Bianca rolled her eyes at him and laughed, but tugged the helmet over her head anyway. He fastened it under her chin then ran a thumb over the lush lips he couldn't seem to get enough of, and he smiled.
The helmet was too big for her, but she didn't seem to mind. Looking sexier and more adorable than any woman who'd ever worn his helmet before, she gave him a cheeky grin that made his heart turn over. She was delicate, provocative, bold, witty and beautiful, all wrapped up in the most enticing package. And she made him laugh, genuinely laugh.
A bit hesitant, she threw a slender denim-clad leg over his bike, tucked her hips in close, wrapped her arms around his waist then pressed the soft swell of her breasts to his back. Luke's blood pumped hot and hard, reminding him that if they didn't get away from her house—and fast—nothing would be accomplished. At least nothing that didn't require them being naked and tangled up in her satin sheets.
"Hold on tight,” he called over his shoulder.
"Don't worry,” her voice wavered in return.
"You're safe, Bianca.” At least, he thought with a sneaky grin, until they got back to her house. After that Luke wouldn't be responsible for his actions. Hot and completely aroused, he shot up her driveway, welcoming the fragrant breeze that whipped the hair away from his face and ruffled his T-shirt.
The temperature had cooled a bit, dropping by nearly ten degrees, the heat wave finally breaking. A nice change, for the time being, until another whopper of high temps and humidity hit. But today, this was nice ... very nice indeed.
They zipped along streets toward the highway, headed to Abigail's house. Bianca was sure she would be at home since it was Saturday. And Bianca had remembered that Abigail kept books in her cellar—the older, tattered volumes that she didn't trust storing anywhere but in the safety of her own home.
As they crossed the bridge just past the cornfields near Abigail's house, Bianca touched his shoulder and said, “This bridge was designed by a Halestrom, you know."
"Really?” he called back over his shoulder. “Who?"
"Christian. In 1870. I'm surprised Abigail didn't tell you. She must be slipping. She's usually pretty thorough when it comes to the Halestroms and the Honeywells."
"My great-great-grandfather was named Christian,” he realized aloud. “I don't know much about him, unfortunately."
"Well, then,” she called over the motorcycle rumble and the whistling wind. “We can look him up in one of Abby's books. Perhaps your father inherited his talent for architecture from your great-great-grandfather."
"Bianca,” he spoke her name with the same urgency that pulled at his chest. “Do you think we can stop Celia's curse?"
He felt her inhale deeply. “I hope so, Luke,” she admitted, her voice close to his ear.
"Me, too,” he affirmed quietly to himself.
Without having to tell Bianca that he was falling in love with her, Luke had to make her understand just how badly he wanted to either disprove that the curse existed or find a way to put it to rest. He didn't want to make her worried or, heaven forbid, make her feel guilty for being with him. Never having felt this way about a woman before, he certainly didn't want the experience tainted by worry and guilt.
What he wanted was freedom. Freedom from a curse that had, unconsciously, made him live his life contrary to how he might have if he'd never learned about the curse in the first place.
Maybe Bianca had been right. Maybe he'd never married or loved because, deep down, he was too afraid. Luke didn't know anymore. His thoughts were jumbled. There was no sorting through them now, not with more pressing things at hand.
He needed more answers. No matter what they discovered, he would accept it for what it was and meet his destiny head on. No regrets. But, damn it, he wanted to live the rest of his life, whether that came in years or hours, without being too afraid to look over his shoulder.
He'd been running long enough. He didn't want to run anymore.
* * * *
"These books are very, very old, my dears, so I have to ask you to handle them with extreme care,” Abigail insisted, worried brows furrowed over thick glasses. Lulu, cradled on Abigail's hip, licked Luke's hand as he scratched the poodle's ears. It seemed the dog's near-death experience had done wonders for Lulu's behavior. Days ago the little scrapper might have bit his hand off.
"We'll be very careful, Abby.” Bianca smiled reassuringly.
