Excerpt Heir’s Scandalous Affair Chapter One   Samantha Hardcastle was wound tighter than her late husband’s Cartier watch. The festive happy-hour crowd on Bourbon Street jostled and bumped her. Her new red Christian Louboutin sandals were supposed to lift her spirits. Instead they threatened to bring her down on her butt. She pushed through the throng toward a less-crowded side street, gasping for oxygen in the beer scented darkness. Streetlights and neon bar signs blurred and jumped in her peripheral vision. Columns holding up the balconies above clustered around her like menacing trees in an enchanted forest. She was dizzy and lightheaded. Probably because she’d forgotten to eat since… had she even had breakfast before her flight? Her ankle wobbled and she caught herself on a brick wall. She’d somehow lost her way between the shoe store and the hotel. The sun had set, transforming the unfamiliar city into a place of shadows, and now she couldn’t find her way back. Since her husband’s death she couldn’t seem to do anything right anymore. Every day took just a little bit more energy than she had. “Are you okay?” A deep voice in her ear. “Yes, fine, thanks,” she managed. She didn’t take her hand off the wall. The dark street was spinning. “No, you’re not. Come inside.” “No, really, I…” Visions of being taken captive fired her imagination as a thick arm slid around her waist. She struggled against hard muscle. “It’s just a bar. You can sit down and rest a minute.” He guided her to a doorway. A light-filled archway in the hot darkness. A soothing string instrument filled the air, which—strangely enough—didn’t smell of beer like the air outside. “There’s a comfortable chair over here.” His tone was authoritative, yet soothing. The large room had the atmosphere of a turn-of-the-century saloon. Ornate gilding, polished plank floors and high tin ceilings. The colors were muted and mellow. Restful. She let herself be helped to a leather armchair in a dark corner of the bar. “Thanks,” she murmured, as he lowered her gently into the chair. “I don’t know what came over me.” “Just rest. I’ll bring you something to eat.” “But I don’t—” “Yes, you do.” She thought she detected a hint of humor in his firm rebuttal. Maybe she did need food. She kept forgetting to eat lately. She’d totally lost her appetite for—everything. She glanced around. There were quite a few people sitting at tables and in booths along one wall. Unlike the jovial mob outside, they spoke in hushed tones, and their laughter tinkled in the air. Two waiters set down a table in front of her armchair, crisp white cloth and gleaming flatware already on it. A strong hand brought a steaming white plate. “Here, crawfish étouffée with dirty rice. Just what the doctor ordered.” “Thank you.” She glanced up at the owner of the hand and the reassuring voice. “You’re too kind.” “Oh, I’m not kind at all.” Honey brown eyes glittered with humor. “I don’t like people passing out cold outside my door. Bad for business.” “I guess dragging dizzy women in is one way to drum up customers.” She risked a shy smile. He smiled back with warmth that surprised her. He had chiseled features and tousled dark hair and was far too good-looking to be trustworthy. Apprehension trickled up her spine. “Why are you staring at me like that?” “I’m waiting for you to pick up your fork and eat.” “Oh.” She grabbed the fork and scooped up a small mouthful of étouffée. Self-conscious under his penetrating gaze, she put it between her lips and attempted to chew. Flavor cascaded over her tongue as she bit into the tender crustacean, marinated in its spicy sauce. “Oh my. That’s good.” A smile spread over his stern features. He gestured for her to continue. “Now, what can I get you to drink?” He asked the question with a hint of seduction. Not like a waiter, more like… someone trying to pick her up in a bar. A hackle slid up inside her. She’d dreaded being single again. Dreaded it with every cell in her body. “Just a glass of water will be fine, thank you.” She spoke in a clipped and officious manner. Like the wealthy Park Avenue matron she supposedly was. He vanished out of her line of sight. With a sigh of relief, she fell on her crawfish étouffée, ravenous. She’d been walking around all day, trying to locate the man she hoped was her husband’s estranged son. She’d finally found Louis DuLac’s house on Royal Street, with its tall windows and scrolled iron balconies. But he wasn’t home. She’d tried twice. The second time his housekeeper had shut the door rather firmly in her face. Some festival was in full swing and the city was packed with tourists. She’d overlooked that when she arranged her trip. Her husband’s private jet didn’t require reservations, and the ten thousand dollar a night rooms were still available. It wasn’t Mardi Gras, though. She knew that was in February, and right now it was October. A loud pop made her look up. Champagne streamed over the side of a Krug bottle. Apparently Mr. Smooth had pegged her as the kind of person who could afford seven