Some nights, she awoke drenched with sweat, sure she’d blurted aloud the words. But she only dreamed she revealed the truth that had left such an ugly scar upon her community.
How she wished she’d never found the bracelet. Never seen the photograph. But that photograph was part of her small town’s legacy. A dark chapter with murky underpinnings, coloring everything after it with dismal tones, dark suspicions, and angry frustration for a justice that would never be served. Her damnable curiosity had led her to the discovery.
Her secret had consequences. Karmic ones. She had proof. From the moment three years ago when she’d plucked the golden charm bracelet, so pretty and delicate, from among the odd assorted treasures she’d found, nothing but bad luck had followed. Her mother succumbed to cancer months later. The only home she’d ever known was lost to foreclosure. She’d been forced to live underneath her uncle’s roof for several months until she’d saved enough to rent a cheap apartment, eager to escape the Thibodaux house, where an atmosphere of desolation and endless sorrow smothered the inhabitants in their never-ending mourning. Arrangements were made for her brother, who needed specialized care. The day social services loaded him into a van and drove away, he’d been so confused, he’d cried big fat tears.
Dark days had followed. Even with the bracelet safely hidden, Tilly couldn’t brush off the lingering fear that somehow someone would find it. In this town, darkness was impossible to escape. Even on cloudless days, the thick canopy formed by interlocking oaks, dripping with Spanish moss, cast an eerie pall, smothering the light, muffling the sounds of the wind blowing across the marshes from Barataria Bay to Bayou Vert.
Darkness had always been a part of the town’s psyche. When you add the isolation of living in a bayou more accessible by boat than it is by the thin ribbon of state highway, especially when the seasonal rains hit, it was easy to understand. Folks believed themselves alone. Forgotten. Free to mete out their own justice, live by their own rules.
In one unforgettable instance, they’d been robbed. A bright light extinguished with no one to bear the blame. The helpless rage festered, then faded, covered by a thin skin. But when prodded, it erupted like an angry boil.
Boone Benoit’s return to the bayou was just the nasty jab the town needed to awaken from its slumber. Tilly felt the stirrings of a coming disaster. One she was helpless to avoid. She’d find herself at the center anyway. She might as well be close enough to make a difference if things went sideways.
She drew a deep breath, clearing the cobwebs of the past, and stiffened her backbone.
The panel for the automatic keypad controlling the massive gate in the estate’s stone wall was missing, wires hanging. Tilly unwrapped the fencing wire that held the gates closed and slipped through, heading down the long empty lane, catching glimpses of the big house through the foliage.
Maison Plaisir had been the grand dam of the bayou until ferocious hurricanes and the owner’s neglect decimated the old plantation house and gardens. No good could come of the current refurbishing. Everyone said so. Better to leave the old house to rot, they said.
She marched up the long drive, shaded by tall oaks. The branches were carefully pruned, forming a dark tunnel that led to the marble steps of the estate house.
As she approached, the sounds of chainsaws and hammers and shouts from workers in the garden and on the gabled roof became clearer, louder. Perspiration dotted her forehead and upper lip, and she quickly wiped them with her sweaty palms.
Damn. She’d wanted to appear cool, collected. The position she applied for was important enough that she’d overcome her fear of being in his house. She’d never been one to keep her emotions or her words inside. One careless misstep could spell disaster.
She felt as though fate was clearing her path to enter Boone Benoit’s world. A job tailor-made for her credentials. Who else possessed a degree in hospitality or had her experience? If fate wanted her here, then there must be a reason. She didn’t believe in coincidence.
Besides, how often would he be there? The CEO of Black Spear, Limited had offices on every continent, as well as a headquarters in New Orleans. His interest in his family’s ancestral home couldn’t be all that deep. He hadn’t set foot inside this section of Jefferson Parish in over fifteen years. More likely, the recent activities were in preparation for selling the estate, or a symbolic gesture—like shooting the bird at the folks who’d turned their backs on him.
