Private Passions

by JoAnn Ross

  “Stunning.” His husky tone, along with the blatant hunger stamped onto that face she knew so well, told Margaret exactly what she wanted to know.

  “Of course, it’s no surprise that you’re a beauty,” Margaret continued, “since you look exactly like your mother.”

  “You knew my mother?”

  “Of course. Katherine and I were best friends all through school.” A smooth brow furrowed. “You didn’t know that?”

  “No.” Desiree shook her head, confused by the unexpected anger she thought she saw flash in Margaret Falconer’s dark eyes. “Mother didn’t talk about her life in New Orleans.”

  “I’m not surprised.” There was an edge to her tone that reminded Desiree of Roman’s voice when he turned coldly furious. “It wasn’t a very happy life. But later, when you came to live with Olivia, there were several times over the years when I invited you to the house. I thought you might like to talk about your mother.”

  “Oh, I would have liked that.” So much, Desiree thought. Especially since her grandmother had not permitted Katherine Porter Dupree’s name to be spoken in her presence.

  “Whenever I asked, your grandmother insisted you wanted nothing to do with any of your mother’s old friends.” Roman’s mother sighed and shook her head sadly. “Obviously, she was lying.”

  “Yes.” Having expected nothing from her grandmother, such selfish treachery shouldn’t disappoint. But it did. “Obviously.”

  “Well, then,” Margaret said with the decisiveness that had made her, before she’d turned to teaching at Tulane, a very successful litigator, “better late than never. Why don’t we have a long lunch at The Court of the Two Sisters next week?”

  Desiree didn’t know whether to burst into tears or kiss Roman’s mother. In the end, she did neither, agreeing to the surprise luncheon invitation with an enthusiasm she didn’t bother to conceal.

  “Your mother is a very nice woman,” she said to Roman as they drove through the darkened streets. The twinkling lights on the houses they passed were reflected in the wet pavement.

  “The best,” he agreed easily.

  He’d been surprised by the naked yearning he’d seen on Desiree’s face. He also had the feeling that he could give her a deed to her very own diamond mine and still not equal his mother’s gift. A lunch was not normally that big a deal, of course. Unless it was a lunch that promised to soothe more than a decade and a half of loss.

  He heard Desiree’s soft sigh and suspected that once again they were thinking the same thing.

  “You’re a lucky man.”

  “I guess I am.” Suspecting that he took his parents for granted, Roman made a mental note to send his mother flowers first thing tomorrow morning. Well, perhaps not first thing, he reconsidered, since he’d be waking up in Desiree’s bed.

  A comfortable silence settled over the interior of the Porsche. Neither mentioned the unmarked sedan following discreetly behind them.

  * * *

  DAMN HER!

  The man in black had stood alone in the shadows, watching Desiree kiss Roman Falconer. He’d already known that rich boy Falconer was accustomed to getting whatever he wanted. The knowledge of the district-attorney-turned-author’s privileged status gnawed at the man in black’s gut like battery acid.

  He had his own clever scheme for dealing with that self-indulgent bastard. He’d also had plans for Desiree Dupree.

  But that was before he’d discovered what a shameless slut she was. Now those plans would have to be changed.

  His stomach roiled. The intense throbbing behind his eyes, the blinding pain that always came when he was upset and angry, made it difficult to think.

  His carefully conceived plan was spinning out of control, dammit. Because of her.

  Desiree would pay, he vowed, as he followed them down St. Charles Avenue in the car he’d stolen from outside the Falconer mansion. But not now. Not while the cacophony of voices was roaring in his head, screaming for release.

  There was, he knew, only one thing that would silence them. One special, secret thing that would satiate their raging hunger.

  He watched the treacherous pair enter the wanton whore’s house, then drove away, headed back downtown toward his French Quarter hunting ground.

  13

  ALTHOUGH SHE’D KNOWN this was coming, and although she wanted very much for it to happen, Desiree found herself unreasonably nervous when they entered the house.

  “Would you like a drink?” she asked.

