by Kate Meader
“Well, we’d never call you unsociable. You’re a friend to all, unclothed and barely dressed.”
How did such a tiny thing produce so much vinegar? “See? There you go again, deciding what kind of man I am based on our initial meeting.”
Oh, that had her spittin’. Ms. Chase did not like to be wrong about anything, something they had in common.
“You mean when I had to track you down because you decided to follow your own schedule and not join the team for practice? Or maybe you’re talking about that time when, instead of obeying the terms of your contract and doing your job, you blackmailed me. Your hands all over a stripper’s ass seems like the least of your sins.”
“You missed that pass I made at you in that Irish bar and that kiss I laid on you on the plane ride from Boston.”
She blushed to the roots of her corn silk hair.
“Or maybe they don’t count as sins in my long list of transgressions?”
“I was giving you the benefit of the doubt, assuming that first time was accidental.”
He scoffed. “I don’t do accidental kisses, minou. And I pretty much confirmed that when I tasted you properly the other night.”
Growling in a way that went straight to his balls, she passed over that. “You pulled your own Elizabeth Bennet on me after the Cougars game. Jumping to your own incorrect conclusion.” Her gaze fell to the too-tight shoes. She was clearly uncomfortable bringing this up.
Good. This was his real destination, but he preferred coming in using the back roads.
“You mean you didn’t use me to needle Stroger and make him”—he waved a hand—“jealous?”
“Of course not!” Checking that they were alone, she stepped closer, hands on hips, and peered down at him. He liked closer and he liked how she smelled. Floral, sexy.
“He and I didn’t end well. He blamed me for getting traded out when really he was going anyway because his plus-minus sucked and his attitude wasn’t much better. He was never the most reasonable of people.”
On that they could agree. He still couldn’t believe that a quality woman like this had spent a minute on that waste of humanity, but then lust made people do the strangest things, didn’t it? Case in point: Remy DuPre sitting in a French Quarter shoe store drooling over his boss.
He could tell it was killing her to admit this weakness she’d had for Stroger. Could she tell it was killing him? He should step in, end her misery, but she had more to say, and he enjoyed watching her unravel.
“I shouldn’t have let Stroger poke at me, but he’s always pushed my buttons and—I’m sorry you got caught in the crossfire.”
Aw hell, he felt as dumb as a box of wet mice for making such a fuss of it. In truth, his anger stemmed from knowing she’d given Stroger the time of day. He was man enough to admit that—to himself.
“That’s okay. We all make mistakes. Judge without getting all the facts.”
She gusted out a breath. “We do.”
He stood, suddenly needing to be closer to her. To touch her, take her into his arms, show her how truly sorry he was. He compromised by balling his hands into fists to stop from reaching out.
“I’m not some sort of manwhore, Harper. What you saw when you came to Boston, that was just high jinks that frankly I’m far too old for. That’s not what my life was like there and it’s not what it’s like in Chicago.”
Why the hell was he telling her this? Why was it so important that she knew he wasn’t this nail-anything-that-moves kind of guy?
Why the hell couldn’t he shut up?
“I’m not interested in bimbo trophies looking for a good time. My tastes run to women. Real women who have a little more life experience than suffering through a hangnail.”
Judging by her parted pink-glossed lips and that snatched breath, she liked the sound of that. Hell, he liked the sound of it. Harper wasn’t a girl. She was all woman.
She was starting to feel like his woman.
She lifted her chin and murmured, “I guess we got off on the wrong foot.”
Maybe, but it sure was sexy balancing on that wrong foot. That spark between them was fueled by how much they bugged the hell out of each other. He’d hate to think it might vanish now that they were BFFs.
No better place to get back on the right foot than in a shoe shop, n’est-ce pas?
When Harper spotted Remy DuPre standing before her like a god of sex she’d conjured from her fevered imagination, she’d almost had a heart attack. Just dropped and died on the spot. Addy had instructed her to go to New Orleans early for a little Harper time. Spa day, mani-pedi, shopping. Just try to relax amid all the stress of this season on which her entire future was riding.
She’d hoped Addy would make the trip with her, but her friend was reluctant to travel in her first trimester. Harper had been right about the woman’s amazing boobs looking even more fantastic than usual, but what she hadn’t expected was her own emotional reaction to the news: ovary-busting envy. So strange, as she had never considered herself the maternal type. Or maybe she’d let her problems with men overshadow some profound need to share her love with another human being.
Keep your love for the Rebels, Harper. That’s where she needed to expend all her effort and emotion. Which led her back to her current problem. What the hell was she doing modeling shoes for Remy DuPre?
Somehow it seemed to suit the intimate conversation they were having, the air clearing as he labeled it. He could be blowing smoke up her ass about what she’d walked in on during his send-off in Boston, but he seemed to be taking her explanation about Billy Stroger at face value. The least she could do is give him the benefit of the doubt. It would make things easier if they got along.
