Shades of Desire: 10 Sweet & Spicy Romances

by J. A. Coffey

  Yeah, the tears gathered in Faith's eyes, so Jess offered some classic diversion tactics. "You need something?"

  "No, I just heard you talking to Jeremy."

  So Jess cradled the antique phone and opened a cabinet- the one converted from a 20's punched-tin pie safe. She gathered the shopping basket of cleaning supplies and a stack of lint-free towels to hand to her young protégé. "You have much to learn, young paduwan. Go forth and clean the Chippendale dining room set. I noticed dust yesterday."

  Apparently Faith forgot what to do with a feather duster, cotton cloths, and orange oil, because she stared at the blue wicker basket and frowned. "What's a paduwan?"

  "Star Wars term for a novitiate."

  "Oh. What's a novitiate?"

  Jess felt her smile cross her face. "Novice. Beginner. Speaking of new..." she went to her door and pointed to the back room, where new arrivals got cleaned up and prepped for the showroom floor. "The seventeenth century French armoire is filled with coffee grounds and rice. It just needs to be vacuumed out. Then, would you let me know if the mothball smell is gone?"

  The look on Faith's face displayed her thoughts of her boss' sanity. "I swear you just make this stuff up."

  Jess laughed at her expression. "If it didn't work, I wouldn't do it. Away with you."

  Faith left chuckling, making Jess grin at the basis of their conversation. Jeremy still knew how to turn heads, even when he acted reserved and not flamboyant.

  Her antique phone rang- her own personal bat-line. She nabbed it. "Hello?"

  "Jess, it's Duncan."

  "I was just going to call you."

  "Yeah?"

  She sat down. "What's up?"

  "We got Rettenberg's."

  Somehow she was standing. "We did? Already? That's great. How?"

  "My aunt is Jasmine's next-door neighbor. I told her how important this estate is to our business, so Auntie Fran had little vengeful Jasmine over for tea."

  Collapsing, Jess tossed her head over the chair back and laughed. "Duncan, I. Love. You. You're getting an extra percentage straight off the top."

  She heard his breath catch.

  "And a turkey for Thanksgiving."

  And catch again. Then, "How about a trip to the Caribbean?"

  "Don't push it."

  He chuckled. "Listen. I'm calling about the Covington estate."

  Something in Duncan's tone froze the air in Jess' lungs. "What about it?"

  "Well...." she could hear him hedging. "I took a call at closing last night after you left. There's some trouble with disbursement of the household furnishings."

  "What?" Jess took her yell down to a more controlled volume. "I'm sorry, Duncan. I didn't mean to shout. What do you mean? We secured that estate two weeks ago."

  "Me, too. Only, someone named Beauregard claims it's his inheritance."

  That was Ollie's miserable brother; her gnashing teeth told her so. "Bullsh-" she caught herself. "That's bunk and we all know it. Ollie was an honorary grandpa to me, and we were all there when he changed his Will. He flat out told me his estate would make me-"

  "The single richest woman in the Northeast," they both finished.

  But it wasn't just the money; Jess had already earmarked the proceeds from the sales, and the zoo was already counting on her substantial contribution. It was one of the last things Ollie had told her: he wanted to build a giant elephant paddock for the zoo, and then he died before he got to it. She just couldn't let him down; she never had in life, and she certainly wasn't going to fail him in death.

  Jess shook off her last words to Duncan and plowed ahead. "You can't buy prestige like that. He knew how much I loved his pieces, even as a teen, and wanted to see me succeed." Breath came faster than necessary, and didn't a red haze start behind her eyes. This was a battle she would gladly fight and win at any cost. Covington Cove was going to be built if it was the last thing she ever did.

  After all, she was a woman of some worth these days. Her jaw clenched.

  "It's all right, boss lady," Duncan soothed. "I'm more of a pussycat than pit bull, but I don't want to see you so upset. You know I'll come through for you."

  Jess nodded, although Duncan couldn't see it. Duncan and Jeremy were always so reliable and supportive. Why couldn't she meet a man of her own with those traits? "I know you will."

