Sweet Revenge (Full-length romantic suspense novel, New Orleans Trilogy book 2)

by Nina Bruhns

  Another Cajun? "Creole," he replied, making an effort to lift the corner of his mouth as he shook the man's hand. He eyed the door, wanting nothing more than to disappear through it. He got the uncomfortable feeling this Beaulieux guy could see right through him, past the facade of professional indifference he'd adopted during his internal battle over Grace, straight into his churning insides.

  "You the agent who's guarding Muse Summerville?" he asked noncommittally, pretty sure the FBI man must want something, he was being so chummy.

  "Yeah." Remi darted a glance toward the sisters, and his mouth thinned. "I need to ask you a favor."

  Big surprise. "Oh?"

  "I'm not sure how much you know about our situation…"

  Creole recalled Muse's letter with its statement of trust for this man, and her warning about a possible corrupt agent. "Muse left Grace a note," he said.

  "Bien." The other man nodded, cautious relief in his expression. "The deal is, I need to get her away from here for a few days while we tie up some things."

  The reference was vague, but his aggravated tone was enough to catch Creole's attention. Definitely something going on there—besides a possible dirty FBI agent. Interesting.

  "Things?"

  "After she gives her statements about the shooting, of course," Remi said, totally avoiding his question.

  For the first time Creole gave Beaulieux a thorough going-over.

  Undercover was written all over the guy. He was tall—even had a few inches on him—lean and broad-shouldered. His hair was a midnight black, not unlike his own, but Remi's was long—long enough to give Creole a shudder of bad childhood memories—and pulled back in a ponytail. A diamond stud glinted in one ear, and he wore clothes more suited to a gambler than an FBI agent. Black. All black. With silver-tipped lizard-skin boots. Bad boy, Grace would instantly label him.

  Bon Dieu. Remi Beaulieux reminded Creole just a little too much of himself for comfort. Did the sisters have similar tastes in men? Hell, no wonder ol' Remi was having problems with "things."

  "So, what can I do for you?" he asked, feeling almost sorry for the man.

  A curving scar glinted above Beaulieux's lip as he shot Creole a glance. The thin white slash should have given him a sinister air, but somehow missed the mark because of the kindred man-to-man appeal for help shining in his black eyes.

  "I, uh… Well, dammit to hell, the woman just shot Louisiana's most-wanted bad guy. Both the Bureau and NOPD are going to want to debrief her." Remi exhaled.

  "But?" he prompted.

  "I think she's still in danger. The sooner I get her out of town the better. As far as I'm concerned, tonight isn't soon enough."

  Creole turned and lifted a brow. The light wasn't all that great in the warehouse, but he could swear the man's face turned red as the fresh patch of blood on the floor. Danger? Uh-huh.

  "Look at them." Beaulieux indicated the sisters across the room.

  Creole obliged, casting his reluctant gaze on Grace and Muse. They stood, talking softly, wiping tears, arms around each other as the EMTs saw to Grace. Her tattered blouse was gone, replaced by a policewoman's uniform shirt, and someone had wiped the sprinkles of blood from her face.

  His heart howled with loss, and he had to look away. "What about them?"

  "Muse will never leave Grace as long as she thinks her sister needs her."

  "So?" He had a bad feeling about what was coming.

  "So I want you to make it clear she doesn't. Need her." Remi paused meaningfully. Creole arrowed him a narrow look, but the agent cut him off before he could say a word. "Don't even try to deny you're in love with Grace. I've seen the way you look at her."

  "You're imagin—"

  Remi raised a hand against the automatic denial that had sprung to his lips. "Don't worry, it's not obvious to anyone who isn't in the middle of it himself."

  At the plainly uncomfortable confession, Creole bit back a retort, and muttered a particularly potent Cajun oath. Remi gave him a smile of wry understanding, and just like that a tentative friendship was born.

  "Thanks, mon ami. I owe you big-time."

  No damn kidding.

  He'd been that close to walking away from Grace. To accepting the inevitable, swallowing his pride and burying his out-of-control feelings for her. Now, for the sake of a few stupid French phrases and some no-doubt-misguided male bonding thing, he felt obligated to go back and face another indefinite period of time with her. Endure the sweet torture of her company until she, once again, left him in misery.