No, Boone Benoit couldn’t be considering returning to Bayou Vert. Not with a murder charge still hanging over his head.
Her footsteps crunched on fine pea gravel. One heel twisted, sinking, but she quickly pulled it free. She’d decided to dress the part. Complete with a professionally tailored gray suit and pearl pumps. Her clothes may have been chosen off the rack, but she knew she looked good.
Her long blonde hair was pulled back from her face in a ponytail, after working long and hard with the straightener to remove every bump and curl. Not a lock out of place. Not a single thread hanging from her clothing. Due to the heat, she’d foregone panty hose, but her skin tone was an even creamy tan from waiting on the diner’s outdoor tables in shorts.
No one would find fault with her appearance. Competent, pretty, but not too sexy. All in the attitude. Or so she reminded herself.
She drew near the edge of the gardens, although calling them that seemed like a stretch. Leggy, overgrown rosebushes surrounded by creeping vines managed a few valiant blossoms. Azalea bushes, grown wild, smothered the annuals popping from bulbs in the ground. Hedgerows were in dire need of shaping.
The growling whine of a revving chainsaw pulled her glance to the side, where two workers, their chests bare and gleaming with sweat, worked with ropes and pulleys to cut the limbs from an oak tree that threatened a trellised gazebo.
In the distance the sound of barking and paws scattering gravel filled her ears. Tilly shot a glance around the yard and watched as a small pug rounded the corner of the big house.
“Max, here, boy! Max!” someone yelled.
But the dog made a beeline for her, yipping and barking.
An animal lover, Tilly stepped back and bent down to greet the dog. “Here, Max,” she said, reaching out a hand as the dog came nearer.
“I wouldn’t do that,” came a warning from a large man dressed in coveralls, who jogged behind the dog.
The dog halted two feet away, growling and spinning in circles.
At the sight, Tilly didn’t know whether to laugh or curse. She took another step backward and her heel sank into the ground. She tried to take another step, sure she’d pull free, but the mud beneath the gravel held firm and her foot slipped out of her pump. She tumbled to the side, gasping, hands outstretched to break her fall, her bag sliding away.
The dog leapt into her lap, nipping at her skirt and sleeve.
“Dammit,” she muttered, forcing the dog from her lap and trying to rise. He caught the hem of her skirt and she went down again, this time on her hands and knees. Kneeling in her skirt, her right knee stinging from abrasions, she glared at the little yipping dog.
The large man in coveralls scooped up the dog. “Bad Max, bad dog.” He turned away without an apology.
Of all the nerve. Her mouth gaped and she glared.
“Let me help you.”
Startled, her gaze shot upward. Her breath caught on a shocked inhalation as a face hovered over hers—dark, short-cropped hair with a hint of unruly curl, dark lashes framing ice-blue eyes. A prominent, masculine nose and square jaw saved his face from being too perfect.
She’d known he was handsome—her memory and the Internet had prepared her for that. What she wasn’t ready for was his sheer physicality. But then she remembered he’d spent time in the navy. Perhaps he’d kept to the discipline. He wore dark dress slacks and a crisp white shirt, the sleeves casually rolled up to reveal tanned forearms that were thickly muscled. His shoulders were broad, his hips trim, his thighs big as tree trunks…
; Her blood pounded in her ears. Good Lord, how long had she been staring?
Boone Benoit held out his hand. “Come. I promise I only murder pretty girls on their birthdays.”
What might have been a joke coming from any other man sounded bitter. As bitter as the twist of his firm lips.
She reached tentatively to accept his hand and found herself dragged up and pressed against his body. Immediately she stepped back and nearly fell again, forgetting she’d lost three inches of height on one foot.
His hands grasped her waist to steady her, and then quickly let her go. He knelt and plucked her heel from where it was lodged in the ground and tapped his thigh, commanding her to rest her foot on his body.
The act was unthinkable, what he suggested…with so many gazes upon them. Her pulse raced.
The chainsaw had stopped. The gardeners straightened and stared.