  "I'll call our attorney. We have a Will with witnesses and a legally binding contract. This Mr. Beauregard won't stand a chance."

  A weak smile wobbled on her lips. "I wish you were younger, Duncan. And single. No grandkids. And--"

  "White?" he chuckled.

  She smiled again. "I was going to say Pisces."

  He laughed, and the deep rich volume warmed her cold thoughts. "Everybody wants me, doll." And he hung up.

  Suitably depressed, Jess wrote out her rent check.

  Chapter Two

  "Beauregard, why haven't you answered? I've bellowed your name thrice."

  A bored expression was the only look he could muster, and the single best defense against his father's rage. So said Sensei Fa, his master in Aikido for over eight years. "No. You've been bellowing your name. If you truly wish me to answer, then call me Darius." He still stewed over the fact his father insisted he come overseas, two months before the championships. Only his father would be so insensitive to a son's aspirations.

  "Darius was the name of my grandfather, the sot. I shan't call you that."

  Darius leafed through a magazine and insolently tossed his heels up on the Italian marbled coffee table, ignoring all his training in discipline and control for the minute's worth of agony he chose to give his miserable father. He had to admit he found it ironic that Beauregard called Grandpa Darius a sot when his father claimed that very same vice. "If you didn't want to call me that, you shouldn't have given me his name in the first place."

  Beauregard rapped Darius' soles with his rosewood cane, sending shockwaves along the hard bottoms of his shoes.

  Darius lowered one stinging foot.

  As his father raised the cane once more, Darius asked, "Why did you call me?" He even lowered the magazine and feigned interest, another favored ploy.

  It must have been a mighty battle, for Beauregard hesitated, cane drawn back to swat the offending bearer of scuffmarks as he vacillated his next move.

  "You bellowed for me. Thrice. It must be important."

  His father glowered at the black leather interloper and eased himself into a chair. Darius felt a moment's pity on the creaking old man and placed both feet firmly on the Persian rug. Truly, he had been raised not only with impeccable manners, but a strong desire to respect antiques, like the one he just had his feet on. Sensei Fa had taught him the best response to his father's anger was to maintain control at all times. Remember, he had said, one attacker, one defender. Remove his reasons for attack, and he will go on the defensive.

  All fine and good, really. It was...well...simply being back in his father's congested home in Tewksbury, Massachusetts brought back all the angst and anger he had felt as a teenager. And no amount of schooling would ever remove that. Too many painful memories itched to come to the surface. Be the water, not the mud. Mud will suck you under.

  It was just...after the car accident, Beauregard had been forced to become a single father. And Darius had been too old for nannies, too young to be motherless.

  And Beauregard, he suspected, felt too guilty over his wife's death to ever move on.

  "It's about your inheritance."

  "Oh, God." Darius stood up. "Are you pressuring me to find a wife again? I signed the damned agreement, practically in blood. Isn't that good enough?"

  "This isn't about your elusive millionaire virgin bride, you hot-headed fool." His hand sliced through the air. "Sit down before you tread holes in the carpet."

  Not about the compromise? It was the only thing Darius could have agreed to that would buy him some time. A contract to marry a rich virgin bride. As if. But his father was old-fashioned enough
to believe they still existed and therefore was willing to wait for the extra few millions that would come to Darius, and hopefully, he suspected, to his father as well. He scoffed. Personally, Darius couldn't care less of their sexual or financial status. Few women had ever truly tempted him- when he had time between all his travels- and they never would have passed a medical exam anyway, thus freeing him from the legalities his father so fervently sought. However, his father had an addendum added: should Darius not marry a millionaire, Beauregard would be free to sell his mother's favorite piece of furniture- an oak tall boy with dual hat boxes, a rarity and an item his mother loved well.

  The bastard had caught him tight in his fist yet again.

  So, confused and yet relieved for the moment, Darius complied. He even adopted his most patient, I'm-listening-please-enlighten-me expression.

  Sensei would have been proud.

  In reality, Darius buried the desire to wring his father's neck.

