Текст книги "If You Dare"

Автор книги: Jessica Lemmon

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 12 страниц)

Chapter Two

Halfway back to her car, her phone buzzed from the pocket of her jeans. She knew who it was without looking. Sure enough, a text message from Mr. Wonderful read, there yet fraidy cat?

Ignore him, a mature, self-reliant voice asserted.

After debating for two seconds, she keyed in the word jerkwad and sent the text.

She’d never been good at listening to reason. Obviously. She angled her head up to the second story, where filthy windows clouded with dust and decay seemed to transform into yawning faces with soulless eyes. The human brain often put together random shapes into an order it could understand, she knew. There were no faces gaping back at her from the upstairs window, just her overactive imagination seeing things where it shouldn’t.

She closed her eyes and then reopened them. Nothing but dirty glass and yellowed lace curtains. A shudder snaked up her spine anyway.

She spun on the heel of one sneaker, went to her trunk again, and dragged out a giant tote filled with bedding, a shiny new Coleman lantern, and a few hundred dollars’ worth of supplies from the local sporting goods store. Then she hauled her booty up the short staircase to the door and kicked it open.

Marcus would laugh his tight butt off if he saw her lugging all this crap in to stay one night. But “roughing it” wasn’t part of the bet.

They had finished their beers and game shortly after the dare was made. Marcus had won, further fueling her flair for competition.

“When you succumb to white hot terror and run screaming into the hills”—he’d tugged his brown bomber jacket over impossibly wide shoulders, and she’d tried really, really hard not to admire the way the chest muscles rippled with the movement—“what do I get?”

“What, my terror and abject humiliation aren’t enough?”

“Satisfying, but no.”

She’d pressed her lips together to keep from smiling and asked, “What did you have in mind?”

He hadn’t hesitated. “The annual RSD dinner.”

“That’s it? I go to that every year.”

“As my date,” he’d clarified.

She doubted she’d successfully hidden her shock. The man had shown up to the last three Retail Space Design dinners with a different blonde du jour. It wasn’t as if he was hard up for a woman to accompany him. His dates’ duties seemed to include: laughing at his jokes, holding champagne flutes between perfectly manicured fingers, and worshipping his every footstep.

She pictured herself in that role and snorted.

He sent a long, slow gaze up and down her body and she swore she felt it like a sizzling brand. “Do you own any outfits that don’t make you look like you never miss a Wall Street Journal?”

Self-consciously, she fingered the two buttons holding her Calvin Klein blazer closed. “I like this suit.”

He took a deliberate step closer, making her face grow warm. “I didn’t say I didn’t like the suit.” His suggestive murmur, and the way he brushed her fingers aside to touch a button on her jacket drew her in. She found herself staring at his mouth, evaluating the shape of his lips, and calculating how far she’d have to rise on her toes to press her lips to his. Not far.

She came to her senses, albeit a bit late, but managed to jerk away from him. He backed off instantly, his eyes shuttering, his smug grin locking back into place. Did she imagine the moment of mutual lust?

“When I win,” he said, “You have to wear a cocktail dress.”

“I do own a cocktail dress, you know.”

“A short one.”

“It’s short. I have great legs.” She noticed his eyes slide down her body again and she resisted the urge to squirm.

“And no panties.”

“Marcus!” She crossed her arms defiantly, but felt her face go hot at the suggestion. Felt all of her go hot at the suggestion.

“It’s Hawaii,” he said, spreading his arms wide. “If you expect me to toss it into this bet, you need to up the ante on your side.” She tried to laugh him off, but he stared her down while she waited for her cab. Finally, when the yellow-checkered vehicle pulled up, he prompted her with, “We agree, then?”

On the way home, she would try and figure out why he would ask her to be his date to the dinner he likely already had a date for. He had to be messing with her. She’d shot down his advances before. Maybe this was him taunting her, trying to put the one thing on the line that would make her balk. If he thought she would let Hawaii go on the prospect of her going sans-underpants, he had another thing coming.

