SWEET SUSPICION Read online

  "And your regular calling day is…?"

  "Wednesday. Tomorrow. What if—"

  "Has either of you ever actually come to the other's rescue?" he asked, trying to assess how big a problem this could turn into.

  "Grace has. Three times."

  Big enough. He frowned. "Get into scrapes that often?"

  She tore the edge of a napkin, avoiding his eyes. "It happens."

  "What kind of scrapes?"

  She tore another strip. "Men mostly. I have terrible judgment when it comes to them."

  More information than he wanted. But he couldn't resist asking, "You including me in that evaluation?"

  "You're a man, aren't you?"

  He decided not to pursue that topic. He had the distinct feeling it would just annoy him. "Does Grace still live in Charleston?"

  Muse nodded. "She's a school psychologist. She stayed home while I wandered back and forth across the country."

  He regarded her through the smoke-filled dimness of the bar. The ca-chink of quarters being fed to the jukebox echoed across the room, followed by the whirr of machinery and finally the strains of an old Merle Haggard tune.

  "Looking for what?" he finally asked.

  "Nothing in particular. Why would you think that?"

  "Because I left home and wandered back and forth across the country, too."

  Of course, he hadn't been looking for something, he'd been running from it. Alors, from a couple things.

  "And what were you looking for?"

  He gave her a lazy smile. "A woman who tastes like you."

  Her gaze dropped to his lips. "What a coincidence."

  "So you like the Juicy Fruit and tequila."

  "It's growing on me."

  He tossed his gum in a nearby bin, put his fingers under her chin and gently guided her face close to his.

  "Let's make sure." He covered her mouth with his. He felt her hesitate, so he slid his tongue past her lips and languidly caressed hers. Coaxingly. Undemandingly. She moaned softly, and he felt her arms wind around his neck. Then she melted into him and his long, thorough kiss.

  She tasted so good.

  After several minutes he pulled back slightly. "Everyone's staring. Maybe we should get a room."

  She closed the tiny gap between their lips and kissed him back. "Let 'em stare," she whispered. "Besides, you haven't finished your drink."

  With reluctance he drew away and threw it down. "Now I have. Let's get out of here."

  "Don't you want another?" she asked as he rose to his feet.

  "I need to get my gear from the car, anyway. There's a bottle in it. And don't forget, iced champagne comes with our bridal suite." He gave her a disreputable grin.

  "Yes. Okay," she said, her tone strangely reluctant for a woman who'd just been kissing him like she never wanted to stop.

  Obviously the lady was not ready yet. Which suited him just fine. He enjoyed sex, but what led up to it could be even better, if a man put some effort into it. Nothing beat a good, slow, mutual seduction beforehand, for a mind-blowing experience when you finally made it into bed.

  He touched her fingers to his lips, then laced his through them as they walked back to the Chez Noisette parking lot, fetched his duffel from the Porsche, then headed for the B&B.

  "You seem nervous," he remarked, wanting to know if her reluctance went deeper than wanting to be wooed.

  "Terrified."

  "Of me?"

  She smiled, looking as fragile as he'd ever seen her. "Of everything. The whole situation. Davies. Running for my life."

  "And me?" he pressed.

  Her eyes glistened in the glow of the old-fashioned gaslights lining the walkway to Chez Noisette. "Especially you."

  "Mr. and Mrs. Brown. I hope you enjoyed your dinner," the B&B's proprietress greeted them when they got inside.

  "Our plans have changed," Remi told her after chatting for a moment. "We'll be spending the night after all."

  "And I still owe you a bottle of champagne. I came up with it after you checked in, but there was no answer when I knocked."

  "Sorry. We fell right to sleep," Muse said with a quick smile. "Could you make that two bottles? Just put the extra one on our bill." She gave the woman a conspiratorial wink as she disappeared to the kitchen.

  "Two bottles?"

  "We're celebrating, remember?"

