No Safe Place

by JoAnn Ross

  She'd never had anything resembling a domestic moment with a man. Now, clad in one of his shirts and the pair of panties she'd rescued from atop a picture frame, she found herself enjoying working together.

  "And no, I don't have any proof. But I knew it was staged the minute I got the call."

  "The same way I knew about Tara."

  He looked so damn delicious in those low-slung jeans with the top button undone and bare feet. Who knew a guy's feet could be so sexy? And how was it that she wanted him again after they'd practically set this boat on fire and she'd come so many times even she'd lost count?

  To keep from jumping his oh-so-fine bones, she concentrated on peeling and deveining the shrimp, which was turning out to be a bit trickier than it had sounded when she'd volunteered.

  "He might've been crooked." He took a swallow of beer and checked the butter he had melting in a copper-bottom pan. "He might've been a mean drunk who was quick with his fists. But he damn well wasn't suicidal."

  "So you weren't surprised to learn he was on the take?"

  "Non." The butter sizzled as he scraped the chopped vegetables into the pan. "You sorta get that idea as a kid when your dad comes home from work with pockets full of cash."

  ''I suppose that would be a good clue. It's funny, isn't it? That we both had dishonest parents'?"

  "Maybe we're back to that fate thing." He topped off her wineglass, then added tomato puree to the mixture.

  "Maybe," she murmured. "And I can understand why you felt you had to come back to New Orleans to find out the truth. The same way I came to track down Tara's killer when it became obvious that the police were going to take the easy way out and not investigate the case." She took a sip of the crisp straw-colored wine he'd bought on the way back to the boat.

  "I can even see why you joined the force, so you could get to know all the players up close and personal and sort out the good guys from the bad guys so you could start making a suspect list.

  "But what I don't get is why you set yourself up to be caught collecting bribes when you knew that with all the media focus on the cops after Katrina, no one would be able to sweep your behavior under the rug."

  She'd no sooner spoken than the answer hit home.

  "That's why, isn't it? It's so much more difficult to get away with being crooked these days, you couldn't infiltrate yourself into the group by penny-ante stuff. You had to make a big splash to get noticed."

  "Very good. You must be a—"

  "Detective. Yeah, yeah, we've been through that before." She waved away his intended joke. "But wasn't it hard to do?"

  "Actually, it was easy. There are still joints so used to paying cops for protection, no one hesitated when I suggested they wouldn't get hassled about certain irregularities if they contributed to the police widows and orphans fund."

  "That's another thing straight out of the movie. Dennis Quaid justifies taking his cut because he's using it to put his kid brother through college."

  "Yeah." He grinned. "I thought it was a nice, creative touch."

  She shook her head. Studied him over the rim of her wineglass, unable to pigeonhole him.

  "But didn't it bother you?" she asked seriously. "Having your reputation ruined like that?" She'd worked so hard to create a reputation that was 180 degrees from her mother's.

  "Not really. I left here when I was seventeen, so it's not like I even had much of a local reputation to begin with."

  "But you said it's a small town. That everyone pretty much knows everyone else."

  "That's true enough. Remy and I grew up together; I first kissed the woman I later made the mistake of marrying at her sixth birthday party at Lake Pontchartrain park, and got into my first fistfight with Dubois when I was nine."

  "Oh, please tell me you beat the shit out of him."

  "Actually, it was the other way around." He took the shrimp she'd peeled and added them to the pot. "I was nine. He was twelve, big for his size—"

  "Like he isn't now?"

  "Big like chunky, not blubbery. He was also a bully. And, even then, a dickhead. Next time he came after me, I was ready with a baseball bat. If you look real close, you can see the scar on his forehead just above the corner of his left eye. He pretty much left me alone after that.

  "But to get back to your question, given the choice between havin' my name sullied a bit and allowing cops who've sworn to protect and serve get away with coldblooded murder, especially the murder of one of their own, no matter that he might be a bad apple, well"—he shrugged—"it was pretty much a no-brainer."

