With a Southern Touch
Jennifer Blake
Heather Graham
Diana Palmer
Contents
Adam
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
A Night in Paradise
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Epilogue
Garden Cop
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Adam
Jennifer Blake
One
The woman appeared from out of nowhere.
One moment Adam Benedict saw only the rutted, curving driveway of the address he was seeking, the next his headlights picked up the form of a goddess. She stood proud and fearless on the center strip of gravel, with her long hair drifting around her shoulders in the night breeze and the space-age silk of her silvery cloak lifting to reveal the alabaster paleness of her gloriously naked body.
Adam slammed on his brakes. The wheels of his SUV locked in a skid. Dust boiled up to obscure his vision, and he wrestled the steering wheel by instinct, swearing as he tried to avoid the woman. The right rear tire dropped off the graveled edge into soft sand. The vehicle spun, hit the ditch with a wrench that threw him forward against his seat belt, then jolted to a halt.
He sat for a long moment with his hands clenched on the wheel and his heart pounding. Then he released himself, swung open the door of the SUV and got out. A quick glance showed him that he’d missed the encroaching tree line by inches so no damage had been done. The ditch wasn’t that deep; the four-wheel drive should get him out of it easily enough. He closed the door and took the long step up to the driveway’s surface in a single quick jump.
The wide curve of wash gravel lay empty in the moonlight. The woman was gone.
The night was pleasantly warm, bringing out the rich, green scents of early summer. The dust he’d raised had almost dissipated, settling like dingy gray down on the bitterweeds and black-eyed Susan that edged the ditch. He walked forward, scowling as he set his hands on his hipbones and stared around him. Nothing moved among the dark trees. Though he listened hard, he heard no footsteps, no sound of rustling leaves, breaking twigs or startled night birds. He was absolutely alone.
Adam did not see visions. He was a logical man, an electrical and computer engineer who believed primarily in what he could see and touch. His thought processes marched in linear progression with few detours for imagination. He was as positive as anyone could be that there had been a living, breathing woman on the driveway. She had stepped out, stark naked, in front of his moving vehicle. So where the hell had she gone?
Yes, and what had she been trying to do? Stop him by running him off the road?
He shook his head at that idea. The risk of being killed was too great. Anyway, no one knew he was coming. It was a fluke that he was making the trip instead of Roan. Detective Jack Whitaker had expected Adam to ask his cousin, the sheriff of Tunica Parish, to pay this semi-official visit to the woman living at the end of the drive. Adam had decided to take care of it himself. For one thing, the annual Benedict family reunion was being held in nearby Turn-Coupe in a couple of days. He’d also felt restless lately with a definite need to get out of New Orleans, spend a little time in the part of the state where he grew up. Mainly, though, he didn’t like being manipulated. Jack was a good old boy and decent friend, but could also be a royal pain, always looking for ways to go around NOPD official channels or get other people to do his job. Adam made a practice of doing the opposite of what Jack expected once in a great while just to discourage him.
He liked taking part in a physical search now and then, too, instead of concentrating on the virtual methods of his high-tech database. What he didn’t like was playing hide-and-seek on dark country lanes with crazy females.
She had been magnificent. Mystery and magic had shone in her eyes. The body he had glimpsed had been sweetly proportioned, with curves and hollows that made his fingertips tingle and the back of his neck feel hot. It would be a pleasure to meet her again, with or without her silver cloak.
For an instant, it crossed his mind to wonder if she’d been real, after all. Then he dismissed that doubt. He didn’t imagine things. He’d seen her with his own eyes. She’d been there. The only question was where she was now.
Adam swung back to his SUV and climbed inside. It took a little doing to get back on the rough driveway, but he made it. A few minutes later, he pulled up before a rambling Victorian house with gables and a turret that was set back under giant oaks. A light glowed faintly behind the drapes that hung at an upstairs window, indicating that someone was still up.
He hesitated, mindful of childhood strictures against bothering people at home after nine o’clock. New Orleans was a city of night people where such rules seldom applied, but Turn-Coupe ran on a more old-fashioned timetable. However, his mission was urgent. He opened the vehicle door and got out.
It took so long for his knock to be answered that he began to think it would be ignored. Then he heard approaching footsteps. Seconds later, the door was snatched open.
It was the goddess.
The knowledge was visceral, like a blow to the stomach. It was visual as well; he’d have known the hair, the even features and challenging stance anywhere. And yet, she was different. Gone was the silver cloak, replaced by faded blue jeans and a white T-shirt. Her hair was confined in a single thick braid that swung between her shoulder blades. The incandescent shimmer and glow of her had dimmed to something near normal and she looked tired. Still there was not a doubt in his mind.
“So this is where you went,” he said with satisfaction.
