SWEET SUSPICION Page 7

  Winding her arms around his neck, she held him like a falling angel clinging to the gates of heaven.

  As always, his kiss was incredible. Slow and sweet and filled with the promise of as much time as she needed. She shuddered out a breath, wanting this blissful feeling to go on forever and ever.

  "Somethin' wrong, chère?"

  She shook her head. "No, nothing."

  His hand smoothed up her thigh and she sucked in a breath.

  "You like me to touch you?" he murmured, easing his hand over her hip. It was a strong hand, long-fingered and powerful, confident and unwavering in its movements. It was a hand that could give a woman untold pleasure, or if it chose to, unspeakable pain.

  "So far," she replied faintly, unwilling to lie. Remembering the pain. But wanting so much to experience the pleasure. Even just once.

  He chuckled. "Do I hear a challenge?"

  "Maybe."

  "You're a hard woman to pin down, Muse Summerville."

  She ran her tongue over suddenly parched lips. "I hate being pinned down."

  His hand skimmed over her stomach and her skin flinched. She forced herself to relax, getting used to the feel of his touch. He was gentle, seeking in his movements, rather than the groping and grabbing she was used to from men.

  He kissed her, then drew back a fraction. "Do you want me?"

  She closed her eyes and kissed him back. "Hurry," she whispered.

  "Ah, chère," he murmured and canted over her.

  She froze. She couldn't help it. The sudden weight of him, the pressure of his body on hers, being unable to escape, it all closed in on her like the lid of a coffin. She couldn't move. She couldn't speak. She couldn't even breathe.

  "What is it, baby? Muse?"

  She opened her eyes. Composed herself. "Nothing. Honestly," she added when he looked skeptical.

  "Darlin', there's been something wrong all night. One second you're melting in my arms, the next you're frightened as a lamb. Now, tell me what's going on."

  She should have known he'd be too smart, too intuitive to fool. She cleared her throat delicately, stalling for time. She had no choice but to tell him.

  Heat crept up her neck and blazed through her cheeks. "I, um… Well, the thing is … I don't like sex," she softly confessed.

  The disbelief in his eyes sent a dart of pain winging through her. Not his fault.

  "You don't like sex."

  "Not really."

  He lay perfectly still, half straddling her. She could feel his heart beating, his arousal throbbing against her thigh.

  "Why?"

  "Why?"

  He nodded.

  No way was she getting into all that. Besides, she was over all that. She simply didn't care for sex. Some women didn't. She was one of them.

  She shrugged. "It's messy, and not all it's been cracked up to be, in my opinion."

  His eyebrows shot into his scalp.

  "Sacré," he muttered after a long pause, and rolled off her onto his back. She remained silent, waiting for the inevitable words of anger and frustration to erupt. Instead he said, "And here I thought you were enjoying yourself."

  She turned on her side to face him, her heart breaking. "I was enjoying myself. Up to a point. You're a wonderful kisser and I loved dancing with you. I just don't like … the rest. It's not you, Remi. It's me."

  He jetted out a breath, turning a scowl on her. "Then why the hell did you get into bed with me? You only had to say no. I would have respected that." Amazingly, she believed him.

  "Because," she said, looking anywhere but into those blue eyes filled with confusion and betrayal. She'd expected him to be furious. But not hurt. "Because I want to sleep with you."

  "Jeezus," he said, flinging up his arms. "Make up your mind, woman!"

  "No, I mean sleep with you. Really sleep."

  "Sleep? But no sex?" His expression was incredulous.

  She nodded bleakly.

  He laughed once, then twice, then couldn't seem to control his mirth. "Chacun à son goût," he finally said, shaking his head. "To each his own. Me, I love sex."

  "I'm sorry," she said, wondering what to do or say next. His reaction wasn't like anything she'd ever expected. Maybe—

  "Good night, Miss Summerville," he said, and settled back onto his pillow with a long sigh.

  "Please don't be angry, Remi."