“No panties,” she shot back, noting the helpful cabbie had stepped out of the car and craned an interested eyebrow. “But you can’t touch me below the shoulders.”

The slow spread of his smile made her tingle everywhere. “Oh, honey. You have no idea what I’m capable of above the shoulders.”

It was the thought that had followed her all the way home. And into bed.

Of course, the next morning she plodded into work with the mother of all hangovers. Not to miss a chance to tip the scales, Marcus made sure to try and psyche her out as often as possible.

He swung into her office, holding onto the doorframe with one hand and gripping a crowbar in the other. “Hope the cops don’t catch you. B and Es include fines and jail time.” If she’d been a hundred percent, she would have Googled his claim to see if it were true. Instead, she’d held out a hand and accepted the length of iron.

This morning, she was sipping her second cup of coffee when the email icon at the bottom of her computer screen flickered.

Lil, thought you might like to know who you’re up against tonight. Happy Friday the 13 th ! M.

She opened the attachment, and then wished she hadn’t. A scanned newspaper article, so old the edges of the periodical were torn and faded, boasted the header: WOMAN FALLS TO HER DEATH, POLICE SAY SUICIDE. Lily read through the article about Essie Mae Epson and her leap from the second story window. The article was tame compared to the rich urban legend that surrounded the place. The rumors of Essie’s suicide being a murder at her husband’s hands, the phantom voices on the property, a woman in white, and the general feeling of unease…

But that’s all they are. Rumors.

Now, standing outside of Willow Mansion, the world seemed utterly normal.

The birds chirped, the leaves rustled in the breeze, and cars and semis rumbled down the highway in the distance. Friday the thirteenth or not, she was standing in warm sunlight, breathing air infused with the fragrances of fall, and the big, scary mansion appeared more neglected than eerie.

Yes, the “Legend of Essie Mae” still looped her brain like a stock car in a race, but she found herself wondering if a woman named Essie had ever actually lived there. She had no proof the article about Essie’s suicide wasn’t Photoshopped. Marcus was a designer, and she wouldn’t put it past him to stack the deck in his favor. He was a practical joker at his core.

Besides, she had this. She may have balked at age fourteen, but now an adult, she could look at the house as just a structure. A structure that was an eyesore, not the site of a demonic possession. But the thought supposed to make her feel better somewhat stalled her mental rounds of “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”

Keeping her toes lined up with the threshold, she poked just her chin into the house. Boarded-up windows lined the other side of the murky living room, dust motes kicking up in the streams of sunlight eking their way through the gaps of the boards. To the right stood what appeared to be a treacherous staircase. The steps were warped, the railing missing every other spindle. With one final steadying breath, she hoisted her supplies in her arms, steeled her spine, and stepped inside.

The pungent aroma of waterlogged floorboards hit her first. The light poking through showed no more than the gloomy outline of a leaf-strewn floor and a decaying stone fireplace.

Okay, so at the moment, she didn’t feel like she had this. What she felt mostly…was creeped out.

Something skittered up the patterned wallpaper to her right, but she refused to turn her head. Her peripheral vision made out enough of the long, shining body and waving antennae to know who she’d be bunking with tonight. She shuddered.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t thought to put Raid on her shopping list.

Disgust sat like a lump in her throat, but she gulped it down with purpose and tossed her supplies onto the center of the living room floor. The massive space would make for a workable ground zero. She could blow up the air mattress and surround herself with the comforts of home. It probably wouldn’t even feel like an allegedly haunted mansion by the time she got set up.

She kicked a downed spindle, and it rolled and hit the baseboard at the edge of the staircase with an echoing thud. One last thought about the shadow-faces peering down at her from upstairs, and it was decided: downstairs would have to do. No way was she going anywhere near the second story.

A doorway stood to her left, and she ventured over, poking her head inside. The wide kitchen was big enough for several servants, and well lit thanks to a few large, still-intact windows on that side of the house. But the warped linoleum, bones of dead mice or rats—hard to say at that level of decomposition—and door-less cabinets encrusted with cobwebs kept the room from being mistaken for cozy.

