Just Fooling Around

by Julie Kenner

  She didn’t consider herself pathetic. Or needy. Or clingy.

  Where Reg was concerned, though, she constantly feared that she could fall into those horrible tendencies simply because he overloaded her. Her senses, her desire.

  Her wants.

  Go. Go now, before it’s too hard to walk away.

  “I’m staying at the Vieux Carre,” he said, his voice almost casual, but with enough edge to it that she understood the cost of the words.

  “My car is parked near there,” she said, meeting his eyes and lifting her chin, as if to prove to him that she was still whole despite the way he’d been ripped from her. “I’ll walk there with you.”

  They said goodbye to Jean and walked down Royal in silence, not speaking until they’d turned the corner.

  “You moved to England,” she said, unable to keep the accusation out of her voice. But it wasn’t the move that bothered her; it was what it represented.

  “You moved to New Orleans.”

  She closed her eyes against the harshness of his words, the tightness of his body, and, mostly, against the heat she saw reflected in his face, a desire that was so familiar, a desire she had assumed she would never see again.

  “I had to,” she said, her voice breaking. “We’ve had this conversation before. You wouldn’t…and I couldn’t stay, not if staying meant waiting forever.” What she couldn’t say out loud, though, was that the distance hadn’t mattered. No matter what her motives, she hadn’t stopped waiting. Not really.

  He reached out his hand for her, then pulled it back quickly as if the gesture had been unintentional and foolish. “I couldn’t risk you. Not you.”

  She stopped walking, the emotion in his voice making her feel both cherished and angry. Cherished, because she truly believed that he cared. Angry, because he obviously hadn’t cared enough to keep looking.

  And angrier still because he’d taken the choice entirely upon himself, never letting her have a say.

  “Anne?”

  “You stopped looking,” she said, her words an accusation, a weapon.

  The weapon hit home; she saw him flinch.

  “I couldn’t stand it anymore,” he said, and there was real pain in his voice. “Not knowing where to go next. Thinking I’d found a lead only to have it dry up in my fingers. I’d gone down every avenue, searched every place, and I knew it would never be over. And yet each time I found a possibility, I thought of you. And I hoped.” He closed his eyes, his throat moving as he swallowed. “After a while, I couldn’t take it anymore, and I knew I had to stop. Just stop.”

  “Without me,” she said, then mentally kicked herself for sounding so openly, desperately needy.

  “What I believe hadn’t changed,” he said. “Marrying into a curse…” He trailed off with a shake of his head.

  “Hadn’t changed?” she asked, because she was an English professor, and a subtle change in tense or word choice could somehow make all the difference.

  He didn’t comment, but started walking again. Despite herself, hope flared within Anne. She hurried to keep up.

  “I hear Cam and Jenna are doing well,” she said casually, as they turned onto Bourbon street.

  “They’re very happy,” he said, after a short pause. She wondered what the admission cost him.

  “And Devon and Chance,” she continued. “I haven’t talked to them myself, but Darcy says they’re doing fine. She was at Tulane for a seminar a few months ago. Apparently she’s doing great, too. What’s his name? Ethan?”

  “Evan,” Reg corrected. “And they’re all doing great.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “They’re not you,” he said. “And I saw the woman I love broken and battered, and dammit, I couldn’t stand it.”

  “I’m not battered anymore,” she whispered, hanging on to another key word: love. And in the present tense.

  She barely dared to hope.

  They’d reached the entrance to his hotel, and he slid past the doorman, not answering, and headed straight for the front desk. “Reg Franklin,” he said. “I’m here to check in.”

  Anne leaned on the counter beside him, knowing it was time to say goodbye. This was his fight, and if he didn’t want her—or if he wasn’t willing to admit he wanted her—then she needed to leave. This man had already broken her heart once. She really didn’t want to stand by while he did it again.

  For some reason, though, she didn’t leave.

  “Franklin?” the clerk was saying as she tapped on her computer. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Franklin, but we don’t seem to have a reservation for you.”

  3

  REG STARED AT THE WOMAN behind the counter. “Could you repeat that?”

  “I said we don’t have a reservation for Franklin. I’m sorry. Could I get your confirmation number?”He clenched his fists at his sides, mentally kicking himself for not having the earlier girl write it down or print him a receipt. “I don’t have one.”

  She looked at him as if he were something she’d scraped off her shoe. “I see. One moment.”

  She started to type, and he leaned against the counter, as if proximity would result in a room. Beside him, Anne stood frowning.

  “I was here earlier. I talked to a woman standing right where you are now. She said my room would be ready at eleven. Your people checked my bag.”

  The girl’s brow lifted, as if that somehow made him legitimate. “Can I see the bellman’s receipt?”

  “Of course,” he said, relieved that this was going to get all worked out. He fumbled in his pocket, came up with a few scraps of paper, a dollar coin and a paperclip, but didn’t find the bell ticket. “Damn.”

  The clerk’s eyes rose. “Are you sure you’re in the right hotel?”

