Voyeur Page 5

  When she still hadn’t replied to him a minute later, he sent another message. FLYBOY1: I want you, too. I want to see you come again. I want to see you use the toy I sent you.

  Dear God. The very idea of that was . . . unfathomable.

  Still, she didn’t answer. Simply because she had no idea how to respond to such a raw, intimate request.

  FLYBOY1: See you tonight, snowflake. Ten o’clock. I know you won’t let me down.

  Chapter Four

  What arrogance. He was so sure of himself. So sure of her, too. She couldn’t help rolling her eyes at the computer.

  Well, he had another thing coming. RILEY: Are you still there?

  She was going to tell him what she’d intended to in the first place, the part about him going too far.

  Only no answer came. Drat. She tried again. RILEY: Hey, are you there? Answer me.

  Damn it. He must really be gone—off to raid yet another corporation or fly an airplane or something.

  “I hate you,” she whispered to the computer screen, even knowing he could no longer see or hear her. Which was probably why she said it—since she didn’t really hate him. Far from it. She was intrigued by him. Had a strange crush on him. Felt bizarrely lured in by him. It was the last one that scared her—how did this guy make her want to do these shockingly out-of-character things? Why did she want to please him, excite him, so much?

  She glanced over her shoulder to the bookshelves where the photo of him sat. Was it just because he was hot? Admittedly, if he’d been twenty years older or twenty pounds heavier—or, frankly, just not attractive to her—she knew she wouldn’t keep perpetuating this. In fact, she probably would have packed up and left by now, out of sheer horror over revealing so much of herself to someone she’d never even met. But there was a lot to be said for chemistry. And if it was possible to feel this much chemistry with someone so far away, that counted for something. Right?

  You’re just trying to justify this somehow, make yourself feel better about it.

  She’d felt weird enough before the corset and vibrator had shown up. But opening that box to find them inside had somehow yanked her private nighttime sin out into the bright light of day in a whole new way. She eyed the gifts now, the velvet draped over the edge of the box still on the sofa, the fake purple penis jutting up from the tissue paper, as well. Why did it have to be purple, for God’s sake? And shaped so realistically like a freaking penis? Somehow that made the gift all the more blunt, all the more in-your-face. She couldn’t help it—she liked subtlety. So did Riley.

  Of course, she thought, turning back to the computer, Riley wasn’t getting subtlety anymore than Laura was at the moment, given that searing and unexpected kiss the dark stranger had just delivered before they’d all been interrupted by the deliveryman—and concentrating on Riley’s situation seemed a lot more productive than continuing to stew over her voyeur and his so-called gift. She could deal with the reality of that later. For now—she’d come here to write, and she was going to write. Her deadline—and checking account—depended upon it. And besides, she was more than a little curious to see what happened next with Riley’s handsome stranger.

  Riley’s lips tingled with the power of his kiss. Although, if she was honest, more than just her lips were left tingling—her entire body was getting into the act. When it ended, the handsome stranger pulled back and met her gaze. She’d never seen darker, more entrancing eyes, and merely looking into them made her want to melt onto the floor of the Dorchesters’ toolshed. “Wha-what was that?” she asked.

  One corner of his full mouth quirked into a hint of a grin. “It’s called a kiss, honey.”

  Even his voice made her insides quiver, but she tried to stand strong. “I know what it’s called, but who are you and what are you doing in the Dorchesters’ shed?”

  This time, a full-blown but utterly mysterious smile unfurled on the man’s face just before he winked at her. “It’s a secret,” he said, then opened the door and walked out, leaving Riley in the shadowy heat, alone now but for the riding mower and a host of shovels and gardening hoes.

  Feeling wholly unsteady, Riley eased back onto the mower’s seat, letting her gaze drift toward the dirt floor. Her eyes dropped to an old broken brick that had fallen from the wall beneath a workbench. In a normal shed, she wouldn’t have noticed such a thing, but the Dorchesters were unusually tidy, fastidious people, and that extended right down to their outbuildings. A chunk of brick on the floor of the Dorchesters’ toolshed was the equivalent of a kitchen scattered with dirty pots and pans or a bedroom sporting an unmade bed strewn with hastily stripped off clothes and underwear.

