Kiss The Flame
A Desire Exchange Novella
By Christopher Rice
1001 Dark Nights
Kiss The Flame
A Desire Exchange Novella
By Christopher Rice
1001 Dark Nights
Copyright 2015 Christopher Rice
ISBN: 978-1-940887-74-6
Foreword: Copyright 2014 M. J. Rose
Published by Evil Eye Concepts, Incorporated
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or establishments is solely coincidental.
Book Description
Kiss The Flame
A Desire Exchange Novella
By Christopher Rice
In a standalone novella that combines the worlds of THE FLAME and his novel, THE SURRENDER GATE, New York Times bestselling author Christopher Rice returns you to a mysterious candle shop in the New Orleans French Quarter where the scents of passion provide the courage to embrace your heart’s desire.
Are some risks worth taking?
Laney Foley is the first woman from her hard working family to attend college. That’s why she can’t act on her powerful attraction to one of the gorgeous teaching assistants in her Introduction to Art History course. Getting involved with a man who has control over her final grade is just too risky. But ever since he first laid eyes on her, Michael Brouchard seems to think about little else but the two of them together. And it’s become harder for Laney to ignore his intelligence and his charm.
During a walk through the French Quarter, an intoxicating scent that reminds Laney of her not-so-secret admirer draws her into an elegant scented candle shop. The shop’s charming and mysterious owner seems to have stepped out of another time, and he offers Laney a gift that could break down the walls of her fear in a way that can only be described as magic. But will she accept it?
Light this flame at the scene of your greatest passion and all your desires will be yours...
Lilliane Williams is a radiant, a supernatural being with the power to make your deepest sexual fantasy take shape around you with just a gentle press of her lips to yours. But her gifts came at a price. Decades ago, she set foot inside what she thought was an ordinary scented candle shop in the French Quarter. When she resisted the magical gift offered to her inside, Lilliane was endowed with eternal youth and startling supernatural powers, but the ability to experience and receive romantic love was removed from her forever. When Lilliane meets a young woman who seems poised to make the same mistake she did years before, she becomes determined to stop her, but that will mean revealing her truth to a stranger. Will Lilliane’s story provide Laney with the courage she needs to open her heart to the kind of true love only magic can reveal?
About Christopher Rice
New York Times bestselling author Christopher Rice’s first foray into erotic romance, THE FLAME, earned accolades from some of the genre’s most beloved authors. “Sensual, passionate and intelligent,” wrote Lexi Blake, “it’s everything an erotic romance should be.” J. Kenner called it “absolutely delicious,” Cherise Sinclair hailed it as “beautifully lyrical” and Lorelei James announced, “I look forward to reading more!”KISS THE FLAME: A Desire Exchange Novella will be available this November from 1,001 DARK NIGHTS. Before his erotic romance debut, Christopher published four New York Times bestselling thrillers before the age of 30, received a Lambda Literary Award and was declared one of People Magazine’s Sexiest Men Alive. His supernatural thriller, THE HEAVENS RISE, was a nominated for a Bram Stoker Award. Together with his best friend, New York Times bestselling author Eric Shaw Quinn, Christopher co-hosts and executive produces THE DINNER PARTY SHOW WITH CHRISTOPHER RICE & ERIC SHAW QUINN which debuts a new episode every Sunday evening at 8 PM ET/ 5 PM PT at TheDinnerPartyShow.com.
Also from Christopher Rice
Click to purchase
Thrillers
A DENSITY OF SOULS
THE SNOW GARDEN
LIGHT BEFORE DAY
BLIND FALL
THE MOONLIT EARTH
Supernatural Thrillers
THE HEAVENS RISE
THE VINES
Paranormal Romance
The Flame: A Desire Exchange Novella
THE SURRENDER GATE: A Desire Exchange Novel
Acknowledgments
I feel like I’ve found a new family at 1,001 Dark Nights. I can’t thank my fellow series authors enough for all they’ve done to welcome me into the world of romance. After years of publishing dark thrillers, it was time to try something different, something new. Something with a happier ending, and Liz Berry, M.J. Rose, and Jillian Stein not only made that possible, but rewarding.
Kimberly and “Shy Pam”, you ladies are the best. Kasi, you’re a great copyeditor and Asha, you’re one of the best cover designers at work today. Period.
A big thank you to K.P. Simmons and Inkslinger P.R. as well.
Thanks also to my crew at The Dinner Party Show, in particular my best friend and co-host Eric Shaw Quinn, for making it possible to meet my writing deadlines while also producing a weekly live Internet radio broadcast. Ben Scuglia provided additional copyediting for which I’m very grateful.
