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

by Nina Bruhns

  She hung up, and he let out a strangled sigh of relief, but it turned into a disappointed groan when she walked into the bathroom for her shower without unzipping her dress as usual.

  Just as well. The last thing he needed was more fodder for his fertile imagination. As he waited for her to emerge and dinner to arrive, he tried to put together the pieces of the puzzle Muse was creating for him. He'd been so sure he would find something when he'd searched her briefcase that afternoon.

  She'd stopped at a nearby restaurant for lunch and he'd slipped back to her apartment, where she'd dropped the briefcase off earlier, to take a peek at the contents. But it had contained only a few files and a dry-cleaning stub, nothing interesting or relevant to Gary Fox or Luke's murder, and nothing that shed any light on her odd behavior that afternoon.

  If she'd been asking the store clerks about a specific person, or information, he could have understood it. But when he'd shown his badge to them and asked what she'd wanted, they'd all denied she'd asked about anything in particular, just talked in generalities about the last time she'd been in, who was with her, what she'd bought, who'd paid for it.

  If he didn't know better, he'd think she was investigating herself.

  He shook his head at the crazy idea and grabbed his phone when she came out of the bathroom wrapped in a shiny robe. She went to the dresser and poked through those tantalizing sheer and filmy night things. It was just too tempting to pass up.

  "Red one's got my vote," he said when she picked up the phone. He could see her frown at the red scrap of lace dangling from her fingers, then she spun and searched his balcony, spearing him with a wicked glare when she spotted him sitting there. He lifted his glass and saluted her with a grin.

  "In your dreams, Levalois," she muttered into the phone.

  "Ah, non, that was the black one. I remember distinctly."

  Her jaw dropped, then snapped shut. "I'm hanging up now."

  "No, wait!" He got to his feet and leaned against the balcony railing. "You've got to be hungry."

  Even from ten feet away he could see her eyes narrow. "What makes you say that?"

  "You haven't eaten supper."

  She hadn't stopped after her long walk through the Quarter, which had frustrated him to no end. This time he'd planned to crash her solitary meal and use the opportunity to pump her for information.

  "Were you following me all day?" she demanded.

  "Mais, non." He took a sip of bourbon. He wasn't lying. Not technically. After he'd tailed her to work that morning, he'd gone by the Eighth District station to check in with a friend who was keeping an ear to the ground for him. And then there was that half hour in the afternoon when he'd broken into her apartment. "Now, why don' you put on that red thing and come on out and eat supper with me?"

  "I am pushing the off button."

  The line went dead. He chuckled and hit Redial.

  "You may as well answer it," he called over to where she stood glowering just inside the French doors. Dieu, she was cute. "Or I'll just yell from here so the whole Quarter can listen to our conversation."

  She put the phone back to her ear. "What." It was more of a demand than a question, gritted out from between clenched teeth.

  He switched tactics. "It's by way of an apology," he soothed, "for my behavior this morning." He left any kind of adjective describing his behavior to her discretion. Best that way, he figured.

  He could see he'd caught her by surprise. He pressed his advantage. "You sit and eat on your balcony, I'll stay on mine. We can talk on the phone. What could be safer?" Before she could respond, his door buzzed. "The delivery's here. What do you like, jambalaya or étouffée?"

  "Creole—"

  "I'm not on the menu for dinner, jolie. Though maybe you could talk me into bein' dessert… Hold on."

  He put down the phone, paid the delivery boy and directed him as to which bags he should take across the courtyard. He risked a glance at Muse before picking up the phone again. She was still standing in the French doors, clutching her robe and looking mighty indecisive. Uh-oh. Time for a little smooth talkin'.

  "You got the crawfish étouffée. And there's gumbo, of course. Plus I sent along a half bottle of wine, in case you don' have any handy. Answer the door, chère, he's knocking. Don' worry, I tipped him well."

  For a moment he thought she might refuse, but then she turned and padded to her door, accepted the bags and returned to the French doors. "This is very nice of you," she said softly into the phone. "I have to admit I am starved."

