Voyeur (7 page)

Riley was about to explain why they were there—when a tal , dark, drop-dead-gorgeous man strode into the front parlor behind Mrs.

Dorchester. Riley's mystery man! Her heartbeat kicked up at the mere sight of him as memories of their very recent kiss assaulted her

senses.

"I'd like you two to meet my nephew, Sloane Bennett," Mrs. Dorchester said. "Sloane is a private investigator, visiting al the way from Los Angeles. He's come to hunt for my broach. Sloane, meet my neighbors from the cottage next door—Mimsey and her niece, Riley Wainscott."

Riley's eyes locked on the so-cal ed P.l., ignoring the introduction. "Wel , he need not hunt any longer; because I
found
it." She opened her palm, cradling the velvet bag, the broach resting atop it.

Mrs. D. gasped. "Oh heavens! Wherever did you locate it?"

Riley stil honed in on Sloane the mad kisser. "In your tool-shed," she replied, then added accusingly, "right after I met your nephew there!"

"Damn, I must have overlooked it," Sloane Bennett said with arrogant ease.

"Sounds suspicious to me," Riley replied. "What were you even
doing
in the toolshed?"

"I could ask you the same question," he answered, appearing far too amused for her liking.

"I was responding to the report of a stranger sneaking around," she said smartly.

"And / was fol owing footprints, probably left during the heavy rain my aunt tel s me occurred a few evenings back."

"Oh." Wel , so what? Riley could have found footprints, too, if she'd wanted to—she just hadn't official y taken up the missing broach case

until a few short minutes ago.

Aunt Mimsey stepped forward to shake Sloane Bennett's hand." How nice that you're a private eye. Riley here is a detective in her own

right."

He gave his head a jovial tilt. "Is that so?"

She supposed she could understand his attitude—she'd probably seemed a lot more interested in kissing than detecting. But then again, so

had he.

He snatched the broach and its black pouch out of her hand. "Wel , you need not trouble yourself with this any longer, honey—I'l take care of

it from here on out."

Like hell you will,
Riley thought. Mr. Hotshot Private Eye Kisser might think he was the only one who could solve this peculiar little mystery, but Riley intended to prove differently. From now on, it would take more than a kiss to knock her off her game.

By the end of the day, Riley and Sloane had grudgingly agreed to work together to figure out who had taken the broach and why the thief had

stashed it in Mrs. D.'s very own toolshed. Aunt Mimsey had suggested the partnership, and Mrs. Dorchester had thought it a grand idea, too. And

Laura couldn’t help being pleased that Riley was clearly going to have the opportunity to get intimate with her nemesis-slash-partner again, even if

Riley wasn't yet a hundred percent sure the guy could even be trusted.

Maybe Riley, she thought, could use a little excitement in her love life. Passion had never been a part of Riley's mystery-solving, but now it had found its way onto the page as unexpectedly as Braden Stone had made his way into Laura's life via the computer. Fortunately, she was a lot more

comfortable dealing with the fictional Sloane than the frighteningly real Braden.

Which, as dusk began to color the snow beyond the window a pale, flat gray, forced her mind back to Braden's gift, stil on the couch al these hours

later, taunting her. She turned in the rol ing desk chair to look at it again, thinking what a nice, carefree day she'd had, having successful y banished it from her mind. Clearly, she'd been in denial.

Did he real y think she was going to use that toy in front of him? Given that she'd never even used such a thing by
herself,
for heaven's sake? Even if she
wanted
to, trying out such a thing on camera just seemed like a bad idea.

So she'd ignore the gift, she decided.

And she'd ignore the clock tonight, too—ten would come and go without consequence, and her voyeur would be forced to see that she simply

wasn't into this. She might have
seemed
into it the past two nights, but that shocking purple monstrosity had brought her back to her senses.

Getting to her feet, she grabbed the box and took the whole thing up to the bedroom, just to get it out of her direct line of vision.

