Her Only Desire (10 page)

“Ms. Floret?” Serge said, giving her a little bow of his head, his dark eyes twinkling.

“Tilly, don’t you think? Seeing as how I’m going to be here a while.”

“Tilly, I’ll show you to your quarters.”

She glanced back at Boone, but he was already stepping through the front door of the mansion. She wanted to follow him. Beg him for another kiss. Could he be right about her? About what he suspected was her true nature?

Clearing her throat, she pasted on a bland smile and followed Serge, who led her along a shell-pink gravel pathway lined with bricks. To either side was more wildly overgrown garden.

“How soon does he intend to open the house to guests?” she called out to him.

Serge glanced back, his face set. “You’ll need to direct your questions to Boone.”

Another avenue of control. Irritation prickled her skin and she frowned at his back.

Circling the house, they followed a path that skirted a wide lawn and passed a gazebo with a collapsed roof, overtaken by wisteria. Behind it was a cottage—a charming house by anyone else’s standards, one larger than Mrs. Nolan’s home and garage apartment combined.

Beyond the cottage were small cabins. Old slave quarters, she knew from her study of the history of the place. The cabins were undergoing renovation as well, men working like ants, replacing roofs and shoring up sagging porches. The cabins formed a square. In the center, the ground had been dug up, dirt hills sitting in front of acres of sugarcane beyond the cabins, evidence that some sort of major landscaping project was under way. “Is he constructing another courtyard area?”

Her question met with silence. She frowned again. “You do know he expects us to work together,” she called after him as he climbed the cottage’s porch steps and unlocked the front door.

When he turned, his mouth was a straight line, but one brow was arched.

She brushed past him to walk through the door.

“You’re just what he needs, Tilly Floret. Save your questions for him. He’ll enjoy answering them.” He tilted his head toward the interior of the cottage. “You should find everything you need. If there’s anything the staff has forgotten, make a list and give it to Boone or Jonesy.”

“My car?”

“In the garage.”

“Will I need a key or a code to access the garage when I want to take out my car?”

“You’ll need to speak to—”

Her hand rose in a halting motion. “Boone, I get it.” She glared at him, then slammed the door in his face.

When she heard his heavy tread descending the steps, she leaned against the door and glanced around the open living area. Dark hardwood floors, white canvas-upholstered furniture. Nothing fussy. Clean lines, overstuffed cushions. Netting here and there to give the area the feel of living on a plantation. Rattan fan blades stirring the air from above.

She sighed, loving the buttercream walls. Curious now to see the rest of the place, she pushed away from the door and began to explore.

The kitchen opened to the living room and had white tiled counters, cherry cabinets, and the same pale yellow walls. The first room down the hallway off the living room was the bathroom, outfitted with a white claw-footed tub, a pedestal sink, and a deep white baker’s rack filled with rolled towels in black and yellow.

Another door was a large closet filled with blankets and sheets. The last door was a bedroom. Here the walls were a light turquoise, the floor covered in a looped-pile white rug. The bed had a white iron frame and thick white duvet.

A phone, sitting on the bedside table, rang.

“Hello?” she asked, tucking the French white-and-gold receiver into the corner of her shoulder.

“Will you be comfortable?” came Boone’s silky voice.

Of course, who else would call? “Your timin’ is mighty suspicious.”

There was a pause. “You know I’ll keep you safe.”

Her gaze slowly scanned the room. “Are there cameras in the bathroom?”

“No.”

She didn’t ask any more questions and he didn’t offer up any further information. She supposed he had his reasons. A murder had happened on the grounds, years ago. Perhaps he was entitled to a little paranoia.

A long indrawn breath sounded in the receiver.

“You’re yawnin’,” she said, smiling. “Have I already bored you?”

“Your clothing is in the drawers. Your personal items are in boxes in the hall closet for you to sort through and decide where to place them.”

As she realized what was among those personal items, her heart stopped. Her folder of news clippings and historical records regarding Boone, the house, and the murder had been lying on her coffee table. She pulled a strand of hair behind her ear and forced herself to be calm. He could see her after all. “I hope,” she said carefully, “my privacy was respected.”

“Their instructions were to simply pack up your things as they were. Your every secret is safe.”

To hide her shock, she schooled her features. But a chill ran down her spine. She’d been so enamored of his attention, of the whirlwind pace of the changes he brought into her life, that she’d forgotten. Or had she deliberately shoved The Secret to the back of her mind?

