by LETO, JULIE
She had not made his job easy. Only hours after alerting the local office that she had received the telltale scarf, she’d dropped off the grid and disappeared into this sexual underworld. In order to bypass their intense security on short notice, he’d had to make quick arrangements for an authentic costume—oddly, not difficult to do in New Orleans—and borrow the exorbitant entrance fee from his brother, Alejandro. He had authorization to retrieve Claire Lécuyer and put her under protective custody, but he doubted his superiors would have approved of him paying his way into a sex club.
The case hadn’t yet become a major priority for the Bureau. They had serial killers to catch and homegrown terrorists to thwart. They’d only thrown the case his way because of an obscure tie between him and the rapist. But it was that same family secret that made him determined to catch this psycho before he hurt another woman. To that end, he’d finagled a consult from the Behavioral Analysis Unit at Quantico, received approval to call in Ruby, his partner, a member of his San Francisco team and was given open access to agents from the local office.
Otherwise, Michael was on his own.
It hadn’t been easy to find Claire, but he’d pulled it off with limited resources and time. He had no reason to believe that her stalker, a man who’d already kidnapped and tormented five other women, wouldn’t find her, too.
And when he did, Michael intended to catch him.
“So now that you have me,” she said, turning up the mocking quality in her Southern belle enunciation, “whatever are you going to do with me?”
He bit back a grin, but allowed an eye roll. There was something about this woman that could drive a man to drink. Heavily. As it was, he’d taken a great risk snatching her the way he had, but he’d had a point to make. Despite FBI warnings, she’d gone off on her own. Her dossier overflowed with situations where she’d put her investigation above her own safety. She’d lost her badge for disobeying repeated orders from her superiors to stop her pursuit of a suspicious death case that had, because of her, resulted in a highly publicized murder conviction.
But he didn’t see her vindication as a victory. If she’d followed procedures and worked within the system, she might have had the same result and kept her job. Not that he was one to judge at this point. He believed in the rules set forth by the Bureau which ensured that investigations were both balanced and prosecutable.
On the other hand, if he hadn’t ripped a page out of her book tonight, he might never have found her before the unsub.
“The possibilities for what we might do together are endless, cher,” he replied, “but none would be appropriate for this company.” His eyes darted to the men and women mingling around them. “Perhaps we can move along to some place a little more private?”
Within the depths of her mossy green eyes, he watched her calculate the risk versus the reward. No doubt she wanted to get rid of him as quickly as possible so she could continue to pursue her case. Had their roles been reversed, he’d want the same. But she didn’t know yet what he had planned for her. If she did, she might change her mind about ditching him, which he was certain she would try to do.
Claire tilted her fan toward the foyer, then hooked her arm into his. “This way, sir,” she crooned. “If you wish to take me on, you’ll first have to consult with my maman.”
“Of course,” he said, tempering a grin.
Very wisely, Claire had arranged for backup of sorts in the form of her aunt, who had stepped into the role of maman for the night. As the designated “mother” figure, she would negotiate a proper arrangement for her “daughter.” In other words, she was the pimp. From Claire’s superior smirk, she expected that her aunt would dismiss any amount Michael offered.
Well, she’d soon see that while she was wily and had come prepared, so had he.
In the grand foyer, draped sheets of sheer organza and candelabras bright with beeswax tapers masked the peeling paint and moldy smell of the old plantation house. Michael had to admire the time and effort the organizers had taken to ensure that one step over the threshold transported attendees into a different world—an old world, a racially ambiguous world when the French dominated New Orleans.
Some of the accounts he’d read during prep for this case had claimed that white men who bought quadroon women did so out of true love and affection. Glancing at Claire, with her flawless coffee-stained skin and hypnotically opaque green eyes, he could understand the appeal. How hard was it, really, to be intrigued—enslaved, even—by a woman such as her?
With her exotic beauty and impeccable manners, what man wouldn’t promise away his entire legacy to possess her, even for just one night?
Michael slid his gloved hand over hers as they approached the veritable shelf of older women sitting in a row beside the open windows. A breeze scented with night-blooming jasmine cooled the air and ruffled through the swatch of silk she’d tucked into the neckline of her gown. He couldn’t help but wonder what he would find if he peeled the material away—then he realized that was probably the whole point of the costume piece.
She exhaled with relief when she spotted her aunt, seated and sipping on a cocktail. Clarice had spent most of her life involved with the theater, and since she’d also been born and raised in the French Quarter, she’d easily seen more sordid events than this laced up version of consensual prostitution.
“This is my maman,” Claire said by way of introduction, her voice lilting with confidence that he was about to be summarily dismissed.
Michael gave a low and reverent bow, took the woman’s lace-gloved hand and swept a kiss across her knuckles.
“Madame,” he greeted. From inside his jacket, he took out an envelope he’d prepared ahead of time.
Clarice took another sip of her drink, snatched the letter and gave it a quick, almost cursory read. Then, after looking him up and down, she nodded her approval.
“Maman!” Claire protested.
