Just Fooling Around

by Julie Kenner

  “But you’ll be whole,” he said.

  She closed her eyes. “No. I won’t.”

  Her words had almost weakened his resolve, but he knew he was right. Knew it. A cursed life was no life. Until he was able to remove the curse, he wasn’t going to get married. Before Anne, marriage had been an abstract principle that didn’t much bother him. Once he fell in love, though, his principles hurt him as much as the curse did.

  She’d fought him on it, pointing out that most Franklins survived the curse, though she had to concede when he reminded her that some had died and many had been injured. And the injuries sometimes slid over onto spouses, too. Marriage, after all, would make her a Franklin.

  “Isn’t it enough that I don’t care?” she’d asked. “That I’m willing to take that risk?”

  He’d squeezed her hand, wanting so badly to pull her toward him and kiss her, to bury himself inside her and let passion fight the curse. Instead, he’d spoken calmly and evenly. “It’s not a risk I’m willing to take.”

  After that, she hadn’t tried to persuade him anymore. Instead, she’d quietly applied for other jobs, and ended up moving from Texas to New Orleans. They’d fought about it, of course, so loud the neighbors had complained, but in the end, they were both stubborn, and she left, her last words—that she loved him—hanging in the air.

  Those words had cut him like a knife, and for the first time he could remember since childhood, Reg Franklin had cried.

  He heard she’d moved into an old family property in the Garden District and now worked as a professor at Tulane. He’d fought the urge to get in his car and race to New Orleans. He needed to stay away, he knew. He’d made the right decision—that she was better without him—and he was afraid that if he saw her again, his resolve would fail.

  Now he was going back to New Orleans, and he wasn’t certain if he wanted to see her, or wanted her to stay far, far away.

  Once again he looked at his watch. One minute past twelve. His stomach clenched, fearing a crash, and his gaze went automatically toward the window and the lights below. In his mind, he could see Anne down there. She’d always said that she’d catch him if he fell.

  He doubted that this was what she meant.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and told himself to sleep. If he was going to be sucked into a disaster, the best thing to do was sleep during the worst of it.

  But sleep wouldn’t come. Anne was on his mind now, though in truth she’d never been far from his thoughts the last two years.

  He’d left Texas soon after she did. For over a year, he’d pursued any lead he could find on the curse with an insane frenzy, desperate to find an answer and get her back.

  Then he realized there was no answer to be had. He wanted her still, so desperately, but he couldn’t bring himself to put her in harm’s way. Even the fact that Cam and Devon were happily married by then couldn’t sway him, because as much as he loved them, he thought they were putting Jenna and Chance in horrible danger.

  Now, of course, he had to admit that Jenna and Chance were fine. Even Darcy had been engaged now for almost a year, and Evan was as healthy as a horse.

  Reg, however, kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. When it did, he didn’t want it dropping on Anne.

  He’d left, because he knew he’d never solve the curse, and being on the same continent with her was just too damn painful.

  He’d stopped trying to track down the amulet, because every blocked path reminded him of her and of what they couldn’t have together.

  He’d gone to England to escape her, and now he was coming back against his better judgment because Jean Michel had sent him an e-mail. An e-mail he had never expected to get, but which had such a solid clue that he felt like he had to take the chance.

  If this worked, he’d crawl to Anne and beg forgiveness. But until then, he couldn’t see her.

  Seeing her and not having her would hurt too damn much.

  He realized with a start that the plane had started its descent. The other first-class passengers around him seemed fine with that. Reg, of course, was terrified, and he clung to the arms of the seat, feeling clammy and unsure, his heart pounding in his chest, not even breathing until, finally, the wheels touched down. The overhead compartment above him popped open, and his carry-on bag came flying out, slamming hard into the aisle and startling the woman sitting one row up. He heard the crash of glass and was certain his shaving mirror had splintered.

  Seven more years of bad luck, however, was a small price to pay for surviving the landing. If that was the worst of it, this would be his best April first ever.

  Of course that wasn’t the worst of it.

  The airport was essentially empty, and the airline rep lined them all up to hand out hotel vouchers and give them tickets for the first plane to New Orleans in the morning.

  No way was he getting back in a plane on April first.

  He headed to the car rental counter, found the girl about to shut the gate and spent thirty minutes convincing her to rent him the last car on their lot, which turned out to be little more than a small box on wheels.

  The drive from Houston to New Orleans took less than six hours without traffic, and he wasn’t crazy about making it in a sardine can. He had no choice, though, and so he set off down Interstate 10, the traffic in the middle of the night light and the road free and open…for the first five miles.

  After that, the traffic settled in.

  Apparently the states of both Louisiana and Texas believed that the middle of the night on April Fools’ Day was the best time to undertake road construction.

  It took him eight hours to get to the French Quarter, and when he finally pulled his car into the valet area at the Chateau Vieux Carre hotel he was hot (the air conditioner in the car went out near Baton Rouge), tired and definitely grumpy.

  “Franklin?” the clerk at the desk said, tapping the keys on her computer. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t show a reservation.”

  He resisted the urge to bang his head on the polished granite counter. “How about we forget the reservation and set me up for a room now.”

