Strip You Bare

by Maisey Yates

  She walked back into the mansion, feeling somehow different about it now. Feeling like she really was a guest, rather than the lady of the manor. She hated that he’d made her feel that way. That he’d turned her over his shoulder and turned her whole world upside down along with it.

  She stood in the grand entryway, looked up at the chandelier that was thick with dust and cobwebs. She had vague memories of the place back when it had been maintained by the family. She’d been a little girl, and it had been kept fully staffed, constantly clean, for use of the family, guests, and parties.

  The Christmas parties her mother had thrown had been legendary. But all that had been demolished by Katrina, washed away, the same as her father had been.

  She’d wanted to recapture that, but now she was wondering if the cost was too high.

  She turned and looked back at the man still standing in the doorway of what had once been her family home. No, he would love it if she gave up. He would love it if she left. He didn’t want to be here any more than she wanted him here. And if her only recourse was to make his life a living hell, then she would do it. She would throw the grandest, most incredible Christmas party on record.

  And she would make him help.

  Chapter 4

  Micah hung back while Sarah dealt with the contractors, and then the cleaning crew. He was feeling pretty pissed about the state of things. She’d realized that he wasn’t here by choice. Had begun to understand that he wasn’t acting of his own accord, and she was taking full advantage. Ajax had told him to keep tabs on her, and now he had to.

  She’d been sashaying around the manor all morning, her sweet little ass outlined to perfection by that tight, prissy dress she was wearing. He shouldn’t have thrown her over his shoulder and carried her outside. That was a throwback to the man he’d been. That was not how he dealt with women, not now.

  But it was a lot more than suffering a case of enlightened male guilt. Truth be told, no matter how much he altered his actions to fit in with his new life, he didn’t consider himself all that enlightened. No, it wasn’t the guilt so much as the fact that now he’d had his hands on her, he couldn’t stop thinking about getting them on her again.

  Normally, if he wanted a woman he went for it. But Ajax had told him not to go there. More than respect for Ajax, though, was the fact that he needed to see this task finished, and allowing any distractions to get in the way would only extend his stay in blue-blood purgatory.

  He was staying focused. He was going to find out exactly what the Delacroix connection was, and if it was relevant to figuring out who had killed Priest. He was not going to waste valuable time screwing a chick who was probably too uptight to come.

  “Okay, now that that’s finished, we need to take a little turn around the Quarter.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Aren’t you babysitting me?” she asked, her lips curved upward into a smile that looked sweet as candy but was poison underneath. “I have some odds and ends I need to go look at. I want everything in the Christmas party to have come from the Quarter. I want to benefit local businesses, and give it authentic French Quarter flavor. That means I have some scouting to do. A list to make. And since this is your territory . . .”

  “Let’s get one thing straight. I might have to stick with you, I might be assigned to your protection. But I’m not your limo driver or your manservant.”

  “Petty details,” she said, waving a hand. “I never trouble my pretty little head with such things.” That tongue could cut glass. He’d love to have it slide over his dick, but he had a feeling it would flay him. “Doesn’t really matter since you have to stay with me.”

  “You get off on that?”

  Faint color stained her cheeks and he had to admit that he got off on that. Even though he’d done a lot to tone himself down since leaving the MC, the fact remained: He was a dirty bastard who liked dirty sex. But he gravitated toward women who were into the same stuff he was. A blushing beauty was a rarity. He shouldn’t find it interesting. He definitely shouldn’t think it was hot. Thawing out the ice princess wasn’t part of his goal. He had to figure this shit out so he could be on his way. If pressing her up against the wall and demanding answers could possibly get him any information, he would do that. But he had a strong suspicion that she had no idea what her family’s connection to the Deacons was.

  According to Leon, she probably didn’t even know her cousin was in the club. Unsurprising. Families like hers pruned the dead limbs off their trees judiciously.

  Not that it worked much differently in the MC.

  But whether or not Sarah knew anything, he was certain that there were people in her peripheral who did. That was why he needed to stay with her. And just in case she had some personal knowledge, he needed to be around. It was entirely possible that she knew things without realizing it. Without realizing the significance of the information she carried with her.

  Her family was clearly connected to the MC. Clearly owed the MC a debt of some kind. A rich, well-established southern family would not have accidental ties to a criminal organization. No way.

  As much as he hated to acknowledge that Ajax was right, the fucker was.

  “I don’t get off on anything concerning you.” Her voice was stiff, so damn prissy, each syllable was like a crystal figurine begging to be shattered.

  “Do you want to test that theory?”

  “It’s not a theory. It’s just a fact. As is the fact that you are walking with me to Royal Street now.” She lifted her chin, turning sharply on her heel and walking quickly back toward the front of the old mansion.

  “You trust the workers here?”

  She paused, turning to face him, one dark brow raised, her hand planted firmly on the pleasing curve of her hip. “No one dares cross the Delacroix.”

  “Oh, because then they’ll never work in this town again? It’s a little bit like that with the Deacons. Except if you cross us you don’t usually breathe in this town again.”

