Cajun Hot (12 page)

This was her chance. She let him go and backed a few steps, retreating toward her camera bag. “I'll, uh, I'll just go outside and take some pictures while you two ... um..."

Jacque followed her movements as she grabbed her bag and slunk out the door. She was sure he'd say something to stop her, but he just nodded as she went through the door, waving lamely to the two men who looked suspiciously like they knew something she didn't.

She let out the breath she'd been holding and dug in her camera bag for her Nikon. Snapping pictures as her cover, she investigated the boat situation. Samuel's aluminum fishing boat was tied to the end of the wooden dock. Jacque's sleek motor boat was moored on the far side. Her rental boat had long since disappeared—returned to Gerroux under Jacque's orders, no doubt. It would be tricky to get away without Jacque spotting her—but then again, what would it matter, since she'd be in possession of his only mode of transportation? She only hoped he was as casual with the security of his boat as he was with the house and had left the key in the ignition.

Yes, there it was.

She let out a sigh of relief, and settled into some serious picture taking while she waited for Samuel to finish his business with Jacque. It really was a gorgeous spot Jacque had picked for his home, and the shack itself had wonderful character. She'd love to have some photos to remember the place where she'd spent the best moments of her life. But she wasn't going to think about that part—the good moments. She had to get away, and remembering the wonderful times she'd already shared with Jacque wasn't going to make it any easier to leave.

Finally, Samuel emerged from the house. As he climbed into his boat, Jacque called to her, “You coming in, baby?"

Her pulse doubled.
This was it.

"I think I'll take some more shots,” she answered, forcing her voice to remain composed. “The light is really nice the way it filters through those trees over there."

He studied her for a moment, then nodded and disappeared back into the house, but not before she'd snapped one precious photo of him standing in the doorway.

She wanted to stop him, to tell him how much she'd enjoyed the past few days. To beg him to forgive her for leaving without a word. To say she'd never forget him as long as she lived, and if there were any way for them to have a chance together, she'd gladly give her right arm to find it.

But how? He was determined to stay in the swamp. She had her life in the city, her condo, a photography career on the verge of taking off. Her National Geographic assignment was due in a couple of days, and she had to get the photos to New York if she was to have a prayer of clinching the freelance job she'd been working towards for more years than she could count. It wasn't fair to force her to choose between them.

Well, she'd learned long ago that life wasn't fair, not by a long shot.

She watched Jacque retreat into the shack, blinked back tears that suddenly stung her eyes, and took a fortifying breath to steady her badly shaking hands. Then she dropped her camera bag into the motor boat, jumped in and took off without once looking back.

Jacque stared through the screen of the kitchen window at Sahara as she sped away in his boat, and sighed.

He'd known it would happen. He'd prepared himself and warned Samuel. But despite everything, he'd really hoped she wouldn't.

Fuck.

He shook his head and went back to his kebab sauce, tasted it and decided to add a bit more garlic. It would be a while before Samuel returned. Jacque had told him to let Sahara get good and lost before hauling her ass back to him.

Dieu
, he must be out of his mind keeping her like this. It was crazy on so many levels.

Sure, his clan had gotten away with shotgun marriages innumerable times in the past. But this was a new millennium. Despite what he'd told her, they
couldn't
get away with stuff like this any more.

He grabbed a knife and tamped down his aggravation. He shouldn't blame her for trying to escape.

And he didn't. Not really. In her shoes, he'd be doing the same and worse. Still, it pricked his pride that she could give him up so easily. No tears, no regrets. No thoughts about his feelings.

All she could think of was getting out of his one-room shack and back to her quest for wealth and fame. His eyes narrowed in disappointment as he hacked the garlic and threw it into the pot.

He had no intention of staying married to a woman like Sahara, who'd only see dollar signs whenever she looked at him after she'd learned the truth. There were other things in life more important than money and possessions. If she couldn't understand that and be willing to sacrifice everything—
everything
—to love him, he wasn't interested in her.

And he didn't have a lot of optimism that it would ever happen. She had her heart set on that mansion on the water.

