by Nina Bruhns
The corner of his mouth curled up disreputably. "Really?"
"It's madness. I don't even like sex."
The other corner joined the first. "You're wrong, darlin'."
She frowned at him. "I'm not wrong."
"Mais, yeah. I told you. It's not sex you don't like. It's the feeling of being forced."
Her mouth parted. She wanted to deny it, to say she disliked everything about sex, but found herself thinking hard about his words.
Could he be right?
He pinned her with an intense gaze. "I'll never force you, chère. To do anything."
"I know you won't," she said, knowing to the marrow of her bones it was true. "I trust you."
He just smiled. "Show me your pictures."
And for the next hour she forgot all about sex and James Davies and everything else, and told him about the project of her heart, born of an early-morning walk in the French Quarter when she'd met an old woman who'd shared a remarkable story about the wrought-iron centerpiece of her balcony rail. From then on she'd always taken pictures and asked people about the origins of their home's iron-lace elements.
It was amazing how much of Louisiana's history was packed into those intricately designed pieces of architectural art. Hopes and dreams, love, hate, desire and betrayal were all woven into gates, railings and cemetery enclosures in the form of symbols, crests, flowers and stylized body parts.
"I had no idea," he murmured, sifting through the photos she had shown him. "Tell me which is your favorite."
"Oh, I don't know," she said. "That's like asking a mother who her favorite child is." She winced inwardly when his jaw ticked at her analogy, and hurried to say, "There are better photos, but I guess this has to be my favorite story."
She pulled out a moody picture of a grand entry gate in front of an elegant plantation in obvious decline.
"In the center of this gate is a big, gnarly oak, which symbolizes the patriarch of the family back in the eighteen hundreds. He was said to be cruel and brutal, both to his slaves and the young bride, Julia, whose debt-ridden father had sent her over from France at age seventeen in an arranged marriage. She did the design."
He grimaced. "Cheery."
"Patience," Muse admonished. "They say Julia took refuge from her abusive husband in her gardens, symbolized here in the flowers below the tree."
Remi looked closer at the photo, then remarked, "There are two of every flower."
She smiled. "You should be a detective."
He grinned. "You think?"
"The story goes, after her first year of marriage she'd withdrawn so far she didn't speak at all, except to sing softly when she was in her garden. It wasn't until after the old buzzard died it came out that Julia and the estate's handsome young gardener had fallen in love, right there under the old man's nose."
"Ah. And I suppose that's what the weeds growing all around the outer edge of the gate symbolize. The wild, upstart gardener."
She laughed and smacked him on the arm. "They are not weeds. It's a rose and a briar, entwined together for always. The rose for her, the briar for him."
"Briar being because he was long and thorny … or should I say horny?" He pulled her close. "Remind you of anyone?"
She giggled. "You are so bad."
But she kissed him anyway.
She wasn't relaxed. Not completely. But being in Remi's arms made her feel she could forget the troubles of the outside world and just melt into his chest and let him take care of her, and everything would be all right.
"I can't believe I'm here with you because I'm running in fear for my life," she murmured. "All that stuff with Davies and Gary Fox seems so far away."
He slipped an arm around her shoulder. "Hopefully it'll stay that way."
"Do you really think we'll be safe here?" she asked, fear never far from the surface.
He kissed her forehead. "For a few days at least, I think we can count on Davies not finding us."
"I'm still worried about Grace, though. Morris did say he'd call her, didn't he?"
She didn't care for the pause before Remi answered, "I suppose we could go back to Dev's tomorrow and send Morris another e-mail. Just to make sure he actually followed through."
"It would make me feel a lot better, knowing he'd gotten ahold of her."
"I understand."
"I just don't want her coming to New Orleans. Davies might mistake her for me, and…" Muse's words trailed off as all the horrible possibilities flashed through her mind.
Remi frowned. "Why? Does she look that much like you?"
"We're identical twins."
"Identical twins?" Shock stamped itself on his features and he muttered something ugly-sounding in French. "Why wasn't that in your file?"
"Morris never asked."
"We'll go to Dev's first thing," he stated firmly.
She let out a sigh and leaned her head on his shoulder. "Thank you. I know you think I'm being a worrywart, but you don't know Grace. She really will come to my rescue if she thinks I've disappeared. I'd die if she got hurt."
"Don' worry. Morris'll make sure she doesn' get anywhere near New Orleans."
* * *
The rest of the afternoon they spent in quiet conversation, listening to the radio and reading last week's Sunday paper, which had been included in the box of groceries Dev had ordered in from the village market before their arrival yesterday.
It was like trying to melt a glacier, but as they talked, Muse was slowly able to get Remi to open up even more about his childhood and his parents. Not that she specifically tried to pump him for information. But instinctively she felt he could use the opportunity to vent some of the emotions he'd kept carefully in check, deep inside, since he was a small child.
He didn't say all that much. He didn't have to. But from the few things he told her, she could tell it had been awful.
