Falling for You (34 page)

“Oh, this is wonderful. I think guests will be fascinated. So, did you make it the whole night?”

“Barely.” He chuckled. The sound was even more appealing than his lopsided grins. “Although once the sun was up, I’m not sure if we were relieved or disappointed that Marguerite never put in an appearance.”

She laughed nervously, suddenly aware of how closely they stood together—so close that she caught the faint scent of soap and his freshly laundered shirt.

“So, what about you?” he asked, tipping his head to study her. “Did you ever sneak out here as a kid to see if Marguerite would reveal herself?”

“No, actually none of us, Adrian, Rory, or I, ever did.” To gain some distance, she started up the stairs again. “That probably sounds odd, since Marguerite is our ancestor and we had more reason than most to want to see her. I guess it was just too much of a sore spot for all of us.”

“What do you mean?”

“The house wasn’t ours by right of inheritance, as it should have been. We still wouldn’t own it if it hadn’t come up for sale on a bank foreclosure a year ago. Marguerite’s husband, Henri LeRoche, left the island and all his wealth to his nephew rather than his daughter, Nicole.”

“Except Nicole Bouchard wasn’t Henri LeRoche’s daughter. Otherwise, why would she have taken her mother’s maiden name?”

Surprise stopped Alli at the top of the stairs. She knew people said such things behind their backs, but rarely to their faces. “I see you did spend a lot of time in Galveston to have heard that bit of old slander.”

“We writers are a curious lot,” he said, not sounding the least contrite. “Which is probably the answer to your question about where ideas come from.”

“Well, you can let your curiosity rest on that subject. The rumors are nothing more than vicious lies against Marguerite, invented by the LeRoche family to justify keeping Nicole’s inheritance.”

“It can’t all be lies. After all, Marguerite was trying to run off with her pirate lover the night she and her husband fought on these very stairs and she fell, breaking her neck.” He gestured down the grand sweep of stairs.

Alli straightened, ignoring a sudden rush of vertigo. “First of all, Marguerite didn’t fall. Henri pushed her down these stairs. And secondly, her lover, Captain Jack Kingsley, was a Confederate blockade runner, not a pirate or a Yankee spy, as Henri claimed.”

“But he was her lover.”

“That hardly means Nicole Bouchard was illegitimate. She was born years before Marguerite even met Captain Kingsley.”

Scott started to argue the point further—amused to see the kitten had claws when her fur was rubbed the wrong way—but the scent of lemon polish and fresh flowers distracted him. Glancing around, he found the upper hall had been turned into a sitting room with comfortable chairs and a sideboard for serving coffee and hot tea. “Impressive.”

“Thank you.” Her crisp voice made him hide a smile. What a shame Allison St. Claire was too sweet for him to even think about seducing, since she apparently had a spark of passion beneath the surface.

Turning, she headed across the sitting area, her back rigid.

“So, have you ever seen her?” he asked as they reached the door to his room.

She shook her head. “Marguerite never actually shows herself. She makes her presence felt in other ways.”

“How so?”

Allison looked up in the process of unlocking the door. “I’m surprised you don’t know, since you seem knowledgeable about everything else.”

“Amuse me.” He leaned against the doorjamb, which brought him closer to her eye level.

“Marguerite is considered to be a good-luck charm, because of a blessing from the voodoo midwife who birthed her.”

“Well, I knew that. I was hoping you could offer some proof that the charm really works. Or at least tell me if it works for anyone staying in the house, or only the owners.”

Confusion replaced the anger in her eyes. “Is that why you’re here? To borrow some of Marguerite’s good luck?”

“Maybe.” He shrugged as if the matter were of little importance.

“I’m surprised a man with your talent would feel the need for magic.” Her gaze flickered over his face.

He studied his fingernails to keep her from seeing any hint of desperation in his eyes. “In addition to being curious, writers are notoriously superstitious. If I thought it would get me a number one slot on the
New York Times
best-seller list, I’d write naked in the middle of Times Square.”