A big thank you to everyone at The Montelone Hotel in New Orleans for making it such a special place to stay every time I visit. I hope you’re happy with how you’re portrayed in these pages. And I hope Lilliane figures out a way to conceal her identity so she can keep reserving a room there for many books to come. In fact, let me get to work on that one right now.
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Table of Contents
Book Description
About Christopher Rice
Also by Christopher Rice
Author Acknowledgments
Foreword
The Candlemaker
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Also From 1001 Dark Nights
An excerpt from Dance of Desire by Christopher Rice
Rising Storm
Special Thanks
One Thousand and One Dark Nights
Once upon a time, in the future…
I was a student fascinated with stories and learning.
I studied philosophy, poetry, history, the occult, and
the art and science of love and magic. I had a vast
library at my father’s home and collected thousands
of volumes of fantastic tales.
I learned all about ancient races and bygone
times. About myths and legends and dreams of all
people through the millennium. And the more I read
the stronger my imagination grew until I discovered
that I was able to travel into the stories... to actually
become part of them.
I wish I could say that I listened to my teacher
and respected my gift, as I ought to have. If I had, I
would not be telling you this tale now.
But I was foolhardy and confused, showing off
with bravery.
One afternoon, curious about the myth of the
Arabian Nights, I traveled back to ancient Persia to
see for myself if it was true that every day Shahryar
(Persian: شهریار, “king”) married a new virgin, and then
sent yesterday’s wife to be beheaded. It was written
and I had read, that by the time he met Scheherazade,
the vizier’s daughter, he’d killed one thousand
women.
Something went wrong with my efforts. I arrived
in the midst of the story and somehow exchanged
places with Scheherazade – a phenomena that had
never occurred before and that still to this day, I
cannot explain.
Now I am trapped in that ancient past. I have
taken on Scheherazade’s life and the only way I can
protect myself and stay alive is to do what she did to
protect herself and stay alive.
Every night the King calls for me and listens as I spin tales.
And when the evening ends and dawn breaks, I stop at a
point that leaves him breathless and yearning for more.
And so the King spares my life for one more day, so that
he might hear the rest of my dark tale.
As soon as I finish a story... I begin a new
one... like the one that you, dear reader, have before
you now.
THE CANDLEMAKER
We see ghosts every day; we just don’t realize it.
The woman a few feet behind you on the street corner, for instance, the one who doesn’t quite belong. Maybe she gazes at you with too much interest and seems unaffected by the commotion surrounding you both. When you turn to look at her a second time, she vanishes, leaving you to wonder if she was a trick of your imagination or if she merged so quickly with the crowd of pedestrians surging through the intersection you just lost track of her.
This is how we see ghosts—often and without our knowledge.
They don’t appear to us in states of dismemberment or disarray, leering at us like horror movie ghouls. They are not tricksters, not demons. Rather, they have been chosen by forces beyond our comprehension to remain among the living. But to qualify for this privilege, they must possess an undeniable respect, an undeniable love, for human beings. Only then will the spirit world see fit to grant them a particular purpose that justifies their continued visits to our mortal plane.
For years now people in the French Quarter have caught glimpses of a handsome, elegantly dressed man who takes long walks in the rain, his silk vests and perfectly pressed slacks bone-dry underneath the purple bloom of his umbrella. But glimpses are all they get. If someone’s curious look turns into a lingering stare, if their expression becomes suspicious, this man employs the favored trick of all ghosts; he halts the clock of human experience and quickens his steps until he’s found a comfortable distance between himself and his suspicious observer. Then he releases his grip on what we ordinary mortals call seconds and minutes.
The same can be said for those who walk past his tiny shop in the middle of the day, its plate glass windows filled with shelves holding rows of fat candles in burnt umber glass containers. At first glance, they assume the place is closed because the items inside are so expensive, potential customers must make an appointment to gain admittance. But this ludicrous proposition— how expensive can a candle be, really?—doesn’t hold them for more than a few steps. When they turn to get a second look, the store and its contents have vanished without a trace, leaving them convinced their passing glimpse of purple wax was just a trick of the mind.
But the shop’s tiny front door does open for a select few. To these people, a wood plank, hand-painted sign appears over the entrance, bearing the outline of a small gold flame, and the shop’s name, Feu du Coeur. They are drawn through the shop’s entrance by a smell so overpowering it brings tears of gratitude to their eyes or a lustful quickening to their pulse. For them, the light within looks inviting and warm, and the man waiting for them inside, the same man who takes long walks in the rain under his purple umbrella, offers them not only his name, Bastian Drake, but a chance to change their lives forever.
