Authors: Erica Spindler
What was Brandon up to? she wondered. He'd mentioned he was attending this party; he'd said he hoped to see her there. How had he known she would go? And why hadn't he asked her to accompany him? With trembling fingers, she snapped the flower's stem in two and tucked the blossom into the deep vee of her bodice.
The trip from the French Quarter to Uptown took twenty minutes. As the Creole architecture of the French Quarter gave way first to the high rises of the business district, then the Victorians of Uptown, her anticipation turned to nerves. What would she say to Brandon when she saw him?
The limousine pulled up in front of the Courtland Hotel, and the uniformed doorman sprang forward, opening her door with flourish. Placing her trembling hand in his, she alighted from the car.
The Courtland was one of New Orleans's oldest and most beautiful hotels. Its atmosphere one of rarified elegance and wealth. The chandeliers in the lobby were Baccarat; the paintings throughout the hotel were English Romantic and included a Gainsborough. Although she preferred places like Jack's and The Hummingbird, The Courtland was as much a part of her past as the Delacroix mansion on St. Charles Avenue and the Catholic girls' school where she'd spent her days from kindergarten through high school. Veronique glanced around the opulent lobby; she'd attended countless debuts, wedding receptions and Carnival balls at this hotel... but she'd never been as excited to walk through these doors as she was tonight. Her heels sank into the plush Oriental rug as she headed toward the staircase.
"Veronique?"
She heard her mother's tentative greeting from behind her and whirled around. She'd walked right by her mother and grandfather. "Maman!" Veronique pressed her lips to her mother's cheek, then glanced at the stern-faced man standing beside her. "Grandfather." She didn't wait for his reply, but turned back to her mother. "I'm sorry, I didn't see you."
"That's all right, sweetie. Your grandfather wanted some air, so we were just taking a little stroll around the hotel."
As usual, Veronique thought with more than a trace of anger, her grandfather demanded and her mother made concessions.
"You look beautiful tonight, honey. Are you meeting someone?"
Veronique jerked her thoughts back to her mother. There was a definite gleam in those blue eyes, she thought. Had she seen her pull up in the limo? "No, Maman. How do you like my dress?"
"Disgraceful."
Veronique heard her grandfather's muttered comment and shot him a glance from the corners of her eyes. Rigid disapproval emanated from every pore. Veronique's glance slid back to her mother; she obviously hadn't heard the comment as she'd started talking about a dress she'd seen last week at a well-known boutique. Veronique decided she couldn't let the comment pass and with a wicked grin leaned over and kissed her grandfather's cool, dry cheek. "You know, it's always a treat seeing you, Pawpaw." He cringed at the use of the local—and in his opinion classless—term for grandfather, and her grin widened.
"I'm going for a drink," he said curtly, then turned on his heel and headed for the bar.
"Oh, dear." Marie's forehead knit with worry as she watched her father march across the lobby. "I'd better—"
"Don't be silly, you're coming up to the party with me," Veronique inserted crisply. She slipped her arm through her mother's and steered her toward the curving cypress staircase. As they started up, Veronique said, "We can only hope a drink will mellow him. Of course," she added mildly, "there's always the chance he'll drink himself into a stupor."
When Marie coughed to disguise her giggle, Veronique smiled. The sound was girlish and carefree. She liked making her mother laugh; she'd laughed too little in her life. Veronique's smile faded. Jerome Delacroix was a tyrant, and her mother had lived under his thumb all her life. Why, Veronique wondered as she had for years, didn't she stand up to him?
As they approached the ballroom's open doors, the noise of the party separated into distinct, familiar sounds. The bluesy tune the band was playing, the sound of clinking flatware and crystal, hushed conversations and sudden laughter. And with each step Veronique's pulse quickened and her palms inside her gloves grew damp.
She saw him the moment she walked through the door. He was standing with the mayor, his head was bent as he listened to something the other man was saying. His black hair gleamed in the soft light, and Veronique's fingers itched to thread through the soft, dark mass. As if he felt her scrutiny, he lifted his head, and their eyes met across the crowded room.
