Maybe it was that sexual adventure thing she’d mentioned in her sleep. Was that what she wanted from him—and all she wanted? A few bouts of sex in risky, unusual places?
Feeling vaguely used, he forced the thought aside and focused on the couple on the porch. Which one had ended the hug—Moreau or Brynn? Either way, Cade was glad it had ended.
Trish let out an annoyed sigh and walked away.
When she’d stalked out of sight, Cade took out his cell phone and typed in a coded text message to the undercover team, alerting them to Moreau’s presence. He’d be under constant surveillance from now on. Cade also activated the camera on his phone, snapped a few digital photos and, with the press of a button, e-mailed them to John.
He then remained at the window, tense with readiness. He hadn’t a shred of hard evidence yet, but his gut told him that the man claiming to be Antoine Moreau was also the one who had sent photographs of his victims to the police with a note signed “The Pied Piper.”
ANTOINE, as he thought of himself now, had come fully prepared to smooth Brynn’s ruffled feathers. From their phone conversation, he knew that his recent absences had upset her, and that he would have to exert more effort to mollify her.
But from the moment she stepped out onto the porch to greet him, he knew the problem went much deeper than he had supposed. Her smile wasn’t genuine. Was that guilt in her eyes, or regret? What had she done, or what was she planning to do?
He felt the reserve in her hug, too, so he didn’t attempt to kiss her. She’d never been a very physical woman, and he’d given up trying to woo her with seduction. Yet for some reason, she looked incredibly available right now. The tumble of her hair, the color in her cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes… She looked ready for sex. Yet he’d felt her coolness toward him.
Maybe he’d made a mistake in accepting the sexual limitations she’d set. Maybe he’d missed some tiny cue that she wanted him to come on stronger. Overcome her inhibitions. Use a little force. It was worth considering.
One thing was clear: he had to reestablish his connection with her. “Antoine,” she was saying, “I need to talk to you.”
“Of course.” He half smiled, half frowned. “But first…” He withdrew from the inner pocket of his jacket an oval canvas, the size of a wallet, and felt his heart lope into a heavier beat.
Sharing his work was never a casual thing. Reaction was too important. His very soul fed off of admiration, appreciation, awe…and shrank from anything less. This was the first of his paintings he would allow her to see.
“What is it, Antoine?” She waited with open curiosity.
He had to concentrate before speaking, or the magnitude of the occasion might compromise the French rhythm he’d perfected in his speech. “This is something I have worked on every night I’ve spent away from you, mon coeur.” With solemn ceremony, he murmured, “I give you roses.”
She peered in surprise at the miniature painting he handed to her. “Oh, Antoine!” She studied it silently. Every second of her silence increased the force of his heartbeats. When he didn’t think he could stand another moment of waiting, she raised her hazel-eyed gaze and smiled. “It’s beautiful.” Her face was radiant with admiration, her tone reverent. “You truly are a gifted artist.”
In that moment, he loved her. No matter what had gone wrong between them, he would make it right. She was too perfect to let slip away. She was the model he had chosen first, before the others. He had taken the longest time with her, the most detailed care. She would sit for him willingly—more or less—and her portrait would be his masterpiece.
“Let me put this in my room,” she said, holding the painting of roses carefully. “I’m so honored you’ve given it to me, Antoine.” She smiled her soft, sweet smile and hurried inside.
And he knew he had chosen well. She had everything he needed: physical beauty along with an inner glow that would enhance the portrait he would paint of her. She also had a strong bond with an Atlanta cop—the lead detective on his case, at that. And, of equal importance, she harbored a guilty secret she wanted to keep hidden. He’d searched long and hard for women like her, and she was the best he’d found. He wouldn’t lose her at this late stage of the game.
Which meant he had to discover the nature of the problem that had arisen between them.
“Antoine.” Trish strolled out onto the porch, looking as chic and gorgeous as ever. Too bad she didn’t have the other qualities he needed in his models, or his so-called cousin would have been among his top choices. “Has Brynn told you about the surprise visitor we have staying with us?”
