SWEET SUSPICION

by Nina Bruhns

  * * *

  Contents:

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17

  Epilogue

  * * *

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  ^ »

  She was prettier than her mug shot.

  FBI Special Agent Remi Beaulieux leaned his elbows back on the crowded bar, popped a stick of Juicy Fruit into his mouth and contemplated the woman working the crowd.

  Prettier and more cheerful. The FBI photographer must have caught her on a really bad day. He lifted his shot glass and took a sip of tequila. Not that it mattered. He'd just wanted to get a look at her in person.

  Remi's specialty was undercover work, posing as a bad guy, convincing the other bad guys to trust him long enough to hang themselves. After weeks of meticulous planning and putting his cover in place, tomorrow he'd be slipping into the James Davies crime organization, playing the part of a drug smuggler drumming up business.

  He wanted to know all the important players by sight. Muse Summerville had been the FBI's inside man—or woman—with Davies, right up until two weeks ago when she'd ended her relationship with Gary Fox, one of Davies's main gofers.

  He watched as she lifted the hair off her neck and made eyes at about the tenth guy in as many minutes, a big dude in a Harley T-shirt and combat boots.

  Obviously she was real broken up about it. Not that Remi was interested in the details of Muse Summerville's love life.

  Still, he couldn't help but admire the view. A lithe, tall blonde with miles of shapely leg and a cute, flirty sundress short enough to make a man pray for a stiff wind. No wonder they were swarming around her two deep.

  He took another sip of tequila, wiped a bead of sweat from his temple and watched as she gave a woman a big hug and started talking with her animatedly, all the while smiling and waving to passersby who greeted her.

  Popular lady. No surprise. Her background file said she had lots of friends. But what did surprise Remi was that there were just as many women as men. Now, that was interesting.

  The big old wooden paddle fan twirling above the dance floor must have been doing its job, for she tipped her face up and let the breeze caress her face. It was a gesture so sensual a low hum of appreciation rumbled from his throat.

  She was surely not what he'd expected.

  The Eyes Only FBI file on Muse he'd skimmed earlier was thick and revealing to say the least. It had been filled with page after page of information she'd gathered on James Davies over the past six months, as well as a sketchy profile of Muse and her flamboyant lifestyle. In person, Remi had been expecting a jaded, streetwise woman with no hint of vulnerability, flashing sex appeal like a neon sign.

  Bien, she was sexy, all right. And obviously used to taking care of herself.

  But that's where the similarities ended. Despite the short dress, spike heels and bright lipstick, there seemed to be a genuineness and intelligence about this woman that defied her reputation as a wild-living party girl. She was intriguing as hell.

  Not that she was his type.

  He suddenly realized she'd caught him watching her. Her gaze faltered as it collided with his, moved on, then returned.

  Wrong.

  She was just his type. In fact, she was so much his type it was almost scary. Scary enough to make him take a giant mental step back.

  Garde, mon fils. Careful, boy.

  It would be foolish to make contact. He wasn't authorized, and he had no reason to speak to her. Muse Summerville was the FBI's ace in the hole against James Davies, the only informant still alive whose testimony could put Davies away for good. In two days Remi'd be deep undercover, trying his damnedest to locate the bastard so they could arrest him and get him on trial.

  So far Davies didn't suspect her. By making any contact at all, Remi could put both her and himself in unnecessary danger. Especially since a few days ago she'd reported she was being followed.

  No problem. He'd only watch her for a little while, then slip away before she really noticed him.

  Except her gaze was still on him.

  Against all caution, he stared right back. He could see her swallow, then whisper to the woman next to her, who gave him the once-over and shook her head, but shot him a flirtatious smile.

  He lifted his glass in an answering salute, but held Muse's gaze the whole time. Damn, he'd like to meet her.

  Dieu. Jamais. Reality check.

  What would he do if she actually walked over and introduced herself? Tell her, yeah, I already know who you are because I'm an FBI agent and I've read your very intriguing file and came all the way down here to Bourbon Street just to find out if what it said was true?

