by JoAnn Ross
"Don't look now, Special Agent, but you just made another joke," Her eyes laughed up at him. "If you're not careful, people may just figure out there's a human being beneath that suit. And speaking of suits . . ."
She laced his fingers with hers in a casual, uncalculated gesture. "I have this teensy little problem I need you to help me out with."
Her hands were slender and soft as she led him up the metal steps into the trailer. He'd watched them pouring tea for the Yankee captain and been struck by their natural grace. He'd also wanted them on his body.
A mistake, he warned himself yet again. As he breathed in her seductive scent hanging in the air, he forced himself to remember that.
* * *
"Let me get this straight," he said, five minutes later. "You want to take me shopping."
"That's right." She smiled encouragingly.
"For new clothes." He didn't bother blocking off the scowl.
"Not an entire new wardrobe. Just something a bit less imposing."
"I would have thought imposing would be a good look for a bodyguard."
"It's a great look for a bodyguard," she agreed quickly. Too quickly. Her smile was bright and decidedly forced. "I know I'd certainly think twice—more than twice—before trying to get by you."
"So what's the problem?"
"While it's a great look for a bodyguard, it's not exactly the right look for my lover."
"I'm not your lover."
"Well, I know that, and you know that. But, well . . ." She began twisting her fingers together.
"Well?"
"My parents don't know that. They think we're—"
She paused, seeking the right word-—"involved."
Ah. "The tabloid," Finn guessed.
"Yes." She let out a long breath. "They called me earlier. From Washington. The state, not the capital."
"I see." Actually, Finn didn't see anything at all, but wanted to get to the bottom of whatever had rattled her.
"They wanted to know who it was undressing me on the front page of the Enquirer."
"I wouldn't think that would matter to them."
"Not matter?" Color that had nothing to do with the makeup guy's work flooded into her cheeks. "They're my parents. Wouldn't you be interested in some man who was unfastening your daughter's corset?"
"It's a moot point since I don't have a daughter."
Her frustrated sigh ruffled a lock of hair that had fallen over her eyes and she shoved it back with an impatient hand. "Don't play word games with me, Callahan. You might be bigger than I am. And armed, but I just happen to have been seventh-grade regional Scrabble champion."
"I'm impressed."
"You should be. Though Woodstock, the former champion, wasn't," she admitted.
"His name was Woodstock?"
"It seemed normal at the time. His mother, Enlightenment, was friends with my parents. We grew up together."
"It figures. So how come you don't have a goofy name?"
She lifted a brow. "Excuse me?"
"I wouldn't think two people named Peace and Freedom, who had a friend named Enlightenment, would have settled for an ordinary name for their daughter who is anything but ordinary."
Julia smiled a little, deciding to take that a good way. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
""And while I hate to burst your little stereotyping-profiling bubble, I happen to have been named for my grandmother," she informed him loftily. "Who also wasn't the least bit ordinary. She was a jazz singer. My father practically grew up on the band's tour bus."
"Why does that not surprise me? What was her name?"
"Julia Rose Summers.
"You're kidding." He looked suitably impressed. "I've got all her songs on CD and a handful of vinyls I can't play because I don't have a turntable, but I still like taking them out of the jackets and looking at them. Holding them. They're a lot more substantial feeling and the jackets are large enough to show off the art."
"That's what Daddy always says," sbe murmured, a bit surprised that this man would have anything in common with Freedom.
"God, your grandmother was The Monterey Rose. Wow." He skimmed his palm over his hair. "Her cover of They Can't Take That Away from Me' is even better than Lady Day's, which was pretty damn great itself."
"I'll tell her you said so. She toured with Billie Holiday for a while in Europe."
"I know. I paid a small fortune for some bootleg studio cuts from when the two of them were just fooling around, doing riffs together. So, she's still alive?"
"She owns a club in Carmel."
"I'll have to try to get there one of these days. Does she still sing?"
"On special occasions."
"Hey, any time The Rose sings is a special occasion."
It was the most enthusiasm she'd witnessed from him thus far. It also made him seem far more human. In fact, he reminded her of her paternal grandfather, Rose's second husband, a steady, solid, easygoing man who didn't say much and had spent much of their marriage driving the tour bus back and forth across the country. The Rose's first husband had been a sax player who'd abandoned her as soon as she told him that they'd made more than just music together. Seven months later, Julia's father had been born.
"So tell me about Woodstock," Finn said, returning the conversation to its original track.
"Why? He's not my stalker."
"Maybe not, but I'm curious."
"Why?"
He shrugged. "Why don't you just humor me?"
"And here I thought I'd been doing that all along," she said dryly. "He was just a boy I had a huge crush on. The only reason I entered the competition was because he was in it. He'd been sixth grade champion the year before and I figured if we practiced together he'd finally notice me."
She sighed. "It was not one of the highlights of my life. It was also where I learned boys don't like girls to beat them."
"Maybe boys feel that way, but I'm perfectly willing to admit you can probably beat me at Scrabble. But I'd leave you in the dust at Clue."
"I should hope so, since you're a detective. I doubt if it would have made a difference even if I had let him win by pretending I didn't see that triple word score. Because the only thing he was interested in at the time were breasts. And I didn't have any."