  "Come on out an' eat, then," he urged, before she could change her mind. "Talk to me."

  Grace reached up and touched her hair self-consciously. It was still wet from being washed, creating spots of moisture on the silk of her robe where it cascaded over her shoulders. She must look like a drowned rat.

  "I should change and dry my hair."

  "Non. Vien. Come. Before the gumbo gets cold."

  She couldn't believe she'd actually consented to this madness. At least, she thought she had. She couldn't exactly remember agreeing, but she must have done. Maybe while her stomach was doing flip-flops at the sight of his broad chest in that snug T-shirt, or while her brain was spinning from the sound of his gravelly voice telling her he'd been dreaming of her in Muse's scandalous lingerie.

  She fetched silverware and a glass, then stretched out on her lounge chair on the balcony. She peeked into one of the bags. "I'm ashamed to admit this, but after two years in New Orleans I still get étouffée and jambalaya mixed up. Which one's the étouffée again?"

  "Rice with crawfish and vegetables over it, and spices, of course."

  "And jambalaya's kind of similar, but has red rice, right?"

  "Right. Because it's Creole, and most anything Creole has a tomato base."

  She looked up, a smile playing with the corners of her mouth. "Does that mean you have a tomato base, too?"

  She could see that disreputable grin winking back at her. He was lounging on a metal bistro chair on his balcony, bare feet propped up on the railing, eating gumbo from a striped carton. "Guess you'll have to taste me to find out."

  "You saucy thing." She laughed, able to relax since he was safely on the other side of two iron railings and a leg-breaking drop. "How did you get that name, anyway?"

  There was a long pause as she watched him slowly put down the carton and take a long sip from his glass. One-handed, he refilled it before setting it aside and picking up the carton again. When he spoke, his voice sent an Arctic chill crackling across the distance. "Where I grew up, people didn' think much of Cajuns or of blacks. They thought they were insultin' me by calling me a Creole, which they took to mean a French-speaking black person."

  The topic obviously brought up bad memories for him. But she'd never been too clear about the distinction between Cajun and Creole, which as an outsider seemed to have somewhat fluid definitions. So she risked continuing. "That's not what it means?"

  His broad shoulder lifted in the shadows. "Depends."

  "On what?"

  He cradled the phone between his shoulder and his ear, tipping his head to hold it in place as he ate. "Look, are you really interested in this, or are you just tryin' to distract me from other subjects?"

  "Such as?"

  "Such as why you never wear any of those sheer sexy things you have in that drawer."

  "Both," she answered, almost choking on a spoonful of gumbo. "But seriously, I'd like to learn the correct definition."

  His low chuckle resonated through the small courtyard, dispelling the earlier chill. "Fair enough. Well, in English it can mean a black French-speaker. But the original meaning was a European person born in a European colony."

  "Of which Louisiana was one." The confusion started making sense.

  "Exactly. But today, a Cajun speakin' French, he say Creole, he means Cajun."

  Maybe not. "You're saying it means different things if you're speaking French or English?"

  "You got it. Now, about
those sexy things—"

  "Forget it, Creole," she interrupted before he could get any farther. She finished off the gumbo and picked up her wine. "Let's talk about you."

  "Let's not."

  "For instance, let's talk about why you've been watching me."

  "Honey, a man don' need a reason to watch une jolie femme—a beautiful woman."

  The way he said jolie femme in that smoky accent sent tremors fluttering down her insides. Oh, he was good. She took a gulp of wine and tightened the sash on her robe.

  "You're evading the question. I want a straight answer, and it better be good, or I really will call the police."

  The phone went quiet, and she could see him lean back in his chair and regard her, considering her ultimatum. That alone made her pulse kick up. He had to have something to do with Muse's disappearance. Otherwise what was there to think about? A man on the make wouldn't need to think about it, he would just spout some empty flattery and a pickup line.

  "Well?" she demanded, impatient for the information he could give her.