“You’ve already done that.”

“What? Write naked in Times Square?” He grinned at her.

“No!” A breathy laugh escaped her. “I mean you’ve made number one on the best-seller lists. Many times.”

“Hey, it never hurts to hedge your bets.” The vivid pink in her cheeks intrigued him, and he wondered what it would take to make her cheeks go all the way to red. “Who’s to say the success of
Ghost Island
wasn’t due in part to Marguerite? I did get the idea while staying here.”

“I’ve always thought the power of a charm comes more from believing in it than anything supernatural.”

“If it works, it works.”

“True.” With a jiggle of keys, she opened the door and headed for a bedside table where she clicked on a lamp.

Scott took in the paisley wallpaper, heavy four-poster bed, and other furniture that gave the room a masculine feel. Whoever had decorated the inn had a taste for quality antiques.

She flung open three sets of heavy draperies, revealing a wall of windows that faced the cove. Sunlight poured in as she rattled off the routine for laundry and room cleaning. She opened another set of draperies, revealing a door to the second-floor balcony. He knew a larger balcony, off the ballroom on the third floor, loomed directly above. It was from that balcony Henri had fired a cannon on Jack Kingsley’s ship, killing his wife’s lover. The remains of the ship and Kingsley’s ghost were said to still be at the bottom of the cove... with the two ghosts forever looking for a way to reunite.

“You’ll want to keep this door locked, since you share the balcony with the Pearl.”

“The ghost?”

“No.” Allison laughed lightly. “The Pearl is what we call Marguerite’s old suite in the tower since she was known as the Pearl of New Orleans during her days as an opera singer. Just as we call this suite the Baron, since ‘shipping baron’ was the nicest term we could think of to describe Henri.”

“Makes sense.” Scott nodded.

“I think that covers everything.” She folded her hands before her, looking perfectly composed except for the color still glowing in her cheeks. “Do you have any questions?”

“Just one.” He stepped back to see under the desk. “Where’s the modem hookup?”

“Oh, we don’t have phones in the rooms. So many people carry mobile phones, we decided it wasn’t necessary. We do have a computer set up in the music room, though, so guests can check e-mail.”

He stared at her a moment. “No phones in the rooms?”

“I’m afraid not.” Worry flickered across her brow. “Is that a problem?”

“Actually”—he smoothed his beard to hide a smile—“that’s the best news I’ve had in weeks.”

“Oh.” The comment obviously confused her. “Well then, I’ll leave you to settle in.” He nodded as she made her way to the door. “If you need anything at all, please let us know.”

“I’ll do that.”

The moment she left, he glanced about. “Hear that, Marguerite? If I need anything at all... Well, right now, I could use a damn good idea for my next novel.”

Taking a seat at the desk, he booted up the computer, then stared at the blank screen. His mind remained equally blank. After several minutes he let his gaze drift back to the door. “Although, as long as I’m asking for ‘anything,’ how about you make your great-great-great-granddaughter a little bit less of a ‘nice girl’?”

~ ~ ~

Continue the heartwarming journey with

Adrian and Jackie

in the following excerpt from

Don’t Tempt Me

book three of the

Pearl Island Trilogy

Or skip the excerpt of
Almost Perfect
, book one in the Perfect trilogy

Learn more about Julie Ortolon and her heartwarming, contemporary romance novels at
http://JulieOrtolon.com

Sign up for Julie’s Newsletter

or send her an email at

http://JulieOrtolon.com/contact

~ ~ ~

by Julie Ortolon

Chapter One

Jackie Taylor had little use for fairy tales and even less for charming princes, which was why it really irritated her when
he
came striding back into her life. One minute she was straddling a workbench as she repaired a sail for her charter ship, the next she looked up to find Adrian St. Claire filling the doorway of her dockside shed. The brilliant sun of the Texas coast silhouetted his six-foot-plus frame as he came toward her with cocksure grace.

