of fear in her voice. But the fear couldnât hide the awareness between them from the moment theyâd laid eyes on each other.
Who she was, he couldnât say. Heâd never seen her before, so she probably wasnât from Derryville, unless sheâd moved here recently. He planned to find out. Not just her character for this murder party. But her real identity. He had to know what kind of woman would get so into this weekend that sheâd talk ghosts and play the frightened but seductive innocent.
âSo, why are you here? In the kitchen, I mean? Were you looking for a snack?â She apparently wanted to normalize the conversation. Jared watched as she reached for the light switch on the wall and flipped it up. But nothing happened, no overhead fixture brightened the shadowy room. âMust have blown a bulb.â
Undeterred, she stepped to another cabinet. She seemed familiar with the room, because she felt her way, pushing a switch and turning on a small lamp beside a wall phone. When added to the stove light and the illumination from the hall, the room no longer seemed as dim and mysterious.
Better able to see, he was unable to resist casting another leisurely glance at her, studying her long, wildly curling hair, her bare throat and her shoulders covered only by the tiny spaghetti straps of her nightgown. Then lower. He found himself almost wishing she hadnât turned on the extra light. Because now, there was no way to disguise his instant male reaction.
He watched her twist her own fingers together, then smooth them over her gown, clenching the fabric. He knew she was resisting the urge to pull her hands up to cover her breasts. She didnât want him to see her awareness.
Impossible. He didnât know her name, but he knew a whole lot about her, just the same. She was beautiful. She was intoxicating. She was exciting. She wanted him.
Really, what more did a man need to know?
Besides, she wasnât indecent, not at all. Her nightgown was thin, but not transparent. Heâd seen plenty of women in dresses that covered less. So, no, it wasnât her apparel that made the situation so damned provocative.
It was the heat in what should have been a cold room. The awareness between two strangers. The purely physical reaction that made it tough to think, tough to breathe. Neither of them was doing a good job at hiding that physical reaction. Her, with the goose bumps on her exposed skin, the pointed tips of her nipples against her silk gown making his mouth water. Him, wondering if he was going to burst the seam of his pants.
âDonât tell me,â he finally said, respecting her unspoken wish to slow things down. âYouâre a movie star, stopping at the inn on the way to your next film location.â
He earned a slight laugh. âNot by a long shot. Though, we do have a couple of old-time movie stars staying with us this weekend. At least, thatâs who they say they are.â
He nodded, not surprised. The cast of characters widenedâ¦how creative of Mick to bring Hollywood into the mystery. Putting his curiosity about the other players in this game aside, he continued to speculate on this particular one. âSo, are you a bride on her wedding night, with a jealous husband about to burst through that door?â
She shook her head.
âA woman being gaslighted by some wicked man and a maid?â
âUh-uh.â
He thought about it, wondering what other possible scenarios his cousin might have come up with for his cast of characters. âPlease tell me youâre not a Rapunzel type whoâs eventually going to need rescuing from a high tower. Because heights and I donât like each other very much.â
She laughed softly. âIâm just a simple innkeeper.â
âAhh.â He reached out and touched her hair, picking up one long, curly gold tendril. Then he smiled, thinking of one of his favorite Charlie Brown movies from his childhood. âDo innkeeperâs wives have naturally curly hair?â
She didnât react to the joke, didnât even seem to have heard him. Her eyelids fluttered, then closed.
God, this was getting intense again. He dropped his hand.
When she opened her eyes, instead of answering his teasing question, she focused on the wife part. âIâm not married.â
âMe neither. Not even involved.â
She murmured something that sounded like good.
âSo, whatâs your name? Why are you here?â she asked.
âThe nameâs easy.â He almost gave himself away by laughing as he attempted a James Bond accent. Connery, of courseâthe classic Bond. Moore had been a caricature, Brosnan was merely okay. And he couldnât even remember the name of that other guy. âThe name is Stone. Miles Stone.â
She didnât even seem to notice the hideously bad joke his cousin had foisted on him with the name: milestone.
âIâm Gwen Compton.â
He gave her a half smile. âNice to meet you, Gwen.â
Her lips curled up at the corners and her amber eyes twinkled in the muted light. âItâs nice to be met.â
Though Jared Winchesterâthe private, introspective authorâwould probably have then propelled the conversation along more normal lines, he decided to keep playing the game. Heâd use this mystery scenario to be more outrageous, more provocative than he might normally be with a woman heâd just met.
Miles Stone answered, not Jared Winchester. âAs for the second part of your questionâ¦what am I doing here?â
He stepped close again, until he felt her calf brushing against his pants. She licked her lips, but didnât step away.
âYes?â
He reached up and touched her throat, sliding his finger up to caress her earlobe as he leaned closer, until their mouths were a breath apart. Then he filled that miniscule space with a whisper. âIâm afraid if I told you that, Iâd have to kill you.â
3
IF I TOLD YOU THATIâd have to kiss you.
Only, he hadnât said kiss, had he? No, surely heâd said kill. But Gwen didnât care. Kiss was what flashed in her mind. Kiss was what echoed in her brain, tempting her to be outrageous. A kiss might be daring enough to test that sexiness, that womanliness, that had eluded her since her failed engagement.
So, kiss she did. When the possible ax murderer whoâd just threatened her life leaned close until their breaths mingled, she grabbed his face and proceeded to kiss the lips off him.
Of course, sheâd known he was joking with the killing part. In spite of the aura of danger, sheâd felt sure from the moment theyâd started speaking that he was no threat to her. At least not physically. Mentally? Well, in that respect, she wasnât so sure. Her libido had been on high alert all night. An unusual
