by JoAnn Ross
“Ah.” He smiled and drew her closer. There was a lean and dangerous power to his body that Desiree found more deadly than mere brute strength. “I was referring to the painfully obvious plans of that poor-man’s J.R. Ewing who seemed so enamored with you. Believe me, Desiree, my intentions toward you are absolutely honorable.”
His smile was enticing, but unwilling to give Roman the upper hand, Desiree again refused to be charmed. “Isn’t that what the wolf told Little Red Riding Hood?”
He shook his head in mock regret. “You sure are a tough nut to crack, Desiree Dupree. Fortunately, we’re going to have a great deal of time to get to know one another—” his fingers played with the ends of her hair “—on our date.”
“About that—”
“You’re not thinking of welshing, are you?” He tilted his head to look down at her again. “And deprive all those poor, ill children of much-needed medical care?”
“You’re a rich man.” The idea that he believed his wealth had purchased her, as her grandmother’s fortune had done so many years ago, irked. “Why can’t you just send in a check?”
“What makes you think I haven’t?” When she glanced up at him, clearly surprised, he gave her another of those unnerving, sardonic smiles. “My mother is a very persuasive woman. I’ve already made a generous contribution.
“My offer this evening was for a fantasy night with New Orleans’s sexiest crime reporter.” He released her hand and skimmed a long dark finger down her cheek. “Surely you wouldn’t want me telling Barry Collins that his star reporter and much-respected anchorwoman was refusing to keep her word?”
Barry was her station manager. And her boss. She should have known, since both men grew up in New Orleans, that they’d know one another.
“You realize, of course, that what you’re suggesting is coercion,” she murmured.
Roman wondered if she realized that those cool round tones only made the passion in her eyes seem hotter by comparison. Before he could respond to her accusation, a low, deep rumble of thunder echoed, followed by several startling cracks of lightning that lit up the suddenly darkened room.
As the simulated indoor storm that gave the Rain Forest Room its name proceeded to delight the crowd, Roman lowered his head and kissed her.
5
ROMAN’S MOUTH ROAMED over hers, slowly, softly. Desiree knew that she could have stopped him. Even now she could step away and he would have to let her go. But his lips were so clever. So tempting. The tender, nibbling kisses lulled her into complacence, even as they excited. Murmuring something she couldn’t hear over the clap of thunder that literally shook the room, he drew her closer. His surprisingly gentle, yet confident hand stroked her bare back, creating a trail of heat up to the nape of her neck, before retreating again to her waist.
The pleasure was liquid, as warm as a tropical rain. Her senses swimming, Desiree had no choice but to cling to him, enjoying the stolen kiss for the sheer pleasure it brought her.
Having expected a flare of passion, Roman was unprepared for the tenderness flooding through him. Time ceased to have meaning. He could have kissed her endlessly.
Her sultry, mysterious scent of oriental flowers and incense surrounded him, bringing to mind veiled, ebony-eyed harem women lounging about on tasseled pillows. Her taste was as potent as whiskey, as drugging as opium.
And then, just as quickly as it began, the simulated rainstorm ended. There was scattered applause for the dazzling special effects, then the band began to play again and everyone resumed dancing.
Everyone but Roman and Desiree, who were standing in the center of the dance floor, oblivious to the other couples swirling around them.
Desiree was the first to speak. “Why did you do that?”
The answer was too complex to go into in such a public forum. Especially since Roman wasn’t certain he understood all the feelings that had unexpectedly been stimulated by the kiss he’d been fantasizing about ever since Desiree Dupree had shown up on his doorstep this morning.
“We’ve both been wondering what it would be like—”
She knocked away his hand when it began playing with her dangling gold earring. “I haven’t.” All right, so it was a lie. But she was definitely not prepared to share her secret fantasies with this man.
“I stand corrected.” His lips curled in a wicked, knowing smile that assured her he knew she was being less than truthful. “I’ve been wondering what it would be like. So it seemed like a good idea to get it out of the way before our date.”
