Trick Me, Treat Me (2 page)

“You would have fallen and broken your hip.”

Her great-aunt shot her a look that demanded an apology. Gwen refused to give her one. Spry and in physically perfect condition or not, Hildy
was
eighty-five years old.

“You coulda done it,” Hildy finally said. “The old Gwennie would have.”

The old Gwennie. Hmm…Gwen remembered her. Sometimes she even smiled when she thought about that wild, free-spirited person who’d been hell on wheels as a teenager, rebellious and daring as a young adult. Who’d loved hack-em-up thriller movies, and had once dreamed of being in the FBI so she could outwit her own Hannibal Lechter.

Gone. Long gone. Somehow that person had become a quiet, rather sedate woman who ran an inn with her elderly
relative and did nothing more exciting than occasionally go out without wearing a bra.

But that was okay. Everyone had to grow up sometime.

“I like this costume better on you, anyway,” Gwen replied, not responding to Hildy’s remark. She gave her great-aunt a visual once-over, studying the spiked, shocking-pink wig, and the thigh-high white patent leather boots sticking to the skinniest pair of old lady legs this side of a refugee camp. Combined with the glitter makeup on the woman’s eyes, the red leather skirt, white spandex top and pink feather boa, Hildy made quite a picture. Seeing Aunt Hildy as a punk rocker had probably been more effective at giving kids nightmares than any chainsaw wielding maniac could ever have.

“Sam seemed to like it,” Hildy said with a suggestive wag of the eyebrows.

Sam Winchester was Hildy’s eighty-seven-year-old gentleman friend. He and Hildy had been “stepping out” together for a few months, which Gwen was glad about. Hildy might be too old to settle down, marry and have the children she’d never had, but she certainly wasn’t too old for a little romance, a little happiness. Heaven knows she hadn’t had much of either one in her life.

“Toldja no kids would recognize you as Glenda the Good Witch.” Aunt Hildy rolled her eyes as she again examined Gwen’s pink dress and the long ringlets she’d curled into her hair.

“But everybody’s seen
The Wizard of Oz
.”

“Bo-o-o-ring. You gotta stop playing it safe. You’re a hot tomato, sugar lips. You just need to get back to normal, be daring like you used to be.”

She ignored the lecture on not playing it safe—lord knew, she’d been hearing it almost daily for almost two
years, since her parents’ untimely death had shocked her into a life of safety and solitude. The ugly public breakup with her former fiancé had also made her “tuck up inside her shell like a pansy-ass turtle,” as her Aunt Hildy liked to say.

She didn’t mean to play it safe. In fact, recently she’d begun trying to do at least one spontaneous, risky thing each day, even if it was only wearing a darker shade of eye shadow, or a thin, filmy blouse on a windy October day.
With
a bra.

She could also admit, if only to herself, that it probably was the old Gwennie who had fallen crazy in love with this dark, gothic-looking house from the moment she’d laid eyes on it.

“You should’ve dressed up as that singer Madonna,” Hildy added. “Moe says you coulda superglued some of them big, pointy ice cream cones over your ta-tas and looked just like her in one’a her bustiers.”

Gwen also ignored the ta-ta remark. She didn’t want to think about the possibility of supergluing
anything
to her breasts. Particularly since the suggestion had been made by Moe. Her great-aunt’s best pal. The dead gangster whose ghost currently made his home in their basement.

She supposed there were worse ways Hildy could spend her golden years than talking to the ghosts from her past. She was just thankful Hildy had lived to
see
her golden years. And that Gwen was around to take care of her and share them with her.

Hildy’s family had disowned her when she was a disgraced teenager, having fallen in with a notorious gang of Chicago bank robbers back in the thirties. From what Gwen could gather, Hildy’s own parents had done nothing to help her when she’d been thrown into jail, only grudgingly
letting her come home after she’d served her three-year prison sentence.

Aunt Hildy’s life hadn’t gotten much easier once she was released. Never allowed to forget she’d disgraced the family, her sadness had led to deep depression, and eventually a nervous breakdown. She’d spent years in and out of mental institutions. Something Gwen still had trouble fathoming, considering Aunt Hildy had been a smiling, gentle presence through her whole life.

