The Seducer. Jule McBride
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stared into the distance, oblivious, he was imagining making love to her again, this time hard and fast on the sand of the dunes. Maybe he’d drag her into the wild surf, letting the hot waves drench her.
He wondered what she’d look like in a bikini.
Then a wet white bikini.
Then naked.
Somehow, he already knew how the slow slide of his hands on her thighs would feel, how touches of her breath would stir hairs at his nape, how he’d burn with need for her.
She glanced at her watch. “Well, it’s been nice to meet you, Ned, but I’d really better go. Oh,” she added in afterthought, “speaking of summer storms. Tomorrow night there’s a town meeting. My sister Lily’s on the council with a man named Lou Fairchild. Once a week, they go over safety precautions for guests. You know…how to stay out of the undertow. Evacuation procedures in case of storms. We suggest that everyone come.”
“Storms, evacuations,” he teased. “You sure know how to show a guy a good time.”
“You’d be surprised,” she quipped.
“I like surprises.”
She merely smiled, not nearly as affected by the flirtation as he would have liked. “We’ve found a damaged letter from the New York lottery board, and since we can’t make out who it’s addressed to, we’ll be asking someone to claim it. Someone on the island won fifteen million dollars, so it’ll be interesting to see who.”
Rex tried not to react, knowing it was for him. “The letter was damaged?”
Her eyes sparkled with humor as she sized up Rex, then decided to share. “The truth is, my sister Vi’s a mail carrier, and she spilled a soda into the mailbag. She can be a bit of a klutz, and we’re afraid if she ruins anymore mail, she’ll be fired. So we’re going to pretend I found the letter.”
Looking at her, Rex found himself thinking of her fantasy life again, one in which he suspected she allowed herself to be plundered by a pirate. Then he wondered how he was going to claim the letter without alerting Judith Hunt to the fact he’d remained on the island. If he claimed the letter as Ned Nelson, that would also bring unwanted attention his way. He’d prefer to retrieve the letter anonymously.
Pansy was frowning. “There were forms from the lottery board for the winner to fill out.”
“What if no one claims it?”
“We’ll post it.”
That was a relief. “Where?”
“The grocery store or the post office. We’ll announce the location at the meeting. Can you imagine that much money?”
Unfortunately, yes. When he thought of what his father had supposedly stolen, Rex hardly wanted to. And when he thought of the lottery, unexpected anger burrowed under his skin, especially when Pansy’s eyes returned to Castle O’Lannaise. He hated to think money could buy a woman’s happiness, but there was no doubt Pansy was in love with the castle and Jacques O’Lannaise. For a brief second, he felt jealous. But that was crazy! Was he really threatened by a man who didn’t even exist? A ghost who haunted an old equestrian estate? “Ah,” he suddenly guessed. “You’re hoping to find a buyer for your castle, aren’t you?”
Color rose on her cheeks. “Am I so transparent?”
“Maybe,” he admitted. With one look, Rex felt he’d known her for years. Even more, she’d unwittingly challenged him to give her what she most craved—a castle. Or better yet, a kiss of fire. She was so…original. So unlike city women. Her island paradise was completely different from Manhattan, the only home he’d ever known. He thought of summers there, the baking heat on the sidewalks, the short tempers, the power outages. He was always glad to escape. Could Pansy be the woman he’d fantasized meeting year after year?
Coming back to the issue at hand, he decided Judith Hunt probably wouldn’t attend the council meeting. He’d go and at least find out where the Hanleys meant to post the letter. Preoccupied, he barely noticed Pansy had left his side and set her glass down. She was leafing through some sketches in a portfolio beside the couch.
“These are beautiful,” she murmured.
Something fierce and protective kicked in when Rex realized what she was doing, and he braced himself for criticism, but Pansy only continued going through the landscape drawings from his last vacation. Somewhere in the far reaches of his mind, he could hear his father saying, “Punch me again. You’ve got to prove you’re a man. You keep drawing pictures and the boys downtown are gonna call you a sissy.”
She said, “You’re good.”
Easy laughter masked his watchfulness. “Tour guide, Realtor, art critic…what next?”
“Most people in my family draw,” Pansy explained, glancing through the window at the beach. “It comes with growing up on an island, I guess. People get bored. Iris even sketched Jacques O’Lannaise.”
“Ah. So, you know what your pirate looks like.”
Color stained her cheeks. “He’s not my pirate,” she defended.
Rex grinned. “Are you sure?”
Her chuckle floated into his blood. “I admit,” she countered, “Jacques has captured my imagination for years.”
“Pansy,” Rex returned, “you’re a fascinating woman.”
He wished more than the light of new friendship was sparking in her eyes. She shrugged. “I’ve had a few fantasies about this pirate, okay? Just don’t tell anyone.”
He held out a hand, and they shook on it. Her touch sent tingles up his arm. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
She surveyed him. “Do you have any secrets?”
Innocuous Ned Nelson? He laughed. “Are you kidding?”
She grinned. “I guess you wouldn’t,” she said, reacting to his honest looks and turning back to the drawings. “So I’ll just have to trust you to keep mine. They’re good,” she offered again. “You’re…”
The lie he’d told Judith Hunt rolled easily from his tongue. “An architect.”
“From talking to you on the phone, I should have guessed it was something artistic. That explains the drawing skills. And you like to read, too.” She lifted a book. “Poetry?”
He ignored the urge to defend himself, but she was looking at him as if he was a highly unusual male specimen. Why couldn’t men enjoy poetry without feeling like effete intellectuals? Rex wanted to let her in—more than he ever had anyone at first meeting—but he didn’t like exposing a self he usually kept from prying eyes, except on these month-long summer sojourns. “Yeah,” he finally said, “I like poetry.”
“Me, too.”
Surprisingly, another few moments of conversation passed, during which they traded favorite authors. Then she said, “If you like poetry, you really might appreciate Iris’s letters.” She paused. “Most men don’t. Like poetry, I mean.”
There it was again. Most men. Once more, he was conscious of being in the wig, the oversize clothes, with his damn cheeks puffed out and a ridiculous pair of glasses sliding down his nose. His father’s rough voice ghosted through his mind. Harder, Rex. You’ve got to pound the other guy, let him know you’re a man. “What do most men like?” he taunted softly. “Guzzling beer and belching while rooting for sports teams?”
Looking genuinely delighted, she laughed. “No brothers, so I really couldn’t say.”
His eyes narrowed, and his voice turned husky. “What about lovers?”
Surprised, she quickly recovered. “Only Jacques O’Lannaise,” she quipped, and from the guilty light of pleasure in her eyes, Rex couldn’t help but surmise how satisfying the fantasies had