The Weather Series: Electric Rayne
Rayne Deveau—Electric Rayne—is back in town and Sheriff Remy Doucette wants answers. Who’s the threat to her and grandmere? Who’s trying to kill them? And is it true that the old woman’s a witch because he’s having a hell of a time keeping his mind on his business and off of Rayne.
Word Count: 29,879
Genre: Paranormal Romance
Available formats: PDF, RTF, Epub, HTML, Mobipocket (.prc)
© Cover Art by Alex DeShanks, July 2009
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Remy Doucette couldn’t believe this woman. She’d lain down on the kitchen floor and gone to sleep, it appeared. No wonder old Ms. Deveau had asked him to check on her today, specifically.
“Mademoiselle, have you been on a three day bender or something?” he asked, squatting down next to her.
What a curvaceous little heap of woman. She didn’t smell as if she was steeped in alcohol. In fact, she smelled like raspberries, honeysuckle and–rain.
“Took me a week to get out of Malaysia,” she complained. “Would have sold my soul for something stronger than coffee to drink,” she grumbled.
“What the hell did you do there?” he barked, incredulous.
“Instructing the indigenous population in the use of herbs and Homeopathic medicine,” she sighed. She rolled over, facing away from him.
He scooped her up into his arms and held her against his chest, turning toward the upstairs bedrooms. He’d been in this house many times and knew it well. She couldn’t weigh a hundred pounds, he decided. Her head rolled onto his shoulder.
“Which one is your bedroom, Mademoiselle?” he questioned her, heading up the stairs.
“Last on the left. Oh my God, you smell sooo good,” she moaned. She burrowed into his neck.
“Pardon me?” he stopped short, taken aback. His body leaped to attention. He could feel his heart slamming against his chest.
She rubbed her face in the place where his shoulder met his throat. When she touched the hollow behind his ear with her tongue, he groaned aloud. She pressed her lips to the juncture where his upper jaw met his lower.
“What is your cologne, Monsieur?” she whispered, tasting him again. “Mmmm,” she moaned.
“I don’t wear cologne, Mademoiselle,” he told her as firmly as he could manage. She had wrapped both arms around his neck and had buried her face in the collar of his shirt.
“I am so sure I’m going to be humiliated when I wake up. Please, God, let this be a dream,” she groaned, rubbing her nose in the sprinkling of hair below his sternum.
“If you don’t stop that, Mademoiselle…” he choked out in warning. In one second, he was going to rip her feminine lace night gown in half and bury his painful erection into her over and over until she could have no doubt about what was a dream and what wasn’t.
“Please,” she whispered, dragging her lower lip up his skin and inhaling deeply against his throat.
Suddenly, she collapsed back into sleep. Very gently, he laid her down on her bed and pulled the sheet over her.
Her head lifted and she raised her arm toward the half-opened curtains. She swept her hand toward the wall and the curtains slid closed following her hand’s motion. Must be trick curtains.
Remy stood looking down at the small figure curled under the sheet. He’d barely gotten a look at her eyes since they’d been closed during most of their exchange. He had an impression of gray-blue starbursts. Carefully, he pulled the sheet over a dainty foot and calf.
She was a petite package of curves topped by wavy, espresso colored hair. Her face had been like the rest of her, impossibly delicate. From what little he’d seen her eyes appeared large when opened. Right now her eyelids were purpled with fatigue. The lush lips that had explored his throat had been like her curves - sensuous and full.
His body was throbbing. Almost against his will, he smoothed his hand over the crown of her head. Combing his fingers through the length of her hair, he found that the silky soft mass reached to her waist. With one finger, he traced the line of her jaw smoothing it across her lower lip.
Remy was angry with himself for being affected by her. He was twice as angry with her for her overtures to him. Her grandmother had given no hint that this young lady was so free with her affections. The poor old thing bragged on about this little girl nonstop. She must not have any idea.
Remembering that she’d spent all of her adolescence here in his parish, Remy decided that he’d ask around. Some of his officers and deputies were the right age. They’d know her he was sure.