“That might explain why I’ve never seen any homes like that. I’m from the North. Why did they build them that way?”
“For two reasons: to escape flooding and to catch any passing breezes. The second floor was used as the main floor and the lower level was left open or else it was partly enclosed for storage purposes. Ours has been enclosed now and we use it for guest suites.
“Our outbuildings are interesting, too. There’s the separate building that was used for the kitchen, of course. We haven’t decided what to do with that, yet. But the gargonniere that was originally constructed for the bachelors of the family is being restored to use for more suites. Also, there’s a trellised summerhouse and a set of pigeonniers.”
Serge pulled the car to a stop in front of a gracefully massive structure. Looking at it, Morgan got a sense of how it must have appeared over two hundred years before. Four long French doors were thrown open to the light gusts of air and there were several people relaxing just outside the doors. A high roof, steeply pitched, swept well out over the deep gallery that ran around all sides of the house, protecting its occupants from heat and glare. Slim colonnettes rose up to meet the roof. The whole mansion had a certain sad drama about it and, at the same time, a beautiful contentment.
For no apparent reason, a lump formed in Morgan’s throat as she looked at the elegant old home that had been in the Frontenac’s family for over two centuries. What a history the house could tell if it could only speak!
Serge got out and came around to open the door for her, gesturing as he did. “We’ve added a wing, there, to the right, which houses a modern kitchen and a large room with an adjoining terrace that is used for both dining and dancing.”
At that moment, a man, elderly and stout, but nonetheless a replica of Serge, descended the wide, sweeping staircase that served to connect the second floor to the ground.
“Miss Saunders,” Serge drew her forward, “I would like you to meet my father, Roger Frontenac. Pere, this is our new guest from America, Miss Saunders.”
“How do you do, Monsieur Frontenac.”
“Very well, and please, call me Roger. My family is very small now, with only Serge and myself left. You are staying at my home, therefore you will be one of my family. You will find we are very informal around here. You simply ask for anything you might want.”
“Thank you very much, Roger. That’s very gracious of you.”
“Not at all. Now,” he pivoted briskly to his son, “why don’t you get Miss Saunders’ bags and take them down to her cottage. I’m sure she is tired from her long flight.” He turned back to Morgan. “We have assigned you one of our eight cottages as you requested. You will find it is built on the lines of the former slave cabins. Two simple rooms with a tall sloping roof and large windows for coolness. I think you will be quite comfortable. And you will have your own veranda for privacy.”
“It sounds charming, and I know I’m going to love staying here.”
“I sincerely hope so. We have not as yet succumbed to all the modern ways. No air conditioning or fresh water swimming pool. But I am confident you will find that the trade winds are genuinely refreshing and that the Caribbean provides the best swimming pool you could possibly want. You will take your meals with us, of course, but if you would like something served in your cottage, you have only to ask.”
Morgan held out her hand. “Thank you again, Roger, and please, you must call me Morgan.”
The old man bent over her hand in a courtly gesture of parting.
#
In the days that followed, Morgan fell even more under the spell of the place at which she had chosen to stay. Her bungalow was a lush haven set amid tropical foliage and offered total privacy. She had only to look out any window or walk out onto her veranda to see hibiscus, oleanders, huge poinsettia trees and blue-flowered jacarandas.
She found that the whole plantation offered a simple, pleasant atmosphere, with informality the keynote. The private beach was about half a mile away, and all she had to do was raise her eyes to see the lapis lazuli sea. And, if anyone had asked her what she was doing, she would have had to answer, “I am waiting for Jason.”
Serge offered to take her on a tour of the plantation. She refused. Roger proposed severed likely routes to drive in order to see the best of the island. She declined. The Frontenac’s cafe-au-lait Creole cook, Yvonne, plied her with the best of her seafood cuisine, but Morgan only picked at her food.
