Dead and Loving It (2 page)

G
iselle Smith watched the visitor from Planet Hunk stride away. When he'd rushed up to her, she had nearly dropped her bell. There she was, jangling for charity, and then Hunk Man was
right there.
She couldn't believe the speed at which he'd moved.

His hair was a deep, true auburn. His eyes were a funny kind of brown, so light they were nearly gold. His nose was a blade, and his mouth—oooh, his mouth! A girl could stare at it and think…oh, all sorts of things. He was tall, too; she had to crane her neck to look at him. Over six feet, for sure. Shoulders like a swimmer. Knee-length black wool coat, probably worth a grand at least. Black gloves covering big hands; the guy looked like he could palm a basketball, no problem.

He had come charging across the street to, of all things, ask her to lunch. And to give her thousands—thousands!—of dollars.

Her, Giselle Smith. Boring brown hair, dirt-colored eyes. Too short and definitely too heavy. The most interesting thing about her was her name—which people always got wrong anyway.

Obviously a serial killer,
she thought sadly.
Well, we'll have lunch in a public place where I can scream my head off if he starts sharpening his knives.

It was too bad. He was really something. What the hell could a guy like that want from a nobody like her?

 

Alec watched the woman (he was still angry at himself for not getting her name…or giving his, for that matter) from halfway down the block. His spot was excellent: he could see her perfectly and, better, he was downwind.

He thought about their conversation and cursed himself again. He'd babbled like a moron, ordered her to lunch, stared at her like she was Little Red Riding Hood. Yes, like Little Red…
hmmmmm.

He wrenched his mind from that delectable mental image
(the better to eat you with, my dear…eat you all…up!)
and concentrated on thinking about what an idiot he had been. It was a miracle the woman had said yes. It was a miracle she hadn't hit him over the head with her bell. He had to be very careful at lunch; it was imperative she not spook. He thanked God he was weeks away from his Change; if he'd caught her scent any closer to the full moon, he'd have scared the pants off her. Literally.

God, she was so
adorable.
Look at her, shaking her little bell for all she was worth. Many people stopped (pulled in, no doubt, by her allure) and threw money in her bucket. As they should! They should give her gold bullion, they should lay roses at her feet, they—

He pushed away from the wall, appalled; someone hadn't put money in! An expensively dressed man in his late thirties had used the bucket to make change and went on his merry way.

Alec got moving. In no time, he had closed the distance and flanked the man, snaked out a hand, and pulled him into a handy alley.

“Wha-aaaggh!”

“This is cashmere,” Alec said, his hand fisting in the man's coat.

“Let go of me,” the man squeaked, reeking of stale piss—the smell of fear. “Or I'll yell rape!”

“Your shoes,” Alec continued, undaunted, “are from Gerbard in London and didna cost you less than eight hundred pounds.” Only Samuel Gerbard used that kind of supple leather when making his footwear; the smell was distinctive. “And that's a Coach briefcase.”

“Gggglllkkkk!”

Perhaps he was holding the man a little too firmly. Alec released his grip. “The point is, you c'n stand to share a little this holiday season.”

“Wha?”

“Go back,” he growled, “and put money. In. The bucket.”

He let go. The man fled. In the right direction—toward his Santa sweetie.

A minute later, Alec was back at his post. He checked his watch for the thirtieth time in the last half hour. Ninety minutes to go. An eternity.

An eternity later, at 11:57, he realized the skulking teenagers were ready to make their move. The three of them had been casing the block for the last fifteen minutes, had been watching his lunch date much too closely. It was the bucket, of course; they wanted lunch money…or the eight grand he'd dropped in. It would be laughable, except one of them smelled like gun oil, which meant Alec had to take some care.

Their path took them right past him; he reached out and slammed the one with the gun into the side of the building. The boy—a child in his late teens—flopped bonelessly to the sidewalk.

His friends were a little slow to catch on, but they finally turned when they nearly tripped over their unconscious leader. And then they saw Alec, standing over the unconscious punk, smiling. Well, showing them all his teeth, anyway. “Take somebody else's bucket,” he said. Oh, wait, that was the wrong message entirely. “Don't take anybody's bucket,” he called after them, but it was too late. They were running away.

He looked at his watch again. It was noon!

I
t's Giselle,” she said to Hunka Hunka Burnin' Love. “Giselle Smith. And you're…?”

“Alec Kilcurt. You have a lovely name.”

“Yeah, thanks. About that. The never-ending compliments. What is your deal? Now that I'm out of costume, you can see I'm nothing special.”

He laughed at her.

She frowned but continued. “Too short, too heavy—”

He laughed harder.

“—but you keep complimenting me, and I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. You're a census-taker, right? A salesman? You want to sell me a fridge. A timeshare. A kidney. Stop laughing!”

