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LENGTH: Mid Novel Cover art (c) Eliza Black
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“Gabriel is walking, talking animal magnetism, and danger with a capital D. The build-up of the sexual relationship between Gabriel and Carolina, and the foreplay, will definitely make the hair on the back of your neck stand up ... he is just so intense and almost out of control. The danger he presents to her is like an aphrodisiac, leaving this reader thinking, what a way to go. I look forward to more books by Ms. Caddell.” Sensual Romance Reviews "This paranormal werewolf romance is steamy and satisfying." Knowbetter.com Reviews "THE LADY AND THE ROGUE is a steamy New Orleans romantic suspense novel. Ripe with the paranormal -- voodou curses and magic books -- Caddell sets Carolina and Gabriel's romance to a backdrop of spooky nights and hot, sweaty days. The story is dark and explicitly sensual, full of mystery and undeniable longings. There is much that keeps Gabriel and Carolina apart, but the attraction between them is inescapable. The sheer sensuality of the story -- setting and characters included -- will leave you sweating. THE LADY AND THE ROGUE is a great read for anyone who likes paranormal suspense, and the romance is great, too." Sensual Romance Reviews "Vengeance and hatred defy time and death in this sensual and chilling paranormal tale. Ms. Caddell has a unique new voice and a flair for the paranormal that is certain to please readers." Romantic Times Magazine
The Lady and the Rogue ISBN 1-891020-55-2
The man looked to be in his late twenties, like any number of the other men there, but that was the only commonplace thing about him. He was... dramatic. A shock of artlessly tousled dark hair brushed a pair of unnervingly wide shoulders. One erring lock tumbled across a high forehead. A heavy five-o-clock shadow hugged the blunt line of his jaw. Between the hair and the beard was an elegantly graven face that could - and probably had - graced any number of magazine covers. He looked like trouble. The kind you could sigh over, and Carolina did just that. Gustily. He's a great dancer, she observed. You wouldn't think a man could be that graceful. I wish.... She cut off the thought quickly. She'd come back home to stay away from trouble, not dance with it. So just put that man out of your mind, Carolina Virginia. Sweat trickled down the back of her neck. The crush of people - tourists and locals alike - intensified both the heat and her mild sense of claustrophobia. Normally she didn't mind crowds, but tolerating wall-to-wall bodies was difficult when she'd spent most of the last ten months with more silent space around her than people. Maybe the distraction was why Carolina didn't notice how close the man was until she briefly bumped into him in the crowd. A second later, ignoring her faint, automatic protest, he swept her up into the dance. Secretly thrilled, but a little annoyed - she definitely wasn't used to being grabbed - Carolina tipped her head back to look up at him. Tingling shock stung her, followed by an unaccustomed flood of heat as his sin-black eyes captured hers. The makeshift band ensconced on the street corner ended the foot-stomping zydeco tune and immediately swung into a lilting waltz. So did the audience, as easily as if they were polished debutantes at a Garden District cotillion rather than a group of strangers drawn together by the desire to dance and have a rip-roaring good time. Carolina smiled the first genuine smile she'd worn in two days. The music, the atmosphere, the people - yep, she was very definitely home. Only in New Orleans did people waltz to the homely sounds of fiddle, accordion and harmonica as if they were an orchestra. It was also a city where strange, exotic men began waltzing with women they'd never met as easily as if they'd been dancing together for years. Her partner chose that moment to hitch her a teeny bit closer than was proper for strangers. Carolina's nerves leaped to life, singing with sensible warnings and baffling arousal. Every solid inch of him was pressed into her softer form, making her unnervingly aware of each lean line of muscle beneath the tight black cotton T-shirt. Her startled gaze flew up to collide with his. He grinned at her, a slash of pure white against his sun-darkened skin. Carolina's eyes were drawn to his mouth. It was well-shaped, provocatively masculine, and she thought somewhat bemusedly that it seemed to promise pleasures that could make a woman's toes curl. The man smiled slowly, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. "Evenin', chere." The velvet baritone drawl sent tiny shivers through her, even as she made note of the lilting Cajun accent and the easy endearment which marked him as a native