Thigh High

by Christina Dodd

  When she had run in the bank, she’d been nothing more than one of the onlookers. No one had given her any respect, paid her any attention, looked to her for instruction. Mac had seen that, and absolved her from guilt in the robberies.

  Then a mouse had run over her foot. She had looked around the bank lobby, observed the situation. Jumped, screamed, ran at Georgia and knocked her down, foiling the possible capture of the Beaded Bandits.

  And in that long, telling hesitation, she had once again roused his suspicions.

  “In one stupid moment of fear, I messed up the biggest catch my best friend could ever have made.” For the first time, Nessa’s voice wobbled. “Georgia would have gotten a commendation. Maybe a promotion. Probably a reward. And I screwed it up for her.”

  Even now, Nessa stared blindly at the street before them, and he would swear she saw nothing.

  “You’re in shock.” He slid his arm around her. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re right.” Turning her head into his shoulder, she burst into tears.

  This was not theatrical crying. These weren’t pretty tears. They wrenched from her in huge, heaving gasps that convulsed her body. She curled toward him as if agony gripped her.

  Yet still Mac watched her with an assessing gaze, weighing her anguish against his suspicions. Her unhappiness seemed genuine enough, but he of all people knew how well people could pretend affection and regret, and what appears to be true is not necessarily so.

  He had known Nessa would be uncomfortable and off balance about their tryst in the vault, so “Mr. MacNaught” had sent an e-mail to Decker to remove Nessa from the case of the Beaded Bandits, and tell her the promotion would never come through. Mac had pushed her hard, but he’d seen pressure work before, to squeeze out an unwilling confession or reveal a deep secret.

  Maybe she was innocent—of the bank robberies, if not of criminal carelessness with his bank’s money—and he had to be sure. He had to be.

  Women liked him for his looks, his money, and his power. He had never cared what drove their passion; he wasn’t interested in relationships, only satisfaction.

  But Nessa was different. She was part of a close society with tight family ties. She seemed happy with her life, with her friends, yet the need to succeed drove her.

  He understood that need; it was the force that drove him also. But he was driven by bitterness and revenge, and she by loyalty and enthusiasm.

  If Nessa was really what she appeared to be, he would give her everything—his heart, his soul, his confidence.

  And if she lied…he would make her pay.

  When her tears had slackened, he hugged her again. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was small and shaky. “Do you have a handkerchief?”

  He handed it over.

  She mopped off her face and blew her nose. “I’ll wash it for you.” Leaning back in the swing, she sat on her backbone, stretched out her legs, and stared at the street. “What a lousy day.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Let’s see. I go into work, the meanest woman in the world does not act surprised, horrified, and guilty about locking us in the vault—”

  “No, she didn’t, did she?” In all that had occurred, he hadn’t had a chance to follow that up.

  “—And she tells me Mr. MacNaught has decided, because he’s an idiot who believes every drop of poison she pours into his ear, that I’m not working with you anymore on the case and I’m back to being the bank’s slave labor, and that I’m never going to get a promotion. Then I run away to talk to a friend, and while we’re in the middle of a heart-to-heart, the Beaded Bandits strike, I do just what I’m not supposed to do, run to the bank, and find out…” She sat shaking her head.

  “Find out what?”

  She looked at him as if she’d forgotten he was there. “Find out I’m not the person I thought I was.”

  “Because you screwed up?”

  “I sure did. I didn’t think I could be more unhappy, and yet…here I am.”

  From inside the house, he heard the sound of heels on the hardwood floor.

  With a slap of the screen door, Hestia stepped out on the porch.

  To his surprise, Mac found himself rising to his feet. Here in New Orleans, especially with the Dahl girls, old-fashioned manners seemed natural.

  Hestia accepted his courtesy as her due. “Mr. Mac, how pleasant to see you again. Nessa…child, have you been crying?” Her kindly face clouded with concern, and she hurried over and lifted Nessa’s face. In a stern voice totally unlike her usual congenial tones, she demanded, “Mr. Mac, have you been making my great-niece cry?”