“Dammit,” she muttered under her breath. Didn’t she have enough problems on her mind without Mr. Gorgeous coming around to scramble her brain cells?

“What’s that?” Tiberius, her first mate, glanced up from his end of the workbench. A wide smile split his face, his teeth a startling white against his mocha-colored skin. “Weeell, Adrian,” he said in his distinctive Caribbean accent. “What you doin’ in Corpus Christi, mon?”

Jackie knew exactly why the man had come, but tried to not let it rattle her. The fact that his trip had nothing to do with her personally helped calm her nerves, even as it deflated the ego.

“It was a nice day for a motorcycle ride,” Adrian said. “So I thought I’d head down the coast from Galveston and see what’s shaking on your stretch of beach.”

As he moved out of the glare of the light, she couldn’t stop her gaze from sliding over his lean body. She might have little use for men who collected female admirers just by walking down the street, but that didn’t keep her from enjoying the view. And he did provide a nice one dressed in a red T-shirt and faded blue jeans that fit his muscles just right. He’d pulled his long black hair into a ponytail, and a small gold hoop earring glinted in the shed’s dim light. As the two men shook hands, she marveled at the contrast between them. Ti, with his shaved head and hard body, reminded her of a massive, steady frigate while Adrian made her think of a clipper, sleek and beautiful and rigged for racing.

Adrian nodded toward the slice of bustling dock visible through the door. “From all the tourists snapping pictures of the
Pirate’s Pleasure
, I trust business is going well.”

“It would if da harbor stop chargin’ a fortune for our slip,” Ti said with good humor, as if her business wasn’t teetering on the brink.

Adrian turned toward her and his smile softened with lazy sensuality. “Jackie. Long time no see.”

For a moment, she lost herself in clear blue eyes surrounded by sinfully long black lashes. His features were so flawless, they’d be “pretty” if he weren’t so... breath-takingly
male
. That masculinity stirred up longings best ignored, not just to be touched, but to be cherish and protected. As if she could ever count on a man for that when things got tough.

Irritated, she ran a hand through her hair, uncomfortably aware that she’d cut her hair boyishly short since the last time she’d seen him. “I gave your family my answer on the phone. And the answer was no.”

His brows shot up. “Well, now, that’s cutting right to the chase, isn’t it?”

Ti flashed her a questioning look, since she hadn’t confided in him about the St. Claires’ request.

“I find a direct approach saves time.” Securing the large needle in the canvas, she thrust the sail aside and rose. “Now, unless there’s something else you want”—
besides my great-grandfather’s letter
—“I’ll let you be on your way.”

His gaze moved over her face with such intensity, her stomach fluttered. “What if the ‘something else’ I wanted was to take you to dinner?’

“Right.” She snorted, squelching the instant leap in her pulse. Conscious of her first mate hanging on every word, she crossed to a water cooler by the door. Beyond the shadows of the shed, tourists wandered the pier, buying fresh shrimp off the boats. Their voices mingled with the rhythmic rush of waves underfoot and the incessant cries of seagulls. Unseasonable heat for early November hung heavy in the air, and the denim shirt she’d tied at the waist over a sports bra and shorts felt heavy against her skin.

After filling a paper cup with chilled water, she glanced at Adrian as he came up behind her. Her nerves tingled alarmingly with awareness, a reaction that irritated her. “I have no desire to waste an evening listening to you try to talk me out of something I have no intention of giving you.”

He said nothing at first, but she could feel him watching her. “I think the question here is, what am I prepared to give you?”

She turned and found him leaning against a worktable, his scuffed motorcycle boots crossed at the ankle. “Oh?”

He wiggled his brows playfully. “I’m here to make you a proposition.”

Her heart pounded even as she forced a laugh. “Don’t even try to sweet-talk me. We both know I’m not your type.”

His infectious chuckle teased her senses. “And what would ‘my type’ be?”

