by JoAnn Ross
“He sure does. And I’d say that even if he wasn’t my brother. But there’s a lot of sex, drugs, and violence in those stories.”
“Like there’s not a lot of sex, drugs, and violence in life.”
“Not in everyone’s life.” A cold, lethal anger uncurled in Nate’s gut. It wasn’t often he understood the passion that drove people to do murder. This was one of those rare times. “Look, let’s get something straight, right now, okay?”
“What?”
“The folks at DSS are eventually going to find out who you are. But when that happens, you’re not going back.”
“You’re damn right I’m not.”
“That’s not what I mean. You’ve got to promise me you won’t take off again.”
“What kind of chump do you think I am?” Josh sneered.
“I don’t think you’re a chump. I think you’re a kid who got dealt a lousy hand. But you’re not going back to an abusive home.”
“Says you.”
“Yeah.” Nate tamped his rare but formidable temper. He was murderously furious at anyone who’d hurt a child.
“What are you going to do to stop them?”
Murder, while surprisingly appealing, wasn’t the answer. “I don’t know.” Nate figured after all he’d been through, Josh deserved the truth. “But I will. Scout’s honor.”
“It figures,” Josh muttered.
“What?”
“That you’d be a friggin’ Boy Scout.”
Nate threw back his head and laughed at that. Even Josh’s lips quirked into a hint of a smile.
“Come on, cher,” he said as a huge yellow ball of fur the size of a compact car came barreling out the front door of Beau Soleil. “You can meet the family, and Jack can autograph your book for you.”
The dog, which Jack claimed to be a Great Dane– yellow Lab–Buick mix, leaped up, put her huge paws on Josh’s shoulders, and began licking his scrunched-up face in long, welcoming slurps. When the kid fell to the ground and began wrestling with Turnip, he looked like any normal teenage boy. Which, Nate figured, somewhere, deep down inside, past all that hurt and teenage bravado, he was.
“Uncle Nate!” The nine-year-old wearing a Baltimore Orioles cap and a shirt declaring him to be a member of the Blue Bayou Panthers, sponsored by Callahan Construction, tore out of the house behind the dog. “Guess what?”
Nate pulled off the cap and ruffled his nephew’s hair. “You just got called up for the Orioles’ spring training camp.”
“I’m too young to play in the majors,” he said with a third-grader’s literalness.
“Well, I already know you’re gonna have a baby brother or sister. And I can’t think of anything else, so I guess you’re just gonna have to tell me.”
“Mrs. Chauvet and Ben moved into the guest house last night.”
“Yeah, seems to me I heard about you havin’ company.” He reached down, grasped Josh’s arm, and pulled the teenager to his feet. “Josh, this is my favorite nephew, Matt—”
“I’m your only nephew,” the boy reminded him. “At least for now.”
“Well, there is that. Matt, this is Josh. He’s visiting me for a while.”
“Cool.” The grin was quick and revealed a missing tooth. “Want to see my Hot Wheels collection?”
Josh shrugged in that uncaring way Nate was getting used to. “Hot Wheels are for little kids.”
“They’re for collectors, too. My uncle Finn found me a deep purple Nomad with Real Rider tires in California. It’s really cool.” Matt turned and raced back toward the house, Josh with him and Turnip happily nipping at their heels, just as Jack came ambling out.
“Does that kid walk anywhere?” Nate asked.
“Not if he can help it. So, Dani says that she invited your new lady friend to the Fat Tuesday party, and while she didn’t exactly agree to show up, she didn’t out-hand-out refuse, either.”
“Terrific.” Nate smiled. As much as he’d always liked having brothers, there was something handy and decidedly cool about gaining a sister. “You realize, don’t you, that marrying that woman was the smartest thing you ever did.”
“Won’t get any argument from me on that one,” Jack agreed cheerfully.
Nate caught up with Regan as she left the library. She glanced past him toward the SUV he’d parked across the street. “Where’s the boy?”
“I took him out to Beau Soleil so Jack could keep an eye on him. And his name, by the way, is Josh.”
“Josh what?”
“He wasn’t willing to share that yet.”
“Well, at least it’s a start.” As she crossed the street with him, Regan could almost imagine the sound of horses’ hooves on the rounded gray cobblestones. “So did you take along a whip and a chair to your brother’s?”
“Hey, Jack used to hunt down international drug dealers.” He opened the passenger door, put his hand on her elbow, and gave her a little boost up into the front seat. “I figured he could take care of one runaway for a few hours,” he said after he’d come around the front of the SUV and joined her. “Besides, he’s got himself this big friendly mutt I thought might loosen Josh up a bit.”
“Animals have a way of making a connection when people can’t. The canine corps is one of the more popular groups in the police department, and using a mounted patrol at concerts is effective because most people like the horses…And why are you looking at me that way?”
“I was just wondering about something.”
“What?”
“If you taste as good as you look.”
“In case you’ve forgotten, this is a public place.”
“The windows are tinted. ’Sides, I don’t see anyone watching.”
