Her Only Desire (2 page)

A muscle flexed alongside his jaw. “Don’t say you weren’t warned.”

Tilly sighed. “I appreciate your concern. I do.”

His eyelids dropped a fraction. “Might help if he knew you were datin’ the sheriff…”

She laughed, and then punched his shoulder. “Not even if you were the last man on earth.”

“You’re a hard woman.” He shook his head.

“I’ve had to be.” And she’d have to stiffen her spine one more time. Boone Benoit’s posting was just too tempting to ignore, especially for a woman who couldn’t help but flirt with disaster.

The next morning, Tilly let herself out of her car in a wide gravel parking area and walked slowly toward the imposing iron gates. She ignored the deputy in the squad car parked in the shade of a sycamore, knowing he’d probably radioed Leon the moment she’d arrived. Through the wrought iron she noted the gravel drive framed by tall oaks—a view she hadn’t seen since she was a child. The last time she’d been there, she’d held tight to her mama’s and Denny’s hands as they’d brought a picnic basket to join the Fourth of July festivities going on at the plantation that had been a long-standing tradition in Bayou Vert.

She’d been excited, wanting to skip ahead, but her mother had held her back. If she’d gone skipping, so would her brother, and her mama hadn’t wanted Denny to draw any more attention than he already did. Although nearly a grown man in body, he’d been her best friend and cohort in many of her adventures. He didn’t mind baiting her fishing hooks with worms, didn’t mind climbing to the roof of the schoolhouse to see the stars. As wonderful as she’d believed he was, she’d been aware from a very young age that most people didn’t look at him the same way she did.

That day, even their cousin Celeste had turned up her nose at the sight of him, pretending she didn’t know him. However, Celeste’s boyfriend, Boone, had been kind, offering to let them sit near the fireworks platform. Denny had sworn it was the best day ever. But it had been the last time either one of them had set foot inside the estate.

And here she was today. Her stomach clenching so tight she felt a little nauseous. Trying not to think about the thing that screamed inside her mind, aching to be released.

A secret so profound it could alter the path of one man’s life and destroy what was left of her family forever. That secret was one she could never tell.

Some nights, she awoke drenched with sweat, sure she’d blurted aloud the words. But she only dreamed she revealed the truth that had left such an ugly scar upon her community.

How she wished she’d never found the bracelet. Never seen the photograph. But that photograph was part of her small town’s legacy. A dark chapter with murky underpinnings, coloring everything after it with dismal tones, dark suspicions, and angry frustration for a justice that would never be served. Her damnable curiosity had led her to the discovery.

Her secret had consequences. Karmic ones. She had proof. From the moment three years ago when she’d plucked the golden charm bracelet, so pretty and delicate, from among the odd assorted treasures she’d found, nothing but bad luck had followed. Her mother succumbed to cancer months later. The only home she’d ever known was lost to foreclosure. She’d been forced to live underneath her uncle’s roof for several months until she’d saved enough to rent a cheap apartment, eager to escape the Thibodaux house, where an atmosphere of desolation and endless sorrow smothered the inhabitants in their never-ending mourning. Arrangements were made for her brother, who needed specialized care. The day social services loaded him into a van and drove away, he’d been so confused, he’d cried big fat tears.

Dark days had followed. Even with the bracelet safely hidden, Tilly couldn’t brush off the lingering fear that somehow someone would find it. In this town, darkness was impossible to escape. Even on cloudless days, the thick canopy formed by interlocking oaks, dripping with Spanish moss, cast an eerie pall, smothering the light, muffling the sounds of the wind blowing across the marshes from Barataria Bay to Bayou Vert.

Darkness had always been a part of the town’s psyche. When you add the isolation of living in a bayou more accessible by boat than it is by the thin ribbon of state highway, especially when the seasonal rains hit, it was easy to understand. Folks believed themselves alone. Forgotten. Free to mete out their own justice, live by their own rules.

In one unforgettable instance, they’d been robbed. A bright light extinguished with no one to bear the blame. The helpless rage festered, then faded, covered by a thin skin. But when prodded, it erupted like an angry boil.

Boone Benoit’s return to the bayou was just the nasty jab the town needed to awaken from its slumber. Tilly felt the stirrings of a coming disaster. One she was helpless to avoid. She’d find herself at the center anyway. She might as well be close enough to make a difference if things went sideways.