Enjoying her tale, Finn tried to remember the last time he'd been amused by anything. Three years ago, he decided. Before Ronald Lawson had decided to take up a new hobby.
"He's probably eating his heart out now."
She laughed softly at that. "Actually, he moved to L.A. and became a plastic surgeon. He's very popular; a lot of the breasts you see in the movies are his."
"But not yours."
"No." She looked down at the front of her nineteenth-century gown. "If they'd only had Wonderbras when I was growing up, my entire life could have been different. Woodstock might have fallen madly in love with me, we might have gotten married, had children-—"
"And set up housekeeping on Sunnybrook Farm."
"You don't have to make fun of me. Just because you don't want marriage and a family."
How the hell did they get from shopping to Scrabble to talking about marriage again? "So what was this favor you wanted from me?"
"It's just a small one. Teensy, actually. My parents, like any loving, caring parents, are understandably interested in knowing more about the man they think I'm in love with."
"Love?" Finn blinked.
"Yes." Her chin popped up in that way he recognized all too well. "And you don't have to behave as if I'd just exposed you to plague. I didn't say I was in love with you. I merely said they believe I'm in love with you."
"Because of some tabloid piece of crap?"
"No. That would be ridiculous."
To Finn's mind, the fact he was even having this discussion was ridiculous.
"I suppose the picture didn't help," she allowed. "But it's mostly my mother's vibes."
"Vibes."
"Yes. My mother's an
intuitive." Her look dared him to challenge that remark.
"Okay."
"You're laughing."
"Do I look like I'm laughing?"
"No. But since nobody can possibly be as serious as you appear to be, I've decided that you must keep your laughter on the inside."
"How did you guess?" His tone was dry as dust, "It's dancing a happy jig right now with my inner child."
She crossed her arms beneath those breasts he thought were just about perfect. More than a handful was overkill, anyway. "I find it difficult to believe you even have an inner child. I have the feeling you were born thirty. And grim."
Well, that was certainly flattering. Finn was on the verge of being pissed, when he remembered that they'd he a lot better off if she didn't like him. That would prevent a repeat of that kiss he never should have allowed to happen.
"Nailed that one," he said mildly. "And for the record, I wasn't laughing about your mother. In fact, I've used psychics before in my investigations."
"You? Mr. Just-the-facts-ma'am Callahan?"
"I'll try whatever it takes to bring the bad guys to justice." So it sounded corny. It was the truth. "Some of the psychics have been obvious frauds, with others it's a toss-up whether they were right or just lucky. Then there's that third group who can't quite be defined, but seem to have something going for them. I'm willing to accept that your mother might fit into that third category. So, what did you tell them about me?"
"I told them the truth. That we're not in a romantic relationship."
"Then what's the problem? And what does all this have to do with your wanting to go shopping?"
"They didn't believe me."
Finn could see this one coming, like a bullet headed straight toward him in slow motion.
"So they're coming here," she said when he didn't respond.
"Here?" Everything inside him stilled. "To Blue Bayou?"
"Here," she confirmed. "To Blue Bayou. To meet you."
Jesus H. Christ. Finn knew his feelings about this little bombshell must have shown on his face when her tawny brows drew together.
"I realize that socializing with hippies is not exactly something you'd normally do—"
"Try never." He'd never bought into the concept of reincarnation, but if those mantra chanters really were on to something about making redemption for past sins, he must have been a real prick in his previous life.
She exhaled a long, frustrated breath that once again drew his eyes to her breasts. "Believe me, Callahan, when my father finds out you're an FBI agent, he's going to hit the roof. Which is why we're going to have to give you a makeover."
"A makeover?" Her words jerked him out of a fantasy of spreading whipped cream over that flesh revealed by the low neckline and taking a very long time to lick it off. Finn folded his arms. "Guys don't get makeovers."
"Of course they do. I've seen it on Oprah."
He rolled his eyes. "The woman could do an entire week around transvestites, but I still wouldn't put on panty hose and a dress."
"You really do have a rotten attitude." When she tossed her head, the sun streaming through the blinds of the trailer turned her hair to flame. "Look, why don't we just call this entire bodyguard thing off? It's not like those photographs were specific. I'll admit they had me a little unnerved, but when I think about it more clearly, I realize I'm undoubtedly just overreacting.
"So, why don't you just get back in that Suburban and go back to Washington? When my parents arrive, I'll tell them we broke up. Which they'd undoubtedly believe since I'm sure the idea of my getting involved with a cop, let alone an FBI agent, has never entered their realm of possibility."
Here's your out. Finn felt like a guy teetering on the edge of a pit of quicksand. One false move and he'd be stuck.
"My going back to D.C.'s not an option." He wasn't about to reveal why he couldn't return to work. Yet. Damn. "Look, I have clothes out at the camp I own with my brother. Why can't I just wear those?"
"Are they casual?"
"Even I don't fish in a suit."
"I have trouble picturing you fishing."
That made two of them. "I've got T-shirts. And jeans."
"Let me guess. The T-shirts have FBI lettering on them and the jeans are creased to a knife edge."
