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The Seducer
Jule McBride


A MATCHMAKING MOM WILL SECRETLY TURN HER THREE BIG APPLE BACHELORS INTO MILLIONAIRES–BUT ONLY IF THEY MARRY!Bachelor #2, Officer Rex Steele, is supposed to be on vacation. Instead, he's working undercover investigating a case close to his heart. As for finding a wife, this burned-out bad boy has practically given up on women! Until he meets sexy, free-spirited Pansy Hanley one night on the beach. He's supposed to be questioning her, but ends up seducing her instead.… Pansy can't believe she's making hot, explosive love with Rex–every night. Is he just a tourist or truly her fantasy lover? Something bigger is definitely going on here–rumors are flying fast and furious. Can Pansy afford to be distracted by this mysterious man from Manhattan?









“I’m not in the mood,” Pansy warned


Her back was pressed against the door, her arms crossed over her chest in a way that only served to accentuate full breasts. Everything about her—her high color, her sparkling green eyes—bespoke passion. “You look very much in the mood,” Rex murmured in correction. His fingers touched her lips.

“I’ve got a headache,” she assured him.

His eyes twinkled. “Ah. Good thing I’m here. I’m good with headaches.”

“Good at causing them,” she said breathlessly as his hand crept around the back of her neck and began kneading the skin.

They were amazing together. Driven by desire, Rex inched closer, and because he’d stiffened with arousal, the firm bulk curved against her mound. A soft panting moan filled his ears, and when he glanced down, he saw that her nipples were erect beneath her shirt.

“This—” Pansy’s eyes darted around the room, as if searching for a word “—affair we’re having…”

“Is wonderful,” he finished, his voice hushed with need as he feathered kisses against her cheek. He felt her knees weaken.

“Crazy,” she corrected, turning languid in his arms.

“No…” The words were out before he knew what he was saying. “I’m falling in love with you.”


Dear Reader,

I’m so excited to bring you #883 The Seducerd, the second book in my BIG APPLE BACHELORS miniseries!

The series, including #875 The Hotshot and the final book #891 The Protector, involves three sexy brothers who also happen to be New York City cops. When their mother wins the lottery, she strikes up a deal: if each brother marries within three months, she’ll split the winnings among them. While each book stands alone, much-loved characters are revisited in each story, and you’ll get to see their lives progressing.

This month, you’ll meet Rex Steele, an undercover master of disguise who has more on his mind than sex with a beautiful woman—or does he? When his father disappears, Rex travels to an island to find him…and then finds himself seducing a local woman in the dunes!

I know how much I’ve loved writing these books, so I do hope you’ll continue to enjoy the Steele brothers’ sensual adventures!

Very best,






Meet all of New York’s finest in the BIG APPLE BACHELORS miniseries!

Truman is The Hotshot

Rex is The Seducer

Sullivan is The Protector


The Seducer

Jule McBride






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Contents


Prologue (#ue7ab8405-3b7f-5019-816d-46a1c8ebb849)

Chapter 1 (#ua003cc53-9a13-5be4-9a0e-fd4ef59f0fba)

Chapter 2 (#ubbf08f99-8a1c-5a9d-b808-6b5ee4861063)

Chapter 3 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)




Prologue


TURN BACK! Pansy Hanley’s instincts silently commanded. “If you don’t quit following him, he’s going to turn around and catch you,” she chastised in a whisper. “And then you’re going to feel like an idiot.” Nevertheless, her eyes remained riveted on the strong, broad back of the dark-haired, dark-eyed stranger she’d been tailing along deserted Sand Road. He was moving in the shadows, his rolling gait slow, easy and oddly compelling. Everyone else on Seduction Island was still at the town meeting, and the souvenir shops and T-shirt kiosks were closed, the windows dark, the silhouettes of clouds overhead dancing mysteriously across the sidewalks.

“The guy’s just a tourist,” Pansy assured herself, but even as she spoke the words, she felt sure—maybe even hoped—they were a lie. Something—maybe the romance of the dark velvet night or the magic of the moon and stars—was convincing her that this stranger was the man of her dreams. Quite literally, since he was the spitting image of a dashing, irresistible pirate ghost who’d been sketched years ago by Pansy’s ancestor and who was said to haunt the nearby dunes.

Not that the man was really a ghost, of course. “The guy’s probably looking for someplace open so he can buy shells,” Pansy assured herself nervously, trying to ignore the night’s sensual, romantic aura. Far off, waves crested. Breakers crashed onto the beach, and the sea breeze blew strands of honey hair across her cheeks, bringing the taste of salt to her lips…a taste that could have been the stranger’s bare skin. Just as she sighed, sinking against the sun-warmed, concrete side of a building, she realized the stranger was starting to head toward the dunes.

Lit by the yellow glow of a three-quarter moon, the majestic sand of the drifts swept upward, casting long dark shadows. As the gorgeous man walked into them, his body seemingly dematerializing and fading into darkness, he appeared oblivious of the peaking bluffs just above his head. Pansy’s heart skipped a beat. Not so much because he was so tall, or so strong, with lanky, sinewy limbs and well-defined muscles, but because, with his flowing black hair and devastating eyes that had captured hers a few minutes before in the town meeting, he really was a dead ringer for Jacques O’Lannaise, the pirate who’d haunted Pansy’s dreams and inspired her fantasies for years, ever since she’d first heard his name. Jacques had been the lover of Pansy’s ancestor, Iris, and after Iris was tragically lost at sea, Jacques was said to have begun walking the dunes at night, searching for Iris as if he was hoping to find her and make wild love to her in the sand.

Pansy tried to chuckle, but the effort only produced a shiver of excitement and a soft, strangled hitch of breath. “At least Vi and Lily don’t know I’m out here, following a tourist,” she muttered, hoping the mention of her sisters might lend some reality to the situation. After all, her sisters would never let her live this down. Pansy was usually the most commonsensical Hanley sister, but when it came to Jacques O’Lannaise…

“It can’t be him,” she whispered insistently. She was being ridiculous! Pirate ghosts didn’t exist! Her breath quickened with anticipation anyway. If she didn’t get a move on, she’d lose this guy! Pulled as if by the tides, she speeded her steps, unable to shake the uncanny sense that meeting him face-to-face was…well, somehow necessary. Destiny, she thought.

“You’re really going crazy,” she whispered. She was out here on a dark night following a stranger. She just hoped he didn’t turn around. Of course, if he did, she could go home, climb into a hot sudsy tub and relax with a good book because he’d turn out to be your average vacationing tourist. Probably married and cruising Sand Road to buy T-shirts for his kids. Yes, once he turned around, Pansy would get a better look at him, and he’d no longer bear a resemblance to Iris’s sketches of Jacques O’Lannaise.

But what was Pansy supposed to do if she caught up to him? She swallowed hard. She knew what she wanted to do.

Live her fantasies. She imagined strands of his hair brushing her cheeks as his lips lowered for a kiss, how hot his gaze would feel on her bare skin as they laid in the sand and removed their clothes. She pushed aside the thoughts, then gasped. He was stopping! Slowly, he turned, and as he did, his hair rippled. It was gorgeous, like dark waters into which someone had dropped a pebble. Awareness flooded her. “No,” Pansy protested when he didn’t turn enough to make his face visible in the darkness. For a second, she could swear he crooked a finger in her direction, but of course, he hadn’t. “Turn all the way around,” she urged, even more determined to catch him. The man really was the spitting image of the pirate who’d long been a part of the Hanley family legacy. Pansy couldn’t let him get away. He headed into the strange, surreal, craterlike dunes, as if he knew she would follow him, as if he wanted to make love….

And then the man seemed to vanish.




1


One week ago…

AS SHE SWUNG OPEN the carved oak door to the New York brownstone she shared with her husband and where she still tidied her three sons’ rooms daily even though they’d long ago left home, Sheila Steele felt the sticky summer heat gust inside, dislodging loose gray strands from her pinned-up hair. Anxiously smoothing them, in case this was another officer asking her to come to police headquarters to talk about her husband, Augustus’s, disappearance, she peered out, heart clutching.