  "I'm not angry. I'm just … a bit frustrated. Maybe I should find somewhere else to sleep."

  "No! Please stay with me." She leaned over him, put her hand on his chest. "We could just kiss," she suggested.

  He chuckled wryly. "There's no way I could just kiss you. Not now."

  "I see," she said, and let out a shaky breath. "I really don't mind if you want to—"

  He gently set her aside. "I don't think so."

  She crept back to his side. "I don't want you to hate me."

  "I could never hate you, chère. Thanks for the offer, but I'd rather not."

  She raised up on an elbow and studied him. She couldn't believe he actually meant it. "Really?"

  "Really."

  She lay back on the pillow, folding her hands on her abdomen. She pleated her forehead in confusion. "So you don't want me?"

  "Only a dead man wouldn't want you, Muse. And even that's not a certainty."

  "Why, then? I thought you liked sex?"

  "I do. A whole lot. But you don't."

  She glanced at him. "Does that matter so much?"

  He gave her a tender look and pulled her into his arms.

  "Yes, it matters," he said in his low, bayou-flavored voice. "It matters a great deal. I think sex—making love—is like two people exchanging presents. Each giving the other a wonderful gift of delight and pleasure and the joy of mutual satisfaction. If one person doesn't like her present, well, it rather defeats the purpose, don't you think? Leaves both unsatisfied."

  She stared at him for a long time, thoughts whirling by so quickly she couldn't grab on to one. It was as though he had just explained some difficult mathematical formula which up until now had eluded her understanding. Light flared through her Pandora's box, revealing the empty blackness inside.

  "Maybe I'd like it with you," she finally whispered.

  He smiled, an oddly tormented twist to his lips. "Why would you like it with me and not the dozens of other men you've been with?"

  Pain razored through her heart—that he would believe such a thing of her. That the reason he believed it was her own doing.

  "There haven't been dozens," she said quietly, laying her cheek on his chest so he couldn't see the silent tears well up. "And, anyway, you're different."

  "I'm not different." He kissed the top of her head, and she breathed in the warm, musky scent of him. "I like all the same stuff those other guys liked. Want to do the same things to you, with you, that they did. I'm not different. The only way you'll change your feelings about sex is if something about you is different."

  She gazed up at him, wanting, needing him to reveal the secret that could make her whole again. "Like how?"

  The words slipped from his lips in a low whisper, bewildering and unexpected.

  "Like if you're in love."

  * * *

  The next morning Remi made sure he was up and dressed well before Muse woke.

  Que diable! He couldn't believe the things he'd said last night. He'd practically given permission to the woman to fall in love with him. Great move, Beaulieux.

  Despite the temptations, getting romantically involved with an attractive, available woman would only spell trouble for him.

  Non. The last thing on earth he needed was to get close to a woman like Muse Summerville—someone he'd have a hell of a time leaving behind when the time came. And it would come. It had to. He didn't have the lifestyle to support any type of commitment. He didn't even have a decent apartment in New Orleans to invite her to. Hell, even if they kept it casual, she would no doubt prove to be a major distraction while it lasted.

 
; He let out a sigh. And in his business, any distraction could prove deadly. Especially on this case.

  On the other hand, what was he supposed to do?

  Muse was a gorgeous woman who aroused him just by breathing. The boss had given him carte blanche in how he handled things as long as he did his job. Yet if he made a move on her, knowing what he did, he'd be the biggest jerk on the planet.

  Yeah, he was good in bed. Damn good. But he didn't delude himself that his lovemaking would be able to effect any sudden, amazing cure for Muse's dislike of physical intimacy.

  What had happened to make her feel that way? Remi suspected something deeper than her shrugged explanation of "It's messy." But it wasn't his place to pry. He was just the bodyguard, not the analyst. Muse's sister, Grace, could hold that honor with his blessing.

  He hadn't meant to say those words last night, to plant such a suggestion and let it grow between them. He didn't want anyone falling in love with him. Especially her. Because she already had him dreaming of too many impossible things.