Funny, she thought as she turned back, the living room is charming by comparison.

A loud bang made her jump and a pathetic little Meep! exit her lips. The front door hung open, leaves blowing across the entryway. After her heart restarted, she blew out a breath of relief. It was only the wind. Likely a sister gust to the one that had dropped that shutter so near her head earlier.

Certainly not a ghost trying to spook her out of her room and board for the night.

A few structural uncertainties weren’t going to send her fleeing. Wouldn’t Marcus love that? If one little bump in the waning daylight sent her running…Nuh-uh. No way. He wasn’t winning this bet before it started.

If the only prize from this ridiculous bet was her proving she was strong and brave and capable, then it would be worth it. Even better, she could reflect on her personal growth while sipping a rum-infused drink out of a hulled coconut in Oahu. Ah, that made her smile.

She made one final trip outside to retrieve the rest of her supplies. As she shouldered her purse, she recalled Marcus’s smug expression as she’d pulled that same handbag over her shoulder at the bar on Wednesday. He thought she was girlie and delicate, but she was about to prove herself part warrior. Or something.

Let’s do this.

Bravery renewed, she reminded herself she’d suffer nothing worse than dust allergies during her night behind the mansion’s walls.

The grocery bag in the crook of her arm was filled with the essentials. Wine, check. Bottled water, check. iPad, check. Dinner from her favorite local restaurant, check.

At the mansion’s front door, she cast one last look at the surrounding woods and long, cracked driveway. She’d parked off to one side, behind a low-hanging weeping willow and overgrown brush. Satisfied her car was hidden from the road, she punched the lock button on her key fob and smiled at the answering cheery beep.

“Hawaii, here I come.” With that last thought warming her, she headed into the dark house and shut the door behind her.

Chapter Three

“I don’t know why I had to come with you.”

Marcus stopped climbing the weed-infested hill to glare at his recently-turned-wussy best friend. “What are you bitching about? I’m the one with Hawaii on the line.”

“Yeah, and that trip was technically mine.” Clive pointed the flashlight into Marcus’s face. “Plus, I’m the one in danger of an early grave if Joanie finds out we aren’t really playing darts at the Shot Spot.”

Marcus shielded his eyes, and Clive swept the beam off his face. “I swear you traded in your balls at the altar a year and a half ago.”

His buddy only smiled. “That’s a helluva trade, considering how much sex I get.”

“Married people don’t have sex,” Marcus grumbled, resuming his climb to Willow Mansion. “Everyone knows that.”

“Yes we do. But unlike you, I don’t have to sneak out in my underwear in the morning.”

Rather than argue, mainly because Clive had made a compelling and, other than the underwear part, an irritatingly accurate point, Marcus continued his stealthy approach to the mansion. As stealthy as one could be toting a duffel bag full of Halloween costumes.

Hey. It was Hawaii. He may as well try to salvage it.

They rounded the house and found a reasonably clean window that hadn’t been busted out. Marcus peeked through one lower corner and Clive through the other. He could make out a kitchen, and beyond that, a doorway. Lily’s face was lit with ambient light one room over.

Marcus swore under his breath. “Is that…sushi?”

Clive chuckled.

His strawberry-blond, lethally sexy co-worker lounged in the center of an air mattress inside like the queen of freaking Sheba, pillows fluffed behind her. When she lifted a pair chopsticks to her mouth, Marcus’s own mouth went dry watching those plush lips close around the food, her delicate throat working as she swallowed. Damn.

Those lips would be the death of him. Mainly because Lily refused to let him close enough to get a taste.

“Mmm. Dragon roll,” Clive said, snapping Marcus out of a fantasy that had begun brewing. “Do you think she went to Sushi Café? I love when they throw in a free crab rangoon.”

“Unbelievable,” Marcus grumbled.

The soft bluish glow that lit her face came from the computer tablet on her lap. It must’ve been tuned in to something funny. She tossed her head back and laughed, and he felt a punishing jolt of attraction as he watched her—the same unrelenting attraction he felt for her at work. Made no sense. He’d asked her out. She’d said no. He’d been shot down plenty of times, and typically bounced back quickly. He’d bounced back, or so he thought, but dating other women seemed…wrong with Lily around. Which made no fucking sense whatsoever.