She let out a long breath. “I think, if you’re going to insist on going through with this ridiculous date you’ve overpaid for, it’s important to set some ground rules.”
Like it or not, they were already beyond setting rules and limitations. But if it made her feel safer...
“The first rule is you’re not allowed to have any more ideas.” She tilted her chin and flashed him a challenging gaze. “I may have to go out with you. It is, after all, for charity. But no amount of money gives you any right to manhandle me.”
Manhandle? Roman was sorely tempted to point out exactly whose slender arms had wrapped around his neck.
“Agreed.” He nodded and resisted the urge to kiss her senseless, just to prove he could make her forget all about her stupid damn rules. “What else?”
Although his voice was calm, there was a flare of hot, ripe emotion in his eyes that intrigued and unnerved her. All the other regulations she’d been prepared to list left her mind, like words wiped from a glass slate.
“Why don’t we go somewhere else and discuss this,” he suggested when she hesitated. “Somewhere more private.”
“Like your place?”
“Or yours.” He shrugged. “Whichever. Though my house is closer.”
“How do you know where I live?” A chill ran through her, replacing the warmth his kiss had instilled.
Her cheeks, which had been flushed from the shared kiss, turned as pale as sleet. Although the band was playing something slow and dreamy, Roman could feel the mood slipping away.
“It wasn’t that difficult. I made a few calls—”
“A few calls?” Realizing her raised voice was drawing unwanted attention to them, Desiree shook her head and walked off the dance floor, leaving him to follow her to a secluded spot beneath a gnarled indoor cypress tree. “A few calls?” she repeated in a low, furious voice. “What the hell gave you the right to do that?”
“I wanted to know about you.”
His lack of remorse at invading her privacy was almost as infuriating as his actions. “And do you always get what you want?”
“Not always.” The passion in her eyes and on her face intrigued him. Enticed him. “But most of the time, yes.” He opted for honesty. “And I’m not going to apologize for wanting you, Desiree.”
She dragged her hair back from her forehead. “Lord, you have a lot of nerve.”
She welcomed the return of anger that steamrollered over her earlier fear. Having suffered a stalker last year, she found the idea of any viewer—especially a male viewer—knowing where she lived more than a little unsettling. “And I’m afraid this is one time, Mr. Falconer, that you’re going to be disappointed.”
That said, she turned on her heel and marched toward the bank of elevators. Roman considered going after her, then decided there was no point in pushing her any further.
There would be another time; he’d already ensured that with a hefty check. That was enough. For now.
The elevator door opened. She entered and pushed the button for the lobby.
Their eyes met, hers blazing with defiance, his infinitely patient. “I’ll call you,” Roman said. “About our date,” he tacked on when she appeared disinclined to answer.
The steel door closed. But not so quickly that he couldn’t hear her muttered curse.
Feeling strangely lighthearted for the first time in weeks, Roman found himself looking forward to the most expensive date of his life.
* * *
SHE WAS A Saxon noblewoman. Pure of mind, body and spirit. Intelligent and utterly fearless. Her life had been perfect until William the Conqueror invaded her beloved island. Although she’d sworn never to pledge allegiance to these barbaric warriors, she’d been taken captive and forced to pledge a marriage vow to the hated Norman baron who’d taken her family’s land.
After a ceremony attended by William himself, Brianna was sent by her new husband to the bedchamber and told to prepare for her wedding night. The night grew long. Then longer. Brianna could hear the sounds of merriment coming from the Great Hall as she awaited her husband’s arrival.
The light was a pale stuttering silver when the heavy wooden door finally opened, rousing her from a light slumber.
“Well, wife.” He stood there, filling the doorway. “I thought I gave instructions for you to wait my arrival.”
“I was waiting, my lord.” Her dulcet tone was edged with sarcasm. She’d be buried in the churchyard before this devil would ever be her lord.
“You were sleeping.” His hands on his hips, he moved toward her, menace in his steely blue gaze.