When she saw the man on the stoop, her heart sank. A lost tourist, she decided, taking in the khaki shorts, Hawaiian print shirt and shaggy blond hair. Dark blue eyes surveyed her from behind black-framed glasses, and a camera was slung around his neck. As a female New Yorker related to four cops, Sheila was safety conscious to a fault, and so, despite her husband’s disappearance, which was consuming her with worry, she was also regretting that she’d be unable to let this poor stranger inside to use the phone, if that’s what he wanted. He looked honest, like the kind of young man who’d get robbed on city streets if he wasn’t careful. “Can I help you?”

He squinted. “Ma? It’s me, Rex.”

Her lips parted in frank astonishment. “I didn’t even recognize my own son!” Underneath the disarming attire, her son Rex was as dark and swarthy as a pirate.

“I came as soon as Sully called with the news about Pop.”

Sheila pressed a hand to her heart as her middle child stepped into the foyer, giving her a hug and kissing her cheek. “Don’t feel bad about not recognizing me,” added Rex, who’d worked undercover for years. “Nobody does, you know. That’s the point.”

Despite the circumstances of the meeting, Sheila leaned back to study the son who most shared her passions and temperament. “Hard to believe the tall, dark, handsome man I gave birth to is really under that costume somewhere.”

“He is,” Rex assured. Without the wig, contact lenses and cheek pads, he had dark unruly hair and hazel eyes that shifted between shadowy, moody colors—gray, blue and green. His cheeks were shallow, his lips full, his body sculpted from the hours he spent in the precinct gym. “My big case broke yesterday,” he explained, “so I spent this morning riding the F train.” The Mr. Nice Guy outfit was designed to make him an appealing target for pickpockets who rode the subway, hoping to fleece tourists.

Sheila managed a watery smile. Under other circumstances, she would have laughed. “My son,” she murmured. “The professional victim. How many times have you been robbed this morning, sweetie?”

“Three,” Rex admitted. “But I arrested them all, Ma.”

“Good for you.” She took a deep breath. “Well, c’mon inside. Everybody else is in the courtyard.”

He followed her down a long hallway. “Everybody?”

“Both your brothers. Sullivan got here first. And Truman brought the woman he’s been dating, Trudy Busey.”

“The one I met the other day at lunch? From the New York News?”

Sheila nodded. “Truman was with her at the newspaper when I called him.” Sheila grasped Rex’s hand for support. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Pop’s gonna be fine,” he said, his voice reassuringly soft and yet grimly masculine, his eyes focused on the summery light at the end of the hallway. Through a screen door, riotous leaves sprawled in a courtyard garden that was one of Sheila’s passions.

“I can’t imagine what’s happened to your father.” She sighed. “You were supposed to go on vacation tomorrow, right?”

“To Seduction Island. Just off Long Island.”

“That’s where the boat was anchored before it…”

Exploded. Rex didn’t blame her for not wanting to voice the word. “Pop knew I was going there as soon as my case broke.”

“Maybe he wanted to meet you there,” she probed, her voice catching. “Are you sure he didn’t tell you why he was going there? Or who he was going with? Did he say anything about what he’s involved in?”

“Nothing.” Augustus Steele had begun his career as a beat cop in Hell’s Kitchen, graduated to arresting gangs in Chinatown, then landed a job in administration at Police Plaza. Since he no longer worked cases, no one knew how he could have wound up aboard a boat that exploded near Seduction Island, New York. Or where he’d gone afterward. If he lived. Rex pushed aside the thought.

“If he needed help,” Rex murmured, trying to ignore how much it hurt to admit it, “Pop would have gone to Truman or Sully. You know that, Ma.” In the deepening warmth of her gaze, Rex felt her quiet understanding. He and his father had never really bonded. “I’ll do whatever I can,” he continued. “This is Pop we’re talking about. Starting tomorrow, I’ve got a month off.”

Dismay was in her voice. “But your vacation…” She knew Rex lived for the times when he fled to unknown beaches, often registering in hotels under assumed names so no one but her could find him. For one month a year, he pursued interests unlike those of his father, brothers and many Manhattan law enforcement officers—reading, writing, painting and cooking. Hobbies he loved, but that, in the Steele household, had often gotten him pegged as a sissy by his father. Not that his dad didn’t love him, but Augustus had strict ideas about what constituted manhood, none of which involved interests in the arts.

“My vacation doesn’t matter,” Rex replied, wishing he could take the uncertainty from his mother’s eyes. “Family first,” he assured. “C’mon. Let’s see what Sully’s found out.”

It wasn’t good, Rex realized, after seating his mother and himself at a round table shaded by a leafy oak. He glanced at Truman, who’d come in his uniform, then at their oldest, suit-clad brother, Sullivan, who was captain of the precinct nearest the house. Both brothers, with their light brown hair and whiskey eyes, were the spitting image of Augustus. Rex looked like Sheila. Her hair had been as dark as his before it turned gray.

“My boss Dimi’s refusing to run the article I’ve been writing about your family and the NYPD,” Trudy was saying, her blue eyes snapping with indignation, her straw-blond hair blowing across her cheeks with the breeze. “It was supposed to be in tomorrow’s News, but Dimi won’t publish anything until he’s sure Mr. Steele’s done nothing wrong.” She groaned in frustration. “I can’t believe this! Now, more than ever, your names should be in the paper! We need to figure out what’s happened!”

Rex squinted at his brother’s girlfriend, who was a reporter. Along with the news about Augustus, Rex had been apprised that Trudy and Truman had just cracked what the tabloids had dubbed the Glass Slipper Case. Judging from the light in Trudy’s eyes when she glanced at Truman, she’d fallen for him while they were working together. Despite the circumstances, Rex felt a rush of happiness for his baby brother. “What was the article about?”

“For the past two weeks, Trudy’s been on a ride along in the patrol car with me,” Truman explained, rising from her side. He started pacing, the hands on his hips slipping down to a billy club and holstered gun. “That’s how we wound up solving the Glass Slipper Case. Anyway, the article was supposed to be good PR for the city. You know, a day in the life of a cop. It was going to press tonight.”

“I remember you mentioning it,” said Rex.

“I was at my desk writing it,” Trudy added, “as well as the Glass Slipper story, when Sheila called.” Pausing, her eyes darted to Sheila’s. “I’m sorry I was so angry when I came over earlier today.”

Rex was less concerned with what had transpired between the women than with collecting facts pertaining to his father’s disappearance. “You say they’re pulling the story?”

Truman nodded, stepping behind Trudy, placing his hands on her shoulders and massaging them. “The rumor’s that Pop’s on the take.”

“Ridiculous!” Sheila exclaimed. “Earlier, when Trudy came over, I’d just gotten a call from Police Plaza. They didn’t even do me the courtesy of coming by the house to tell me he disappeared! And he’s been on the force thirty-three years! He’s never taken a dime, except from his paycheck, but they made me go all the way downtown to tell me he’s…he’s…”

Rex’s fingers closed over hers. “It’s okay, Ma.”

Looking unconvinced, Sully thrust both hands deep into his trouser pockets and relaxed against an oak tree. Red painted lines on the bark marked their heights as kids, but Sully, now thirty-six, towered over the marks. “That internal affairs woman who’s been on my back is heading up the investigation.”

Rex cursed under his breath. “Judith Hunt?”

“Yeah,” returned Sully. “According to her, the money in the city’s Citizen’s Contribution fund is missing. She took a crew to Seduction Island to dive for whatever’s left of the boat.”

“The Citizen’s Contribution fund was set up so that private citizens could make personal donations to the police without any question of impropriety,” said Trudy.

“Do they really think your father could steal public money?” whispered Sheila. “After all his years of loyalty and service?”

Sully sighed, his eyes lighting briefly on his brothers. “I hate to have to say this, but they’ve got Pop withdrawing money at the bank. On videotape.”

Sheila was dumbfounded. “Your father withdrew money?”

Sully paused, then said, “In light of some of the tragedies we’ve had in Manhattan, the account’s bigger than ever. It was…seven million.”

Sheila was reeling. “Dollars? Of public money? And a bank let him take it? There’s got to be a mistake! He’d never…”

“He wire transferred the money from Citicorp,” countered Sully, “then picked it up elsewhere in two suitcases. He works with the accounts, so he knew the numbers.”

