Sweet Revenge (Full-length romantic suspense novel, New Orleans Trilogy book 2) Read online

That was the one objection she hadn't anticipated. She'd assumed his reluctance was due to his hypersensitivity over being touched. But the possibilities contained in his somber question were legion. And a bit unnerving.

  "Of course I will."

  He continued to study her, and she could almost hear the war roiling behind those brooding eyes.

  "Why? Is your tattoo a dirty word?"

  That earned a quirk of his lips. "No, nothin' like that."

  "Well, then."

  He let out a little sigh. "All right. Tout quoi ti veux. Whatever you wish."

  His weak smile reached only about halfway to his eyes, but before that could register, he rolled off her and onto his feet beside the bed. In a few swift, efficient movements, his jeans and BVDs were lying on the floor. To her relief, other than a somewhat diminished arousal, everything looked normal.

  Well, normal wasn't really the right word. More like magnificent.

  Muscular athlete's thighs were covered with a light dusting of curly black hair, a lean washboard stomach peeked out from beneath the bunched-up hem of his T-shirt. And in between stood a stunningly large—

  She felt herself blush furiously. She wasn't in the habit of ogling naked male—naked men. Regardless of how stunning they were. But to save her life she couldn't tear her eyes away from his—from him.

  "Don't see a problem so far," she managed to choke out.

  With just a fraction of a second's hesitation, he tugged off his T-shirt.

  Sitting up, she gasped. "Oh, Auri! He's beautiful!"

  Creole's tattoo wasn't a dirty word, or a word at all. It was an alligator—and beautiful didn't come close. He was almost as magnificent as the man carrying him.

  Sprawled across Creole's broad shoulders like a scaly fox stole, the ornate blue beast stretched from one corded biceps to the other. Its mouth gaped wide at the ball of Creole's right shoulder, showing an impressive array of teeth. Like a protecting dragon, it was poised to strike at whomever dared threaten his flesh-and-blood master. Its clawed feet were planted firmly by his clavicles. The monster's tail curled around his other biceps like a Celtic bracelet, ending in the pointed tip she'd seen under his sleeve at the café the other morning.

  Grace rose on her knees and moved closer, admiring the intricate, artistic lines that made up the tattoo.

  "I've never seen anything like it," she marveled. "It's so primitive, yet…"

  "It's Maori. At least the artist was. Is. Friend of mine from way back. He designed them specially for me and—"

  His words cut off, and he looked suddenly pale.

  "For you and Luke," she completed, realizing now why Luke's shoulders had seemed especially bruised on the video. It must have been the blue of his matching tattoo showing through.

  "Yeah."

  "Come here," she whispered, holding out her arms to him.

  Joy coursed through her when he put his knee on the bed and came to her, enveloping her in his embrace, pulling her tight to his chest. She was careful, so careful, not to run her hands up and down his back as she so wanted to do. She kissed him tenderly, loving the soft firmness of his lips, the spicy taste of him, even the bitter tang of smoke that clung to his tongue.

  "Turn around," she whispered, wanting to see all of him, using the tattoo as a good excuse. "Let me see the rest of it."

  His mouth opened, then closed. He nodded. Taking a step back from her, he turned.

  "Ohhh, baby, it's so realistic! I can almost—"

  Suddenly the breath halted dead in her lungs, ambushed by a strangling sensation in her throat, so painful she wanted to cry out. But she couldn't find the air or voice.

  The top of his back was covered with horrible scars.

  The tattooed scales of the alligator's body did a creditable job of disguising them, but there was no hiding the pits and ridges of the dozen and more round scars branded into Creole's skin.

  Cigarette burns. Old ones, by the look of them.

  Tears sprang to her eyes and squeezed past her lashes before she could stop them. An anguished cry sobbed out from her constricted throat. "Oh, my God, Auri."

  She twined her arms about his waist and pulled him back to her. Standing on her knees, she held him tight, and laid her damp cheek to the worst of them. Salty tears trickled down her face, spreading over the puckered scars as she tried to kiss away the evidence of the very worst of humanity.