  "Wow." She blew out a breath. "So much for doing things differently in the Big Easy. You're as black and white as I am, Broussard."

  "I hadn't thought of it that way, but—"

  "You are." She laughed, enjoying the idea. Enjoying the moment. And the man. "God, who would've thunk it?"

  "Hopefully not the bad guys."

  She sobered fast. "Do you have any idea who they are?"

  "I know Dubois's in on it. And his nephew, George, who works burglary/arson and probably has under-the-counter deals with half the pawnbrokers in the city. Then there's John Flournoy, who used to work out of the Lower Ninth but was promoted to deputy chief of the Criminal Intelligence Bureau."

  "The guy in charge of intelligence is crooked?"

  "Sound familiar?"

  "Yeah, just a bit," she said dryly.

  "The difference is that from what you told me, and from what I read about the Chicago case, the guys you testified against were mostly just guilty of abuse of power."

  "Like that's not enough?"

  "Sure, it's bad." He added lemon juice, salt, and pepper to the simmering mixture. "But down here it's more about lining pockets."

  He took another, longer swallow of beer. "A lot of the crooked patrol cops haven't come back. But there are enough left that I've no doubt business is going on as usual. Everyone's jnst being a lot more low-key about it now. A few days ago, I thought I was close to connecting the dots, but then ..."

  "Tara got killed. And you lost your informer. Your connection to LeBlanc. And whatever he was so determined to get back, which may have had something to do with your father..."

  "I was trying not to put it quite that bluntly. Given your loss and all—"

  She put her fingers against his mouth. "We each lost someone. Were they flawed? Sure. You bet. But like you said, that doesn't mean their lives didn't count. That whoever killed them shouldn't be held responsible for their murders. And if this guy LeBlanc was to blame, well, I've got a stake in this as well, which means I need to meet him."

  "He's fucking dangerous."

  She laughed at that idea. "And that's supposed to scare me off? I come from the city that gave the country Al Capone, Bugs Moran, and Sam Giancana."

  "They weren't around in your day, but I get the point." He nudged her knees apart, moved between her legs. "You eat bad guys for lunch—"

  She tilted her head, met his mouth. "And send them, up the river for life plus ten." She sighed when his fingertips skimmed sparks over her breast. "That's probably why the cops trashed Tara's apartment."

  "That'd be my guess." His clever hands, which had wielded that knife so deftly, were now busy on the buttons of her shirt.

  "Do you think they found whatever it was?"

  "No way of telling." He slid the shirt off one shoulder. "But I'm working on a new plan to find the smoking gun." Her pulse leaped when he nipped at her neck. "To let them think I know more than I do."

  "Putting yourself at risk," she pointed out in a ragged moan as he pushed the shirt the rest of the way off.

  A mist was floating over her mind, making it more and more difficult to keep her mind on the conversation. Her body softened. Moistened. Tingled with anticipation.

  "No risk." His lips plucked at hers. "No reward." He lifted her off the stool, his hands beneath her butt. "And speaking of rewards."

  She twined her arms around his neck, hooked her ankles together behind hi
s back. "Won't dinner burn?"

  Like she cared, when he was pressed against her, all hard and male, and wow, so hot she could feel him through the denim. But he'd gone to so much work to cook for her, she felt she at least ought to pretend to care.

  "Depends on how long you need this to take."

  Holding her tight, his mouth on hers, kissing her deep and deliciously, he walked the few feet to the galley table and sat her on it.

  She laughed as she shimmied out of her drenched panties. "Oh, maybe like a minute will work for me."

  What was it about Nick Broussard that she couldn't get enough of him?

  "Roger that." He shoved the jeans down his legs, pausing only long enough to pull a condom from the pocket.

  He was naked beneath those discarded jeans. Naked and gloriously, magnificently aroused. And, Kate marveled, as he sheathed that beautiful stony length, he was hers.

  "I like a man who comes to the party prepared." She grabbed his hair, pulled his mouth down to hers.

  "And I like a woman who's always ready." He pressed his palms against the insides of her thighs, spreading her legs apart.

