Cajun Hot (16 page)

Hesitantly, shyly, she did as he asked. He was rewarded with her long, low moan. He rolled his hips, increasing the pressure, dragging the hot, smooth metal links over her sensitive exposed flesh, around and around in a circle.

Her plaintive, needy sounds filled the room. She muffled a panting cry against his shoulder and moaned his name.

"Don’ come yet,” he admonished, wanting her to be clawing with need before he gave her completion. “Wait ‘til I tell you."

"I can't,” she panted. “I need—"

"Hold back,” he crooned. “Let me tell you when."

He pumped into her; certain she'd do his bidding. She was a willing disciple, always eager to please him in his carnal lessons.

Her eyes fluttered shut, her expression caught between lush delight and raw frustration.

"Don’ come,” he repeated.

Her fingers trembled between them, instruments of her own torture. He fused his mouth to hers, imbibing her taste, the utterly delicious taste of her. He stopped moving, holding himself up, still deep inside her, using his muscular thighs to rock himself infinitesimally against her erect nub, the center of her need. He lifted and scraped his callused palms over her breasts, up and down over the hard points of her nipples, until the nails of her free hand dug and scored his back.

"Jacque, I can't...” She slithered and strained against him, her skin like molten satin against his.

He pulled out of her, making her eyes spring open, flashing with desperation. Before she could protest, he ordered, “Take the chain off me."

Licking her lips, she rushed to comply. The chain fell away, releasing its vise-grip on him. He groaned, impatiently helping to unloop the other end. Air hissed between his teeth and a voracious hunger seized him by the balls and shook him like a junkyard dog. Blood surged, semen flooded. The second he was free, he lanced into her. Both her arms came around his neck, pulling him close. So close a shadow couldn't have fit between them.

"
Chérie
,” he moaned. He grabbed her hips, lifting her to him, giving her another violent thrust.

She cried out, “Jacque!"

His name on her lips, torn from her passion, from her very heart, gave him the strength he needed to bring her with him. He scythed into her.

With every thrust, a sharp, panting cry escaped her.

He wanted more. And, this time, he meant to have it. “Scream for me,” he murmured in her ear, moving like a piston between her thighs. “I want to hear you scream."

He felt a tremor start deep within her. It triggered his own. He rammed again. She cried out.

"
Vien avec moi
, come with me, baby.” He stabbed into her, deep and demanding.

Her voice pierced the air in sharp supplication, calling his name again and again.

He captured the sound in his mouth and spit it out as an incoherent, “Sahara!"

Her muscles convulsed around him, gripping his shaft as ferociously as the chain had. Pleasure burst in a firestorm, hot, unstoppable. He gave one last, enormous plunge.

She screamed.

The sweet sound of her climax catapulted him into total oblivion.

He lay sprawled over her. Heavy, sweaty, indolently limp. Jacque didn't think he could move for a year. He propped an eyelid open and peered at the clock.

Merde.
They were going to be late for the bus if they didn't get up. Now. Slowly, reluctantly, he pried himself off her and reached for a key on the nightstand.

He released her cuff. “Come on. We gotta go."

"You go if you want.” Her wrist dropped back to the bed. “I don't want to move,” came her languorous reply. “I won't try to escape,” she added as an afterthought.

"I know you won't.” He pulled her to a sitting position, wobbly as a rag doll. “You won’ have to."

"No.” Her smile was sleepy and content. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. “Because I'm staying."

Her words whirled through his mind and his heart. He felt suddenly dizzy. “You want to stay? Here? With me?"

She nodded happily. “Yes. Here. With you, Jacque."

He scarcely believed it. He couldn't believe it. No, he wouldn't let himself believe it. Not yet.

"What about National Geographic? Your career? Your big house on the lake?"

She shrugged philosophically, then smiled. “I love you.” His heart soared, then stopped beating when her smile faltered. “You do love me. Don't you, Jacque? You weren't just saying it, were you?"

"Ah,
non, ‘tite chatte
, of course I love you.” He pulled her into his embrace. “I love you more than anything. I'm just ... surprised by the sudden change, that's all. Are you sure?"

