The Seducer

“You can see it from here,” she murmured.

His eyes were studying the tilt of her nose and her wide, deep-set, sea-green eyes. “See what?”

“Castle O’Lannaise.”

He looked to the distance where hot sun glanced off a dazzling white adobe compound. He couldn’t make out all the structures, but a square, crenelated watchtower was visible, its arched cloisters leading onto iron-railed balconies.

“You can’t tell from here, Ned,” she explained, looking away from the estate long enough to capture Rex’s gaze, “but Castle O’Lannaise was inspired by colonial Argentinian architecture. A square, columned walkway surrounds the main house, and the roofs are of red tile.”

“Impressive.”

She nodded. “Near the main house, there’s an equestrian breeding lodge with a red brick floor and domed ceiling.”

It was a long shot, but it took big money to buy such a place, so Rex started thinking of his father’s ties to gangsters in Hell’s Kitchen and Chinatown. Maybe the owner was someone Augustus had arrested in the past. Or maybe Castle O’Lannaise was otherwise connected to Augustus’s disappearance. But how? “Who owns it?”

Pansy shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

“Who’s the Realtor?”

“Me. But the property’s handled by a law firm, and it’s been listed awhile. Various people have owned it over the years. Celebrities. Even a past president. An oil sheikh.” Pansy sighed before pragmatically announcing, “It’s haunted. That’s why no one stays.”

Despite her seriousness, Rex laughed. “Haunted?”

Tilting her chin and gazing at him from under lowered eyelids, she sent him what, in the old West, used to be called a thousand-yard stare. “You won’t be laughing when you run into my ghost in the dunes,” she warned archly.

He smiled playfully. “You really believe in ghosts?”

“This particular one? Absolutely.”

He released another soft chuckle. “Why am I beginning to think there’s a story in here somewhere?”

“Because there is.” She paused a beat, building anticipatory tension. “The house was built by a Frenchman,” she began. “Named Jacques O’Lannaise.” When she chuckled, the sound was as delicate to Rex’s ears as glass bells. “If that was his real name.”

“The man happened to be in disguise, huh?” At least Rex had that much in common with the ghost of whom Pansy was so fond.

“It was rumored he was running from the law.”

“A runner? I guess he was a jock as well as a Jacques.”

Pansy giggled in spite of herself, then flatly said, “Mr. Nelson, that is the worst play on words I’ve ever heard.”

He offered a look of mock concern. “You seem very attached to your ghost,” he teased. “You seemed like such a nice woman, Pansy, but now I can see you’re drawn to the criminal element.”

A barely suppressed peal of laughter shook her shoulders. “Only in the case of Jacques O’Lannaise,” she vowed solemnly.

“He must have been—” flicking his eyes over a face growing flushed with excitement, Rex had a sneaking suspicion that a few of Pansy’s erotic fantasies had been inspired by Jacques “—quite something with the ladies.”

“So they said,” she murmured, her voice lapsing into dreamy cadences that lulled Rex like a ship on a rolling sea. “Right before the war of eighteen twelve a great-grandmother of ours—”

“Ours?” Rex interjected curiously.

“I was thinking of my two sisters, Lily and Violet.”

Hanley sisters? This was getting more interesting by the minute. Apparently whimsy ran in the family. “You’re all named after flowers?”

She nodded. “As was the ancestor I was about to mention.”

Despite all the worry of the past few days, Rex was starting to enjoy himself. “Peony? Daisy? Poppy?”

“Iris,” Pansy clarified. “In eighteen ten, Iris sailed from Seduction Island—then called Storm Island, by the way—to the city of New Orleans, where wealthy cousins waited to introduce her to Southern gentleman suitors.”

“Because only crusty sailors inhabited Storm Island?” guessed Rex. “Ones with salty tongues who’d make better mates for serving wenches slinging ale in the local taverns?”

“Exactly.” Pansy squinted playfully. “Are you sure you haven’t taken one of the Hanley sisters’ famous tours before?”

She’d mentioned she offered tours on Saturdays. “Never,” he vowed.

He barely registered what she said next, only reacted to the magical, tinkling lilt of her voice. “The Destiny—that was Iris’s ship—”

“Funny,” he murmured. “That’s the same name as the boat you saw explode.”

