by Dita Parker
Or so she had thought before taking down the ones marked with S for Savannah from the bookshelf in her office, stacking them on the leather blotter of her desk and idly thumbing through the thick volumes before bed. The life and times of mademoiselle Marcotte, MacCale had called them.
And then some. She had recorded the excitement of the Savannah Road Races and the first time she had ridden in a car. How could a century feel as if no more than a decade had passed?
She found hastily scribbled notes on how the city had lost most of her original structures in the fire of 1796. In May 1791, she hadn’t been in town, but apparently George Washington had been. A ball had been held in his honor and he had gone sightseeing the next day. If her memory served her right, the central squares had been surrounded by empty lots back then. What had they shown the president? Specs and promises of future glory?
She came across countless entries on Tybee. How many summers had she spent on the island? Sure, it was an easy trip now, a stretch of highway. The early attempts to flee the summer heat of the city had been perilous and sluggish adventures done by sail, later by steamer.
There was a hilarious account on the commotion caused by the pelvis of young Elvis. She’d seen a risqué cabaret or two by the time Presley’s hips and hops had shaken the old Sports Arena. The city had been a hub of the most incredible music with an impressive string of artists performing in town on a regular basis. She had heard Ella Fitzgerald sing and Louis Armstrong play. Duke Ellington and Count Basie, big names and traveling musicians, they packed in the crowds night after night.
The old City Auditorium was where she had first met Boyd Ferguson and Frank Hunter. Frank had never learned the truth about her, only wondered at her interest in history in general and the wars in particular. God, she really missed their conversations and their fishing expeditions. He’d been such great company. Boyd still was. But soon, she would lose him too.
Pushing the thought aside, she had jumped into The Gay Nineties. The old DeSoto Hotel had opened on New Year’s Eve 1890. There was a picture of her taken seventy-seven years later during the last ball, before one of the most beautiful hotels she had ever set foot in was leveled in the name of progress. She was wearing too much makeup around the eyes. It went perfectly with the flashy Oscar de la Renta gown made of silk brocade with a copper and gold Aztec print on a chocolate-brown background. A big bun balanced on the back of her head and on the front rested a Boucheron tiara made from yellow gold and canary diamonds, a gift from Prince Felix Yusupov and the most expensive piece of jewelry she had ever owned.
Lucie thought she looked like someone attending a fancy costume party. To Mac’s niece, she would probably look like a true-to-life princess, so she had sent the picture to Boyd and addressed it to MacCale.
She had gotten the picture Boyd had taken at the Games in return. No note accompanied the glossy shot, nothing but an inscription at the back of the picture, written in Boyd’s neat longhand. Lucie and MacCale Moore. She stood stiff as a statue looking up at him, Mac’s arm wrapped around her as he stared down at her. Lucie and MacCale Moore. As if they were an item.
She had taken one look at the picture and shoved it in the drawer. She had taken it out only to shove it back again until, furious and frustrated with herself, she’d propped it on her desk. The sense of closure she waited on never came. Nothing but the unwanted feelings of longing and loneliness as her glance stole to the shot time and time again while she worked.
How could such a fleeting moment have such a lasting effect? Why did she feel she hadn’t seen the last of him? Why did nothing feel finished? Because heat courses through your body every time he crosses your mind.
MacCale was more than thought. He was a physical reaction.
A plague, that’s what he was. She had kicked him out but he was far from gone. He haunted her house by day and he haunted her bed by night. He lingered in every room he had set foot in and every inch of her body he had touched. And there wasn’t a patch of skin he hadn’t covered.
Why had she let her guard down with him? Why?
She hadn’t heard from him since their rendezvous at the Games. Bruno on the other hand had called her every other night enticing her to come out of hiding and on Friday he was so persistent Lucie caved in.
“You won’t regret it,” Bruno had promised, but Lucie didn’t feel like carousing. She felt like cursing a blue streak every time the magnificent Mr. Moore invaded her thoughts.
