Roarke: The Adventurer

by JoAnn Ross

  “He’s married.”

  “So? Not all women care about little niceties like that. You’re engaged,” he reminded her succinctly.

  “If we were having an affair,” she mused, “his wife could have followed him to New Orleans. She could have been the one who shot him.”

  “That’s one scenario.”

  An unsavory thought swirled up from the fog cloaking her mind. “What if I was the one who shot him?” Her voice was thin and ragged, her eyes wide and more frightened than they’d appeared when she’d realized someone might have been trying to kill her.

  “You didn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.” His instincts were telling him she didn’t have it in her to murder anyone. Then again, the faint voice of reason in the far reaches of his mind counseled that his instincts had been wrong before. Dead wrong.

  “Because I’m a good kisser?”

  He looked at her in mock surprise. “Did I say that?”

  His words had the desired effect, bringing color back into her ghost-white face and a flash of gold fire to her eyes. “‘A humdinger,’ I believe, was how you so colorfully put it.”

  “I believe you might be right. Want to try again? See if we can make world-class?”

  She was too tempted. Her lips went dry. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea,” she said reluctantly.

  “On that we’re agreed.” He sighed heavily and pushed himself out of the chair. “I’ve got to leave. I’m going to be late meeting Mike as it is. Anything specific you want me to get at your house?”

  Daria nodded. “I was able to make a list.” She was pulling a folded paper from the pocket of her robe when a sudden thought stopped her. “You’re still going?”

  Roarke leaned over and deftly pried the paper from her fingers. “That was the plan,” he reminded her.

  “But everything’s changed.”

  “Nothing important.”

  “But now I remember finding Martin’s body in my hotel room.”

  “But you don’t know what he was doing there in the first place. Or who could have shot him.”

  “True, but—”

  “Which means that you’re still a sitting duck. And I’m not going to take a chance on anyone getting a second shot at you.”

  “I’m not accustomed to anyone making my decisions for me.”

  “Ah, but I’m not just anyone. And perhaps if you’d let someone else in on whatever you were up to, you wouldn’t have ended up in this mess in the first place. However, now that you have,” he said, ignoring her quick intake of angry breath, “someone’s got to keep you alive long enough to solve this crime.”

  And for some reason, she’d chosen him to do it, Daria reminded herself. He certainly hadn’t asked to be dragged into her troubles.

  “You seem to be forgetting one thing,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “James is an important man. He can protect me.”

  “Yeah, he was doing a bang-up job of it yesterday. And before you open that sexy sweet mouth to argue that he might not even know about your involvement in the case, believe me, sweetheart, the cops know damn well who the mystery woman in the hotel room is. Which means Boudreaux knows, too. And you notice that he didn’t make a single reference to his beloved fiancée being missing.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t want to tip his hand and ruin the case or risk endangering me if I’d been kidnapped. Perhaps he’s tried to call my house—”

  “The only message on your recorder is from the tailor at the dry cleaners, telling you that the alterations are finished on your new suit.”

  “How on earth do you know that? You haven’t even been to my house yet.”

  “Dick Tracy Crime Stoppers tip for today, darlin’—If you don’t want crooks to rob you blind, you shouldn’t write down your ATM PIN number, your burglar-alarm code and your voice-mail retrieval number all on the same card in your wallet.”

  “I used a code,” she muttered, reluctantly admitting to herself that he had her there. Wasn’t her own office constantly printing up pamphlets warning people of that very thing?

  “Yeah. It was real clever replacing the numbers with letters. I hate to shatter your James Bond fantasy; but most kids learn that particular secret code by the time they’re in Cub Scouts.”

  Having no argument to that, Daria returned to the one thing he’d said that was too ridiculous to be believed.

  “Did I misunderstand, or did you just accuse James of being a suspect?”

  “As my brother Mike would say, ‘At this point, everyone’s a suspect.’ Including your pretty-boy fiancé.”

  “But not me?”

