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

by Nina Bruhns

  One perfect black brow rose. "Are you certain?"

  No, she wasn't certain at all. Never wasn't in the vocabulary of a man like Creole Levalois. She backed up a step, gripping the bag of ice against her chest in an ineffectual attempt to cool her raging blood and still the tremors that shot clean through her body. She took another step back. And another.

  "I never showed you my badge, did I?"

  He pursued her, step for step, slowly closing the distance by virtue of his greater size. His long legs ate up the space effortlessly, bringing him to within a hairbreadth of her. "Did I?" he repeated, more insistently.

  "No," she reluctantly agreed. Her backside hit the counter.

  "Like I said, I could be anyone," he murmured, and eased the bag from her clutching fingers. He set it on the counter, crowding her against the hard tile. "A killer, a thief … a rapist," he suggested in a rough whisper.

  "Don't be ridiculous." Her knees shook so much she had to clutch the front of his T-shirt for support. "You brought me ice. A rapist wouldn't have brought ice."

  The statement was absurd but all she could think of to refute his deliberate provocation. He was no rapist, and they both knew it. He might take her body, steal her heart and kill her with misery when he left her, but it would not be because of a faulty lock or a criminal personality. It would be because she wanted him so badly she didn't have the good sense to say no to the man.

  "Okay, then, a kinky rapist."

  Her breath caught.

  His eyes glittered as he broke the seal on the bag and grasped a large ice cube, never letting her move. He had her trapped between his tall, powerful body and the solid barrier of the kitchen counter. She could feel his muscles ripple as he pressed against her—the sculpted wall of his chest, the iron-hard thighs as they tangled with hers. Slowly the strength to resist drained from her limbs, leaving them weak and leaden against his boldness.

  "K-kinky?" she stammered, dropping her gaze to his hand, too curious for her own good.

  "Mmm-hmm." As she watched in shocked fascination, he touched the ice to the exposed valley between her breasts, right where the vee of her robe met. She shivered uncontrollably. He trailed the cube leisurely across her chest, up the column of her throat to her chin and skimmed it over her lips. Heavy-lidded, he met her gaze, brought the ice to his own mouth and slid it in.

  A groan whispered from her throat. A low, needy answer to the primitive dance he was performing.

  Creole needed no other invitation. He seized her face between his hands and crushed his lips down on hers. They felt like flames against his own ice-chilled mouth. His thumbs tugged down on her chin and she opened for him, hot and molten like a volcano offering its essence. He took it, thrusting his tongue and what was left of the ice cube into her mouth. Again she groaned.

  "Ah, chère."

  He wanted her. Mon Dieu, he craved to sample her like some addictive drug he'd gotten a brief, tantalizing taste of. He needed more. Much more. To test the potency of the high she'd give him.

  Mais, non. He didn't do drugs or addictions. He'd always been able to resist before.

  But the pull of this woman was too great.

  The ice evaporated in the conflagration of their tongues. He grappled for another cube and tore away long enough to feed it to the fire. He held her head, and they passed the ice between their mouths. Back and forth, in and out, until it, too, dissolved in the intense heat.

  Her fingers clutched his shoulders. He swept his hands down her arms, her hips, tugged at the thin silk belt that was the only thing standing between him and paradise.

  She stirred, and offered a soft protest, pushing weakly at his wrist. "Please, no."

  He grasped her hand. "What's wrong, chère?"

  She looked up at him, her eyes round and liquid, her face flushed with desire. "I can't. I'm sorry. I just—" she licked her lips, swollen and wet from his kisses "—can't."

  "Why? I thought—" The plea came out more as a whine and he cut it off in annoyance. No matter what life had thrown at him, never once had he whined. He wasn't about to start now.

  She slipped from his grasp and moved away from the counter, stopping just out of reach. Frustration had him jamming his hands in his pockets.

  "It's my fault. I shouldn't have let it get this far," she said, crossing her arms over her breasts.

  "It's Fox," he stated, more to himself than her. "You're still in love with him."