Morgan waited patiently, in a state of suspension, knowing that her vacation would not start until Jason joined her. She waited, totally relaxed and very sure that he would come.
And on the fourth night, he did.
#
Morgan stood alone on her veranda. With only an innocently-white lace dress to cover her body, scooped low over her breasts and floating in tiers to her feet, she felt at one with her surroundings. The tropical night was speaking to her and she listened, experiencing the ebb and flow of the nature around her. Twilight had come and gone and the night had long since awakened, throwing opaque shadows over most of the leafage that burgeoned around the cottage.
But she didn’t feel lonely. She had the sounds of the darkness to keep her company. The tallest of the palms were silhouetted against the blue-black of the night sky, and the gentle swooshing of the wind through their feathery fronds became a concert of song, harmonizing with the sound of the ageless, primal rhythm of the Caribbean, rolling in waves onto the shore, just beyond the line of the palms.
Something—some slight sound or a vague feeling of movement—made her turn. It was Jason. He stood at the edge of the veranda, just inside the line of light that spilled out from the open French doors. His cream-colored shirt was opened at the neck, with the long sleeves rolled up to reveal his muscular forearms, and his lightweight beige jacket was hooked on two of his fingers and slung over one shoulder.
In that instant, Morgan acknowledged to herself that she was in love with Jason Falco. Why she hadn’t realized it before now she didn’t know— except, perhaps, that it seemed almost redundant to even think the “word” love, when she had been feeling the “emotion” love, ever since Jason had first penetrated her screen of fear and seeped into her mind, sitting beside her on the airplane.
Neither of them spoke. It wasn’t necessary. The expression of welcoming warmth in their eyes as they walked toward one another said everything that needed to be said, and they moved into each other’s arms with an undisguised eagerness.
Their kiss eliminated all preliminaries. Morgan strained toward Jason, feeling him with her body, trying to get as close to him as their clothes would allow. It had been four days and she felt deprived of the sensations of Jason. Her tongue pushed between his lips, tasting the flavor of the inside of his mouth. She rubbed it over the sharp-edged surface of his teeth and felt the moist roughness of his tongue against her own. She took a deep breath through her nose, trying to breathe in all the various and subtle scents that made up this man whom she loved so very much.
And his intensity seemed to match hers. Running his hands up and down her spine, finally settling them around her buttocks, he pulled her tightly into him, moving his hard masculinity against her. Morgan heard a low growl emanate from the back of Jason’s throat and then he pulled away from her.
Her face, starlit by love and desire, turned up to his and her voice was a misty reflection of both. “Hello.”
Jason gave a low, throaty laugh. “Hello, yourself.”
“Are you through working? Can you stay?”
“Yes and yes,” he affirmed with considerable amusement at the rushed excitement of her words. “I even called St. Paul and told them to expect me when they see me.”
“That’s wonderful!”
Jason reached out his hand and ran his finger under the lace neckline of her top—just as he had done one other time, right before they had parted at the airport. The back of his finger skimmed the tops of her breasts, making her heart leap into her throat. “Yo
u sound like you missed me as much as I missed you.”
She leaned unconsciously against his finger. “I did. I can’t begin to tell you how much. Do the Frontenacs know you’re here?”
He crooked his finger into the lace and pulled her closer. “I’m staying in one of the other cottages. There was no problem. Serge remembered me.” He gave her a soft, quick kiss. “Have you eaten dinner yet?”
“No,” Morgan answered guilelessly. “I was waiting for you.”
#
They dined at the manor house, relishing the satisfaction of being together once again and laughing at the special attention that Roger gave them: Was the wine just right? Did the generous combination of chilies, garlic, shallots and tomatoes make the sauce too spicy for the firm white fish that had been marinated in lime juice? What did they have in mind for desert? Perhaps he could suggest flambeed baked bananas?
Morgan and Jason looked at one another, smiling, and then said in unison, “Why don’t you join us, Roger?”