  Things like getting back into that big, inviting bed and teaching her to enjoy the feel of a man holding her, the feel of him moving inside her.

  As he quietly packed his things, set them by the door and tucked the Beretta into its holster under his shirt, he let his gaze wander over the woman sleeping peacefully in his bed.

  Why was it, after just two short days, he felt as if he'd known her a hundred years?

  Was it because she reminded him so much of himself? That she kept her hurts and disappointments hidden and mysterious, living only for today, never thinking of the future, never looking back?

  Was there something awful in her past, as there was in his, that had left its mark so indelibly on her soul and character that the outward life she lived was so obviously in conflict with who she really was inside? He thought so.

  Last night she had slept tight up against his back, snuggled close as a second skin. Yet each time he'd made to turn to her, she'd scooted to the edge of the bed, even if she didn't awaken. Only to creep back and mold herself to his spine when he resumed his unthreatening position. He hadn't gotten a wink of sleep. He'd wanted her so badly he'd ached with it. But he wouldn't have touched her in that way. Not if she didn't want it. He'd only thought to hold her.

  Fearing he might actually climb back into bed and try again, he slipped quietly out the door and went downstairs to the deserted dining room where a samovar of fragrant chicory coffee and a tray of hot buttered croissants and other assorted delicacies beckoned from an antique Victorian sideboard. The long-forgotten sweet aromas of fresh bread and roses mingled in his senses, luring him back to times gone by when he lived in a house even older and grander than this one.

  Shunning the memories, he helped himself to a modest breakfast, then pulled out the map of Louisiana he'd tucked in his back pocket and took a seat in one of the plush velvet chairs with a good view of the staircase, so he could see anyone coming or going.

  Spreading the map, he sipped coffee and worked out a few escape routes and alternatives to Dev's place, in case things didn't go as expected. He was feeling a bit less uneasy about being on the run with no prior plan—if they themselves didn't know where they were going how could Davies?—but his need for order and covering all contingencies was too ingrained to ignore. It had saved his life too many times. It was the only way he worked.

  Which was probably why he felt so out to sea with Muse. She defied all attempts to put her into a safe, orderly category, such as: a witness to protect, a brief love affair, someone he'd spend a few days with and never see again, a flirt who didn't intrigue the hell out of him, a woman he'd give anything to get to know better.

  Non. Scratch that last one.

  He was still trying to hammer her into a predetermined box when she came running down the stairway at full speed. Spotting him, she came to an abrupt halt at the foot of the stairs, just outside the dark-paneled entry to the dining room.

  "There you are," she said, sexy and disheveled in a short red skirt and old-fashioned white camisole that was barely buttoned up the front.

  "Good morning," he said, thinking she looked like she'd just come from some man's bed, then remembered with a start that it had been his own. "Vien. Coffee's great."

  She gripped her hands together in front of her. "I thought—"

  He wrenched his sight from her delicious body to her anxious eyes.

  They held uncertainty and a slight edge of panic.

  "You thought I'd left," he said, not moving a muscle, unable to believe— How could she think he'd leave her?

  "I woke up and you weren't there."

  "I would never just leave," he said, clearly, distinctly, so there would be no question of his seriousness.

  Her shoulders relaxed slightly; the panic receded. "No, of course not. Your job—"

  "Has nothing to do with it," he said, cutting her off, but refused to be personally offended by her rationalization. She still didn't know him, or she'd never say such a thing. "I've given you my word that I'll protect you. I always keep my word."

  "Good to know." Her lips formed a shaky smile. One that spoke volumes of past betrayals. A smile he recognized on a visceral level. No wonder she'd thought he'd gone.

  "I'm not like him," he assured her without thinking.

  The smile vanished. "Who?"

  "Whoever left you," he said, "and hurt you so badly."

  Her chin lifted slightly. Tellingly. Her gaze went to the Oriental carpet, tracing the intricate pattern at her feet.

  "Was it Fox?" he asked, though it was none of his business, and didn't make sense anyway.

