Page 8 of Cursed (Decorah Security 2.0, #14)

Gratefully, Morgan climbed between them, made the pillows comfortable under her neck, and closed her eyes.

On edge, she lay in the darkness, staring at the canopy above her head, feeling like she’d stepped out of her old life and into another world where she had no idea what to expect from one moment to the next.

It was important to think about Trevor. After he’d been killed, her grief had been like barbed wire twisting in her guts.

The pain had dulled over time. But she still missed him.

She still knew that she’d never feel the same about any other man.

In the darkness, she called up scenes from their life together.

She’d brought Trevor to meet Mom and Dad.

She’d always known that her churchgoing parents were protective of her.

But Trevor knew how to win them over. He and Dad had gone fishing together.

They’d puttered around in the garage working on Dad’s prize 1958 Thunderbird.

Trevor knew how to charm her father—and her mother, too.

Every time Mom set a dish in front of him, he’d extravagantly praised her cooking.

And he’d bought her candy and flowers as though she were the one he was courting.

She smiled, remembering how well he got along with people. How smart he’d been. How much fun. How he hadn’t had any of that male chauvinism that infected so many men in the intelligence services.

They’d talked about getting out of the spook business and opening their own security company.

They’d talked about children, but she’d known deep down that wasn’t really what Trevor wanted.

He was too much of an adventurer, while she’d secretly longed to put down roots.

After he’d died, she’d thought that if she’d had his child, she wouldn’t have lost everything.

Remembering Trevor helped ground her. She was in a strange place, but she could always rely on the skills he’d helped her hone.

Outside, the sounds of the night lulled her. Nothing louder than the buzz of insects. Or frogs calling to their mates.

This was Andre Gascon’s territory. He’d described it in loving detail over the past few weeks, made it come alive in her imagination.

He’d said that in the quiet of the night, the sounds of the bayou were like a natural symphony.

And as she lay in bed, she had to agree.

He’d made her long to settle down in a place like this, if she were secretly honest.

Feeling more peaceful than she had all day, she finally fell asleep.

For a while she was deep in oblivion. Then she woke up.

Well, not exactly woke, because she knew she was dreaming.

And once again, she knew she was someone else.

A woman named Linette who lived in a small cabin at the edge of the bayou.

It was like the dream she’d had when she’d fallen asleep in the car.

“No,” she whispered. “Let me go. I don’t want to be here.”

“Yes, you do,” a voice whispered in her head. “Yes, you do. This is right for you. You’re home now.”

Whether she wanted it or not, it seemed that she had no choice. Once again, she was sitting on the front porch, waiting for a man named Andre. Not the man who had requested the services of Decorah Security. Another man who had lived long ago. Only she was back there with him—in his world.

He was wearing an old-fashioned riding outfit, and he had come on horseback, along the trail from Belle Vista.

Belle Vista? The same house where Morgan Kirkland slept?

Yes.

The knowledge was confusing, unsettling. But she accepted it, just as she finally accepted who she was—Linette Sonnier.

Not just accepted. She was glad to be here. Happy.

Andre stood for a moment at the edge of the clearing, barely visible from the porch. Then he beckoned to her before turning and leading his horse farther into the shadows of the trees.

Papa was out in the bayou again. But Momma was home. Linette cast a quick glance over her shoulder, then quickly climbed down off the porch and gathered up the skirt of her long dress as she ran into the shadows, following Andre and the horse.

Finally, he stopped in a spot where the sunshine filtered through the leaves.

After tying his huge black gelding to a tupelo tree, he turned to her.

The horse nickered in greeting. Like his master, he knew her well.

With a smile, she turned to stroke her hand along his nose, wishing she had some carrots with her. “Hello, Richelieu.”

“Don’t you have a greeting for me?” the man asked, amusement in his voice.

“Oh, yes.”

He moved beside her, opening his hand, and she saw a carrot. When he offered it to her, she took it, then flattened her hand, feeding the treat to the horse.

“He likes you. So do I. Well, a bit more than like. I love you.”

The words made her heart squeeze, yet she whispered, “You shouldn’t.”

“I can’t help myself.”

The words were harder for her to say. Instead, she turned, holding out her arms, and he came into them, hugging her tightly and kissing her cheek before setting her a little away.

“I didn’t just bring a present for you to feed the horse. “I brought you something from New Orleans.” Reaching in his pocket again, he held up a small box. When she only stared at it, he removed the top and took out a gold locket hanging on a slender gold chain.

She reached to touch the beautiful piece, stroking the engraved work on the front of the locket. She had never held anything so precious or so finely made in her life.

She shook her head in regret. “I can’t take anything like that from you.”

“Of course, you can.”

Lifting out the locket, he held it in his hand, then sprang the catch. Inside were two miniature portraits. They had been done by a skilled artist, because she recognized the people immediately and gasped.

“You … and me.”

“ Oui .”

“But how?”

“Do you remember that man who came to your father’s house, saying he was traveling through the area?”

“Yes.”

“You gave him a meal—and he kept staring at you. You told me he made you uncomfortable.”

She laughed. “ Oui . I wondered what he wanted.”

“I am sorry I distressed you, chere. But he was the artist who painted these portraits. I needed him to see you, so he would understand your beauty for himself. So, I sent him into the bayou. You should have heard him complain about having to travel to the backcountry.”