Michael fought to hide his amusement, but instead grabbed her elbow and leaned in close. “She knows who I am and she knows why I’m here. Now find us a place to talk in private or I’ll drag you out and whatever case you’re working on will be ruined.”
Claire cast one angry look at her aunt, who smiled benignly in response. “The man makes a fair offer, my love. Go with him. Hear what he has to stay.”
Claire continued to silently plead with her aunt, but the woman’s matching gaze was just as stubborn and intense and Michael wasn’t sure who would win this battle of wills. He had indeed sought out Claire’s “guardian” shortly after spotting her in the ballroom. Following the protocol of Nouvelle Placage, he had revealed his credentials and verified that the aunt was helping Claire on her undercover operation, then had taken the older woman on a short stroll and explained what he’d come here to do.
Though Claire had already told her aunt about the serial rapist, she’d downgraded him to a simple stalker. So when Michael filled Aunt Clarice in on the real story, she’d agreed to help him by approving him as her niece’s lover. Once alone, he and Claire could talk freely, and hopefully, Michael could convince her to leave.
For her own safety—and for her case—she had to trust him.
She muttered a very unladylike curse, and then hissed, “This way, monsieur.”
AS THEY WALKED to the curved staircase, Claire pushed away her anger. Nothing good ever came from reacting solely on emotions. She had to concentrate on the task at hand. This FBI agent, whose name she hadn’t caught as he flashed his identification, had gone to a lot of trouble not to muck up her case. The least she could do was hear him out.
Her reconnaissance at the old plantation house had been minimal, but she knew that one of the upstairs bedrooms, reserved for lovers who preferred a traditional setting rather than one of the more exotic locations throughout the house, would afford them a measure of privacy. Damn it.
She shouldn’t have called the Feds about the scarf. She should have kept her mouth shut until after she’d closed her cas
e. But she hadn’t figured the government would act so quickly, not for a case where no crime against her had yet to be committed. Maybe the agent would be reasonable. Maybe he’d agree to leave her to her assignment until she’d found Josslyn and obtained the woman’s signature.
Or maybe he’d already messed up her chances of bringing her case to a close by spiriting her upstairs long before any of the other women had left the dance floor.
On the second story landing, they were met by a dark-skinned woman in a plain, black dress who led them to a room at the end of the hall. Without a word, she opened the door and stood, eyes down, while they went inside. Claire had seen the woman with Masterson earlier. Was she just an employee or one of the organizers? In this world, it was impossible to know all the players.
The door shut behind them with a tight click.
Claire opened her mouth to speak, but the handsome agent held up his hand while he scanned the dimly lit room.
The boudoir did not have much furniture. A large bed with a plush comforter and an array of pillows. A silk changing screen, a chaise lounge, a small table set with a brandy decanter and two snifters, three lamps and a fireplace filled not with logs in the summer heat, but with a fragrant blaze of orange and red flowers.
Just enough scenery to evoke the weekend’s theme, but not enough to detract from the real objective—sex.
When the agent looked up at an air vent in the corner, his shoulders stiffened for a split second before he turned and held out his hand with a gallant bow. “So, cher, would you care to dance?”
He remained in character, so she did, too. He’d spotted something. With her gaze cast coquettishly at her slippers, she shuffled closer. From the break in the light beneath the door, she could see that someone was listening in. She’d been warned that some of the people in the Nouvelle Placage entertained themselves not by participating, but by watching. Did that include eavesdropping at key holes?
After slipping her hand into the agent’s, she chanced a glance at the air vent that had put him on guard.
Tucked just beyond the cast-iron scrollwork was a camera.
And from the tiny green light, she could tell it was on.
“I’d love to dance with you, sir,” she said, “but we haven’t any music.”
“That can be rectified, I’m sure.”
He marched to the door and swung it open, startling the woman hovering there.
“You!” he ordered, his manners and stature every bit as imposing as a Creole-accented Rhett Butler. “We want music. And hurry up about it.”
Less than two minutes later, she wheeled in a device that looked like a gramophone, but was connected to a very modern CD player. The FBI agent practically pushed the woman out of the door, locked it, then slowly eased his fingers out of his gloves.
She did the same, but finished first as his right glove had snagged on a large emerald ring. She was just about to comment on the unusual size and style when he turned up the volume of the melodic waltz more than necessary.
He gave her a little bow, revealing a twinkle in his deep blue eyes that was not the least bit government issue.
Who was this guy?
She curtsied as she’d learned to do before she’d gotten herself kicked out of cotillion class and then willfully walked into his arms.
His hand on her waist was taut, but the one that cupped her palm was surprisingly gentle. He was a mass of contradictions, this nameless man.
“I thought the local FBI instructed you to lay low until I arrived,” he said as they swayed to the string-heavy waltz.
“I don’t even know who you are.”
“Special Agent Michael Murrieta.”
“Shh,” she admonished. His voice was strong and would easily carry over the music. “If the room has a camera, it clearly has listening devices, too.”
“These freaks aren’t the only ones with hardware. I slipped an amplifier onto that gramophone. It’ll boost the sound—the only thing any bugs will pick up is Mozart.”
