by Paula Graves
Maggie turned back to face him, her eyes dark and aware. She walked slowly to him, each step calculated to make give him the best view of her tempting curves. He couldn't look away, even when she stopped beside his chair, her body heat spilling across him, stoking the fire in his belly.
"You look tense." If a woman could purr, Maggie purred the words, low and growly. She moved behind him and slid her hands over his shoulders, smoothing his t-shirt. "I can fix that." Her fingers dug into his taut shoulder muscles, strong and deft.
Alarm bells went off in the logic center of his brain, but his hungry body ignored them, giving in to the pleasure her talented fingers wrought. Animal awareness buzzed through him, heightening his senses. She smelled like rain, dark and earthy. Her furnace-hot body burned the skin of his back through his shirt, though only her hands touched him.
When she dropped her hands away, he had to grip the edge of the table to keep from sliding out of his chair. Electricity pulsed through every nerve in his body. Her breath whispered over him as she bent close. "Your turn."
She sat in the adjacent chair, her gaze dark and demanding.
His heart hammered in response. What was he doing, even considering such a dangerous move?
The problem was, resisting Maggie had never been easy, even when he'd had a dozen reasons for keeping his distance.
Unfortunately, most of those reasons no longer existed.
He rose and circled the table until he stood behind her. Flattening his palms over the tight muscles between her shoulders and her neck, he began stroking lightly, as if she were a wild animal he was trying to gentle.
"Harder," she demanded.
Breath catching, he complied. A groan of pleasure rumbled deep in her throat. The sound shot straight to his groin.
He had to hear that sound again. He tightened his grip on her muscles, increasing the pressure of his fingers.
There. Low. Needy. Female.
He felt ready to burst out of his skin, like a teenager at the mercy of his body and his glands and his one-track mind. If she made that sound again, God help them both, he was going to take her right there on the kitchen table, Remy be damned . . .
"Remember the time I had a cramp in my leg during that
Five K race in Tribeca?" Maggie's voice was dark velvet.
He remembered. He'd had to run the race with her, listening to her taunt him about not being able to keep up with the men at the front of the pack. He'd ignored her, alert for danger but not really expecting any, thanks to the advance security team.
Then Maggie had suddenly dropped like she'd been shot.
Jack's training took over in a heartbeat. It could have been a sniper with a silencer, he'd told himself, eyes scanning the crowd and the periphery as he crouched over her, blocking all access to her until the other agents could catch up.
She'd looked up and muttered two words that had sent relief flowing over him in cold, drenching waves. "Leg cramp."
He'd pulled her leg into his hands and rubbed out the cramp. When the worst of the pain was gone, she'd flashed her perfect white teeth at him and asked, quite loudly, if he made a habit of feeling girls up in public.
"I remember." He dropped his hands and stepped back, clinging to the memory of her pain-in-the-butt attitude, letting that memory cool the sexual heat coursing through him. Passion gave way to anger—at the Naughty Marguerite act, at himself for being so easily sucked into her game. Obviously, she was trying to get something from him, but what? Cooperation? Information? Whatever it was, Jack wasn't going to hand it over so easily.
"What kind of inquiries did you make?" Maggie asked softly.
And we get to the crux. He stifled a sigh, contemplating keeping the information from her. But he'd planned to tell her anyway, and keeping it from her now just seemed petty. "One inquiry, really. To a guy in the New Orleans FBI field office."
Her eyes widened. "You contacted the FBI?"
He stifled a rush of satisfaction at her dismay. Now who's in control? "I didn't tell him you were stashed away in my guest room, Marguerite. Relax."
"What did you tell him?"
"That I'd guarded you and that I wanted to be kept apprised of any developments in the case. Not sure he'll do it, though." He and Travis Cooper had gotten crossways a few years back, when Cooper had been in the Baltimore regional office and Jack on diplomat detail. Cooper had been less than helpful then. Or now. The only thing he could add to what Jack already knew was that Maggie's reputation as a man-eater was still intact.
