No Time Like Mardi Gras (16 page)

Jamie realized she was holding her breath now. Then Colin reached for her hand and caressed her fingers as he spoke.

“I’m sorry. And I can’t undo what I did, but I can promise to be honest with you from now on, no matter what. And I’m in love with you, so I’m hoping you’ll accept this as truth and give me another chance.”

* * *

Well, that speech might win the prize for cheesiest thing ever said, but he’d said it, and he meant it. And Jamie certainly looked shocked. In fact, she looked a little pale, and he didn’t think she was breathing, either.

That wasn’t the reaction he’d been hoping for, that was for sure. He’d been hit by hope when he’d seen her sitting there, wearing that Lucky Gator shirt she’d gotten at Mardi Gras and playing his game, easily convincing himself that those were signs she missed him.

And that he might have a chance to fix this—properly, of course.

Jamie finally seemed to snap out of it, taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders. “I wasn’t completely honest with you, either. I should have been more upfront about who I was and what I was dealing with, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. But it wasn’t all just about the embarrassment. Some of that was residual Joey stuff being taken out on you, which really wasn’t fair.”

She swallowed hard again. “And I was scared. That’s really hard for me to admit, because I’ve tried so hard not to be. But if I hadn’t been scared, I’d have been able to be honest with you and realized sooner that I was in love with you.”

He had to be hallucinating. While he’d secretly harbored all kinds of ideal outcomes, his
best
case scenario was that she might give him another shot. But now that this had ended up better than expected...

“Colin?”

The sound of his name snapped him out of his thoughts, but the amused tone of her voice caught him off guard. “Yeah?”

She was smiling. “This would be a really good time to kiss me.”

So not a hallucination, after all.
“With pleasure.”

Jamie met him more than halfway, climbing into his lap and straddling him as she melted into him. There was passion and promise in her kiss and a whole wealth of things he couldn’t wait to explore.

She broke the kiss long enough to whisper, “My room is right down the hall, second door on the right.”

Colin didn’t need to be told twice. “Thank God. I’ve been vibrating on the edge since the moment I walked in.” He pushed to his feet without dislodging her, and she clung to his neck as he walked. “And let me tell you,” he teased, “seeing you take on the zombies was very sexy.”

“I was missing you. It sounds strange, but the game helped. Some,” she amended, “even if I do suck at it.”

In her tiny room, he kicked the door shut behind him and eased down onto the bed. His whole body seemed to sigh in relief. “You’re not bad for a newb. And I’d be happy to teach you all the tricks and strategies and...”

Jamie cupped his cheek in her hand, a small smile playing across her lips. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” he replied against her neck as his fingers skimmed under her T-shirt.

“It won’t make a difference—with us, I mean—if you say no.”

He pushed up onto his elbows to see her face. He wasn’t too proud to admit that he was a little worried now. “What is it, Jamie?”

“It’s about your game.”

“What about it?”

“You said it’s your world, right? Ultimate complete control and all that.”

Where on earth was she going with this?
“Yeah. And?”

“Then can you get me my flamethrower back?”

He was laughing as he kissed her.

EPILOGUE

Callie planned their
wedding.

A wise man would have seen what was coming and nipped it in the bud, but Callie and Jamie had—rather disturbingly, when he thought too much about it—become good friends recently, and by the time he figured out their plan, it was too late.

And now it was Mardi Gras in October, complete with a second line and a ride through the Quarter from Woldenberg Park to the reception hall on Esplanade in heavily decorated convertibles so the wedding party could throw beads to the tourists on the sidewalks. Guests were given masks on their way into the reception—where the colors were purple, green and gold, of course—for traditional New Orleans cuisine, followed by king cake, beignets and chicory coffee.

Each table represented one of the major krewes, like Bacchus, Orpheus and Endymion—with appropriately themed goodies, of course, like decorated coconuts for the Zulu table—making the entire reception quite possibly the gaudiest thing he’d ever witnessed.

He’d put his foot down though, at Callie’s suggestion to dress him up like Rex—mainly because he was convinced it was Callie’s subtle revenge for something he’d done in his youth—but did finally acquiesce to a simple black mask at Jamie’s pleadings.

It was loud, ostentatious and so meta his brain wanted to explode, but it was definitely one hell of a party.
It was only going to get better, too,
he thought evilly.

And Jamie, who looked as though she was on her way to be coronated by Rex himself in her over-the-top gown, was simply incandescent with happiness. He liked to think at least a little of that was because of the actual getting-married part of the day, but Jamie’s complete love of all things Mardi Gras might just be outweighing that at the moment.

She’d ditched her heavy headdress hours ago, and her cheeks were flushed pink with excitement and exertion from dancing. When the music switched to a slow song, Jamie pulled him to the floor.

“I love you.”

“And I love you.”