hundred dollars a bottle. Probably her own fault. The red Louboutin shoes didn’t help. “Oh, I really don’t—” “On the house,” he murmured, as he filled a tall, fluted glass. She blinked. Even Tarrant’s favorite sommeliers didn’t hand over Krug for free. “Why?” “Because you’re too pretty to look so sad.” “Does it occur to you I might have good reason to look sad?” “It does.” He handed her the glass and pulled up a chair. “Are you dying?” There wasn’t a hint of humor in his gaze. “No,” she blurted. “At least not that I know of.” Relief smoothed his brow. “Well that’s good news. Let’s drink to it.” He’d filled himself a glass and he raised it to hers. She clinked it and took a sip. The expensive bubbles tickled her tongue. “What would you have said if I’d told you I was dying?” “I’d have suggested you live each day as if it’s your last.” His eyes sparkled. They were an appealing caramel color, with flecks of gold, like polished tiger-eye. “Which I think is good advice in any event.” “You’re so right.” She sighed. Her husband Tarrant had such a lust for life that he’d far outlived his doctor’s expectations. She’d vowed to follow his example, but wasn’t doing very well so far. Drinking champagne was a start. “Here’s to the first day of the rest of our lives.” She raised her glass with a smile. “May each day be a celebration.” His eyes rested on hers as he raised his glass. She felt a strange flicker of something inside her. A pleasurable feeling. Must be the champagne. “Do you see the guitarist?” He gestured to a corner of the room. “He’s a hundred and one years old.” Samantha’s eyes widened. The musician’s white hair contrasted starkly with his ebony skin. It was astonishing he even had hair at that age. And his spirit shone in his energetic finger movements that vibrated out into the air as music. “He’s lived through two world wars, the depression, and the digitization of almost everything, and hurricane Katrina. Every day he plays the guitar. Says it re-ignites the fire in him every single time.” “I envy him his passion.” “You don’t have one?” He cocked his head slightly. His gaze was warm, not accusatory. “Not really.” She certainly wasn’t going to tell his stranger about her quest to find her husband’s missing children. Even her closest friends thought she was nuts. “Shopping for shoes sometimes lifts my spirits.” She flashed a smile and her new red Louboutins. In a way she hoped he’d sneer. That would squash the funny warm sensation in the pit of her belly. Instead he smiled. “Christian is an artist and art always lifts the spirits. He’d thoroughly approve.” “You know him?” He nodded. “I lived in Paris for years. I still spend a lot of time there.” “I’m impressed that you could tell who designed a pair of shoes. Most men wouldn’t have a clue.” “I’ve always had an appreciation for fine things.” His gaze rested lightly on her face. Not sexual, or suggestive, but she couldn’t help hear the words, ‘like you,’ hover in the air. Instead of feeling harassed she felt… desirable. Something she hadn’t felt in a long time. She brushed the feeling away. “Is New Orleans always this crazy?” “Absolutely.” He grinned. “Some people who come here have such a good time they even forget to eat.” He glanced at her almost empty plate of shrimp and rice. She smiled. Let him think she was here for a fun vacation. In another life, maybe she would have been. Tarrant had loved jazz and they’d talked about coming for the spring Jazz Festival. “Don’t go looking sad again.” He shot her an accusatory glance. “I think you need to dance.” She glanced over his shoulder, to where a cluster of elegant couples swayed on the dance floor. Adrenaline trickled through her. “Oh no. I couldn’t.” She took a quick sip of champagne. She was a widow. In mourning, though she’d promised Tarrant she wouldn’t wear black even to the funeral. She flashed her shoes as an excuse. He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “Christian would be horrified if he heard a woman had used his shoes as a reason not to dance.” “Then don’t tell him.” “I most certainly shall tell him—unless you dance with me. I think it’s the least you can do after I rescued you from the streets and fed you.” A smile played around his mouth. She chuckled. “You make me sound like a stray waif.” “A stray waif in Christian Louboutin shoes.” He stood and extended his arm. Apparently he expected her to rise too. She took his hand and stood. She was nothing if not polite, the society-wife training ensured that. Besides, what was wrong with one little dance? Tarrant would rather see her moving than moping around. He made a signal to the guitarist, who winked and struck up a new tune. Bluesey, but with a Latin flavor. Sam felt a shimmer of excitement as they stepped out onto the smooth wood floor. She hadn’t danced in a long time. The music hovered around them like smoke, filling the space between them. Through the sensual mist it created, she couldn’t help but notice her partner was tall and broad shouldered. Her eyes were about level with his shirt