Let that be a warning. The sooner he solved the problem of Maggie and Remy, the sooner he'd have his sanity back.
But his promise to Maggie limited his options. He had to be careful whom he approached for information, afraid the wrong people would learn Jack Bennett was asking questions about the Remy Chauvin case, figure out his past connection to Maggie and put two and two together. But if he couldn't ask questions, how was he going to get the answers he needed?
He needed help from someone with insider status, someone who wouldn't be suspicious of his interest in the case and who could make discreet inquiries and keep his name out of it.
He glanced at the phone on the kitchen counter.
Someone like Assistant U.S. Attorney Laura Sandoval.
Maggie's "abduction" was still one of the top stories on the news Sunday morning. After breakfast, while Jack was in his room making a phone call and Remy was in the den reading the Sunday comics, Maggie settled in Jack's living room and flipped the television channel to a cable news outlet, grimacing when her father's face greeted her.
"I'm flying to New Orleans to meet with investigators on Marguerite's case," Cole told the anchor interviewing him. "And I'm offering a $500,000 reward for information leading to the safe return of my daughter to her family."
Great, Dad. She frowned at the television. Stick a bull's-eye on my back and load their guns.
On another channel, a blonde was talking about Maggie's years on the New York party circuit. Cringing, Maggie switched off the television and went to check on Remy.
But he wasn't where she'd left him.
"Remy?" she called. No answer.
The den wasn't large, just four walls filled by a sofa, a television and DVD player on a narrow stand, and a desk with a lamp. A large book case took up two-thirds of the wall adjacent to the window. Under other circumstances, she'd find the bookcase too great a temptation to resist, but she didn't like wondering where Remy was.
She went back into the hall. The door to Jack's bedroom was closed—still making phone calls? She tried not to think about that. Unlike Jack, she didn't think they could trust anyone. Every phone call was a betrayal waiting to happen.
She went to the kitchen and called Remy again. Still no answer. She circled the kitchen, beginning to worry.
"Boo!"
She whirled around. Remy stood behind her, grinning. She bit back the curse hovering on her tongue. "Where were you? I've been looking all over for you."
He shrugged. "Here and there. Whatcha need?"
"I worry what you're up to when I'm not there to keep you in line." She softened her words with a smile.
He grinned. "Aw, you can trust me, Doc."
About as far as I can throw you, she thought with affection.
Jack stared at the phone number written on a notepad in front of him and picked up the phone. It had been over five years since he'd talked to Laura Sandoval. Though he rarely thought about her anymore, the idea of speaking to her now was more daunting than he'd expected.
But she was now a U.S. Attorney working out of New Orleans, with plenty of contacts in the New Orleans Police Department. She might know what was going on in the investigation of Maggie's abduction. Given his history with Marguerite, Laura wouldn't find his questions suspicious.
She answered on the third ring, her voice low and a little rough, as if she'd just awakened.
He cleared his throat. "Hi, Laura, it's Jack."
There was a br
ief pause, then her voice purred through the phone line. "I didn't think you were going to call me back."
"I've been swamped," Jack lied. As they got the pleasantries out of the way, he glanced at the list of notes he'd made before calling. "You rang?"
She made a soft chuckling sound. "I guess you've heard the news about Marguerite Cole."
He arched an eyebrow, surprised to have an opening so quickly. "Yeah. What do you know about that?"
"What's in the news, but I heard about it before it hit the press. It made me think of you. I guess that's why I called."
"How much access to information do you have?" he asked, hoping he didn't sound overeager.
"I suppose a lot, if I asked the right people. Why?"
"Curiosity, I guess. I can't imagine Naughty Marguerite letting herself be kidnapped by a snot-nosed punk."
Laura laughed. "Talk about 'The Ransom of Red Chief'!"
