Asking for Trouble Read online

  He moved his arm up slowly. But he obviously hadn’t lost his head over the idea of getting his hands on my breasts the way my former lovers—college guys—always had. Instead, he covered my own hand and pulled it away from his chest.

  A sharp stab of disappointment hit me low in the belly. It quickly disappeared when I realized he wasn’t letting go. In fact, he’d twined his fingers in mine and pushed my arm behind my back until both of us were touching my backside. Then he took hold of the other and did the same thing until he had me completely immobilized. I couldn’t move my arms. Couldn’t back away because the counter blocked my path. Couldn’t do anything but stand there and breathe him in.

  I should have been scared since I barely knew him. And since mystery and danger dripped off the man in buckets.

  Instead, I was excited as hell. This could get wild. He could be rough, demanding. Overpowering. I might have gone from meat and potatoes to steak tartar in one touch.

  Oh, thank heaven.

  “Are you always so bossy?” he growled.

  I somehow found the strength to nod once.

  “Anybody ever do anything about it?”

  Licking my lips, I shook my head and managed to whisper, “Uh-uh.”

  “Maybe it’s time someone did.”

  I had a really good someone in mind.

  Scared—excited—I just stood there, waiting. Finally, after a long, breathless moment, he tugged me closer, until my body was crushed against his. Even though I was half out of my mind with want, there was no missing the ridge of arousal I felt pressed against my crotch. God, he was big. Hard. And I could barely remain on my feet.

  Simon dipped his head closer. Dying for his kiss, I tilted mine back, closing my eyes and parting my lips, breathless with anticipation.

  When he did kiss me, though, it wasn’t the hungry, deep and passionate encounter of the night before. Instead, he did something completely shocking.

  He caught my lower lip between his, sucked it into his mouth and bit on it. Lightly. But deliberately.

  I almost came right then. Hot waves of pleasure radiated through me, rocketing in a frenzy to pound between my legs, which went weak. As if he knew it, he pulled me closer, his fingers tightening around my bottom as he hoisted me, until I was almost riding that massive erection.

  He licked away the spot where he’d bitten, as if easing some nonexistent pain. When what I really wanted was for him to nibble and nip at my entire body.

  But oh, I think I could forego his teeth because his tongue was utterly delicious, sliding across my lip. I tried to wriggle closer, to catch his mouth with mine for the kind of slow, drugging kiss I knew he could provide. Simon, unfortunately, seemed to have finished doing whatever it was he wanted to do. Because he suddenly let go of my hands, allowing me to slide down to stand on my own feet, and stepped back.

  His eyes were stormy, his frown fierce, as if I had been the aggressor and had stolen an unwilling embrace from him.

  Not that I’d been unwilling. Oh, no.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered.

  “I’m not going anywhere. You said I could stay.”

  I heard that note of belligerence in my voice that had always served me well when dealing with my brothers. Of course, with my brothers, I always had the threat that I’d tell my parents about something they’d done to back it up.

  With this man, I had nothing. Nothing but bravado and sheer force of will.

  We were at a checkmate moment and I held my breath waiting for his next move. When he made it, I wanted to cry in relief. Because fortunately, force of will seemed to be enough. Though a muscle in his cheek clenched, making that strong jaw of his jut out, he finally nodded. “All right. But only for a day or two. Get what you need and then go back where you came from.”

  Turning away from me, he strode toward the door. Before exiting, though, he looked back at me. “And just stay out of my way because I’m going to do my best to pretend you’re not here.”

  LATE THAT AFTERNOON, after sneezing about twenty times in a row due to the rank air permeating the basement, I decided to try a change of scenery. I’d gone through a bunch of old mildewy boxes that contained lots of paperwork on the hotel. Guest registries, comment cards, advertisements, bills of sale for supplies and groceries. All appeared to be from the past twenty years or so, when Simon’s uncle had been running the place. Right up until this past June. I even found my professor’s name on a hotel reservation sheet.

  I needed to go back further. So, remembering Simon’s words, I made my way to the third floor, started testing doors and found the one to the attic. Climbing up the narrow wooden steps, I made my way carefully, because they were steep and hard.

  It was a good thing I was so interested in my topic, because it had been hell doing what Simon Lebeaux had asked of me this afternoon. Stay away from him? How on earth could I do that when all I wanted to do was touch the man, soothe his scars, let him know he wasn’t alone.

  That or throw my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist and beg him to take me.

  “Not a good move,” I whispered as I waved a hand in front of my face in the dusty, cobweb-ridden attic. If I made a move too quickly, the man was liable to toss me out on my butt. Subtlety was required. Though, to be honest, subtlety wasn’t one of my strong points. My brothers and sisters-in-law often accused me of having the tact of a tanker truck.

  What can I say? I’m a modern woman. I have opinions. The fact that they’re usually correct and other people are so often wrong wasn’t my fault.

  Since the attic revealed itself to be cavernous—covering the entire width and breadth of the house—I decided to explore it in sections. The overhead lights, just bare bulbs hanging from loose wires extended down the center of the room, weren’t providing much light. But some late afternoon sunshine had finally peeked out from behind the clouds, and a bit of it was drifting in under the eaves on the west side of the house.