She put her arm around her elderly aunt’s frail shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze. Gwen was too grateful to have the slightly zany, but deeply loving old woman around to quibble over trifling matters like talking to a dead gangster. Hildy was the only family she had left. And Gwen would do anything to make her final years happy, tranquil ones. Anything to help Hildy forget that her family had once betrayed her.

“How would Moe know about Madonna?” she finally asked, knowing demonstrations of affection made Hildy uncomfortable.

“TV.”

She turned out all but one light in the foyer, partially to prevent her aunt from seeing her amusement. “Of course. Moe loves TV, I remember.” Personally, when she was in Moe’s position, Gwen hoped television would have no part of her existence. A world without TV—no reality shows, no WWF smack-downs and no Jerry Springer—sounded like
heaven
to her. Then remembering the Madonna bustier suggestion, she added, “You know, those ice cream cones would break in no time flat.”

Hildy thought about it. Finally, her eyes narrowed and her brow pulled into a frown. “That dirty old geezer. He always was…”

“Never mind, Aunt Hildy. I’m sure he didn’t mean anything.” No way did she want to get into a discussion about Aunt Hildy’s former associates tonight. Yes, she’d loved the stories as a kid…the gorier the better. Hildy used to call her Gruesome Gwen because she’d been so fascinated by the wicked old days. She’d learned all anyone could know about prohibition, the benefits of a Tommy gun, how many men Pretty Boy Floyd had murdered and John Dillinger’s penis size before her eighteenth birthday.

The penis size thing was
still
pretty interesting.

But she hadn’t had time for stories since they’d moved here.

“All the candy gone?”

“Just about. I’m glad you insisted on buying so much.” Gwen lifted the nearly empty bowl, casting a rueful eye to one lone piece of bubble gum and a few forlorn-looking Tootsie Rolls. “I never knew there were so many kids in Derryville.”

Hildy tugged her wig off and patted a strand of white hair into her bun. “And every one of them
had
to come here.”

Gwen couldn’t count the number of times a group of children had come to the door tonight, looking uniformly terrified but so excited they couldn’t stand still. Each time, they’d pushed forward one unlucky little soul to be their spokesman. The voice would tremble, the eyes would sparkle with fear. Eventually each would muster up the courage to whisper, “Trick or treat.”

They’d peer around her, trying to get a look inside the infamous house, which had cleaned up rather well after months of work. Well enough to open their inn before the end of the year, as she and Hildy had hoped when they’d moved here last February.

“I’m bushed,” Hildy said, rubbing at her hip, visibly fatigued. “You think you can close up for the night, sugar lips?”

Nodding, Gwen kissed the old woman’s forehead, wishing she’d realized sooner that Hildy wasn’t feeling well. “Go on.” Hugging her aunt again, she took care to be gentle with those fine, delicate old shoulders, on which Gwen had leaned more than once as a girl.

As Hildy walked away, she said, “Don’t forget to thaw out the muffins so they’ll be ready for the morning.”

“I won’t forget.”

But, of course, she did.

J
ARED REACHED
Derryville very late, due to Friday night traffic on the interstate, but he didn’t worry. This gathering was set to last the whole weekend. Besides, since he wasn’t expected, it would be easier to slip inside—in character—to surprise his cousin. If he got the chance, he could manipulate the “evidence” and pin the crime on Mick. Guilty or not.

Mick deserved some payback for the Maxwell Smart stuff.

He cut off his headlights as he drove up the hill leading to the old Marsden house, not even fully realizing he was holding his breath as the imposing building came into view.

It hadn’t changed. Dark and angled, it was an architectural monstrosity that had never fit in with the quaint mid-western town. It overlooked Derryville like a crouching dragon guarding its village for its supply of tasty virgins.

Several cars were parked in the lot at the side of the house, evidence of the party underway. The building appeared dark, so it was possible some people had retired for
the night. Or, perhaps, they were busy being bumped off in Mick’s game of “figure out who the killer is before you get murdered yourself.”