  Right, Beaulieux.

  Luckily he was spared when a man came up to her and she turned away, sliding her arms playfully around his neck as he leaned over for a kiss.

  Remi gripped his shot glass and downed the rest of the tequila in one gulp, frowning. Okay, big deal. So what if she let the guy kiss her? Her file said she liked men—the more dark and dangerous the better. What did he expect? A nun?

  His scowl deepened as the man grabbed her and pulled her close. But to his surprise she broke the kiss and slipped from his grasp, laughing and urging the woman next to her to take her place in the man's arms. She left them kissing as she waved to another friend and moved on. Not that he cared.

  Remi caught her eye again. This time she stopped, tipped her head and raised an eyebrow.

  Dark and dangerous, eh? He could do dark and dangerous. That's why he'd done so well in his twelve-year undercover career. Remi Beaulieux defined dark and dangerous.

  He didn't move. Didn't smile. Just swept his gaze over her in a very obvious male challenge.

  Her lips parted a fraction, and even from across the room he could see her cheeks flush. Oh, yeah, she was interested.

  Suddenly he wanted to kick himself. Ça, c'est fou! Flirting with this woman could get them both in big trouble. What if she actually took him up on his unspoken offer?

  Again their byplay was interrupted by another man, and to his annoyance nearly the exact same ritual was enacted. First the kiss, then the grab, then the switcheroo, this time with a giggling friend she pulled off the dance floor.

  Obviously the woman didn't like being manhandled. What was with those guys? Didn't they get that?

  None of his business. She was doing fine taking care of herself. In fact, she disappeared into the crowd and he lost sight of her altogether.

  Merci Dieu. Best he got out of there, anyway. He'd had no business tracking her down in the first place. He wasn't undercover yet, and this was their star witness he was messing with. He must be looking for a way to get fired. Or killed.

  He elbowed his way through the throng on the dance floor, slowly easing toward the door. Bourbon Street

  was always a crush, and tonight was no different despite the blast-furnace heat of mid-August.

  When he stepped out the door into the night, he paused for a welcome deep breath of fresh air. The smells of the Quarter made him smile in recognition: fried fish, sweet daiquiris, popcorn, the lingering tang of rotting garbage…

  "Leaving so soon?"

  He didn't know whether to be ecstatic or worried when he turned to find Muse leaning casually against an iron balcony pillar.

  He opted for worried. He gave her a grin and said, "Almost midnight. Need my beauty sleep."

  Her rose-painted lips curved up in amusement. "Oh, you wild thing, you," she drawled in a honey-sweet Carolina accent that made his pulse do a slow waltz through his veins.

  He hiked a brow. "Unless you make it worth my while to stay…"

  She winked. "Don't count on it, sugarcane."

  Both relief and disappointment rolled through him. The p
roposition had been a pure male reflex, his body leading him astray in a big way. He fought the instinct to take up her transparent gauntlet, instead delivering a disappointed but accepting sigh.

  "Quel dommage. Now, that's truly a shame."

  She glanced up at his use of French. "You Cajun?"

  He decided not to take it personally that she didn't pursue their flirtation but changed the subject as though his heritage was just naturally more interesting than his prospects as a bed partner. He shook his head. "Not Cajun. French Creole."

  "Really? Then your family's been in New Orleans for a long time?"

  He shook his head. "My people are from up the Atchafalaya River."

  "Ah."

  "Ah, what?"

  "Really old money."

  The woman had obviously done her research on Louisiana's archaic class system. The question was, why? "What makes you think that? There are plenty of us who are church-mouse poor."

  She took in his Marc Jacobs shirt and Helmut Lang slacks and pursed her lips. "Yeah, I see that. So, where's the plantation?"

  He ruthlessly deflected the knifeblade of pain reminders of Beau Saint-Coeur invariably produced, and chuckled. "You gold diggin', woman?" Wouldn't be the first one to try—until they found out he wasn't his daddy's heir.