  Remi owed him? Oh, yeah, that was for damned sure. "You have no idea, mon ami. No idea at all."

  Chapter 16

  If Grace sensed he was torn as he slid an arm around her waist and allowed himself to be introduced to her twin, Creole couldn't detect it.

  He could, however, detect Muse's astonishment. Her eyes grew wide at the sight of his proprietary hold on her sister, and even wider at his appearance. He figured Grace's avoidance of "men like him" had been both adamant, resolute and successful up till now. Ah, well, that would be solved soon enough. But first he had to clear the path for Remi to hustle Muse away for whatever purposes he deemed so urgent.

  Grace didn't elaborate on her minimalist. "This is Creole," so he pulled her even closer and acted like he had every right to do so. With a quick kiss, he fastened the top button of her borrowed uniform shirt, which gaped open. Her sister clearly expected Grace to balk at the intimacy, but when she didn't, a strange smile came over Muse's face, and she searched his closely. He gave a slight nod, and her smile expanded to a grin, her shoulders literally relaxing before his eyes.

  He felt like a complete fraud. But he wouldn't go back on his unspoken promise. He'd take care of Grace until she no longer needed, or wanted, his help.

  Grace herself seemed oblivious to the undercurrents that swirled so profusely around her as the four of them were taken to the Eighth District station and dragged through a bevy of police and FBI procedures-statements, identifications, evidence—accepting his nearness and support as both natural and welcome. He always kept a casual arm around her, placing chaste kisses on her temple when the occasion warranted. She didn't seem to notice that mentally and emotionally he kept himself apart, never getting overly personal. He was only doing this for Remi, he reminded himself, when tempted to give in to his true feelings.

  Her own touch was jerky. As if she would suddenly remember his difficulty with it or become aware of the setting and circumstances. Or maybe it was her own uncertainty over their relationship that caused her hesitations. After all, despite what they'd subsequently gone through, their parting that morning had not been a good one.

  Or maybe she was just reacting to the natural stress of being kidnapped and nearly tortured, and he was reading far too much into it.

  God knew, he was feeling a bit jittery himself. Especially after his captain had called and ordered him to report straight to his office first thing in the morning. This was one psych evaluation that might actually do him some good. Or maybe he wouldn't have to worry about an evaluation. Chances were only about fifty-fifty he'd still have a job after that interview with the cap.

  "I'm so glad you're with Grace," Muse whispered as she gave him a hug goodbye. They were all standing outside the restaurant where they'd indulged in a fortifying late meal after finishing up at the station. "She's needed someone for so long. And, well, I just couldn't leave her here by herself."

  Again he felt a twinge of guilt. Remi had made it clear over supper that he was taking Muse away from New Orleans regardless of both women's protests. Creole knew it was only his presence that had prevented Grace's sister from digging in her heels. As it was, she was spearing Remi with dagger looks. He didn't envy the poor bastard their upcoming skirmish.

  "Don' worry, I'll see she gets back home safely," he replied, deliberately ambiguous.

  That much, at least, was the truth. He didn't know if he could bear sleeping in the same apartment as her, much less t
he same bed, as Muse obviously believed. Maybe the balcony wouldn't be so bad. But either way, he'd make sure she got on a plane to South Carolina, safe and sound.

  "Then I'll see you soon," Muse said, throwing a glower towards Remi. "Just as soon as my bossy, overbearing, so-called bodyguard stops jumping at shadows."

  "Agent Beaulieux has your best interests at heart," he assured her, sidestepping the other statement. "You do what he says."

  "Harrumph."

  Remi had snagged a taxi, so, after a final hug and whispers for Grace, the two of them drove off.

  It was late, and the sky hung thick and sultry, heralding rain. On the black pavement around them, light spilled from the restaurant windows in muted pools of neon.

  "Feel like a drink?" he said into the sudden silence, wanting to delay the coming awkwardness as long as possible.

