by JoAnn Ross
When his fingers grazed her tightened nipples, he. knew he wasn't the only one turned on.
"You know," he murmured as he circled her mouth with the tip of his tongue and drew forth a shuddering sigh, "this is one helluva lot more fun than the last time I climbed into a car trunk."
"So long as you're willing to overlook the risk of suffocating."
Even as the logical cop pointed out the practical downside, the sexy siren living inside the tidy, efficient body twined her arms around his neck. And began moviing her hips in slow, insistent mind-blowing circles against his groin.
"This is crazy," she said.
"Hell, we're all born crazy, sugar. The trick is to stay that way."
Sweet bleeding Jesus. If she kept that up, his mindf wasn't the only thing that was going to blow.
He knew he was playing with dynamite, but that| didn't stop him from shoving his hands beneath her black jacket and down into the waistband of today's snug black slacks. How many pairs of these things did she have, anyway?
Nick decided it definitely said something about the inner woman that she could be so damn sexy while hiding her body behind that fugly suit.
On the other hand—and hey, wasn't there always an-j other hand?—perhaps that all-cop-all-the-time camouflage had kept other, less observant guys from realizing that there was a living, breathing wet dream living inside all that black serge.
And, hot damn, weren't her panties just proof of I that?
"You're wearing a thong." And didn't that news flash set every hot hormone in his body to singing the Hallelujah Chorus?
"It's not easy being a murder cop." She sounded a little dazed by the pheromones that were bouncing around the enclosed interior like crazed pinballs.
Join the club, sweetheart.
"Especially in the brawny, mustachioed world of CPD. It helps to have a secret reminder that I can be a woman and still do my job."
"Your secret's sure enough safe with me, sugar." He cupped a bare cheek in each hand. "But I gotta tell you, you're not going to find me complaining if whatever bra vou've got on under that sweater matches these itsy-bitsy teensy-weensy panties."
"That's for me to know." She trailed the back of her lingers down his cheek, around his jaw. "And you to find out," she challenged saucily.
Nick had never been one to back away from a challenge. And he wasn't about to begin now.
Even if making out in a car trunk while a possible hired gun was out there looking for them was one of the riskiest damn things.he'd ever done. Given his fifteen years pulling off clandestine missions in countries that (he majority of Americans couldn't even pronounce, let alone find on a map, that was saying something.
Then again, it wasn't as if they had all that much else to do at the moment.
"Well, now, you know, I'd love to do just that." He placed a wet, openmouthed kiss against the warm, silky hollow of her throat and felt her pulse leap. "But the problem is, my hands just happen to be a little busy right now." He squeezed her butt to demonstrate his point.
"Oh. Well." She blew out a breath. Seemed to consider the matter. Then he felt her smile against his mouth. "Maybe I can help you out with that."
He nearly wept as she leaned back, breaking that glorious contact of her breasts plastered against his chest.
When she lifted the sweater, weeping was the farthest thing from his mind.
Hot damn. Her breasts gleamed like pearl; the delicate lace cupping them was cotton-candy pink, worlds away from the charcoal-gray sweater and funeral-black suit.
"Well, that answers the age-old question."
When she slowly, provocatively licked her lips, he nearly creamed his jeans.
"What question is that?" Damned if it wasn't a purr. From his murder cop! Talk about your still waters running wild and deep.
"There is, indeed, a God."
When a quick, pleased laugh burst out of her, she quickly covered her mouth with her hand. But the laughter still shone, star-bright, in her gaze.
"Flatterer," she accused.
"It's the truth. You are, hands down, the sexiest woman I've ever met."
Years of middle-of-the-night missions had his eyes accustomed to the dark. Even without night-vision goggles, Nick could see nearly as well in pitch-dark as he could in daylight.
Which was how he was able to tell the exact instant n a lily threatened to rear its ugly head.
She didn't say she didn't believe him. She didn't have to. The bright flame in her eyes flickered.
