Beguiling Delilah: Romancing the Guardians, Book Six

by Lyn Horner

  His brother, the man who’d led the original attempt to capture Delilah in Paris, answered after the first ring. “Jean, I have been waiting for your call,” he said in their native French. “Did you and the American bitch capture the Moreau woman?”

  “No, she escaped.” Cutting off his brother’s furious reply, Jean said, “Be quiet, Hugo, and listen. I don’t have much time.” He brokenly related what had happened, concluding, “I am . . . done. Make my . . . killer pay.” His voice trailed off and the phone fell from his hand. He did not hear his brother cry his name and vow to avenge him.

  * * *

  Delilah silently followed Leon’s lead, thinking he must be part bloodhound as he unerringly retraced their path to the hotel. She was glad he didn’t try going in the back way, having no wish to deal with the irate cook. Instead, he turned down a narrow cross street near the place. Approaching the main avenue, he told her to wait while he peaked around the corner, looking in both directions.

  “I don’t see any watchers.” Gripping her hand, he said, “Let’s go.”

  Walking briskly, they made it through the hotel front entrance, across the quiet lobby and up to their room without incident. As soon as the door closed behind them, they set about gathering their belongings. Ten minutes later, they had checked out and were racing to the car. They found the homely vehicle parked behind an older hotel a half mile down the autoroute.

  “Whew! I am really out of shape,” Delilah said breathlessly as she slid behind the wheel and reached for her seatbelt.

  “I think you are in very nice shape,” Leon replied, dark eyes caressing her as he also buckled up.

  “You are bold to say so, sir.” Blushing under his warm gaze, she started the car.

  He cocked an eyebrow, mouth twitching. “Says she who kissed me so eagerly not long ago.”

  “Says he who kissed me back like a starving man,” she retorted, bestowing a sultry glance upon him. Seeing him look away, coppery face turning a shade darker, she grinned as she headed for the access road leading to the highway.

  However, her amusement swiftly faded. Driving south again toward Nice with Leon watching for followers, she was haunted by the Hellhound woman’s shock when she’d shot her and by the image of her lying dead on the ground. Leon was right, the vicious female had gotten what she deserved, but Delilah abhorred being her executioner and, more terrible, the momentary satisfaction she’d felt afterward.

  She recalled vengefully wishing Leon’s Datura powder had killed the three men back in Paris. Holy Mother, what was she turning into? Did the oath she’d sworn years ago at her initiation to the comhairle, the council of Guardians, require her to become a murderer? The thought horrified her.

  Distracting her disturbed thoughts, her stomach rumbled, reminding her she and Leon had missed breakfast due to their deadly confrontation with the Hellhounds. Once they’d left Lyon well behind, she suggested they stop to eat in one of the smaller towns along the motorway. Leon readily agreed.

  Stopping at a fast food diner close to the autoroute, they wolfed down a quick meal then hurried on their way, anxious to reach their goal. By mid-afternoon they were approaching Nice.

  “I don’t think we should go to the airport tonight,” Leon said. “The Hounds know we are near. They will be watching for us there. Besides, we don’t know when a plane is scheduled to leave for the States.”

  Delilah frowned. “Oui, this is true. We must look on the internet. I can purchase tickets online.”

  “That is how my daughter booked my flight to Paris. It should be safe enough.”

  “By the way, do I need to book a connecting flight? You have not said where we will go from New York.”

  “Damn!” he said with a scowl. “I did not think to tell you we must head west from there. By plane will be fastest, but where to?” He rubbed his beardless chin, thinking. “I suppose Denver or Salt Lake City are far enough from my home and the other Guardians. Just in case we are followed.”

  She darted an alarmed glance at him. “You think the Hellhounds will be watching for us at the airport in New York?”

  “It makes sense if we escape them in Nice, where they are sure to be on the lookout for us. Which is why we should disguise ourselves.”

  “I must point out that you do not look at all like a Frenchman, or any European for that matter. Disguising you may be difficult.”

