by LETO, JULIE
“No, but it does make me smarter about my safety than the average woman.”
“So smart that I had my hand around your throat and could have taken you out of here without anyone thinking it was more than some sexual game?”
Claire swallowed, the movement mesmerizing, particularly in the uncertain lamp light. Getting the jump on her had been a lucky break, but she didn’t need to know that. Between the music, the lights, the swirl and swish of multi-colored gowns, it was a miracle he’d spotted her so quickly.
Though she was pretty tough to miss.
The rest of the women had gone to great lengths to look young and fresh, but Claire was naturally both. She’d applied her makeup with a light hand and wore a gown of pale ivory that emphasized the rich caramel hue of her skin. From the curves and lines in her shoulders and bare arms, he guessed that she worked out regularly—probably outside in the wet Louisiana heat. Despite the sweet young persona she’d adopted, she moved with a bold confidence that had snatched the attention of nearly every other man in the room. Any with taste.
For that reason, he’d acted quickly. The minute he’d sensed her scanning the room for the woman she was looking for, he’d darted into action.
But for all he knew, the Bandit had been in the room, too, stalking her just like he was.
“Is that what this is?” she asked. “Some sort of sexual game you’ve invented to get me into bed?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he replied, trying not to give the idea any serious consideration. “This is all an act we’re putting on for whoever is watching us. We’ll play their game until I can get you the hell out of here.”
“I’m not leaving,” she insisted.
“You have a maniac after you.”
Her frown emphasized her plump lips. “You don’t think I’d notice if someone was stalking me?”
“No,” he answered simply. “Not this guy. He knows all about you. He knows you used to be a cop and that you’re now a private investigator. He’d realize that you’d be a challenge. He’d change his mode of operation. He’ll pull out all the stops. Whatever it takes.”
“But how could he get in here, with all the security? And how would he know I was here? I had to be super cautious to make sure these people didn’t suspect I was lying to them about who I was.”
“I found you. And I got in on less than a day’s notice. For all you know, he owns this joint.”
She snorted. “That’d be one hell of a coincidence. Your case and mine intertwining so neatly? He’s not here.”
Michael tugged her closer. She pulled back, trying again to twist out of his hold, but he wouldn’t let her. Whoever was on the other end of that camera was likely getting a kick out of this push-pull, but Michael was losing patience. He might find her strength sexy as hell, but he wasn’t going to let her run headfirst into danger.
“You don’t know where he is, and neither do I,” he confessed, turning her toward the camera while he spoke directly into her ear. “This man ingratiates himself into the lives of his victims long before he sends them a scarf. He learns their habits. He memorizes their routines. He doesn’t have a name or a face, but he’s always around. Maybe he’s the guy who delivers flowers to your neighbor. Maybe he’s the new tenant in the building two doors down. Maybe he’s the guy walking his dog down your street who seems more interested in his text messages than his surroundings. Trust me when I tell you he’s been watching you for weeks, maybe months. If he’s sent you the scarf, he already knows more about you than I do—maybe more than you know about yourself.”
The song ended. Michael stumbled when she drew up short, her cheeks slightly paler than before.
She waited until the next song started before she asked, “You think he’s here?”
“I don’t know.”
He swept her back into his arms. This time the music was slower, more sensual, more intimate, requiring not so much measured movements as close contact swaying. Michael had never been much of a dancer, but moving with her in his arms felt organic. Intoxicating.
“I need a drink,” she said, pulling away.
She spun to the table beside the bed and fumbled with the crystal decanter. With her back to him, he became instantly enraptured by her long, kissable neck, slim shoulder blades and trim waist. And though her skirt adequately hid the curve of her hips and legs, he imagined that underneath the silk was a body just as smooth as the satiny material.
She was pouring generous portions of brandy into the snifters when he approached her from behind. He spared the camera in the air vent a glance. Someone was capturing their every move, their every touch.
This should have worried him.
And yet, it didn’t.
“Brandy?” Claire offered.
Michael did not back away, but accepted the glass with what he hoped was an easy smile. “I take it some people don’t sign up to participate, but just to watch?”
She took a generous sip. “And here I thought you’d come here knowing everything about this place.”
“There wasn’t time for everything. Just enough to get me through the door.”
She spun prettily, then settled herself on a corner of the bed. To the casual observer, the way she let the snifter linger just at the edge of her lips would appear seductive and coy. Michael noticed that as well. But he also recognized that she’d positioned herself so that when he stood across from her, his shoulder braced against the tall bed post, their faces weren’t visible to the camera.
“And how’d you manage that, anyway?” she asked. “It costs a minimum of $10,000 for a man to buy his way in. That doesn’t even count the gifts and gratuities he has to lavish on his mistress of choice. I can’t imagine the FBI fronting you the money just so you can get me out of here.”
“The FBI has no idea I’m here.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“Wasn’t time. Once I figured out where you’d gone, which, admittedly, wasn’t easy, I could either follow procedure or find you before the bad guy did. I hope you agree I made the right choice.”
