Trick Me, Treat Me

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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 contact 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.”

4

JARED 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.