by Nina Bruhns
Her high heels clicked a sharp tattoo on the cobblestones as she hurried to the front gate and let herself out. His body was still shooting off sparks from the brief contact with hers—and from the sight of her shapely bottom swaying back and forth as she ran from him.
Lord have mercy.
"See you tonight, chère," he called after her, perversely amused when the gate smacked shut behind her with a clang, that reverberated in the small courtyard like a gunshot.
He stood there for a full minute, gazing after her like seven kinds of idiot, before giving himself a swift inner kick in the head.
Dieu, the ringing in his ears must be seriously affecting his brain. Or maybe it was the lingering scent of that damned jessamine perfume paralyzing his ability to think rationally. He wiped the grin from his face.
What the hell had gotten into him? He couldn't afford to get distracted by a million-dollar set of legs, or lips that looked as if they could send him into orbit without half trying. He had work to do. And being attracted to this woman had no place in it.
He grabbed his notebook from where he'd stashed it in the stairwell along with his shirt, which he quickly slipped over his T-shirt and holster, and sprinted after her. The plan was to tail her to her office again, keeping a respectable distance between them. A professional distance. Making sure Fox didn't show up.
That is, hoping Fox would show up.
He caught up to her on Toulouse. Following as closely as he dared, he gave himself a silent chewing out. Sure, on paper she was exactly the kind of woman he usually went for—fast, easy and fun, with no strings attached. The kind with imagination enough not to mind his slight eccentricity about being touched and the … complications … it engendered. The kind of woman it didn't matter if you could trust because you never got involved deeply enough for trust to be an issue.
But Muse Summerville was strictly off-limits. She was a means to an end, period. Getting involved with her, hell, even flirting with her, would be a big mistake. It would jeopardize everything.
Wouldn't it?
Mesmerized, he watched the hem of that dress she was almost wearing skip back and forth along the tops of her dream-inspiring thighs as she hurried down the street.
But what if Fox never showed up? She might be able to tell him where the creep was hiding out. And questions about her boyfriend's whereabouts would seem more natural coming from a potential rival for her attentions.
Under the circumstances it made sense to try to get close to her. Moving in on Fox's territory might even make him turn up quicker, if the hood got wind of it. Suddenly getting to know her better struck him as a damned fine idea.
The fact that his body still hummed with electricity where it had brushed hers had absolutely nothing to do with it.
Pas rien. Nope, nothing at all.
* * *
Grace hurried down Toulouse Street, putting as much distance as possible between herself and Creole Levalois as quickly as possible. She didn't know what outraged her more, his transparent attempt to shock her by openly carrying a gun, or his audacity in drinking from her mug.
Goose bumps shivered down her spine as she recalled the way he'd drawn his tongue along the rim, licking up a last, glistening drop of liquid, gazing down at her with those glittering black eyes. She'd known exactly what he was thinking.
Because she was thinking it, too.
Lord, the man was an iron-clad menace.
The fine hairs on her arms stood on end, and she picked up her pace. He was close. His presence in the very air around her was almost tangible. Potent and male. Dangerous. Prowling up behind her like a wolf stalking its prey.
She fought a shiver. Now she knew how Muse must have felt. But unlike Muse, she had no intention of letting this man intimidate her. She walked faster.
In her haste, her high heel caught on a crack in the sidewalk, and she gave a yelp, about to go flying. A strong hand gripped her elbow, and she was pulled against a hard, masculine body.
"Careful there, chère."
Him!
Instead of regaining her footing, she felt even more off balance. His chest was broad and his arms were strong as they banded around her, preventing her from falling. Her mind dizzied at how incredibly … good he felt.
This wasn't right. She should be terrified. The man was armed and following her.
And she was terrified.
Terrified by her traitorous body's willing response to him. Terrified by the knowledge that this was not the blond man who had stalked her sister—he was all her own. Terrified that all she wanted was to sink farther into his warm embrace and be held close until the silly trembling in her knees ceased.