of Louisiana, if not New Orleans. Carolina realized that she was blushing even as she mentally kicked herself for it. He hadn't meant anything by it; the man could undoubtably make any woman blush. He probably flirted, she told herself as he swung her out in a sweeping turn, as easily as most men breathed. She dropped her eyes in an attempt to recover her wits and found herself staring at the fly of his well-worn black jeans. Blushing brightly enough to glow, Carolina tore her eyes away, but the image of well-endowed masculinity seemed indelibly seared into her brain. The part of her that her mother had ruthlessly schooled to gentility was horrified. The part that hadn't was impressed. "See anything you like?" Startled, Carolina jerked back. His arms tightened around her as if he were afraid that she'd try to get away. No, she thought, that wasn't right; this man would never be afraid of anything. "Yes." Oh, there was that unflinchingly honest tongue of hers, getting her into trouble again. But if he wasn't afraid of anything, than her improper boldness certainly shouldn't shock the socks off him. Gamely, she forged ahead. "But I'm not going to do anything about it." The electrifying grin again. "I might." Carolina thought idly that she should be fainting in the best tradition of Southern womanhood. But the stubborn, gleefully mischievous part of her that had driven her to Africa ten months before was stronger than ingrained manners. She smiled sweetly at him. "In front of everyone?" The nod of her head indicated the hundred or so people vigorously enjoying the impromptu block party. The noise level from the music alone was enough to make the rest of the French Quarter shimmy. "I could work somethin' out," he murmured, undaunted. "I'll bet." He laughed and pulled her closer again. He was strange, she thought, but he was definitely a superb dancer. His movements were graceful, full of restrained power. He wasn't excessively tall - she mentally put him at about six feet - but there was plenty of lean, well-defined muscle filling out his shoulders, chest and those long, long legs. "What would you do," he asked, loudly enough to be heard over the band, "if I said I wanted t'drag you off to the nearest alley and make love t'you until you scream?" Carolina started to get nervous. He had to be joking. Didn't he? "I'd tell you that I don't sleep with strangers." Then she saw the fire in his eyes. "Who said anything about sleepin'?" He leaned down until his lips were brushing the delicate curve of her ear. There was just enough sensual menace in his dark, depthless voice to make her shiver with deliciously primal female fear. "So, how 'bout it, chere?" Hell's bells, he was serious. She was saved from answering by the music. The waltz ended and segued into an equally old-fashioned barn dance. Carolina twisted out of the stranger's hold and slipped into the sudden chaos. A couple of well-timed revolutions in the barn dance should get her safely away. Or so Carolina thought until the last dizzying turn flung her back into the stranger's arms. So much for Plan A. "Was it something I said?" the man wanted to know as he propelled her toward the edge of the crowd. Her chin came up as she searched, out of habit, for a polite response. There wasn't one, so she mentally shrugged and retorted, "I don't appreciate being propositioned." His grip on her upper arm gentled, but not enough for her to be able to pull away. "That wasn't a proposition, chere." His grin flashed through the darkness at her. "It was a declaration of intent." She tried to jerk out of his hold. Carolina wasn't a soft sort of female, but the stranger's grip was like iron. "Let me go!" He had to have seen the fear building in her eyes, because the hard lines of his mouth softened ever so slightly. His grin gentled into a smile. "Don' fret so, petite. I was only jokin'. I'm not gonna hurt you." Carolina wasn't buying it. She lunged at him. The defensive move was hampered by his seemingly unbreakable hold on her arm and the fact that the stranger was unnervingly fast, more like a great black cat than a man. He locked her struggling body against him before she could get more than a couple of blows in. Panting, she glared up at him. "I'm not going to make it easy for you." Incredibly, he freed one hand to brush her disordered hair out of her eyes. "I meant it when I said I wasn't going t'hurt you. I don' believe in rape, cherie." He said it with such quiet assurance that Carolina almost believed him. Almost. Her instinct for self-preservation was stronger. "How comforting," she snapped. "You don' believe me, do you." It wasn't a question. "Why should I? Now let me go before I start screaming." Something dark and predatory flickered across his eyes like heat lightning on a dark night. "I love a responsive