Unfortunately, Pansy didn’t want to explore the connection at the moment. “Yes,” she continued. “It’s an odd coincidence. Anyway, they’d almost reached New Orleans when pirates came aboard.” Her voice lowered with a sense of impending threat. “They were after sugar cargo in the lower holds, of course, but they robbed the passengers, too.”

Her lovely sea-green eyes had fixed once more in the distance, on Castle O’Lannaise, and Rex could tell history was coming alive in her imagination. He could taste salt on the air and feel the sea breeze on his cheeks and hear the rustle of the ladies’ long skirts and lace petticoats. “And?” he prompted.

“Well—” Pansy’s voice sharpened, taking on a strangely rehearsed quality that, despite the dreamy tone, told Rex she’d honed this story over many retellings. “One pirate, in particular, took a liking to Iris. Now,” she paused, “you have to imagine this fellow.”

“Do I?” murmured Rex.

“Yes. He was tall, over six feet, and wearing tight black breeches, black boots and a loose white shirt with ruffled cuffs that was laced by crisscrossed leather. A belt circled his waist, and a long, weathered leather sheath hung from it. Sunlight glinted on the sharp silver blade of his sword, temporarily blinding Iris as he thrust it into the sheath.”

“Very dramatic,” Rex assured.

Turning her head slightly, Pansy leveled Rex with a stare. “Iris squinted,” she continued. “Which is why she didn’t see it coming.”

Sucked in by the story, Rex murmured, “See what coming?”

A slow smile stretched Pansy’s lips. “The kiss.”

Talking about kisses with Pansy was more unsettling than it should have been, and Rex tried to look less curious than he was. “This pirate, this stranger—he kissed Iris?”

Pansy’s cheeks flushed with such deep color that she, not Iris, could have been the recipient of the man’s bold move. “He stepped right up to her, wrapped his arms around her waist, hauled her to him and kissed her soundly.”

Clearly, Pansy had imagined all this in great detail. If Iris had looked anything like Pansy, Rex thought, he thoroughly understood the piratical impulse. “Go on.”

“Later,” she continued, her tone conspiratorial, “it was rumored that the pirate was a brother of Jean and Pierre Lafitte, and that he came North in eighteen twenty when his brothers fled to Mexico.”

“The plot thickens.”

“Well, keep in mind,” Pansy warned, “that the people who witnessed that kiss said it went on forever. It was so unusual that it ruined Iris for the suitors she was supposed to meet in New Orleans, and the cousins had to send her back to Storm Island unmarried. After that—” Pansy shook her head in censure. “Iris,” she clarified, “wouldn’t even go on any more dates.”

“And Storm Island was renamed Seduction Island?”

“Correct.”

Rex had become thoroughly mesmerized by the way Pansy’s mouth moved. Up, down. Back, forth. Puckered, slack. Any way he looked at it, he wanted to feel it on his. “Must have been some kiss.”

“Even after Iris returned home,” emphasized Pansy, “she continued turning men down.”

“Given that they kept trying, she must have been beautiful.”

“She was.”

“Runs in the family.”

“Thanks,” she said distractedly, her eyes on Castle O’Lannaise. Rex sighed again, cursing the moment he’d worn clothes intentionally calculated to undercut his male prowess. Pansy hadn’t even registered Rex was a man, not a mistake she’d make if he was shirtless, wigless and wearing jeans. “So, what happened?”

“Years passed. And then a mysterious Frenchman arrived and built Castle O’Lannaise. He meant to open it as a resort, catering to the wealthy. Just a month before he did, he tried to claim Iris. Her father correctly suspected this was the pirate who’d kissed her aboard the Destiny, a man made rich by the ill-gotten spoils of war, and so Iris was forbidden to see Jacques, despite the fact that her marriage prospects were dim.”

“Dim?”

“By this time, she was twenty-seven.”

“Ancient,” Rex commiserated. The rapture on Pansy’s face was warming his blood, as was the naked desire in her eyes. No doubt about it, Pansy dreamed of being kissed with a passion capable of ruining her for all other men. In fact, if the hunger in those sea-green eyes was any indication, she craved more than a mere kiss. Rex found himself wondering just how many lovers she’d had. “Surely people so…so aroused by each other had to meet eventually, didn’t they, Pansy?”

“In the dunes,” she returned, her eyes glazed. “They wrote to each other, too. We still have their letters.”

“They survived all these years?”