  “Scary.” She pressed on and back out into the heat. The air wrapped itself around his body like a blanket and, not for the first time, he missed the sharp, salty air of the Bay Area. New Orleans didn’t just get in your blood, it rested on your skin. It got into your lungs, strangling you. He’d barely survived the first time.

  Though if New Orleans killed him, he doubted it would be by shopping on Royal Street.

  Of course, it was possible he would be buried alive in mermaid knickknacks and hideous blue fucking dog paintings.

  New Orleans was its own culture, buried in the southern United States. He hadn’t fully appreciated that until he left. There were things here that didn’t translate anywhere else. And within that, there were things in the MC lifestyle that were foreign outside of it. Micah’s whole life in New Orleans had been weird shit wrapped in more weird shit. Being back was a reminder of that.

  Sarah floated over the sidewalks, giving seemingly no thought to the cracks in the concrete or the fact that her shoes were perfect little ankle breakers. Of course, she was a Delacroix. She probably thought nothing in New Orleans dared slow her down, not even the sidewalks. It appeared she was right.

  “Don’t you have people to do this sort of thing for you?” he asked, knowing it would make her angry.

  “I’m not sure exactly what sort of lifestyle you think I have. I live in an apartment. I don’t have a single servant to my name.”

  “You grew up with them.”

  “Yes,” she said, her tone clipped. “I did.”

  “So I’m not that far off.”

  “Even if I had servants on hand right now, I would not send them shopping for me. I enjoy it far too much. It could be a long day.”

  He chuckled, allowing himself a moment to enjoy the view of her perfectly rounded backside. Yeah, he was itching to push her against a wall all night, but it wasn’t to get secrets. It was to get something else entirely.

  “Don’t think for one second I won’t throw you over my shou
lder and carry you straight back to the house.”

  She stopped and turned. “We are in public.”

  He chuckled. “You think I care?”

  “There are people.” She waved her hand as if to indicate the workers, shopkeepers, and general foot traffic milling around them.

  “And that matters to me, why?”

  “Police,” she said, practically sputtering.

  “I don’t think you understand. When I said this was Deacons territory, I meant it.”

  “You’re telling me that a motorcycle gang runs the French Quarter?”

  “It’s not a gang. It’s a club. And yes, I am. I think you have a fundamental misunderstanding of what it means to be part of a motorcycle club. We have agreements with the law enforcement around here, Ms. Delacroix.”

  “That isn’t how things work,” she said, her expression comically blank.

  “I’d hazard a guess that you’ve never had to tangle with law enforcement in your life. You can rest easy in your comfortable apartment in the knowledge that everything runs the way you think it should. But you’ve never experienced the real world, have you? It isn’t like the movies. Or maybe, it’s more like the movies than you think.”

  “You’re overestimating your importance.”

  “And you’re looking at things through diamond-cut glasses, Ms. Delacroix.”

  She cocked her head to the side, her lips pursed. “Do you think? I suspect what we have here is a case of Napoleon complex.” Her eyes swept him up and down, took in his height. “Though, obviously in this case it’s in your pants.”

  She turned, clearly satisfied that she had landed a fatal blow.

  Unhappily for her, it wasn’t actually fatal. And he didn’t allow little rich bitches to get the parting shot. He took two long strides, catching up with her, reaching out and wrapping his hand around her wrist, drawing her close to him. “Is that what you think?” Her dark eyes were wide, rosy lips slack. He had succeeded in shocking her. More than. He guided her hand down below his belt, placing it over his cock. “I’m going to give you a chance to revise that position.”

  She was frozen for a few seconds, and he wasn’t unaffected by her touch. His stomach tightened, his blood rushing south. He was getting hard underneath her palm, and if he were standing on a street in San Francisco, he would have the decency to feel ashamed of himself. But New Orleans was all around him, all over his skin, and he couldn’t remember much about the man he’d become in the ten years since he’d left it behind.

  This city was under his skin. And at the moment he didn’t even want to fight against it.

  Sarah stumbled backward, and this time the street had bite. Her heel sank deep into one of the cracks and Micah lurched forward, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her up against him.

  She gasped, pressing her breasts tightly against his chest.

  He spread his hand wide, relishing the feel of the soft material of her clothes beneath his palm. That was one thing he liked about rich girls. Soft all over. He moved his hands down, over the curve of her ass, cupping her, pressing her harder against him, harder against his dick.

  Then she gasped—gasped like an offended virgin—and wiggled away from him, her dark eyes wide.

  “Would it be possible for us to finish the day without further manhandling?”

  “I don’t know, that’s up to you, sweetheart.”

  “I didn’t choose to be manhandled. Don’t act like I had any say in it.”

  “You’re going to walk into a tiger’s cage and act surprised when you find out he wants to eat you? I think you’re smarter than that, Sarah.”

  “And I thought you were . . .”

  “Civilized? Decent? Again, you aren’t paying attention to a thing I’ve said to you. I’m neither of those things.”

  She snorted and turned away. “What’s with the suit?” She continued walking, and he continued on after her. But now, it wasn’t the thick New Orleans air making the biggest impression on his body. It was the press of hers, the lingering impression of those lush, firm breasts against his chest.

