There was always someone somewhere stupid enough.
Lisette looked from Jack to Ali. “Doesn’t it seem the smartest move is for Padma and me to leave?”
“No,” Jack and Ali answered together. When she frowned, Jack went on. “He’s not after you and Padma anymore. He just wanted to use you to get to me. We could fly you out of here right now, but he’ll still be out there tomorrow trying to hire a boat.”
“But I stole the painting.”
“You’ll never convince him of that.”
Ali shifted, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Harry will let us know if or when Candalaria gets a taker. He’s keeping in touch with the helicopter pilots there, too. We’re fortifying our security plan. Once that’s done, we’ll figure out how to get rid of Candalaria once and for all.”
His ominous tone made Lisette shudder, but she didn’t protest. Jack waited until he left to bump shoulders with her. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. Trespassing down here is taken very seriously, especially when it’s done by a small but lethal army, which is the only way David travels. If they come here, if they stir up trouble, they’ll be subdued and turned over to the authorities.”
Having lost interest in the water—and, apparently, the kissing—Lisette turned toward the steps Ali had taken. Two hundred feet up, shaded by tall trees and fragrant vines, Jack’s cottage sat out of sight. He would get her there—sooner, please God, rather than later—or he was going to explode.
After a few awkward moments of walking, she abruptly grinned at him. “Are you really trying to impress me?”
“I really am. Is it working?”
“Ask me after the feast tonight.”
He grabbed his chest with both hands. “You’re killing me, Trouble.”
And he was liking it.
* * *
The feast took place in a cleared field, where a bonfire burned in the middle, surrounded by tables groaning under their burdens, with quilts and blankets for seats and a few folding chairs for those whose bones didn’t tolerate getting down and up again so easily. The whole thing was impressive: the food, the sense of family, the joy. The live music, ranging from calypso to soca to reggae. The dancing, the laughter, the pure satisfaction. It was an amazingly happy event.
Then came the singing. Not from the guests packing up as darkness settled. These voices traveled on the still air, distant and dreamy. Voices long gone singing songs long forgotten. Their words were indistinguishable, their melodies haunting, and they leached the bliss right out of the evening. With nervous looks over their shoulders, mamas and papas gathered their little ones; grandmas and grandpas clung tightly to each other’s hands; and wispy moonlight and bonfire were replaced by powerful flashlights that banished the shadows.
Padma leaned close to Lisette and whispered, “Do you have goose bumps? My entire body is covered. If I was outside alone and heard that, I’d die of fright. Aren’t you freaked out?”
Lisette couldn’t deny the shivers gliding over her skin, but they weren’t fear. In any community, people lived and died. In the three-century history of this particular community, a lot of people had died, without much peace to accompany them on their final journey. “They just seem sad.”
“Sad? They’re scaring the crap out of me, and I’m surrounded by dozens of people.” Standing, Padma straightened her clothes, then offered a hand to Lisette. “Let’s get some of these big strong guys to take us back to the house and lock the doors behind us.”
“Do you think locked doors will keep out spirits?” Lisette accepted her help, then regretted the question when she saw Padma’s eyes widen. “They’re not malicious. They don’t mean anyone harm.”
“How do you know?”
The answer came from behind Lisette in a voice that startled her far more than the singing. “Because dem lived with us for t’ree centuries and never done anyt’ing yet.” Jesula lifted the cane she held to point northward. “Dems just joining da celebration. Everybody do love a good celebration, huh?”
It seemed wrong to talk about celebration in such funereal tones. Lisette’s shivers multiplied, and she caught Padma trying to control one. Jesula didn’t notice, though, as her gaze was fixed on Lisette. “Maybe dem spirits t’inking dem knows you, too.”
“Auntie Jesula!” A young boy, about ten or twelve, skidded to a halt beside the old woman. “Mama says come, please, and Papa and Martin will walk you home.”
Jesula continued to stare at Lisette. Then, as she’d done earlier, she abruptly turned and walked away, the boy sticking close to her side.
“More freakiness,” Padma whispered, grabbing Lisette’s arm. “That’s the woman who recognized you? She’s scary.”
Jack and Simon returned in time to hear the last words. “Ah, you’ve met Jesula,” Jack said with a grin. “Even Simon’s father was afraid of her, and he was—”
Simon finished for him. “The meanest son of a bitch that ever lived.”
There was little bitterness in his voice, just acknowledgment of something he’d long known. Not having a father could be tough, but sometimes having one could be tougher.
Jack slipped behind Lisette, resting his hands on her shoulders. That usual sense of safety spread through her, easing her nerves, calming her spirit. “Hey.”
His voice was soft and ticklish in her ear, creating shivers of a whole different kind. Leaning into him, she nodded, took a breath and said, “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
With Padma and Simon occupied with shaking out and folding the quilt, she turned in Jack’s arms and reminded him of his question earlier that morning. “You’re impressing me. Though I think it’s terribly unfair...”
She paused, considering the words—the invitation—she was about to offer, wondering if Marley would put in an appearance to try to change her mind. But her mother remained silent, and his body felt so good against hers, and she was a grown woman who knew what she wanted and could deal with the consequences, and...