  Grace shook her head and pulled the blue uniform shirt tight around her midriff. "No, thanks. I'm feeling a little tired."

  "Of course." She did look a bit pale.

  He stuck his hands in his pockets and walked alongside her for the several blocks to Burgundy Street, aiming scowls at the chattering tourists who dared to stare at her disheveled uniform and his T-shirt and holstered weapon.

  He opened the iron courtyard gate for her, and as they approached the stairs to her apartment, he took a deep breath. "Would you rather I—"

  "No!" she practically shouted, then bit her lip. "Please, I don't want to be alone just yet."

  "All right."

  Following her into Muse's place, he briefly wondered how Grace was really holding up. She seemed fine. Cogent and calm, she'd been articulate for her police statements, unperturbed during the photo ID of her assailant and had smiled and laughed at all the appropriate places during their meal with Remi and Muse. If she'd seemed distant at times, he'd chalked it up to her wanting to redraw the line in their relationship, but being too polite to do it in front of witnesses. After all, her hasty declaration of love might have given him the wrong idea and could prove embarrassing if he questioned her about it.

  After locking the door, he hung back at the kitchen table. Walking toward the bedroom, she suddenly stopped and turned. "I, um, I'm going to take a shower, okay?"

  "Sure," he said softly, running his fingers along the top of a kitchen chair. "I'll just…" He shrugged, unable to come up with anything.

  But she didn't seem to notice. She nodded and continued into the bedroom, then disappeared into the bathroom, leaving the door open a crack. He stared at the crack a moment, scrubbed his hands over his face and told himself it wasn't an invitation.

  He spun, searching determinedly through the kitchen for something liquid and potent, sending up a prayer of thanks when he found his own bottle of bourbon and tobacco pouch tucked into a corner on the counter.

  Snatching them up, he headed out onto the balcony for a large drink, a long smoke and some much-needed breathing space. But he had to settle for the drink and the space, because the minute he lit up his hastily rolled cigarette, his stomach roiled at the smell and he had to stomp it out.

  With a curse he hurled the pouch and its contents over the balcony rail.

  Hell, he'd wanted to quit anyway. Hands shaking, he tipped the bottle to his lips and took a lengthy pull. Fire burned its way down his throat and into his stomach, searing away the nausea, replacing it with an uneasy smoldering.

  Fifteen minutes later he was pleasantly numb. Not drunk, just … numb. Which was purely fine with him. It was taking all the numbness he could get to listen to the shower going in Grace's bathroom and not think about that crack in the door.

  But after another couple of minutes of listening to the rush of water, he started getting worried. The EMTs at the warehouse had pronounced her fit, but he'd seen enough delayed reactions to this kind of situation to be nervous.

  Five minutes later he sat up in his chair and tried to think logically. He couldn't. In three strides he was there.

  "Grace?" he called, rapping on the bathroom door. "Are you all right?"

  No answer.

  "Chère?"

  Just the sound of water running. No other movement.

  To hell with this. He cautiously pushed the door open. A wave of jessamine-scented steam thick as pea soup rolled over him. He peered in.

  "Le bon Dieu!"

  She was curled up in a ball, water streaming over her in torrents, pressed into the corner of the shower. Still fully clothed.

  What an idiot he was! The woman was in shock. He should have realized, should have done something sooner.

  "Grace, darlin', speak to me," he called, whipping open the glass shower door. Thank God the water was still warm, but not too hot. He spun the faucets to Off and threw himself to the floor next to her.

  "Honey, look at me."

  "No!" she screamed, and flattened herself against the tiles. "No! Don't touch me!"

  For a second he froze in panic. Then the memories crashed over him, memories of lashing out with similar words and actions as a child. Nobody had dared touch him when he'd screamed to be left alone. Nobody'd wanted to. But he'd needed it. Needed the touch and the sympathy of someone who cared. Needed it desperately.

  "It's me, Grace. It's Creole. Let me hold you, darlin'."

  "No!"

  Her muffled sobs were breaking his heart. He grasped her arms, holding tight when she tried to shake him off.

  "Don't touch me! Don't touch me!"

  "Come on, chère. Look at me."