Hell. No way was he going to let it go out completely.
Nick wondered if that out-of-the-blue insecurity came from having grown up with Desiree and her grifter mother, whom Nick had never met. But if An-loiuette St. Croix was anywhere near as outwardly sexual as her daughter—and the fact she'd gone to prison for pulling sweetheart cons suggested she probably was—that could have left Kate feeling like the family's ugly duckling. Which was, of course, flat out laughable.
But Nick understood how she might feel that way, having accepted a long time ago that his own rocky upbringing had left scars that didn't show on the outside. And although they never spoke about it, at least to him, he suspected the same could be said for his sisters.
As much as he would've happily kept both his hands on her silky-smooth, tight butt into the next millennium, Nick caught hold of her wrist with his left hand and pressed her hand against his chest.
"Feel that." His heart was beating like the rotors atop all those helos that devastated the beach with a pyrotechnic attack to a Wagner sound track in Apocalypse Now. "You do that to me. Whether you're wearing cop clothes, Victoria's Secret's scantiest, or nothing at all."
"You don't know what I look like without clothes on."
"Well, now, that's a situation I intend to rectify as soon as possible." He moved her hand lower, to his groin, where his cock was pressing painfully against the metal teeth of the zipper. "Meanwhile, check out what else you do to me."
"No one has ever talked to me this way before." Nick had to clench his teeth when her caressing touch moved slowly, wonderingly, over the throbbing erection that felt on the verge of tearing through the heavy denim. "Or made me feel this way."
"Are you saying..."
No. No way could a woman this hot be a virgin.
"Oh, I've had sex before," she said, validating his instincts.
Her sweater was still up, gathered at the crest of her breasts; when she shrugged, he said a silent prayer that it'd stay there.
Proving that God was on his side, at least for the moment, it did.
"And for the most part it's been okay, but not exactly a blow-the-top-of-your-head-off experience. More... well, you know. Something to do before going to sleep." Another shrug. "Like brushing your teeth."
He nearly laughed his disbelief but managed to keep it in, partly to avoid being overheard, but mostly to protect her feelings.
"Wow. Have you hooked up with the wrong guys."
"Tell me about it."
She had not taken her hand away. Nick was torn between fearing he'd have a meltdown if she didn't stop Booking him that way, and wanting her never to stop.
"My last lover was one of the detectives I testified against. He'd also been my partner on the task force for over a year. Needless to say, my getting involved in that federal investigation pretty much put a stop to that relationship."
"Yeah, Joseph Shinski. I read about him."
"When?"
"Last night. I Googled you," he admitted. "After you went to sleep." And he couldn't. "And before you start complaining about any perceived invasion of your privacy, I wanted to get a sense of the case. To see if any one of those cops was behind the shooting."
"That's a stretch."
"That's pretty much what I decided. But I don't think we should rule the possibility out."
"The cop in me agrees. The woman is creeped out by the idea. Anyway, the guy before Joe was a country longwriter. He wrote a song about me that George Strait almo
st recorded."
Almost being the definitive word, Nick thought.
"That was right before he left town. With my stereo, all my CDs, and my juicer."
"Your juicer?"
"He was on a raw-food diet."
"Well, hell, that was your mistake. Any guy who isn't man enough to enjoy a bloody Angus ribeye couldn't begin to keep up with you."
Nick had never thought of himself as a possessive man. Since his work as a SEAL wasn't real conducive to long-term relationships, he fully expected the women he slept with to feel the same freedom to move on in the morning.
But for some reason he'd have to think about later, once he satisfied this sexual ache that was becoming more and more painful by the minute, he hated the idea of Kate being with any other man.
Oh, not in the past. That was then. This is now. And could he come up with any more clichés? The point was, those same instincts that had kept him alive for fifteen years in the military, and six months going undercover to find Big Antoine's murderer, were telling him that once he got the sweet-smelling, sexy Kate into bed, he wouldn't be in a hurry to let her go anytime soon.