  “Of course, sir. No problem.” She tapped some more and then smiled at him. “All set.”

  “Great. The key?”

  Her eyes blinked owlishly. “I’m sorry, sir. Check-in isn’t until three, but I can get you early check-in at eleven.”

  He looked at his watch. That would give him just enough time to walk over to Royal and meet Jean Michel at his antique shop. “Perfect. Can I leave my luggage?”

  “No problem at all.” She rang for a bellman who came over with practiced efficiency, then tagged Reg’s bag and spirited it away.

  He would have liked the chance to change clothes and splash some water on his face, and he considered waiting the forty-five minutes in the lobby. But he was also anxious to talk to Jean Michel. The antiques dealer had said he’d found something that Reg would want to see—something he didn’t want to discuss in an e-mail—but something that Reg had been looking for.

  Considering Reg and Anne had gone to Jean Michel back when they were trying to track down the amulet, Reg was hoping that was what his friend had found.

  If so, he didn’t want to wait a moment longer than necessary.

  He rubbed his hands over his face to wake himself up, though the adrenalin of the search was easing the exhaustion from the long flight and drive.

  Then he stepped through the front door onto Bourbon street, already bustling with tourists. He turned right, walked one block, then turned right again and continued on to Royal. He followed the street toward Canal, the route as familiar to him as breathing. When he was a block away, he saw the sign announcing “Michel Brothers, Antique and Estate Sales.” He smiled, looking forward to seeing the wiry old man.

  As he pushed through the doorway, however, his smile faded and his heart stuttered in his chest.

  Jean was already at the counter, talking with another customer. They both turned as he entered, and Reg foun
d himself staring into the fathomless brown eyes of the only woman he’d ever loved.

  “Hello, Reg,” Anne said. “I think you’re going to want to see this.”

  2

  ANNE DAWES CLUTCHED the display counter so hard she was certain the glass would shatter. But she kept her chin high, and she told herself she was doing fine. There was no way he could have seen how much his presence rattled her; no way he could know how startled she was to see him again, much less how much the bottom had fallen away from her stomach when she’d turned and seen the hard lines of his face and the piercing green of his eyes.

  A green that had deepened like a forest when they’d made love and twinkled like carnival fire when he’d teased her.She forced her smile wide, reminding herself that she’d moved on. He’d made it perfectly clear that he no longer cared about her, and Anne wasn’t the kind of woman who hung around and pined for what she couldn’t have, no matter how much she might want it. “Come see what Jean has discovered,” she said. “I don’t know if you care anymore, but—”

  “I care,” he said, his voice so low she almost couldn’t hear him, and she mentally cursed herself, because she had not intended to go there. But it wasn’t until that very moment that she realized how much it hurt that he’d blown off the search to undo the curse.

  All this time, in fact, she’d assumed that he was still looking. That perhaps, one day he’d come back to her. Then two days ago she’d learned the truth when Jean Michel had come to her office to tell her about an interesting necklace at an estate sale. Interesting because of the angel carved into the charm, which consisted of some type of large amulet, as well as the intriguing inscription inside the piece if one pried it open at a hidden hinge-point. “I wasn’t sure if Reginald would come,” he said. “He says he’s no longer searching, but I thought something like this…”

  He’d trailed off, clearly assuming that she already knew that Reg had given up. “Yes,” she’d said, forcing her voice not to shake. “For something like this, he’d probably come.”

  Not that she fully understood what this was. Jean Michel had refused to tell her what the inscription said, requiring her to visit his shop this morning if she was inclined to find out.

  She almost didn’t come. After all, what did she care anymore?

  She’d put her pride and her heart on the line when she told Reg she’d cared only for him and not the damn curse. That she wanted him more than she’d ever wanted anyone, or could ever imagine wanting anyone in the future. She’d practically begged him to marry her, and now she was humiliated by the way she’d revealed so much to him.

  If only he’d pulled her to him…But instead he’d pushed her away, and the hot blush of shame now covered not only her cheeks, but her whole life. He’d always insisted that he wanted her desperately, but not with the curse. She’d just as stubbornly insisted that she didn’t care.

  But he’d made it clear that he did care, and when it was obvious that their relationship wouldn’t progress because of his damn obsession with that damn curse, she’d moved to Louisiana.

  Soon after, she’d heard through the grapevine that he’d moved to England. And then she’d learned, through Jean Michel, that he wasn’t pursuing the curse anymore.

  The knowledge had stung. Because if he wasn’t looking to end the curse, that also meant that he wasn’t looking to ever get back together with her.

  A selfish reaction, maybe, since she’d been the first one to walk away, but that didn’t change the fact that her heart hurt. And now that he was standing in front of her, she truly realized the depth of that ache.

  He crossed the dark, almost musty antique shop in five long strides, then paused beside her, not touching her but gazing at her with an intensity so strong it almost felt a caress. “Hello, Anne,” he said. “It’s good to see you again.”

  She looked away, managing only a nod because her voice didn’t seem to be working anymore. She didn’t want to want him, but she did. Damn him all to hell, one look at him—one glimpse—and she wanted nothing more than to touch him.

