Just Fooling Around: Darcy's Dark Day/Reg's Rescue\Cam's Catastrophe/Devon's Dilemma (13 page)

For some reason, though, she didn’t leave.

“Franklin?” the clerk was saying as she tapped on her computer. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Franklin, but we don’t seem to have a reservation for you.”

R
EG STARED AT THE WOMAN
behind the counter. “Could you repeat that?”

“I said we don’t have a reservation for Franklin. I’m sorry. Could I get your confirmation number?”

He clenched his fists at his sides, mentally kicking himself for not having the earlier girl write it down or print him a receipt. “I don’t have one.”

She looked at him as if he were something she’d scraped off her shoe. “I see. One moment.”

She started to type, and he leaned against the counter, as if proximity would result in a room. Beside him, Anne stood frowning.

“I was here earlier. I talked to a woman standing right where you are now. She said my room would be ready at eleven. Your people checked my bag.”

The girl’s brow lifted, as if that somehow made him legitimate. “Can I see the bellman’s receipt?”

“Of course,” he said, relieved that this was going to get all worked out. He fumbled in his pocket, came up with a few scraps of paper, a dollar coin and a paperclip, but didn’t find the bell ticket. “Damn.”

The clerk’s eyes rose. “Are you sure you’re in the right hotel?”

He bit back a particularly nasty curse, then calmed when Anne’s hand pressed softly on his forearm. “You know what this is,” she said. “Why don’t you stay the night at my house? By tomorrow, I bet your hotel situation will be all worked out.”

“I don’t know,” he said. Already her nearness was messing with his head, not to mention his body. He’d never wanted to cut her out of his life. Hell, for many of the past years, he’d been trying to end this curse, not for the family good, but for her. Because he wanted her so desperately.

So desperately, in fact, that he’d gone all the way to England to escape the desire.

And yet here she was and here he was, and if anyone should realize it, a Franklin should know that you can never escape Fate. If something is meant to be, then it simply is.

Once upon a time, he’d thought that he and Anne were meant to be, and seeing her now, he still thought so.

What he didn’t know how to do was reconcile his need to keep her safe with his need to touch her, to make love to her, to have her once again in his arms and in his bed.

Dammit all, he was a wreck.

“Reg.” She was tugging on his arm, her fingers slipping down and twining with his as she pulled him away from the counter, the clerk eyeing them both suspiciously. Reg barely noticed the clerk’s confused looks, though. All he could think about—all he could feel—was Anne’s fingers pressed soft against his.

“Anne.”
Her name came out raw and desperate, which was exactly how he felt, but he wished it weren’t so obvious. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” Her eyes were wide and guileless. “You need a place, and my house is huge. And unlike a hotel, if you break something expensive, I’ll understand it’s because of the curse. I doubt the manager here would be so accommodating.”

Her words made him grin, her easy acceptance of this curse that he had to bear making him feel normal. More than that, making him feel like he could beat it.

He knew better, though. This was April first, and that meant if she was with him, she wasn’t safe, either.

He should leave her now and follow this lead by himself. He should stand right there and very firmly state that this was his problem, and his alone.

But he didn’t have the strength. Now that he saw her again—now that he’d touched her again—he couldn’t walk away.

Selfish, but he had to have at least a few more moments with her.

A few more moments, and, maybe, if they broke this curse, if she still wanted it, just maybe those moments could grow into a lifetime.

And if they didn’t break it?

Well, then at least he would have those precious minutes to add to his memories of Anne.

“Reg,” she said, her voice taking on a firm, no-nonsense tone. “You need to come with me. You’re exhausted. When was the last time you slept?”

“I can’t sleep,” he countered. “I need answers.”

“You do. But you’re not going to find them in a hotel.” Her fingers tightened on his. “Please. Let me take you home.”

Hope flowed over him, because this was what he
wanted, and what he couldn’t have unless the curse was abated. He wanted to push back the hope, and Anne along with it. Because hadn’t he thought he could beat it before? And hadn’t he failed?

