipped off the ledge, and he’d barely managed to catch himself on the grating. Luckily, it appeared he worked out in his real life—his arms were strong. They had to be, because he was probably going to be hanging here for hours, until he figured out what the hell he was going to do.

After a minute or two, he’d thought to feel around with his feet and found a bit of a toehold on the ledge above the window below. That relieved some of the pressure on his arms, but it sure didn’t get him out of his predicament.

So, here he hung, frozen like an ancient statue, waiting to fall or get caught. He hadn’t decided which he preferred when he heard a screech of metal from below.

“Miles, hold on!”

Like he had a choice?

“I’m coming.”

He recognized the voice. Hmm…if he wasn’t mistaken, Gwen Compton had said something very much along those lines, though under different circumstances, just a few hours ago. In her bed.

He much preferred that connotation of the sentence.

Turning his head, he watched as the end of a metal extension ladder came into view, right beside his shoulders. Something whizzed through his brain, a mostly faded image of a disappearing ladder, but the thought was gone before he could grab it.

“Okay, I’m holding the ladder steady. All you have to do is swing on to it,” she said from below, her voice a loud whisper that cut through the silence of the morning.

“It appears I don’t care for heights,” he replied, taking deep, even breaths.

“You said something about that last night.”

“Thanks for mentioning it.” After a brief pause, he heard a squeak of metal and knew she was on the ladder. “Gwen,
don’t
.”

She didn’t respond.

“I mean it, don’t climb up here!”

Within just a few seconds, he looked over and saw the top of her head, not far from his thigh.

“Too late. I did,” she said. “Now, all you have to do is move your leg over and I’ll make sure you plant it directly on the rung. Then we’ll ease back down together, okay?”

“Gwen,” he bit out, “who’s holding the damn ladder?”

She flushed. Before he could warn her not to look down, her head turned, her eyes shifted. And she turned to stone.

“Shit,” he muttered, recognizing the deer-in-the-headlights look on her face. It probably matched his own. “ow we’re both stuck.”

They stayed that way for a full minute…Gwen looking down, him watching her. Finally, she lifted her eyes as she tightened her arms around the metal extension ladder in a death grip. “Uh, Miles, have any bright ideas?”

“I was going to suggest that you go through the house, come up to this room, open that window and give me your hand.”

She nibbled her lip. “I guess that won’t work now.”

“Guess not.”

Smiling, she said, “My Aunt Hildy knows where we are.”

“Oh, great. Perfect. We’ll have the eighty-five-year-old up here with us in a minute. Maybe she’ll bring a few guests along—breakfast on the roof, anyone?”

Her smile faded. “Okay, nix the idea of Hildy helping us.” Then she shot him an accusing look. “You’re a secret agent, aren’t you supposed to have emergency gear for any contingency? James Bond always did.”

He raised a brow. “What do you expect? A helicopter in my hat, a parachute under my trench coat?”

In spite of the perilous situation, she grinned. “That’s Inspector Gadget, not James Bond.” Her grin turned into a giggle, then a laugh. “I was talking about a rope or something.”

Miles was unable to resist her bright smile, the way the sunshine caught the gold in her long braid and turned her eyes into pure, molten amber. Those beautiful eyes were wide, still showing a hint of fear, but now also sparkling with excitement.

He finally began to laugh, too. “No rope. And since I’m not wearing a hat or a trench coat, there’s no helicopter or parachute, either. Any other ideas, bright eyes? My arms are getting tired.”

She shifted her gaze, staring at his arms and his straining shoulders, then she licked her lips in a blatantly appreciative reaction. “I figured you must work out. Now I’m sure of it.” Her voice sounded decidedly reminiscent.

“Stop staring at me like that.”

“Like what?” she asked, all innocence.

“Like you want to gobble me up.”

“I do.”

He shook his head as a rush of heat descended from his brain to his groin. “Do you know how difficult it is to hold on here? The last thing I need is a hard-on pushing me that much farther away from the damn wall.”

