Michael: The Defender

by JoAnn Ross

  5

  TO HER AMAZEMENT, Lorelei not only finished off the French fries, but the slaw as well. And she also only managed an impotent complaint when Michael had called down and ordered two servings of bread pudding.

  “If I keep eating like this, the wardrobe woman’s going to kill me,” she said on a moan that was part regret and part pleasure.

  “So you run a little more in the morning,” he said with a shrug, enjoying the sight of her tongue licking the caramel whiskey sauce off the back of the spoon.

  She wasn’t surprised he knew about her morning exercise routine. A routine she’d stopped when the letters had escalated, opting instead for the safety of dancing along with an aerobics tape in her living room. “I’d have to run all the way to Baton Rouge and back to work this off.”

  “It’s the Big Easy,” he reminded her with a shrug. “Laissez les bons temps rouler.”

  “That’s easy for you to say, since I have a feeling that it’s not often that you let those good times roll,” she said, hitting remarkably close to home for someone who hadn’t seen him in over a decade. “Besides, you’re not the one who’s supposed to squeeze into a stripper’s outfit”

  “A stripper’s outfit?” He frowned even as the idea proved personally appealing. It was bad enough that she sashayed around the set in lingerie. Once her stalker got a look at her in pasties and a G-string, all hell would break loose.

  “If two Band-Aids and a sequined triangle the size of an eye patch can be called an outfit,” she said.

  Michael made a mental note to check the shift assignments. It’d be a shame to have Shayne—who was nearly a married man, after all—on duty during the shooting of this upcoming scene.

  “I thought you were supposed to be the heroine. The good girl.”

  “I am. But my character goes undercover as a stripper to research a character in her book.”

  “And ends up dead in the bayou.”

  “You’ve read the script?”

  “It seemed to be a wise precaution. Since the movie’s already a play within a play, I figured your stalker could have decided to add another layer.”

  “Like an onion,” she muttered.

  “Exactly. Stalkers tend to be layered guys. They may be nuts, but there’s a lot going on inside their heads. Sometimes you just have to be patient and peel away a layer at a time.”

  She could see him doing exactly that. He’d driven her crazy with his unyielding patience when they’d been teenage sweethearts. Obviously, his temperament, like forged steel, had only hardened over the years.

  Although he’d insisted on keeping the drapes drawn and her internal clock was a little out of whack from her trip east, Lorelei sensed that it was getting late. The wind was kicking up; she could hear the fronds of the banana trees in the courtyard below beginning to scrape against the windows. Sulphurous flashes behind the closed draperies suggested lightning.

  “A storm’s blowing in from the Gulf,” Michael said, as if reading her mind.

  Now that she was aware of the weather, Lorelei realized that not all her nervousness was due to Michael’s presence. She could practically taste the electricity in the artificially cooled air of the luxurious suite. Although she’d been born and bred in New Orleans, delta thunderstorms had always made her jumpy. Like Maggie in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.

  “That’s all Eric needs. More delays.”

  “It should blow over by morning.” His eyes gentled as he took in her renewed tenseness. “Remember that night the hurricane that had been forecast for Florida, hit here instead?”

  “And we had to spend the night in your uncle’s cabin.” The memory, like so many others involving this man, was both good and bad. But mostly good. “I was scared to death.”

  “Me, too.” He smiled reminiscently and leaned back in the chair, stretching out his long legs.

  “You were frightened?” He’d hidden it so well, calming her, drying her near hysterical tears, assuring her that he’d keep her safe. Which, of course, he had.

  “That was one hell of a storm,” he reminded her.

  “Not as bad as the one that hit when we got home.”

  “I put you in danger taking you out there that weekend. Your dad had every right to want to knock my block off.”

  “Dad would never hit anyone. Violence is too undignified. Although I would have preferred an old-fashioned licking to being grounded for the rest of the summer.”

  “You and me, both, sweetheart.”

