Asking for Trouble Read online

  Simon coughed into his fist, glad he hadn’t just sipped his scotch. “Into bed?”

  “Sure. That’s the only thing that kept me going, knowing there’d be a nice big, warm bed at the end of my trip.” She shrugged. “Speaking of which…maybe I should head there and get out of these clothes.”

  Simon sat there for a moment, trying to put it all together. Finally he got it. The sexy-as-hell woman who’d landed on his doorstep had been sent here. She’d landed in his arms. She’d been wiggling that gorgeous ass and smiling that seductive smile and making him hard from halfway across the room just by the way she savored a little warmth.

  She was obviously good at what she did. Very good. And he suddenly began to suspect he knew what that was.

  “Who sent you?” he asked, slowly rising to his feet. “Was it Adam? My agent?”

  She raised a quizzical brow. “No, I don’t know anyone named Adam.”

  “Look, it doesn’t matter,” he said, thrusting a hand through his hair as the anger and frustration rose within him. Damn his interfering friends. It didn’t really matter who had done it, they were all equally as pushy and intrusive. Any one of them could have done this.

  Because he had no doubt he’d finally figured out the secret of this sexy mystery woman. Someone had hired her to come here and cheer him up. Get him back in the saddle, in one way or another. And all of those ways involved him getting her naked.

  Any normal man would probably be very cheered up at the idea of taking this incredible woman to bed. And if she’d showed up on his doorstep four months ago, he would have done exactly that. He wouldn’t have let her up until she couldn’t walk. Or even close her thighs.

  He wasn’t that man anymore, however, and he didn’t know if he ever would be. So though part of him—a big part—was tempted to help her strip out of her wet clothes right here and now, and take her on the thick, plush carpet in front of the fireplace, he simply couldn’t do it. “I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding,” he muttered. “Your…services…aren’t required.”

  She tilted her head in confusion even as she tried awkwardly to squeeze some remaining water out of her hair. “My services?”

  Why did she have to look so adorable, as well as so damn hot? He couldn’t stand the contrast, since both sides of her appealed to him so strongly.

  Simon managed to thrust his deep, primal reaction to her away. Crossing his arms and leveling a steady stare at her, he said, “Yes, your services. I’m sure whoever hired you thought they were doing me a favor. But I’m just not in the market.” Though deep inside, a tiny voice protested the lie, he added, “You’re not what I need.”

  “Not…”

  “So as soon as you dry off, you might as well go to your car and drive back to wherever you came from. Because you won’t be sharing my bed tonight.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Your bed?”

  “Right. You are beautiful, I won’t deny it, but I’m just not in the mood for a hooker.”

  3

  Lottie

  EXCUSE ME WHILE I fall to the floor in paroxysms of laughter. I, Lottie Santori, so untouched in nearly three years that my hymen had probably grown back, was being called a hooker.

  The irony didn’t escape me.

  Funny, on the rare occasions I’d imagined myself being insulted by a man, I thought I’d go all slap-happy on his ass. I mean, on his face. But my first instinct was not to slap. It was to howl. To grab my stomach and laugh until it hurt and tears pricked the corners of my eyes.

  Unable to quit it, I shook my head back and forth, snorting at the very possibility that I could have sex for a living. Hell, I couldn’t even have it for recreation!

  But looking at the man watching me from a few feet away—the incredibly sexy man who bore no more than a superficial resemblance to a mass murderer—I was beginning to question that. Because oh, wouldn’t I like to have it for recreation with the man who’d made me feel so incredibly aroused.

  I couldn’t recall a single moment in my life when I’d felt so sensual and charged up as I had when I’d fallen into his arms. Those moments had awakened something more. Something that had lain just beneath the surface of my skin, waiting—screaming—to get out. Just the touch of his body against mine had brought every hungry, sexual urge I’d ever experienced raging up until I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to remain on my feet.