“What visitor?”
Brynn, who had returned to the porch in time to hear Trish’s question, said, “He’s not really visiting us. He’s in town on business, and happens to be staying at our inn.”
“He’s an old friend of Brynn’s,” Trish insisted, “from college.” With an odd twist to her smile, she called through the screen door, “Cade? Come meet my cousin Antoine.”
The man who pushed through the door a few moments later was about his own height, but wider through the shoulders, with arms and chest clearly more muscular, as if his work involved heavy manual labor. Or deliberate physical toning. Antoine wondered what this Cade did for a living.
The grip of his handshake confirmed the impression of strength, and his direct gaze, though not openly hostile, nearly backed Antoine up a step. He felt as if this cool-eyed stranger were somehow peering into the furthest reaches of his mind. Not a pleasant sensation.
They shook hands. “Cade, meet Antoine Moreau,” said Trish. “Antoine, Cade Hunter. You two have a lot in common.”
Brynn’s gaze flew to Trish. Cade Hunter, on the other hand, looked only at him, his expression un-readable, his stance as solid as a mountain. “Do we, now.” He hadn’t phrased it as a question, but as a comment. And not a complimentary one.
“You both work in creative fields,” Trish said. “Antoine is an artist. Cade a writer.”
“A writer?” The occupation didn’t fit him.
“Why, just yesterday, our very own Brynnie helped him put some local color into the travel book he’s writing.”
“Really?” Now this was interesting, especially since Brynn was looking annoyed with Trish for mentioning it. “And how, exactly, did you help him, chérie?”
“Oh, I didn’t do much at all.”
“She showed me around campus on game day,” Cade said. “Refreshed my memory about certain things. Pointed out a few colorful details.”
“Which of those colorful details will you use in the book?” Trish’s question sounded suspiciously tongue in cheek.
“Really, Trish.” Brynn was scowling at her now. “An author doesn’t give away his material before it’s in print. But I suspect he’ll include the historical and architectural importance of the buildings on North Campus.”
“Along with the characters of old-time Athens,” Cade said.
“And the merchants of Five Points.”
“Oh, and the various meanings of the term so often applied to Sanford Stadium—‘between the hedges.’
For some reason, Brynn flushed at that, glanced away from Cade and hurriedly added, “And the many generations of Uga, our bulldog mascot.”
“And, of course, I can’t leave out the story of my own personal first time with Brynn.”
Her gaze jerked to Cade, her eyes wide, her mouth open. With a resurgence of her blush, she stammered, “I—I—I’m not sure what you could possibly mean—”
“Walking under the arch together.” Cade’s look of innocence was flawless. “You never walked beneath it with me before. You were afraid the legend might be true and that you’d never graduate. Now that you have your degree, you finally, uh, did the deed.” Humor warmed the eyes that had been cool and hard as agates, Antoine noticed, now that Cade was focusing on Brynn. “A personal first.”
She bit her lush bottom lip, stifling a smile, or maybe a retort. When the compulsion had presumably pas
sed, she said, “I didn’t think you’d noticed that momentous occasion.” She sounded pleased that he had, and her glow of sexual allure heightened. “The legend of the arch would be an excellent detail to add.”
“But my personal all-time favorite,” Cade added, his husky voice as sexually charged as Brynn’s heightened color, “is the giant old magnolia tree.”
Something flashed between them then—something so brief and subtle that the average person wouldn’t have picked up on it. But Antoine was not the average person. He’d made an art, a science, out of reading people, studying every expression, until he understood their emotions and motives better than they themselves did.
She’d been intimate with Cade.
When Cade again aimed a gaze his way, a subtle insolence in the man’s otherwise veiled expression let Antoine know that he didn’t give a damn who knew it. In fact, he was deliberately flaunting their intimacy. Brynn would be mortified to realize it, Antoine knew. She’d been drawn despite herself into making those innuendos, and clearly hoped Antoine hadn’t understood the double meanings. She wanted to spare his feelings, allow him his pride.
