Undo Me (Bone Daddy Book 3)

by R. G. Alexander

  A noise brought her awareness back to the room beyond the unusual private bath, with its own vanity table and small, cushioned chair.

  Isabel’s room. The reason she was here.

  The young woman must have been the apple of her parents’ eye, if this suite was any indication. It wasn’t the master, but it may as well have been. It was a large room with walls that used to be the color of the Caribbean Sea. A room with its own bath and a door leading out onto the balcony. The renovations hadn’t gotten everything exactly right, but the feel of it was spot-on. Fit for a princess.

  She heard the noise again. A scuffling sound, followed by something falling.

  “Who’s there?” She stepped into the bedroom and looked around and saw nothing.

  Which didn’t really mean anything in this house.

  “Emmanuel, is that you?” She waited for a response for a hot minute before rolling her eyes. “Great. My first night and I’m already talking to a ghost.”

  Had the books she’d set on the nightstand been moved? She walked over to the bed to get a closer look. “Michelle told me you were a bit of an imp. But she also said you were a good friend, and I shouldn’t be nervous that I’ll find blood dripping from the walls or my bed floating around while I’m sleeping.”

  Crickets. She’d never been so jealous of Michelle, not even when the man she’d been dating had shown up with two tickets to Bethany’s favorite Broadway show. It was this ability Michelle had. Bethany would love to be able to talk to a ghost right now, and hear the actual response.

  “She also said Isabel’s hidden panel was in this room, and she’d kept everything there for safekeeping until I arrived. I wonder if you can help me find it. Not that I’m snooping or anything.”

  Still nothing. He probably wasn’t here and she was babbling to herself. Lovely.

  One of the books had fallen to the floor. That must have been the noise she’d heard. She knelt down, her legs tangling in her nightgown as she reached for it. A cool breeze rode up her spine once more, and she smiled in relief. “You are here. I was starting to get paranoid.”

  She looked at the floor and noticed a board that seemed more worn then the others. “She said panel, not floorboard, didn’t she?” The air grew colder, and Bethany nodded, secretly thrilled. “I thought so. I also think you wanted me to check this out, so I will. But if you make me break the handsome rich man’s house for no reason, I’m totally blaming it on you.”

  Emmanuel seemed to tug on her hair again. “We really need to find a better way to communicate.”

  She studied the floorboard. It was loose, but not loose enough to have been moved recently. This was definitely not the panel Michelle had mentioned.

  She dug in and wiggled until it loosened in her hand, sliding it away to reveal a narrow opening. The perfect hiding place. “Jackpot.”

  She scrambled to find her small book light, flipping it on and lowering it to see what she’d uncovered. “These are letters.”

  Letters. Three of them. Each folded carefully, yellowed with age, and tied together with a ribbon of lace. She hesitated, her fingers twitching. She didn’t want to damage them.

  “I’m definitely blaming this on you.” She lifted them gently from their hiding place and her light caught something glinting beneath them.

  A necklace? She set the letters aside carefully and reached for the chain. A zap of electricity left her gasping. A locket. “Michelle is going to be jealous that you didn’t tell her about this, Manuel. I hope you don’t mind me calling you that. Emmanuel is a big name for a little guy to carry around.”

  She waited for the breeze but felt nothing. Had he left now that she’d found what he wanted her to find?

  “Hey, Shorty,” she called, testing for his presence.

  He had to be gone. She would have gotten a tug on her hair for sure after that remark.

  Adrenaline raced through her system making her hands tremble slightly. Letters and a locket. It felt as if she’d won the lottery. She gathered up her booty and hopped onto the bed, lowering the blankets and fluffing the pillows to get comfortable. Were they invitations? Diary entries? They must be something special for Isabel, or whoever had lived in this room after her, to have tucked them away so stealthily.

  She wrapped the old-fashioned chain around her neck for safekeeping. Somehow, it felt right to wear it as she carefully untied the lace and unfolded the first letter. She would be the first person to read these since they’d been hidden. The thrill of discovery made her giddy. She reached out blindly for her black-framed reading glasses and slipped them on.