woman. But save it for later," he advised mildly, "when I give you a real reason t'want t'scream." The man had pulled her into him and retreated deeper into the cloaking shadows before she could even think to fight him. How did he move so darned quickly? The image of the panther flashed across her mind again. The image was replaced by his face, dark and implacable, as he bent her backward over his arm. Off-balance in more ways than one, she clutched at his shoulders. He smiled ferally. And then he kissed her. She wouldn't have expected his lips to be soft, but they were. She had intuitively known that he was expert at pleasing a woman, but couldn't have anticipated this drowning sensuality - or her own response to it. He nibbled softly at her lips, as if asking permission to enter. Dazed, Carolina let go of a fraction of her wariness. It was enough. The moment he sensed the softening in her, the kiss changed. He demanded. He plundered. He ravished her mouth as if he had a perfect right to it. And to the rest of her. And Carolina, reeling, melting, responded in a rush of urgency that would have infuriated her - if she'd been capable of thinking. She became incredibly aware of the length of his body supporting hers, and was glad of it. She wasn't at all sure that her bones hadn't turned to mush. As quickly as it had begun, it ended. The stranger hauled her upright and let her go, Carolina found herself suddenly tottering on unsteady legs. She watched, dazed, while the stranger tidied the wisping strands of pale hair that had escaped her braid. He took his time, clearly enjoying the soft textures of her hair. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Good heavens, what had he done to her? "Hey, don' look so scared, no. I'm impulsive, chere, but I'm not a monster. At least, not usually." Even in the humid gloom, she caught the flash of sadness in his eyes. And then it was gone. He touched a finger to her swollen lips, his eyes only holding masculine satisfaction. "You sure do pack a wallop, petite." He flicked his calloused fingertip along the soft, moist surface of her inner lip, then brought the finger to his own lips, tasting. "But you still taste sweet. Like cinnamon honey." Carolina swallowed, and realized that his own taste, like midnight and storm, still lingered on her tongue. Despite that, the firestorm of sensation was easing off, and Carolina was beginning to think clearly again. And she was angry. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't scream for a cop right now." The stranger grinned unrepentantly as he raised mock-defensive hands. "You enjoyed it?" She stared at him, eyes wide, torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to kick something, preferably him. "I don't believe you, you..." "No need t'thank me." He was already melting further into the shadows, fading like the Cheshire cat. She sputtered. "Now you just hold on a minute, you - " "Mebbe later, chere. When we don' have an audience close by, eh?" "For heaven's sake!" Exasperation and annoyance and a host of other emotions that Carolina didn't want to examine too closely made her throw up her hands. "I'm here a day and look what happens. I should've known better than to come back. I just should've!" She would have sworn that the stranger had faded away into the night, but Carolina caught the now-familiar white slash of his smile out of the corner of her eye. "Glad you did. Welcome back to N'Awlins, cherie." And then, somehow, he was gone, this time for good, and without her having heard so much as a footfall above the sounds of traffic and music. Carolina snorted, trying valiantly to ignore the fact that her lips were still stinging pleasantly, and turned back to the party. She had a sudden, desperate urge to lose herself in it. "Yeah, welcome all to hell."
The music and pulsing life filling the street beckoned him, but he stayed back, watching everything from the concealing shadows. He frowned a bit, rubbing one hand over his stubbled chin in thought. Maybe joining the revelry had been a bad idea, but it was in the past. Like that kiss. Ah, that kiss was something he would remember for a long time. He propped his shoulder against a wall, feeling its marginal coolness against his hot skin. Just like he would remember the sweet-tasting, feisty woman, with fondness and a little regret. Mostly regret that something would come of the incredible attraction he'd felt humming between them. Ooo-wee, had there been an attraction! Ever since he'd seen her laughing, clapping along with the others who hadn't joined in the dancing, he'd been hooked. There had been something about her that almost shimmered like a beacon in the darkness beyond her obvious restraint. A pity, he thought again with a small pang of remorse. But that didn't mean he couldn't wish.