To his way of thinking, she hadn’t tried hard enough.
“Sounds like Brynn’s tour was everything you’d hoped it would be,” Antoine remarked, hating Cade.
“Oh, it was.”
The tension between them prevented Antoine from attempting a smile.
“Um, excuse us, Cade and Trish, but Antoine and I have a lot to…catch up on.” She glanced at him meaningfully. “Let’s go up to my suite where we can talk.”
He nodded and smiled, but it wasn’t easy. She was going to throw him over for Cade Hunter.
Or so she thought. A nobody like Hunter would never win out over Doyle Fontaine—or, as he was called at the moment, Antoine Moreau. He’d do everything in his power to make sure of it.
For now, he merely hooked an arm around Brynn. It would grate on Cade’s nerves, seeing them go to her private suite. Antoine intended to keep her there for as long as possible.
Not surprisingly, Cade shifted into their path. “I hate to mess up your plans, Brynn, but you’ve already promised the rest of the day to me.”
She lifted a brow in clear surprise.
“To take me on another tour of the area,” he said.
“Oh, that’s right.” She nodded, and Antoine suspected their plans had been of a very different nature. “But…can it wait until later?” Cade started to object, but she overrode him. “Let’s say thirty minutes from now.”
Antoine struggled to maintain his temper. She assumed she could be done with him in thirty minutes, then get off for her little tryst with Cade Hunter?
“If we’re upsetting your work schedule, Cade,” Antoine suggested, “why don’t you ask Trish to help you?”
Trish brightened. He’d known she would. Her sexual availability to Hunter was almost as apparent as Brynn’s. An interesting situation, that. “I’d be happy to show you whatever you’d like to see, Cade.”
“No offense, Trish,” Hunter replied, “but I’m really after Brynn’s outlook as a native of Athens.”
“Native?” Antoine couldn’t resist throwing a wrench into Hunter’s plans, as well as showing him how little he knew about Brynn. “For some reason, Brynn, I thought you’d been raised elsewhere.”
Cade and Trish looked to Brynn to straighten him out. She clearly didn’t relish the chore. “Well, I’ve lived in Athens for almost half my life.” She tossed her thick, gleaming hair over her shoulder in a nervous gesture. “So I do consider myself a native.”
“Half your life?” Trish said. “That means you were about thirteen or fourteen when you moved here.”
“About that age, I’d say.”
Antoine knew she’d been fifteen when she moved here…to escape scandal. But of course, she didn’t want anyone to know about that. Or worse, about the complications that had followed. Antoine would keep her secrets safe…as long as she cooperated with him when the time came.
“But I always thought you were from Athens, Brynn,” Trish insisted. “Where are you from?”
“What does it matter? I was born in a small town south of Atlanta that you probably haven’t heard of, okay?”
“Oh. Okay.” Trish didn’t seem interested in the details. Turning to Hunter, she said, “I moved here when I was eighteen, so I’m only four years behind Brynn.”
“That might be true,” Hunter said, “but I find her outlook on things uniquely valuable to my work.” He locked gazes with Brynn, and in a silent way that infuriated Antoine, they resolved the issue between them. “I’ll meet you here, on the porch,” he said, “in fifteen minutes. That’s…” he glanced at his watch “…one-fifteen.”
Fifteen minutes! She’d said thirty, which had been insulting enough. But before Antoine could find a reason to object, Brynn nodded and ushered him toward the door.
Hunter thought he’d outwitted him, but his satisfaction wouldn’t last long, Antoine swore. Because very soon, Brynn would be leaving him.
10
THEY’D BEEN THE LONGEST fifteen minutes of his life. And by the time he was driving down a highway in his open-topped SUV with Brynn beside him, Cade’s insides were tied up in knots.
He’d sat in his room with his laptop and surveillance earphones, watching every move Brynn and Antoine made, listening to every word, waiting for the first hint of trouble. And though he stood not more than fifteen feet from her door, with motion sensors on all her windows, and the inn surrounded by plainclothes cops, nightmare images of worst-case scenarios had flashed through Cade’s brain like lightning.
