Her Only Desire

by Delilah Devlin

  He shut the door. “Serge will ride in the lead vehicle.”

  As the remaining doors slammed, she shook her head. “This must be like driving in a presidential motorcade.”

  “It’s necessary,” Boone said, patting her knee. “My profile was raised when my team rescued a diplomat’s daughter last year. The cartel would love nothing better than to get their hands on me or one of my men, just to prove I’m not invulnerable.”

  Her stomach knotted. “So there’s a good reason, other than being a control freak, why you didn’t like me wandering around alone.”

  His gaze held steady. “I promised to keep you safe.”

  She studied his face, the deeper lines bracketing his mouth, the redness of his eyes. “Did you get any sleep at all last night?”

  He shook his head.

  “You push yourself as hard as your staff.”

  “I won’t ask them to do anything I’m not willing to do.” A shoulder lifted and dropped. “They respect me. For all that display you witnessed, the night was pretty boring—hovering near a cell phone while we waited for instructions on where to drop the first payment.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous? This business of dealing with kidnappers and extortion drops?”

  He shrugged like it was ordinary. “One man on a motorcycle dropped a satchel in a park. We had him covered, and then pulled back, as per instructions. Nothing exciting. No one hurt.”

  When she opened her mouth to ask another question, he pressed a finger over her mouth. “No, I won’t tell you any more. Details are revealed on a need-to-know basis. You don’t need to know.”

  Tilly sighed and sat back. “This is definitely more exciting than I’d anticipated,” she muttered, jumping when his hand closed around hers.

  She swung her head toward him, but his eyes were closed, his head resting against the seat. Definitely more exciting.

  * * *

  They set down on the lawn at Maison Plaisir in the late afternoon. Neither Serge nor Boone had rested, but their grimly set faces didn’t betray their exhaustion.

  On the other hand, Tilly was drooping.

  Boone took her hand as they strode toward the gate, something she didn’t think she’d ever get used to but didn’t bother to fight. Any workers watching their arrival would know something had changed between them.

  The thought made her a little uneasy, but she shoved it aside. She liked the feel of his hand around hers. Liked the fact he seemed to do it naturally. Her morning resolution to keep her feet firmly planted had evaporated the moment she’d spied him in Kevlar and toting a weapon.

  Never would she have guessed that some super-alpha macho man would excite her, but she couldn’t fight the warm glowy feeling that always overtook her in his presence. As they approached the house, she drew a deep breath and tugged her hand away. “I’ll need a ride home.”

  “You are home.”

  Her step faltered. “Then they moved my things?” At his nod, she gave him a smile. “I’m not sure where the foreman’s cottage is.”

  “About that…” His head bent toward hers. “I made some changes.”

  At the narrowing of his eyes, she knew he had changed the arrangement they’d made. She frowned, a show of defiance, and braced herself for what was coming.

  “You’ll be staying in the main house.”

  What? She drew a sharp breath. “No, I won’t.”

  “We’ve reached an understanding.”

  “No, we haven’t.” She shook her head. “You’ve made pronouncements and bullied your way around me, but I’m not moving in with you.”

  “You’ll have your own rooms.”

  “Where? Across the hall from yours?” At the arch of his brow, she fumed. “This is moving way too fast. You’re taking for granted that I’m willing to fall in line. I’m not some soldier taking orders. The cottage was already too much, but I agreed, and you know why I did. But moving into your house, especially considering the type of entertaining you’ll be doing—” She waved a finger in the air between them. “Not happening.”

  “Think of this arrangement as temporary.”

  Exactly as she’d thought. She jerked up her chin. “And that makes it better? This lasts for as long as you remain interested in me?”

  As he leaned closer, his brows furrowed. “The arrangement lasts for as long as it takes to convince you to move into my rooms.”

  Her eyes widened, and she glanced around to see who else might have heard his bold pronouncement.

  Serge was looking elsewhere, no doubt pretending he was speaking into his Bluetooth.

