Midnight Bayou (17 page)

“Where do I return it?” He shook his head. “I don’t know, because I can’t remember once I wake up. But I’m starting to think I should tie myself to the bedpost at night.”

“I can take care of that for you tonight.”

“You trying to cheer me up with bondage fantasies?”

“How’d I do?”

“Pretty good.” He let out a breath, then frowned at the smudge on her forehead. “You’ve got some soot or something,” he began, and she tipped her head back before he could rub at it.

“Those are my holy ashes.”

“Oh, right.” His brain had definitely gone on holiday. “Ash Wednesday. I not only don’t know where I am, but when I am.”

She couldn’t bear to watch him sink into the dark again, and kept her voice brisk, just a little lofty. “I take it you didn’t get to church today, on this holy day of obligation.”

He winced. “You sound like my mother. I forgot. Sort of.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Seems to me you could use all the blessings you can get.” So saying, she rubbed her thumb on the print of ash on her forehead, then rubbed it on his. It made him smile.

“That’s probably sacrilegious, but thanks. What time is it?” He looked at his watch and swore. “I have to get this sucker into the shop. It keeps stopping on me. I know it’s past noon, and it sure isn’t midnight.”

“It’s about five. You did say to come early.”

“Yeah, I did. Why don’t we go sit out back and have some wine?”

She watched him closely for the first few minutes, but he appeared to be steady again as he selected a wine. Got some lovely old stemware out of his new cupboards.

He’d frightened her, Lena could admit, and badly. She’d been certain he’d intended to walk into the water, to drown himself among the lily pads just as Lucian Manet had done.

And with the realization, a whole new realm of possibilities opened in her mind. “Declan . . .”

“I got steaks and I got a grill,” he said as he poured the wine. He needed to focus on ordinary things—to steep himself in the here and now. “All real men can grill steaks. If you tell me you don’t eat red meat, we’re going to have to go for the frozen pizza.”

“If I eat meat, why should I care what color it is? Let’s go out and sit. I’ve got an idea I want to run by you.”

They walked to the two wooden crates he was using for chairs and sat.

“What if it’s not ghosts? Or not only ghosts?” she asked him.

“Oh, that’s a cheering thought. What else have I got? Vampires? Werewolves? Maybe some flesh-eating zombies. I’m going to sleep much better now, thanks.”

“What do you think about reincarnation?”

“Past lives? Recycling souls?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know.”

“It always seemed efficient to me—and fair, too. Everybody deserves more than one chance, don’t you think? Maybe you’re remembering things that happened here because you lived here before. Maybe you’re Lucian, come back after all these years for his Abigail.”

“That’s a romantic notion. I’ll be Lucian if you’ll be Abby.”

“You don’t get to choose. And if you’re going to make fun of the idea, I won’t say another word about it.”

“Okay, don’t get testy.” He sipped his wine, brooded into space. “So your theory is I’m here, and these things are happening because I lived a past life, as Lucian Manet.”

“It’s no more farfetched then the place being haunted, which you swallowed easy enough. It would explain why you bought this place, needed it. Why you’re working so hard to restore its beauty. How you saw the furniture in his bedroom upstairs.”

“Reincarnation,” he repeated. “Sounds better than a brain tumor.”

“What?”

He shook his head, drank again. “Nothing.”

“You’re thinking you got a tumor in your brain? That’s
nonsense, Declan.” Her voice was sharper than she’d intended, so she continued more gently. “That’s just nonsense,
cher.
There’s not a thing wrong with your head or any other part of you.”

“Of course not. I was just thinking out loud.”

But she saw it on his face and, rising, slid onto his lap, straddling him. “You’re really worried you’ve got something inside your head making you see things, do things?”

“I’m not worried. I’m just . . . Look, I’m going to have some tests, eliminate the possibility.”

“You’re not sick,
cher
.” She touched her lips to his cheek, then the other. There’d never been another man who’d so consistently, so effortlessly, nudged out her tender side. “I guarantee it. But if having some fancy doctor tell you the same thing settles your mind, that’s fine.”

“Don’t mention this to Remy.” He took her hand until she eased back to meet his eyes. “He’s got the wedding coming up. That’s enough for him to think about right now.”

