by JoAnn Ross
"My turn." He unhooked her slacks, sent them sliding down her legs to pool on the floor. Then nudged her down onto the leather couch so he could take off her shoes.
He skimmed a finger up the inside of her thigh. "So lovely."
Excitement crackled up her skin like flash fire. When she unconsciously fisted her hand, Nick slowly uncurled her fingers and pressed her palm against his chest.
"Feel what you do to me, darlin'."
His heart was pounding like a jackhammer.
Enthralled that she could elicit such a response from him, Kate slid her hand down his rib cage, exploring this phenomenon further.
When she bent her head and pressed her mouth against his hard, flat stomach, she felt the muscles clench.
She unzipped his jeans, freeing his penis. He was hard as marble, but much, much warmer. Kate tested his weight and thickness and felt the tumescent flesh stir beneath her stroking touch.
Feeling a surge of feminine satisfaction that she was responsible for such obvious desire, she bent her head and touched her lips to the smooth, straining tip.
He bucked beneath her intimate kiss, a growl rumbling deep in his throat. Encouraged, she ran her tongue along its length and was about to take him fully, deeply into her mouth when he fisted his hand in her hair and lifted her head.
"If you keep that up, we'll end this in about ten seconds flat."
"I wouldn't mind."
Her fingers continued to stroke him as her eyes offered him a blatant feminine dare. Kate wanted him. Now.
"Well, now, darlin', I'm real sorry about that."
He grabbed both her wrists in one hand and pushed her gently back against the arm of the couch, holding her hands together above her head. "Because I want to take my time."
She squirmed beneath his restraint. Her bloody warmed. "Do you always get everything you want?"
He flashed a rakish, pirate's grin. "Today I do."
Lying down beside her, he trailed his hands down her naked flesh, fondling her aching breasts, scraping a thumbnail over her nipples, creating a spiral of warmth down her spine.
After her body had warmed to nearly the boiling point, he continued his sensual torment by trailing his mouth over the fiery trail his hands had blazed.
He sucked on her nipples with a hot, hungry greed, creating a primal pull deep in her feminine core. He bit her shoulder, nipped at the tender cord in her neck, then closed his teeth around an earlobe and tugged.
He kissed her stomach. The sensitive hollow between her pelvic bones. Tugged the tiny thong panties down her legs, then created a hot, wet path through the nest of bright curls between her thighs with his tongue.
All the time she writhed restlessly beneath his erotic touch.
When his lips plucked at the source of all that moist heat, her body bucked, arching unashamedly.
"Please."
Kate knew she was begging. But felt neither embarrassment nor shame. Her clitoris was swollen, throbbing with need. The wild, out-of-control trip-hammer beat of her heart was echoed between her legs.
"Nick." Her voice was half gasp. Half sob. "Hurry."
But still he took his time. She tossed her head back and forth as his tongue slipped into her and his teeth began nibbling on ultrasensitive flesh.
"Please," she moaned again, "hurry."
"Don't worry, chère. We'll get there." He put his hands beneath her bottom, lifting her hips, pressing her harder against his mouth as he feasted on the hot juices flowing from her.
The pleasure/pain continued, spiraling into a tighter and tighter coil. Just when Kate thought she couldn't take any more, he replaced his tongue with first one finger, then two, reaching deep inside her, stretching her, rasping delicate inner tissues with clever strokes.
He covered her mouth with his, allowing her to taste herself on his lips. Then held her tightly against him, his tongue tangling with hers inside the moist cavern of her mouth as his hand moved between them, his thumb parting the sensitive pink flesh, searching for the hard nub above her vaginal lips.
When he found it, he pressed down. Hard. At the same time, his fingers thrust even deeper. Harder. Faster.
Kate cried out his name as she came.
Nick held her, kissing her lightly, soothingly as her shattering orgasm slowly ebbed.
She was limp. Boneless. The boat could have been on fire and she wouldn't have been able to move from this spot.
"Oh, my God," she managed to gasp. "I think this is where I tell you that I've never, ever felt that way before."