  Those had been the longest, most frustrating weeks of his life. They’d also been one of the few times when he’d purposefully gone against everything he’d been taught about truth and honor and discipline. There had been ways around Dr. Longstreet’s edict. And for the rest of that long hot lonely summer Michael had done his utmost to discover every one.

  “I wonder if that big oak is still beneath your window?”

  She sighed. “It got root rot a few years ago. Mother wrote to tell me that they spent a fortune on tree surgeons trying to save it, but it was too far gone.”

  “Too bad.” His warm smile hinted at intimate memories.

  “I still can’t believe you, of all people, did that—climbed into my bedroom all those nights.”

  “Hey, don’t ever underestimate the power of teenage male hormones,” he said with a quick grin. “The truth is, Lorelei, I was crazy about you. Enough to risk your father’s wrath to be with you.”

  The conversation brought back, in vivid detail, all those long hot, silent petting sessions. Lorelei would never regret the things they’d done. There was also a part of her that wished Michael had been willing to carry their physical closeness to the inevitable conclusion.

  “You told me I’d become an obsession,” she reminded him.

  They’d been lying on her bed, stuffed animals tossed to the floor. She’d been wearing the bottom of a pair of pink polka-dot baby doll pajamas. He’d been clad in a pair of faded jeans that contrasted with his bare chest, tanned to a deep mahogany by a summer spent working on the docks.

  The sight, she recalled all too well, had made her dizzy then. The memory made her a little dizzy now.

  “You had.” Obsession. The word hovered in the thickening air. “I would have walked through the flames of hell to be with you back then, Lorelei, and welcomed the agony. Which is why I know—at least somewhat—what’s going through your stalker’s mind. You’re all he can think about... day or night.

  “Which is why,” Michael assured her, pushing himself out of the chair, “he’ll slip up. His concentration’s shot. He can’t keep his distance much longer.”

  Lorelei stood up as well. “I’m not certain that’s much of a comfort.”

  “It should be. Because as soon as he comes out of the shadows, we’ll get him.” He took hold of both her upper arms. “And you can get on with your life.”

  At this moment, with his hands holding her, and his eyes warm and reassuring, Lorelei didn’t really want to go anywhere. She was quite comfortable where she was, thank you. In fact, she wouldn’t really mind if he were to draw her just the slightest bit closer....

  She heard him murmur something and was certain the word must have come from her own fevered wishes.

  “Excuse me? Did you say—”

  “I said, ‘Bed.”’ Although he wasn’t a man to reveal emotion, a flush rose from the collar of the navy polo shirt. “Your schedule shows an early shooting schedule. And you’ve already lost two hours coming from Pacific Coast time.”

  “You’re right.” She suddenly felt vastly tired. “Are you going to stay here?”

  “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  “But I thought there were two bedrooms.”

  “With this living room between them. I’m willing to give you as much privacy as I can. But I’m going to have to stay close, too.”

  Like just on the other side of the door. The thought was far too appealing for comfort.

  “Well, then. I guess I’ll just go to bed.”


  “That’s probably a good idea. I’ll arrange a wake-up call. Do you want to run in the morning? Or if you’d rather use the gym on the roof, I can arrange for us to have it to ourselves.”

  She’d been away from home for a very long time. Too long, Lorelei had realized as they’d driven to the French Quarter from the airport. She’d missed the city that was so unlike any other in America. More than she would have expected.

  “If this storm blows over, I think I’d like to go running. If that’s okay with you.”

  “Sure.” His shrug drew her gaze to his broad shoulders again. And that pistol he hadn’t taken off, reminding her that although they were getting along much better than she would have expected, this was not a social visit. “I run every morning. It’d be nice to have company.”

  That settled, Lorelei went into the adjoining bedroom, closing the door between them. She washed her face, brushed her teeth, then fell into the comfortable king-size bed. The stress of traveling, plus the unexpected appearance of Michael in her life had left her so exhausted that she was certain she’d fall asleep the moment her head hit the goose down pillows.