And stepping into Smoke and Mirrors, cruising her way upstairs, Lucie cursed again.
“Brutus!”
MacCale sat at the bar chatting with Bruno. Had he spent all his evenings there? Again? Had he taken a shining to the place? Obviously so. God damn shame about it since she had already marked the place as hers.
Lucie stormed to the men, glaring at Bruno while she addressed MacCale. “You really need to find yourself another gin joint, Mac. I saw this one first.”
He flashed her an impish smile before touching her cheek with his fingers. Lucie shrank back from the heat and tenderness they radiated.
“It’s a free country, Luce, and I happen to like the place. Besides, sweet Anika over there and I share an interest we’ve been mulling over on the dance floor for days. Haven’t exhausted the topic yet, so…” He shrugged, smiling so sheepishly she could very well imagine what that common interest was.
Mulled over on the dance floor, her ass, Lucie thought. Rolled all over Anika’s bed more likely. Lucie glanced at the statuesque blonde waiting for MacCale at the same table he had sat at last time. He already had a table of his own? But of course.
“I suggest you don’t use the word ‘sweet’ around her. She’ll take it as an insult.”
“What will she do?” he asked. Then in a hushed, husky tone, “Punish me?”
Lucie found herself under mental attack, scenes starring Anika and MacCale flashing through her mind. Anika raking her nails all over his chest and abs as she rode his cock wildly. MacCale fucking her from behind as she mewled for him to give it to her. Harder, faster, please oh god oh god. Now!
He downed the remains of his drink and stood. “Must not keep a lady waiting. Thanks for the chat and the shot, Bruno. Wish me luck, Lucie?”
“Break a leg,” she chirped. “Both of them.”
Bruno snickered. MacCale laughed outright before walking over to Anika and letting her draw him to the dance floor. With a final salute Lucie’s way, MacCale pulled Anika to him and let the pulsing music take them into what anyone with eyes would have called vertical simulated sex.
Lucie wanted to look away. She really did. She didn’t want to see the blonde beauty melt into his arms and plaster her soft curves on his hard muscles, her body following every move he made, flowing over him as if they were fucking. She really didn’t want to watch MacCale whisper into her ear and witness her eyes go wide, her mouth opening in a raspberry-red O of shock before she pressed her cheek against his, no doubt to counter whatever dirty talk he had thrown at her with some naughty words of her own. What she needed even less was the thought of everything that would happen after the pair left the club and put those words into action.
Turning her back on the sexy couple and things bound to go bump in the night, Lucie turned to Bruno.
“I need a drink.”
* * * * *
“What. The. Fuck. What the hell did you give her?”
The icy rage in the man’s voice made Lucie whirl around in her stool and crash into a steely wall of hot man.
“Only what the lady ordered.”
“In a bucket?”
Lucie tried to look up at face of the man with ice chips in his voice but his hold on her was too tight. She decided to lean closer and press her cheek to his chest where his heart hammered fast and strong.
“So she’s had a few more than usual. The lady can hold her liquor so stop bitching, MacCale. She’s a big gal.”
MacCale. Her tasty and tenacious MacCale.
My? Now where had
that come from?
“No, she’s small and wasted,” he fumed. “And I’m taking her home.”
“I don’t know where she lives,” Lucie heard Bruno stall. “She refuses to tell me.”
“So stop asking.” MacCale’s voice was so deep and soothing Lucie concentrated on the rumble in his chest. Someone tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, probably mistaking her sagging form for lights out.
“She can sleep it off in the office. I’ll put her in a cab after closing time,” Bruno said.
“The hell you will,” she registered the mighty Mr. Moore saying before he scooped her up.
Lucie tried to push at his chest and tell him that she still had legs, but MacCale’s strength and resolve killed her protest. And it got Bruno all worked up. “You’re not taking her to your place, if that’s what you’re thinking, so put her down.”
“I know where she lives.”
Looking up, Lucie saw Bruno’s eyes light up in realization then blaze in anger.