She lifted her chin in an instinctively defiant gesture. “And you, sir, were tardy.”
He lifted his hand, as if to strike her, but fisted his wide hand in her unbound hair instead. “A good Norman wife would never dare speak that way to her husband.”
“If you’d wanted a good Norman wife, sir, you should have stayed at home and married one.”
“God’s blood, you are a mouthy wench.” When he caressed her frowning lips with his thumb, she bit it. Hard.
His shouted oath, as he jerked his hand free, was even cruder than she would have expected from a barbarian. “Before tonight is over, wife,” he roared, “you will learn to be a subservient, proper wife.”
“I’d rather be dead.” She tried to toss her head and flinched when he pulled her hair so hard she felt as if he was yanking it from the roots.
“That can be arranged.” He took hold of her nightgown and with one mighty yank, ripped it down the center. “Later.” His gaze took a slow tour of her body, lingering for an unnervingly long time on her breasts, which she refused to cover with her hands. “Much, much later.”
He reached out and ran his rough hand over the sensual path his eyes had scorched, creating havoc to every one of her nerve endings. “Your mind may not have accepted the idea of our marriage, wife,” he said in a husky voice. “But your body has. See what happens when I do this.” Although she refused to look as instructed, when he caught the tingling bud between his thumb and forefinger, she felt it turn as hard as a pebble.
Her head was swimming. As she felt her legs weakening, Brianna struggled against fainting. “If you do this, I’ll hate you.”
“That does not come as any surprise.” He ran his palm down her torso, over her stomach, then lower still. “The problem is, my reluctant Saxon bride, is that if I do not do this, I’ll hate myself.”
His fingers traced a flaming path through the cloud of soft, silky platinum hair. When he tugged on those pale curls, another shot of heat threatened to overwhelm her.
Without thinking, she slapped him.
The sudden, sharp sound was like the crack of a tree branch in the stillness of the bedchamber. He didn’t flinch. But she could see the storm clouds building in his eyes.
“I should beat you.”
She lowered her hand. “I’d rather be beaten to blood pudding than be raped.”
“Perhaps I’ll do both.” He rubbed his bearded chin thoughtfully. “Beat you. Then rape you.” He pushed the rendered white gown off her shoulders. It fell to the floor, leaving her totally vulnerable to his dark, masculine scrutiny.
“You truly are a comely wench, wife,” he murmured, nodding with satisfaction. “I must remember to thank William in the morning.”
If you are still alive. Clinging to her fury, Brianna thought of the knife she’d hidden beneath the bed and felt some faint measure of comfort.
“If I kiss you, will you bite me? As you did my thumb?” he inquired in a remarkably even tone.
“I will spit in your face.”
He sighed wearily. “I was afraid of that.” He picked up the nightgown and tore a long strip off it.
“You’d dare gag me?” Forgetting her lack of clothing, she rose to her full height, every inch the royal born lady she was.
“A prudent knight knows the value of defensive maneuvers.” Before she could utter a word of complaint, he wrapped the white cloth around her head and over her mouth. “Though God’s truth, it is a shame, not to be able to taste those succulent, ripe lips...
“Perhaps later.” He pressed his fingertips against the gag and, enraging her further, smiled as he tore another long strip from her bridal nightgown. “When I’ve properly tamed you.”
He laughed a bold rich laugh at her expense as he scooped her up and carried her over to the bed, dropping her as if she were a stone.
When she tried to strike him, he caught both her wrists in his large dark hand, lashed them together with the white material and tied them to the bedpost. His eyes didn’t move from hers as he took off his own clothes. Unable to curse him, bound like a pig on the way to market, Brianna fought back with the only weapon she had left in her arsenal. Her glare was hot enough to turn a lump of coal to ashes.
Unfortunately her husband was not a lump of coal, but a man. A very large, very aroused male.
He spread her legs apart and knelt between them, taking in the beads of moisture glistening like diamonds in those soft blond curls.
