Sweet Revenge (Full-length romantic suspense novel, New Orleans Trilogy book 2) Page 8

  "Bien. But just for a couple of hours." He sighed again, aggravation at himself evident. "I can sit stakeouts for days with no sleep. I don't know what's with me today."

  She chose not to think about the possibility that he'd been plagued with difficulty sleeping since the night they'd met, as she'd been. She'd found rest impossible, knowing he was just across the courtyard. Probably lurking on his balcony watching her.

  As he was watching her now.

  He always seemed to be watching her. She didn't mind admitting she found the sensation frightening. What she did mind admitting was that she also found it exciting. Unbelievably exciting.

  "I have an idea," she blurted out, before she could heed the warning bells going off like crazy in her head. "About tonight. A way to get Fox's attention."

  He raised a brow and laced his fingers over his stomach. "Yeah?"

  "You know how I told you he didn't take it well when Muse broke up with him? And that she thought the blond guy might be him? Or someone working for him?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "I'll be pretending I'm Muse tonight on Bourbon Street, right?" He nodded patiently. "Well, I thought if you pretended to be my … that is, Muse's new boyfriend, and we really played it up, it might get back to Fox and he'd come after you."

  Creole shot out of the chair, setting it spinning backward on its casters. "No!"

  Shocked at the vehemence of his reaction, she gasped and tried to back away. "But—"

  He grasped her arms. "No!" he repeated, and she was sure he would shake her to emphasize his point, but he just held her fast. "It's too dangerous," he said.

  But there was something in the way he said it—too quickly, almost like an afterthought—that made her think it was just an excuse. That there was really some other reason he didn't want to pose as Muse's boyfriend. But what could it possibly be?

  "Be practical," she urged. "You said yourself he's the only way you'll find this Davies character. Why not try my plan? Sure, it might not work, but it could. What do you have to lose?"

  He stared at her as if she'd already lost her mind and was in danger of infecting him with her madness. "That's not the point."

  "Then what is?"

  His fingers tightened on her arms, then he dropped them. "It's just not a good idea. I won't do it. End of discussion."

  "But—"

  He closed his eyes, opened them and gave her a level look. "We'll do it the same way you handle the stores. You act like you're Muse and try to learn whatever you can from the people who recognize you in the bars. I'll be close by, in case you need me, watching."

  Watching, always watching.

  "I saw how everyone was taken in yesterday. You're good at this impersonation stuff," he insisted. "There's no need to do anything differently."

  She had major doubts about that, but it was obvious he'd dug in and was immovable on the subject.

  All right, fine. If that's the way he wanted to play it, no problem. Her psychology skills had helped with her ruse, in getting people to trust her without even knowing she was putting them at ease. As well, it aided in filling in certain bits of her sister's personality with which Grace had little acquaintance. Creole wasn't necessary, anyway. He didn't seem to understand what it meant to be Muse. Grace did. And she planned to play Muse to the hilt, with or without his help. It was the only option.

  If she didn't do something radical, and soon, she feared she'd be sitting in an empty apartment forever, waiting in vain for her sister to reappear. For, despite Creole's reassurances to the contrary, after the phone call that morning, Grace was more convinced than ever that something bad had happened to her twin. And in order to lure the responsible party out into the open, she'd have to make a huge splash.

  Tonight, one way or another, she intended to do just that. And just pray whoever it was noticed.

  * * *

  A few minutes after nine o'clock, Grace glanced across the courtyard to Creole's apartment for the hundredth time in the past hour. He was still asleep.

  He'd asked her to call and wake him at eight, but she hadn't had the heart. He'd looked so incredibly tired when they'd parted at Muse's office around four that afternoon.

  She could see him through the window, sprawled across his unmade bed, lying on his stomach, presumably in the same position as when he'd hit the mattress after getting home. He hadn't even bothered to take off his shoulder holster, which was clearly visible against the stark white of his T-shirt, even from this distance. She didn't guess he'd moved so much as an eyebrow since she'd gotten back from her useless snooping at the stores. Poor baby.

