by Nina Bruhns
Creole shook the remaining drops off his fingers. "Thanks. I think."
Grace frowned and reached for his hand. "How did that happen?"
"Doesn' matter," he said, wiping it on his jeans. He slung his arm around her, and she felt the hard, distinctive shape of his gun prod her shoulder.
She jumped away. "Do you always carry that thing?" she protested, glaring at the subtle bulge below his armpit.
"Always."
She let him pull her back under his arm and lead her into the bar, but tried to avoid contact with the warm metal, which, of course, turned out to be impossible. It rubbed up against her, almost as if he was teasing her with it.
"Even to bed?" she asked without thinking, mortified as soon as the words had left her lips.
"Yep."
She remembered him sprawled across his bed, the holster hugging his side like a lover. "Doesn't it get in the way?"
"Mais, non. Women, they think it's exciting."
Heat rose in her cheeks. "That's not what I meant."
He grinned at her discomfort. "I take it off in the shower." He gave an unrepentant shrug. "Since you're so interested in my personal habits."
They'd shouldered their way to the bar by now, and Creole ordered without consulting her. She scowled at his back, resenting the annoying chauvinist habit. But he ignored her censure when he swung back to her, waiting for the barkeep's return.
He leaned his butt against the bar and crossed his arms over his chest. "You don't find the idea exciting?"
"Huh?"
"My gun," he prompted.
"Oh." She wasn't sure to which idea he was referring—him in the shower without his gun or him in bed with it. "Actually, I find the idea kind of strange. Why would anyone want to wear a gun to bed?" she asked, choosing the less graphic visual.
The corner of his lip curled in a disreputable half smile. But before he could answer, the drinks arrived, two large white foam cups with straws sticking out. One concoction was brown and one was pink.
"Milk shakes?"
He handed her the brown one and pulled her to the back of the room, where the music wasn't blasting quite so loudly. "Not milk shakes. Daiquiris."
"If you say so." She couldn't recall ever seeing a brown daiquiri that she could remember. She took an experimental sip. It was delicious. All chocolate and creamy but with a little kick. She took another sip.
"Look out, here we go," he whispered in her ear.
"Muse!" A voluptuous woman in hot pants approached them and hugged her enthusiastically. "Where have you been, girl? Haven't seen you in weeks!" She looked Creole up and down with obvious approval. "Never mind, hon, I can guess." She winked, gave her a kiss on the cheek, rubbed the glossy lipstick print off, said, "See y'all 'round," and sashayed away into the crowd, gone before Grace could get a word in edgewise.
"Handled that well, I thought," she said wryly, to Creole's amused chuckle.
"Don' worry. I doubt she could have told us anythin', anyway."
It turned out all they had to do was stand there sipping their drinks on the fringe of the dance floor, and people of all ages, sizes, sexes and descriptions stopped to say hi to "Muse" and exchange a few words with Grace's apparently very popular sister.
After a half dozen or so had come by, she felt considerably more relaxed in her role of impostor. Her psychologist expertise wasn't even needed to pull it off. She greeted strangers like old friends, flirting with the men, who took one look at Creole and rethought whatever they'd had in mind, and hugging and exchanging conspiratorial winks and giggles with the women, who gazed at him with open envy.
She found she was enjoying being the center of attention for once. Especially Creole's. He never let her forget he was there, keeping an arm around her waist or his hands on her shoulders as she leaned back against his chest. Occasionally he bent down and nibbled on her neck or her earlobe as she spoke to some other man. She especially liked that. She played it up, encouraging him with her appreciative responses to linger at his task. To make their involvement together … that is, their pretended involvement together, unmistakable.
For the benefit of the witnesses.
"I wanna dance," he murmured after a particularly obnoxious man had been persuaded to leave her alone. Creole took her cup—which to her surprise was empty—and tossed it along with his own onto the tray of a passing waitress. "Vien."
