by Rebecca York
Gillian stared at his face, then at the drink in his hand. “Where did you get that?” she asked carefully.
He raised the glass toward the other redhead, the one named Babs. “Your friend was kind enough to fix it for me.”
Gillian turned toward the other woman. “Babs, what did you put in that drink?” she demanded.
Babs? Hadn’t she mentioned Babs? What had she said about her?
The other woman shrugged, but the nasty look that flashed across her features sent a sizzle of alarm along his nerve endings. He stared at the glass in his hand, aware that he’d swallowed at least half the contents.
“Come up to my room,” Gillian said.
“I should go,” he said, partly because he could no longer remember why he had come.
Just to have sex with Gillian? He was so hard now, he was in pain. Sex. Yeah. But was there some other reason he’d come here?
He stood up and the room spun. If Gillian hadn’t grabbed his arm, he would have ended up sprawled on his face. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“Come up,” she said again, and he had the panicked feeling that he should get away from her.
Yet he could feel her fingers burning his flesh through the fabric of his jacket and shirt, her touch so arousing that he could hardly breathe. And when she pried the glass from his fingers and set it down, he felt like she’d taken away his lifeline. “Wait a minute,” he protested.
“Come on.” She tugged on his arm, leading him toward the stairs. He followed.
Gillian was wearing a simple silky dress. He stroked his hand over her bottom, then up along the side of her breast. Questing inward, he trailed his fingers back and forth across the tip, gratified when he felt her nipple bead. Maybe she was as aroused as he was.
She shot him a startled look, and he realized they were still on the stairs where anyone could see them. But hell, you didn’t exactly have to adhere to strict standards of decorum here.
The stuffy phrase made him laugh.
“What?” she demanded.
“Standards of decorum. You don’t have to worry about standards of decorum in a whorehouse, do you?” He laughed again, enjoying the joke.
His cock was jammed against the front of his slacks and he wanted to unzip his fly. But probably that was going a little too far. Probably he should wait until he got into Gillian’s room. But there was nothing wrong with nuzzling his lips against her neck or sucking the edge of her ear into his mouth.
“You taste good,” he murmured.
She made what could have been a disapproving noise. But he ignored her because they were almost at her room. Number eight.
“Behind the eight ball,” he said, laughing again.
“Mmm, hmm,” she answered, steering him inside and locking the door behind them.
He made it across the room, paused to kick off his loafers, then flopped onto the bed, where he lay grinning at her.
Hearing something thunk to the floor, he looked over the side of the bed.
“Where did you get my briefcase?” he asked.
“I brought it up,” she answered.
“I forgot all about it,” he muttered. “We have to talk about something important.”
“What?”
“I don’t remember.” He worried about that for five seconds. Then his mind drifted to another topic. He was thinking that he could always hold his liquor. But not this afternoon.
“I’m drunk as a skunk. And I only had half a glass of Planter’s Punch.”
“I know,” she said in a low voice as she turned off the microphone that broadcast to the van.
“Don’t get mad at me,” he said. “It’s not my fault.”
“I know,” she answered again, and the tone of her voice made him struggle to focus on her.
“Don’t be mad,” he said again, pulling her down beside him and nuzzling her again, giving her neck and the edge of her jaw sloppy kisses that were highly arousing.
“Take off your clothes,” he said thickly. “Then take off mine,” he added because the buttons on the front of his shirt were too difficult to manage.
When he started pawing at the front of her dress, she took both his hands in one of hers.
“Alex, listen to me,” she said.
“I don’t want to talk. I want to sc—”
Before he could finish the sentence, she pressed the fingers of her free hand over his lips.
“Alex, you have to listen to me,” she said again. This time her tone was pleading, and he made an effort to focus on her words.
“Um?”
“Let me take your pulse.”
“If that’s what turns you on.” That struck him as powerfully funny, and he couldn’t stop laughing. With an effort, he lay still while she pressed her fingers to his wrist. He closed his eyes and drifted, tethered to her by her firm hold.
“It’s very rapid. Your skin is flushed. You’re perspiring. You…you’re very aroused. You’re acting like everything is a big joke.” She gulped. “I think Babs drugged you,” she whispered.
His eyes blinked open and he made an effort to focus on her. “Huh?”
“That drink that Babs gave you. I’m sure it was drugged.”
He laughed again, because he knew she had to be joking. “No way!”
“With that Category Five stuff,” she continued, ignoring his protest.
“No way,” he said again, but a little worm of alarm was burrowing into his mind.
“We’ve been looking for the source in this house. We thought it was the bartender at Bourbon Street Libations who was giving it to customers. But it must be here, too. And Babs got her hands on a dose.”
He shook his head, still trying to convince himself it wasn’t true. But he felt damn weird. Like his brain and his vision were out of focus, and all he wanted to do was get into Gillian’s pants.
He thought back to the night it had all started, at Bourbon Street Libations—and the way Wiley Longbottom had been acting.