  She glanced up, surprised. "Gary? No. I left him."

  "Why?" he demanded, suddenly wanting to know everything about her former boyfriend, the bastard who'd gotten her into this whole mess in the first place. The man she'd been with for six whole months. And presumably shared his bed for most of them.

  Jealousy ripped through him at lightning speed, sharp and shockingly ugly.

  Then suspicion and anger. Maybe that was why…

  "Did he hurt you? Physically?"

  Her mouth opened. Then shut. She still hadn't moved from the doorway. Her blond hair was held up with a simple claw barrette, stray strands and curls escaping every which way about her face. Her eyes were wide, and he was struck by how very young and vulnerable she looked when she wasn't trying so hard to be something else.

  "Why do you ask that?"

  "Somebody did."

  Her tongue peeked out. Disappeared. "Just because I don't like sex?"

  "Because of the way you don't like sex. You love kissing, touching, cuddling. What you don't like is being grabbed, manhandled, held too tight, being pinned down. That adds up to just one thing in my book."

  She turned abruptly and walked to the sideboard. Very carefully she poured herself a cup of coffee and buttered a croissant, spooned a daub of jam on her plate just so. Without looking at him, she came over and took the seat opposite, on the other side of the low parlor table.

  "Despite what you might think," she said at last, taking a shaky sip of steaming coffee, "deep down, Gary's a pretty decent and likeable person. He's made some really bad career choices, and is certainly messed up in some ways, but he's not violent. No, Gary's not the reason I don't like sex."

  Remi didn't know if that made things better or worse. "Then why did you leave him?"

  She sighed, still avoiding his eyes. "I'd just met Gary a week before when the FBI contacted me. Morris wanted me to spy on Gary's boss, James Davies. Gary was pleasant and … convenient. But I only stayed that long because I wanted Davies put away for good. Toward the end Gary started getting very possessive, and pressuring me. So as soon as Morris said I'd gathered enough evidence for a conviction, I left."

  "Pressuring you how? Physically?"

  "Emotionally." She finally glanced up, looked Remi right in the eyes. "I'm not big on ties. Not the type for a picket fence."

  They were
words Remi could have spoken himself. Had spoken himself too often to count, just before kissing some woman he'd met the night before goodbye.

  So why did he feel like he'd just been slapped?

  "What about sexually?" he pressed, perversely unable to let it go. Leave it alone. Muse's relationship with Gary Fox was none of his business. Had no bearing on the present situation. Knowing would only amplify Remi's irrational thoughts and faltering resolve to leave this woman be.

  Her eyes didn't waver even a millimeter. "There was no sexual. Gary Fox is impotent."

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  « ^ »

  "So, tell me about this Dev person," Muse urged as she set up another shot with her Hasselblad camera.

  She'd managed to talk Remi into taking a small detour on the way to Dev's to find a certain old antebellum plantation, long overgrown and abandoned, that she'd heard about third hand and had always wanted to visit as part of the research for her book. The remaining wrought-iron fences on the property had been reported as being spectacularly lovely.

  The reports turned out to be true. She'd spent the better part of an hour meticulously photographing the fallen balcony railings, rusting cemetery fence and broken-down front entrance gate they'd found as they worked their way around the dilapidated plantation buildings, wading through man-high weeds, choking vines and God-knew-what hidden slithery creatures. She was covered with scratches and mosquito bites, and her white sandals were completely ruined, but she'd gotten some fabulous photos.

  "What do you want to know about Dev?"

  She focused in on an iron fleur-de-lis surrounded by black curlicues. "Whatever you want to tell me."

  Remi held back a branch of bramble she pointed to, having fallen into the role of photographer's assistant without even a blink.

  "There is only a handful of people I'd trust with my life," Remi said. "Dev is one of them. His name is really Guy de Valein." He pronounced Guy in the French way to rhyme with see. "He's a computer whiz, and a frequent consultant for the FBI. He lives and breathes security. He's the best … but a bit of an eccentric."