She tore herself from his grasp and glared up at him. "Are you following me?" she demanded, brushing irritatedly at the spot where his fingers had circled her arm.
A grin sneaked across his mouth. The harsh hollows and angles of his face transformed into a landscape of mischievous valleys and crinkles. He shrugged. "Nice mornin' for a walk."
She blinked. Mercy, how could a man look so dangerous one minute and so innocent the next?
Innocent? Yeah, right. She took a step back, eyeing the conspicuous bulge below his left armpit.
Seeing the direction of her gaze, he leaned in and whispered. "Don' worry, I make it a habit not to shoot anyone before they've had their first cup of coffee. Doesn' seem polite, somehow."
She scowled. "Very funny."
He chuckled. "Hey, I'm a cop, remember?"
"Yeah, and I'm Little Miss Muffett."
A rowdy group of tourists jostled by on the sidewalk, heading for the twenty-four-hour bars on Bourbon Street. After they'd passed, his shoulders notched down almost imperceptibly, and she realized he'd probably been expecting her to stop them for help.
She probably should have. In fact, it was a fair mystery why the thought hadn't occurred to her.
"What do you want?" she demanded again. Just in case her judgment had gone out the window along with her good sense—after all, a box of black hair dye might cost all of two bucks—she added, "You've been following me for weeks. Why?"
His brows shot up. "Weeks?"
"That innocent routine doesn't fool me for a second. You've got one minute to explain or I start screaming." She looked at her watch to emphasize her point.
That ought to shake him out, one way or another. If by some miracle he was Muse's stalker and had information about her movements last week or her disappearance, Grace needed to know. Now.
His eyes narrowed. "Who's following you?"
She sent him a withering glare. "You are." And gave her watch another pointed look. "Forty-five seconds."
"Have you called the police?"
Now there was a trick question if ever she'd heard one. She chose to ignore it. "Thirty seconds."
"Non?" No?
"Twenty-five seconds."
"Now, why would someone like you be afraid of the cops?" He tilted his head, his piercing black eyes searched her face. "Unless you're hiding something? Or doin' something illegal."
"You're the one who's hiding something," she stated, and abruptly decided to start walking again.
"I've got a permit," he said, catching up to her. "Want to see it?"
That roguish grin was starting to annoy her. "You're completely obnoxious," she informed him.
He chuckled and gave her another one of those not-so-innocent looks. "I guess we can rule out hooker," he said. "Despite the dress."
She stopped dead and turned to glare at him, hands on her hips. "What's wrong with my dress?"
He looked her over leisurely, thoroughly, from the top of her head to the tips of her wobbling shoes. "Not a damn thing I can see."
Heat flooded from her cheeks clear down to her knees. It had inadvertently slipped her mind that she was wearing one of Muse's slinky outfits. Sputtering, she spun on a toe and resumed walking. "I'm being stalked by a Neanderthal," she muttered.
"Hey, I resent that," he protested with a hand
over his heart. "I am no stalker."
She rolled her eyes. The man was truly impossible. And miles too impudent to actually be a stalker. Despite her irritation, she relaxed a trifle.
"Have lunch with me and I'll prove it."
"Sorry, I'm busy," she told him succinctly.
He gave her a Gallic shrug. It wasn't until after he'd walked her the rest of the way to Leavy, Dell and Roland, making seemingly innocent conversation the whole way, and she'd finally escaped into Muse's office and closed the door gratefully behind her, that she realized he'd never answered her question. If he wasn't the stalker, why was he following her?
She let out a groan. Just great.
He obviously thought she was her sister. She had to find out if he knew anything about Muse. Which meant that regardless of how much she wanted to avoid Creole Levalois and his dark, sultry eyes, she had no choice.
She had to talk to the man just one more time.
Chapter 3
Blowing out a breath, Grace set her purse and briefcase on the desk in Muse's office.