  Oh, well. He hadn't wanted any part of her plan, anyway. She could do this by herself. In fact, it would probably be easier without him watching her every move. Making her self-conscious.

  Wondering what it would be like to go out on the town with a man like him. Uncivilized. Untamed. Able, with one glance from those meltingly sexy eyes, to make a woman feel like dancing till dawn and then making love until noon.

  Wishing he wanted to be her boyfriend, even just pretending for one night.

  Her eyes popped. Where had that come from?

  The very last thing she needed was Creole getting ideas about being her boyfriend. It was bad enough he'd kissed her senseless and held her and tried to make her admit she wanted him.

  Which she didn't. Truly.

  She snapped herself out of her inappropriate thoughts and marched to the closet. She'd already showered and done her hair and put on more makeup than she'd used since the Halloween she was fourteen and had dressed up as Frankenstein's monster. With any luck she looked a little better tonight.

  She flipped through the closet and settled for a short denim miniskirt and a bright-pink crop top. Very Muse, she decided after slipping on matching strappy shoes and examining herself in the mirror. With one last look at Creole's sleeping form across the courtyard, she grabbed a small, flamingo-shaped shoulder bag from the dresser and headed out the door.

  Next stop, Bourbon Street.

  Chapter 7

  Creole woke slowly and stretched his stiff limbs till they cracked in the soft, silent darkness. He lifted a heavy eyelid, mildly amazed. It seemed he'd finally managed to get some much-needed rest.

  For a second he couldn't figure out what could have made him relax enough to fall into a dead sleep after so many months of tossing and turning. But then he remembered.

  Grace.

  He rose groggily and peered across the courtyard at her apartment, a reluctant smile coming to his lips. Jolie Grace Summerville. Pretty as a sunrise and smart as a swamp cat. And just as determined as a hungry gator to find that sister of hers—if she had to set the whole Quarter on its ear to do it. And she just might, at that.

  He didn't spot her right away, and figured she was in the bathroom getting ready for their expedition tonight. Best he see to getting ready himself—it was already dark out so she must have let him sleep a bit longer than they'd planned.

  He jumped in the shower and afterward tugged on jeans, replaced his holster over his still-damp skin, and covered up with a loose, Miami-style pineapple shirt. When he was tying his shoes he suddenly realized he still hadn't seen Grace.

  He froze in midloop, a multitude of unpleasant possibilities rocketing through his mind, until it fastened on the one that was the most plausible.

  She'd gone without him. Quelle bêtise! The little fool.

  He ground out a string of epithets, stuffed his tobacco pouch in his shirt pocket and jammed his cuffs and wallet into a pocket. Then, since he'd be drinking tonight, he slid the Glock's clip into his other pocket. And sent up a quick prayer that she was unharmed.

  Incroyable. He couldn't believe it. He just couldn't believe it. He'd given her strict instructions to wake him. Not to leave without him.

  They were working together. They had a plan.

  A plan…

  "Ah, non." Groaning, he shot out the door and headed for Bourbon Street. He should have known. He'd nix
ed her little boyfriend scheme and she'd decided to work solo instead.

  Or maybe this was her way of getting even with him for saying no to her idea. Women didn't like it when a man said no.

  As he hurried down the narrow streets, hoping against hope he'd run into her before she got lost in the tangle of bars and tourists that packed the main strip, he silently berated himself. He saw all too clearly what had happened, as evidenced by the way he'd been able to sleep the sleep of an innocent babe relying on his mother's presence to keep him safe.

  In a moment of weakness he'd actually trusted Grace.

  But he knew firsthand that mothers weren't always there when a baby woke up crying. And he hadn't yet met a woman who could be trusted. Not completely. Not with your life. Or your heart. Certainly, Miz Summerville had proven she couldn't be trusted with either.

  How had it happened that he'd let down his guard so easily, in spite of everything she'd done?

  Because he wasn't thinking, that's how.

  At least not with his brain.

  He groaned again and whipped around the corner onto Bourbon Street, expecting the worst.

  He was not disappointed.