  Eighteen twenty-seven. That was the date at the top of the letter. The month of September. Nearly two hundred years ago.

  “Good grief.”

  There was no formal address at the beginning. No indication of who it was to or from. Maybe it was a diary. She started to read, biting her cheek to hold back her sound of surprise when she realized it wasn’t.

  Other suitors would speak of your beauty, call you “my darling, my dearest.” Others may compare you to some cold and distant goddess. You are far from cold, fiery Isabel. You are passion incarnate, sent to tempt me.

  “Oh my.” Bethany’s fingertips caressed the brass locket as she read. Her body heated, her mouth forming the words that detailed how well this man knew Isabel’s body. About the night he’d come to her room, how he’d climbed up to her balcony.

  How she’d let him in.

  1827

  New Orleans

  “You shouldn’t be here, Marcel.” Isabel knew herself to be a hypocrite. If he had any inkling of how desperately she’d wanted him to come, how she’d paced her rooms praying that he would while cursing his continued absence, it would make a mockery of her protest. But now that he’d arrived, all she felt was fear for his safety should they be discovered.

  “After your message, how could I stay away?”

  Dios mio, he was a beautiful man. Every time she saw him, she was struck anew by his appearance, but it was more than that. It was something inside him, his soul, his heart, that shone through his eyes and made it impossible to tear her gaze away as he shut the balcony doors, turned the lock, and started to undress.

  “I-It was a mistake to send that. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Sweet Isabel. Stop thinking again, and let me stay.”

  It was instinct to cover her breasts, visible beneath the thin white nightgown. Was she trying to protect her virtue? It was too late for that, and they both knew it.

  At her actions, he shook his head slowly, his own hands hesitating on the placard of his pants.

  “Don’t hide yourself, Isabel,” he rasped. “Never from me. I’ve held those perfect breasts in my hands, though not long enough for my liking. I need to explore them. Feast on them. Our first time together was too short, I’m afraid, for both of us. I need more of you, not less.”

  She did as well. She needed so much more that she worried something was wrong with her. This desire couldn’t be natural. A few of her friends, all recently married, told horror stories of their honeymoon nights. The things they endured to fulfill their vows and give their husbands healthy sons. The pain and the renewed fervor to embrace the comfort of the church.

  Perhaps she was lacking in morality and character, as her father often feared. Maybe it was her mother’s French blood that ran so hot and made her reckless. Whatever the case, she’d taken to Marcel’s brand of intimacy with enthusiasm and abandon. Their first tryst at her friend’s masked ball had been the most exciting, romantic night of her life, despite her scandalous behavior.

  He’d found her in the library, where she’d managed to escape the puffed-up Creole dandies her father continued to put in her path. Young and old men of fortune or title, sometimes both. All seeking an alliance with her father. Praising her great beauty, as though it were an accomplishment, and the only one she could claim. All of them left her cold.

  Marcel removed his mask and she’d recognized him as the handso
me rider she’d seen on her walks with Catherine. The one who always seemed to run into them at exactly the right time, getting off his horse to join them in respectful conversation. He’d ask about the book she was holding, or the weather, or the latest news of the town. It was all perfectly innocent.

  And yet she’d fallen for him. Ached for him for months and lived for those walks in the park.

  After their first meeting, Catherine had wasted no time in giving her the explicit details of her new acquaintance. Their mothers both studied under Marie Laveau, mentoring to be hairdressers by day and voodoo priestesses by night. Catherine and Marcel traveled in the same circles. The circles her father would have beaten Isabel soundly for even being aware of.

  According to her friend, Marcel’s mother had been the belle of her quadroon ball, the most beautiful and most desired. His father was a Frenchman Isabel knew well, since his acknowledged heir from his recognized marriage had been attempting to court her all season.

