by Julie Kenner
“Yeah,” she whispered. “I guess you do.”
“Anne.” He hoped to never stop saying her name.
“My bedroom’s upstairs.”
“Too damn far.”
“There’s a couch in the parlor.”
Laughing like teenagers, they moved hand in hand to the parlor. She sat on a plush red velvet couch, then patted the space beside her for him. He didn’t take the offer. Instead, he knelt in front of her, his hands on her thighs. He eased her legs apart, then inched closer until his body pressed against the edge of the chaise, and his hands stroked upward, finding her shirt. He tugged it free, then let his hands graze upward, watching in rapt fascination the way her muscles twitched and her skin tightened, listening in awed rapture to the small, soft noises she made as his fingertips brushed her bare skin. “Reg…”
“Hush,” he said, then went to work on the buttons of her shirt. They were small, and his fingers felt large and clumsy, but he got them open, then pulled the halves of her shirt apart. Her nipples were hard beneath the lace of her white bra, the aureolas brown and puckered, as if waiting for him to kiss them.
He wasn’t about to hesitate, and he tugged the lace down, drawing her breast free, then closed his mouth over it, electricity shooting through him from the contact, and his cock hardening from the sound of her gentle cry of “oh” coupled with her hands clutching hard to his shoulders. That was Anne, he thought. Softness and steel.
And then he stopped thinking altogether, concentrating only on the pleasure of her body.
His mouth moved from her breast up her delicate collarbone, then to her ear, his tongue sweeping in, knowing what made her wet, wanting her as turned on as he was.
Her moan told him that his memories hadn’t lied. Her fingers in his hair moved with desperate urgency. “Reg, please,” she whispered, and he stroked his hands down, down, cupping her sex through her jeans, then feeling a wash of male satisfaction as she writhed against him. “Dear Lord,” she said, her own hands moving, grasping, touching, and his cock hardening in response, although he didn’t see how he could get any harder than he already was.
Her lips were on his neck suddenly, and she was leaning forward, no longer content to sit back as he made love to her. Her fingers eased down, finding the button of his fly even as his own fingers were pulling down her zipper. He let one finger slip inside, easing between denim and satin, then groaned when he found her panties soaked. The groan transformed into one of pure pleasure when her soft fingers cupped his cock through the khaki of his own pants.
“Off,” he said, and she nodded mutely, then started fumbling at her clothes. He did the same, saying a silent thank-you to whoever invented slip-on shoes, then immediately forgetting his damn shoes when he saw Anne, stretched out on the chaise, wearing a sultry smile on her face, and not a single stitch of clothing.
“It’s April Fools’ Day,” he said as the sun streaming in from around the edges of the closed curtains cut shafts of light over her body. “I’m afraid if I blink you’ll disappear.”
“I’m not going anywhere again,” she said, her eyes meeting his. “Are you?”
He didn’t answer—he couldn’t. Nothing had changed, not really. And yet this felt right, and the three years they’d been apart felt so very wrong.
She must have seen the conflict on his face, because she shook her head, and flashed a sad, quick smile. “I don’t need an answer right now,” she said. “Right now, I only need you.”
Thank God for that.
He moved to straddle her, his skin so sensitive that the slightest brush of breath against it could send him over the edge. He craved her like he’d never craved anything before, and he wanted nothing more than to please her, to live up to the desire he saw in her eyes. And the love.
He touched her gently at first, but he couldn’t remain gentle, and when she urged him on, he spread her legs and found the core of her. He slid his hands over her, feeling her slick wet heat, knowing that he wouldn’t last long. He’d put a condom in his wallet—at the time, he hadn’t known why, since he hadn’t slept with a woman since Anne had left. Now, of course, he knew. It was because of her, and when he sheathed himself and slid inside, he seemed to fit her perfectly, her body closing around him like a glove, the small contractions of her muscles drawing him in, growing stronger as her breath grew more strangled and as reality seemed to spin away leaving nothing but the moment. Nothing but them, together, floating high, coming nearer and nearer to some unknown destination until, finally, he realized it wasn’t the destination that mattered but merely that they were coming.