Her laughter rang out, echoing in the quiet, partially enclosed corner of the house. Then she got serious. “Well, if I
remember correctly,” she lowered her gaze to stare at his hips, “And I
do
…” She wagged her eyebrows suggestively. “You
are
in danger of being pushed a lo-o-o-ng way from the wall.”

“Knock it off,” he said with a husky laugh. “I need to concentrate.”

“Concentrate on what?” she asked, her voice still dreamy, as if she’d forgotten where they were, what was happening, and could only think of the intimacies they’d shared in her bed the night before. He was having difficulty not focusing on the same things.

“Concentrate on what I’m going to do to you after we get down from here.”

“What’s that?” Her question held a note of suggestiveness that hinted at what she’d like him to do.

“First I’m gonna spank you for putting yourself in danger.”

Her eyes widened.

“Then I’m going to make love to you until you don’t have the energy to get yourself into any more trouble.”

“Look who’s talking about getting into trouble.”

“Touché.”

“But I do like the second part of the plan.” Then she gave him the kind of warm look that could turn any man into a drooling moron. “Is it crazy for me to say I’m
so
glad I met you, Miles Stone?”

He shook his head. “It somehow makes sense to me.”

“I can’t remember when I’ve had a better time.”

“You don’t get out much, do you?”

She chuckled.

“Okay,” he said, realizing that during their short conversation, he’d somehow gained some calm and was able to assess the situation rationally. As long as he didn’t look
down again, he might be all right and be able to get them both out of this mess. “I’m going to try to pull myself up onto the ledge and see if I can get the window open.”

She looked nervous, watching with wide eyes and practically chewing a hole in her lip. It took a little effort, and some luck in finding additional footholds for his toes, but he was able to do it. Once he’d pulled himself to a standing position on the thin ledge, he unfastened the grate, stepping aside to ease it open.

Holding his breath, he pushed on the window. It moved. Thank God the criminal was the trusting sort. “We’re set.”

Within a minute, the two of them were standing in the empty room. As soon as her feet hit the floor, Gwen threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you. I’ll never get on a ladder again.”

“You’re just saying that to get out of the spanking.”

She leaned close, nibbling on his earlobe and blowing lightly on his neck. “Maybe I’d like it….”

Naughty girl. Judging by her tone of voice, and the pounding of her heart which he could feel against his own chest, she was every bit as keyed up, as turned on and charged with adrenaline as he was. God, what a rush.

“So where do we start?” she asked, stepping away from him to look around the room. “I saw Mr. Mysterious coming downstairs as I was racing to get the ladder to save you.”

He crossed his arms, raising a brow. “Who saved whom?”

She blew out an impatient breath. “Details, details. Come on, what do we have to do? Toss the room? Plant a bug?”

He didn’t know precisely what she was talking about. Come to think of it, he really had
no
idea what he was supposed to do. Getting into the room had been the objective.
He hadn’t thought much beyond that. Then he spied the computer. “I want to check out his hard drive. I saw him typing while I was in the tree.”

“Good plan. You do that, I’ll search his stuff.”

It was the thrill in her voice that really made him stop and watch her. Gwen positively sparkled. Gone was the quiet, reserved woman who’d tried to resist telling him the truth last night. The innkeeper had not merely dropped her self-protective shell, she’d erupted out of it and gone full tilt into an adventure.

He liked that about her. Hell, he liked
everything
about her. For a second, he wondered if he were an emotionally impulsive kind of guy in his real life, because, as crazy as it sounded considering they’d only known each other a day, he could very easily picture being in love with this woman. “Gwen?”

She looked over as she reached for the door to the closet.

“Whatever happens when I get my memory back…” He paused, unsure how to say what he was feeling. Asking her to stick around, to see if they might have a shot at something permanent, seemed awfully dangerous considering he didn’t even know where he lived. Or if he had a terminal disease or something.

“Yes?”

Before he could continue, he heard something that made him freeze. Voices. In the hall. Right outside the door.

They were about to be caught red-handed.

“S
OMEBODY’S COMING
.”

Her eyes widened in shock as they both began to look for an escape route. Miles glanced at the window, quickly nixing the idea of going down the way they’d come up. He’d almost rather get caught than try to get the two of them back to the ground without breaking their necks.

