Copyright © 1999, 2011 Kimberly Raye
To my wonderful son, Joshua Joseph Rangel.
Mommy loves you!
My heartfelt thanks to Jan Freed,
an extraordinary and gifted writer who’s never too busy
to help out a desperate friend.
And an extra special thank you to Dana Green,
for sharing her knowledge of the Lafayette and USL area.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Epilogue
Prologue
It was a bed just made for sin.
The instant the thought rooted in Veronica Parrish’s mind, she should have turned and hightailed it out of the antique shop.
She wasn’t the least bit interested in sinning.
More like sleeping. A good, solid night’s rest.
But as she stared at the mahogany four-poster bed with the legion of satyrs carved into the headboard, she knew in her heart she’d get very little sleep in this bed.
Right. It wasn’t as if she had time for sinning. With two jobs and school, she barely found the opportunity to eat and sleep. Not that she needed to eat. At five feet six and one hundred and thirty-nine and a half pounds—she had a digital scale—she could have skipped a few meals, or at least traded her favorite pizza for one of those salads they sold in the campus deli. As for sleep … She stifled a yawn. Now, that she needed.
She abandoned the small but elegant brass bed she’d been eyeing, scooted past the clerk, and wound her way around furniture and crates to the king-size bed in the far corner of the back room.
“Good choice,” the clerk said, coming up behind her. “It just came in a few days ago from an estate liquidation. I haven’t even had the chance to get it cleaned up and moved to the front yet. It’s a beauty, dust and all, though, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Her breath caught as she reached out. Her fingertips trailed over the smooth mahogany of one hand-carved bedpost and wiped away the silver coating. Instantly, the wood seemed to warm to her touch and a strange tingle shot through her.
“This piece dates back to the 1830s.” The clerk stood behind her, an anxious look on his face, a spot of mustard on his cheek from his interrupted lunch.
She glanced at her watch. She had all of fifteen minutes to decide on a bed. It was now or never with her schedule. Early mornings alternated between Landry & Landry, the accounting firm where she worked part-time, and classes at the University of Southwestern Louisiana, where she pursued her accounting degree. Evenings she spent at the school’s Dupré Library, moonlighting as an assistant before going home to her small efficiency. She had no time for shopping or indecision.
This monstrosity would take up half her apartment. Too big. Too expensive, she realized when she glanced at the price tag. She’d already budgeted a decent amount of money and set her sights on a smaller bed, like the nice brass bed she’d been looking at earlier. Tasteful, comfortable.
Boring, a voice whispered, and she stiffened.
Okay, maybe so; but boring, at least in Ronnie’s book, was better than bold and outrageous, and that’s exactly what this bed was.
Her gaze drank in the huge headboard, the carved satyrs that seemed to stare back at her, through her. Four massive posters surged toward the ceiling. It was a man’s bed, with a distinct presence and undeniable strength. Overwhelming, dominating.
Comforting. She could imagine curling into the mattress surrounded by so much wood and … well, strength. She touched one bedpost again, felt the strange current whisper through her body, as if calling to her.
Take me home.
But it wasn’t a call, it was more of a command, as if the bed had a will all its own and was anxious for her to make up her mind.
Right.
She snatched her hand away as a nervous giggle bubbled on her lips. She was getting carried away. Lack of sleep was making her giddy. She’d pulled too many all-nighters studying, catching quick catnaps on the worn sofa in the back lounge at the library, and now she was starting to get punchy. She needed a bed in the worst way. Her own had died last week when her neighbor’s chubby three-year-old twins had used it for a trampoline. A few jumps and the springs had given, the frame had cracked, and the bed had breathed its last breath.
Now or never.
Again, her gaze traced the solid frame, the carved posts, the satyr-sculpted headboard. Definitely made for sin. She frowned. It was the sort of creation to make one think of passionate kisses and erotic fantasies, which was exactly why she didn’t need it. Veronica Parrish didn’t have time for such foolishness. She had to stay focused on graduating in two months. She’d worked too hard to let anything distract her.
Earth to Ronnie! It’s just a bed. It’s not as if you’re about to purchase a Chippendale’s dancer and take him home to do a little research for your human sexuality class. It’s a piece of furniture, for Pete’s sake.
“It’s expertly crafted,” the clerk interjected, obviously trying to sway her. “Solid wood. No particle board here, that’s for sure.”
Her attention strayed back to the price tag. “It’s a bit more than I intended.”
“If it’s money you’re watching, I’ve got a cherry wood double in the far corner. Simple and tasteful, and at least half the price of this. Or there’s that little brass number. Either one would probably be more appropriate for your needs.”
Appropriate. Exactly what she needed. She always made the nice, rational, appropriate choices in her life. Never took any chances, never acted on her feelings.
It was a man’s world, after all, and if a woman wanted to make it she had to think like a man. With her head instead of her heart.
