Passion (58 page)

Those were reasons enough for living.

T
wo weeks had passed since the fire that destroyed the old farmhouse. Richard Martin had, indeed, died that day. His body,
charred beyond recognition, had been recovered from the rubble hours later by firemen. D.J. had escaped physically unharmed,
but emotionally… She had answered all of the detectives’ questions, had described her nine years with Martin in detail, had
revealed his plan and how he had succeeded, and then she had simply stopped talking. She had responded to no one, not even
Teryl and her parents when they had paid her a visit in the hospital three days ago. She had simply withdrawn, the psychiatrist
had told them. Martin’s death, added to all the problems she was already suffering, had been more than she could bear.

Teryl could understand that. Losses and hurts could easily add up until a person’s heart simply said no more. She just might
be a prime candidate for that condition herself. Already she’d lost her job and her home and had twice almost lost her life.
She’d lost her best friend and, in a very real sense, her family. Her parents had confirmed what D.J. had told her, what John
had later admitted that he’d already suspected. Her mother hadn’t miraculously given birth to her before some vague problem
had turned her and Philip to adoption and foster care. Teryl—like D.J., Rico, and so
many of the others—had come from someplace else, someplace cruel, violent, and best forgotten.

Why hadn’t they told her? she had demanded. All of her brothers and sisters had known the details of their adoptions from
the very beginning, and it had never mattered, anyway. Every child, whether adopted or not, had been treated the same. Why
hadn’t
she
been told?

Because the doctors had advised against it. Because she had been so fragile when she’d come to them. Because they had feared
that telling her the truth might unlock the terrors still hidden inside her. Because, at the time they’d adopted her, they
hadn’t intended to make a practice of it. Because a year had been too soon, as had five years, ten years, and fifteen. Because
they had grown accustomed to thinking of her as their own, had come to treasure her as their very own.

So many answers, reasonable and logical but not a hundred percent acceptable. Not enough to ease the betrayal. Not enough
to deny this sense of loss.

Soon—a few days, a week at most—she was going to face the biggest loss of all. Soon she was going to lose John.

She was sure that was why he had brought her to New Orleans. Their affair had begun here, and he probably thought it appropriate
to end it here. He had promised to make up to her for all that he was putting her through, and on this trip he’d certainly
made a good start. Their hotel suite was, by far, the most luxurious she had ever seen, and the staff treated them like royalty.
They had eaten at restaurants known worldwide, had seen a few sights and made a lot of love, and John had spent more than
a little time shut up in the bedroom on the phone. Even now he had brought her here to the Café du Monde, then gone off for
some bit of business or another. Arranging for the purchase of his Pacific island? Determining where he would go and when
he would leave her? Planning his last farewell?

With a forlorn sigh, she took one last sip from her soda, then stuffed the napkin into the paper cup. She was rising from
the table when she saw him coming toward her. He was smiling, and even though she’d never felt less like it, she couldn’t
help but smile in return. His injuries from the last
blasts had been minor—a few small burns, some cuts from broken glass—and they were healed now. Hers were almost healed, too,
the swelling of her face finally gone down, the bruise where Martin had hit her only a shadow that makeup could conceal. Considering
what they’d been through the last few weeks—and the heartache she was sure to face in the future—they didn’t look too bad.
John, in fact, looked pretty damned good.

“Are you ready?” he asked when he reached her.

“For what?”

“There’s something I want to show you. It isn’t far—just a few blocks.”

They crossed Decatur and walked along the uneven sidewalk. It was hot, but the humidity was manageable. The faintly sour smell
of garbage perfumed the air, along with exhaust from passing cars and the mingled aromas of food from the restaurants they
passed. Hot, noisy, smelly—and she couldn’t think of anyplace she’d rather be or anyone she would rather be there with.

Their destination was Chartres Street, an address in the middle of a quiet block. When she would have walked on past, John
caught her arm and drew her through an open gate that led back into a courtyard complete with a fountain, sun-warmed stone
benches, crepe myrtles in full bloom, and beds of periwinkles and phlox. “What is this?” she asked, slowing her steps until
he had to stop or drag her along.

“It’s a gracious old home with a courtyard.”

She looked around again, taking in the paving stones, the small sections of emerald green grass, the giant live oak draped
with Spanish moss near the back wall of the garden. “Whose gracious old home?”

“Yours, if you like it. If you’ll have it.”

Hers. So this was to be the consolation prize. He was even more generous than she’d expected. She would have been no less
happy with a little trip down here, a few more days of his company, a few more nights in his bed, and a plane ticket back
home when it was over.

Hers. She took yet another look, this time focusing on the brick-and-stucco house, the broad gallery, the tall windows,
the graceful wrought-iron balconies. The house towered three stories over them, plenty of room for a family, for children
both natural born and taken in, but much too big for one lonely woman who might live the rest of her life in the same solitude
that John had spent the last eleven years.

“You don’t like it.” John tried to keep the disappointment from his voice. Granted, there were plenty of other places for
sale in the city, but when the realtor had described this one to him over the phone, he had been pretty sure it was what he
wanted. Seeing it this morning had confirmed his hunch. It had a garden to fulfill Teryl’s passion for flowers, high walls
for privacy, lots of rooms for all the kids they could manage, and a separate guesthouse tucked in the back corner that would
make an ideal office for him. It met the scant requirements she had stated when they were here the first time.
I’d want a place down here in the Quarter, one of these gracious old homes with a courtyard
… He had thought she would love it.