She sipped her brandy again. He hadn’t imagined her to be the thoughtful type—from what he’d read about her, she was more of an act-now, ask-questions-later type of woman. But something about him made her look before she leapt, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad omen.
“Where’d you get the money?” she asked.
“Does it matter?”
“I’m making small talk,” she said, turning her face so that her fake smile flashed at the camera. “Trying to decide whether or not to trust you. It’s not like I had a chance to examine your credentials thoroughly. I barely saw them.”
“Trust me,” he murmured. “Your aunt looked them over carefully. I take it you’ve given her some tips on ferreting out fakes?”
“Ha! Clarice taught me. She may be pushing sixty, but she’s the sharpest woman I know.”
“And she thought it was a good idea for you to come here when a serial psycho is after you? Oh, wait, you left out that part.”
“Your FBI counterparts didn’t say anything about him being a serial psycho,” she pointed out. “They just said he was a stalker. And I didn’t want her to be involved at all, but even I’m not hotheaded enough to come into this place alone. She has my cell phone and can dial 9-1-1 like a pro. She’s also a crack shot and carries a .32 in her purse. I know my plan wasn’t the best, but it’s all I could come up with on short notice. Sound familiar?”
With a chuckle, he toasted her with his snifter, then took a sip of the liqueur, not at all impressed by the taste, but appreciating the fortifying heat. He and Claire did have one very big thing in common—they’d both come here on false pretenses. If either one of them was found out, they’d be in a boatload of trouble. From inside and out.
“Very familiar.”
“Then why didn’t you just wait for me to get home? If I’m lucky, my case will be done tonight. I saw my client’s ex-wife’s alias on a guest l
ist. Once I locate her and get her signature, I’ll be out of here.”
“Unless her fake name is fake.”
“What?”
“In the five cases we’ve connected to the unsub, he takes his victim within forty-eight hours of sending the scarf. You received yours the day before yesterday, right? Maybe if I hadn’t shown up tonight and enticed you to this bedroom, you wouldn’t be coming home. Ever.”
Outside the room, someone moved. Michael turned to the door in time to see shadows dance in the transom window. Voices argued in hushed tones. Maybe his device hadn’t worked as designed, or maybe the music had not been loud enough to mask their conversation.
Or perhaps, the voyeurs behind the video cameras were tired of watching them talk.
He set down his untouched brandy and grabbed Claire by the arm, tugging her close so that their lips were barely an inch apart.
She splayed her hand flat against his chest. “What do you think you’re doing?”
The lock on the door behind them jiggled.
“Taking what I paid for.”
CLAIRE’S SENSES EXPLODED in rapid succession. First, she heard the muffled sound of footsteps outside in the hall. Then Special Agent Murrieta had her on her feet, in his arms, his mouth on hers.
And oh, what a mouth it was.
Unlike in the ballroom, where he’d toyed between gentle and insistent, his touch from both hands and lips was now rough and unyielding. At nearly the same moment, her nostrils inhaled the spiced masculine scent of his cologne and her tongue, slightly numbed by the brandy, swelled with the powerful flavors of coffee, mint and man.
When the door burst open behind them, she did not have to feign a gasp of surprise.
He threw her behind him.
“What is the meaning of this?” he barked.
Claire leaned around his solid frame and saw the dark-skinned woman, flanked by two imposing men who matched Michael in height, but surpassed him in girth by about fifty pounds each.
The woman iced up her spine and spoke first. “I’m afraid we don’t recognize you, sir. Are you on our guest list?”
Claire’s mind whirled with myriad explanations, but even as she opened her mouth to speak, she realized that doing so would ruin the charade. Women of the gens de couleur libre were notoriously independent, but probably not so much when in the presence of their men. Even as she decided to hold her tongue, the FBI agent who’d gone to such lengths to blend into this world dug into his jacket and produced a square of thick vellum paper. An exclusive invitation to this weekend’s event.
“This is an outrage,” he muttered, tossing the card to the floor.
The woman did not react, but waited for one of her lackeys to retrieve the invitation and place it gingerly into her hands. The woman’s black eyes assessed Special Agent Murrieta from head to toe, sparing Claire only a single, questioning glance that she answered with genuine confusion. Who did the woman think he was, anyway? And why had they burst in?
One of the goons turned off the gramophone-disguised CD player, then proceeded to examine it from all angles. If he found the amplifier, they’d both be turfed out of the place. But Michael must have hidden it well. After two tense minutes, the man turned to the woman in charge and gave a hopeless shrug.
The corners of her mouth dropped into a frown.
“My apologies, monsieur,” she said with a little bow, her head tilted even as she gave Claire a second once-over. “It’s just that this mademoiselle is new to our society, as well. It is…unusual…for two people uninitiated in our ways to go off together so early in the evening.”
The woman’s mouth drew into a straight, unyielding line, but Claire could have bet she was censoring herself like a preacher on a tirade. They hadn’t been made, but the people-in-charge were suspicious.
Great. Just great.
“My arrangement with the mademoiselle was made in complete accordance with your guidelines,” he said, snatching the invitation back. “And I may be new here, but I still prefer fresh flowers to the dry, wilted ones so heavily in attendance.”