He couldn't believe he'd been forced into a situation where he had to defend his wardrobe. "I happen to work for the FBI—"
"A fact I'm attempting not to wave in my parents' faces. Besides, has it ever occurred to you that working for the FBI is what you do? Not who you are ?"
"No. It hasn't." He'd always defined himself by his work; Finn wasn't certain he could separate the man from the agent, which was a moot point since he didn't want to try. "As for the jeans, that's the way they come back from the cleaners."
She sighed dramatically. "Come on, Callahan. Be a sport. Don't tell me a big, strapping man like yourself is afraid of a little shopping trip. Or would you rather I just go into the city alone and pick up some things?"
Short of tying her up, he doubted he could keep her from doing exactly that. Not wanting to let her out of his sight, and afraid of what kind of clothes she might choose just for spite, with eyes wide open, he took that fatal step. "Let's just get it the hell over with."
As if never expecting any other outcome, she smiled. Not an Amanda hit-you-in-the-groin smile, but a quick, pleased Julia one that aimed directly at the heart. As it hit the bull's-eye, Finn imagined the huge sucking sound he heard was the quicksand closing in around him.
Chapter 17
Since there was no way he was going to let her drag him around like a trained pup in his own hometown, after the shooting wrapped up for the day, and she'd changed into a short denim skirt and a striped knit top that left one shoulder bare in a way that made him want to bite it, Finn drove them to the city.
"I adore New Orleans," she said as the lights of the skyline grew closer. "The food, the music, the atmosphere—"
"We're not here to play tourist," he warned as they crossed the Mississippi.
"Spoilsport."
"I believe we've already determined that. And for the record, it's one of the things I do best. So, here's the plan. We're going to go into the store, snag what we need, and get the hell out and back to Blue Bayou."
"Whatever you say." Lord, he could be bossy. Along with a whole new sartorial look, they were going to have to work on his attitude. Because right now the coiled, controlled male energy radiating from him just screamed FBI. "Of course, your ordeal will be over far more quickly if you promise not to argue about every little thing I pick out."
Seconds passed. He was looking straight ahead and for a moment she thought he hadn't heard her over the Van Halen screeching from the speakers.
"You're not going to try to put me in a Grateful Dead T-shirt are you?"
"Of course not. Unless you're prepared to discuss the significance of their concert posters on the seventies pop art scene."
His sideways stare set her straight on that.
"I didn't think so," she said. She'd never met a more unlikely Deadhead. Though the pounding seventies metal rock hinted at possibilities. She would have pegged him more as a Sinatra guy.
"There is no way I'm going to let you dress me up like some throwback from Haight-Ashbury. I'm willing to make some concessions to the situation, but the clothes have to be conservative."
"Absolutely."
"And regular guy sneaks. None of those sissy Birkenstocks."
"I wouldn't think of it."
"Okay." He nodded, apparently satisfied.
"And I'd suggest you not mention to my father you think Birkenstocks are for sissies. You may consider him a throwback to the sixties, but even those critics who don't like his art have always raved about the primal male power of his work."
"Believe me, if there's one thing I have no intention of discussing with your father, it's primal male instincts."
"Good." It was her turn to nod.
With his a
ttention turned back to his driving, Finn missed seeing Julia's lips curve in a faint smile of anticipation.
His internal radar went off the scale as they entered the trendy boutique in the lobby of the five star hotel she'd had him drive to on Canal Street. When she plucked a shirt from a rack, Finn decided the time had come to stand his ground.
"No way."
"You said you wanted something conservative."
"The frigging shirt is pink!" he hissed. How conservative was that?
"Actually, it's Tropical Rose," the saleswoman, a sleek blond forty-something said. "A preppy favorite."
"It's lovely," Julia said. The smile she bestowed upon the woman suggested What can you expect from an uncivilized barbarian? "But not quite what we're looking for."
She held a polo shirt up against Finn's chest. "Oh, I like this one."
"Good choice." The woman nodded. "Bastille Purple. It's one of our more popular colors this season." Finn had the feeling it was the same thing she'd say whatever a prospective customer selected.
"I can see why," Julia said. "It's very attractive. A bit like crushed merlot grapes. And the name is so evocative, don't you think?" she asked Finn.
"Oh yeah, Bastille has a real nice ring to it. If you like thinking about filthy mobs and public beheadings."
"Don't be sarcastic. Come over to a mirror and see how well the deep color contrasts with your eyes. Perhaps if you were to just try it on . . ."
The speculative look in Julia's gaze was almost as terrifying as the idea of showing up in Blue Bayou in a preppy pink or purple polo shirt. Finn grabbed her elbow and dragged her behind a nearby display of mannequins that looked as if they were posing for a GQ cover. "There is no way in hell I'm wearing anything on that rack."
"I thought we had an agreement."
"Our agreement was for you to pick out something conservative."
"I doubt if there's a more conservative store in all of New Orleans. Why, I have it on good authority that Republicans love these shirts."
"I find it hard to believe you even know a Republican."
"I know you."
"Apparently you didn't inherit your mother's intuitive talents. I'm an Independent." He folded his arms across the white dress shirt that had always suited him just fine.