A blush suffused her face, and she held out her hand. “I can manage on my own.”
His head tilted to the side, blue eyes narrowing. “Would you deprive me of the pleasure?”
His tone was unexpected, startling in its rumbling sensuality. Already flushed with humiliation, now her skin tingled for an entirely different reason. His words conjured images of other pleasures. Sensual pleasures. And she had no doubt he’d done it deliberately.
Without another thought for their audience, she placed a hand on his muscled shoulder and raised her foot, toes pointing downward. Thank goodness she’d treated herself to a pedicure. The soft shell-pink polish and smooth heels were far more presentable now than they’d been the day before.
His hand turned and cupped her heel. He slowly slid on the shoe, tilting it at the last moment to set it firmly in place. The moment stretched, his hand slid up the back of her calf, a subtle movement that anyone watching might have missed. “Are you a runner?”
Shock made her shiver. All he’d needed was a single gliding touch to know that? “I was.”
“Your calves are very nicely defined.”
“Thank you,” she murmured breathlessly, pleased although the comment was completely inappropriate.
“I’m sorry Max startled you.”
“I’m fine,” she bit out, too off-kilter to censor her stiff tone.
Before she could gather the nerve to move her heel from his thigh, he folded up the hem of her skirt. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing,” she said, embarrassed by the attention and her clumsiness.
With a slow move, he set her foot on the ground and rose.
Good Lord, he’s tall, she thought as she followed his movements. Her gaze was in line with the top of his shoulder.
Bending, he swiped her leather bag from the ground and held it in his hand, then bent his other arm, his gaze steady on her.
The directness of it challenged her in a way she didn’t understand.
She slipped her hand into the corner of his elbow.
“Can’t have you falling again.”
“I should have worn more sensible shoes. The dog surprised me.”
“You look appropriately…businesslike.” An eyebrow quirked. “Are you applying for the hospitality manager position?”
She was tempted to deny it, sure she hadn’t made the best first impression, but couldn’t think of another excuse for her presence. “I had hoped to speak to whoever’s doin’ the hiring.”
“Then you’re in luck. That’s me.”
“You?” Her startled glance shot up to his face.
“As this will be my home, I want to personally interview everyone I employ.”
Home? Dismay tightened her stomach. He wasn’t fixing up the place to sell or to hand off to someone else to manage? He planned to live here?
While her mind whirled, she followed Boone Benoit as he led her up the stairs to the wide porch that surrounded the house and opened one of a pair of dark teak doors at the entrance. He stood aside while allowing her to enter.
She brushed past, aware of the narrow space he made, acutely conscious of the heat radiating from his body and his appealing scent, a mixture of cinnamon and musk.
After he closed the door, he touched her elbow, guiding her to the left of the large tiled foyer, through an empty dining area and into the kitchen.
Renovation had already been completed there. She glanced upward at a copper punched-tile ceiling. The cabinets were mahogany, the counters a charcoal-gray marble infused with hints of copper. Black and white tiles covered the floors. “It’s lovely.”
“Not much was changed from the original design, other than adding two Sub-Zeros and enlarging the pantry.”
“Will you be doing a lot of entertainin’, then?”
His lips twitched, and then settled back into a straight line. His expression was neutral as he said, “I will be entertaining, yes.”
She had the feeling he was laughing at her but wondered what he found so funny. Had she sounded too provincial?
He stopped beside a sink. “No stools as yet.” Without warning, he reached for her waist.
Alarmed, she stepped back.
Again he gripped her and lifted her easily to the cool countertop. “Your knee,” he said, his voice softer, his gaze probing.
Tilly swallowed to wet her dry mouth. “I’m Clotille Floret.”
“I know.”
Then he must also know Celeste had been her cousin. The thought that he’d flirted, knowing that, disturbed her.
“I’m Boone Benoit.”
“I know,” she said, just as softly.
“And that’s enough to know for now, don’t you think? No need to share our secrets just yet.”