collar, which had fine pattern of irregular stripes. His jaw was solid, authoritative, like the rest of him. He took her hand and clasped it softly, wrapping long, strong fingers around hers. The warmth of his blood seemed to pulse through his skin and heat hers as the music beat around them. “What kind of dance are we going to do?” She didn’t dare look up at his face. Already she was too close to him. So near she could feel the heat of him through her clothes. “Any kind you like. It sounds like a mambo to me.” Her feet slipped into the mambo rhythm, following the patterns she’d learned years ago at Ms. Valentine’s dancing school. She tried to focus on the steps, on moving gracefully, and keeping enough distance between her and her partner. He smelled of spices, like the rich food she’d eaten, and of starched cotton. “I like your shirt.” She risked a glance at his face. Those rich, honey eyes gazed at her, twinkling with amusement. “You don’t have to make polite conversation with me. I know you’re nice.” “How on earth would you know that?” “I can read people. It’s a gift I got from my grandmother. She used to read tea leaves, but she told me her secret was always to read the people as they stared at the leaves.” “What do you look for?” She tried to ignore the steady warmth of his big hand on her back. “Facial expression tells you what matters to someone, not just while you look at them, but every day. All the little dimples and wrinkles reveal something.” “Uh oh. I’m getting self conscious.” Two plastic surgery consultations had reassured her that it wasn’t yet time to get drastic, but at thirty-one, Samantha knew she was no longer at the peak of her once-prize-winning beauty. “That dimple in your chin tells me you smile a lot. And the tilt of your eyes tells me that you like to make people happy.” “That’s true.” She let out a nervous laugh. “I’ve been told I try too hard to please. I’m a ‘yes’ woman.” “But you have strength of character. I can see that the way you carry yourself. You care very much about everything you do.” She frowned, taking in his words. Was it true? Maybe she just had good posture from training for beauty pageants. She’d tried hard to mature. To learn from her failed marriages and all the mistakes she’d made. She’d given everything she had to make Tarrant’s last years the best they could be. “And you’re very, very sad.” His low voice tickled her ear. While they moved, he’d come closer. “I’m okay,” she stammered, trying to reassure herself as much as him. “You are okay.” His hand shifted on her back, stroking her. “You’re more than okay. But my grandmother would tell you to breathe.” “I am breathing,” she protested. “Little shallow breaths.” He leaned into her. She could feel his hot breath on her neck. “Just enough to keep you afloat, to get you through the day.” He squeezed her hand inside his. His penetrating gaze almost stole the last of her breath. “You need to inhale and draw oxygen way down deep into your body. To let it flow all the way through you out to your fingers and toes.” Her toes tingled. “Right now?” She swallowed. Glanced around his broad arm to where other couples danced, lost in their own world. “No time like the present.” He smiled. He had a nice smile, warm and friendly. She might not be a tea leaf expert but she was no slouch at reading people either. A survival mechanism she’d learned early on in her volatile household. Of course he was still far too good looking. No man grew to adulthood with looks like that without an outsized and highly chiseled ego to match. “Go on, breathe.” Their feet had been keeping time to the music, but suddenly he stopped. Holding her with one arm around her back, and one hand on hers, he waited for her to follow his command. Aware that their non-movement must be attracting attention, she sucked in a breath. Her breasts lifted several inches inside the thin white dress before she blew it out, blushing. “Nice try, but you need to draw it down into your chest.” He tapped her back with his fingertips. “All the way down to my fingers.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Breathing’s not a crime in this state.” He grinned. “Come on, let’s do it together. One, two, three…” Eyes fixed on hers, he drew a breath deep into his chest, which swelled under his shirt. Sam tried her best to match the length and duration of his breath. When she finally blew it out she was gasping. “How embarrassing.” “Not at all. That was great. You’d be surprised how many people go through life every day holding their breath without realizing. You don’t want to do that.” He flashed a grin and swept her into the mambo rhythm again. Twirled her fast and tight until she had to suck in a breath just to keep her balance. “You want to breathe it all in, everything, the good and the bad.” “The bad?” “If you try to hard to avoid bad stuff, you end up missing out on the good stuff too.” His narrowed eyes shone like a cat’s in the dim interior. She tried to ignore a little tug in her belly. Was it all the deep breathing? She