  "No. God, no. I was never—"

  "Then, what? Mon Dieu, woman, we practically ignite just looking at each other!"

  She dropped her gaze to her bare toes, toying with the curled-up edge of a linoleum tile. "Yes, I know." She squeezed her eyes shut. "But, well, I should tell you … I'm not… That is, I'm involved with…"

  "Another man?" he impatiently completed her sentence when it trailed off. Not that he believed it.

  "No, it's—" She looked up and darted him a quick glance. "I mean, yes. It's another man." A shadow of guilt flitted through her eyes, which she tried to squelch, but it was his job to spot deception, and he was very good at his job.

  "You're a lousy liar," he said, and let it sink in a few seconds before grasping her upper arms and pulling her close again. The scent of warm jessamine swirled through his senses, distracting him from wondering why she would need to lie.

  She squirmed to the side, trying to ease away from him. "I'm not lying."

  Catching her around the waist, he turned and brought her up against the refrigerator. "Sweetheart, there is no way you could kiss me like you just did if you were involved with another man. Not unless you're a—"

  "Maybe I am," she said, meeting his gaze defiantly, challenge written in her whole expression. Daring him to believe she was something his gut told him she wasn't.

  He didn't. She was definitely hiding something, but it wasn't another man. It was also his job to follow his gut instincts, and right now they were telling him that no matter what this woman's file said, she wouldn't be kissing him if there was another man in her life. For some reason he couldn't explain, he desperately needed that to be true.

  "No. You're not." He moved his hand to her throat, caressing the pale, delicate skin with his thumb. He leaned in and kissed her there, in the soft hollow above her collarbone.

  She shuddered and let out a long sigh. "I'm not who you think I am, Creole," she whispered, her only objection when he slid his hands possessively down her body.

  "Who is?"

  "You don't know anything about me. I'm not—"

  "That's where you're wrong, chérie." He caressed her waist, her hips. "I know you're sweet as honeysuckle and sexier than any woman's got a right to be."

  She gazed up at him, her eyes pleading. For what, he wasn't sure, but suddenly he was determined to find out and give it to her. He captured her hands in his and held them so she couldn't touch him, threading their fingers together. "I also know you're gonna let me kiss you again."

  He raised their laced fingers above her head and held her to the fridge, leaning his elbows and forearms against the cool metal. He lowered his mouth to hers, slowly, so she could see him coming and tell him no. She didn't. Instead her hips did a little involuntary grind between him and the fridge, and she murmured a sweet moan of surrender that nearly did him in.

  Grabbing on to his control, he eased his body against hers and deepened the kiss. She tasted so good. Spicy like filé gumbo, mellow like wine. Erotic, like aroused woman. So good.

  A hot breeze swirled around them, teasing him with the scent of her perfume and the musky tang of sweat and desire. The refrigerator's motor kicked in, enveloping them like the hum of a billion insects.

  He kissed her long and hard, until the taste and the feel and the smell of her wove around him, holding him prisoner of a raw need he'd never felt before.

  Her lashes fluttered up and she stared at him, lost and foundering in the sensual storm they'd created together.

  "Ah, Muse."

  Her blue eyes sl
owly focused on him, the dark pupils growing smaller. She flexed the wrists he had pinned above her head and caught her red, kiss-swollen lip between her teeth. He saw it tremble, almost as if she were suddenly frightened.

  Or maybe it was just the vibrations of the fridge. A woman like her wouldn't be afraid of what was happening here between them. The apprehension he saw skittering in her eyes as she awaited his next move had to be his imagination. Or a reflection of his own gnawing fear.

  Yeah, he wanted her. With the desperation of a convict craving freedom, he wanted her. But suddenly he was very sure he shouldn't take her. That if he did, the orderly world he'd built for himself would be threatened, the values and lessons learned over a lifetime forgotten, all because of the breathtaking response of a woman every file he'd read claimed was man-eating bad news.

