Desire and Deception

by Nicole Jordan

  His report seemed to fall on deaf ears, for Jason merely said grimly, "She's Andrea Carlin."

  "But what the devil is she doing in a place like this?"

  Jason's jaw hardened as he shot a glance at his friend. "She must have come here with Lila."

  "Then perhaps we should try to find Lila."

  "I'll find her, all right—if she's still in New Orleans. But at the moment I'm more concerned about how to get Miss Carlin out of here without raising an alarm."

  Kyle frowned and ran a hand through his hair. "I only have one question. Have you bloody well lost your mind?"

  "Perhaps," Jason said, smiling humorlessly. "But I have some unfinished business with the lady. And if I know you, my friend, you have more than just one question. So out with them now, if you please."

  "Very well. Where do you plan to take her? And if you have that figured out, how do you plan to deal with the bruiser who was at the door when we came in? What about the Gescard woman? Do you suppose she will thank you for stealing one of her . . . er, ladies away? And Duval. What if his interest in Miss Carlin isn't mercenary? What if he isn't aware that she's an heiress? And," Kyle finished lamely as he saw his objections were having little impact, "Marquerite said she was occupied later this evening. What if she would prefer—"

  "My money should be as good as the next man's," Jason returned, his voice low and harsh.

  "Jase, you can't just abduct the woman," Kyle began, before Jason eyed him warningly. Kyle sighed, realizing that in this instance at least arguments were fruitless. He would have more luck trying to stop a hurricane in full force than Jason Stuart when he was roused. "What do you want me to do?" he offered.

  "I have a hackney waiting in the rear alley," Jason replied. "I can leave with Miss Carlin by way of the courtyard if you will keep the majordomo occupied."

  Kyle was reminded of the countless times in the past when he had heard Jason issuing orders in that same uncompromising tone. But at least he seemed to be approaching the problem logically now, without allowing the strong emotion that had gripped him earlier to interfere with his thinking. Kyle nodded slowly. "And then I should disappear for a time?"

  Jason grinned, although his blue eyes remained cold. "You can have Veronique. The way she was eyeing that great hulk of yours leads me to believe she won't be disappointed by the exchange. I'll take Miss Carlin to the ship. I imagine I'll be staying there for a few days, at least long enough to determine what to do with her inheritance. I can send you word at the hotel, or here, if I need you."

  "You relieve my mind," Kyle said dryly. "I thought for a moment that you had forgotten your original purpose for coming here."

  "Not at all," Jason replied ominously.

  Seeing his friend's grim expression, Kyle felt a sudden sympathy for the young woman he had just met. He reached out to grasp Jason's arm. "You might also remember that you wanted to marry her, not cause her any more trouble."

  Jason's only response was a flexing muscle in his jaw.

  Kyle released his grip and ran a calloused hand through his hair once more. "Hell, I still can't figure out what the heiress to a tremendous fortune is doing in a whorehouse."

  Jason gave a derisive snort. "That, my friend, should be perfectly obvious."

  * * *

  When the last mellow chord of her song faded, Lauren left her place at the pianoforte and made her way to the refreshment table. She wasn't surprised to have been forgotten by the harried waiter; the parlor was more crowded than usual and the waiter was fully occupied with ensuring a steady flow of cognac and champagne for the guests. But she needed something to drink. Her throat was parched from so much singing, and the husky rasp of her voice had deepened.

  As she gratefully accepted a glass of champagne, she caught sight of Desiree Chaudier clinging to two florid-faced gentlemen. Desiree was one of the dealers at the casino, and the only woman with whom Lauren didn't get along. When their glances met, Desiree flashed her a look of veiled savagery, but since Lauren had learned to deal with the spiteful, jealous Desiree by simply ignoring her, she turned away.

  She was just taking her first sip of wine when she suddenly froze, the crystal rim held to her lips. In the mirror, she could see an image of a man. A tall man with sun-streaked chestnut hair. And . . . heaven help her . . . intensely brilliant blue eyes. Those eyes were watching her, gauging her. She shut her own, but the image was still there a moment later: intimidating, powerful, vital.

