A Thrill To Remember

Damn. She didn’t need his pity. She didn’t want anyone’s pity, and she’d spent the past six months trying to convince everyone in Bear Creek of that fact. Now here was this masked stranger, reading her every emotion as if he truly knew her.

“You’ve been hurt by love.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh please. Anyone over the age of eighteen has been hurt by love.”

“But you’ve been hurt recently and you’re afraid to try again.”

“Hush up,” she insisted, but her pulse sprinted through her bloodstream.

How could he know this about her? Who was he? Was he from her hometown? If so, then who was he? No local man had ever set her libido to whirling the way this guy did. Bear Creek was too small, everyone too much like family.

“He has made you doubt your desirability as a woman,” Don Juan said. “He is a terrible bastard. Do not concern yourself with him.”

Her chest suddenly felt tight and she had the strangest urge to laugh and cry all at the same time.

“Look at me,” he insisted. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you’re not in pain.”

For pity’s sake. With a sigh of exasperation, Meggie stared him squarely in the face.

And lost herself.

With that warm smile and lusty expression in his eyes, Don Juan made her feel womanly, wanted and appreciated. Cherished. It was a feeling she hadn’t experienced in a very, very long time.

Entranced, she felt ensnared in a provocative reverie. A dreamy vagueness settled over her, wrapping her in a warm envelope of altered perception. She didn’t know if it was the masks or the wine or Don Juan’s solicitous smile, but she experienced a drowsy sense of peace.

Something about him seemed comfortingly familiar, as if she’d met him in another life. Except Meggie didn’t believe in that stuff. Even though she couldn’t exactly explain why, she felt safe in his presence.

Don Juan was the tonic she needed. The physical vehicle for her emotional healing. This magnetic man could be the cure for the psychic malaise that had dogged her for years.

In that instant, Meggie knew she was going to sleep with him.

MAGIC.

His costume was magic. It had to be. Caleb could think of no other explanation for his miraculous ease with the beautiful mystery woman. Wearing the mask and fake mustache was a liberating experience. He could be anyone. He could say and do anything.

Hell’s bells, he felt as if he were channeling Don Juan himself.

He was breathing hard, and roughly, the shrimp still dangling from his outstretched fork as he waited for Klondike Kate’s sweet, crimson lips to part and sheathe the tender morsel.

Their gazes locked. Who was she really?

She was breathing as hard as he, the gentle swell of her chest rising and falling in a mesmerizing rhythm. Holding him enthralled.

She reminded him vaguely of someone. But who? His mind probed the question but arrived at no answer.

Kate’s green eyes were lively and intelligent, the top half of her face hidden by the red-feathered mask. She wielded her tongue like an instrument of torture, touching it lightly against her upper lip as if purposely trying to make him lose control.

The visual impact slugged him. Hard.

His blood flowed hot and viscous through his veins. The way she gazed at him, like a curious innocent intent on exploring a brave new world, clutched something deep inside him and refused to turn it loose.

In that brief endless moment, as they faced off across the buffet table, the wet, pink shrimp as the prize, Caleb memorized everything about her not swaddled by the mask. The way she smelled of fresh summer rain, making him ache to bury his face in the curve of her neck. The fine brown freckles that lightly decorated her upper chest, exposed so engagingly by that red bustier. The irregular pounding of her pulse at her jawline. The sweet ruby bow of her lips.

And the completely gut-scorching realization that beneath the satin and lace of her flimsy undergarment, her nipples were standing at erect attention.

He almost groaned aloud.

“Excuse me,” Genghis Kahn interrupted, leaning across the table between them, tortilla chip in hand. “Could I get at that crab dip?”

Flustered, Caleb moved aside at the same time Klondike Kate blushed prettily, smiled and turned away.

Damn. The moment was lost.

Or was it?

Caleb ate the shrimp himself, hurried around to her side of the buffet table and boldly took her elbow. Instantly, his fingers tingled at the warmth of her soft skin. He pressed his mouth next to her delicate ear and murmured in a muffled growl, “What is your name?”

She lowered lashes so dark and long they brushed against her mask with a whispery rasp. “Now, now, that’s not part of the game.”

“And what is the game?” he asked, his voice thick with feeling.

“Secrecy. Anonymity. Mystery. That’s the fun.”

“You’re not going to tell me your name?”

“My name is Klondike Kate. Don Juan, I presume?”

He took the hand she offered him and pressed the back of it to his lips, as if he’d performed the courtly gesture a million times. He clicked his heels and bowed.

“At your service.”

“I am flattered. The famous lothario gracing the halls of my brothel. Perhaps, Señor Juan, we can teach each other a few tricks.”

Ah, but she was extraordinary. One minute blushing shyly, the next sassily playing at being a brothel madam in that whispery tone that obviously wasn’t her real voice. Just like him, she was playing a part. Her words hung between them like a physical entity, their meaning sinking into his brain one vivid movie-reel image at a time.

She wanted to teach him a few tricks.

Holy macaroni!

He was going to combust right there on the spot. What a game. Suddenly, he knew he had to get her alone.

“Wrap up your plate,” he said, barely remembering to keep up his Spanish accent. “Take it to go. We’ll have a picnic in the forest.”

“The forest?” Her eyes widened and for a moment he thought he’d panicked her and she was going to back out of their little masquerade.

“Twenty yards right outside this door, and you’re in the Tongass National Forest.”

“You don’t say.”