Sheila stared. “He took the money in suitcases? That’s impossible. Your father could never do such a thing. He’s an officer. He knows how that would look.”

“The videotape’s incriminating,” agreed Sully.

Stricken, Sheila whispered, “What if he’s dead?”

“C’mon now,” chided Rex gently. “Pop’s too tough to die.”

“You’ve got a point there, Rex,” agreed Truman.

“We’ll figure this whole thing out,” Sully assured.

“I just don’t get it,” interjected Trudy, lifting her hands to twine them with Truman’s. “He’s an administrator at Police Plaza. He doesn’t even work on cases. The only logical explanation is that he stumbled onto something.”

Rex raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

Trudy shrugged. “Who knows?”

Rex rifled a hand through the blond wig he wore, wishing it didn’t itch in the summer heat. “Even if Pop discovered someone mishandling funds—say, from the Citizen’s Action account—taking the money himself is a strange way of fixing the problem. He had to know he’d be seen on tape. Maybe he posed intentionally,” Rex mused. “Why wasn’t the money invested, anyway? Isn’t that the responsibility of the Dispersion Committee?”

Sullivan shrugged. “All good questions, Rex. But the fact is, we haven’t got any real clues as to what’s happened. Not yet. All anybody knows for certain is that the boat, named the Destiny, docked at the Manhattan Yacht Club and Pop was on deck when it left the slip.”

Rex visualized the mile-long sidewalk fronting Battery Park, overlooking the Hudson River and the Statue of Liberty. “On Wall Street?” he murmured, imagining his father exiting Police Plaza, then walking along Centre Avenue. To get to the yacht club, he’d have passed City Hall, the Brooklyn Bridge and the Stock Exchange. “That’s a pricey place to dock. Donald Trump and Henry Kravis keep boats there. Who owned it?”

“Registered under a false name,” supplied Sullivan. “I’m still looking.”

Rex shook his head. “We need to find that out.”

“And if your father’s still alive,” added Sheila shakily.

“No bodies have been recovered,” Rex reminded.

When everyone fell silent, Rex cast brooding eyes into the garden, long enough that his gaze unfocused, making the world appear to be a blur of color. Situated on Bank Street in the West Village, the Steeles’ home had been handed down through Sheila’s family, and from the front, despite cheerful green shutters, the stone edifice was gloomy. The courtyard opened onto another world, however. Hidden from the city streets, the garden exploded with the flowers Sheila tended whenever she had spare time left after community work.

Silently, Rex cursed his father. Why didn’t he bother to notice how often his wife’s face was drawn with worry? She’d strived so hard to make their lives wonderful. And now this. Staring into the courtyard where they had played as kids, Rex could hear his father saying, “We’ve got to toughen you up, Rex. When you join the force, we don’t want them thinking you’re a pansy, do we?”

Nope. Which is why Rex had turned out as tough as shoe leather. He had a scar from a knife fight on the Lower East Side. A black belt in karate. Promotions for daring feats of courage. Commendations. He could outshoot any officer in Manhattan. But deep down, he was a lover, not a fighter. It was he, not his brothers, who remembered his mother’s worry when Augustus didn’t make it home from stakeouts. And the excruciating times—sometimes minutes, sometimes hours—between hearing a cop was killed in the line of duty, then being told the victim wasn’t Augustus. No doubt, things were as Trudy said. Augustus had discovered wrongdoing, then set out in high macho style to catch the perpetrator himself.

Now Rex would have to find him. A far cry from the last time Ma called us here, Rex thought ruefully. Only a few weeks ago, she’d received one of the biggest lottery wins in New York City history, and driven by a good heart and desperate desire to see her sons happily married, she’d made an unthinkable deal. If Sullivan, Rex and Truman kept silent about the money and married within three months, she’d divide fifteen million dollars between them. Otherwise, she’d give the money to a wildlife research station on the Galapagos Islands.

She’d looked so beautiful that day, too, with humorous lights dancing in her eyes. Unlike the stiff gray suit she’d chosen for today’s trip to Police Plaza, she’d been wearing a vest embedded with tiny mirrors and a brightly patterned skirt, dressed for her volunteer work with CLASP, an organization for the homeless.

Rex could still hear what Truman had to say once the men were alone. “Fifteen million! That’s five million each.”

Sully had shaken his head. “If Ma hadn’t shown us the letter from the lottery board, I wouldn’t have believed something like this could happen.”

Rex had chuckled. “Don’t be so suspicious, Sully. This is Ma we’re talking about. Not a criminal.”

“Beg to differ,” Truman had countered. “Didn’t Ma say she expects us to find wives? And if we don’t, she’s going to give all that money away to a foundation that saves sea turtles?”

“They also save marine iguanas,” Rex had reminded.

“And don’t forget flightless cormorants,” Sully had said.

“Oh, right,” Truman had whispered. “Flightless cormorants.”

At that, the brothers had stared at each other in shock and, a moment later, they were hooting—clapping each other’s backs and wiping tears of merriment from their eyes.

But Rex had meant what he’d said. As far as he was concerned, the Galapagos Islands could have the money. Like his brothers, he’d been weaned on stories of the mysterious volcanic islands just off the coast of Ecuador. Close to a mainland rich with a history of Inca warriors, Amazon explorers and Spanish conquistadors, nature had been left to thrive on the islands, becoming home to wildlife that existed nowhere else on earth. Rex had spent more than one summer vacation lounging on the rocky beaches, sketching the animals.

“We can’t find soul mates in three months,” he’d argued that day, intrigued by their mother’s inventive way of encouraging them to find spouses.

“She said wives, not soul mates,” Truman had argued.

But for Rex, they were the same. Besides, to him marriage was just a piece of paper. Maybe because he was a lawman, he wanted something that transcended legalities. He wanted mystery. Romance. Poetry. Soul-searing sex. A lover whose warm body would twine with his, melting his heart. Each year, on his annual sojourn, he imagined he might find that woman. He envisioned meeting her while wandering in the dunes near a deserted beach and making love to her in the hot sand while sea foam washed over their bare bodies.

Not that it mattered. Sure, he’d love to see his mother’s face light up with the news that he’d found someone, but Augustus was missing, which meant Rex would be looking for him on Seduction Island—not love.

Rex said a silent goodbye to the month-long hiatus he got once a year. At least he’d already forwarded his mail to Casa Eldora, the two-bedroom cottage he’d rented on Seduction Island in the name Ned Nelson. According to the sexy-voiced Realtor whose laughter sounded like crystal bells and who had introduced herself as Pansy Hanley, the waterfront place was on stilts, its shingles weathered to silver. It was nestled where sand drifts gave way to otherworldly, deeply cratered dunes. Accessible by a private shell road, the house was off the main drag, Sand Road, but still in view of the ocean.

How many times had he spoken to Pansy? Rex couldn’t recall. But they’d established an easy rapport. When they met, Rex had been planning to do what he always did on vacation—drop the mask. Lose the disguises. Trade in his sidearm for a fishing rod. He’d ask Pansy Hanley to Casa Eldora for dinner…maybe more. Now he squeezed his mother’s hand. “If Pop’s out there, I’ll find him, Ma. Don’t worry.”

No doubt, he’d be busy on Seduction Island, just not seducing. So much for this year’s hopes that Pansy Hanley might turn out to be a dream lover.

“PANSY? LILY? Are you home yet? We’ve got to talk!”

Long before she saw her youngest sister, Violet, Pansy Hanley registered her high-pitched voice and instinctively double-checked the jacket to the all-white suit she’d slung around the back of a kitchen chair to make sure it was safe from Vi. Vi, when excited, was the world’s biggest klutz, and Pansy wanted to wear the jacket to meet her client, Ned Nelson. “I’m here,” Pansy called toward the screen door, waiting for Vi to appear in the dunes. “Lily just got home, too—”

“I know it was my turn, so thanks for making lunch,” said Lily, breezing into the kitchen and plopping down at the table. “I was running late.”

As Pansy washed down a bite of her specialty—almond butter on homemade rye—she studied her sister’s string bikini. “If you get bored on the beach, Lily,” Pansy offered dryly, “you can always take off your bathing suit and play cat’s cradle.”

