SWEET SUSPICION

by Nina Bruhns

  Women.

  "Ready?" He hefted the two enormous rolls onto his shoulders. Damn. How would he hold his Beretta and the curtains, too?

  She glanced at the door, then hesitated. "I really need to call my sister."

  He gritted his teeth. "You know I can't let you do that."

  "I swear I won't tell her anything. Just that I'm all right. Please…?"

  He squared his stance and tried to look as menacing as was possible toting a hundred pounds of diaphanous silk. "No doubt Davies already knows about her," he said, "probably even where she lives. But if she's the last call you make before dropping out of sight, he just might get the idea she means something to you."

  He held her eyes for the several seconds it took for comprehension to finally flood them.

  "I understand," she said hoarsely, and picked up her bulging overnight bag.

  He strode out the door and waited for her to lock it, wishing he could have spared her that little slap of insight. Wishing she had asked to phone one of her many gentlemen friends instead of an innocent sister in Carolina. He might even have let her make the call.

  "Have you ever handled a weapon? A gun?" he asked.

  She glanced up. "This year's top-ranking woman at the gun club in rifle marksmanship."

  His jaw dropped. "Top ranking?"

  She grinned. "As in number one."

  "What about pistols?"

  She made a rueful face. "Only number four. But I was having a bad day."

  He snapped his jaw shut. "In that case, take the Beretta from my shoulder holster."

  She looked at him blankly, then gave his torso a once-over. "What shoulder holster?"

  Sacré— He took a cleansing breath. "Under my shirt."

  She looked closer. "Oh."

  She set down her suitcase and wiped her hands on her dress. He noticed it wasn't the same outfit she was wearing when they'd gotten there. She must have changed while she was in the bedroom. This one was a brilliant magenta, short and breathtakingly—

  Her fingertips touched his skin and he nearly leaped out of it.

  "Sorry," she murmured breathily, and moved her hands up his midriff under his shirt.

  "Muse…" he warned, clenching his teeth.

  "Sorry," she repeated, her fingers skimming over his hardened nipple as she sought his weapon. Using both hands she unsnapped the strap holding it secure and lifted it from the leather.

  "Careful."

  One way or another she was going to be the death of him.

  "Put the gun in your bag and leave it unzipped."

  "Isn't this against some kind of regulations?"

  "About a hundred," he ground out. "But don' worry, it's my spare. And I want you to use it if you have to."

  She did as he asked, and he prayed they wouldn't run into any trouble. He didn't want her involved in a shooting. He knew he could dump the curtains, get to the other Beretta tucked in the back of his waistband and drop whoever was threatening them faster than most people could blink, but it was nice to have a little backup. Even if she was only ranked number four.

  Incroyable.

  He made her stay behind him until he was satisfied the courtyard was empty, and as they walked down the street he practically pinned her against the buildings with the long columns of fabric on his shoulders. He wasn't taking any chances. Thank God the dry cleaner was just around the corner.

  "Of all the nutty ideas…" he muttered as he hurried her back to the Porsche after depositing the curtains with the dry cleaning attendant.

  He flung open the door and tried to hand her into the car. "Wait! I just need to put the cleaning ticket in my briefcase upstairs."

  Before he could object she was through the gate. He bit down a curse of frustration. Tapping his foot, he swung his head back and forth scanning for trouble until she ran out again.

  "Okay, done!"

  He helped her in, jumped into the driver's seat and screeched out of the parking spot, irritated as hell at her potentially dangerous dilly-dallying.

  But she just smiled, her eyes glistening in the morning sun, her blond hair flying in every direction.

  "Nice ride," she commented, and he couldn't help but smile, too, his annoyance dissolving just from the sheer joy of looking at her.

  "Confiscated from a tax accountant who was embezzling money from little old ladies across three states," he said. "I've threatened to cut off the obscure Italian car magazines I'm supplying the Bureau garage super with if he checks out this baby to anyone else."

  She grinned. "Oh, you ruthless man."