He gripped the knife in his hand, his knuckles going white. So, why was he so goddamned determined to keep her—even if only for a week or two?

Making himself relax, he stirred the garlic into the sauce with his knife. Because Sahara did things to him, his mind and his body, that no other woman had ever come close to doing, that's why. Just the fact that he wanted her back when it was obvious she had no interest in him beyond sex scared the hell out of him.

Yes, but what incredible sex! God knows, she wanted him, too. She was wild for him, insatiable in her lust for his body.
Dieu
, it made him dizzy just thinking about how quickly she responded. And he was sure it was
him
she responded to, not the act. Otherwise, why would she be so inexperienced and innocent at her age?

She adored him. Was probably in love with him, at least a little. It wasn't such a reach to imagine her falling for him completely and—

Damn.
Listen to him!

He hurled the knife across the room so hard it stuck in the opposite wall, vibrating like the anger that suddenly overwhelmed him.

Merde!
He really had a masochistic streak for allowing such a ridiculous thought to cross his mind.

She didn't love him. And she'd never consent to stay with him out here. He was deluding himself if he thought there was even a small chance.

He plowed a hand through a lock of hair that had escaped his ponytail, yanked out the band and bound it up again. He'd had his fill of women who only wanted to get their hands on his fortune. He couldn't take another bitter disappointment dished out by a calculating woman. He didn't have it in him to recover one more time.

Mais non
, he only wanted to keep Sahara captive for a few days, as a plaything for his cock.

Yeah, yeah, he was bein’ selfish and greedy. So what? Every woman he'd ever met was selfish and greedy. And this morning hadn't he sent fifteen rolls of her orchid photos to his own company's lab to be developed and printed? He'd have her best shots mounted and delivered in a fancy portfolio to his friend Miles Landau at National Geographic by Friday, so her precious career wouldn't suffer because of his own sadly misguided lust. Was that being selfish and greedy?

He wasn't in love with Sahara Jensen.

Screw love.

He just liked the way her sensual body felt in his arms, her heat around his erection, hot and wet, quivering with desire. That's what he loved about her. That's all he wanted.

Not the way she made him laugh at the most inappropriate times, or listened entranced to his dumb stories, or her naive curiosity and interminable awe over everything new she encountered. Or the gentle way she traced her finger over his face, gazing at him with that worshipful expression that threatened to melt his spineless heart.

Non.
None of that mattered.
Pas de rien.

He'd made himself a promise, and he intended to keep it.

If a woman couldn't commit to him totally and completely, he wanted nothing more to do with her than a few nights of pleasure. He'd keep her long enough to take the edge off his appetite for her body, then let her go.

No matter how much he might miss the needy little sounds she made as he thrust into her.

He strode across the room and ripped his paring knife from the wall, thumbing the long slit it had made in the plaster.

Someday, he'd find what he was looking for. Somewhere, there waited a loving woman who wanted Jacque Cherchat just for himself. Who'd be eager to stay with him while believing he was just another Cajun po'boy living in a shack on the bayou.

Then he'd know she truly loved him.

He stabbed the knife into the top of his butcher block table, turned down the sauce, and walked calmly to the bathroom for a shower and shave. To ready himself for Sahara's return to the captivity of his bed.

He didn't imagine she'd be glad to be brought back. But he was just rich and powerful enough to get away with this dangerous game of sexual shanghai, at least for a little while longer. He'd see to it she didn't leave empty-handed. That should satisfy her well enough.

That and a few new carnal adventures he had planned.

By the time Samuel returned with Sahara, Jacque was perfectly composed. The unfamiliar turbulence that had roiled his gut since her departure had been fiercely subdued, and only a slight jangle of discord remained.

If he'd expected her to be cowed at her recapture, he was mistaken. With head high, she stalked up the wooden jetty in bare feet, camera bag flung over her shoulder, the colorful silk of her long dress fluttering about her like a cloud of butterflies.

Dieu
, she was beautiful.