couldn’t tell, but something had changed. Their dance became more intense as he pulled her closer, whipped her out and then drew her back in. A drummer had joined the guitarist on stage and the hypnotic, pounding rhythm of palms on bongos pulsed through her until her feet took on a life of their own. She found herself moving faster, deeper, throwing herself into the dance. She drew air deep into her lungs as she whirled through the air, and came back to rest against his hard body. Somehow everything was effortless, flowing, and she found herself losing track of which part of the room they were in. The drumming grew louder, then faded away, the clinking of glasses blended with the rhythmic strumming of the guitar, until the whole atmosphere seemed to throb, to breathe, in and out, round and round. Sam laughed aloud with sheer delight. When the music stopped with a flourish, she fell into her partner’s arms. “That was fantastic.” “You’re an incredible dancer.” “I’m a very rusty dancer, but you’re onto something with that breathing.” “In and out, that’s all it takes.” “It’s funny how we forget the little things that are most important.” He made another hand signal to the guitarist, who launched into a slow song with cascades of rippling notes. Sam let her body sway instinctively to the seductive sound. The club’s interior was warm and she could feel her skin—glowing, to put it delicately—but she wasn’t embarrassed. Her partner’s reassuring gaze rested on her eyes, not probing or poking about the rest of her the way so many men did. Without even thinking she inhaled deeply and blew it out, and enjoyed the smile that stretched across his handsome face. I don’t know his name. How odd. To be dancing with someone and have no idea who he was. She knew he owned the bar, so he had an identity, but without a name he wasn’t quite… real. Should she ask? She blinked, strangely reluctant. A name seemed so formal, like a passport or drivers license that gave you official status. She didn’t want to tell him that she was Samantha Hardcastle. Her name and picture might not ring any bells down here in New Orleans, but in New York they’d been plastered over the papers for months. The Merry Widow, with her much older husband’s billions now at her disposal. Like she’d won or something. Bile rose in her gut. She didn’t want this man to know anything about that. To form preconceptions about her as a gold-digging tramp who married a rich man for his money. “Hey, you okay?” His hand slid around her back. She realized her breathing had grown shallow again. She swallowed. “Sure, I’m fine. Sorry!” She drew in a deep and deliberate breath for his benefit, and they both chuckled as she blew it out. The guitarist, joined by a saxophonist as well as the drummer, launched into a swinging, bluesy number. His eyes were closed and his head bobbed in time with the music as if he were captivated by its spell. Sam let that spell guide her feet as they danced without touching, their bodies swaying to the rhythm. Sensual and muscular in his movements, her partner moved with effortless ease. Maybe it was the sips of champagne but Sam felt strangely weightless, like all her cares and worries had drifted up to the ornate tin ceiling, and hovered there, leaving her free and light. “Were you a professional dancer?” His breath warmed her neck as he leaned in. She colored slightly. “I competed a few times. Does my dancing look too artificial?” He shook his head, his smile reassuring. “Not artificial, just polished, like the rest of you.” She resisted the urge to glance down. She couldn’t deny being polished. As Tarrant’s wife it had been her job. Her hours in between social lunches and dinners were filled with appointments to get her nails tipped or her hair trimmed. She was so used to being buffed to a high shine she had no idea what she’d look like without the carefully highlighted hair and couture dresses. If she stripped all the expensive enhancements away, would there be anyone there at all? Right now it didn’t matter. Her partner’s expression shone with quiet appreciation. That honey brown gaze didn’t seem to accuse her or to find anything lacking. She couldn’t help but notice the way his hips moved. How they linked to strong thighs just visible beneath the smooth surface of his dark pants, to his flat belly. A young, athletic body in the peak of health. A beautiful thing. How old was he? Early thirties probably. Her age, though most of the time she felt about ninety. He picked up her left hand and examined it. It felt very naked without the big engagement and wedding ring Tarrant had given her with such fanfare only four years ago. The engagement ring had too big a diamond to wear outside without an armed guard. The wedding ring had been buried with his coffin. Tarrant had wanted her to place it on his hand like Jackie Kennedy did when her famous husband died. He always enjoyed a dramatic flourish. “You’re smiling.” His deep voice stirred something in her chest. “Happy memories.” How odd to have that as a happy