  Roarke decided to be brutally honest in order to keep her from sneaking out of the house while he was gone. “I’ve got a gut feeling you don’t have it in you to kill anyone. But I’d also be willing to bet the cops don’t share my opinion. You go out on your own and you could end up getting arrested. And that would be the best-case scenario.”

  He didn’t have to remind her what the worst would be. As the memory of her assailant flashing his badge at the kids in the cemetery flashed all too vividly through her mind, Daria realized she’d already gotten a taste of that one.

  “I won’t go anywhere.” The headache had begun throbbing behind her eyes again.

  “Good girl. And although it should be safe, don’t answer the phone, either.” He was almost to the door when he snapped his fingers and stopped. “Damn.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I forgot something.” He came back to stand over her, forcing her to lift her head to look up at him.

  “What?”

  “This.”

  He bent down, caught her chin between his fingers and covered her mouth with his.

  The moment his lips touched hers, Roarke belatedly realized he’d dived into a tidal wave.

  He was drowning. Drowning in her sinfully sweet taste, in her deceptively innocent scent, the feel of her warm female body against his, the soft little sounds she was making deep in her throat. He’d always been a man who had looked for adventure, who had enjoyed living on the edge, but not even in Moscow had his need for excitement threatened to lead him into such peril.

  He’d thought he’d known passion, but as Daria’s eager mouth softened beneath his, Roarke knew he’d never even come close.

  She wanted him. He could taste it in the hungry Way she was kissing him back—like a woman who’d been starving and had suddenly stumbled across her own private banquet.

  Roarke wanted her. Recklessly. Dangerously. Damned near beyond reason. With a hunger that went deep into the very marrow of his bones. And even though he knew it was reckless, he was tempted to take what he wanted. What she was obviously so willing to give.

  Sex was just sex, he reminded himself. Lust was easily satisfied in his world, if not with one woman, with another. So long as he kept his emotions in check, so long as he didn’t allow himself to care about Daria Shea, he wouldn’t have to worry:

  Even as he assured himself of that, Roarke’s blood began to swim. He felt like a man going under for the third and final time. If he didn’t manage to pull himself to the surface, right now, he would surely drown.

  She didn’t know this man, Daria reminded herself as she linked her fingers together behind his neck. Not really. A sensible woman would keep her distance, protecting herself as best she could until she could remember the truth.

  But dear heaven, what in the world was a woman to do when, with a single glance of those hooded midnight eyes, he could make her knees weak? And when the powerful force of his mouth literally took her breath?

  At this moment, alone with him in a house that was proving anything but safe, there was no right. No wrong. Only this reckless, unrelenting need.

  The faint little whimper of protest as he lifted his mouth from hers almost had Roarke reconsidering his decision to try to back away. Now.

  He shook his head, like a di
ver who’d been underwater too long and had surfaced too fast.

  Then, before Daria’s whirling head had cleared, he was gone, leaving her more confused than ever. And wanting.

  7

  MONKEY HILL, LOCATED near the banks of the Mississippi, had been constructed so the children of New Orleans could see what a hill looked like. The pavilion on the bank was one of the best places from which to view the river and it was there Roarke found his brother waiting.

  “Sorry I’m late. Something came up.”

  “Something to do with your mystery woman?”

  “Sort of. She just remembered she’s engaged to James Boudreaux.”

  Mike whistled softly. “The lady keeps high company.”

  “Yeah.” Roarke rubbed his jaw, irritated by a nagging feeling that felt too much like jealousy for comfort. “It’s also interesting that, during his press conference, Boudreaux didn’t mention anything about his fiancée, who just happens to be a deputy prosecutor, being missing.”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t know.”

  “He’s got to know that the fibbie was killed in a hotel room she reserved for some unknown reason.”

  “The police aren’t giving out her name,” Mike reminded his brother.

  “Yeah, but we both know NOPD leaks like a rusty sieve. I tell you, whatever’s going on, I have the feeling Boudreaux’s involved.”

