The NOLA Heart Novels (Complete Series)

by Maria Luis

  If she had to look at his tattoo for one more moment, she couldn’t be held responsible for what her crazed hormones might lead her to do.

  Though he didn’t give her an answer, his hand slid up on the doorframe and she took that as an invitation.

  She tried to focus on anything but him and, like she had in his office last week, she absorbed her surroundings to buy herself time. They’d entered the living room, which she was surprised to find wasn’t at all barren. A black sectional couch dominated the space and so did the large flat-screen TV on the opposite wall. A few pictures were strung up here and there, and there was even a fluffy area rug that enticed her to remove her heels and sink her toes into its softness. Pocket doors led into the dining room.

  It wasn’t quite cozy, but for a bachelor’s pad, Shaelyn had honestly expected much worse.

  Then she spotted a pair of jeans thrown over the back of the couch, a leather belt still strung through its loops, and she turned to Brady with an accusing look.

  “Really?” she demanded. She pointed her finger at the jeans so he knew exactly what she was talking about.

  He cocked an arrogant eyebrow. “What?”

  “You could have easily put on those jeans before you answered the door.” Another thought hit her and she stared at him in disgust. “Don’t tell me you took off the jeans before you answered the door.”

  His corded arms rose up in a classic what can you do pose that had her looking around for the closest object she could hurl at his beautiful body.

  He neither confirmed nor denied her accusation. “I figured you’d appreciate my method of welcoming you into my humble abode.”

  Appreciate it, her butt.

  “No,” she bit out with a shake of her head. “You wanted to scare me off. Don’t even bother denying it.”

  Brady shrugged. He snatched the jeans and pulled them up the length of his muscular legs, covering the goods. Ahem, part of the goods. His bare chest and that lickable tattoo were still available to be ogled. Oh, and there was the small fact that he’d left the metal button of his jeans deliciously unbuttoned.

  He looked like a walking ad for “hot male.”

  Don’t fall for his tricks.

  He turned away and headed for the next room without another word, leaving her to follow—and also to appreciate the sight of his broad shoulders, which tapered to a narrow, fit waist.

  It was going to be a long night.

  Brady listened to the sharp staccato of Shaelyn’s fuck-me heels hitting the kitchen tiles as he went to the refrigerator. In the last few weeks he’d grown re-accustomed to lust hitting him square in the gut each time they crossed paths. Finding her on his porch hadn’t been any different—he’d imagined her legs wrapped around his waist, and those sexy heels linked behind his back as he slid into her body.

  Then he’d remembered the way she’d rejected him, and Brady put a stop to the fantasies. He knew why she’d come over, and the reason had nothing at all to do with getting him into bed.

  He yanked open the fridge door with more force than necessary, scrubbing a hand over his face as he stared at his options. Bottles of unopened Abita beer and Irish Channel Stout sat on the top shelf like good little soldiers, despite the fact that Brady hadn’t reached for one in months. His was a job where vices had no place. A few years ago he might have come home and poured a shot of whiskey to stave off the edge. Not anymore.

  Brady knew too many good cops who couldn’t sleep—couldn’t erase the images staining their retinas—without something to wash away the stress.

  He stared sightlessly at the beer, fully aware that Shaelyn was watching him and probably wondering if he’d lost his mind. The answer to that was no, he hadn’t. Though the events of the last few nights were certainly pushing him in that direction.

  They’d caught their perpetrator this morning. A twenty-two year old male named Caleb Kemper, who had memorized his father’s gun safe code, and committed a little thievery while the old man was at work. The murders had been executed on the fly, because apparently Kemper liked to hear the kick of the .22 whenever he pulled the trigger. Another person had been killed yesterday—another male with dope in his pockets and money in his wallet.

  But it still didn’t add up. The four victims were synonymous across the board: men in their twenties and thirties, wallets filled with wads of cash, and drugs stashed inside plastic baggies in their pockets. Why them, if Kemper was only in it for the psychopathic kill? Why not the mother pushing her kid in the stroller, or the group of guys sitting on their porch, soaking up whatever breeze there was to be had in this godforsaken summer heat?