“Put her down,” Bruno said, “or I’m calling the cops.”
“Go right ahead and explain to them why you serve people in no need of another drink. We’ll let her do the talking and see how it goes.”
Lucie tried to wiggle out of his arms then conceded defeat as MacCale’s hold tightened on her again. “Good girl. Now let’s get you home.”
“I’m calling her, first thing,” Bruno said as MacCale turned to go.
“Whatever gets you up in the morning,” Lucie heard him throw over his shoulder as they took off. MacCale maneuvered them through the swaying crowd and down the stairs with ease. After seeing him barely break a sweat at the Scottish Games, she wasn’t really surprised, only curious.
She didn’t see the bouncer’s face as Mac shouldered the door open, but she heard C’s subdued, “Miss M, Mr. M.” MacCale had to be a serious tipper for the verbal bouncer to usher them out once again without his usual protests and demands of a speedy return.
“Your car where you left it last?”
“Hmm, yes.” He wasn’t seriously thinking of carrying her several blocks?
“Why don’t you go get it,” Lucie said. “I’ll wait right here.” One last time, she tried squirming out of his hold. His arms were like iron bars around her, never yielding or dropping an inch.
“Of course you will,” he said calmly, and started down Martin Luther King Boulevard.
A fireman. Maybe he was a fireman. Calm, strong and commanding. Felix the firefighter.
“I knew a Felix once. He was a real prince.”
“I bet he was,” MacCale muttered.
“No, he really was. An honest-to-God prince. Picture Oxford, 1910— Mac?”
“Yes. It’s Oxford in 1910.”
“No. People. They’re staring,” she said through clenched teeth as several couples and not a few passersby turned around to have another look.
“Ah. It’s the purse.”
The purse? Oh god, he had thrown her purse over his shoulder at some point, the sleek vintage Chanel 2.55 bag swinging gingerly at his side.
“Because last time I checked, it was still legal for gentlemen to carry damsels in distress in these parts.”
For the love of— “I am not a damned damsel and I’m not in distress.”
“And I’m not a gentleman?”
“I didn’t say that,” she grumbled. His legs ate pavement at unbelievable speed considering she was no waif. “Put me down, Mac. What is this?”
“This is me proving I’m a gentleman.”
“Certifiable is what you are,” she muttered. “You’re a gentleman. Tried and true. There. I said it. I believe you. Now put me down. Please?”
Smiling, he glanced down at her and finally stopped.
And planted a butterfly-light kiss on the corner of her mouth.
“No.”
Giving up on a loud sigh, Lucie suffered in silence the rest of the way. Christ, he was strong, the fact and the evidence heating her on a primal level she had thought no man could touch her on.
Arriving at her car, he let her down by the passenger door and extended his hand. “Keys?”
“Young man, I’ve been driving for a hundred years. I think I can handle it.”
“Is that what you’re telling the police if we get pulled over? Keys.”
“I am not drunk,” she insisted.
“And I’m not joking.” He pressed her against the door and caged her inside his arms. “Unless you want me to carry you the rest of the way, keys, please. And don’t you roll your eyes at me, sigh or give me any kind of grief on the way over, or I will make your cheeks blush. And you can take that any way you like. And I promise you, baby, not only will you like it, you will beg for more.”
His eyes and stance were steely but his voice was sheer silk, the combination making her reach for the purse he’d pressed into her hands, before caging her in, and dig out the keys as if hypnotized.
“Good girl, Lucie.” Rounding her waist with one thick arm, he tugged her against him, moved her to his side and opened the door for her. As soon as she was seated, he leaned over to buckle her up.
Deciding she had been coddled enough for the night, Lucie tried to push away his hands. “I’ll do it myself, thank you very much.”
MacCale gently pinned her hands to her sides and proceeded to take care of the seatbelt. “My services are all inclusive, ma’am.” He closed the door, rounded the car and took the driver’s seat. Before long, they were cruising down the highway with the top down, Lucie breathing in the open air with greedy gulps.
