Trick Me, Treat Me. Leslie Kelly

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.

      â€œYou 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?”

      â€œYou’ve heard of the FBI, the CIA, the Secret Service, the Department of Homeland Security?”

      â€œSure.”

      â€œWe’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!

      â€œI 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.

      â€œAnd you think he might be here? In Derryville?” She heard the skepticism in her own voice.

      â€œI 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.”

      â€œWho is she?”

      â€œNot 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?”

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

      She raised an inquiring brow.

      â€œCounterfeiters.”

      Her jaw dropped.

      â€œDouble-check any money they give you.”

      â€œThey 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.

      â€œAll 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