  He let her wrists go and stepped back, away from the heat and temptation of her body. "Yes, I know you, chère," he quietly said, proud of how calm and level his voice sounded, not at all ragged, exposed and irrational, as he felt. "I know you better than you know yourself."

  She looked so confused he had to stop himself from taking her in his arms again and kissing away her bewilderment—and his own—one inch at a time. Suddenly he didn't know himself nearly as well as he had only minutes before.

  With iron restraint he reached out and ran a finger down her cheek. "Do us both a favor, jolie, and get your lock changed. Tomorrow."

  * * *

  Grace stayed leaning against the fridge for a long time after Creole walked out the door. She heard him pause just outside, and for a moment she was petrified he would change his mind and come back in. She thought about the lock he'd so easily penetrated, and knew there was nothing she could do to stop him if he chose to come back. For her.

  And realized with a muffled sob that he wouldn't need to break in. She'd open the door for him herself.

  But before that unwelcome thought was complete, she heard his footsteps pound down the stairs and the outer door crash against the wall. She listened as he turned away from his apartment and headed for the front gate. There was a loud clang of metal, then all was silent. Except for the thundering of her heart.

  What had just happened?

  Grace groped at the slick surface of the fridge behind her with her fingertips, fighting for purchase on something solid, to which she could anchor herself against the chaos running riot in her heart.

  Just a kiss.

  Creole had kissed her.

  But it had been so much more than mere lips touching. His kiss had enveloped her like … like a full-length sable coat. A thing too hot, too forbidden, and way too costly for a woman like her. Something she didn't want and wouldn't ever consider keeping even if the opportunity presented itself. But something so luxuriously sensual and wickedly desirable that she couldn't resist trying it on, just for a minute.

  She had never experienced anything like it. His kiss had been so thorough, so filling, so surrounding, so … perfect … it was as if it had reached deep inside and touched her very soul. As if he had reached deep inside and touched her very soul.

  This went beyond attraction. Beyond chemistry. To something primal, something that called to the woman in her as nothing and no one had ever done before.

  She would never be the same. In the space of a few moments of insanity, she knew Creole Levalois had ruined her for any other man ever again. For how could she ever hope to find two men on this earth who could affect her like that, with just a simple kiss?

  What other wondrous things could this man show her, do to her, if given the chance?

  Grace let out a long, shuddering sigh.

  Unfortunately, she'd never know.

  Creole Levalois was not the kind of man she could ever trust enough to find out. What good was mind-bending passion if it was all one sided, and with no chance for permanence?

  It was just a kiss.

  Far better not to know. Not ever to know.

  * * *

  The next morning Grace awoke determined to put the man from the balcony and his unwanted kisses out of her mind for good. Those kisses couldn't possibly have been as earth-shattering as she remembered. There was no way.

  She didn't know what had come over her last night, succumbing to Creole's obvious moves so easily. That he'd left before any more damage had been done was an undeserved blessing for which she was devoutly grateful.

  What had she been thinking?

  Obviously, she hadn't been thinking at all.

  Well, that was going to change starting right now.

  After quickly dressing, she put on a pot of coffee and reached for the phone. She had to make her daily phone call. It might be summer vacation and she might be in New Orleans rather than home in South Carolina, but her job as a high school counselor didn't stop. The kids needed her just as much now in summertime as during the school year, if not more so.

  She frowned when the receiver wasn't in its cradle. She must have left it out on the balcony after last night's escapades. Deliberately stifling the urge to glance over at Creole's apartment, she kept her gaze firmly on the phone as she retrieved it and marched back inside.

  While the coffee brewed, she stretched out on her bed and dialed Frank Morina's number.

  "Hello, Frank. It's—"

  "Hey, Grace. How's it going down there?"

  "Ms. Summerville, Frank."

  Frank Morina was seventeen and brassy as a ship's compass. He was still in school thanks to the grace of God and a little nagging from her, but he would no doubt be on the fast track to jail as soon as he graduated—by the skin of his teeth—come next June. The inevitability of it broke her heart. He was smart enough to recognize the value of an education, but was up against tremendous odds. An alcoholic mother, a father who had beaten him with tedious regularity as a child, and already a reputation with the law as a troublemaker.

