Secret Nights at Nine Oaks (4 page)

Closing the door behind herself, she glanced around the suite Cain had offered her. With a sitting area that opened to a balcony and a bathroom that would make any woman never want to leave it, it was a perfectly styled antebellum bedroom with only a few modern touches.

A fantasy in pale yellow, blue and lavender, the center was graced with an antique Rice bed, its narrow posts twisting elegantly toward the sky. The heart-shaped palm fronds of the ceiling fan waved a soft breeze on to stir the sheer drapes on the bed.

Crossing the room, she plopped down in the club chair, kicked off her shoes and propped her bare feet on the fat tucked ottoman. Picking up a book she'd been meaning to read for weeks, she opened it and skimmed a few pages. But after a few minutes, even her favorite author couldn't keep her still.

She glanced at her laptop still trapped in its case. It was a glaring reminder that she hadn't written anything worth sending out in weeks. She wasn't hurting for money, but for every five treatments or scripts
she did, only one sold. It didn't pay to be a slacker. She wondered how her career would change now that the secret of her pen name had come out. She liked the anonymity of it. She was well aware she wrote weird stuff and didn't want the content to cloud people's judgment of her. Especially producers.

None of her speculation would do her any good if she couldn't come up with a single idea for her next script that was worth the postage.

She pushed out of the chair and went into the bathroom, taking a long, hot shower, pampering herself with a facial and painting her toenails, then slipping into a short chemise, robe and her fluffy slippers with bunny ears on them. The slippers always made her smile, feel silly, and she scuffed along to the French doors, pulling them open. The breeze off the river was warm and balmy, ruffling her hair, her robe.

She sat on the cushioned wicker settee on the balcony, liking that the rail was low enough to offer a view all the way to town. Lights twinkled in the distance, the moonlight glittering like fallen stars on the water. Car headlights riding over the old bridge flashed like tiny beacons. The scene reminded her that life and excitement weren't far away.

Though she'd had enough of them for a decade.

Phoebe let her mind wander, her imagination coming up with scenarios for the people she couldn't
see. She was deep in a scene that was going nowhere when she heard a scuffling sound. Leaving the chair, she leaned out over the rail. The landscape was lit with floodlights in the distance, the large trunks and branches of live oaks looking like gnarled old men ready to capture wayward guests. But she didn't see anyone.

A trickle of fear crept up her spine.

Memories she'd buried surfaced. Kreeg. The strange noises she'd hear around her place and left the comfort of her little house to investigate. Only to find a trail. A rose, a note telling her he was close, but that she was his and would never see him coming.

Instantly she shut off the memories, yet a shiver prickling her skin made her reach for a potted plant, ready to drop it on whomever was lurking below. She heard the sound again, then realized where she was.

Nine Oaks. A near prison, it was so secure.

The dogs were out, she thought, releasing a long breath. They'd bark if there was anyone down there. And Kreeg was behind bars. She was almost tempted to call the police to make certain he hadn't escaped. She set the pot back down, mad at herself for being paranoid. She'd come here to get away from that, dammit. She went inside, closing the doors and climbed into bed.

She would have been surprised that within minutes, she was asleep.

Within ten, she was dreaming.

 

It was past midnight when Cain headed to bed, and at the top of the staircase, he paused, hearing rapid footsteps and turned. Benson rushed up the stairs behind him, looking pale.

“What's the matter, Benson?”

“It's Miss Phoebe, sir. I heard her. Through the air vents.”

“Heard what?”

Then Cain knew. A scream, stifled and long, echoed through the halls.

He waved Benson back and the butler hesitated, then returned to his rooms. Cain hurried into the east wing, knowing exactly where she was, and pushed at the old-fashioned door latch. It was locked. He could hear her whimpering, begging, and threw his shoulder into the door. The latch gave and he rushed inside.

She was on the bed, curled into a tight little ball, hanging onto the bedpost as if it were the mast of a sinking ship. He hurried to the side of the bed, bending over her. Her eyes were tightly shut, her fingers white-knuckled on the post. He called her name, over and over, yet when he touched her, she
clawed out at him, catching his cheek and batting at him.

“Phoebe, wake up! It's a dream. Wake up!”

Cain gripped her shoulders, pulling her from the post, and propelled her back on the bed. “Wake up.” She fought him. He pressed his weight onto her, stilling her kicking legs and wild punches, then cupped her face. “It's only a dream, honey,” he said softly, close to her ear. “Wake up now.”

A little sound escaped her, weak and whimpering. Then suddenly, she blinked, staring at him as if he were a stranger, inhaling sharply. Cain felt his insides shift at the confusion in her eyes.