The blood drained from her face and she bit her lower lip.
His gaze narrowed, but he turned, opening a cabinet and pulling down a plastic box. From it he took wet wipes, antiseptic spray, and a large bandage.
She held out her hand. “I can manage on my own,” she said, injecting more strength into her voice than she felt. What she wanted was for him to leave her before she gave away any more clues about how much he unnerved her.
Ignoring her hand, he peeled open the wipes, and then pushed up the hem of her skirt.
Her body stilled. She resisted the urge to push it back into place, but only just. He didn’t expose any more than her knee.
Boone wiped away the grit, dirt, and a small amount of blood from her skin. “You’re applying for the position of hospitality manager…” His hand lingered on her knee while he waited for her answer.
“Yes,” she said, although she shook her head.
He set aside the wipe and sprayed her knee with antiseptic. “You have experience?”
The spray burned, and she crimped her lips to keep from gasping. “My degree was in hotel management, and I’ve been the assistant manager at two major hotels in Houston, the Sorella and the Saint Regis. A copy of my résumé is in my bag.”
“The position’s filled.”
Her shoulders dropped an inch. “Oh.” She should have felt relief. She wouldn’t have to deal with him on a frequent basis.
He squirted more antiseptic, and then bent toward her.
She was tempted to push him back because she was embarrassed. Instead she watched, fascinated, as he blew a stream of warm air over the wound, cooling the fierce sting. Then he tore the paper wrapping from the bandage and pressed it against her knee, his large hand flattening over it to seal it. Through the tape she felt each finger like a caress. Which it wasn’t. She gave herself a mental shake.
“I have another opening.” This time, his voice was even, void of any undertones. “One I believe will suit you.”
At this point, all she wanted was to leave. He confused her with his touches, his velvet voice. She was in over her head. “What position would that be?” she asked, an embarrassing quaver in her voice.
“I have need of a personal assistant.”
Her brows rose, affronted at his offer. With her credentials, was that the best he thought she could do? “A secretary?”
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br /> He shook his head. “So much more than that. You’d be my liaison with the staff here and at my offices in New Orleans.”
“I’m sure you can find someone much better suited. Someone who actually knows your business.”
“I want someone from Bayou Vert. Someone who can walk in both worlds.”
Both worlds? Like this backwoods town was an alien planet? “I don’t take dictation.”
“Are you sure?”
Again, he used that velvet voice. The one that made her insides quiver. She lifted a finger to point behind her, the way they’d come. “I should leave.” Then she hopped from the counter and smoothed down her skirt.
“Wait.”
She craned her head to meet his gaze.
He lifted his hand, index finger pointed down, and swirled it. “Turn around. You have dirt on your skirt.”
With her free hand, she reached back to brush it off.
“Don’t be stubborn.” He gripped her elbow and gently forced her to spin around.
Cheeks on fire, she stood stiffly while he swept her backside with swift brushes of a hard hand. When he stopped, she held her breath, waiting for him to release her.
“Think about it,” he said, leaning near her ear. “I’ll add another fifteen thousand to the annual salary. I’m sure at your first review you can wrangle for even more. You’ll become indispensible to me.”
Her mind reeled. The amount he proposed was ridiculous. And tempting, despite the fact she knew she’d have to refuse. “Why me?”
“Why not?” His gaze crawled down her body slowly, and then flicked back to meet hers. He gave a careless shrug, but the hand still cupping her elbow squeezed. “You’ll do.”
Her gaze narrowed. She was glad he’d done that. Sized her up like a meal. Anger flushed through her, replacing the tingling awareness and sickening fear with something sturdier. She jerked away her arm. “I’ll need a day.” She could take forever. The answer would still be no.
“Take two. I’ll be leaving shortly for a platform on the gulf. When I return, I’ll send around a car.”
“You’ll need my number. My address.”
“I’ll find you.” At her widened glance, he shrugged. “It’s a small town.” He gave her a smile, and then bowed his head and turned.
Her Only Desire Page 2