“And I know this is really not your thing,” she said, “but thank you for not squashing it.”

“As long as you’re happy and having a good time. I’m just happy to be married.”

Jamie rose up onto her tiptoes to kiss him. “So am I. And look at it this way, Callie’s other idea was a Cinderella theme with pumpkins and glass slippers and God only knows what else. It could have been far worse.”

“Yes, that would have been worse.”

“I tell you what. Ten years from now we’ll have an anniversary party and you can pick the theme. Wizards, aliens, zombies, dragons, whatever. How’s that?”

“I don’t think I can wait that long.”

Jamie looked at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

He glanced at his watch. “Almost time.”

“Almost time for what?”

He kissed her on the forehead as the music stopped and the dancing came to a confused halt. “You love me, right?”

“Of course.” Her look turned suspicious. “Colin Raine, what have you done?”

“Just added my own little touch to the wedding. You got your inner geek indulged, so I indulged mine, too.”

The unmistakable opening chords of “Thriller” blared out of the speakers. Jamie’s eyes went wide as understanding dawned.
“No,”
she breathed in horror. “You
didn’t.
”

Zombies crashed through the doors.

* * * * *

Keep reading for an excerpt from THE LAST GUY SHE SHOULD CALL by Joss Wood.

We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin KISS story.

You think of flirting as an art form!
Harlequin KISS
stories are all about the delirium of a potential new romance—where fun-loving heroines and irresistible heroes just can’t get enough of each other.

Enjoy four new stories from Harlequin Kiss every month!

Connect with us on
Harlequin.com
for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!

Other ways to keep in touch:

Harlequin.com/newsletters
Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks
Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks
HarlequinBlog.com

ONE

Rowan Dunn sat
in the hard chair on one side of the white table in an interrogation room at Sydney International Airport and reminded herself to be polite. There was no point in tangling with this little troll of an Immigration Officer; she looked as if she wanted a fight.

‘Why have you come to Australia, Miss Dunn?’

As if she hadn’t explained her reasons to the Immigration Officer before her—and the one before him.
Patience, Rowan.
‘I bought these netsukes in Bali...’

‘These what?’

‘A netsuke is a type of miniature carving that originated in the seventeenth century.’ She tapped one of the fifteen ivory, wood and bone mini-sculptures that had been stripped of their protective layers of bubble wrap and now stood on the desk between them. Lord, they were beautiful: animals, figures, mythical creatures. All tiny, all perfectly carved and full of movement and character. ‘These are uncommon and the owner knew they had value.’

‘You bought these little carvings and yet you have no money and no means of income while you are in Australia?’

‘That’s because I drained my bank account and maxed out my credit cards to buy them. Some of them, I think, are rare. Seventeenth, eighteenth-century. I suspect one may be by Tamakada, circa 1775. I need to get into Sydney to get Grayson Darling, an expert on netsuke, to authenticate them and hopefully buy them from me. Then I’ll have plenty of money to stay in your precious, I mean, lovely country.’

‘What are they worth?’

Rowan tipped her head. ‘Fifteen at an average of two thousand pounds each. So, between twenty and thirty thousand, maybe more.’

The troll’s jaw dropped open. ‘You’ve got to be...joking!’ She leaned across the table and her face radiated doubt. ‘I think you’re spinning me a story; you look like every other free-spirited backpacker I’ve seen.’

Rowan, not for the first time, cursed her long, curly, wild hair and her pretty face, her battered jeans, cropped shirt and well-used backpack. ‘I’m a traveller but I am also a trader. It’s how I—mostly—make my living. I can show you the deed of sale for the netsuke...’

Officer troll flipped through her passport. ‘What else do you sell, Miss Dunn?’

‘You’ve gone through my rucksack with a fine-tooth comb and I’ve had a body search. You know that I’m clean,’ Rowan said wearily. She’d been here for more than six hours—could they move on, please?
Pretty please?

‘What else do you sell, Miss Dunn?’

God! Just answer the question, Rowan, and get this over with.
‘Anything I can make a profit on that’s
legal
. Art, furniture, antiques. I’ve flipped statues in Buenos Aires, art in Belize, jewellery in Vancouver. I’ve worked in construction when times have been lean. Worked as a bar tender when times were leaner. But mostly I buy low and sell high.’

‘Then why don’t you have a slush fund? A back-up plan? Where is the profit on those deals?’

Fair question.

‘A large amount is tied up in a rickety house I’ve just co-bought with a friend in London. We’re in the process of having it renovated so that we can sell it,’ Rowan admitted.

