Hard To Tame

by Kylie Brant

  She hesitated, then gave a nod. Turning to go, she halted a moment later, and said, “Please tell your grandmother again how much I enjoyed meeting her. She’s a wonderful lady.”

  He made no effort to disguise the affection in his voice. “She is, yes.” Strolling along beside her, he opened the front door for her when they’d crossed the hallway. The car was pulled up front, waiting. She started toward it without another word, and Nick followed her out onto the porch, watched her descend the steps. “Amber?”

  She halted in the act of sliding into the car, and looked at him.

  Raising his glass to her, he said, “I’ll see you soon.”

  She made no comment, and he’d expected none. The car door slammed, and the vehicle pulled away. He was contemplating the winking taillights when he heard his grandmother’s voice behind him.

  “I like that girl, Nicky.” She tucked her arm into his and he covered her fingers absently with his own. “You will leave her out of those games you play, n’est-ce pas?”

  Broodingly, he watched the car as it turned out of the drive. “I’m not playing, Grand-mère. Not this time.”

  Chapter 2

  Sleep could be unkind to those with blood on their hands. Nick tossed on the sweat-dampened sheets while faces loomed in his unconscious, each receding, to be replaced by yet another. And when an all too familiar shot ricocheted through his dreams, shattering his slumber, he woke with a start, his heart jackhammering in his chest.

  He hauled in a deep breath, then another. He was used to the nightmares, but lately they’d become more frequent. More relentless. After wiping his perspiring face with the sheet, he tossed it aside, got out of bed.

  Despite the darkness, his steps were sure as he crossed the room that had been his since childhood. Unmindful of his nudity, he opened the terrace doors and stepped out onto the little balcony that overlooked his grandmother’s beloved gardens. There was a hint of a breeze, but it did little to cool his heated skin. The air was heavy with moisture. It would rain by tomorrow.

  His muscles still quivered with the aftershocks of the nightmare. From long practice he kept his breathing deep and steady, fighting off the sensation of suffocating. At one time that feeling had been a constant in his life. But those days were over, reenacted only in his dreams.

  The scent of gardenias drifted toward him and his fingers clenched on the railing as he filled his lungs. But it wasn’t the gardens he thought of this time, but the woman who hovered at the edge of his unconscious.

  Amber. With her wide, catlike eyes and long sleek body, she reminded him of a feline, begging to be stroked. But that one wouldn’t welcome petting, and most definitely not from him. She did everything in her power to avoid being touched by him at all.

  Nick worked his shoulders, impatient with himself. He’d never been one to obsess over a woman, and if he wasn’t careful, that’s what Amber would become. An obsession. One that filled the mind and absorbed the senses. One that caused a man to forget all about obligation and focus solely on her.

  She was a puzzle, with her badly cut hair and quick, nervous movements. Her anxious mannerisms, when she toyed with her earring or her necklace, were at odds with the cool, measuring look in her eye. It was intriguing to wonder which was the real woman—the nervous waif or the wary combatant. Whichever she was, she’d made no secret of her distrust of him.

  If he were a better man, a kinder one, he’d forget all about Amber Jennings and leave her alone to live her life as she chose. But because he was neither, he knew he’d do nothing of the sort.

  The promised rain hung low in the clouds, doing little more than releasing the occasional fat drop and keeping a miserable mugginess in the air. Sara waved to Candy as they parted ways for a few hours. She wasn’t expected back until the dinner shift today, and the freedom of the next few hours beckoned. She’d been on edge all morning, and it was tempting to blame that fact on the weather. But in truth, Nick Doucet was at the root of the feeling.

  Without meaning to, she’d watched for him all morning, his words from yesterday ringing in her mind.

  I’ll see you soon. Her memory all too accurately recalled the promise in his voice, the predatory, masculine intent in his eyes.

  Her experience with men in recent years had been kept to a minimum, by her choice. There had been the waiter in Seattle, the one who had reminded her, in some slight way, of Sean. The resemblance had only been physical, and their encounter brief. She’d left town shortly after their relationship had started, and there had been no one since.

