Page 10 of Undo Me

Somehow the letter from Isabel’s rather descriptive bed partner had become one hell of a realistic sexual fantasy. One that had ended a little too soon for her liking. Her body was on fire for her lover. For Isabel’s lover.

“Marcel, though? There are tons of other names to choose from. Jacques. Pierre. Etienne. Okay, not Etienne, but Marcel? Do I have a secret fetish for mimes?” She pushed back the covers with a huff and refolded the letter to set it carefully on top of the others on the bedside table.

Only she would take a simple bit of correspondence and turn it into a saga of star-crossed lovers. That kind of story always ended badly. It was more likely that sweet, innocent Isabel was not so innocent, and she had a bit too much fun during her coming out. But, according to Michelle, no one knew what happened to her. There were no records of a marriage or her family. No paintings other than Michelle’s childhood drawing. Not even the ghost, Emmanuel, would share what had happened to her.

Maybe she’d run away with the man who wrote her erotic sonnets. Maybe she’d been buried in the walls when her father had discovered her knocking boots with her forbidden beau.

A man with a father who wouldn’t acknowledge him and a mother trained by Marie Laveau. “Maybe I should write a book,” she said, chuckling at her wild imagination.

Beth got up and shuffled across the smooth wooden floor. She turned on the water to splash on her heated cheeks. “I should have brought my toys along. What do I care if the security cameras at the airport see them? Or the guards pull them out in front of everyone at the airport and embarrass me? Am I supposed to buy new ones every time I travel?”

She had issues. She was aware.

Bethany looked into the mirror and gasped. It wasn’t her, but Isabel looking back. Beautiful, blue-eyed, raven-haired Isabel. Similar coloring, but somehow as stunning as Bethany was ordinary.

The image swirled and she was seeing herself bent over the vanity, a lusty-eyed Marcel behind her.

“Isabel! It’s late. Your papa wishes to know if you are coming down for breakfast.”

Marcel’s growl rumbled against her back at the voice on the other side of the door, his thrusts increasing in speed and power, filling her, shaking the furniture with his need. “I won’t stop until you come for me. Tell her you’ll be down soon. Tell her to go away, Isabel. That you’re coming.”

“Tell him I’m coming. I’m coming!”

Oh God, Bethany was coming. Standing at the sink in her friends’ house, she was moaning and trembling as though she’d just had the best sex of her life.

“What the hell is wrong with me?”

She hesitated before glancing in the mirror again. Her skin was flushed, her body trembling from the waves of pleasure rocking through it, but she was herself again. Bethany Sorelle.

Not Isabel. Bethany.

“Jet lag,” she muttered. Aftereffects of her medication, wine and all that talk of a sexual spirit that fed off pleasure. Combined with the catalyst of that erotic letter from the past, anyone would have enough fodder for a highly detailed fantasy. Anyone.

She needed to shake this off and sleep so she would be refreshed and ready to help Michelle study Isabel’s treasure in the morning. And she had to avoid touching Ben Adair, even by accident. This was embarrassing enough without everyone knowing how strongly she’d reacted to a musty old love letter. They might think she was a lonely, desperate spinster in need of a good time.

They might be right.

She snuggled back into the four-poster bed, staring at the folded parchment on the table as if it had teeth. Who was he, really? The man’s masculine scrawl was burned into her brain now. Bold, strong, confident.

He had seduced Isabel—that much was obvious. And he was determined. His words made it clear he wasn’t about to let her forget what they’d done together. They’d also been crucial for constructing her own fantasy. But where had those other details come from? The friend, Catherine. Her concerns about the difference in their stations, not to mention her internal conflict about her own desires. It was so detailed. So real.

Her subconscious portrayal of a girl who understood her circumstance but was too naïve or helpless to change it notwithstanding, part of her had wanted to be Isabel. If only for a moment, to know what it felt like to have that kind of passion directed at her.

She rolled onto her side and heard the jangle of the chain. She’d forgotten she was wearing the locket. She reached up to take it off and hesitated. Her fingers stroked the intricate flower engraved in the brass and it soothed her, lulled her.

She’d take it off in the morning and show it to Michelle, adding it to the other things her friend had found of Isabel’s. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to show her the letters. Not just yet. Not until she’d had a chance to read the rest of them.

Her secret, for now.

“Marcel.” She breathed the name on a sleepy sigh, part of her hoping she’d dream of him again. Even if he wasn’t real.

---