Today, though…

Today, for the first time, he had a lead that felt right.
The amulet.

And if it really was the solution…if Anne really did still want him…

“Reg?” she pressed.

Maybe it was a mistake. He didn’t know. All he knew was that he couldn’t stand walking away from her again now that she was beside him. Whatever else he did today, he was going to end this damn curse.

He was going to end it, and he was going to win back the woman he had never stopped loving.

P
ROFESSOR
R
EGINALD
Franklin, the esteemed archeologist currently drawing a paycheck from the illustrious Oxford University in jolly old England, sucked on his knuckle while he slept.

It wasn’t as cute as if he actually sucked his thumb, but Anne thought the habit was absolutely charming. She’d forgotten about it, but seeing him now, leaning against the window of her Camry, his knuckle pressed against his mouth, her heart did a little flip-flop as she thought about all those nights she hadn’t seen him. Enough nights lost to give her sufficient time to forget.

She hadn’t wanted to forget, and once upon a time, she hadn’t believed forgetting was possible. She loved this man; how could any detail of him ever escape her memory?

It wouldn’t again,
she vowed. This time, she was keeping him.

If she had to prowl the seedy sections of the city and find herself a voodoo priestess to simply overpower the old curse, then she would. Or put a curse on her. He could hardly tell her she was safer without him if she was cursed on April first, too.

Something,
anything,
to keep him with her. Because now that he was there beside her again, there was no way she was letting him go.

The drive to her house was short—the Garden District was only a few miles from the French Quarter—but she took the long way simply so that he could get a few more minutes of sleep. She considered driving for hours, but she knew he wouldn’t appreciate it. He had a lead, and he wanted to follow it.

She approached her house from the side street, then pulled around, up her driveway, and came to a halt under the
porte cochiere
. He woke up the moment she killed the engine, just as she’d expected he would. Just as she always remembered he had.

“Come on,” she said. “I’d tell you to grab your luggage, but…”

He narrowed his eyes. “Thanks for reminding me.”

The house had been restored in stunning detail by a distant cousin who’d accepted a job offer in California. Fortunately, the building hadn’t suffered any serious damage during Hurricane Katrina. Unfortunately, the cousin had never gotten around to buying period furniture. So Anne had moved into a fabulously restored house with Wal-Mart furniture.

“It’s beautiful,” Reg said, glancing around the
parlor. She tried to see it through his eyes—the hard wood, the mullioned windows, the crystal chandelier. If the card table by the door bothered him, he didn’t let on.

“It is,” she agreed. “And it’ll get even better. My hobby lately is to look for period pieces. That’s one of the reasons Jean Michel and I have kept in touch.”

He looked at her. “One of the reasons?”

Heat flooded her cheeks, and she told herself she had no reason to be embarrassed. The way she felt about Reg wasn’t a secret. It was a hard reality that they’d both had trouble living with. “We also talk about you,” she said. “He called me because of the amulet. Because he knows that I want to find an end to the curse.”

“Want?” he repeated, taking a step toward her, the air between them seeming to crackle as he moved. “Not
wanted?
” His lips curved, and she saw both victory and sadness in his eyes. “As an English professor, you should know the value of accuracy. Of making sure you’re speaking in the correct tense.”

“I do,” she said, her words coming out in a breathless whisper.

Another step toward her. She held her ground, forcing herself not to retreat. “And you still want to solve the curse? After everything I’ve put you through?”

Maybe she shouldn’t. Maybe she was a fool for wanting him so badly even now that he’d made it clear that there was only one set of conditions by which he would have her. But she couldn’t help it. She did. She had. And she always would.

She didn’t need to speak; she could tell that he saw her answer in her eyes.

Slowly, he reached out and brushed her cheek, and it was only when he did that she realized that she was crying. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m a mess.”

“Only because I made you one,” he said, taking a step toward her. “I’d understand if you hate me.”

