Links
|
Links |
|
Take a look at the stellar reviews for Mended Promises!
New Orleans, 2003
Camille strode to the beveled French doors and thrust them open.
“Mon Dieu!”
Startled, Jake turned at the sound of a melodious voice. Was his mind playing tricks? He eased his stance as his gaze traveled the length of her. She still affected him as if he were a teen gawking at a super model. His heart clenched for just a moment. Her beauty was so pure, it overwhelmed him with a longing to kiss her until she melted like chocolate in his embrace.
Click to purchase!
Read A Review
There she stood. His wife. Well, almost ex, he corrected himself.
“What are you doing here?” Camille’s voice sounded shrill, most unlike her softly-accented English.
“What am I doing here? What the hell are you doing here?” He strode toward her, even as he winced at the harsh edge on his voice. Her presence in the midst of his memories infuriated him, and he didn’t want her to know it.
Camille took a step back. “This is my suite,” she countered. “That is why I am here.”
Jake gawked in disbelief. Louisa had assured him Camille was on her way to Paris to recover from their separation. He rubbed the back of his neck as he thought. Louisa had pushed him to take take this vacation when he told her of the surprising invitation.
“Do some recovering of your own,” she’d crooned with that regal accent she used so charmingly. If he’d had his wits about him, he’d have thrown the invite away and told her to take the trip herself.
Problem was, he hadn’t been the same since the letter legalizing their separation landed on his desk.
Now, Camille was staring at him, sable-colored eyes wide with innocence.
“Do you think I don’t know what you planned?” he demanded through gritted teeth.
Her hand flew to her chest. Jake tamped down the urge to grasp it in his own. The air around him seemed to be gone, sucked into the vacuum of his battered heart. Mist from the fountain sprayed at his back, prompting him to close the distance between them.
“And just what do you mean by that, Jake Michael Dillon?
The use of his full name was a sure sign he’d angered her. In his haste, he’d accused her. But maybe Louisa had planned this all along, and he sent a silent word of thanks.
Even though he was frustrated himself, he loved the passion that gripped Camille when her temper rose and anger flashed in her eyes. She swished her auburn hair out of her face and tipped up her chin. A stray curl caught attractively on her full lips.
Blowing it free, she continued, “I have every right to be here. Tell me why you are here, Jake y là.”
He pulled up at the endearment. She hadn’t called him her love in a long time. Slightly taken aback, he watched her turn away, face flushed and taut as she re-entered the room.
Following her, he witnessed her kicking her expensive luggage. Good old Camille, he thought, when words failed, she’d kick something. He would have chuckled, but he didn’t want to tempt her mood further.
She turned to him with a haughty expression. “You cannot stay here. Go ask the concierge if there is another room.”
Of course, there was that, her bossiness, always ready to command those around her like the Parisian princess her grandmother raised her to be.
He loved it.
“It’s the middle of the jazz festival, for God’s sake. I’m sure it’s booked.” He could see she didn’t believe him. “All right, I’ll call the front desk,” he said with his hands raised.
He picked up the phone, all the while watching Camille sweep through the room with nervous energy. Even with the anxious stride, she held herself gracefully. The woman was torturing him with her beauty that seemed at home in the suite. The baroque furnishings complemented her refined presence. The soft peach walls, shaded with age and the voluminous linens on the bed reminded him of Camille’s home in France. It struck him how different the room was compared to their home in South Carolina.
Jake waited for the clerk to check the registry. He’d lied about the hotel being booked. It was just the first thing that popped into his head.
Maybe he could. . .