Having thawed a hamburger patty, Laura turned on a little music— a local pop station—then made herself a simple dinner, adding frozen crinkle

fries to the burger. Flipping on the instant-but-stil -cozy fire, she decided to settle in for an evening of reading after finishing her meal. No erotica tonight, though. Hemingway. Definitely Hemingway.

When she approached the bookshelf, extracting
A Farewell to Arms,
her eyes landed on the picture of her "flyboy" again. Of course, her stomach churned at the heat a mere photo managed to give off, yet she said aloud, "You might be hot, but this has gone far enough. It stops now."

Two hours later, she stil sat on the sofa reading ... or trying to. She let out a sigh at the realization that she'd just read two ful pages without having any idea what they said. Drat. She
loved
this book and it had been years since she'd read it. She should have been completely drawn in by

Lieutenant Henry and his English nurse, but instead she found herself—most unwittingly—thinking about much more tawdry liaisons.

Another sigh had her setting the book aside and slowly padding up the stairs into the bedroom. It was high time for that shower she'd put off al day.

And as she shed her clothes and stepped under the warm, soothing spray, she ignored the fact that it was
his
shower and, in fact, reminded herself that the guy was hardly ever here. It wasn't nearly so much
his
shower as a place he'd showered
on occasion.

So she tried not to envision
him
standing naked in this same spot in the huge marble shower as she rubbed soap over her body—and she tried

desperately not to feel her own response to even
that
minor stimulation.

Would he like the way she looked soapy?

Biting her lip, she glanced down at her breasts decorated with bright white suds, the taut nipples peeking through, at her stomach and thighs, so

slick and smooth-looking as bubbles clung to them, as wel . Yes, he would definitely like it. He'd also like taking the round, spongy thing she was

using and running it over her breasts, as she did now. He'd surely let his fingertips reach around the soft sponge to glide over her rounded flesh, and then the flat of her stomach. Her pussy tingled as she wished he could do just that—touch her in the shower.
Stop this.

Taking a deep breath, she banished the naughty thoughts from her mind for what seemed the fiftieth time since she'd arrived in the mountainside

home, then rinsed hurriedly. She wrapped herself in a big plush bath sheet and stepped into the bedroom—where the corset lay on the bed.

She'd been so distressed over it earlier that she hadn't real y
seen
it, hadn't let herself study the details, but now she couldn't help but admire how soft yet sophisticated it appeared. It came with miniscule velvet panties, too, sporting tiny rhinestones sewn in front. A dainty line of the same

sparkling jewels outlined the top edge of the corset, designed to mold to her breasts. The back laced up with thick black satin ribbon, which meant,

she supposed, that one size fit al .

She couldn't help wondering how she'd look in such a lush piece of lingerie. She owned plenty of pretty bras and panties and a baby-dol nightie or

two, but she'd never worn anything that at once looked so glamorous yet sexual.

So maybe she'd just try it on.

Simply to see what she looked like.

For her own benefit—no one else's.

The lacings were already drawn and tied in back so that just fastening a row of invisible hooks in front closed her into it. It was on the verge of being too tight, but she decided not to tamper with the ribbons as she almost
liked
the confined, bound feeling the snug lingerie provided. It made it impossible to forget she was wearing something designed for sex—even
before
she turned toward the sliding glass mirror doors on the closet.

The view stunned her. The velvet molded to her curves deliciously

and plumped her breasts even farther than the red lace bra had, making them look round and voluptuous. The press of the corset against them

delivered the delightful y naughty sensation that they were about to bust free. The velvet G-string felt just as snug over her pussy and trailing down the center of her ass, and the black stockings made her legs look long and lean, even without heels. She'd never seen herself appear so utterly and

whol y sexual—as if she were made for this, as if no other part of her existed. She couldn't help feeling that way, too. Like a good girl gone bad.

Like a prim Victorian miss gone wild.

But the look wasn't quite complete. On impulse, she moved to the dresser where she'd just tossed the hair clip she'd worn in the shower, using it to

gather her wavy locks back up atop her head, leaving only a few loose tendrils to curve around her face.