  “I have some ideas,” he said enigmatically. “For now, why don’t you pull off somewhere and look for an out of the way place to spend the night. No big hotels this time. That way the Hounds won’t track us down so easily.”

  “How about a chamber d’hôte?”

  “A what?”

  “Oh, sorry. You would call it a bed and breakfast.”

  “Fine, if that’s what you want.”

  Coming to a sudden, impulsive decision about where she wished to take their relationship, Delilah smiled secretively and made up her mind to find just the right place.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Searching a list of possibilities on her cell phone, Delilah spotted a pension – a guest house – that offered secluded accommodations separate from the main residence. It sounded ideal. She called to see if the place was available, fearing vacationers might already be encamped there, but happily that wasn’t the case. She soon realized why.

  Secluded was putting it mildly. The property lay in a forested area, miles away from any well-traveled road. If not for the GPS on her trusty phone, she never would have found it. However, while the location might drive off most travelers, it was a perfect hiding place, as Leon noted when she turned onto the graveled driveway.

  “What a pretty spot,” Delilah commented, admiring the old-fashioned country house standing in a grassy clearing surrounded by trees. Built of brick and wood, with neatly trimmed shrubs and pots of early spring flowers decorating the front, it looked like something off a picture postcard.

  Leon made an agreeing sound as she pulled in and parked next to an older silver-gray Citroën compact parked beside the house. “It is warmer here,” he said as they stepped from the car. Joining her, he unbuttoned his coat.

  She breathed in the fresh scent of a soft southern breeze. “Certainement. We are now in the south of France, and winter is virtually over here.” She clasped his hand. “Come, we should let the owner know we have arrived.”

  A gray-haired woman with a soft voice Delilah recognized from her phone call, greeted them at the front door. “Bonjour, mes amies,” she said with a smile, motioning them in. Her eyes widened as she took in Leon’s braids and scruffy coat. “I-I am Madame Beaudreau, the proprietor,” she added nervously in French, fingering the cameo pinned to the neckline of her rose-colored blouse. She looked wary of renting to them.

  “Bonjour, Madame, I am Lila Smith,” Delilah said, returning the woman’s smile, hoping to reassure her. The name she gave combined a nickname used only by a few friends and the first English surname that popped into her head. “This is my husband, Leon.” She gave him an affectionate look. “He is American and does not speak French.”

  “Ah, I see.” Madame Beaudreau appeared to relax somewhat. “Uh, do you wish to see the guest-house before agreeing to stay?”

  Delilah glanced around the foyer, actually an enclosed porch. Appointed with a small desk in one corner, a few chairs and tables with reading material for guests, as well as several healthy-looking plants, the space was neat and spotlessly clean. Assuming the same would hold true for the rental house, she shook her head. “No, no, that will not be necessary.”

  “Ask her if the place has two bedrooms,” Leon prompted.

  “Not to worry,” she replied, patting his arm. “I’m sure it will be fine.” Meeting Madame Beaudreau’s questioning gaze, she assured her all was well.

  Leon retrieved their bags from the car while Delilah registered. Then the genial landlady walked them around back and up a winding flagstone path to the guesthouse, a small blue and white cottage set upon a low hillock, nearly hid
den by trees.

  “Très charmant!” Delilah exclaimed, mounting shallow steps to the front porch. “Your whole property is beautiful, Madame Beaudreau.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” the woman replied, obviously pleased. “I hope you also approve of the interior. And call me Celine, please,” she added, unlocking the door. She ushered them in, handed the key to Delilah and stepped aside. “I will leave you two to settle in. If there is anything you require, let me know. Dinner will be ready at seven in the main house.” With that she slipped out, quietly closing the door.

  “What was all that about?” Leon asked.

  “She merely told us to make ourselves at home and come for dinner at seven o’clock,” she replied, glancing around the cozily furnished living area and tiny kitchen.

  “She will cook for us?” His astonished tone drew her amused gaze.