And the rest was sitting in those little statues. She knew that at least one, maybe two, were very valuable. Her gut was screaming that the laughing Buddha statue was a quality item, that it was by a famed Japanese artist. She hadn’t planned to wipe out her accounts but the shopkeeper had had a figure fixed in his head and wouldn’t be budged. Since she knew that she could flip the netsukes for two or three times the amount she’d paid for them, it had seemed like a short, acceptable risk. Especially since she knew Grayson—knew that he wouldn’t quibble over the price. He was the best type of collector: one with deep and heavy pockets. Pockets she couldn’t help lighten unless she got into the blinking country!

‘The reality is that you do not have enough money on your person to last you two days in Australia.’

‘I explained that I have friends...’

The troll held up her hand. ‘Your not having enough funds has made us dig a little deeper and we’ve found out that you overstayed the visa—by six months—on your South African passport.’

Crrr-aa-aa-p!

Rowan felt her stomach sink like concrete shoes. That had happened over eight years ago, which was why she always used her UK passport to get into Oz. She’d been into the country four times since then, but they had finally picked up on her youthful transgression.

Bye-bye to any chance of getting into Oz any time in the next three years. Hello to a very sick bank account for the foreseeable future, to doing the deal with Grayson over the phone—a situation neither of them liked—or to finding another netsuke-mad collector who would pay her well for her gems. There weren’t, as she knew, many of them around.

‘You are not allowed to visit Australia for the next three years and you will be on the first flight we can find back to South Africa. In a nutshell, you are being deported.’

Rowan looked up at the ceiling and blew a long stream of air towards the ceiling. It was the only place in the world where she, actively, passionately, didn’t want to go. ‘Crap.’

The troll almost smiled. ‘Indeed.’

* * *

Sixteen hours later Rowan cleared Immigration at OR Tambo International in Johannesburg and, after picking up her rucksack, headed for the nearest row of hard benches. Dropping her pack to the floor, she slumped down and stared at her feet.

What now?

Unlike many other cities in the world, she didn’t know Johannesburg, didn’t have any friends in the city. She had one hundred pounds in cash in her wallet and thirty US dollars. Practically nothing in both her savings and current accounts and her credit cards were maxed out. All thanks to that little out-of-the-way antique shop in Denpasar...

Stupid, stupid, stupid,
she berated herself. What had she been thinking? She’d been thinking that she’d triple her money when she flipped them.

‘Hey.’

Rowan looked up and saw a young girl, barely in her twenties, take the seat next to her.

‘Do you mind if I sit here for a bit? I’m being hassled by a jerk in that group over there.’

Rowan cut a glance to a group of young men who were just drunk enough to be obnoxious. One of the pitfalls of travelling alone, she thought. How many times had she sat down next to a family or another single traveller to avoid the groping hands, the come ons and pick-up lines. ‘Sure. Take a seat. Coming or going?’

‘Just arrived from Sydney. I saw you on the plane; you were a couple of rows ahead of me.’

‘Ah.’

‘I’m catching the next flight to Durban. You?’

‘Haven’t the foggiest.’ Rowan tried to sound cheerful but knew that she didn’t quite hit the mark. ‘I was deported from Oz and I’m broke.’

Bright blue eyes sharpened in interest. ‘Seriously? How broke?’

‘Seriously broke.’ Rowan lifted her heels up onto the seat of the bench and rested her elbows on her knees. ‘
C’est la vie.
’ She looked at her new friend, all fresh-faced and enthusiastic. ‘How long have you been travelling for?’ she asked.

‘Six months. I’m home for a family wedding, then I’m heading off again. You?’

‘Nine years. Can I give you some advice...? What’s your name?’

‘Cat.’

‘Cat. No matter what, always have enough money stashed away so that you have options. Always have enough cash to pay for an air ticket out of Dodge, for a couple of nights in a hostel or hotel. Trust me, being broke sucks.’

She’d always lived by that rule, but she’d been seduced by the idea of a quick return. She’d imagined that she’d be broke for a maximum of three days in Sydney and then her bank balance would be nicely inflated.

It sure hadn’t worked out that way... Deported, for crying out loud! Deported and penniless! Rowan closed her eyes and wondered if she could possibly be a bigger moron.

‘Can I give you a hundred pounds?’ Cat asked timidly.

Rowan eyes snapped open. Her wide smile split her face and put a small sparkle back into her onyx-black eyes. ‘That’s really sweet of you, but no thanks, honey. I do have people I can call. I would just prefer not to.’

Look at her,
Rowan thought,
all fresh and idealistic. Naïve
. If she didn’t get street-wise quickly the big bad world out there would gobble her up and spit her out. Travelling in Australia was easy: same language, same culture, good transport systems and First World. Most of the world wasn’t like that.

‘Your folks happy with you backpacking?’

Cat raised a shoulder. ‘Yeah, mostly. They have a mild moan when I call home and ask for cash, but they always come through.’

Rowan lifted dark winged eyebrows. Lucky girl. Could her circumstances be any more different from hers, when she’d left home to go on the road? Those six months between being caught in a drug raid at a club with a tiny bag of coke and catching a plane to Thailand had been sheer hell.