  “Not, really. But if you’d—”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I think I should have eaten dinner before you picked me up for the tour. That glass of champagne I had seemed to go straight to my head.”

  Her nerves were so tightly tangled, Roman feared they were about to snap. It wasn’t going to be easy, he mused. Which was probably just as well. Although he’d grown up with wealth and privilege, he had never trusted things that came too easily.

  “You should have said something.” He crossed the room and turned on the tree lights. “We could have stopped for something on the way back here.”

  “No. I’m fine, really.”

  Earlier, as they’d stood among the glittering lights on the terrace, Desiree had been every bit as eager as he to leave. Her feelings about making love with Roman hadn’t changed. The problem was the logistics. If she could only figure out how to get from here to the bedroom...

  A thought flashed through her mind, a thought of Roman as some savage, Stone Age warrior, knocking her over the head with his club, then dragging her back to his cave by her hair.

  “Care to share?” he asked pleasantly as he watched her luscious lips curve in a smile.

  “Share?” She shook off the Neanderthal fantasy, returning to her present dilemma.

  “Whatever thoughts had you smiling that way.”

  “Oh.” She felt the color, the bane of every redhead, flow into her cheeks. “Actually, it was silly.” Before he could try to pin her down, she crossed over to the CD player and began rummaging through the stack of Christmas disks he’d brought with him. “How about some music? Let’s see, we have Nat King Cole. No, we did him last night. Bing Crosby—he’s a classic. Oh, The Temptations should be nice, don’t you think? Or...” She knew she was babbling but was unable to help herself.

  She was beginning to make him nervous. “Desiree.” Following her across the room, he took both her trembling hands in his and lifted them to his lips. “This isn’t necessary.” His eyes echoed his encouraging smile. “I don’t need a drink. I don’t need music. All I need right now is you.”

  “I’m sorry.” She sucked in a ragged breath. “It’s just that this isn’t as easy as I thought it was going to be.”

  Roman released her hands and looped his arms lightly around her waist. “I’m not sure it should be easy.” He’d known from the beginning that nothing about Desiree was going to be the slightest bit simple.

  He kissed her, a soft, satiny meeting of lips, a mingling of breath. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he linked his fingers with hers and walked down the hallway to the bedroom.

  It was, as he’d suspected, as lushly romantic as the rest of her Victorian cottage—an intensely feminine room where a man would feel comfortable only if invited.

  The lamp had been draped in silk, creating a soft pink glow. Flowers bloomed everywhere—across the walls, on the hand-stitched rug, on the pillows piled high atop the lacy white wrought-iron bed. A rose silk moiré-covered jewel box sat atop a skirted table, the tangle of chains and gleaming cultured pearls spilling forth like a pirate’s ransom. Proving both useful and decorative, antique brass hooks on the flowered walls held a selection of bright silk scarves.

  A trio of antique perfume bottles adorned a wicker nightstand, along with a more modern glass jar. Roman idly opened the lid, scooped out a bit of the smooth pink cream with his finger and breathed in the familiar, haunting scent that had lingered so intensely in his mind.


  Desiree watched him as he drank in the sight of her bedroom and realized she was exposing herself to him in a way that was every bit as intimate as taking off her clothes. She prided herself on her cool, collected public image, and it was only in the privacy of her own home, and most particularly here in this room, that she’d allowed her romantic fantasies free rein.

  “It’s you.” He put the jar back onto the table.

  Until that moment, when she let out the breath she’d been unaware of holding, Desiree had not realized that she’d been waiting for his approval.

  “Only part of me,” she insisted, inexplicably feeling the point needed to be made. “I’m an intelligent woman.”

  “Smart as a whip.” Beside the jar of perfumed cream was a fat vanilla-scented candle and a book of matches from Broussards. He lit the candle and turned off the lamp.

  “People from the governor on down to the man in the street value my opinions.”

  “And rightfully so.” He closed the space between them in two strides.

  “I’ve even had feelers from the network this week.”

