by Nina Bruhns
"No," she denied, but she wasn't leaning so far forward now.
"Yeah." He kissed her neck again, lingeringly. Her face tipped up. He couldn't decide if it was to give him access or to pray for strength. "Admit it, Grace. You want me just as much as I want you."
"You want me?" she whispered, almost wishfully, which made no sense at all.
"Like air to breathe," he truthfully answered. "You know I do."
She turned in his arms and splayed her hands on his chest, could be to keep him at bay. Whatever. His muscles jerked at the intrusion on his body.
"Do I? You thought I was Muse," she said, her eyes giving away a vulnerability that made his tongue thicken. "You said yourself you were completely fooled. How do you know which one of us you really want?"
"Darlin', how could I want a woman I've never met?" he reasoned logically, struggling not to react to her hands on him.
"This isn't me," she said, glancing down at her outfit. "I wouldn't— If I'd been wearing a conservative business suit with my hair up, and little or no makeup on, the way I normally dress… If you'd known I was a high school counselor and not a party girl, would you have looked twice at me? Would you have kissed me like you did?"
"Probably not," he admitted. He'd have known better. A woman like that would expect way too much from him. More than he was capable of giving. Women like that didn't want someone who—
"You see?" she said quietly, interrupting his much too clear assessment of their differences. He dismissed them.
"Non, no, you're wrong. Honey, if a man can't see past a business suit to the woman beneath, he's not much of a man. I might not have done anything about it, but believe me, it wouldn' have been because I didn' notice you."
She stared up at him, her face a study in astonishment. Something he'd said seemed to have rattled her perception of him. Or perhaps of herself.
He wanted to press his advantage, but just then the office door opened and the receptionist peeked in, looking almost as confused as Grace. He stepped back.
"Miss Summerville…" Grace whirled around, and the receptionist hesitated, glancing unseeingly between the two of them, as if it was commonplace for her to walk in on two people practically embracing in Muse's office. "I don't like to interrupt," she said. "But I thought you'd want to know right away. There's a call for you, on line two."
Chapter 6
Grace blinked uncomprehendingly at the receptionist, trying to pry her mind off Creole's bombshell and focus on what the girl was saying. It wasn't easy, for he had just said something so unlike her own perception of bad-boy Creole Levalois that it had rocked her to the core.
But she had to pay attention, because she suddenly realized this phone call could be the break she so desperately needed to find her sister.
She took a step back. "There's a call? For me?"
"Well, for Muse, really," the receptionist said, visibly flustered. "He won't say who he is, but he insists on speaking with you … that is, with Muse. I said she wasn't in, but he claims he knows that you're … that is, she, is here in the office." The young woman looked at her appealingly. "I didn't know what else to do."
"You did fine. Line two?"
The receptionist nodded, and swiftly retreated, closing the door behind her.
Grace glanced at Creole before nervously reaching for the phone. "I hope this isn't someone selling life insurance."
"Wait." He swiftly put his hand over hers, preventing her from answering. "Sure you don't know who it is?"
She shook her head. "Not a clue."
"I wonder why is he so convinced Muse is here in the office."
With a skitter of apprehension, Grace lifted a shoulder. "Does it matter?"
"There's only one way he could know," Creole stated with a frown. "He's watching you and saw you come in."
She gasped as the implications sank in. "My God! It could be Muse's stalker!"
She eyed the phone warily, the blinking light seeming to taunt her. Just minutes before, as part of the explanation of why she'd deceived him about her identity, she'd told Creole about the blond man Muse had thought was following her. Grace had never spotted the guy, but that might have been because she'd been so caught up in Creole trailing her.
Had the other man been following her all along?
"I was sure he was involved in her disappearance," she said, trying desperately to think. "But if that were so, he would know where she is and wouldn't be calling here, would he?"
"Unless something went wrong," Creole said ominously.
"Oh, God."
He grabbed a pad of paper from the desktop and reached for a pen. "Whatever you do, get his name. Try to find out what he knows. If you think he has anything at all to do with either your sister's disappearance or Gary Fox, find some excuse to get him to meet you. Can you do that?"
"I'll try."
"Good girl. Now, answer before he hangs up and we lose him."
She picked up the phone. For the first time, she was actually grateful when Creole stepped in close and slid his arm around her shoulders. Guiding the receiver between them, he put his ear next to hers so they could both listen.
She closed her eyes and said. "Hello?"
"Just what the hell do you think you're playing at?"
The violence in the tone of the man on the other end almost knocked the phone from her sweat-damp hand. "Wh-who is this?"
"Don't play games with me, woman. What in blazes are you doing? Have you told him anything?'"
"Who?"
"Who the hell do you think?"
"I'm afraid I don't—" She darted a look at Creole.
"Listen, sweetcakes, if you've talked and screwed this deal up, I swear to God if he doesn't kill you first, I will."
Shock widened her eyes. The man couldn't possibly mean Creole—
"Name," Creole mouthed intently, a scowl plastered on his face.
She drew herself up and clamped down on the tremor in her voice. "Who is this?" she demanded. "If you have something to discuss with me, we can meet face-to-face."