"Oh, I trust you.” Abigail waved a hand. “I need to run to the market, but I'll be back in an hour. You'll be okay here while I'm gone?” She glanced from one to the other, as if talking to two teenagers.
"We promise,” Luke teased, lifting his right hand. “No wild parties or panty raids while you're gone."
Bianca poked him in the arm, snickering, forcing him to swallow back a chuckle, as he tried to look serious.
Abigail gave him a bland stare, before turning on her heels and starting up the cellar steps. “Help yourself to lemonade. And chocolate cake. I baked it fresh this morning,” she called to them just before the door at the top of the stairwell shut, announcing her exit.
Enticed, Luke raised a brow. “Did she say chocolate cake?"
Bianca laughed. “Later. We have work to do first."
Doggedly she turned toward a stack of books on the rickety old desk, but he was quicker. He grabbed her by the loop of her blue jeans and tugged her close. She collided with his chest, a quick gasp rushing past her lips, eyes wide with surprise. Her mouth curled into a delectable grin and something deliciously naughty flickered in her gaze.
"You shouldn't wear jeans like this,” he murmured, gently gnawing at her lower lip.
"Jeans like what? Like made out of denim?” she teased, running her tongue over his mouth.
He moaned, rolling his eyes back, and fought to keep his voracious appetite for her in check. He could make love to her all day and it still wouldn't be enough. Luke wondered if this was what a true addiction felt like. He hadn't anticipated it would be so agonizing ... and exhilarating.
"Jeans that hug everything,” he growled, reaching around to grab her firm backside while covering her mouth with his.
Bianca moaned, parting her lips for him, letting him taste her so willingly Luke's heart ached in reply. She was generous and gave without holding back, a combination that intoxicated him with uncontrollable desire.
Pulling away with obvious reluctance, one side of her mouth twitched at a smile. “Luke ... we have work to do."
He had a straining bulge below his belt that begged to differ, but Luke grinned, took a step back with some difficulty, and raked a hand through his hair. “Right. Lots of work to do,” he said in a lusty tone that belied his casual agreement.
The smile on her face told him she understood, then she turned her attention to the books on the desk, sliding into an old leather and metal chair.
He whacked his head on the hanging lamp and sucked back a cuss word.
Sitting beside her, Luke tried to ignore how great she smelled, like the soap they'd shared in the shower that morning. Remembering their shower didn't help keep his libido in check, not when he recalled the feel of her silky skin lathered in fragrant soap, his hands working her from head to toe, particularly the in-between spots...
He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, certain his blue jeans were cutting off circulation ... somewhere. His cheeks burned, his pulse pounding in his ears.
To take his mind off of wanting her, if that were possible, he ventured, “Can I ask you something about your visions?"
"Sure.” She nodded, flipping carefully to the index of one thick tattered volume. The pages were yellowed and smelled musty.
"Do you have them all the time? I mean, are they out of your control?” He propped folded arms on the desktop, leaning toward her as she tilted her head and met his curious gaze.
"It was harder when I was a child,” she answered, flattening a palm over the opened book to hold her place. He loved her hands. He'd particularly appreciated wha
t she'd done with them, in bed, earlier. “I had visions all the time until my grandmother taught me how to better control my gift,” she admitted with a fond smile. “I'm still learning. I don't have it perfected yet, but I at least have some control."
"It must have been hard, having them all the time, especially as a kid. Were you scared?” He covered her hand with his, clasping it, over the opened history book.
She nodded, a sweet smile playing over her lips. “It was hard. There were days I didn't want to leave the house. I couldn't brush up against someone without seeing something. And as a child, visions weren't easy to understand.” She glanced at their clasped hands. “Now I'm usually able to tune them out, most of the time. I'd like to come to a point where the only time I see things is when I want to. Does that make sense?"
Her eyes searched his and Luke nodded. “Perfect sense."
"I know it's confusing—"
"Not confusing,” he interjected, entwining their fingers. “Just ... unique.” He smiled. “Why do you think the visions you've had lately have come beyond your control?"