Lara Kincaid surveyed the man in front of her with misgivings. His tall form and broad shoulders blocked the doorway, while the strength of his personality bordered on intimidating. The light from the foyer behind her caught golden gleams in the sun-streaked waves of his hair and revealed the rich sea blue of his level gaze. A haunting familiarity marked the set of his chiseled features, as if some distant ancestor might have served as the model for ancient Roman coins. Surrounding him was a mixed aura of red for courage and blue for fidelity, something she’d never seen before. Every instinct said he was a benign influence at the moment, yet she knew beyond a doubt that he had brought danger with him.
“I beg your pardon?” she said with noticeable coolness.
“When you vanished just now,” he amplified with a crooked smile. “Though I’d love to know how you managed to get away so fast.”
“There must be some mistake.”
“Right,” he drawled. “So what was the game? I could have killed you. Or put a dent in my own head when I hit the ditch.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. Is there something I can do for you, or do you just show up at the doors of strange women and hold weird conversations?”
Irritation tightened his face, perhaps for her superior tone and lack of response to his conversational lures, but he became all business. “I’m Adam Benedict, and I’m looking for Lara Kincaid. Would that be you?”
“What if it would?”
“I’m looking for information about a relative of yours that I’m trying to locate, a woman named Kim Belzoni.”
Of course he was. It was possible that she had made a mistake in antagonizing this man, Lara thought. Such errors in judgment were rare for her, but his presence was more disturbing than was comfortable. She controlled a strong impulse to slam the door in his face before she asked, “Why?”
“She’s wanted for questioning in the death of her husband. Anything you could do to give me a line on her whereabouts would be greatly appreciated.”
“I’m sure it would, if I had any idea where she might be. Also if I really wanted to see her go to jail.”
“You’ve heard from her,” he said with satisfaction.
“I never said that.”
“It follows, since you know she’s in trouble. Is she here?”
He stepped forward in a smooth movement that carried him over the threshold and into the small foyer with its mirrored Victorian console table set with an antique lamp topped by a fringed pink shade. Lara retreated instinctively, then stopped in annoyance as she realized what she was doing. Voice sharp, she said, “Don’t be ridiculous. Really, I can’t help you.”
A whimsical smile, more charming than it should have been, curved one corner of his mobile mouth. “Maybe, maybe not. But I might be able to help you.”
“I doubt that. It’s late. I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“Not yet,” he replied, unperturbed. “We need to have a talk about what you’re going to do when the others show up, the men sent by the Belzoni family. You going to let them walk into your house, too?”
“I didn’t let—”
“You did nothing to prevent it.”
“Because I know you’re harmless.”
That stopped him.
“Do you now?” he asked, the words carrying an edge under their softness. “What makes you so sure?”
“Maybe I’m psychic.” She lifted her chin, her gaze clear. She’d discovered long ago that it was possible to tell many truths under the guise of sarcasm.
“Then why am I here?”
Was it a test? Did she dare answer, or would that only bring more trouble than she had already? It made little difference either way; the challenge in his dark blue gaze was irresistible. “You’re here on police business, though you aren’t police. You’re one of the so-called Bad Benedicts of Turn-Coupe, a family so used to doing whatever they please in this part of the country that you consider it a right. One of three brothers—there were four but one died—you were brought up some ten miles from here at the family place known as Grand Point. You consider the old house the next thing to a mausoleum, however, and much prefer your thoroughly modern condo in New Orleans.”
“How did you—” he began.
She cut across his words without compunction as she closed her eyes to block out extraneous sounds and sights that might interfere with her inner vision. “You aren’t married, have no particular relationship of the moment, mainly because the kind of women you choose aren’t happy with being ignored while you concentrate on digital logic. On the other hand, you enjoy the company of women, particularly when you need distraction or feel in a protective mood. You would consider marriage if the right woman came along, but you’ve never been sure the woman of the moment was the right one.”
“Now wait a minute.” His clothing made a rasping sound as he shifted, possibly in mental discomfort.
“You have some consideration for my aunt, though you believe she will be safer in police custody. Your concern is real enough that you took a step you seldom bother with before coming here. You are…” She paused, uneasy with the image before her.
“Don’t stop now,” he said in tight irritation. “I’m dying to hear all the little details you’ve found out about me.”
“Armed,” she finished as she opened her eyes. “You’re armed, at least in a manner of speaking. You have a .357 Magnum pistol in the glove compartment of your SUV, along with a license to use it.”
He met her gaze, his own grim. “How do you know this stuff? Who told you?”
“No one told me,” she said with the lift of a shoulder. “Oh, it’s easy enough to hear about the Benedicts and to place you among them by family resemblance. The rest of it I just know.”
“I don’t buy it.”
“Suit yourself.” His reaction was no surprise. Few people, especially men, wanted to think that their lives were open to someone of her ability.
“You know one of my brothers, Clay maybe, or his wife Janna. You have a contact of some kind at the New Orleans Police Department.”
“Wrong.” Her smile was thin. “I was born in Santa Fe, but moved back here after my grandmother died and left this old place to me a few months ago. Or left it to my mother, if you want to be precise. Since Mom swears she’ll never set foot in Louisiana again, and I was interested in my roots, here I am.”