  “But of course. In France, it is customary for places such as this to offer breakfast and dinner, even lunch if the guest wishes.” She crooked her elbow around his. “Come, let us see what delights our little hideaway holds, eh?” she said with a mischievous grin.

  He gave her a bemused glance but inclined his head. Down a short hall, they discovered the cottage did indeed have two bedrooms. The larger room held a queen-size bed; across the hall, the smaller room contained two youth-size beds, not quite as long as normal twin beds. The back of the house consisted of a linen closet with extra pillows and blankets, and a small but scrupulously clean bathroom, in which stood a lovely clawfoot tub that Delilah intended to use. Soon.

  “I will put your suitcase in the bigger bedroom,” Leon said. “I’ll take the other room.”

  Distracted from her vision of a luxurious bath, Delilah spun around. “Wait! Uh, aren’t those beds too small? I-I think they are intended for children. You will be more comfortable in the larger bed.” She almost added with me, but didn’t, thinking he would surely get the idea without her being quite so bold.

  He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll make do.” Turning away, he strode out to the front room, where he’d left their bags.

  Jamming her hands on her hips, she stared after him, scowling. Fool man! Did he not realize she had just invited him into her bed? Must she spell it out for him? Frustrated, she spun on her heel, going in search of soap and shampoo. Luckily, she found both in the bathroom. Curtly telling Leon that she was going to take a bath, she gathered clean clothes from her suitcase – sitting on the bed in her room where he had deposited it – and marched into the bathroom, loudly shutting and locking the door.

  * * *

  Leon sensed from Delilah’s sharp tone and how she banged the door that he had done or said something to anger her, but hard as he tried, he could not figure out what. The woman was as changeable as the climate in this foreign land. Needing to loosen his joints, stiff from hours of sitting in the car, he decided to take a walk.

  Leaving his coat behind, he wandered into the forest surrounding the guesthouse. Stepping softly so as not to frighten any wild creatures, he wound between trees he did not know the names of, enjoying the earthy smell rising from decomposed leaves covering the ground beneath his feet. The air felt damp on his skin, so different from the dry desert air of his home. He wished he was there now.

  This journey with Delilah was making him crazy. He needed it to end soon before he lost his head and did something he would regret, and cause her to hate him. When she’d kissed him earlier, a wild urge to lay her down in that cursed alley, rip off her clothes and take her had surged through him for a moment, with no regard for her wishes or the pain she might suffer. The way his ancestors might have treated a white captive.

  How could he even think of doing such a thing? If Yolanda knew, she would despise him. Yolanda, his beloved. He had believed himself incapable of ever wanting another woman after losing her. Why now did he hunger for this unpredictable, often bad-tempered female he had burdened himself with, who he’d vowed to give his life to protect? As he had nearly done this very day.

  Recalling how Delilah had stood her ground against the Hellhound witch, he smiled. She’d looked as fierce as any warrior. Until the knowledge that she had killed the woman sank in, making her tremble with shock, a normal enough reaction. When he went to her, she’d come readily into his arms, needing the comfort he offered.

  Was it her need of him that made him want her so? Or did she wield some powerful magic that awakened his body, so long asleep to a man’s hunger? Halting beside a tall evergreen, he tipped his head back to stare at a patch of blue sky visible between the treetops.

  “Yolanda, my love, I need your guidance,” he said. “I have been true to you, but now this woman fires my blood. Was my dream of you saying Delilah is meant for me real? Give me a sign, I beg you.”

  Receiving no answer, he meandered back to the cottage. He found the bathroom door open and Delilah’s bedroom door closed, and guessed she must be napping. Deciding he might as well lie down, too, he tread quietly into the smaller bedroom, where he removed his boots and stretched out on one of the beds, or tried to. The mattress was too short, with a footboard that prevented him from extending his feet over the edge. Frowning, he rolled onto his side, knees bent. He did not relish sleeping in this position all night.

  Delilah was right, he’d be a lot more comfortable in the big bed, but he wasn’t about to tell her he’d changed his mind and accept her offer to trade rooms. That was what she’d offered, wasn’t it? Not in so many words but . . .