  Like an impatient child, Nessa pushed her aunt’s hand away. “No, it’s not him. It’s the Beaded Bandits.”

  “What about them?” Hestia asked.

  “I saw them rob the bank today, and they make me very unhappy.” Nessa sounded petulant.

  Hestia drew herself up to her full height, a tall, thin, elegant elderly woman with white hair and patrician features. “Forget about them. They’re not your problem.”

  “I wish I could,” Nessa said.

  Turning to Jeremiah, Hestia said, “Mr. Mac, any man who holds a woman while she cries deserves a home-cooked meal, and except for a few of the boarders who’ll be in and out, we’re dining alone tonight. Won’t you stay and eat dinner with us?”

  “I would love that. Thank you, Miss Hestia,” Jeremiah said.

  “Nessa, you go upstairs and wash your face. I’ll tell Miss Maddy to set another place at the table. Mr. Mac, you can go into the library and pour us drinks.”

  Nessa glared at her great-aunt. How could she be so casual? Frustration made her want to do something she’d never done in her whole life—lie on the floor, kick her heels, and throw a tantrum.

  Taking a compact out of her pocket, Hestia opened it and held it out to Nessa.

  A glimpse into the mirror proved one thing—Nessa did not cry pretty tears. With an exclamation of horror, she fled into the house and right into the arms of Ryan Wright.

  “Whoa, babe, slow down!” He steadied her, caught a glimpse of her blotchy face, and stepped back as if she had leprosy. “You okay?”

  “Fine.” Her voice was a little hoarse, and she cleared her throat. “What are you doing here?”

  “I live here, remember?” He gave her one of his charming, boyish grins.

  If Jeremiah was strong whisky, this guy was a wine spritzer with lots of ice.

  “Skeeter and I came back and sacked out for a few hours. We’ve been playing on the streets night and day.”

  Skeeter stood by the door to the dining room, holding the instrument cases, his face glowing with sunburn and sweat already breaking out on his forehead.

  She waved and smiled.

  He bobbed up and down in greeting.

  “Now we’re going out again.” Ryan wore a short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt that glowed like neon, showed off his buff arms, and would for sure get him the attention he craved. “We are making so much money. Those tourists are tossing twenties, and when we play ’When the Saints Go Marching In,’ sometimes it’s fifties and hundreds.”

  “That’s great!” She edged toward the stairs. “I’d love to chat, but look at me. I had a little female upset and I need to go wash my face.”

  “I’m going to have so much money, I can buy this house.”

  “That is such good news. Not that we’re selling…” She made it up two steps.

  “Come on, man,” Skeeter said.

  Ryan kept up with her, talking fast. “What do you say? You could meet me tonight. You could watch us play, we could grab some drinks and dinner, and we could have some laughs.”

  “Thank you. That’s very kind. But I’m busy tonight.” Was he ever going to get the message? She’d already turned him down a hundred times.

  “Come on. It’ll be fun!”

  “I don’t go down to the French Quarter at night during Mardi
Gras.” She took the stairs slowly, trying to be polite, desperate to get away.

  “I’ll protect you.”

  “I know you would. I have complete confidence in you. But it’s been an awful day, and I just can’t.” She fled up the stairs and down the corridor into her bedroom. Shutting the door behind her, she leaned against it and closed her eyes.

  She was so sick of boarders. She had to get them out of her home.

  Her eyes popped open in horror. And the more people who lived here, the more likely one of them would figure out that her aunts were the Beaded Bandits.

  But surely none of them could imagine Miss Calista and Miss Hestia in the role…. But Jeremiah could. He was smart, he was ruthless, and investigating these robberies was his job.

  And he was downstairs with her aunts right now.

  Nessa dashed toward the bathroom.

  When she opened the door a half hour later, she’d showered, washed and styled her hair, reapplied her ruined makeup, and changed into an orange top and a pair of linen trousers.

  She didn’t do the full grooming ritual to impress Jeremiah. She did it because the day that had started out with such promise had gone to hell in a handcart.