  “I’m not surprised by that.” The skill with which he deftly unfastened the hooks at the back of her dress revealed that this was a man who definitely knew his way around women’s clothing.

  “The point is...” She drew in a ragged breath when, with a single light touch, he sent the bronze silk skimming over her body to land in a gleaming pool at her feet. “My point is that I’m an intelligent, levelheaded...” She moaned softly as his lips nuzzled at her throat. “A levelheaded career woman.”

  “You’ve got a great head on these silky shoulders,” he agreed, brushing his mouth over the fragrant skin in question. “A beautiful head. Have I mentioned that I love your hair? It reminds me of one of those paintings of redheaded, rosy-fleshed nudes.”

  When she felt her knees begin to tremble, Desiree clung to him to keep from collapsing. “I was trying to explain that I’m respected....” She was determined to get the thought out before the familiar mists entirely enveloped her mind.

  “I respect you.” His teeth nipped at her collarbone. “Tonight.” He soothed the reddened spot with the tip of his tongue. “Tomorrow morning....”

  When those lips moved steadily downward, to the crest of her breasts, she swayed. “Dammit, Roman,” she complained, even as her fingers began ripping away at the ebony studs of his shirtfront, “I can’t think when you’re driving me crazy this way.”

  That was only fair, Roman considered, since she’d been driving him crazy from the start. “You can think later.” He scooped her up in his arms and dropped her atop the white lace bedspread. “For now, just feel.”

  “Oh, yes.” Impatient now, and stunned by how desperate hunger could be, she wrapped her arms around him, and together they rolled over the bed, ripping at clothes, desperate to touch. Demanding to be touched.

  He’d wanted to give her more. He’d wanted to spend hours lingering with her, making love to her with soft kisses and slow hands. He’d planned to be infinitely patient. To tease, to tempt, to tantalize. He’d wanted to watch her float.

  That had been the plan. But although he’d suspected that Desiree was a woman of great passion, he’d never imagined how deep that passion flowed.

  She was hot and eager, and as greedy as he. She moved against him, under him, on top of him, touching, tasting, tormenting. Although he knew it had to be his imagination, Roman could have sworn that he smelled the smoke of hellfire mingling with her sultry scent.

  “Oh, God, I absolutely love your body.” She was on her knees, splendidly naked as she rained hot, stinging kisses all over his chest, his stomach, his thighs. Roman’s masculine form was a fascination and a wonder to her.

  Desiree loved the way his muscles rippled beneath her hands, was thrilled by the way they clenched beneath her lips. She reveled in the mysterious male taste of his moist flesh. “I’ve wanted it from the beginning.”

  “It’s all yours,” he managed to say with a groan, arching his back as her hair draped over his burning flesh like a silken veil.

  He grabbed a handful of thick, fragrant hair and pulled, lifting her head. “You realize, of course, that you’re killing me?”

  Her cheeks were flushed; her eyes sparkled. “Of course.” Witchlike, she laughed and touched her mouth to his, inviting him to taste himself on her lips. “I’m killing you softly,” she murmured huskily, twisting the title of his latest bestseller. It was not, he thought, as she slid seductively back down his aching body, a bad way to go.

  When her tongue swirled around his aching shaft, stroking it with an innate sensuality that was as much a part of her as that sprinkling of freckles on her pale white shoulders, flames shot up his spine. Fearing he was about to explode, Roman rolled her over and pressed her deeply into the mattress.

  “Now.”

  “Now,” she agreed breathlessly, twining her arms and legs around him.

  As he sank into her, Roman felt her throbbing muscles contract around him, welcoming him, embracing him. He moved against her, enjoying the way her breath caught in a shuddering little hitch. He withdrew and she moaned a faint protest.

  With his eyes locked on hers, he thrust deeply, causing Desiree to cry out in wonder—in triumph—as he filled her completely.

  As he began to move, faster, deeper, she kept up with him, clinging to him, her fingernails digging into the flesh of his back, moving in perfect unison.