  Tilly stepped close and dropped her voice to an angry whisper. “You don’t have any respect for me or my reputation. Working for you is bad enough. Most of my friends won’t understand that choice, but to live under the same roof?”

  His back stiffened. “Because I’m a murderer?”

  She huffed. “Don’t be ridiculous—because you’re a man and I’m not married to you.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “You’d rather we were married?”

  “No!” Her eyes bugged and her hands jammed on her hips. “I’d rather you treated me like your employee, not your mistress,” she hissed.

  “That’s an old-fashioned word.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Seems appropriate given the arrangements you’ve likely already made. When did you decide this?”

  “After our dinner.”

  “Because I let you kiss me? You’re unbelievably arrogant.”

  Boone’s cheeks billowed around a gusting huff. “You’d really rather live in the cottage when you could have the cook prepare your meals, maids clean your rooms—”

  She balled her fists, glaring upward. “I want some privacy,” she said, enunciating every word. “Someplace you’re not when I need to breathe.”

  “I smother you?” he said more quietly, his forehead wrinkled.

  “Yes. No. You’re just a little…overwhelming.”

  Boone stepped closer. His hands lifted to clasp her upper arms; his thumbs rubbed her bare skin. “The cottage is ready. Your things are there. If you’d agreed, I’d have had them moved during dinner.”

  “You didn’t think I’d agree?” she asked, irritated he’d been toying with her.

  “I’d have been a little disappointed if you’d fallen right in line.” He crooked a finger and tucked it under her chin, lifting it. “I don’t want a soldier taking orders,” he said, his gaze boring into hers. “I want you choosing me. Trusting me enough to place your well-being in my hands.”

  His words took her breath away. He wanted her willing submission, and for the first time, she had an inkling what that might mean. She was helplessly intrigued. “This…thing you want me to learn to be…Will I have no choices beyond accepting your…dominion?”

  “Baby, I don’t want some Stepford wife in my life. Our relationship would be equal. We both have choices, both have things to learn about each other. Me learning how to please you, you learning what I need.”

  She bit her lip. “I won’t say yes—no matter how much I want to. I won’t move in with you.”

  “Will you let me try to convince you?”

  As she studied his face, she narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. “And if I do?”

  He came closer, his head dipped, his breath brushed her ear. “From that moment, don’t expect me to ask you for something ever again. It’s not how it works. Just know, you do have choices even if they aren’t spoken. You can tell me no. You can decide to take a step back.”

  Liking the sound of that more than she was willing to admit, she shivered. If she were asked to do every little sexy thing he might want, she’d feel obliged, for pride’s sake, to object. This way, she imagined she could follow his lead without any embarrassing drama. Simply living in the moment. Inside, she felt a fluttering of happiness. A raw surge of quietly blossoming need. How had he known she needed that when she never would have imagined she’d respond this way? She dropped her head, not wanting to m
eet his gaze as he pulled away.

  “What’s your answer, Tilly?” he whispered. “Will you let me seduce you?”

  The low rumbling tenor of his voice was like a caress. She moaned. “So not fair. You’re standing too close. I can’t breathe without taking you in.” She licked her lips.

  His mouth curved, and he bent deeper, taking a kiss, his mouth scooping at her lips.

  She leaned into him, her breasts flattening against his hard chest. The finger under her chin moved to stroke her cheek. A hand fit into the arch of her back, giving the barest pressure, but she rubbed against his front, feeling the swell of his sex, her knees weakening. As she sagged, that hand pressed harder, holding her upright and mashing her against his front.

  He ended the kiss with a crooked smile. “Can I take that as a yes?”

  Because she didn’t trust her voice, she nodded.

  Boone’s smile became harder. His eyes glinted with satisfaction.

  Her throat tightened. Lord, what precisely had she agreed to?

  “Serge will take you to the cottage. Rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  When he released her and stepped back, she found herself swaying.

  “Ms. Floret?” Serge said, giving her a little bow of his head, his dark eyes twinkling.