She sighed, sat back, but didn't let go of his hand. “I think it's because Celia's trying to tell me something.” She lifted her eyes, found his steady and comforting gaze and continued, “I think that's why you're here, too. That—in some crazy way—you and I are supposed to figure this out together."
"To end the curse?” Hope swelled in his chest.
"Maybe,” she considered with a pensive nod. “I think so.” She bit her lip, smiled slowly. “It feels like it."
"Good.” His nod was energetic, a little relieved, and he was focused. “That's good. Let's start."
Bianca sat up straight, their hands unclasped, and she ran a finger along the alphabetized index. “Here's William Samson. Page eighty-nine.” He tapped his foot, watching as she flipped pages. With a glimpse in his direction, she asked, “Are you feeling okay?"
"I'm fine,” he mumbled, grabbing for a book. Any book. His heart was racing and he felt antsy. As if no matter how hard they worked, they weren't moving fast enough.
For a moment the only sound was the turning of pages.
"Here he is.” Her fingertip tapped at a picture. “This was drawn by someone."
Luke grabbed the book from her, his breath solidifying in his throat. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. Eyes narrowed, he hissed, “Son of a—"
Reverend William Samson could have been Luke's twin. The shape of his face was rounder, while Luke's was long and angled. Still there was a very strong resemblance.
"You were right. What you saw...” He glanced from Bianca to the book. “I don't understand. How is this possible? Is it—"
"Reincarnation?” she supplied, forehead creased, her eyes focused on the photo. “I don't think so. Reincarnation isn't the feeling I'm getting. I know that sounds strange."
"I'm learning that strange, like normal, is a relative term,” he mused, guiding an index finger along the page as he read. “Married to Penelope Garretson. Three children. Two boys. One girl. Founded the Church of—"
"Celia. Here she is,” Bianca interrupted, pointing a finger into the middle of another book. “I have this drawing."
The sketch was of a woman with long raven hair, dark eyes and an intriguing smile. The artist had managed to capture an aura of mysticism. She was lovely. Engaging.
"You have her eyes,” Luke quietly observed, watching Bianca's large jade-green eyes under chestnut brows and dark lashes.
"I know.” She smiled appreciatively.
He lifted a brow, studying the picture again. “You say you have this drawing?"
"Yes. In a box with Liam's note.” Tugging her eyes from Celia's photo, she asked, “So anything interesting about the preacher?"
He shook his head. “No. Is he in that book you've got?"
"No.” Bianca closed the reference book she'd been skimming through. Sitting back, she massaged her temples. “Nothing is grabbing me. Not that I expected this to be easy."
"What if we could track down one of Samson's descendents?"
"Now that might help,” she decided with an eager nod. Then her brow furrowed. “How do we do that?"
He grinned, his chest inflating at the prospect that he might actually be able to help with something. “This is where being a journalist comes in handy."
"Lemme guess...” A sly smile curled her lips. “You have connections?"
"Yes, Bianca, I have connections.” He kissed the tip of her nose then claimed her mouth slowly and greedily as he shoved up from the table. “If memory serves me right, I remember seeing a fax machine in Abigail's den. Do you think she'd mind if we used it?” He started toward the stairs.
"I don't think so. Help yourself.” She was already delving into another book. “I'll keep going through these."
He smiled, watching her. She was so focused, her brow furrowed, eyes darting from page to page. Perfect teeth pressed into that full lower lip he loved nibbling on himself.
Luke realized she wanted to end the curse as much as he did. She'd probably been trying to break the spell for years. Many years. Long before he had come into her life.
He shuffled up the steps to Abigail's den. After digging around a bit, he found some paper then scrawled a note to Peter Buchanan, a private investigator who also happened to be the brother of an old college friend. If anyone could find William Samson's family, it was Peter Buchanan. Luke often sent projects like this one his way. The investigator's only request was a vanity blurb in the article mentioning his name and plugging his business.