  When they got to their room, he popped one open and poured golden, bubbly liquid into two crystal flutes that stood waiting on an ornate silver tray on the dresser. He spotted an antique radio on the nightstand and turned it on.

  "That actually works?" Muse asked, walking out of the bathroom and coming over to admire it. "Looks like art deco."

  "Mmm," he said, glancing at her. He'd half expected her to have slipped into something more comfortable, as they say, but she was still wearing the sundress. Not that he was complaining. She looked fantastic in it. He found the radio station he was searching for, and the strains of an old jazz tune softly filled the room.

  "That's nice," she said.

  He handed her one of the flutes. "To us," he said, and her eyes went soft.

  He wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her like there was no tomorrow. Which, for them, there wasn't. Hopefully not literally, but certainly in all else. Tomorrow they'd be hidden where Davies's gang couldn't find them, and the crime boss would, with luck, be in custody soon.

  Which would mean Remi's time with Muse would be over.

  No tomorrows. Not long-term, anyway.

  That was his rule.

  He touched his glass to hers, producing a pure crystal tone. They drank deeply, silently toasting each other.

  But tonight they were together, so he intended to make it good.

  Slowly.

  He remembered her reaction to the men on Bourbon Street

  who'd put their hands all over her. She'd pulled away. He wasn't about to make the same mistake.

  However, she did like to dance.

  Muse refilled their glasses and let him draw her into a one-handed dance position, his hand on her hip, her arm around his neck, as they sipped.

  "Tell me about Remi Beaulieux," she said as they spun slow circles around the room. "You know all about me. I want to know about you."

  He chuckled. "Fair enough. But there's not much to tell. What you see is what you get." One of his cousin Beau's favorite phrases. Of course, with Beau it was actually true.

  "Somehow I doubt that," she said.

  He took a slug of champagne. "As I mentioned, my family's up around Verdigris, Louisiana. I don't see them much."

  "Why's that?"

  He gave her a lopsided grin. "Black sheep and all that. You know the drill."

  "Don't I ever." She touched her flute to his and sipped again.

  He drained his and set it aside. "Figured you would."

  "I'm lucky, though." She smiled broadly. "They love me anyway. How 'bout you?"

  He kept his own smile firmly in place. "Best friends with my cousin Beau. And Grandmère is my favorite lady in the world. Present company excepted," he added, nuzzling her ear.

  She slid out of his arms, refilled his flute, handed it to him and slid back into the dance before he had a chance to tell her he didn't care for any more to drink. He'd obviously had enough. He never talked about his family. Never spoke of them, never answered questions about them. Ever.

  "What about your parents?"

  Especially them. "Anyone ever tell you you talk too much?" He moved his hand from her hip to her bottom and pressed lightly, bringing her closer to where he wanted her. So she couldn't miss how he was feeling.

  He put his lips to hers to prevent further questions. And because he could kiss her all night. The woman sure knew how to use her mouth. Not that it was any great shock. What surprised him more than her skill was the pure, sweet emotion he felt in her response to him. Emotion he'd never have expected from a woman like her.

  A woman so like himself.

  A few mo
ments later she broke the kiss and lifted her glass. "Drink up, sugarcane. It would be a shame to let this fine champagne go to waste."

  "Not much for the stuff myself." He set his own down on the dresser tray. "Don' really like to mix my poisons, either."

  She gave him a look he couldn't decipher and slid away from him. "In that case I'll get the tequila from your duffel bag." She hurried over and unzipped it. "Here it is. I'll just grab a glass from the bathroom."

  "Don' go to all that trouble. I really don'—"

  "It's no trouble. I hate to drink alone."

  "I'm sure we could find something better to do than drink," he suggested with a crook of his finger.

  She nibbled on her lip and handed him a tumbler half filled with his favorite tequila. He always carried it with him because the imported brand was sometimes hard to find, but at the moment he was cursing his habit.

  What was going on?

  She was nervous as hell, and if he didn't know better he'd think she was either trying to avoid him … or get him drunk?