She raised her brows when he bypassed the dance floor and led her out into the street. "Um…"
He was holding her hand so she had no choice but to follow him into a smaller establishment a few doors down, where a different kind of music was playing. Not that she would have objected to moving on. She didn't particularly care for the loud, belligerent rock of the previous place.
"Let's get another one of those milk shake things," she suggested as they passed the service bar. It seemed everyone always had a cup in their hand in the Quarter, and she felt underdressed without one.
He grinned. "All right. What's your favorite fruit?"
"Bananas," she answered promptly, then smiled suggestively.
The look on his face was priceless. Well worth the blush that ripped across her cheeks at her uncharacteristic boldness. Being Muse for a day must have affected her brain.
When their drinks came, he handed one to her without comment and pulled her onto the tiny dance floor where couples drifted to the sounds of a soft, bluesy combo.
Sipping her drink, she nestled into his arms. "This is nice," she said, meaning the romantic music.
But the milk shake, er, daiquiri, was nice, too.
And his arms.
"Mmm-hmm."
They tightened around her. She could feel every contour of his muscled body as he held her close. His chest, his legs, his thighs, his— Oh, dear, there was that gun again.
With her free hand, she circled his neck, toying absently with his hair. She smiled. He smelled so-o-o good. And dancing was so-o-o relaxing.
"Very nice."
Gently he grasped her straying hand and pulled it down behind her. Braiding his fingers with hers, he held it between his palm and her bottom. Kind of an unusual dance position, but she didn't object.
She didn't object, either, when his lips sought hers. Soft, warm, sweet, they caressed her slowly, the taste of him spinning like cotton candy through her giddy senses.
As he held her hand, his fingers started roaming, playing over the contours of her panties outlined under her skirt.
That was kind of nice, too.
It was all kind of nice.
Everything about him was kind of nice.
In fact, much too nice.
"I'm not going to sleep with you, you know," she said, more to remind herself than him, and therefore was vaguely startled that she'd actually spoken the words out loud.
His fingers paused, then resumed their wandering. "Mais, yeah. I remember. You don' want your heart walked all over, and you think I will."
"Right," she affirmed, nodding gravely for emphasis. She licked her lips, wishing he'd kiss her again.
"You're only letting me kiss you and hold you because it's in the plan. Part of our investigation strategy," he murmured into her ear.
"That's exactly right." She exhaled with relief, glad he understood so perfectly. She snuggled a bit closer to his chest. "Strategy."
"But I wouldn', you know."
"Wouldn't what?"
"Walk all over your heart."
She thought about that as they swayed together, trying to decide why he'd say such a ridiculous thing. To trick her into sleeping with him, no doubt. Well, she wasn't that dumb. Despite what his mind-numbing kisses were doing to her ability to think rationally.
"Right," she repeated with a roll of her eyes, and laid her head on his shoulder. She sighed. He had such a nice, comfy shoulder.
A strange female voice intruded on her dreamy contemplation of his anatomy. "Jell-O shooter?" it asked.
"Excuse me?" Grace disentangled herself from Cre
ole and blinked at the waitress who carried a huge, simply huge, tray of plastic shot glasses filled with suspiciously jiggly red stuff.
"Um, okay," she said, and peered at her milk shake, which strangely enough was empty again. Huh. She handed it to Creole and accepted a small glass from the waitress. While she was trying to figure out how to drink the silly thing, he dropped their empty cups into a nearby trash can and took two of the shooters from the smiling waitress. Grace scowled at her, and she went away. Ha.
"Bottoms up," Creole said, and she watched, fascinated, as he dipped his tongue into the shallow glass and scooped up the contents with it. The red globule slid languidly down the length of his talented tongue, disappearing into the depths of his deliciously sinful mouth. A queer feeling heated the pit of her stomach at the sight. Like she wished she could follow it in there and explore the pleasures it was experiencing, melting in the moist, cavernous heat of his body.
No, this would not do at all.