He finally sobered up, although the occasional snort escaped. He snapped his fingers, and the glorious redhead at the next table, who'd been studying him while pretending to powder her nose, gave him her full attention. Her eyelashes fluttered. She licked her red, glistening lips.

Alec held out his hand, and after a puzzled moment, the redhead placed her compact in his palm.

“Obliged,” he said carelessly. Then he snapped it open and showed it to Giselle. “This is what my people call a mirror,” he said in his ultra-cool Scottish brogue. “Y' should spend more time looking in one.”

“I know what a mirror is, you goob,” she snapped. “Too damn well. Stop shaking that thing at me, or you won't get anything nice for Christmas.” She nudged the bag at her foot that held her Santa costume. “I've got friends in high places.”

“Are you getting angry with me?” he asked, delighted. He handed the compact back to the redhead with barely a glance.

“Yes, a little. You don't have to look so happy about it.”

“Sorry. It's just…I'm a lot bigger than you are.”

“And almost as smart,” she said brightly.

“Most women find me a little intimidating.” He smiled at her. Giselle felt her stomach tighten and then roll over lazily. God, what a grin. “In my…family…we treasure women who speak their minds.”

“Then you've won the lottery today, pal. And you never answered my question. What are you up to?”

He reached out, and his big hand closed over her small, cold one. His thumb burrowed into her palm and stroked it. Her stomach did another slow roll, one she felt distinctly lower. “Why, I'm seducing you, of course,” he murmured.

Multiple internal alarms went off. “Who
are
you?” she said, almost gasped.

“No one special. Just a lord looking for his lady.”

“Oh, you've got a title, too? Well, of course you do. That's the way this day is going.”

“It's Laird Kilcurt.”

“But your name is Kilcurt. Isn't your title supposed to be completely different? Like Alec Kilcurt, laird of Toll House? Or something?”

He laughed. “Something. But my family does things a little differently. Too bad…I like the idea of being laird of chocolate chips.”

The waiter came, refreshed their drinks, and put down the two dozen oysters she'd ordered. She pulled her hand away, not without major reluctance. She figured this was her first and last date with the man, so she'd ordered recklessly. He'd probably flip out when the bill came. He probably spent all his money on clothes and, given his trim waistline, only ate porridge once a day.

Wrong again. He nodded approvingly at the ridiculous size of her appetizer. He was leaning back in his chair, studying her. He had, if it was possible, gotten even better looking since morning. The expensive coat was off, revealing a splendid build showcased to perfection in a dark gray suit. His brogue, she noticed, came and went, depending on the topic of conversation.

“You haven't lived in Scotland your entire life,” she observed, sucking down her second daiquiri. Normally not a big drinker, she felt the need for booze today.

“No. My family often had business on Cape Cod, so I spent a lot of time in Massachusetts. And I went to Harvard for graduate school. I've probably lived in America as many years as I've lived in Scotland.”

Titled, gorgeous, rich, smart. Was she on
Candid Camera
, or what? “That makes sense…I noticed your accent comes and goes. I mean, sometimes it's really faint, and sometimes it's pretty heavy.”

“It's heavy,” he replied, “when I'm tired. Or angry. Or…excited.”

“Okay, that's
it,
” she said, slamming down her glass. “Who
are
you? What do you want with me? I made eighteen thousand dollars last year. I'm poor, plain, cursed with childbearing hips—and ass—and I'm prospect-less. What the hell are you doing with me?”

His eyes went narrow. “I'll have to find the people who convinced you of such things. And have a long chat with them.”

“Answer the question, Groundskeeper Willie, or I'm out of here.”

He looked puzzled at her pop culture reference, but he shrugged and answered easily enough. “I'm planning to spend the day getting you into my bed. And I'm thinking about marrying you.
That's
what I'm doing with you, my charming little chocolate treat.”

She felt her mouth pop open and felt her face get red. If this was a joke, it was a pretty mean one. If he was serious, he was out of his fucking mind. She seized on the one thing she could safely question. “Chocolate treat?”

“Your eyes are the color of really good chocolate…Godiva milk, I think. And your hair looks like fudge sauce. Rich and dark. It contrasts nicely with your pale, pale skin. Your rosy cheeks are the…cherry on top.”

She downed the rest of her drink in two monster gulps.

I
'm sorry,” she groaned. Sweaty strands of hair clung limply to her face and temples.

“It's all right lass.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“Don't fret. I've been puked on before.”

She groaned again, this time in complete humiliation. She hadn't thrown up near him. Hadn't thrown up around him. Had actually barfed
on
him. On
him
!

“You promised to kill me,” she reminded him hoarsely. The elevator doors slid open, and he scooped her easily into his arms and carried her down the hallway. “Don't forget.”

His chest rumbled as he choked down a laugh. “Now, I didna promise to kill you, sweetheart. Just to take you up to my room so you c'n get your strength back.”

