Wedding Favors (2 page)

“Come on,” Laura said, leading her deeper into the decadence. “Let yourself go. If you don’t want to have sex with anyone, don’t. Just indulge yourself and enjoy the possibilities.
You
decide how far things go.”

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Tessa murmured, torn between the temptation of the fantasy and fear of the reality.

Laura handed her a golden mask. “Of course you can. Darling, for one night, give yourself permission to become whomever you want, to do whatever you wish.” She smiled mysteriously. “Who knows what erotic, sensual spell the
Jaillissement de Plaisir
has already cast upon you? You might just find you like it.”

Treves
“Shay” Duchesne strode through the main atrium of the
maison
that bore his family name, heading for the bar. He nodded politely to the many women and even a man or two who turned to flaunt their bodies and smile at him flirtatiously. As on every other night, it was like walking a sexual gauntlet.

“Not tonight,
cher,”
he murmured a dozen times without slowing his pace, his own smile firmly affixed to his lips despite his anger and frustration.

Thwarted.
Again.

Putain de foutre.
Fucking hell. This was all that damned fountain’s fault.

Jaillissement de Plaisir.
Shay snorted derisively.
Not.
More like
Jaillissement de Merde.

The thing was hexed, all right. But it did not grant endless love and pleasure. Not by a long shot. It brought nothing but everlasting trouble.

“Something wrong, boss?” Piron, his friend and Chez Duchesne’s majordomo, asked when he went straight to the top shelf and poured himself a shot of twenty-five-year-old bourbon.

Shay tossed it back and poured another. “We’ve been denied again.”

“The permit?”

He nodded. For fifteen years his family had been trying to turn that eyesore fountain courtyard into a beautiful outdoor restaurant—gourmet food, beignets, the whole New Orleans thing. Fifteen years! But each time, the building permit had been turned down. All because he wanted to repair the ancient brick walkways so they wouldn’t be a safety hazard. The Historical Society insisted that would be changing the original character of the important landmark. Never mind it was his own great-great-great
-grand-père
who had laid the bricks himself.
Dieu!

“I own the damn property! Historical
foutu
landmark,
mon cul.”
Jesus. It wasn’t like he planned to touch the damn fountain. He’d carefully planned a new intimate gourmet dining area with the
Jaillissement
as its centerpiece. Hell, the fountain would only enhance the restaurant’s appeal to the upscale clientele. But not if they tripped and broke their necks on the uneven bricks. “I hope that charlatan Marie Laveau rots in hell for casting her silly love spells at its base for my sadly delusioned ancestor.”

The story went, when Shay’s great-great-great
-grand-père
came over from France and built Chez Duchesne, he invited the beautiful New Orleans voodoo queen to come and give her blessing to the exotic
maison,
which at the time had been a full-fledged bordello. She’d instantly become enchanted with the
Jaillissement de Plaisir
fountain, and supposedly, the courtyard became one of her favorite gris-gris spots, along with occasionally gracing the
patron de la maison
with her favors. Or so the story went.

Piron shrugged. “A hundred seventy years later, her spells, dey still seem to be working.” He gestured to the full house. “Place is packed, everyone enjoying the fruits of her magic.”

“Don’t
you
start.” Shay threw back his second shot with a scowl. “That’s due solely to my hard work, and my father’s, and his father’s before him. Not some witchy curse.”

Piron chuckled.
“Mais,
yeah. Goes without saying.”

“Stupid superstitions.”

Piron slid a key card into Shay’s jacket pocket and winked. “Forget about that ol’ courtyard tonight. Pick you out a woman, you. Feel better in da morning.”

“Not in the mood,” he practically growled.

Despite that, Shay’s thoughts strayed to the woman he’d seen making a wish at the fountain a little while ago.

Yeah, that was the
other
problem. Of all days to see
her
again—the little vixen who’d sent his life careening down this path of voodoo
merde.
Not that he believed in hexes or spells. Not for a single second. He just needed to find the woman, confront her, and erase her from his memory once and for all. Because two kids tossing coins into some stupid fountain together—
accidentally
yet—had
not
caused his never-ending difficulties with that goddamn courtyard nor his inability to find a lover he was happy with for more than three nights running. The thought was ridiculous,
completement fou.

This wasn’t the first time he’d seen her. Tonight he’d watched the apparition from his past in the falling darkness from his private balcony overlooking the courtyard. And been kicked in the gut by the still-vivid memory of that long auburn hair, the proud, distinctive set to her slim shoulders, the shocked expression in her youthful green eyes as, in his own adolescent cockiness, he’d tried to kiss her. He could still feel the impact of her outraged smack on the check ... just as he had relived in his mind a score of times over the past fifteen years.

Of course, so far it had never actually been the woman that sweet
jeune fille
must have grown into by now. But one of these days, it would be her. The
real
her. She would come back. Drawn to that damned fountain by the same insane compulsion that constantly gnawed at his own insides. He felt the certainty of it as surely as he felt the creeping boredom that promised to slowly suffocate him if he didn’t find something more to fill his life. Something real. Something like—God knew what.