She shook off the wicked impulse and mimicked his motions. She giggled, squishing the gelatin between her teeth before swallowing it. This was rather fun. But it hit her like a locomotive. "Lord have mercy, that stuff's strong!"
He waggled his eyebrows and downed his second.
She giggled again and admonished him, "We'd better get back to work. Maybe we should try another place."
"All right," he agreed, and they threaded their way out onto the street again.
Outside, it was still sultry, but not as close as it had been in the bar. She took in a deep breath, smelling the damp, musky fecundity of the night air. She'd always loved the summer beat. Folks in Charleston left the city in droves during the hot season, but Grace thrived in the warmth and humidity. At school they made jokes about her hot-blooded nature, but that's just what they were—jokes.
They had no idea.
And she had no intention of telling them.
Hand in hand she strolled with Creole along Bourbon Street, stopping every few yards when one of Muse's scores of acquaintances hailed them to exchange greetings and check out Creole. Unfortunately, they all wondered what she'd been up to for the past week, which was no help at all. Grace would have been disappointed, if not for the fact that she could plainly see that she and her "new boyfriend" were creating quite a sensation tonight. If this plan to lure Muse's jealous ex out of hiding didn't work, nothing would.
In between conversations they sampled several more of those milk shake things and listened to band after band playing a wonderful variety of music. When the mood struck, they danced.
And kissed.
Grace told herself she shouldn't be so eager to feel his mouth on hers. She really shouldn't encourage him.
Because it was only part of The Plan.
For the benefit of the witnesses, she reminded herself for the hundredth time.
Not because she loved Creole's kisses.
Even though she did. A lot.
She loved the way his lips moved sensually from one corner of her mouth to the other, painting the seam with his tongue, gently seeking entry, then arousing her to the point of dizziness with the erotic, velvet way he tasted every inch and corner of her all-too-willing mouth.
But it had nothing to do with that.
Nope. Nothing at all.
Swallowing, she jerked to a halt in front of a narrow shop filled with T-shirts, Mardi Gras masks and voodoo dolls. Creole glanced at her questioningly.
"It's not that I wouldn't like to sleep with you," she clarified, as if an hour or two hadn't passed since her first declaration on the subject.
He looked surprised for a second, then his face went carefully serious. "I know. But I'm not the type of man you want."
"Well, not exactly," she hedged, swinging Muse's flamingo purse back and forth like a pendulum. Maybe she could hypnotize herself and really become Muse. That might solve a few insurmountable problems.
He was looking at her expectantly, so she added, "It's more like you're precisely the kind of man I want."
His brows disappeared into his scalp. She smiled, tasting him on her lips.
"No, you don't understand," she continued. "I'm hopeless. I always fall for men like you. The wrong kind. Handsome bad boys who'll only leave me and break my heart into little pieces. Just like my father. You see? I have to avoid them, er, you."
His jaw dropped, and he gazed at her, as if deciding which bizarre statement to respond to first.
Oh, brother. She held up a hand before he could decide. She couldn't believe she'd said that stuff about bad boys and her father. He probably thought she was a prissy little prune with an Oedipus complex.
"Anyway," she said, turning determinedly to continue marching down the street. Except she was having a hard time marching at the moment. Her feet seemed to have acquired minds of their own and refused to do more than amble alongside Creole's dependable guiding footsteps. "Anyway… Darn, what was I saying?"
"That you'd like to sleep with me."
She darted him a glance, certain he was laughing at her, but his face was perrrfectly sober … er, somber. "Yes," she said, striving to retrieve the lost threads of her original point. "But you'd only get bored and leave me, and I'd get hurt, so it's just not a good idea to sleep with you. Even if I'd like to."
"I see." He steadied her when the sidewalk inexplicably altered positions under her feet, and said, "I don't suppose it would do me any good to point out that it'll actually be you who will leave me when we find your sister and you decide to go home?"