“It’s him,” Gwen whispered. She stood closer to the door and was listening intently to the voices of the people speaking in the hall. “And a woman. It might be his buyer, Miss Jones.”

Miles had glanced through the dossier on his suspect that morning, so he immediately knew whom she meant.

“No, wait, it’s Jenny, the part-time housemaid. He’s asking if a tray can be brought up to his room.” She frowned, fisted a hand and put it on her hip. “You wouldn’t need a tray, mister, if you’d come down for breakfast on time. What a waste of a good soufflé. We’re going to have to rethink that entrée if guests are going to ignore seating times. It goes flat after an hour.”

He didn’t know whether to laugh or groan. She was kvetching over the manners of a rude houseguest when they were about to get busted by an internationally known criminal. “Gwen!”

She finally seemed to remember their situation. “Come on.”

Darting toward him on sneaker-clad feet, she took his
hand and tugged him toward the large, walk-in closet. She shut the wooden door behind them. He heard the suspect enter the bedroom less than ten seconds later.

They remained silent, barely breathing, hardly able to see each other in the darkness. His heart pounded wildly in his chest. Embarrassment could be the least of their problems. They could be in real danger.

And yet, right now, as crazy as it seemed, he wanted to kiss her even more than he wanted not to get caught.

He couldn’t resist. Reaching out in the dark, he grabbed her shoulders and tugged her into his arms, finding her mouth and catching it in a hot, wet kiss. She kissed back, just as frenzied, driven by adrenaline and excitement, writhing against his body and emitting a soft groan when she felt his physical response. “He’ll find us. This is crazy,” she finally whispered when they parted to suck in a few deep, ragged breaths.

“I know.”

Then she grabbed his hair and pulled him down for another kiss. Their tongues met and danced, tasting, sucking, getting deeper, closer. He cupped her face, tangling his fingers in her hair, loosening her braid. Her hands moved down to encircle his hips. She lifted one leg, hooking it behind his and bringing their lower bodies into direct contact. He gave a soft, guttural groan, wanting nothing more than to drive into her, to lose himself in her body as he had the night before.

They might have done it right there. He was that far gone, that aroused, that high on danger and intrigue and her taste and her smell. Miles was one second from unzipping his pants and taking her up against the wall of the closet when they heard the man in the bedroom begin to speak.

They instantly pulled apart. “Someone else is in there,” she said in a ragged whisper as she sucked in audible breaths.

He struggled to hear over the pounding of his own charged blood in his veins. “I don’t hear anyone else.”

“Then who’s he talking to?”

“No idea,” he replied, his voice as quiet as hers. “Is there a phone in the room?”

“We haven’t had time to rewire the whole house. This used to be the servants quarters and there was no extension up here.”

So, who was the criminal talking to in that low tone of voice? Was he speaking into a cell phone? Unable to resist, he leaned closer, easing the door open a crack, cursing the slight squeak that was magnified by the tiny space and his own desire for silence.

The balding man didn’t appear to hear it. He sat at the desk, speaking into a tiny microcassette recorder. Miles sighed in relief, grateful they were still dealing with just the one suspect. “He’s talking to himself.”

As he watched, the man turned the recorder off and placed it on the desk. He fiddled with the few strands of hair on his head for a moment, patting them into place as precisely as any beauty queen. After he had that settled to his satisfaction, he lay down on the four-poster, antique bed, kicking off his shoes and letting them clunk to the floor.

“Hell, we’re stuck. He’s on the bed, taking a nap. There’s no way he won’t hear us trying to leave,” Miles whispered.

“I just realized something. There’s another way. Follow me.”

He could barely make out her silhouette in the dark
closet, but felt her moving past him toward the back wall. Then a crack of light appeared.

“It’s a small, secondary access panel into the attic,” she explained.

Left with no other choice, he followed.

T
HEIR REFUGE
wasn’t a bad hiding place. It was definitely better than the alternative—being caught. They were safely sheltered, well hidden, warm and dry. Not dangling from a building, at least.