"Exactly." Jack wrote a check mark by the first note and went on to the next. "So, what do you know about this Remy Chauvin?"
Chapter 5
"Why are we doing this?" Jack fiddled with his seat belt.
"He'll be fine," Maggie assured him. She was driving Jack to the office early so he could switch the license plate back to his own car before office hours. Remy had wanted to come, but Maggie refused. It was too dangerous. Instead, Jack had given Remy a panic button to be used if Remy felt the least bit of danger. It would buzz a corresponding receiver Jack kept strapped to his belt. Remy had seemed mollified.
"He wouldn't get far on foot, I suppose."
"Jack, relax. Remy knows he has nowhere to go."
"And he won't go anywhere without you." Jack smiled. "I never figured you for social work. I imagined you in a Manhattan office, shrinking the heads of the neurotic rich."
She couldn't blame him for that. "My perspective changed."
"I'll say. What happened?"
She cut her eyes at him. "Someone told me to grow up."
He grinned. "When did you ever listen to me?"
"It was the one time you made sense." Not that she'd thought so when he'd uttered the words moments before he left for his new assignment. It had been the first time they'd really spoken in days, since the night she'd offered him her heart and her body and he'd handed them both back to her.
She'd talked him into letting her cook dinner for to say goodbye. She just hadn't mentioned the wine and candlelight, or the tiny black dress that fit her like a second skin.
God, she'd been terrified. And excited. And so in love she couldn't see straight.
Her track record with men was bad, but Jack was different. He didn't play games. That night, neither would she. After dinner, she'd tell him how she felt about him. Deal with things like an adult.
It hadn't gone as planned. She'd been nervous as a cat, burning the pasta and dropping one of her mother's heirloom crystal wine glasses and shattering it. When Jack had comforted her, she did the only thing she knew how to do right.
She'd kissed him.
Maybe it had been wishful thinking, but he'd seemed to respond, setting off a thousand little explosions along her spine. Euphoric, she'd blurted out her feelings, her carefully planned declaration crumbling into an inarticulate confession of undying love. His look of horror had broken her heart.
He hadn't even tried to let her down gently, immediately bolting for the door.
She hadn't expected his goodbye visit. Or the words. "Grow up while you can, Marguerite." She'd managed not to cry until he left.
Only later, at the end of another humiliating relationship, had she understood what Jack meant. She'd let what Jack thought of her matter too much, just as she had with her father and her most recent disastrous affair, when the only thing that should matter was how she felt about herself. And the only way to feel better about herself was to take control—of her life, her body and her emotions. The realization changed her life.
"I guess what happened to Jimmy had something to do with your choice, too," Jack said. "Do you do drug counseling?"
A shard of old pain sliced through her heart. "I have a wonderful colleague who handles the substance abuse counseling and prevention. She's been through it herself and can talk to them where they are." She was proud of the work she did at the counseling center. When she got back to New Orleans—
Her stomach curled into a knot. When she got back to New Orleans, she wouldn't have a job.
Jack pointed to the turn-off to his office. She followed his direction, making a mental note for the trip back.
"I'm going to wrap up some unsigned contracts and let my staff know I'll be out of pocket for a few days."
"Won't they be suspicious?"
"I've done this before—some clients demand total privacy, and I handle them personally, working out of my home for absolute discretion." Jack gestured. "A left at this corner."
Within moments, they were at Jack's office. Jack started to reach for the door handle, then turned to look at Maggie. "I know I've asked this before, but just exactly how much do you know about Remy? About his background?"
"Only what he told me in sessions."
"Which was?"
She shook her head. "It's confidential."
"Does it affect this case?"
Maggie considered the question. Like most kids who fell between society's cracks, Remy had been in his share of trouble. But he wasn't angry or violent. Even the knife-wielding bravado that had brought on their present dilemma had been born of terror, not rage. He hadn't set up an innocent police officer or murdered his foster parents. "No," she said with conviction.
