Just Fooling Around(52)

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.