Jared got out of the car after tucking his keys up behind the sun visor. As soon as he had a chance, he planned to come back and move his Viper into the garage. He also left the invitation and his wallet in the glove box, intending to be in character as of this moment. He didn’t worry about anyone stealing anything. This was Derryville, after all.

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 Dober
man 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.

G
WEN 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.

Gwen followed his pointed stare, looking down at her body, clad in the silkiest, softest white nightgown she possessed. Then she swallowed. Hard. Seeing herself as he must be seeing her.

The deeply slashed neckline glittered with tiny pearl-like beads that picked up and reflected the meager light in the room. The fabric clung across her breasts, which were pushed high, plumped up and spilling over because of the tight bodice.

She could have claimed it was the cold autumn night that made her nipples pucker so tightly against the gown.

She could also have claimed to be engaged to Ben Affleck and having an affair with Brad Pitt. That didn’t make it true.

Though she thought of how foolish she’d been not to grab her robe, a deep-rooted part of Gwen liked the admiration in his eyes. Her track record with romance was damned pathetic. The blow to her confidence brought on by her broken engagement had killed her instinct to even try to attract the opposite sex.

How funny. She now remembered what she’d once so very much
liked
about attracting the opposite sex. That look
in a man’s eye. The one that promised more than any words could. And hinted he could back up his unspoken promise anytime, anywhere.

Maybe even here and now.

“I didn’t remember to bring my robe,” she finally said, wondering how a perfect stranger could bring out the woman she’d thought was lost forever. “I should get it.”

“Don’t go to any trouble on my account.” The intensity in his voice made the words less playful than he may have intended.

Watching his jaw clench, she sucked in a quick gulp of heady night air. How amazing that a man’s stare could make her heart trip over itself as it beat restlessly within her chest. But not with fear. This was pure, one hundred percent excitement.

Gwen smoothed her hand against her nightie, nervously fingering the material. Its slickness slid between her fingers. The gown fit tightly to her hips, then fell in undulating waves to the floor. Two slits made the fabric gap from ankle to thigh. With every shift, another bit of skin would be revealed. Tempting. Tantalizing. Heightening the anticipation as any self-respecting wedding night negligee should.

Fate. Fate or one of the ghosts in this house had made the pipe in her room break right over most of her clothes, damaging all her nightgowns except this one…the one she was supposed to have worn on her honeymoon. The one she’d kept after she’d canceled the wedding, sold her dress, hocked her ring and delivered the cake to a homeless shelter.

Because, after finding her bastard of an ex giving more than dictation to his secretary a few days before their wedding, she’d needed one sultry, seductive, feminine thing, to remind her she was a desirable woman. His cheating had
made her doubt herself. The nightie gave her confidence, though no one had ever seen her in it. Until now. And judging by the raw want in his eyes, this stranger definitely thought she was a desirable woman.

How amazing. How exciting. How…enticing.

Still, she wasn’t stupid. This was risky business. She didn’t know who this man with the hungry eyes was.

He seemed to sense her sudden misgivings because he stepped to the side, turning slightly away. He was now far enough that she didn’t feel his warm breath on her skin. She shivered, wondering how she could miss the warmth of the stranger when by all rights she should be running like mad to her room.

“I really am sorry for frightening you.”

“It’s okay.” Her voice sounded weak, breathy and nervous. She cleared her throat, then realized she meant it. “It’s fine. I wasn’t afraid. Not really.”

She should have been, she knew that. She was alone in her nightgown, late at night, in a dark, quiet house, with a stranger. The normal reaction
should
have been fear. But for some reason his height didn’t intimidate her. His breadth didn’t, either, though his chest looked broad enough to tap-dance on. No doubt, this man, clad in skintight black fabric from his neck to his shoes, should have caused concern.

Maybe because she’d been burying the sensual part of herself for so long, Gwen had reacted with instant, unrelenting attraction. The kind that could turn stronger women than she into complete fools.

“What are you thinking?”

“That finding dark, handsome strangers in the kitchen late at night just doesn’t happen to women like me.”

