by Nina Bruhns
Which she didn't.
Honestly.
Yes, okay, okay, she'd tried to seduce him last night, but that had been the alcohol speaking, not her own wishes. Truly. She knew better than to get involved with a man like him. Knew it to the marrow.
But right now she couldn't even think for the hammering in her head, let alone appreciate Creole's considerable male assets.
She let out a low moan and lifted her fingertips to her temples, rubbing circles to try to ease the pain.
"I suppose this means you've got a headache," Creole's voice rumbled wryly from behind her.
She caught herself just in time. "Don't make me laugh, you stinker. This is all your fault."
She absently noted he didn't move his hands, but didn't have the energy to protest his scandalous familiarity.
He chuckled softly. "How do you figure?"
In truth, the very least of the acute embarrassment she felt was over her nudity. Which might have surprised her had she actually been capable of thinking about it.
"I'll let you know when my brain's back in one piece." She groaned in torment, not completely sure whether from the discomfort of the hangover or from the memory of her outrageous actions of last night. What a fool she'd made of herself!
She groaned again.
"Can I do anything? Hold your head? Massage your feet?"
Feet? "No. Thanks. I don't even want to think about moving for a few minutes."
"Okay."
His arms shifted, and he removed his hands from their intimate positions, folding them loosely over her waist instead. She wanted to groan again, at the loss of the intensely personal connection to him. Now she really did feel naked. Naked, cold and miserable.
"Creole," she whispered. "I'm so sorry for … for everything."
"I'm not."
God, he was sweet. "I don't like to admit it, but you were right," she sighed.
"I know. You would have woken up hating me."
She wished. "No. It might have been awkward, but I wouldn't have hated you."
"Damn. I knew I should have given in and let you have your wicked way with me."
She chuckled, then moaned at the resulting fire in her head. "God, you're obnoxious."
"So you keep telling me."
"I'm trying to apologize, here."
"Sorry." She felt a light kiss in her hair. "You don't have to apologize. It was as much my fault as yours. I should have seen what was happening. I was blinded by my lust."
She couldn't help but smile and was relieved when it didn't hurt. Much. "Yes, well, you weren't the only one."
This time the kiss came on her shoulder and lingered. "I, uh, I don't suppose…
She shook her head before thinking. "Ow! As I said, you were right. Not a good idea."
His breath jetted onto her neck. "No. Guess not." Suddenly his warm body was gone from behind her, and he gently rolled her onto her back. He touched the tip of her nose lightly before pulling the sheet up around her and sliding off the bed. "I'll look for some aspirin."
"Creole?"
He paused and turned, raising a brow.
"You are truly a gentleman, Creole Levalois."
For a second he looked taken aback, then he grinned and gave her a wink. "Don' spread that around, chère. I've got a reputation to maintain."
He came back with a couple of pills he'd scrounged from Muse's medicine cabinet and helped her sit up, sheet tucked under her arms, and swallow them down with a glass of water he'd fetched from the kitchen.
She'd never felt so pampered. He fussed over her as if she was dying of some exotic disease, rather than just suffering the effects of too much to drink. It made her go all warm and mushy inside, and if it weren't for her grinding headache, she'd be on top of the world.
In fact, Creole was being so nice, if she wasn't careful, she'd be in danger of starting to believe he really cared.
But before that thought could really sink in, the phone rang. They looked at each other in surprise.
"Expecting any calls this morning?"
"No," she said, wondering nervously if last night's masquerade was already producing results. The FBI agent's words drifted through her achy head, making her even more anxious. She'd used the warning to sway Creole to spend the night with her, but she was ashamed to say it had only been a last-ditch ruse to get him to stay. In her mixed-up state, she simply hadn't wanted him to go, and she'd known the cop in him wouldn't leave her unprotected if he thought she was in danger.
She squeezed her eyes shut, cheeks flaming, remembering the wanton behavior she'd exhibited last night and wondering what on earth had gotten into her. In her wildest imagination she'd never have believed herself capable of such things! Sweet heavens, what he must think of her!