She shrugged. “We Hanleys preserve our heritage.”

Intrigued, Rex visualized heavy cream paper and calligraphic letters written with a quilled pen. What would two people so in love say to each other? “Do Hanleys let outsiders read them?”

Looking as if she’d just come back to earth, Pansy laughed softly, her eyes glinting flirtatiously. “Sometimes.”

“What’s the price of admission?”

When she paused, he wondered if she was thinking of that kiss like fire again. “I’ll be happy to let you see them.”

He figured there wasn’t much hope in arranging a tryst of their own, not while he was in this getup. She was obviously interested in him, but only as a friend. “So, how does the story end?”

“Badly, I’m afraid.” Pansy’s lips pursed grimly. “That summer, just as a storm hit, Jacques O’Lannaise was waiting for an answer to his marriage proposal. You have to understand that he was a man out of his element. He was far from New Orleans, farther still from his native France. He’d never really wanted to be a pirate anyway, but he’d done whatever was necessary to survive. Until the day he saw Iris.”

“Ah. Love changed him?”

“Completely. For hours, he stood in the watchtower, a wild wind blowing around him, hoping to see Iris riding her mare through the dunes. He didn’t know her father had evacuated the family, hoping to reach the mainland. The letter of explanation she wrote never reached him. We still have it today.”

“But when the family got back…”

Pansy shook her head, sadness coming into her eyes. “They were swept out to sea.”

Hardly the happy ending Rex expected. “She died?”

“Jacques never opened the resort. From the watchtower, he cursed this island, and ever since, we’ve been hit by the worst storms in this part of the Atlantic. It’s so bad we rarely get many tourists.”

“So, Jacques O’Lannaise still haunts the dunes, hoping Iris will return?”

“Yep.” Tucking her chin, she surveyed him from under half-lidded eyes, and Rex reminded himself she’d been feeding him standard tourist fare. This was probably what she said, verbatim, on Saturday tours. No doubt, she mesmerized guests. She said, “I guess every town in America has a resident ghost.”

But not every ghost was loved by a woman as tantalizing as Pansy. She’d caught Rex in her spell, weaving a story of love, loss and mysticism he was powerless to resist.

Her throaty voice sounded ripe for seduction. “So, if you meet a dark, swarthy man in the dunes, or see shadows in the windows of Castle O’Lannaise, you’ll know who it is.”

Rex lowered his voice and asked in the same seductive tone, “Have you seen him, personally?”

“I’ll never tell.” Her smile deepened. “You’ll have to join one of our tours. Vi books guests, Lily drives the bus and I give the spiel about the island’s history.”

“You do a good job.” Before this moment, hardened cop Rex Steele had never imagined he could be jealous of a ghost.

“We depart from the south dock every two hours on Saturdays, beginning at eight a.m.”

“It’s not a full-time business?”

She shook her head regretfully. “I wish. But there are too many storms here. Not enough tourists.”

In a flash fantasy, he imagined himself taking the tour twice—once as innocuous Ned Nelson and then as dark, swarthy Rex Steele, who he suspected might bear a passing resemblance to Jacques O’Lannaise. Rex was raven-haired, anyway. “I’ll be sure to sign up at some point.”

“It’s so hot,” she apologized once more, changing the subject. “I’m really sorry I forgot to turn on the AC.”

He pressed his ice-chilled glass to her bare arm. Offering an enticing shiver, she said, “Thanks.”

Thank you, he thought, noticing how her nipples beaded against the white top. She didn’t even register the effect on him. He grimaced. Why would a woman worry about how effeminate, sensitive Ned Nelson would react to her arousal? Hell, Pansy probably figured she could strut around Casa Eldora stark naked without bringing out the animal in Ned.

She was wrong. Rex was far too aware of her. And of the couch not two feet away. He imagined stripping off her clothes, setting her on the cushions, thrusting inside her. Her scent, stirred by stifling summer heat, stole his breath and filled the room. His groin suddenly ached, pulling with pangs of want.

All the while, Rex didn’t register on her radar. By wearing the costume calculated to throw Judith Hunt off the scent, he’d become the exact opposite of Pansy’s dream lover. While she stared into the distance, oblivious, he was imagining making love to her again, this time hard and fast on the sand of the dunes. Maybe he’d drag her into the wild surf, letting the hot waves drench her.