From her vantage point, Claire could not see Michael’s expression, but his tone of voice tipped his metaphor into the dangerous range. He’d meant to insult the woman—and from the fury in her eyes, he’d accomplished his task.
“We will not disturb you again,” she said stiffly, “but we will be watching. To ensure you enjoy your stay.”
Her smile reeked of sarcasm. She spun on her heel and left, the two goons trailing behind her. The door closed and locked again—this time, from the outside.
Claire raised herself on her tip-toes so that she could whisper in her so-called rescuer’s ear. “Uh-oh. Think we’re in trouble?”
Michael reset the CD, ensuring that it played on a continuous loop, then turned and wrapped his hands fully around her waist. His grip, possessive and intense, sapped her breath.
“Not yet, but you heard the woman. They’ll be watching us.”
Claire couldn’t miss the glint of anticipation in Michael’s eyes or the flare of his nostrils that told her his senses were heightened—on alert. They might be in deep shit, but she suspected that the deeper the shit, the more excited this clever FBI agent became.
He fed on danger. Boy, could she ever relate.
“So what do you suggest we do?” she asked.
“Well, if they’re watching,” he said, giving the camera a cursory glance, “I say we should give them a show that brings down the house.”
4
THE MINUTE MICHAEL pressed his mouth to Claire’s again, a burning question seared through the sensations of her soft flesh against his.
Just how far was she willing to go?
And even more important…how far was he?
He had not planned to kiss her. Beyond working his way into Nouvelle Placage, he had not planned much of anything. The more he’d learned about the plantation party, the more he figured he would have to flirt and be charming before he convinced her that her personal safety was more important than finding some woman who’d willfully abandoned her kids.
But now they were trapped. He could flash his badge and get them out, but that would blow her case, and possibly his, too. Telling her the Bandit could be here watching had not just been a scare tactic. In all his other attacks, the guy had stalked his victims for weeks and ended up knowing more about their lives than anyone had imagined. If he was here watching Claire and realized she was being protected by the FBI, he could run.
And then he could change his patterns. If he did that, they might never get this close to finding him—not until he’d hurt another string of women. And maybe this time, he wouldn’t stop at kidnapping or rape. If Michael and Claire utterly destroyed The Bandit’s sick fantasy, he might cross the line and kill.
They were in now—they had to play this through to the end.
Wasn’t like it was a huge sacrifice to kiss Claire Lécuyer senseless anyway.
Since joining the Bureau right out of college, he’d trussed himself to his job. What free time he had, he’d given to his family, with only short, uninspired relationships that fired up quick and burned out fast. Never in his life had he kissed a woman he knew he shouldn’t—with strangers watching every slide of his hand down her waist, every curve of his fingers through the folds of her dress.
It was exciting.
It was dangerous. One call to his superiors, one viral video linked to the Bureau could destroy everything he’d worked for.
So why couldn’t he let her go?
Her lips were soft and slick; her tongue was hot and insistent. With no hesitation, no boundaries, she explored the full breadth of his mouth, skimming across his teeth and igniting a flame deep in his gut that would be impossible to extinguish, even if everyone in the plantation house burst in and doused him with pails of ice cold water.
Scrunching up the voluminous skirt in his hands, he found the back of her thighs, bare between her stockings and some sort of cottony drawers that cr
adled her backside like a cloud. Her flesh prickled and he wanted to warm her. Create friction. Share the burn.
She broke her mouth away from his, then trailed her lips over his jawline. “Is this what they train you for at Quantico?”
He braced his hands on the crest of her buttocks, resisting the urge to lift her fully and completely against his erection. “Not last time I checked.”
She followed her path of feather light kisses with a lush swipe of her tongue, her long lashes hiding her gaze as it trained on the camera. “You must really want my cooperation if you’re willing to put your credentials on the line for a chance to feel me up. My ass is choice, but probably not worth your career.”
Michael laughed, the sound bursting from his chest like the stopper on a bottle of sparkling wine. Self-deprecating, she was not. She was, however, gorgeous, sexy, sensual and irresistible. From the first moment he’d laid eyes on her, his need to touch her, taste her, seduce her had been harder and harder to fight.
And this wasn’t like him.
Not like him at all.
As if on cue, the center emerald of the Murrieta ring caught a flash of lamplight.
Up until a month ago, Michael had been exactly like his oldest brother, Alejandro. Serious. Responsible. Concerned with expectations and appearances and all the other prison bars society erected to keep anarchy at bay.
But then Alex had taken possession of their deceased father’s ring. In the span of a week, his entire life had changed. Not only had he fallen in love with a woman who’d completely lied to him about who she was, but he’d invested a large amount of cash and clout to ensure that Daniel, their middle brother, got off on the trumped-up charges that could have meant a long stint in the state penitentiary.
Now, Michael had the ring. Was it a coincidence that he was willing to turn away from what was right in order to revel in something wicked and wanton and undeniably wrong?
“Ordinarily, I’m a by-the-book kind of guy,” he said, dipping his head so that he could run his tongue down the elegant curve of her bare neck. “But for this case, I might have to push some limits.”