  "You bet." He grinned back. "Don' forget it."

  "Mmm." She snuggled into the butter-soft leather seat looking like a cat in cream. "If this is one of the perks, maybe I'll become an FBI agent, too."

  He sifted carefully through the various reactions that suggestion hit him with—doubt, alarm, protectiveness, but in the end chose the honest truth. "You'd make a good one," he said, and she cut him a surprised look.

  "You think?"

  "Sure." Remi sighed inwardly. The good guys were having a hard enough time dealing with her… "The bad guys wouldn't stand a chance."

  "Thanks." Muse gazed at him in amusement, no doubt suspecting she was being teased, but seemed pleased with his compliment nonetheless. "I think."

  "Why don't you grab a short nap while we drive to the safe house? How long have you been up?"

  She glanced at the old-fashioned dashboard clock that showed nine-thirty. "Over twenty-four hours." She let out a sigh, and weariness washed visibly over her. "How far is it?"

  "About an hour away."

  "In that case," she said over a yawn that involved her whole body wriggling deep into the seat. "Maybe I will."

  * * *

  Muse's eyes sprang open, totally disoriented. The Porsche was spinning in a one-eighty, rubber screaming against the pavement. A gunshot rang out, then another. She screamed and a whole volley burst around them like wind chimes in a hurricane.

  "Get down!" Remi yelled, shoving her head below the level of the dashboard just as she heard a pop and a rip of canvas from the ragtop.

  No time to shake the grogginess from her brain. Acting on pure instinct, she grabbed the Beretta from her overnight bag and peered over the rim of the passenger door, scanning for the shooter. Cursing in unison with Remi, she whipped down the window just as she spotted a man with a semiautomatic rifle crouched behind some bushes.

  "What in blazes are you doing?" Remi yelled.

  "Shooting back," she snarled, and blasted the guy.

  "Jeezus, Muse! Stop!"

  She missed. But felt an enormous satisfaction at the astonishment in the creep's face as he dropped and rolled.

  She lowered the Beretta, knowing the man was out of range by now. Remi had the Porsche on the straightaway, flooring it down a seemingly everyday suburban neighborhood street.

  He swore an even more potent oath. "I can't believe this. He's made the safe house, too!"

  "Davies?"

  "I can't imagine who else would be shooting at us." He took a corner on two wheels. "Help me watch for kids and dogs."

  The silence was spring loaded as he sped down peaceful, tree-lined avenues, occasionally pulling into a hidden driveway to watch for a tail. Thankfully, if there'd been one, they'd lost it.

  After about fifteen minutes of evasive maneuvers, he pulled into an alley and shut off the engine. She only realized she still had the Beretta clutched in her hands when Remi pried it from her fingers.

  "I can't believe you returned fire. What were you thinking?"

  "What was I supposed to do? Let him kill us?"

  Remi's mouth formed a thin line. "You could have hit an innocent bystander."

  She bit her lip. "Oh." She hadn't thought of that. "Sorry."

  He shook his head. "In the future, save any shooting till I give the order."

  She glanced up sharply. "You think there'll be more?"

  He gave a wry half smile that didn't come clo
se to his eyes. "God, I hope not. I'd better call in."

  After setting the weapon back into her overnight bag, he dug in his pocket for his cell phone. As he flipped it open, she stared at the gun in the bag, torn between horror at actually having shot bullets at a real live person and the overwhelming urge to go back and finish the job.

  How dare anyone shoot at them! Anger gushed through her. And violation. And lastly, profound fear.

  At first it had been almost a game, the spying. When she'd shortly understood how evil and detestable drug dealer James Davies truly was, she'd gotten serious about gathering information to put him away for good, choosing to work for the FBI when they approached her.

  The notion of getting hurt had been remote and theoretical … until she'd viewed the videotape she and Gary had stolen from him. That's when she realized just how much trouble she was in if Davies found out about her.