  Beauregard scoffed at him. "It's about your Uncle Oliver."

  His favorite person? "Ollie? What about him?"

  "Ollie's dead." Said in the same emotionless manner as, George Washington was the first U.S. president.

  Impossible. He stared at his father in complete disbelief. He would have heard. He would have heard from everyone, even across the Atlantic. But his father seemed certain. Still... "He died? When?"

  "Three weeks ago, apparently in the Caribbean. Where have you been that no one contacted you?"

  "French Riviera. Competing." Dryly he added, "Not searching for wives." His gut clenched. Ollie. He had barely left the opulent hotel room, so exhausted from each round that he took a long soak and meditated at the end of every day. So much for being a young, virile champion.

  Beauregard snarled at his words. "Anyway-"

  Darius came to his feet. "Why didn't you call me?"

  But his father waved off his question. "I tried when I learned of it. By then it was too late for a ceremony."

  "When? When did you call?" he demanded. He raked his fingers through his hair, gripping on to his anger, trying to channel it, control it, in the feeble hope it would end the burning behind his eyes. God. Ollie. Dead.

  His father assumed a leisurely pace across the carpet as if the conversation bordered on the fineness of the weather. "Oh, a day or two after I learned of it. I couldn't reach you."

  Frantic replaying of his days gave Darius no answers. Three weeks ago? Where exactly had he been? "When did you call?"

  The clouded expression on his father's face told Darius the answer would be vague. The man should have been in politics. "Oh, a Monday or Tuesday. There was no answer on your cell."

  Frustration tumbled inside him, making Darius clench his fists to prevent yanking out hair.

  And not his own.

  His feet began pacing of their own volition, and he felt himself whirling as he reached the boundary of his path. "Hold the phone. You were able to contact my manager, my sponsors, my venues, cancel every single engagement I had scheduled for the next three, no, four weeks, and you were unable to contact me? You have my cell number, my email, my pager, my valet's cell, my--"

  Again his father waved him off. "I didn't have time for all that. I called, you didn't answer." His face darkened as he stomped his cane into the rug, and Darius knew he had cornered the man.

  He leaned forward, intent on pursuing his accusations, finding his not-so-polite finger jabbing in his father's direction with every syllable. "But you had time to bicker and argue with every other person in my life, insisting I come home, yet you couldn't bother to try me once again, or even have the courtesy to leave me a goddamned message."

  Narrowed eyes darted his way. "I figured we would talk in person."

  Emotion churned like a dammed river until Darius choked out, "He was your brother. And I loved him."

  "Yes, well...."

  The flippancy undid him as all the years of screaming could not. Tears spilled down his cheeks as his chest tightened into a lead ball. He turned away, detesting his display of weakness in front of the one person who would manipulate it against him. Bitterness edged each word he clipped out. "What do you want, Father? Why did you call me down to this stupid little village of yours?"

  Stoic as always, Beauregard said, "Because Ollie had signed over all his belongings to some antique store owner. You get none of the furnishings with his new Will." Now his eyes turned vitriolic, and his voice dropped to a matching hiss. "Is that the message you would have liked me to leave?"

  Darius took a second to wipe his cheeks and frown with this new development instead of responding to his father's barb. "His wife got written out?"

  A nod was his answer, and Darius only caught it on the periphery of his vision, so disgusted was he that he could not countenance the man. "He finally caught Clarisse cheating, so he rewrote it during the divorce. You get the house in Pelham. Everything inside it goes to the owner of some antique store in Manchester."

  "Manchester? New Hampshire?"

  "Yes, New Hampshire. About twenty miles north of here."

  Darius nodded once and straightened up to leave. This he could handle. Battle. Competition. Facing the adversary in a one-on-one engagement. "I'll take care of this. Every happy memory of my childhood is wrapped up in that house." The scathing glare he sent his father hopefully portrayed that the only happy memories he had were at Ollie's. Including one magical kiss with a trembling strawberry blonde under a midsummer night sky. "What is the name of the shop?"