A momentary silence cut through the phone line, sudden and complete. Then there was a soft click, and she knew the man had hung up.
"Damn," she muttered, the first time in memory she actually felt like using a much stronger word than the one she allowed herself. This trip was becoming veritably riddled with firsts. Not a good thing, considering how she valued an ordered and predictable life. The realization helped marshal her wits, and she looked at Creole. "Sorry I messed up. Now what?"
He used exactly the word she'd had in mind a moment ago, then took the phone from her hand. "Hell if I know. But you can be sure we haven't heard the last of this guy. Not if he's been watching you. We'll just have to wait him out to see what he wants."
She shivered. "I can't say I like that idea."
"Non. Me, neither."
The intent grimness that swept over his features surprised her. He was looking at her as if he wanted to strangle something—or someone. She just hoped it wasn't her.
"Who do you suppose he was talking about, um, killing me?"
"Good question. Sounds to me like your sister is involved in something she didn't tell you about, and got in over her head. Which, unfortunately, sounds like just the sort of thing Gary Fox could have had a hand in."
"And you think this stalker guy is somehow connected to Gary Fox?"
"If the stalker's the one who called, it's more than possible. What I'd like to know is what he didn't want Muse to tell me. That could be the key to this whole thing."
Grace rubbed her temples, which had begun to throb. "Oh, Muse, what have you done this time?"
Creole perched on the corner of the desk and contemplated her. "You rescue your wayward sister often?"
She nodded miserably, too woe struck to deny it. "She's always been a bit wild and reckless. Just like our—" She stopped and dragged a lock of hair behind her ear.
He waited a moment for her to go on, but when she didn't, he said,
"It's hell being the responsible one, non?"
As if he'd know anything about being responsible. "I love my sister," she replied, feeling an absurd need to defend her actions to a man who undoubtedly claimed more kinship with her sister's carefree lifestyle than with her own innate sense of duty. "I don't consider it a chore," she added for good measure. Usually.
He just smiled that infuriatingly knowing smile of his. "Anyway, what do you think we should do now?" she asked, dumping the responsibility squarely back on him.
The corner of his lip curled up infinitesimally—an oh-so-subtle, instinctive male gesture that left little doubt in her mind what he'd prefer to do at any given moment. Just like that, a rush of heady awareness avalanched through her and brought her thoughts screeching back to their previous topic of discussion—before the phone call.
You want me anyway.
Sweet heaven, she really had to start thinking before she spoke around this man.
She braced herself for another round of deflecting his sensual assaults, and was strangely disappointed when he merely said, "What were you planning to do this morning?"
Regrouping, she sighed. "Go over everything here in the office one more time. Hope I missed something the last ten times."
"Bien," he said. "I'll take the computer. You take the file drawers."
"You won't be able to access client files. Just her personal ones."
"Those are the ones I assume we need."
All business, he slid into the desk chair and punched the computer's on button, shifting before her eyes into detective mode. The transformation was amazing. Gone was the sexy, laid-back Cajun rogue, in his place a no-nonsense professional whose fingers whipped over the computer's keyboard with laser efficiency. Totally in control, intent on his task, he seemed to have forgotten she was there.
Somehow the picture struck her as very wrong.
The indolent, swarthy angles of his face had coalesced and sharpened into knife edges of concentration. Even in his casual short sleeves and jeans, he looked steady as a rock. Yet, she knew very well he was as unreliable as a man could be. Sitting there, his gaze fixed on the computer screen, he appeared dedicated and even dependable. When in reality, as he had just admitted not fifteen minutes ago, he was completely uninterested in commitment of any kind.
With a shake of her head, she dismissed the strange dichotomy of his appearance as wishful thinking. Talk about delusional.
She had to assume his lack of commitment included his job. He showed no signs of being concerned over not reporting in. "Don't you ever go to work?" she muttered, a bit testily.
"I am at work," he reminded her without looking up.
Walking to the file cabinet, she clamped her teeth. "You're looking for Gary Fox officially?"
"Yeah."
"I thought you said it was 'unfinished business.'"
"It is."
"Unfinished police business?"
A muscle ticked under his eye. "I can't say."
"But you're not going to arrest him," she recalled.
"Nope."
He held his face impassive and continued searching through the computer files as if their conversation weren't agitating him in the least. But she was a trained psychologist and knew all the signs. He was hiding something from her. Something big.
"So, what do you need him for?" she persisted.
Creole's fingers ground to a halt on the keys, and he looked positively murderous for a second, then the professional mien was back. "I'm investigating a homicide."
She saw a drop of sweat bead up on his temple, despite the air-conditioned temperature in the room. "Whose?" she pressed.
"Sorry. Can't discuss the case."
Just as she feared, he'd clammed up on her. "Can't or won't?" she snapped, unable to remain objective any longer, and yanked open a file drawer. "If he killed somebody, I have a right to know."
"And why's that?" His calm was infuriating.
"He may have kidnapped my sister!"
That brought him up short. "Bien. C'est vrai." He folded his arms across his chest and regarded her. "Okay. Fair enough."
Thank God.