That stumped her for a moment. The argument was just a li-i-ttle too logical. It had to be another one of his tricks.
"No," she said, as her fuzzy mind scrambled to find the flaw. "No," she repeated firmly when she couldn't find any. But she knew it had to be there somewhere. How could she ever leave someone as delectable as Creole Levalois? It was unthinkable.
"My drink is empty again," she announced, waving it like a banner of distraction. It was those darn small cups he'd been insisting on since they'd finished the first two big ones. He said it was so she could try different flavors, but she suspected he was afraid she might become inebriated
She snorted derisively. As if.
He obliged her with another thimbleful of icy concoction from a take-out bar—purple this time. She'd given up a while back trying to guess the flavors, just enjoying the way the slippery liquid cooled her parched throat going down. And the mellow way they made her feel.
She thanked him politely and watched him toss back a whole bottle of plain water without taking a breath. His square jaw tilted up, drops of sparkling silver spilling over his lips and chin and running over his Adam's apple. She had the strangest urge to lean over and lick them off.
She swiped her tongue over her parched lips.
Mercy, he was handsome.
"I suppose I could sleep with you."
Immediately, she slapped her hand over her mouth. She had definitely not planned to say that aloud. She just couldn't understand what had gotten into her tonight.
He pinned her with a searching look and slowly wiped his chin with the back of his hand. She was powerless to move a muscle, unless it was to dissolve a little when he said, "I'd like that."
She felt herself in danger of melting all over the sidewalk. She reached out and pulled herself over to a nearby wrought iron gate, leaning against it for support
"That is…" she backpedaled, suddenly scared to death. "That is, if you really promise I can be the one who walks all over your heart and leaves you."
"That's a virtual certainty," he said dryly. But she didn't get a chance to ponder the sardonic bite to his tone. Because just then two men walked up and stopped right behind them.
One of them was holding a gun.
Chapter 8
At the sudden shock that leapt into Grace's eyes, Creole spun around. And came face-to-face with a 9mm Beretta semiautomatic.
He slowly raised his hands so the two men behind the gun could see them, and eased himself in f
ront of Grace. He didn't reach for his Glock, because he knew the weapon wouldn't do him any good. The clip was in his pocket, which was his rule anytime he was drinking.
Besides, one look at these two guys told him they weren't your average druggies out to cover the day's expenses courtesy of a couple of unsuspecting tourists.
He kept his mouth shut, waiting for them to make the first move.
"So," said the first guy—the one not holding the Beretta. He wore a blazer, despite the stifling heat, so Creole figured Mr. Cool just hadn't bothered to draw whatever weapon was hidden under it. That could be a good sign. That plus the fact that Creole wasn't already splattered all over the sidewalk.
"So," Mr. Cool repeated casually. Too casually for a guy toting a gun. Damn, this was serious. "What exactly are you two playing at?"
Grace took a wobbly step to come out from behind him, and he moved with her, blocking her path.
"Hey!" she groused.
"Just out having a good time with my woman," Creole answered Mr. Cool equally casually, ignoring Grace's irritated shove at his back. "What are you playing at?" He glanced pointedly at the Beretta, which was quickly lowered and stowed in a holster under the second guy's jacket.
Just as he thought.
"If you know what's good for you, you'll take your woman right back where she came from, and stay there until you're sure nobody comes after her. And if I have a mess to clean up after this little stunt tonight, I'll be the first person you'd better watch out for, Detective Levalois."
Behind him he heard Grace gasp, echoing his own surprise at hearing his name come out of the man's mouth. He took a step forward. "Just who the hell are you?"
"Doesn't matter. What matters is that we know who she is, and she ain't Muse Summerville." The man's expression went all triumphant, as if that bit of news would come as some kind of shock to Creole.
"Where is she?" Grace yelled, bursting out from behind him before he could stop her.
"Grace, take it easy," he ordered, grabbing her as she was about to launch herself at Mr. Cool.