  * * *

  The raucous old street teemed with people. Like a herd of brightly dotted locusts, they swarmed along the narrow thoroughfare carrying a wild assortment of plastic and foam go-cups. The night was sweltering. Tourists and natives alike were clad in as little as they could get away with. Creole was glad he'd forsaken the usual T-shirt under his looser shirt, which allowed air to waft up beneath it providing an occasional puff of relief from the heat. He could use some cooling down.

  A heady scent of sweet daiquiris and sweaty, perfumed bodies permeated the air, along with the usual Friday-night Quarter smells of frying seafood, rotting garbage and a trace of Mississippi River mud. Music blasted from every bar and restaurant lining the street, a cacophonous mix of zydeco, rock, blues and God knew what that other stuff was supposed to be, all at a volume that required people to shout to be heard over it, just adding to the general din.

  But Creole wouldn't change any of it. Not for the world. He loved the Quarter and all its eccentricities and sinful excess. It was a place a man could surround himself with the crush of humanity in all its forms and yet be untouched and alone if he chose, simply melting into the crowd and enjoying the ever-changing scene. It was one of the few places he felt at home. Relaxed. Unthreatened.

  Normally.

  But the sight that greeted him as he skirted a big knot of people clustered under the balcony of a popular dance bar sent his blood pressure straight into orbit.

  The crowd outside swayed and pulsed to the beat of a rock band playing inside the bar. Several women danced with each other in the center of the group, to the appreciation of male onlookers. Grace was right there in the middle of it. Naturally.

  Creole stepped back to the opposite side of the street, away from the throng, and climbed the shallow steps of a restaurant for a better view. Immediately he knew just what was going on.

  His hackles rose at the sound of enthusiastic masculine clapping and hungry wolf calls, and even more at the clickety-clack of Mardi Gras necklaces being rattled, dangling from eager male fingers over the rail of the packed balcony. He knew very well what the men wanted. The show they expected to see. One that Muse had obviously given them many times before.

  But would Grace?

  He rolled a cigarette and told himself to calm down. She had no choice but to play along. He himself had forced her into this role by rejecting her other plan. But that knowledge didn't calm him. For some reason it only made him angrier.

  He'd told her no because he'd thought it would be too hard to masquerade as her boyfriend. To dance with her, flirt with her, put his arms around her, kiss her like he meant it—all for the sake of the investigation—and then have to take her to her door and leave her there, knowing she'd never let things go any further than that. Knowing she'd never allow him to follow her in and back her slowly onto that big, satin-sheeted bed, cover her with his body, taste her desire. And make love to her all night long.

  But this was worse. Much worse. Dammit, he didn't want those other men leering at her. Pawing her. Offering their cheap bounty for a glimpse of her sweet flesh.

  Funny, he'd never realized before what a stupid, barbaric custom it was, bribing women to bare their breasts in exchange for a handful of gaudy glass beads.

  He took a deep drag of harsh tobacco smoke. Dieu. He had to get ahold of himself. Grace didn't look as if she objected to the prospect of showing her charms to all and sundry. Maybe the innocence he'd sensed in her was all an act. It wouldn't be the first time he'd been fooled by a woman.

  She was moving her whole body to the music, laughing and throwing coquettish glances at the men along with the other women, and lapping up the undivided attention they were getting from all sides. She squealed in delight when her companion lifted her T-shirt to reveal her bare midriff and was rewarded with a small shower of necklaces and encouraging whistles.

  Creole clenched his fists, his cigarette snapping in two. He felt an all-too-familiar sting of pain and flicked it to the pavement. As if caught in a nightmare, he watched a second woman tear off her top and twirl around in a full circle to give everyone an eyeful before slipping it back on over her naked breasts. The crowd went crazy. Creole saw Grace falter in her dance and stare at the woman wide-eyed. But then she was back in the rhythm, and he figured he must have misinterpreted the momentary shock in her expression.

  "Muse! Muse! Muse!" the crowd chanted expectantly, all eyes riveted on Grace. Creole's mouth suddenly tasted of bile, but he couldn't force himself to look away.