“Tall blond beach bunnies with Barbie doll figures,” she tossed back.

“That’s just packaging. But if it comes with a personality and some brains, absolutely.”

The man was impossible to rile. Something she should have remembered from dealing with him a year ago. He and his two sisters had hired her ship, a two-hundred-year-old Baltimore schooner, as part of the entertainment for the annual Buccaneer’s Ball. The event had been held at the Pearl Island Inn, a bed-and-breakfast owned by Adrian and his sisters, located on its own private island near Galveston. During the few days the
Pirate’s Pleasure
had been anchored in their cove, Adrian had flirted with her shamelessly. Not that she took any of it seriously. Like all charming men, he simply enjoyed flirting.

“Now, about dinner...” he said.

“In case you misunderstood, that was a no.” She downed the cold water and crumpled the paper cup.

“I was thinking somewhere quiet—”

“I’m not going out with you.”

“—where we can discuss what my sisters and I are willing to offer in exchange for your help.”

“No.”

“Or... I can proposition you right here.” He leaned closer and she caught a whiff of him. Oh, God, he even smelled good: like soap and sunshine and a fresh sea breeze. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lifted back to her eyes. “I think we’d both be more comfortable talking over seafood and a nice bottle of wine.”

She shook her head, amused despite herself. “Do you ever take no for an answer?”

“Honestly?” He cocked a brow. “I’m not sure. It’s not a word I hear too often.”

“I just bet you don’t.” She entertained the idea of hefting him over her shoulder, walking out onto the pier, and tossing him into Corpus Christi Bay. Considering his size, she didn’t think she’d get too far with that plan. “Okay, what the heck. I’ll have dinner with you as long as you pick up the tad.”

“Of course.” He looked comically offended.

“Fine, then. It’s your money and your time to waste.”

“Great.” His eyes lit. “How about the Wharf? Early enough to enjoy the sunset. Unless you’d rather go somewhere else.”

“No, the Wharf is fine.” Perfect, in fact, since it was right at the end of her pier. She’d be close enough to home to ditch him if he became too annoying.

“I’ll pick you up around six, then,” he said. “I assume you still live on board your ship.”

“I do.”

“Then I’ll see you this evening.” With a wave to her first mate, he strode past her, back into the sunshine. She watched as he wound his way past tourists and fishermen to the black Harley he’d left parked at the end of the pier. He donned a black leather jacket but left it unzipped in deference to the warm weather. With a move that made her pulse hum, he swung a leg over the seat, kicked the engine to life, and had it roaring with a few twists of his wrist. Then he zoomed off down the busy four-lane road that skirted the beach.

She couldn’t help but shake her head in amusement. He was persistent, she’d give him that. And more gorgeous than any man had a right to be. The gene fairies must have been in a wicked mood the day they made Adrian St Claire or they never would have unleashed all that sex appeal on womankind.

“Care to tell me what dat about?” Ti asked from the workbench.

She glanced at him. “Adrian and his sisters have been bitten by the treasure-hunting bug.”

“Ah...” Ti stretched the word out. “De allure of Lafitte’s missing treasure. I guess we lucky you not cursed with more requests to help find it, since it supposedly go down with your great-great-granddaddy’s ship.”

“Well, at least this is a new spin on an old tale.” She crossed back to the bench and swung a leg to straddle it. Taking up her needle, she resumed mending the sail. “The St. Claires want to go after the real ‘treasure’ rather than chase some fool’s dream of sunken chests of gold.”

“Dat hardly a fool’s dream.” H swept the air dramatically with his big, callused hand. “Many riches litter da sea floor. Spanish doubloons, precious jewels, and artifacts worth a king’s ransom. Or do you forget da thrill of findin’ lost booty?”

She sent him a warning glare. “Are you forgetting the pact we made? No more treasure-hunting. Ever.”

“Just rememberin’ past glory.” His dark eyes twinkled. “And a little girl who love to dive for old coins and gold rings.”