“I remember now,” he said slowly. “Your grandmother was old Granny Newton that everybody said was…”
“Was a witch. Exactly.”
“I was going to say everybody thought she was crazy, because she called herself a white witch and practiced weird spells.”
“Wicca. She practiced wicca or white witchcraft, though she never called it that, not even when my mom got into it. She just chanted her spells and made her potions to attract good rather than evil. She also kept chickens and sold eggs and herbs from her garden, and started the little quilt shop that I still run in the front parlor.” She tipped her head toward the room on the right where an array of colorful project books could be seen laid out on tables, with upright bolts of quilt fabric in rainbow colors lining the floor-to-ceiling shelves.
“She once gave Esther Goodman a spell to make me fall in love with her.”
Lara tipped her head in swift interest. “Did it work?”
“For maybe ten seconds,” he said on a snort. “Until Esther made the mistake of crowing about what she’d done and how I couldn’t get away from her.”
“You had nothing to fear,” Lara said, unable to prevent a smile for his look of disgust.
“We were fifteen at the time. Esther is married to a plumber now. So much for potions.”
“They have advantages and disadvantages.”
“Which you know all about, since you’ve inherited Granny Newton’s powers, or whatever you call it, as well as her clientele and her house?”
“You’ve got it.”
“In that case, tell me what I’m thinking right now, this second.”
It was the kind of dare that Lara hated, mainly because her ability to tap into her odd gift was unreliable under stress. The images, sometimes vague, sometimes strong, came easiest when she needed them least, or so it seemed. Still, she’d ventured this far in her candor, and continuing seemed as good a distraction from his questions about her aunt as any.
Lara closed her eyes again, opening her mind to direct impressions from the man beside her. At first there was nothing more than drifting patterns of his red-and-blue aura. Then she caught a flash of silver. Immediately following it was the full-blown image of herself in a fantastic cloak that lifted around her, swirling with the wind that tossed her hair while a full moon gleamed around her. Beneath the cloak, she was naked.
She reveled in her lack of confinement under the warm kiss of the Midsummer’s Eve moonlight. Then Adam Benedict stepped close and circled her waist with a strong arm to draw her against him. His body was warm and electric with the passion that flowed inside him. She tilted her head back to meet his gaze, and was snared in the communion of perfect mates. Countless ages passed, measured only by the synchronized beating of their hearts, until slowly, carefully, he lowered his head and touched his mouth to hers. His lips were smooth, firm and incredibly sweet to the taste. They molded to hers with tingling fidelity. Lost in their sensual magic, she barely felt it as he brushed his hand from her waistline upward to the
gentle curve of her breast. His warm fingers cupped her cool, bare flesh, capturing…
Lara drew a sharp breath and stepped back until her spine was against the parlor door facing. Her eyes snapped open and she glared at Adam Benedict in shock and accusation.
His eyes were closed as hers had been, so his lashes rested in a dark fringe against his skin. At her movement, they snapped open. A startled look came into his face as he met and held her gaze. “What?”
“You kissed me. You touched me. At least you did in your mind.”
“I…” he began, then stopped, pressing his lips together as his face darkened a fraction.
“Don’t bother denying it.”
He shook his head as a slow grin tilted his mouth. “So sue me. Just remember that you started it.”
“I did nothing of the kind!” she declared firmly.
“You weren’t flitting around in a state of nature tonight, driving us poor dumb mortals insane?”
“Never! At least, not like that. I saw you all right. I was caught for a second in your headlights, but not…not like that.”
“The word you want is naked. And I know you were, because I saw you.”
“You didn’t. You couldn’t have.”
“I did,” he insisted. “Fantasy may be your thing, but I’m not that good at it, believe me. I don’t see phantom naked women while I’m wide-awake.”
Lara stared at him for long seconds while he met her gaze with the same angry incredulity that was reflected in her own. She hadn’t been naked out there on the drive. Still she’d sensed the approach of trouble and had been watching for it. She hadn’t known the man in front of her, specifically, was coming. Then she had glimpsed him through the moon-bright windshield of his SUV. The strength of his presence and the aura of danger that surrounded him had held her mesmerized where she stood in his path. And there had been a brief moment when she’d imagined what it might be like to appear unclothed before him.
It was Midsummer’s Eve, after all, the night when witches prowl and anything might happen. She didn’t practice the wicca of her mother and grandmother, had never celebrated Midsummer’s Night by dancing naked under a full moon, though the ancient witch’s tradition, allied to her disturbing premonition, had driven her outside on this special night. That this man had somehow tapped into her momentary inclination, seeing her as she’d seen herself in her mind’s eye, was near unthinkable. It had to be, because otherwise she had no defense. If Adam Benedict had the power to invade her thoughts, then he could do anything he wanted, take anything he wished from her, and there was little she could do about it.
With a Southern Touch: AdamA Night in ParadiseGarden Cop Page 1
