Sweet Revenge (Full-length romantic suspense novel, New Orleans Trilogy book 2) Read online

  She gave herself a firm mental shake. She was being paranoid. It was getting to her, this whole situation with Muse. Not knowing where her sister was, or if something horrible had happened to her. The man on the balcony hadn't done a thing to threaten her. She just had a huge case of the nerves, that was all.

  Grace ran a hand over her eyes, her turbulent thoughts fastening on her sister. She would find Muse. Somehow she would find her twin sister. She had gotten her out of trouble plenty of times before, and she'd do it again this tine.

  She'd be fine. They'd both be fine.

  She and Muse normally called each other several times a week to chat. They lived in two different states but were still very close. Grace liked to think she provided a kind of balance and stability to Muse's whirlwind life, and to be honest, she loved listening to her sister talk about all her crazy adventures and romances. But the last few times they talked. Muse had been jumpy. Very jumpy. Her sister thought someone was following her. She'd caught quick glimpses of a thin, blond-haired man shadowing her to work, shopping, even when she went out in the evening. She'd tried to laugh it off as her imagination, but Grace could tell she was truly frightened. Muse had been more than nervous about an ex-boyfriend she'd recently split from. Gary Fox was thin and blond, a petty criminal, and he had not taken their breakup well.

  When Muse stopped answering the phone last week, Grace had called the New Orleans Police Department. She hoped the events were not related to Muse's disappearance, but for every day that went by, she was more and more convinced it was no coincidence. And grew more and more worried.

  The police had patiently taken down the information and said they'd look into it. She'd given them two days and called back. They fed her platitudes and reassurances, saying there was no sign of foul play and no evidence of a crime.

  She hadn't been reassured. That same evening she'd boarded a plane heading south. She and Muse had a standing agreement, starting from when her sister had moved away from home at the tender age of seventeen. They'd solemnly promised always to tell each other about all of their plans. If either of them phoned the other with no reply for over two days, she was to come to the rescue, because she'd know something was very wrong. It was an agreement they'd kept religiously. At least she had. Muse had never had an opportunity, since Grace's life had always been depressingly predictable.

  Grace flicked off the light, cracked open the bathroom door and peered out. Her heart sank. Eight-foot expanses of clear, mullioned glass stared back at her from the opposite wall. The white frames were depressingly uncluttered by curtains, the rods and rows of metal hooks hung shiny and empty. Muse had picked a heck of a time to take down her curtains. She'd searched everywhere for them that first day, but Muse must have taken them to be cleaned or repaired or something.

  Grace studied the windows and French door, racking her brain for a way to cover the acres of glass. When she'd thought the other apartment was empty, the lack of covering hadn't bothered her so much. It definitely bothered her now.

  She glanced out into the night. Her neighbor's balcony was engulfed in darkness, but she could feel his presence, potent and male, beckoning to her from the shadows, his black, glittering eyes on her, even now. At the thought of those eyes, a deep, primitive awareness stole through her limbs like a poison. She shook it off.

  She hadn't needed more than the two seconds of match light to know exactly what kind of a man lurked there. The harsh angles of his cheekbones covered in a wash of mutinous black stubble, broad shoulders negligently slouched, the feral hunger in his black-browed eyes sending her their lustful invitation—all spoke more eloquently than words.

  Lord above, she couldn't possibly stay here in the apartment this exposed, knowing those eyes would be moving over her at all hours. Watching her get dressed. Watching her eat breakfast. Watching her sleep.

  With an uneasy knot in her stomach, Grace glanced down at the undershirt and boxers she'd put on in desperation after her shower. At least they covered her. More or less. Unlike the other things she'd found in that drawer. She'd packed a long cotton nightgown, of course. But in Charleston she had air-conditioning, something Muse's landlord apparently thought a luxury. She'd never be able to sleep in this heat wearing that heavy, voluminous garment.

  But there was nothing to do about any of it tonight. Tomorrow she'd buy a lighter nightgown. And curtains, if she had to.

