Bedding Down, A Collection of Winter Erotica (23 page)

By the time she hit college, Brenda was beyond notions of

girlish romance and obsessed instead with history, particularly the Victorian era of upstate New York. When she finally returned and took on her dream job as curator of Frogmorton

House, it had been her idea to have the staff dress appropriately, to give visitors the full experience of the
schlöss
-like manor.

She’d never admit aloud that one of the reasons she’d hired

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Sean as a security guard last month was because she guessed

he’d look mouthwatering in a proper Victorian policeman’s out-

fit of dark blue wool.

She’d been right about that. Oh, had she ever been right.

Now, as the lights flickered ominously, she looked up from

the computer screen, aware that she hadn’t been seeing the mem-

bership newsletter in front of her. She’d been fantasizing about Sean again.

Still, she automatically hit Save, just in case they lost power.

The battery backup should mean she wouldn’t lose anything,

but you never know with computers.

She slipped off her narrow black-rimmed glasses, surprised

to see how dark it had become. Had she been woolgathering

that long? Somehow, not surprising when it came to thoughts

of Sean.

They’d gone to the same high school, but she’d been book-

ish and involved, and he’d been distant and sporty and a little shy, his bangs always tumbling into his eyes when he ducked his head.

Now his silky black hair was shorter, but tousled and un-

tamed on top. He’d enlisted after high school, he told her when he started work at Frogmorton House, and by God, now that he

was out, he was growing his hair again.

He was no longer shy, no longer a boy. His shoulders had

broadened; his brilliant blue eyes held depth and experience.

His grin was roguish, his stride confident.

And Brenda appreciated all of that. A lot.

She also appreciated the way his wool pants snugged over his

tight ass cheeks. Her hands itched to cup the muscled curves,

pull him close . . .

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Shaking herself back to the present, she flipped on the an-

tique banker’s lamp on her desk and glanced at the clock, certain it would be time to close up the House and head home to her

thermal lounging pajamas, leftover homemade pizza, and her

Welsh corgi, Mort.

But it was only 3:00 p.m.

She glanced out the window. All day they’d had menacing

gray clouds, as ominous a sign as the flickering lights. She’d

known they were due for a storm, and by all accounts it was

going to be a humdinger.

She just didn’t expect the world to be white already.

The snow swirled down in gusts and eddies, the flakes danc-

ing like manic fairies. She couldn’t even see the evergreens just outside the window.

The lights flickered again, this time going completely out

for a few seconds before returning. Brenda saved the member-

ship newsletter file again, copied it onto a flash drive, then shut the computer down. It had been an excruciatingly slow day already, and in this weather they weren’t going to get any more

visitors. Best to close early and get out before the roads got too slippery.

She grabbed the walkie-talkie off the desk. “Sean, this is

Brenda.”

No answer.

“Sean? Pick up, please.”

She gave the walkie-talkie an exasperated shake. Cell phone

service was seriously dodgy in the Adirondack Mountains as it

was, but Frogmorton House was nestled in a little valley that

defied the reach of any cell tower. Sean should have his walkie-talkie on. . . .

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She’d just have to go find him.

Not that seeking him out was such a bad thing. Brenda slipped

her burgundy velvet fitted coat over her deep green wool and

cashmere dress, glad for the extra warmth—Frogmorton House

was drafty even in the height of summer, and today’s storm was

rattling the beautiful but ill-fitting windows, the glass wavy

from over a century of excruciatingly slow gravitational slide.

She smoothed the velvet down the molded line of her torso.

Even on quiet days like this, when time dragged and she didn’t

get to share her passion for Victoriana with another soul, her

job still thrilled her. How many people got paid to hang out in a castle and wear a glorious late-Victorian outfit, complete with corset, to work?

Plus, a well-made corset was incredibly comfortable. Not to

mention the pleasing way it nipped in her waist and plumped up

her breasts.

She’d definitely noticed Sean ogling her cleavage.

Sean could ogle her cleavage any time. Do more than ogle, if

it came to that, which she hoped it did.

During his interview, his sensual lips had curved into one of

his roguish grins when she mentioned the required policeman’s

uniform and the formal butler’s outfit he’d don when he helped

at fund-raisers.

“Bonus,” he’d said. “Halloween every day. I always loved . . .

trick-or-treating.” His tone was light, but his voice deepened

suggestively on the last words and hit straight between her legs.

She felt herself flushing and bit back an urge to offer all sorts of treats (and an assortment of tricks), right on the spot.

Thank God Hank, their bookkeeper, had been looking down

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at Sean’s résumé at that moment; his proper elderly brain would have caught fire from the looks shooting back and forth between them.

The heated glances and flirtatious remarks had been piling

on ever since. But they simply hadn’t had time to do anything

about it. First the series of Victorian Christmas teas for the

local schoolkids, and the holiday fund-raising cocktail party

(Sean had made the kind of butler who’d have had real Victo-

rian matrons consorting with the lower classes in a heartbeat), and then getting the house undecorated, and getting year-end

thank-you letters out in time to make the IRS happy, and trying to sort through the Whitney bequest . . .

Plus all the maintenance issues that kept Sean busy because,

let’s face it, a lot of the time there wasn’t a lot for a security guard to do except just be there, but the house itself could devour all your time if you let it. And like Brenda, Sean would let it.

One more reason she liked him.

She left her office, which was in the parlor off the foyer, so

she could hear when tourists arrived.