“Oh, Andre.” She stopped, overwhelmed with emotion, needing to clear her throat before she continued. “You went to a lot of trouble for me.

“I wanted to give you a present that would mean something—to both of us.”

She closed the cover with regret, then stroked her thumb over the shiny surface. “My father would never let me wear this. I’d have to hide it from him.”

“I know that. Until I get his permission to court you, you can wear it under your dress, next to your silky skin.” As he spoke, he took the locket from her suddenly stiff fingers, reached around her neck and sprang the catch before carefully fastening the clasp.

He looked for a moment at the locket resting against her bodice.

Then he gravely opened the first two buttons and slipped the locket inside.

It was hot against her skin, hot like his touch, as he opened two more buttons, just that simple act sending currents of heat through her body.

“Andre,” she sighed out as he leaned down, then stroked his lips gently against the tender skin below her neck. “Oh, Andre.”

“I will have you for my wife,” he whispered.

She wanted that to be true. So much. At night, in her narrow bed, she longed to reach out and find herself in a wider bed—with him beside her.

But she didn’t think it could ever happen.

He was like the lord of the manor. And she was one of the peasants.

If she was going to have anything with him, she must grab what she could—while she could.

Well, not everything. Only what wouldn’t get her in real trouble.

When he opened his saddlebag, she looked at him questioningly. He only smiled at her and led her farther into the bayou.

They came to a place under a spreading oak tree, where she saw he had gathered leaves and moss into a soft pile. And when he opened the saddlebag, she saw that he had brought a coverlet with him.

Her pulse was pounding as she watched him spread it on the leaves, making a bed. When he turned back to her, his face was grave. “I want us to be comfortable when I take you in my arms.”

“I …” She had been bold in kissing him, letting him touch her in forbidden places. But lying down with him was something she knew went too far.

“You are thinking we shouldn’t do that,” he said.

She could only nod.

“I know why it’s a bad idea for you. But chere, I would never hurt you. Never do anything we shouldn’t.”

They had already done things they shouldn’t, if she were strictly honest with herself. Yet when he sat down and held out his hand, she took it and sat beside him, feeling her back stiffen as she tried to keep from shaking.

And she knew he could feel it, too.

“You’re right to be nervous. But you never have to be frightened of me. I respect you too much to hurt you.”

“Respect? How can you respect a woman who is sitting on a bed under an oak tree with you?”

“Because I love you,” he said again. “ Je t’aime ,” he repeated.

“Oh, Andre!”

“I’m not saying that because I am going to force you into anything,” he added hastily.

“I know.” She dragged in a breath and let it out in a rush, then said the words that had been bottled up inside her since the first afternoon they had met out by the old fallen tree. “I love you so much.”

“My love. My angel. I ached to hear that. Thank you for being brave enough to tell me.”

“I shouldn’t …”

“ Oui . You should. I live for the time we can be together—as man and wife.”

It was the same for her. She dared to let joy leap inside her.

He squeezed her hand, kissed her cheek, his lips soft and gentle.

When he turned her to him, she let him gather her into his arms, let him run his tongue along the line of her closed lips.

She should keep them closed. But she couldn’t.

She opened for him, glorying in the sensation of his tongue caressing the inside of her lips, her teeth, then engaging her own tongue in a slow, erotic tryst that made her blood heat and her pulse pound.

While he kissed her, he stroked his hands along her ribs as he had done before, then slowly slid them inward, teasing the sides of her breasts, before finally cupping them in his hands through the fabric of her bodice and chemise.

She should stop him. He shouldn’t touch her like that. But she was helpless to say the word “no.”

Instead, she turned more fully toward him, a small sound rising in her throat as he caressed her there. Then he did something new, his fingers brushing over her hardened nipples, making heat leap inside her. Helplessly, she felt a pleading sound rise in her throat.

“Andre. Oh Lord, Andre.”

“You like that?”

“Oh, yes. I didn’t know anything could feel that good.”

“There’s more, love.” He gathered her close, then lay back on the coverlet, taking her with him, holding her in his arms, pulling her body against his, her skirts tangling around their legs as he rocked with her.

Flames lapped at her. The flames of hell, she thought. But she didn’t care. There was only this moment, this man, and the desperation they shared.

He rolled to his back, pulling her on top of him, stroking his hands down her length so that every aching inch of her body was pressed to his.

They were both shaking with strong emotions. All she could think was that the clothing they wore was in the way. And she knew at that moment she would have let him do anything he wanted with her.

“Andre, I need …” she gasped, not even sure how to finish the sentence.

“I know, love. I know.” He adjusted her body, so that her aching center was pressed to the hard rod of flesh at the front of his body. It felt so good there. No—wonderful.

“Oh!” Unable to stop herself, she moved against him, her desperation rising as his hands pressed her to him, then played with her breasts through the fabric covering them.

She heard herself moan. She knew she had turned into a total wanton as her movements became frantic, as she strove for something she couldn’t name. And then a burst of pleasure grabbed her, making her call out with the wonder of it.

She was left limp and panting, her head pressed to his shoulder as he stroked her back and tangled his fingers in her hair.

“What did you do to me?”

“Gave you …”

Before he could finish his answer, a sound intruded into the dream. A woman’s voice, chanting—pulling Morgan away from Andre as surely as if strong fingers were tangled in her hair, yanking painfully. Yanking her back to reality.