Lily chuckled. “Or hog-tie the nearest beachcomber, rub him down with Coppertone and force him to have sex with me.”

Pansy tried to look scandalized. “Your mind’s in the gutter, Lily.”

Lily merely grinned. “Too bad every guy out there with a metal detector is pushing seventy and too old for us. What’s Vi so upset about?”

“Who knows?” Pansy shrugged as Vi pushed through the screen door, lifting a shoulder bag stuffed with mail onto the kitchen table. “You’re a mess,” gasped Pansy, taking in Vi’s mail carrier uniform—a striped shirt and gray shorts—splashed with syrupy pink liquid. Pansy’s eyes dropped to the soda can in Vi’s hand just as Vi crushed her stubby-nailed fingers around it.

“Don’t tell me,” quipped Pansy. “We’re fresh out of boards you can crack with your head.”

Ignoring the good-humored gibe, Vi set aside the crushed can and lifted the remaining sandwich. Between healthy, gulping bites, she said, “Thanks for lunch. I’ve got to change uniforms, so I’ve only got a minute.”

It was hard to say how the same gene pool turned out three such different females. All the Hanleys had light brown hair, just a shade down from honey blond, but Pansy’s flowed in sumptuous layers past her shoulders. The curviest of the three, she liked wearing a trace of makeup and comfortable skirts, practical but feminine, nothing she’d have to iron. Today’s white suit was an anomaly, chosen because the client she was to meet, Ned Nelson, had sparked her imagination during their phone conversations, though she wasn’t quite sure why.

By contrast to Pansy, the middle sister, Lily, owner of Lily’s Pad, a stationery shop, had cut the same almost-honey hair in a sharply wedged bob, and it had been years since anyone had seen her wearing anything besides a bikini or a linen shift. Vi, the youngest, was deeply tanned from surfing. She kept her hair short—less wind resistance, she claimed—trimming it above ears studded with tiny silver earrings.

Having quickly dispensed with her sandwich, Vi pushed aside the plate she hadn’t bothered to use and said, “Okay. Now for the news. You two aren’t going to believe this!”

“By the looks of the mailbag, you’re about to get fired,” Lily guessed in an awed voice, still gaping at the soda drips.

“Or get more demerits,” agreed Pansy worriedly. “Did any of that soda actually make it to your mouth, Vi?”

“Not much,” admitted Vi. “The second I opened the can, Garth Garrison’s dog—you know, that chocolate Lab he named Gargantua?—well, he came after me like a hound from hell. I ran, of course.”

“Very logical response,” said Lily.

“I didn’t want to use the Mace,” Vi defended. “Not even Gargantua deserves that. Anyway, I accidently dumped the soda in the bag. But all is not lost.” Grinning excitedly, Vi held up a cherry-stained envelope as her sisters looked on with dismayed expressions. The flap had come unglued, and in her effort to save the letter, Vi had slipped it from the envelope.

Pansy groaned. “You didn’t read somebody’s else’s mail, did you?”

“I had to!” Vi protested. “I had no choice!”

“Violet Hanley!” Lily exclaimed in censure.

“Somebody on this island won the lottery,” Vi blurted, untucking her uniform shirt and using it to dry the letter.

“The lottery?” echoed Pansy, thinking Seduction Island didn’t have a lottery. “What lottery?”

“The New York lottery,” Violet explained, her voice hitching. “Whoever it is won fifteen million dollars.”

Pansy stared in shock. “Fifteen million dollars?” she echoed as if replacing the emphasis might make the words make better sense.

Violet nodded, stunned. “Yeah. Somebody on Seduction Island!”

Lily whistled. “And I thought we’d already had enough excitement for one week.”

“You’d think,” said Pansy, glancing through the screen door toward where a sliver of ocean was visible through the dunes. New York and local police were diving from an outboard motorboat, searching through the wreckage of a yacht that had exploded. Pansy had been thoroughly questioned, since she’d witnessed the fireworks, and then, less than an hour ago, she’d gotten another shock. A wooden plank had been salvaged from the wreck, and on it was the vessel’s name, Destiny. It was the same name as the boat on which Jacques O’Lannaise had met Iris Hanley years ago. Pansy’s heart clutched as she worried over the strange coincidence.

“Who won?” Lily asked impatiently.

“That’s the thing,” returned Violet. “I don’t know. When I spilled the soda, the ink ran.”

For a second, even fifteen million dollars didn’t have the power to pull Pansy’s attention to her sisters. Her gaze had shifted from the police and the Destiny to Castle O’Lannaise, the romantic white adobe estate perched on a bluff of the north shore, which could be seen from most points of the island. The property had changed hands countless times and had even been owned by a past president, but it was never inhabited long, which, for Pansy, only served to substantiate rumors that it was haunted by the dark, swarthy ghost of Jacques, whose star-crossed lover’s past was so intimately tied to the Hanleys’.

Despite what finding a buyer for Castle O’Lannaise would mean for the realty business, Pansy loved the palatial estate, and for years she’d dreamed of finding a buyer who’d open it as a summer resort, just as Jacques O’Lannaise had planned. She’d felt that putting history to rest would restore Seduction Island’s flagging economy, and she hoped the lottery winner would be interested in the estate.

“Garth Garrison was my next stop,” Vi was saying. “Since the sorters put the letters in order, he’s probably the winner.” She groaned, thinking of the cranky horror novelist who lived in a tumbledown shack near the water. “I hate to think of him winning so much money,” confessed Vi. “He’s such a jerk.”

“A good-looking jerk,” reminded Lily.

“If you like the artistic type.” Vi rolled her eyes as if to say she’d never registered that Garth was male. “Anyway, you all have to look at the address. See if you can read it. If it gets out that I ruined the mail again, I’ll get fired.”

Pansy sidled next to Lily. All three women stared at the business envelope. “That’s definitely the lottery board’s return address,” Pansy murmured, shifting her gaze to forms the winner was supposed to fill out and sign. “And you can make out the word, ‘Mr.”’

Lily grinned. “The winner’s definitely male.”

“Then he’s married,” said Vi. “He couldn’t be single. We’re not that lucky.”

Summer storms aside, meeting so few eligible men was the one drawback to living on this otherwise idyllic island. Most men were salty retired sailors, and by the ripe old age of ten, the Hanleys had tired of having their hearts broken by seasonal tourists, whom they frequently vowed never to date, although they always did.

“Fifteen million,” Pansy whispered, wondering if a buyer for Castle O’Lannaise was about to materialize.

“This is our zip code,” offered Lily.

“What if Garth Garrison is the winner?” Vi said. “You know, Lily, you’re right. He is kind of cute.” Vi paused. “I mean, in a surly, self-absorbed, narcissistic sort of way.”

Pansy frowned. “Did you ask him if he won?”

Vi gasped. “Are you kidding? He’d tear my head off if he knew I dripped cola into the mailbag. He’s never forgiven me for that one manuscript of his I ruined. And it’s not like he didn’t have that book on disk. Besides which, who’d want to read something called Bloodsuckers?”

“You,” Pansy told her.

Vi would prefer not to admit she was a secret admirer of Garth’s lurid novels. “Well, anyway—” she huffed “—I didn’t ask him. I bet he’d complain to Mr. Vincent, and I’d get fired.”

“We’ll send the letter back to the lottery board,” decided Pansy reasonably. “They’ll know how to redirect it.”

Vi shook her head. “The letter’s dated. If the winner doesn’t get it in time, they’ll lose the money.”

Lily chewed her lower lip. “Could that really happen?”

“I don’t know, but it would be terrible,” Pansy agreed, knitting her brows. She’d hate for an accident such as this to cost a stranger the unbelievable sum of fifteen million dollars. “So much for ‘Who Wants to be a Millionaire.”’

The Hanleys were die-hard fans of the show. “Hang it up, Regis,” whispered Vi. “This guy’s getting fifteen big ones.”

“Maybe a tourist won,” Lily speculated.

Pansy considered. “Nope. It’s a local. Tourists never forward their mail. Usually someone at home picks it up while they’re on vacation.” She chuckled. “Besides, there’re only two tourists.” As a Realtor and part-time tour guide, she knew this was the worst rental season in history. And on Seduction Island, that was saying something.

