Her Only Desire (3 page)

“Not much was changed from the original design, other than adding two Sub-Zeros and enlarging the pantry.”

“Will you be doing a lot of entertainin’, then?”

His lips twitched, and then settled back into a straight line. His expression was neutral as he said, “I will be entertaining, yes.”

She had the feeling he was laughing at her but wondered what he found so funny. Had she sounded too provincial?

He stopped beside a sink. “No stools as yet.” Without warning, he reached for her waist.

Alarmed, she stepped back.

Again he gripped her and lifted her easily to the cool countertop. “Your knee,” he said, his voice softer, his gaze probing.

Tilly swallowed to wet her dry mouth. “I’m Clotille Floret.”

“I know.”

Then he must also know Celeste had been her cousin. The thought that he’d flirted, knowing that, disturbed her.

“I’m Boone Benoit.”

“I know,” she said, just as softly.

“And that’s enough to know for now, don’t you think? No need to share our secrets just yet.”

The blood drained from her face and she bit her lower lip.

His gaze narrowed, but he turned, opening a cabinet and pulling down a plastic box. From it he took wet wipes, antiseptic spray, and a large bandage.

She held out her hand. “I can manage on my own,” she said, injecting more strength into her voice than she felt. What she wanted was for him to leave her before she gave away any more clues about how much he unnerved her.

Ignoring her hand, he peeled open the wipes, and then pushed up the hem of her skirt.

Her body stilled. She resisted the urge to push it back into place, but only just. He didn’t expose any more than her knee.

Boone wiped away the grit, dirt, and a small amount of blood from her skin. “You’re applying for the position of hospitality manager…” His hand lingered on her knee while he waited for her answer.

“Yes,” she said, although she shook her head.

He set aside the wipe and sprayed her knee with antiseptic. “You have experience?”

The spray burned, and she crimped her lips to keep from gasping. “My degree was in hotel management, and I’ve been the assistant manager at two major hotels in Houston, the Sorella and the Saint Regis. A copy of my résumé is in my bag.”

“The position’s filled.”

Her shoulders dropped an inch. “Oh.” She should have felt relief. She wouldn’t have to deal with him on a frequent basis.

He squirted more antiseptic, and then bent toward her.

She was tempted to push him back because she was embarrassed. Instead she watched, fascinated, as he blew a stream of warm air over the wound, cooling the fierce sting. Then he tore the paper wrapping from the bandage and pressed it against her knee, his large hand flattening over it to seal it. Through the tape she felt each finger like a caress. Which it wasn’t. She gave herself a mental shake.

“I have another opening.” This time, his voice was even, void of any undertones. “One I believe will suit you.”

At this point, all she wanted was to leave. He confused her with his touches, his velvet voice. She was in over her head. “What position would that be?” she asked, an embarrassing quaver in her voice.

“I have need of a personal assistant.”

Her brows rose, affronted at his offer. With her credentials, was that the best he thought she could do? “A secretary?”

He shook his head. “So much more than that. You’d be my liaison with the staff here and at my offices in New Orleans.”

“I’m sure you can find someone much better suited. Someone who actually knows your business.”

“I want someone from Bayou Vert. Someone who can walk in both worlds.”

Both worlds? Like this backwoods town was an alien planet? “I don’t take dictation.”

“Are you sure?”

Again, he used that velvet voice. The one that made her insides quiver. She lifted a finger to point behind her, the way they’d come. “I should leave.” Then she hopped from the counter and smoothed down her skirt.

“Wait.”

She craned her head to meet his gaze.

He lifted his hand, index finger pointed down, and swirled it. “Turn around. You have dirt on your skirt.”

With her free hand, she reached back to brush it off.

“Don’t be stubborn.” He gripped her elbow and gently forced her to spin around.

Cheeks on fire, she stood stiffly while he swept her backside with swift brushes of a hard hand. When he stopped, she held her breath, waiting for him to release her.

“Think about it,” he said, leaning near her ear. “I’ll add another fifteen thousand to the annual salary. I’m sure at your first review you can wrangle for even more. You’ll become indispensible to me.”

Her mind reeled. The amount he proposed was ridiculous. And tempting, despite the fact she knew she’d have to refuse. “Why me?”

“Why not?” His gaze crawled down her body slowly, and then flicked back to meet hers. He gave a careless shrug, but the hand still cupping her elbow squeezed. “You’ll do.”

Her gaze narrowed. She was glad he’d done that. Sized her up like a meal. Anger flushed through her, replacing the tingling awareness and sickening fear with something sturdier. She jerked away her arm. “I’ll need a day.” She could take forever. The answer would still be no.