  That’s where I started. I kept my attention on the old, lidded boxes stacked along one rough, nail-studded wall, not even gazing through the shadows at the rest of the enormous space. And I didn’t really want to, either. My first, tentative exploration had been quite enough, thank you.

  I had gotten over my initial case of the willies about Seaton House, but there was something a little creepy about being alone in a huge room full of dust, moth-ball scented air and secretive history. Simon had mentioned the dressmaker stands, so those didn’t freak me out too much when I first spotted them standing around in silent sentry over the room. But there were other odd things, such as a large, old-fashioned wooden rocking horse with only one eye and a cracked leather saddle. I felt as if I were being winked at by a crusty-skinned wolf fresh from eating Little Red Riding Hood’s granny.

  Something that looked like it belonged in a torture chamber, but turned out to be one of those old belted fat-busting machines I’d only ever seen in movies, blocked part of the aisleway. So I hadn’t gone too far back. But even from twenty feet in the door, I saw endless sheet-draped objects in varying shapes and sizes.

  I knew most of the graying sheets were covering nothing but old furniture. Still, the Scooby Doo fan in me couldn’t quite get over the idea that somebody was lurking under one of those things, ready to pop out and scare me to death.

  “Stop being such a twit,” I muttered, since my nervousness was so out of character. I’d always been imaginative, but I’d never been a wimp.

  Lottie the hard-ass, that was me. Had been that way since kindergarten when some rotten third grader had told me there was no Santa Claus. I’d been so pissed, I beat the hell out of him on the playground. But when my brothers confirmed it was true—begging me not to tell our parents the Santa secret was out of the bag for fear none of us would get any presents anymore—I’d felt genuinely betrayed. I’d been skeptical of all fantasies and fairy tales ever since. That was, perhaps, why I always tried to find plausible explanations for the things I experienced. Even
if those plausible explanations involved bank robbers dropping dollar bills or secretive men hiding out after being brutally attacked.

  It could have been an accident, a voice whispered in my head. But I knew it hadn’t been.

  Anyway, my imagination might have been a little wild, but it was always grounded in reality. No supernatural stuff. Which made last night’s lapse into terrified dementia a little surprising. Still, I had to give myself a break. I’d been tired, bleary-eyed, my mind full of images of the awful things that had happened in this house. So I’d mistaken a hot guy for a ghostly serial killer. Sue me.

  Wanting to take advantage of the remaining daylight, I got to work. Though I had fully expected to find more of the same boring stuff from the basement, to my surprise, I stumbled upon some older paperwork in the very first box I opened. The schematics and ancient blueprints from the house were neatly folded inside it, along with carpentry notes, bills of sale and neatly written receipts of payment.

  “Getting closer,” I whispered, even as I marveled over how little the original builder of this place had paid for a thousand square feet of marble tile, which was still in evidence in the foyer downstairs.

  I got so wrapped up in the minutiae of life in the early 1900s that I barely noticed the passing of time. It wasn’t until I was squinting and holding an old letter up to my nose to make out the elegant, neat script-handwriting that I realized how dark it had become. Whatever outside light had lent itself to my efforts was now gone and I was left only with the bare, yellowed bulbs overhead.

  Okay. That was enough for the day. I’d found some interesting information—though not what I’d been looking for—but at least I felt sure I was in the right place now. Plus, I’d stayed out of Simon’s sight all afternoon, so he had hopefully decided I would not be in his way and could therefore stick around. At least long enough to finish my job, and, hopefully to help him in some way.

  And maybe have some fabulous sex, too.

  With that pleasant thought in mind, I repacked the box, then tiptoed out of the maze toward the door. I held tightly onto the rail as I made my way down the stairs, realizing that the light from above made absolutely no headway down here. I hadn’t noticed it earlier when I’d arrived, but the fixture at the base of the steps was missing a bulb. I could just make out the empty socket the near darkness.

  Glad to be getting out of here, I reached for the doorknob and twisted it. But it remained completely immobile.

  “Oh, great,” I muttered, “the damn door sticks.”

  I started to wriggle and jiggle it, putting my weight against the door as I did so. It didn’t give an inch.

  “This can’t be happening.” I stopped what I was doing and thought about it. When I’d come up here a couple of hours ago, the door had opened smoothly enough, not even creaking on its old hinges. And the knob had twisted easily under my hand.

  If the door is stuck…wouldn’t the knob still move? a voice in my head asked.

  Yeah. I was pretty sure it would. Which meant only one thing.

  This door wasn’t stuck. Somebody had locked it.

  6

  Simon

  STAYING SHUT AWAY in his office throughout the afternoon, Simon forced himself to focus on his work, on the book he was contracted to write, which was already three months late.

  Not on the woman in his basement. The woman whose mouth he’d sampled again earlier this afternoon.

  The woman he was dying for.

  “Hell,” he mumbled that evening, realizing he’d just typed the same sentence twice.