"Well, hang on, darling. Because that was just the beginning." He touched his smiling mouth to hers. "A little something to take the edge off."
Proving himself true to his word, he took her higher, bringing her to climax again and again, until Kate would have sworn she had nothing left to give.
And even then he proved her wrong.
Nick finally claimed ultimate possession, surging into her, and although she would have thought it impossible, as she tightened around him, drawing him deeper, Kate felt him grow even larger. Harder.
He called out her name and went rigid, his back arched, the muscles of his neck standing out in stark relief. She felt the convulsions deep inside her at the same time she gave in to yet another, stronger release of her own.
Groaning, Nick collapsed onto her. When he would have pulled out, Kate wrapped her arms around his back and her legs around his thighs, unwilling to surrender the glorious feel of him deep inside her.
His lips were pressed against her damp hair and he was murmuring soft words she didn't need to speak French to understand.
32
ANTOINETTE ST. CROIX LIVED ON AUDUBON Place, the most exclusive street in the leafy-green environs of New Orleans's Uptown area, where the movers and shakers, many of whom could trace their roots back to the 1700s, dwelt in mostly isolated splendor.
"Your maman definitely landed in some tall cotton, she," Nick said after giving his name to the uniformed watchman in the guardhouse. "Right after Katrina, most of the houses around here, which didn't get flooded, bein' as they're on high ground, had private former special-ops guys guarding them. One owner even heloed in an Israeli team made up of former Mossad officers."
"This can't be good," Kate said as the heavy iron gate rumbled open.
"Maybe she married for love."
"Right."
"Sounds like you don't believe in it."
"For some people. But my mother already has a lifelong love affair going. With herself."
"People can change."
Kate snorted. "Yeah, right. Just wait until you meet her. Then let me know what you think."
Unlike the charming Creole houses crowding the sidewalk in the French Quarter, the mansions of Audubon Place were set far back from the street. Partly, Kate suspected, for privacy, and partly to show off the professional landscaping.
Nick parked behind his partner's beige Crown Vic, which couldn't have looked any more like a police vehicle if it had neon signs plastered to the doors, flashing "Attention Criminals! Unmarked Cop Car!"
The large, three-story Greek Revival house was constructed of white stucco-covered brick, its facade shining like alabaster in the gleaming late-afternoon sun.
A raised parapet created an effect of even greater height while ten massive, three-story-tall Ionic columns supported the great roof.
On either side of the main structure were two-story wings that duplicated the mansion's architectural style, while a white wrought-iron fence surrounded a lushly manicured front lawn that could have doubled as a putting green.
A huge marble fountain claimed the center of a flagstone courtyard beside the towering front door, which looked as if it had once belonged to some European monastery. In the center of the ornately carved door was an iron knocker fashioned in the shape of a lion's head.
Nick pressed the doorbell. A moment after it had rung out in a peal of Westminster chimes, an attractive young man, dressed in a black waistcoat, blac
k slacks, a .starched white shirt, and black bow tie opened the door.
"Welcome, Ms. Delaney. Mr. Broussard," he greeted them. "Madame is expecting you. She's with the detectives in the drawing room."
Drawing room? Kate exchanged a look with Nick, who shrugged. They were both obviously out of their league.
The interior of the mansion was dominated by a massive entrance hall with gleaming white Corinthian columns lining the silk-draped walls. A magnificent floating stairway curved up to the second floor, drawing a visitor's gaze toward a towering ceiling embellished with plaster medallions. In the center of the ceiling, cherubs with gilded wings frolicked among fluffy mural clouds lit by a crystal chandelier that had to be eight feet tall.
"Madame?" Kate murmured as they followed the butler across a mile of marble floor. "Wow, not only are we no longer in Kansas, Toto, we've just gone off the planet."
"It's impressive, sure enough," Nick said. "I never would've guessed you could buy a house like this by selling cars."