memory. She was getting pretty strange in her old age. “Now you’re not smiling.” He tugged her hand and pulled her closer. “I think you need to step outside your memories and into the present.” He slid his arm around her waist. Her breasts crushed gently against his chest and a warm surge of pleasure that rippled through her. “I love this song,” he murmured. His low timbre vibrated in her ear, sending a shiver along her spine. “It makes me think of a lazy day out on the bayou. Sun shining on the water, cranes watching from the trees, the putt putt of a shrimp boat in the distance.” The image formed in her mind, a peaceful scene, at odds with their rather urbane surroundings. “Do you go there much?” “As often as I can.” She couldn’t see his face because he’d pulled her too close. His arms wrapped around her waist and she found that hers had slipped around his neck. A quick glance confirmed that other couples danced the same way, wrapped up in each other, to the gentle strumming of the guitar and the low caress of the saxophone. He lowered his cheek to hers and she felt the slight stubble on his chin. A delicious masculine sensation she’d almost forgotten. Almost, but not quite. The familiar strains of desire echoed through her like the notes of the music. It stirred in the palms of her hands where they pressed against his broad shoulder blades, in her nipples as they bumped his hard chest, in her tongue, which wondered what his mouth would taste like. The answer came as their lips touched, opened, and her tongue flicked over his. His sensual mouth was both soft and firm, his tongue at first tentative, then insistent, hungry. Her fingers dug into the crisp cotton of his shirt. Her belly pressed against his firm hips, as she tilted into the powerful kiss. Light and color crackled behind her eyelids, dazzling her, while their tongues danced together. Then slowly their tongues drew back, and his lips closed. She felt his warm skin part from hers, to be replaced by cool, air-conditioned air. Still clutching his back, she opened her eyes and blinked in the dim light. Her breath came in unsteady gasps, her legs wobbled and her skin stung with arousal. “Come with me.” He didn’t look at her and it wasn’t a question. With one arm firmly about her waist, he led her off the floor and across the room. Faces and bodies blurred around her as she tried to get her bearings. I only had two or three sips of champagne. The thought flickered through her mind then flew away on a low note from the saxophone. Under her flimsy dress, her body pulsed and throbbed, and if he wasn’t holding her up, she wasn’t sure she’d still be walking. Maybe she’d be floating. They left the crowded restaurant through a door behind the bar that led out into a dim hallway. Across the hall he opened a tall, polished wood door. “More private.” He ushered her into a beautiful room, decorated in the same prohibition-era style as the bar, as if Woodrow Wilson might wander in and start arguing with Franklin D. Roosevelt. Antiques gleamed in the soft light from a beautiful glass light fixture. The interlacing pattern of stained glass was so harmonious and unusual that she wondered aloud, “Is that a Tiffany?” “Yes, my mother collects them.” Her eyes widened. “Aren’t they worth hundreds of thousands of dollars?” He shrugged and opened a wood cabinet. “What use are beautiful things if you can’t enjoy them?” He pulled out two crystal glasses and another bottle of Krug. “You do enjoy the good life, don’t you?” “I consider myself privileged to have the opportunity to enjoy the good life. I’d be a fool to squander it.” Sam smiled as he offered her bubbling glass. “Do you live here?” “No, this is more like… my office.” “It’s lovely.” She glanced around. Was there a bedroom? And was it good or bad if there was? “It’s unchanged since 1933, when the original owner was shot dead by his lover.” Sam gasped. “Why’d she shoot him?” “He slept with his wife.” She laughed. “I can see how a mistress would find that offensive.” Already they’d crossed the room and entered a large, high-ceilinged chamber with a grand four-poster bed. Rich gold draperies glowed in the light from another jewel-toned Tiffany lamp. He lifted the arm of an old Victrola phonograph and placed it on the record. The mellow tones of a big band orchestra swelled from the brass horn. His sensual gaze rested on her mouth. “I love your smile.” “Thanks, I love it too. I haven’t used it enough lately.” His eyes fixed on hers for a second, stalling her breath. Her lips buzzed with sensation. Had she really kissed him? He stepped toward her and placed his glass on the polished sideboard. Her insides trembled with long-forgotten desire. Anticipation mingled with fear as she watched his mouth, watched his eyes caress her body with their soft gaze. Was he going to kiss her again? Her answer came as his lips closed over hers in a swift motion that stole her breath. From the book Heir’s Secret Affair, Copyright 2009. This edition published in agreement with Harlequin Enterprises S.A.