Jack didn't probe further. "I'll be home as soon as I can. You and Remy may want to go over everything that's happened over the past few weeks— work out a chronology of events. Something we can use to get a handle on this situation."
It was a good idea. "Okay."
"We'll figure this out, Willow." He leaned toward her, the spicy tang of his aftershave filling her lungs. A prickle of tension built low in her belly. He met her gaze, the warmth in his eyes sending molten awareness spreading through her.
A flutter of need built in her belly. "I know."
His fingertips brushed her knuckles. Her breath caught in her throat, trapping the entreaty on her tongue.
Kiss me.
He leaned closer, his breath moving over her lips like a phantom promise of the kiss she craved. But he drew back, dropped his hand away from her face and opened the car door.
A bubble of anticipation imploded in her chest.
She watched him stride away, her focus on the ripple of muscles beneath his suit. So strong. So solid. No wonder she'd wanted to believe he could be the man of her dreams.
As if such a creature existed.
Closing her eyes, she let the buzz of awareness subside, forcing her mind to more pressing problems. Jack hadn't been appeased by her answers about Remy. Though he hadn't pressed for more information, she doubted Jack was through snooping.
And if he asked the wrong questions of the wrong people, the whole mess could come tumbling down on top of them.
After switching the car tags without incident and getting two pending security contracts signed before 10:00 a.m., Jack assigned his best installers to the jobs and set about tying up loose ends. He briefed Hank Carr, his second-in-command, giving him a vague story about a sensitive security case. If Hank found the explanation suspicious, he was discreet enough not to comment or ask any questions Jack couldn't answer.
As he was packing up a portable security kit around noon, Laura Sandoval called with disturbing information.
"He what?" Jack sat back in his desk chair, stunned.
"He was arrested by Detective Mark Blevins and another narcotics detective about a week before the alleged murder," Laura repeated. "I can't get to the juvenile records without a warrant, but I know people who know people."
Jack clenched his fist around the telephone receiver. "So maybe he's setting Blevins up for payback."
&nb
sp; "Blevins is a Boy Scout. Dozens of citations, ringing endorsements from the city council and the mayor. Real big hero during the hurricane. Remy's testimony would never be credible. Too easy to claim he was tryin' to get back at Blevins."
Jack's stomach clenched. If Blevins knew Remy's testimony wouldn't convict him, why would he go after Remy?
He wouldn't. Which meant Remy had been lying all along.
And Maggie was home alone with him.
"Call me if you come up with anything else. I'm working from home for a while, so call my cell or my home number." He gave her the numbers. "You haven't told anyone about my call, have you?" He'd asked her not to, giving her the excuse that he didn't need the publicity surrounding the case.
"No." There was a brief pause on Laura's end, then her voice tightened. She'd obviously guessed what was going on. "I'll call if I have more information." She rang off.
Jack grabbed his coat and headed for his car. On the road, he grabbed his cell phone. As he dialed his home number, the phone beeped. His battery was low. He fumbled through the glove compartment a few seconds before he remembered he'd left the adaptor in the Blazer the night before. With a growl, he flipped the phone onto the seat and pressed down on the gas pedal, beating the yellow light ahead with room to spare.
He'd be home in ten minutes. Five if he hit the lights right. What could happen in ten minutes?
"So Blevins first picked you up on St. Patrick's Day in a raid on O'Hara's." Maggie shot a stern look at Remy as she jotted down the information in the notebook she'd borrowed from Jack's office. She'd taken Jack's advice, calling Remy to join her in the living room to go back over the events leading up to the day he'd seen Blevins shoot the mystery man in cold blood.
Slouched in an armchair, one long, thin leg draped over the arm, Remy affirmed her statement with a sheepish half grin. "Tony wanted to try green beer."
"There was a raid on the bar and you were caught up in it?"
"Yeah, but I was clean. Didn't even have no beer, so they let me go." He dismissed the incident with a wave of his hand.