He couldn’t help thinking that the abducted women hadn’t been found. They may have been murdered. The thought of Brynn alone in a locked suite with a killer made Cade break out in a cold sweat. The likelihood was low—the guy couldn’t think he’d get away with it. Then again, from the tone of the Piper’s note, Cade believed he wanted notoriety. Maybe he didn’t care whether he was caught. Which meant he might try anything in there with Brynn. It took only a moment to break a neck, or slit a throat, or…
Those fifteen minutes had been hell.
But Cade had to admit her physical safety hadn’t been his only worry. What if Monsieur Smooth Moves found a way to sweet-talk her into bed? Cade had thought up all kinds of last-resort options—like setting off the fire alarm, or banging on her door until she opened it. Shooting off the lock. Kicking in the door.
That was when he realized how bad he had it. He’d completely lost his mind over her.
He should have realized that when he’d crossed swords with her boyfriend. If he’d been thinking straight, he would have played it cool. Kept a low profile. Come across as just another guest at the inn.
But no. He’d let Antoine know in subtle but unmistakable ways that Brynn was no longer his. That Cade would be breathing down his neck at every turn if he persisted in thinking he could ever, ever have her.
Cade had let his emotions rule him. His professional judgment was so skewed that he had no business working this case at all. Yet there was no way in hell he’d walk away and leave Brynn’s safety to someone else.
“Cade?”
“Hmm?”
“What’s wrong?”
He shook his head and steered the car around another curve in the road. Brynn probably thought he was upset with her. He wasn’t. Not really. He could have done without her rendezvous in the bedroom with the French Don Juan, but at least she had broken up with him.
More or less. She’d explained to Antoine that, although she’d had a wonderful time with him, she wanted to be friends, nothing more. Antoine had said he would value their friendship and wished the very best for her.
But before their fifteen minutes were up, he had wrangled a promise for more time alone with her. He’d asked if she’d come by his place—the house he’d just leased today—to give him ideas for decorating. She was, of course, delighted to help. “I’ll call you,” he said, “and we ca
n set a time for some day this week.”
Cade had no doubt that would be it. If Moreau was the Piper—and he firmly believed he was—he’d make his move on Brynn “some day this week.”
Cade and his men would be ready. Unless, of course, his crazy, knee-jerk reactions regarding Brynn interfered with his judgment. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by anything, let alone irrational feelings he barely understood.
Frustrated by his lack of self-control, he made a sharp left onto a road leading to the Oconee River, aware that he was gritting his teeth, but unable to stop.
“You’re obviously angry,” Brynn said, her lustrous hair blowing wildly about in the wind despite the red bandanna she’d worn to contain it. “I’d like to know why.”
He forced his jaw to loosen enough for him to reply. “I’m not angry.”
“Does it have anything to do with Antoine?”
I don’t want him to touch you again. Ever. And I don’t want you taking another man to your bedroom. Ever. “You broke up with him, right?”
“Right.”
“Then why would I be angry about him?”
She studied him doubtfully, her eyes intensely green in the afternoon sun. “Are you upset because I…let you think…you know—that I was born and raised in Athens?”
That was so far from the truth he almost snorted. But now that she’d mentioned it, she had led him to believe she was from Athens. Not that it mattered where she was from. Why should it?
With a bemused glance at her, he noticed she looked as guilty as if she’d been caught red-handed in a crime. Which, of course, piqued his curiosity. “Care to explain?”
“Why should it make any difference where I’m from?”
“You tell me.”
She compressed her lips and fidgeted with the strands of vividly colored beads she wore around her neck to complement her gypsy-style blouse. “If you’ll remember, I didn’t actually say I was born in Athens. I said I grew up here. Which is true. I didn’t ‘grow up’ until I was living in Athens. I mean, you wouldn’t call a girl in her early teens a grown-up, would you?”
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