  "Bien. I'll tell you. I'm looking for your boyfriend."

  "Boyfriend?" For a moment she was so confused she could only gape at his unsmiling visage, staring back at her from the darkness of his balcony. Whatever she had expected, this wasn't it. "What boyfriend?"

  He picked up his glass and twirled it, the ice tinkling in incongruous merriment. "So many I need to be more specific, eh? Guess I should have known."

  The venom in the unexpected insult—in his whole utterance really—made her breath catch. "Listen, you—"

  "Gary Fox. That's who I'm after."

  No way she was getting into a debate over Muse's love life. She pushed aside the insult and centered on the facts. "Gary Fox? Why?"

  "Unfinished business."

  Her chin notched up. "So it has nothing to do with me?"

  "Non."

  That knowledge stung. More than she cared to admit. "Why follow me? Why not him?"

  "He's dropped out of sight. But I figure he'll come around to see his lady love sooner or later."

  So, Creole wasn't attracted to her at all. He'd just been using his charms on her so she'd help him find Fox. Anger swamped over her, shoving aside the irrational hurt that had sneaked past her defenses. What had she expected? She knew well and good what kind of man he was.

  "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I am not Gary Fox's lady love. You can watch from here until doomsday but he won't come around."

  Creole's feet came off the rail and slammed to the balcony floor. "What are you saying?"

  "I'm saying you've wasted your time and this lovely supper. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

  "I haven't— Don't be—"

  "Good night." She hung up the phone with a satisfying click and swept up the dinner things from the table, thoroughly disgusted with herself and her weakness for handsome, silver-tongued men.

  "Hey!"

  Ignoring him, she turned to stalk through the French doors. Instantly the phone rang in her hand.

  "Answer it, chère," he called from his balcony.

  "I have nothing to say to you." She hurried inside.

  He bellowed after her, "Answer the damn phone, Muse!"

  At his use of her sister's name, Grace froze.

  What in heaven's name was she doing? Creole was after the very man she suspected of causing Muse's disappearance, and here she was acting like a sulking teenager just because he'd admitted he wasn't interested in her. She closed her eyes and counted to ten.

  It was good he wasn't interested in her, because under no circumstances was she interested in him. Hadn't she assured herself of that a dozen times since this morning? The only thing she was interested in was finding her sister. And as much as it rankled, Creole Levalois might be able to help her. She owed it to Muse to use him just as he was using her.

  She swallowed her pride and put the phone back to her ear. "What do you want?"

  Creole exhaled when Muse turned defiantly in the doorway and waited for his answer. He knew enough about women to know he'd said the wrong thing. Women never cared much for hearing the truth. But he'd heard too many lies to be able to tell them comfortably himself, so he avoided it whenever possible, even in his profession. His following her didn't have anything to do with her personally. It was all about finding Luke's killer. Nothing else.

  Before he could ponder the hazards of lying to oneself, he decided to come completely clean. If she really had broken with Fox, he'd need her help more than ever to run the bastard down.

  He tried for an authoritative tone. "I know you didn' believe me when I said I was a cop. But I am. I'm Detective Auri Levalois, out of the First District. Call and check if you want."

  "Auri? I thought you said your name was Creole."

  "They call me Creole, but it's really Auri. A-U-R-I."

  "So what does all this have to do with me, Detective A-U-R-I Levalois?"

  "I need your help."

  She took a step back onto the balcony, a frown of suspicion creasing her brow. "What kind of help?"

  "It's imperative I locate Fox. I've looked everywhere I can think of. I'm betting you know other places he could be hiding. Would you be willing to help me find him?"

  She took another step forward, and he moved to the rail of his own balcony, closing the distance between them as much as he could. She halted. "Are you going to arrest him?"

  He planned to kill the bastard. Slow and painful, just like they'd made Luke suffer. But not before Fox had led him to his boss, James Davies. "No," he answered.

  She seemed to consider this. "Are you sure you aren't going to arrest him?"