“So, you’re planning on going to have brain tests all by yourself? That’s not the way we do things around here,
cher.
You don’t want Remy to know, all right. But you tell me when this is set up for, and I’ll go with you.”

“Lena, I’m a big boy.”

“You’re not going by yourself. So I go with you, or I tell Remy and we gang up on you.”

“Okay. I’ll let you know when it’s scheduled and you can hold my hand. In the meantime, I’m going to put my money on your reincarnation theory. It’s weird, but it’s a lot less messy than brain surgery.”

“They say Lucian Manet was a handsome man, like a young golden god.” She trailed her fingers through Declan’s disordered hair. It was a dark blond, she mused, thick, lush, and she bet it would streak up sexily with the
summer sun. “I think you’ve improved on him this time around.”

“Oh yeah?” He hooked his arms around her waist. “Tell me more.”

“I never much cared for the golden-god type. Usually too pretty for my taste.” She cocked her head, eased forward to kiss him. “You suit my taste,
cher.
”

He brought her closer and, sitting on the wooden crate, rested his chin on her shoulder as he looked out over the gallery railings. “I love you, Lena.”

“If you’re trying to sweet-talk me into bed before you feed me—”

He drew her back, and the grin faded from her face as she saw his. “I love you,” he repeated. “I never understood what that meant before, and I didn’t think I could.”

He held her in place when she tried to scramble up and away. “You need to settle down now,” she told him.

“Yeah, I do—but I don’t think you mean it the same way. I need to settle down, right here, with you. I don’t care if it’s the first time or the fiftieth time we’ve gone around. You’re what I’ve been waiting for.”

“Declan, you’re making more out of this than you should.” Her voice wanted to shake. God knew, her stomach already was. “We went out to dinner. We went to bed. We’ve seen each other a handful of times.”

“It only took one look at you.”

His eyes were so deep, she thought, so clear. Like the surface of a lake at twilight. “You don’t even know me.”

He pulled her back a second time, reminding her that there was steel in him, and an edge to it. “You’re wrong. I know you’re smart, and you’re strong. Enough to carve out your own place from almost nothing. I know you pay your debts. I know you’re loyal and you’re loving. I know somebody hurt you, and it wouldn’t take much to knock the scab off. And I know I’m scaring you right now
because you don’t think you’re ready to hear what I’m saying to you.”

The beat of her heart was painful, like the strike of a fist on a raw wound. “I’m not looking for love, Declan. I’m sorry.”

“Neither was I, but there you go. We don’t have to rush it. I wasn’t going to say anything to you yet but . . . I needed to.”

“
Cher,
people, they fall in and out of love all the time. It’s just a dazzle of chemicals.”

“He really hurt you.”

Frustrated, she pushed away, and this time he let her go. “You’re wrong. There’s no man, no ghost of some lover who broke my heart. I look like a cliché to you?”

“You look like everything to me.”

“Mon Dieu.”
The man made her throat fill up, then snap shut. Deliberately she fought back the sensation and spoke clearly. “I like you, Declan, and I enjoy your company. I want you in bed. If that’s not enough for you, I walk now and save us both a lot of trouble and disappointment.”

“Do you always get so pissed off when somebody tells you he loves you?”

No one ever had, she nearly said. No one ever had who meant it. “I don’t like being pushed, and when I am, I make a point of not going in that direction.”

“I have to admire that.” His grin was easy as he got to his feet. “I like you, too, Lena. And I enjoy your company, want you in bed. That’s enough for now. Are you hungry? I think I’ll heat up the grill.”

I
f it was a trick, Lena thought, or some sort of strategy to keep her off balance, it was well done.

She just couldn’t quite puzzle the man out, and his
seamless shift of moods was a surefire way to push her to keep trying.

He cooked like a man who didn’t trust himself in an actual kitchen. Jacketed potatoes on the grill, the steaks. And he sweet-talked her into making the salad.

He didn’t say another word about love.

He asked her about work, how her business had done during the two days of rain. He put on music, kept it low, and talked through the kitchen door as the grill smoked and she chopped vegetables.

They might have been casual friends, or the most comfortable of lovers.