“We have more than two,” chided Lily.

“Three?” guessed Vi.

“Nearly five hundred,” corrected Pansy. “But given our proximity to Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard…”

Vi raised a staying hand. “Please,” she warned, “don’t start talking about how this island’s cursed, Pansy. Right now, I’m in real, ordinary, everyday trouble. I don’t need to hear about your ghost pirate. C’mon. Does anybody have any bright ideas?”

“Lily,” Pansy said, “you’re on the town council and you’re holding the summer meeting for visiting families tomorrow night. Half the locals come anyway, so we could announce this. We’ll just say…that I found the letter.”

“If no one claims it, we’ll post it on one of the bulletin boards. At the grocery store or something,” said Vi in relief. “Perfect. Can you believe someone on our island won fifteen million?”

The Hanleys, of course, knew Seduction Island was public and didn’t really belong to them, but ever since Winston Hanley had arrived in the seventeen hundreds and built the house the women now shared, Hanleys had been taking responsibility for the island and its inhabitants. Besides, everybody knew the island hadn’t become a city dweller’s getaway, despite its proximity to New York City, because Jacques O’Lannaise cursed it when Iris Hanley hadn’t married him years ago. After that, every Hanley had felt doubly responsible for whatever went wrong.

Lily gasped. “What if Lou Fairchild won?”

“Your fellow town councilman?” scoffed Vi. “You have no sense of irony, Lily. It has to be Garth Garrison. Someone as nice as Lou Fairchild would never win so much money.”

“It’s a shame Lou’s not better looking,” sighed Lily.

That was an understatement. Lou Fairchild, despite his name, had a face only a mother could love. But Pansy barely heard. Once more, she was imagining buying Castle O’Lannaise and turning it into the romantic resort it was meant to be. Suddenly, she glanced at her watch. “Oh, no! I’ve got to run,” she said with a start, quickly rising and grabbing her jacket. “I’m meeting Ned Nelson.”

“The guy renting Casa Eldora?” Lily asked, using the name of one of the rental cottages on the water.

“That’s the one.” Pansy had started hoping Ned would be as sexy as he sounded on the phone. Not that a mere man could compare with the fantasies she’d had about her favorite ghost, of course. Pausing at the door, Pansy traced her fingers over the screen, a slow smile tilting the corners of her mouth when she saw Castle O’Lannaise in the distance. “Whoever won the lottery is going to buy that castle,” she announced, excited prickles of certainty washing over her skin.

“Well,” returned Vi pragmatically, “maybe you can marry him and buy it yourself. But not if you bore him with tales about your mystery lover who haunts the dunes.”

Lily mustered a fake French accent. “Jacques O’Lannaise,” she murmured, the name floating fluidly off her tongue.

“Don’t you think it’s odd the boat that exploded out there was called Destiny?” Pansy murmured.

“Explosions,” Lily returned darkly. “A bad omen.”

“I bet it was just a mechanical failure,” said Vi, glancing toward the ocean.

Pansy’s mind had filled with images of her ancestor, Iris Hanley, pacing the deck of a sailing ship, twirling a parasol on her shoulder, her long skirts swishing. According to family legend, she’d been sailing to distant cousins in New Orleans in hopes of meeting handsome suitors when pirates boarded the Destiny. Iris had trembled when one—a strapping man in tight breeches and a blousy white shirt with lace cuffs—stopped before her, his dark, unruly hair blowing wildly in the wind. But he didn’t rob her. Instead the man sheathed his sword, wrapped his arms around Iris’s waist and savaged her mouth, capturing her lips in a kiss like fire. A kiss that ruined Iris Hanley for marriage, since no other man’s kiss ever surpassed it.

Twelve years later, in 1822, when a mysterious Frenchman arrived on the island to build Castle O’Lannaise, it was said he was that same pirate, that he’d arrived under an assumed name, made rich by the spoils of his plunder, to claim a woman he’d seen only once but whom he’d already branded with his fire.

“Pansy?”

Vi’s voice startled her. “Huh?”

“Ned Nelson,” Vi reminded.

“Right,” Pansy whispered distractedly. Feeling whimsical as she pushed through the screen door, she fancied she wasn’t going to Casa Eldora but into the dunes beside the cottage to meet her dark dream lover, Jacques O’Lannaise, and as her sandaled feet touched the sandy porch, she felt the coiled power in the hard body that held her, the brush of bristling black chest hair that erupted between the laces of his blouse and then the rush of blessed, fiery heat as Jacques’s firm, wet mouth covered hers.

A second later, she found herself hoping—much more practically—that Ned Nelson would turn out to be cute.




2


“WELL, THAT’S the grand tour.” Pansy turned a circle in Casa Eldora’s living room, the low-slung heels of her white sandals tapping on the wide-planked wooden floor, her gaze taking in the serviceable plaid-upholstered furniture, then the ocean view through a picture window. “I’m sorry I forgot to turn on the AC when I dropped by earlier with the fruit basket,” she apologized.

Rex shrugged. He’d already decided he liked Pansy Hanley just as she looked now, her damp skin glowing. She was even sexier than her husky voice had promised. Trouble was, Rex had gotten stuck in his Mr. Nice Guy tourist disguise, so Pansy wasn’t impressed. In fact, when she’d first sized him up, he’d caught a look of downright disappointment. “Not to worry,” Rex said. “The place’ll cool off in a few minutes. And thanks for the tour.” Pausing at the kitchen island, he opened a carton of lemonade, compliments of Hanley Realty. After pouring it over ice, he handed her a glass.

She took a grateful sip. “My pleasure, Mr. Nelson.”

“Please—” Rex lifted his glass, glad for the feel of something cool. “Call me Ned.”

“Ned,” she repeated.

For a moment, they fell silent, two near strangers appreciating a view of the noontime sun, a brilliant white starburst perched high in a cerulean sky. Rex could almost see how it would look hours from now, dropping through vibrant strips of pink and lavender before ducking under the horizon, swallowed by the night. Cresting swells of green waves, the exact color of Pansy Hanley’s eyes, were tumbling onto brown sand, the white, salty sea foam bubbling like boiling water before it was raked back, drawn to the sea with primal force, leaving broken shells, polished pebbles and scuttling hermit crabs. To his left, through a side window, Rex could see surreal dunes he was itching to explore.

She caught his gaze. “Those dunes are something, huh?”

He nodded. On much of the island, the sand swept into drifts near the shore, but the dunes near Casa Eldora rose to fifteen feet or more. “Looks like a moonscape,” he commented.

“The area’s restricted, since we want to preserve the dunes, but since most tourists are on the island’s south side and locals rarely hang out here, you can walk in them if you’re careful.”

Rex chuckled. “You’re suggesting I shouldn’t wave at the cops before I venture in?”

She laughed. “I wouldn’t. There’s a hefty fine. But take it from a local. The area’s not really patrolled. All we ask is that you not litter or disturb the sand. The restrictions are to keep kids out.”

He smiled. “I shouldn’t throw any wild parties, huh?”

“Not unless you invite me,” Pansy quipped, thirstily taking another sip of lemonade. “Truly,” she added. “You won’t run into a soul.”

“Then I’ll definitely take a walk there.”

“So, are you really satisfied with Casa Eldora?”

“It’s perfect.” Or it would have been if Rex was here on vacation. Or if he hadn’t locked horns with Internal Affairs officer Judith Hunt as soon as he’d reached the island. He’d gone straight to the crime scene, hoping to hear news of his father, but Judith made it clear that Rex, the son of a suspect, was unwelcome, even threatening to prosecute if Rex involved himself in the investigation.

Rex had left the scene, changed into clothes he usually used for undercover work in New York, so he’d look like a tourist, then returned to shore where people were watching police dive into the wreckage. Introducing himself as Ned Nelson—a dopey, concerned tourist—Rex had questioned Judith. She’d never known it was Rex. He discovered Pansy Hanley witnessed the explosion, which meant he’d be spending more time with her, not that he wouldn’t, anyway. He just wished he wasn’t stuck in this ridiculous outfit for the duration of his stay. With any luck, he could risk taking it off every once in awhile, at least long enough to relieve his scalp, which was itching from the wig.

