Too Hot to Handle
Ghosts don't have sex, do they? Annabelle Ronaldi wasn't 100 percent sure of the answer. Floating between sleep and wakefulness after a night of way too much champagne, she figured she'd either had mind-blowing sex with the ghost of her dead boyfriend, Chip, or his double. She crossed her fingers for the latter.
She'd only slept with two men, so the chances she'd increased that number by 50 percent beat the hell out of the odds of her waking with a ghost—especially when she thought about it in a semisober state. A state she hadn't been in the night before.
She had to admit her relationship with Chip would have been a lot better if he'd been half as good in bed alive as his ghost was last night—if, in fact, it was Chip's ghost sleeping beside her. Which brought her back to her initial question regarding the ability of ghosts to have sex—really, really good sex.
Annabelle opened her eyes and screamed. Loud.
The guy asleep next to her awoke and sat straight up as she jumped out of bed. "My God, you're real." Yep, definitely real, and very much alive.
He stared at her with such heat she was surprised she wasn't incinerated. Which, under the circumstances, would be preferable to standing there like an idiot. An idiot wearing nothing but a blue garter. She ripped the sheet off the bed, leaving him naked, only he didn't look like an idiot. On the contrary, he looked … big and um … happy to see her. Very happy. Annabelle was speechless.
"Belle." He scooted toward her. She backed away until she hit the dresser with a thunk. Belle? Chip never called her Belle. If she hadn't almost totally dismissed the whole ghost question as a possibility, being called Belle would have cinched it.
"Hey, take it easy. I'm not gonna hurt you."
"Who are you?"
"I'm Mike. Mike Flynn, your brother-in-law's best friend; we met at the wedding. You look like you've seen a ghost."
"No kidding." He didn't seem like the ax murderer type, not that she knew what that type looked like, but she was pretty sure it required an ax, and he didn't have one or anywhere to hide one either. She found herself staring at … him. Probably not the polite thing to do. Annabelle took a deep breath and moved the direction of her stare past his washboard abs and nice chest, straight to the eyes of Chip's double. He looked almost exactly like Chip, a.k.a. Christopher Edmond Van Dyke Larsen, except for the eye color, a slight bump on his nose, and the size of a certain appendage.
"Hi … um."
"Mike. Mike Flynn."
"I knew that." You'd think she'd offered to sell him the Brooklyn Bridge , and he wasn't buying. "I've never done this before—"
"This, meaning brought home a nice guy, had mind-boggling, earth-shattering, world-rocking sex?" He winked at her. "Yeah, if it makes you feel any better, I don't make a habit of it either—especially the part where the beautiful woman can't remember my name. Aside from that, I can't think of a more pleasurable morning."
Annabelle's wish to disappear wasn't happening, so she had no choice other than to deal with whatever this was.
"Anyone ever tell you you're beautiful when you're embarrassed? Well, you're pretty much beautiful all the time."
She shifted her weight from foot to foot. "So, we really did, um, you know?"
"Oh yeah. Several times."
Maybe her mind was playing tricks on her. Maybe he didn't look and sound like Chip. Maybe she'd had a mental breakdown. Lord knew, with everything she'd been through recently, taking a vacation from reality wouldn't be