by Nina Bruhns
"I don't give a damn about orders. I'm going to see that bastard Davies fry, if it's the last thing I do."
"Oh, baby," she said softly, "I'm so very sorry."
He set down his cup and after a brief second glanced over at her. "Thanks," he said, his face calm and composed, as if they hadn't just talked about him losing the only person in the world who had ever meant a thing to him, once again a man in control of his universe.
He leaned forward and motioned for her to do the same. She met him halfway, but he didn't give her a kiss, as she'd somehow expected, even hoped.
"I like how you call me baby," he murmured, disarming her completely.
"It's a South Carolina thing," she returned, marginally flustered at the abrupt change of mood. "Don't take it personally. We call everybody baby. Infants to grandpas."
"Sure, chère." He grinned, effectively slamming the door on the previous subject. "Still, I like hearing it."
"I'll be sure to say it more often."
With a slight jerk of his chin, he motioned her closer still, until their lips were a fraction of an inch apart. "Mmm. Sugar," he said softly.
"Uh…" Now she was definitely flustered. What the heck was he—
"You've got powdered sugar on your nose."
She blinked. "Oh." Those darn beignets were covered in the stuff. Pounds of it. She probably had powdered sugar all over her face. Her cheeks heated.
"Want me to lick it off?"
Lord have mercy. "Creole—" She tried to retreat, but his hand shot out and grasped her behind the neck so she couldn't budge. "This is crazy," she sighed, just before her eyes closed and his tongue trailed slowly up the ridge of her nose.
He kissed first one eye, then the other, and then he whis pered, "I wish you weren't leavin'."
"Me, too," she murmured, and realized what he was really saying, and asking, but didn't see any way around the cold, hard facts that his life was here and hers was in Carolina, and even if that could change, the kind of people they were wouldn't.
Her heart went out to him for all that he'd been through—and for the man he'd become because of it. But the truth remained, his troubled life had molded him into a man who was afraid of love and commitment and would never settle down to one woman. She saw that plain as the rough shadow of his beard on his face. She worked with boys who would become Creole. Hell, her own father was Creole—though he had never been able to pull himself out of the morass to the extent Creole had succeeded in doing.
She drew in a deep breath and let it out on another sigh. And then she kissed him. A tender, poignant kiss, that conveyed her own wishes, and her sadness that they couldn't ever come true. Not with him, anyway.
"Well, isn't this cozy." A nastily familiar voice cut short their kiss—luckily, because it was threatening to become much more than she'd intended.
Saved by the FBI.
"Get lost," Creole growled.
"Now, I wish I could do that. Really I do. But unfortunately, I've gotta deal with this loco cop who thinks he's Dirty Harry, and his misguided girlfriend, who are well on their way to screwing up almost two years of work for me."
Creole let her go and turned to the man she recognized as the agent with the aviator shades from the alley last night. "Give me one reason I should give a damn," he said.
"Your job."
"I don't think so," he retorted, filling her with alarm. Hadn't the man said something last night about going to Creole's captain?
Creole reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his tobacco pouch, proceeding to leisurely roll himself a cigarette. Grace could practically smell the testosterone flood the air.
"If this were an official visit," he continued, "you'd be identifying yourself and showing me your ID, not making idle threats."
"Well, well." The FBI agent pulled a chair from a nearby table and straddled it between them. "I may have underestimated you."
After lighting his smoke, Creole gazed assessingly at the agent. "And you might be smarter than you look."
The man gave a forced laugh. "Cute. Look, sorry about last night…"
Grace lost the thread of the conversation when her awareness was snared by a ribbon-thin finger of smoke curling about Creole's ear. It slid along the sturdy masculine whorls, twined around the modest lobe, flirted with the collar of his Miami shirt and the neat, black hair above it. She watched the wispy smoke with a twinge of envy as prowled over his shoulder and down his shirtsleeve, wishing he'd allow her own fingers to caress him so lovingly. A tiny cluster of blue lines peeked out from under the sleeve, barely visible. A tattoo?
"So I guess what I'm asking is, will you help us?"
Creole's eyes sought hers, and her attention snapped back to the present. To her dismay she realized she'd missed something important. He was silently asking her opinion.
"Of course, it would mean that Miss Summerville would have to stick around New Orleans for a few more days," the agent said, looking at her hopefully.
"I could stay," she blurted out, belatedly realizing she was speaking to a completely different question than the one the FBI man was posing. "I mean, what do you think?" she asked Creole, to cover her slip.
"I think…" he said, then halted. He slanted her a glance that might have been amused if it weren't so searingly sexual. "I think we'd be pleased to help you, Agent Morris," he said, directing his comments to the man who'd apparently introduced himself while she was off in her smoke-induced hallucinations, "but only on the condition that you fill us in on everything. And I do mean everything."
Sweet heaven, what had she gone and done? Had she really promised to delay leaving, when every instinct screamed at her to get away from this place, from this man, as quickly as possible?
"Very well. Agreed."
She fought a queasy feeling in her stomach while Agent Morris flagged down Pierre and placed an order for more coffee and beignets. She risked a glance at Creole, who sealed her vexation with an impudent wink.