Once the note was sent by fax, Luke rejoined Bianca in the cellar, where her focus shifted between three opened books.
"I found Christian Halestrom!” she announced, beaming.
He came up beside her, kissed the top of her head, then leaned over the desk to have a look for himself.
"See? Here he is, standing on the bridge he designed. The Cornfield Road Bridge.” She angled her head to one side, studying the black and white photo. “They should've named it after him, don't you think?"
Luke chuckled. “I suppose."
"You look like him. You both have the same nose and mouth. He was handsome.” She ran a fingertip over the old picture.
"That sounds like an indirect compliment,” he joked, tenderly stroking her back.
"Indirect? Then let me be more precise...” She pushed up from the chair, curled both arms around his neck, and tilted her head back. A breath away from his mouth, she purred in her best Mae West imitation, “You're a hottie, Mr. Hale."
He laughed, instantly head-to-toe warm. “You're a hottie yourself, Miss Honeywell.” His lips slowly descended to meet hers, until the kiss was broken by her sultry laughter.
"Oh, Luke ... I really don't want Abigail coming home to find us in a compromising position down here.” Still she nipped his mouth, mingling sweet and naughty in a way that sent heat straight to his groin. He dragged a hand lazily up her torso. She moaned, wriggled and stopped him just before he reached her breast. “I won't be able to say no if you go any further,” she admitted with a sexy, beseeching grin.
"That sounds promising..."
"Luke—seriously—” She laughed, deep and throaty, and he could have devoured her on the spot. “I found something you really need to see."
He stopped, dropping his head in defeat. With a heavy sigh, he conceded, “Okay. Let's get back to work."
With anxious hands, Bianca smoothed her hair then her shirt. Turning to the books, her cheeks were still flushed. “I've jotted down some things I found on Samson. For instance that his wife died during childbirth. In 1695. He didn't remarry until 1697.” She watched Luke, her eyes dancing, as he sank into a chair beside her. “Luke ... ask me who he married."
He tipped his chin. “Fine. Who did he marry?"
Her eyes shone with excitement. Breathless, she blurted, “William Samson married Rebecca Halestrom ... Liam's widow."
Chapter Fourteen
They were onto so
mething big. Bianca felt it. Nevertheless after hours of research they found nothing else about Rebecca Halestrom and William Samson.
"I'm seeing double,” Bianca groaned, sitting back, rubbing her fists over tired eyes. “We've done all we can today."
Luke yawned and stretched. Wincing, he brought a hand to his lower back. “I'll have to agree.” He tapped a pen on his notepad. “But we've got some good notes here.” He set gentle, contemplative eyes on her. “If it's okay, I'd really like to look at Liam's suicide letter tonight."
"Of course.” She nodded, giving in to his contagious yawn. Grinning, she admitted, “I'm beat."
He brought her hand to his lips, kissing her palm. “Three hours of interrupted sleep will do that to you.” The deep sensual flavor of his tone awakened a warm ripple in her belly.
"Who needs more than three hours, really?” She leaned in, planting an enticing kiss on his mouth.
Abigail's muffled footsteps thumped down the cellar stairs. “Should I make dinner for three?” she invited, with one brow lifted and a friendly smile.
"Thanks for the offer, Abby, but we're done for the day,” Bianca announced, wrenching her hand free from Luke's then running nervous fingers through her hair.
She loved Abigail, but the town historian was also the town's most reliable chatterbox. The last thing Bianca wanted was for her little fling with Luke to become Clover Falls’ hottest scandal. It was no secret that Bianca couldn't keep a man and she already spurred enough gossip just by being a Honeywell. The thought of her love life being discussed over white picket fences or at summer barbecues was mortifying.
"Abigail,” Luke began, glancing over his notes, “what do you know about Rebecca Halestrom and William Samson?"
With a finger to her chin, Abigail looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. “If memory serves me right, they married once Liam died."
"That much we've got.” Luke frowned, clearly disappointed.
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