  “You think he shot her?” Although Mike remained outwardly relaxed, Roarke knew his older brother well enough to recognize the professional interest. He suddenly reminded him of Elvis, their old German bluetick hound, at point. Once a cop, always a cop, he figured.

  “I’m not saying that.” Personally, Roarke felt such actions would be too direct for the politician.

  “But it’s more than the fact that you’re still harboring a grudge from the time we had to beat the guy up for jumping Shayne on the basketball court back in junior high,” Mike guessed.

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, Roarke smiled at the memory. “It’s a helluva lot more than that. I just felt, watching him, that he knows a lot more than he’s saying. Which wouldn’t be that surprising, given the fact that he doesn’t want to blow the case. But he’s mixed up in this, Mike. Right up to the knot in his pretty silk necktie.”

  “I’ll run a discreet background check on Boudreaux. See what he’s up to these days. Who he might be hanging out with.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that” Enjoying the unqualified fraternal support, Roarke wondered why it had been so long since he’d been home.

  “No problem.” Mike rubbed his chin and chose his words carefully. “By the way, I also looked into your mystery woman.”

  “Daria?” Roarke wondered why that should irritate him. It was, after all, a smart and prudent thing to do. “You checked up on her?”

  “I didn’t want to find you with a bullet in the back of the head,” Mike said mildly. “But if anyone’s going to shoot you, it isn’t going to be her. The lady’s so clean she squeaks.”

  Roarke knew he was in deep, deep trouble when relief flooded over him. He shouldn’t care. He didn’t want to care, dammit. But he did.

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  Mike grinned, not fooled at all by his brother’s casual tone. “Yeah, I just bet you are.”

  They left the zoo together and took Mike’s car to Daria’s Irish Channel house. The Victorian cottage was located in a working-class section that was undergoing regentrification. Mike was all too familiar with it, having spent more than a few nights beneath the cute little blue fishscale roof.

  “Funny thing, coincidence,” he murmured as he pulled into the driveway.

  Roarke glanced over at him. “I assume there’s a point to that statement?”

  “This used to be Désirée’s house. Your mystery lady must have bought it from her when she married Roman Falconer and moved to the French Quarter.”

  Roarke thought he detected a note of regret in Mike’s voice. “Having regrets about letting the lovely newslady get away?”

  “Naw. It never would have worked. After Désirée and I broke up, I went out with a producer at the station for a few months. She’d watched Désirée and me during the months we were together and told me she’d decided our problem was we both insisted on being right. All of the time.”

  Roarke laughed at the pithy, all-too-true analysis. “Sounds like one smart lady. So, what happened to her?”

  Mike shrugged. “She got offered a job at the network. It’s hard for a working stiff to compete with the razzle-dazzle of the big city.”

  Roarke knew he was prejudiced, but he still couldn’t imagine any woman choosing a career over his brother. Granted, he would undoubtedly make a lousy husband. And Shayne was probably even worse. But if there was ever a man who was husband material, it was Michael O’Malley.

  “You must not have tried very hard to keep her.”

  “That’s much the same thing she said when we said our goodbyes at the airport.” A wry grin twitched Mike’s lips. “I guess it was pretty much the truth. I liked Karyn a lot. And we got along great, but it was more like she was my sister. Or a favorite cousin. I didn’t ever have that drowning feeling when I was with her.”

  He glanced over at Roarke, his expression revealing that he wasn’t entirely comfortable talking about these failed relationships, even with his brother. “Know what I mean?”

  “All too well,” Roarke muttered as he opened the car door.

  The interior of the cozy little home was a monument to romanticism. Violets bloomed on cream walls, needlepoint carpets covered pine plank floors that had been polished to a bright shine. It would have been lovely—if someone hadn’t recently trashed it.

  “Damn,” Mike muttered.