Opening Treasured Tales the next morning was made slightly more difficult by the fact that she was forced to resort to wearing her glasses. Carolina swore as she nearly upended her coffee cup. It was barely nine in the morning - ungodly early, as far as the rest of the French Quarter was concerned - and already her temper was as frayed as some of her bookbindings. Her raw eyes had been, as far as she was concerned, the last straw. A combination of lack of sleep and an excess of Dixie beer were to blame for both the eyes and at least seventy percent of the headache, but she was more than happy to lay all the blame at the stranger's feet. After all, she would never have drunk so much if it hadn't been for him. Her lips tingled again maddeningly, just as they had all night. Three beers were her limit, and she'd downed twice that once she'd gotten home in an attempt to erase the memory of that kiss. All her efforts had gotten her were a throbbing hangover and sand-filled eyeballs. Carolina rolled her head on her neck, trying to dispel some of the tension knotted into the muscles. "So much for the curative powers of drink." A sweet voice chirped, "That doesn't count for the day after, honey." Carolina's mouth thinned into a sour, tight line. She wasn't in the mood for cheer. "Thanks for the reminder, Marguerite." The older woman swept back an errant tendril of her short blond hair with one hand and pushed Carolina's mug toward her with the other. "Café au lait. I made it special, so drink it." She obediently sipped. And sipped again to hide a grimace. "There's something besides coffee and chicory in here." "A bit of the hair of the dog..." Carolina sighed. "Marguerite, you aren't Irish." "No, but I am practical. Drink." She drank. "Shouldn't we be opening up or something?" "We are open. Just no customers yet." "Oh." Carolina finished her doctored coffee and sighed. Either the alcohol or the steamy warmth of the coffee was working magic with her stiff muscles. Thank heaven for small favors. "Too early for customers?" "I think I hear a brain slipping into gear," Marguerite murmured, sotto voice. Carolina ignored her teasing in favor of staring out the plate glass front window. A scattering of hardy, early-morning tourists was going by. A cottony fog had rolled up from the river overnight, drifting silently over the streets and eddying around the other shops fronting Jackson Square. Then she glanced around the shop with its cheerful hodgepodge of hand-carved shelves and handbound books. In ten months, it hadn't appreciably changed. Rich red carpet, as close to the old as they'd been able to find. Soft, indirect lighting. The scent of vanilla, marjoram and cinnamon from her strategically-placed sachets mingling with the smell of aged leather, fresh paint and the ever-present river. The workmen had done a good job of repairing the damage, but... Carolina winced, feeling a pang of empathy for the place. The fire had been minimal, but the vandals who had set it had done more considerable damage, including shredding quite a few volumes which had had to be replaced. Treasured Tales was operating, but it was deeply in the red. She sank into the comfortably worn brocade chair positioned by the door. Her fingers lovingly caressed the plump arm. Its textures, at least, were familiar. "You know, I actually missed this place." Marguerite's brown eyes peered quizzically at her from over the narrow rims of her reading glasses. "Of course you did. I'm surprised you stayed away so long, sweetie. New Orleans was always your lifeline." "That's why I went," Carolina saluted her with her mug. "Dependency is a terrible thing." Marguerite made a humming sound, patently unconvinced. "D'you want to check the special orders that came in now, or do you want to wait?" "Now, I suppose." She managed to push herself out of the pillowy chair with only a token protest from her sore muscles. "That way I know what has to get priority treatment." The two women dove into the stack of newly-arrived books. Halfway through the stack of new merchandise, Carolina breathed out a reverent sigh. She carefully lifted an encyclopedia-sized volume from its packing box. "Oh, Marguerite, would you look at this? It's finally here!" The worshipful, almost dopey grin was making her face ache, and she didn't care a whit who saw her. "It's a miracle we were able to locate it, much less acquire it." The older woman made a sound of approval. "Mint condition." Carolina clasped the book to her breasts. "Mint condition and possibly written by Francis Xavier Dumont." She smoothed a fingertip over the ornate metal lock. "I would give my eyeteeth to be able to authenticate this." She sighed lustily. "I'm taking a guess that you know about this sort of thing?" Carolina cocked an eyebrow. "Remember why I just spent ten months in Africa?" Marguerite rolled her eyes. "You and your folklore." "That's what my parents said when I got my degree in it. But the fringe benefit is that I can recognize a genuine literary treasure when I see one." One long-fingered hand stroked the lock again. An odd tingle seemed to travel up her arm. "And this little beauty is, as they used to say, a