She smirked. “Actually, this is Strauss.”
“It’s still a cool gadget. They can watch us, but they won’t hear a word we say.”
She couldn’t help but be impressed by both his preparedness and his slightly boyish enthusiasm for spy toys.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“I’m the lead on your case.”
“I’m not a case, Special Agent. I’m just a private citizen who turned over evidence, as instructed. But I do have my own case and I’d like to get back to it before you screw it up.”
He withdrew just enough that she could see the full breadth of his cocky smirk. “Do I look like I’m screwing anything up?”
She turned her cheek, unwilling to confess that Special Agent Michael Murrieta did appear to be incredibly competent—not to mention smooth.
He’d dressed the part of a Southern gentleman to a tee, from his polished boots to his well-fitting breeches, tapered jacket and expertly tied cravat. He’d adopted mannerisms and speech patterns of an antebellum gentleman with sparkling ease and charm, like Nathan Fillion channeling the spirit of Clark Gable.
It was disarming.
She suddenly had no trouble understanding how women could get so wrapped up in this world. The sexual allure was powerful.
At least, the sexual allure of Special Agent Michael Murrieta.
He was clearly a good actor—which meant he couldn’t be trusted.
“Why are you here?” she asked, tugging back slightly. Unlike the other women at Nouvelle Placage, she hadn’t dolled herself up in silk and simpering sweetness to get all cozy with a man. She had a job to do. And the longer she swayed around the bedroom with this intoxicating fed, the harder it would be for her to accomplish her goal.
“You received a scarf,” he said.
“Yes, I know,” she snapped. “I was there. I delivered it to your field office myself, which I didn’t have to do, you know. I could have waited until I was done with this case. I should have waited.”
“Maybe, but then you might be dancing with an unhinged rapist rather than with me.”
He spun her, the twirl both expert and effortless.
She gasped, a little dizzy. A little impressed.
“It matched the ones left with the other victims,” he explained, his voice soft, but weighted with importance. “Didn’t the agent-in-charge explain what the scarf meant?”
She groaned. “He just said that some wack job who thinks he’s the Frito Bandito might try and abduct me to fulfill some sort of non-sexual sex fantasy.”
Agent Murrieta stiffened, but continued to maneuver her in a tight square in the center of the room. When she looked up, she was surprised to find that his eyes had hardened into twin blocks of blue ice.
“It’s not non-sexual. Not anymore. He’s escalated. You’re in serious danger, Ms. Lécuyer. And I’m going to make sure he doesn’t get to you, whether you want me to or not.”
3
FRITO BANDITO? Had she just equated his storied ancestor with the retired mascot for corn chips? At the spot where his right hand rested just below her shoulder blade, his father’s ring burned.
Or at least, he imagined it did.
The family heirloom had reportedly once belonged to the very man whose reputation Claire had just unknowingly insulted. Centered by an emerald etched with a Z and flanked by two large opals that reflected vibrant blues and greens among the inky black, the ring had always been his father’s most treasured possession. Now it connected Michael to his brothers, to his family legacy—and to this case.
No one at the FBI knew that Michael was the direct descendant of Joaquin Murrieta, the very real and very notorious California renegade after whom the fictionalized Zorro was based. He’d drawn the line at allowing the unsub to be branded with the name associated with his famous forebear, so he certainly wasn’t going to let Joaquin Murrieta be reduced to a mustachioed Mexican stereotype.
“The unknown subject, whom my colleagu
es have dubbed The Bandit, is both delusional and dangerous. Just because he’s fixated on a character who wore black masks and capes in the movies doesn’t make him any less dangerous. Especially to a delicate woman like yourself.”
The last part was a cheap shot, but it hit the target. Her eyes flashed and he had to increase the pressure of his grip to keep her swaying to the music rather than punching him in the face.
He shouldn’t have baited her, but somehow, he couldn’t help himself. Unintended insult to his ancestor notwithstanding, Claire Lécuyer took herself entirely too seriously. He would know. He usually did the same.
But not tonight. Not with her. Casting aside the fact that he was dressed like an idiot while prancing around for some voyeur’s video camera with moves he hadn’t used since his ballroom-obsessed fifth grade teacher taught her class the box step, Michael felt entirely at ease. Dancing with Claire—no, holding her close—felt nearly as natural as taking her into his protective custody.
Again, he wondered about the ring. According to legend, it allowed the wearer to access the three qualities most often associated with the dashing character the unsub had appropriated for his sexual fantasy. A strong desire to impart justice to the wicked. An insatiable desire for adventure. And, of course, an enviable talent with women.
Michael didn’t believe any of that nonsense, but he knew one thing for sure: if he was going to go up against a madman to save Claire Lécuyer, he’d take all the help he could get.
“I don’t need a bodyguard,” she murmured, her lips drawn in a severe line. “I used to be a cop, you know.”
“Of course I know,” he replied, taking a chance at a second twirl that made her gasp in surprise. “I’ve made it my business to know everything about you. At least, everything that could be collected in an FBI file. But law enforcement experience doesn’t make you invincible.”