Bittersweet memories stirred at his words. How exciting the world had seemed back then, with one adventure after another. “I’m not a little girl anymore.”

“No. But when it come to findin’ lost treasure, you better dan your father—and people say he was da best.”

“For all the good it did us, since he always spent every dime we made on those dives going after bigger prizes.” She stabbed the needle through the canvas. “I’m through chasing legends and dreams.”

“Chasing legends, yes. But it never hurt to dream.”

“Reality works just fine for me.”

“If you say so.” He resumed sewing, but under his breath, he started singing an old sailing ditty about the treasures of the deep blue sea.

Jackie rolled her eyes, but joined him on the chorus, the song building in volume as their needles kept time to the music.

~ ~ ~

At six that evening, Adrian rang the old-fashioned bell mounted on a wooden sign with the name of Jackie’s ship emblazoned in gold script. He assumed the bell was the appropriate way to announce his presence since a tall, chain-link gate prevented people from walking up the gangway.

As the clanging sound faded, he let his gaze glide over the wooden vessel. Even at rest, the Baltimore schooner whispered of adventure on the high seas with her three masts rising toward the sky. A beautifully detailed mermaid arched beneath the jib boom while red and gold railing trimmed the forecastle and quarterdeck.

Jackie appeared on the main deck, bringing his body to attention. Something about the woman, her spunky eyes and stubborn chin, stirred him up every time he saw her. Too bad the proposal he’d come to make was strictly business. If she accepted, she’d be a partner of sorts and off-limits for the kind of things he’d like to propose.

She stopped at the top of the gangway and glanced at her black diving watch. “You’re punctual.”

“And you’re ready.” He smiled.

“You sound surprised.”

“I have two sisters. I’m astounded.”

She came down the ramp wearing a yellow chambray shirt and khaki trousers. The soft, buttery color brought out the gold tones of her tanned skin and hazel eyes. He studied her hair as she came through the gate and turned to lock it. A year ago, her hair had hung in a thick, mahogany-colored braid down her back. Since then, she’d cut it short—very short—except for a few wispy fringes around the face and nape.

“Nice hair,” he said.

Reaching up in a self-conscious gesture, she finger-combed the fringes by her ear. “Yeah, well, this is what you get when you tell some scissor-happy hairdresser you’re sick of messing with long hair.
Whack!
All gone.”

“I meant I like it.” He cocked his head. “It sets off your eyes.” And the rest of her exotic features. The word “subtle” would never describe Jackie Taylor, with her thick black brows over cat’s eyes, slender nose, high cheekbones, a square jaw, and a lush mouth he’d fantasized about for months. “You hungry?” he asked.

“Ravenous.”

“Me, too. Always.” He added the last in a playfully seductive tone, hoping for one of those saucy comebacks that cracked him up. Most men would probably call him crazy, but he liked the way she verbally sparred with him rather than fell at his feet, sighing in surrender. He’d never had a woman turn him down before. The experience was... intriguing. And liberating. It gave him the freedom to flirt as outrageously as he wanted without the fear of setting off wedding bells in some hopeful woman’s head.

“So,” she said as they started toward the restaurant at the end of the pier, “is that why you became a cook? Your appetite?”

“Chef,” he corrected. “But yeah, my appetite may have had something to do with it. The aunt who raised us worked nights, so if we were going to eat something besides TV dinners, we had to fix it ourselves.”

“Was she a waitress or something?”

“Not hardly.” He grinned, trying not to laugh at the image of his aunt waiting on anyone. “Actor. The Incomparable Vivian. She’s been a star on Broadway for the past several years, but back then she limited her work to Houston—a sacrifice she made for us. In return, I helped take care of my elderly grandmother and two younger sisters by learning my way around the kitchen. And since I’ve always enjoyed indulging my senses, I figured if I was going to cook, I might as well go ‘all the way.’” He put enough sexual connotation in the words to make that stubborn chin of hers go up. “What about you?”