  A long sigh shuddered through his body. "Chère, don't. It's okay."

  "No, it's not okay."

  "It was a long time ago."

  "And you're still suffering."

  He turned in her arms and gazed down at her, taking her wet cheeks between his hands. "No."

  "But not with me. Not tonight," she said in a quavering whisper, ignoring the denial they both knew was a lie. Praying she could make it true, if only for a little while.

  Some of the darkness in his eyes disappeared. The beginnings of a genuine smile softened his mouth. "No, not with you, ma coeur."

  He lowered her down onto the bed. But before he could get comfortable, she rolled him onto his back beneath her.

  "Grace—"

  "Do you trust me?"

  After a short pause he whispered, "I trust you."

  At the quiet confession, his face swam before her, surrounded by an unfocused kaleidoscope of shiny pink.

  "Let me love you," she murmured, echoing his words from the night before. "Let me touch you, in ways I know you like."

  His tongue swiped over his lips. Reaching up, he skimmed the tears from her lashes with his thumbs. "Jolie … I really don' think—"

  "You can tell me to stop anytime."

  The longing that shimmered just below the surface of his eyes burst into a flare of hope, but he still looked as though he wanted to bolt.

  Easing herself from his hold, she raised up to straddle his hips. She bent over, and slowly let her long hair trail across his chest. Down, then up again. He held his breath, following her movements in almost terrified fascination.

  Nothing was going to stop her from touching him. Just as he had done to her. In as many ways as she could think of, without actually using her hands.

  "Have you ever been on the bottom before?"

  His eyes darted to her face, shocked. She smiled. She couldn't believe she'd asked it, either. Totally unlike the prim and proper Grace Summerville she'd been, up until just a few short days ago.

  "No? Just relax," she whispered. "I promise you'll enjoy this."

  Before either of them could change their mind, she leaned over and kissed him, pouring her whole heart and soul into it.

  With her tongue and lips she caressed his mouth, starting shallow, slowly going deeper and deeper. The taste of him spread through her body like a scented breeze in a meadow of wildflowers. Warming. All-encompassing. Filling every nook and cranny of her soul, swirling around her insides like a living, pulsing heat.

  She thrust her tongue far into his mouth, claiming every dark, wet recess for her own. Marking him as hers. Battling with his tongue for possession of their kiss.

  He wrapped his arms around her, enveloping her, and she felt his surrender. He opened himself to her questing, to her thrusts and parries, to her rapt, fluid penetration, allowing her complete liberty. Until they were joined almost as closely as the act they sought to imitate.

  They moaned together, his deep bass hum blending with her higher one in perfect harmony.

  His hands skated down her body. "Ah, chère, you melt me with your kisses."

  She dragged her tongue over his chin and down his throat, lapping at the little hollow below his Adam's apple. He swallowed, and it bobbed against her cheek. But he didn't protest as her mouth continued on its journey over his chest.

  His hands found her breasts, and for a moment she forgot to breathe. His long, strong fingers enveloped them, testing, teasing, plucking at the tips.

  "No fair," she gasped, and touched his flat brown nipple with her tongue.

  With a groan he gr
abbed her head with both hands. And held her there. His nipple swirled tight as a nut as she licked and sucked. His heart pounded fast and furious under it. She switched to the other side and another groan erupted from deep in his lungs.

  Lifting, she brushed her breasts over his chest, his stomach, his abdomen, and lower, drawing out the pleasure for both of them. Her body was on fire, aching to be joined with his. But she wouldn't, not until she had proven to him how incredibly sensual a man he really was. That his body held untold delights to be basked in, not avoided. She moved lower still, eager to taste all of him. Again, his hands shot out and held her fast. This time preventing her from coming any closer.

  "Don' even think about it, chère," he rasped out.

  Inches from her lips, his arousal throbbed to the hammer of his heartbeat.

  "Not that I wouldn'—" He cleared his throat. And again. "Let's save this for another time, non?"

  Understanding, feeling as much on the brink as he, she nodded. His fingers loosened, just enough to allow her to place a kiss on the silken tip.