She tested her senses by closing her eyes in the moving car and to her relief, queasiness left her alone. Mac didn’t say another word, leaving Lucie to enjoy a moment of respite after the landslide of feelings she had suffered as the night unraveled.
Her peace was short-lived as images of MacCale dancing with Anika and thoughts of everything they had probably talked about seized her. Was Mac going back to Anika after taking her home? Was she waiting for him with open arms? Open legs? Wet pussy? Would she get that lollipop licking Mac had promised her at the Games? Give him one in return? Suck on his cock as she had dreamed of doing?
Oh god.
As furious as she had been seeing MacCale at the club again, she couldn’t deny how damn desirable he had looked. As striking as she had remembered him being only infinitely more amazing in the flesh. And then they had acted like half strangers who had happened by the same bar, engaged in some banter before going their separate ways again.
Wasn’t that what she wanted? How she wanted things? She had told him one night was all they would share. He had respected her wishes and gone off with Anika. And she had started downing SoCo and lime shots. God, she had ruined that drink for all eternity and in her case that was saying a lot.
Nothing broke the silence until they were below her portico, he had helped her out of the car and walked her up to the door.
“Would your highness mind letting me help her inside?”
“As a matter of fact, we would,” Lucie said, and stepped up to open the door herself before turning back to him.
“Thank you for the ride, Mac. Can I call you a cab?”
“No thanks.”
“Pay for it? That’s the least—”
“Absolutely not,” he said with conviction.
Before thinking it through, she was saying, “May I kiss you goodnight?” Without waiting for an answer, Lucie leaned forward…and plopped right into his arms, missed his mouth and kissed his neck instead. MacCale chuckled, scooped her up, stepped inside and elbowed the door shut.
“I don’t recall inviting you in. Are you planning on taking advantage of my state?”
“No, Lucie, I’m not, so don’t fret.”
“I do not fret, I— You’re not?”
She sounded so openly disappointed, MacCale wanted to groan out loud in frustration. He would have loved nothing more than to make love to her until dawn. Lucie may have wanted it too, but he didn’t want her
alcohol-induced craving, he wanted a pure and unadulterated one.
Besides, she looked exhausted. There were dark circles under her eyes and a bone-deep weariness in them. She was putting up a brazen front, he’d give her that. She kept refusing his help, but after taking care of business all on her lonesome for two centuries, who could blame her.
Lucie was long overdue for some tender loving care, and MacCale was going to see to it that she got it. He wanted her to know he was more than the bossy, possessive caveman he had unleashed on her, the one who had tied her up and made her beg, and he’d damn well prove it.
MacCale made a beeline for the stairs. “The only bed play I have scheduled is sleep.”
“Aye-aye, captaen,” Lucie mumbled against his chest.
“You speak…what was that?”
“I speak just about everything. Want me to teach you the language of your ancestors? Want to get lust in translation with me?” Her mouth was on his throat, licking, nipping, forcing him to speed up to get her to her bedroom and out of his arms, pronto.
“Maybe another time when we’re both…coherent.” For the shot courtesy of Bruno, he had laid off the sauce. He still felt high on her as he sat her on the edge of the bed, flipped on the bedside lamp and knelt to take off her shoes. “Put your hands up.”
She did as told. “I didn’t do it, officer, I swear,” she purred. “Please don’t cuff me. You can use that thick baton of yours on me instead.”
MacCale pealed her tight top off. Her breasts bounced free, sending a bolt of lust down his spine and straight to his groin.
She would be the death of him. No way would he make it through the night. He would be found dead in the morning, all blood drained from his body and clogged into his cock.
“Lie down, honey.”
Lucie fell on the bed, hands high above her head. She arched her back in a sensuous stretch that made her breasts jiggle and his balls ache.
Dragging his eyes to her hips, MacCale unbuttoned her jeans and grabbed the waistband of her panties along with her pants to tug them off. She lay naked before him, a divine apparition and a hellish temptation all in one.