“I'll be all right once I get off my feet,” she lied. Death was coming for her! She could feel its icy grip on the back of her neck. Or was that the ice from her third—fourth?—daiquiri? “Just need to get off my feet,” she said again.

“Sweetie, you're off them.”

“Oh shut up. What do you know?” she said crossly, getting more and more dizzy as the ceiling tiles raced by. “And slow down. And kill me!”

“Usually ladies wait until the second date before begging me for death,” he said, straight-faced. He paused outside a door, shifted his weight, and somehow managed to produce the card key, unlock the door, and sweep her inside without putting her down.

Two hotel maids and a woman in a red business suit were waiting for them. Giselle had a vague memory of the woman in red examining her while the sound of running water went on and on in the next room. She kept fuzzing…that was the only way to describe it. One moment things would be crystal clear—too sharp, too loud—and the next she could barely hear them for their mumbling. It was annoying, and she told them so. Repeatedly.

“—lukewarm bath will make all the difference—”

“—just got so sick, it's verra worrisome—”

“—mild food poisoning—”

“—she'll be okay in no—”

“—close to your Change for it to be a problem?”

“—canceled my flight earlier so she can—”

“—push fluids—”

She reached up blindly. What's-his-name

(Alec? Alex?)
caught her hand and held it tightly. “What is it, sweetie? D'you want something to drink?”

“No, I want you to STOP YELLING! How can I quietly expire if you keep screaming?”

“We'll try t'keep it down.”

“An' don't humor me, either,” she mumbled. “Oh, now, what's this happy crappy?” Because now she was being undressed and helped off the bed. “Look, stop this! Isn't there an ice bucket or a hammer or something in here? All you have to do is hit me in the head
really hard,
and my problems will be over.”

“You'll feel better in twenty-four hours!” the woman in red screamed.

“Jesus, do I have to get out the hand puppets so you people understand? Not so loud! And I'll be dead—
dead
—in twenty-four hours, thank you very much, and—where are we going?”

The bathroom. Specifically, the bathtub. She started to protest that a change of temperature in her state would kill her, but the lukewarm water felt so blissful she stopped in mid-squawk.

And that was all. For a very long time.

 

Giselle woke up and knew two things at once: 1) she would burst if she didn't get to a bathroom within seconds and 2) she was ravenous.

She stumbled through the darkness into the bathroom, availed herself of the facilities for what felt like half a day, and brushed her teeth with the new toothbrush she found on the counter.

While she swished and gargled and spat, the day's humiliating events came back to her. Working the bell, meeting Alec, being wined and dined—and God, he'd been
flirting
with her!—then throwing up on him
(groan)
and the table tipping away from her.

Everything after that was, as they say, a blur. Mercifully so. She wondered where Alec was. She wondered where
she
was.

She stepped back into the hotel room—Alec's hotel room—and stole to the window. She saw an astonishing view of the New England Aquarium and, beyond that, Boston harbor. It was very late—after midnight but well before dawn; the sky was utterly black, but there was little traffic moving.

So she was on the wharf, then. Probably the Longwharf Marriott. She'd often wondered, walking by, what it would be like to stay there with someone glorious.

Well, now she knew.

She turned to look for the light and saw Alec for the first time. He was sitting in the chair by the door, watching her. His eyes gleamed at her from the near dark.

She screamed and would have fallen out the window if it had been open. As it was, she rapped her head a good one on the glass.

“Yes, a typical date in nearly every respect,” he said by way of greeting.

“And a good evening to you, too, dammit!”

“Morning, actually.”

“You scared the
crap
out of me.” When she'd first seen him—it was a trick of the light, obviously—but his eyes had…well, had seemed to gleam in the dark, the way a cat's did at night. Very off-putting, to say the least. “Your eyes—Jesus!”

“The better to see you with, my dear. And it's Alec.”

“Very funny.” She leaned against the radiator, panting from the adrenaline rush. “Never do that again.”

“Sorry.” He swallowed a chuckle. “I was watching you sleep. When you got up and made such a determined beeline to the bathroom, I was afraid to do anything that might slow you down. Were you sick again, sweetie?”

“Uh, no. And about this afternoon—”

“When you—er—gifted me with your daiquiris and oysters and swordfish and hash browns and
tarte tatin
?”

“Let's never speak of it again,” she said determinedly.

He laughed, delighted; stood in such an abrupt movement if she'd blinked she'd have missed it; and crossed the room. In another moment, he was holding her hands. “I'm so glad t'see you're better,” he said with such obvious sincerity she smiled—for the first time in hours, it seemed. “I was worried.” Except in his charming brogue, it came out
sae glad tae see yerrr betterrrrrr. Ai wooz worred.

“I'm pretty damned glad to be feeling better myself. God, I've never been so sick! I guess I'd be a terrible alcoholic,” she confessed.