Coming.
And that was when he shattered, the world, the universe, his body exploding, and Anne’s too, as she clung to him, fingernails digging into his back, her legs hooked around his waist pulling him closer and tighter, as if trying to milk every last instant from the moment, every last tremor and pulse of pleasure.
“Wow,” he said, his arms no longer capable of holding him up. He rolled to the side, his back against the couch, his arms cradling her. They were both coated in a fine sheen of sweat, and for a few minutes, or possibly an eternity, they simply lay there. Then she rolled over, pressing her face against his chest so that her breath cooled his damp body. “What happens if we don’t solve the curse?” she asked, not looking up. “Are you just going to walk out on me again?”
He looked down at the dark curls of her head, but he couldn’t see her face. He couldn’t answer. He didn’t know what the answer was.
She tilted her head up, and he realized she’d taken hope from his hesitation. “It’s getting less, you know,” she said. “Years ago, the stories tell of Franklins dying. Now, you lose out on a hotel reservation.”
He looked away, wishing he could be certain she was right, but unable to get the picture of her in the hospital out of his mind.
“Reg?”
He closed his eyes and sighed. He’d sold his house when he’d moved to England. There, he was renting a room from another professor. He was, by all standards, drifting.
Or he had been a few hours before.
Now, he knew, he’d come home. Anne was home.
Trouble was, he still wasn’t sure that home was a safe place to be.
HER BREATH SKIPPED IN HER throat, and she wished she could take back her words, and only keep the touches. It was the touches between them that were real. The words, though…She was afraid that with words, he could talk himself into leaving again. That was something she so very much did not want to happen.
She’d been going through the motions, living here without him. She hadn’t even realized it until he’d walked back into her life, but now she saw it. They were like two halves of a whole, and now that he was back, she couldn’t let him go again.But she didn’t know how to make him stay.
“Kiss me again,” she said, because she was scared to let go of him, and because this was what they were made to do, to be: one. “Please,” she said, stroking his hair out of his face and looking into his eyes. “Make love to me again.”
They went slow this time, so slow that it seemed that every inch of her body fired beneath his touch. And when he slid into her, it was as if he was an extension of her body. They moved together, one mind and one heart, and she wished she could draw him inside her body and keep him safe from the curse, safe with her forever.
Her orgasm came this time not as an explosion, but as a rising crescendo. As the world floated away on color and music, the last three years evaporated.
This was the life she wanted—the man she wanted—and no matter what, she was going to keep him.
The question of how was still preying on her mind when her phone rang. He lifted his head from where it rested on her breast and met her eyes. “Libby?” she asked.
“Probably.”
She felt her pulse rate increase with excitement. If this worked…if they really could vanquish the curse…
He shifted over her to grab her phone, then glanced at the caller ID
. “It’s her,” he said, then answered the phone. But he kept his hand on her thigh, as if silently saying that under normal circumstances he would ignore the phone in favor of touching her. These, however, weren’t normal circumstances, and she fully supported anything that might lead them to the end of this curse.
She listened as Reg explained about finding the amulet and about how he was trying to trace back its ownership. He searched for a pen, then scribbled an address. Finally, he ended the call and smiled up at her. “She’s on her lunch break until one-thirty, and she’s willing to meet with us.” He stood and held out his arm. “Feel like a burger from Camillia Grill?”
The quaint restaurant at the end of St. Charles was, in fact, one of Anne’s favorite places. They drove instead of taking the trolley simply to ensure they had enough time to speak with Libby. A good choice, it turned out, because Libby was a talker. And not necessarily about the amulet. No, Libby liked to talk about everything.