She wanted this. Needed it. Would never regret it, no matter how badly it ended.
Nuzzling her neck, he prompted her. “It’s unfair that...?”
Letting go of everything but the moment, she twined her arms around his neck and smiled her best smile. “That everyone else on the island has seen your naked bum except me.” She brushed her lips to his jaw, his mouth, then his ear. “You show me yours, Charming, and I’ll show you mine.”
She hadn’t known arousal could manifest so quickly. In less time than it took to breathe, his erection came to life, hard and hot, and he gave her a look more scorching than the bonfire. So used to his lighthearted manner, she was surprised and made weak by the fierceness in his voice. “God, Lisette, you’re definitely killing me.”
After kissing her quick and hard, he grabbed her hand, snatched a flashlight from a nearby guard and began pulling her toward his cottage. Giddy with her first carefree moment in days, she happily kept pace. She heard a few comments from behind, but the only one she clearly understood came from Toinette, her tone smug.
“My bet was before midnight. Pay up, guys. You, too, Padma. Ten bucks each.”
Their friends had bet on when they would have sex, Lisette’s discreet side pointed out. Her womanly side couldn’t care less.
By the time they reached the path to the main house, they were more or less alone. Voices filtered through the trees, tired children fussing, fathers discussing the next day’s work, mothers asking about homework and chores and recipes. It was startling, so much tradition and so much diversity in one people, one place. She could fit in here if she had a chance.
And she had that chance. It was simple, really: don’t steal Le Mystère. Give up her life’s goal, her mother’s life’s goal. Choose the man over the statue. Her father had been dead twenty-eight years. As far as she knew, she was the on
ly Blue/Malone left, and she didn’t want a priceless carving. She couldn’t display it. She couldn’t loan it out to museums. She could never sell it. Having it would just make her a target.
Don’t steal it. Disappoint her mother. Disrespect her father. Deliberately fail at the one thing she’d been raised to do.
Simple? It was too damn complicated a choice, and when they passed under a glowing light and she saw the hunger and appreciation and tenderness in Jack’s face, she pushed the choice aside. There were more important things to think of now.
By the time they reached their destination, all the other voices had faded. The only lights flanked the door, with a lamp visible through the living room window. They climbed the steps, crossed the porch, and he quickly unlocked the door and shut off the alarm.
She hadn’t gotten a tour of the cottage that morning. She’d admired its simple lines, its white siding and dozens of tall windows flanked by dark green shutters, but they hadn’t stopped. She had imagined them relaxing on the broad porch, listening to the ocean, and wondered that Jack found such contentment in a house she could so easily fit in herself.
As he drew her to the curving stairs, she caught mostly impressions: space, comfort, again simplicity. Then they reached the top of the stairs, then his bedroom, and he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, and she forgot everything except him. Them. Lust and hunger and weakness.
Fever was too mild a word to describe the heat that consumed her, that made her blood boil and her brain go hazy, that heightened her senses, giving scents and flavors to things she had only felt in the past. It was crazy mad and scary intense, and it was more right than anything she’d ever known.
Jack was more right.
She didn’t consciously move, other than to touch him, more of him, and taste him, more, more, but in a daze she realized that her clothes were gone, fallen unnoticed, and the pins that held her braids had fallen, too, leaving her hair to cascade over her shoulders. The bed dipped beneath their weight, cool air sliding across her body before the substance of Jack’s body blocked it and warmed her again, filled her, more and more, joining with her until she couldn’t imagine how she’d survived this long without him.
Fever. Lust. Life.
* * *
The thudding of Jack’s heart slowed to a steady drum, and his breathing settled from consciousness-threatening hypoxia to lazy, deep inhaling-every-scent-of-her-so-he’d-never-forget. Wheezy, he’d briefly thought when it had seemed he would black out, and he would have grinned if he hadn’t been so captured by the torture/pleasure of an orgasm. Followed by another. And another.
Beside him, sweat formed a sheen on Lisette’s skin. Her hair tumbled across the pillow, the damp curls spiraling tighter, and the look on her face was peace and calm and pure satisfaction.
It was the most beautiful he’d ever seen her.
Swiping strands of hair back from her forehead, she grinned at him. “I’m guessing you’ve done this before.”
“Maybe a time or two.”
“You learned well.” She turned to face him, making no move to hide her nakedness. He hadn’t held her to her promise yet—show me yours, and I’ll show you mine—but he’d seen her front side, and that was sweet enough to make him forget the back for now. Besides, it was still early. They had hours—years—to go.
“Feel free to teach me everything you know. What you like.” He touched his fingertips to the swell of her right breast. “What you don’t.” Skimmed them along the outside, avoiding contact with her nipple, to the curve of her waist. “Any kinky fantasies you might have.”
Her laugh almost disguised her shiver as his hand moved to her hip. “Nothing about me is kinky. A little quirky, maybe—I do live a secret life as a thief—but never kinky.”
“Damn,” he said, feigning regret before admitting, “I’m not into kink, either. Enthusiasm counts for a whole lot more with me.”
She echoed his fake regret. “Damn. Wish I’d pursued cheerleading when I was a kid.”
