One Hot Night
A New Orleans Nights Story
Delilah Devlin
Dedication
My thanks go out to Fedora Chen, Heather Nestorick, and Ellen Graham Wulf, whose friendship and sharp “eyes” helped me finish this book!
Thanks, ladies!
About the Book
NEW ORLEANS NIGHTS:
Hot Sultry Nights… Hot-blooded Heroes…
Part of the private security team hired to keep visiting international dignitaries safe, New Orleans detective Remy Cyr has several interesting run-ins with a certain local reporter hellbent on crashing the convention’s nighttime events. While she’s certainly a nuisance, sneaking inside in a variety of disguises, he can’t help admiring how resourceful and stubborn she is. As sexy as she is pretty, he soon can’t resist her attraction.
A socialite determined to earn her own way in the world, reporter Stacia Rice is determined to dig up dirt at the convention, anything to earn her a spot on her newspaper’s front page. But one handsome, dogged cop keeps getting in her way. When they find themselves alone, neither can resist the intensity of their instant attraction.
When a group of armed men invades the venue and takes the dignitaries hostage, Remy realizes that he and Stacia are the only ones who know, and the only ones who can save them…
Contents
One Hot Night
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
BRIAN
Chapter 1
Also by Delilah Devlin
About Delilah Devlin
One Hot Night
A New Orleans Nights Story
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author
Delilah Devlin
Chapter 1
Detective Remy Cyr followed the slender woman with his gaze as she made her way around the convention ballroom. That she didn’t belong was obvious. That she was likely a reporter was also, although only to someone trained to observe.
Sure, she was dressed for the occasion in a knee-length, emerald green dress. She should have blended in well with the other well-dressed women. Her four-inch suede heels teased a man’s gaze to travel upward over lightly muscled, sleek calves. The jewels she wore weren’t fake. They were nice enough they might fool some of the men attending the event into believing she did in fact belong among the glittering NOLA socialites. But her earrings and bracelet were a classic design, likely passed down, not something purchased on a reporter’s salary. Likewise, the clutch she carried was a classic black quilted piece, probably Chanel.
Remy’s ex-girlfriend had been a social-climbing vlogger, who’d told other women how to dress to get the guy they wanted and would have traded all her followers for that clutch. He should have known when Isabelle had worn sweats and frayed jeans around him that she didn’t consider him “end game material” as she’d called the hapless guys she’d urged her devoted audience to stalk.
At first glance, Remy had thought this woman was cut from the same cloth as Isabelle. A lovely blonde with smoky eyes and a red-rimmed, diamond-bright smile. However, she wasn’t smiling to entice a man into taking her to dinner or even up to his room. One by one, she tried to draw them into conversation only to have the mostly foreign dignitaries raise brows and deflect her with a tight smile and tactical turn. Even now, she was beginning to annoy the latest man she’d latched onto—the Mayor of New Orleans, Hugo Benoit.
Unfortunately for the woman, it looked like Hugo knew her well because he arched a thick, black eyebrow at the woman, and then raised a hand and snapped his fingers.
In seconds, his personal security team converged. Hugo, always one to turn a moment into a flashy laugh, lifted the woman’s hand and bent over it to give her a kiss. Then he straightened and flicked his fingers over his lapel like he was brushing away dirt.
The woman gave him a narrow-eyed glare as she smiled, waved at the bodyguards, and as she turned away, snatched a flute of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray as she walked toward the exit.
One of the bodyguards spoke into a radio, likely ensuring an escort awaited the woman outside the door to remove her from the venue.
Remy grinned. He’d bet his last dollar the woman would be back inside within half an hour. That cheeky grin she’d given the mayor said she wasn’t a woman who conceded a battle—ever.
“Hey, bro,” his brother’s voice sounded in his earpiece. “We’re not bein’ paid to eye the arm candy.”
“Not arm candy, man,” he said softly as he glanced around the ballroom for any hint of further trouble.
“A reporter?”
“Yeah. This rich a target? They’re not just standin’ behind the velvet ropes along the red carpet. They’re hittin’ up the wait staff, hidin’ in bathrooms…”
“Wearin’ pretty green dresses and high heels…”
Remy’s lips twitched. “She’s made now. I’m wondering what she’ll try next.”
“Think she will?”
“I’d bet money.”
“I won’t take that bet. I’m here to make extra cash, not lose it.”
“Better earn it then, Thibaut, instead of ridin’ my ass.”
“You call that ridin’? I’m just seein’ how much you like the girl. My question is answered,” his brother said, amusement in his voice.
“Don’t even know her name, so don’t go reservin’ the chapel. Just ’cause you and Amelie are tyin’ the knot doesn’t mean the rest of us are ready to tie a noose around our necks.”
“It’s a sweet noose. But damn, weddings are expensive.”
Remy chuckled. “What happened to ‘simple and just family’?”
“Have you seen the size of our family?”