“I think you do not hate me as much as you say,” he murmured, on a rough, deep voice that vibrated deep within her. “I believe, wife, that we will prove to be well matched.”
She was wet and slick, but he was larger than she could have imagined. When she felt the moist tip of his rampant sex begin to invade her body, she tensed.
“That will only make things worse, wife.” He reached between them and boldly cupped her most private place. “‘Tis better when you relax.”
There was no question this man was the devil. He knew just where to touch, how much pressure to exert. When those clever, wicked fingers stroked an ultrasensitive nub of flesh, lightning forked through her.
Sensing her surrender, he lifted her hips and drove inside her with one forceful, mighty stroke, filling her completely. Her cry of pain was muffled by the strip of cloth covering her mouth. Tears streamed down her pale cheeks. She tried to break free of her restraints, but he’d tied the knots too tightly.
Using his weight to hold her prisoner, he paused long enough to rip away the gag.
“Please, my lord.” She was no longer too proud to beg. “Please stop this torture.”
Something that could have been sympathy flashed in his stormy eyes. “‘Tis too late to stop now, wife.” He reached between them again and resumed stroking that tingling bit of pink flesh, creating a restlessness that had her unconsciously lifting her hips.
He covered her unbound mouth with his, treating her to a forceful kiss designed to stake his claim on her once and for all as he began to move again, driving her deeper and deeper into the feather mattress, his thrusts growing more forceful, more out of control.
She was trembling. Not from fear or anger, but from an escalating need for fulfillment. Having never felt like this in her life, she feared she would die from this primal pleasure he’d forced upon her.
Her body clutched brazenly at his as he drove them both into a heat so hot it could only be the flames of hell. She was crying out, begging him to end this tender torment, damning him for making her suffer so.
The first orgasm literally rocked her. But he refused to stop, demanding more and more. Amazingly, she climaxed again before he finally gave into his own release, flooding her throbbing, pulsating body with his seed.
* * *
HELL. This was a mistake, Roman decided, as he took a deep breath and closed the slender red book. Reading
erotica while his body was still aching for its sexy author did nothing to quiet the hunger in him.
He’d discovered Desiree’s secret by accident, during a rare visit to New York. His agent had been called into the reception area to deal with some mixup regarding an overnight package, leaving Roman alone. Impatient, and edgy, as he always was when forced to spend time in Manhattan, he began to roam the office.
And that’s when he first saw the book, in the chrome out basket. A letter to Desiree Dupree was clipped to the cover.
It had read: “Dear Desiree, here’s an advance copy of Fears and Fantasies, hot off the presses. This should certainly satisfy all those readers who wrote demanding more stories along the lines of Scarlet Ribbons. Congratulations.”
Desiree had already piqued his interest during her appearances on the nightly news. As he’d skimmed through the volume of sensual stories, Roman had realized that the outwardly cool, competent crime reporter definitely possessed a great deal of hidden, turbulent waters.
When he’d questioned his agent about her, he’d received only a vague comment that due to her high-profile career, the author preferred to remain anonymous.
His agent’s less than forthcoming attitude hadn’t deterred Roman. He’d already decided to meet Desiree. The fact that she’d shown up on his doorstep at the worst possible time in his life proved that Fate did indeed move in mysterious ways.
A low ache of hunger twisted his gut into nasty, painful knots as he imagined himself drawn into the seductive scene Desiree had created.
“Damn.” His body throbbing, his head pounding, Roman dragged his hand down his face, wondering when he’d become such a masochist. Then, although he knew it would only make the wanting worse, he opened the slender red book once more and continued to read.
* * *
WHITE LIGHTS HAD BEEN strung in the trees and on the arched gateways at New Orleans’s Armstrong Park, transforming the area into a Christmas fairyland.
Sixteen-year-old Tabitha Sue Jackson was standing outside the lighted arch, dancing in place in a vain attempt to keep warm. It was hard enough perching on four-inch-high heels all night; the freezing temperatures not only made working hell, they kept the johns away. And when that happened...