gem of the first water." Marguerite gently rapped her on the head with her knuckles. "You can't have it." "I know, I know." Carolina heaved a genuine sigh of regret and carefully laid the volume back on the counter. "Much as I might like to, I won't jeopardize the shop's reputation by filching a client's order." Although she was very tempted, she added silently. Only a scholar and connoisseur of rare books would have the proper appreciation for what was either an excellent forgery or an actual first edition volume of Dumont's Vodou. And if it was genuine, it might just be the last surviving copy; Dumont had supposedly destroyed all of the copies he could get his hands on soon after publication. "Who ordered this?" Marguerite paused long enough to look at the order slip. "A G. Ribaud. I remember this one. It was odd." "What?" Carolina didn't look up from the book. "The order was prepaid, with a sizable tip added to insure timely delivery." "How sizable?" "About five hundred dollars." Carolina's head popped up. "Five hundred dollars? Cash up front? For a tip?" "Yes, yes, and yes. Stop looking so startled. This is a valuable book, not a pizza." And they needed the money; Carolina caught what the other woman had left unspoken. But... "But there aren't many people who would be able to recognize the value." She couldn't seem to take her hands off the book. The cover didn't feel like leather, she decided. More like silky suede. And almost alive. "Well, this G. Ribaud did. And he wants it delivered." With an effort, Carolina brought her attention back to the conversation. "How do you know it's a he?" "Handwriting. He sent a letter to place his request. No woman writes in messy, heavy black scrawl." Amused, Marguerite leaned forward on the counter, one hand propping up her gently-rounded chin. "Do you want to deliver it, or should I?" "I'll do it," Carolina said hastily. She needed a little more time with the precious volume before she'd be able to let it go. "D'you think we'll get a noon rush today? I can always stay to help out." "Not unless we get a bunch of tourists more interested in antique books than plastic crawfish souvenirs," Marguerite said pertly, long since accustomed to the vagaries of tourists. "Do you think you'll quit mooning over that thing by then?" Carolina smiled in amused self-depreciation. "I'm not making any promises."
Despite Marguerite's prediction, the shop was busy enough by noontime to warrant keeping Carolina on the job and deny them both a chance for lunch. "There's a lull," Marguerite announced at quarter to one. "Quick, out the door." It was too soon! Carolina thought frantically, biting back an uncharacteristic wave of panic. "But..." "No buts. Get that book delivered. The longer you wait, the harder it'll be for you to give it up." The heck of it was, Carolina thought dourly as she shouldered her way through the browsers and out of the shop and hopped into her car, that Marguerite was right. She wanted this book like she'd never wanted anything else - it was almost like an obsession. Dangerous. Very dangerous. After what had happened to her mother, she was very wary of anything smacking of an unhealthy fascination. She glanced at the paper-wrapped book on the seat next to her. She imagined that she could feel its pull through the packaging and grimaced. Marguerite was right. Best to deliver the thing to Mr. Ribaud now and be done with it. Traveling up the old road to Navarre, a tiny town snuggled along the edge of a bayou a short distance south of New Orleans, was a little like going back in time to when that city had been a mere gleam in the eyes of the first French settlers. The bayou was a world unto itself. The humidity and greenery were oppressive, giving the day a haunting quality in spite of the sizzling sunlight. She was feeling distinctly claustrophobic by the time she located Ribaud's house, way out in a desolate section of town. As soon as Carolina parked her white Saturn in a convenient spot in front of the old plantation house and stepped out of the air-conditioned interior, the early September heat slapped around her like a heavy, wet blanket. No one on the Louisiana coast could ever forget that they were living in a sub-tropical climate, she thought wryly, holding the book in one hand and pushing frizzing blond curls out of her eyes with the other. Even her glasses were fogging up. She eyed the Ribaud house curiously. Her first impression was that it had somehow sprung up out of the bayou itself. Heavy shawls of Spanish moss draped over the branches of the overshadowing cypresses as if the trees were the graceful ladies which must have lived in this house a hundred years ago. The structure itself looked much less graceful. It seemed to scowl at her from out of its many lidded eyes. Carolina shook her head, half-expecting to hear her brain rattle against the sides of her skull like a bean inside a hollow gourd. She was getting ridiculously fanciful. It was only a building, a typical old plantation house. Granted, it wasn't in what she'd call mint condition, but everybody knew the brutal bayou moisture was hell on houses. The white paint was graying in places and