She really had to focus. She couldn't allow herself to be sidetracked by Creole Levalois's undeniable charm or his even more undeniably gorgeous body. Or the way he made her own body tingle with an awareness she hadn't felt in years … since the last time she'd fallen for the wrong man.
Not that she was falling for him. Not a chance on God's green earth. Heavens, the man was nothing but trouble. Trouble with a big, huge capital T.
A soft knock on the door brought her disagreeable thoughts to a halt. "Grace? Is that you?"
Grateful for the interruption, she greeted the man who poked his head through the door, "Robert, come in. Yes, it's me." It was Robert Dell, Muse's boss.
The first thing she'd done yesterday morning was to come to the midsize law firm of Leavy, Dell and Roland to alert Muse's employers to the situation. Muse worked as a paralegal, mainly hunting down legal citations and case law for the three senior partners. Everyone had been surprised when Grace appeared at the office asking questions. Apparently Muse had never mentioned a sister.
Robert Dell strolled into Muse's office, his gaze skimming over the desk and computer before settling on Grace. "I take it she hasn't shown up?" he said, not without sympathy.
"No. And I'm really getting worried."
He nodded, not one of his impeccably styled silver hairs out of place, and asked, "No luck when you looked through her files yesterday?"
"Nothing even remotely suspicious popped out. I had a feeling her disappearance wouldn't be work related. I'm pretty sure it's personal."
"I still think you're overreacting," Dell said, tapping a perfectly manicured finger on the top of a file cabinet. "Like I said yesterday, she's always coming in late and taking days off on a moment's notice. She's probably lying on a beach somewhere in the Caribbean at this very moment."
Grace leveled him a look. "Why did you keep her on if she's so irresponsible?" She never did trust a man who took such pains with his appearance.
He shrugged his thin but elegantly suited shoulders, avoiding her gaze. "Muse is terrific at research, and the clients like her a lot. That's why we're willing to put up with her somewhat unconventional work habits."
Research. Sure.
He gave her a thorough glancing over and added, "I don't suppose you're looking for a job?"
She politely declined. "But I would like to talk to your staff today. To get more information on Muse's friends, where she hangs out, her favorite shops and restaurants, that sort of thing. Would you mind?"
He looked reluctant, but after a moment's hesitation, relented. "Very well. But I'm sure she'll be back in a day or two, wondering what all the fuss was about."
"I hope you're right," she said as he took his leave.
* * *
Admittedly, this wasn't the first time Muse had simply vanished somewhere on a whim, pact or no. But the fact that her sister had been so frightened on the phone had Grace worried. She could still hear the fear in Muse's voice the last time they'd spoken. And she had been gone nearly a week now, a long time even for someone as impulsive as Muse.
Grace picked up her coffee mug to take a much-needed sip of the strong, steadying brew. Her lips had almost touched the rim of the mug when suddenly she remembered.
Darn! She yanked the mug away from her mouth. She was not about to put her lips where that man's tongue had lingered so suggestively.
Carefully setting down the cup, she stared at it. She could almost see Creole's heavy-lidded eyes taunting her, daring her to drink. To sample the essence that had been left there by his mouth and tongue. To taste him … savor the forbidden. Go on, chère, try me…
Almost in a trance she reached for the mug and lifted it, bringing it slowly toward her lips. They parted of their own accord, eager to betray her with their wanton curiosity.
They wanted to taste the flavor of his tongue, to imagine the texture of his lips as they caressed her, the heat of his mouth covering her own and drinking from her until they both trembled with the thirst for more. Then her lips would whisper sweet encouragements as he slipped off her dress and tasted her body, licking and sipping as he drowned her in kisses, down her throat, over her breasts, around her belly, until he reached—
Sweet heavens.
She jerked the mug away and slammed it to the desk so hard it left a dent in the wood. She paced away, spun and regarded it with blossoming horror.
She was doing it. Letting a totally inappropriate man get to her. Something she'd vowed never, ever to let herself do.