  Not that she was thinking about stripping off underwear—hers or anyone else’s. She didn’t even know the attractive stranger’s name or what he was doing here, so she had zero interest in his underwear. Especially given that there was now a brand-new mystery to solve—who was he, and what had he been doing in here?

  Riley stooped to look at the brick. Nothing unordinary about it—except that it had left an empty spot in the wall beneath the worktable. And Riley thought she must be insane to stick her hand into a dark hole that might contain mice or spiders or God only knew what else—God, please don’t let there be spiders; she hated spiders like she hated nothing else!—but she was on a mission, and she would not be deterred.

  Easing her fingers inside the space, she felt cautiously around—until she touched something that felt suspiciously like lush velvet! Grabbing on to the fabric, she extracted it to find it was a small black drawstring bag, so soft to the touch that it made her shiver in spite of the day’s warmth. Hurrying to open the pouch, she spilled out into her palm—oh my!—Mrs. Dorchester’s missing antique broach!

  Riley immediately rushed home to share her discovery with Aunt Mimsey.

  “Did that man have it?” her aunt asked. “Did you get it from that man I saw lurking about?”

  Well, she’d certainly gotten something from “that man,” but it hadn’t been the missing piece of jewelr y.“No, but maybe if we return this to Mrs. Dorchester, we can start putting the pieces together. We’ll describe the man and see if Mrs. D. knows him. Surely, he’s the culprit!”

  “I’ve always said how much I admire that broach. I’m sure Winifred will be glad to get it back,” Aunt Mimsey said.

  Moments later, the two women strolled up the winding cobblestone walk to the Dorchesters’ quaint-but-sprawling English Tudor home. Edna Barnes, the longtime housekeeper with her curling silver hair and a blue maid’s uniform that made her look like a waitress, let them in, then fetched the lady of the house. “Mimsey and Riley have come for a visit,” Edna told Mrs. D. with her usual smile as she led the regal older lady into the room.

  Riley was about to explain why they were there—when a tall, dark, drop-dead-gorgeous man strode into the front parlor behind Mrs. Dorchester. Riley’s mystery man! Her heartbeat kicked up at the mere sight of him as memories of their very recent kiss assaulted her senses.

  “I’d like you two to meet my nephew, Sloane Bennett,” Mrs. Dorchester said. “Sloane is a private investigator, visiting all the way from Los Angeles. He’s come to hunt for my broach. Sloane, meet my neighbors from the cottage next door—Mimsey and her niece, Riley Wainscott.”

  Riley’s eyes locked on the so-called P.I., ignoring the introduction. “Well, he need not hunt any longer, because I found it.” She opened her palm, cradling the velvet bag, the broach resting atop it.

  Mrs. D. gasped. “Oh heavens! Wherever did you locate it?”

  Riley still honed in on Sloane the mad kisser. “In your toolshed,” she replied, then added accusingly, “right after I met your nephew there!”

  “Damn, I must have overlooked it,” Sloane Bennett said with arrogant ease.

  “Sounds suspicious to me,” Riley replied. “What were you even doing in the toolshed?”

  “I could ask you the same question,” he answered, appearing far too amused for her liking.

&nb
sp; “I was responding to the report of a stranger sneaking around,” she said smartly.

  “And I was following footprints, probably left during the heavy rain my aunt tells me occurred a few evenings back.”

  “Oh.” Well, so what? Riley could have found footprints, too, if she’d wanted to—she just hadn’t officially taken up the missing broach case until a few short minutes ago.

  Aunt Mimsey stepped forward to shake Sloane Bennett’s hand. “How nice that you’re a private eye. Riley here is a detective in her own right.”

  He gave his head a jovial tilt. “Is that so?”

  She supposed she could understand his attitude—she’d probably seemed a lot more interested in kissing than detecting. But then again, so had he.