  She looked amused rather than offended. "More like iron diggin'."

  "'Scuse me?"

  "I'm putting together a book on old wrought-iron and cast-iron work. You know, balcony railings, gates, cemetery fences and such. I've found some beautiful examples hidden away on those antebellum plantations up there. Your place got any?"

  He folded his arms over his chest and regarded her, completely baffled. He wasn't sure where he'd expected this conversation to lead, but this was definitely not it.

  "You're writing a book?" Something not mentioned in her file.

  "Well, photographing a book, actually. And recording the stories associated with the patterns in the ironwork. It's amazing stuff."

  The surprises kept coming. "You're a photographer?"

  She shrugged. "Amateur, but I do okay. So, how 'bout it?"

  His brain had long ago lodged well below his neck, so it took him a moment to sort out that she wasn't propositioning him but still asking about her wrought iron. Irrationally disappointed, he forced himself to think.

  "My cousin Beau's plantation has a grave on it—our great-great-great-grandmother. There's a real pretty gate on the enclosure fence with an interesting wartime legend. And my father's house has a gallery rail imported from France, with a symbol of the blessed Saint Louis."

  Her eyes lit up, even in the darkness. "Really? I'd love to photograph them both. Would you take me sometime?" In her excitement she softly grasped his forearm.

  Reactions burst through him like gunfire—scalding heat where she touched his skin, gut-deep bitterness at the knowledge he'd never step foot in his father's home again, sharp arousal from her invitation to a cozy trip up the river that could easily turn into much more than a photo shoot.

  And warning bells in his head that he was letting this contact get way out of control.

  "I'd like that," he murmured with deeper regret than he'd felt in more years than he could count. "Unfortunately, I'm goin' out of town tomorrow. Indefinitely."

  She studied him for a moment. "Okay. I understand. Well—" She looked around and snagged a pen from a passing acquaintance's pocket, then with a flourish wrote her name and phone number in the hollow of his palm. "My name's Muse. When you get back, you give me a call. If you like."

  He smiled, barely resisting hanging on to her hand and pulling her close, whispering in her delicate ear what he'd really like to do when he got back.

  "I'll keep that in mind."

  She strolled off, hailing another friend as she tucked the pen back into its owner's pocket with a wink. And then she was gone, melting into the crowd of tourists and good-timin' locals that packed the busy street.

  He watched her go, taking her place against the balcony support, fighting the urge to go after her and make an improper suggestion. Or two or three. But he didn't.

  It wasn't fear that she'd turn him down that stopped him. It was fear that she wouldn't.

  He knew better than to start something he couldn't finish. His job made it imperative he have no ties whatsoever. No wife. No steady lover. No family that he was close to. He deliberately played up his own unhappy past, the ugly rift between him and his parents, his bad reputation as the black sheep of the Beaulieux clan, in order that those he did care about—Grandmère, Beau and his new wife, Kit, and Beau's family—would be safe from all the scumbags Remi dealt with on any given day. Though, thankfully, for the past few years he'd been able to be closer with his cousin's family.

  But undercover work was always a risk. More so if there was anyone on earth who could make you lose your concentration, or your resolve.

  Muse Summerville was a woman who could make him lose his concentration big-time. Especially given her unique involvement in his current assignment. The very last thing he should do is wake up in bed with her.

  Aside from which, the delicious Miz Summerville was an obvious heartbreaker. And he definitely didn't need his heart broken. There wasn't enough left of it to spare the pieces. Anyway, he wasn't interested in a relationship at this point in his life.

  Just then the cell phone in his breast pocket beeped, and he tore his gaze from Muse's shapely retreating backside with a sigh. Quel dommage, indeed.

  "Di' moi," he said, using his signature phone greeting. Talk to me.

