by Nina Bruhns
That got her attention. "Who was the guy?"
"A PI working for an anonymous client. He gave us good reason to believe his client is James Davies, mapping your movements in preparation for—"
His words cut off, and she felt her face drain of blood.
"Davies must have found out you've been helping us," Remi said gently, breaking through her rising dread. "We can't risk your safety any longer. You have to accept FBI protection, at least until Davies is behind bars."
As he talked, Muse sank back into her seat, terror creeping up her spine like a large, malevolent spider. "You really think he knows about me testifying?"
"I'd say that's a given," Remi confirmed.
"How long will it take to arrest Davies?"
He shrugged. "Hard to say since we don't know where he is at the moment. A few days if we're lucky. More if we're not."
She massaged her forehead for several seconds, trying to gather herself, then sighed. "There's no alternative?"
"Trust me, Miz Summerville, none you'd care for."
No choice. "All right, I guess I can do it. For a few days." Sitting up straight, she asked, "So what happens now? Will I at least be able to go back to my apartment and pack some things?"
Morris gave a quick nod. "I think we can manage that. Then you'll be taken to the safe house until Davies is caught and put in jail."
"Don' worry," Remi said sympathetically, and if they hadn't just met she might believe the look on his face was one of true concern. "Special Agent Sylvia Delgado is in charge of the safe house. She'll take good care of you."
Morris cleared his throat. "Unfortunately, there's a problem with Delgado," he said.
Obviously surprised, Remi said, "What kind of problem?"
Morris grimaced. "She's in the hospital. Appendicitis."
Remi's eyes narrowed and his next words were laced with a distinct flavor of suspicion. "So who's taking over?"
Morris hesitated a fraction, and Muse could almost feel the room closing in. Please, no.
"You are, Beaulieux."
"What!"
Remi jumped away from the conference table, and Muse's consternation skyrocketed.
"But I'm going undercover tomorrow," Remi said, his voice a low but unmistakable growl. "How are we going to find Davies if I don't—"
"He knows," Morris interrupted, and Muse's stomach plummeted.
"Knows what?" Remi ground out.
"You've been made. I don't understand how, but Davies found out about your cover, the plan, the whole operation."
Remi spit out a harsh oath. "You're sure?"
"Hundred percent. The PI mentioned it, hoping the info would dispose us to not serve him with a subpoena at Davies's trial."
Muse blurted out, "All this isn't necessary. I'll leave town instead. I can disappear completely—"
"Ain't gonna happen, chère," Remi shot back. "Regardless of who's guarding you, we need you here. To testify, remember?"
"I remember," she said, straining to sound composed. "I … I just don't think it's a good idea for you to be my bodyguard."
Morris folded his arms and drilled her with a sharp look. "May I ask why not? Has he done something?"
"Yes. No! I mean no." She averted her eyes, unwilling … unable to explain that her motivation ran so much deeper than a simple kiss in a courtyard—as unsettling as that kiss was. "It's complicated."
"I see," Morris said slowly, causing her to meet his knowing gaze. "Look, Special Agent Beaulieux is a professional. He would never do anything to compromise you, himself or this case. Isn't that right, Agent Beaulieux?"
Muse swallowed. It didn't matter how professional Remi was. She knew men, and she knew very well what they all thought of her.
Yes, it was her own fault because of the outward image she had long ago chosen for reasons that were no one's business but her own. And true, so far Remi had been a breath of fresh air compared to most men. But it wasn't as though he'd had a chance to show his true colors in the few minutes they'd known each other.
If they were thrown together in a safe house, twenty-four hours a day, he would be no different from the rest of them. Of that she had no doubt. And honestly, she did not have the energy to deal with men and their base urges right now.
Especially when a part of her was actually trying to convince herself that this man could be different.
Lord, how gullible could you get?
Luckily Remi was enough of a gentleman to admit to his fundamental male nature. "She's right, Morris. This is a bad idea. Seriously."
"Find someone else. Please," she added to his appeal. "Anyone else."
Morris studied them silently, then addressed Remi. "Just fetch her things, get her to the safe house and stay put. I'll see what I can do. Give me a few hours."
* * *
"You okay?"
Muse glanced up when Remi pulled out her chair and helped her stand.
"I guess so." She raked her fingers through her hair and realized her hand was shaking. Damn. "I can't believe this is happening."
One day she was a happy, if underpaid, paralegal thinking she was doing society a big favor, and the next she was yanked out of her busy life because a madman wanted her dead.
"Believe it, darlin'."
"Thanks. I needed to hear that."
Lightly touching the small of her back, Remi guided her from the conference room through the hallways of the FBI building and into the parking garage.
He paused as he unlocked a dusty classic Porsche convertible. "Don' worry. We're not going to let him get to you."
Taking in his broad shoulders and strong, confident air, she believed him. Still… "How can you be sure? You don't know this guy—"
"Trust me, we know him," he said as he helped her into the low-slung, leather passenger seat. Lowering onto his haunches next to the door, he grasped the metal end of her seat belt. "For five years we've been working to lock him up for good. We know exactly what he's capable of, and that's why we're putting you under guard."