  She was hot. And so wet he was able to slide smoothly, perfectly into her.

  "Ah, mon ange," he breathed. "You feel so good."

  Her senses swam. Her mind shut down. If she could have spoken, she would have told him that he felt better than good. But all she could manage was a low, ragged moan.

  "I could stay inside you forever." He put his hands beneath her, lifting her tighter against him.

  No way was she going to complain about that idea!

  Kate scissored her legs around him, her hips bucked, urging him on, as he thrust, withdrew, then thrust again, deeper, harder, his powerful stroke making her come again.

  Kate heard a scream and realized it had been ripped from her own throat. Colors exploded in a brilliant kaleidoscope behind her eyes, blinding her as the climax slammed through her, made even more powerful by the knowledge that Nick was experiencing it, too.

  The colors, fading to a rosy pink and hazy blue, floated peacefully, lazily, in her mind. Nick was half standing, half sprawled on top of her, his mouth against her throat.

  She had no idea how long they'd been lying together that way. It could have been seconds. Minutes. Hours. She'd be more than happy to stay this way forever. The kitchen timer he'd set when he'd put the rice on to steam started to ding. She laughed and felt Nick's answering laugh deep inside her.

  "Do you think that means we're done?" she asked.

  He lifted his head and kissed her, a long, deep kiss une could feel all the way to her bare toes. "Not hardly."

  Kate felt a sense of loss as he pulled out of her.

  "But I need to feed you." His eyes warmed as they met hers, and held. "Keep up your strength." He ran a palm down her body, from her breast to her knees. "For everything I have in mind to do to you—with you—tonight."

  The idea, along with the heat in his gaze, made her shiver. "Promises, promises." She flashed him a coy look of her own, amazing herself. If there was one thing Detective Kathleen Delaney did not do, it was coy.

  "You're not exactly a teenager anymore, Broussard." She guessed he was probably all of thirty-three. "While I'm just reaching my sexual peak." Which might have Just flown by unnoticed if she hadn't met her sexy Cajun ex-SEAL. "Are you sure you're capable of keeping up with me?"

  He threw back his head. Washboard muscles she could have done laundry on rippled up his torso as he let loose a deep, rich, self-satisfied laugh.

  "Don't you worry that pretty red head, 'tite chatte," he said. "Because I guar-an-tee it."

  A stuttering February sun was shining into the window when Kate woke the.next morning. Although she still hadn't made any progress regarding Tara's death, her life had changed amazingly in just a few short days.

  She had no idea where her relationship with Nick was headed. But, for the first time rather than feel the need to control every aspect of her life, she was willing to just go with the flow and enjoy being with him.

  "It's New Orleans," she murmured as she ran her hand over the pillow that carried his sexy male scent. "Folks have a certain way of doing things here."

  And wasn't she just enjoying the hell out of that certain way?

  Laissez les bon temps rouler.

  She rolled over onto her back. Grinned up at the ceiling as she thought about how many times she and Nick had let the good times roll last night. And how much she wanted to go rolling in them again.

  She could hear him in the shower and was sorely tempted to join him, then decided that since neither of them had gotten much sleep last night, she'd surprise him with coffee, one of the few things she actually knew how to make.

  As water began dripping through the coffeemaker, she decided to go outside and enjoy the morning.

  With warm thoughts of last night's lovemaking spinning sensually in her mind, Kate was totally unprepared to be greeted by the horrific sight of fresh blood all over The Hoo-yah's gleaming deck.

  36

  NICK HAD JUST PULLED UP HIS BRIEFS WHEN Kate's strangled scream jerked his mind from a hot replay of last night's sexathon.

  Not bothering to grab his jeans, he dashed out of the stateroom and up the stairs, where he found her standing in the doorway leading out onto the teak deck.

  "What the hell?" The door was draped in a fringe of black feathers. What appeared to be chicken bones were scattered around the deck, along with ashes and— what the fuck—blood?