He didn’t laugh, or even smile, at her frankness. “And I don’t often stumble across stunning blondes in nighties
when I visit country inns. Or are you, perhaps, the ghost of this inn?”

“I’m entirely real.” Then she paused. It was, after all, Halloween. The whole town believed she lived in a haunted house. She’d grown accustomed to strange happenings that had given her more than one sleepless night in recent months. And there were her aunt’s spectral friends to consider. “Are
you
a ghost?”

This time, he did smile, his teeth glittering brilliantly white in the half darkness, making her heart trip again. Maybe her question hadn’t been so ridiculous. No man this seductive could just stumble across her path. Not with her luck when it came to men.

“Not a ghost. I’m very real.” He stepped closer again, until the tips of his shoes almost touched her toes. His pants brushed her gown; she could almost feel his leg against hers.

She didn’t move away, even as the word
dangerous
flashed through her mind.

“Want me to prove it?”

Before she could answer—and Gwen couldn’t say what her answer would have been—she felt the man grasp her fingers. He lifted them until she was almost touching his face. Then he pressed her fingers against his cheek. “Aren’t ghosts cold?”

She nodded weakly, gauging the rough warmth of his skin, wondering if he’d read her mind when she’d thought earlier about how sexy his five o’clock shadow looked. “You’re not cold.”

Not cold. Hot. Magnetic. Seductive. Her fingertips scraped across the roughness of his cheek in a helpless, subtle caress.

“And spirits don’t breathe, do they?”

Without warning, he moved her hand until her fingers brushed his lips. God, those lips. The other part of his face she’d found so arousing. Gwen’s knees grew weak and shaky. She grabbed the counter with her free hand, then focused on the soft breath touching her fingertips as he slowly exhaled.

“Ghosts are also transparent,” he continued, his voice so quiet, she almost had to strain to hear him. “I would say I’m pretty solid.”

She knew what he meant. But he didn’t come closer to let her feel just how solid he was. He was letting her decide. So she did. Not making a conscious decision to do so, she moved her feet forward, until her legs nearly cupped one of his.

Definitely solid. Hard. Thick and hot between her thighs. She wobbled on her bare feet and let out a long, shuddery sigh.

Oh, he was much more dangerous than any ghost. And here she was, reacting like every stupid bimbo in every scary movie ever made. Not running for the door when the killer’s clanging around in the attic, but heading up the stairs toward the danger instead.

She scooted her feet apart, rubbing her calf against his pants…taking another step closer to the danger in the attic.

“See? I’m not a ghost.” He turned her hand, staring at her wrist. Then, slowly, he drew it to his mouth and brushed his lips over the pulse point. She couldn’t say for sure, but she thought she felt the tiniest flick of his tongue on her skin. Or else she imagined it, because she wanted to have felt it.

She moaned. No, he was not a ghost. But oh, heavens, with his breath caressing the tender skin of her wrist, she
suddenly understood the seductive appeal in all those vampire novels.

“You’re obviously not a ghost, either,” he whispered before lowering her hand to her side. “We’re both flesh and blood.”

Once he’d let her go, Gwen took a tiny, physical step backward. And tried to take a great big mental one.

The stranger seemed to realize what he’d done…kissing the wrist of a stranger with the kind of sensual awareness Gwen had only ever read about in sultry novels. He met her stare, their eyes sharing knowledge of the boundaries they’d already crossed.

This was more dangerous than any supernatural threat. Because, at this moment, Gwen honestly didn’t know if she’d make one sound of protest if he tried to take her in his arms.

To be completely honest, she doubted it.

J
ARED DIDN’T KNOW
that he’d ever met a more desirable woman. Or, at least, not one he had ever desired more. She was curvy and feminine, made more so by the outrageously seductive nightgown she wore. Her hair was a mass of golden curls. It tangled around her face, tumbling over her shoulders, creating a peekaboo curtain over the high curves of her perfect breasts. She had eyes the color of his favorite brand of whiskey—golden brown, almost amber—and a delicate face with hints of strength in the cheekbones and determined little chin.