  Knowing it was useless—that his brain was tapped out and whatever bit of creative imagination he had left was going to be busy picturing Lottie Santori standing in his kitchen naked—he gave up. And gave in, at least a little, to the mental images that had tried to crowd into his head all afternoon.

  He couldn’t stop picturing the look on her face, the way her pink lip had grown red and swollen when he’d tasted her. The way she’d parted those lips, practically begging him to lick the inside of her beautiful mouth.

  With one hard shake of his head, he forced the thoughts away again, knowing he could never face her tonight if he didn’t. It was going to be hard enough looking her in the eye, knowing he probably ought to apologize for what he’d done.

  It would be worse trying to hide the fact that he wanted to do it again.

  Glancing at his watch and realizing it was seven-thirty, he frowned. He’d completely lost track of time while reading over the notes he’d taken during his two weeks in Charleston and putting them into his work in progress. Fortunately, he hadn’t been wounded until his very last night, so he had a lot of information to use. More recently, he’d conducted some final interviews and gotten statistics from city officials by e-mail, which should provide him with everything he needed.

  Because God knew he’d never go back. At least, not until the trial. And he was still hoping a plea deal would mean that would never happen.

  Shutting down his computer, he left the office and wandered into the kitchen, half expecting to see Lottie there, making dinner. He never had gotten that lunch she’d offered earlier. They’d been very distracted immediately after she’d suggested it.

  But the kitchen was empty. Silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator. The lights were off, here and everywhere else on the first floor—other than the office—which surprised him.

  Wondering if she’d gotten caught up in whatever she’d found in the basement, he went down there, but that, too, was dark and deserted. Shadowy. Moist. He certainly didn’t blame her for choosing to work elsewhere.

  “But where?” he whispered.

  A sudden, disturbing thought made him hurry back upstairs. After what had happened this morning, had he scared her off? Had she decided she wasn’t safe in the house of the crazy murderer on the hill, packed her bag and left without a word?

  Her car was still parked outside. Besides, no one had come to work on it, so his fear had not only been irrational, it had been stupid.

  But he was still incredibly relieved she hadn’t gone. He didn’t pause to analyze why, beyond acknowledging that he shouldn’t have felt so glad she had stuck around. He barely knew Lottie, and he’d been wanting her gone since the minute she’d arrived.

  Liar.

  Maybe at first he’d wanted her gone. But somehow, during the one day she’d been here, he’d remembered that he used to be a social person. He’d liked people. He’d particularly liked women.

  The wrong women, in some cases.

  Going out to the front porch, he couldn’t help glancing toward the edge of the lawn, another fear rising inside him. It had been only four months since his uncle—who’d lived here all his life—had taken one fatal misstep off the edge of those cliffs. And something told him Lottie was in some kind of trouble. Call it intuition strengthened by three months of near solitude, but whatever the case, he wasn’t about to wait around for her to wander back.

  Because she might not be able to.

  Taking the steps three at a time, he ran across the still-wet grass, the starry moonlit sky providing adequate light. As soon as he reached the closest drop-off, though, he realized he should have grabbed a flashlight. “Stupid,” he muttered. But unwilling to leave without taking a cursory look, he peered down into the rocky darkness, where the mountain cut away sharply toward the valley—and the town—below.

  It was useless without more light. “Lottie!” he called, then repeated the call twice more. If she was hurt or stranded, she could at least yell out and signal her location.

  Nothing. The night was silent except for a light breeze rustling through the dried leaves beneath the massive maple and oak trees that marked the boundary of the lawn. Uncle Roger had planted them decades ago, hoping to keep curious hotel visitors away from the dangerous cliffs.

  If only they’d kept him away.

  Simon’s concern now gripping him so tightly his chest ached, he strode toward the house, knowing he had to
get more light. He hadn’t made a full search, so he’d do so now then he was calling the police down in Trouble. But before he got to the porch, he heard something that sounded like a voice.

  Stopping abruptly, he yelled, “Lottie?”

  “Up here, I’m up here.”

  He looked up, seeing nothing but the night sky, then noticed a glimmer of light under the eaves at the very top of the house. “The attic,” he murmured, immediately realizing where she’d gone.

  Okay, so he’d overreacted. He’d been the one who’d suggested she search the attic, and it should have been the first place he’d checked. But somehow after Charleston, he’d found himself immediately fearing the worst rather than thinking logically, as he always had before.

  The bullet had taken away a chunk of his optimism along with a chunk of his chest.

  “Simon, do you hear me?” came the faint cry.

  “Are you in the attic?”

  “Yes! I’m locked in, please come let me out.”

  Locked in. His relief was so great, he almost wanted to laugh that she’d managed to lock herself in on the top floor. Then he wanted to yell at her for scaring him so badly.

  “Why the hell would she care?” he muttered as he jogged back into the house. He quickened his pace as he headed up the two long flights of stairs, mentally acknowledging that Lottie owed him nothing. He had no business being so damned worried about her just because he hadn’t found her right away. He needed to get past this. To stop overreacting to this kind of situation. Even if he explained it to her—about his uncle and about what had happened in Charleston, when he’d watched a woman plunge to her death—he didn’t think she’d understand.