priestess to “curse” all his male descendants.
Jack frowned. He’d been certain Brice had made the entire tale up to explain why, at
twenty-four, he’d eloped with a girl of sixteen. Now, Jack didn’t know what to think. His
grandfather believed it. Once Brice had learned that Jack had not dreamed about Kayla
before marrying her, his grandfather had never accepted her. Never treated her like
family. Said she didn’t suit him. Hell, he hadn’t even attended his only grandson’s
wedding. A silent protest, Jack knew. The hell of it was, Brice had been right; he and
Kayla hadn’t been suited in the least.
But Brice seemed only too eager to throw Morgan at him…
Sighing, Jack shoved his thoughts away. It hardly mattered. The legend was
ridiculous. It couldn’t be anything but bullshit. It had no logic. He didn’t do hocus-
pocus.
Still…it would explain why he wanted Morgan for his own so badly his teeth hurt.
A noise to his left alerted him to the fact he was no longer alone. Morgan emerged
through the screen door, into the hazy morning. Golden sunlight broke through the fog
as she stepped into the morning breeze. The pure rays slanted in bright swaths across
the swamp to settle on her as she strolled to the corner of the railing, clearly unaware
that he watched her.
Soft sunlight lit up her fiery tresses as they tumbled over her shoulders, and down
her back. She wore a faded brown shirt. His shirt.
Jack frowned. He’d seen this scene before. It was oddly familiar, but how? The
memories were vague, as if he’d seen this a long time ago or in a dream—
That was it, and it hadn’t been just any dream. The dream. The one he’d been seeing
nearly every night in his sleep for the last six months.
Holy hell.
As he sucked in a stunned breath, electric shock arced through Jack. Time stopped as
he waited.
Morgan tilted her head and gazed out over the swamp…as the vision had in his
dream.
Fierce lust, a heart-wrenching ache, pure apprehension, a need he couldn’t explain.
Everything tripped through him like a livewire, jolting him from fingertips to toes. What
the hell was happening to him?
A lifted corner of Morgan’s mouth seemed to hint at a smile. From his angle, the
expression looked happy, and the need to see her like that—utterly, sublimely happy—
kicked him in the teeth.
Damn. Her feelings shouldn’t make a damn bit of difference to him. In a few days, a
week at most, he and Deke would likely have solved her case and she’d be gone. If he did
things right, her engagement to Brandon would be over, too.
But that wouldn’t make Morgan his.
Jack gritted his teeth as he watched Morgan shift, lean over the nearest rail.
The veil of mystery that had always enshrouded the woman in his dreams suddenly
fell away. He knew her face, her quick temper, the passion she tried to leash under
misplaced modesty, her unexpected courage and sharp tongue. But he still wanted to see
her.
Turn around! he silently demanded.
As if she was so attuned to him that she heard, she slowly began to turn his way. A
delicate ear, a graceful neck, a stubborn slope to her jaw, lush mouth twisted in an effort
to hold back the tears drenching her stormy blue eyes.
And in that moment, Jack knew that he wanted Morgan more than anything else—
revenge, riches, power. This woman had somehow zoomed to the top of his list.
Morgan gasped when she saw him. “I—I didn’t know you…” Her breathing hitched.
“Sorry.”
She turned and darted for the cottage.
Jack bounded out of his seat, wrapped his arms around her, and turned her to face
him.
Mine!
The instant he touched her, that feeling sang in his blood, settled deep into his bones.
At the moment, he couldn’t fight it and didn’t try.
Mine!
Everything in his gut told him not to let her get away.
Ever.
When she buried her chin in her chest, he hooked a finger under her chin and lifted
her face to his. The pain there jabbed into his gut.
“Cher,” he whispered. “Mon douce amour.”
My sweet love? God, he was so far gone.
She pressed her lips together, blinking, valiantly stopping her tears. “I have no idea
what you’re saying. Probably that I’m an idiot.” She let loose a sad, watery laugh. “Which
fits. I am an idiot.”
“No. Idiot in French doesn’t sound much different. You’d be able to pick that up.”
“Good to know,” she choked, trying to break away. “I need to… Let me go.”
An instinct screamed at Jack that that would be the worst thing he could do. He
didn’t fight that gut feeling. “Jamais.”