  He snatched the broach and its black pouch out of her hand. “Well, you need not trouble yourself with this any longer, honey—I’ll take care of it from here on out.”

  Like hell you will, Riley thought. Mr. Hotshot Private Eye Kisser might think he was the only one who could solve this peculiar little mystery, but Riley intended to prove differently. From now on, it would take more than a kiss to knock her off her game.

  By the end of the day, Riley and Sloane had grudgingly agreed to work together to figure out who had taken the broach and why the thief had stashed it in Mrs. D.’s very own toolshed. Aunt Mimsey had suggested the partnership, and Mrs. Dorchester had thought it a grand idea, too. And Laura couldn’t help being pleased that Riley was clearly going to have the opportunity to get intimate with her nemesis-slash-partner again, even if Riley wasn’t yet a hundred percent sure the guy could even be trusted.

  Maybe Riley, she thought, could use a little excitement in her love life. Passion had never been a part of Riley’s mystery-solving, but now it had found its way onto the page as unexpectedly as Braden Stone had made his way into Laura’s life via the computer. Fortunately, she was a lot more comfortable dealing with the fictional Sloane than the frighteningly real Braden.

  Which, as dusk began to color the snow beyond the window a pale, flat gray, forced her mind back to Braden’s gift, still on the couch all these hours later, taunting her. She turned in the rolling desk chair to look at it again, thinking what a nice, carefree day she’d had, having successfully banished it from her mind. Clearly, she’d been in denial.

  Did he really think she was going to use that toy in front of him? Given that she’d never even used such a thing by herself, for heaven’s sake? Even if she wanted to, trying out such a thing on camera just seemed like a bad idea.

  So she’d ignore the gift, she decided.

  And she’d ignore the clock tonight, too—ten would come and go without consequence, and her voyeur would be forced to see that she simply wasn’t into this. She might have seemed into it the past two nights, but that shocking purple monstrosity had brought her back to her senses. Getting to her feet, she grabbed the box and took the whole thing up to the bedroom, just to get it out of her direct line of vision.

  Having thawed a hamburger patty, Laura turned on a little music—a local pop station—then made herself a simple dinner, adding frozen crinkle fries to the burger. Flipping on the instant-but-still-cozy fire, she decided to settle in for an evening of reading after finishing her meal. No erotica tonight, though. Hemingway. Definitely Hemingway.

  When she approached the bookshelf, extracting A Farewell to Arms, her eyes landed on the picture of her “flyboy” again. Of course, her stomach churned at the heat a mere photo managed to give off, yet she said aloud, “You might be hot, but this has gone far enough. It stops now.”

  Two hours later, she still sat on the sofa reading . . . or trying to. She let out a sigh at the realization that she’d just read two full pages without having any idea what they said. Drat. She loved this book and it had been years since she’d read it. She should have been completely drawn in by Lieutenant Henry and his English nurse, but instead she found herself—most unwittingly—thinking about much more tawdry liaisons.

  Another sigh had her setting the book aside and slowly padding up the stairs into the bedroom. It was high time for that shower she’d put off all day. And as she shed her clothes and stepped under the warm, soothing spray, she ignored the fact that it was his shower and, in fact, reminded herself that the guy was hardly ever here. It wasn’t nearly so much his shower as a place he’d showered on occasion.

  So she tried not to envision him standing naked in this same spot in the huge marble shower as she rubbed soap over her body—and she tried desperately not to feel her own response to even that minor stimulation.

  Would he like the way she looked soapy?

  Biting her lip, she glanced down at her breasts decorated with bright white suds, the taut nipples peeking through, at her stomach and thighs, so slick and smooth-looking as bubbles clung to them, as well. Yes, he would definitely like it. He’d also like taking the round, spongy thing she was using and running it over her breasts, as she did now. He’d surely let his fingertips reach around the soft sponge to glide over her rounded flesh, and then the flat of her stomach. Her pussy tingled as she wished he could do just that—touch her in the shower.

  Stop this.