  Wracked by a hard, sudden climax, her body went suddenly rigid. Roman knew he’d never seen anything more erotic as the sight of Desiree, for that suspended moment as still as a statue, her flesh gleaming like marble in the moonlight, her lips full and parted, her eyes closed in an expression of absolute ecstasy.

  She cried out his name as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her.

  “Desiree.” Her name was ripped harshly from his throat. “Look at me.”

  Her lids, incredibly heavy, fluttered open.

  “I want you to understand.” As he fought desperately for control, Roman felt as if he were trying to hold back a raging, wild animal. “Whatever else happens, you’re mine.”

  Blissfully exhausted, Desiree managed to grasp only the claim, missing the husky warning in his tone. Lifting arms that had turned amazingly limp, she framed his grimly set face with her palms.

  “Yours.” Her smile, echoed in her eyes, was beatific.

  It was all he needed to hear. Roman crushed his mouth against hers and surrendered to his own release. As he poured himself into her, he realized that he’d never felt so defenseless. Or so invincible.

  * * *

  IT WAS A TIME of mistletoe and magic. Although she’d always considered herself a practical, feet-on-the-ground type of woman, over the next two weeks, Desiree surrendered to the season, and to Roman. As if determined to make up for all the holidays she’d missed growing up, he coaxed and cajoled her into experiencing all the joy and splendor of a true Crescent City Christmas.

  Though it didn’t take much persuading, she decided happily after attending a Sunday afternoon performance of Handel’s Messiah by the New Orleans Symphony, and on the following night, a magical and delightful performance of the Nutcracker ballet.

  Despite this dizzying, glorious time with Roman, Desiree couldn’t forget that the rapist was still out there. Watching. Waiting.

  “Don’t think about him,” Roman said, not for the first time, as they stood shoulder-to-shoulder with thousands of residents and visitors gathered together in Jackson Square for one of the season’s most beloved events, Caroling in the Square.

  “Who?” she asked, knowing that she could never keep anything from Roman. Once they’d both lowered their protective barriers, they’d become so close that Desiree felt as if they’d been together a lifetime, rather than fourteen short days.

  “You know who.” He rubbed at the line between her brows. All around them, participants had segued from “Away in a Manger” to “The First Noel.” “This is our first
Christmas together, Desiree. Let’s not let him ruin it.”

  “You’re right.” She liked the way his words suggested that there would be more such holidays. Smiling, she rose up on her toes and, mindless of the crowd surrounding them, gave him a heartfelt kiss that promised a night of more such kisses to come.

  The day before Christmas Eve they attended “Christmas in the Oaks,” strolling hand-in-hand to the accompaniment of the musical groups stationed throughout City Park. Although they’d planned a sumptuous late dinner afterward at the Grill Room in the famed Windsor Court Hotel, a more insistent hunger had them skipping dinner and returning to Desiree’s Victorian cottage.

  By the time the candle had burned down to melted wax and the stuttering December sun was infiltrating its way past the lace covering her bedroom window, Desiree knew that she’d surrendered a great deal more than her body to Roman during these festive days and nights. She’d also given him her heart.

  “I may never move again.” She cuddled against him, her smiling lips against his chest, her legs entwined with his.

  “I could live with that.” He ran his hand down her hair, picking up a few strands and holding them to the light, enjoying the way the sunlight turned them to copper and gold.

  “Of course, we might starve.”

  “Never happen.” He kissed her smiling lips and knew he’d never been happier. Or more terrified. These past days and nights, as glorious as they had been, had been wrapped in the seductive golden glow of the holiday season. Soon, in the bright, unforgiving light of a new day, they were both going to have to face some unpleasant facts that could destroy everything. “We’ll live on love.”

  As he ran his hand down her back, incredibly, after all they’d shared, she felt the shimmering heat rising once more. “Oh, I think I really, really like that idea.”

  Although she’d been expecting the tenderness he’d displayed so many times, his next kiss was harsh and strangely desperate.

  “I do, you know,” he said when the kiss ended.