They ate in his pretty kitchen, by candlelight. Even the house behaved. Despite it—or perhaps because of it—she stayed on edge throughout the meal.

He took a bakery cake out of the fridge. Lena took one look, sighed. “I can’t.”

“We can save it for later.”

“I can’t for forty days. I gave up chocolate for Lent. I’ve got a powerful taste for chocolate.”

“Oh.” He stuck it back in. “I’ve probably got something else.”

“What’d you give up?”

“Wearing women’s underwear. It’s tough, but I think I can hold out till Easter.”

“You talk like that, I’m going to take my ashes back.” He was making her itchy, she thought. The best way to solve that was to make him itch more. She stepped behind him as he searched his refrigerator, then wrapped her arms around his waist, pressed her body to his. “You need to give something up,
cher
, something you’ve got a powerful taste for.”

“It sure as hell isn’t going to be you.”

He let her spin him around, shove him back against the refrigerator.

Oh, he knew her, he thought as she used her lips to set off explosions in his bloodstream. He knew she was using sex to keep one step ahead of him. One step back from him.

If she didn’t realize he could love her as much as he wanted her, it was up to him to show her.

“In your bed, you said.” Her mouth was reckless, restless as it raced over his face. “In your bed.”

She pulled him toward the doorway. He nearly pulled her back, toward the kitchen stairs, but decided it might be interesting to take the long way around.

He pushed her against the wall in the hallway, assaulted her throat with his teeth. “We’ll get there.”

He reached down, yanked her shirt up, over her head, threw it aside. Wrapped together, they did a quick vertical roll along the wall, and finally stopped with their positions reversed. With impatient hands she pulled his shirt open so that buttons danced along the floor.

They fought with clothes on their way to the steps. Shoes landed with thumps. Her bra fluttered over the banister, his jeans plopped on the third step.

They were breathless before they reached the landing.

His hands were rough, a workingman’s hands now that thrilled as they streaked over her. Her skin came alive.

“Hurry.” She sank her teeth into his shoulder as need raged through her, a firestorm of violent heat that burned away all caution. “God, hurry.”

He nearly took her where they stood, but he wanted her under him. Bucking, arching.

With his mouth savaging hers, he wrapped his arms around her waist, lifted her two inches off the floor. Something raw and primitive stabbed through him at the knowledge that there was no choice now. No choice for either of them but to mate.

Shadows cloaked them as they moved toward the bedroom.

Cold from doorways seeped out, made her shiver.

“Declan.”

“This is us. This is ours.” As he spoke, his voice a snarl, as he held her, his grip like iron, the cold curled back.

They fell on his bed, a tangle of limbs and urgency. When he plunged into her, her nails dug into his back. Pleasure, dark and desperate, drenched her, the feral glory of it drove her up so that she twined herself around him and matched the furious pace.

No control, nor the desire for it. Only the wild thirst to take and take and take. And with it, the gnawing hunger to give.

She clung to him, riding through the storm of sensation, sprinting up and up toward that jagged brink again.

Dimly, she heard a clock begin to strike in deep, heavy bongs. On the twelfth, she shattered with him.

W
hen he started to shift away, she tightened her grip. “Mmm. Don’t move yet.”

“I’m too heavy for you.” He rubbed his lips at the curve of her throat.

“I like it. I like this.” Lazily, she angled her head so he could work his way up to her jaw. Her body felt used and bruised and wonderfully loose. “Even better than chocolate cake.”

He laughed and rolled over, taking her with him so she sprawled over his chest. “There, now I don’t have to worry about crushing you.”

“A gentleman to the last.” Content, she settled in. “I’ve always liked a clock that chimes the hours,” she said. “But you need to set it. It’s not midnight yet.”

“I know.”

“Sounded like a big, old grandfather clock. Where’d you put it? In the parlor.”

“No.” He stroked a hand over her hair, down her back. “I don’t have a clock that chimes.”

“
Cher
, you absolutely ring my bells, but I heard a clock chime twelve.”

“Yeah, so did I. But I don’t have a clock.”

She lifted her head, let out a slow breath. “Oh. Well then. Does it scare you?”

“No.”

“Then it doesn’t scare me, either,” she said, and laid her head back over his heart.