  Taking a deep breath, she banished the naughty thoughts from her mind for what seemed the fiftieth time since she’d arrived in the mountainside home, then rinsed hurriedly. She wrapped herself in a big plush bath sheet and stepped into the bedroom—where the corset lay on the bed.

  She’d been so distressed over it earlier that she hadn’t really seen it, hadn’t let herself study the details, but now she couldn’t help but admire how soft yet sophisticated it appeared. It came with miniscule velvet panties, too, sporting tiny rhinestones sewn in front. A dainty line of the same sparkling jewels outlined the top edge of the corset, designed to mold to her breasts. The back laced up with thick black satin ribbon, which meant, she supposed, that one size fit all.

  She couldn’t help wondering how she’d look in such a lush piece of lingerie. She owned plenty of pretty bras and panties and a baby-doll nightie or two, but she’d never worn anything that at once looked so glamorous yet sexual.

  So maybe she’d just try it on.

  Simply to see what she looked like.

  For her own benefit—no one else’s.

  The lacings were already drawn and tied in back so that just fastening a row of invisible hooks in front closed her into it. It was on the verge of being too tight, but she decided not to tamper with the ribbons as she almost liked the confined, bound feeling the snug lingerie provided. It made it impossible to forget she was wearing something designed for sex—even before she turned toward the sliding glass mirror doors on the closet.

  The view stunned her. The velvet molded to her curves deliciously and plumped her breasts even farther than the red lace bra had, making them look round and voluptuous. The press of the corset against them delivered the delightfully naughty sensation that they were about to bust free. The velvet G-string felt just as snug over her pussy and trailing down the center of her ass, and the black stockings made her legs look long and lean, even without heels. She’d never seen herself appear so utterly and wholly sexual—as if she were made for this, as if no other part of her existed. She couldn’t help feeling that way, too. Like a good girl gone bad. Like a prim Victorian miss gone wild.

  But the look wasn’t quite complete. On impulse, she moved to the dresser where she’d just tossed the hair clip she’d worn in the shower, using it to gather her wavy locks back up atop her head, leaving only a few loose tendrils to curve around her face.

  There, she thought, peering back in the mirror. That finished the image. The perfect prim lady ready for sex. A stark contrast that was making her cunt swell within the black velvet as she stood staring, amazed at her reflection.

  She drew in her breath at the vague wish that Braden could see how she looked in the corset. He’d picked it out for her, after all. He’d shown her this vision of herself she’d never have seen otherwise.


  Maybe she could show him. He’d already seen all of her there was to see, and this covered more than her bra and panties had last night, so where was the sin in that?

  Of course, he’d expect her to take it off. And to use the toy. She glanced at the purple vibrator, lying by itself in the box now. She couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t even know how to go about it.

  Yet curious after being somewhat afraid of it all day, Laura bit her lower lip and cautiously approached the fake cock. She made herself pick it up, scolding herself internally. It’s a chunk of rubber, not a real penis, for heaven’s sake.

  Unfortunately, though, holding it in her hand gave the loose sensation of holding a real penis. Which made her pussy ripple. The vibrator was of medium size, nothing humongous—six inches or so—and the head was smooth and rounded, the shaft sturdy and thick, even sporting slightly raised veins along the length. She felt torn between thinking it ridiculous and realizing that it was making her want the real thing.

  She gingerly twisted the knob on the end to start the buzzing vibrations—batteries had been included. Of course, her voyeur would have arranged for that. She found herself smiling at his bold confidence.

  Maybe she would experiment with it. He seemed to think every woman should have such a gadget, and she knew Monica indulged in such toys. Maybe now, in the privacy of the bedroom, she’d see what it was all about. In fact, maybe having an orgasm without Braden involved would be just as satisfying—minus all the weirdness. Then she could go to sleep, get up tomorrow morning and write, write, write, just as productively as she had today, and continue this retreat more normally, more as she’d imagined it from the beginning. She’d come here to let a change of scenery inspire her creativity, not to let a strange man persuade her into hedonistic acts over the computer.