"Very sure."

He held her close, elation soaring through his whole being. But he must be careful. He'd made mistakes before, had promised himself it would never happen again. He must be strong for a short while longer. He needed proof that this was what she truly wanted. Absolute, irrefutable, concrete proof. She must hold the key to fulfilling all her dreams and wishes in her hand and still choose him. Only then would he be able to trust her completely with his heart.

"In dat case, you won’ mind comin’ wit’ me to the bus?"

"The bus?"

"It's Friday. It leaves at 8 am. We can be there in half an hour."

"But why? If—"

"Indulge me, my sweet. I jus’ need to know dis is what you really want."

She regarded him for a moment, then shrugged. “Okay. But I won't change my mind. You can buy me café au lait and beignets in town to celebrate."

He chuckled. “Done.” He kissed her to seal the bargain, and tried not to let his nervousness show.

For, no matter how much she protested she wanted to stay, he couldn't shake the awful foreboding tingling down his spine, whispering that this would be the last time he'd ever hold her in his arms.

Sahara let Jacque hurry her into the boat, after he'd carefully supervised her gathering all her belongings together and stowing them in her camera bag. He hadn't even allowed them a shower, claiming there wasn't enough time.

As if she'd get on that bus with the smell of his semen fresh between her legs and the feel of his mouth still hot on her nipples. But she could indulge his whim. What did she have to lose?

In the boat, she settled onto his lap, refusing to be parted from his warmth for a single minute. Smiling happily, she snuggled against his chest and enjoyed the trip to town. At least she'd get a café au lait out of the deal, and maybe even a new dress if he was in the mood to be generous. She loved the long, gauzy dress she had on, but it would be nice to have something not quite so transparent to wear around other people. Not that anyone ever seemed to notice around here.

He was strangely quiet for most of the trip, but she chalked up his silence to being as tired and content as she. Though she did wonder if it might be caused by the same curious compulsion which was making him drag her on this unnecessary outing to begin with. What was driving him to it? Guilt over having kidnapped her and turned her life upside down? She smiled to herself. He really was chivalrous under that rough, tough, macho exterior. Perhaps he had a hard time reconciling the two sides of his personality, and this was the result.

If so, that was fine with her. She loved him all the more because of it, and was all the more convinced she'd made the right decision to stay. Jacque loved her, and would take good care of her. He'd never betray her trust in him. She knew he wouldn't.

When they reached the village dock, he tied up the boat and slung her bag over his shoulder, put his arm around her and started walking toward the street where the bus stop was located. People called out greetings, some grinning, some with puzzled looks at where they were heading. He waved back, but didn't slow to talk with anyone. When they turned the corner, the bus was just pulling up, belching acrid blue-black smoke from the tailpipe, engine coughing and sputtering.

To think how much energy she'd wasted scheming about the smelly contraption and ways to be on it today! She gave an ironic chuckle and turned to Jacque when he came to a stop at a big black car parked across the street from the bus.

"Okay,” she said to him. “The bus is here. I'm here. I still don't want to get on it. Can we go for coffee now?"

He gave her a smile, but shook his head, growing somber. “
Non.
Not yet. There are a few things you need to know first. Things I haven’ told you."

She raised a brow. “Like what? You're an ax murderer or something?"

When he didn't smile, she laughed nervously. Why did he have such an odd look on his face? A frisson of apprehension skittered unbidden across her scalp. What could he possibly tell her that was this serious?

He gazed off at the horizon, then dug into the back pocket of his jeans and handed her a folded envelope. “This should explain most everythin'."

She peered at it, her trepidation growing by the second. “Can't you just tell me?"

He tipped his chin at the envelope. “Jus’ open it,
chère
."

She didn't want to do this. She felt something awful lying in wait in that envelope.

Jetting out a breath, she made herself rip it open and pull out the top paper. It was a printout of an e-mail, dated late yesterday. She cleared her throat and read it out loud.

"'Hey, Jack! Good to hear from you. I got the portfolio you sent me with Sahara Jensen's orchid photos today—
” she frowned, and darted him a confused look
"—
um
, Wow! We want her, Jack. Am changing her interview from today to Monday as requested. Looking forward to meeting her. Why don't you come along and we'll do lunch. Later, Miles.’”