Two months after being tossed into jail—and she still hoped the fleas of a thousand camels were making their home in Joe’s underpants for slipping the coke into the back pocket of her jeans, the rat-bastard jerk!—she’d been sentenced to four months’ community service but, thanks to the fact that at the time she hadn’t yet turned eighteen, her juvenile criminal record was still sealed.

Sealed from the general public, but not from her family, who hadn’t reacted well. There had been shouting and desperate anger from her father, cold distance from her mother, and her elder brother had been tight-lipped with disapproval. For the rest of that year there had been weekly lectures to keep her on the straight and narrow. From proper jail she’d been placed under house arrest by her parents, and their over-the-top protectiveness had gone into hyperdrive. Her movements had been constantly monitored, and the more they’d lectured and smothered, the stronger her urge to rebel and her resolve to run had become.

She’d tried to explain the circumstances, but only her BFF Callie had realised how much it had hurt to have her story about being framed dismissed as a lie, how much it had stung to see the constant disappointment on everyone’s faces. So she’d decided that she might as well be the ultimate party girl rebel—sneaking out, parties, cigarettes, crazy acting out. Anything to live up to the low expectations of her parents—especially her mother—and constantly, constantly planning her escape.

It had come the day after she’d written her final exam to finish her school career. Using cash she’d received from selling the unit trusts her grandmother had bought her every birthday since the day she was born, she’d bought a ticket to Thailand.

Everyone except Callie had been furious, and they’d all expected her to hit the other side, turn tail and run back home. That first year had been tough, lonely, and sometimes downright scary, but she’d survived and then she’d flourished.

And she really didn’t want to go home with her tail tucked between her legs now, broke and recently deported.

She didn’t want to lose her freedom, to step back into her family’s lives, back into her parents’ house, returning as the family screw-up. It didn’t matter that she was asset-rich and cash-poor. She would still, in their eyes, be irresponsible and silly: no better than the confused, mixed-up child who’d left nine years before.

‘So, who are you going to call?’ Cat asked, breaking in on her thoughts.

‘Well, I’ve only got two choices. My mobile’s battery is dead and all my contact numbers are in my phone. I have two numbers in my head: my parents’ home number and my best friend Callie’s home number.’

‘I vote for the best friend.’

‘So would I—except that she doesn’t live there any more. Her older brother does, and he doesn’t like me very much.’

Cat leaned forward, curious. ‘Why not?’

‘Ah, well. Seb and I have always rubbed each other up the wrong way. He’s conservative and studious; I’m wild and rebellious. He’s mega-rich and I’m currently financially challenged—’

‘What does he do?’ Cat asked.

Rowan fiddled with her gold hoop earrings. ‘His family have a shed-load of property in Cape Town and he oversees that. He also does something complicated with computers. He has a company that does...um...internet security? He’s a nice hat... No, that doesn’t sound right.’

Cat sat up suddenly. ‘Do you mean a white hat? A hacker?’

Rowan cocked her finger at her. ‘That’s it. Apparently he’s one of the best in the world.’

‘Holy mackerel...that is so cool! I’m a bit of a comp geek myself.’

‘So is he. He’s a complete nerd and we’ve always clashed. He’s book-smart and I’m street-smart. His and Callie’s house is within spitting distance of my parents’ house and I spent more time there than I did at home. I gave him such a hard time.’

Cat looked intrigued. ‘Why?’

‘Probably because I could never get a reaction out of him. He’d just look at me, shake his head, tell me I was a brat and flip me off. The more I misbehaved, the more he ignored me.’ Rowan wound a black curl around her index finger.

‘Sounds to me like you were craving his attention.’

‘Honey, I craved
everyone’s
attention,’ Rowan replied.

This was one of the things she loved most about travelling, she thought. Random conversations with strangers who didn’t know her from Adam.

‘Anyway, I could bore you to death, recounting all the arguments I had with Seb.’ Rowan smiled. ‘So let this be a lesson to you, Cat. Remember, always have a stash of cash. Do as I say and not as I do.’

‘Good luck,’ Cat called as she walked towards the bank of public phones against the far wall.

Rowan lifted her hand in acknowledgement. She sure as hell was going to need it.

* * *

Seb Hollis shot up in bed and punched the comforter and the sheets away, unable to bare the constricting fabric against his heated skin. He was conscious of the remnants of a bad dream floating around the periphery of his memory, and as much as he tried to pretend otherwise it wasn’t the cool air colliding with the sweat on his chest and spine that made him shiver. The blame for that could be laid squarely at the door of this now familiar nocturnal visitor. He’d been dreaming the same dream for six days... He was being choked, restrained, hog-tied...yanked up to the altar and forced into marriage.