  Something in the way she said it made him think she might welcome that outcome. Interesting. He'd have to probe that a little, at a more appropriate time.

  "There might be an outstanding warrant buried somewhere in his file," he said noncommittally.

  She approached the rail of her balcony and nodded. "All right. But I have to warn you, I doubt if I know anything that will help."

  Since they stood close enough to hear unaided, he put his phone down on the small table next to him, and she did the same with hers.

  Their eyes met. The night breeze twined around them, stirring the hanging plants and the long tendrils of her hair. A drop of sweat trickled down her chest, glistening in the lamplight, to disappear beneath the front of her robe. Her lips parted slightly. Even though they stood on unconnected balconies, only a few feet separated them from each other. If he reached out and she met him halfway, they could touch fingertips. He didn't move.

  Instead, he watched her, momentarily captured in a surreal vignette of fascination and tantalizing unobtainability.

  "I'll take what I can get," he finally murmured.

  "I want something in exchange," she said, jarring him out of his trance.

  "What's that?" he asked, wondering if she felt it, too. More fantasyland.

  From the table she lifted her abandoned glass of soda. "Ice."

  "Ice?"

  She took a sip, grimaced and lifted the glass in his direction. "Got an extra ice tray?"

  He blinked, suddenly remembering this afternoon's bit of mischief. She'd played right into his hands. Except now he had no reason to go over there bearing a bucket of ice. He'd already searched her briefcase and had also revealed to her who he really was. Getting any closer to this woman was unnecessary. Unnecessary and foolish—considering how badly she'd already managed to distract him from his true purpose in watching her.

  At this point the only motivation for going to her apartment would be purely personal.

  To get his hands on her.

  Bad idea.

  Really bad idea.

  "Hang on. I'll be over in a minute," he blurted out, and headed for the kitchen, his hands already itching.

  Chapter 4

  Panic zinged around Grace's body like a crazy pinball as she watched Creole stride across the courtyard carrying a bag filled with ice.

  Sh
e hadn't meant for him to come over. She'd just wanted him to toss her an ice tray from the balcony. But when she'd called over to make it clear, he'd pretended not to hear. She wrung her hands, listening to his footsteps resolutely ascend the stairs.

  The loud knock on the door made her jump. Oh, dear. Under no circumstances would she let him inside.

  She opened the door, blocking it as best she could, and took the bag of ice he held out. "Creole—"

  "Close the door," he interrupted before she could say another word. He was still standing outside.

  "Wha—?"

  "Close the door," he repeated. "And lock it."

  Rather stunned by her good fortune but not willing to question it, she hastily complied. "Thanks for the ice," she shouted through the solid wood. There was a note of giddy reprieve in the giggle that escaped her as she turned to the fridge. "Saved," she murmured in a rushed breath of relief.

  "From what, chère?" asked a gravelly voice directly behind her. "Or should I say, from whom?"

  She squealed and spun. "You! How did you get—?"

  "In?" Creole dangled a credit card between two fingers and leaned his hip against the door—which was now firmly shut behind him, she noted to her dismay.

  "I want you to get a new lock installed tomorrow," he said, and slid the card into his jeans pocket. "A dead bolt. This so-called lock is a joke."

  Grace swallowed, tearing her gaze from his well-fitting jeans and back up to his black eyes.

  "It wouldn' stop a determined squirrel. Or a fox," he added silkily.

  Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Not past the tightness that suddenly gripped her throat at his overwhelming male presence filling her kitchen.

  "Anything could happen," he said, pushing off the door. Her eyes widened as he closed in on her, but she couldn't move to save her life, stuck in the silken mesh of his provocative, low-spoken words. "I could be anyone. Anyone at all." He reached out and touched her jaw. She quivered at his light touch on her skin. "Scared?"

  "Of course not," she managed to squeak past her trembling lips. "You're a cop. You wouldn't—" She stopped abruptly when she couldn't decide what she dreaded most he'd do to her. All her fears from the previous night swamped over her. And the excitement. "You'd never—"