“It’s a beautiful house.” She went to stand near the fountain, watching the water as it spilled from the small bowl at the
top to a larger carved basin and landing at last in the pool at the bottom. “Have you already signed the papers?”

“No. I wanted you to see it first.”

“It’s lovely.” Her voice sounded odd, strangled. Teary. “But what would I do with a place like this?”

He went to stand behind her, laying his hands on her shoulders. She struggled against his efforts to turn her around, but
he was stronger, though gentle, and finally she was facing him and staring at his chest. “I kind of thought you would live
here with me,” he said evenly, “and have my babies and raise our kids and anyone else’s kids who need two parents to love
them.”

Her head jerked back, and her gaze flew to his face. He could see the surprise, the shock, and the tears she’d been trying
to control. She had thought he’d brought her to New Orleans to say good-bye, he realized, and that the house was her reward
for helping him reclaim his career. He gave her his most charming smile. “I can be generous, sweetheart. I can give every
last penny I have if that’s what it takes to
make you happy. But buying you a house to live in alone?” He shook his head. “I’m not
that
generous. I can’t let you go, Teryl. I can’t walk away from the only woman I’ve ever loved.”

She didn’t yield easily. He would have been disappointed, he thought with a grin, if she had. “What about your Pacific island?”

“We can do that, too, if you want. I have a lot of money, Teryl. I never had anyone to spend it on, so after the Colorado
house was built, the rest of it has been invested and reinvested for the last eleven years.”

“What about living alone?”

“I’ve spent damned near half my life living alone. I want to spend the rest of it with you.”

She was thoughtful for another moment. “
I
don’t have any money. I don’t have
anything
except these clothes that you’ve bought me. I don’t have anything to give you.”

“Except love. And babies. You do love me, Teryl. You can’t hide it worth a damn.”

Her smile was the sweetest sight he’d ever seen. “Yes. I do love you.”

“So will you accept the house as my gift to you? Remembering, of course, that there are strings attached. You have to marry
me first.”

Turning but remaining in his arms, she leaned back against him, holding his clasped hands with both of hers, as she surveyed
their new home. “Strings?” she echoed. “I was thinking of something a little more substantial.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have a little gift for you. It certainly pales in comparison to your gift,” she said with a self-conscious laugh, then
became serious again. “I was going to give it to you when we said good-bye. But…” Pulling away from him, she went to sit on
a stone bench, opened her purse, and pulled out a small blue box. When he sat down beside her, she offered it to him, then
abruptly pulled it back. “Just remember: this is purely symbolic. It’s not meant to be used.”

She offered the box again, and he took it, sliding his fingertip under the tape that secured the lid on opposite sides.
He removed the lid, then a layer of thick cotton. For a long time, he simply stared, recognizing the significance of the gift
immediately. What would it take for her to let him tie her to the bed? he had asked one sunny morning in her bedroom, and
she had replied, Nothing. Nothing could convince her to do that. Trust would, he had insisted.
If you trusted me, if you believed in me with all your heart and all your soul… you would let me do it. You would trust me
to keep you safe.
Knowing that he’d earned that kind of trust would give him a tremendous sense of power.

He’d been right, he thought as he stared at the length of braided cord nestled on a bed of cotton in the box, and he had been
wrong. Knowing that she did trust him, that she believed in him with all her heart and all her soul was, indeed, tremendously
empowering. It was also tremendously humbling. He wasn’t sure that he deserved such an exquisite gift… but damned if he was
going to give it back.

He replaced the lid on the box, then pulled her to him for a hard, hungry, passionate kiss. When he finally raised his head,
he said fiercely, “I love you, Teryl.”

She smiled that heart-tugging smile again. “I love you, too.”

“Will you marry me?”

“I will. When?”

“As soon as possible.” He drew his fingertip across her mouth, then down her throat to the V where her blouse buttoned. “In
the meantime, will you fulfill one of my fantasies for me?”

Bless her heart—and her sweet, sweet faith—she didn’t remind him that her gift was symbolic, didn’t hesitate or falter at
all. “If I can. What is it you want?”

“Just once…” He undid the top button, drew his fingers lower, and opened the second button. “Just once I’d like to be…” The
third button slipped free with only the slightest nudge, and he slid his hand inside her blouse, gliding it over the powdery
soft skin of her breast to her nipple, already swelling and needy of his caresses.

“Wicked,” she prompted him, and then she kissed him,
stealing the rest of the words from him, setting the fulfillment of his fantasy in motion. Being wicked in New Orleans.

Sweet damnation, yes.

For the rest of their lives.

S
till single and nearly thirty, Teryl Weaver is a successful literary agent. Yet somehow, her life seems unexciting, empty,
loveless. Then she joins her agency’s top writer, the reclusive Simon Tremont, for his first ever public interview in New
Orleans. And when a handsome stranger crosses her path, she dares to say yes to a night of exquisite, breathtaking ecstasy…
one that may prove to be a fatal mistake.

Her new lover claims he is the
real
Simon Tremont. Is the “author” Teryl brought to New Orleans a liar? Or is the man whose touch she craves a desperate, dangerous
man? Caught between terror and desire, Teryl must discover the truth about her lover’s identity and the feelings neither can
deny: the longing, the hunger, the love.

“A WONDERFULLY WICKED WEB OF INTRIGUES

AND PASSIONS AS HOT AS A LOUISIANA SUMMER.”

—Tami Hoag, author of
Night Sins
, on
In Sinful Harmony

“WELL-PLOTTED TALE OF TWISTED PASSIONS AND

MURDER… A DARK AND INTRIGUING MAINSTREAM