The elder Frontenac sat down, shaking his head wryly. “Please forgive me, but I so wanted this meal to be perfect for you. For days, Morgan has been going through only the motions of eating. And now, you, Jason, arrive on the scene, and suddenly she comes alive.” He shrugged his shoulders unrepentantly. “I am such a romantic, you see. It is a special pleasure to me when I am able to help people enjoy this paradise that is my home.”
“I understand perfectly,” Morgan returned delightedly. “You see I own a shop in Minnesota that offers people ‘a little bit of paradise’ in the routine monotony of their lives. I know just how hard one has to work in order to bring a little whimsy into someone else’s life.”
Jason joined in the conversation, directing his remarks to her. “And I bet you’ve loved every minute of it. Because, at the same time you were pragmatically building a successful business, you have been able to indulge the fanciful side of your nature.”
“You’re right,” she agreed, happy that he seemed to understand. “And this is my first opportunity to actually visit paradise. Before this, I’ve always gone to New York for my shopping trips, buying from importers.”
Suddenly, for no reason, the unwanted image of David appeared before her. He had insisted on escorting her to New York the last time she had gone, saying he had to go on business anyway and they might as well go together and book into the same hotel. That way they could meet for dinner each night after their business day was through. Morgan had finally given in, too soft to hurt his feelings, but she had insisted on having her room on a floor separate from his.
“So then, is this trip for business or pleasure?” Roger asked, interrupting her thoughts.
She looked at Jason, refocuslng on the present, and answered adamantly, “Strictly pleasure.”
#
Jason left Morgan at her door that night with a simple goodnight kiss that somehow seemed perfectly right, but he was back early the next morning, looking disgustingly wide-eyed and awake.
“Ready to climb Mt. Pelee?”
“Have you lost your mind?” she mumbled, bleary- eyed and thick-tongued.
“Not that I know of,” he answered bright and lively.
“Well, it’s something you’d better consider—if you think I’m going to spend one minute of my vacation doing anything more strenuous than lifting a glass of rum punch.”
“Are you always this grumpy in the morning?”
“No, not really,” she apologized, stumbling back into the cottage and flopping down in a chair. “I just happen to believe that vacations are meant to be used to rest, instead of running around, enjoying yourself so much that you’re exhausted by the time you get back home.”
Before answering the door, Morgan had covered the filmy gown she had worn to bed with a raspberry-flowered silk wrap that Sami had presented to her on her twenty-fifth birthday, saying, “It looked like it needed you to wear it.” Sami was always saying things like that, and recalling the episode made Morgan remember, “Actually, this is nothing compared to Sami’s mood when she has to wake up early.”
Jason had followed her in, leaving the French doors open to the easy morning breeze. “Sami?”
“Sami’s my best friend. I’ll tell you about her some other time. Right now let’s talk about coffee.”
“Coffee?”
Morgan squinted sleep-filled eyes at Jason. “Do you always ask so many questions?”
“You’re beautiful in the morning.”
His deep, rich voice throbbed along Morgan’s nerve endings with the intensity of an alarm going off, and she came completely awake, sighing ruefully at herself as she did so. What was she doing wasting one precious minute of their time together being even slightly grumpy?
Morgan got up and walked over to him, putting her arms around his neck and pulling his head down to hers. She kissed him softly and ardently, and Jason responded by pulling her closer, rubbing his hands over the silk that covered her body.
“You feel so damned good,” he muttered thickly. “Do you have anything on underneath this robe?”
“Only a gown.”
“That’s too much,” he growled. “I’ll have to teach you to sleep with nothing against your body but me.”
Jason’s words sent spasms of delight quivering down her spine, and once again she marveled at the depth of response he could draw from her.
He tilted back her chin with his hand so that he could see her eyes and gave her an unasked-for explanation. “Last night, I was tired from a series of nonstop business meetings, and we were seeing each other again for the first time in four days. Before that, we had known each other only hours. You’ve had one bad experience with a man. When we make love, I want you to be very sure that it’s what you want. I’d never want you to regret it.”