  She shut the door behind her, headed toward the stairs, and met Daniel, now Dana, floating along in a pink satin V-neck cocktail dress with matching heels and his signature feather boa.

  The sight gave her a jolt. She felt as if she’d seen him naked, without his Dana persona, and when he drawled, “Como se va, chère, look at you! So meticulously casual, yet so chic,” she gratefully fell back into her comfort zone.

  “Are you off to the club?” she asked.

  “Tonight will be another big night, and, of course, since I took the afternoon off, I have to work.”

  They descended the stairs together, treading carefully, both sensitive to the atmosphere between them.

  They heard Calista say, “Yes, some families are truly troubled, but one must always give one’s mother the benefit of the doubt. After all, how old was she when she met your father?”

  “Screwed him, you mean?” Jeremiah said. “She was eighteen.”

  “He sounds like the worst sort of scoundrel to me,” Hestia said.

  “I am the last man to argue that.”

  “And he disappeared into thin air?” The disapproval in Calista’s voice deepened.

  Nessa clutched Daniel’s arm. In a furious whisper, she said, “They’re giving him the Interrogation.” The questions they asked men they considered serious suitors. “What are they thinking?”

  “They’re thinking that that thing they did this afternoon has nothing to do with you and your happiness.”

  “They’re crazy.”

  “They’re eccentric.”

  “This is beyond eccentric.”

  “Okay. They’re old and they don’t care. How’s that?”

  “Fine!” She believed he was right. She just didn’t like it.

  Jeremiah’s voice rumbled again.

  With a glance toward the library, Daniel said in a low voice, “Best that I go out the back way, I think.”

  “I think so, too.”

  He offered his cheek.

  She kissed it.

  “Chin up, chère. We’ll get through this.” He departed with a swish of feathers, leaving her to hurry toward the library before the aunts could propose the details of the marriage contract.

  She stepped in the door.

  The aunts and Maddy had Jeremiah sitting in a chair, sipping a mint julep—ice, bourbon, and mint—while they led the charge to find out if he was suitable to court their great-niece.

  He looked totally at ease.

  He saw her first, gave her a brief inspection, and nodded. “You look better.”

  Great. He’d noticed she looked like the bottom of the bayou.

  “I’ll go check on dinner.” In slow increments, Maddy got to her feet.

  Jeremiah rose, too.

  Maddy tossed commands like a general. “Calista, you’d best set the table. Hestia, open one of the bottles of wine we have left over from the party. You two”—she waved a hand at Nessa and Jeremiah—“you visit.”

  The old ladies whisked from the room.

  Jeremiah smiled. “I believe I have their approval.”

  Nessa writhed with mortification. “Don’t pay any attention. They’re old-fashioned and like to know who I—”

  “Am dating?”

  “We’re not exactly dating,” she said severely. Sex in the vault is not dating.

  The front screen door slammed open. Footsteps racketed across the hardwood floor, and two men’s voices argued loudly.

  “I think that’s a dumb idea. Street musicians have to spend their time working the street, not putting the moves on every woman they meet, and if you think you’ve got a chance with Miss Dahl—”

  “Shut up, man.” Nessa heard a thump. “Just shut up.”

  “Ouch. That hurt!”

  Nessa smiled weakly at Jeremiah. “That’s Ryan. He plays the sax. And his friend, Skeeter. He plays the bass. Ryan boards here.” And embarrasses me to death.

  As if the musicians didn’t even exist, Jeremiah still concentrated on her. “Will you go out with me tomorrow night?”

  She stared at him, stricken by the realization that, no matter how sensible it was to no longer see him during their off time, she had to. She needed to know what his investigation was turning up. If he discovered something, she needed to try and divert him from the truth. She had to date him. Every night. Until the day he gave up this investigation.

  A despicable plan, deceiving a man who was doing nothing more than his job. Yet she had no choice. She had to protect her family.

  And the worst part was…she was glad. Glad because this gave her the excuse she needed to be with him. To get to know him, to look at his face, to bask in the sound of his voice…“Jeremiah, I would love to go out with you tomorrow night.”