He watched her with concern, almost intimately, yet his eyes held a powerful gleam of determination. She gave an involuntary shiver at the intensity of purpose she saw in their depths, and felt a brief moment of gratitude she was not the object of that potent resolve.
"Well, thanks for taking me to the safe house." She smiled tremulously. "And thanks for rescuing me from that PI following me."
A grin sneaked across his lips. "My pleasure."
Before she could protest, he leaned over her and snapped the metal seat belt hook into the catch. Muse sucked in a reflexive gasp, shrinking away from the sudden, unexpected confinement. His body didn't touch hers but they were nearly nose to nose, his large frame completely filling the small space in front of her seat. She had to hold her breath to prevent her breasts from pressing into his chest.
She swallowed heavily against an instinctive panic.
"We'd better go," she rasped, striving to control her totally inappropriate reaction. After all, this man had shown her nothing but consideration. Not to mention given her the most tender, delicious kiss she'd ever experienced. He was not a—
He sat back on his heels. "There a problem, Miz Summerville?" he asked, appearing somewhat puzzled by her mercurial demeanor.
She forced a smile. Her personal neuroses were not something open for discussion. Besides, he was on her side, not out to… She shook her head clear of the last dregs of the ancient fear, and smiled wider. "No. Of course not."
"Sure?"
"Sure." She nibbled on her lip. "Listen, about what I said in there—"
He waved her off. "C'est rien, ça. I feel the same way."
"So you know it's nothing personal."
He chuckled softly. "Mais, yeah, it's personal. Too personal. And that's the trouble, non, chérie?"
Without thinking, she tucked a long strand of midnight-black hair behind his ear, then brushed down the side of his face with her fingers. "Yes. It is."
His smile c
hanged character as he regarded her, his shadowy gaze dipping to her lips. "We should go to your apartment now … to pick up your things."
She knew what he was thinking. It was there in his dark, half-lidded eyes, in the way he held himself, in the very way he breathed.
"We'll have to be careful," he continued. "Your apartment is the first place they'll look."
He was wrong about her, but she didn't mind because she knew she was safe with him, at least for now.
And it was all part of the intricate dance between man and woman. Despite everything, she did love flirting. Loved how Remi was looking at her now. Loved the heady, butterflies-in-the-stomach feeling of being wanted by a man like him. She definitely loved his kiss. Too bad she could never—
But, no. Things would never get that far. Morris had promised Remi's only assignment was to drop her off at the safe house, then he'd be gone. And as for her apartment, she'd gather her things and they'd be out of there before he had a chance to try anything.
Much.
But what could it possibly hurt if she flirted a little with the man? Or gave in to another one or even two of his divine kisses?
She warmed inwardly, a reluctant anticipation swirling through her insides.
"Then we'll just have to make it quick," she whispered.
* * *
Chapter 3
« ^ »
"This is it," Muse said, pointing to a narrow courtyard off Burgundy Street
. "My apartment's down at the end."
Remi pulled into a no-parking zone in front of the apartment building he'd already known was hers, turned off the Porsche and did his best to shore up his faltering resolve.
"Coming?"
He hadn't had time to put a careful plan into motion, but if Davies was having Muse watched, her apartment would be the first place he'd stake out after losing her last night. And if Remi gave in to the temptation he was feeling, they might not get out of there for a while.
"Agent Beaulieux?"
Like maybe a week or two.
A plan.
That's what he needed. He never did anything without a carefully thought-out plan with several escape routes. The reason his undercover work always succeeded was because he made it a point to be one step ahead of every possible situation. He always had a plan. Always.
Except now.
"Remi?"
And the first item needed in the plan was how the hell to get her in and out of her apartment without laying a finger on her.
"Is everything okay?" No kissing. No touching. No falling into bed.
He stifled a groan. Definitely no falling into bed.
"Everything's jus' dandy," he croaked at her worried look.
Yep, he had to come up with a good plan. And fast. Then he had to stick to it—or risk putting both of them in danger.
He got out of the car, walked around and opened the door for her, all the while searching for a sign of anyone observing them.
"Thanks, sugarcane," she said, glancing up and down the street.
In and out. Period. Hands firmly in pockets.
Sounded like a plan.
Remi followed Muse through the overgrown courtyard and up the stairs to the second-floor landing.
"Wait here," he admonished, and went through the door first, weapon drawn. After checking out the tiny two-room apartment for intruders, he gave the all-clear and closed the door behind them.
"This lock is a joke," he remarked, shaking the wobbling entry doorknob. He made a mental note to have Morris get it changed before she moved back in.
"Really?" she said, and scurried quickly into the bedroom. He heard a closet open and a suitcase being unzipped.
"A child could break in," he called, wandering around the cozy living-room-dining-room-kitchen combo. "This is nice."
Simple but nice. A few pieces of pale plush antique furniture, old glassed-in bookcases and wooden kitchen table, an entire wall of flowing white sheers covering floor-to-ceiling windows and French doors. Long strands of Mardi Gras beads hung everywhere, a distinctively New Orleans splash of color in the otherwise subdued decor.
