Chapter Two

"Are you out of your mind, Liv?"

Aware of the taxing battle ahead and the tenuous chance of victory, Olivia steeled herself. "Don’t be such a prude, Cain. Think of it as an adventure."

She had anticipated her brother’s reaction at the announcement of her desire to visit a brothel. The fact that Morgan Gatewood had stopped by this morning would not deter her. In fact, she had designed the outlandish scheme to capture his attention, and the timing couldn’t have been better.

Cain shook his head and slapped at an annoying fly in his line of vision. "If anyone recognized you, much less heard of your sojourn to L’ Amour Immortelles, you’d be ruined. I’d be ruined!" He petitioned his best friend with an importunate gaze. "Morgan, say something, do something."

Seated across from her on the wide, sweeping veranda with his ankles crossed at the end of his long legs, Morgan personified ambiguity. The man who held her heart in his hands had always seemed aloof and remote, more so since returning from abroad six months ago. Dressed in a casual white linen shirt and snug-fitting tan buckskins with knee-length Hessian boots, he appeared more virile today, if possible.

Morgan was six years old when his parents, Rance and Dyann, left Louisiana for Savannah, and soon thereafter purchased the plantation bordering L’Esperance. How devastating it must have been to hear the local gossipmongers drag their son’s name through the mud ten years ago. Her name too. Morgan had compromised Judge Breedlove’s daughter, they had said, kissed her—among other things—right under the Judge’s nose, in her late mother’s rose garden, no less.

Furious didn’t begin to describe her father’s disposition when he threatened to send her away to Aunt Dottie’s in Chattanooga— permanently—if she even looked at the irresistible man again. The thanks for saving her from total ruination went to Cook. Unfaltering loyalty and determination ranked high on the black woman’s list in regards to the Breedloves, more so after their mother’s death. Olivia swore the woman had a sixth sense, had made it her life’s mission to ensure her charge arrived at the marriage bed not only virginal, but untarnished.

The scene that followed still had the ability to shred her heart into tattered ribbons. Cook had retrieved her father. When he arrived, he bore the look of a man on the brink of lunacy. A lengthy inquisition in the library took place between Morgan, her father, and Olivia. White-lipped, her father, acting as judge and jury, ran through a gamut of questions. Had Morgan taken liberties with her? Had he comprised her in any manner? Did she remain virginal? Morgan had answered dubiously to the first two questions and yes to the last. The gavel came down, swift and hard. Under no circumstances were they to be seen together again. Her father spat the next words, his spine rigid. "I cannot allow my daughter to associate with one of Savannah’s notorious voluptuaries." At the time, Olivia didn’t know the meaning of the word, but the tight, white lines around his mouth imbued its inference. "While I find little fault with your gregarious appetite for carnal liaisons, Gatewood, I have plans for Olivia. Those plans do not include marriage to a libertine."

Resembling an iconic statue, Morgan had stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable when her father banged his fist on the desk and delivered his final words through clenched teeth. "Stay away from my daughter, Morgan, or by God, I’ll call for my second and meet you at dawn."

Her father didn’t dislike Morgan Gatewood. In fact, Olivia imagined he admired the man—provided he stayed away from her—far away. She’d never forgotten the encounter with Morgan, the way her lips melded with his, the way her skin burned in all the places he’d touched her or the sudden sensation of collapsing under his wicked onslaught. He had never attempted to seek her out again, or kiss her, much to her dismay.

She’d also never forgotten that Morgan—like Cain—was a prolific debaucher of women. The details of their self-indulgent ruttings came straight from the horse’s mouth—her brother’s. Why Cain had shared Morgan’s peccadilloes with her was beyond comprehension. And every sordid aspect stabbed her to the quick.

To Olivia, Morgan was a study in magnificence—albeit a sinful, decadent study. She’d spent hours, awake and asleep, dreaming about the chameleon-like pewter eyes that bedeviled her. Long, midnight hair framed his chiseled facial bones and generous mouth, his upper lip in perfect balance with the lower. The stuff of myth and legend, everything about Morgan personified beauty.

Several years ago, Morgan left Savannah, claiming he harbored a desire to see the world and acquaint himself with exotic cultures and distant locales. His move crushed her. Now, he had returned, more alluring than ever, his aloof aura a dismal reminder she meant nothing more to him now than she did before. And Olivia was still crushed. Close-lipped about his financial affairs and business dealings, he had shared nothing about what he found or learned on his journey and Olivia knew better than to ask.

Squinting against the harsh rays of the sun, Morgan graced her with a smile. "There must be another way to secure a suitable husband, Liv."

