Asking for Trouble - Leslie Kelly [66]
Plus, my brother had had the sense to marry a terrific, down-to-earth woman he’d known for eight months. And the two of them practically ignited whenever they looked at each other.
He had to know a little something about falling fast for someone.
“I care about him, Mark. I genuinely do. This thing has uprooted his whole life and he’s still trying to get over it.”
“I don’t like this. Whether it was self-defense or not, the man was still involved in something pretty damn sordid.”
Argh. Finally knowing I had no choice, I relied on an old standby for dealing with one of the boys. “If you see your way clear to doing this for me, then maybe I’ll see my way clear to keeping quiet to the folks about the fact that a bullet came within a couple of inches of your head at that armored car robbery last year.”
He sucked in a shocked breath. “How the hell did you…”
“Someone I went to college with is now on the force.”
“Who?”
“Yeah, right.” I rolled my eyes. “Do we have a deal?”
“You’re a pain in the ass.”
Uh-huh. Tell me something I didn’t know.
“Fine,” he said, and I could have sworn I heard a note of reluctant admiration in his voice. “I’ll find out what I can and be in touch.”
BY SATURDAY AFTERNOON, I knew there was only one way I was going to get Simon to go to the Halloween party with me.
Seduction.
I’d mentioned the dance again the previous night and while he hadn’t laughed, he’d very firmly rejected the idea. Socializing with a bunch of people who thought him a serial killer wasn’t his idea of a good time.
Couldn’t say I blamed him. But that, in my opinion, was all the more reason to go. To make people see that he was in no way dangerous and certainly not a killer. Therefore, he had to go to this dance.
I spent the morning and part of Saturday afternoon going through some more dusty old trunks and boxes. Today, however, I was looking for something other than documents.
Funny, as a kid, I would have absolutely loved stumbling into an attic like the one in Seaton House. Attics nowadays were boring. Pink puffy insulation and tattered boxes of Christmas decorations with crusty masking tape on the sides.
This one, though, once I’d gotten past the creepiness and the fear of being locked in, had proved to be a treasure trove. I’d found a half-dozen huge old sea chests, all of them filled with clothes ranging from recent pieces, apparently kept in lost and found, to antique ones that might have belonged to people who’d once lived in this house. If Simon ever needed money, he could throw this stuff on eBay and make a fortune from vintage clothes lovers.
This ensemble, in particular, was something else.
Staring at myself in the mirror on his closet door later that afternoon, I smiled, then giggled. Because I looked exactly like what Simon had thought I was on the night I’d arrived.
I looked like a hooker.
A very old-fashioned one, but a hooker nonetheless.
The antique lace-up corset, chemise and knickers were obviously meant to be worn as underclothes. But without anything over them, they looked pretty damned hot. Especially given my, umm, overample curves. My boobs were squished so tight and plumped up so high they were practically touching my chin.
The lacy underwear hugged my generous hips and cupped my Italian girl butt. Though yellowed, they’d held up in the wash and looked pretty presentable. They definitely didn’t appear ready to split apart at the seams, despite the pressure my curves put on them. And the black, ankle-high granny boots were painful in the extreme, but there was something so naughty about them I just didn’t want to take them off.
Going heavy on the makeup and wild with the curling iron and hair spray, I got myself so tarted up I would have been thrown off the Vegas strip. Then, putting as much strut in my step as I could, I walked out of Simon’s bedroom, into the office, tiptoeing up behind him as he sat at the desk.
Bending down to blow in his ear and kiss his neck, I whispered, “Hey, lover.”
He jerked so hard, he almost cracked his head on my