He hadn't been beaten or abused. But was being ignored for sixteen years any better? Ignored by a father who believed him to be the result of marital infidelity and a mother who was so dispirited and spineless she'd caved in to her husband's bitterness rather than stand up for the child she knew was his—a child one only had to look at to see the unmistakable family resemblance.
Remi had shown her an old, creased picture from his wallet of Beau and himself at sixteen, a few months before he'd run away to join the Navy, standing along with their grandmère. It could have been a mother and her twin sons.
How could a father be so blind?
She wasn't sure which was worse, a father who willingly claimed you as his then left for greener pastures, or a father who kept and fed you but refused to acknowledge you as anything more than an offensive reminder of sin.
Was it any wonder neither of those children wanted or trusted lasting commitments?
* * *
He was being a selfish bastard. That, on top of being completely out of his head.
Standing at the rail on the back verandah, Remi was ostensibly doing a last check on the property and motion detectors before bedtime and making sure the gate was securely latched. All of which he had meticulously done.
However, the real reason he was out there was to try to talk himself out of spending another night in the same bed as Muse Summerville.
If they shared a bed tonight, there wasn't a doubt in his mind something was going to happen.
Something hot. And tactile. And highly pleasurable.
But did he have the right to take her places she was so obviously hesitant to go? Simply because he wanted her so much he'd do just about anything to convince her she really wanted to?
His plan was working brilliantly.
He'd known it would. Muse didn't hate sex any more than he did. It didn't take a psychologist to understand that in order to conquer her remaining fears all she needed was a man with patience and respect, who took the time to show her she was in complete control of every situation with him.
He'd understood that instinctively, because of his o
wn background, having also battled against the controlling hold of a man who'd only wanted to hurt him.
But she wasn't in control. Not really.
Remi was.
Just as he would be when the Davies case was over and he walked out her door.
Was it fair? To her?
What about to himself?
He glanced around the midnight garden, thought about a young, abused bride singing softly to her lover, and wondered briefly what had become of that pair after the patriarch's death, so long ago. Had Julia donned respectable widow's weeds and sailed back to France, never to see the young gardener again? Or had they defied society, married and raised a passel of kids? Maybe moved out west, to California, far from the memory of that Louisiana iron gate and the equally rigid strictures of the Victorian social order?
Remi smiled, watching a lone firefly blink in the humid darkness, floating all by himself like a tiny beacon among the sweet-smelling flowers and trees. Where was his mate?
The back door quietly opened and closed.
"Here you are."
Remi turned, and Muse was standing there in a puddle of moonlight, her blond hair shining like a halo around her face. Once again she was dressed for bed in his shirt, sleeves rolled to her wrists. And nothing else.
His breath caught in his throat. She was so damn beautiful.
He held out his arms and she came to him. Willingly, without hesitation, she slid into his embrace.
He was careful not to squeeze too hard, but Dieu! he wanted to crush her to his chest, to hold her as tightly as he possibly could, to chase out the depressing thought that this moment was fleeting and would never, could never, become forever.
"What are you doing out here?" she softly asked.
Having a nervous breakdown.
"Rien," he said. "Jus' making sure everything's as it should be."
"And is it?"
His lips formed a cheerless smile. "Yeah."
She kissed him and whispered, "Want to sit on the swing and neck for a while?"
He closed his eyes and fought the impulse to laugh hysterically. She was actually asking him to get physical with her. Everything was going perfectly according to his plan. Except he no longer wanted it to.
"Muse," he said, resisting when she slipped from his arms and attempted to tug him toward the swing. "We better not." At her puzzled look he added, "I'm pretty tired. I think I should—"
"All right," she said quickly. "We can go to bed."
His body gave an involuntary lurch at her choice of words. Damn, damn, damn.
"Chère, I, uh, I think… Listen, you were right all along. We shouldn't sleep together. In the same bed, I mean."
Even in the moonlight he saw her face grow pale. "Why?"
He heard a hundred questions in that single word. And he couldn't answer a solitary one.
He struggled to come up with an explanation that wouldn't hurt her or ruin their growing friendship.
Or come close to the real reason.
"It just isn't a good idea," he said lamely. "Things are getting too … complicated."
Her hands sought his arms, her fingers gripped his flesh. "Please, Remi. Let me sleep in your bed. What I said last night, I was wrong. I won't try to keep you. I promise."
"What if I want to keep you?" he ground out before he realized what he was saying.
Her mouth dropped open in astonishment. "But … but that's impossible, you said so yourself." Her voice took on a desperate edge. "Your job won't let you… And me, I'm not the settling-down kind. You know I take after my father. No roots, no…" The flow of words stopped abruptly. "You're just kidding. You didn't mean it. Right?" Apparently, he didn't. Faced with such overwhelming arguments, his better judgment took over.
"Right," he forced himself to say. "Temporary insanity. I'm better now."
But the truth was, he wasn't sure he'd ever be better again. Not in this lifetime. Not without her by his side.
Maybe it was time to do some serious thinking about his life and what was important in it.