With a sardonic chuckle, she met his silver eyes. "I think my father made the stipulations clear in his will. The man must be a well-respected member of the gentry with a plump portfolio and bank account to match the Prince of Serbia’s."

The Adonis of her dreams smirked. "And you must marry him within six months or forfeit your inheritance?"

"You needn’t gloat, Morgan."

"Histrionics are not your strong suit," Cain said. "Father specified you must marry a man unencumbered by scandal, surrender your wild ways, and with any luck raise a large brood of children."

Sarcasm laced her words. "Or rely on your benevolence for the rest of my natural days."

"It was rather mean-spirited of the old codger," Cain said. "But your plan is beyond ridiculous."

"He left me little choice." She huffed a frustrated breath. "How would you like to have a mere six months to choose a life mate, knowing you might be shackled to a bumbling lummox for the rest of your life?"

"Ah," said Cain. "You wish to sample the goods prior to purchasing, is that it?"

"Heavens no! I don’t wish to sample, merely observe." She wrinkled her nose. "Conjoined at the hip to a man who doesn’t know the first thing about pleasing a woman is unthinkable." Glancing from Cain to Morgan, she continued. "Besides, what I know about amorous escapades you could stash in a thimble. Firsthand, that is."

Cain bounded to his feet. "This is insane. You mean to choose a mate based on his sexual prowess?"

"Yes," she said. "I know only what you have shared with me about your self-indulgent romps. How can I capture a man’s heart, much less hold it, if I know nothing about his likes or dislikes?"

Morgan laughed. "Trust me; men have few dislikes in the arena of fuck—fornication."

Liv rose from the chair. "You are a cold-hearted toad. You don’t give a fig whether or not the woman is pleasured; you think only of your own gratification." She squinted at the decadent man for effect. "Thus, the reason I mean to choose my own lover, one who cares about my—"

"Licentious cravings?" Morgan infused in a heartbeat.

She walked toward him, didn’t stop until his handsome face loomed inches before hers. "You think to mortify me, Morgan, harangue me into giving up this quest?"

Happy for once she had shown him his place, her small victory faded in light of his arrogant retort. "On the contrary, have at it, Olivia." He hesitated. "And don’t ever presume to know what I do or don’t do in the bedchamber."

Wicked. She despised the imagery her brain conjured from that one simple word, and an act from the Holy Ghost could not eradicate the erotic scenes. Blast the man.

"Should you find a suitable candidate by merely observing," Cain said with a lift of his shoulders. "What then?"

"Persuade him with timidity, of course, to ask for my hand." She resumed her seat, continuing on a drawn out sigh. "Then we’ll marry the same day you and Lark take your vows, dear brother, and I will be wealthy in my own right."

Morgan’s heavy-lidded glance hitched her breath. "What makes you think you’ll find your prince wenching at L’ Amour Immortelles?"

"If you and Cain cut your teeth wenching there, why wouldn’t I think the majority of your blue-blooded friends also patronize the establishment?" Without waiting for a reply, she put a finger to the corner of her mouth. "What does L’ Amour Immortelles mean, anyway?"

"It’s French for Love Everlasting," Morgan replied, low-voiced.

"We’re getting off the subject." Cain wagged a finger in her direction. "You have a particular chap in mind, don’t you?"

Morgan’s head shot up so fast it startled her.

"No one in particular," she managed to say. "I won’t know until I see him... engaged."

"Darling sister, you could have your choice of men. Tell me who you have in mind, and I’m certain he will do cartwheels once he learns of his good fortune."

"You’re not listening," she said. "He could be a Greek God in looks and stature, but that tells me nothing about his competence or ineptitude, does it?" Cain and Morgan exchanged glances while she tapped her foot against the smooth, flat stones of the veranda. She paused for a brief moment. "Are you going to arrange it or must I visit L’ Amour Immortelle’s unannounced and request a meeting with the proprietor on my own?"

Cain’s dark eyes searched her face. "My God, you are dead serious!"

"Quite."

He tossed his hands up and looked at his friend.

"I’ll make the necessary inquiries," Morgan said without emotion. "Under one condition."

Her chin jutted outward. "What condition?"

"You’ll observe and nothing more." Topping off his words, he added, "I want your word you will not indulge in or act on impetuous fantasies."

"But..."

"You heard him." Cain placed his hands on his hips. "You’re not to speak a word of this to anyone, including my fiancé. I will go along with this ill-fated scheme, but you must agree to be under Morgan’s tutelage in all respects. He’ll make the arrangements; you’ll appear incognito, and watch, only."