  Dispassionately, she’d wondered from time to time if she was capable of feeling the type of desire that books rhapsodized over and movies glorified. Wondered if something vital in her had been broken years ago and could never work correctly again. She’d never regarded her lack with much regret. From what she’d witnessed, passion was an excuse, a weakness…and in the hands of some, a weapon.

  But that didn’t account for the razor sharp awareness that flared to life every time Doucet came close. And her own unfamiliar reaction was just one more reason for her to steer clear of him.

  Ignoring the sullen threat in the clouds, she walked several more blocks until she came to a small market on the corner. Going inside, she selected some necessities and paused over the produce. She could take all her meals at the café on the days she worked, but she liked to have fresh fruit in her room for an occasional snack.

  Thunder rumbled ominously, and with one eye on the sky, she paid for her purchases and hurried from the store.

  “You took a chance coming out on a day like today without an umbrella.”

  Her spine stiffened as she recognized the voice. Without turning, she hurried even faster, to no avail. Nick merely fell into step beside her.

  “Can I carry something?”

  “No.” A few drops of rain hit the pavement before her. It was too much to ask that, given no encouragement, he’d disappear. He was much too tenacious for that.

  With his hands tucked into the pockets of his custom-fit linen trousers, he strolled along, seeming unconcerned as the drops fell with increasing urgency. “Perhaps it’s difficult for you to believe, but I was raised as a Southern gentleman.” He reached over to pry one of the bags from her fingers. “It’s my duty to at least give the appearance of being helpful.”

  It was her reluctance to touch him, not his perseverance, that caused her to relinquish her grip on the bag. The nerves were back, flickering just below the surface of her skin, and she damned them almost as fiercely as she damned the man beside her. “Do Southern gentlemen normally stalk women who have made their disinterest clear?”

  “Stalk?” He seemed to give the word consideration. “That seems a harsh conclusion, given the fact that the market you were shopping at is directly across the street from my family’s offices.” She looked at the nondescript brick building he indicated. “We could dodge in over there, and wait out the rain.”

  “Go ahead,” she invited, walking faster. The precipitation was growing heavier. She’d be soaked by the time she reached her apartment. But there was no way she was going anywhere with him.

  “Now what kind of gentleman would I be, Amber, if I didn’t see a lady to her door?”

  At the teasing words she whirled on him, wiping the rain from her face with a hunched shoulder. “It appears you would be a dense one, Doucet. Or maybe you’re the type who can’t stand the fact a woman isn’t interested. Is that it, huh? Is it the challenge you enjoy?”

  He’d stopped when she did, met her gaze with his enigmatic one. “I enjoy you.”

  Lightning sizzled, and Sara was unable to discern whether it was from the darkening sky or the chemistry sparking between them. She couldn’t look away from him. She was inexperienced, but not stupid. It would be impossible to misidentify the predatory gleam of male intent in his eyes, or the corresponding frisson of pleasure shooting down her spine.

  The sky opened up then, and the ensuing downpour succeeded in dispell
ing their silent communication. “C’mon.” Nick cupped her elbow in his hand. The feel of his fingers on her chilled skin sent tendrils of warmth curling through her system, and although she tried to dislodge him, he held her firmly. Guiding her to a deep doorway up ahead, he allowed her to step beneath the protection it provided, then crowded in after her.

  He was too close. Sara shrank back as far as she could, but if anything, he seemed to loom nearer. He didn’t seem to notice her discomfiture at his proximity. He shook the moisture from his dark hair, finger combed it carelessly.

  Her throat clogged. The white shirt he wore was plastered against his body, and she could see through it to his chest, with its covering of dark hair. His soaked trousers clung to his hard thighs, leaving no doubt about the muscular strength of his body. She moistened her lips, which had gone inexplicably dry. Thunder boomed, and she glanced out at the street. All the other pedestrians had taken cover, and even as she registered the logic of the action, there was a part of her that was tempted to bolt, to take her chances with the elements in an effort to escape this man. These feelings.

