Hot and Haunted Read online

  Of course he had a flashlight. He probably had a first-aid kit and survival rations, too. He seemed like the type.

  I watched through the rain-splattered window. Normally I’d have been the first one out of the car—well, the real me would have been. The character that I’d created for myself tonight wouldn’t have budged an inch, though, certain that a man would do whatever was required for her, so I fought the fidgets and stayed still. It wasn’t that much of a hardship to watch him trudge through the rain, after all—I hadn’t really been able to tell before, but Dr. Brody the Optometrist actually had a pretty nice build. He was tall, almost ridiculously so, and lean too. I could see the outlines of firm muscles as he braced against the car, though, muscles that saved him from being gawky, and, involuntarily, I licked my lips. Licked them, then chastised myself.

  Tonight was just to prove a point to myself. That was all. I was through with men, for the time being at any rate. But before the night was over, I’d feel better about myself, so help me whoever was up there.

  Still, Dr. Brody the Optometrist might not be such a bad candidate to pass the time with, after all. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea of some alone time with him.

  Brody stumbled back into the car, drenched. With him came a blast of heat, a slice of the thick, gooey night, and the syrupy warmth felt good on my damp skin.

  “Well?” I asked, thinking that maybe the breathy Marilyn Monroe tone I’d been practicing would ease the harsh sound of the question.

  Then again, maybe not, because he shot me an exasperated glare. “Yes. We’re stuck. Completely, totally, and utterly stuck.”

  His tone sent tendrils of anger curling through my system.

  “Are you sure?” It occurred to me that Brody the Brain might be annoyed by the pestering questions of a little redhead who was silly enough to get out of a car in the middle of a thunderstorm. Getting a reaction, however, was half the point. My complete lack of self- consciousness—conscious self-consciousness, I snickered to myself—though, seemed to intrigue him, so that he was amused rather than insulted when he replied.

  “Yes, I am sure,” he told me in a voice not all that different from what might be used on a slightly addle-brained toddler. “The bumper is wedged into the side of the ditch, and the wheels are glued down in mud.”

  “Oh.” I blinked flirtatiously. “Well, what do you want to do to pass the time?”

  “There’s not much we can do,” I was informed. “We’ve called Triple A. They’re backed up for hours because of the storm. All I have in here is a bottle of cheap wine, which I was planning on drinking tonight—and that obviously isn’t going to happen—and a magazine, and anyway, it’s too dark to read.”

  “You have a flashlight,” I pointed out, genuinely intrigued by the last possibility. “What kind of a magazine? Is it dirty, Doc?”

  I was kidding—mostly—but when he just stared, seemingly taken aback by my brashness, I grinned, a genuine smile, knowing that I’d caught him red-handed and that he was slightly embarrassed to admit it.

  Taking his silence for affirmation, I chuckled with genuine amusement. I couldn’t say I’d ever read a skin magazine, but once again, I’d succeeded in getting a reaction—and heaven knew there wasn’t much else to do. Kneeling in my seat, I reached into the back, rooting around until I found the glossy magazine in its brown paper bag.

  The position afforded Brody an excellent view of my ass in the clingy wet cloth, and, from the harsh intake of his breath as I wriggled, he definitely noticed.

  I settled into my seat again, clicking the flashlight on. I tore the protective plastic off the magazine and noticed out of the corner of my eye that Brody was at a complete loss for words. I could just imagine what was going through his head—never before had he come across a woman who was even remotely interested in the smutty magazines that most men collect by the dozens. Was he supposed to look at it with me? Politely turn away? Hell, he hadn’t even read the damn thing yet.

  I was silent as I turned the pages, shining the light on each slick surface, studying, absorbing as he watched and pretended not to. Slowly, I became aware, very aware of his breathing; at first light and deep, it got faster and shallow whenever he saw something he liked.

  I heard a light, barely whispered curse and flicked my eyes his way just in time to see his cock twitch against the rough denim of his jeans. I held in a smirk, knowing that, if he was anything like most men, he’d be thinking frantically of the last baseball game he’d seen, just so that he wouldn’t disgrace himself in front of a stranger.

  Personally, I couldn’t see that it would be all his fault if he did. What kind of woman sits brazenly in a stranger’s car, in a dress made sheer by the rain, looking eagerly at a porn mag? In fact, I’d be thrilled if he gave away his rising excitement, dangerous as I knew the game that I was playing was. It didn’t make me feel very good about myself, what I was about to do, and yet the nagging voice inside my head kept urging me to do it. I needed something, anything about myself to cause a big reaction, the big bang that showed me I wasn’t worthless. That I wasn’t frigid, or cold, or boring enough to drive a man into another woman’s arms. Again.

  Really, I should have planned this elaborate scenario for Kyle—he was the one I wanted to punish, after all. But Kyle wasn’t here, so Brody would have to do.

  With a look on his face that showed that he knew he was in slightly over his head, Brody reached into the backseat and procured the bottle of wine from its bag. It was a cheap bottle, with a screw-on lid, which he cracked open. He gulped noisily, big swallows that I could see working down his throat, making his Adam’s apple bob. He offered the bottle to me. I sipped, and merlot slid down my throat, rich and sweet, and I felt slightly better when my blood began to hum with the effects of the alcohol.

  To be polite, I refrained from drinking too much and instead turned and offered the bottle back. He grasped it gratefully but spilled crimson liquid on his hand as he saw that the magazine, spread wide open in my lap, was displaying a close-up view of a thin redhead, one who bore enough of a resemblance to me that I was sure he’d make the connection. The erotic connection, since the woman was contorted into a position that left nothing, absolutely nothing, to the imagination.

  I wanted him to see me that way. Wanted him to want me like that, wanted it with an urgency that overtook everything else I was feeling. Really, I couldn’t have planned it better.

  “Wanna see?” I handed him the magazine in a calculated gesture; he dutifully looked at it again, studying it so soberly that I fought the urge to chuckle. He shifted in his seat, trying, I assumed, to assuage the ache that was starting deep in his groin as he studied the picture of the woman. Her left hand had strayed down, down to the juncture of her naked thighs. Long, slender fingers caressed a deeply toned clit, a clit that was displayed between two fleshy, naked lips like a pit in a ripe, juicy peach.

  When his eyes began to dilate, and his gaze slid to the girl’s right hand, which was frozen on her tiny, tart-looking nipples, I reached for his hand. He jumped at the touch, and rich red wine sloshed out of the glass bottle, painting his skin with its color. I sipped the spilled wine from his hand, bit by bit, grinning internally as he shifted, brutally quick, to arrange the magazine in his lap.

  The feel of my rough, hot tongue on the cool fleshy pads of his hand, licking and sucking, had made him visibly as hard as stone.

  I caught his open-mouthed gaze and, with a last flick of my tongue, released his hand.

  “Sorry.” My voice was again full of practiced huskiness. “It just looked so good.”

  By this point the poor man looked more turned-on, and more confused, than he had probably ever been in his life. But I wanted him more so—more turned-on, more confused. Befuddled by my very presence. So I stole back the magazine, slammed it shut, and tossed it carelessly into the backseat.

  “So.” I looked him square in the eye. “Do you have a girlfriend?” His fingers moved