  Isabel’s father was enamored of the man, ignoring the arrangement of plaçage he’d made with a Creole woman, and the son that had come from that union. As long as it wasn’t acknowledged, it was tolerated. As long as Marcel wasn’t acknowledged and didn’t cause trouble, he and his mother would be safe and cared for.

  Which was why Marcel had not been allowed into the party that night. Yet he had come. For her, he swore, and she believed him. She should be ashamed at how swiftly she’d allowed him to show her that some of the rumors she’d heard about him were true.

  He was an exquisitely skilled lover.

  When he’d set her on the desk and knelt at her feet, she offered no more than token resistance. She’d had no idea a mouth could do such things. It was she who begged for more, for all, who eagerly lay back on her friend’s father’s desk and lifted her skirts for him.

  Perhaps there was something wrong with her. She had searched her heart these past few days for regret and resolve, but she knew she would do it again in a heartbeat.

  “What is in your mind, Isabel?”

  Had any man ever asked her and meant it as he did? Still, she fought to act unaffected by his nearness, at least until she’d settled the doubt in her mind. “You have other lovers. I’ve heard the women whispering about you. Even Catherine says you dallied with one of her cousins for a time. I wonder that you would seek out one so unskilled when you could fulfill your needs with them instead. Or is it because your brother has shown an interest?”

  He was naked and aroused, but that didn’t curb the anger that flashed in his eyes. Her thighs quivered, her skin flushing as he stalked her like a jungle predator, backing her up until her thighs hit the bed. “Catherine is no authority on my love life, my sweet. And I have no need to compete with any man.” He caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers, and she shivered. “I will never lie to you, Isabel. Not even to appease your ego. There have been others. Virgins, as you were, who offered themselves to me. Experienced women who craved more than their fat, pale husbands could provide. Pleasing them was something I took great pride in. Perhaps too much pride, and it now comes back to haunt me.”

  Isabel flinched and turned her back on him, but he gripped her shoulders firmly, holding her against him. “You will hear this. The stories are true, but they are all in the past. I knew you, Isabel. From the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew that no other would do. I tried to resist you, despite my desire, but it was a battle I was doomed to lose. I’d risk everything for another taste of you, for one smile from those perfect lips. I need you. Only you. Look into my eyes and know I speak the truth.”

  He turned her to face him and she found herself lost in his blazing amber gaze. She saw it there. Conviction and love in equal measure. All her resistance melted away in that moment. What was between them was too powerful to be a lie. Too strong to deny, despite logic and sense. She was his. He was hers. It was as true and inevitable as the tides.

  She cupped his jaw with her slender hand, marveling at how swiftly love had come to two whose lives were forbidden to touch. “Touch me. Please.”

  “I’ve been dreaming of you saying those words for days, sweet Isabel. I think I’ve been dreaming of you forever.”

  He slipped off her nightgown and lowered her gently onto the bed. But she didn’t want gentle from him. Everyone else treated her as though she were made of porcelain. To be admired and shelved, but not touched. Marcel called to the fire inside her. He knew her need was as great as his own. She wanted to be taken as he took her that first night. Impatiently. Passionately.

  He lifted his head from her neck and she could see in his expression that he felt the same. Her hands lifted from their lax position by her head, reaching up to run her fingers through his dark velvet curls. She tugged. A silent, untutored demand.

  Marcel’s smile was knowing and wicked. “There’s no rush, Isabel. We have all night.”

  She nearly howled in frustration. One of his other lovers might know how to entice him, how to show him that the slow kisses he was peppering her shoulders with, her breasts with... yes, just there... were not enough.

  His erection telegraphed his heartbeat against the curve of her hip and she held her breath. Did she dare to touch him? To taste him as he had tasted her? Could she be so bold?

  One of her hands left his hair and slid down his tensing back. His lips paused on her hard nipple, his body still as he waited to see what she would do. Her fingers tingled as they glanced over his hip, feeling the bone and sinew, the fine hairs on his body. Her hand slipped between them and curled around his hot shaft, lashes fluttering at the bolt of electricity that shot up her arm and into her core at his size. The silken feel of him.