Frogmorton House’s pale stone hearkened to its Austrian

and German inspiration, and it had round towers and clusters

of narrow windows and a meandering, wandering layout that

didn’t make a whole lot of sense, really. The unconventional

design made the House seem vaster than its two-stories-plus-

basement-and-unfinished-attic. From the outside, it looked like it should be the setting for a ghost story or a Gothic tragedy, but Winthrop and Henrietta had lived into chubby, philanthropic

old age, surrounded by a passel of children and grandchildren

who, unusually for the era, had all survived to adulthood. The

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place was homey as well as grand, with a large nursery and el-

egantly framed children’s drawings proudly displayed next to

the Sargent portrait of Henrietta.

Brenda loved the place with an unholy passion.

She found Sean emerging from the basement into the kitchen.

His dark hair was mussed—then again, it always had a mussed

look to it, like he’d just crawled out of bed, and that was a lovely image because then he’d probably be naked—and a few cobwebs

clung to the crisp navy blue wool of his uniform. The brass buttons shone as if he’d just buffed them, though.

“There you are,” Brenda said. It was sort of a stupid thing to

say, but for a moment there, the spicy smell of his aftershave had glued her tongue to the roof of her mouth. “I was trying to reach you, but the damn walkie-talkie . . .”

“Needs new batteries, I think,” he said with an apologetic

smile. “I’ll pick some up tonight. But if you wanted me to check the fuse box, I just did. Replaced the fuse for the left tower, but the rest survived the power surge okay. Fuses.
Sheesh.
You wouldn’t have an electrical upgrade scheduled any time soon?”

“It’s tricky with a historic house—and expensive.” She

shrugged. “Maybe after we re-slate the roof so it stops leaking into the Birch Bedroom.” Frogmorton House was luckier than

many small museums—some of the numerous Frogmorton de-

scendents had inherited Winston’s generous spirit and knack

for business—but money was still a constant struggle.

“Maybe we should check out the Birch Bedroom, make sure

it’s not snowing in there?” Sean raised one heavy dark eyebrow

in a way that would have done a movie star playing a wickedly

naughty hero proud. If Brenda had any doubts that his mind

was in the gutter—and she didn’t, because hers had descended

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right along with his—his smile made it clear he wasn’t thinking about protecting the William Morris wallpaper or the delicate

dressing table.

“Oh no,” she blurted. “That bed frame’s already damaged.”

Oh God. She felt her face suffuse with heat. Had she actually

said that aloud?

Yes, and despite the rush of mortification, she couldn’t say

she regretted it.

Not from the look on Sean’s face, which had gone from

flirty-but-work-safe to something that wasn’t safe anywhere,

and certainly not at work. Especially not when your workplace

boasted seven bedrooms, six of which had sturdy, comfortable,

downright decadent Victorian beds.

Heat coiled from her flushed face, tickled her nipples, spread

down to her sex, which pulsed in appreciation of the images

racing through her mind. Her. Sean. One of those Victorian

beds—not the one in the Birch Room, which was only a single

anyway, but maybe the grand canopied Frogmorton matrimo-

nial bed.

Her lace-trimmed silk drawers caressed her thighs as she

shifted nervously back and forth, rubbed against her suddenly

damp and sensitive cleft. The corset held her like an embrace.

Her nipples felt like they were drilling through the now-

confining corset.

Sean took a step forward.

The lights flickered again as the wind let out a howl like a

tortured soul.

In the brief darkness, Sean’s arms slipped around her, pulled

her close.

His lips brushed hers. Soft, an inquiry, but with the promise

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of so much more behind them. He smelled good, like bay rum

and something slightly musky that she thought was just him.

They’d kissed once before, back in high school, when Brenda

had been inexperienced and she guessed Sean had been, too. He

hadn’t gone to the prom, but crashed the party by the lake. Of

course there’d been drinking. At some point she’d turned on

the log where she sat and he’d just been
there,
and their lips had touched, and then he’d eased back and for a moment she saw the

fire reflected in his eyes, and then he was gone.

He kissed like a man now, and she was woman enough to

appreciate it.

She had a dim memory, however, that she’d come to find

Sean for reasons other than snogging him, but damned if she

could remember what they were. She’d been thinking about his

sculpted mouth for a long time, and it felt just as good on hers as she’d imagined.

Better, even.

The lights came back on all too soon, though, and with it,

some semblance of reason.

Damn.

She licked her lips, aware of how provocative the action was

by the way Sean’s nostrils flared. “Uh . . . don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the snow’s coming down pretty hard. I’m declaring

us closed on account of bad weather.”

Suddenly serious, he nodded. “Plan. Do you want to ride

back into town with me? At least if we get stuck, we won’t be

alone.”

Brenda’s Outback was fine in snow, but he did have a point.

Being alone out there if something went wrong would be
not good.

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If it had been anyone else, she might have suggested he just follow her so they could keep an eye on each other—get both cars

back to town, all that.

But she liked the idea of a ride home with Sean. More to the

point, she liked the idea of asking him in once they got there, and having him meet the dog, share the pizza, maybe open a

bottle of wine—and see if they could build on the promise of

that kiss. “Sounds good. You lock up the back. I’ll grab a few

things from the office and meet you out front.”

Brenda made sure everything was shut down, changed the

message on the answering machine to say they were closed, and

grabbed her flash drive. The one thing she’d wanted to get done this afternoon she could do at home just as easily (assuming she didn’t let Sean sweep her off her feet, that is).

Very little of what Mrs. Whitney had left the house was di-

rectly useful—some Victorian-era family photographs and pa-