“It's me, Cain. You were dreaming.”

Her lip quivered, her chest heaving to bring in needed air, and he eased off her, his hand sliding to her bare shoulder. “It's all right. It was just a dream. No one will hurt you again.”

She just stared at him, tears filling her eyes, then she buried her face in his shoulder.

And she cried.

His battle with touching her was outweighed when her fingertips dug into him, and Cain wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into the curve of his body, rubbing her spine. She struggled against her tears, and Cain tightened his arms. He gazed down at her body nestled against his, the supple curves of
her leg hitched over his thigh. He wanted to push her onto her back, press himself against her, yet instead, he stroked her spine and bare shoulders, hoping his own body didn't betray him. Her skin was flawless beneath his palm, and she felt so delicate against his roughness. In the silence, he sensed the tension leaving her body, in the way she softened, her curves meshing with his harder planes. Cain could spend a lifetime just like this.

After a moment, she sagged almost bonelessly.

“Sorry,” she said sheepishly, and the sound was muffled against his chest.

“How long has this been going on?”

“Weeks.”

“What did he do to you?”

“I'd rather not relive it again. I just had the Technicolor version.”

He understood and didn't press her, watching her toy with his shirt buttons, wishing she'd yank them open and let him feel her skin against his. “Phoebe?”

“Yeah.”

“You okay now?”

She looked up, searching his face. “Yeah. Just peachy.” She reached out, sliding her fingers over his jaw, his lips. Cain closed his eyes briefly, smothering a moan as the walls he'd erected started to crumble. He struggled, his mind shouting reasons,
flashing pictures that spilled guilt and remorse through him as he caught her hand, stopped her.

He eased back, needing to leave, wanting to stay—and each feeling clawed at him.

Her gaze locked with his. All she did was whisper his name.

Then he was sinking into her mouth.

Nine years of capped electricity connected again.

And exploded.

O
ne touch of her lips and he knew it was madness.

One taste and he was sinking into the abyss of desire.

Cain groaned darkly and gathered her closer.

And the worst happened.

She welcomed him.

Openly, devouring him, letting him taste the sweet energy that was Phoebe. He could easily become an addict. This woman had more power over him than he had over himself. Yet he thirsted for her, sliding his tongue between her lips and indulging in a long-awaited feast.

She arched her body, letting him feel all that she was under the thin cotton, ripe and curved, the plumpness of her breasts burning an imprint into his chest, through layers of cloth. He gripped her slim hips, pulling her to his groin, half crushing her into the downy mattress and still she gave back, bending her knees, wedging him between her thighs.

The heat of her center seared him.

They pawed and stroked, each touch growing more intimate, more desperate for the feel of flesh to flesh. He throbbed for completion, to slide into her body and let the sensations explode between them.

“Cain, oh my,” she said against his mouth and opened like a flower again for him. “Nothing's changed, nothing.”

Suddenly he jerked back, staring down at her, at the confused frown knitting her smooth forehead.

Everything
had
changed.

He wasn't worthy of this woman. He could not have her as his body demanded and Cain told himself he was stronger than temptation, than his own lust.

“I'm sorry, forgive me.”

“Excuse me?”

Cain should have had a clue from her tone that something was about to explode in her as Cain slid back, sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. “I shouldn't have done that.”

“You weren't alone, in case you didn't notice,” she said, and he saw she was a little breathless.

Phoebe was very breathless, her body blazing hot, excitement still pouring and pulsing through her although he wasn't touching her. And she needed to be touched by him, only him as she had wanted nearly a decade ago. Yet he was doing the same thing, backing off, running. Even though he was sitting near her feet, he was already gone.

“Leave, Cain. Get out.”

He snapped a look at her. It was a mistake. She looked so damn lovely, nestled in the mounds of pillows and embroidered sheets. Her face was flushed and the strap to her top had slid off her shoulder, showing him the roundness of her breasts, teasing him with her rosy beauty.

“You can't do this to me again,” she said. “I won't let you.”

“Be assured—” he stood “—neither will I.”

Phoebe watched him walk to the door, long legs eating up the distance. He grabbed the knob, flinging it open, then went still. “Forgive me,” he said without looking at her.

“Stop apologizing! Thanks for bringing me out of the nightmare. Next time, just leave me alone.”

Cain felt the knife of her words and didn't blame her. He'd teased her and himself, dangling passion
between them, knowing full well it would go nowhere the instant his mouth touched hers. He couldn't allow this to develop. Nor would he let her suffer through another nightmare if he could help it. He understood their torment—intimately.