  Then she saw him. Her gaze fastened on his and for a split second he swore he saw a look of fear and dismay in her eyes. That she would break free of the mass of grasping male hands and run to him.

  It was only then it dawned on him. She had no idea about this quaint little custom of au sauvage. Damn.

  But before he could move, something stopped her where she stood. Her eyes went blank and her chin lifted. She grasped the hem of her too-short, neon-pink top and jerked it up, revealing a lacy black bra and its contents to everyone looking. Her gaze never left his as necklaces were flung at her from all directions.

  He felt a drop of something warm and wet on his fingers and realized he'd dug them into the rough brick of the wall behind him. Pain stabbed through his fingertips but they wouldn't release.

  "Hey, Muse!" a long-haired man yelled, and grabbed drunkenly at Grace's shirt, which she finally pulled down. "Since when do you wear a bra?"

  The other men surrounding her took up the chant, shouting for her to take it off, obviously fully expecting her to do so.

  This time he could plainly see panic flood Grace's face.

  He wasn't even aware he'd moved. Suddenly he was at her side, pulling her against him, a possessive arm snaking around her body.

  "She wears a bra since I told her to," he snarled at the man, ready to do battle for his woman. "You got a problem with that?"

  * * *

  Grace melted into Creole's arms, never more glad to be rescued in her entire life.

  Not that she'd ever actually been rescued before in her entire life.

  It felt good. Unbelievably good. She'd thought she could pull off tonight's investigation alone, but she sure hadn't counted on this last bit of nonsense. Good grief. To think they'd actually expected her to—

  "Hell, no," the pest who'd been hanging on to her shirt assured Creole, backing off at his aggressive posture. "I don't have a problem with that."

  "But the lady's boyfriend might have a thing or two to say about it," a greasy-looking punk called from behind the pest.

  The punk's threatening smirk yanked her back to reality. "This is the lady's boyfriend," she corrected him, and plastered herself to Creole's chest.

  Heck, she had no problem changing horses in midstream if it got her out of taking off her shirt in front of
a horde of drooling morons. And especially if it enticed Gary Fox out of hiding, which it looked like it just might do.

  "I missed you, baby," she cooed up at Creole, winding her arms around his neck. She gave him a big, wet kiss—to make it clear what she was doing. And also to knock him off stride. In case he was still miffed. She hadn't forgotten that murderous look he'd given her from across the street. "Where've you been, sugar?"

  "Right where you left me, darlin'. Asleep in bed," he returned. "You shouldn' have done that, chère. I didn' like waking up without you."

  Then he kissed her back. For the benefit of the witnesses, of course. But real enough to curl her toes. He speared his fingers through her hair, holding her head immobile, and covered her mouth with his. She could feel the suppressed anger in the spring-loaded muscles of his hands, his body, his probing tongue. Anger … and something more.

  Jealousy?

  An unexpected thrill chased up her spine. She parted her lips and let him claim and plunder, soothing his male pride with the only balm she knew would help—surrender.

  "Think we convinced him?" he murmured when he finally lifted his mouth from hers.

  "Convinced me," she answered shakily, clinging to him for fear she'd slide to the pavement if he let her go. Sweet heavens. They watched the punk shake his head, muttering something about somebody not liking it, and lumber away. "I think I need a drink. A big one."

  "Don' ever do that again," Creole said, and let her go. She assumed he didn't mean the kiss. It was all he needed to say. The look on his face told her he'd make sure she didn't, even if she had other ideas.

  "I won't." Surprisingly, she meant it. "I've learned my lesson."

  "Bien." He gave her another quick, intense kiss. "Vien. Let's go get that drink."

  When they turned to go into the bar, one of the onlookers lurched toward them. "Hey, buddy, you're bleedin'!" he exclaimed, sloshing his beer at Creole's hand. He peered at his cup, then deliberately sloshed some more, rinsing the blood from Creole's fingertips. "There, thatottadoowit," he slurred with a satisfied nod, and tottered away.