  Too bad my own foolish fears had made me stagger away. Though, I ought to give myself a break. Because in the shadowy light, with my wild imagination, he really had looked a bit like Josef Zangara. But now, having had a better look at him, I knew he didn’t bear much of a resemblance to the man I’d come here to investigate. His hair and eyes were dark—more black than brown—but there the resemblance ended. His face wasn’t soft and dreamy, it was all hard angles. Jutting and strong, not curved and gentle. His deep-set eyes were made even more dramatic by the thin scar running from his hairline, down his forehead, to the corner of his right eye.

  Most people’s scars looked old, hinting of past wounds—childhood traumas long forgotten. Reminders of one moment of recklessness from years ago.

  This one looked fresh. Though slim, the line of white, puckered skin was made more dramatic by the newly healed pink flesh around it. That scar, and the one on his chest, both hinted at some kind of story about this stranger. One I was dying to find out.

  Even if he did think I was a hooker.

  Guess I’d better take care of that right off the bat. “Sorry to break it to you,” I finally said, controlling my laughter with one final chuckle, “I’m not a call girl. But, well, thanks for thinking I could be.”

  He just stared, revealing nothing with that intense gaze and unsmiling expression.

  I was babbling, but I couldn’t stop. “I mean, I guess you thinking I was a hooker isn’t as bad as me thinking you were a serial killer.”

  The dark eyebrow came down, emphasizing his scar and the fathomless depths of his black eyes. God, the man was utterly mesmerizing. And I was jabbering like a teenager after an overdose of Mountain Dew. “Look, Mr. Denton, I’m Lottie Santori. Professor Tyler’s assistant?”

  His head jerked back. I’d finally gotten some kind of response. “My name isn’t Denton,” he said, a muscle in his jaw clenching. The words came grudgingly out of his mouth like coins coming from a miser.

  Confused, I tilted my head, wriggling my fanny a little more toward the fireplace, since the seat of my jeans finally felt like it was drying out. “I’m sorry, I thought you said you lived here. I assumed you were Roger Denton, the owner of the hotel. Is he here?”

  He turned away, crossing his strong arms over his chest. The movement made the white fabric of his shirt hug tight against his broad shoulders and muscular back. “Seaton House is no longer a hotel. It’s been out of business since Roger Denton—my uncle—died four months ago.”

  I couldn’t help gasping in surprise. “Died…oh, God, I’m so sorry, I had no idea.”

  “Thank you,” he murmured. “Now, since my uncle is not here, and you’re obviously…drying…perhaps you should get on the road again before it gets too late.”

  Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry. What a congenial guy he was. “Look, Mr….”

  “Lebeaux.”

  Mmm. Sounded French. Sounded sexy. Which made sense because the man was six feet two inches of walking yumminess.

  “Mr. Lebeaux, I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

  He didn’t move, just stood there watching, as if silently asking what my point was.

  “Arrangements were made for me to stay here.” Then, feeling pretty pathetic and knowing I’d just shoot myself if I had to drive out in this weather, I added, “I’m very, very sorry about your uncle’s death. But really, the weather’s horrible, I have driven nine hours to get here, it’s nearly ten o’clock on a weeknight. Where do you suggest I go?”

  He leaned his shoulder against a richly paneled wall, his arms still crossed over his big chest. His eyes
glittered and his lips lifted the tiniest bit at the corners as he said, “You could go back to wherever you came from. If you leave now, you’ll be home before dawn.”

  At first I thought he was kidding. I’d noticed a couple of times since I’d arrived that he seemed to have a caustic, quiet sense of humor, though he did a pretty good job of hiding it behind a surly sneer. But this time he looked deadly serious.

  My mouth dropped open. I could not believe how rude the guy was being. Despite feeling sorry that his uncle had died, I was really getting mad.

  That didn’t, of course, mean I no longer wanted to jump on him and lick him like he was a mountain of cotton candy. He might be rude, but he was still just about the sexiest thing I’d ever seen.

  A loud crash of thunder sounded overhead and I flinched a little. “You can’t expect me to go out in that. This is a hotel….”

  “Was a hotel. I closed it immediately after inheriting it upon my uncle’s death.”

