The Seduction of Evelyn Hyde Read online

  The Seduction of Evelyn Hyde

  Anne Hope

  Matt Alexander was Hollywood’s most notorious playboy, and he enjoyed every minute of it. Until his sins caught up with him and he died in a freak accident. Now, to avoid the fiery depths of hell, he must face his most difficult challenge yet. He has ten days to win the love of introverted librarian Evelyn Hyde. Problem is the blasted woman is more interested in taking Charles Dickens to bed than him.

  Evelyn has lived a sheltered existence, finding contentment in the classic tales she enjoys night after night. Love is the last thing on her mind. She is more than happy to live vicariously through the characters found in her collection of timeless books.

  Then Matt Alexander’s ghost drops into her world, upsetting her perfectly ordinary life. Despite her best efforts to ignore him, Evelyn slowly discovers the thrill of falling in love. Unfortunately, it’s with a man no more tangible than the fictional heroes she reads about . . . until desire teaches them both how truly magical the soul can be.

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  THE SEDUCTION OF EVELYN HYDE

  Copyright © Anne Hope 2009

  Artwork by Rae Monet

  This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or business establishments, events or locales is coincidental. All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Note from the Author

  Most of you probably know me for my darker works of fiction, namely my Dark Souls series. Stories like Soul Bound, an RT Top Pick and Reviewers’ Choice Award Nominee, allow me to plumb the dark depths of my imagination and give readers a turbulent, dangerous ride.

  But every so often, I need to write something lighthearted. The Seduction of Evelyn Hyde is one of those stories. If you’re in the mood to smile, I invite you to read this haunting tale and watch as Hollywood’s most notorious playboy struggles to seduce the world’s most introverted librarian, in a last ditch effort to save his immortal soul.

  For a darker spin on this classic bad boy/good girl theme, please enjoy the sample of Soul Bound included at the end of the novella.

  Chapter One

  On March twelfth, Matt Alexander died in a freak accident, when his girlfriend Sheila—or was it Susan?—found, in his car, a red G-string, which unfortunately didn’t belong to her. After a breathless tirade where she called him every foul name known to man—or more precisely woman—she angrily flung the panties in his face. For a split second the flimsy garment obstructed his vision, and Matt unwittingly slammed his car into an eighteen-wheeler.

  Needless to say, he was pretty pissed when he arrived at the Pearly Gates. The gall of that woman totaling his sleek, shiny new Porsche that way. And over a silly pair of panties no less. The fact that he was dead didn’t quite register yet. He was too busy mourning the loss of his wheels to pay any heed to the fact that he was as intangible as mist.

  Only when he was greeted by a short, goofy-looking man wearing a white dress did he realize the bind he was in.

  “Mr. Alexander, welcome to triage,” the man said, smiling like some cartoon character with more teeth than common sense.

  “Triage? Is that slang for purgatory?”

  The man quirked his two bushy, white brows. “No, triage is the stage before purgatory. It’s where we decide where you belong—” he gestured behind him and three golden doors appeared “—door number one, door number two or door number three.”

  Matt’s head began to throb, or it would have if he still had a head. This little man was as confusing as hell. “Listen, Dopey, you may have eternity here, but I don’t. At least I think I don’t. Could you please cut to the chase?”

  The man consulted a scroll, which he plucked out of thin air, and clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “It says here patience was never one of your virtues. Apparently, neither was respect of oneself and others, compassion and chastity.”

  Matt snorted. “How about the thousand bucks I gave to Sun Youth last month?”

  Dopey skewered him with a blistering glare. “That would be charity.”

  Matt got his drift and chuckled proudly. If the truth be told, he was about as chaste as a nymphomaniac whore with too much time on her hands. Which was what had landed him in this whole sordid mess to begin with.

  “So what do these doors stand for? Is Vanna waiting for me on the other side?”

  Dopey flashed a mischievous grin. “Perhaps not Vanna, but a woman. Yes, most definitely a woman.”

  Things were looking up. This whole death deal might not be so bad after all. “Is she hot?”

  “That would be door number two. It’s very, very hot in there.”

  The situation suddenly lost all comic appeal. That kind of heat he could do without. “So how is this game supposed to play out? Do I spin a wheel? Pick a door? Stand on my head and hum ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’?”

  “Nothing that simple. In fact, it will probably be the most difficult thing you’ve ever had to do.”

  Matt scoffed. “There’s nothing I can’t accomplish if I set my mind to it. Anything to avoid door number two. Just name it.”

  Dopey’s face gleamed until it became resplendent. With a swirl of his hand, he showed Matt what awaited him behind door number one. It was a woman, no doubt about that. A thin, mousy woman with horn-rimmed glasses, sitting in front of a roaring fire with her small, perky nose buried in a book.

  Matt’s face fell. “She’s not my type.”

  Dopey displayed a perfect row of pearl-white teeth. “She better be, Mr. Alexander, because you have exactly ten days to make her fall in love with you.”