“Sometimes I want to,” she admitted. “But no. I don’t hate you.”
Far from it.

“Anne.” His voice was thick with need, and she didn’t protest when he slid his hand along the back of her neck, or when he leaned in close. Not even when his lips touched hers.

He tasted like her memories, decadent and sweet, erotic and safe.

Safe.
Wasn’t that ironic? A man living under a curse—a man who’d broken her heart—and yet it was in his arms that she felt the safest she’d ever felt.

At the moment though, she didn’t care about irony or curses. She cared only for his lips, firm and demanding, upon her own. His tongue, sweeping inside her mouth, pulling her in, as if he wanted to consume her, to do battle with her, and leave them both gasping for breath in the heat of the aftermath.

She curled her arms around him, pulling him closer, needing him closer. More than that, simply
needing
him. She felt his muscles beneath his shirt, taut and ready, like a man holding back. And although she wanted him to let go, she also knew what he was fighting—desire versus duty.

And if she knew Reg, duty would win.

Regretfully, she pulled back, breaking the kiss. “Later,” she said. “After we call Libby.”

He eyed her thoughtfully, then nodded and pulled out
his cell phone. “Battery’s dead,” he said, then rolled his eyes. “April first.”

She passed him her phone, and he dialed the number, then sat silently for a moment, his eyes on her and the phone pressed to his ear. After a moment, he left a name and number on Libby’s answering machine and asked her to call back at her earliest convenience. Then he passed the phone back to Anne, their fingers brushing with the transfer, and the contact sending an electric current dancing up her arm.

“Now we wait,” he said, moving closer. “And I think I know the perfect way to pass the time.”

R
EG HELD HIS BREATH
,
knowing that he was being bold, acting only on his own desires and what he hoped—
prayed
—that he saw in Anne’s eyes.

She had every right to shoot him down, every right to tell him to take a fast train to a hot hell, but he really hoped she wouldn’t.

And then, as if he were a better man than he was—a man who deserved good things, a man who wasn’t cursed this particular day—she stepped closer to him, her expression glowing and her eyes defiant, yet at the same time soft with expectation. “What?” she whispered. “What can we do to pass the time?”

There was no invitation in her words. But in her tone…

Oh, dear Lord, her tone held both an invitation and a demand, and Reg accepted both gratefully. Helplessly. With a desperation borne of three long years apart.

“Anne,” he whispered, his voice raw as he took her hand and pulled her close. “Dear God, Anne.”

She didn’t answer, instead tilting her head up to look at him as a wisp of a smile touched her lips. “No curse,” she whispered. “The opposite, I think. You’re here, aren’t you?”

His heart twisted with the words, and with the knowl
edge of all the time they’d been apart because of the curse. Right then, though, she was right. At that moment, they were together, and there was no bad luck pushing them apart. It was just Anne and Reg and a passion between them he’d known he would never forget, but hadn’t believed he would ever experience again.

“Thank God I came,” he said.

She laughed, apparently delighted by the desperation in his voice. “We’ll send Jean Michel a thank-you gift.”

“Hell, yes. We’ll buy him a small country.”

“Reg?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

That was one idea with which he wasn’t about to argue, and he pulled her close, his palm cupping her face as his lips closed over hers. She tasted as he remembered, as he’d known she would, like mint and coffee, and the memory fired his senses as much as her touch did. His body was tight with need, desperate to rekindle what they’d had and, more than that, to make it grow. To make it fresh and new.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, meaning every word. Her dark hair and dark eyes fit the house like an exotic ornament. Her skin, so light it was almost translucent, gave her an ethereal quality and hid a bone-deep strength of conviction that he admired—and that had often flummoxed him.

“God, Reg, I’ve missed you. I…I want—”

“So do I,” he said, then saw the devious curve of her lips, as her hand slid down his back, then around his hips to cup his firm erection.

“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.

H
ER 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.”