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materialized in the foggy mirror.
Her hand swiped a long strip across the glass. Lord, if she didn t look like
death warmed over. Mascara smeared beneath both swollen eyes made her
look like Rocky not Sylvester Stallone the boxer and movie star but Rocky
the raccoon. The bump just above her right temple was the size of a golf ball
that looked like Genghis Khan had taken a swing. A myriad of colors, black,
blue and purple embraced it. There was a spider web of stitches where
someone, presumably the little gray-haired lady known as Millie, had closed
the wound and dressed her. When? Where? How? Whoever these people were,
they must have drugged her.
When Charlee looked at her battered fingers, she cringed. Another damn
manicure down the drain. Not to mention her fingers burned and hurt like
hell.
In less than twenty-four hours, she d been attacked, buried alive, saved,
and imprisoned by a voice. If this was someone s idea of a joke, it wasn t funny.
When she reached the tub, she swirled her fingers in the water. The water
was perfect, but the sting in her fingers made her jerk her hand back. Well, she
might as well get this over with. Fact was, a soothing bath sounded delicious.
She crawled over the edge and stepped into its luxury. Sinking further into the
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warm water, she felt bottled up tension leave like a southbound train heading
out of town. That wimp of a scared girl was losing her grasp. Charlee was
finally beginning to feel more like Charlee the confident, self-assured woman
that she was.
She released a deep sigh. As her shoulders disappeared among the
bubbles, she agreed to enjoy these precious minutes of pleasure, then
I ll drag every inch of the Mississippi and all of New Orleans for the two
slime-balls who buried me alive.
Soon, cooling temperatures and shriveling toes forced Charlee out of the
water. She took one look at a man s pristine white shirt lying on the sink,
shrugged and murmured, What the hell.
Expensive silk slithered over her head as she slipped into the shirt. An
intoxicating masculine scent stroked her senses as she pushed her arms
through sleeves that swallowed her arms. There was something sinful in the
way the material teased her breasts. Like gentle fingers in constant motion, the
cloth felt alive as it moved across her waist and hips, coming to rest midway at
her calves. She shuddered, hoping it was, indeed, the material and not that
egotistical ghost.
No, not a ghost. He said he was flesh and blood.
As she rolled the sleeves up, she looked at her hands and wondered if the
man that belonged to the sexy, domineering voice and this infinitely large shirt
was a big man. The wicked thought put a smile on her face as she entered the
bedroom. Not to mention the image made her nipples draw tight with
anticipation.
After retrieving a brush from the dresser, she pushed back the curtains and
opened the French doors, walking barefooted onto the balcony. With one stroke
and then another, she drew the brush through her damp hair while she
breathed in the sights and sounds of the city. A myriad of colorful lights
twinkled against the velvet soft sky. From the streets rose the rhythm of jazz, a
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lively combination of trumpet, trombone, clarinet, and saxophone. The aroma
of hot, spicy Cajun cooking and laughter filled the air.
New Orleans is alive& and so am I. She sent a silent prayer of thanks to
God and the devil or ghost that saved her from a death too horrible to imagine.
The memory made her tremble as she moved back into the room. She walked to
the dresser and placed the brush back where she found it.
Charlene. The deep, seductive voice she had come to recognize caressed
her ears like a bow to a violin.
A shiver ran up her spine.
He was here.
Behind her.
The man who had saved her life and let her not forget now imprisoned
her was actually in the room with her. For a moment, she struggled with
whether to greet him as her savior or her captor and enemy.
Tension bunched in her shoulders, preparing herself for the worst. She
turned and gasped. What filled her vision was indeed the devil. Not the two-
horned hell and brimstone kind, but the kind of man mothers warned their
daughters about.
Ebony hair shadowed the face of an angel, a fallen angel. He was tall and
dark, a collection of honed strength and authority wrapped in black clothing.
Trendy, but refined, classic. His jeans tightly caressed and held the power of
long, muscular legs, drawing attention to his vitality. Black silk that outlined
the wide breath of his chest made her mind reel. His speech was Old World
elegance. He reeked of money, old money, the kind passed down through the
centuries. If the room s size and furnishings didn t attest to the fact, the large
gold ring and heavy-chained necklace he wore did.
As she openly scrutinized him, a mischievous grin curved his sensuous
mouth.
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Arrogant the man knew he looked like sex on a stick good enough to
lick good enough to eat. Still, it was his liquid gold eyes filled with warm
laughter that captivated bewitched her.
She was tongue-tied. All the venom she d stored up to strike out at him was
slowly dwindling. Like his voice, his eyes soothed, caressed, and made her
forget she was his prisoner.
If she weren t a rational woman, she would have thought magic was real.
That he d cast a spell on her.
Instead, logic finally prevailed. What drug had he used to control her? He
was a stranger stranger danger wasn t that what the police taught? He had
saved her, but for what reason? Nothing came without a price. Why had he
been in the cemetery?
Charlee s mind splintered into multiple directions. The barrage of memories
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