There was no doubt in her mind what was on his mind, nor the motive to which he attributed her sudden change of plans.
The question was whether she was willing to admit it to herself.
"Believe it or not, Miss Summerville, the other Miss Summerville—"
"Muse?"
"Yes, Muse is working with us."
Again, shock ripped through Grace. "You're kidding, right?"
"Wrong. We recruited her over six months ago. She was helping us get information on James Davies, through her boyfriend Gary Fox. She had just met Fox a few weeks earlier, and they seemed taken with each other. We did a background check, and she seemed pretty straight and honest, if a bit misguided in her taste in men. So we approached her."
"You approached her." Grace's head was spinning so fast her headache was beginning to come back.
"Yes."
"To work undercover for you."
"Well, sort of." Morris squirmed around a bit in his chair. "More of a snitch than an operative. She said she liked Fox but didn't care for the stuff he was into. She thought Davies was an animal, selling drugs to kids, and was glad to help us put him away. Strictly voluntarily. She wouldn't accept money from us." He had the grace to look slightly embarrassed by the admission.
Too stunned to speak, Grace was grateful when Creole asked, "Where is Muse now?"
The agent squirmed again and pulled at the collar of his button-down shirt. "I'm not totally, exactly sure."
"What?" Grace burst out. "I thought you said she was safe!"
"She is, she is," Morris rushed to assure. "She's being protected by one of our best agents, Remi Beaulieux. But he's a bit unpredictable—comes from the years he spent undercover as a jewel thief—and, well, they seem to have … disappeared together."
"Disappeared." Her vocabulary had degenerated to that of a feebleminded parrot, but for the life of her she couldn't gather her wits enough to sound coherent. Again Creole rescued her, but she immediately wished he hadn't.
"Why did she nee
d protection? What went wrong?"
Dread flashed through her and settled as a tight fist around her heart. "Wrong?"
Oh, God, if something had happened to Muse she'd never forgive herself. As if reading her mind, Creole reached over and grasped her hand.
Morris shook his head. "No, nothing like that. Agent Beaulieux is probably just being cautious. He may have suspected she was in danger of being exposed and took her into hiding."
"Isn't that something you should know?"
Morris looked down into the dregs of his coffee. "Normally."
Grace didn't like the sound of that, and when Creole narrowed his eyes, she guessed he didn't either. But he didn't comment. Instead he gave her hand a squeeze and asked Morris, "What is it you want us to do for you?"
Looking visibly relieved that he hadn't been further interrogated, Morris answered, "For now just what you've been doing. Continue to be Muse and her new man. One of our informants called to let us know your charade last night caused some comment and speculation around town. He thinks there's a good chance Fox will break cover to check you out. His manly reputation is at stake."
Creole smiled menacingly. "Good."
"There's one more thing."
"What's that?"
"Someone made you as a cop."
Creole swore and his grip tightened on her hand as a look passed between him and Morris, an unspoken cop-to-cop exchange that left Grace more than a bit rattled.
"What does that mean?" she asked worriedly.
Creole shifted his gaze to her, then withdrew his hand and drilled it through his hair. "It means I'm going to put you on the first plane back to Charleston. It's too dangerous for you to stay here."
She and Morris fell over each other to protest.
"I have to stay! Muse needs me!"
"If she disappears now, it'll drive them even further underground! It could be months before they surface again!"
"No."
"She'll be protected. I'll have two men watching her at all times."
"It's too dangerous," Creole repeated, glaring at the agent. "If they know I'm a cop, then they know who I am. They'll know I'm out for revenge over the death of my brother and figure I'm using her to get to them."
He left unspoken the implications of that scenario, but they didn't escape her. Her life would truly be in danger.
She didn't know when it had become just as important for her to help Creole put his brother's soul to rest as it was to be sure her sister was safe, but suddenly she knew she couldn't leave, no matter how much danger it put her in.
"Then I guess we'll have to be careful. But I'm not running away," she said quietly.
* * *
C'est fou, sa! It was crazy!
Creole didn't like it. Not one bit. They'd argued for a while, Grace and Morris against him, but in the end he'd given up and caved. Grace was adamant. With or without him, she was staying. Mais, quelle espèce de tête dure, elle! Damn, obstinate woman!
He'd never felt so torn before in his life, between wanting her out of New Orleans, out of danger, and wanting her to stay. Wanting her in his bed.
He prayed it was their logical arguments and not his libido that had finally convinced him.
With both the Feds and himself protecting Grace, it should be okay for a few days. If Fox hadn't shown by then, he'd ship her off, regardless of how much she—or his hormones—protested. There were other ways to catch a fox than by staking out a defenseless chick.
Even though the thought of her leaving left him short of breath.
* * *
"You are a stubborn little thing, you know that?"
Grace wrinkled her nose at him. "This morning you praised my stubbornness."
Creole glowered at her from above the screwdriver he was using to install the dead bolt he'd insisted they pick up on the way back to her apartment. "Don't remind me."