  Brady slammed his eyes shut as he gripped the refrigerator door handle.

  He’d spent days trying to break it all down, setting up press releases in the hope of luring the murderer out from his cave, visiting the victims’ families, carefully linking each fatality to a known drug ring in the area.

  And then he’d received a call early this morning from Caleb Kemper’s father. The man had noticed that his gun was missing from the safe. Having heard about the homicides on the 6 a.m. news, Kemper Sr. had phoned in. Caleb hadn’t been home for days.

  SWAT had found Caleb Kemper hiding out with his two girlfriends about three blocks from where most of the murders had occurred. He hadn’t even put up a fight when the handcuffs clinked shut around his wrists and he was brought in for questioning. Seated across the table from Brady, Kemper had admitted to everything. From the unconcealed excitement in the young man’s eyes, there was no reason to doubt that they’d found the person responsible for four senseless deaths.

  But, hell, it still didn’t add up, not to Brady. And not to the four people who were dead because some kid had been out for a fucking joyride.

  His fingers brushed a cool beer bottle. At the last moment, he switched direction and grabbed the gallon of milk.

  “Brady?” Shaelyn asked from behind him.

  Her voice was a balm to his frustration, just as it had been years earlier. He opened the cabinet over the sink and grabbed a pint glass, which he filled to the brim. After sticking the gallon back in the fridge, he positioned himself against the sink. “Yeah?”

  “Are you okay?”

  Not really. He wished they had the sort of relationship they’d enjoyed as kids. Shaelyn hadn’t only been his girlfriend; she’d also been his closest friend. His confidante. Brady wanted nothing more than to sit at his kitchen table and work through the jumbled mess in his head. Except that there were a few problems with that scenario: she didn’t trust him, and Brady had plans that didn’t involve an ex-girlfriend on the hunt for vengeance.

  His gaze went to her fuck-me heels. Yeah, Shaelyn Lawrence was a complication he just didn’t need.

  Knowing that she was waiting for a response, he said, “It’s been a long week.” Which was the understatement of the century.

  Her hazel eyes roved over his face, searching. “You do look like shit,” she finally said.

  An unexpected chuckle escaped him. He covered it up by drinking the milk. “And here I was thinking you’d been immobilized by my good looks.”

  He knew he’d struck too close to home when she made herself busy with yanking out a chair from the table and sitting down. She placed her purse on the table and defiantly folded her arms over her chest.

  He finished off the milk and put the empty glass in the sink. “Don’t worry,” he added casually, “my good looks aren’t contagious.”

  Satisfaction pierced him when her pretty pink lips parted. He resisted the urge to go to her and press his finger to her chin, so that she might close her mouth sometime in the next century.

  “You can be such an asshole, you know that?”

  Because Brady could never resist needling her, he winked. “Comes with the job description, sweetheart.”

  Her gaze turned green, murderous. Maybe he’d actually pushed her too far this time. Just as he went to apologize (again), the fire in her hazel eyes banked.

/>   Her curvy jean-clad legs crossed at the knees, and dammit if Brady’s gaze didn’t track the movement like a starving man after days-old scraps. His body was wholly aware of hers, in a way that should have pissed him off but only made him desperate for a single taste of her.

  One taste won’t be enough.

  Shaelyn brought him back to reality by clearing her throat. He plastered a smug grin on his face as if he’d intended for her to notice his blatant once-over appraisal. “Is this where I apologize for finding you attractive?”

  Brady wasn’t sorry at all for getting caught. He was only sorry that she seemed to be against giving into their mutual attraction.

  “So. Did you look up Tony Mardeaux?”

  And so the real reason for her visit came to light. Running a hand through his hair, Brady shoved it into the front pocket of his jeans. “I did.”

  When he didn’t provide more information than that, Shaelyn urged him on with a let-me-have-it wave of her hand. “And?” she prompted impatiently. “What did you find out?”

  If there was ever a time to crack open one of those beers, this was it. Instead Brady grabbed another glass from the cabinet, the milk from the fridge, and commenced with round two. He pointed the full glass in Shaelyn’s direction. “Want one?”