  He bit back a particularly nasty curse, then calmed when Anne’s hand pressed softly on his forearm. “You know what this is,” she said. “Why don’t you stay the night at my house? By tomorrow, I bet your hotel situation will be all worked out.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. Already her nearness was messing with his head, not to mention his body. He’d never wanted to cut her out of his life. Hell, for many of the past years, he’d been trying to end this curse, not for the family good, but for her. Because he wanted her so desperately.

  So desperately, in fact, that he’d gone all the way to England to escape the desire.

  And yet here she was and here he was, and if anyone should realize it, a Franklin should know that you can never escape Fate. If something is meant to be, then it simply is.

  Once upon a time, he’d thought that he and Anne were meant to be, and seeing her now, he still thought so.

  What he didn’t know how to do was reconcile his need to keep her safe with his need to touch her, to make love to her, to have her once again in his arms and in his bed.

  Dammit all, he was a wreck.

  “Reg.” She was tugging on his arm, her fingers slipping down and twining with his as she pulled him away from the counter, the clerk eyeing them both suspiciously. Reg barely noticed the clerk’s confused looks, though. All he could think about—all he could feel—was Anne’s fingers pressed soft against his.

  “Anne.” Her name came out raw and desperate, which was exactly how he felt, but he wished it weren’t so obvious. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?” Her eyes were wide and guileless. “You need a place, and my house is huge. And unlike a hotel, if you break something expensive, I’ll understand it’s because of the curse. I doubt the manager here would be so accommodating.”

  Her words made him grin, her easy acceptance of this curse that he had to bear making him feel normal. More than that, making him feel like he could beat it.

  He knew better, though. This was April first, and that meant if she was with him, she wasn’t safe, either.

  He should leave her now and follow this lead by himself. He should stand right there and very firmly state that this was his problem, and his alone.

  But he didn’t
have the strength. Now that he saw her again—now that he’d touched her again—he couldn’t walk away.

  Selfish, but he had to have at least a few more moments with her.

  A few more moments, and, maybe, if they broke this curse, if she still wanted it, just maybe those moments could grow into a lifetime.

  And if they didn’t break it?

  Well, then at least he would have those precious minutes to add to his memories of Anne.

  “Reg,” she said, her voice taking on a firm, no-nonsense tone. “You need to come with me. You’re exhausted. When was the last time you slept?”

  “I can’t sleep,” he countered. “I need answers.”

  “You do. But you’re not going to find them in a hotel.” Her fingers tightened on his. “Please. Let me take you home.”

  Hope flowed over him, because this was what he wanted, and what he couldn’t have unless the curse was abated. He wanted to push back the hope, and Anne along with it. Because hadn’t he thought he could beat it before? And hadn’t he failed?

  Today, though…

  Today, for the first time, he had a lead that felt right. The amulet.

  And if it really was the solution…if Anne really did still want him…

  “Reg?” she pressed.

  Maybe it was a mistake. He didn’t know. All he knew was that he couldn’t stand walking away from her again now that she was beside him. Whatever else he did today, he was going to end this damn curse.

  He was going to end it, and he was going to win back the woman he had never stopped loving.

  PROFESSOR REGINALD Franklin, the esteemed archeologist currently drawing a paycheck from the illustrious Oxford University in jolly old England, sucked on his knuckle while he slept.

  It wasn’t as cute as if he actually sucked his thumb, but Anne thought the habit was absolutely charming. She’d forgotten about it, but seeing him now, leaning against the window of her Camry, his knuckle pressed against his mouth, her heart did a little flip-flop as she thought about all those nights she hadn’t seen him. Enough nights lost to give her sufficient time to forget.She hadn’t wanted to forget, and once upon a time, she hadn’t believed forgetting was possible. She loved this man; how could any detail of him ever escape her memory?

  It wouldn’t again, she vowed. This time, she was keeping him.

  If she had to prowl the seedy sections of the city and find herself a voodoo priestess to simply overpower the old curse, then she would. Or put a curse on her. He could hardly tell her she was safer without him if she was cursed on April first, too.

  Something, anything, to keep him with her. Because now that he was there beside her again, there was no way she was letting him go.

  The drive to her house was short—the Garden District was only a few miles from the French Quarter—but she took the long way simply so that he could get a few more minutes of sleep. She considered driving for hours, but she knew he wouldn’t appreciate it. He had a lead, and he wanted to follow it.

  She approached her house from the side street, then pulled around, up her driveway, and came to a halt under the porte cochiere. He woke up the moment she killed the engine, just as she’d expected he would. Just as she always remembered he had.

  “Come on,” she said. “I’d tell you to grab your luggage, but…”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Thanks for reminding me.”

  The house had been restored in stunning detail by a distant cousin who’d accepted a job offer in California. Fortunately, the building hadn’t suffered any serious damage during Hurricane Katrina. Unfortunately, the cousin had never gotten around to buying period furniture. So Anne had moved into a fabulously restored house with Wal-Mart furniture.

  “It’s beautiful,” Reg said, glancing around the parlor. She tried to see it through his eyes—the hard wood, the mullioned windows, the crystal chandelier. If the card table by the door bothered him, he didn’t let on.

  “It is,” she agreed. “And it’ll get even better. My hobby lately is to look for period pieces. That’s one of the reasons Jean Michel and I have kept in touch.”