peeling from the columns supporting the upper story. The wide, black shutters were equally in need of a facelift. The weathered wood-slat fence circling the house and yard was completely paint and stain-free, probably bleached by the sun. There was no sign of a mailbox, and most of the windows were curtained off. There was also something subtly odd about the place. It wasn't just the sense of cloying closeness caused by the tangled vegetation hemming it in from all sides, hiding the place from the prying eyes of nonexistent neighbors. There was something in the shadows cast by the great trees, almost a sense of lifelessness. No... of stillness. As if everything inside the property lines was holding its breath. Carolina almost felt like doing just that as she stepped onto the cracking clamshell walkway. To distract herself, she began constructing a mental image of Ribaud. He'd be at least sixty, she thought. Perhaps balding. Eccentric and dry witted. He had small, deep set eyes and scholarly frown lines. He probably wore gold wire-rim glasses and tweed blazers with leather patches on the elbows, even in the heat. A true Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's swamp. Lips twitching at the notion, Carolina leaned on the doorbell. A muted chime sounded from somewhere deep in the house, as if it echoed from the back of a cave. The place couldn't be that big. Could it? She waited for long moments, rapidly getting sleepy in the heat. Sweat began trickling down her neck to pool in the hollow of her throat. The sweet, mingled scents from the overrun garden and the earthier smell of the nearby bayou formed a heavy perfume. For some reason, it made her think of a funeral parlor. When the humming came, it sounded like a giant electronic mosquito zeroing in on her head. Carolina automatically ducked, free hand upraised, before she realized that the sound was coming from a small, not very modern intercom set unobtrusively beside the doorframe. She pushed the "answer" button, licking her lips before she answered. "Hello?" The other voice's gender was masked by static, but it was still unmistakably curt. "You have the book?" Carolina took a deep breath of the wet air and counted to ten, not daring to trust herself with a quick answer. It seemed as if she'd lost her temper along with her manners last night. "Are you Mr. Ribaud?" The disembodied voice muttered something that was thankfully lost in the static. "I'm Ribaud." "Then, yes, I have the book." Why on earth did she feel like a gangster's moll making a drop? "Leave it by the door and go." "Mr. Ribaud..." Carolina grabbed for her temper with both hands. She wasn't usually so quick off the mark, but there was something about the voice that rubbed her the wrong way. And she wasn't exactly in the best of moods to begin with. She made a mental note never to drink Dixie beer again. "If that's who you are, that is. There is no way that I will leave any old book, let alone a copy of Dumont's Vodou, lying on someone's front porch. Not in this kind of weather, and not unless I am absolutely certain that I'm delivering it as requested to Mr. G. Ribaud." "Gabriel. My name is Gabriel," the voice snapped. "That's not proof of identity," she answered, her voice as cool as the afternoon was hot. Yes, her mama would be horrified at her behavior. Well, her mama would just have to get used to it. Her sweet little Carolina Virginia seemed to be riding a real temperamental streak lately. "Sorry," she said into the little speaker, and tried to sound as if she meant it. The voice fell silent. Another buzzer sounded, and the front door clicked open. Interesting, Carolina thought, stepping into the dim interior of the house. And then she regretted her action as the door shut behind her with a distinctly final clink. Well, shoot. She looked around, half-interested, half-worried, realizing that she was in a small, painfully bleak foyer. The old brick floor, worn smooth and shiny by generations of feet, squeaked beneath the rubber soles of her sandals. The sense of oppression came back, doubled. Carolina shook herself, as much to dispel the sudden chill raising goosebumps on her skin as anything else. "Well, I can't very well stand here all day." The sound of her own voice, echoing oddly through the rooms, startled her. Her hand went to her throat in a nervous gesture, fingers fiddling with the round silver pendant at the hollow of her throat. Cautiously, she moved forward and into what might have once been a small salon. Was the entire house furnished in these uncomfortable-looking antiques? It must have cost as-yet-unseen Ribaud a fortune to restore the house to its original state. Although, judging by the coating of dust that shaded the paint on the walls to a deeper French blue, she could almost believe that the furnishings had come with the place. And where was her terse host anyway? She would've been very glad to see anybody, no matter how grumpy they apparently were. She would have thought that a man who owned a house this size would at least have a housekeeper. Although anyone who wouldn't have a gardener, she amended, remembering the overgrown front lawn and untidy