"You had me worried for a minute there." She kissed him tenderly. "Now come to bed. I have something to ask you."
* * *
It was strictly curiosity about what she wanted to ask that got him to slide in under the covers with her in the big bed in his room.
It had nothing to do with itchy fingers or throbbing body parts or the sweet memory of her taste in his mouth. None of those things had any part in his decision to renege on his earlier determination for separate sleeping arrangements.
Persuasive as those things were.
What was much more persuasive was her unmistakable aversion to their relationship getting serious.
What a relief.
And here he'd started to worry about her getting too emotionally involved with him. Hurting her if he left. When he left.
He should have known. Should have remembered. It was all in her FBI file. She was a wild party girl who'd never shown any signs of wanting anything other than her vivacious lifestyle in the French Quarter.
Yeah, he'd found a lot of depth hidden behind her untamed ways, some major intelligence, a lot of vulnerability and a few shocking secrets.
But she'd never once let on that she desired any kind of long-term relationship. Not with him, not with anybody.
On the contrary, she'd just reminded him she wasn't the type.
As he wasn't.
Perfect.
Now he could think about those throbbing body parts with a clear conscience.
Bien, fairly clear, anyway.
He turned to her on the mattress, reached for her hands under the covers. And was surprised when he realized she was lying there watching him nervously. She hadn't objected when he'd come out of the bathroom completely naked from his shower to join her in bed, so that couldn't be it.
"Comment?" he asked. "What?"
Her tongue slid over her lips. "I was just wondering…" Her words trickled to a halt and she bit her lip.
He lifted a brow. "Wondering…?"
She shifted a little closer. Not close enough so they were touching, but almost. She cleared her throat.
"Spit it out, chère."
"Last night," she said, hesitated, then went on, "when I came into your room…"
He casually closed the gap between their bodies, putting his arm over her hip, around her back. "I seem to recall that, yeah."
"You said … you said you were going to try all sorts of things with me."
"Mmm-hmm." He toyed with the back of her sleep shirt. Waiting.
"But you didn't."
"Non. I didn't want to push you."
"Oh."
He brushed his hand slowly down her back, then up again. "Why do you ask? Did you … want me to try things?"
"No!" She bit her lip again. Exhaled. "No. I just wondered. Why you hadn't."
He moved in for a kiss, pulling her right up against him. He captured her lips and hummed his pleasure as she opened for him. She kissed him back, moaned and pressed her body into his.
There was a difference in her. In her response to him. Still timid, maybe even a bit fearful. But tonight she was willing. Almost eager.
He kissed her long and deep, gradually increasing the pressure as the urgency of his desire grew. He reveled in the feel of her breasts pillowing into his chest. Her long legs tangled with his all the way down to his ankles. Small things in themselves, but a hundred times more meaningful for having been given so unconsciously. Last night she'd shied away from his naked body. Now she was meeting it full on.
He tightened his embrace little by little as their kiss went on and on and on. Until it became too much for her and she drew back.
"Muse," he said, panting, then lay very, very still. "Tell me what to do, chère."
She took his hand and placed a tremulous kiss on his palm. For a terrible second he thought she might jump from the bed and run away.
But then she looked up at him. And if he hadn't already been ly
ing down, the need in her eyes would have brought him to his knees.
"Touch me," she whispered.
Remi groaned and told himself not to lose it.
He was so ready for this.
He wanted to rip his shirt off her. Run his fingers over her smooth skin, fill his hands with her lush curves, feel the excitement build within her body until she begged him to take her.
He wanted her so damn much.
But he would not break her fragile trust.
Slowly, gently, he reached out and touched his fingers to her cheek. "Are you sure?"
"Yes. I'm sure."
He let out a long breath, steadying the pulse that pounded like cannons through his veins.
And then he touched her trembling body.
Through her shirt he began to skim his hands lightly over her shoulders and arms and around to her back. Each time her body would stiffen a fraction, but then he'd coax her to relax, gliding his fingers and palms over her shirt, letting her know he wasn't asking for more than she was willing to give. Never once letting up on the kiss. But showing her she could trust him.
He loved feeling her heat, capturing the curves, caressing all the places he longed to taste. Taking his time, he explored every glorious inch of her. And had never been so excited in his life.
After a long while she was completely boneless in his arms, kissing him as though in a trance, unconsciously running her hands over him, digging her fingernails into his naked flesh, clutching him, holding him. Exploring his body with her fingers as naturally as he was hers.
Her sweet mouth covered his and she slid her tongue into it, imitating what he wanted more than anything else on earth.
He groaned when she found a particularly sensitive spot on the roof of his mouth, flicking the tip of her tongue over it as she pressed into his hardness.
"Pitié d'amour! Have mercy, chère!"
"Not a chance."
She ground into him. The hot crease of her cleft pushed against him, creating an inferno of heat around his arousal.
"Keep doin' that and I won't be responsible for my actions."
A sensual chuckle came from deep in her throat. She didn't believe him. He could tell from the way she just kept on doing what she was doing.