Trick Me, Treat Me (4 page)

When she’d started breathing again, a day or two…minute or two…
whatever
…later, she cleared her throat. Sitting here, being so affected by him, she needed to know more about the man. “Just who do you use your dangerous weapons on, Miles?”

He paused, looking like he was trying to decide how to answer. She recognized the naughty setup she’d provided, and wondered if her subconscious had done it on purpose. Probably. Because she’d certainly been thinking about one of Mr. Stone’s “weapons” in particular, and who she’d like him to use it on.

Uh, yeah,
that
one. And oh, right,
her.

Finally, seeming to decide not to make a sultry comeback in spite of the opening, he frowned. “Can I trust you?”

She nodded. “Even though I grabbed you and kissed you in a moment of Halloween-induced insanity, yes, you can trust me.”

He tsked, as if reminding her that they’d already had that argument. Then, reaching into an inside pocket of his black leather jacket—a well-worn, shoulder-hugging kind of jacket—he pulled out a photo identification card. And a badge.

“You
are
a cop?”

He shook his head and pointed to a logo. She made out some words, but didn’t recognize them. “The Shop? What’s that?”

“You’ve heard of the FBI, the CIA, the Secret Service, the Department of Homeland Security?”

“Sure.”

“We’re the deepest, darkest subunit of every one of them.”

She raised a brow. “You’re a secret agent?”

His nod was grave. “Yes.”

Gwen’s first thought was that, in spite of his very looks and smooth delivery, Miles wasn’t a very
good
secret agent. Secret agents didn’t go around telling people they were secret agents on undercover missions, did they? Except, maybe, for Austin Powers. Or James Bond when he wanted to get laid.

Whoa.
That mental image distracted her for a good twenty seconds. She was no Bond girl, but the thought was enticing. Gwen Compton didn’t have quite the ring of Pussy Galore or Alotta Fagina, but she was at least dressed for the part. Her hair—normally flat and straight—did look extremely fabulous tonight, due to the leftover Glenda the
Good Witch curls. And she’d kissed him like some bold, confident mystery woman. Not to mention they’d met under rather unusual circumstances. In a dark kitchen. On the spookiest night of the year. When she was half-naked.

Well, no wonder he’d started to act like James Bond!

“I wouldn’t have told you this,” he continued, “but I need your help. I need an ally inside this house.” Reaching down, he picked up a dark briefcase. She hadn’t even noticed it.

While she watched silently, he opened the case. She glimpsed a manila envelope, in which appeared to be a number of papers and photos, with notations in a foreign language. The case also contained some sort of radio and electronic devices.

Miles pulled out a photograph, placed it on the tabletop, and pushed it toward her with the tip of one finger. “Boris Rockinova. Ex-KGB agent turned international arms dealer.”

Gwen stared at the picture, a black-and-white 8 x 10 of a middle-aged, balding man. Normal-looking. He could have bagged her groceries or sold her a car and she’d never have given him a second look. She raised a doubtful brow. “
He’s
a terrorist type?”

Miles nodded, retaining his serious expression.

“And you think he might be here? In Derryville?” She heard the skepticism in her own voice.

“I think he might be right here…in this
house
. Our contacts say he’s set up a meeting here this weekend with potential buyers, including a high-level member of an organized crime group from New York. We don’t have the identity, but we know he’s working with a woman. This woman, code name Miss Jones, is supposed to make con
tact with him to arrange a weapons buy in preparation for a crime planned for the port of New York.”

“Who is she?”

“Not sure.” He glanced down at her body. “But I know she’s not you. The communication we intercepted says the woman will identify herself to our suspect by her code name, Miss Jones, and will reveal a star-shaped birthmark on her right collarbone.”

She followed his stare toward her own low neckline and grinned. “Good thing I’m not wearing a turtleneck.”

He nodded, not cracking a smile, still intense and secretive, focused on his mission. “A very good thing.”

The heat in his stare told her he wasn’t merely talking about any phantom birthmark. She swallowed hard, trying to focus on their conversation, not the attraction still snapping between them. “How can you know all this?”

“We know a lot about the people in this inn this weekend,” he admitted. “That elderly couple?”

She raised an inquiring brow.

“Counterfeiters.”

Her jaw dropped.

“Double-check any money they give you.”

“They paid with a credit card,” she murmured, still not fully able to wrap her mind around this whole crazy scenario.