bushes, probably wouldn't bother with a butler. There was a sound. Carolina stopped still and listened. There was someone coming down the staircase. She could hear the squeaking that accompanied the otherwise silent press of feet against old wood. "It's about time." Squaring her shoulders, Carolina tightened her grip on the paper-wrapped package in her right hand and strode out of the salon. She had half a mind to hurry out of the house with Vodou and go back to the store. Let the arrogant old man have his money back. He obviously wasn't going to appreciate the book like she would. Ribaud's steps thudded to a halt midway down the mahogany stairs. "Damn it, woman, where'd you go?" That voice! Carolina faltered in mid-step and almost tripped when the tip of her loose sandal caught on an uneven portion of the brick floor. Then she got a good look at the figure on the staircase and felt all the blood in her body rush to puddle in her toes. The dark stranger's shocked expression was slowly being replaced by a familiar, predatory smile. "Well, well." There was a wealth of satisfaction in his deep, drawling voice, and Carolina began to feel the first stirrings of panic. "Hey, cherie, where y'at?" "You? You're Gabriel Ribaud?" She was proud of herself; her voice had been almost steady. He sketched her an elegant, mocking bow. Hell, wishes really did come true. He should have tried this years ago. "None other, chere. And you're from Treasured Tales?" "It's my... store." Her voice threaded out to a whisper again because the stranger - Mr. Ribaud, she absently corrected herself - was descending the stairs with that predatory, pantherish grace she'd noticed last night. Carolina watched nervously as he stopped a foot away from where she stood. There was approval in his dark eyes; she couldn't decide whether it was because she'd stood her ground with him when she should have been running or because she was wearing a thin, hot pink tank top and gauzy skirt in deference to the sweltering weather. "What's your name?" He made it sound so sensual. So unthreatening. He even seemed unthreatening, standing there in the dusty daylight. Still, Carolina hesitated on her answer, conscious of a deep, feminine awareness that giving this man anything would be a mistake. "C'mon, petite, I don' bite." A wry smile twisted his carnal lips. "Well, not unless you ask real nice." Carolina felt a faint thrill of shock. This was the grouchy voice behind the crackly intercom speaker? "Are you sure you're Mr. Ribaud?" "Last time I checked." "I don't suppose you have any ID?" She felt like an absolute idiot for asking, of course, but if this was Ribaud, then she really didn't feel comfortable leaving Vodou with him - even if he had paid for it. Instead of reaching into the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet, he reached for her. Last night's kiss hadn't been a fluke. That was Carolina's last coherent thought as his lips sealed over hers. She was bitterly disappointed. It would have been easier for her if Ribaud had turned out to be more like her initial mental image of him. Then she could have hated him. I really ought to have known better than to think she could do things the easy way. The little sparks and tingles that she remembered from last night were back in her blood. In force. It was almost as if the kiss connected them in a way that had nothing to do with the mating of lips and tongue. Carolina would swear that she could feel the stranger - Gabriel - pervading every cell in her body like a flood of dark, incredibly exciting electricity. He pulled away, just a little, with a last, nibbling caress of her lower lip that probably weakened Carolina's knees even more. His own weren't doing too well, either. This woman affected him as he hadn't been affected in a long, long time. His lips brushed hers once more before he drew back to let her breathe. His hands, big and long-fingered, made the expanse of female back beneath them seem small and fragile. Gabriel let his fingers walk down her spine to the flare of her hips, smiling briefly when he realized that she wasn't wearing a bra. Carolina didn't want to look at him. She didn't. The first time he'd kissed her had been beyond her control - at least she told herself that - but this one? What was happening to her? She'd never been so... wanton. Not with her fiancé, at any rate. And she shouldn't be with this arrogant stranger! Well, she couldn't stand here all day with her eyes closed, no matter how badly she wanted to. Besides, Gabriel Ribaud barely knew her. Even if his opinion of her mattered, what could he do? Tell her mother? Feeling a little better after the pep talk, Carolina opened her eyes. Gabriel's face was inches away from her own. Why had she not noticed before how absolutely fascinating he looked? His narrowed eyes were onyx slits in his sun-dark features. They flashed - no, burned - well... oddly. His narrow, almost Roman nose would have been classically perfect if it hadn't had a just-maybe-broken-once set. A souvenir of a fistfight? Carolina considered that, finding that the image of Ribaud in a fight came with disturbing ease to her mind. He probably gets into a