He slammed his empty glass onto the bar in frustration. “Have you seen an auburn-haired woman in a short blue dress?” he demanded of Piron. “She was at the
Jaillissement
earlier. With three other women. They may have come in together a few minutes ago.”

Piron’s brow arched. “Your pretty obsession again?”

Always a comedian. “Just answer the damn question.”

Piron jerked his chin toward the far end of the bar. “You mean dat
fille,
over dere?”

Shay turned to look at the woman his friend had indicated. And froze where he stood. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood up in shock and amazement.

Le
bon Dieu.

It
was
her.

The same beautiful fall of auburn hair. The same proud, slim shoulders. The same lush, tempting lips.

Tessa
lifted the featherlight mask to her face, testing the feel of it against her skin. It felt ... unnervingly good. Cool and satin-smooth. Mysterious and sexy. For a breathless second she actually considered leaving it on.

What would it be like to choose a man and let him explore her body? To let him demand licentious acts of her? To submit to his every sexual whim, and let him pay for the privilege?

A wash of goose bumps spilled down her bare arms. Laura was so right. Tessa
had
fantasized more than once about doing just that. Having amazing, anonymous sex with a hot guy whose only connection to her was a straightforward business arrangement. No games, no future expectations. A night of blissful carnal excess without any of the usual emotional fall-out. A man she could totally be herself around without worrying that she didn’t measure up to some unachievable standard of perfect feminine behavior. A chance to explore the shadow side of herself she’d never quite dared acknowledge, except in the forbidden dreams she would occasionally wake up from, panting from a mortifyingly intense climax. But this time she’d be awake.

The prospect turned her on. A lot. She felt her body stir with an unfamiliar sexual hunger, urging her to let herself go. Just this once ...

But no
. How could she even consider it? The whole idea was too outrageous. Too risky. Too ... unlike her. Decisively, she lowered the mask and turned back to Laura. “Honest to God, Laur, I just can’t—”

But her friend had vanished.

In her place stood a man. Tall, dark, and exquisitely handsome, he wore an elegant suit that fit him to perfection and a button-down shirt with an open collar that revealed an enticing triangle of tan skin and the barest hint of black chest hair peeking out.

For a split second she faltered. He seemed ... familiar. Had they met before?

God, only in her most secret fantasies. She definitely would have remembered a man this gorgeous in real life.

He was gazing down at her with an intense regard that instantly kicked her heartbeat into overdrive. “Let me help you put that on,” he offered, reaching for the mask. Flavored with a French Creole accent, the words were melodic, hypnotic.
Seductive.

Her throat went dry instantly. “No. Thank you.” She managed not to croak. Too badly. “I’m not—I was just, um, testing how it felt.”

He tilted his head. “And?”

She swallowed, knowing what he was really asking.
Was she available?
For sex.

She licked her lips. Oh, Lord. Was she? If ever she were to do this crazy thing, now was the time. This man was ... holy hell ... pure walking sex.

And
way
out of her league.

“I—” This time her voice did crack. She cleared her throat. “I don’t think so.”

He smiled, undaunted. “Afraid?”

Was he
kid
ding? “Any rational woman would be,” she told him, fighting desperately to gather her quickly flagging wits. And to douse the illicit flames of desire heating her belly.

“Mais,
a rational woman wouldn’t be found in a place like this,” he observed. He slipped the mask from her fingers, brushing his hand against hers as he did so. Sparks danced along her skin. Ho-boy.

“It’s all my friend’s doing,” she said, her eyes drawn unwillingly as he ran his forefinger slowly and deliberately along the gilded edge of the mask. The gesture was disturbingly sensual ... as though he were touching
her
instead. Heat flashed down her chest, zinging through her breasts. She jerked her gaze away. “This wasn’t my idea.”

“And yet, here you are.” He took a step closer to her. “All on your own. Not a friend in sight.”

His gaze shifted down as her nipples tightened to hard, painful knots. Or maybe it was the low-cut dress that attracted his regard. Or both.

Ho
. Boy. She should get out of there.
Now.
Away from this insane situation and this alarmingly sexy man. But her body just wasn’t getting the message. It wanted to stay. It wanted to indulge in all of those outrageous fantasies of helpless submission she’d only dreamed of.

Would it be so wicked to give herself to him? To let him use her body for his pleasure? To grant his every wish and fulfill his every sexual demand? And by doing so, fulfill her own fantasy?

Don’t do it!
her inner good girl cried.
Yes! Dare!
her fantasy self urged.

She stepped back from him. “I should go.”

“Non.”
He lifted the mask once again to her face, capturing her eyes as he adjusted it snugly in place. He placed the elastic around the back of her head. “You should stay.” Feathering a lock of her hair between his fingers, he let the strands cascade along the side of the mask. It was all she could do not to press her cheek into his palm. “At least let me buy you a drink,” he said, “before you go.”

What was
wrong
with her? She wanted to refuse. She
should
refuse! But there was something so powerful about this man’s attraction, something so compelling, that her mouth just wouldn’t form the words. It was as though he’d cast some kind of sensual spell over her body, filling it with a rush of urgent sexual desire. A
Jaillissement de Plaisir.
Like that mysterious fountain in the courtyard.