  Twenty-seven

  The restaurant was decorated in warm hues and discreetly lit by antique crystal sconces. Fresh flowers adorned the tables, and the maitre d’ ushered Mac and Nessa into a sumptuous private alcove.

  Mac made a mental note to give Mrs. Freytag a bonus, for she’d outdone herself with this place. He then nudged the maitre d’ aside and held Nessa’s chair. “It was rough getting a reservation here, but I’ve heard the food is the best in New Orleans.”

  “The best in New Orleans, and New Orleans has the best food in the world.” Nessa lavished a smile at the hovering waiter. “How are you, Jean-Paul?”

  The waiter wore a suit that cost more than Mac’s, a thin, silly-ass mustache, and a supercilious smile. He clicked his heels and bowed, then flicked Nessa’s napkin in the air and laid it across her lap. “I am fine, mademoiselle, and as always, it is a pleasure to serve you and your friend.” His gaze fluttered over Mac, dismissed him, and returned at once to Nessa.

  Taking Jean-Paul’s hand, she said, “We missed you at the Dahl party.”

  “Sadly, during Mardi Gras, it is too busy for me to attend, but I sent my thoughts and my finest bread pudding.” The guy had a corny French accent, and he fawned on Nessa in a way that made Mac slightly ill—and more than slightly jealous.

  “It was gone as soon as it hit the table. When Mardi Gras is over, perhaps you can come and bring your waiters for one of Miss Maddy’s home-cooked meals.”

  “As always, we would accept with the deepest of pleasure.” Jean-Paul clicked his heels and waved at the hovering, suited female. “I leave you in Penelope’s capable hands. If you have any desires, tell her and she will accommodate you at once.”

  Mac watched the interaction between the two with resignation. “You know all the waiters here?”

  “That was Jean-Paul Lambert. He’s the owner.” Nessa gently mocked Mac’s ignorance. “He came here from France fifteen years ago, opened this restaurant and two more, lost the other two in the hurricane, but refused to leave the city he loves. He’s a wonder
ful man, he loves good food, and his chef is spectacular. We’re in for a treat tonight.”

  Not, Mac realized, because of Mrs. Freytag’s manipulations, but because of Nessa, who truly did know everyone in New Orleans. If she had planned the robberies on Premier Central banks, and everybody in New Orleans realized it, no one would betray her.

  And that was the problem.

  Because he didn’t want her to be guilty, either. He wanted her to be exactly as she appeared—wholesome, charismatic, sexy beyond belief, and unaware of her effect on men. And of course, fatally attracted to him.

  But he was too practical a man to dismiss her actions during the robbery in the bank, so as soon as he had ordered the wine, he put his scheme into motion. “I’ve got to go back to Philadelphia.”

  “What?” She stared at him, her butter knife laden and halfway to her bread, her deep blue eyes wide with dismay—or with what looked like dismay.

  “The robbery is over for the year. No one caught the thieves. There’s nothing else for me to do.”

  “But there is! The thieves are still out there somewhere! Surely you’ve found more clues!” She watched him anxiously.

  “No, no more clues.”

  “But I’ve introduced you to Chief Cutter—you could work with him some more and—” She caught herself as if embarrassed. Placing her knife on the edge of her plate, she leaned across the table and said softly, “I’m sorry. This is stupid. I’m not telling you the truth.”

  I suspected that. “Tell me the truth, then.”

  “I want you to stay because I enjoy your company.”

  If she was acting, he was her ideal audience. “I enjoy yours, too. I enjoy the places we go together.”

  “Yes, but you could take me to the swamps and I’d be happy.”

  “You should have told me that sooner.” He grinned at her.

  “Do you really think you’ve played out all your leads? You don’t think you’ll get back to Philadelphia and suddenly remember a suspect you should have questioned?”

  “If I do, I’ll come back.”

  “That would give me something to look forward to.” She reached across and caught the hand he rested on the table. “I know Mr. MacNaught said I couldn’t help you, but maybe I could look at the video of that last robbery and find something you missed.”