The Night That Started It All. Anna Cleary

moonlight and illuminated the pathway that snaked down through the shrubbery to the boathouse. Beyond, lights glimmered from craft moored in the bay.

      She noticed Luc’s glance stray towards the path.

      With a surge of adrenaline she knew wickedness beckoned down that shadowy track. Or—maybe just friendliness. A respectful cousinly chat. She was no longer engaged. Why should every move be such a struggle?

      Though this might be the moment she should let slip her knowledge on the subject of Rémy. Tell Luc his charming cousin was bound to be in LA by now. No doubt with a woman along, maybe even the twenty-year-old he’d recently taken up with. That was if he’d been able to find his missing passport, after turning over the apartment and her in his fruitless, vindictive search.

      It was all so ugly. The old revulsion threatened, and she turned impatiently away from all things Rémy. Tonight she needed to wipe him from her mind.

      ‘Are you very important in D’Avion?’ she said conversationally, just as if she hadn’t noticed their feet were on the path.

      The air was heavy with the sweet sultry fragrance of night jasmine. The back of Luc’s hand touched hers and her skin cells shivered in welcome.

      They turned the corner and were out of sight of the house. Excitement infected her veins with a languor, as if her very limbs had joined the conspiracy.

      ‘Very,’ he said gravely, though his eyes smiled. ‘And you? Are you in the theatre, by some chance?’ She shook her head, and he considered her, his lashes heavy and sensual, his eyes appreciative. ‘Let me guess.’ He touched her nape, drew a caressing finger down to the edge of her top. Magic radiated through her skin and into her bloodstream. ‘Something creative. You give the impression of not always being bound by the ordinary rules. Would that be true?’

      Her heart lurched. It was such a line, but all at once it seemed quite possibly true. Especially now she was in disguise.

      ‘Oh, well.’ She hated to exaggerate her minuscule claims. ‘I guess I’m an artist of sorts.’ She flashed him a brilliant smile. Gouache, crayons and cuddly possums didn’t go with five-inch heels and red toenails, but they had their excitements.

      ‘So you paint?’

      She barely hesitated before she nodded. ‘Partly.’

      ‘What does that mean?’

      ‘Well, I write stories for children. And paint—you know, the illustrations. I’m not that good yet, but I have actually had a book published. It’s a picture story book about a cat.’

      She pulled herself up, not wanting to babble on about herself and bore the man to tears, but he was gazing intently at her as if genuinely interested.

      He drew in a breath. ‘Tiens. Shari, that’s very impressive.’ He spoke so warmly she couldn’t doubt his sincerity. ‘You are a genuine author.’

      Inwardly, she absolutely glowed. ‘Oh, in a very small way.’

      He took her hand and pulled her to face him. It had been so long since a man had touched her in that special way. She trembled inside her bones with a nervous yearning. What if she froze and couldn’t summon the necessary fire? What if she embarrassed herself and shied away at the crucial moment like a scared animal?

      She felt her mouth dry to an uncomfortable clumsiness.

      ‘You are modest.’ He said rather hoarsely, ‘I think you are not what I expected.’

      She said breathlessly, ‘What did you expect?’ Compelled to moisten her lips, she saw a hot flare in his eyes.

      He kissed her then, a firm, purposeful sexy pressure that shot a delicious flame through her blood and made her entire being tremble with longing.

      Ready to swoon, she moved against his hard body, opening up to the full sexy onslaught, but he pulled back and released her. He gazed at her, his eyes unreadable, then traced the outline of her face with his finger. He pressed her lower lip with his thumb and her insides melted in the blaze.

      ‘You taste douce.’ His voice was a little gravelly.

      Douce. Douce? Was that all? To her parched senses he tasted like man and sex and long, hot nights.

      With her adrenaline pumping like crazy, they resumed walking until they reached the end of the path where the boat-house gazed out over the water, its windows blank and enigmatic. As they stepped onto the boardwalk near the landing stage, the moonlight contoured the Frenchman’s face with hard lines and angles. She caught the desire glowing in his velvet eyes, and felt confused.

      Having seduced her thus far, was he having second thoughts?

      ‘What sort of things inspire you to write?’ he said.

      ‘Oh, well.’ She made an expansive motion with her hand. ‘All sorts. Owls. The moon.’ His mouth was so achingly close. Her lips, her entire being hungered to be touched, stroked, enjoyed, caressed, pampered, kissed, loved …

      Would he touch her again, or was that it?

      ‘Owls?’ He sounded surprised.

      ‘Oh, owls are really very magical, ethereal beings. Have you … have you ever read—Rebecca?’

      He frowned in thought. ‘What is that? Is it to do with owls?’

      ‘No, no.’ She laughed heartily. ‘It’s … I guess it’s a romance. A—mystery. A bit of a thriller. Rebecca has the family boat-house furnished like a private apartment. Her secret love nest where she can meet her illicit lover.’

      He lifted his hands. ‘I don’t think I know it. Romances, enfin …’ He made an amused, negative shrug.

      What an idiot she was. Of course men didn’t read romances. Just as well, or they’d know too much.

      His eyes glinting, he cast a smiling glance at Neil and Em’s boathouse. ‘What do you think? Would this one—have furniture?’

      All the fine hairs stood up on her spine and shivered in suspenseful, gleeful exultation. She hesitated a breathless instant, then spread her hands. ‘Well, we could always see. I know where they keep the key.’

      He looked keenly at her. Said offhandedly, like a guy who didn’t care one way or the other, ‘Are you sure?’

      The thing was, though, his voice had deepened in timbre just that betraying bit.

      She gazed fleetingly into his eyes, not needing to read beyond that hot, lustful gleam. He cared all right. He wanted her, and she felt propelled by a wicked, reckless desire to mount that untamed stallion and do something wild.

      ‘Sure I’m sure.’ Her breath came faster.

      She slipped her hand under the iron tile between the pylon and the floor where she’d seen Neil hide the key a dozen times.

      Bingo. It was there.

      Her hands shook so badly as she fitted it into the lock, she had to hunch to prevent Luc from seeing.

      Once inside, she was assailed with the boat smell of paint and varnish and salty, fishy weekends. Neil’s cruiser floated silently in the lower room, a ghostly presence in the silent dark. A flight of steps led to the upper loft where supplies were stored.

      Shards of moonlight illuminated the walls. Shari indicated the way, stumbling once on the stairs. Luc took her arm to steady her.

      She didn’t speak, just turned her breathless gaze to him. Even in the dim light his eyes were burning. Her blood ran hot in her breasts, fanned fire between her legs.

      They finished the climb to the loft. She was trembling again, in the grip of something more elemental now than mere nerves. She faced him, aflame.

      He pulled her to him. This kiss was a rough and hungry collision, his tongue in her mouth, possessive, lustful, his hands in her hair,