His groin twitched in appreciation. He perversely looked forward to taming her stubborn resistance to his dominion—taming, but never breaking. She had to cross that final bridge of surrender of her own free will. Otherwise, it was meaningless.

Still, her taming was where his present pleasures lay.

'For his depraved use', Lisette had called it the day he'd found Sahara. At the time, he'd laughed at her phrasing. Today, he wasn't smiling.

He'd changed. And so had the stakes.

Waving a curt thanks to Samuel, he held the screen door open for Sahara, who swept through and pitched her camera bag onto the sofa. Her back was to him, her shoulders stiff as she crossed her arms and pushed out an indignant curse. “How long do you plan to keep this up?” she demanded.

"Until I get tired of you,” he replied, wanting to provoke her.

She gasped and spun to face him. “You don't believe in this ridiculous marriage any more than I do! You just want—"

Apparently she couldn't continue. She stopped in mid-sentence and stared at him, scandalized.

He smiled. “Take off your clothes, woman."

The points of her cheeks flooded with color.. Whether from anger or unwilling excitement he couldn't say. Whatever. He was already hard, prepared to take her either way.

"The dress,” he directed, “or I'll rip it off you."

After a slight hesitation, she pulled the dress over her head and flung it away defiantly. Leaving her body resplendently naked. “Satisfied?"

His blood drummed through his veins. “Not nearly,
ma femme
. You left me in a bad way, remember?"

Her gaze dropped for a micro-second to the ridge of his arousal, long and stiff beneath his jeans, then her eyes snapped up again. She swallowed, but didn't answer.

He didn't need a reply.

Slowly, he approached her, letting her nervousness over what he intended escalate. Letting his own excitement swell along with his already bursting cock. He didn't stop walking until he stood right up against her. To her credit, she didn't back away.

Deliberately, he brushed her breasts with his bare chest. Her rosy nipples spiraled to tight points and he suppressed a gratified smile. Oh, yeah. Even in her outrage, she wanted him.

"You've been very naughty, Sahara."

"Have not,” she sassed back, but her words lacked conviction.

He put his mouth to her ear; careful to maintain his distance, the two pebble-hard tips of her breasts the only physical contact he allowed between them. “I should spank you,” he whispered.

Her sharp intake of breath dragged her nipples up his chest. “You wouldn't."

His erection jerked. “I've never spanked a woman before. Maybe it's time to find out what I've been missing."

The possibilities flooded his blood with adrenaline, a primal response to a primitive situation. Sexual power at its most delectable.

"Yes, I believe I will."

Her tongue peeked out and swiped over her bottom lip. A lip as ripe and plump as the other bit of her anatomy under consideration.

"No,” she murmured, her blue eyes turning the color of midnight.. Betraying her. “Please, Jacque..."

He stroked his hand lightly down the smooth skin of her derriere and slipped it between her legs. She was hot as cayenne pepper. “Please what, darlin'?"

She swayed closer. “Don't spank me."

He saw the excitement swirl in the mussel-blue depths of her eyes. Reluctant. Horrified. But unmistakably sexual.

His own excitement skyrocketed. “Then how shall I punish you for your disobedience?"

"Fuck me,” she suggested, her voice cracking.

He allowed himself a smile. “Now, that would hardly be punishment, would it? Though make no mistake, I intend to do that as well.” He slid his index finger deep into her. “But not until I've taught you proper respect for your husband."

"You're not my husband,” she insisted breathlessly, defiant to the end. Fighting her reaction to being ravished by his finger.

It was no use. She was already drenched and swollen, her passage gripping him as he inserted a second finger. Her legs wobbled, and she grabbed his biceps for support.

"Oh, but I am. Ask anyone. You can't escape me. And I plan to keep you for a long, long time."

"Then you'll have to tie me to your bed,” she said testily. She realized her mistake immediately. Her body froze and she held her breath, no doubt hoping he hadn't paid attention.

He had.

In the charged silence, the image of her in his bed, bound and helpless, arced between them like white lightening. It burned his imagination, streaked through his cock like a lightening rod.