  He turned her, firmly holding her wrists when she would strike out at him. He cursed softly, and gathered her into his arms, holding her tight to his chest. He sat on the wet shower floor and cradled her in his lap, rocking back and forth, back and forth, until her struggles ceased and she lay limp in his arms, sobbing.

  "Hush, don' cry. It's all over. Shhh, I'm here, darlin'."

  The sound of her heart-wrenching tears touched something deep inside him, something dark and hard that had lingered there in his soul, festering for untold years. The clean purity of her goodness, the unselfish ache of his love for this woman, wrapped themselves around the blackness within him, and slowly, slowly, washed by her tears, it dissolved. In its place was a delicate, tender void, waiting to be filled with something light and good.

  In his heart he knew he could finally leave the past behind.

  After long minutes her tears slowed to a stop. One last tremor racked her body, and she looked up. Slowly her red-rimmed eyes focused on him.

  "Auri?"

  He let out a long sigh. If only he had a future worth leaving it for.

  "Mais, yeah, mon coeur. It's me."

  "What happened?" she whispered.

  He brushed a wet strand of hair from her forehead and buried thoughts of himself. "A little delayed reaction," he said, sitting up straighter. "Maybe some mild shock. I found you lyin' on the floor. You okay?"

  She appeared to take inventory, then nodded. "I think so. It's so strange … I remember sitting down. Feeling faint. I was just so tired and thirsty. And then, nothing. What did I do?"

  He wiped the tears from her cheeks and smiled tenderly. "It's over now. Luckily the water kept you warm, and lyin' down put your blood back in circulation."

  Reaching out to the rack on the wall, he pulled off a towel and dabbed at her face and hair. "Probably would have been a good idea to get undressed before you got in the shower, though." He winked.

  Surprised, she glanced down at herself. "Sweet heavens." An embarrassed laugh escaped her, and her eyes strayed to his T-shirt and holster. "You're soaked. Did I—"

  "I'll dry."

  "But your gun—"

  "It's fine."

  Her gaze returned to him, and the embarrassment died. She looked deep into his eyes. Into the fragile soul she had unknowingly cleansed.

  "Thank you for being here," she whispered. "For being there. I don't know what I would have done without you. Not when—" She took a long, shaky breath and laid her hand on his chest. "You're
a good man, Auri Levalois. A very good man."

  He wanted to look away, to say, no, he wasn't a good man, but he was her man, and would do anything in the world for her.

  But he couldn't move. His throat tightened and he couldn't speak, either. Her fingers curled into his T-shirt, and she laid her cheek against his shoulder. He kissed her hair and breathed in a faint, lingering scent of jessamine, the mysterious, spicy sweetness that would never fail to remind him of her. Of the all-too-few moments they had spent together. Of the unbearable pleasure she had given him in her arms. Of the incredible feeling of his body joined with hers as they made love.

  She shifted, and suddenly he was aware of her position, warm and intimately nestled in his lap. Painfully aware.

  The walls of the tiny cubicle zoomed in, making him dizzy with her nearness. Her fingers stretched over the ribs of his collar, touching skin, igniting a burning need to touch her back.

  "You should get out of those wet clothes," he said, desperate to direct her attention back to the practical, away from his inappropriate arousal. That was the last thing she needed to deal with right now, and in about three seconds it would be impossible to miss. "You'll catch your death."

  The statement was ridiculous. Steam still swirled around them, and the temperature in the small bathroom matched that of the blood pumping through his body. Hot. Very hot. Obviously, he wasn't thinking straight.

  Her arms crept around his neck. "You think?"

  "No," he croaked, unable to recall just what exactly he was answering. "That is—what?"

  She raised her lips to his and kissed him. Vaguely he wondered if this was some weird side effect of delayed stress. Or maybe he was the one in shock and that's why none of this made any sense. It was certain, one of them needed to rest. Or something.

  "Chère—"

  "Mmm," she hummed in approval when he started responding to the caress of her mouth.

  He shouldn't. Definitely shouldn't. Doing this would only complicate their parting immeasurably. And they had to part. He knew that.