  “I’m a businessman.”

  “You count beans in your little den of iniquity?”

  “Den of iniquity? I haven’t heard anything quite that prissy since my grandmother. Though, now that you mention it, it is a little bit dark in the Priory. Iniquities do occur.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Because I don’t have to. Although, if you’re really curious, I’m a businessman.”

  “Then what are you doing here ground pounding for a motorcycle club? And putting your hands all over me in broad daylight?”

  “Easy. I put my hands all over you because I wanted to. I’m back here because I have a debt to pay to the Deacons. You’re never really clear once you’re a full patch member. Not really. I have the ink on my back to prove that. But once I’m done here, I can go back home.”

  “I see,” she said, her tone cutting. “And where is it you call home? A badger den?”

  “San Francisco.”

  She laughed. “Well, now that surprises me. Shouldn’t you be wearing man sandals and something made of hemp?”

  “If so, I missed the welcome package upon arrival.”

  She stopped in front of the shop with the NoLa Royale emblazoned on the sign, then breezed inside without waiting for him. He crossed his arms over his chest and followed her in, the little bell above the door that signaled their entry sending a current of annoyance down his spine.

  “Good morning, Ms. Delacroix.” The round, gray-haired proprietor smiled at Sarah, his red face getting even redder as he rounded the counter and extended his hand, taking hers and dropping a kiss on the back of it. “How you been, baby?”

  “Just fine, David,” she said, warmth in her tone he had never yet heard when she’d spoken to him.

  “Is there something I can help you with today?”

  “I want to buy Christmas tree decorations,” she said.

  “I see. Well, I have those. Who’s your friend?” He eyeballed Micah with no small amount of suspicion. As if Micah was going to grab the nearest wooden mime and wield it like a crowbar, destroying all of the worthless knickknacks that were placed floor-to-ceiling in the place.

  It was an obsessive-compulsive’s nightmare. Pirate-themed items draped in Mardi Gras beads next to sugar skulls and mermaids. All clashing colors blending together so that you could barely distinguish between all the fussy little items. Too much glitter, too many rhinestones.

  New Orleans, contained inside one small building.

  “He’s my bodyguard,” she said, her tone airy, dismissive. As though she had relegated him to the position of furniture, and he was to be either ignored or sat upon.

  “Bodyguard? Anything happen I should know about?”

  “Oh, no. It’s just I’ve been renovating the Delacroix mansion here in town, and I intend to have a Christmas party. And you know, my grandfather gets so paranoid about me being alone in the Quarter. He about had a conniption when I decided to rent an apartment here.”

  “Just looking out for you is all,” David said. “Your grandfather’s a good man.”

  “Yes,” she said, a tone in her voice he couldn’t quite translate. “He is.”

  “Do you want me to bring some things to you or do you want to look around?”

  “Oh,” she said, her tone wicked now, “I’m happy to browse. I have all day.”

  David nodded and then bent down, picking up a box of shoes that had been on the floor, obviously left over from some customers who had been in previously. “I’m going to go sort some things in the back, take your time. Ring the bell if you need anything.”

  “You’re a regular,” Micah said when David had receded into the back.

  “Really? That’s what we are going to lead with? I assumed you would have commentary on me calling you my bodyguard.”

  “Oh, I have plenty of commentary on that, sweetheart.”

  �
��Only kindly old southern gentlemen are allowed to throw pet names around that liberally.”

  “I’ll call you what I want. I don’t work for you. I won’t correct what you told your friend here, but don’t you forget what’s really happening.”

  She began to make a slow circle of the perimeter of the store, her hand raised, index finger extended as though she were ready to grab any item that caught her attention. “What is happening? I’m curious. Because you’ve thrown me over your shoulder, put my hand on your person without my permission, and told me you intend to stay close to me for the next month while I plan this party. So I think I have a right to know what’s happening here.”

  He weighed whether or not he should tell her anything. Then decided there was really no harm.

  “You didn’t know that your family no longer owned the mansion?” he asked, needing to confirm what she’d already said.

  “No. And please don’t say it while out in public.”

  “We don’t know why we have the mansion. And we need to know.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “No, I suppose it doesn’t. But our club president was killed about a month and a half ago and we’re looking for answers. That means we’re looking at anything that seems out of the ordinary.”

  “And I imagine outlaw bikers don’t call the police.”

  “They might be willing to look the other way while we go about our business, but they aren’t exactly going to drop everything and help us.”

  “Maybe you should do a little community service. Endear yourselves a bit.”

  “Not interested,” he said, leaning against the edge of one of the built-in shelves. “I’m only interested in making sure there’s nothing suspicious surrounding the acquisition of your lovely family home.”

  She stared fixedly ahead, her eyes on the knickknacks in front of her. “I’m sure there isn’t. Look, my father is dead. He died during Katrina. I’ve long been suspicious of why he was down here in the Quarter during a storm. I—it’s either whores or it’s drugs, right? Gambling?” She turned to look at him. “It’s something. This is the French Quarter—you don’t come down here at night to drink sweet tea and preach a sermon.”