Resisting Samantha (Hope Parish Novels Book 10) by Zoe Dawson Read Free Book Online Page A

something to me
that I couldn’t control.
    “I’ll
go, but I don’t want to. Say the word.”
    She stepped to the
side. “No. Don’t go. Come in. I’m pretty freaked
out, and kinda confused, and more than a little scared.”
    I didn’t need
any more encouragement. She closed the door behind me, and said, with
a shrug, “I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything, not
even a chair. I’m still putting things together.”
    “It’s
all right. You can sit on the mattress. I’ll sit on the floor.
I don’t mind.”
    She had a small
table near her makeshift bed in the corner of the room, her laptop
beside it on the floor, and on the table were two books and a small
red bag.
    “I’m
afraid you’ll think I’m a nutcase and high-tail it out of
here. I can’t lose you as a vendor,” she murmured, then
swallowed. “Or as a…friend.”
    The air in her home
was cool and comfortable, a boon during the steamy night. She wrapped
her arms around her and bowed her head. I reached out and tipped up
her chin. “You can tell me anything. I won’t judge you.”
    Her long, chestnut
hair was in a lose ponytail that rested on her shoulder, gleaming in
the light.
    “Tell me,”
I said, leading her over to the mattress. As she folded down and sat
cross-legged, I dropped to the floor and leaned against the wall.
    She explained to me
how she’d noticed the missing piece of cake, seen the Black
woman, and found the small red bag containing, among other things,
the necklace her husband gave her when they married…and which
she never took off. “It’s voodoo magic. A gris-gris bag.”
    She dumped out the
contents and showed me where the heart was engraved on the silver
star. “Do you think I’m bonkers?”
    “No. Stranger
things have happened, and there are some things that are
unexplainable, but I would say that, if the Black woman was Imogene,
she meant you no harm. In fact, it looks like she’s trying to
protect you.”
    “It’s
not Imogene.” She reached for one of the books. Opening it, she
took out a photo. “This is the woman I saw in my kitchen.”
    I took the faded
photo of a stunning Black woman dressed in a simple blue dress with
an apron. Penciled at the bottom was: AnnClaire.
    “Chase, I
don’t know what she’s protecting me from.” Her
distress made me move closer, and Samantha reached out and gripped
the front of my shirt with both hands. She dragged me closer. “Why
are you watching me?”
    “I don’t
know. I feel something is out of balance. I can’t explain it,”
I murmured, her scent making me dizzy, the feel of her small hands on
me distracting and arousing.
    “I feel it,
too.” Her brown eyes searched mine, and what she saw there
seemed to be what she needed. Her face softened and she raised her
hand and very gently touched my face, ran her fingertips over my
cheekbone and down to my jaw, where she dragged her fingertips back
and forth over the stubble. My resolve was crumbling under her light
but sensual touch.
    Her lips parted, and
she expelled a small, heated puff of air. “You are so
beautiful. The way you look at me makes my head spin.”
    I inhaled when she
ran her thumb over my bottom lip.
    “Samantha,”
I whispered, then covered her mouth with mine. Her lips were
incredibly soft, her breath catching on a small, eager sound, her
hand cupping my jaw so tenderly, then delving into the hair just
above my ear, then her whole palm was against the side of my head,
her fingers tightening in my hair.
    When I heard her
ragged sigh, a sigh of surrender and female satisfaction which I felt
all the way down to my groin, I deepened the kiss with no hesitation.
It felt so right as I slid my tongue inside wet heat, into sensual
seduction of her mouth—into serious trouble. There was no
retreat, only moving forward.
    I’d wanted to
kiss her with every cell. If I’d known it would be better than
I could have imagined, I’m not sure I could have waited this
long. It was a good thing I’d been