“I'll have the door repaired in the morning.” He gestured to the shattered jamb, then simply stepped out and closed the door behind himself.

Cain remained outside, stock-still, his body wanting her badly while his mind fought to convince it otherwise. He had no right to have anything with Phoebe. Not when the women he
should have
loved was dead because of him.

He headed to his bedroom on the other side of the house, resigned to a night of dreaming of what he could not have and knowing that a dozen rooms separating him from Phoebe truly wouldn't make a difference.

Phoebe felt her eyes water and she stared at the closed door for a long moment, half of her wanting to run and lock it, another part of her wishing he'd turn around and come back in.

And finish what he started.

Damn him. She curled on her side, punching the pillows, still smelling his aftershave on her skin. Did he have to apologize? Twice!
Excuse me, it was good, I liked it, but now I'm really sorry I went all Romeo on you?

She closed her eyes, wanting sleep, wanting him, and she drew her knees up. It did nothing to alleviate the heavy warmth between her thighs. She couldn't do this again. She couldn't fall for him and not have it returned. Though she'd like to tell herself that his ignoring her hadn't mattered, it had. She was pretty honest with herself, she thought, throwing off the covers and leaving the bed. She'd compared every man to Cain and that first kiss. As if searching for someone who'd give her the same untamed feelings, crackling heat and almost desperate hunger.

A man who'd still want her.

But no other man had compared.

She pushed open the balcony doors, stepping out into the night air. Resting her forearms on the railing, she stared out at the river, the moon's glitter on the water. The fragrance of jasmine and wisteria drifted on the breeze, reminding her of home. She'd grown up in a small town south of Nine Oaks, a dewdrop on back roads where everyone knew who she was and what she'd been up to since grade school. She never got away with anything, she thought with a smile. And oddly, that had made her more mischievous as a kid. She drove her parents crazy, always testing her boundaries, pushing to see what was over the next hill. It was half the reason she went to L.A. when she could have done her writing anywhere.

But here at Nine Oaks, the boundaries were tight, clearly marked. Cain had made that clear from the start. Yet in one instance, she thought, glancing back at the bed, he'd ripped those boundaries apart. Shredded them.

The situation made her see that Cain was a trapped man. Phoebe didn't get to where she was as a writer without doing a lot of people watching and dissecting behaviors. Cain was a surly dragon ensnared in a cave. A beast tormented by something. The memory of his late wife? He must have really loved Lily if her death sent him to this seclusion. But Phoebe had a feeling there was more to it than that. Cain never struck her as a man who did anything he didn't want, and pain and darkness were in his eyes now. He practically oozed with it.

Deciding she wouldn't figure out the mystery tonight, Phoebe turned back into the room, then grabbed a book to read. Sleep wouldn't come for her, she knew. And right now, she was glad.

She didn't want Kreeg invading her dreams again.

 

Cain sat at his desk, his breakfast tray untouched on the corner. He jotted notes and fielded calls all morning and was starving, but his time was in demand. Working was a good thing since if he had a spare moment, Phoebe leaped into his brain and tormented him.

He hadn't managed the latest crisis when someone rapped on the door.

“Not now, Benson.”

The door opened anyway.

“Apparently I wasn't clear enough.” Not looking up, Cain scribbled notes.

“Since I'm not Benson that doesn't apply to me, does it?”

Something inside him went still as glass. “People do have to work for a living.”

“Yeah sure, whatever.”

Finally, he lifted his gaze. He saw the hollowness in her eyes despite how sexy she looked. In curve-hugging cropped jeans and a dainty aqua sleeveless top, she sent the control he'd fought half the night to regain right out the door. “What are you doing in here?”

“Walking, and now sitting down,” she said as she did, then set a mug of coffee and a toasted bagel on his desk. She gestured to the breakfast tray. “You haven't eaten?”

“Obviously not. Phoebe, I'm trying to work.”

“Take a break. You've been in here since five-thirty this morning.”

If she knew that, then she'd been up all night, too, he thought. Had that kiss haunted her as it had him?

“Did you ever get back to sleep?” He sure as hell didn't.

“No, not really.” But thinking about him meant that Phoebe wasn't thinking about her own problems. About how she had to testify; how a man she'd dated three times became so obsessed with her that he broke into her car, her house, her bedroom.

She shook the thought loose, focusing on Cain. “Are you going to spend all day in the office?” She folded her legs into the antique chair, looking right at home.

“I normally do.”