"I thought you wanted me to stay."
He paused in midscrew. "You know I do. But I'd rather see you stay alive."
She knelt beside him and bent to sweep up the chunks of wood he'd chipped out of the door to accommodate the new lock. "What could go wrong, with you and your faithful gun right across the courtyard to protect me?"
"Ah, non." He dropped the screwdriver and grasped her arms, dustpan and all. "I'm going to be right here with you, in the same apartment, in the same room. You won't even be able to blink without me watching."
She bit her lip and glanced up at him with an expression that hit somewhere between hope and terror. Which just about fit his own state of mind.
"You more afraid of me than of Gary Fox, jolie?"
"No. It's just that…" She bit her lip again.
"Chère, I held you naked in my arms all night and managed to keep the rest of me to myself. Nothin's gonna happen that you don' want to happen."
She gazed up at him with such longing that he had to physically restrain himself from pulling her to him, under him, and show her that her fears were unfounded.
But what about his own?
Women didn't stick around. Not around him, anyway. Starting with his own mother, every woman in his life had abused and abandoned him, each time leaving his body and his heart more shredded and his soul more desperate. The early ones had hurt the most. Women who were supposed to love him, nurture him, care for him, had all turned a blind eye, or worse, and in the end had simply dumped him to fend for himself in the bowels of another hellhole.
Later, he'd become inured. By then he and Luke had banded together to form a tight little knot of asylum from the cruelties of the outside world. Women hadn't been a factor for a good, long time after that. But when, years later, he'd finally opened himself up enough to be able to get close to a woman physically, and to test out the precarious emotional waters surrounding such intimacy, he'd found not one was willing to stick around long enough to get past the obvious difficulties.
Would Grace be any different?
He wanted to think so. But he'd been devastated too often to be able to trust. He'd seen it happen too many times before. The first time he slept with a woman, she was intrigued. The second time, eager for the fantasy. But after that, she'd grow tired of the complications, and waltz out of his life for good, taking a piece of his heart, and his hope, with her.
Grace would be no different, despite her apparent understanding of his background. She'd said herself she was attracted to men like him but would never get serious about one. Even if he managed to convince her to make love, she'd still take off when their FBI ruse was over. And probably be glad for the excuse.
Non. Better by far to stick to his usual modus operandi—no strings, no involvement, just a night or two of mutual pleasure and then splitsville. But with Grace, even that much would no doubt prove more painful than just letting the whole thing be. He was already too invested emotionally. If she slept with him and then left, as she was bound to do, his heart might never recover.
For as foolish and impossible as it seemed—and much to his own bewilderment—because of Grace, he'd discovered a craving deep within him. A craving for love and a normal life. For the kind of life and love he'd only thought existed for other people, or in fairy tales.
He was too bruised as it was. To have to endure another betrayal would leave him a soulless shell, unable to continue nurturing that tiny seed of hope and faith that somewhere one special woman would be able to heal his pain.
He looked down at her—at the woman whose arms he was gripping like a lifeline, not able to let her go, not daring to pull her close—and steeled his emotions, locking them deep inside as he'd learned to do, long, long ago.
"Nothing will happen, chère. I give you my word."
With that he let his hands fall away from her and reached for the screwdriver, determinedly returning his attention to installing the lock.
For a moment she seemed confused, but she quickly bent once again to sweep up the remaining curls of wood from the floor.
"Good," she said. "I just didn'
t want you to think—"
"I don't."
"Because last night I said some things—"
"It was the daiquiris talkin'. I know."
"Well. Okay. We understand each other then."
"Yeah."
"Okay. Good."
She went to the kitchen, emptied and put away the broom and dustpan, then bustled around straightening things that didn't need straightening, chattering about innocuous stuff like the weather and what they would have for dinner in six hours.
"I'll take you to Ralph and Kakoo's," he interrupted as he put the finishing touches on the lock and tested it. He couldn't stand listening to her avoidance one minute longer.
That stopped her for about five seconds as she looked at him, blinked, then said, "You don't have to do that."
"I want to." He gathered up his tools and stowed them in the toolbox. "Just wear somethin' short and tight," he added with a wink and a grin to distract her.
The tension in her shoulders dissolved and she made a long-suffering face, rimmed with reluctant amusement. "You are impossible."
"Naw. Just like lookin' at your legs."
She rolled her eyes and walked to the living area.
Just then the doorbell buzzed loudly.
They both jumped, her in the air, him for his gun and to shove her behind his back. She slapped her hands over her mouth, and he went automatically into cop mode.
He braced his legs apart, aimed the Glock at the door and called, "Who's there?"
Chapter 11
"I said, who's there?"
"You have to use the intercom," Grace's quavering voice whispered over his shoulder.
"Huh?"
It was then Creole realized that whoever it was must be at the outside door downstairs. Hardly Fox being considerate by ringing the front doorbell. He let out his backed-up breath and relaxed his weapon arm, then strode to the intercom. "Yes?" he demanded gruffly.
"Wood's Photo," came the scratchy reply. "I have Miss Summerville's pictures. Where would you like the package?"