Her heart raced. She knew all about peep rooms—from Cain and Morgan, of course—had read numerous accounts about voyeurs and now she would soon join their ranks. She had braced for a horrendous fight, but now that victory was within her grasp, ripples of excitement coursed through her.

She crossed her heart. "Done. When will you speak to the proprietor and confirm a date, Morgan?"

He came to his feet with the loose-limbed agility of a jungle cat, his gaze raking her head to toe. "I plan to visit the establishment tonight. I’ll speak to Madame Rousseau and orchestrate an appointment within the week."

"Madame Rousseau. Is she the owner?"

"No," Morgan said. "She manages the brothel."

A commotion near the French doors drew their attention. Cain’s fiancée, Lark Hudson, glided onto the porch, her honey-colored hair, interspersed with pale white kisses from the sun, cascaded down her back in soft curls. Cornflower blue eyes sparkled like shiny gems against her flawless, translucent skin. A frequent visitor at L’Esperance, she and Olivia had become fast friends.

His composure regained, Cain rushed to Lark’s side as she gave each of them a long, inquiring look. "Have I intruded, darling?" Her sweet voice reminded Olivia of a songbird’s and suited her well.

"Not at all, love. In fact, we are discussing the wedding."

Lark sketched a warm smile. "Speaking of which, you promised to drive me into Savannah to Miss Brouillard’s Dress Shoppe this afternoon."

"I haven’t forgotten." Cain winked. "Care to join us, Liv?"

Her head still reeling from the previous conversation, she looked up and shook her head. "No, but thank you for asking. I think I will take Sinbad out for a ride."

Cain leaned in and kissed her cheek. "See you at dinner tonight."

With a ghost of a smile, Morgan bowed at the waist, his erotic mouth turning Olivia’s knees to marmalade. Sweeping past her, he paused and whispered in her ear, "I’ll be in touch soon."

Chills rustled down her spine. Beneath that seductive cadence dwelt a rock-hard body, and she wanted to touch it, taste it, feel it slamming into her.

They walked from the veranda, and Olivia closed her eyes against the lurid images Morgan’s presence summoned.

Good God, what in the world have I gotten myself into?

* * *

Morgan mounted Valor, chasing clouds across the countryside as if the hounds of hell nipped at the steed’s heels. Damn the little termagant! Steeped in carnal thoughts of her, he still hadn’t figured out how she had maneuvered him into this ridiculous sham. He should have stayed in France, or at the very least stayed away from L’Esperance and the bewitching Olivia Breedlove.

Cursed, the little voice in his head screamed, from the moment you kissed the dark-haired enchantress ten years ago. He’d tried everything imaginable to rid himself of this insatiable lust for her, bedded countless women to dispel her from his heart, and the sum total of his endeavors amounted to failure. On the cusp of declaring his love, assuming the persona of a jackass, he’d fled to France three years ago. Even thousands of miles had failed to dilute the all-encompassing hunger that consumed him every time the woman stood within striking distance. Now, Thaddeus was dead, rendered incapable of commanding him to stay away from his virginal daughter. And stay away from her he would not.

He had only to close his eyes and she found him, flaunting that rich, sable hair streaked with ribbons of amber. Resembling a thick veil of silk, it framed her elfin face in reckless abandon and tumbled down her back in a waterfall of sun-kissed glory. Her exotic green eyes beckoned him to kiss her exquisite, cherry-blossom lips and run his hands across her pearlescent skin until she writhed beneath him. High and well-defined, her cheekbones framed her small, slender nose. Perfection didn’t begin to describe Olivia’s beauty. Aside from her physical allure, something about her beguiled him. Hell, everything about her beguiled him. Doomed like Tristan sailing the seas forever in search of Isolde, Morgan had accepted his penance for loving Olivia years ago.

He did all he could do to keep his expression placid, his demeanor cool, when she announced this morning she had every intention of visiting L’ Amour Immortelles to expand her knowledge—or lack thereof—on fornication. His silent applause for her audacity faded amid the hard, cold facts—if one desired to expand their carnal curriculum vitae, including fucking, one had to visit his place.

Even Cain had no idea he had purchased L’ Amour Immortelles the year before he sailed abroad and had surrendered it to Madame Rousseau’s fastidious management until he returned. He had hoped to keep it confidential, like all his business ventures. The brothel turned a nice profit, affording him the finer niceties of life, and now the waspish she-cat was about to invade his private domain. He couldn’t allow her or Cain to discover he owned the brothel, that he was the very man with whom she demanded an audience. He would speak with Madame Rousseau, cajole her into playing along with this masquerade. The woman could not, under any circumstances, disclose his identity, reveal to Liv that he’d gone beyond frequenting the finest brothel in Savannah, but had purchased it.