“Even in the afternoon, evening? Breakfast?” She pushed the plate toward him, then tore off a piece of her bagel and popped it into her mouth.

“Often.” Cain snagged a slice of toast from his own tray, biting into it.

“So, you're a recluse in your own house.”

“You're on my side of it.” He spread jam on the slice, eating that, then picking up his fork and attacking the still-warm eggs.

“Is there a line?” She looked around at the beautifully carpeted floor. “Be specific, Cain. I thought I had the run of the place.”

“You do.”

She simply arched a brow, the bagel poised for a bite. “But not here. In this room.” She munched.

“I like my privacy to work and you have an entire wing for yourself.”

She waved as she chewed and swallowed. “Yeah, but the fun stuff happens on your side.”

Cain couldn't help but smile. “I hadn't noticed.”

“You don't notice much at all, do you?” She finished off her bagel, then sipped her decaf coffee.

You, he thought, I notice you in every way. Then he said, “Sure I do, I run the place.”

She rolled her eyes. “Ha. Benson runs this house, you run your companies, and I'm betting that they won't fall apart with one day's inattention.”

“On the contrary, my world will crash.” To make his point, the phone rang. He answered it, asking the caller to hold, then looked at her.

Phoebe sensed he was grateful for the call and stood. “Live for the moment, Cain. Hang up.”

“I can't.”

“Well, I'm going for a ride. Want to come with me?”

“On a horse?”

“Unless you have something else to ride.” Instantly Phoebe wished the words back and tried not to blush. “Yes, a horse. Gallop, canter. You know, the four-legged things out there in the stables?”

“No, thank you.”

“Fine, be the king reigning over the fiefdom. But you owe me a dinner.” She headed to the door.

“I do?”

“Yes, and I'll nag you till you join me like a civilized person.”

Cain pushed the hold button on the call and went after her. “Phoebe, I'd rather not—”

“I'm not listening,” she said in a singsong voice, walking toward the front door. She passed Benson saying, “Two for dinner, Benson, make sure he shows up,” then cast a sexy glance at him that rocked him to his heels before she disappeared out the front door.

Cain stared at the closed door, then looked at Benson standing at the base of the stairs.

“Persistent young lady,” was all the butler said and marched up the stairs.

“She's a damn pest.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Well, she is,” he muttered to himself and turned back to the library. He refused to turn on the cameras on his screens and watch her. He'd let security take care of it instead. If he began checking on her, he'd turn into a crazed voyeur and what did that say about him?

He suddenly felt like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, watching the world from afar and wishing for more.

Just as he considered joining her, his gaze landed on the picture of his late wife. Guilt set in instantly, reminding him that he'd ruined her life because he
couldn't love her. He lusted after Phoebe and even if that were satisfied, he'd ruin her, too. He smacked the photo facedown on the desk.

Yet an hour later, he was walking through the house toward the rear, stepping out on the veranda in time to see Phoebe gallop across the lawn at full speed on his finest mare. Given her personality, he would have expected her to take the stallion, but Mr. Dobbs had more sense than to let her ride the mean-spirited horse.

She threw her arms out wide, letting go of the reins and riding the chestnut horse with the strength of her knees. He watched her, her laughter pinging through the warm air and sliding over Cain like a cloak. It had been a very long time since a woman had laughed in this house, he thought, then turned away from the sight of her.

For Cain, the temptation of Phoebe DeLongpree was more than he could handle.

 

Cajun music was rocking the kitchen as Phoebe swept the mop over the kitchen floor. Willis was at the long worktable, polishing silver that didn't need polishing while a male servant ironed napkins and a tablecloth at the other end. She was here because she was already tired of being alone to amuse herself, and Willis was a fun person to be around. He joked
easily as he did his work, which in her opinion was busywork. Without guests in the house and few to cook for and look after, the servants were as bored as she was.

Jean Claude was singing along, sounding rather good as he punched dough for bread.

“Willis, lift your feet.”

“Oh yeah sure, like there is an inch that you didn't already get, Miss Phoebe?”

“Do a job well and you won't have to do it twice.”

“How much caffeine have you had this morning,
bébé
?” Jean Claude said, chuckling as she rinsed the mop and attacked the floor again.

Before she could answer, a deep voice cut through the noise like the crack of lightning. “What the hell are you doing?”

Phoebe whipped around. Cain loomed in the doorway, and the room instantly quieted. Jean Claude shut off the radio.

Oh hell. He looks furious, she thought, not willing to bow to his bluster. “You're smart, figure it out,” she said and heard several indrawn breaths.

“You're mopping the floor?” he said, louder than necessary.