  Luckily the tape had also been her ticket out. By then her relationship with Gary had become more than uncomfortable. She'd long since wanted to call it quits but hadn't had the heart to disappoint Agent Morris by cutting off his most reliable source. However, with the video, in addition to the other evidence she had already provided, she knew the FBI could lock Davies up and throw away the key. So she'd stolen it from Gary before breaking up.

  Of course, she hadn't told Morris about the tape. As long as he thought he needed her alive, he'd do everything in his power to protect her from the bad guys. With the video in FBI possession, her value as a witness would go down, along with her long-term chances of survival—especially while Davies was still at large. So at the moment it was hidden in her safety-deposit box at the bank, her ace in the hole until Davies was behind bars.

  She'd hidden the safety-deposit key in a place her sister, Grace, would be sure to find it, if something happened. She knew without a doubt that Grace would come to find her if she disappeared, and she wasn't taking any chances. Muse was determined that Davies would spend the rest of his life in jail, even if she wasn't around to put him there.

  But now she was safely in FBI custody. Maybe she should tell Morris about the tape? Or Remi?

  "Someone on the inside must be dirty," Remi said speculatively, interrupting her thoughts. He was still holding the phone in his hand, undialed.

  "What?" A chill swept through her, raising goose bumps. "You mean inside the FBI?"

  "It's the only way Davies could have found out about both my undercover setup and the safe house. There's no other explanation. He's gotten to someone in the field office."

  Fear spiraled down her spine. "So I'm a walking dead woman."

  "Not if I have anything to say about it."

  She smiled bleakly, tipping her head to size up the bullet hole in the roof. "I appreciate that. But if he has a paid informer inside the FBI tracking our every move, I doubt you can stop him."

  "I wouldn' be so sure," Remi said, starting the Porsche with a roar. "I have a plan."

  She turned to him as he shifted smoothly into first. "And what would that be, Special Agent Beaulieux?"

  He fixed his determined gaze on her. The one that, just a short hour ago, had made her shiver with its intensity.

  "Do you trust me?"

  His simple question jolted through her.

  Her life was undoubtedly in danger, yet there was an even more unnerving aspect to this whole situation. She took in the handsome face, so calm and resolute. Remi Beaulieux was, without question, just as dangerous as James Davies. Oh, yes. Especially to her heart. Certainly to her peace of mind.

  Did she trust him?

  "Do I have a choice?"

  The scar above his lip twitched. "No."

  "So, what is this plan of yours?" she asked with growing dread. A dread that had nothing to do with dying.

  The car leaped forward and spun onto the thoroughfare heading south. "Simple. We don't tell them where we're going."

  "But that means…"

  "You're in my hands now, Miz Summerville. You don't eat, you don't sleep, you don't even blink without me there watching. From this moment on, you don't leave my sight until I'm satisfied you're safe."

  Oh, God. She squeezed her eyes shut.

  "Any questions?"

  Yeah. A really big one.

  In his hands Muse might very well be safe from James Davies. But…

  Who on earth would protect her from Remi Beaulieux?

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  It wasn't until they were deep in bayou country that Remi figured he could relax a bit. At least for now. In the tiny village they found themselves in around noon, he doubted anyone would pay them any notice. Just another couple of tourists on a leisurely tour through picturesque Cajun country.

  "You want me to drive?" Muse offered from the passenger seat. "You look like you're about to fall over from exhaustion."

  "More likely from tension. I'm not a big fan of improvising on the run." He gave her a weary smile as he pulled into an ancient mom-and-pop filling station, complete with an ancient sign that had probably been in use since before cars were invented. "I'll just run in here and get another cup of coffee."

  She put a hand on his arm. "What you need is some sleep. I could use some, too."

  He looked into her dog-tired face and realized he wasn't the only one who could barely keep his eyes open. "It'll take us another hour or two to get where we're going."

  "And where is that?"

  "A friend of mine's place. I just hope he's not off on a job."

  Though it was unlikely Guy de Valein was anywhere but ensconced in his hidden shanty home in the middle of a South Louisiana swamp. "Dev" didn't get out much, even for work. He was strictly a virtual man these days.