Maybe this guy was loco, maybe he was playing games with her, perhaps he was even an escapee from a mental institution. Maybe he was playing a big fat Halloween prank. Her instincts said there was more to this story than he’d said, that his charm hid as much as it revealed. Conventional wisdom told her she should be on the phone, out the door or arming herself with something sharp. That’s certainly what any quiet turtle would do.

To hell with that.

She forced the thought away. Gwen wasn’t stupid enough to react foolishly out of a need to do something reckless and exciting for a change. But something about his story rang true, though she suspected he hadn’t told her everything. Perhaps he was telling her only as much of the truth as he could.

He had identification, a briefcase full of documents and, if she wasn’t mistaken, what looked like surveillance equipment. He was also intense and charming, suave and smooth-talking. Obviously intelligent, adept at slipping in the shadows.

The CIA, or the Shop, or whatever it was, could do worse. So it wasn’t entirely impossible. And if there was any chance, whatsoever, that Miles was indeed who he said he was, she might have a dangerous criminal sleeping under her roof.

An international arms dealer, along with the ghosts, was enough to ruin any fledgling inn. At least for the 51.5 weeks of the year not involving Halloween. And that didn’t even take into account the whole “being murdered in her bed” scenario.

“All right,” she finally said. Her voice sounded both a little skeptical and a little afraid. “I’ll help you, Mr. Stone. I’ll be your ally this weekend. Tell me what you want me to do.”

J
ARED WASN’T SURE
how she managed to capture that perfect tone, a mixture of excitement, doubt and even a hint of genuine fear ringing so clearly in her voice. She had the “frightened blonde late at night alone in a spooky house” role down pat.

Not to mention she was beautiful. Charming. Funny. With a lyrical whisper and an intoxicating laugh.

And, God, she smelled good. Like apples and cinnamon. Warm and spicy. She brought to mind every single one of his favorite scents, heightening sensation and evoking long-buried memories and emotions. He could breathe deeply and almost taste autumn.

He’d never known how much he’d miss that until he’d moved away from here. Chicago was a city with no orchards, no pumpkin patches. No rich aroma of dew-soaked fallen leaves on a crisp October day, punctuated by a whiff of someone’s first fire of the season, or a hot-cider stand along the road.

Being with Gwen had brought all those sense memories rushing to his mind. For that alone he’d have liked her.

“What can I do to help?” she prompted.

“You’ve already been helpful. Filling me in on the guests, letting me know who I might be up against is beneficial.”

Who he might be up against…a loaded way to put it. He wondered if she noticed the way he suddenly had to shift
in his seat at the image of who he’d very much
like
to be up against.

Her. Against the counter. Against the refrigerator. On the table. Hot and frantic. Then slow and erotic. “Do you mind if I get some water?” he asked, definitely needing to cool down.

She immediately stood.

“I can help myself.”

“It’s no bother.” Her voice shook. So did her legs. She wobbled as she walked. Obviously he wasn’t the only one who’d had a visual image of being “up against” someone.

This weekend was shaping up as one that would long live in his memories. All because of the intriguing innkeeper. Certainly not because of his cousin’s party, which seemed to be off to a slow start if everyone else in the house was already asleep.

When she returned with a bottle of springwater, he used the shock of the cold container against his fingertips to regain his mental focus. He saw her cast another curious glance toward his open briefcase. While he didn’t fear she was fluent in Russian and able to read the documents on the Glanovsky case, he didn’t want her seeing any of the more graphic photos. He picked up the file and slid it beneath everything else. Then he put his badge and fake ID into the briefcase, too. “Sorry. Top secret.”

“More of that, ‘knowledge is death’ stuff?”

He heard a slight chuckle in her voice. “Yes.”

“Okay. But you still haven’t told me what I can do to help. I’d like to get this situation resolved soon.” A worried expression tugged at her brow. “You don’t suppose this…arms dealer guy has any explosives here in the house, do you?”

He shrugged. “It’s possible.”

“Oh, great. I’d really rather not wake up tomorrow dead, having been blown up to heaven because some terrorist can’t keep his stick of dynamite from shooting off prematurely.”

Instantly understanding the double entendre, he couldn’t contain a low laugh. He enjoyed this woman’s quick, naughty wit.

She blushed. So, maybe she hadn’t intended to sound so damned provocative. Either way, she was absolutely beguiling.

Who she was, and how she knew his cousin Mick, were things he’d have to find out soon. He hoped like hell she wasn’t his playboy cousin’s latest conquest, because he didn’t know that even family loyalty would keep him from stealing her away.

