Cajun Hot (18 page)

He loved her. He really wanted her.
Her.
He hadn't been playing an elaborately cruel joke, but had been serious in his intentions, even if he'd deceived her as to his identity.

Her heart soared. He was right. What meaning was there in a man's name if the love he held for her was true and genuine?

To be honest, over the past month, she'd grown to understand his reasons in not telling her who he was. She'd heard stories of the legions of women who'd thrown themselves at him in one way or another because of his wealth and fame. Was it any wonder he'd wanted to know the woman he married wanted him for himself? And wasn't that, in a sense, also the very reason she'd fled from him when she'd learned his identity—an irrational fear that he couldn't possibly want the simple, everyday person she was, rather than a supermodel or movie star, which he could so easily win?

He bent and kissed the shreds of the paper wedding band on her finger and led her to the orchid-bedecked head table. He knelt and helped her onto her cushion, the one to the right of his, and she didn't hesitate to take her place next to him.

The significance of her acceptance didn't escape him. His eyes smoldered with happiness and desire. As he settled next to her and filled her plate from the sumptuous feast gracing the table, she couldn't miss the lambent invitation in his gaze. An invitation of untold pleasures at his hand and body. An involuntary shiver of anticipation coursed through her, dissolving her bones and her resistance completely.

She was his. Totally. Irrevocably. How had she ever thought she could stay away from this man? He was in her blood, imprinted in her body like a drug, a delicious addiction, his love as important to her life as the breath in her lungs or the food in her belly.

"I love you,” she whispered as he fed her a tasty morsel of kebab from his own plate, dripping with sublimely spicy sauce.

"I know.” He winked impudently.

"Cocky bastard,” she said, unperturbed at his boundless conceit. It was one of the things she liked best about him.

His grin only widened.

Jacque was obviously in his element. The consummate host, he plied his guests with an infinite variety of meats and vegetables topped with his newest sauce creation, serving up lively conversation as easily as the endless courses of delicacies. Sahara was delighted and impressed, radiant in the glow of belonging to this extraordinary man.

Finally, when dinner was cleared and Baked Alaska with Turkish coffee had been placed in front of everyone, Jacque rose and walked to a podium set on a low dais. A few hundred replete and cheerful guests came to attention, looking forward with apparent relish to the show they obviously expected.

Jacque didn't disappoint. He joked with the crowd, amused them with humorous anecdotes of how the kebab sauce recipe had come about, impressed them with statistics of how well
Cajun Hot
was doing as a company.

All the while, curious eyes wandered to Sahara. She knew exactly what everyone was waiting for. She was nervous as hell. What would he say?

"So, did everyone enjoy supper?” he asked the crowd, which answered with appropriately appreciative noises and cheers. Cameras flashed from a group of photographers jammed in front of him. “And now I'd like to present y'all with the newest member of the
Cajun Hot
family, Sahara Spice—named after my hot, new beautiful wife, Sahara Jensen Cherchat.” His smile was only for her, and the crowd disappeared.

At his signal, a dozen harem-dressed women passed out silk bags containing a small bottle of
Cajun Hot Sahara Spice
kebab sauce, along with a fresh orchid for each guest. The bottles were adorned with pretty labels featuring her name in large letters over a stylized version of one of her orchid photos. But all Sahara saw was Jacque.

He was magnificent. Her vision blurred, thinking of how she'd wronged him. It was a miracle he'd forgiven her. One she'd be grateful for, for the rest of her life.

"A few weeks ago I met Sahara Jensen, and I knew immediately I had to have her forever. Two days later, we were married. But I made a big mistake. I wasn't completely honest with her."

The crowd murmured, fascinated by the drama unfolding.

"I want to make that up to her now. By asking her all over again. This time, the right way.” He looked at her, all the hope and desire she could ever want shining from within his dark eyes. “Will you marry me,
'tite chatte
?"

Oh, Jacque.
If she hadn't been sitting down, she would have dissolved into a puddle of mush right on the spot.

There was nothing on earth she'd rather do than marry him, for real, so no one could ever part them or say their marriage wasn't legal and binding. She smiled through joyful tears.