  It was an impulse she intended to fight, because she knew damn well it would lead nowhere good.

  “Jean,” he said, shaking hands with the elderly shopkeeper. “What have you found?”

  The wiry old man smiled, so obviously excited about his discovery that his words began to wear away at Anne’s sharp edges. “Complete bonne chance,” he said in the false French accent he maintained for benefit of the tourists. “I was at an estate sale, you see, going through the belongings of a family that had sold their home in the Garden District after Katrina. They’d tried for years to restore the house, but simply couldn’t manage it.” He shook his head, making a sympathetic noise. “Sad, very sad,” he added, the accent now gone. “In a box of jewelry, I found this.” He reached under the cabinet and drew out the necklace. He’d described it to Anne earlier, but the description didn’t do it justice.

  The amulet was large, the size of a baby’s fist, and teardrop shaped. A purple stone filled the center of one side, and on the back, etched into the gold, was the delicate image of an angel.

  “Olivia’s journal,” Reg said, his voice little more than a whisper. “Do you think…?”

  “I do,” Jean Michel said. “I wouldn’t have called you otherwise.”

  She saw the glint of hope in Reg’s eyes, followed by wariness. “There must be many amulets with angels. For that matter, we don’t even know that the amulet had an angel carved on it. Perhaps it simply belonged to a pretty girl.”

  “Possible,” Jean said. “Which is why your quest has been so unfruitful, correct?”

  Reg had to concede he was right, and as he did, he looked sideways at Anne with such a look of loss and regret that she had to reach out and grab the counter once again. She’d been certain that his heart had abandoned her. Seeing the heat in his eyes now, she had to rethink that notion.

  No, she corrected. Not heat. Something more. Desire, yes. But not merely sexual. What she saw when he looked at her was herself reflected back, as if he wanted her—all of her—and not just her body.

  Dammit, she was going to have to strangle Jean. There’d been no need to pull her into this.

  To make her once again want what she knew she couldn’t have.

  “Don’t you think?”

  She blinked, then realized that they’d been talking to her. “What?”

  Jean Michel smiled. “I said we should open the amulet and see if we can’t convince Mr. Franklin that this piece is in fact relevant to his search, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “You haven’t told me what you found inside.”

  “True,” he said, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “I told you only that I was certain. And now I will prove it to the two of you at the same time.” He held the amulet out to her. “The item belonged to a woman. It is only fitting that a woman should open it.”

  He placed the amulet in her hand, the chain twisting into her palm. It was lighter than she would have expected, and she realized that it was hollow. Carefully, she examined the piece, then found the small gap between the halves. She slid her thumbnail in and felt a pop as the clasp gave. The amulet opened like a clamshell, revealing a hollow interior, much like that of a locket, only with a greater volume. She’d read about such items, and knew that often they concealed contraband such as opiates or poisons. This amulet concealed nothing but a message, the text in French but easily translatable.

  Steal our honor

  Steal our soul

  Thou shalt pay with the gravest of fortune

  Until the soul of us is returned

  To swell the heart of an angel

  Who sings glory on high

  She looked from Jean to Reg. “What does it mean?”“I don’t know yet,” Reg said. “But I think Jean is right. This is the amulet Olivia mentions.” He pointed to the opposing side from the inscription, and when Anne leaned in close, she saw the initials TF scraped into the gold, as
if with the end of a knife. “Timothy Franklin, possibly? Olivia’s husband.” He met her eyes, and she saw the hint of excitement, so familiar from when they’d been on the chase together. “If I’m right—and if I can truly resolve the history of this piece—then maybe I can finally bring an end to this curse.”

  He met her eyes, and she held her breath, waiting for the words that didn’t come. Words that would say why, other than his family and his safety and his own well-being, he would want the curse lifted. Wanting to hear him say he wanted her.

  He didn’t say it, and she felt like a fool, all the more so because after three years, she really should be over him. It really shouldn’t hurt anymore.

  “Who did you acquire this from?” Reg asked, his attention on Jean.

  “A young woman named Libby.” The dealer was already writing the woman’s information on the back of a business card. “I don’t think she knows much, but perhaps enough to get you started.”

  Reg pocketed the card, then held out his hand for the amulet. Anne pressed it into his palm, her skin sharp with awareness when she brushed his hand. If the room had been dark, she believed that sparks would have popped with the contact, but Reg’s face stayed flat, his eyes on Jean and not on her, and Anne couldn’t tell if he didn’t feel it, or if he felt too much.

  She hoped for the latter, and at the same time hated herself for even letting the thought into her head.

  She shouldn’t have come. This wasn’t her quest anymore. She needed to leave.

  “How much do I owe you?” Reg asked, pulling out his wallet.

  Jean Michel shook his head. “For today, consider it a loaner. If it turns out to truly be the amulet you seek, you can come back and I will charge you through the nose.”

  Reg laughed and the men shook hands.

  She stood watching them, wanting to simply walk away. After all, this wasn’t her problem anymore. Reg was here, and he hadn’t even called her to tell her he was coming. He didn’t need her any more and staying bordered on pathetic.