Yes, things could be much worse. Which was good, considering they’d be stuck in the dusty attic of the Little Bohemie Inn for a while. Gwen had barely been able to congratulate herself on getting them out of the suspect’s closet when she’d realized they weren’t free and clear yet. Because of the way the house had been renovated to make two large suites out of the upstairs quarters, the large, main access door into the attic now led down a few steps into another room. An
occupied
room. So they had to stay put.

She could have been doing any one of a dozen chores. Instructing the maid, discussing the menu with the cook, making sure the rooms were tidied and beds made, that the guests were happy and had everything they needed. She had calls to make, bills to pay, repairs to oversee and visitors to entertain. All the things expected of an innkeeper. None of which she was going to be able to accomplish. Instead she was trapped inside a cavernous room filled with old furniture, trunks, boxes, dressmaker’s dummies and piles of old newspapers.

The sun provided sufficient light through the slatted vents on either side of the house, and from under the eaves. Yet it wasn’t so bright that all the shadows were chased away. The recesses of the room remained draped in dark
ness, dust and cobwebs. Adrenaline still pounded in her blood after their close call, making her jumpy, to the point where she half expected some ghostly figure to emerge from one of the darkened corners of the room.

The innkeeper, however, couldn’t muster up much disappointment at her situation. Because, oh, lordy, the company was to die for.

“What time is it?” he asked.

She glanced at her watch. “Almost noon.”

“I think I’m going to miss my appointment with my mysterious contact. He wanted to meet me in the gardener’s shed at noon.”

She frowned. “We don’t have a gardener’s shed anymore. We tore it down after we moved in.”

Miles ran his hand through his hair in visible frustration. “Guess this real-estate guy’s not too good at the spy game.” Then he glanced toward the closed access door. “What time do you think most guests will leave for lunch? I figure one or both rooms will empty if people start leaving the inn.”

“Maybe an hour. I’m thankful the elderly couple in the other room were talking, not, uh…being amorous, when we peeked.”

He cringed, obviously as glad as she that they hadn’t peered through the second door to see two ninety-year-old self-claimed former movie stars doing the nasty. “You’re not kidding. That would be one memory I’d happily forget.”

“You told me last night that they’re counterfeiters.”

He sighed, shaking his head. “We’re surrounded by suspects in this place, aren’t we?”

They spoke in subdued tones, confident they could evade discovery, but not wanting to risk being overheard. Then again, if they were, the guests at the inn would prob
ably enjoy thinking they’d heard the voices of a pair of ghost lovers whispering in the attic of the Little Bohemie.

“Anyone else I should be worried about? Your aunt’s ghost friends, do they hang around up here, too?” he asked.

She wondered for a second if he’d been read her thoughts. He was likely humoring her. Hadn’t she been doing the same thing with Hildy for the past ten months? Still, sometimes she did wonder…“No, they live in the basement. Besides, it’s Saturday morning. They’re likely with Hildy, watching cartoons.”

“Cartoons.” His tone was laced with amused disbelief.

“Yep. Moe likes Nickelodeon, mainly because of the name. I guess he remembers the real nickel movie machines from his childhood or something.”

His shoulders shook as he laughed. “Moe. He’s the one with six fingers on one hand, right?”

“No.” She raised a curious brow. “Why would you think that?”

“Well, didn’t you call him Six Fingers Moe?”

“Oh…gotcha. No, he doesn’t have six fingers on one hand. He has five on one and just his pinky on the other.”

He winced. “That have anything to do with the way he died?”

She shook her head. Hildy had told her this story with relish during her childhood years, so she explained matter-of-factly. “He was apparently a bit sticky-fingered. Scarface didn’t like the way he lifted a pack of cigarettes after a board meeting at some Chicago hotel one time. So he taught him a lesson.”

“Scarface. Capone. Riiiight,” he replied, amused, apparently having no idea she was speaking the truth.