  Non. That wasn't possible. Why would she avoid him? It was obvious she loved kissing him, enjoyed being close to him. They'd already shared the bed and she hadn't had a problem with that. Hell, they'd even talked about making love. Sort of. And by all accounts she wasn't the kind of woman who would suddenly develop moral qualms.

  As for getting him drunk, what would she possibly gain from doing that?

  "You know," he said, hooking her waist so she came back to him, dancing to the slow jazz with their bodies barely brushing. "You don' have to get me drunk to take advantage of me. I'll come willingly."

  A smile crept over her lips. "But will you do what I want?"

  Excitement purled through his loins. "Anything at all, chère. Just name it."

  "Right now I want to dance and finish my champagne."

  "D'accord." He was in no hurry. He set aside his ridiculous doubts and moved with her to the music. But just in case, he poured the contents of his glass into a potted fern as they swayed past the plant stand in the bow window.

  He lost count of the songs that played softly in the background as he savored the feel of her arms around him and tasted every corner of her sweet mouth while testing the curves of her body with the angles of his. He even managed to rid them of their drink glasses—to her murmured protest.

  He loved how she ran her hands over his back and sides and arms, feeling every muscle and sinew. With iron discipline, he held her hips lightly, only very gradually, millimeter by millimeter, inching his hands up her torso until his thumbs rested just under her breasts. He itched to touch them, caress them. Put his lips to them and taste her creamy skin and the taut, puckered nipples he could feel poking through the fabric of his shirt.

  For the dozenth time he brushed his arousal against her abdomen, and felt her tremble. Each time she would clutch whatever part of his body her hands were exploring, and softly whimper.

  He'd never wanted any woman as much as he wanted her now.

  Slowly he traced the fingertips of one hand around and up her back, lingering at the top of the zipper to her dress. He didn't think he could wait another minute. He had to have her now, silky and naked and moaning his name.

  He slid down the zipper.

  "What are you doing?" she murmured.

  He smiled. "Taking off your clothes."

  She pulled away, her hands fluttering like nervous birds. "Wouldn't you like another drink first?"

  "Non." He pulled her back, fitting her body to his like two pieces of a puzzle. "I want you."

  Her fingers clung to his biceps. "Remi, I…"

  He paused. "What is it, chère? Is something wrong?"

  "No, I … that is, I…"

  She looked up and he held his breath. Praying she hadn't changed her mind. "Chérie?"

  "I … I … I think I'd like a shower first," she said in a rush.

  Relief crashed through him. His pent-up breath tumbled out on a laugh. "Of course. Damn, I'm sorry. After two days on the run I'm probably not at my freshest."

  "Remi, that's not what I meant—"

  He gave her a lingering kiss. "All I could think of was how good you smell, not how bad I must."

  "No, I love the way you smell," she refuted softly, burying her face in the crook of his neck. He felt her inhale. "All musky and spicy and … like a man."

  "Well, in that case—"

  "Oh, no." She stepped away from him and reached for the bottle of tequila. "You go first while I get my things together. Here's one for the road." She handed him his glass.

  He took it and headed for the bathroom where he closed the door and promptly poured the tequila down the sink.

  That clinched it. Something was not right here. She was definitely stalling and trying to get him drunk.

  But why would she want to do that?

  And, more importantly, should he pretend she'd actually succeeded?

  * * *

  It wasn't working.

  Or was it?

  For the life of her, Muse couldn't figure out if Remi was flying high or just pleasantly buzzed. Not that it mattered. As long as he fell asleep before she got out of the bathroom, he could be stone-cold sober as far as she was concerned. There was just a higher probability of that happening with a good dose of alcohol in his system.

  She stepped under the blast of hot water from the shower-head and counted his drinks in her mind. Hmm. Could go either way, depending on his tolerance. She'd have been under the table long ago imbibing as much as he had. But she'd only sipped on her own drinks, managing to consume very little as she always did.