He wondered what she’d look like in a bikini.

Then a wet white bikini.

Then naked.

Somehow, he already knew how the slow slide of his hands on her thighs would feel, how touches of her breath would stir hairs at his nape, how he’d burn with need for her.

She glanced at her watch. “Well, it’s been nice to meet you, Ned, but I’d really better go. Oh,” she added in afterthought, “speaking of summer storms. Tomorrow night there’s a town meeting. My sister Lily’s on the council with a man named Lou Fairchild. Once a week, they go over safety precautions for guests. You know…how to stay out of the undertow. Evacuation procedures in case of storms. We suggest that everyone come.”

“Storms, evacuations,” he teased. “You sure know how to show a guy a good time.”

“You’d be surprised,” she quipped.

“I like surprises.”

She merely smiled, not nearly as affected by the flirtation as he would have liked. “We’ve found a damaged letter from the New York lottery board, and since we can’t make out who it’s addressed to, we’ll be asking someone to claim it. Someone on the island won fifteen million dollars, so it’ll be interesting to see who.”

Rex tried not to react, knowing it was for him. “The letter was damaged?”

Her eyes sparkled with humor as she sized up Rex, then decided to share. “The truth is, my sister Vi’s a mail carrier, and she spilled a soda into the mailbag. She can be a bit of a klutz, and we’re afraid if she ruins anymore mail, she’ll be fired. So we’re going to pretend I found the letter.”

Looking at her, Rex found himself thinking of her fantasy life again, one in which he suspected she allowed herself to be plundered by a pirate. Then he wondered how he was going to claim the letter without alerting Judith Hunt to the fact he’d remained on the island. If he claimed the letter as Ned Nelson, that would also bring unwanted attention his way. He’d prefer to retrieve the letter anonymously.

Pansy was frowning. “There were forms from the lottery board for the winner to fill out.”

“What if no one claims it?”

“We’ll post it.”

That was a relief. “Where?”

“The grocery store or the post office. We’ll announce the location at the meeting. Can you imagine that much money?”

Unfortunately, yes. When he thought of what his father had supposedly stolen, Rex hardly wanted to. And when he thought of the lottery, unexpected anger burrowed under his skin, especially when Pansy’s eyes returned to Castle O’Lannaise. He hated to think money could buy a woman’s happiness, but there was no doubt Pansy was in love with the castle and Jacques O’Lannaise. For a brief second, he felt jealous. But that was crazy! Was he really threatened by a man who didn’t even exist? A ghost who haunted an old equestrian estate? “Ah,” he suddenly guessed. “You’re hoping to find a buyer for your castle, aren’t you?”

Color rose on her cheeks. “Am I so transparent?”

“Maybe,” he admitted. With one look, Rex felt he’d known her for years. Even more, she’d unwittingly challenged him to give her what she most craved—a castle. Or better yet, a kiss of fire. She was so…original. So unlike city women. Her island paradise was completely different from Manhattan, the only home he’d ever known. He thought of summers there, the baking heat on the sidewalks, the short tempers, the power outages. He was always glad to escape. Could Pansy be the woman he’d fantasized meeting year after year?

Coming back to the issue at hand, he decided Judith Hunt probably wouldn’t attend the council meeting. He’d go and at least find out where the Hanleys meant to post the letter. Preoccupied, he barely noticed Pansy had left his side and set her glass down. She was leafing through some sketches in a portfolio beside the couch.

“These are beautiful,” she murmured.

Something fierce and protective kicked in when Rex realized what she was doing, and he braced himself for criticism, but Pansy only continued going through the landscape drawings from his last vacation. Somewhere in the far reaches of his mind, he could hear his father saying, “Punch me again. You’ve got to prove you’re a man. You keep drawing pictures and the boys downtown are gonna call you a sissy.”

She said, “You’re good.”

Easy laughter masked his watchfulness. “Tour guide, Realtor, art critic…what next?”

“Most people in my family draw,” Pansy explained, glancing through the window at the beach. “It comes with growing up on an island, I guess. People get bored. Iris even sketched Jacques O’Lannaise.”

“Ah. So, you know what your pirate looks like.”

Color stained her cheeks. “He’s not my pirate,” she defended.

Rex grinned. “Are you sure?”

Her chuckle floated into his blood. “I admit,” she countered, “Jacques has captured my imagination for years.”