  “And you live here alone?” I asked, unable to keep the skepticism out of my voice. Because, really, who would want to live in a place this enormous—that had once housed a serial killer and the corpses of his victims—all alone?

  “Yes.” He tilted his head, as if listening for something, then murmured, “You should probably be going. I think the rain has lightened up.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. This was a hotel as of a few months ago,” I argued, not about to let him push me out. “There has to be a place for me to sleep. For God’s sake you probably have forty guest rooms.”

  He shrugged. “I like to spread out.”

  I looked for a twinkle in those black eyes but didn’t see one. Damned if I could read him. And that was like waving a red flag in front of my face.

  I couldn’t figure this man out. I wanted to figure this man out. Ergo, I had to stay. “You’re being unreasonable. You really can’t expect me to go back out in that.”

  Somehow, I knew I was arguing not only for the sake of my job, the research project, but also because I wasn’t ready to walk away from the obsidian-eyed stranger whose muscular arms bulged against the fabric of his shirt and whose striking face was only enhanced by his swarthiness and that scar. The one who had, at least a handful of times, checked me out from half-lowered lashes when he thought I wasn’t watching.

  Not watching? Hell, I hadn’t taken my eyes off the black-haired god since we walked into the room.

  I liked that he was looking. Because it told me that despite his brusque attitude and coldness, he wasn’t entirely unaffected by me. Even if it was simple attraction, he was feeling something. Just like I was.

  “A half hour ago you thought I was a serial killer. Now you want to sleep under my roof?”

  I waved my hand, unconcerned. “I told you, my imagination was just all worked up.” Trying to sound pathetic and tired—which I really was, I supposed—I added, “Probably from exhaustion and fatigue after driving in such horrible conditions for so many hours.”

  “You can’t stay here.”

  Grabbing my purse off the side table where I’d dropped it, I dug out a folded, damp piece of paper. “I have a reservation. I have a guaranteed room here until October 31.” I waved the thing at him like a banner, almost daring him to come close enough to take it.

  He did. And suddenly my butt wasn’t the only thing getting hot. With every step closer he took, the temperature in the room went up a degree. Or ten. My breath got heavy and I had a hard time forcing it out of my lungs because the air was so thick, and strong with his musky, masculine smell. His presence.

  He kept coming closer, until the tips of his feet touched the base of the hearth. I was standing on top of it, which gave me a few inches of height, until we were almost eye-to-eye.

  Oh, the face… He should be on the cover of magazines. Or a romance novel. With the scar and the hint of a beard, he would make a perfect pirate. He just needed an earring and a gold tooth. Well, not the gold tooth, I guessed. Pirates in real life might have had them, but pirates in romance novels most certainly did not. I should know. They had become a steady staple in my reading diet over the past few years.

  Remember that research thing I mentioned?

  “You can’t expect me to honor a reservation when this place isn’t even in business,” he said, yanking the paper out of my hand and giving it a cursory glance. “Besides, this isn’t even in your name.”

  I snatched it back from between his fingers. “It’s my professor’s name. He made the reservation six months ago when he arranged with your uncle for me to come and do some research on Seaton House.”

  He cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. “And you got in a car and drove nine hours, without even checking on a reservation made six months ago?”

  He had a point. I’d meant to do that, honestly. But with all the stuff I had to do to get ready to leave, including getting my other professors to agree to my time off, arranging for my sister-in-law Rachel to take care of my cat, packing, doing research to prepare for my research…well, I’d just forgotten. “It was all arranged,” I mumbled, knowing I didn’t sound very persuasive.

  “By this professor, and my uncle.”

  I nodded. Wondering if a little more ammunition would help, I reached for my overnight bag. “I have copies of their correspondence. Professor Tyler and Mr. Denton agreed it would be fine for me to come this semester, after midterms. Your uncle said I could have full access to the house, as well as any records, books and correspondence I could find in the library and storage rooms.”

