Justin Ballard strode into the room, a huge smile on his face. “Well done, boys!”
Boys? She snorted but didn’t move, not wanting to draw any attention to herself. The sooner the “all clear” was given, the better. She’d be soooo out of there.
“Conrad said if it wasn’t for you two, this could have been a complete clusterfuck.” He shook his head. “We should not have been caught flat-footed like that.”
Thibaut shrugged. “They were pros. Likely ex-military. And they’d practiced, knew the layout, where the cameras were.”
“They had to have walked through the convention center and staked it out at some point,” Remy murmured.
Justin nodded. “The blond man your girl picked out, Bruce Seigel, posed as the head of security for the delegation from a bank out of Holland. He scoped it out weeks ago.” He turned to Remy. “Your chief over at the PD had a bit of a heads-up that something was going down. A call came into 911 from a very excited man saying the convention center had been taken by terrorists, but he hung up after he said he had to get back and get his partner out of the building.”
Stacia pulled the blanket she’d been given by someone closer around her body. That very excited male had likely been Emil, whom she hadn’t yet seen. The poor man was probably still waiting outside for her, beside himself with worry. She pushed up from her chair.
Justin glanced her way, followed by Thibaut, and, at last, Remy, whose frown was so fierce a shiver traveled up her spine. She cleared her throat. “That caller was probably my cameraman. I saw him try to distract the guards in the pavilion.”
“You were in the pavilion?” Remy said, his voice dead even.
She gave him a hard stare. “Noooo. I was on the mezzanine, looking through the railings at the front door.”
“Of course, you were.”
Thibaut’s mouth pursed. Justin’s eyebrows shot upward.
Remy raked a hand through his thick hair. “I better get her out to her news van.”
Justin gave a nod; his lips were pressed into a thin line. “I’m sure the detectives know where to find you two…”
Stacia lifted her chin, and as regally as someone who still wore clown makeup all over her face and was draped in a blanket could manage, she headed out of the room.
“So, you were able to phone Emil?” Remy asked from behind her once they were in the hallway.
“One of the jokers in the security room must have had to call his mama or his girlfriend,” she said over her shoulder. “The jammer was off for a few seconds.”
She made it to the escalator before she had to look behind her. “I couldn’t stay in that cupboard.”
He frowned but didn’t respond.
“It was dark and stuffy, and I couldn’t breathe.”
Still, he didn’t say a word. When she reached the bottom, she headed straight toward the front doors, pushing through cops and detectives and men in dark suits, who looked like they were trying to look busy, but they were all in her way. She halted for a second and stomped her foot.
Remy moved beside her, pressed his hand against the small of her back to propel her forward, and reached out to push people aside. “Make a path. We’re coming through.”
At the glass doors, she looked into the parking lot. The reporters no longer looked bored. A few she knew raised their eyebrows upon seeing her. How they recognized her, she couldn’t be sure. The moment Remy pushed open the doors, they began shouting questions.
“Miss Rice, were you in the ballroom when the terrorists attacked?”
She frowned. “They weren’t terrorists—”
“Make way,” Remy shouted over her. “Emil!”
She didn’t see Emil; she kept her head down while she was crowded against Remy by the throng of cameramen and reporters. Lights flashed all around her, blinding her. She was trying to keep it together, just needed to be alone for a second…
“Hey, Stace,” Emil said, suddenly in front of her.
Stacia gave a sob and launched herself against his chest. “My hero!”
Remy stood in the middle of the crowd, eyeing Emil, who shrugged and wrapped his arms around Stacia.
Emil turned with her, and together they made their way through the crowd, Emil cussing up a storm when someone didn’t get out of his way fast enough. Remy trailed behind them.
At last, they left behind the gaggle of press and made their way toward the van parked, once again, at the end of the lot.
“Hope I can drive out of here. They have tape across the entrance,” Emil said, glancing back at Remy.
“I have a badge. They’ll let us through.”
Emil raised his eyebrows, but kept Stacia close to his side as he hurried toward the newspaper van.
Remy felt…useless. As though he was a third wheel. Emil instinctively had known what she’d needed, a caring embrace, a quick exit. Even now, the other man was the one handing her up into the side-door of the van. Remy opened the front passenger door and climbed in.
After Emil made his way around the front and slid behind the wheel, he whispered, “I’ll drop her at her place before I return the van.”
Remy nodded. He wasn’t sure how he was getting home, but he wasn’t leaving her alone until after he’d figured out what to say to her to make her look at him with something other than accusation and anger in her eyes.
The drive to her apartment in the French Quarter was made in a silence that stretched too long for comfort. Emil and Stacia seemed to communicate with their eyes looking into the rearview mirror. He felt left out of the conversation.
The quiet gave him time to think about what had happened. While he tried to put himself into her shoes, he couldn’t get past the moment when she’d approached two armed men, pretending to be drunk, out of his mind. She could have been killed. And she had injured herself, although how badly, he didn’t have a clue.
So, he hadn’t asked either, had he? He’d been coming off an adrenaline high, filled with rage. He’d thought it better to keep to himself, to ignore her presence, because he wouldn’t have been able to control what might have come out of his mouth.