“Get some sleep, Tilly. Your day will begin early.”

“Where will I report?”

“Find Jonesy in the morning. He’ll give you a rundown of everything we’re doing.”

A flash of disappointment shot through her body. Already he was pawning her off on another of his minions. No mention of where he’d be, or when she’d see him again. Perhaps the arrangement was just as well.

Darkness settled. Cloying, sultry. The odor of stagnant water drifting from the bayou battled with the sweetness of honeysuckle and roses. Despite the fact that he hadn’t slept the night before, Boone couldn’t fall asleep. He felt edgy, beyond exhaustion, restless.

If the time wasn’t too soon to seek Tilly’s company, he’d be at her door. As it was, he’d already roamed past her cottage and noted the lights turning off in the living room.

Earlier, after assuring himself she’d found her accommodations suitable, he’d forced himself to leave the security room, resisting the urge to watch as she readied herself for bed. Somehow, just seeing her soothed his raw edges, but he couldn’t sit still. So he wandered around the estate, passing armed guards who nodded but didn’t stop him to speak. Maybe that was just as well. They were wise to leave him to his thoughts.

He walked through overgrown brush toward the ramshackle cabins, which formed a square. Moonlight painted the structures—old slaves’ quarters from the plantation’s dark past. Missing roofing shingles allowed spears of white inside a few of the cabins. Scraggly weeds grew through floorboards.

Renovations had begun on several of the cabins farther down the square, but he couldn’t have cared less. He hated this place. Hadn’t stepped foot in the slaves’ square in years. Not since that horrible night so long ago. He’d have been content to let them and the big house continue to rot—if he could have forgotten about them and what had happened here. They’d been ravaged by storms and disuse, but still stood. While he’d leased the fields to local sugarcane growers, he hadn’t wanted anyone stepping foot inside Maison Plaisir or any of its outbuildings. As though he was punishing the place. Or the spirit of his father, who had loved it so well. He’d wanted it gone, but couldn’t let it go.

Because of the one cabin he now drew near.

Heaviness settled on his shoulders. His stomach revolted, tightening as memories he usually kept too busy to dwell on flooded his mind.

Standing in the doorway, he stared into the dark, empty room, seeing the old iron bed with its missing mattress, which had been carried away to a forensics lab, where it had been “lost.” Tattered remnants of crime-scene tape were caught on a splinter in the doorframe.

Boone remembered that last night. Heard echoes of laughter as Celeste opened her gift to find yards and yards of red silk ribbon, her pale arm waving as she held it up for him to tie her to the spokes of the white iron bed.

Closing his eyes, he tilted his head, catching a waft of roses and mint, her scent. Remembered her blonde hair, straight and wispy, sticking to her cheeks.

He’d tied her to the iron bed, facing her forward on her knees. To still her laughter, he’d gagged her with the ribbon, afraid her sounds would carry to the house where his father and mother were entertaining. Then he’d taken her in sure strokes, finding pleasure in her shuddering frame and her cries, muffled behind her gag. Together, they came in wet waves, the bed’s springs squeaking.

Afterward, he’d walked her to her car, parked outside the gate, farther down the lane so no one would see. He’d kissed her, slow and deep. She’d clung tightly to his neck.

“Wait for me,” he’d asked, his forehead resting against hers.

She’d promised she would, but he knew she was lying. Perhaps when she followed him to Tulane the next year, they’d hook up again. He’d like that. She was perfect. Liked his games.

But the next time he saw Celeste was early the next morning when the sheriff shoved him to his knees in the cabin’s doorway. “See what you did? Boy, your daddy’s not gonna fix this one.”

Blood pounded in his temples and Boone sucked in a deep breath. He uncurled the hands fisted at his sides. The crunch of footsteps made him stiffen.

“Boss,” Serge said from beside him. “You decide what you want done with this place?”

Boone’s lips curled in a snarl. “Burn it.”

* * *

Tilly awoke to the smell of burning wood and the sound of hushed voices outside her window. Her eyes smarted from the smoke. Fear clogged her throat.

She didn’t dare turn on her lights until she knew what was happening. So she felt around for her thin bathrobe, knotted it around her waist, and then made her way through the cottage to the front windows. Holding open two slats of the blinds, she stared in horror at one of the cabins across the square ablaze, sparks flying high into the air like fireflies.