“It wasna the alcohol. The doctor said it was food poisoning. I'fact, this hotel is full…quite a few guests of the restaurant suffered from the oysters and are resting up because of it.”

She thought she ought to pull her hands out of his grip, but she couldn't bring herself to take the step. His hands around hers were warm—almost hot—and looking up into his unbelievable face was just too good right now. “What doctor? Was she the lady in the red dress? I remember someone in red who wouldn't stop with the shrieking…”

Alec's lips quirked in a smile. “Dr. Madison is a verra soft-spoken woman, actually. You were just sensitive to noise while you were sick. I called her when you—uh—”

“Remember. We're not speaking of it.”

“—became indisposed,” he finished delicately, but he wouldn't quit smiling. “She helped me take care of you.”

“Oh.” Touched, she squeezed his hands. “Thanks, Alec. I guess I was a lucky girl to be out with you.”

“Lucky?” The smile dropped away. “It was my fault you got sick, so the least I could—”

“Your fault? Held me down and shoveled in the oysters, did you?” she said dryly. “Hardly. In case you haven't noticed the inordinate size of my ass, I'm a girl with a healthy appetite. I got so incredibly sick because I ate so incredibly much.”

He squeezed her fingers in response. She had a sudden sense of crushing power held in check. “I adore your ass.”
Ai adorrrre yuir arse.
Was she crazy, or was his brogue getting thicker by the second? What had he said? That it came out when he was angry or…

Or…

She snatched her hands out of his grip. “Paws off, monkey boy. Time for me to get the hell out of here.”

“I'd prefer it if you didn't call me that,” he said, mildly enough. “It's quite an insult where I come from.”

“They've got a real mad-on against monkeys in Scotland, eh? Whatever. Gotta go now, it's been fun, buh-bye.”

“Can't go.” He folded his arms across his chest and smirked at her. “Your clothes were quite ruined in the incident-that-shall-ne'er-be-named.”

For the first time, she realized she was wearing a flannel nightgown. It had a demure lace collar that scratched her chin, and the hem fell about three inches past her toes.
How could she not have noticed this before?
She'd just used the bathroom, for God's sake. Sure, she'd had to pee so bad nothing else had registered, but…she made a quick grab and found she
was
wearing her old panties beneath the gown. Whew!

His eyebrows arched while she groped herself, but he wisely said nothing. “The doctor said you needed rest and quiet until you—er—purged your—”

“Oh, Christ.”

“Anyway.” He turned brisk. “I had the staff send up something for you to sleep in.”

Any thoughts he was embarked on sinister seduction fled as she fingered the gray flannel. She felt like an extra on
Little House on the Prairie.
“Thanks.” She smiled in spite of herself. “Flannel?”

He shrugged. “It's cold where I come from. I wanted you to be comfortable.”

“And I am,” she assured him with a straight face. “But I would be more comfortable if I got the hell out of a stranger's hotel room.”

“Stranger?” He grinned at her, all devil and mischief. “After all we've been through today? Shame!”

She laughed; she couldn't help it. Quick as thought, his hand came up and caught one of her curls. He pulled it and watched it spring back. Uck. “Sorry.”

“Don't, now.”

“No, really…I know, I look like Bozo the Clown on mescaline. If Bozo didn't have red hair. And was really short. And was a woman. You should see it in the summer…giant fuzzball! Hide your children!”

He was eyeballing her hair. “I'd like to see it in the summer.”

“Okey-dokey,” she said, humoring him, “and
I
would love to see my uniform. I can wear my Santa suit on the subway home.”

“At two o'clock in the morning? Alone?” He sounded mortally offended. “I think not. Besides—” His voice became sly. “Aren't you hungry?”

Hungry! Oh, God, no one in the history of Santa bellin' for bucks had ever been this hungry. She actually swayed on her feet at the thought of eating.

“That's my girl. Let's call room service. Anything you want.”

“I'll have to get my wallet—”

He frowned forbiddingly. “Do not get your wallet.”

“Fine. We'll fight about it later. Where's the menu? God, I could eat a
cow.
”

“I know the feeling.”

She ordered a steak
au jus,
rare, with mashed potatoes and gravy, broccoli, and half a loaf of wild rice bread. “This is going to be really expensive,” she warned him. “Are you sure I can't…?”

“Quite sure. It's such a relief to be with a woman who eats.” He sat beside her on the bed and sighed. “I'll never understand the American custom of starvation. You're the richest country in the world, and the women don't eat.”

“Hey, not guilty. As you can see by the size of my ass.”

“Tempting. Let's see how well you do with your dinner first.”

She glanced uncertainly at him and caught his low-lidded look. It seemed incredible, but the man was actually turned on at the thought of her nontoned ass. His words hadn't been enough to convince her, but his thickening brogue was telling.

It was all very strange. Not to mention marvelous. And oh-so-slightly alarming.