  She held up a hand and then dropped it back to her lap. “No, I’m okay.” She paused, the moment stretching out awkwardly as though she was unsure if she should say anything else. After a few seconds, she added, “Thank you, though.”

  He grunted. “No problem.”

  Thing is, Brady didn’t want to talk about Anthony Mardeaux. He understood that Shaelyn wanted to help her younger cousin; she wanted to be the one that her family turned to when they needed help. Through Brady, she could succeed with all of that. He just didn’t think that the truth would be what she wanted.

  Polishing off his glass, he wiped away the wisp of milk from his upper lip with the back of his hand. He needed to be smart about his next move, smarter than he’d been with the Caleb Kemper case.

  He placed the second glass in the sink and ran the water from the faucet into both empty glasses. Twisting around, he again resumed his stance against the cabinets. “Listen,” he said, “I’m gonna need some more information.”

  Shaelyn’s legs uncrossed and she leaned forward. “What do you mean, more information? I thought all you needed was his name.”

  He cringed. Realistically, all he needed was a name. It’s all he’d had when he had researched Ben Beveau, after all.

  Brady looked at Shaelyn, really looked at her. He allowed his gaze to trace over her curly hair, her almost-sheer white blouse, down over her jeans to those cheetah-print heels. She was naturally gorgeous. The expression on her face, though? The hope and worry mingling in her hazel eyes nearly undid him.

  The thought of delivering bad news—he just couldn’t do it. He needed more time. More time to wrap his head around what he’d discovered, and more time to figure out how he might explain why a Julian and Mardeaux reunion should probably never happen.

  Clearing his throat, he pushed away from the cabinets and took the seat opposite hers. “I’m going to need a picture or a birth date, Shae.”

  “That’s it?” Shaelyn fumbled with her purse. “I can’t promise you a picture, unfortunately. I’ll text Anna right now to see if she remembers Tony’s birthday.”

  Brady cursed under his breath and placed a hand over hers. Shaelyn stilled, and Brady let the heat of the physical contact wash over him for just one blissful moment. Then he pulled his hand back, breaking the connection.

  “You don’t have to ask right now,” he said, “just whenever you see her next.”

  Her hair fell forward to shield her features from his gaze as she bent over her phone. His hand itched to tuck those crazy curls behind her ear.

  Resolutely he kept both hands safely on his knees, where they belonged. They sure as hell didn’t belong anywhere on her. Not if he knew what was best for both of them. “Shae.”

  “I’m texting her right now.”

  “It’s okay if she doesn’t get back to you right away. I’ll keep looking.” As in, Brady planned to scourge the databases in hope that another Anthony Mardeaux existed somewhere in Southeast Louisiana.

  “Is there anything at all that you can tell me?” Shaelyn set her phone on the table and glanced in Brady’s direction. “I don’t know anything about Tony, but if you’ve got some questions, I can definitely ask Anna about them tomorrow at work.”

  Brady opened his mouth and then just as quickly clamped it shut.

  “Julian is really nervous and excited about the prospect of meeting him. He wants Tony to come to his first football game of the season.”

  If Brady had any say in the matter, Julian would never meet his biological father.

  Anthony Mardeaux was a Class-A criminal. The man’s track record was extensive, dating back to a few misdemeanors in high school but really revving up ten years ago when Tony had been twenty-three. Aggravated battery, theft, breaking and entering, possession of illegal firearms (once), and domestic abuse calls (twice) had landed Julian’s father in jail multiple times. Four times, Tony’s parents had posted bail. For the sixth offense, he’d done a year-and-a-half stint at Louisiana’s state penitentiary.

  It was like the man had gone to a buffet and decided to sample every option.

  A quick search of Anthony Mardeaux’s name had revealed more than Brady had ever wanted to find. And to hear that Julian was planning for his dad to come to his first football game . . . Brady was screwed. He could only put off the inevitable for so long. No way did he want to crush the hope in Shaelyn’s eyes, and he especially didn’t want to hurt Julian, even though he didn’t know the kid. But after learning about Mardeaux’s background, Brady saw nothing but disappointment in the road ahead.