  She wasn't imagining him. The other guests had noticed him, too, for she could sense heads turning as he moved slowly across the room. Yet how could anyone not notice, when he dominated the room with his masculine beauty and magnetic, compelling presence? He looked impossibly handsome in his elegant evening dress: a form-fitting coat of blue superfine, gleaming white cravat, and buff stockinette trousers.

  He was moving toward her, walking with the leonine grace of leashed power, stopping only a yard away.

  Slowly, Lauren turned to meet those startlingly blue eyes, and the impact almost took her breath away. A dim roar of rushing blood sounded in her ears.

  She was unaware when the glass slipped from her nerveless fingers to fall with a dull thud on the carpet. But she was quite conscious of the blue gaze which slowly raked her figure from her satin slippers to her fashionable headdress, then down again to her breasts.

  Lauren stared back at him, her own gaze dropping against her will to his lips. She flushed in remembrance. Those chiseled lips had once pressed against her bare breasts, and she didn't need to look down to know that her nipples had suddenly hardened to aching points.

  He seemed to have noticed as well, for his mouth twisted in an ironic quirk before he raised his gaze to meet hers.

  For the life of her, she couldn't look away. Not even when she felt him searching her face, as if trying to see behind the mask.

  Thankfully, that devouring gaze left her as he bent down to retrieve her fallen goblet. But it returned again in full force as he held the glass out to her. "Yours, I believe," he said gallantly.

  She still remembered that velvet-textured voice, although she could hardly hear it above the thudding of her heart. Wordlessly, Lauren nodded, although she couldn't force her fingers to accept his offering.

  Jason stepped past her to exchange the empty glass for a full one. But when she wouldn't take that, either, he lifted it in a salute. "When Kyle told me he had discovered a goddess, I had to come see for myself. To your beauty, Mademoiselle Marquerite."

  Lauren stared at him, trying to assimilate what was happening. He had made a similar toast once before, yet this time he had called her Marquerite. Was it possible that he didn't recognize her after all?

  Unexpectedly, she felt a sharp stab of disappointment. How could he have forgotten so easily something that had affected her so deeply? Yet if Captain Stuart didn't remember her, she might yet escape retribution for drugging him four years ago.

  With an effort, Lauren inclined her head graciously and forced a slight French accent into her speech. "I do not think, monsieur, that we have been introduced."

  His eyes flashed briefly, glittering sapphires in his tanned face. "No," he replied, his chiseled features once again hardening, "we have never been properly introduced."

  She could not have known that her fate had hung in the balance as he waited for her response. He had hoped—with his very soul, he had hoped—for a different answer. She knew who he was, he was certain. She hadn't been able to hide her initial trepidation beneath the mask she was now wearing.

  He threw back his head and tossed off the champagne. Then with determination strengthening the already powerful line of his jaw, he forced himself to smile, to play her game. "Jason Stuart, mademoiselle, of the Siren, at your service. My ship could have been named for you, I think. I could easily believe you to be a siren, luring hapless sailors to their doom."

  Lauren eyed him uncertainly. "Perhaps you mean to be flattering, Monsieur Stuart, but—"

  "Jason,
please," he said smoothly. "Then, a goddess, if you care not for the other. Your beauty is quite devastating. Do I dare hope that I might have the pleasurable company of one so lovely this evening?"

  Her lashes lowered, veiling the gold-green eyes behind the mask. "I fear that will not be possible, monsieur." She almost jumped in shock when Jason gently grasped her fingers and raised them to his lips.

  "Ah, mademoiselle, do not deny me, I beg of you," he murmured, his voice thick as honey. "I am but a mere mortal worshiping at your feet, a humble supplicant for your favors."

  In spite of herself, Lauren sucked in her breath when he pressed his warm lips against the sensitive pulse of her wrist. His mouth was sending hot sparks shooting up her arm. She tried to withdraw her hand, but he held it firmly in his own large one, capturing her gaze just as inexorably.