  Roarke’s curse was riper and a great deal harsher as he stood in the doorway, staring at the destruction. Needlepoint pictures had been ripped from the walls, the frames broken by whoever had been intent on searching behind their paper backings. The flowered upholstery on the sofa had been slashed, the foam material from the cushions scattered over the floor like unmelted snow. Books had been torn apart, pages ripped from their bindings. This was no ordinary vandalism.

  “What were they looking for?” he wondered out loud.

  “I wonder if they found it,” Mike countered. “Or if the lady still has it in her possession.”

  “I searched her purse. There wasn’t anything in there that anyone would trash a place looking for.”

  “Well, so far, they’ve killed a federal attorney, shot a deputy prosecutor and trashed her house. Whoever these guys are, they’re not going to stop until they get what they’re looking for. And shut the lady up.”

  Roarke refused to even consider that possibility. “We’re just going to have to get to them first.”

  “Good idea.” Mike’s dry tone didn’t quite conceal the amusement he felt at the realization that his world-roving, playboy brother was hooked. If the situation wasn’t so deadly, it would be downright humorous. “Meanwhile, let’s just get the lady’s clothes and get out of here.”

  They went into the bedroom, where more flowers—pink rosebuds this time—covered the walls. The dresser had been overturned and her clothing scattered over the floor. Roarke picked up a pair of skimpy black silk-and-lace panties that had been slashed by an unseen knife for no other reason than to give the vandal some sick, erotic pleasure.

  Fury rose like bile in his throat at the idea of some cretin touching Daria’s frothy underwear. “I’ll kill the guy for this alone.”

  His tone was soft and dangerous. Mike, who’d been checking out the adjoining bathroom, returned and studied him grimly. “You realize, of course, when it gets personal is when it gets dangerous.”

  Roarke knew that only too well. He did, after all, have the scars—physical and emotional—to remind him of that little lesson. “Yeah. I know. But unfortunately, it doesn’t change things.”

  “No.” Mike sighed, dragged his fingers through his hair and gav
e him the same worried look Roarke remembered receiving after getting busted for shoplifting. “I don’t know whether to congratulate you or ask Mom to say a novena for her middle son.”

  Roarke laughed at that, which eased the pressure that had been building inside him. “Let’s get the stuff and get out of here. I’m pretty sure Daria’s safe so long as she stays where she is, but—”

  “You’re afraid she won’t stay put.”

  “Things are starting to come back to her,” Roarke said. “I’m afraid she’ll remember something she thinks is important and go tearing out and get herself shot again.”

  Mike gave the room another longer perusal. “Want to call this vandalism in?”

  “I don’t think so. It’s obvious the bad guys are keeping a low profile. And since they just happen to be cops, it’d probably behoove us to do the same.”

  “Great minds,” Mike murmured, suggesting they were on the same track. “Meanwhile, while you pack, I think I’ll have a little chat with the neighbors. See if they noticed anything.”

  Roarke picked up an ivory froth of a nightgown and felt a renewed surge of anger as he viewed the jagged slashes, obviously made with a knife, across the front of the lacy bodice. “Good idea.”

  Five minutes later they met on the sidewalk again.

  “None of the neighbors are home,” Mike said. “They probably work. I’ve got a meeting to go to, but since I doubt if our guys did this in the daylight, it’d probably be better just to come back tonight and see what I can find out.”

  “You don’t have to do that. Surely you’ve got cases—”

  “None as important as this one.” When Roarke looked inclined to argue, Mike held up a broad hand. “Hey, Mom’s been after me to provide her with grandchildren. The way I figure it, if I can get either you or Shayne married off, she’ll get off my back.”

  “If you’re counting on me to get married, you’re going to have a very long wait,” Roarke warned. He threw the overnight case into the back seat. “You’ve always been the feet-on-the-ground O’Malley brother. Why don’t you get hitched?”

  “Because marriage is a commitment that a guy hopefully only makes once in a lifetime. And even in this city renowned for gorgeous women, it’s not that easy finding the right one—me one I can picture myself growing old with.”