  But instead, although her body was fatigued, her mind was wide awake. As she lay in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling, Lorelei found herself reliving, in Technicolor detail, every moment of their past life together.

  Outside the heavily draped window, the wind kicked up, its lonely wail adding a counterpoint to the sounds of sirens in the Quarter. From the other side of the door, she heard a faint murmur of voices and decided that Michael must be watching television. One of those adult movies she’d seen advertised on the cardboard flyer atop the TV? she wondered. She rolled over and pounded her pillow with renewed force as the idea caused her nerve endings, which lately had only experienced fear, to spark and fire with something much more dangerous. And fiendishly hotter.

  The cotton sheets were as smooth as silk. But when her overwrought mind imagined them to be Michael’s wide rough hand, she rolled over again, onto her back. One of the pillows slid to the floor, but not before noisily knocking her water glass off the carved bedside table.

  The door between them flew open. “What happened?”

  “Nothing.” The flickering glow from the television cast him in shadowed relief. He’d taken his shirt off, Lorelei noticed. And his feet were bare. When she noticed that he’d also unfastened the top button of his jeans, she felt like stuffing the sheet into her mouth to keep from moaning. “I just dropped my water glass.”

  She didn’t know if he’d heard her. All his attention was on her body, clad in a peach satin nightshirt. Lorelei could feel it clinging to her aroused, hot damp skin and wondered if Michael could see her hardened nipples.

  He could.

  “Well, then.” Michael dragged his eyes back to her face. “If you’re sure you’re all right.”

  She tried to answer, but the words had clogged in her throat. She swallowed and tried again. “Positive,” she managed to reply.

  “Okay.” He dragged those long fingers she’d imagined creating havoc on her body through his jet hair, ruffling it in a way that made her want to press his head against her aching breasts. He looked at the pillow and top sheet that had ended up along with the glass on the floor. “Are you hot? I can adjust the air-conditioning.”

  “Really, Michael, I’m fine. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

  His shoulders moved in a negligent shrug. “I was just watching TV. The news,” he elaborated, in case she might think he’d been watching one of those dirty movies on her tab.

  “Have they predicted the weather yet?”

  “Showers through the night. Clearing by morning.”

  “That’s good news. For Eric.”

  “Yeah. I guess so.”

  They stared at each other for another long minute.

  “Good night, Lorelei.” His voice was gruff.

  “Good night, Michael.” Hers was soft.

  It took a Herculean effort, but Michael managed, just barely, to keep from slamming the door between them. He flung himself on the too short couch, his skin burning as if some maniac had put matches beneath it, arid tried to concentrate as a very pregnant Desiree announced the birth of a new baby leopard at the Audubon Zoo.

  The news anchor looked lovely, as always, although his practiced eye could see the faint purple shadows beneath her eyes that the heavy studio makeup could not quite cover up. She was obviously tired, which wasn’t any surprise, considering her condition. Roman shouldn’t let her work, Michael decided. Then laughed out loud at the thought of anyone—even Desiree Dupree Falconer’s strong-willed husband—trying to tell her what to do.

  Besides, he reminded himself, although they were still close friends, Desiree wasn’t his business any longer. Which was just as well. Since the luscious female lying nearly naked in the bed just a few feet away on the other side of that door represented more of a problem than Michael had tackled during all his years on the force. He decided with grim humor that it’d be easier facing down a gangbanger with an Uzi in the projects than spend ten nights locked up in this hotel suite with America’s sexy Ice Goddess.

  Lorelei heard his deep rumbling laugh and hoped it wasn’t directed at her. Whenever she’d fantasized about coming back to her home town, she’d thought about returning as a grand success, the type of glamorous, Hollywood star who ate men who dumped them—even if it was years ago—for breakfast.