Ronnie reached out again, her fingertips brushing the wood. The strange tingling started again, spread through her body, seeking all the strategic points—the sensitive shell of each ear, the hollow of her throat, her tender nipples, her navel, the backs of her knees, the arch of each foot. The sensations were highly unsettling. Extremely impractical. Wildly unladylike.
And this was not the sort of bed a strictly career-minded woman, especially the daughter of Covenant, Louisiana’s ultra-conservative mayor, should be forking over her hardearned money for.
That’s what her father would say if he were here.
Her mother would call it scandalous.
Both would call her a political liability, just the way they’d done when she’d announced her intention to pursue an accounting degree at a college one hundred and fifty miles away.
Not that they didn’t like accountants. If Veronica had been their son, they would have kissed her off and wished her well.
Men made great accountants, but women … Well, they made good wives and mothers and great Jell-O molds, at least according to her father and his political platform, which emphasized a return to the traditional roles of men and women and family.
He would have steered her toward the brass bed, or a white wicker number, something more … ladylike. Meek and mild, rather than bold and outrageous. A woman’s bed instead of a man�
�s.
“I’ll take this one,” she said as a smile curved her lips. “This one.”
Chapter One
Valentine Tremaine loved women.
There was just something about the softness of a woman’s skin, the shine of her hair, the warm, musky scent that was hers and hers alone, the way she walked and talked and smiled and did other, more relevant things.
Ah, women….
Creatures sent straight from heaven. God’s supreme effort to outdo all the Devil’s pleasurable vices. There was no food as delectable. No whiskey as warm and soothing. No drug as addicting.
Ah, yes. Women….
They came in every size and shape; short and tall, petite and buxom, shy as a summer shower and bold as a clap of thunder, and Val adored them all regardless.
Like his father and all the Tremaine men before him, he had no special preference when it came to females. They were all attractive in their own unique way, all intoxicating in their similarities, whether a raven-haired beauty, a golden-tressed angel, or a redheaded temptress. He’d had his share of all three, and many, many in between.
Not that he was a man to brag, or to take the gift of a woman’s body for granted. Val took nothing for granted, and that reason alone made his appeal phenomenal.
He loved women, and they loved him.
And so he wasn’t the least surprised by his immediate and rather lusty response when this particular woman crawled into his bed. Women had shared his bed for years, and his passion feverish and intense, had never failed him.
But he was shocked that she didn’t so much as glance in his direction. Especially when he’d been anticipating her stretched out next to him since the moment she’d first walked into the room tonight. Every night for the past week since Fate had brought them together and this sweet woman had come to his rescue in that dusty old antique shop.
He was definitely in the mood to show her a little gratitude. Perhaps a lot, he amended after a quick glance down at that very prominent, very appreciative part of him.
From his usual casual repose on the bed, he’d watched her pull off her baggy T-shirt, slide off her shoes, and peel off her pants. She’d exchanged them for an even larger T-shirt that swallowed up her curves and her big, beautiful breasts, making her look rather young and vulnerable.
She was far from it, of course. By his estimation, she couldn’t be a day younger than twenty-five, and no doubt very experienced in the arts of love. It wasn’t just her delectable body that clued him in. It was the way she moved, so graceful and sexy, putting away her things, fixing herself some supper, making the most mundane chore exciting. As if she knew he watched.
Undoubtedly she did, he told himself when she’d set about pulling her long, flame-colored hair into a ponytail. The motion had lifted her large breasts, pushed them against the cotton of her shirt, and Val had nearly groaned aloud.
But he’d held his tongue, opting to save his energy for a much more pleasurable activity once she joined him.
And tonight would be the night. The past week she’d fallen asleep at her desk where she retired every night, a stack of books in front of her. She studied vigorously for several hours before sleep caught up to her. Then she would rest her head on her folded arms and close her eyes.
He’d watched her well into the night, until the clock struck midnight and he was able to go to her. He’d been so tempted to touch her. So many times he’d reached out, but, alas, he’d forced himself away, opting to tuck a blanket around her to chase away the night’s chill.
He wasn’t sure why. He could have done all he wanted with her. A woman of her sensuality would have come alive in his arms, and he ached so badly. He’d spent the past century and a half cooped up in one rotting house after another, with no one to warm his bed, to warm him. Ah, he’d come close a few weeks ago in a storage shed on the outskirts of town. Of course, it had been during the day and he’d been little more than a figment of the woman’s imagination, a whisper in her ear, an invisible touch along her pale skin. But he’d been there, and she’d felt him.
A fat lot of good it had done. The woman, a lawyer’s assistant who’d been cataloguing estate items, had turned out to be engaged. Upon learning such a crucial piece of information, Val had stopped the dalliance immediately. No matter how desperate, he had his principles. Which was why, with this beautiful, available woman at his fingertips, he’d merely bid her sleep well the past week.