“Take two. I’ll be leaving shortly for a platform on the gulf. When I return, I’ll send around a car.”

“You’ll need my number. My address.”

“I’ll find you.” At her widened glance, he shrugged. “It’s a small town.” He gave her a smile, and then bowed his head and turned.

Tilly watched his tall, straight back saunter away, and wondered if there was any possibility he knew what she’d found.

If he’d come back to avenge Celeste’s death, he’d picked the perfect person to begin with.

“So, we’re going to The Platform?” Serge’s wry voice came from the doorway.

Boone stood at the window, a hand gripping the frame as he watched Clotille Floret make her way slowly down the drive. Her lush figure swayed with unintentional allure. Small breasts, a narrow waist, lovely wide hips. No doubt the pretty gray suit had required extensive alterations so it wouldn’t hang from her straight shoulders and mask her feminine frame. Every bit as pert and uptight as the suit, she’d radiated a cautious interest, unable to resist the sensual thrill building between them from the first moment their glances met.

Although tentative, she’d obeyed his command to set her foot on his thigh. She’d gasped as he’d swatted at her backside, but he’d bet money that gasp wasn’t out of outrage. Every time he’d touched her, felt her hesitate then take a deeper breath and concede, he’d felt his interest ratchet up another notch. Her reactions felt like a fist closing around his balls.

Boone had no intention of fighting the overpowering desire to draw her into his web. Especially now that he’d met her face-to-face. He went with his instincts. Always.

Everything about her drew his interest—her shape, her pale blonde hair, her wide cornflower-blue eyes. Her voice, with its cultured Cajun drawl. Her resistance. She was the mirror image of her cousin, but with a hint of innocence Celeste had never managed to exude.

His fingers tightened around the edge of the window frame. “Send a car after her. I don’t want any more accidents.”

“Already handled.”

The moment the foreman’s mule pulled up beside the stubborn woman, Boone turned away. He smiled thinking of the argument she’d give Jonesy, but then glanced at his next-in-command.

Serge shook his head, his expression stony.

He disapproved of Boone’s plan. They’d moved from BUD/S to SEAL Qualification Training to SEAL Team 5, and served together on three deployments in the Middle East. No one knew him better. “Doesn’t seem your type,” Serge drawled.

“Perhaps not at first glance. First touch, now…” He’d noted the arousal in her widening pupils, the flare of her nostrils, the trembling of her foot on his thigh. Being told what to do had stiffened her spine, but still she’d complied.

“She’ll be a distraction,” Serge said, his voice neutral but his expression hardening.

Boone arched a brow. “Haven’t you been urging me to seek distractions?”

“She’s young.”

Not too young.
But Boone knew what he meant. He’d never pursued someone so inexperienced and unschooled. “Are you getting scruples this late in the game?”

With a shake of his head, Serge sighed. “Maybe it’s the fact this is a game.”

Boone sent him a silent warning.

It was just a glance, but Serge grunted in agreement to drop the conversation. “Shall I muster the pilot?”

“Wouldn’t want Ms. Floret to view me as a liar as well as a murderer.”

He’d seen the way she’d first looked at him. Eyes wide and frightened. She was Celeste Thibodaux’s cousin, so she’d likely been raised on the sensational story. And since she worked at Mae’s restaurant, he had no doubt the crotchety woman had filled her in on the sordid details concerning his relationship with Celeste.

Serge tapped the Bluetooth in his ear. “Lincoln, find Bear. Mr. Benoit’s decided to visit The Platform.” When his gaze returned to the window, he pointed toward Jonesy’s vehicle as it continued down the long drive. “So, that’s the cousin?”

“Yes, second cousin. Her mother was Celeste’s older cousin.”

Serge whistled softly. “She’s a looker.”

Boone stiffened against Serge’s appreciation. “And to answer the question you aren’t asking, yes, she’s very much like Celie. Except in disposition.”

Serge lifted an eyebrow. “And persuasion?”

“Light-years apart.” Which shouldn’t have filled him with satisfaction, but did.

“You’re treading in dangerous waters.”

“Have before.”

“Yeah, but she’s not a hostile.”

Boone dropped his gaze and began rolling down his sleeves, irritation making his moves jerky. “She was born and raised here. They’re all hostile. Don’t believe otherwise for a second. But someone here knows something. Just a matter of time before my presence here forces his hand.” He shot Serge a glance. “The sheriff still have a squad car parked at the gates?”