  Lauren shuddered, realizing now what it was about Jason that as a sixteen-year-old she had been too naive to recognize: raw, male virility. That was what held her gaze riveted to his as her knees quivered with feminine weakness. And that was what made her gasp as Jason's tongue flicked out to swirl slowly over her palm.

  It was more than time to put an end to her breathless attraction.

  "Monsieur," Lauren exclaimed, less forcefully than she would have liked. "I think you do not understand. I have a previous engagement for the rest of the evening."

  "No, I will not allow it." He shook his head, a slow grin spreading across his firm mouth, causing slashing masculine dimples to crease his cheeks. "I will speak to the hostess and have her release you from your other duties."

  "Madame will not agree," Lauren protested while her eyes flickered around the room in search of help. He obviously thought she was one of the ladies of the house. But better that than for him to realize she was his runaway bride, the one who had stolen his money. She was thankful that Lila had chosen this particular evening to be away, for Captain Stuart would surely have recognized his ex-mistress and connected the two of them. If she could manage to get away now, she might be able to avoid him while he was in New Orleans. She needed someone to distract his attention. . . .

  Looking around, Lauren saw no sign of Kendricks or Madame Gescard, or even the waiter. The gay crowd was thinning somewhat, as some of the couples disappeared through the open French doors. Those guests who remained were occupied with their own amusements. She would get no assistance from them, most assuredly, unless she physically struggled. And if she caused a scene now, Lila would never let her return.

  Adopting her coolest manner, Lauren turned back to Jason. "Please, Monsieur Jason. I am aware of the honor that you pay me. But I must insist that you release me. I truly must go."

  He bent his head, bringing his lips so close that his warm breath fanned her cheek. "You will give me no hope?" he said softly, intimately, gazing into her eyes with an intentness that seemed to reach her very soul.

  Lauren stared up at him, breathing in the warm scent of him, clean yet hinting of masculine spice. His overpowering presence made her dizzy, unable to think. At last she shook her head, wishing she didn't have to say no.

  He released her hand, only to take her arm in a gentle grasp. "Very well, mademoiselle. I release you on one condition— that you stroll with me in the courtyard for a brief moment. The moonlight is so very inviting. I would wish for a thousand such nights with you."

  As he spoke, he propelled Lauren gently toward the darkness. But he didn't force her when she hesitated on the threshold. Instead he offered his arm, waiting for her to choose.

  Glancing up at him, Lauren was confused by the look he bestowed on her and by the hard smile playing about his lips. She was confused, too, by her own foolish longings and the tension building inside her. The attraction she felt for him was so forceful as to be almost tangible.

  She should refuse his request, she knew. There was danger in this commanding, powerful man. He would kiss her, and . . .

  Or would he? She couldn't fathom the glitter in his eyes, but somehow it didn't bring to mind desire. And his tone was not impassioned or ardent, in spite of his flowery phrases and smooth flattery; it was cold and as hard as granite. He didn't appear to be in a mood for romance. Indeed, he seemed more prepared for battle.

  There was no moonlight, either; the courtyard was enveloped in shadows. Lauren could see nothing of the other couples as they sprawled on various benches or stood in close embraces, though she could hear low whispers and an occasional sigh.

  Still, the soft night breeze seemed to beckon, and the heady scent of jasmine was a strong lure. More than that, a strong, attractive man was at her side. The man who might have been her husband. The one who had wakened her to passion. The same man who had been so much a part of her dreams.

  Lauren was shaken from her thoughts as Jason brought a finger up to her cheek to stroke her skin with a featherlight touch. She stared up into the blue eyes, unable to decide.

  Mesmerized as well, Jason outlined her lips with a gentle finger. The tenderness of the gesture convinced Lauren that she need not fear him. She was only committing herself to a brief stroll in the garden, after all. Indeed, there was no reason for the sudden trembling of her hand as she obediently placed it on Jason Stuart's sleeve.