Her voice died and she stared at the paper in disbelief, trying to absorb both the words and the implications.

It was all too preposterous. “You know Miles Landau, the senior photo editor at National Geographic? The man I was going to interview with?"

Jacque continued to scan the horizon, avoiding her eyes when she looked up. “Yeah. He was down here several years back before he was promoted, doing a story on—” He halted and shrugged. “Anyway, we kept in touch."

"You kept in touch.”
Un-frigging-believable.
All this time he'd—

"And when I took you out and watched you shoot those orchid photos, I realized how much this whole photography thing meant to you. It wasn't just some hobby, you were serious about it. And you were good, I could tell even without seeing the results. So I sent the film to be developed. Had the best shots mounted and overnighted to Miles. Figured it couldn't hurt."

"But why didn't you tell me?"

His smile turned wry. “Would you have believed me if I had?"

Point to Cherchat.
“Probably not."

"Still want to get on that bus?"

She wetted her lips and re-read the e-mail, suddenly unsure of what to do. “I, um, I don't know what to think..."

Did this change anything? The way she felt about him? About leaving?

"I never wanted to ruin your chances or your career. I just wanted to ... to fuck you for a little while.” He pushed out an irritated breath. “Things jus’ went a bit further than I'd planned."

On overload, her mind snagged on his last word. “You
planned
my kidnapping?"

A roguish grin crept without remorse onto his lips. “When Quint an’ I ran into Luke Thibodeaux—the one who picked up your ribbons—he went on and on about how pretty you were.” She narrowed her eyes and he added, “Waylaying strangers is an old bayou tradition. Who could blame us for a little mischief when the
étrangère
was as sexy as you?"

"I can think of several law enforcement agencies who'd frown on it,” she muttered, but a smile crept to her face. “But I'm glad you don't pay attention to minor details like federal laws."

No, sending in her photos didn't change the way she felt about him, not one bit. It just added an unexpected dimension.

"So you're not mad?” He looked at her with such a mix of hope and regret, it was enough to break her heart.

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “How could I, when it brought me to the man I love?"

"And what about National Geographic?"

She glanced at the printout in her hand and shook her head. If Jacque actually knew Miles Landau, there would always be other opportunities. “I—"

He interrupted. “Let me make the decision a little harder for you. Look in the envelope. There's more."

The pained expression that settled on his face was almost too much to bear. She didn't want to know. She really didn't. “I don't care what's in there. I want to stay with you, Jacque. There'll be other chances, you said so yourself."

"Are you sure,
chère
? How do you know I'll ever let you go once you've agreed to stay?” He nodded stubbornly at the envelope. “Go on."

Reluctantly, she pulled out the other item. It was a folder from a well-known travel agency containing a first-class airline return ticket from New Orleans to New York for this Sunday and a confirmation of a week-long reservation at a swanky New York hotel she couldn't possibly afford marked ‘Paid In Full.'

Her jaw dropped in astonishment. “But baby, this is—Will you come with me?"

He shifted uncomfortably under her optimistic gaze. “
Non.
"

His anguished disquiet suddenly spoke volumes.
Oh, Lord.
“You won't let me come back, will you? If I go."

"
Non.
I won't."

She squeezed her eyes shut, overwhelmed at the unfairness of it all. “Why? Why are you doing this?"

He set his square jaw. “Because I'm a selfish
fils de putain
and I want you to choose me. I know I'm bein’ unreasonable, chauvinistic, and a class-A asshole, but I can’ help it. I need to know where I stand, an’ if you want me I won’ take less than first place."

The vulnerability shining in his eyes—his arrogant, unrepentant, but totally defenseless eyes—was staggering.

She sighed, knowing what she must do. She couldn't leave him. There was no way.

Nothing had changed. She was no worse off than she'd been ten minutes ago, except now she had proof she was as good a photographer as she'd always hoped. She knew which way she'd choose, but what the hell; he owed her a better explanation for his intractability than simply that he was a bastard.