  “Amber.”

  She didn’t want to respond to that low raspy tone, didn’t want to see the desire that would be stamped on his face. But her gaze raised of its own volition. And immediately the storm around them paled in comparison to the tempest between them.

  Despite his earlier efforts, a lock of black hair had fallen across his forehead. His eyes were heavy-lidded, intent, and there was no mistaking the stamp of arousal on his face. It was there in the flare of his nostrils, in the skin stretched taut over his cheekbones. Her pulse leaped once before settling into a hard staccato beat.

  His head lowered. There was no room to pull away. And even if she’d had the will to make a run for the street, it was doubtful that her legs would have obeyed the command to move. A strange lethargy had invaded her limbs, turning them weak and boneless.

  She felt his breath warm her throat before his lips brushed against the pulse that was pounding there. Then that same barely perceptible caress whispered across her jaw, her eyelids, the corner of her mouth. He didn’t touch her anywhere else, and that fact somehow made the light contact more sensual. Restrained, but full of promise. She shivered against him, but not from the dampness. Heat flashed between them, enough that she imagined the air around them should fill with steam.

  The world narrowed, to include only this moment. This man. She thought he could surely hear her heart slamming against her chest. Imagined she could hear his. Her lips parted as his mouth hovered above hers.

  The tip of his tongue traced the seam of her lips, with a light deft stroke that had her shuddering. He rubbed his mouth against hers savoringly, as if he wanted to absorb her flavor and brand her with his own.

  And because he was close, all too close, to succeeding, she found the strength to turn her head.

  “I have to go.” She could barely form the words.

  “Amber.”

  She used her elbows to wedge herself past him, not daring to look in the direction of that dulcet voice.

  “I want to see you tonight.”

  The words sounded as though they’d been dragged from somewhere deep inside him. The blood pumped through her veins, and she struggled for composure. She’d never been in greater need of it. “I have to work.”

  “Then I’ll come by for dinner.”

  Without responding, she walked away as swiftly as she could without running. Running would have been useless, at any rate. There was no way to outpace the emotions that even now were churning and crashing inside her like white water. No way to escape the certainty that she’d made a very grave mistake indeed by allowing Nick Doucet to touch her. To taste her.

  She walked faster to outpace the memories. His flavor still lingered in her senses, and she felt oddly disoriented. Her thoughts were a jumble, and it wasn’t until she heard the blare of a horn that she realized she’d nearly stepped off a curb in front of an oncoming car. Jumping back, she ignored the driver’s rude suggestion and tried to control a shudder at her recent narrow escape. Both of them.

  The rain was steady now, falling gently. Her grocery bags were plastic, so she didn’t have to worry about them ripping, but everything she’d bought would have to be dried off before she put it away in her apartment. She looked forward to the task. Any distraction would be a welcome respite from her tumultuous thoughts.

  Turning into a wide alley, she ducked her head against the dampness as she headed for her apartment. The place barely qualified as such; located above a seafood market, it had rarely represented a haven to her. The smell of fish was impossible to erase, and the room was barely big enough for her bed, table and couch. The three-quarters bath attached was little more than a converted closet. But Sara felt an unusual eagerness to return to the place. Alone.

  Slogging through the puddles, she kept her eye trained on the outside staircase that would take her to blessed peace, not to mention dryness. She passed a man who, despite his black rain slicker, looked almost as drenched as she was. The rest of the alley was deserted. Most people had more sense than to stroll the New Orleans streets in a storm.

  “Sara Parker.”

  The words turned the rivers of rain on her skin into instant sheets of ice. For the space of an instant she almost convinced herself that she’d imagined them.

  Until they were repeated.

  “Sara Parker from Chicago.” The voice was louder this time. The man was right behind her.

  After a barely imperceptible hesitation, she quickly masked her reaction. Survival instincts, well honed, surged to the surface.

  She schooled her expression to a politely quizzical mask before she turned. “If you’re talking to me, you’ve got the wrong person.”