  He looked at her. “One of the reasons?”

  Heat flooded her cheeks, and she told herself she had no reason to be embarrassed. The way she felt about Reg wasn’t a secret. It was a hard reality that they’d both had trouble living with. “We also talk about you,” she said. “He called me because of the amulet. Because he knows that I want to find an end to the curse.”

  “Want?” he repeated, taking a step toward her, the air between them seeming to crackle as he moved. “Not wanted?” His lips curved, and she saw both victory and sadness in his eyes. “As an English professor, you should know the value of accuracy. Of making sure you’re speaking in the correct tense.”

  “I do,” she said, her words coming out in a breathless whisper.

  Another step toward her. She held her ground, forcing herself not to retreat. “And you still want to solve the curse? After everything I’ve put you through?”

  Maybe she shouldn’t. Maybe she was a fool for wanting him so badly even now that he’d made it clear that there was only one set of conditions by which he would have her. But she couldn’t help it. She did. She had. And she always would.

  She didn’t need to speak; she could tell that he saw her answer in her eyes.

  Slowly, he reached out and brushed her cheek, and it was only when he did that she realized that she was crying. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m a mess.”

  “Only because I made you one,” he said, taking a step toward her. “I’d understand if you hate me.”

  “Sometimes I want to,” she admitted. “But no. I don’t hate you.” Far from it.

  “Anne.” His voice was thick with need, and she didn’t protest when he slid his hand along the back of her neck, or when he leaned in close. Not even when his lips touched hers.

  He tasted like her memories, decadent and sweet, erotic and safe.

  Safe. Wasn’t that ironic? A man living under a curse—a man who’d broken her heart—and yet it was in his arms that she felt the safest she’d ever felt.

  At the moment though, she didn’t care about irony or curses. She cared only for his lips, firm and demanding, upon her own. His tongue, sweeping inside her mouth, pulling her in, as if he wanted to consume her, to do battle with her, and leave them both gasping for breath in the heat of the aftermath.

  She curled her arms around him, pulling him closer, needing him closer. More than that, simply needing him. She felt his muscles beneath his shirt, taut and ready, like a man holding back. And although she wanted him to let go, she also knew what he was fighting—desire versus duty.

  And if she knew Reg, duty would win.

  Regretfully, she pulled back, breaking the kiss. “Later,” she said. “After we call Libby.”

  He eyed her thoughtfully, then nodded and pulled out his cell phone. “Battery’s dead,” he said, then rolled his eyes. “April first.”

  She passed him her phone, and he dialed the number, then sat silently for a moment, his eyes on her and the phone pressed to his ear. After a moment, he left a name and number on Libby’s answering machine and asked her to call back at her earliest convenience. Then he passed the phone back to Anne, their fingers brushing with the transfer, and the contact sending an electric current dancing up her arm.

  “Now we wait,” he said, moving closer. “And I think I know the perfect way to pass the time.”

  4

  REG HELD HIS BREATH, knowing that he was being bold, acting only on his own desires and what he hoped—prayed—that he saw in Anne’s eyes.

  She had every right to shoot him down, every right to tell him to take a fast train to a hot hell, but he really hoped she wouldn’t.And then, as if he were a better man than he was—a man who deserved good things, a man who wasn’t cursed this particular day—she stepped closer to him, her expression glowing and her eyes defiant, yet at the same time soft with expectation. “What?” she whispered. “Wh
at can we do to pass the time?”

  There was no invitation in her words. But in her tone…

  Oh, dear Lord, her tone held both an invitation and a demand, and Reg accepted both gratefully. Helplessly. With a desperation borne of three long years apart.

  “Anne,” he whispered, his voice raw as he took her hand and pulled her close. “Dear God, Anne.”

  She didn’t answer, instead tilting her head up to look at him as a wisp of a smile touched her lips. “No curse,” she whispered. “The opposite, I think. You’re here, aren’t you?”

  His heart twisted with the words, and with the knowledge of all the time they’d been apart because of the curse. Right then, though, she was right. At that moment, they were together, and there was no bad luck pushing them apart. It was just Anne and Reg and a passion between them he’d known he would never forget, but hadn’t believed he would ever experience again.

  “Thank God I came,” he said.

  She laughed, apparently delighted by the desperation in his voice. “We’ll send Jean Michel a thank-you gift.”

  “Hell, yes. We’ll buy him a small country.”

  “Reg?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Shut up and kiss me.”

  That was one idea with which he wasn’t about to argue, and he pulled her close, his palm cupping her face as his lips closed over hers. She tasted as he remembered, as he’d known she would, like mint and coffee, and the memory fired his senses as much as her touch did. His body was tight with need, desperate to rekindle what they’d had and, more than that, to make it grow. To make it fresh and new.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said, meaning every word. Her dark hair and dark eyes fit the house like an exotic ornament. Her skin, so light it was almost translucent, gave her an ethereal quality and hid a bone-deep strength of conviction that he admired—and that had often flummoxed him.

  “God, Reg, I’ve missed you. I…I want—”

  “So do I,” he said, then saw the devious curve of her lips, as her hand slid down his back, then around his hips to cup his firm erection.