He’d been scared shitless. For the first time in his life, he’d felt true terror. He hadn’t been able to keep it together the second he’d realized she was in danger. His own brother had had to restrain him from making things worse. Even then, he hadn’t taken those long seconds to think before he’d acted. The second Thibaut had released him, he’d bolted out the door, heading straight toward the guy nearest to her, ready to kill him.
Perhaps he’d scared her. She’d seen him lose control, knew what he was capable of doing now. Maybe she hadn’t flung herself against his chest because he’d become a monster in her eyes.
Remy lifted a hand and stared at it. His knuckles were raw and swollen. While he’d washed off the blood, the evidence of his blind rage was right there for her to see. Maybe she didn’t want the hands that had beaten a man into a bloody pulp to touch her...ever again.
Which posed a problem for him. He felt things for this woman—beyond lust, which had been there in spades since the first moment he’d met her. He liked her feisty, stubborn, smart-as-a-whip self. Adored the moments when she let down her smartass façade and allowed him to see her vulnerable. He wanted to cherish that woman. Worship her. Love her…in every way a man like him could. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks. He was in love with Stacia Rice.
How…when had that happened? Dear Jesus, they’d only known each other a few damn days. It was crazy, right?
And was it too late to tell her all that?
Sighing, he settled back in his seat, sure that when the moment came to tell her how he felt, he’d fuck it up.
Stacia shivered in the thin blanket. She knew she was likely experiencing the aftermath of an adrenaline high. She’d read about them. When she’d ziplined in Mexico, she’d thought she knew what it felt like. This was different. She felt as though she wanted to puke or cry…probably, both. Most of all, she w
anted to be held.
And not by Emil. Likely, he was still a little shocked by her flinging herself at him, but he’d been a substitute for the man she really wanted to wrap his arms around her. However, her stubborn self would never let him know that.
Emil glanced again into the rearview mirror. His eyebrows were raised. They were getting close to her place, and he was likely wanting to know if he should drop off Remy along with her. She wrinkled her nose then nodded.
When he stopped the van, Remy sighed and opened his door. Then he came to hers and slid open the side door. He held out his hand to help her down.
She was reluctant to accept his help, because she wasn’t sure she could keep it together if he touched her, but she placed her hand inside his.
Again, that telltale spark sent a thrill through her body. She stepped down to the pavement.
Turning, she gave Emil a little wave. “Thanks again, Emil. Your little diversion—it was a very brave thing to do. Your mama will be proud.”
Emil grinned. “See you soon, cher.”
Remy didn’t let go of her hand as he escorted her to the apartment building door. “Your key,” he said softly.
She handed him her purse, because her fingers were trembling and she’d only drop the damn thing. He fumbled with the latch and opened her purse. With her key in his hand, he opened the door and then pushed it, standing back to allow her inside first.
The trip up the stairs was made in silence.
Again, at her door, he used her key to let them both inside.
He strode to the counter separating the living area from the kitchen and set her purse there. Then he turned slowly and stared. “Do you want me to go?”
Stacia dragged in a deep breath and shook her head. She couldn’t speak. The back of her throat burned, and tears were quickly filling her eyes.
His face blurred, but she watched as he moved toward her and his arms opened. She leaned against his chest and clutched his tux jacket, burying her nose against his silk shirt. She inhaled his spicy fragrance and let go a sob.
Here, she felt safe. In his arms. Breathing him in.
She should tell him that, but it would only go to his big, fat head.
When his arms tightened around her, she heard his deep sigh, and suddenly, she knew she wasn’t the only one feeling this way—feeling this wave of intense relief that they were both here, safe, whole…together.
Blinking away tears, she leaned back her head to gaze into his eyes. “I’m glad you don’t have any holes in this suit.”
He gave her a crooked smile. “I’m not going to spank you.”
Her mouth twitched then stretched. She realized a person could both grin and want to burst into tears at the same time. He’d said just the right thing to help her keep her pride. Glancing at him from beneath the fringe of her eyelashes, she said, “The only spanking I’ll ever allow will be the sexy kind.”
“Good to know,” he murmured. Then he smoothed his hands upward and framed her head between his large palms. “I’m sorry you saw me like that. Out of control.”
She shook her head. “I get it. I’d have used my heels to poke out his eyes if he’d shot you.”
“Bloodthirsty. Just another thing I like about you.” Then his expression turned serious, and his gaze bored into hers. “I like a lot of things about you, Stacia Rice, but I think…” He drew a breath then let it go. “I know…I’m fallin’ for you.”
She didn’t know how she kept herself from tackling him to the floor right then and there. Instead, with some remaining vestige of decorum, she said, “Well, then…maybe, we should take this discussion to the bedroom, Detective Cyr…?”
He raised an eyebrow and pulled away his hands. “After you, cher.”
Emil’s use of the word hadn’t made her insides flutter and clench, however, she found it strangely difficult to turn away from Remy and move without her body melting to the floor.
Once inside her bedroom, she glanced quickly around, glad she’d made her bed. Happy that the clothing she’d tried on and discarded earlier had been stuffed back into the closet. Then she glanced into the mirror and let out a cry.