  But under his hard, devil-may-care facade, he was really a good kid, and Grace loved him like the little brother she never had. She was doing her best to turn the tide of his fate, however much it reminded her of the little Dutch boy and the dike.

  "Awright, Miz Summerville," Frank mocked cheekily, letting her know he was just humoring her, as only a rebellious teenaged boy could. "You find your sister yet?"

  Sobering, the grin slid from her face. "No, I haven't. It's been two days, and to tell the truth I'm terribly worried."

  "You want me to come on down there and help you look?"

  She smiled into the phone. "No, thanks, Frank. I'm sure I'll find her today. But I appreciate the offer."

  She had deliberately shared her family troubles with him in an effort to build mutual trust. His response to her frustration was heartening. He'd come a long way from the stonewalling freshman she'd met three years ago. But there was still a long way to go.

  "So, how's your summer job?" she pointedly asked, steering him to a different source of frustration for her.

  Frank snorted. "A damn waste of time. I'm quitting Friday."

  This was what she'd been afraid of. Keeping Frank off the streets and out of circulation was his only chance in the long run, but she'd probably known all along he wouldn't last the summer at the low-paying construction job she'd finagled for him. Boys like Frank were easily bored. When they got bored they moved on.

  "I'm sorry to hear that. What do you plan to do instead?"

  He was silent for a moment, and she knew he had been prepared for a lecture. But as disappointed as she was, she wouldn't go there. Scolding and laying guilt trips would only let him dismiss her as one more authority figure trying to run his life.

  "You know me. Jus' lookin' for a good time," he finally said, his voice a flustered mix of apology and defiance.

  "Hmm."

  Defiance won. "Met a real sweet girl t'other night. Her name's Nikki. Think I might spend my time giving her a memorable summer."

  Grace almost choked. "Don't you dare! How old is this girl?"

  "She's a senior at that arts magn
et high school. Pretty as a picture, too."

  She heard his love-struck sigh and knew the poor girl was a goner. Once he got his mind set on something, Frank and his considerable charm were impossible to resist. She just hoped he let this girl down easy when he got bored and moved on.

  "You be good, Frank. I mean it. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

  "Hell, Miz Summerville," he chuckled. "I don't aim on dyin' no old maid. A body's got to have a little fun once in a while."

  "Ouch," she said, unreasonably stung by his thoughtless honesty. "Thanks a lot."

  She held the phone from her ear at the cuss word he uttered. "Sorry, Miz Summerville. You know I didn't mean anything by that. You're—"

  "I know you didn't." She cut him off before the conversation could go any further. She didn't need to discuss her love life—or lack of one—with a seventeen-year-old. Even if he was right.

  "Hell, maybe you'll meet some hot Louisiana man who'll sweep you right off your feet."

  "I don't think so, Frank," she choked out, dodging the memory of just how close to the mark he'd come. "Now, you treat that girl right, you hear? And do me a favor. Think twice before you quit your job. I know it's not exactly what you want, but at least it's a start."

  "Yeah, okay, I'll think about it. Good luck findin' your sister. And Miz Summerville?"

  "Yes, Frank?"

  "Thanks for calling."

  As she hung up, that last, hesitant, little-boy admission brought a misty smile to her face. Moments like this were what kept her going at her thankless job through all the many setbacks and disappointments. Coming from a tough teen like Frank, those three little words really meant something special. That he trusted her with his walled-in, boarded-up feelings. She had no doubt she was the only person in the world—adult, anyway—whom he did trust them with.

  It was a huge responsibility, not to betray the fragile trust the troubled teens she counseled gave her, and an even more huge frustration to have her hopes for many of these kids crushed when they left school and ended up right where they were headed all along. But if she put even one host child back on the path to a normal, responsible life, it would be worth all her years of hard work and disillusionment.