"It's for you." Creole's harsh statement sliced through her unsettling thoughts. She started at the sharp, icy edge to his voice.
Opening her eyes, she took him in at a glance. His face had changed completely from a moment ago. Instead of her tender, sympathetic caregiver, she saw a shuttered, almost angry man staring back.
He held out the portable phone. "It's Frank."
"Huh?" For the life of her she couldn't think who Frank was.
"I'm goin' across to take a shower. Meet me in the courtyard in an hour. There are a couple things we need to discuss before you leave town. We can grab some coffee and talk." With that he turned on a heel and stalked out.
Leave town?
What the heck had just happened? She wanted to call out to him, to run after him and demand to know what had changed so suddenly. She made to follow him, then noticed the phone in her hand.
Annoyed, she raised the receiver. "Hello?"
"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Miz Summerville, I am mighty shocked," a familiarly cocky teenaged voice drawled into her ear.
Oh, that Frank. This was one phone call she couldn't blow off. She eased back onto the pillow. "It's not what you think, Frank Morina."
Her student chuckled knowingly. "Sure it isn't, Miz Summerville. Now, what was I saying last time we talked, about findin' yourself a handsome Louisiana man to—"
"Frank, what exactly is it you're calling about?"
"I need a reason?"
She sighed and smiled into the phone, resigned to talking to her student rather than chasing after Creole. And to being teased for the rest of her natural life about her "handsome Louisiana man." Word would no doubt spread through school like lovebugs in September.
"No, of course you don't need a reason. I just hadn't expected it. I'm glad you called, though." And she was. This was surely the breakthrough she'd worked so hard for, for three long years. He'd actually reached out to her. "I'm really glad."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. You know I always enjoy talking to you. Now, what's up?"
"I just wanted to tell you I quit that job yesterday, like I said I was." He waited silently for her reaction.
Under no circumstances would she give him the one he'd come to expect from every other adult in his world. "Well, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed. What are your plans for the rest of the summer?"
"Remember I told you about Nikki? That girl I met?"
"The one from the arts magnet school?"
"Yep. She's promised to teach me how to throw a pot."
Grace chuckled at the image that conjured up. "I assume you mean on the pottery wheel, and not at someone's head."
He guffawed. "Now you know I'd never hurt nobody." This coming from a boy who regularly earned detentions for fighting in the halls. "We sorta started the other night. It was so cool."
He went on to tell her about the makeshift studio she had built in her folks' garage and the different clays she used and the electric pottery wheel and the things she made on it and the colorful glazes she brewed up herself. His enthusiasm brimmed over, and joy at his obvious happiness filled her heart.
"And last night she let me help her mix up a new batch of clay. We ended up rollin' on the floor, soakin' wet 'n'
drippin' mud, and I tell ya, Miz Summerville, I think I've decided to become a sculptor." His playful confession made her laugh out loud, forgetting all about her headache. She could just imagine what had happened on that floor between the two hormonal teenagers covered in slippery clay. But after the night she'd just spent, she was the last one to scold.
"Oh, lordy, Frank, I just hope you two are being careful."
"Almost every time."
"Almost?"
"So tell me true, Miz Summerville. Who was that guy who answered the phone? He seemed a bit uptight, if you know what I mean."
She decided yet another lecture on the wisdom of abstinence would fall on deaf ears, so she let the change of subject pass. "That was Detective Levalois. He's been helping me find Muse. Oh! Speaking of whom, we found out she's safe!"
"That's great! I know how worried you were." Frank seemed genuinely gladdened by her good news, and again she was heartened by the way he'd opened up to her. Maybe this time she wouldn't fail. Maybe this time she'd be able to steer a good kid back onto the right path.