  “Oh.”

  “Oh?” Marcel growled playfully. “Is that all you can say when you hold your man’s pride in your hands?”

  “T-teach me what to say. What to do to make you mad with desire.”

  His expression transformed to one of exquisite pain and longing. “Grip it tighter, Isabel. Yes, like that. I promise you won’t hurt me. Merde, love, it feels so...”

  Present Day

  New Orleans

  “Perfect.”

  Bethany nearly tumbled out of bed as the masculine groan echoed through the room before fading into silence. She noticed the letter, slightly crumpled in her hand, and swore. How could she have fallen asleep in the middle of reading such a fragile, priceless letter? She should have been more careful. She was always more careful.

  Marcel.

  Somehow the letter from Isabel’s rather descriptive bed partner had become one hell of a realistic sexual fantasy. One that had ended a little too soon for her liking. Her body was on fire for her lover. For Isabel’s lover.

  “Marcel, though? There are tons of other names to choose from. Jacques. Pierre. Etienne. Okay, not Etienne, but Marcel? Do I have a secret fetish for mimes?” She pushed back the covers with a huff and refolded the letter to set it carefully on top of the others on the bedside table.

  Only she would take a simple bit of correspondence and turn it into a saga of star-crossed lovers. That kind of story always ended badly. It was more likely that sweet, innocent Isabel was not so innocent, and she had a bit too much fun during her coming out. But, according to Michelle, no one knew what happened to her. There were no records of a marriage or her family. No paintings other than Michelle’s childhood drawing. Not even the ghost, Emmanuel, would share what had happened to her.

  Maybe she’d run away with the man who wrote her erotic sonnets. Maybe she’d been buried in the walls when her father had discovered her knocking boots with her forbidden beau.

  A man with a father who wouldn’t acknowledge him and a mother trained by Marie Laveau. “Maybe I should write a book,” she said, chuckling at her wild imagination.

  Beth got up and shuffled across the smooth wooden floor. She turned on the water to splash on her heated cheeks. “I should have brought my toys along. What do I care if the security cameras at the airport see them? Or t
he guards pull them out in front of everyone at the airport and embarrass me? Am I supposed to buy new ones every time I travel?”

  She had issues. She was aware.

  Bethany looked into the mirror and gasped. It wasn’t her, but Isabel looking back. Beautiful, blue-eyed, raven-haired Isabel. Similar coloring, but somehow as stunning as Bethany was ordinary.

  The image swirled and she was seeing herself bent over the vanity, a lusty-eyed Marcel behind her.

  “Isabel! It’s late. Your papa wishes to know if you are coming down for breakfast.”

  Marcel’s growl rumbled against her back at the voice on the other side of the door, his thrusts increasing in speed and power, filling her, shaking the furniture with his need. “I won’t stop until you come for me. Tell her you’ll be down soon. Tell her to go away, Isabel. That you’re coming.”

  “Tell him I’m coming. I’m coming!”

  Oh God, Bethany was coming. Standing at the sink in her friends’ house, she was moaning and trembling as though she’d just had the best sex of her life.

  “What the hell is wrong with me?”

  She hesitated before glancing in the mirror again. Her skin was flushed, her body trembling from the waves of pleasure rocking through it, but she was herself again. Bethany Sorelle.

  Not Isabel. Bethany.

  “Jet lag,” she muttered. Aftereffects of her medication, wine and all that talk of a sexual spirit that fed off pleasure. Combined with the catalyst of that erotic letter from the past, anyone would have enough fodder for a highly detailed fantasy. Anyone.

  She needed to shake this off and sleep so she would be refreshed and ready to help Michelle study Isabel’s treasure in the morning. And she had to avoid touching Ben Adair, even by accident. This was embarrassing enough without everyone knowing how strongly she’d reacted to a musty old love letter. They might think she was a lonely, desperate spinster in need of a good time.