Candid Camera Read online

  CANDID CAMERA

  Susie Charles

  An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

  www.ellorascave.com

  Candid Camera

  ISBN # 1-4199-0518-X

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  Candid Camera Copyright© 2006 Susie Charles

  Edited by Raelene Gorlinsky.

  Cover art by Syneca.

  Electronic book Publication: February 2006

  This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Warning:

  The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. This book has been rated E–rotic by a minimum of three independent reviewers.

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).

  S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.

  E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.

  X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Armani: GA Modefine S.A. Corporation

  Beretta: Fabbrica D’armi P. Beretta, S.P.A.

  Blue Cross: Blue Cross and Blue Shield Association

  Cherokee: Daimler Chrysler Corporation

  Hummer: AM General Corporation

  Jockeys: Jockey International Inc.

  Mack: Mack Trucks, Inc.

  Porsche: Dr. Ing. h.c. F. Porsche AG

  Randall: Randall, Gary T. DBA Randall Made Knives

  Ritz: The Ritz-Carlton Hotel Company

  Viagra: Pfizer Inc.

  Victoria’s Secret: V Secret Catalogue, Inc.

  Prologue

  “And you call yourself a professional? Just grab the damn camera bag, check out the dark room, and get your ass back out here with the stuff. Got it?”

  Bristling, twisting abruptly, Rick wrenched the other guy’s hands off him, pointedly smoothing the creases in his once immaculate shirt. “I know what I gotta do, asshole. And what are you going to be doing while I’m risking my butt?”

  The vexed expression faded from the other man’s face, replaced by a sneering smirk. “Keeping watch.”

  Rick snorted. That was about all the asshole was good for. Why the hell the boss felt he had to bring in New York heat was beyond him.

  He took two steps and stopped, sniffing, a frown creasing his brow. Something familiar teased at him. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but that raised the hairs on his neck just the same. “You smell that?” he asked, turning back to the other guy.

  “Smell what? The only thing I smell is your slimy ass. Stop stalling and get moving, for chrissakes. I don’t want to be stuck here babysitting you all night.”

  Yeah, yeah, big shot. What a fucking dickhead. Who the hell died and made him God?

  Throwing a quick glance over the darkened house, satisfied that the occupant slept, Rick levered himself up over the weathered wooden windowsill, grimacing at the powdery white streaks he knew would mark his dark slacks, and landed in a crouch on the parquetry floor inside the room. He already knew from casing the little cottage earlier that it was the living room. A scan of the room failed to turn up the black bag he was looking for.

  Turning too quickly, he caught his foot on the stringy and frayed edge of an oriental rug. Muttering with annoyance, he jerked his foot to free it from the loosely woven strands. A scraping sound made him look up as his swinging foot connected with the leg of an antique table. The huge painted vase on top began to wobble precariously, building momentum as it rocked from side to side. Heart pounding, adrenaline pumping, already hearing the almighty crash loud enough to wake the dead as it smashed to smithereens on the wood floor, he cursed under his breath as he lunged for the ceramic monstrosity to steady it.

  Sweat trickled down inside his shirt. Breaths coming in short pants, the sound of his pulse roaring in his head, he eyed the vase warily as he slowly removed his hands, relieved when it looked steady. Taking deep breaths to bring his rapid pulse back under control, he skimmed an eye around the room once more before he padded out and down the hall, heading for the kitchen.

  He froze when he stepped on an old floorboard that squeaked, the noise sounding as loud as a rusty hinge in the heavy silence of the house. Shit! He glanced around, eyes peering, senses alert, listening for any hint of movement upstairs.

  Nothing.

  Satisfied the occupant still slept and his presence was as yet undetected, he moved into the kitchen.

  His eyes lit up when he noticed his goal sitting on a counter. With a wide smile, he skirted the table and chairs in the middle of the room and made a beeline for the square black bag. He clenched his hand around the nylon strap and lifted, groaning when something metallic clattered to the tiled floor.

  Jesus Christ! Was the whole goddamned house booby-trapped?

  The odds of being discovered were stacking against him. The spot on the back of his neck that was his personal danger radar was itching like a bitch. To keep his hands free, he slung the padded strap over his shoulder and turned to the old wooden door that led, he knew from his earlier snoop, to the converted room used as a darkroom.

  As he hunted for the key to unlock the door, he mused on the broad who owned the place. That was some prime, Grade A female. His dick started to harden just thinking about her. Their previous bust-up when he grabbed her camera had given him a fleeting appreciation for her assets. It was just too damn bad he wouldn’t have time for a bit of fun with her.

  A soft slide of metal on wood let him know his questing fingers had located the old key hidden on top of the doorjamb. Victory lighting his eyes, he closed his fingers around it.

  “Hold it right there.”

  The kitchen light clicked on, the unexpected brightness blinding him for a moment. He froze, rolling his eyes. Ah, shit.

  “Put the bag down and turn around nice and slow.”

  He sighed. Dumb broad. Why did the good-looking ones always have to be so damn stupid? Did she think he wasn’t armed and dangerous?