  Taking a fortifying breath, she marched out of the bathroom, turned off the kitchen light, tossed her purse and Muse's briefcase off the bed and slipped between the pink satin sheets. The colorful glass beads draped throughout the room glittered and winked in the moonlight, and the several elaborate, feathered Mardi Gras masks Muse had hung on the wall above the bed stared down at her with laughing eyes, as if amused by her discomfort.

  Determinedly she closed her eyes. She would ignore both those stupid masks and the man on the balcony and get a good night's sleep. She'd need it to continue her search for her sister tomorrow. She would forget all about him and the low thrum that had kicked up in her body the moment she'd spotted him watching her, and concentrate on finding her sister.

  He was probably fat and ugly as a hound dog, anyway, the only thing sexy about him his soft Cajun accent. Well, and those dangerous eyes.

  She set her jaw. Sleep. Muse needed her help, and no overweight, mannerless scoundrel of a neighbor was going to keep her from her task.

  Not a single, solitary chance.

  Chapter 2

  Grace awoke with a start, bolting upright in damp, tangled sheets. The radio played softly on the nightstand, and a light breeze stirred from the old wooden paddle fan overhead. She glanced around the apartment in panic, sorting through the rosy morning light for a reason for her alarm.

  Then she remembered: black eyes, a glimpse of broad shoulders, a gravelly patois of French and English.

  With a groan she fell back onto the mattress. The man on the balcony. Had she really been dreaming about him?

  Aside from his sultry eyes she hadn't even seen the man, let alone met him. Yet, already he was having an effect on her dreams. A very disturbing effect.

  Covering her face with her hands, she moaned, "What does this mean?" Unfortunately, being a psychologist, she knew exactly what it meant.

  She took a deep breath. She didn't need a stethoscope to figure out what the man's effect on her pulse was, either. Her heart still pounded like a jackhammer, and bitter experience told her it wasn't all from the dreams.

  The Cajun on the balcony was a bad boy of the first order. Just the kind of man she desperately needed to avoid—not dream about. She should know better. She did know better. She knew all about men like him.

  Oh, yes. She knew exactly what lay down that road. And she certainly didn't need her two psychology degrees to know she'd be a fool to consider going down it.

  Ever.

  Not with this man. Not with any man of his ilk.

  No matter how alluring his bedroom eyes or softly persuasive his smooth bayou accent.

  Clenching her fists, she sat up. Mama Summerville hadn't raised her baby girl to be a fool. No, sir. Not this one, anyway.

  She had to get a serious grip. Better yet, she had to find Muse and then get out of town quickly, before she did something really, really stupid.

  Springing out of bed, she went straight into the shower to scrub off the lingering feel of the dream on her skin. Mercy, she never had dreams like that. Sometimes the high school students she counseled would tell her about unusually intense dreams, but she'd always chalked it up to the influence of raging adolescent hormones. She had no such convenient excuse.

  Maybe it had just been too long since a man had held her in his arms. What was it now? Two years? Three? Who knew. She'd been extra gun-shy since the last time. And she had no desire to repeat the experience.

  A few disturbing dreams were a small price to pay for avoiding a big heartache. When it came to men, she was determined not to feel the bitter brunt of her bad t
aste in the creatures.

  She prided herself on being a mature, reliable and responsible adult. Too bad those same qualities in a man had never once made her pulse quicken or her heart skip a beat. To her acute misery, she was always attracted to men who were reckless and handsome, charming and much too dangerous for a woman like her. Men who didn't stick around long enough to take the consequences of their numerous conquests. Men like her father.

  She sighed, not about to ponder the deep significance of that particular neurosis. Her father was one subject that was closed forever, as far as she was concerned. She just wished Muse wasn't so darn much like him. It hurt to see her only sibling throw her life away in the shortsighted pursuit of mindless amusement, forsaking anything that smacked of commitment. Thank goodness Grace had the strength and good sense to avoid that variety of disaster, both in herself and in the men she dated.