He could tell she was tempted. Having wanted her the first time he saw her in that prim no-nonsense gray suit that showcased a magnificent pair of legs, he opted for giving in to temptation.
“Dammit, Callahan.”
“It’s Nate,” he said absently, not about to apologize for the desire he knew she was reading in his gaze. “I’d say we’ve worked our way up to first names, wouldn’t you, Regan?”
“We’ve only known each other two days.”
“True. But you’ve got to admit that a helluva lot has happened in those two days.”
“Granted. But I definitely don’t want to get involved with you.”
“I know,” he said.
There was a part of him that didn’t, either. With the exception of the two women his brothers had married, Nate wasn’t used to complex women. Didn’t want to get used to them. He preferred easygoing belles who understood that shared desire was a game, a game both parties, if they kept things simple, could win. He doubted there was a single simple thing about this woman.
“Then my suggestion would be to stop before things get out of hand.”
“I don’t think I can do that, chère.” He ran his thumb along the tightly set seam of her lips. What was a man to do but take a taste when her lips were so close? So tempting?
“Tell me to take my hands off you,” he said, “and I will.”
She drew in a breath.
When her golden brown eyes softened, giving him his answer, he lowered his mouth to hers.
14
Oh, he was good! He didn’t ravish, which would have made it too easy to push him away. He beguiled. He took his time, gently, so unbelievably gently, his mouth brushing against hers in a touch as delicate as a dream.
No one had ever kissed her like this. Not ever. How could such a slow, gentle kiss rock her to the bone?
Regan was unaware she was holding her breath until it shuddered out when her lips parted. Rather than invading with his tongue, as so many other men would have automatically done, he surprised her yet again by scattering light kisses at the corners of her mouth, up her cheek.
Her cheek. She tensed, wishing she were perfect. Or, at least not so imperfect.
“Nate—” It was the first time she’d said his name. But the voice couldn’
t be hers. It was too low. Too ragged. Too needy.
She felt his smile at her temple. “Shhh,” he whispered. “Just a little bit more.”
Her brain was shutting down. He was muddling her thoughts, stirring up unruly needs she’d always managed to keep tightly reined in.
His lips returned to hers, once, twice, a third time until they finally—thank you, God!—lingered. Even then he was patient. So amazingly, achingly patient.
He drank slowly, savoring her as he might a fine wine. He drank deeply, stealing her breath, along with whatever ragged bits were left of her resolve. One of them trembled. Because she feared it was her, Regan drew away now, while she still could.
Not that he let her completely escape. He pressed his forehead against hers, even as his fingers continued to stroke the back of her neck in a way that was far from comforting. “Kissing you could become a habit, Detective Chère.”
“A bad habit.”
His grin was slow and carelessly charming. “Sometimes those are the most fun.”
“You’re not my type.”
“Well, now, I sure wouldn’t want you to take this the wrong way, but you’re not exactly mine, either.” His eyes lit with easy humor. “But sometimes that doesn’t have a damn thing to do with chemistry.”
“I suppose you’d know more about that than I would.” Hell, she sounded petulant. Pouty.
“Since we don’t know each other real well, I couldn’t be the judge of that. But if you’d like, I can kiss you again. See if maybe it was a fluke.”
“It was. My life’s gotten dicey since you charged into it. I suppose I shouldn’t be all that surprised that I respond inappropriately to events.”
“Inappropriately,” he said mildly, as if trying out the word on his tongue. “Now, see, darlin’, that’s where we’re going to have to agree to disagree. Because it seems to me that when a man and a woman have electricity together, it only makes sense to enjoy the sparks.” He bent his head again and nipped lightly at her bottom lip. “I’ve been wanting to behave inappropriately with you since I watched you testify.”
“Sure you have.” She could feel whatever little control she’d managed to hang onto slipping away. Regan didn’t like losing control. She didn’t know how to function without it.
“It’s God’s own truth.” He lifted his right hand like a man swearing an oath. “When you first got up on that stand, I started wondering what you were wearing beneath that prim, tidy little suit, then that thought led to another, and another, and pretty soon I was imagining getting you out of it and making passionate love to you in that big black leather chair the judge kept swiveling back and forth in.”
“That behavior would have gotten you thrown in a cell for public indecency.”
“But I’ll bet we would have had ourselves one helluva ride. And I know it would have been worth it.”
His easy arrogance irked her. All right, so he was the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen who wasn’t up on some movie screen. So he moved with a natural, lazy grace that suggested he was immensely comfortable in his skin. So he was really, really built. That didn’t mean he had any right to act as if he were God’s gift to women.
“I should have just shot you back in L.A.”
“And I should have gotten that kiss over with in L.A. Then we’d have already moved to the next step.”
“And that would be?”
He rubbed his jaw. Studied her silently. Then, just when her nerves had begun to screech like the brakes on her crappy cop car, he shook his head. “I think I’ll just let you figure that out for yourself when we get there.”
She was not going to let him get to her. She was a cop, dammit. And not just any cop, she was the cream of the cream, the best of the best. She ate gangbangers for breakfast and sent bad guys up the river for life plus ten, without parole. She could handle Nate Callahan.