  He turned, his thoughts shifting from annoyance to lust in a heartbeat. She was a tall one, all right, taller than him by a good five or six inches. But she had the biggest set of tits he’d seen outside of a Vegas strip joint. Another time, another place, he wouldn’t mind fucking those beauties, watching her lips wrap around his cock on the upthrust. Hell, yeah.

  However, her choice of weapons—a goddamn broom in one hand and a phone in the other—made her look about as threatening as a mouse. A sneer spread over his face.

  “Look,” he started, hands raised, “just let me leave, and nobody will get hurt.”

  “Put down my bag.”

  She was determi
ned—he’d give her that. “Sorry, lady, no can do.”

  There would be no getting into the outer room now. Best to cut and run with what he had. Watching her closely, he tried to edge around her, but she brandished the broom at him, landing a solid thunk on his right elbow, right on his funny bone.

  Damn it, that hurt like hell! He could feel the pain shoot up his arm as weakness streaked through the limb.

  Feinting a little, reaching out with his good hand, he managed to grab the broom, yanking on it and dislodging it from her grip. As she tottered forward, he followed with a backhanded slap to her face, his weakened arm not allowing him as much force as he would have liked. He pushed her roughly out of the way, so that she landed with a hard thump on the floor, a satisfying cry of pain leaving her lips as she landed on a bandaged arm.

  Seeing her spread out on the floor, robe dislodged from her shoulder, the fabric caught on a nipple and showing the full swell of a breast, a lascivious grin creased his face as he crouched down beside her. Shock and fear apparent in the paleness of her face, the widening of her eyes, she tried to lean away from him.

  “Don’t touch me, you bastard.”

  “Or what? You gonna try to hit me again, lady? I don’t think so.”

  Mouth watering, he reached out and freed the object of his lust, brushing off her pitiful attempt to stop him with another slap across the face. Roughly palming the handful of breast, he twisted the nipple hard, chuckling at the little scream that left her lips. Damn, he loved it when they screamed for him.

  “You sure as hell are a temptation. But much as I’d love to stay and take advantage of the offer, gorgeous, I’ve gotta run.” He flicked a fingertip at the reddened and abused tip, payment for the bang on the elbow he’d received, smirking when the rough treatment garnered another cry of pain.

  “Like that, hey? Maybe we’ll run into each other again, babe, and we can continue our fun.”

  “You’re not going anywhere, scumbag.”

  Barely out of his crouched position, he froze. The deep voice threw him. What the hell was with that? What was she—a transvestite, or something? His smile dropped, a shiver of disquiet skittering down his spine as the look on her face changed.

  It was the queerest thing. As he watched, her eyes glazed over, the color shifting from a light blue to almost black. As her eyes appeared to lose focus her arms shot out, fingers like steel bands clamping around his neck. The hand that had been occupied with feeling her up fell to the side as she rose from the floor, lifting him with her until his toes barely touched the floor. The camera bag slipped off his shoulder, dropping on the floor with a thud.

  He struggled wildly, blood pumping in his head as he clawed at the hands, trying desperately to break the grip. A chair went flying as his leg threshed uselessly.

  He was choking. Feeling the table at his back, he groped blindly for something, anything to use as a weapon. When that failed, he starting swinging wildly, fists and nails flailing, anything to break the stranglehold she had on his throat. The wide-eyed unblinking stare was starting to seriously freak him out.

  He managed to land a couple of good ones on her, but he was losing fast, lack of oxygen starting to make spots appear before his eyes. Gathering his final reserves, he bunched his left fist and swung at her, satisfaction pouring through him as her head snapped sideways.

  All of a sudden, the choking grip on his throat slackened and he dropped to the floor. Gasping, he bent over, taking a moment to draw a deep rasping breath into his lungs, wincing as the oxygen-rich air passed over his tortured and bruised windpipe. Not waiting to see what happened next, he turned and bolted out of the room.

  Before he even reached the living room, every light in the house turned on, loud music unexpectedly blaring from the stereo speakers, the TV suddenly coming to life.

  What the fuck?

  He just wanted out! As he neared the open window he’d used to make his entry, he bunched his muscles and dived headfirst through it, uncaring if he hit anything, tucking and rolling, a grunt leaving his mouth as he landed outside and rolled to a stop.

  A hand yanked him to his feet and he looked up into a pair of furious black eyes.

  “You stupid fuck. What the hell happened?”

  Wrenching his body free, he turned and glared at the other guy. “Look, tough guy, there is something seriously weird about that bitch.” He shook himself as a shiver raced over his body. “Her eyes, man. And she’s got a grip on her like Muhammad Ali. She damn near choked me to death.” He tentatively fingered the bruised flesh of his neck.

  “You flew out of there because of one little woman?” the other man sneered.

  “I’m telling you, moron, something seriously fucked up is going on in that house.”

  His accomplice gritted his teeth in exasperation. “So, did you at least get the bag?”