  Grace finished her shower, slipped on a silk robe hanging in the bathroom and detoured to the kitchen to start a quick pot of coffee brewing. She had a long day ahead of her if she was going to find Muse and bail her out of whatever trouble she was in, so she could get back to her responsibilities at home. And she'd have to hurry if she was going to get to Leavy, Dell and Roland by start of day.

  Opening the closet, she flicked through the assortment of dresses there and let out an aggravated chuff. She glanced longingly at her own suitcase, brimming with sensible clothes, much more appropriate to working in a lawyers' office. There wasn't a single outfit in Muse's collection she would have bought for herself.

  Silently she cursed being forced to impersonate her sister. It was the only way she could think of to gather information about her disappearance. With Grace's psychology background, it was a simple task to assume her sister's persona and say just the right things to make people believe she was Muse and to open up completely. But for two days now she'd been forced to choose from Muse's unbelievable wardrobe of short, slinky, tight or transparent garments, and don her strappy, spiky, neck-breaking collection of high-heeled shoes. The woman didn't believe in moderation of any kind.

  Just one more thing the two of them didn't have in common. Anyone who thought identical twins were exactly alike hadn't met Grace and Muse Summerville. But for all that, Grace loved her sister dearly, and she knew Muse felt the same about her. She would do anything in the world to help her. Anything. Including wearing her outrageous clothes, if she had to.

  Sweet heavens. What a choice. They were all too short, too tight, and way too … sexy.

  She felt a prick of irritation. Everyone at school—including the male teachers—might think she was an old maid, but she preferred it that way. She liked to look professional. If a man couldn't see past a business suit to the woman beneath, he wasn't worth attracting in the first place.

  Tight, sexy skirts caught the eye of the wrong kind of man. The kind of man who liked things short and sweet. The kind of man who wasn't looking for a lasting relationship. A man who took his fill and moved on, bored by the comfort of familiarity and threatened by the prospect of deep emotions. Regardless of the consequences for his young wife and children.

  Definitely the wrong kind of man for her.

  But today she didn't have any option. She'd have to wear short and sexy or risk missing a vital bit of information that could lead her to Muse.

  Resigned, she snatched a turquoise sundress from its hanger, anxiety for her sister overriding all other concerns. Marching to her suitcase, she selected a set of matching lacy but comfortable underwear; she paused briefly at a pair of pantyhose, then dismissed the idea. It was hot enough to steam clams out there already. Better pale and comfortable than proper and roasting.

  About to shed her robe, she suddenly halted and glanced over to the apartment across the courtyard. Not a good idea. Her new neighbor was nowhere to be seen this morning, but that didn't mean he wasn't lurking there somewhere, watching her.

  After changing in the bathroom, she put on her makeup and assessed herself in the mirror. The turquoise dress was pretty, she had to admit, if too short. With cut-in sleeves, a round collar and a slim skirt with offset pockets, it showed off her figure and highlighted her golden hair.

  She frowned. She looked exactly like her twin. Bother. All her life she'd worked hard to establish her own separate identity, apart from Muse. It was almost depressing to realize a mere dress could so easily obliterate her individuality.

  Well, if that's what it took to find her sister, she could put up with a temporary loss of self-image. She was, after all, the same person inside, and that's what counted.

  The aromatic smell of fresh coffee drew her to the kitchen, where she rummaged in a cupboard and found a large, lidded travel mug. She was late, so she'd have to get her caffeine fix on the twenty-minute walk to Muse's office.

  Slinging the strap of her bag over her shoulder, she picked up Muse's briefcase, grabbed the coffee mug and went out the door. She locked it, sailed down the flight of steps, turned and carefully pulled the outer door closed.

  Then from right behind her, she felt a rumbling masculine voice murmur, "Muse Summerville."

  * * *

  Creole grabbed the coffee mug that was about to fly out of Muse's hand as she spun to face him. Nervous little thing, wasn't she? She glanced anxiously around the small courtyard, almost as if she expected someone else besides him to be standing there.

  "Wh-where…? H-how did you—" she stammered.