Jared had always filled the role of big brother to Mick. They were different, in looks and personality. But there’d been a bond between them from childhood. They’d been more like brothers than cousins, particularly since they’d each had only sisters.

Jared had covered Mick’s back more than once when his cousin had gotten himself into trouble with his smart-ass attitude. Hell, he still had a half moon-shaped scar on his left hand from saving Mick’s hide back in high school. That particular time, one of the girls his cousin had jilted had thrown a high-heeled shoe at Mick’s head. Jared had intercepted and its heel had left the scar.

When they were kids, he’d never taken advantage of being a year older to pick on his cousin, abandon him in the woods, cheat to win at Atari, or steal his Matchbox cars.

Gwen, however, was no Matchbox car. If she was Mick’s date….
No
. She couldn’t be. Mick liked giggly, bouncy cheerleader types with big smiles and bigger hair. Not a se
ductress who could devastate with a flash of wit. Gwen wasn’t Mick’s type. Besides, even if she were, he knew his cousin well enough to know he wouldn’t let this woman roam around without him in a sexy white nightie.

Not Mick’s date
. No way.

Judging by the absence of a ring on her left hand—along with no tan line to indicate she usually wore one there—he figured she was technically single. Damn good thing. Because he sensed their weekend was going to be downright combustible.

“All right,” he said, finally responding to her offer to help. “You can do something. You can start by telling me if the man in this photo could be here at the inn.” When she started to shake her head, he frowned. “Remember, he could be in disguise. For instance, the man with the foreign accent, the one you checked in today. Does he look like this guy?”

She nibbled at her fingertip, scrunching her brow in concentration. Jared liked watching her play along as if she truly believed she might help catch a criminal. In reality, if he’d stepped in here claiming to be a superspy, she’d probably be reaching for the phone to call for the men in the white coats.

“The man who checked in today was a little thinner.” Her eyes widened. “But, you know, if he were wearing a toupee, and glasses, and some kind of body girdle, it could be him.”

Body girdle. He nearly snorted. From Gwen’s description of the man, he’d first thought it was Mick’s father, Uncle Frankie, who was using a fake accent. Uncle Frankie did a fair impression of the Godfather. Particularly after he’d downed a few beers—or whenever Sophie, Mick’s sister, had brought a boyfriend around as a teenager.

But the day that man would wear a body girdle was the day Jared would willingly sit through an ice-dancing competition.
Never
. So, either Uncle Frankie was
not
the foreign-sounding gentleman. Or else Aunt Marnie had finally nagged him into giving up those all-you-can-eat fried chicken specials.

“All right, so it’s possible he’s here,” Jared said, trying to remain serious and in character as he pictured his Uncle Frankie eating yogurt, or anything steamed.

“What do we do? Should we call someone?”

“I
am
someone. Remember?”

She frowned. “But you’re alone.”

“I have you,” he reminded her, smiling in a way that probably hinted at just how much he’d
like
to have her.

“I suppose…but are you sure you don’t need backup? I mean, do you know anyone else here in town you can call on?”

Yeah, actually. He knew a lot of people here in Derryville, from his kindergarten teacher to the owner of the feed store. From the girls who worked in the hair salon on Great Lakes Lane to most of the men on the small police force. He’d been away for ten years. Not long enough for things to change in a town like Derryville. That was one of the reasons he’d had to escape, to break free. Growing up here had been like living in a fish tank. Everyone saw every move, commented on every turn.

Getting out hadn’t been something he’d wanted to do. It had been what he’d
had
to do. If for no other reason than to get some damn privacy for the first time in his life.

Still, during the few times he’d come back, he had felt a twinge or two of nostalgia. No matter how much he’d longed to escape Derryville, it would always be home to him. Particularly now. In the fall. Yes, summer had become
his favorite season since moving to Chicago. But sitting here, with a woman who smelled of apples and had golden eyes and hair the color of sunshine, he remembered that it hadn’t always been that way.

As a kid, nothing had compared to the excitement he’d felt when October rolled around. His thoughts would turn to scary costumes, pranks and parties. Many of his favorite childhood memories were from the holidays from October to December.

Maybe that’s why coming home was feeling so right tonight. On Halloween.

“Miles?”

He finally answered her nearly forgotten question. “Yeah. I have people I can call on who are nearby. If the need arises.”