“I used to not eat meat,” she said, shoving a mass of mauve ringlets back from her face. “But then I went to this cook-out in my friend’s backyard, and oh my gosh, it just smelled so good, and from that day on, I was a certified burger addict all over again.” She took a big bite out of her cheeseburger. “Damn, but this is my idea of heaven.”
Anne and Reg were sitting on either side of her at the counter, and they exchanged amused looks before Reg pushed his plate of fries toward her. “I’ve always thought a burger was only as good as the fries that came with it. Want one?”
She took two and shoved them into her mouth. While she chewed, he pulled out the amulet.
“Oh! Look! It’s all shined up. A pretty trinket.”
“Trinket?”
She shrugged. “I know it’s gold—and that Jean Michel gave me a good price. But it’s kind of gaudy, you know?”
“It is a bit,” Anne said. “But it’s not the design we’re interested in. It’s the history.”
Libby rolled her eyes. “Don’t know how much help I’m gonna be. It’s not even from my family, you know?”
Anne glanced to Reg, alarmed. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“It was my stepmother’s,” she said, then took another huge bite of burger. “Oh, man,” she said, her mouth full. “Ambrosia. I swear, this is ambrosia.”
“What do you know about your stepmother?” Reg asked, pushing the plate even closer to her.
“Not a whole lot. She’s a pain in the butt, really, but I guess when you consider her family, that’s no big shock.”
“Her family?”
Libby shrugged. “Oh, it’s not like they’re famous or anything. Well, except one.”
“And the one?”
She rolls her eyes. “Mirabelle Rousseau. She lived back in the eighteenth century or something.”
“Why was she famous?”
“It’s bullshit, of course,” Libby said. “But the whole freaking family thought she was a witch.”
5
REG WORKED HARD NOT TO LET his excitement show on his face, but he was pretty sure he failed. After all, he could see clearly enough his own feelings reflected in Anne’s eyes.
A witch.It was just as Olivia’s journal had referenced, and the timing was right. The eighteenth century. Back when Timothy Franklin was getting into trouble with women of questionable character.
It wasn’t a stretch to assume that Timothy had bedded Mirabelle, seen the amulet and taken it.
Mirabelle realized who took it, and let it be known that she would take her revenge—and she would take it through witchcraft if necessary.
Considering the curse he now lived under, he had a feeling Mirabelle’s assumed threat wasn’t idle.
What didn’t make sense, though, was why the curse still existed if Mirabelle got her amulet back. Either they were chasing the wrong story, or Mirabelle held a grudge.
He was banking that it was the latter.
“Do you know anything else?” Anne asked the girl.
“What? About Mirabelle, you mean?”
“Anything at all might help.”
“Well, gosh. I heard that she collected statues of angels.”
Reg caught Anne’s eye, remembering the reference to angels in the inscription. “Interesting.”
Libby rolled her eyes. “Weird, actually. ’Cause while she’s off collecting angels, she’s also supposedly cursing people. Made them have bad luck.” She wiggled her fingers. “Whoo woo, and all that.”
“Whoo woo,” Reg repeated, the irony heavy in his voice.
“It’s stupid,” Libby said, “but what the hell do I know? Maybe it would be cool.”
“Cool?” Reg knew he shouldn’t ask—that he should keep her on point—but he was too curious about what she meant.
“Sure. I mean, hell, there was no curse on my family, but they still got wiped out. First the damn hurricane, then my dad’s stroke. And it was just bad luck. Woulda been nice to have a curse to blame it on. At least then stuff wouldn’t be so random.”
“Random,” he repeated.
“You know. Like what they say. ‘Life happens’ and all that bullshit.”
He looked at Anne, his chest suddenly tight. “Right. All that bullshit.” A moment passed, and as it did, it seemed to Reg that something within him was shifting, even though he couldn’t quite grasp what it was. Now, however, wasn’t the time for introspection. He needed to learn what this woman knew.
“Anything else you can think of?” Anne asked, as if reading his mind.