“If you weren’t also countin’ SEALs and cops…”
“They’re family.”
“Well, there you have it. This gig is a sweet deal. Ballard likes you. He’ll give you as many engagements as you want.”
Thibaut sighed. “I barely see Amelie as it is—what with her shifts at the store and all this wedding shit. Do you know she wanted to hire someone to figure out all this stuff?”
“It’s a lot,” Remy murmured. As Thibaut’s best man, he had a front-row seat to the chaos surrounding his brother’s wedding plans.
“Thank God for Laure. She really stepped up after Amelie asked her to be her maid of honor.”
“Glad those two put their shit behind them.”
“Amelie had this crazy idea Laure was sweet on me. Said she was jealous.”
“Maybe when you two were kids…”
“Said it was why Laure was always a bitch around her.”
“Doesn’t she know Laure’s that way with everyone?”
They both chuckled. They loved their cousin Laure, but the girl had always been a handful. Remy felt sorry for any man who got tangled up with her.
“I feel sorry for any man who thinks he’s gonna put a ring on her finger.”
Remy’s grin stretched across his face when Thibaut echoed his own thought. “Yeah, he’ll have to be tough, or she’ll walk all over him.”
“Maybe I should introduce her to some of my SEAL buddies when they come to the wedding.”
“Thought you liked your teammates.”
They laughed softly.
Remy caught sight of Thibaut across the ballroom floor and gave him a two-fingered salute.
“Ma
n, I’m glad I’m here,” Thibaut said, smiling.
“Me, too. I’m happy for you.” Thibaut’s road to his engagement hadn’t been an easy one. He’d left the SEALs, attended the police academy, and now was a rookie NOLA cop. “Do you miss it?”
“The Navy?” Thibaut drew a deep breath. “Yes and no. I hated losing folks around me, but there’s something about walking into a firefight with your closest buddies. You feel… Man, I don’t know…like you’re part of something big. Like you’re one…organism. If that makes sense. We can function without commands; know each other’s next moves.”
“If you make SWAT, you’ll feel pretty darn close to that. They work hard. Play hard.”
“Did you hate giving it up when you made detective?”
“I’m not lyin’; I did. But what I’m doing now… I like puzzles. Like figuring out who done it.”
“Don’t think I’ll be goin’ after your job, man. Interrogation was never my strong suit.”
“Breakin’ heads more like it?”
Thibaut grunted in his ear. Then he drew an audible breath. “Glad I didn’t take that bet. Check out the waitress. Your four o’clock.”
Remy glanced out of the corner of his eye and found her. The blonde. Only now, she was a brunette. The wig was chin-length. She’d wiped off the bright red lipstick and smoky eyeshadow. Gone were the heels and in their place were functional black loafers.
Remy smiled and began to make his way toward the table where she was removing some kind of shrimp finger food tray and replacing it with fresh entrees. While he watched, she glanced around then slipped one of the shrimps into her mouth and closed her eyes. Must have been good. Now, he was hungry, too.
Remy had no doubts that what could have been a really boring night was about to get interesting…
Stacia Rice saw a tall man in a black tux approach. A cop or security, she assumed, given his build. The men who were attending the New World Order Development Convention were doughy and soft. This man was all hard edges. Her type. Her old type, that is. She wasn’t looking for a boyfriend. She was just hoping to get close enough to the conversations to pick up some tidbit that would impress her editor at the New Orleans Times. He’d moved her from the front page to the fluff-filled society section after she’d failed to use her connections to get to the meat of some big scandal. So, she had a reason to be here, but she didn’t want to report on which celebrities mingled with the dignitaries. Her photographer, Emil, was covering the red carpet and pulling double-duty shouting out questions so that she could sneak inside the venue.
He’d grumbled about that, but he was just as eager keep his photos from being buried in the newspaper.
Her Bluetooth buzzed in her ear. Surreptitiously, she tapped the earpiece. “Not now, Emil.”
“Things are dead here. Everyone’s inside. You gettin’ anything good?”
“I got made. Had to ditch the dress.”
“You wearin’ Maria’s spare uniform now?” he asked, his voice filled with humor.
“Yeah. Dishing shrimps.”
“Oh, how the mighty have fallen.”
She made a face he couldn’t see. “You get any good photos?”
“Sure. Lots of pics of the mayor and his wife. No Leo, but some B-grade boobs.”
“Emil…” she warned, not wanting any of his sexist patter in her ear. She knew he only did it to annoy her.
“Just sayin’. And not just boobs. Britney Hauser, that woman from the housewives show, had a wardrobe malfunction gettin’ out of her limo. She wasn’t wearin’ any underwear.”
“Not a malfunction, and you know it,” she said, eyeing tall, dark, and gun-toting, who was still making a beeline her way. “Look, gotta go.”
“Don’t drop those shrimps.”
“Fuck off.”
His laughter was cut off when she tapped her earpiece.