Serge snorted. “Hasn’t budged. Damn incestuous bunch.”

“It’s a small community. Closed. Even when my father was the main employer, we were the outsiders.” He shrugged. “No buccaneers in our pedigree.”

“You don’t have to do this.” Serge waved a hand at the window. “No charges were ever filed. Won’t ever be. They had no proof then. Still don’t.”

“And that’s the problem. Whoever tampered with the evidence knows what really happened. My life was…changed. Irrevocably. Celeste’s ended.” Boone drew a deep breath to tamp down the anger that was always there, simmering deep inside him. But anger was a luxury he couldn’t afford. It blinded. “I want justice. Not for me. For her. Celie didn’t deserve to die that way. I’ll understand if you want to step away. It’s not your fight.”

Serge shrugged his rugged shoulders. “We’ve fought wars for lesser reasons. I’m not hesitating because I don’t have the stomach. But I see what it’s doing to you. This place…” He shook his head. “This town’s dead, but no one here seems to know it.”

“What about the others?”

“We’re all in, Lieutenant.”

“Boone,” he reminded him, but caught Serge’s sly smile. He’d called him by his old rank to irk him. “Tell Jonesy to get the foreman’s house ready.”

“You so sure she’ll accept the offer?”

“She won’t be able to resist. Her dossier is thin, but every decision she’s made over the past two years indicates family is her first priority. Her mother’s gone. She’s motivated to save the only family she has left—her brother.” He rested his hands on his hips. “This position is her only hope.”

“Sure you want her living here on the estate?”

“I want her close. Her presence on the estate is sure to stir up something. Leon’s interested in her. Mae hired her. Someone’s going to get nervous, see the parallel, and make a mistake.” His jaw clenched and he forced it to loosen. “When it all goes down, I want her here and protected.”

Serge nodded. “Do you want the house wired?”

Boone drew in a deep breath, and then nodded. “For her own safety,” he murmured, although his mind leapt ahead to sexier reasons.

His friend’s mouth twitched. “Does she have any idea the sort of entertaining you expect to do here?”

“Not a clue.” An answering grin stretched across his face. “Showing her the ropes will present a challenge.”

A rich chuckle burst from his friend. “You’re really hiring her to be your secretary?”

“No. I have a perfectly competent staff. She’ll be my shadow, learn to anticipate my needs.”

Serge shook his head. “Like I said. A distraction.”

“A sweet distraction with the right connections.”

Again, Serge chuckled. “I almost feel sorry for her.”

“Don’t. No harm will come to her.” Boone arched a brow. “None she won’t enjoy, anyway.”

Serge touched his ear again, and his gaze flashed to Boone. “The Agusta is ready. Need to pack?”

“We’re only going for a day.” Boone shook his head. “What I need is in my locker at the club.”

Serge led the way through the foyer and out the door.

Boone’s gaze swept the front porch, newly reconstructed, and skimmed over the ravaged gardens. He made a mental note to hire more gardeners to begin clearing the planting beds. Everything would be as it was, down to the last azalea bush.

The whomp-whomp of the helicopter sounded from just beyond the stand of tall oaks framing the walkway.
Leon is likely having a conniption with it landing so close to the cruiser in the parking lot.

Boone smiled and buttoned his cuffs. He’d have to arrange for a jacket and tie to be brought to the limo that picked them up from the landing field in New Orleans. A mere detail, but paying attention to everything, even the seemingly unimportant things, had gotten him to where he was now: CEO of his own international security corporation. Friends in all the highest places. A senator or two in his pocket. No one connected to his late father.

Following on Serge’s brisk heels, he left the main walkway to enter a garden gate and the wide green field where the helo waited. The blades fanned the air, whipping at his clothing and hair. He bent his head, climbed the accordion steps, and waited impatiently as Serge pulled them up, closed the door, and handed him a set of headphones.

Ignoring the chatter between Serge and Bear, his pilot, he glanced out the window as they lifted. Flying along the ribbon of narrow highway that lead back into town, Boone caught a glimpse of a dark cherry-red Corolla.

Must be Ms. Floret’s car. He smiled. It fit her somehow. Clotille Floret. He liked her name, the way it rolled off his tongue. Liked her smooth tanned skin and the silky feel of his fingers gliding along it. Liked her big blue eyes—so guileless but also so deceiving. The woman was a tempting package. Innocent…but not.