  “Brady?”

  Jerking at the sound of Shae’s voice, he dropped his elbows to his knees and clasped his hands together. “Give me a few more days, okay?”

  “Sure, of course.” He heard the feet of her chair scrape closer before he saw one slender hand reach out to rest on his knee. A silver moon-shaped ring on her index finger shone under the florescent kitchen light. “I-I just want to say thank you for doing this. I’m not sure if I have yet.”

  Lifting his chin, his gaze sought out hers. “You did last week.”

  He watched her swallow hard, felt the hand on his knee squeeze imperceptibly. “You’re right, I did. I forgot.”

  This game he was familiar with. He grinned, dropping his voice to a husky murmur when he asked, “You distracted by something, Shae?”

  Though she rolled her eyes like she was over his excessive flirting, a small, hesitant smile lifted her lips. “If you’d put on a damn shirt, it wouldn’t be a problem.”

  “So you’re saying that you are distracted by me?”

  “I’m saying that modesty isn’t a bad thing.”

  Brady covered her hand with his, his thumb curling under her palm so they were almost holding hands. “Modesty is overrated, sweetheart—haven’t you heard?”

  His gaze flicked up to hers, just in time to catch the nervous swipe of her tongue along her bottom lip. He’d always heard the saying that time slows when something momentous is about to happen—and he’d always thought it was a load of crap. When he’d been a patrol officer, those moments when something big happened always sped by way too fast. One minute he was chasing a criminal through dark, vacant lots, and the next he had the suspect on the ground, handcuffed, as he recited the Miranda Rights from memory.

  If anything, those moments felt like a black hole. Sucked in during one second and spat out somewhere else in the next.

  But in this moment . . . . In this moment, the argument that time had the ability to somehow slow sounded like the damned smartest thing he’d ever heard. He watched Shaelyn study him, her hazel eyes soft as she looked to where their hands were clasped together. He felt the slightest tremble of her fingers ben
eath his. Heard the hitch in her breath when he turned her hand over and traced the shallow lifelines of her palm with his fingertips.

  It would be all too easy to pull her close and drop his lips to hers. All too easy to tug her curvy body onto his lap. All too easy to have her whimpering his name over and over within moments of first touching her.

  Except that he wouldn’t make the first move, not this time around. He’d done so last week in his office and look where that had gotten him. Nothing but his lips on her cheek and an expression on her face that suggested she’d been a half second away from vomiting.

  Nothing killed a guy’s erection quicker.

  No, he wouldn’t be kissing her first today. Didn’t mean he couldn’t help her along.

  Brady kept his gaze steady on Shaelyn’s face as he whispered his fingertips over the base of her palm to the sensitive flesh of her inner wrist. He traced small circles over her pulse, smiling when he saw a slight shiver rack her shoulders. His fingers flicked open the two delicate buttons at the base of her sleeve before sliding the gossamer fabric up to her elbow.

  “Brady?”

  He pressed his lips to the pulse at her wrist. “Yes?” He repeated the movement, his mouth sensually dragging over her exposed skin.

  Her only response was a ragged sigh that echoed in the otherwise silent kitchen. Lust speared him—the kind that if he didn’t ease would result in a bad case of blue balls.

  “Yes, Shae?” Another kiss, this one nearing the center of her forearm.

  Brady snapped his gaze up to her face. Her hazel eyes were all hot and smoky, and a pink blush colored her cheekbones. Jesus, she was beautiful. They stayed that way for what felt like an eternity, she with her sleeve rolled up and her gaze on his mouth, and he with his mouth hovering over her skin, waiting.

  In a gravelly tone he barely recognized as his, Brady whispered, “Tell me what you want.”

  Once more, her tongue darted out to wet her lips. “I-I don’t know,” she stammered.

  He laughed softly, dipping his head again to kiss her soft skin. Her hand twitched in his, like he’d hit a sensitive spot. “I think you do.”