There, she thought, peering back in the mirror. That finished the image. The perfect prim lady ready for sex. A stark contrast that was making her

cunt swel within the black velvet as she stood staring, amazed at her reflection.

She drew in her breath at the vague wish that Braden could see how she looked in the corset. He'd picked it out for her, after al . He'd shown her

this vision of herself she'd never have seen otherwise.

Maybe she could show him. He'd already seen al of her there was to see, and this covered more than her bra and panties had last night, so where

was the sin in that?

Of course, he'd expect her to take it off. And to use the toy. She glanced at the purple vibrator, lying by itself in the box now. She couldn't do it. She wouldn't even know how to go about it.

Yet curious after being somewhat afraid of it al day, Laura bit her lower lip and cautiously approached the fake cock. She made herself pick it up,

scolding herself internal y.
It's a chunk of rubber, not a real penis, for heavens sake.

Unfortunately, though, holding it in her hand gave the loose sensation of holding a real penis. Which made her pussy ripple. The vibrator was of

medium size, nothing humongous—six inches or so—and the head was smooth and rounded, the shaft sturdy and thick, even sporting slightly

raised veins along the length. She felt torn between thinking it ridiculous and realizing that it was making her want the real thing.

She gingerly twisted the knob on the end to start the buzzing vibrations—batteries had been included. Of course, her voyeur would have arranged

for that. She found herself smiling at his bold confidence.

Maybe she would experiment with it. He seemed to think every woman should have such a gadget, and she knew Monica indulged in such toys.

Maybe now, in the privacy of the bedroom, she'd see what it was al about. In fact, maybe having an orgasm
without
Braden involved would be just as satisfying—minus al the weirdness. Then she could go to sleep, get up tomorrow morning and write, write, write, just as productively as she had

today, and continue this retreat more normal y, more as she'd imagined it from the beginning. She'd come here to let a change of scenery inspire

her creativity, not to let a strange man persuade her into hedonistic acts over the computer.

And
so what
if she'd found her muse over the last couple of days? Surely that had just happened natural y, and Braden Stone's bizarre entry into her life had, if anything, been more of a distraction than a help.

Wel , okay, maybe he
had
inspired her to create a whole new character. A character who had driven the story up to this point and would probably
continue
to drive it.

But that didn't mean she needed Braden's presence to continue. If he'd inspired her to inject a little romantic excitement into Riley's life, then his job was done and she could move on without him.

Despite that fine lecture, however, she soon found herself exiting the bedroom, stil in the corset and panties, stil carrying the purple vibrator. She didn't know why and didn't ponder it. She walked downstairs, turned off the sound system—ready for some quiet time—and headed for the kitchen.

She set the vibrator on the counter in order to pour herself a glass of wine. When she took a sip, her throat felt thick, as did her crotch. Every key part of her body had grown swol en and heavy. With desire, definitely. But also with temptation?

And why the hel was she carrying the damn penis around with her?

With a forlorn sigh, she transported the vibrator to the living room and tucked it between the couch cushions. An idea struck her—that maybe she'd

just leave it there. And maybe sometime during a family gathering or some other inopportune moment, someone would find it, and wouldn't Mr.

Stone feel sil y then?

Ah hel , probably not. He'd probably laugh it off—he was likely so confident and charming that he could even find a graceful way out of having a

purple penis turn up in his living room.

She returned to the kitchen for the bottle of wine and her glass, then settled on the couch. She peered out into the snow, although darkness now

made it so that she could discern only a vague line between ground and sky. Given what she wore, she found herself envisioning a romantic

evening here with a lover. A
normal
romantic evening. With a normal lover. The kind who was actual y in the room with her. The attire was right. As was the low lighting and the fire. The wine, too. The only thing missing was the man.

She glanced at the crack between the couch cushions. Could she? And did she want to? She must, at least a little—or what was she doing dressed