No more. Tonight she would come to him, call to him, and his deprivation would end.
For all his fantasies, his bold dreams of the evening ahead, nothing quite prepared him for what transpired next.
She settled herself in the center of his huge bed, on his white sheets, and didn’t so much as spare him a glance.
Not that she could see him, mind you. He’d long ago come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t exactly the man he used to be. He was more now, or less, depending on how one surveyed the situation. He chose the former, of course, and so it irritated the hell out of him that she didn’t pay him any mind. She might not be able to see him, but she could feel him, by God!
Things quickly went from bad to worse when she turned away to reach for something on the nightstand.
Being a lover of the female species and extensively experienced in giving and receiving sexual favors, Val, through his numerous liaisons, had grown to appreciate the different tastes and desires of a woman when it came to his bed.
But this …
Irritated, he watched as she retrieved a pizza and a can of soda. She flung back the lid, popped the soda tab, and reached for a large slice soggy with cheese and sauce. After a huge bite and an endless moment with her eyes closed, her mouth moving slowly, sensuously as she chewed, she finally swallowed.
And so did Val. Hard.
Then with a smile, she took a sip of soda and reached for the remote control.
The television clicked on, sending a dance of colorful shadows through the dim bedroom. And so began the newest phase in the one hundred and fifty years of Valentine Tremaine’s death—or new and improved life, as Val chose to see it.
But he was starting to have his doubts, especially since he found himself for the first time in bed with a woman who had no interest in him whatsoever.
“Valentine.” He whispered the name into her ear, catching a succulent whiff of strawberries and cream. “Say it, chérie.”
She slapped at the air as if warding off a bothersome fly. He started to speak louder, but caught himself. He wasn’t of the mind to frighten, but to seduce.
Unfortunately, she didn’t seem the least bit interested. She simply sat there, eating and drinking and watching the news. While Val ached and burned and watched her.
And where he’d always considered himself a patient man, he soon discovered he was a very, very impatient spirit.
Ronnie shoved the last of the pizza slice into her mouth. Ignoring a rush of megasized guilt, she reached for another. So she’d jog to class the rest of the week. The month, even. A year of exercise would be worth the next few minutes of fast food ecstasy—
The solid whack of cardboard hitting cardboard thundered through her head. The lid slammed shut just inches shy of her fingers. Her gaze riveted on the closed box. Uneasiness zigzagged down her spine and her heart stopped for one long, silent moment.
The clock ticked away, the sound magnified in the sudden hush as she stared at the pizza box as if it had metamorphosed into a living, breathing thing.
And Brad Pitt’s beating down the door for a date!
Her lips curved into a shaky smile and she managed to take a jagged breath. A gust of air, she told herself, her gaze darting to the French doors. Closed doors, because she’d turned on the air conditioner. Her attention shot to the vent in a nearby wall. The pink ribbon tied to one slat hung limply. The air conditioner had cycled off minutes ago.
Carefully, she lifted the lid the tiniest bit and peered beneath. Just three-quarters of a pizza pie. She giggled. Like She’
d expected to find anything else. Opening the box, she started to retrieve another slice.
The cardboard whacked closed again, as if a solid hand forced the lid back into place.
“This can’t be happening.” She closed her eyes, forcing herself to take a deep, calming breath. Okay, so it had happened, but there was an explanation for it. There was always an explanation. Think calm, cool, rational. Think instead of feel, her motto for the past eight years.
She took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and tried the box again.
The lid lifted easily and laughter trembled from her lips. Somehow, someway a draft had worked its way into the room and closed the box. Her imagination—her sleep-deprived, exhausted imagination—had done the rest. Fancy not being able to lift a measley cardboard lid. She was simply tired and overworked.
But tonight would remedy all of that. She’d left the library early, after having fallen asleep during a fifteen-minute break that lasted a full hour. Delta, the night librarian, had taken pity on her and sent her home with strict instructions to rest.
“You keep working yourself to death, you’re going to get old before your time, sugar.”
“I’m already old.” Or at least older. At twenty-six, she had at least four years on most of the other seniors at USL. While an accounting degree only took four years, Ronnie didn’t have the luxury of going full-time. She’d had to work full-time during the summers and part-time throughout college to meet school and living expenses.
“You’re one step out of the womb, sugar,” Delta had told her. “Take a look at me.” The woman had frowned, emphasizing her sun-browned face carved with dozens of laugh lines. “Sixty-four years’ worth of wrinkles—and all from catching catnaps in the library lounge when I should have been in my own bed sound asleep.”
That had been enough to send Ronnie straight home.
Her first class was at eight in the morning, and although she still had to jot down a few extra notes on her term paper topic for Professor Guidry’s human sexuality class, she could drag herself up an hour early to do it. She refused to think of anything tonight but a little R&R.
In the Midnight Hour Page 1