“Yes, she looks truly terrified,” Clive said, chuckling again.

“That’s why I brought these.” Marcus dropped the duffel bag at his feet.

“You don’t think that’s a tad against the rules?”

“I think all is fair in love and war and hard-won trips to islands.”

Clive scrubbed a hand over his sandy blond hair and shook his head. “I don’t get it, man. If you want a date with her so badly, why don’t you just ask her out?”

Well. Shit. Was he this transparent? Marcus shot him a look. “What are you talking about?” He tried really hard to make it sound like he was shocked, or like Clive was barking up the wrong tree, but his voice came out thin and a little guilty.

Damn. It.

Clive grinned knowingly. “Yeah. I kind of figured out you liked her, like, a millennia ago.”

Marcus accepted defeat, dropping the innocent act and glad for it. He was a horrible actor. “Does Joanie know?”

“No, man.” He clapped Marcus on the back.

Relief.

“I asked her out once,” Marcus admitted.

“No way. Lily turned down the Marcus Black?”

“Shut up.”

Clive laughed. At his expense, if he had to guess. “So, ask her again. She didn’t know you then.”

Yeah, well, she knew him now. And practically hated him. Or…not hated him. But she had his number…along with way too many women in Fantom who continued to call and leave him voicemails asking him for “one more date”. Life would be easier if he could hook up with one of them…or several of them. But the dates with anyone other than Lily only left him feeling empty.

Which he did not understand. Thinking with his dick had worked fine and dandy up until he met the infuriating redhead. And now he was like some sort of lovesick puppy. And if that wasn’t pathetic enough, now his best friend knew.

“Just stick with the plan, Clive.” He was not talking about this. Not now. Not ever.

His buddy rolled a shoulder, unfazed as usual. It was impossible to intimidate the guy who’d known him since he was a gangly thirteen-year-old.

“I don’t know, man.” Clive looked through the window at Lily again. “You may not be able to scare her off, costumes or no.”

“She’s a prima donna.” Marcus admired the wave of her long hair, and the open, inviting smile on her face, even in the dimness. God. He was screwed. May as well return his man card along with his balls on a keychain. Some playboy he’d turned out to be. “The moment she breaks a nail, she’s out of there,” he grumbled, his insult not sounding the least bit genuine.

Harmless insults had become the norm between him and Lily over the two and a half years they’d worked together. He used to do it to get her to sling one back at him, because he loved the feisty spark that lit her eyes when she was busting his balls. She’d answered the call, mouthing off to him with fervor. But really, he’d never been able to truly relegate her to role of prima donna or diva.

First of all, it wasn’t true. She worked as hard, if not harder, than any of them. She cared about her work, and she was a perfectionist who often achieved her goals. Secondly, he had gone from simply thinking she was sexy to respecting the hell out of her. His admiration for her work trumped the admiration he had for her sweet backside. And that was bad. He didn’t want to change. Liked his eat-and-run style with women. Liked being the cad who kept things simple. But Lily… Nothing kept her from his mind. Not other women, not sex with other women… Nothing.

Resistance was futile.

“She’s hardier than she looks,” Clive said in her defense. “You remember the breakup with Andy.”

Marcus ground his molars at the mention of Andy Lipnicky, King of the Douchebags. He didn’t deserve someone as smart and funny and attractive as Lily McIntire. Marcus didn’t think he deserved her, either, but he’d at least like the chance to prove himself. He’d burned that bridge by asking her out too soon…and had followed it up by severely bending the rules of the new account contest and taking the win for himself. Not his brightest move.