Libby’s forehead scrunched up. “Well, I know that some of her descendants donated a ton of money to build a church a couple of generations ago.” She rolled her eyes. “I know because I got dragged to mass there, and I’m not even Catholic. I guess they figured a church makes up for having a witch in the family. And I know she lived more than ninety years, and was one of the first people buried in Lafayette Cemetery.” She swiveled on her stool to look at them both. “Does that help you any?”
Fifteen minutes later, Anne and Reg were pondering that very question. “Does it?” Anne asked as they walked through Lafayette Cemetery Number One, just a few blocks up the road from Camillia Grill. What better place, after all, to find an angel?
They were holding hands, and if you ignored the fact that they were walking among the dead, the afternoon felt wonderful. Like he’d asked her for a date, and now they were taking a walk through the park. A normal, typical, pleasant afternoon. It was, he thought, just a little bit like heaven.
“If Franklin didn’t actually return the amulet,” Anne began.
“And if it was Mirabelle who took it back herself,” he continued, picking up her thread.
“Then that probably wouldn’t be a reason for her to remove the curse,” she finished. “So that means a Franklin needs to return her amulet.”
“That’s the plan,” he said.
“And when you do—when we—do, then the curse will be lifted.” She smiled brightly. “Of course, maybe it’s a moot point. Nothing bad’s happened since you lost your hotel reservation.”
“The other shoe’s waiting to drop,” he said, but he smiled as he spoke.
She shook her head in mock exasperation. Or real frustration, he amended, as soon as he heard the harsh tone of her voice. “Dammit, Reg. You’ve got to accept that even if you can’t end it, you can live with it. We can live with it.”
“We are going to end it,” he said, because he was determined not to fail today. He’d come to end this curse, he was the closest he had ever been, and he was not about to back off now.
“Good,” she said. “Great. I hope we do. But if we don’t, take a look around. We’ve gone most of the day with very little bad luck. Your siblings are happy with their spouses, and they’re entirely intact. Your plane didn’t fall out of the sky. My house didn’t collapse around our ears. The curse is weakening. With each generation, it’s less of a threat. Dammit, Reg, don’t you see? It’s whittling away to nothing, and in the meantime, I love you.”
Her words cut through him, sharp and terrifying even while they buoyed him up. All his fears, all his walking away, and still she loved him.
“This is it,” Anne said, looking at a raised stone grave. “See?” She nodded to the plaque with Mirabelle’s name engraved. She hadn’t been put into a family tomb, as most of the people in the cemetery, and they couldn’t find anyplace to leave the amulet.
“Maybe we open the grave?”
She frowned. “Ick, but maybe.” She looked up at him and he couldn’t help but smile at her. Yeah, maybe they needed to open the sarcophagus, but he had something to say first. “Anne,” he said. “I love you, too.”
He watched her smile bloom wide, and felt his heart lift.
“Then forget the damn curse,” she said. She grabbed him by the belt loops and pulled him against the stone tombs next to Mirabelle’s grave. He buried his fingers in her hair and pulled her mouth to his, wanting to tell her that nothing in the world would make him forget it. The question was, could he live with it.
He didn’t get the chance to speak, though, because suddenly they were tumbling backwards, falling into the crumbling remains of the tomb against which they’d been leaning. “Shit!” He leaped to his feet, then started pulling rubble off of Anne. “Dammit, don’t you dare be hurt. Anne! Anne!”
“I’m okay.” Her voice was soft, but strong, and limb by limb, she wiggled her body. “Yeah. I’m okay.”
He sat back on his heels, his heart pounding, and Libby’s words running through his head. Life happens.
Yeah, he thought, it did.
And so did curses. Hell, he knew that better than anyone.
The question was, if he was going to be cursed, did he want to be doomed with or without the woman he loved?
The answer was the same as it always had been: he wanted to be with Anne.
But today…
Well, today, maybe he’d finally realized that Anne understood what being with him meant, and it was her decision, too.
He took a deep breath, savoring the moment, then held out his hand. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said. “Let’s go home.”