“Thank you,” she said simply, loving him all the more.
“Right. Now why don’t I get out of here so that you can get dressed? I’ll meet you up at the manor house in about thirty minutes.”
“Make it fifteen,” Morgan replied softly.
Chapter Three
The days that followed were idyllic. In a car that Jason had rented in Fort-de-France, they toured the island at a leisurely pace, thoroughly enjoying it and each other. One day they took the coastal drive up to St. Pierre.
St. Pierre, at one time a gay and prosperous city known as the “little Paris of the West Indies,” appeared to Morgan only a ghost of what it once must have been.
Many years before, the city had been completely destroyed and thirty thousand people had been killed, when on May 8, 1902, in only a minute, one whole side of Mt. Pelee burst apart with a murderous eruption of fire and ash. Now there seemed to be a haunting sadness to St. Pierre and, even though it had been rebuilt, evidence of the disaster was still visible.
By mutual consent they didn’t stay long and, instead, got back in the car and ventured on around the island. Taking some winding, dirt roads, they came upon a palm-encircled, glistening, black sand beach near a small fishing village, where they kicked off their shoes and ate a picnic lunch Yvonne had packed for them.
Finished eating, they rested side by side on a blanket that Jason had spread, watching the fishermen far out on the water. The fishermen sailed in long, open crafts called gommiers, named for the gum trees from which the dugout hulls were made.
Morgan raised up on one elbow and shaded her eyes to get a better view, but most of them were so far out that they appeared only as dots on the flat horizon. “What do they catch?”
“Any number of types of fish, ranging from grouper to king mackerel and dolphin. What they can’t eat themselves, they sell.”
She turned her head to face him. “Have you been here before?”
“Once,” he admitted, “but it was on business. I hate to tell you how long it’s been since I’ve had an actual vacation.”
“Well, then, how are you enjoying your vacation so far, Mr. Falco?” she asked teasingly.
Jason pushed her back dow
n on the blanket. “What do you think, Miss Saunders?”
He lay over her, supporting himself with his elbows, and ran his finger inside the neckline of her cool, cotton sundress, in what was becoming a very private and erotic gesture that the two of them shared. The back of his long finger brushed sensitively across her breast, the tip of his finger reaching to the edge of the dark pink areola that ringed around her hardened nipple and which swelled toward his touch.
The start of a faint sigh of pleasure escaped through Morgan’s lips, right before Jason’s mouth caught the rest of it. His tongue extended into the inner depths of her mouth, savoring her sweetness, and producing gentle spirals of warmth throughout Morgan’s body.
With his hand on her back, he curved her against him. using the other hand to unzip the pale blue cloth which covered her. Slowly lowering the front of the dress to her waist, he let his eyes worship the sight of her nakedness. “You are so damned beautiful,” he rasped, and initiated a passion inducing exploration of her breast. Running his tongue very lightly around and around the nipple until it became diamond-hard, he turned his attention to the point itself, and began alternately sucking the nipple with his mouth and stroking across it with his tongue.
The exciting titillation made Morgan writhe beneath him with a curiously unsatisfied craving, and she heard him groan huskily at her reaction. Replacing his mouth with his hand, he kissed her lips again. Morgan’s hands ran across his back, feeling the muscles bunch and roll under his shirt as he thrust against her.
The day was gloriously uninhibited and so was the way she was feeling, but raising his head, Jason pulled her dress back up on her shoulders and took a deep, shaky breath. “Morgan Saunders, you are one fantastic lady.” He ran his hands through her hair, spreading the shining strands out around her head. “If sunshine were a color, it would be the color of your hair. And your eyes,” he mused thoughtfully, “are as ever-changing as the sea, containing all the vibrant hues that range from blue to green.”
The Seduction of Jason Page 3