She glared at Remy in the reflection “Why didn’t you tell me I looked like this? People took my picture! My mother’s going to see this!” When Remy laughed, she turned and swatted his chest. “It’s okay for you! You look deliciously…rumpled. I look like a clown who just stepped out of a hurricane!”
Her makeup was mostly rubbed off. Her lipstick smeared. Her cute jester’s hat was askew, and her hair was spilling unevenly from beneath it. She let out another groan and hurried to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
When she was inside, she avoided the glass and reached for a washcloth to remove the remnants of her harlequin makeup. As she went through the process of cleaning herself up, she realized the man must indeed be in love with her not to have turned and run at seeing her like this.
No wonder her drunken act had worked so well.
Still castigating herself for never checking her mirror, she stripped to her underwear and brushed out her hair. It was the best she could do. She’d have to work really, really hard to erase the memory of her appearance from the man waiting for her in the next room.
Chapter 13
When Stacia walked into the bedroom, it was to find Remy stretched across her bed in all his naked glory. All six-feet-something of lean, muscled…delicious glory.
“Oh, goody,” she said. “You saved me some bother.”
He patted the mattress beside him. “Hurry it up.”
She arched an eyebrow. “I’m not sure I like your tone, sir.”
“Baby, I’m hangin’ on here by a thread. Now, move that sweet ass over here while you still have a chance to move under your own steam.”
“That’s supposed to be an incentive?” she drawled.
He gripped his cock and gave it a long slow stroke. “That work better?”
Feeling light of spirit for the first time in hours, she laughed and ran to the bed, hopping up on it and bouncing beside him.
“You have too many clothes on,” he said, eyeing her bra.
She leaned toward him, unhooked the fastener in the front of her bra, and then made a little shimmy motion while she shrugged it off her arms, which made her boobs quiver—something she knew he loved watching.
His hands reached for her breasts and cupped them. His thumbs flicked the hardened tips. “Do you like those lacy panties?”
Grinning, she smoothed them over her hips and down her legs. When she lay down beside him, he rolled to his side, so close to her now that his cock pulsed against her belly. She reached for it and gave it another long stroke. “I like so many things about you, Remy Cyr,” she said, feeling breathless.
“Think you’ll like me more when I’m inside you?” he growled.
“I think I’ll love you when you’re balls deep.” Then she let out a high-pitched eep when he rolled on top of her and pushed apart her legs. The second the fat head of his cock pushed against her pussy, she dug her head into the mattress beneath her and raked her fingernails over his ass. “Fast, Remy. All the way up.”
He thrust inside her then pushed his forearms beneath her knees and pulled them up before settling deeper inside her. He bent his head toward hers and kissed her, his tongue pushing against her mouth until she opened and let it glide inside, just like he was doing below, moving in a slow, steady rhythm while he heated up her slick channel.
She raked her nails up his back then back down and dug them into his buttocks. When he moved his lips from her mouth to glide along her cheek, she nuzzled him, liking the scrape of his evening whiskers. “I’ve never felt like this,” she whispered. “I wish this could go on forever.”
“I love fucking you, Stacey. Love the way you feel inside. Love your tits scraping my chest, your nails diggin’ holes in my ass.”
“Sorry,” she said, easing her grip. But not really sorry. She couldn’t get close enough; she wanted
to feel his heart beat against her chest.
They moved together, their breathing growing strained as they climbed that precipice together, moaning as they neared it.
“I want this every night,” he said, his hips driving harder.
“I want you beside me when I wake up. Every morning.”
He released her legs and pulled out. Then he rolled her to her side and settled behind her. His cock drove up inside her again while a hand found a breast and fingers slid into the top of her sex to rub her clit.
She raised her thigh and tilted back her hips, wanting him deeper, loving the way he snuggled her against his chest. His mouth kissed her shoulder, her ear, her cheek. “Come with me, cher. Come now.”
Stacia cried out and stiffened against him. He grunted, and she felt the warmth of his release as it spurted inside her. When his movements slowed and her breathing eased, they lay together, drifting in a warm, sheltered place.
“Love you,” she whispered.
“I love you.”
The days following the attack on the convention passed in a happy haze. Stacia survived the embarrassment of the photograph of her leaving the convention building, but only because commenters on the newspaper’s website swooned over Remy’s fierce expression. He’d looked like a man desperate to see her safe. Yes, she’d secretly agreed. The man was well worth a little smudged makeup and a bad hair day.
Her own story, her personal account from inside the center, had been a resounding success and was carried by larger papers across the U.S. Winston had praised her attention to detail, her heroism, even her honesty at describing her fear. Emil was lauded for his heroism, too. They’d both been promoted from the fluffy social section of the paper. Winston wanted more in-depth personal accounts of people who’d survived harrowing experiences, and he knew she was the one to write that sort of piece.
Even her father seemed to look at her with a grudging respect. Although her mother had rolled her eyes and said, “Couldn’t you have taken five seconds to fix your makeup, dear?” But she’d given her a big hug before the Sunday family dinner, where her siblings, all home for once, peppered her throughout the meal with questions about her experience and her new man.
One Hot Night: A New Orleans Nights Story Page 10