  Muse sighed and glanced around. "Sugar, I'll never make it another hour or two. Especially if I have to be civil when we get there. Look, there's a cute bed-and-breakfast across the street. Please can we stop for a nap?"

  Remi glanced over at the quaint old Victorian house. A hand-painted sign hung from the rose arbor entrance, Chez Noisette B&B.

  He swiped a hand over his gritty eyes. He was used to being awake for days at a time on stakeout, but not the mental exhaustion of being in a situation without the safety net of a solid plan to follow when his brain cells stopped firing on all cylinders. He didn't like the exposure, but they could both definitely use some shut-eye.

  "All right," he reluctantly said, checking his watch. "We can get in a few hours of rest and still make it to Dev's before dark." Finding the out-of-the-way property after sunset was not an option.

  Remi parked the Porsche behind the B&B, hidden from the main road, and they went in. He was so out of it, he didn't blink when the proprietress informed them the only room she had available was the elaborate bridal suite.

  "That's fine," he said, smiling at Muse's consternation. He could well afford the pricey room. He was carrying even more cash than usual because he'd been expecting to go undercover for a long time.

  "Is that all your luggage?" the woman politely asked, indicating the stuffed bag Muse clutched to her chest.

  He nodded, hesitating over the register before signing Mr. and Mrs. David Brown. John Smith was so yesterday. "Just an afternoon siesta."

  "Ah. Well. I'll send up your champagne at once," she said with a prim smile, and handed him an ornate metal key. "All the way up, to your left."

  "Champagne?" Muse asked in an oddly raspy voice. Come to think of it she was awfully pale, as well. She really must be exhausted.

  "Complimentary with the room," the woman said. "Can I get you anyth—"

  "We're all set," Remi assured her, took the bag from Muse and guided her to the staircase with a hand on her backside.

  "Remi," she whispered, pausing on the landing.

  "David," he whispered back. "Shall I carry you over the threshold?"

  "What? No!" she said. "Don't be— Oh, my God," she murmured when he flung open the door to the suite. "It's beautiful!"

&nbs
p; All he could see was the bed. Big. Fluffy. Comfy. Inviting. He let out a long, heartfelt sigh. "I'll say."

  With that he kicked off his shoes, dove onto the feather comforter, closed his eyes and passed out.

  * * *

  A loud rumbling noise shook Remi from a deep, drugging sleep. He snapped awake, instantly sitting up, Beretta in hand and pointed at the door. He checked Muse, who was lying next to him on the bed. Her worried eyes met his, silently confirming she'd also been awakened by the ungodly racket.

  Suddenly both their stomachs rumbled in unison. In the tense quiet, the sound was deafening.

  Their eyes widened, then they both burst out laughing.

  "Lord have mercy," she said, catching her breath. "I thought we were dead."

  "Apparently just from hunger." Remi chuckled. Neither had eaten since yesterday. He glanced at the waning light through the lacy curtained window and let out a curse. "Damn, no wonder. We must have slept for hours. It's almost dark."

  She rubbed her eyes and sat up. "Is that a problem?"

  "Dev lives in the middle of a swamp. The trail he laughingly calls a road is barely wide enough for a car to drive on. I don't even want to think about what would happen if the Porsche went off the path."

  "Stuck in the mud?"

  He snorted, his heartbeat slowing to normal, and he lowered his Beretta to the nightstand. "That would be the best foreseeable scenario."

  Probably not wise to mention the gators. Or the booby traps and motion sensors rigged all along the road. Even though he'd helped set them himself, he would never remember where they were placed, not after five years.

  Sinking back onto the downy quilt, he watched as Muse raised her arms above her head and yawned, her whole body involved in the motion. Her hair was delightfully mussed, her magenta sundress rumpled and twisted around her generous curves. As she stretched, its hem rode up dangerously high on her long, sleek thighs.

  Mmm. She would be so sweet under him.

  No falling into bed, Beaulieux.

  But they were already in bed.