He sighed. During their tour, he’d asked what Pansy had seen, but hadn’t gotten any more information than the police. Pansy had been awakened by a loud boom, but by the time she’d rushed to a window, only flames were visible. The sea extinguished them as the boat tilted and upended, jackknifing under water. The boat had only partially burned, so whoever was aboard had time to jump and had probably survived, but Pansy hadn’t seen anyone make it ashore. As with most eye witnesses, however, she’d probably seen more than she realized. It was Rex’s job to probe her mind.

Probing her body would prove equally interesting. She’d removed her suit jacket, and the classy tank beneath—white against skin that was tanned nut brown—hugged high, firm breasts, exposing swells that quickened his pulse and tightened his groin.

He knew Pansy was feeling guilty since she’d forgotten to turn on the AC. She had bravely endured the heat, leaving Rex to appreciate how perspiration made the white silk of an otherwise unrevealing tank top cling, offering tantalizing glimpses of a lace bra and relaxed nipples beneath the fabric. Following her as she’d shown the house, Rex had found himself studying the nip of her waist, the flare of her hips and the swell of her backside. Seduction Island, indeed.

She was smiling. “I’m glad you like the place.”

What he didn’t like was being forced to meet Pansy Hanley while wearing an outfit specially devised by the NYPD to make him look like the perfect victim. He could easily see that the shaggy blond hair, puffed-out cheeks and black-framed glasses weren’t impressing Pansy. But with Judith Hunt around, what choice did he have?

On the phone, Pansy’s words had traveled on a sexy, throaty trill that should have prepared him for the overpowering physical response he was experiencing now. She had an open, direct manner, an easy smile and ironic humor, not to mention something of a whimsical air. Maybe that was due to her hair. Airy almost-honey layers swirled around her shoulders and face, framing sea-green eyes. Her face was round, her cheeks full and dimpled, and her bone structure seemed almost too delicate to carry off the female curves that were driving him wild. She was pursing her lips in a way he found oddly endearing.

“Lemonade too tart?” he guessed.

“Hanley Realty might find something sweeter,” she admitted with a proprietal frown.

“Your company need look no further than its owner.”

“Now that’s sweet.”

A five-year-old boy, not a grown man, could have paid the compliment, and every unseeing sweep of her gaze was starting to rankle. Yes, innocuous Ned Nelson, with his shaggy blond bangs that concealed a high, scholarly forehead and thick glasses that perched midway down his nose wasn’t commanding much attention. Rex was sure she’d been disappointed when she saw him. Had she, too, fantasized about their meeting based on the easy telephone conversations they’d shared? Would she feel differently if baggy khaki pants weren’t hiding Rex’s hard muscles and sculpted contours? Or if the fastened top button of Rex’s loose Hawaiian shirt wasn’t covering a pelt of swirling jet hair?

He cursed his father and Judith Hunt for putting him in this position. If his father hadn’t disappeared, Rex could have taken time off from policing, time he’d definitely like to spend getting to know Pansy. His gut instincts said Augustus had taken it upon himself to solve a crime. And if the Internal Affairs officer was more reasonable, she’d have shared information with Rex. He wouldn’t have been forced to lower himself to subterfuge. Sighing, he sidled closer to Pansy, drawn by the soft parting of her lips and a whispery catch of breath that accelerated his heartbeat.

“You can see it from here,” she murmured.

His eyes were studying the tilt of her nose and her wide, deep-set, sea-green eyes. “See what?”

“Castle O’Lannaise.”

He looked to the distance where hot sun glanced off a dazzling white adobe compound. He couldn’t make out all the structures, but a square, crenelated watchtower was visible, its arched cloisters leading onto iron-railed balconies.

“You can’t tell from here, Ned,” she explained, looking away from the estate long enough to capture Rex’s gaze, “but Castle O’Lannaise was inspired by colonial Argentinian architecture. A square, columned walkway surrounds the main house, and the roofs are of red tile.”

“Impressive.”

She nodded. “Near the main house, there’s an equestrian breeding lodge with a red brick floor and domed ceiling.”

It was a long shot, but it took big money to buy such a place, so Rex started thinking of his father’s ties to gangsters in Hell’s Kitchen and Chinatown. Maybe the owner was someone Augustus had arrested in the past. Or maybe Castle O’Lannaise was otherwise connected to Augustus’s disappearance. But how? “Who owns it?”

Pansy shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

“Who’s the Realtor?”

“Me. But the property’s handled by a law firm, and it’s been listed awhile. Various people have owned it over the years. Celebrities. Even a past president. An oil sheikh.” Pansy sighed before pragmatically announcing, “It’s haunted. That’s why no one stays.”

Despite her seriousness, Rex laughed. “Haunted?”

Tilting her chin and gazing at him from under lowered eyelids, she sent him what, in the old West, used to be called a thousand-yard stare. “You won’t be laughing when you run into my ghost in the dunes,” she warned archly.

He smiled playfully. “You really believe in ghosts?”

“This particular one? Absolutely.”

He released another soft chuckle. “Why am I beginning to think there’s a story in here somewhere?”

“Because there is.” She paused a beat, building anticipatory tension. “The house was built by a Frenchman,” she began. “Named Jacques O’Lannaise.” When she chuckled, the sound was as delicate to Rex’s ears as glass bells. “If that was his real name.”

“The man happened to be in disguise, huh?” At least Rex had that much in common with the ghost of whom Pansy was so fond.

“It was rumored he was running from the law.”

“A runner? I guess he was a jock as well as a Jacques.”

Pansy giggled in spite of herself, then flatly said, “Mr. Nelson, that is the worst play on words I’ve ever heard.”

He offered a look of mock concern. “You seem very attached to your ghost,” he teased. “You seemed like such a nice woman, Pansy, but now I can see you’re drawn to the criminal element.”

A barely suppressed peal of laughter shook her shoulders. “Only in the case of Jacques O’Lannaise,” she vowed solemnly.

“He must have been—” flicking his eyes over a face growing flushed with excitement, Rex had a sneaking suspicion that a few of Pansy’s erotic fantasies had been inspired by Jacques “—quite something with the ladies.”

“So they said,” she murmured, her voice lapsing into dreamy cadences that lulled Rex like a ship on a rolling sea. “Right before the war of eighteen twelve a great-grandmother of ours—”

“Ours?” Rex interjected curiously.

“I was thinking of my two sisters, Lily and Violet.”

Hanley sisters? This was getting more interesting by the minute. Apparently whimsy ran in the family. “You’re all named after flowers?”

She nodded. “As was the ancestor I was about to mention.”

Despite all the worry of the past few days, Rex was starting to enjoy himself. “Peony? Daisy? Poppy?”

“Iris,” Pansy clarified. “In eighteen ten, Iris sailed from Seduction Island—then called Storm Island, by the way—to the city of New Orleans, where wealthy cousins waited to introduce her to Southern gentleman suitors.”

“Because only crusty sailors inhabited Storm Island?” guessed Rex. “Ones with salty tongues who’d make better mates for serving wenches slinging ale in the local taverns?”

“Exactly.” Pansy squinted playfully. “Are you sure you haven’t taken one of the Hanley sisters’ famous tours before?”

She’d mentioned she offered tours on Saturdays. “Never,” he vowed.

He barely registered what she said next, only reacted to the magical, tinkling lilt of her voice. “The Destiny—that was Iris’s ship—”

“Funny,” he murmured. “That’s the same name as the boat you saw explode.”

Unfortunately, Pansy didn’t want to explore the connection at the moment. “Yes,” she continued. “It’s an odd coincidence. Anyway, they’d almost reached New Orleans when pirates came aboard.” Her voice lowered with a sense of impending threat. “They were after sugar cargo in the lower holds, of course, but they robbed the passengers, too.”

Her lovely sea-green eyes had fixed once more in the distance, on Castle O’Lannaise, and Rex could tell history was coming alive in her imagination. He could taste salt on the air and feel the sea breeze on his cheeks and hear the rustle of the ladies’ long skirts and lace petticoats. “And?” he prompted.

“Well—” Pansy’s voice sharpened, taking on a strangely rehearsed quality that, despite the dreamy tone, told Rex she’d honed this story over many retellings. “One pirate, in particular, took a liking to Iris. Now,” she paused, “you have to imagine this fellow.”