Gwen didn’t take offense at his skepticism. She, herself,
didn’t entirely believe in the ghost of Six Fingers Moe. Or the two other ghosts—Mackey the Fish and Lou Bones—who, Hildy said, sometimes popped in for a gab. But the people themselves, at least, had once existed. Hildy still had pictures of herself with all three of them. Gwen had been particularly interested in the pictures of Moe Marcini, who’d definitely had only six fingers.

Miles walked around exploring the room, picking up a hatbox here or an old newspaper there. He seemed fascinated by the collection of junk and antiques. Gwen understood. She’d felt the same way the first time she’d been in this place. Not dismayed or disturbed by the clutter, rather she’d been filled with curiosity over the history of those who had touched these things, sat in these chairs, worn these clothes. She still wondered about it.

Built to 1800s standards, the attic could really have been considered another room and was perfect for storage. It was fully floored, with beamed ceilings and a huge ventilation fan, which had probably been installed long after the house was built. The attic extended the entire front of the house, from the east wing to the west, and had probably once upon a time provided a wonderful hide-and-seek spot for any children who’d lived in the place.

One thing was certain, Fat Lip Nathan had needed every bit of the space. The man had been a saver.

“Fascinating.” Miles finally sat on an old chaise lounge, one of the pieces of furniture Gwen and Hildy had stashed up here after taking possession of the house. “There’s so much interesting stuff up here.”

“Definitely,” she replied. “I haven’t had time to explore all the trunks. From what I’ve seen, there are clothes, journals, photo albums and newspapers going back decades. Plus, of course, all the furniture.”

After they’d heard from Nathaniel Marsden’s lawyer, and come to explore Hildy’s unexpected inheritance, Gwen had been surprised by the quality of furniture in the gothic-looking old place. The dingy exterior of the home had done a good job of discouraging visitors, and concealing the wealth—and likely, the criminal past—of its owner. Inside, there’d been a ton of beautiful antiques that would have made any Boston dealer drool.

Most of the pieces had been in good condition, others just in need of refinishing. That particular project had been perfect for Gwen last spring. There was something calming about bringing lovely old pieces back to life, working with her hands, uncovering a beautiful oak finish from beneath years’ worth of varnish, paint and neglect.

It had been during those spring days in the workshop that she’d healed from the hurt of her broken engagement. She’d come to love her new life, and to accept the loss of the one she’d left in Boston.

“This chair’s not bad. Just needs new upholstery,” Miles said. “Did you bring
any
of this with you when you moved in?”

She shook her head. “Everything came with the house. These are the pieces we didn’t need for the B & B.”

The attic also contained other stored remnants of the former owner. The first thing Hildy had wanted to do was check the oversized trunks for any weapons, body parts, jewelry or stolen money. She’d seemed almost disappointed to have found nothing more than dusty dishes, papers, linens and old clothes. Though she’d never have admitted it to Hildy, Gwen had been a little disappointed, too.

One stack of old black-and-white photos had made Aunt Hildy cry. She’d hidden the pictures and refused to let Gwen see them.

“So,” he asked as he reclined on the chaise, dropping his feet to either side and patting the end for her to sit down, “how’d you end up an inn owner?”

She sat. “Aunt Hildy inherited the house from someone she…grew up with.” She carefully explained how they’d come to be here, leaving out key details. Like anything that involved too much of Hildy’s past.

He must have heard something in her voice, some hint of strain when she talked about moving here from back east. “Why were you so anxious to get out of Boston? Sounds like you had a great job. And I find it hard to believe there was no one special who didn’t want you to stay.”

She gave a humorless laugh. “A few months earlier and there would have been.”

“Tell me,” he ordered softly.

So she did. She told him about her relationship with Rick, spilling out the whole sorry story of her broken engagement in a subdued whisper. At one point she stood up and paced the room. Yes, she wanted him to hear the truth, especially since they’d become involved. That didn’t mean she wanted to watch his face while she told him. Especially knowing he could hear the faint vestige of hurt she couldn’t completely hide.

Not that she was really hurting—even before meeting Miles, she’d recognized how much happier she was now than she’d ever been in Boston. Still, she hadn’t talked to anyone about the whole situation since the day after she’d canceled her wedding.