  "What the hell are you doing?" bellowed the Special Agent in Charge of the Davies case, Xavier Morris. Remi's boss didn't believe in polite social niceties.

  "Research," he replied, unfazed by the realization that Morris already knew exactly what he was doing, and therefore Muse was being followed—by the FBI.

  His boss snorted indelicately. "Sure."

  "Who's tailing her?" he asked, eyeing the mass of humanity flowing around him.

  "Simmons. So what's your excuse?"

  Simmons was a good man, if a bit unimaginative. Probably why he got stuck with boring stakeout duty more often than not, at which he was an expert. Remi hadn't caught a glimpse of him the whole night. "I wanted to see the Summerville woman in person. In case something comes up while I'm undercover. I need to know for sure it's her if I have to bail her out of a hit."

  Weak, but it was all he had. Frankly, he had no idea why he'd felt compelled to seek Muse out at her favorite haunts. And he certainly couldn't justify speaking with her.

  Morris was silent for a few beats, seemed to accept the explanation, then said ominously, "As a matter of fact, something has come up, Agent Beaulieux. Something big."

  * * *

  He was following her. Again.

  The fine hairs on the back of Muse's neck stood on end. For a split second she slowed her pace, glancing behind her along the dark street. Nothing. But then, she seldom caught more than a glimpse of the blond-haired man who'd been shadowing her for two weeks now.

  Could it be someone else? Someone from one of the bars who wouldn't take no for an answer? She loved having a good time out on Bourbon Street

  , dancing and flirting and chasing away the loneliness. She always walked these last couple of blocks to her apartment alone, but there was the occasional guy who just couldn't accept the fact that she preferred sleeping solo.

  But no. Persistent suitors made themselves much more visible … and obnoxious.

  A spurt of uneasiness flashed through her, raising icy goose bumps on her arms despite the sultry New Orleans heat. It was him all right, the man who'd been watching her. She could feel it in her bones.

  Pulse thundering, she picked up her pace, the heels of her three-inch pumps clicking loudly on the pavement. The uneven French Quarter sidewalk was not the best place for running in high heels, but Muse figured breaking her neck would probably be preferable to what this guy might have in mind. Especially if he worked
for Davies. Why hadn't she worn something more practical for once, like jeans and sneaks?

  Not that she owned anything that practical.

  She took another glance behind her.

  There!

  A blond male head glinted under a streetlamp, closer than before. She squinted, trying to get a better look at him between the lurching drunks that blocked her view. When this had first started she'd been certain it was Gary Fox, the boyfriend she'd just broken up with, trying to scare her back into his life. He'd been more than upset with the split, threatening all sorts of things. But she wasn't so sure it was him anymore. Gary talked a good game, but when it came to action he was a bench sitter. He wouldn't be this tenacious.

  Dread seeped through her like poison. Could it be one of James Davies's real goons, sent to kill her? Or worse…

  It was the "or worse" that really terrified her. She had seen what Davies was capable of when it came to traitors in his extensive crime organization—had seen it in living color and horrific stereo sound on the videotape she and Gary had stolen from him when Gary had felt the need for insurance. The beating and torture, complete with three ghoulish onlookers, had made her sick to her stomach for weeks after viewing it.

  But how could Davies possibly have found out about her? As far as she knew, there was only one person in the whole state who knew of her connection to the FBI and her plans to testify against him at his trial for drug smuggling and murder.

  She risked another glance backward. Oh, God. The man was gaining on her!

  Heels be damned! She wasn't taking any chances. She hiked the short skirt of her dress up a few inches farther and flew down Burgundy Street

  toward her apartment. If she could at least make it to the small hotel two blocks down, she'd be safe. He wouldn't dare follow her into the lighted lobby, filled with curious tourists. She prayed.

  Sweet mercy, she'd never make it. Panic made her muscles scream, yet her legs were rubbery, wanting to buckle even as she urged them faster and faster.

  Suddenly she heard her name float through the hot, still night.

  "Muse! Here, this way!"