His tone was dry, indicating that he didn't believe it possible any more than she did. Whatever her mother was up to, Kate realized she must've pulled off the long con of the century. But this time, unless St. Croix was deaf, blind, and senile, her mother may have bit off more of a mark than she'd be able to chew.
The drawing room had the ambience of a baronial castle. Heavy, gilt-framed paintings hung on gold silk-draped walls; satin-upholstered French period furniture rested on an Oriental carpet that could have covered an NBA basketball court. A stone fireplace, tall enough for a man to stand in, took up the far wall.
"Darling!" Antoinette's naturally southern accent was more rounded, and a great deal more cultured than it had been back when she'd been dragging her daughters around the carnival circuit, telling phony fortunes as the Mystical Zelda. "Thank God you've come!"
She hadn't aged a day. If anything, she looked every bit as young as she had that day fifteen years ago when she'd been led out of a Biloxi courtroom in shackles.
Her hair, a smooth and shiny streaked blonde, fell in waves to her shoulders, her lips were colored a soft pink, and not a line or wrinkle marred either her forehead or the skin around her eyes. Her flowered silk dress, which brought to mind Monet's gardens, swung like a colorful bell and rustled as she glided across the carpet.
The femininity that surrounded her had Kate, who'd put her suit back on after that mind-blowing sex with Nick, feeling a lot like a mortician.
"I'm so glad you've come."
Her eyes, which Kate remembered as being hazel but' were now—thanks to contacts—Elizabeth Taylor violet, glistened with a moist sheen. She dabbed at the moisture with a linen handkerchief, reminding Kate of when they'd used cheap toilet paper because boxes of tissue were too expensive.
Having seen her mother pull out the waterworks on demand, Kate wasn't buying her tears now.
"Family needs to support one another during tragic times such as these."
She pressed her powdered cheek against Kate's as she hugged her. Kate, who kept her arms stiffly at her sides, couldn't name the floral perfume, but she'd bet it was expensive.
Apparently realizing her daughter was not going to return the embrace, she released her and extended her slender hands toward Nick. A diamond the size of Alaska on the ring finger of her left hand caught the light from the chandelier overhead, splitting it into rainbows.
"And you must be Mr. Broussard. It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm sorry for your recent troubles and am sure, given your sterling military record, it must all be a dreadful mistake."
Recent troubles?
"Thanks." Studiously ignoring Kate's sharp, questioning look, he took both her outstretched hands in his. "I'm pleased to meet you Mrs. St. Croix. I only wish it was under more pleasant circumstances."
"Thank you. It is a very difficult time for me. What with my precious baby's death. And my husband's dreadful accident."
A difficult time for her.
Hadn't it always been this way? Antoinette was, hands down, the most narcissistic individual Kate had ever met. And given that most criminals could be poster children for narcissism, that was really saying something.
"Could I get you a drink, Nick?" Antoinette asked.
"No, thank you," he said politely.
"Do you happen to know what Tara was up to that might have gotten her killed?" Kate asked.
"I've already told Detective Landreaux"—she flashed a tragically wobbly smile toward the detective, who gave her a professionally reassuring smile in return—"that my youngest daughter hadn't shared any personal information with me." Sitting down in a damask-draped wing chair, Antoinette crossed her long, still excellent legs with a swish of silk. "I do know she was about to quit her job as a hostess on that casino ship."
Hostess. Now, wasn't that a euphemism?
Deciding that even if she did know anything, her mother wouldn't share, especially with a cop in the room, Kate turned toward Nick's former partner.
"Nick said the autopsy's almost completed?"
"We should have it any time," he said. "If not by eight, which is when Doc usually tends to close up shop, first thing in the morning."
"So I'll be able to identify my sister's body?"
"Oh, you don't have to worry about that," Antoinette! said blithely. As if belatedly realizing her smile, again directed at Remy Landreaux, was inappropriate under the circumstances, her expression instantly turned beautifully tragic.
Her mother had always been able to turn emotions on and off like a light switch. Making Kate wonder if she actually had any true feelings.
"I've already identified our dear Tara."
"You went to the morgue?"