"Now, about this detective guy. He hasn't tried any funny business, has he? 'Cause if he has, I'll be on the next plane down there and—"
"Thanks, Frank, but that won't be necessary. He's been a perfect gentleman." Unfortunately. She shooed away that traitorous thought. "I should be coming home soon. I can't wait to meet Nikki."
"Yeah, you'll love her as much as I do."
She smiled wistfully as she said her goodbyes and hung up. Young love was so special. So hurtful and agonizing, but so very special. She'd paid a high price for Luther, her own first love. But even knowing how it turned out, she wouldn't have missed it for the world. Changed it, yes. Skipped it, no.
She just prayed it would go better for Frank and Nikki. Especially Nikki. She sounded like a sweet girl. And Grace knew a boy like Frank could break her heart into a million pieces without even trying. Nikki didn't have the bad example of Grace's father to show her the inappropriateness of her choice in boyfriends. Grace was certain that while the naive, romantic girl dreamed of cottages and picket fences, as Grace's mother had done, Frank was dreaming of something quite different. As much as she loved the boy, she couldn't delude herself about his sense of responsibility. Or lack thereof. He was too much like her father had been at that age. Poor Nikki.
Dragging herself out of the bed, Grace went into the bathroom to get ready. She'd been on the phone a long time, and only had twenty minutes before meeting Creole.
Creole. Now, there was another inappropriate boyfriend if ever she'd seen one. And although she wished she could deny it, she'd allowed more than one naive thought of picket fences to sneak through her own mind since meeting him.
Creole was an emotional disaster just waiting to happen. A catastrophe she'd narrowly escaped twice now.
Or had she?
Just the thought of seeing him again, brushing up against him, kissing him, set her skin to tingling and her pulse to tripping. And caused those old yearnings for something more in her ordered but lonely life to surface at the worst possible time.
Sweet mercy.
No, she thought with a plummeting heart. Disaster had definitely already struck. Last night, she'd told him she had a crush on him. But the truth was far, far worse.
Somehow, somewhere, between the first daiquiri on Bourbon Street and the last aspirin this morning, she'd fallen hard for this sexy, complex, wounded man who called himself Creole.
She picked up her purse, carefully locked the door behind her and walked down the stairs to meet him in the courtyard.
And wondered what in the world she was going to do about it.
Chapter 10
Grace followed Creole as he nabbed a prime table right next to the sidewalk at the Café du Monde, the French Quarter's favorite coffee stop, according to him. Table karma, bull. She'd seen that five he'd slipped Pierre, their waiter.
She adjusted her dark glasses and took a seat across from him at a postage-stamp-size metal bistro table.
"So," she said, proud of how she didn't even scowl after he went ahead and ordered for both of them without consulting her. Yet again. "What's eating you? I thought I was the one with the hangover."
He, on the other hand, was scowling.
"Who's Frank?"
She peered at him over her sunglasses for a second, annoyed at the evasion. "Not that it's any of your business—"
"As the man you did your damnedest to seduce last night, I think it is my goddamn business!" he shot back.
Her jaw dropped. He couldn't think— He couldn't possibly be … jealous? She leaned back in her chair, removed her glasses, and regarded him. He looked distinctly uncomfortable with his outburst but didn't appear ready to back down. She gave him an amused smile.
"He's one of my high school students. One of the high-risk kids I counsel."
His eyes narrowed. "High school?"
"Don't even think it, Levalois," she warned levelly.
"Then why's he calling you in New Orleans?"
"Because he's intelligent and sensitive and his parents are abusive and he needs a steady, supportive adult influence in his life even during the summer, so I talk to him every few days to try to keep him from self-destructing." She gazed at him mutinously. "Besides, I like him. Like a little brother," she added, for some obscure reason she couldn't fathom.
"A little brother, eh?" he said, and she reluctantly admitted to herself that she could fathom it very well, and was glad when she could see he believed her and that he felt a little foolish about the whole thing and wasn't even ashamed to admit it.
That's when she knew she was really in trouble.
"Tell me about your work," he said.