1
LANEY
Before college, Laney didn’t believe men like Michael Brouchard existed, men who look brawny enough to play for the NFL but spend their days leading passionate discussions of paintings like The Kiss by Gustav Klimt. Men who don’t trip over the pronunciation of words like mélange and rococo, who combine their fierce intelligence with artfully tousled dark hair and thick-framed glasses that make them look like Clark Kent. Men with strong, veiny, muscular forearms dusted with light tufts of hair. Forearms they keep exposed by rolling the sleeves of their plaid shirts up just far enough to offer teasing glimpses to their admiring students, glimpses that leave those students, students like Laney Foley, wondering what it would feel like to have those powerful hands slide up their thighs, grasping, kneading, before their owner leans in all professor-like and asks if he can—
“Miss Foley?”
“Sure,” Laney grunts.
“Sure?”
“I mean…yes…”
A ripple of laughter spreads through the tiny classroom. Laney’s cheeks flame. There are only ten other students in her discussion section for Foundations of Western Art II, but she’s convinced they’re all peering into her mind and tittering over the dirty thoughts she’s been having about their TA.
The Kiss fills the pull-screen across the room, a patchwork of gold and other bright colors framing the placid facial expression of a beautiful young woman held in her lover’s firm, upright embrace. Its image is cast by the digital projector sitting a few feet from where Michael has been pacing for most of class. Something about all that glittering eroticism in the same small classroom as her handsome young professor has sent her on a fantasy spiral and now she can barely recover.
He’s not a professor, she reminds herself. Not technically. He’s a grad student. A teaching assistant. Just a few years older than me. The real reason for the slight age difference between them is not something Laney wants to share with her classmates. Most of them drive cars with monthly notes three times her parent’s mortgage. God forbid she get branded the girl from Lafourche Parish who had to bust her hump in community college for two years before she could land a scholarship good enough to cover the cost of tuition here.
“In 1894, Gustav Klimt was commissioned to create three paintings to decorate the ceiling of the Great Hall at the University of Vienna,” her teacher says. “I asked you what year those paintings were destroyed.”
“1945,” Laney says.
“Meeeaaaaaah,” erupts the Hollister-clad frat boy a few desks away. It’s the guy’s best vocal impersonation of a wrong answer buzzer from a game show, and he inflicts it on them all at least twice a class. In high school, Jake Briffel was probably the kid who spent most of his time shoving smaller kids into lockers. Now he brandishes the one weapon a bully can still get away with using once they reach college—his mouth. So far, all of Laney’s discussion sections have offered up some version of a Jake Briffel, and she’s been pretty good at ignoring most of them.
“Listen to the question, genius,” Jake says. “Klimt got the commission in eighteen ninety-four. You really think they would have waited a whole decade to deploy his art?”
Ugh, Laney thinks. Why’d he have to make it so easy? I totally could have ignored him if he hadn’t made it so—
“Actually,” Laney says. “His question was when were the paintings destroyed, not d
eployed. Because we’re talking about art. Not soldiers. You probably got confused because the paintings were destroyed by the Nazis when they retreated from Vienna. Which happened in 1945. As I just said.”
Jake’s anger radiates like the heat of a small fire. She could care less. She’s too stricken by the expression on her teacher’s face.
Maybe Michael Brouchard is proud of her. It’s probably the most she’s said in class this whole year. But do you moisten your bottom lip with the tip of your tongue and then bite it gently and pretty much look like you’re about to spread someone across your desk just ’cause you’re feeling proud of them?
“Thanks, scholarship,” Jake snarls. “I’m sure your Nazi history will go over big with the other lunch ladies at the caff.” He caps off this insult with a contorted facial expression meant to imply that lunch ladies are by their very nature mentally challenged.
She should laugh it off. But the twofold insult—the reference to both her scholarship and her work study hours—catches her so off guard she finds herself blinking madly, suddenly terrified that she might be on the verge of stunned tears, as if Jake’s words had the force of a literal slap.
How did he find out about her scholarship? Silly of her to think somebody wouldn’t eventually. Most colleges are like small towns, she figures, just another place where a secret can only be kept for a day. Why should Chamberland University be any different? And it hasn’t been the easiest—slinging meatloaf and spoonfuls of brown rice for the few freshman stuck on meal plan. But it’s a job like any other, and God knows, she’s had worse jobs. Graveyard shift at a gas station on the West Bank; busser at a French Quarter nightclub where she was too young to serve drinks but old enough to have her ass grabbed by an endless stream of conventioneers. But Briffel’s cruel joke has her suddenly convinced everyone in school’s been laughing at her under their breath as they carry their trays to their tables. Look at the sophomore who’s three years older than the other sophomores. The one whose mother used to shuck oysters for a living before she keeled over dead at thirty-one. The one who stays up late mixing cheap drug store moisturizers together ’till she’s got a recipe as potent as whatever top brand moisturizer the other girls here are using to look like runway models at eight in the frickin’ morning.
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