"No. Detective Landreaux wanted to spare me the emotional hardship of going to that dreadfully depressing place." Her lips quivered. She dabbed at her eyes again. Took a deep, shuddering breath. "So he brought me a videotape."
Kate narrowed her eyes and turned back to the detective. "Is that standard operating procedure in New Orleans?"
"Not always," Remy Landreaux responded easily. "But, as Nick undoubtedly has told you, we're operating under less than ideal conditions, especially once FEMA closed down the temporary morgue they'd built and mothballed all their high-tech equipment. Which forced the coroner to temporarily move to a funeral home.
"Meanwhile, most everyone in this city is suffering some level of post-traumatic stress, so we're more than willing to go the extra step to make a difficult process easier on victims' families, whenever possible."
That made sense, Kate allowed. It also left her feeling a little guilty for having been so cynical. Not all New Orleans cops were dickheads like Dubois. Who she was grateful she wasn't going to have to deal with today. Landreaux had, after all, stepped in and had been trying to help her from the beginning by sending her to Nick.
They would have made a good team, Kate decided. Nick's raw yet amiable masculinity, which undoubtedly worked well when dealing with New Orleans's large working-class base, and the other cop's suaveness would undoubtedly be able to win cooperation from the Garden District types.
Of course, neither man would have a bit of trouble with females on either side of the cultural divide.
"Besides"—Antoinette broke into Kate's thoughts—"you wouldn't have been able to recognize your sister, anyway. Given how long it's been since you'd seen her. And people change over time."
"Yeah, I heard Tara changed a lot," Kate said dryly.
She wondered if mother and daughter had gotten a family rate from that plastic surgeon. Antoinette was certainly a walking, talking billboard for Botox and the benefits of preemptive face-lifts.
"Will you be staying in town long, dear?"
"Until I find my sister's killer."
Kate thought her mother paled a bit beneath her expertly applied foundation. "Surely you don't think she was murdered?"
"Yes," Kate said, shooting a look toward the detective, who was probably one of the few cops she'd ever seen who ac
tually looked as if he belonged in a room like this. Despite all the edgy vibes shooting around the room, he looked as cool and aloof—and watchful—as a cat. "I do."
"Oh, my," Antoinette breathed. "I hope that won't' hold up Thursday's interment. You've no idea how difficult it is to get a caterer at such short notice. Fortunately, it's after Ash Wednesday. I can't imagine what we would have done if Tara had died a few days earlier."
"Yeah, that would've been real inconsiderate of her." Kate was remembering why she'd jumped at the opportunity to escape to Chicago. Wished, certainly not for the first time, that she'd been able to convince her sister to come with her.
"You will attend, won't you? I managed to get her a tomb in Lafayette Cemetery Number One, which is, of course, a virtual who's who of New Orleans society. They also filmed scenes from Interview with the Vampire there."
"Well, I'm sure my sister would be tickled pink to hear that," Kate said dryly. "So, how's your husband?"
"He's doing much better, thank the Lord." Kate had to fight against rolling her eyes as her mother made the sign of the cross against the front of the silk flowered dress. "I was so horribly afraid I was going to lose my soul mate."
Soul mate. Sure thing, Mom.
"We need to talk," Kate said. "Alone."
She looked over at Remy Landreaux, who was still watching them.
Most people would never take him for a cop. To the average Joe Citizen, the detective might look as if he'd just stepped off the pages of GQ, all pressed and polished, with his tawny tan and sun-gilded hair. But to l hose who knew what to look for, his steady, gunmetal-gray eyes gave him away.
She suspected that, as with Nick, not much got by him.
"While Kate and her maman are catching up, maybe you and I can put together what we know," Nick suggested to Remy. "See if together we might be able to put this puzzle together. If you're done here?"
He was about as subtle as an Abrams tank. But it worked. Remy Landreaux stood up, shaking imaginary wrinkles out of his custom-tailored dress slacks. His wry smile told Nick he knew exactly what he was doing, but was willing to go along with it if it helped wrap up his case.