Heart pounding, mouth dry, she stared at him. He looked the same in evening clothes as in jeans, she thought, her eyes racing over him. And he would look the same in rags or nothing at all—strong, elegant and confident. He was a man whose appearance could intimidate, a man who had known the power of money all his life and looked the part. But when she gazed at him all she felt was warm and tingling and . . . complete.
Dear God. She squeezed her eyes shut in a brief moment of panic. She'd lied to herself again. She was head-over-heels, Katie-bar-the-door, that's-all-she-wrote in love with Brandon Rhodes. Warmth spread over her until she thought she must be glowing. It wasn't smart; it was reckless, but she loved him.
"Veronique, honey, is something wrong?"
She pulled her gaze from Brandon's to look down at her mother's concerned face. "No, nothing... I...need to talk to... excuse me, Maman."
Knowing she would end up hurt but not giving a damn, Veronique wound her way across the room. And as she did, Brandon began moving toward her. She brushed by a woman who smelled as if she'd bathed in Patou 1000 and bumped into another wearing a beaded gown. But her eyes never left his.
Within moments she reached him. Feeling awkward and uncertain of everything but her love, she clasped her hands in front of her and just gazed at him.
Brandon was the first to speak. "That's a great dress," he murmured, his lips curving into a smile.
Her answering smile was slow and soft. "My fiance helped pick it out."
Brandon's eyes swept over her. "He has terrific taste. In clothes—" his voice lowered "—and women."
Head and senses swimming, she held his gaze. "I think so, too."
He reached out and touched the blossom tucked between her breasts, then stroked the curve of flesh it shielded. There was no difference between the two—both were as soft as velvet, as white as snow. He bent to catch the heady scent... and equally as fragrant.
His dark hair brushed against her collarbone. The sensation—like dandelion down against bare flesh—was unbelievably erotic, and Veronique caught her bottom lip between her teeth to keep from sighing with pleasure. Would making love to Brandon be like skydiving? she wondered. All heart-stopping free-fall? Or all adrenaline and nerves, like a winning streak of craps? As he lifted his head he blew a gentle path on her exposed skin, and her fingers curled onto her palms. It would be unforgettable—she was already on fire, and he'd barely touched her.
He drew her into his arms. Together they moved to the music, cutting through the throng until they were at the very center of the dance floor and shielded on all sides by the other dancers. Tipping her head, Veronique's eyes roamed over his features, enjoying the clean angles and dark beauty of his face.
"You got my message," Brandon murmured.
The feel of his body pressed so closely to hers as they danced made her ache for a more intimate bond—a bond of flesh and heat and shared passion. Her tongue darted out to moisten her suddenly dry lips. "There was no message," she said, her voice a husky whisper. "Only the flower."
He laughed and twirled her around. "The rose," he said, pressing his lips to her ear, "was the message."
There was a tingling at her wrists, her elbows and behind her knees; her senses swam with his words and the meanings behind them. Her head fell back. "Tell me," she whispered.
His fingers at the small of her back began moving in slow circles. "I was thinking of you—" he dipped his head so he could catch the scent of her hair "—of all the things you were... of what you reminded me of."
She smiled and rubbed her nose across his chin. As she did she caught the tang of his citrusy after-shave. "You think I'm a rose? Why?"
"Because of your thorns... and your softness." He toyed with the tips of her thick, soft hair. "Because you're a contradiction."
She laughed and arched her neck so her eyes could meet his. They were as soft and warm as the moisture that hangs above a lake at dawn, and Veronique knew she could lose herself in their depths. She probably already had. "What if I were a dessert?" she asked, her tone at once teasing and provocative.
He smiled at the thought. "Something subtly sweet and endlessly satisfying."