lot of them. Especially if he makes a habit of going around dragging women into dark corners. The memory was as stinging as a slap across the face. Carolina was suddenly aware of a dawning sense of horror. What the hell was she doing, letting him kiss her like that? She didn't know anything about him - well, except that he made her nervous, was a lousy housekeeper, kept to himself and liked old books - and she was in his arms. In his house. Her fine, wheat-dark brows drew together quite unconsciously. In his very secluded house. Alone. And he appeared fascinated by her lack of a bra. "Oh, shoot." She murmured the totally inadequate phrase when what she really wanted to do was cut loose with a few of the blistering oaths she'd picked up during her stint in Africa. Her mother had never told her that there would be times when the ingrained imperative of ladylike behavior would be a pain in the ass. Carolina stifled that disloyal thought and pushed discreetly against Gabriel's shoulders. It was like trying to push a rock. She cleared her throat and tried her best to look calm and unruffled. "Excuse me, Mr. Ribaud. I'd appreciate it if you'd let me go now." He regarded her steadily with his inscrutable dark eyes. And then he grinned. "Ooo-wee, chere, you always so polite?" This was definitely not going according to plan. But then, Carolina reminded herself with a not-inconsiderable amount of fatalism, she had hoped that, this time, Ribaud would behave like a gentleman. Well, that'll teach me to give him the benefit of the doubt. "I said, let me go." Carolina was rather pleased with the firmness of her tone. And then she added, "Please." He was too busy staring at her face to pay attention to the demand. "Your eyes are different colors." Her hand flew to her face. She hadn't realized until then that he'd taken off her glasses just before he'd kissed her. "My glasses!" "Right here." He flashed the round gold frames that dangled carelessly from his fingers but didn't let go of them. Or her. "I've never seen a woman with eyes like yours." One fingertip hovered just below the lower lid of her right eye. "Spring green, like new leaves," he murmured, obviously entranced. "And this one..." His fingertip floated across her face, barely brushing her skin. She fought the urge to shiver. "Like an aquamarine." He delicately brushed her long, thick eyelashes. "Framed in Florentine gold." "Mr. Ribaud..." "Gabriel." Carolina set her jaw stubbornly. "Mr. Ribaud." "Call me Gabriel, chere." His lethal grin slashed white against his bronzed skin, and his breath, warm and redolent of peppermint, puffed gently against the prim set of her lips. His fingertips traced the pale pink imprint the fine chain had made in the fragile skin of her neck. "Or I'll have t'kiss you again." Carolina took a deep breath and counted to ten. "Gabriel. I suggest that you let loose before you find my knee in a very sensitive portion of your anatomy." Given the look in her eyes, Gabriel didn't for a minute doubt that she'd carry through on her threat. He stepped back gracefully, regret plain on his face. She was a fierce little thing, even if you had to back her against a wall to get her to show it. "Thank you." She said it graciously, but her expression was wary. He didn't blame her. "Think nothin' of it, petite. Although," and he cocked a smile at her designed to melt her resistance, "you'll never know how hard it was for me." Carolina swallowed the quip that sprang to her tongue. Mentioning his obvious hardness would be a major tactical mistake. "My glasses, please." "I'll trade you for a kiss." She bit her lip. "How about my glasses for Vodou instead?" Something dark and cold flashed across his features and was gone. "Yes. I need Vodou." Carolina took a wary step back. All the color and vibrancy had leached from his voice at the mention of the book. That didn't make any sense. Only a few minutes ago, he'd been so eager to get it. The earlier sense of oppression and gloom flowed back, wrapping her in invisible folds of mourning. "Well," she said awkwardly, abruptly thrusting the precious wrapped parcel at him. "Here it is." Gabriel took it from her, handling it with a curious reverence that, though he didn't know it, reminded Carolina of the way his fingers had brushed her lips last night. "Come and show it to me." It was halfway between an invitation and a command. "Here?" "In the library." He cocked his head in the direction of the stairs. "Vodou deserves a little ceremony, eh?" He was already climbing the daunting staircase before Carolina could gather breath to voice a prudent refusal. And then she realized, between her annoyance at being manipulated and her anger at herself for allowing herself to be manipulated, that she really didn't have a choice. Growling something rude under her breath, Carolina began to trudge up the stairs. Not that she really had a say in the matter, she assured herself. And not that she gave a darn about Vodou or Gabriel's sure-to-be-magnificent library. No, instead, he had come up with the one thing that would insure her cooperation. The creep still had her glasses.
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