“Do I?” murmured Rex.

“Yes. He was tall, over six feet, and wearing tight black breeches, black boots and a loose white shirt with ruffled cuffs that was laced by crisscrossed leather. A belt circled his waist, and a long, weathered leather sheath hung from it. Sunlight glinted on the sharp silver blade of his sword, temporarily blinding Iris as he thrust it into the sheath.”

“Very dramatic,” Rex assured.

Turning her head slightly, Pansy leveled Rex with a stare. “Iris squinted,” she continued. “Which is why she didn’t see it coming.”

Sucked in by the story, Rex murmured, “See what coming?”

A slow smile stretched Pansy’s lips. “The kiss.”

Talking about kisses with Pansy was more unsettling than it should have been, and Rex tried to look less curious than he was. “This pirate, this stranger—he kissed Iris?”

Pansy’s cheeks flushed with such deep color that she, not Iris, could have been the recipient of the man’s bold move. “He stepped right up to her, wrapped his arms around her waist, hauled her to him and kissed her soundly.”

Clearly, Pansy had imagined all this in great detail. If Iris had looked anything like Pansy, Rex thought, he thoroughly understood the piratical impulse. “Go on.”

“Later,” she continued, her tone conspiratorial, “it was rumored that the pirate was a brother of Jean and Pierre Lafitte, and that he came North in eighteen twenty when his brothers fled to Mexico.”

“The plot thickens.”

“Well, keep in mind,” Pansy warned, “that the people who witnessed that kiss said it went on forever. It was so unusual that it ruined Iris for the suitors she was supposed to meet in New Orleans, and the cousins had to send her back to Storm Island unmarried. After that—” Pansy shook her head in censure. “Iris,” she clarified, “wouldn’t even go on any more dates.”

“And Storm Island was renamed Seduction Island?”

“Correct.”

Rex had become thoroughly mesmerized by the way Pansy’s mouth moved. Up, down. Back, forth. Puckered, slack. Any way he looked at it, he wanted to feel it on his. “Must have been some kiss.”

“Even after Iris returned home,” emphasized Pansy, “she continued turning men down.”

“Given that they kept trying, she must have been beautiful.”

“She was.”

“Runs in the family.”

“Thanks,” she said distractedly, her eyes on Castle O’Lannaise. Rex sighed again, cursing the moment he’d worn clothes intentionally calculated to undercut his male prowess. Pansy hadn’t even registered Rex was a man, not a mistake she’d make if he was shirtless, wigless and wearing jeans. “So, what happened?”

“Years passed. And then a mysterious Frenchman arrived and built Castle O’Lannaise. He meant to open it as a resort, catering to the wealthy. Just a month before he did, he tried to claim Iris. Her father correctly suspected this was the pirate who’d kissed her aboard the Destiny, a man made rich by the ill-gotten spoils of war, and so Iris was forbidden to see Jacques, despite the fact that her marriage prospects were dim.”

“Dim?”

“By this time, she was twenty-seven.”

“Ancient,” Rex commiserated. The rapture on Pansy’s face was warming his blood, as was the naked desire in her eyes. No doubt about it, Pansy dreamed of being kissed with a passion capable of ruining her for all other men. In fact, if the hunger in those sea-green eyes was any indication, she craved more than a mere kiss. Rex found himself wondering just how many lovers she’d had. “Surely people so…so aroused by each other had to meet eventually, didn’t they, Pansy?”

“In the dunes,” she returned, her eyes glazed. “They wrote to each other, too. We still have their letters.”

“They survived all these years?”

She shrugged. “We Hanleys preserve our heritage.”

Intrigued, Rex visualized heavy cream paper and calligraphic letters written with a quilled pen. What would two people so in love say to each other? “Do Hanleys let outsiders read them?”

Looking as if she’d just come back to earth, Pansy laughed softly, her eyes glinting flirtatiously. “Sometimes.”

“What’s the price of admission?”

When she paused, he wondered if she was thinking of that kiss like fire again. “I’ll be happy to let you see them.”

He figured there wasn’t much hope in arranging a tryst of their own, not while he was in this getup. She was obviously interested in him, but only as a friend. “So, how does the story end?”

“Badly, I’m afraid.” Pansy’s lips pursed grimly. “That summer, just as a storm hit, Jacques O’Lannaise was waiting for an answer to his marriage proposal. You have to understand that he was a man out of his element. He was far from New Orleans, farther still from his native France. He’d never really wanted to be a pirate anyway, but he’d done whatever was necessary to survive. Until the day he saw Iris.”

“Ah. Love changed him?”

“Completely. For hours, he stood in the watchtower, a wild wind blowing around him, hoping to see Iris riding her mare through the dunes. He didn’t know her father had evacuated the family, hoping to reach the mainland. The letter of explanation she wrote never reached him. We still have it today.”

“But when the family got back…”

Pansy shook her head, sadness coming into her eyes. “They were swept out to sea.”

Hardly the happy ending Rex expected. “She died?”

“Jacques never opened the resort. From the watchtower, he cursed this island, and ever since, we’ve been hit by the worst storms in this part of the Atlantic. It’s so bad we rarely get many tourists.”

“So, Jacques O’Lannaise still haunts the dunes, hoping Iris will return?”

“Yep.” Tucking her chin, she surveyed him from under half-lidded eyes, and Rex reminded himself she’d been feeding him standard tourist fare. This was probably what she said, verbatim, on Saturday tours. No doubt, she mesmerized guests. She said, “I guess every town in America has a resident ghost.”

But not every ghost was loved by a woman as tantalizing as Pansy. She’d caught Rex in her spell, weaving a story of love, loss and mysticism he was powerless to resist.

Her throaty voice sounded ripe for seduction. “So, if you meet a dark, swarthy man in the dunes, or see shadows in the windows of Castle O’Lannaise, you’ll know who it is.”

Rex lowered his voice and asked in the same seductive tone, “Have you seen him, personally?”

“I’ll never tell.” Her smile deepened. “You’ll have to join one of our tours. Vi books guests, Lily drives the bus and I give the spiel about the island’s history.”

“You do a good job.” Before this moment, hardened cop Rex Steele had never imagined he could be jealous of a ghost.

“We depart from the south dock every two hours on Saturdays, beginning at eight a.m.”

“It’s not a full-time business?”

She shook her head regretfully. “I wish. But there are too many storms here. Not enough tourists.”

In a flash fantasy, he imagined himself taking the tour twice—once as innocuous Ned Nelson and then as dark, swarthy Rex Steele, who he suspected might bear a passing resemblance to Jacques O’Lannaise. Rex was raven-haired, anyway. “I’ll be sure to sign up at some point.”

“It’s so hot,” she apologized once more, changing the subject. “I’m really sorry I forgot to turn on the AC.”

He pressed his ice-chilled glass to her bare arm. Offering an enticing shiver, she said, “Thanks.”

Thank you, he thought, noticing how her nipples beaded against the white top. She didn’t even register the effect on him. He grimaced. Why would a woman worry about how effeminate, sensitive Ned Nelson would react to her arousal? Hell, Pansy probably figured she could strut around Casa Eldora stark naked without bringing out the animal in Ned.

She was wrong. Rex was far too aware of her. And of the couch not two feet away. He imagined stripping off her clothes, setting her on the cushions, thrusting inside her. Her scent, stirred by stifling summer heat, stole his breath and filled the room. His groin suddenly ached, pulling with pangs of want.

All the while, Rex didn’t register on her radar. By wearing the costume calculated to throw Judith Hunt off the scent, he’d become the exact opposite of Pansy’s dream lover. While she stared into the distance, oblivious, he was imagining making love to her again, this time hard and fast on the sand of the dunes. Maybe he’d drag her into the wild surf, letting the hot waves drench her.

He wondered what she’d look like in a bikini.

Then a wet white bikini.

Then naked.

Somehow, he already knew how the slow slide of his hands on her thighs would feel, how touches of her breath would stir hairs at his nape, how he’d burn with need for her.