  Leon bolted into a sitting position as the possibility struck that she’d been suggesting they share the bed in her room. He couldn’t believe it, recalling her furious reaction upon waking up in his arms that morning. But what of her fiery kiss after their fight with the Hellhounds? Over the course of the day, he’d convinced himself the kiss was only a result of her emotional reaction to the fight, but now he wasn’t so sure.

  Did the kiss really mean she wanted him as he wanted her? The thought both elated and alarmed him, for it made him see the cause of her renewed anger. She’d as much as asked him to sleep with her, and he had turned her down, mistaking her meaning. Groaning in disgust at his stupidity, he flopped back on the child-size bed.

  “Is this the sign I asked you for, Yolanda?” he whispered to the empty air. “Do you wish me to open my heart to this woman?” Silence was the only answer.

  He lay there wondering how to make amends to Delilah, and if he should even try. Perhaps they’d both be better off if he allowed her go on being angry at him. They had nothing in common and once the Guardians dealt with their enemies, she would return to her own country, thousands of miles and an ocean away from his homeland. Common sense told him not to get any more involved with her than he already was.

  Yet, a primitive part of him, driven by the embers of desire in his loins, said if she wanted him as he now believed, why not satisfy their mutual longing? And let the future take care of itself. Oddly, that thought brought a measure of peace. Rolling onto his side again, he drew up his knees, closed his eyes and fell asleep.

  The room was dark when he awoke except for yellow artificial light drifting in through the doorway, which he hadn’t bothered to close. Throwing his stiff legs over the side of the bed, he pulled on his boots, stood and rubbed the small of his back. Noting that the light came from the front of the house, he followed the hall to the living room, where he found Delilah.

  She sat on the couch with her legs drawn up beneath her, reading a magazine she must have chosen from a pile on the nearby end table. Dressed in a silky turquoise, long-sleeved shirt that reached past her hips and a pair of tight black pants, with her shiny cap of raven hair glowing in the lamplight, she was so beautiful that he had to stop and just stare at her.

  Taking notice of him, she looked up, sorrel eyes pinning him in place. “Good, you are awake,” she said sharply, laying the magazine aside and rising. “It’s almost time to join Madame Beaudreau for dinner. I thought I would have to wake you.”

  Leon smiled
apologetically, thumbs hooked under his belt. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sleep so long. I saw your door was closed when I got back from my walk. Did you nap?”

  “For a while. Afterward, I checked the airport flight schedules on my cell. There are only four direct flights per week from Nice to New York City this time of year. Unfortunately, we missed today’s flight.”

  “Damn,” he muttered, frowning.

  “Oui, I agree. Anyway, I booked us on the next flight the day after tomorrow. It leaves in early afternoon.”

  “Okay. Thank you for taking care of that.” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck, then began, “Delilah, I am sorry about the, uh, bed. I misunderstood your –”

  “Stop,” she snapped. “I don’t wish to hear it. You can sleep where you please.” She turned and strode to the door. “Come, we must go or we will be late.”

  Leon stared at her back, jaw clenched. Bitter-tongued woman! Why do you not let me explain? Seeing it was useless to argue, he trailed after her, thinking her as prickly as a cactus.

  * * *

  Delilah was glad Celine Beaudreau invited them to eat with her in the kitchen instead of by themselves in the dining room. She had no wish to be alone with Leon right now. With angry, hurt feelings simmering beneath the happy face she showed their hostess, she made up her mind to ignore the infuriating man over dinner.

  They dined on roasted chicken and garlic along with potatoes, vegetables, and a flowery pinot noir to wash it all down, except for Leon, who requested water, forcing Delilah to translate and explain that he did not drink spirits. Celine gave him a curious look – virtually all French citizens drank wine – but said of course and brought him a goblet of water.

  The food was delicious, the wine soothing, and the meal passed peacefully, with Delilah conversing lightly with the older woman and ignoring Leon, who ate in silence. If their hostess noticed the chilly air between her guests, she refrained from asking any questions.