"Yeah, I like it," she said above the rustling of hangers. He spotted some framed black-and-white photos above the sofa and walked over to take a closer look. "Wow, these are great," he said, studying the incredible prints of iron lace patterns, stark black against a variety of settings. There was one particularly moody photo of an ancient gate hanging by a single hinge backdropped by a dilapidated antebellum mansion, and covered with rambling roses. "Beautiful," he murmured.
"Thanks."
He turned. Muse was standing in the bedroom doorway, leaning against the doorframe. The expression on her face melted his heart—uncertain, hopeful, yearning, yet with a flush of pride that was unmistakable.
"They're yours," he said. And then his attention was snagged by what she was holding. A sheer, red, baby-doll nightie.
Instantly his imagination dropped what it was doing and filled the lacy scrap with her generous curves.
"Do you really like them?"
This time he did groan. "Don' do this to me, chère. Not unless you intend to change into that thing—" no falling into bed "—which would probably not be a good idea just at the moment."
Her gaze dropped to the nightie. "Oh!" She whipped it behind her and backed into the bedroom. "Sorry, I didn't mean— I mean, I don't— That is, I—" A drawer slammed shut. "I'm not bringing that."
He let out a long breath. "Not a problem, chère. But maybe we should hurry this up a bit."
"Sure, I'm almost—" she looked up and froze when he prowled over and stopped just inside the bedroom door "—done."
They stared silently at each other, and he was surprised lightning didn't strike from the electricity in the air.
"What is happening here between us?" he murmured, thick desire constricting his throat.
"I believe it's called chemistry." Her wobbly voice was barely above a whisper.
"No kidding. So what are we going to do about it?" He could swear he saw a shadow of fear flit though her eyes. "I, um—" Her gaze darted to the bed. The large, ornate wrought-iron bed, draped in satin sheets. Just as quickly it darted back to him. "I don't—"
Black satin sheets.
"Definitely not," he agreed. He shook his head determinedly. "That would not be…"
"…a good idea," she finished. "For many reasons."
"Right."
"Right."
But neither of them moved, not body nor eyes. He'd never desired any woman quite so badly in his entire life.
But he couldn't have her.
For many reasons. Not the least of which was that someone might even now be waiting downstairs to kill her.
"You could kiss me," she suggested softly. "A goodbye kiss. Since you'll be leaving me at the safe house with someone else and we probably won't ever see each other again."
His pulse stalled at the thought of kissing her, then stopped altogether at the thought of never seeing her again.
A kiss? Tempting. Too tempting.
He shook his head again, not trusting his tongue to form the words he must say.
"No, huh?" she said, unable to cover her disappointment.
Merde.
"We'll see each other again," he said with all the conviction of a federal judge. "And when we do, I'll—"
He cut off, not wanting to go there. Maybe by then he'd have driven this crazy attraction clear out of his mind and his blood.
She backed up, just a fraction, but her eyes widened. Her tongue peeked out, sliding erotically over her bottom lip. Again.
He blinked. Saloperie! Damn, damn, damn.
He took a step forward, then halted.
He shouldn't. He shouldn't even think about kissing her again. Neither of them should.
"Non." It was the hardest thing he'd ever had to say. "No kiss."
"Okay," she whispered.
She turned and hurried into the bathroom. He moved instinctively after her,
thinking she was going to cry. But instead she grabbed a necessaire and began busily filling it with makeup and other things from the bathroom counter.
"I'll be just a minute," she called.
He raked a hand through his hair. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe she didn't feel it as strongly as he did, this … whatever it was that drew him to her. Maybe he was just another of the multitude of men who desired her and had no special effect on her heart or her temperature. Just another mouth to kiss. Pick a number for her favors.
The notion annoyed him immensely. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do about it at the moment. Not even find out if it was true.
"Do me a favor?"
He clamped his jaw. "Sure."
"There's a safety-deposit-box key in the nightstand. Can you get it for me?"
He stalked to the nightstand, yanked open the drawer and just stared. It was filled to overflowing with condoms, of every type and variety. He didn't know what he wanted to do more, kill her or fling her onto the bed and slowly work his way through the entire stash.
He heard her suck in a breath behind him and turned.
"Wrong nightstand. The other side."
He grunted noncommittally and stalked around the bed, jerked open the drawer and rooted for the key. He grabbed it and turned to find her standing between him and the windows. She was watching him with a strange expression, somewhere between nervousness and defiance. But no guilt.
"They were all given to me. I didn't—"
"None of my business," he interrupted, his annoyance spiking dangerously.
"Whatever," she said, taking the key. Turning to the window, she lifted the curtain rod from its moorings and dumped the whole wall of silky curtains into a heap on the floor.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Since I'm going to be away, I thought I'd take the curtains to the dry cleaners. Could you get the ones in the other room?"
"Are you out of your mind? Davies could be here any second and you're worried about curtains?"
She ignored him, and started rolling up the endless yards of fabric into a neat bundle.
He knew enough about women to recognize the stubborn set of her jaw, so he didn't fight her but stalked into the living room and pulled down the curtain rod. There had to be a hundred yards of the stuff. When he was finished, his bundle wasn't nearly as orderly as hers, but he was too irritated to care.