Meanwhile, what would it hurt to give her a little taste of what he had in mind? Just to show her how worlds away it was going to be from brushing her teeth. All he'd have to do is move his hand from her curvy little butt around to—
Hell. Outside the trunk, the captain blew the boat's cacophonous horn, announcing the ferry's arrival back in New Orleans.
He sighed. Timing, always integral to any mission, was critical. And right now, it wasn't proving to be on his side.
27
DAMN, DAMN, DAMN! ALTHOUGH EVERY LOGICAL bone in her body was telling her that it would be the most outrageous, foolhardy thing she'd ever done, Kate had been on the brink of seeing exactly how far she could get Nick to take things.
Even as he withdrew his hand from her pants, he left heat behind. She could swear she could still feel the imprint of each of his fingers on her bottom.
Regretfully, she yanked her sweater back down. The bra he seemed so enamored with felt too tight, the lace scratchy against her ultrasensitive skin.
The fog, combined with the insulating properties of the BMW, kept Kate from hearing the passengers returning to their cars, but she could feel the motion as the doors opened and the owners of the car climbed into the interior. The doors closed with the same solid-sounding thunk the trunk lid had made.
"Get ready," Nick murmured against her ear. "It won't be long now."
"How long do you think it'll take the Hulk to realize we're gone?" she whispered.
"So long as the fog hasn't blown away while we've been in here, I'd say long enough for us to get off. Odds are he was in line behind us."
The motion of the ferry stopped, suggesting they'd reached the Canal Street terminal.
"What if he's waiting at the car for us to come back?"
"He might be. But here's the deal. Unless he's the very last car on, he's not going to be able to stand there and wait for us. People are usually more laid-back down here, but the aftermath of Katrina has created a lot of short-tempered folks."
The engine started up with a throaty purr. Nick had to raise his voice to be heard over it.
"Bad enough that our car's going to be holding them up; they're not going to be at all happy if a second car is abandoned and in their way. Someone on the crew will make him get in his car. If he doesn't want to cause a scene, which I'm suspecting he won't, he'll go ahead and try to get back on later and search the boat."
"How do we know he's alone?"
"We don't. But I didn't see any of the other guys who dragged me out into the swamp."
"They took you into the swamp?"
Apparently she found this more shocking than murder. She also slammed her mouth shut so hard he heard her teeth clunk together.
"Sorry," she murmured. "I didn't mean to be so loud. It's just the idea of you being taken out there with all those poisonous snakes and alligators ..."
He felt her shiver. And found himself enjoying the thought of her being concerned for him.
"You've been watching too many horror flicks," he laid, smoothing her hair as the car began moving forward. "The swamp is a beautiful, delicate thing."
"I'm sure that's true."
She still sounded a bit doubtful, but he understood her fears. To most Americans, bayou country may as well exist on another planet.
"And I also understand about how everything serves it purpose, so I'm glad the alligators aren't endangered anymore," she said. "But I have to admit being in the camp that believes God created alligators and snakes so we could have great shoes."
That was one more thing he liked about her. Any woman who could keep her sense of humor when stuck in a dark car trunk, while being stalked by someone who might be trying to kill her, was his kind of woman.
Kate could feel when they'd left the ferry. Felt the BMW pick up speed as it headed down Canal Street, away from the terminal.
"There should be a light in a minute," Nick said. "Cross your fingers." He'd cracked the trunk lid to look out, and apparently the light was green, because the BMW didn't stop. Kate was just beginning to wonder how far it intended to go when it slowed. Then stopped.
Nick grabbed her and gave her a quick, hard kiss that ended far too soon.
"What was that for?" she asked as her head spun.
"Because, chère, you are one lucky charm." He wenfcj back to looking through the crack. "We're about to go into Harrah's parking garage."
"The casino?"
"Got it."
The car stopped. The engine was turned off. Doors opened and shut with a nice solid thunk. Then beeped as the alarm was set.