  Half of her wanted to defy him, to immerse herself in the unexperienced pleasures of knowing a man—this man—so intimately. But the other half knew she'd regret not being with him, holding him deep inside her, when he came apart in her arms.

  "I won't forget, you know."

  "I'm countin' on it."

  She sat up, taking in the sight of him. Reclining on the soft pink satin sheets, backdropped by the ornate iron lace of the headboard and the frilly, feathery Mardi Gras masks on the wall behind it, he should have looked ridiculous. At the very least, out of place. Instead, the feminine trappings only enhanced his formidable masculinity. He looked like a dark, nefarious demigod, come to earth to corrupt the flesh of an innocent maiden. Ironically, it was the maiden herself who was trying her best to seduce the flesh of her corrupter.

  She reached for an elaborate mask, just above the bed. And plucked a feather from it.

  A long, supple, responsive feather.

  His eyes widened. "What do you plan on doin' with that, jolie?"

  She smiled enticingly. "Exactly what you think I'm going to do."

  "Now, honey, no need to go overboard. You've made your point."

  "And what point would that be, baby?" She drew the edge of the feather along his jaw.

  "That I like—" his words choked off as she trailed it down his throat and chest. "—bein' touched," he wheezed out.

  "Hmm," she said, continuing to torment him. Pausing in her ministrations, holding the feather just above his taut nipple, she innocently queried, "You want me to stop?"

  For an explosive second they studied each other. Then in a strangled voice he whispered, "No."

  "Close your eyes," she urged, jubilant. She had won the first hurdle. Now together they could fight to get him over the rest. Given enough time. She pushed aside the bleak knowledge that time was the one thing they did not have. For now she would rejoice in their successes.

  She lowered the feather, and the bead of his nipple twisted to a flint-hard point. Hissing out a gasp, he squeezed his eyes shut in an almost tortured expression of pleasure. She touched the other brown nub, running the serrated edge of the feather over it. A zing of arousal sang through her own breasts at his agonized moan.

  "Do you like that?"

  "Ahhh, yeah."

  So did she. His reaction to her teasing was turning her on incredibly. Notched between her legs where she straddled him, his arousal pulsed hotly, sending waves of desire spiraling low through her belly. The urge to tip forward and take him into her was nearly irresistible. But no, it was too soon. She slid from his thighs and knelt next to him, continuing her delicious torment, avoiding any contact that threatened to put him over the edge.

  "Turn over," she murmured, when he looked ready to jump from his skin with blinding need.

  "No," he groaned. "Pitié. Have mercy, woman. I'm about to explode!"

  "Me, too," she whispered in his ear. "Turn."

  He did, and she instinctively knew he'd forgotten about everything except her and the feather. She touched it to the small of his back and dragged it up, up, his spine, to the cluster of scars that covered his upper back. His whole body shuddered, and he grabbed at the iron curlicues of the headboard. A muffled groan slid out from the pillow where he'd buried his face.

  "Chère—"

  She zigzagged the feather over his whole back, over his buttocks and down his thighs. A cascade of goose bumps followed in its wake, like the notes of a beautiful symphony rising to the beck of the conductor's baton. Then, she touched between his legs.

  Suddenly she was on her back beneath him.

  "Assez! Enough!"

  The feather fluttered slowly to the floor. Just as slowly, quiveringly, he spread her legs and entered her.

  "Je suis en feu," he whispered. "I'm on fire. For you."

  He was long and thick and scaldingly hot. He filled her, languidly, deliberately, seizing every inch she offered, and still he kept pressing in. Farther and farther in he came, until he was so deep inside her she was certain she could feel him touch her very heart.

  He watched her blissful acceptance of his body into her. His eyes never left hers, even when she had to close them for the dazzling pleasure that burst through her. She whimpered, and twined her legs around his waist, seeking more, seeking … more.

  His face was intense, covered in a thin film of sweat, jaw clenched in a furious tension of restraint.

  "Look at me, chère," he commanded, low, rough.

  She opened her eyes, and for several fervent moments they just gazed at each other. Their bodies pulsed to the same heartbeat, breathed the same air, shared the same space. They were one.