An excellent judge of character, he could read most anyone in a glance. He was certain she was hiding something. But what? She wasn’t frightened of him, he was sure of it. But she seemed terrified of something related to him. He didn’t believe she was afraid of any backlash from her friends or family for coming to him for a job. The tilt of her firm, round chin had been too proud, too self-assured for her to worry for more than a minute about any ruffled feathers. She’d do whatever it took to help her brother and to satisfy her own curiosity about Boone.

Sitting back, he gave Serge a small, tight smile, knowing his friend knew exactly where his thoughts had roamed, and how he planned to purge the irksome scruples that arose when he thought of how he must seduce Tilly Floret.

Perhaps fate had driven him back here at this precise moment in time to seek the answers that had haunted him all these years. Fate had given him a gift—Celeste’s sweet young cousin, a woman who was completely unskilled at the game he was about to play.

* * *

Tilly pulled into the gravel drive in front of her small apartment. It was really just a finished detached garage, converted by Mrs. Nolan after her husband had passed in order to earn income to supplement her social security. Nothing fancy, but comfortable and clean.

Mrs. Nolan didn’t rent to men, considering them somewhat inept at housekeeping. Tilly kept her place neat on the off chance her landlord wanted to take a look inside. Not something that bothered her, and she’d been well aware the old woman kept a key so that she could nose around. Her mother had often complained about the woman, who sat in her recliner with the blinds open, watching the comings and goings of the town so she’d have plenty to gossip about at Mass on Sunday.

Glancing toward the house, Tilly gave the tiny white-haired woman a small wave and suppressed a grin. Then she unlocked the door, hung her keys on one of the small hooks on the Sacred Heart plaque beside the door, and rushed to the thermostat on the opposite wall of the postage-stamp-sized living room.

No matter that Tilly paid her own electricity bill, Mrs. Nolan considered running the AC when she wasn’t at home a waste. Tilly had given up on trying to appease her landlady by turning the thermostat low when she left for the day. Whenever she had, the old woman had let herself in with her key and turned it off. So Tilly turned the dial on the old-fashioned round thermostat and waited for the blessed sound of the AC to kick on. It would be a while before she would feel any relief. She kicked off her shoes, unbuttoned her jacket, draped it over the armchair, and kept walking toward her bedroom, unzipping her skirt as she went. She’d wait in her underwear for the air to cool.

Her knee stung as the material slid down, an unwanted reminder of how the bandage been applied. The image of Boone Benoit, his lips pursed as he blew against her raw skin, entered her mind. For just a second, while she’d stared down at him this afternoon, her heart had stopped beating. She’d imagined his mouth pursed above another, sweeter spot on her body and desire had flooded her, just as it did now. Once again, her skin flushed and her breaths hitched.

“Stop it,” she said to herself, and then let out a groan. At the time, she’d convinced herself that he couldn’t tell what his breath on her body had done to her. But she’d only been lying to herself.

His sharp, dark gaze hadn’t missed anything. And the fact he had aroused such feelings in her probably made him laugh inside. She’d blushed like a virgin. Good Lord, had he guessed just how inexperienced she was?

He’d been toying with her. Every practiced touch igniting a hunger she didn’t realize she possessed. Every glide of his hand, the spread of his strong fingers, had filled her mind with licentious images of his hands running beneath her skirt and touching her. Even now, at just the memory, her panties were damp.

She would have to tell him no. No matter what the ridiculous salary. Working in close proximity to a man like Boone would be too uncomfortable. Too tempting. He was way out of her league, and they both knew it. What had he been thinking offering her the job in the first place?

The phone rang and Tilly sighed in relief, glad to have something to take her mind off Boone Benoit. She picked up her cell and tapped
ANSWER
. “Hello?”

“Tilly? That you?”

The voice, at once deeply masculine and yet filled with a childish yearning, cut through her self-absorption. “Denny! Are you all right?”

“Tilly, when can I come home?”

Her throat tightened, and she closed her eyes. “I told you, sweetie. Home was sold. It’s not there anymore.”

“But I miss you.”

“I miss you too.” She swallowed hard.

“When can I come home?”

Tears filled her eyes. No matter how many times she told him, he would never understand. The house where they’d been raised had been the only home he’d ever known. “Soon, Denny. I’ll come for you soon.”

“Tilly, I can’t find my treasure.”

Tilly’s chest tightened. Her glance went guiltily to the photo on the counter. The one of her and Celeste. “I have it, hon. I didn’t want the others finding it and stealing it from you,” she said, squeezing shut her eyes. She’d buried it where no one would ever find it. “Denny, I have to go. See you soon.”