  Chapter Seven

  Lauren didn't scream as she was propelled through the courtyard gate and lifted into the waiting hackney coach; the suddenness of Jason's attack had scattered her wits, while his hand covering her mouth effectively prevented her from making a sound. She was released as the shabby coach began to move, but she didn't scream then, either; she was incapacitated by pure, simple terror. The interior was wrapped in almost total darkness, an airless void that rose up to choke her. Her first sound was a low whimper.

  Hearing it, Jason flashed a suspicious glance at the woman beside him. He had been prepared for a struggle, and the ease of spiriting her away from the gaming house merely put him on his guard. But when she didn't protect or demand to be told where she was being taken, he searched the side pocket for a light.

  In the golden gleam of lamplight, he saw her huddled in the corner, cringing as if she expected a blow from his fist, her bare white arms inadequately covering her head as she pressed tightly against the side panel. Jason felt the first pangs of doubt. The green satin of her gown shimmered with the swaying of the coach, while the gems at her throat flashed with a magnificent brilliance, but, at the moment, the regal beauty looked more like a frightened child than a hardened prostitute.

  Again Jason heard the terrified whimper, and his eyes narrowed as he tried to determine if her fear was real or merely a ruse. The crushed ostrich plumes in her headdress only added to her appearance of helpless femininity. Jason found himself fighting an absurd desire to gather her in his arms and console her.

  "I don't intend to beat you," he said in a tone laced with irony.

  The sound of his voice penetrated Lauren's panic. Her one conscious thought was that she was not alone, that she had not been left alone in the dark, cramped space. And when she forced her eyes open, she realized that it was no longer dark. Gasping for breath, Lauren stretched out a trembling hand and stammered in a hoarse, unrecognizable whisper, "P-please . . . please . . . can you . . . open the . . . window?"

  Jason's mouth tightened. "So you can call for help and bring every male above the age of ten rushing to aid a lady in distress? I think not, sweetheart."

  Lauren reached up and managed to clutch the curtain with trembling fingers before an iron grip closed around her wrist. But she was too weak to pull away—or to do anything more than sink back against the cushions when Jason began to untie the strings of her mask. "P-please . . . I will do anything you say, if you will just . . . let down the . . . window."

  He wanted to remind her that she was hardly in a position to bargain, but he refrained as he stripped the mask away. His hands stilled abruptly as he saw the result of his handiwork. Fear, stark and vivid, shone in her eyes, while the color had drained from her face, leaving only artificial vermi
lion staining her pale cheeks and lips. She was truly suffering, he realized, cursing himself silently for his skepticism.

  Immediately he leaned across her and let down the window. A swift rush of humid air invaded the coach, chasing away the musty smell of rotting leather and horsehair. Lauren's soft gasps began to subside, and Jason himself breathed more easily when the color began to flow back into her face.

  Yet her continued stillness concerned him. When he touched her cheek, his fingers brushed skin that felt like ice. Wordlessly, he shrugged out of his coat and draped it over her bare shoulders, tucking the edges around her before pulling her against him.

  He received an earful of ostrich plumes in the process and bit back an oath. "Does this thing come off?" Jason muttered impatiently, fumbling for the pins holding her turban in place. When he succeeded in loosing the headdress, he tossed it in the opposite seat, then settled Lauren in the crook of his arm.

  She felt him pushing a soft curl from her forehead. His gentleness was reassuring, but when she glanced up at him, all she saw was the hard line of his jaw.

  She should make an attempt to get away, she told herself. She should, in all reason, put up at least a token struggle, since whatever he intended for her could not be pleasant. But she was reluctant to rouse his anger further.

  Not that he would allow her to escape him, she realized as Jason glanced down at her and their eyes locked. She read determination in his blue gaze. And promise—though of what she couldn't guess. That formless thought crystallized as she stared up at him. She had been mistaken, she realized now. He had remembered her. He knew who she was . . . or at least he thought he knew. Her heart began to beat erratically.