  He spared a glance at the letters, flinched, then closed his eyes briefly at the sight of the spidery handwriting on the outside of one of the bulky envelopes I retrieved. It was apparently in his uncle’s handwriting, and I suddenly felt very mean. “I’m sorry, I know I’m being incredibly pushy,” I said, lowering the letters back into the bag.

  “Yes, you are.”

  Dropping my arms to my sides, I felt my shoulders slump. “I just really don’t want to get back in that car and drive off into the storm again.” Swallowing, I quietly added, “Please.”

  I didn’t continue, didn’t beg or harass him. I simply let him see my weariness and genuine concern about trying to navigate back down this mountain on such a wild night.

  He said nothing, just stared into my face. I held the stare, suddenly feeling a bit light-headed as I lost myself in his eyes. They were so piercing…so deep and secretive. Angry. Stormy. Intense.

  Why, then, wasn’t I afraid of him? But I wasn’t. In fact, his angry facade attracted more than it than repelled me.

  Because he was incredibly sexy, perhaps. Because of the way his body had felt pressed against mine earlier. Because of the aura of excitement oozing from his every pore. Because of the scars on his body that told a story. Because of the hints of dry wit that had come out of his mouth.

  Because he was here in this house alone and quite obviously dealing with something that had left him angry and hurt, and he seemed determined to keep it that way.

  Just as determined as I was to stay. At least for tonight.

  And after tonight…well, we’d see.

  He broke the stare first. “All right,” he finally said, his voice low and throaty. “You can stay for one night. But you leave first thing tomorrow morning. Understand?”

  AN HOUR LATER, tucking my cold body between the cold sheets in a cold room on the third floor, I was beginning to regret my persistence. Did I mention it was cold?

  “It’s your own fault,” I whispered as I tugged the old, faded bedspread and thin, worn blankets tightly under my chin. I curled up in a ball and rolled to my side, trying to provide my own body heat by bringing my knees to my chest.

  Yes, it was my own fault. Not only for insisting I stay here, but also because I hadn’t taken my less-than-gracious host up on his grudging offer to go try to fire up what he called an “ancient” generator out back in the garage. I was trying to be an easy unwanted guest—hoping if I wasn’t a problem he might reconsi
der and let me stay tomorrow. So, thinking that if he was fine in the house with no electricity for the night, I would be, too, I’d said thanks but no thanks.

  Big mistake. Stick a giant wooden stick between my legs and you’d have a human Popsicle.

  “You asked for this,” I muttered, trying to distract myself from the shivery twitches of my legs and arms. Not to mention the sight of my own breaths puffing out into the air.

  I’d asked for it, and I’d gotten it. I’d been so happy he’d agreed I could stay that I hadn’t voiced a single protest when he’d led me up to the shadowy third floor. I’d barely had time to glance at the old paintings gracing the walls—beautiful but disturbing images of this very house and the ragged cliffs surrounding three sides of it.

  He’d lit the way with one of his lanterns. Using an ancient-looking iron key, he’d open the door to a room that smelled of must and old age. Without so much as a good-night, Mr. Lebeaux had set the lantern on the dresser, spun around and stalked out of the room, obviously familiar enough with the house to maneuver his way back in the darkness.

  Mr. Lebeaux. God, I didn’t even know his first name. But I didn’t care. Deep down part of me prayed he’d get lost in the darkness and accidentally wander back in here during the night, mistaking my room for his. That he’d crawl in bed beside me like a fly landing in a web.

  That would make me the spider.

  But I didn’t care. I was feeling predatory, unable to shut down the heated images in my mind. Frankly, three years and no sex would probably have made me react to a balding, middle-aged circus clown. With a hot and dangerous, strikingly handsome man like Lebeaux, it was almost more than I could stand.

  Despite the cold, my body wanted to kick off the weight of the covers. To writhe around on the bed, twisting my legs, spreading them—anything to ease the ache of want that had become so familiar it was almost part of me now. Though my hair and body had dried, I was still wet, between my thighs, wanting sex. Wanting it badly. Which was why I’d worn a thoroughly inappropriate-for-the-weather slinky nightgown, just on the off chance the man was coming back.