“Pansy,” Rex returned, “you’re a fascinating woman.”

He wished more than the light of new friendship was sparking in her eyes. She shrugged. “I’ve had a few fantasies about this pirate, okay? Just don’t tell anyone.”

He held out a hand, and they shook on it. Her touch sent tingles up his arm. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

She surveyed him. “Do you have any secrets?”

Innocuous Ned Nelson? He laughed. “Are you kidding?”

She grinned. “I guess you wouldn’t,” she said, reacting to his honest looks and turning back to the drawings. “So I’ll just have to trust you to keep mine. They’re good,” she offered again. “You’re…”

The lie he’d told Judith Hunt rolled easily from his tongue. “An architect.”

“From talking to you on the phone, I should have guessed it was something artistic. That explains the drawing skills. And you like to read, too.” She lifted a book. “Poetry?”

He ignored the urge to defend himself, but she was looking at him as if he was a highly unusual male specimen. Why couldn’t men enjoy poetry without feeling like effete intellectuals? Rex wanted to let her in—more than he ever had anyone at first meeting—but he didn’t like exposing a self he usually kept from prying eyes, except on these month-long summer sojourns. “Yeah,” he finally said, “I like poetry.”

“Me, too.”

Surprisingly, another few moments of conversation passed, during which they traded favorite authors. Then she said, “If you like poetry, you really might appreciate Iris’s letters.” She paused. “Most men don’t. Like poetry, I mean.”

There it was again. Most men. Once more, he was conscious of being in the wig, the oversize clothes, with his damn cheeks puffed out and a ridiculous pair of glasses sliding down his nose. His father’s rough voice ghosted through his mind. Harder, Rex. You’ve got to pound the other guy, let him know you’re a man. “What do most men like?” he taunted softly. “Guzzling beer and belching while rooting for sports teams?”

Looking genuinely delighted, she laughed. “No brothers, so I really couldn’t say.”

His eyes narrowed, and his voice turned husky. “What about lovers?”

Surprised, she quickly recovered. “Only Jacques O’Lannaise,” she quipped, and from the guilty light of pleasure in her eyes, Rex couldn’t help but surmise how satisfying the fantasies had been for her. After a moment, she amended her words, saying she’d had some long-term boyfriends but no one serious. When she glanced at her watch again, Rex had the sudden, primal urge to haul her off her feet and drag her to a bedroom, a place where he damn well knew he excelled. “Sorry,” she murmured. “I’d better go.”

Stay. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

His eyes were hot on hers as he placed a hand beneath her elbow, lifted her jacket from a wall peg and guided her to the door. The room had cooled, and as they stepped into a rippling wave of heat, she reacted once more, her shiver making him imagine it coming on a sigh of pleasure.

“Don’t forget to come to the town meeting, Ned,” she said when they reached her black compact car.

She smiled as he opened a door that had absorbed heat like a conductor. As she got in, her hem rose, and his breathing shallowed at the flash of a bare, slender, long-boned thigh. “You could fry eggs on the car,” he said.

“Trying to get a breakfast invitation?”

He laughed. “Am I so transparent?” he asked, echoing her earlier words. Before she could answer, he said, “If I don’t see you at the town meeting, we’ll hook up at the bonfire afterward, Pansy.”

He closed the door, and as she started the car, she powered down the window. “I could show you the inside of Castle O’Lannaise,” she offered. “It’s not on our tour. It’s got a locked gate, but I can let you in.”

“I’ll need you along,” he said, “to protect me from your ghost. If he sees you with another man, he might get jealous.”

She smiled. “Of course.”

“And Iris’s letters,” he reminded.

“It’s not just a bonfire,” she returned, a barely noticeable hitch in her voice. “There’s a dance on the beach with music. We have one every week. My sisters and I always go. I’ll know more about my schedule then. We’ll arrange a time for you to read the letters.”

He tried to ignore the friendly warmth of her gaze, a warmth that couldn’t begin to answer the hotter, darker things she’d been inspiring since she walked into Casa Eldora. The edgy eroticism, wrought by her unconscious challenge to his masculinity, was the worst. He was definitely a man, and he’d like nothing more than to apprise Pansy Hanley of that fact. As far as he was concerned, she was lucky to get out of here with her clothes on. He said, “I’ll enjoy seeing you again.” What an understatement.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.