  “Tilly, don’t you think? Seeing as how I’m going to be here a while.”

  “Tilly, I’ll show you to your quarters.”

  She glanced back at Boone, but he was already stepping through the front door of the mansion. She wanted to follow him. Beg him for another kiss. Could he be right about her? About what he suspected was her true nature?

  Clearing her throat, she pasted on a bland smile and followed Serge, who led her along a shell-pink gravel pathway lined with bricks. To either side was more wildly overgrown garden.

  “How soon does he intend to open the house to guests?” she called out to him.

  Serge glanced back, his face set. “You’ll need to direct your questions to Boone.”

  Another avenue of control. Irritation prickled her skin and she frowned at his back.

  Circling the house, they followed a path that skirted a wide lawn and passed a gazebo with a collapsed roof, overtaken by wisteria. Behind it was a cottage—a charming house by anyone else’s standards, one larger than Mrs. Nolan’s home and garage apartment combined.

  Beyond the cottage were small cabins. Old slave quarters, she knew from her study of the history of the place. The cabins were undergoing renovation as well, men working like ants, replacing roofs and shoring up sagging porches. The cabins formed a square. In the center, the ground had been dug up, dirt hills sitting in front of acres of sugarcane beyond the cabins, evidence that some sort of major landscaping project was under way. “Is he constructing another courtyard area?”

  Her question met with silence. She frowned again. “You do know he expects us to work together,” she called after him as he climbed the cottage’s porch steps and unlocked the front door.

  When he turned, his mouth was a straight line, but one brow was arched.

  She brushed past him to walk through the door.

  “You’re just what he needs, Tilly Floret. Save your questions for him. He’ll enjoy answering them.” He tilted his head toward the interior of the cottage. “You should find everything you need. If there’s anything the staff has forgotten, make a list and give it to Boone or Jonesy.”

  “My car?”

  “In the garage.”

  “Will I need a key or a code to access the garage when I want to take out my car?”

  “You’ll need to speak to—”

  Her hand rose in a halting motion. “Boone, I get it.” She glared at him, then slammed the door in his face.

  When she heard his heavy tread descending the steps, she leaned against the door and glanced around the open living area. Dark hardwood floors, white canvas-upholstered furniture. Nothing fussy. Clean lines, overstuffed cushions. Netting here and there to give the area the feel of living on a plantation. Rattan fan blades stirring the air from above.

  She sighed, loving the buttercream walls. Curious now to see the rest of the place, she pushed away from the door and began to explore.

  The kitchen opened to the living room and had white tiled counters, cherry cabinets, and the same pale yellow walls. The first room down the hallway off the living room was the bathroom, outfitted with a white claw-footed tub, a pedestal sink, and a deep white baker’s rack filled with rolled towels in black and yellow.

  Another door was a large closet filled with blankets and sheets. The last door was a bedroom. Here the walls were a light turquoise, the floor covered in a looped-pile white rug. The bed had a white iron frame and thick white duvet.

  A phone, sitting on the bedside table, rang.

  “Hello?” she asked, tucking the French white-and-gold receiver into the corner of her shoulder.

  “Will you be comfortable?” came Boone’s silky voice.

  Of course, who else would call? “Your timin’ is mighty suspicious.”

  There was a pause. “You know I’ll keep you safe.”

  Her gaze slowly scanned the room. “Are there cameras in the bathroom?”

  “No.”

  She didn’t ask any more questions and he didn’t offer up any further information. She supposed he had his reasons. A murder had happened on the grounds, years ago. Perhaps he was entitled to a little paranoia.

  A long indrawn breath sounded in the receiver.

  “You’re yawnin’,” she said, smiling. “Have I already bored you?”

  “Your clothing is in the drawers. Your personal items are in boxes in the hall closet for you to sort through and decide where to place them.”

  As she realized what was among those personal items, her heart stopped. Her folder of news clippings and historical records regarding Boone, the house, and the murder had been lying on her coffee table. She pulled a strand of hair behind her ear and forced herself to be calm. He could see her after all. “I hope,” she said carefully, “my privacy was respected.”