Kate could hear the excited voices and the clicks of heels on concrete as the gamblers headed off to the tables. Since their car had provided escape, she hoped the gamblers' luck would be as good as hers and Nick's had turned out to be.
They waited another few minutes, just in case someone had forgotten something and decided to come back.
Nick was the first out. Then, hoping someone else wouldn't come into the garage, she took his hand and let him help her out of the trunk.
Her legs wobbled a bit, as her foot had fallen asleep after being folded under her for so long, but it was a small price to pay for avoiding the Hulk.
"I assume you have a plan C?" she asked.
"Well, we could always borrow one of these cars."
"You mean steal?"
Only the fact that he was team poker champion allowed him to keep a straight face. Good-bye, adventurous Ms, Suck Face in a Thong. Hello, Detective Black and White.
And the really weird thing was that he was getting a kick out of both of them.
"We wouldn't keep it, if that's what you're inferring."
"Why don't we just take a cab?"
"And risk someone calling the dispatcher, looking for us? I don't think so."
"Not anyone can just call up and get that kind of information."
"A cop can. Dickhead Dubois, in particular."
Unsurprisingly, she didn't have a ready response for that. However, not willing to fold her hand, she tried a different tact.
"Stolen cars tend to be reported."
"Which is why we're going to switch the plates."
He stopped behind a shiny black SUV that was the car of choice of Hollywood A-listers, rappers, and sports stars. Hell, even Tony Soprano tooled around New Jersey in one. Which partly explained, Nick supposed, why the model always made the top-ten list of stolen cars.
"Please tell me you're joking."
"Avoiding being killed isn't exactly a joking matter."
He pulled a Swiss Army knife out of his pocket and opened it to the screwdriver. It took him about twenty seconds to get the Texas plate off. Which definitely suggested he needed to either get back to training or hang up his fins for good.
Then he went two rows over, found another Texas vehicle, this one a rusted-out beater, and
replaced its plates with the SUV's.
"Okay," Kate said. "I'll give you points for picking the same state, but what if the driver happens to notice the tag number's not the same?"
"The odds are against that." He got the beater's plate back on in under fifteen seconds, which made him feel a bit better. "Do you know your number?"
"Of course."
Of course she would. "That's 'cause you're a cop. Most people don't ever look at their plates."
"I cannot believe I'm doing this," she muttered as she climbed into the passenger seat.
"Think of it as an adventure. Something to tell our grandkids."
Okay, now wasn't that a Freudian slip? He could feel her tense beside him and knew she'd caught it, too.
Deciding he'd only get himself in deeper if he tried to correct the statement, Nick got to work on the interior. Every model car was different. Some had the cover to the key ignition in the steering column, others behind the dash. After locating it, he used the Swiss Army knife screwdriver again to remove the switch the key operated.
Except now he didn't need the key.
"All right," she admitted. "I'm impressed. Still horrified to be a party to a car theft. But impressed."
"We aim to please. Fasten your seat belt." He pulled his own over his chest. "One thing we definitely don't need is getting stopped for a seat-belt violation."
They were just pulling out of the garage when a tow truck passed, heading in the direction of the ferry terminal.
"I'll bet that's picking up our old ride," he said.
"Probably. Won't they connect the car to you as soon as they run those plates?"
"That'd be hard to do. Given that I didn't rent it."
"Who did?"
"Martin Lamoreaux. An architect from Blue Bayou, I.ouisiana, up here in the big city, looking to get in on the reconstruction boom."
"Did the U.S. Navy teach you to lie? Or is it a natural-born talent?"
He could tell she was less than impressed. There were times, and this was one of them, that Nick felt as if he were on a mission with Jiminy Cricket.
"Tell you what," he said as the Escalade idled at a red light. "Next time I'm in some godforsaken armpit of a country where any American automatically has a big red bull's-eye on his back, I'll just explain that I'm a number of the United States of America armed forces, there to bring freedom and democracy to their fucking oppressed people. How's that?"