  "Phoenix Antiques. I confirmed it last night. You will go there and make sure those pieces never leave Ollie's home. They are Covington property and belong to me."

  He looked up. "Yours?

  Mad rage filled his father words. "If anyone is to sell them, it will be me. Now go. I'm sure they'll be expecting you."

  Now his father wanted to sell them? To pay off debts? Over his dead body. This day was just escalating out of control.

  He took a deep breath to center himself. What was the store name? Phoenix Antiques. Phoenix. Like the bird out of the fire, he sensed. Righteously enraged, Darius knew he, too, would rise again.

  Phoenix. Like the bird out of the fire, he sensed. Righteously enraged, Darius knew he, too, would rise again.

  Chapter Three

  A flushed, panting Faith burst into Jess' office, almost banging the door into the front of her vintage stereo in her haste. "You've got to come out here."

  Was she blushing? Jess eased herself up from the chair and eyed her protégé. "What is it?"

  "Some gorgeous guy is having a conniption out here. He's really giving Arthur a hard time."

  She glossed over the 'gorgeous' part- based on the boy-crazy source- but no one antagonized her staff. "I'm coming."

  "You-" Faith indicated the corner mirror taken from an 1800s highboy, "...may want some lipstick or something."

  "Faith," she grumbled as she brushed by, swishing her out so she could close the door. When she heard the raised booming voice, Jess squared her shoulders, tossed her long hair from her temples, and plowed right in to the fray. Through the red haze in her eyes, she stuck her hand out at the insanely handsome man and said, "Hello, I'm Jessalyn Swan, proprietor of Phoenix Antiques, and I'll be your sounding board today. Shall we adjourn to my office for this discussion?"

  All the anger left his chocolaty brown eyes as he stared at her. His hair was dark brown and tousled, and his gaze held a determination and intelligence that she felt herself respond to on a primal level. He had wide shoulders and slim hips, and that very expensive suit he wore displayed to his advantage all of his masculine grace. But he looked disheveled and rattled with that five o'clock shadow, and she didn't know what had set him off. He was not an unhappy prior customer; there was no way she would have forgotten this man.

  Damn, maybe she should have looked in the mirror first. She wanted to take her time and leisurely peruse the fine male specimen standing before her, making her cheeks heat with the unpredictable tu
rn of her thoughts. But then his face relaxed, taking his color from an enraged red to a ghostly shade of gray and then back to a hint of pink, and Jessalyn felt herself coming to the same odd revelation as this man.

  "Jess," Arthur said, "This man is disputing his rights to the Covington estate."

  Covington.

  "Jessalyn...." the man said as he stepped near, placing his hand on top of her still-outstretched wrist and holding it. "Jess, is it really you?"

  She'd never once met a Beauregard her age before. But she had once met a young man, as equally gorgeous, with the same cadence of speech as an English knight of yore. Her mind immediately envisioned stone castles and gleaming armor and caparisoned stallions on battlefields. It couldn't be. "I...."

  "You know me by my middle name."

  As his hand slipped around to cradle her fingers, Jessalyn felt herself teetering on a dangerous brink over a yawning chasm with no visible bottom. She whispered, "Darius."

  The path to her office seemed odd and distant, like a rainbow's end, dancing further and further away the more she endeavored to reach it.

  She tried not to gawk at Darius as he walked mostly at her side, always slowing down around a sideboard or china cabinet or Victorian bed frame to let her lead the way.

  They passed a full-sized bedroom set with carved oak inlays and a matching chest, dresser and bench, just outside her office door. Overpriced as it was, this set had remained in the same spot for the last two years. Alas, there was something about it that made her think of happier days, and she had been unable to discount it and send it along on its merry way.

  And now, she watched him surreptitiously as he dragged an appreciative finger along its barley-twist design, even pausing mid-stride to investigate closer, and Jess felt glad they had had to walk past it.

  She snatched the door handle and tried pulling open her door twice before remembering to push. Her cheeks burned as she fumbled a laugh, desperately wishing for a fan to hide her face behind.