She sat and slipped off the shoes, which while beautiful, would likely produce blisters the size of Volkswagens in the first hour of wearing them. DuPre retook the seat across from her, that easy manner of his not putting her at ease in the slightest. He unnerved her. Unhinged her. This extra day in New Orleans was supposed to be the opposite of stressful, but not with the sexy Cajun around. She would try on the other size, make her purchase, and run out of here.
The sales associate returned with the other pair. As she knelt, Remy stood.
“I got that, chérie.”
The woman straightened and split an oh-I-see glance between them. “Sure.” She moved to greet another customer who had just entered the store.
I got that, chérie. Did he mean—?
He folded to his knees, right in front of Harper, and held her right foot. No rub, no massage, merely a cup of his hand to her heel, and she practically had a mini orgasm.
“Remy, you don’t have to do that.”
He peeked up through those criminally beautiful lashes framing sparkling eyes. “Happy to serve, minou.”
That word again. “What does that mean?”
“Serve? Oh, y’know. Perform duties. Fulfill obligations. Be of use.”
She cocked an eyebrow. They both knew that’s not what she’d been asking, but the explanation was not unpleasant. Especially the “be of use” definition. Remy kneeling in front of her in supplication sent her thinking in another direction, to another meaning. Serving up her body. Parting her legs to let him taste her.
Hell. Moving from loathing to understanding was supposed to eliminate this pesky attraction.
She swallowed. The moment stretched between them as his thumb moved along the arch of her foot and pressed lightly. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them drew breath. She’d already had a foot rub this morning during her pedicure and it had come nowhere near this level of pleasure. Her panties dampened.
Because it’s an unseasonably warm November day, right?
Sure, that tingle is weather related. Like rheumatism in your crotch.
“Ready to try on those shoes now?”
“Yes.” Barel
y a whisper.
Prince Charming unboxed the shoe and slipped it on Cinderella’s foot. It fits!
Would he fit? He was so, so big, and it had been a long, long time.
Nope. The only fitting happening here would be shoes. She let him finish, enjoying the possessive cup of his palm around her ankle as he gentled the shoe onto her foot. In all her years of retail therapy, she had never associated shoes and sex. Now she would never think of shoes again without thinking of Remy DuPre.
His palm lingered on the back of her calf. “How does it feel?”
“Feel?”
“The shoe.”
The shoe. She stood, wiggling her toes while Remy leaned back on his haunches, giving her room. Looking down at him, she had a shocking temptation to place a foot on his chest, a stiletto over his heart, claim him like a Victorian hunter who had taken down big game. A thrill rippled through her at what might come next. She would think she was in control—that she had bagged the king of the jungle—but this huge, dangerous beast would have been faking it. He’d turn the tables, leap from his position of supposed weakness, and overpower her. Before she knew it, she’d be conquered, all because she had underestimated this man.
Such drama. She blinked away that foolish meandering of her mind. What she did know is that Remy DuPre fascinated her in a way that threatened everything she was trying to build. She refused to let him—or her hormones—drag her down.
ELEVEN
Remy held the door of the shoe store open for her and she stepped outside. The clear azure sky had given way to rain-heavy clouds while they’d been doing . . . whatever they’d been doing. No one in their right mind would call it shoe shopping.
“Well, thanks for your help with . . . that.”
“What are you up to now?”
“Heading back to the hotel. I have some calls to make about scouting prospects, and tonight I’m taking a walking tour.” Yes, I’m so busy. Don’t even think about asking me out for a romantic candlelit dinner.
He squinted at her. “A walking tour? Fake history and faker ghosts?”
“I’m a tourist in the most haunted city in the U.S. That’s what tourists do.”
“Which one are you doing?”
She fumbled with her purse and withdrew the brochure given to her by the hotel’s concierge. “This one. It meets at the cathedral at 6 p.m.” She did not say that to encourage him to join her. Of course, he wouldn’t want to do some tourist trap ghost tour in his hometown.
“I’d recommend a different one. Put your phone number in there, and I’ll send you the name of it.”
He handed off his phone, still warm from the heat of his jeans pocket, where it had been close to his—no, no, no. Not thinking about her employee’s penis. Not at all.
“Oh, it’s already in here,” she said with a touch of saccharine. “Probably from when you called to fill me in on your travel plans post-trade. And look, I’m listed as Big Bad Boss. How appropriate.”
“Now, Harper, would you rather I called you Incompetent Spice?” His grin was unrepentant as he took back the phone, plugged in a text, and returned the device to its penis-heated cocoon. “Are you staying at the team hotel?”
She nodded, but he’d already taken the shopping bag from her hand, cupped her arm, and steered her a few steps. “I’ll walk you back.”
“There’s no need. It’s perfectly safe.”
“I’d feel better if you’d let me do this for you.”
There was that gentlemanly streak again. The way he stood whenever she entered the locker room. The shelter of his body the night of Ford’s birthday party. His obvious concern when she tried to work up the nerve to tell him about her run-in with Stroger.
He removed his hand from her elbow, but remained close enough to keep her in a state of sexual aggravation as they weaved by slow walkers and clumps of tourists.