  Evelyn Hyde loved old books. She loved the smell of timeworn leather, the feel of crinkled yellowing paper beneath her fingertips, the crackling sound they made each time she turned a page. Everything about those timeless classics—penned in times of war, famine, oppression or plainly simpler eras when basic values actually mattered—fascinated her and left her breathless. She could lose herself in a book for days, thinking of nothing else but flipping to the next scene or chapter. These enduring tales inspired her, made her believe some things truly were meant to last forever.

  She settled in her favorite recliner before the fireplace in the modest New England cottage she’d inherited from her parents, preparing to be swept away by her latest find—a wonderful first edition of Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre. Being a librarian definitely had its perks. Over the years she’d developed some pretty impressive contacts as far as used books were concerned, and this baby had all but fallen into her lap.

  She’d barely read three pages when the strangest feeling came upon her. The feeling that she was no longer alone. Her gaze quickly scanned the room, and—as crazy as it sounded—she half expected to find someone sitting on the couch across from her. Of course, there was no one there and she shook her head in self-reproach, returning her attention to her book.

  The bizarre sensation, however, did not abate. She felt…watched.

  Evelyn laughed at her silliness. She was just shy of her thirtieth birthday—far too young to be going senile. She’d read stories about women who lived alone. Women who grew eccentric as the years passed and eventually acquired a dozen or so cats to soothe their solitude. Ms. Delaney, who lived down the street from her, was a prime example. The sweet, plump spinster had the most unsettling habit of talking to people who weren’t there.

  Well, she was nothing like her neighbor or any of the women she’d read about. Yes, she lived alone, but she did not own
a cat and she most definitely was not lonely. Not with all these fascinating characters to keep her entertained night after night.

  She managed to read a few more pages of Jane’s riveting plight when she experienced an inexplicable tingle at the nape of her neck, like the cool kiss of a ghost. She shuddered and flung a furtive glance over her shoulder.

  Get a grip. You’re far too pragmatic to start believing in ghosts.

  The fire flickered, causing eerie shadows to skip across the walls. The shadows suddenly merged, swaying to some inaudible tune, as if performing a sensual dance. Then, for a moment ever so brief, she could’ve sworn they formed the shape of a man.

  And that’s when Evelyn decided the time had probably come for her to adopt some cats.

  Matt felt he was in hell already. For the past three days he’d struggled to get Evelyn to see him, but she refused to acknowledge his presence. That trick with the fire had been pretty neat. Still, the blasted woman continued to ignore him.

  He was starting to believe Dopey had purposely set him up to fail. How could he possibly get Evelyn’s attention when she had her face constantly buried in a book? She probably wouldn’t have noticed him if he was a flesh-and-bone man standing stark naked two feet away from that pretty-as-a-button nose of hers.

  For days he’d followed her around like some pathetic puppy, practically doing somersaults to get her to glance his way. He’d trudged through snow and slush here in Nowheretown Maine, painfully missing the bright L.A. sun he’d enjoyed most of his adult life. The New England sky was gray, like an old washed-out blanket, but for some reason it refused to rain or snow. And Evelyn’s routine was as boring as hell. She went from her house to the library, then back to her house again. Yesterday, she’d actually gone wild and dropped by the grocery store on her way home. Matt had nearly died from the excitement. Or he would’ve, if he wasn’t already dead.

  No wonder the woman reads so much. Evelyn Hyde, he concluded, must be bored to tears.

  “Dopey, I could really use your help here.” Matt’s voice echoed listlessly in the empty house. Evelyn was still at the library. Unable to spend another second in that drab place, he’d called it quits and returned to the cottage on his own.

  Instantly, the white-gowned man materialized before him.

  “What seems to be the problem, Mr. Alexander?”

  “The problem,” he rasped, “is that I can’t get her to see me.”

  Dopey watched him with an infuriatingly calm look, scratching one of his oversized ears. “She’ll see you when she’s ready.”

  Matt tamped down an oath. “And when exactly will that be?”

  “Patience, Mr. Alexander. Good things come to those who wait.”

  Great, his future hung in the balance and all Dopey could do was spit proverbs at him. “How the blazes am I supposed to get that woman to fall in love with me when she can’t see or hear or touch me? Worse yet, she’s as about as horny as a nun. The only man she takes to bed at night is Charles Dickens, and he’s as dead as a doornail!”

  A cocky grin curled Dopey’s mouth. “Then it appears you’re in luck, Mr. Alexander. You’re precisely her type. And by the way, my name is Eberhart.”

  Matt failed to stifle the chuckle that rose to his throat. “Bet you gave your parents door number two for that one.”

  The humor was lost on Eberhart, who quickly vanished in a flurry of white robes.

  Matt sighed. What in God’s name was he supposed to do now?

  Evelyn had a splendid day at the library. She managed to retrieve several late books and had even acquired a couple of new classics—Ann Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolpho and Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield—from her contact at Classic Treasures. This was turning out to be a very exciting week.

  Home, sweet home, she thought as she turned the key and entered the Victorian clapboard house she’d grown up in.