Lassoed like a wild mustang by Liv’s heartfelt pleadings and cat-like eyes, he seemed incapable of refusing her request to select a husband of her choosing, one who knew what he was about in the bedchamber. Didn’t he desire the same, hope against hope he wouldn’t wake up one day shackled to a woman who swept into a faint at the sight of a man’s cock? By the time Cain had taken leave of his senses and agreed to assist her, he had little choice but to act the cool goose and acquiesce to the debacle. Christ! And he’d agreed to tutor her, would be forced to listen to lurid descriptions of what she’d observed during her visits, and no doubt expected to offer commentary.

He slowed Valor to a walk and wondered whose heart pounded faster, his or the stallion’s. He despised how he lusted after the woman, had lusted after her for years. A distant memory of the very first time—the only time—he held her luscious body in his arms crept from the recesses of his brain. The August sky hung low and hot the day he and Cain grabbed their poles and headed for the river. Liv strolled up behind them on the path, uninvited, but not unwelcome, particularly after she announced Cook had packed chicken and biscuits in the basket she carried.

What possessed her to walk into the swift current soon after they dropped their lines, only a fool could reckon. Cain called out with a stern admonishment to extricate her foolish ass posthaste, but his request had little effect. Morgan’s stomach had lurched, and a prickling at the nape of his neck ran the length of his spine. Strange, even today he remembered the minute incidentals, and terror gripped him all over again.

She’d waved to them, her willowy body teetering against the ashen waters licking about her thighs. Like a leaf caught up in an eddy, she toppled, her flailing arms the only body part visible above the water. From the bank, he dropped the pole and dove in, horror freezing his heart. He would never reach her, would never find her in the murky shadows of death.

Cain’s voice had reached his ears through a waterfall of anguish and hopelessness. "Save her, Morgan, save her!"

Fetid water sucked him under amid a whirling cloud of sludge. He searched, his eyes burning, his arms thrashing about him. His hand found a clump of her long hair, and he dragged her to the surface, a thankful prayer and a curse leaving his lips on the heels of anger. She fought against him like a demon possessed as he pulled her against his chest.

"Yield!" he’d screamed. "Or you’ll drown us both." His legs pushed against the raging current, his numb arm doing its best to propel them toward shore.

Long minutes later, with her gasping and choking, he’d grabbed a hold of her trousers with one hand and the same lock of hair with the other and heaved her onto the muddy bank.

Out of breath and out of temper, he’d loomed over her quaking body. "Are you utterly insane?"

Her hair, dark with muck, her emerald eyes pooled with tears, she’d said only one word. "Morgan."

His damp fingers whispered over her cheek, stroking, caressing, and he knew, from that moment on, that he could never dispel her from his soul. The bond between them could never be severed; the mind-numbing feeling of almost losing her would be seared into his brain for all eternity. He quit his dream-like musings and pondered more pressing matters, like how in the hell would he manage watching that sensual mouth of hers describe every decadent detail of what she’d witnessed? And she would. Unabashedly candid, Olivia Breedlove possessed a devil-may-care attitude about anything and everything in her life. The woman didn’t know the meaning of refined modification when it came to speaking her mind. She said whatever flew into that beautiful head, to whomever she pleased, and the hell with propriety. Her father had known it, thus the reason he’d stipulated in his will it was time for her to settle down with a respected member of the gentry. Thaddeus hadn’t been able to tame her in life, but by God, he’d do his best in death.

In the next moment, Morgan withered sitting atop the horse. What if she found what she sought, the man who could deliver the heart-pounding mating her young, supple body so craved?

What would he do then? It would be too late for him to tell her he loved her, had loved her from the moment he’d kissed her on that moonlit night so many years ago. He’d returned from abroad to profess his undying love, get down on his knees if need be and admit that every time he looked at her, something hot and achy surged up his chest until he thought he might choke. Now she’d made it clear she was on the prowl for a husband and he was not in the running.

He had to get a hold of himself. Never had he allowed the softer sex to penetrate his calm demeanor, but the die was cast, and he no longer had a choice in the matter. Forced to go along with this charade, he prayed she wouldn’t find what she hungered for at L’Amour Immortelles. If she did, he’d have to find a way to thwart it.

Or return to France and wallow in his misery forever.

He dug his heels into Valor. The sooner he had a little tête-á-tête with Madame Rousseau, the better.