They didn’t talk as they headed toward her hotel. There was so much unspoken between them, this curious energy that was a language all its own. Making small talk would ruin it. Trying to explain it would burden it with too much significance. She let him lead, but within three minutes recognized that they were heading in the wrong direction.
“I think it’s that way.”
“Wanted to show you something first.”
A half block later, he stopped at an intricately wrought iron gate and pressed a code into a keypad. With a wave of his hand, he sent her ahead into a cramped passageway. About ten feet in, they came out into a clearing framed by a brick arch.
One of the Vieux Carre’s secret courtyards.
History and atmosphere assailed her from all sides. The courtyard’s focal point was a brick-framed central garden with a fountain urn that tied into the blue window shutters above. Cast-iron balconies covered with ferns and late-flowering blooms that had managed to survive the fall looked down on them. Sasanquas, holly ferns, sweet olive, and agapanthus along with colorful annuals welcomed her into a relaxing and fragrant atmosphere. They’d stepped through a portal into another world.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Oui, ça l’est.” He was closer than she’d thought. “A lot of these places have hidden courtyards, secret spaces for the natives to get cool.”
“So we’re trespassing?”
He hesitated slightly before answering. “This belongs to a friend of mine, but he’s out of town.”
In her four-inch Louboutins, she picked her way over the cobblestones, imagining she was a lady of a previous century with a parasol and petticoats. The rain clouds had cleared, though the sun’s brightness appeared muted in the courtyard. No street sounds intruded.
Her heart’s th-thunk more than made up for that.
She turned to find him watching her. Gone was the playfulness he’d displayed at the shoe store; now he gave off an intensity that knocked her sideways. His beauty pained her in a delicious way. Those blue eyes had deepened to navy; his mouth had tightened in a grim seal. He looked how she felt.
Hurting with lust.
A few drops of rain fell from a cloudless sky, soon followed by more in steady succession. Chicago wasn’t known for sun showers, but New Orleans was like a foreign land. Exotic. Erotic.
“C’mere,” he said roughly, his hand gesturing to a doorway on the courtyard’s west side. The rain fell harder as she click-clacked quickly to shelter, and she expected him to stand to her side, but instead he faced her, protecting her from the inclement weather like a human umbrella. He moved his forearm up along her cheek, a beefy bicep straining against his long-sleeved Henley. She wanted to take a bite out of it.
“I’ve never understood sun showers,” she said, suddenly nervous. Suddenly more nervous than she had ever been in her entire life, even during the worst of times when fear had ruled. These nerves were borne of excitement, though. She knew he’d never hurt her.
“It’s the devil beating his wife.”
“What is?”
“The sun shower. That’s how the saying goes. Like the devil’s the sun’s rays and his poor femme is crying her eyes out as he beats her.” His eyes dropped to her mouth.
The devil beating his wife. She knew it was just an expression, but she didn’t like the ball of hurt it knotted behind her breastbone.
He continued to stare at her, his gaze flickering between her mouth and her eyes.
“You cold, Harper?”
She’d started to shiver. Those memories, the damn memories.
“Your back—it must be getting wet.” This apparently gave her an excuse to grip his arm and pull him a few inches closer out of the rain. It seemed the polite thing to do, even if her fingers enjoyed the hard muscle they encountered a little too much. She imagined steam rising at every droplet that met his warm skin.
“Better than you getting wet,” he said.
“Such a gentleman.”
He grunted, a very male sound. “If you only knew.”
“You’ve been nothing but since the moment I met you. Mr. Polite when I enter the locker room. Protecting me when I walk down the street. Your mom raised you well.”
He moved closer. Nothing gentlemanly about it, yet it was Remy, so it was protective, and she wanted to think of him this way so she wouldn’t think the opposite. Of what his strength could do to her. How it could be as much a weapon as a shield.
His kiss would be protective. His body covering hers would keep her safe.
So strange to think that. So ridiculous to want it. She had been looking after herself for years, had weathered everything thrown at her, attacks both physical and emotional. She had only herself to rely on, yet Remy DuPre inspired in her something she couldn’t deny.
A womanly need to be cared for.
Those blue pools still wavered between her eyes and mouth. “I’m gonna kiss you now, minou.”
She might have nodded. She might have blinked. One for yes, two for hell yeah.
The kiss started soft, heartbreakingly so. On either side of her face, she was caged by his forearms, yet she didn’t feel trapped. She felt liberated with his mouth on hers, enough that she parted her lips to drink in more of his taste, his essence. Drops of rain dripped off the gable, splashing her hands, which had risen to shape his back and pull him closer.
His kiss became more thorough, inching into her. Stealing entry, cell by cell. Or perhaps it was all her, dragging him closer, needing his heat while she claimed her freedom.
The devil’s wife’s tears continued to fall and so did Harper’s resistance. She felt his touch, a gentle graze of his knuckles, along the jersey fabric clinging to her ribs. Her body shivered in pleasure; her nipples popped against the lace of her bra; his mouth smiled against hers.
The chain reaction of a kiss in the rain.
He cupped her ass and squeezed, bringing her closer to the erection now jutting into her belly. He wanted her to know how aroused he was, how much he wanted her.