She glanced at her watch. “Well, it’s been nice to meet you, Ned, but I’d really better go. Oh,” she added in afterthought, “speaking of summer storms. Tomorrow night there’s a town meeting. My sister Lily’s on the council with a man named Lou Fairchild. Once a week, they go over safety precautions for guests. You know…how to stay out of the undertow. Evacuation procedures in case of storms. We suggest that everyone come.”

“Storms, evacuations,” he teased. “You sure know how to show a guy a good time.”

“You’d be surprised,” she quipped.

“I like surprises.”

She merely smiled, not nearly as affected by the flirtation as he would have liked. “We’ve found a damaged letter from the New York lottery board, and since we can’t make out who it’s addressed to, we’ll be asking someone to claim it. Someone on the island won fifteen million dollars, so it’ll be interesting to see who.”

Rex tried not to react, knowing it was for him. “The letter was damaged?”

Her eyes sparkled with humor as she sized up Rex, then decided to share. “The truth is, my sister Vi’s a mail carrier, and she spilled a soda into the mailbag. She can be a bit of a klutz, and we’re afraid if she ruins anymore mail, she’ll be fired. So we’re going to pretend I found the letter.”

Looking at her, Rex found himself thinking of her fantasy life again, one in which he suspected she allowed herself to be plundered by a pirate. Then he wondered how he was going to claim the letter without alerting Judith Hunt to the fact he’d remained on the island. If he claimed the letter as Ned Nelson, that would also bring unwanted attention his way. He’d prefer to retrieve the letter anonymously.

Pansy was frowning. “There were forms from the lottery board for the winner to fill out.”

“What if no one claims it?”

“We’ll post it.”

That was a relief. “Where?”

“The grocery store or the post office. We’ll announce the location at the meeting. Can you imagine that much money?”

Unfortunately, yes. When he thought of what his father had supposedly stolen, Rex hardly wanted to. And when he thought of the lottery, unexpected anger burrowed under his skin, especially when Pansy’s eyes returned to Castle O’Lannaise. He hated to think money could buy a woman’s happiness, but there was no doubt Pansy was in love with the castle and Jacques O’Lannaise. For a brief second, he felt jealous. But that was crazy! Was he really threatened by a man who didn’t even exist? A ghost who haunted an old equestrian estate? “Ah,” he suddenly guessed. “You’re hoping to find a buyer for your castle, aren’t you?”

Color rose on her cheeks. “Am I so transparent?”

“Maybe,” he admitted. With one look, Rex felt he’d known her for years. Even more, she’d unwittingly challenged him to give her what she most craved—a castle. Or better yet, a kiss of fire. She was so…original. So unlike city women. Her island paradise was completely different from Manhattan, the only home he’d ever known. He thought of summers there, the baking heat on the sidewalks, the short tempers, the power outages. He was always glad to escape. Could Pansy be the woman he’d fantasized meeting year after year?

Coming back to the issue at hand, he decided Judith Hunt probably wouldn’t attend the council meeting. He’d go and at least find out where the Hanleys meant to post the letter. Preoccupied, he barely noticed Pansy had left his side and set her glass down. She was leafing through some sketches in a portfolio beside the couch.

“These are beautiful,” she murmured.

Something fierce and protective kicked in when Rex realized what she was doing, and he braced himself for criticism, but Pansy only continued going through the landscape drawings from his last vacation. Somewhere in the far reaches of his mind, he could hear his father saying, “Punch me again. You’ve got to prove you’re a man. You keep drawing pictures and the boys downtown are gonna call you a sissy.”

She said, “You’re good.”

Easy laughter masked his watchfulness. “Tour guide, Realtor, art critic…what next?”

“Most people in my family draw,” Pansy explained, glancing through the window at the beach. “It comes with growing up on an island, I guess. People get bored. Iris even sketched Jacques O’Lannaise.”

“Ah. So, you know what your pirate looks like.”

Color stained her cheeks. “He’s not my pirate,” she defended.

Rex grinned. “Are you sure?”

Her chuckle floated into his blood. “I admit,” she countered, “Jacques has captured my imagination for years.”

“Pansy,” Rex returned, “you’re a fascinating woman.”

He wished more than the light of new friendship was sparking in her eyes. She shrugged. “I’ve had a few fantasies about this pirate, okay? Just don’t tell anyone.”

He held out a hand, and they shook on it. Her touch sent tingles up his arm. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

She surveyed him. “Do you have any secrets?”

Innocuous Ned Nelson? He laughed. “Are you kidding?”

She grinned. “I guess you wouldn’t,” she said, reacting to his honest looks and turning back to the drawings. “So I’ll just have to trust you to keep mine. They’re good,” she offered again. “You’re…”

The lie he’d told Judith Hunt rolled easily from his tongue. “An architect.”

“From talking to you on the phone, I should have guessed it was something artistic. That explains the drawing skills. And you like to read, too.” She lifted a book. “Poetry?”

He ignored the urge to defend himself, but she was looking at him as if he was a highly unusual male specimen. Why couldn’t men enjoy poetry without feeling like effete intellectuals? Rex wanted to let her in—more than he ever had anyone at first meeting—but he didn’t like exposing a self he usually kept from prying eyes, except on these month-long summer sojourns. “Yeah,” he finally said, “I like poetry.”

“Me, too.”

Surprisingly, another few moments of conversation passed, during which they traded favorite authors. Then she said, “If you like poetry, you really might appreciate Iris’s letters.” She paused. “Most men don’t. Like poetry, I mean.”

There it was again. Most men. Once more, he was conscious of being in the wig, the oversize clothes, with his damn cheeks puffed out and a ridiculous pair of glasses sliding down his nose. His father’s rough voice ghosted through his mind. Harder, Rex. You’ve got to pound the other guy, let him know you’re a man. “What do most men like?” he taunted softly. “Guzzling beer and belching while rooting for sports teams?”

Looking genuinely delighted, she laughed. “No brothers, so I really couldn’t say.”

His eyes narrowed, and his voice turned husky. “What about lovers?”

Surprised, she quickly recovered. “Only Jacques O’Lannaise,” she quipped, and from the guilty light of pleasure in her eyes, Rex couldn’t help but surmise how satisfying the fantasies had been for her. After a moment, she amended her words, saying she’d had some long-term boyfriends but no one serious. When she glanced at her watch again, Rex had the sudden, primal urge to haul her off her feet and drag her to a bedroom, a place where he damn well knew he excelled. “Sorry,” she murmured. “I’d better go.”

Stay. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

His eyes were hot on hers as he placed a hand beneath her elbow, lifted her jacket from a wall peg and guided her to the door. The room had cooled, and as they stepped into a rippling wave of heat, she reacted once more, her shiver making him imagine it coming on a sigh of pleasure.

“Don’t forget to come to the town meeting, Ned,” she said when they reached her black compact car.

She smiled as he opened a door that had absorbed heat like a conductor. As she got in, her hem rose, and his breathing shallowed at the flash of a bare, slender, long-boned thigh. “You could fry eggs on the car,” he said.

“Trying to get a breakfast invitation?”

He laughed. “Am I so transparent?” he asked, echoing her earlier words. Before she could answer, he said, “If I don’t see you at the town meeting, we’ll hook up at the bonfire afterward, Pansy.”

He closed the door, and as she started the car, she powered down the window. “I could show you the inside of Castle O’Lannaise,” she offered. “It’s not on our tour. It’s got a locked gate, but I can let you in.”

“I’ll need you along,” he said, “to protect me from your ghost. If he sees you with another man, he might get jealous.”

She smiled. “Of course.”

“And Iris’s letters,” he reminded.

“It’s not just a bonfire,” she returned, a barely noticeable hitch in her voice. “There’s a dance on the beach with music. We have one every week. My sisters and I always go. I’ll know more about my schedule then. We’ll arrange a time for you to read the letters.”

He tried to ignore the friendly warmth of her gaze, a warmth that couldn’t begin to answer the hotter, darker things she’d been inspiring since she walked into Casa Eldora. The edgy eroticism, wrought by her unconscious challenge to his masculinity, was the worst. He was definitely a man, and he’d like nothing more than to apprise Pansy Hanley of that fact. As far as he was concerned, she was lucky to get out of here with her clothes on. He said, “I’ll enjoy seeing you again.” What an understatement.




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