His mouth went thin and menacing. "Gary Fox is small time, nickel-bag scum who thinks he's a big shot because one of New Orleans' biggest crime lords, James Davies, lets him hang around with his gang. The Feds have been after Davies for years, for drug running and distribution, plus he's a suspect in a half dozen unsolved murders. Fox is strictly a gofer in the organization. Davies uses him to deliver messages and what have you. His most consistent job seems to be fetching Davies's café au lait and beignets every morning, no matter where he is. At least it was until two weeks ago."
She stared at Creole, incredulous. "Café au lait and beignets?"
"From Café du Monde." He shrugged. "Not a felony at this point, so we couldn't arrest him."
"But he stopped."
"Two weeks ago."
And Muse had vanished just a week later. A bit too much of a coincidence for Grace's comfort. "So why are you looking for Fox and not this Davies guy?"
"We are looking for Davies. Fox always knows where he is, in case there is a message from the trenches or beignets to deliver. I'm counting on Fox to lead me to him."
"But I don't see why—"
"Davies has gone underground. And he's very smart. Once he disappeared for two whole years. The Feds, the DEA, hell, every law enforcement agency in the country was looking for him, but they didn't find him until he was good and ready. After the only witness against him had suffered a mysterious accident. A fatal one."
Grace had a really bad feeling. "So what's changed? Has he done something else? Have you gotten new evidence against him?"
Creole turned back to the computer, and she could practically hear the doors slamming between them. "Can't talk about it," he said, his tone icy and final.
A visceral chill snaked down Grace's spine. Judging by Creole's expression, James Davies had done something truly awful this time.
Her heart sank. Could Muse be mixed up with this horrible criminal? She'd only mentioned Gary Fox in passing in their phone conversations, until that last time, anyway, but there was no telling what Fox had been able to talk her into doing. Muse wasn't known for thinking things through. If it sounded exciting, she went for it.
But Muse had broken up with Gary Fox weeks ago.
Hadn't she?
* * *
Grace spent the whole morning and half the afternoon with Creole, poring over every computer file and bit of paper they could unearth in Muse's office. Creole found out some fairly interesting things about her sister hidden in the records of her Internet and e-mail archives, everything from online access for her bank account to correspondence with several persons of dubious backgrounds. Unfortunately, none of it shed any light on her disappearance. At least, that's what Grace hoped.
While it was possible Muse had set up a date with an Internet acquaintance, which had then ended badly, Grace doubted it. That would be just the sort of thing Muse would chatter on endlessly about over the phone, if she had been considering it. Muse enjoyed shocking her conservative sister. Besides, Creole appeared to know his way around computers pretty well, and he'd found no sign of any really suspicious e-mail exchanges.
Outrageous, yes. But not suspicious. Still, he'd jotted down the various repeat e-mail addresses and was going to give them to a friend of his who was good at finding out things on the Internet that no one else could. Just in case.
Over the past six hours of fruitless searching and waiting for a phone call that never came, Grace's creeping despair had been kept at bay only because of a growing confidence in the man working by her side.
After shutting down the computer, Creole rubbed the palms of his hands over his eyes, which were rimmed with fatigue. A wisp of guilt floated through Grace before she batted it away. She couldn't help that he'd stayed up all night trying to figure out who she was. He should just have asked.
"Why don't you go home
and take a nap?" she suggested softly. "You look ready to drop."
She went over to where he was leaning back in Muse's chair and without thinking scooted onto the desktop next to him. Her miniskirted dress rode way up her thighs, and she hopped off like a spark from a log, just before he wrenched his hands away from his face.
"I'm fine," he insisted.
Instinctively she reached over and brushed a short, black lock off his forehead, not taking it too personally when he turned away. He must still be furious with her.
"No, you're not." She smiled. "You haven't even glanced at my legs since I walked over here."
He returned her wry smile with just a touch of hesitation, and said, "Dieu, I must really be tired."
She chuckled and ran her fingertips down the side of his face, enjoying the feel of his warm skin under them, the hardness and hollows of his cheekbones, the soft creviced lines next to his eyes and mouth. He jerked back, leaving her hand suspended in the air.
From the depth of his eyes a strange hybrid of apology and alarm stared back at her. He seemed almost fearful of her touch. Strange. She curled her fingers into her palms and filed away his unusual reaction to analyze later. "We're done here. Go."
He dropped his lids, the thick lashes almost disappearing in the black smudges under his eyes. "What will you do?"
She moved away and started straightening the piles of files they'd left in disarray on the desk, to give herself something to do besides take him in her arms and let him rest his weary head on her shoulder. Even for someone who nurtured and healed people for a living, the need was so strong it scared her.
"There are a few stores I didn't get to yesterday," she answered him, carefully guiding her thoughts away from dangerous territory. "I'll go talk to the sales clerks and see if they remember anything."
"I should go with you."
"Not necessary."
"But—"
"I was by myself yesterday and did okay." She turned and found his gaze following her movements like a shadow. "Besides, I'll feel a lot safer if you are awake and alert tonight for Bourbon Street."
He sighed deeply and swiped his hand over his eyes again. She could tell he wanted to argue but couldn't find the flaw in her logic.
