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.
JARED 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.
She was not petite, so he couldn’t say why he found her delicate. Maybe it was the trembling of her lips, the hint of fear in her voice. But the fear couldn’t hide the awareness between them from the moment they’d laid eyes on each other.
Who she was, he couldn’t say. He’d never seen her before, so she probably wasn’t from Derryville, unless she’d 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 she’d talk ghosts and play the frightened but seductive innocent.
“So, why are you here? In the kitchen, I mean? Were you looking for a snack?” 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. “Must have blown a bulb.”
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