  Rick stood with his arms extended. “Does it look like it, pea brain? No, I didn’t fucking get the bag. I nearly got killed.”

  “Christ, you’re hopeless.”

  “Oh yeah? You wanna go in and have a try?”

  “What, now? The whole fucking neighborhood will be awake in a minute, thanks to you.” He turned and stared at the brightly lit house, considering, his eyes narrowed. “No, I’ll come back later and do it right.” He glanced at Rick before stalking off. “You understand the meaning of the word ‘stealth’, dumbshit?” he threw over his shoulder.

  Ignoring the jibe, Rick took off down the back lane to the car they’d left hidden in the shadows.

  He didn’t care what anyone else said, there was something seriously weird going on in that house.

  Chapter One

  “Ouch! You know, whole sections of the population will be eternally grateful you never pursued nursing as a career.” Crissy grimaced at her cousin’s less than gentle touch as Georgie dabbed at the inflamed abrasion on her face. A Florence Nightingale, Georgie was not.

  “You need a bodyguard.” The glare in Georgie’s eyes just dared Crissy to disagree. But she dunked the cotton ball once more in the mix of antiseptic and warm water before turning back and gritting out, “Next!”

  Crissy shifted sideways on the wooden chair, easing the strap of her tank top off her shoulder, and offered the fiery-looking scratch up to Georgie’s ministrations. “Hell, Georgie. This is New Orleans. Mugging’s just a hobby here, like skiing is at Lake Tahoe. Besides,” she said, pushing Georgie away and muffling an “ouch” as the sting registered, “it’s only a scratch.”

  Tossing the used cotton ball in the trash, Georgie planted her hands on her jeans-clad hips, concern and anger radiating out of her. It had to be the red hair. Every inch of her diminutive five foot three was bristling indignantly.

  “Well, let’s see, shall we?” She ran her eyes down Crissy and back up again. “One black eye, one sprained wrist, scratches, bruises and abrasions that make you look like you were run over by a Mack truck… Did I miss anything?”

  Crissy stifled a groan as she leaned down to scratch behind Fatso’s ears as he rubbed up against her legs. She smiled at the contented, throaty purr he let out as she hit his favorite spot. Poor cat. Fatso had come into her life unexpectedly, one wet night after doing the shots at a ritzy thousand dollars a pop dinner-dance function. Huddled under her car, plaintive mewling the only thing alerting her to his presence, soaked to the bone and shivering, he looked like such a pathetic, scrawny picture, she just couldn’t leave him. But somehow, what had originally been a temporary solution to get the bedraggled puss fed and dry had become a permanent stay.

  Behind her, Georgie started to sneeze. And sneeze. “Damn cat!” She sniffled and inhaled sharply, readying for another explosive ahchoo.

  “Shoot, sorry, sweetie. Forgot.”

  With a gentle shooing motion, she urged Fatso away from them. Her cousin’s allergy to cats flared every time Fatso came in the same room.

  Using the edge of the table for support, she levered herself to a standing position, trying not to fli
nch from the stiffness pervading every muscle in her body. Once she got warmed up, she seemed to be okay.

  Crissy took a couple of steps over to the kettle and turned it on. Coffee. Caffeine. In megadoses. Either one would have to make a difference. It was just a damn shame there wasn’t any whiskey in the house to flavor it. She could do with all the numbing she could get.

  She grabbed a couple of mugs off the hooks hanging under her cupboard and held them up to Georgie.

  Grabbing a tissue to wipe at her eyes, Georgie nodded. “And none of that caffeine crap, Cris. Herbal tea for me, thanks.”

  Crissy rolled her eyes. That was a given. Georgie was a health nut. God forbid that a drop of coffee should pass her lips. Usually Crissy had to endure a lecture on the evils of caffeine, but it just went to show how distracted her cousin was in that none was forthcoming.

  Spooning the Kenyan mocha blend into her cup—two heaped teaspoonfuls instead of her usual one—and draping the tag of the tea bag over the edge of Georgie’s mug, she bit her lip and surrendered—a bit. “Okay, I agree, it does seem a little bit weird—being mugged twice in one week. But you’re suggesting there’s something more to this than there is. Yes, my new camera was stolen in the first hit, but hell, retail it was worth about three thousand bucks, Georgie—that was a good haul for one night’s work for whoever grabbed it. And tonight the sonofabitch didn’t get squat.”

  Georgie shook her head as she stood and joined her, exasperation written all over her face. “There are times when I really want to hit you, Cris, and if you didn’t already look like a frickin’ disaster, I’d add to the bumps and bruises you’re currently sporting! You were mugged, Miss I-can-take-care-of-myself, so badly I had to take you to the ER the first time, remember? You didn’t get this—” she held up Crissy’s bandaged arm, “—ice skating. Then tonight you surprise a burglar in your house. Now, most normal people would’ve just called the police and waited for them to arrive and arrest the guy. But no, what do you do? You decide to take him on with bum arm. What the hell were you thinking, woman? What if he’d had a gun or a knife?”