“She’s a princess.” But she wasn’t. And even Marcus could hear the lack of conviction in his words. Wednesday night he’d had been shocked to learn that she was coming out to celebrate with them. It was the first time he’d ever been around her outside of work or an offsite meeting. It was like she purposefully avoided hanging out anywhere he was unless it was at work. He knew she had a social life, was dating a guy with a big nose and a stupid hybrid car, but he doubted she’d ever been to a rundown pub with a bartender named Curly. He’d looked forward to her reaction to the Shot Spot, where Marcus was a regular. Surely, Lily would turn tail and flee the moment she laid eyes on the fleet of mismatched chairs, and got a whiff of the smell of stale beer permeating the air.

So. He’d thought he knew what to expect when she strode in behind Joanie and Clive on Wednesday night, looking out of place in her fitted blazer, her heels sticking to the tacky linoleum. Instead, when she’d spotted him, she’d flipped her strawberry-blond hair over one shoulder and sent him a derisive look down that pert little nose of hers. About then, he’d given her a smile of bald admiration and made it his evening’s mission to get her hammered.

He’d seen Lily in control, competitive, and icy, but never sloppy and unkempt. He’d fill his tab with as many frou-frou girlie drinks like purple hooters or buttery nipples as she could drink, then kick back and enjoy the show. He’d like to see the rigidity slide out of her spine, maybe get one of those loose laughs she liked to give him every once in a while when she let her guard down. Then he’d ordered a tequila shot and she held up two fingers.

“You drink tequila?” He’d been unable to hide his shock.

“No, but we are celebrating, right?” Ah, Lily the competitor, alive and well.

She’d arched a reddish brow and his thoughts had dropped to her skirt and into the gutter. Did the carpet match the drapes? God. What he’d give to know the answer to that question.

He’d eased her into the shot using old school salt-and-lime training wheels rather than just chucking the tequila back like he normally did. She’d followed his lead when he licked the salt and sucked the lime, while he’d taken a bit too much pleasure in watching her pink tongue lap the granules from her hand. And when her perfectly glossed lips wrapped around the lime wedge, he’d had a stern talking-to with the parts of him residing south of his belt buckle.

Pain in the ass, he’d reminded himself, tossing back his second shot. But that thought brought with it reminders of the way her skirt rounded snugly over her perfect butt each time she bent over to take her turn at the pool table.

He’d sparred with her all evening, figuring arguing would keep the hound in his pants at bay. But each time he jabbed, she’d had a sassy comeback. He couldn’t help but admire her for it. Like he admired her at work. He’d always known she had talent—no one gave a confident presentation like Lily—but he hadn’t known until that night that she could be so much damn fun.

Clive’s cell phone rang to the tune of Marvin Gaye. Marcus dragged him down from the window and out of sight, scowling over at him as he answered. It was Joanie’s ringtone. Clive shrugged an apology and answered with a hushed hello. Marcus gave him another pointed glare before risking peeking into the house again.

Lily must not have heard the sound, her attention focused on the screen in her lap. And she was drinking—good God, was that wine? He should have made more rules. Limited her to only the most basic provisions like water and bread. And maybe some peanut butter. Protein was important.

His frown deepened. She’d be a lot harder to spook while pleasantly buzzed on red wine, her stomach full of gourmet food. “I’m screwed,” he grumbled.

“So am I.” Clive waggled his phone. “Gotta go.”

“Why? Wife gonna ground you if you don’t?” He sent his friend a smug smile.

Clive shot him a self-assured grin of his own. “Joanie called to tell me she’s drawing a very hot bath, lighting candles, and—”

“Fine,” Marcus growled under his breath, not wanting to hear any more. “Wuss.”

Clive clapped Marcus’s shoulder. “Let’s go, man. You wouldn’t have won anyway. And hey, maybe she’ll take pity on you and invite you to Hawaii with her. There are two tickets.”

The image of Lily in a white bikini, pale, freckled skin on display, tiny triangles covering her most sensitive parts while she splashed in clear blue water, flooded his brain. He’d just lapsed into a daydream about applying sunscreen to every inch of her smooth, fair back when he noticed Clive heading down the hill. His buddy raised his arms as if to ask, are you coming?

Marcus waved him off, annoyed that Lily now crashed his waking dreams in addition to the pornographic ones he had while asleep. He returned to his perch by the window.