Men surrounded it, holding hoses they used to wet the nearby ground and the surrounding cabins, but they pointed no water toward the burning cabin.

Everything seemed under control until her gaze found Boone, standing frozen in front of the gaping cabin door, watching the flames consume the structure.

Then she understood. Celeste had been found lying in one of the cabins on a dingy, blood-soaked mattress. That was all the detail the newspapers had given. Enough to fill her mind with images of a vivacious young woman who’d laughed while Tilly jumped on her bed, forever stilled. Although they were cousins, too many years lay between them for them to be close, but Celeste’s loss had changed everything.

Goose bumps raised on her skin. She wanted to sneak back to her bedroom and pretend she hadn’t seen a thing. But the sight of Boone, standing so still, his body rigid, hands fisted at his sides, made her stomach knot.

Her guilty secret made her feel slightly ill. She could ease his pain—shift the shame from his shoulders. All she had to do was come forward with her brother’s treasure box and the bracelet that hadn’t been found at the crime scene.

Watching him standing so silently, with his grim-faced men giving him worried glances as they worked, her eyes burned more. She hurried back to her bedroom. Not wanting to think about what she was doing, she dressed in shorts and a tee, slid her feet into flip-flops, and hurried back to let herself out of the door. Flapping sounds echoed in the air as she passed Serge, whose lips tightened. She ignored the shake of his head, which told her to mind her own business. She passed Mr. Jones, who didn’t give away his opinion by so much as a movement or change in his harsh face. Ignoring everyone but the man whose rigid body stood like a silent sentinel, she sidled up beside Boone and cupped his balled fist in her hand.

His hand tightened more, but didn’t shake hers away. Desperate to keep hidden the tears forming in the corners of her eyes, she kept her gaze down and stood beside him as the roof groaned, then collapsed, sending sparks raining out the gaping door.

Only then did he act, his arm coming around her to urge her backward. Then he pulled her against his chest and cupped her head, his hand smoothing over her back.

Maybe he was only making sure none of the firefly-like embers hadn’t landed on her, but he held her close, his heart thudding against her cheek.

Slowly, so that he wouldn’t jerk away from her, she raised her arms, encircling his muscled torso. Providing comfort and finding some for herself. Her hands roamed his back as she snuggled closer to his chest and let her tears fall, wetting her cheeks and the front of his shirt.

At last, he inhaled deeply, the tension in his body draining away. A kiss landed on her hair, and she leaned back, wiping her tears away with her fingers then checking his expression and finding it haggard, ravaged. “I think your men can handle the rest,” she said softly.

Boone shook his head. “I don’t want them turning on the hoses until it’s ashes.”

The harshness of his voice nearly broke her heart. “I’m certain they understand.”

Boone dropped his gaze to hers. “Why are you here, Tilly?”

The hollowness of his gaze made her mouth tremble. For all his strength and accomplishment, he was still a man haunted by his past. “I’m here because I know what this place is…” She took a deep breath. “And I know you didn’t do it.”

His lips twisted. “There’s believing, and then there’s knowing. Which is it, Tilly?” he asked, his gaze sharpening as he studied her face.

Tilly quivered beneath his hard gaze but tilted up her chin. “I know,” she whispered, “but don’t ask me how.” Her gaze pleaded with his to leave her admission alone. She wouldn’t tell him any more.

His jaw firmed, but he nodded, pulling away. “You should go back inside.”

“There’s too much smoke.”

A dark brow rose. “Then you haven’t any choice. You’ll come with me to the Big House.”

Pressed close to his body, she didn’t miss the stirring of his sex against her belly. She dropped her head, staring at his throat, but gave him a nod.

He swallowed. “Serge…”

“Yes, boss,” Serge said from a few feet away.

“See it to the end?”

“Of course. We don’t need you here.”

Boone slipped an arm around Tilly’s waist, and turned, leading her away.

They followed the path, lit by moonlight.

Tilly had known this moment would come. From the first touch of his hand on her foot. She’d been drawn to him from the start. So tall and strong, so smart and accomplished, but inside, he was tormented, something she understood only too well. Pity and guilt didn’t have a thing to do with her surrender. She needed Boone every bit as much as she sensed he needed her.