  Her soles ached from all the hours she’d spent on her feet, and she had a crick in her neck, a result of all the books she’d sorted. All she wanted to do tonight was take a nice hot bubble bath and curl up with Jane Eyre. Sadly, she was almost finished reading the enthralling tale. Jane had just discovered that Mr. Rochester was married and had fled from Thornfield Manor. Although Evelyn had read the story countless times before, she was anxious to experience the thrill of the climax all over again.

  The moment she stepped foot in her home, however, the peculiar feeling returned. The one that made her skin prickle and her heart race. The one that had her seeing shapes in the shadows and hearing whispers in the whistle of the breeze.

  Stubbornly brushing the sensation away, she dropped her purse in the hall and hastened to the kitchen to make herself a nice cup of herbal tea. She’d eaten a sandwich at the library before she’d left for the day, so she didn’t have to bother with supper tonight.

  After drinking her tea, she made her way to the bathroom, where she proceeded to fill the tub with fragrant suds. The small bathroom slowly filled with lavender-scented steam, as she gently slipped out of her clothes.

  Humming a chirpy tune, she removed the rubber band from her hair, releasing a cascade of unruly curls. Completing the ritual, she took off her glasses and placed them by the sink. She was about to lower herself into the tub when—for no reason she could explain—she felt compelled to wipe the steam from the mirror.

  Instantly, her heart slammed into her throat, drowning the scream that threatened to spill from her parted lips. In the mirror, mere feet behind her, stood the most gloriously handsome man she’d ever seen. He had hair the color of burnt honey, aquamarine eyes that sparkled like the Caribbean Sea at dawn, and he watched her with a glimmering intensity that stole the moisture from her mouth and made panic coil in her belly.

  And in the midst of this delusional fantasy, all Evelyn could think about was that she was as naked as the day she was born.

  Chapter Two

  Matt was perfectly content to watch Evelyn strip, for once happy she couldn’t see him. It turned out this whole ghost thing had some benefits after all. Unfortunately, viewing was the only pleasure he could engage in. He was definitely going to miss making love to a woman. There was something very delectable about the creamy texture of a woman’s skin, and Evelyn’s was no exception.

  He took in the sight of her naked figure—her shapely legs, her heart-shaped butt, those firm, perfectly symmetrical breasts that would fit in his palms just right if he cupped them…

  Matt decided he liked Evelyn Hyde a heck of a lot better without her clothes.

  And that hair!

  He never would’ve guessed that silly bun concealed such a wild mass of russet-brown curls. It had to be a sin against nature to pin up a mane like that. He shook his head in baffled disbelief. What was the senseless woman thinking? Did she purposely work at making herself as unattractive as possible? If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Evelyn Hyde went to great pains to repel men.

  Then it struck him. The reason she loved books so much. Evelyn’s reading obsession stemmed from a desperate desire to avoid living her own life. Why have sex when you can read about it, right?

  At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to show her exactly what she was missing. If only he’d met her when he was still alive, he would have taught her a thing or two about letting loose and having fun. Now, he couldn’t as much as wrap one of those wicked curls around his finger, couldn’t sprinkle feathery kisses down the long curve of her neck, couldn’t touch or taste or smell her. The realization rankled, and for the first time since his death he was assailed by a crippling feeling of loss.

  No longer in any mood to behold everything he’d never have the opportunity to embrace again, he was about to vanish from the bathroom and leave her to her privacy, when she suddenly wiped the steam from the mirror and stared straight at him.

  For a few seconds their gazes locked, and Matt knew deep down within him—in that place where consciousness dimmed and instinct took over—that she saw him. He caught a fli
cker of surprise and disbelief in her eyes, peppered with a dash of something else. Something thick and sultry and laced with a special kind of awareness only a man and woman can share.

  Then she blinked, and the moment was lost. She spun around in search of him, but she glanced right through him. The awareness was gone, replaced by a ripple of confusion that pinched her brows and crinkled her forehead.

  Matt felt a stab of disappointment. Nevertheless, for the first time since he’d gotten this impossible assignment hope ballooned inside him. Sooner or later, Evelyn Hyde would have no choice but to acknowledge his existence, and when she did, he’d make damn sure he found a way to show her that life was a hell of a lot more interesting when you actually experienced it.

  The next morning was Saturday, and Evelyn looked forward to spending a quiet day at home. The vision in the mirror last night had been quite troubling.

  I must be under more strain than I thought, she reasoned. Why else would I be seeing things?

  Nothing a peaceful day with a good book couldn’t cure.

  After having a light breakfast of buttered toast and tea, she took a couple of hours to tidy up her home. Saturday mornings were reserved for cleaning, and she always proceeded the same way: she started in the kitchen, slowly made her way to the living room, then finished with the bathrooms and bedrooms.

  In no time at all, she was done. There were definite benefits to living by yourself; you had no one else to clean up after. Evelyn was just about to sink into her favorite recliner with a new book—she’d regretfully finished Jane Eyre last night—when the doorbell rang.

  A little put off by the interruption, she went to answer it and found her neighbor Agnes Delaney standing on her doorstep.

  “Evie, dear,” the elderly woman said, displaying a neighborly smile, “would it be too much of an inconvenience for me to borrow some milk? I ran out, and my poor kitties can’t go without their morning snack.”