  Still, better give him ample time to fall asleep. Just in case. She stuck the plug in the clawfoot tub. Yep, a nice, long bath should do the trick.

  Because if it didn't, she'd be forced to choose.

  Either face her darkest fears…

  Or drive away forever the one man she'd ever truly respected. Or wanted to get to know better.

  The man she was falling for fast.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  « ^ »

  When the bathwater went shiver cold for the fourth time, Muse figured it was safe to venture out into the bedroom. Surely Remi was asleep by now.

  She toweled herself off and reached for her nightie. And halted in midmotion. What had she been thinking? The filmy pink baby doll she'd brought was far too suggestive to wear. Even if Remi was asleep now, there was always a chance he'd wake up later; she didn't dare put it on and expect him to keep his distance. That's when she spotted his duffel bag sitting unzipped in the corner. Well, why not?

  Choosing a light blue button-down shirt from the bag, she slipped it on and rolled up the sleeves so they didn't hang over her hands. Definitely better. The solid fabric was cool but covered her completely, the tails reaching well down her thighs. For good measure she pulled on the silk panties that went with the baby dolls. Their protection was more psychological than real, but she felt much less exposed.

  Hopefully it wouldn't matter. The man had to be asleep.

  As quietly as possible, she opened the door to the bedroom and peeked in. Sure enough, Remi lay on one side of the huge canopied four-poster, half buried in the fluffy feather bedding. A lacy quilt covered his lower body, but his chest was clearly visible in the soft light from a Tiffany lamp on the nightstand.

  He was nude.

  At least his upper half was.

  She glanced at his face. His eyes were closed. Thank God.

  Still, she turned and searched the room for alternatives. Maybe she should sleep on the settee. Or the window seat. He looked far too big and male and naked to take a chance on—

  "I thought you might have gone down the drain with the bathwater. What took you so long?"

  She jumped and whirled to see Remi lounging on the big bed, one hand under his head, watching her.

  "I, um … I, um…"

  The corner of the quilt flipped over in a perfectly clear invitation.

&nb
sp; "Coming to bed?"

  "Um, sure."

  "You're wearing my shirt."

  "My nightie was—" She stopped just short of blurting out "too sexy."

  He lifted a brow.

  "Torn."

  His eyes roamed over her appreciatively. "You look good in it. Better than I ever did."

  She smiled nervously and took a tiny step toward the bed. "I thought you might be—" Her words crumbled as he patted the mattress beside him.

  "Asleep? Not a chance."

  Oh, no. She ached with the need to crawl in beside him and cuddle up to his broad back, surrounded by his soothing scent and the steady sound of his breathing. Did she dare?

  She took another small step. "Are you sure this isn't against some kind of FBI rules?"

  "It's against all the FBI rules."

  "Won't you get in trouble?"

  "You're talking too much again."

  A special panic oozed out between the cracks where she kept it locked up, deep inside her, in her own private Pandora's box. She slammed the lid back down.

  Remi was different. He'd be gentle.

  She clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking and walked determinedly to the bed. She slid in and turned to face him.

  She could do this.

  It wouldn't be so bad. She really didn't have to stop what was happening. Or tell him … anything. That would be far too humiliating, having let things go this far. She'd be fine. Really. After all, this wasn't the first time she'd done it since— It would be over soon and then she could savor his closeness for the rest of the night. Which she wanted more than anything in recent memory. Far more than she was afraid.

  Afraid? No. Her therapist had said she was cured long ago. This wasn't fear, just nerves. It had been years since the last time.

  She felt his hand stroke down her arm and realized she'd squeezed her eyes shut. She forced them open and smiled. "Why don't you kiss me?" she whispered.

  He smiled back. "My pleasure."

  Her whole body trembled as he took her in his arms and kissed her, and she had to fight back tears of gratitude and relief when he just embraced her and let his mouth caress hers, not demanding more. At least for now. And he wasn't completely naked. Thank God for small favors.