  "Your name's on your doorbell." He nodded at the uppermost of two inconspicuously labeled buzzers next to the building's outer door.

  She glanced at it uncertainly, then back at him, and swallowed. "Wh-what do you want from me?"

  He'd been asking himself the same question since he'd watched her crawl into bed the night before—alone again.

  "Just wanted to say good mornin' to my new neighbor." Her tongue peeked out and swiped over her lips, diverting his attention up from the curves of her dress, where it had strayed after taking in the briefcase she clutched in her hand.

  "That's, um—"

  Dieu, she was even better looking close up. Not beautiful in the conventional sense, but she had a body that didn't quit, and her face was … intriguing. Surprisingly open and free of artifice. For a woman.

  "—very nice of—"

  Suddenly her whole face drained of color. She took a step back, bumping into the door. Okay, bien. She'd spotted the Glock, tucked neatly in its holster under his left arm. Hard to miss. His own personal American Express card, he never went anywhere without it. He probably should have put a shirt over the holster instead of wearing it openly over his T-shirt, but he'd wanted to see her response to a man with a weapon.

  "You've got a—"

  He hiked a brow.

  "—a concealed weapon." She hugged her briefcase to her middle like a shield.

  "Hardly concealed." He relaxed onto one hip and gestured vaguely with her coffee mug, which he still held. "Plain as day, I'd say." He sure would like to know what was in that briefcase.

  "Are you some kind of police officer?"

  He gazed at her consideringly. It surprised him that a cop would be her first guess, even if they were the only ones allowed by law to carry concealed. She peered back at him with nervous blue eyes. But, non, she didn't believe it for a minute. More likely she thought he was one of the thugs who hung around with her boyfriend, who didn't give a damn about gun laws.

  Hell, who was he to disappoint her? He paused long enough to make sure it sounded like a lie. "Me? Mais, yeah. I'm a cop."

  "Then where's your badge?" she asked, surprising him again. The woman was just full of all kinds of surprises.

  A slow grin crept onto his face. "Must have left it on the bed while I was getting dressed. Come on up an' I'll show it to you."

  Shock chased the fear right out of those bright blue eyes. She stared at him for several seconds before replying, "I have to go now. Excuse me."

  Her spine straightened, and she adjusted the strap of her shou
lder bag neatly. With her pretty little nose in the air, she waited politely for him to back off so she could get by.

  He didn't. He was too puzzled by her reaction—it was all wrong.

  He hadn't really expected her to fall headlong for his not-so-subtle ploy to get up-close and personal—to her briefcase, of course—but it wouldn't have been too out of character if she had. After all, she'd been at least two nights without a man. According to the quick background check he'd done on her prior to moving in, she liked living on the edge, pushing the limits. She had a real reputation for liking men. Preferably wild, undisciplined men, the more dangerous the better. At the very least he'd expected a sophisticated, flirtatious brush-off.

  He must be losing his touch.

  "Now, I know your mama taught you better manners than to walk away before I can introduce myself," he drawled, echoing her words from last night. "We are neighbors, non?"

  A flicker of consternation passed through her expression. "I don't think—"

  Her words halted abruptly when he casually raised her coffee mug and took a sip. She'd obviously forgotten all about it. Her eyes widened and her lips parted, and once again his gaze was drawn to those luscious lips. Shapely and plump, they were slicked with a wet shade of rose-colored lipstick. His tongue slid over the rim of the mug, instinctively seeking out a taste of them—of her. She watched his movements with a kind of scandalized fascination.

  "Levalois," he said, growing more fascinated by the minute himself. "Call me Creole." He figured she wouldn't shake his hand if he offered it, so he passed the mug back to her instead. "Everyone does."

  She looked at the mug as if he'd just handed her a squirming, mud-soaked kitten. Then her lips thinned and she brushed quickly past him, her knuckles white around the handle. He didn't even mind that her hand touched his arm going by.

  "Good day, Mr. Levalois," she said in those sexy Carolina tones, smooth and cool as Southern ice. Like the ice she had erotically painted her bare skin with last night.