  “Their instructions were to simply pack up your things as they were. Your every secret is safe.”

  To hide her shock, she schooled her features. But a chill ran down her spine. She’d been so enamored of his attention, of the whirlwind pace of the changes he brought into her life, that she’d forgotten. Or had she deliberately shoved The Secret to the back of her mind?

  “Get some sleep, Tilly. Your day will begin early.”

  “Where will I report?”

  “Find Jonesy in the morning. He’ll give you a rundown of everything we’re doing.”

  A flash of disappointment shot through her body. Already he was pawning her off on another of his minions. No mention of where he’d be, or when she’d see him again. Perhaps the arrangement was just as well.

  Chapter Nine

  Darkness settled. Cloying, sultry. The odor of stagnant water drifting from the bayou battled with the sweetness of honeysuckle and roses. Despite the fact that he hadn’t slept the night before, Boone couldn’t fall asleep. He felt edgy, beyond exhaustion, restless.

  If the time wasn’t too soon to seek Tilly’s company, he’d be at her door. As it was, he’d already roamed past her cottage and noted the lights turning off in the living room.

  Earlier, after assuring himself she’d found her accommodations suitable, he’d forced himself to leave the security room, resisting the urge to watch as she readied herself for bed. Somehow, just seeing her soothed his raw edges, but he couldn’t sit still. So he wandered around the estate, passing armed guards who nodded but didn’t stop him to speak. Maybe that was just as well. They were wise to leave him to his thoughts.

  He walked through overgrown brush toward the ramshackle cabins, which formed a square. Moonlight painted the structures—old slaves’ quarters from the plantation’s dark past. Missing roofing shingles allowed spears of white inside a few of the cabins. Scraggly weeds grew through floorboards.
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br />   Renovations had begun on several of the cabins farther down the square, but he couldn’t have cared less. He hated this place. Hadn’t stepped foot in the slaves’ square in years. Not since that horrible night so long ago. He’d have been content to let them and the big house continue to rot—if he could have forgotten about them and what had happened here. They’d been ravaged by storms and disuse, but still stood. While he’d leased the fields to local sugarcane growers, he hadn’t wanted anyone stepping foot inside Maison Plaisir or any of its outbuildings. As though he was punishing the place. Or the spirit of his father, who had loved it so well. He’d wanted it gone, but couldn’t let it go.

  Because of the one cabin he now drew near.

  Heaviness settled on his shoulders. His stomach revolted, tightening as memories he usually kept too busy to dwell on flooded his mind.

  Standing in the doorway, he stared into the dark, empty room, seeing the old iron bed with its missing mattress, which had been carried away to a forensics lab, where it had been “lost.” Tattered remnants of crime-scene tape were caught on a splinter in the doorframe.

  Boone remembered that last night. Heard echoes of laughter as Celeste opened her gift to find yards and yards of red silk ribbon, her pale arm waving as she held it up for him to tie her to the spokes of the white iron bed.

  Closing his eyes, he tilted his head, catching a waft of roses and mint, her scent. Remembered her blonde hair, straight and wispy, sticking to her cheeks.

  He’d tied her to the iron bed, facing her forward on her knees. To still her laughter, he’d gagged her with the ribbon, afraid her sounds would carry to the house where his father and mother were entertaining. Then he’d taken her in sure strokes, finding pleasure in her shuddering frame and her cries, muffled behind her gag. Together, they came in wet waves, the bed’s springs squeaking.

  Afterward, he’d walked her to her car, parked outside the gate, farther down the lane so no one would see. He’d kissed her, slow and deep. She’d clung tightly to his neck.

  “Wait for me,” he’d asked, his forehead resting against hers.

  She’d promised she would, but he knew she was lying. Perhaps when she followed him to Tulane the next year, they’d hook up again. He’d like that. She was perfect. Liked his games.