Page 23 of Cursed
“Yes,” he answered without turning.
“A lot of men wouldn’t care about the view.”
“This is my home. It’s in my soul,” he said.
The emotion in his voice made her chest tighten.
He sat down at the desk, putting the wide surface and the computer between them like a barrier.
Morgan sat in the wingback chair in the corner. “You sent me a lot of material before I arrived. But you didn’t give me a report on any voodoo priestess.”
He sighed. “I wasn’t sure the Decorah Security Agency would take the job if I started talking about her.”
“Explain that,” she demanded.
CHAPTER FIVE
Andre shifted in his seat. Damn the priestess. She could have given him a couple of days grace. But she’d been right there chanting and drumming like the wicked witch of the south last night. Probably because she knew what he was up to, and she didn’t want him to succeed.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything he could do about her except try to contain the damage she’d caused.
He had loved every minute of his long e-mail correspondence with Morgan. He had felt so free to tease her and joke with her and absorb every scrap of information he could pick up about her.
But he hadn’t thought through the details of their day to day life in the armed camp where he lived. Now he was forced to give her his best imitation of an open look, as he said. “I didn’t want you to think I was a nut case. I wanted you to meet me first and see that I was … grounded. A realist. Admit it—if I’d started talking about a voodoo priestess in my e-mails, you would have decided I was a candidate for the funny farm. But if you got here and found that a … disturbed woman came to my garden at night and chanted and beat a drum, you wouldn’t hold that against me.”
It was Morgan’s turn to look uncomfortable. “You’re right.”
He leaned back in his seat. “Thank you for being honest.” He was having trouble concentrating. Even with the desk between them, he was too aware of her. They’d only met in person yesterday, yet it felt like he’d known her all his life. Maybe he had.
Seeing her clinging to a tree in the middle of a raging torrent had made his heart stop. Then he’d leaped in to rescue her and held her close. And he could remember the feel of her body pressed to his—even if the reason had been strictly nonsexual. That hadn’t prevented him from reacting—on so many different levels. Their meeting had been dramatic. Much too dramatic.
And the drama hadn’t ended with the rescue. After months of obsessing about her, he’d finally brought her to his house. Then he’d been forced to disappear—to spend an agonizing night wondering if she was going to pick up her suitcase and leave in the morning because the situation into which she’d stepped was just too weird for a normal person to cope with.
In the morning light, she was still here, and he wanted to scoop her up and hold her the way he had the day before. But he knew it would be a disaster to rush their personal relationship. So, he stayed behind the desk. When he realized his fingers were clamped on the arm of the chair, he deliberately loosened them.
“Tell me about the priestess,” she pressed. “What’s she doing in your garden?”
“Scaring away the vampire bats.”
“I’d appreciate it if you took the question seriously.”
“I thought you liked my jokes.”
“I did. Now I want information.”
He sighed as he weighed how much to tell her. “Okay. About a hundred years ago, a young man from my family wanted to marry the niece of the local voodoo priestess. Both sets of parents forbade her to see him.”
Morgan looked startled but asked, “What happened?”
Picking his words carefully, he said, “It ended badly.”
“So, what are you saying—that woman comes out here to keep up an old … grudge?”
“Yes. But she’s just chanting and beating a drum. She’s not my major problem. She’s not killing people and leaving them in the swamp.”
“How do you know?”
“Would she be so open about her hostility if she were?” he shot back.