“We have this little thing in law enforcement,” she said. “Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”
“What’s that, chérie?”
Her smile was sweet and false. “Excessive force.”
“Well, now, I’ve never been one who got off on rough play, but if you want to drag out some handcuffs, I’m willing to give it the old college try.
“There’s this stripper down on Bourbon Street in N’Awlins. Calls herself Officer Lola Law. She starts out wearing police blues, then eventually works her way down to a G-string, some pasties that look like badges, and some shiny black vinyl boots with ice-pick heels that go up to mid-thigh. I don’t suppose you’d have an outfit like that?”
She wasn’t about to dignify that with a response. “Don’t you take anything seriously?”
“I try not to. Life’s too short for getting bogged down in details.”
“You make details sound like a bad thing.”
“Didn’t someone once say the devil was in the details?”
“It’s a bit hard to solve a crime without details. And while I’ve never restored a building before, I’d suspect it’s probably a good idea to measure before you cut a piece of wood.”
“Got me,” he said easily. “But since there’s no way of knowing when you get up in the morning if you’re going to be around by nightfall, it only makes sense to enjoy the moment. Drift with the currents.”
“Drifting with the currents can land you into the doldrums. If everyone shared that philosophy, we’d all still be living in caves, hunting woolly mammoths and cooking our meals over a fire.”
“Doesn’t sound that bad to me.” When he tugged on a strand of hair, his knuckles brushed the nape of her neck again and made her skin sizzle. “I like the idea of ravishing you in the firelight.”
“How do you like the idea of getting whacked in the groin by your woolly mammoth hunting club?”
“Ouch.” He winced. “Some people might think you were a difficult woman, chère.”
“I work at it. And some other people might think you were a Neanderthal southern male.”
“Now, see, that’s where we’re different. ’Cause I don’t work at it at all.”
It was hard not to be charmed by his smile. “Look, Callahan, this partnership, or whatever you want to call it, isn’t working. Unless you can get me into Mrs. Melancon’s house.” Regan had called this morning and had been brusquely told that Mrs. Melancon was not entertaining visitors. Not today, nor tomorrow, nor anytime in the near future.
“As it happens, I’ve been doin’ some pondering on that, and have a couple ideas. But since I haven’t quite worked them out yet, I figured you might like to take a little drive out into the country.”
She arched an exaggerated brow and looked around. “This isn’t the country?”
“Cute. Who would have guessed the cop had a sense of humor?”
“I have my moments. And where did you have in mind?”
“The actual destination wouldn’t mean anything to you anyway, you not being all that familiar with Blue Bayou,” he pointed out. “I just thought you might like to have a little chat with the man who owned Lafitte’s Landing thirty years ago.”
She remembered something from the newspaper report. “The man who found her body?”
“That’s him. He just also happens to be the guy who hired Linda Dale. As well as the guy rumored to be having an affair with her.”
“How do you know that?”
“I stopped by Orèlia’s on the way here. Between her and the judge, there aren’t any bodies buried in town they don’t know about.” He inwardly flinched when he realized what he’d said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that literally.”
“I know.” She sighed.
“Anyway, the judge proved a regular font of information. Seems Boyce’s wife was suing Dale for alienation of affection, then for some reason changed her mind.”
“He was married?” It had started to sprinkle, the drops of rain dimpling the dark water on either side of the road.
“Yeah.”
“She mentioned my father was married,” Regan mur
mured. “In the journal.” She was looking at him again in that hard, deep way that made him feel as if he were undergoing an interrogation. “That’s his name? Boyce?”
“It’s his family name. His first name’s Jarrett.”
He wondered if she even realized that she’d reached out and grabbed his arm.
“She called the man she was in love with ‘J.’ What happened with the lawsuit?”
“Marybeth Boyce dropped her case.”
“Maybe he killed her to keep from losing his business in a divorce division of property.”
“I suppose that’s always a possibility,” Nate acknowledged.
“There are probably more cold-blooded murders done over money than passion. Or perhaps his wife dropped the lawsuit because she decided to save the legal fees and take care of the problem herself.”
“By dragging Dale out to the garage, stuffing her in her car, and turning on the engine?”
“People can do a lot of things when they’re angry that they wouldn’t be able to do otherwise. Women have been known to lift cars off their children under the force of an adrenaline rush,” Regan said.
“I always wondered if that’s true. I’ve spent most of my life carrying ’round lumber, and I’m not real sure I could lift up a car, even if I had buckets of adrenaline pumping through my veins. Personally, I think all those stories about women lifting cars may be urban legend.”
“Do you do that on purpose?”
“What’s that, chère?”
“Take a conversation all the way around the block before you get back to the topic.”
“Oh, that.” He considered it for a long moment that had her grinding her teeth. “No,” he finally decided.
“No, what?”
“No, I don’t do it on purpose.” He smiled at her. “I guess it’s like my charm—it just comes naturally. And since you want to get back to the topic, murder by carbon monoxide poisoning seems an awfully iffy way to kill someone. Why wouldn’t Dale have just gotten out of the car and opened the garage door to let in some fresh air?”