Lifting the half-eaten tray of shrimp hors d'oeuvres and trying to balance it on one hand like the rest of the trained staff, she turned to head back toward the kitchen, figuring she’d hide until the tall man’s attention was elsewhere before she braved the ballroom again.
Only, when she turned, she slammed into a woman in a lemon-colored silk dress that clashed horribly with her olive skin. With a feeling of impending doom, she felt the tray tilt. Shrimp in cocktail sauce slid from the tray and skimmed down the front of the woman’s dress.
“You—you idiot!” the woman shouted.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Stacia mumbled and reached for napkins on the table. As she began to brush at the spilled sauce, the woman raised her hands and fluttered them, slapping at Stacia’s hands.
“Mitchell!” the woman shouted.
As all gazes turned their way, Stacia felt heat creep into her cheeks. As if things couldn’t get worse, Hugo Benoit was bearing down on her. He’d see through her disguise in a heartbeat. He and her father served on the same hospital committee, and he’d been a frequent dinner guest in her mother’s home.
Her heart sinking, she knew tonight was a disaster. Daddy would hear all about it, and once again, he’d rail at her about her “wasted” education, her ingratitude, her stupidity. Of course, she’d chosen a profession he considered lower than trash collectors. Which she considered a necessary profession, unlike whatever it was her dad did. Sitting on boards wasn’t a real job, not in her book. He hadn’t earned his privilege; he’d inherited it. No doubt, he’d call the paper’s owner and tell him he was a fool for hiring her in the first place. Not the first time he’d done it.
Drawing her tattered dignity around her, she ducked her head and tried to circle around the still-screeching woman, only now, something large and dark stood in her path. She knew before she raised her head who it was.
This close, she noticed more than just the security dude’s size. Good Lord, the man was beautiful. Not that he’d likely appreciate that description. Built tall and lean with broad shoulders, his hair was close-cut on the sides, full on top. Wavy, dark, thick. Made for fingertips to comb through it. His dark eyes were framed by thick, dark eyelashes, shadowed by heavy brows. His nose was perfection—long and slender. And his mouth… Damn, had she ever seen a mouth more tempting?
She swallowed a lump in her throat. “Excuse me,” she said, and tried to dart around him, but strong fingers wrapped around her arm. He didn’t squeeze, but he didn’t have to in order to keep her there. She froze the second he touched her. The thought flashed through her mind that she’d read about moments like this in romance books, where electricity sparked at the hero’s touch.
It was static electricity. That was all. She glanced down at his hand then back up into his face. “You can let me go,” she whispered, knowing he understood she was asking for more than that he remove his hand.
“Can’t do that, cher,” he whispered back.
Something inside her melted at his lightly accented words. The cher being the kicker. She heard the Cajun accent and that word daily from strangers, but spoken with his lush mouth… Her breath caught. What is wrong with me?
Knowing she had only seconds to extricate herself before Hugo caught her, she drew a deep breath and swung the tray she still held toward his shoulder.
Apparently, he wasn’t as concerned about the cleaning bill as Lemon-Dress. He caught her wrist, and the tray fell to the floor. Then, with a move she didn’t see, she found herself turned, her hands caught neatly inside one of his behind her back, and then he pushed her in front of him, escorting her toward the kitchen entrance.
“Fucking great,” she muttered under her breath.
“Must have been talkin’ to my ex,” he murmured near her ear.
“You heard that?” she squeaked, then recovered her voice to bite out, “Think highly of yourself, do you?”
“Just stating the facts, ma’am.” He reached past her, pushed on the swinging door, and then guided her with a gentle shove through the opening.
“No need to get rough,” she said, feeling a little breathless.
&n
bsp; He walked her through the kitchen. She ignored the stares that followed them, trying to think of how she would get out of her current pickle. Was she about to be arrested? She’d never been arrested before. Somehow, she didn’t think her parents would be too happy if they heard. She bit back a bitter laugh. As the family’s black sheep, they’d never had high expectations.
At the back door, his arm extended beyond her again. The door opened. With his hand still holding both of hers, he goose-stepped her through it then directed her toward the alley and the street beyond.
Once they reached the sidewalk, he let her go.
She turned, feeling wary. “So, what’s next?”
His gaze narrowed as he stared down at her. “What’s your name?”
She lifted her chin. “What? Want my number now, too, seeing as we’ve already moved past holding hands?”
He arched a dark brow. “Want me to have your number?”
That startled her. Was he serious?
“You know I’ll be looking for you if you’re thinking about trying to get back inside.”
She crossed her arms in front of her. “What’s yours?”
“My number or my name?” he asked, the corners of his lips curving.
She dropped her arms. “Look, are you going to arrest me?”
“What grounds do you think I have?”
“Trespassing?”
He wrinkled his nose. “That’d be a stretch. It’s not a private venue.”
“Just closed to the public because someone with money rented it,” she snapped back.
“Have a thing against people with money?”
One Hot Night: A New Orleans Nights Story Page 1