  She hadn’t expected that flash of hormonal excitement she felt at the airport. Or worse, the return of the feeling she’d only ever experienced with him, a slow warmth that felt comforting and exciting all at the same time.

  She didn’t have time for this. She still had some of her most difficult scenes to film in a movie that was in serious trouble. She was being stalked by some crazed fan and although her parents were in Rome, they’d be returning before Lorelei left town, which meant that she’d probably end up in yet another argument about what they still considered her inappropriate career choice.

  She didn’t have time for an affair. She didn’t have the emotional stamina to fall in love.

  As she lay on her back in the too wide bed, listening to the sad and lonely patter of the rain against the window, Lorelei decided she was going crazy.

  The rain, instead of cooling things down, only added to the humidity, and as she ran through the awakening streets of the French Quarter the following morning, Lorelei felt as if she were slogging through a wall of water. She was grateful to Michael for setting a reasonable pace; although she prided herself on staying in shape, she never could have kept up with his long muscular legs.

  She allowed a stop at the Café du Monde, vowing to stick to coffee, but ended up devouring an order of beignets.

  “If I keep this up, it’s not going to be the good times rolling, but me,” she moaned.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Desire had claws as Michael watched her lick the snowy white sugar off her fingertips and forced down an urge to put those manicured pearl fingers into his own mouth. “It’s a sacrilege to come to New Orleans and forgo the food.”

  “There’s just too much temptation,” she muttered, watching a tray of steaming hot cocoa pass by.

  “You called that one right.” Tossing his paper napkin on the table, Michael stood up. He would have preferred keeping her to himself all day long, but he wasn’t being paid a thousand bucks a day—plus expenses—to fantasize about sprinkling powdered sugar all over her body, then licking it off. “We’d better get back. There’s just time for a shower before you’re due in makeup.”

  She could have sat there all day, watching the crowds, the little boy tap-dancing for change on the corner, the ornate white paddle boats cruising down the wide brown Mississippi along with all the other river traffic that had been the lifeblood of the delta for centuries.

  But although some actors might be hedonists who caused difficulties and delays on a set, Lorelei was scrupulous about showing up on time, her lines memorized,
ready to film. She stifled a sigh and left the bustling outdoor café.

  DAMN HER! He’d thought Lorelei was different. He’d believed that she wasn’t a slut, like all the other gorgeous women in Hollywood. Despite the outward packaging that practically screeched sin, he’d come to believe that deep down, where it really mattered, Lorelei Longstreet had a kind and sweet heart. In fact, there’d even been those occasions, when he’d watched the pale pink blush of roses bloom in her cheeks that he’d managed to convince himself she might even be a little shy.

  He’d followed her this morning, watching her run in those baggy shorts that only made her slender legs appear even more enticing. One time, risking detection but unable to resist, he’d cut through Pirate’s Alley, then stood in a doorway as she passed, close enough that if he’d wanted he could have reached out and touched those magnificent breasts that were bouncing so delightfully beneath that damp white oversize T-shirt.

  The man, of course, would have stopped him. That huge beast that had been hovering over her like some overprotective police dog since she’d first arrived at the airport. He’d suspected, after the visit from the L.A. detective, that they might hire a bodyguard. He’d been expecting that, and although the unwelcome barrier annoyed him, he’d come to the conclusion that he could easily work around it. He was, after all, a clever man. A resourceful man. Everyone said so.

  Except his mother. His brow furrowed as he thought about that harridan who’d made his life a living hell for so many years. Blood began to pulse in his temple, threatening to blow his head apart. That was the way his father had died. A stroke. Although she wasn’t prosecuted, the man knew that his father’s death had been murder. She’d killed him, pure and simple by making him lose his temper with her constant carping and criticizing.

  And when her husband was buried, she’d turned her tormenting attention to her son, trying her best to destroy him.

  But he’d proven stronger than his father. More daring. And now she was the one lying in the ground, dead and buried and good riddance to bad rubbish, that’s what he always said.