  "I'm sorry." She was standing there, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans he hadn't even realized she owned, her hair tousled from the wild night they'd shared, a riot of red curls falling over her shoulders, a hand over her mouth. "I didn't mean to scream, but...

  "Oh, God." She dragged a shaky hand through her hair. "I was just surprised. We get some weird stuff in Chicago. But nothing like this."

  "It's not exactly common here, either." He drew her into his arms and pressed his lips against her hair. She was putting up a good front but he could feel her tremble. "Let me get some shoes on and I'll scrub it down."

  "You don't think it's human blood, do your?"

  "Nah. From the looks of things, some unlucky chicken gave his all. As soon as I get it cleaned up, I'll call Téo, see what her best guess is about the meaning."

  "Well, if it's that Jean-Renee Bertrand guy from Algiers and he's trying to scare me with dark Voodoo, it isn't going to work. Because I don't believe in that sort of stuff. But you know what really creeps me out? That someone was on the boat and we didn't know it."

  Yeah. That was pissing him off, too. It was the second time in a week he'd been caught off guard.

  "We were occupied with other things."

  "Well, that's true enough." Color rose in her cheeks.

  A man who'd always enjoyed contrasts, Nick loved not only that his tough-as-nails cop was sexy as sin, but that somehow, despite having had to grow up too fast, despite all her years working Chicago's mean streets, she'd managed to keep an innocence that allowed her to blush.

  He was thinking about just letting the cleaning-up wait and taking her back to bed and making her blush all over when his phone rang.

  "It's Remy," he said, glancing at the display. "Hey, cher ... Okay. Sure, we'll be here." He flipped the phone closed.

  "He's got the autopsy report," Kate guessed.

  "That'd be my guess. He didn't say, but that's probably because by sharing it with us, he's breaking all sorts of departmental rules. He's comin' over in an hour or so."

  "I'll go shower and change."

  "Do me a favor?"

  "What?"

  Call him perverse, but he also liked that she didn't agree right away without finding out what the favor was first. She wouldn't be his Kate if she was that much of a pushover.

  Life with Kate Delaney could be a challenge. But it would sure as hell never be boring.

  "Go with the jeans instead of that official pantsuit thing. And if you've got another
pair of those sexy-as-sin panties, it would give me a great deal of pleasure, while I'm cleaning up here and we're having to deal with the grown-up serious crime-fighting stuff, to anticipate stripping them back off you."

  '"You're terrible." She was fighting to keep her luscious lips, which were even fuller than normal from having been fully kissed all night long, from breaking into a smile.

  "And you love it."

  She went up on her toes and planted a quick, hard kiss against his mouth. "Abso-fucking-lutely."

  "What could you have been thinking?" Téophine's red silk dressing gown swirled around her legs as she furiously paced the floor. "Taking such a risk?"

  "No one caught me."

  "They could have. Nick Broussard used to be a U.S. Navy SEAL. Trained in covert military combat."

  "That may be," Toussaint said mildly. "But he was not playing soldier last night. And between the rain and his and Desiree's sister's lovemaking, an entire enemy army could've stormed onto the boat and he wouldn't have noticed."

  "It was still foolhardy."

  "The woman is in danger."

  "And what business is that of yours? You don't know her."

  "She is Desiree's twin. Desiree's blood. Desiree's other half." He pushed himself off the sofa with a heavy sigh. "The woman you were once friends with, the woman I loved with all my being, is a lwa now. Can you tell me that you don't believe she expects me to protect her sister?"

  "Like you were able to protect Desiree?" Téo flared, batting away at his hands as he tried to take her into his arms. "Oh, God. I'm sorry."

  She turned her back. Closed her eyes and pressed a hand tipped with bloodred nails against her breast. "That was unnecessarily cruel."

  "Don't feel the need to apologize. Because it's all too true."

  Her brother's turquoise eyes glistened as he stood behind her, shaping her shoulders with his hands. He wasn't sure which of them he was attempting to soothe. "I wasn't able to save Desiree. I won't allow this Kate person to suffer the same fate."