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“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.”