She drew a deep breath, clearing the cobwebs of the past, and stiffened her backbone.

The panel for the automatic keypad controlling the massive gate in the estate’s stone wall was missing, wires hanging. Tilly unwrapped the fencing wire that held the gates closed and slipped through, heading down the long empty lane, catching glimpses of the big house through the foliage.

Maison Plaisir had been the grand dam of the bayou until ferocious hurricanes and the owner’s neglect decimated the old plantation house and gardens. No good could come of the current refurbishing. Everyone said so. Better to leave the old house to rot, they said.

She marched up the long drive, shaded by tall oaks. The branches were carefully pruned, forming a dark tunnel that led to the marble steps of the estate house.

As she approached, the sounds of chainsaws and hammers and shouts from workers in the garden and on the gabled roof became clearer, louder. Perspiration dotted her forehead and upper lip, and she quickly wiped them with her sweaty palms.

Damn. She’d wanted to appear cool, collected. The position she applied for was important enough that she’d overcome her fear of being in his house. She’d never been one to keep her emotions or her words inside. One careless misstep could spell disaster.

She felt as though fate was clearing her path to enter Boone Benoit’s world. A job tailor-made for her credentials. Who else possessed a degree in hospitality or had her experience? If fate wanted her here, then there must be a reason. She didn’t believe in coincidence.

Besides, how often would he be there? The CEO of Black Spear, Limited had offices on every continent, as well as a headquarters in New Orleans. His interest in his family’s ancestral home couldn’t be all that deep. He hadn’t set foot inside this section of Jefferson Parish in over fifteen years. More likely, the recent activities were in preparation for selling the estate, or a symbolic gesture—like shooting the bird at the folks who’d turned their backs on him.

No, Boone Benoit couldn’t be considering returning to Bayou Vert. Not with a murder charge still hanging over his head.

Her footsteps crunched on fine pea gravel. One heel twisted, sinking, but she quickly pulled it free. She’d decided to dress the part. Complete with a professionally tailored gray suit and pearl pumps. Her clothes may have been chosen off the rack, but she knew she looked good.

Her long blonde hair was pulled back from her face in a ponytail, after working long and hard with the straightener to remove every bump and curl. Not a lock out of place. Not a single thread hanging from her clothing. Due to the heat, she’d foregone panty hose, but her skin tone was an even creamy tan from waiting on the diner’s outdoor tables in shorts.

No one would find fault with her appearance. Competent, pretty, but not too sexy. All in the attitude. Or so she reminded herself.

She drew near the edge of the gardens, although calling them that seemed like a stretch. Leggy, overgrown rosebushes surrounded by creeping vines managed a few valiant blossoms. Azalea bushes, grown wild, smothered the annuals popping from bulbs in the ground. Hedgerows were in dire need of shaping.

The growling whine of a revving chainsaw pulled her glance to the side, where two workers, their chests bare and gleaming with sweat, worked with ropes and pulleys to cut the limbs from an oak tree that threatened a trellised gazebo.

In the distance the sound of barking and paws scattering gravel filled her ears. Tilly shot a glance around the yard and watched as a small pug rounded the corner of the big house.

“Max, here, boy! Max!” someone yelled.

But the dog made a beeline for her, yipping and barking.

An animal lover, Tilly stepped back and bent down to greet the dog. “Here, Max,” she said, reaching out a hand as the dog came nearer.

“I wouldn’t do that,” came a warning from a large man dressed in coveralls, who jogged behind the dog.

The dog halted two feet away, growling and spinning in circles.

At the sight, Tilly didn’t know whether to laugh or curse. She took another step backward and her heel sank into the ground. She tried to take another step, sure she’d pull free, but the mud beneath the gravel held firm and her foot slipped out of her pump. She tumbled to the side, gasping, hands outstretched to break her fall, her bag sliding away.

The dog leapt into her lap, nipping at her skirt and sleeve.

“Dammit,” she muttered, forcing the dog from her lap and trying to rise. He caught the hem of her skirt and she went down again, this time on her hands and knees. Kneeling in her skirt, her right knee stinging from abrasions, she glared at the little yipping dog.

The large man in coveralls scooped up the dog. “Bad Max, bad dog.” He turned away without an apology.

Of all the nerve.
Her mouth gaped and she glared.

“Let me help you.”