So she did, as they sat there sipping café au laits—which she grudgingly conceded was exactly what she needed to scatter the last remnants of her headache—munching on the weird but delicious fritter-like things he called beignets, and watching the world stroll by the crowded, cozy outdoor terrace.
The more she talked, the more thoughtful he grew, and when she eventually lifted a shoulder and concluded, "So, that's what I do for a living. Not nearly as exciting as being a cop, no doubt. But I love it," he just stared at her, an indecipherable look on his face.
"You're one awesome lady," he finally said.
She blushed at his praise, both pleased and puzzled by his reaction. "Most people think I'm crazy to waste my time on kids who are doomed for failure anyway."
"Then they're fools. Nobody's 'doomed for failure.'"
She smiled. "I agree. As long as those kids keep listening, there's hope. I won't give up on a single one until they tell me to go to hell. And probably not even then."
The admiration in his eyes was unmistakable. And there was something else lurking in them, too, which she couldn't quite figure out.
"Stubbornness can be a good thing," he quietly allowed.
They shared a smile, and suddenly she thought perhaps they weren't so different as she'd always assumed.
Which was very dangerous thinking. Because he was hard enough to resist when she was convinced he was all wrong for her. What chance did she have if she thought he even remotely understood the important things in her life?
"You'll be leaving soon," he said, almost as if reminding her—and maybe himself—that any relationship between them was doomed for failure, too.
"Yes," she agreed, sweeping aside the stab of regret that acknowledgment engendered. "What will you do now? About finding Gary Fox, I mean?"
"Ah." His expression clouded, and his mouth turned downward. "I honestly don't know. You—that is, Muse was my last real lead."
She suspected, and the look in his eyes confirmed, that there was much more going on in this case than he'd been telling her. "Why is it so important to you to catch him?"
"James Davies, Fox's boss, murdered my brother."
Shock knocked the breath from her lungs. "Your brother?"
"Yeah."
Instinct had
her reaching for his hand on the table, but at the last second she pulled up. Instead, she leaned forward and brushed a kiss over his cheek. "I'm so sorry."
A muscle twitched in his jaw, but otherwise he betrayed nothing of what he might have been feeling. "Luke was my foster brother. We weren't blood. But we grew up together, and he was all I had. He was my brother in every way that mattered."
She digested the wealth of information about Creole contained in those few simple sentences. No wonder the man was so wounded. The foster care system was a bitch at the best of times. And for a kid like Creole … she shuddered to imagine.
"What happened to him?"
He gazed off in the distance, reliving God-only-knew what horrors from the past. "We had a rough childhood," he said at last. "Luke … Luke didn't come through it so well. He ended up— Actually, he was a drug addict, and a small-time dealer, in and out of jail. Me being on the job could only help him so much."
She kept silent, her heart breaking for the anguish this strong, proud man had endured, was still enduring, because of the random destiny of birth.
"As far as I could tell, there was a drug deal that went wrong. The drugs were recovered, but Davies thought Luke had double-crossed him, and took him out. But not before he'd tortured him for a few days."
She was horrified. "But why torture him?"
He lifted a hand and dropped it. "Who knows? For kicks, probably. The man's a sadistic bastard. What was left of Luke's body turned up in the Intracoastal Waterway, near a town called Louisa. By the time I got there, they'd found most of him. Except his fingers." Creole looked up, raw pain in his eyes. "I guess they didn't think he could be identified without them."
Her vision blurred, her heart aching. "But you recognized him."
He turned his head and lifted his cup to his mouth. But she noticed he didn't drink. "He had a tattoo."
She blinked back the sympathetic tears that wanted to fall. He wouldn't want her pity. "The police. Couldn't they—"
"I am the police," he reminded her. "To be fair, they're doing what they can. Which isn't much, as long as Davies stays invisible. I've been ordered off the case. Too personal." He gave her a sardonic smile, which didn't have a hint of humor in it. "But when I saw Luke in that body bag, I made him a solemn promise." His shoulders squared.