Of course, she'd be a fool to let this golden opportunity go by...

"I'll marry you, Jacque Cherchat,” she called up to him, wiping her eyes amidst the flash of cameras, “on one condition."

For a split second his brow raised. Then he smoothed his expression and blithely said, “
Merde
, I'm in trouble."

The room erupted in delighted laughter.

"Honey, if she don't want you, I'll take you,” shouted a woman from the back of the room.

Laughing, he motioned to Sahara in amused resignation. “Come on up here,
chère
, and tell me your condition."

Almost giddily, she rose and mounted the narrow dais to stand next to him, her expression a study in innocence. After he'd given her a peck on the cheek, she turned and spoke shyly into the microphone. “Strip."

Shock bolted through his eyes, as well as the audience. “
Escuse moi?
"

"I want you to strip for me."

He blinked. Slowly, a devilish grin spread over his lips. “
C'est tout, ça?
Hell, dat all?"

In a sinuous motion, he grabbed his turban and flung it away, then started to move his hips in a sensual dance. Cameras whirred in a blinding flash.

The Middle Eastern band joined the spirit and launched into an impromptu rendition of a bump and grind on their exotic instruments. She couldn't believe her eyes. He was actually going to do it!

The crowd went wild as he tore off his gold vest, whipped it around and tossed it over his shoulder to the sinuous beat.

He flirted openly with her, moving like a pro, rubbing up against her, catching her hands and spreading them over his body.

A hot blush flamed across her cheeks. “
Jacque!
"

"Hey, you called it, baby,” he murmured in her ear, grinding suggestively against her bottom.

"You don't have to enjoy it so much,” she blurted, making him laugh out loud.

"Why not?” He dropped his pants and kicked them away. Clad only in black briefs—
very
brief—he turned his back on the crowd and put his arms over her shoulders, pulling her close. She could feel his excitement rise lustily. “You gonna marry me, Sahara?"

"Not ‘til you're as naked as I was,” she challenged, determined that he experience the same complete vulnerability as she had during their wedding.

"You do it,” he dared, pressing his formidable arousal against her belly. “Strip me bare in front of everyone. Show them who owns me, body and soul."

She swallowed deeply at his intensely potent words. It was a thrill beyond anything imaginable to be given such incredible trust by another human being. Especially someone as powerful and commanding as Jacque Cherchat.

He put his mouth to hers and whispered, “Do it, Sahara. Claim me as yours. You do want me, don’ you, baby?"

"Take a wild guess, Chat.” She slid her fingers under the silk of his briefs and pushed them over his hips.

The crowd's startled gasps filled the air, along with the sound of cameras whirring and clicking. Jacque braced his feet apart and pulled her into an unreserved embrace. His lips crushed hers, his hand holding her head immobile for his kiss. He was the one who was nude, but she felt overwhelmingly naked and exposed, taking this kind of vow in front of a room full of strangers.

There would be no taking it back in the morning, no changing her mind. Photos of their primitive mating dance would be in all the papers by dawn, and she would never, ever be allowed to forget this defining moment as long as she lived. Not by society, not by Jacque. She'd always be his, and he'd always be hers, inexorably tied in the minds of themselves and the whole world.

All she could do was cover her eyes and laugh along with the man she loved when he moved to the podium and turned to the audience.

Grinning broadly, he announced, “She said yes."

Sahara pulled in a deep breath of fresh sea air, gazed out over the crystal blue water surrounding Jacque's twenty-five foot sailboat, and tipped a bottle of delicious French champagne into her mouth. She and Jacque were in their third week of sailing around the Caribbean and there wasn't a soul in sight.

She was in seventh heaven. She'd never seen so much wet, beautiful, wonderful water in all her life!

She took another sip of champagne and smiled broadly. Of course, other sights around the boat were just as appealing as the sparkling open sea, if not more so.

For instance, her devoted husband's bare behind as he stood at the ship's wheel securing the instruments for their afternoon siesta ranked right up there. The man just didn't believe in unnecessary clothing.

Thank goodness.