  The man smiled, a menacing grimace. “I don’t think so.” His arm raised and her throat seized. Her focus narrowed to the yawning black muzzle of the gun he had pointed at her head. “Victor Mannen sends his regards.”

  Time slowed, then froze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Distantly, she heard a shout, but didn’t look away. She couldn’t. The slow-motion sequence of death had her in its grip.

  She was oddly unsurprised at the way she’d meet her end. It had only been a matter of time. Hadn’t she always known it? But it seemed curiously ironic that only a few minutes ago in Nick’s arms she’d felt more alive than she had in years, and now she was going to die.

  The man’s words were almost gentle. “Goodbye, Sara.”

  Tearing her gaze away from the finger squeezing the trigger, she ducked, swung one of her bags, hitting his gun hand. She heard a shot as she stumbled away, waited for the agonizing pain to tear through her.

  And instead staggered as the man tumbled forward against her, his hands clutching at her before he crumpled at her feet.

  She stared, transfixed by the crimson stain spreading from the tear in his slicker. Heard the groans emanating from him as he struggled to his knees. And then her mind flashed back to the scene in the safe house in Chicago. The bodies crumpled on the floor, soaked in blood. And Sean, sweet sad Sean, with his eyes wide and lifeless.

  Abruptly, she dropped her bags, her purse, and ran. Blindly. Wildly. Away from her attacker and away from the images still vivid and raw after six years. And when strong arms came around her, halting her flight, she reacted like a thing possessed, struggling madly.

  “Amber, it’s over. It’s over now.”

  It was the soothing tone that registered, rather than the words themselves. Nick. She sagged against him, unable to control the shudders racking her body. His arms were a safe harbor in a storm-tossed sea. Her mind grappled with incomprehensionable fragments. His presence in the alley. The gun still clasped in his hand. And the words he murmured over and over as his lips brushed her hair.

  “Nothing will be allowed to hurt you, ma petite. No one. I promise you that.”

  “And you didn’t recognize this guy? Had never seen him hanging around the
café, on the street…?” Detective Matt Chatfield’s narrowed blue regard was unwavering.

  Sara shook her head. Someone had found a wool blanket for her and draped it around her soaked form. She huddled into it now, wishing its warmth could banish the chill in her veins.

  The detective’s gaze flicked to the man beside her. “How about you, Mr. Doucet?”

  “I never got a look at him.” Nick reached over, took one of Sara’s icy hands in both of his. She gave it a discreet tug, but he held it firmly. “He never turned around.”

  “So you shot him in the back.”

  The detective’s voice was carefully expressionless. Nick’s was not. “I shot him in the center of the right shoulder blade so he’d drop the gun he had aimed at Amber. He did.”

  Sensing some undertone at play between the two men, Sara gave up the struggle to free her hand and studied them. Physically, they were almost opposites. They may have been around the same age, but Chatfield was taller, broader. His face was as enigmatic as Nick’s, just as hard, but he was blond and blue eyed, in contrast to Nick’s darkness. There was no mistaking the cop’s toughness, but for some reason it was Nick who seemed the more dangerous.

  “I suppose you have a permit to carry concealed?”

  Silently Nick rose, withdrew his wallet and flipped it open. He passed it to the other man, who studied the permit before nodding, handing it back. “Where’s your weapon now?”

  “I gave it to the first uniform on the scene.”

  Chatfield raked him with a quick glance. “Ankle holster?” He waited for Nick’s nod before asking, “What did you say you were doing in the alley, Mr. Doucet?”

  There was an unsettling glitter in Nick’s eyes, but his tone was civil enough. “Amber and I had parted several minutes earlier. I’d forgotten to give her back one of her bags.”

  She looked at him, surprised. In her hurry to get away from him earlier that day she’d completely forgotten the sack of fruit he’d insisted on carrying for her. An involuntary shudder worked through her. If Nick’s kisses hadn’t completely shattered her logic, if she’d been capable of remembering to collect the bag before leaving him, she’d be dead right now. The cold certainty of that fact formed a brick of ice in her chest.