With a laugh, he slid from the bed and crossed to the French doors, opening each set, letting in the breeze and the night sounds and the ocean’s briny scent. The esperanza blooming at the base of the trees added its own sweet flavor, and all of it paled in comparison to the fragrance that enveloped him when he returned to bed: sex and sweat and perfume and wood smoke and Lisette. It created the sort of memory that would last forever, no matter where he was, no matter who he was with.
When he was relying on memories, where would she be? Would they still be lovers? Friends? Even casual acquaintances?
Part of the fun of a new relationship for Jack had always been would-they-or-wouldn’t-they. Would they have sex? Would they last longer than six months? Would they fall in love? Would they part as friends? Would it last, or would it be just another stop on the journey?
This time he didn’t find that wondering quite so much fun. This time he was a lot more emotionally invested a lot faster than ever before. This time he wanted more than sex, more than six months, more than friendship, more than just another stop. This time he thought she might be the one, and though he’d thought that before, this time he really believed in the possibility.
Did she? Had it even crossed her mind?
Not accustomed to being the needy one, when he resettled in bed, he changed the subject. “What did you think of our ghosts?”
Her expression turned thoughtful. “You’re sure they’re ghosts.”
“We’re sure they’re not trespassers. What does that leave? Aliens? Ghosts? Mass hallucinations?”
Her smile was a little blue as she agreed. “Ghosts.” Then... “What does Jesula think?”
“She calls them the lost souls. She says they lose their way in death same as in life. Someday maybe they go home, or maybe they don’t want to.”
“Maybe they have no home to go. Maybe they lost so much that they can’t bear to move on.”
The possibility sobered him. Rolling over, he propped one arm under his head and gazed at the fan directly above them, its paddles shaped like long, slender palm fronds. “Thanks to the Toussaints and Sinclairs. They had no concern for anyone but themselves, and they passed their narcissistic sociopathic tendencies down through the generations.” He scoffed. “No legacy at all is better than theirs.”
Then, to lighten the mood, he cut his gaze to her. “That’s what my legacy is—nothing. I’m not contributing to society. I’m spending my life not leaving my mark on the world, and when I’m gone, my footprint will be so tiny no one will even know I was here.”
The linens rustled as Lisette pulled the sheet over her, then rested her head on his shoulder. “Don’t kid yourself, Charming. People know you’re here. They’ll always know. Your family, your friends, the people here on the island. Your employers, your marks. Candalaria will never forget a thing about you. He’ll be cursing you with his dying breath.”
Jack considered it a moment before grinning. “That alone gives a man a reason to live, doesn’t it?”
She laughed, a full-throated, blood-warming laugh that tightened his chest until something inside him broke...or was made whole again. He wasn’t sure which. “A person has to find his reasons where he can. Tormenting Candalaria until the end of his days seems as good as any other.”
“And what about you, Lisette? What gives your life purpose?”
Her expression dimmed as the last of the mirth seeped away, but only for an instant. Her brows arching, she gave a long-suffering sigh. “Wow, have amazing toe-curling sex with the guy, and he wants to know your deepest secrets.”
Gently he stroked her arm, savoring the silken feel of her skin, skirting the bruises there. “I already know your deepest secret, Bella. Damn, they named you well. You’re beautiful.”
“They gave the name to my mother. I appropriated it.”
“If they’d realized there were two of you, they would have named you Donna Più Bella. Doesn’t that mean ‘most beautiful woman’? My Italian’s a little sketchy.”
Her hair tickled his skin when she shook her head. “No one would look at my mother and me and choose me as the most beautiful. She was gorgeous.”
“You’re more gorgeous.”
“You’ve never seen her.”
“I don’t need to.”
Lazily she shifted until her body was stretched out over the length of his. She pushed herself into a seated position, her hips cradling his, and tossed her hair back into a sexy, enticing tumble over her shoulders, and she smiled a sexy, enticing smile that roused his erection with surprising speed. “Just for that, Lucky Jack...”
Bending forward, she brought her breasts into contact with his chest, the soft mounds swaying, and then her mouth touched his jaw, sliding back and forth. “I’m going to help us both live up to your pirate name.”
A sound, half groan, half strangled sigh, escaped him as she took him inside her, sliding slow with taut control, until he filled her. Head back, eyes closed, she sighed, too, with contentment and satisfaction and anticipation, and the same sentiments echoed through him, tightening his muscles, shortening his breaths, feeding his own anticipation.
Somewhere in the distance of his rational mind, he realized she hadn’t answered his question: What gives your life purpose?
And at the moment, damned if he cared.
* * *
Lisette was ravenous the next morning. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t eaten well at all three meals the day before, but this morning nothing within her reach was safe, especially the tender buttery flatbreads that went by the odd name of buss up shut.
It wasn’t until she’d polished off her second plate of food and the third glass of papaya juice that the conversation turned to Candalaria. The mention of his name in bright sunlight cast a shadow over the warm, sated feeling that had settled over her sometime yesterday and completely enclosed her by the time she’d fallen asleep last night. Now it was as if a tiny prick had pierced the bubble, letting the good seep out.
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