A wave of pure adoration gushed through her heart. She was so amazingly, unbelievably lucky. Over the past year, Jacque had proven to be everything she could possibly want in a husband, and she was the happiest woman in the world to be married to him. He was going to make a wonderful father when the time came to start that huge family Mama Breaux kept predicting. Sahara just couldn't imagine life without Jacque's love and unflagging support. He was sweet, considerate, handsome, smart, generous, sexy as hell, inexhaustible, inventive—

Hmm.
Which reminded her...

She tugged playfully at the bandanna tied around her forehead. Jacque wasn't the only one who could be inventive.

Smothering a giggle, she leaned down and adjusted the thigh-high felt pirate boots she'd bought at the gift shop of a swanky resort they'd eaten dinner at last night, flipped down the matching black patch over her left eye, and regarded Jacque's backside. At the last minute, she slipped off her bikini, leaving her as naked as Jacque, except for the boots and a length of rope tied around her waist.

Siesta time promised to be memorable today. Hell, if she was going to indulge in fantasies, she might as well make them unforgettable, right?

She hefted the champagne bottle, grabbed her plastic sword and strode across the deck in gleeful anticipation. “At last, Captain Cherchat,” she declared loudly, poking him in the butt with the sword, “I have you where I want you!"

Surprised, Jacque whipped around, took one look at her and broke out in a huge grin.

Staying in character, she stuck the sword's blunt tip up under his chin. “You are my prisoner,
Monsieur
. You find that amusing?"

Instantly, the grin was wiped from his face. Jacque loved these games as much as she did. But he wasn't quite able to squelch the amused twinkle in his eyes.

"My lady pirate,” he said in an exaggerated accent, “you caught me wit’ my pants down. Have mercy on a poor French
capitaine
."

Getting into her role, she snorted derisively. “After you chased me over the high seas for a full year, stealing my hard-earned treasure, making my life a living hell?” She leaned forward, doing her best to stare down at her nose at him, even though he topped her by a good six inches. “Mercy? I think not!"

"
Dieu!
What will you do wit’ me,
mademoiselle le pirate
?"

His lip twitched and she almost lost it. “Do?” Checking her bubbling laughter, she drew her blade down the front of his chest, stopping just above his rapidly rising cock and gave him a rakish smile. “Why, punish you, of course."

Using the flat of the blade, she stroked it erotically over his shaft. Sizzling suspense crackled between them as they sized each other up.

"What makes you think I'll submit?” he challenged, crossing his arms over his chest.

She continued to play with him, effectively spoiling his bravado. “Because you're defenseless. I have the sword."

"That is so,” he admitted, eyeing the weapon as it toyed with his manhood. “
À présent.
” His eyelids sank to half-mast. “So, what will be my punishment, my lady, for so boldly pursuing you from one end of the earth to the other?"

Already her body ached for his touch. He only had to look at her in that special, sultry way to make her temperature skyrocket and her limbs turn liquid.

She took a slow, deliberate swig of champagne as she held him at sword-point, considering.

He liked being in charge. But, occasionally, he let her have her way with him, giving her anything she wanted, following her every command. He loved it when she shocked him with her inventiveness. And she loved it, too, because in the end he'd inevitably turn the table and sweep her into an entirely new level of searing sensuality.

Audaciously, he trailed his fingers over her breast and down to the rope at her waist. “So, what's it goin’ to be,
Mademoiselle Pirate
?"

Barely resisting the urge to lean into his hard, lean body, she stepped back and started to untie the rope. “Twenty lashes will do nicely, I think. Turn around."

His disreputable grin peeked through his rogue's lips. “Make me."

"Jacque!” she said exasperatedly.

"Will that be twenty lashes with your tongue?"

Attempting to regain control, she mocked a stern scowl and brandished her sword meaningfully at him. “You will do as I say,
Capitaine
, or pay the consequences!"

"I see.” He eyed the rope, then the champagne. “Won’ you offer a man a drink to dull the pain?"

This wasn't going exactly as she'd envisioned. Leave it to Jacque to get mulish and change the script. She chuffed out a breath and handed him the bottle. “Oh, all right, here. Now turn around."