Her heart tripped inside her chest, knowing she’d accepted an invitation for more than a place to rest while the fire continued to burn. She was ready to explore this tantalizing attraction they shared. Already, her skin felt on fire. Her breasts tightened. Her hips swayed, bumping against his, because she couldn’t contain the excitement curling in her belly.

She was going to his bed. She knew it. He knew it. What he’d do once he had her there…well, that was the mystery.

They climbed the back porch steps and entered through a door that opened to the servants’ staircase. He dropped his arm and grabbed her hand, pulling her up the steep stairs.

She didn’t bother giving even token resistance. She wanted this. Not to ease his pain or her guilt, but because she wanted to know what being with Boone was like.

Tonight, witnessing his raw emotions had humanized him. Boone might be hardened by the things that had happened to him, by war and his dangerous profession, but at his core, he was vulnerable to hurt and sorrow. For tonight, that was enough to know.

She’d revealed something, but he hadn’t pressed her. No doubt tomorrow he’d think about it, and maybe redouble his effort to discover what she knew. But for now, he’d take what she offered instead. Comfort. Sexual release. She’d submit to him too, if it was what he needed.

She almost smiled, because he’d predicted this. He knew her in ways no other man had ever bothered trying.

He’d guessed the moment she’d balanced on one foot, curious to see what he would do.

They reached the upper floor and he headed left, unerringly finding his way in the darkness. At his bedroom door, he opened it, not bothering with the overhead light, but walking straight to the curtains and pulling them open. In the distance, over the roof of the foreman’s cottage, they could see the glow of the fire, but not the burning cabin itself.

Once again, he stood rigid, his hands on the window ledge. “Why are you here, Tilly?” he asked again.

“Because I want to be.”

His glance shot her way, taking note of her expression, which she masked, tilting up her chin.

His gaze went back to the lit sky. “Undress. Take everything off. Do it behind me if it helps knowing I can’t see.”

Shock quivered through her and held her still for a moment. His harsh whisper frightened her with its coarseness, but part of her was relieved he was doing exactly what he’d said he would—demanding her submission. This wouldn’t be a romantic seduction. No sweet pauses to gauge whether he’d wooed her sufficiently to proceed. This was about raw need and desires about to be fulfilled. Somehow, her pride was salved by the fact she didn’t have to voice her agreement. Her role was simply to obey. So she stepped out of her sandals and fumbled with her clothes until she stood nude in the shadows behind him.

“Go to my bed. Slip between the sheets and wait for me.”

Nervous but also terribly excited, she couldn’t force words past the lump growing in her throat. But what would she have said? She was panting, her breaths so short and rasping, he had to hear. She walked to his bed, noted the rumpled bedding, and slipped between cool cotton sheets. When she glanced back to the window, she saw he had turned and was watching her. But for how long?

He unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged out of it, letting it fall to the ground behind him. Then he toed off his shoes, unbuttoned his pants, and drew down the zipper.

At the moment he shoved down his pants, she realized she hadn’t been breathing, and she gasped.

Not that she could see much of what he revealed. The fire glowing in the distance illuminated his shoulders, but shadow hid the front of his body.

He stepped away from his clothing, striding straight to the bed as he stared down at her figure. “Pull away the sheet, Tilly. It’s dark in here. Your modesty will be preserved.”

“I’m not afraid,” she whispered, tossing back the sheet.

He reached down, and she held her breath, but he didn’t touch her. His fingers grasped the coverlet and sheet and pulled them to the end of the bed. Then he knelt on the edge of the mattress beside her.

Even a shadow couldn’t mask the desire in his eyes.

Her gaze snagged on his erection, which stood straight from his groin, rising nearly to the center of his belly. When she lifted her gaze, his teeth gleamed in a narrow, tight smile.

He bent over her, grasping her wrists and placing them beside her head. “Keep them here.”

Swallowing hard, she nodded—then gasped again as he set his big hands on her thighs. His palms smoothed up and down, the rasp of light calluses causing goose bumps to lift in their wake. He gripped her, pushed apart her thighs, and climbed on his knees into the space he made.

Now she was open, as vulnerable as a woman could be. Tilly concentrated on her breaths, dragging them between her pursed lips, blowing them out in a slow, steady stream to calm her racing heart.

But he only looked at her, his gaze caressing her breasts, her belly, the apex of her thighs. His fingers raked through the hair on her woman’s mound. “I’ll be shaving this.”