His smile, Veronique decided, could tempt an ascetic, could gentle a rabid beast. Its effect on her was even more dramatic. "And a color?" She stroked the lapel of his tuxedo; even through the layers of fabric she could feel the beat of his heart. She leaned down and pressed her lips to the place her fingers had just caressed.
He slowed his steps with the music, and they swayed together like lovers who'd been long separated and were now reunited. "Red. The color of life... and of heat."
His simple words were an aphrodisiac more powerful than a witch's brew, a moonlit night or anything else she'd ever known. The breath shuddered past her parted lips. "And if I were a dog... would I bite you?"
The music had stopped—Veronique noticed, but didn't care. People were staring—she felt their curious glances against her back, but ignored them. She acknowledged only a pounding heart and swimming senses; she understood nothing but need and heat.
"Never." He brushed his lips over hers. They were moist and slightly parted; his tongue dipped in to taste hers. "You'd be an exotic breed, independent but fiercely loyal."
She laughed lightly and slid her hands up to his shoulders. "Loyal only to you?"
"Mmm-hmm." He lowered his lips to taste hers again. He felt her shuddered exhalation and smiled. "You would belong to me... and I would be yours."
She curled her fingers around his shoulders, squeezing, lightly massaging. His words conjured all sorts of images— images of sultry summer nights and shared secrets, of midnight passions and morning pleasures.
He pressed his lips to the pulse beating wildly behind her ear. "What kind of dog would I be, Veronique?"
She didn't have to think; there was no other choice. "A Doberman. Dark, sleek and dangerous."
"Then we're in luck," he said softly. "Because you're a woman who likes danger, a woman who thrives on adventure, on taking risks. It's in your blood."
He was right. The ordinary, the easy, the safe was not for her. It never had been, it never would be. She was a chance taker and a gambler—and she was placing everything she had on a long shot. She would do it without looking back, without recriminations.
Veronique tipped her head coquettishly. Her saucy gaze met his. "Are you trying to seduce me?"
He smiled, pleased, as always, with her directness. He would be just as direct. "Yes."
The music had started again, and Veronique followed Brandon's lead. "Overconfidence leads to mistakes," she teased.
Brandon drew her closer into his arms. Together they moved to the music. "I know what I want, and I'm going after it."
Awareness was a living thing; need ballooned inside her. "I'm not going to make it easy for you," Veronique warned, not even blinking at the lie. She was such a fraud—she was already his.
"Oh? What will I have to do? This...?" He pressed his lips to her ear, then caught the sensitive lobe between his teeth and nipped. "Or this...?" He trailed his lips down the side of her throat, pausing now and again to taste with the tip of his tongue. "Or maybe this...?" His lips caught hers in a long, thorough kiss. When he lifted his head, he whispered, "Well, Veronique?"
His touch flowed over her like hot butter over popcorn; she succumbed to the sensation. Tilting her head, she laughed up at him. "Yes to all of it or any of it." She gripped his shoulders urgently. "Kiss me again."
He did. Lips joined, they twirled to the music, spinning through the startled guests. Moments became minutes, and after that time could be measured only in heartbeats and promises.
When the band stopped for a break, Veronique collapsed against Brandon's chest. "I feel drunk," she said, delightfully out of breath. "But I haven't had a drink."
"That's part of my plan."
"Then it's working." She pulled off a glove so she could thread her fingers through the soft black hair that brushed his collar, then with a quick laugh, tossed the glove over her shoulder. There were startled gasps, shocked glances. "We're scandalizing the blue bloods," Veronique whispered, standing on tiptoe so her lips were only a breath from his.
"Yeah," he murmured, liking the way her mouth hovered so near his, "but I don't give a damn."
"Oh?" Hands splayed against his chest, she leaned a little closer. "What are you going to do for an encore?"
"You wouldn't
believe
what I'm going to do," he said softly, running a finger down her flushed cheek. "To you..." The finger brushed lightly across her bottom lip. "With you."
Veronique's tongue followed his finger; she could taste him against her flesh. Her eyes met his. "Is this part of your seduction?"