Startled, her gaze shot upward. Her breath caught on a shocked inhalation as a face hovered over hers—dark, short-cropped hair with a hint of unruly curl, dark lashes framing ice-blue eyes. A prominent, masculine nose and square jaw saved his face from being too perfect.

She’d known he was handsome—her memory and the Internet had prepared her for that. What she wasn’t ready for was his sheer physicality. But then she remembered he’d spent time in the navy. Perhaps he’d kept to the discipline. He wore dark dress slacks and a crisp white shirt, the sleeves casually rolled up to reveal tanned forearms that were thickly muscled. His shoulders were broad, his hips trim, his thighs big as tree trunks…

Her blood pounded in her ears. Good Lord, how long had she been staring?

Boone Benoit held out his hand. “Come. I promise I only murder pretty girls on their birthdays.”

What might have been a joke coming from any other man sounded bitter. As bitter as the twist of his firm lips.

She reached tentatively to accept his hand and found herself dragged up and pressed against his body. Immediately she stepped back and nearly fell again, forgetting she’d lost three inches of height on one foot.

His hands grasped her waist to steady her, and then quickly let her go. He knelt and plucked her heel from where it was lodged in the ground and tapped his thigh, commanding her to rest her foot on his body.

The act was unthinkable, what he suggested…with so many gazes upon them. Her pulse raced.

The chainsaw had stopped. The gardeners straightened and stared.

A blush suffused her face, and she held out her hand. “I can manage on my own.”

His head tilted to the side, blue eyes narrowing. “Would you deprive me of the pleasure?”

His tone was unexpected, startling in its rumbling sensuality. Already flushed with humiliation, now her skin tingled for an entirely different reason. His words conjured images of other pleasures. Sensual pleasures. And she had no doubt he’d done it deliberately.

Without another thought for their audience, she placed a hand on his muscled shoulder and raised her foot, toes pointing downward. Thank goodness she’d treated herself to a pedicure. The soft shell-pink polish and smooth heels were far more presentable now than they’d been the day before.

His hand turned and cupped her heel. He slowly slid on the shoe, tilting it at the last moment to set it firmly in place. The moment stretched, his hand slid up the back of her calf, a subtle movement that anyone watching might have missed. “Are you a runner?”

Shock made her shiver. All he’d needed was a single gliding touch to know that? “I was.”

“Your calves are very nicely defined.”

“Thank you,” she murmured breathlessly, pleased although the comment was completely inappropriate.

“I’m sorry Max startled you.”

“I’m fine,” she bit out, too off-kilter to censor her stiff tone.

Before she could gather the nerve to move her heel from his thigh, he folded up the hem of her skirt. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing,” she said, embarrassed by the attention and her clumsiness.

With a slow move, he set her foot on the ground and rose.

Good Lord, he’s tall
, she thought as she followed his movements. Her gaze was in line with the top of his shoulder.

Bending, he swiped her leather bag from the ground and held it in his hand, then bent his other arm, his gaze steady on her.

The directness of it challenged her in a way she didn’t understand.

She slipped her hand into the corner of his elbow.

“Can’t have you falling again.”

“I should have worn more sensible shoes. The dog surprised me.”

“You look appropriately…businesslike.” An eyebrow quirked. “Are you applying for the hospitality manager position?”

She was tempted to deny it, sure she hadn’t made the best first impression, but couldn’t think of another excuse for her presence. “I had hoped to speak to whoever’s doin’ the hiring.”

“Then you’re in luck. That’s me.”

“You?” Her startled glance shot up to his face.

“As this will be my home, I want to personally interview everyone I employ.”

Home? Dismay tightened her stomach. He wasn’t fixing up the place to sell or to hand off to someone else to manage? He planned to live here?

While her mind whirled, she followed Boone Benoit as he led her up the stairs to the wide porch that surrounded the house and opened one of a pair of dark teak doors at the entrance. He stood aside while allowing her to enter.

She brushed past, aware of the narrow space he made, acutely conscious of the heat radiating from his body and his appealing scent, a mixture of cinnamon and musk.

After he closed the door, he touched her elbow, guiding her to the left of the large tiled foyer, through an empty dining area and into the kitchen.

Renovation had already been completed there. She glanced upward at a copper punched-tile ceiling. The cabinets were mahogany, the counters a charcoal-gray marble infused with hints of copper. Black and white tiles covered the floors. “It’s lovely.”