Like family. His cousin Mick, and Mick’s sister Sophie. Their parents. Jared’s own parents were snowbirds who’d already taken off to spend Halloween with his sister and her kids in Florida. But his grandfather was still here. And everyone in Derryville knew his grandfather, Samuel Winchester. He’d been police chief for twenty years before stepping aside so his son, Jared’s dad, could take over the job.

Then he’d waited, expecting Jared to do the same. Everyone expected that, knowing Mick was too much of a playboy to be a cop. When Jared hadn’t…Well, his grandfather was from the old school. Betraying tradition meant betraying your family. He and his grandfather hadn’t had a real conversation in eight years.

“Why are you frowning?”

Jared thrust the disturbing thoughts of his grandfather out of his mind and focused instead on his attractive playmate in this weekend’s game. “It’s nothing.”

“So, do you have a plan, or backup, or anything?”

“I can take care of myself.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the small, fake handgun, which would be useful only if she pulled out a cigar and asked for a light. Her eyes widened, so he slid it back into his pocket, patting the bulge in the leather jacket. “As you can see, I came prepared. We’ll be fine.”

She pursed her bottom lip. “I don’t particularly care for guns. But my Aunt Hildy knows how to handle one.”

Aunt Hildy. Another player? “Is she here this weekend?”

“Oh, of course.” Then she frowned. “We have to keep her in the dark about this. Aunt Hildy is a trifle…eccentric. If she had the faintest idea what was going on, she’d want to start snooping in rooms or doing full body searches of the guests.”

Jared briefly considered offering to help with the full body searches—at least of one particular guest. The one sitting beside him, looking so damn sexy he couldn’t think straight.

“Okay, we won’t tell her,” he agreed.

“So, should we, uh, do anything right now?”

Oh, yeah, he could definitely think of some things he’d like to be doing right now. But he had the feeling she was talking about the game, not about hot and heavy sex. “I don’t think so,” he replied. “I could just use a little time to formulate a strategy.”

“About what’s going to happen this weekend?”

“Right.” He smiled. “About what’s going to happen in this house this weekend.”
Hopefully, quite a lot
.

At some point, they’d have to get serious. No way was he leaving here without knowing her true identity, address and phone number. But for right now, at least, he was having far too much fun to drop the act.

And why shouldn’t he have some fun? Do something different to break up the monotony, to make him feel in on the action, like he was a social being, after being exactly the opposite for so long?

Jared Winchester, the writer, was a reserved, introspective thinker. A loner. Self-reliant, self-sufficient. He worked alone, spending hours every day poring over case files, interviews and histories. He tried to get into the minds of people who’d committed some horrific crimes, and also to tap into the emotion and reactions felt by their victims.

He hadn’t made much effort to socialize with others outside his circle in ages. His friends were people like him, with the same interests. Understandable, perhaps. But so very boring.

He almost didn’t remember the kind of man he’d been before he’d become Jared Winchester, criminalist, former FBI profiler, true-crime novelist and internationally known serial-murder expert. He could hardly recall what it was like to be nothing but the oldest grandson of a respected family in a small, close-knit town. Nor why he’d run like hell away from here as soon as he was old enough to do so. Particularly now, when for the first time in ages he had such a strong sense of being in the right place, at the right time, for all the right reasons.

Maybe this weekend—during the craziest, wildest holiday season of the year—he’d have a chance to figure out what those reasons were. Perhaps, as Miles Stone, he could do exactly that.

Because Stone was a different type of man altogether. The secret agent was a dangerous, provocative daredevil. A thrill-seeker, a live-in-the-moment guy who’d face danger with as much enthusiasm as he’d face a beautiful blonde in a white negligee.

There really was no deciding. For the next few days, he would
be
Miles Stone. And maybe, in doing so, he could figure out just who the hell Jared Winchester was.

G
WEN DIDN’T THINK
she’d ever been as attracted to a man who, by all rights, should have scared the bejesus out of her. He didn’t, though. After those first few minutes, she’d honestly felt very comfortable with this dark, handsome stranger.

Well, comfortable wasn’t the right word, since she was alert, edgy and aware of every move he made, and of every answering quiver in her own body. But she wasn’t afraid of him. She didn’t itch to get away, to seek the safety of her own room. She wanted to stay, which surprised her. Since being so badly burned by Rick, her ex-fiancé, she hadn’t trusted any man well enough to even engage him in conversation.

She snuck a surreptitious glance at the wall clock. Going on an hour now. Some kind of record. Another sixty minutes and it would be nearly midnight, the witching hour, on Halloween. She shivered lightly, but not with fear…with pure anticipation.