Clive trekked back to Marcus, tripping over a branch and stumbling. He was more Mr. Bean than Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon. Stealthy, his friend was not.

“Are you nuts?” Clive asked. “How are you getting home if I don’t drive you?”

“It’s Hawaii.” And he wasn’t planning on handing it over without a fight. Lily hadn’t exactly been competing fair. She’d forced his hand into convincing his cousin to redesign his coffee shop. It was Marcus who had sought out the senior living center on Merchant Boulevard. It was his sunroom design that Margaret Beckham had originally chosen, his suggestion to add five hundred square feet to the already sprawling grounds of Sunny Acres Retirement Home. It should have been the winning account…in theory.

But when Margaret stopped in to query about extras, Marcus’s idea for a patio redesign fell flat. Meanwhile, Lily swooped in and suggested a koi pond and a greenhouse, and Margaret had been wooed by the idea of fish and plants. Just like that, boom, she locked down the contract.

Now that he thought it through again, Lily might have saved the damn contract.

Still. It was a tick for her column, and he was one shy. He’d done what it took. But her calling him out on “cheating” to win Hawaii was almost as funny as believing she’d survive the night in the mansion and succeed in taking it from him.

Not. Happening.

“How are you getting home, Black?” Clive repeated with a frown.

“Gee, Dad, worried about me?”

“Jerk.” But his friend was smiling. Clive backed away, then halfway down the hill, called in an exaggerated whisper, “Let me know how it goes!”

Marcus waved him off.

After Clive lumbered down to where he’d parked the car at the base of the hill and reversed down the street, headlights extinguished, Marcus turned and unzipped the bag at his feet. He wasn’t worried about being stranded on the grounds. Once he boogeymanned Lily from the house, he was fairly certain he could coerce her into giving him a ride home. Since she understood the nature of their battle better than anyone, she probably expected him to do something juvenile to win.

He smiled. Challenge accepted.

He’d have to try really hard not to rub in the fact that she’d be on his arm at the design dinner this year. She may do it with a look of contempt on her face, but she’d do it. Lily McIntire wasn’t the type of woman to renege on a bet.

It’d be good for him to be seen with someone as smart and design savvy as her. He was aware of his playboy reputation and the assumption that he relied heavily on his charm to make his way in this industry. But while he’d never had a problem landing a date, having just any woman warming his arm for the evening didn’t hold the appeal it once had.

No, this year he’d rather have Lily at his side. And the no-panties thing would be a plus. God, that’d drive him insane, her sitting next to him at the table wearing nothing under her short dress. Not because he’d never been with a girl who went commando, but because he’d bet prim and proper Lily had never, not once in her life, eschewed the common decency of wearing undergarments. And her doing it for him? That was worth fighting for even if he didn’t want to go to Hawaii.

If pressed, he’d admit there was more to it than getting her out of her panties. Her ease in social situations would put him at ease. Especially this year. How the hell was he supposed to graciously accept a Designer of the Year award when he’d be surrounded by several hundred more qualified designers? He could hold a pencil and talk anyone into anything, but…Designer of the Year?

Part of him suspected this awards dinner was the ultimate practical joke to get him back for the pranks he’d played on his coworkers over the years. If it wasn’t a practical joke, well…that was worse. Because then he’d be expected to give a meaningful speech about his early influences, his process, his—

God.

The speech.

Just picturing the podium at the center of the room, imagining the white-hot lights beating down on him from overhead, caused his brow to bead with sweat. He pulled at the collar of his favorite T-shirt and imagined a noose-like bowtie knotted at the front of his neck. How was he going to stand in front of five hundred of his colleagues and not die on the spot when just thinking about the acceptance speech made him break out in hives?

A hooting owl snapped him back to the present. He could worry about the speech later. Right now, he had one mission. He knelt and dug through the costumes until his hand landed on the perfect one.

He pulled the covering over his face and listened to his breath echo behind the mask.

His mission was simple. His target clear.

Scare Lily McIntire out of the house, and win the date he’d wanted since the moment he laid eyes on her.