  Looking into Creole's black, fathomless eyes, she felt the first tight coil of sensation ripple through her womb. Never had she felt so heavy, so filled, so intoxicated with desire. So ready to splinter at a single word or sign from the man who completed her.

  His hand found hers, and he brought it to his mouth. He kissed the back of it, kissed each of her knuckles in turn, caressed the hollow of her palm with the firm pressure of his lips and tongue.

  Then with fingers trembling against hers, he slid the flat of her hand to his cheek, and held it there.

  Tears pooled in her eyes.

  "Oh, my love," she whispered on a quiet sob. He moved inside her, out then in, filling her whole body with his overwhelming, potent presence. With the raw pleasure of his love. Her muscles tightened unbearably around him. She moaned his name.

  Still, he held her hand to his cheek. "Rest avec moi, mon amour. Stay with me, my love," he groaned. "Stay." He thrust into her again.

  "Yes," she cried out, throwing her other arm around his neck. "Yes!"

  His mouth crashed down on hers, capturing, plundering. Her fingers rested on his cheek, holding, touching, claiming. He was hers! All hers.

  She convulsed around him, unable to keep from shattering. A thousand, million searing sensations ripped through her in a tumult of emotion. With a guttural shout, he joined the tempest, swelling to unbearable proportions, stiffening, erupting in a deluge of molten heat against the very mouth of her womb.

  She held him tight, riding the storm, gathering to her every miracle and texture of their tumultuous fulfillment.

  He was hers, and she would not give him up.

  * * *

  Creole awoke in an instant.

  He wasn't alone.

  Warm curves, pale hair and the scent of sweat-slick female skin engulfed him in a sensual tangle. Grace.

  For a minute he was completely distracted by the lithe limbs and plump breasts that pressed into him as he lay over her, clutching her possessively to his chest in slumber even as he had held her in the throes of passion.

  Then he heard it again. A soft click from the other side of the bedroom door.

  They weren't alone.

  He grabbed for the weapon under his arm. It wasn't there.

  He froze. What the
hell! He always carried his weapon, no matter what. The Glock was the one thing in his life he could always count on being there for him.

  Until last night.

  With dawning horror, he remembered. Last night with Grace, he had traded one comfort for another of a very different sort. In a moment of weakness he'd left his only security on the bathroom counter along with his shirt, where they still lay in a useless heap.

  And now he'd pay the price. Merde!

  Before he could react, or even think what to do, the bedroom door flung open, ricocheting off the wall behind it.

  "Move and I'll blow you away," a male voice scratched from the darkness.

  "Auri, who is it?" Grace mumbled, coming awake under him, attempting to raise her head.

  "Well, hello, sweetheart," the man replied, with way too much familiarity for Creole's taste.

  "Morris?" Grace asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "How'd you get in?"

  Creole glanced at her with a frown. What had given her the idea the intruder was the FBI agent? Clearly it wasn't.

  "I'm hurt, sweet thing," the intruder said. "Guess again."

  "But … the voice from the phone. I thought—"

  Creole silently cursed and eased himself off her, rolling onto his back and sitting up. Well, that explained a few things about the mysterious phone call.

  The lamp on the dresser clicked on, backlighting a figure in the dim glow—along with the automatic pointed right at Creole's head. Instinctively, he reached for the sheet and drew it over Grace.

  "I said, don't move."

  He raised his hands. "Just coverin' the lady."

  The man snorted. "Now, that's funny." He moved to the foot of the bed, and the hair stood up on Creole's neck. The face staring back at him was eerily familiar from a rap sheet as long as Florida.

  Gary Fox!

  Fox's eyes traveled between them, then narrowed on Grace. "I must say, I'm surprised, sugar. Your tastes change since I saw you last?"

  "What do you want, Fox?" Creole interrupted. He heard Grace's strangled gasp, and felt her slide behind him, nestling into his back. Inwardly he swore long and ugly. He'd never forgive himself for not having his weapon at his side. Or at the very least under the pillow. It was inexcusable.