There was no doubt in her mind Creole Levalois was a rebel, a man who scorned society and convention. A confirmed loner. One who, to get what he wanted, would beg a woman to reform him, and then laugh at her naiveté when she tried and failed. Leaving her alone and crying her heart out for her efforts. But a man who was so tempting in his primitive allure that he never lacked for scores of women who were willing to take the chance.
She knew his type all too well. And she was not about to make the same mistake as her mother had. Not a chance.
Better by far to put her vivid imagination to use in finding her sister rather than spinning impossible fantasies about a man who would only burn her. Badly.
Grabbing a tissue, she scrubbed determinedly at the rim of the mug until it shone. Then for good measure she lifted the lid and poured the liquid into a colorful ceramic cup sitting on Muse's desk.
There. She'd circumvented that little temptation very nicely, thankyouverymuch. Immensely satisfied with her self-control, she took a deep swallow of warm coffee, savoring the rich, calming flavor. And firmly ignored the little voice inside her head.
The one telling her it might not be quite as easy to avoid the temptation of the man himself.
Creole hit the on button on his cell phone and speed-dialed the number for the Gumbo Shop as he sat on the corner of his bed and kicked off his shoes and socks. He'd been walking all afternoon and was hungry as a gator in the springtime. That woman had led him from one end of the Quarter to the other and back again, twice, before finally coming home tonight.
What the hell had she been up to? He still couldn't figure out what had possessed her to traipse from one store to the next, making seemingly harmless chitchat with the clerks, then moving on. She hadn't bought a blessed thing all afternoon. He just didn't get it. Women didn't go into stores and come out empty-handed. Especially women like Muse Summerville.
She had to be up to something, and he aimed to find out what.
When the Gumbo Shop answered, he ordered dinner for two to be delivered in an hour. Careful to stick to the shadows of his bedroom, he changed into a fresh T-shirt, replaced his shoulder holster over it and strolled into the kitchen for a drink. He'd already unscrewed the bulbs in the fridge the day he moved in, so he didn't have to worry about Muse spotting him until he wanted to be spotted. Digging into a huge bag of ice in the freezer, he filled his glass to the brim, poured a generous finger of bourbon over it and
propped himself against the wall to watch and wait.
Muse was walking around her apartment doing just about the same things he was. Except when she went to put ice in her glass, she found the ice tray full of barely frosted water. He couldn't hear the exact words she uttered at that moment, but he had a pretty good idea what they were. The corner of his mouth curled up. Dumping her ice tray in the sink just before he'd sneaked out of her apartment that afternoon had been divine inspiration.
She poured herself a glass of soda—without ice—and picked up the portable phone, then opened both sets of French doors, flicked on the overhead fan in the bedroom, stretched out on her bed and dialed. As silently as he could, Creole opened his own French doors and slipped out onto his balcony, but she'd turned on that damned radio again, so he couldn't make out a word she was saying.
He settled into his spot behind the hanging plants and took up his surveillance. Too bad he couldn't keep his mind on the case. Seeing her lying there on those pink satin sheets talking on the phone was turning his thoughts in a whole other direction. A dangerous direction. One that involved a black nightie and the memory of what she'd done with that ice the night before.
Dieu.
She reached her hand up into the air and seemed to touch the breeze blowing from the paddle fan, then turned her face into it as if she was receiving caresses from a lover. Creole shifted in his seat, disturbed by her sensual movements.
Who the hell was she talking to? Fox?
He had the strangest urge to leap over there and hang up the damn phone, lower himself on top of her and take the wind's place, softly stroking her face so she'd look up at him with the same rapturous expression she bore now.
It was unnerving. Women didn't affect him like this. Creole wasn't into soft caresses. Sex was intense. Powerful. Sometimes even rough in its fierce quest for physical fulfillment. Anything but soft. If he caressed her, it damn sure wouldn't be on her face.