“Damn,” he muttered, then struggled to a sitting position. “I’d better get out of here. I could be dangerous.”
She pushed him back onto the bed. “You’re not in any shape to leave. I saw the police department report on guys who got Category Five.”
Her words cut through the fog in his brain. “What the hell are you talking about? What reports?”
“We have interviews with men who were given the drug. And medical reports. We only got minimal information.”
“I didn’t see any reports.” He cursed loudly. “Which means Courville didn’t share what he knew with us,” he growled.
“I…I’m sorry. I thought you had the same information we got. There were twenty-five or thirty interviews.”
He had broken out in a hot sweat as he struggled to make his brain function. Deep in his mind he knew what he should do. He should leave. No. He couldn’t leave. He had come here to talk to Gillian about something vital. But he couldn’t remember what it was. Really, he was so aroused, he could barely think. There was room for only one basic idea. “I’ve got to tell my boss about those reports.”
“Alex, you can’t.”
“What—are you trying to keep information from New Orleans Confidential?” he barked, wondering if he was sounding rational, even as he tried to hold on to his sanity.
Her fingers dug into his shoulder. Her other hand turned his face toward hers. Her gaze was fierce. “You have to listen to me. I know what happened to those guys. The one who gave in and let the drug work its way through their systems came out okay. The ones who tried to fight it ended up in the hospital. That must be what happened to Wiley Longbottom. He couldn’t give in to the stuff.”
He swore again, trying to take in what she was saying, trying to figure out what he should do.
“Alex, let me help you.” She pushed him gently back on to the bed and curled herself next to him as she covered his aching erection with her hand. When she rocked her palm against him, he gasped, feeling a jolt of sensation tha
t was half pleasure and half pain.
All thought fled his mind. The only thing he knew for sure was that he was about to go off like a rocket. There was no time to get undressed. No time to even unzip his slacks. He pressed his hand over hers, grinding her palm and fingers against himself through two layers of fabric as he arched his hips. The effect was like throwing a match onto gasoline-soaked tinder. It took only seconds for his body to reach flash point. His muscles jerked and he gasped as the orgasm took him. The sensations came sharp and fast, leaving him sucking breath into his lungs as he flopped back against the pillows.
He was too spent to even curse. And too embarrassed to look Gillian in the eye. Talk about selfish, instant gratification!
He’d just embarrassed himself on so many levels that he couldn’t even name them. And he knew damn well that he hadn’t done a damn thing for her, although probably she wasn’t feeling anything besides disgust at the moment. But at least he was capable of climbing off the bed. “Okay,” he managed to say. “Let me get out of here. I have to talk to Burke.”
“No. You have to stay with me.”
His face was already flushed. He felt his cheeks go two shades hotter.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I guess I owe you….”
She took him by the shoulders and gave him a shake. “Alex, you don’t owe me anything. But you can’t leave,” she answered. “I mean—you may feel okay right now. But it’s not over. It’s going to hit you again.”
“God, no.” But even as he uttered the denial, he felt his blood rising toward boiling point again. “You don’t want to be in bed with me now,” he choked out.
Gillian wrapped her arms around him. “Alex, let me be here for you. Let me help you through this.”
“You should run like hell,” he whispered. “Can’t you see I’m out of control?”
“That’s not your fault. Don’t fight it. Let it happen. Maybe this time you can even take the time to enjoy it.”
He still had a few brain cells functioning, enough to ask, “What about the camera? The last time I was here, there was somebody watching.”
“I turned it off again. I’ll know if they try to reactivate it.”
“Good,” he breathed, flopping back against the mattress, wondering if he could manage to give Gillian some pleasure out of this encounter.
He lay with his eyes closed for several moments. They snapped open again when he heard clothing rustling. He made a strangled sound when he saw what he had only known by touch earlier. She must have gotten dressed in a real rush because she was wearing nothing under her dress. And she looked so desirable and sexy that he wanted to eat her alive.
“Oh, Lord, Gillian.”
Helpless to deny the need raging through him, he reached out and pulled her close again.
He needed to touch all the tender, feminine parts of her—her throat, her breasts, her belly, her hips. And he took a sensual tour of those treasures, trying to be gentle when his hands felt like blocks of wood.
When she raised up, he thought she was going to pull away. Instead she began working the buckle of his belt and then his zipper.
As she undressed him, he stroked between her legs, amazed that she was wet and slick.
“You want to make love with an out-of-control maniac?” he asked in a strangled voice.
“I want to make love with you,” she answered, helping him pull off his pants, then tossing them onto the floor.
She rolled to her back and held out her arms. Helpless to ignore the invitation, he covered her body with his.
Her hand closed around him, then quickly guided him into her tight warmth.
His brain urged him to hold back, but his body had other ideas, and he exploded hard and fast again. Once more, he felt limp and exhausted. But he knew he must be a dead weight on top of her, so he tried to flop to his side.
“Stay,” she murmured, holding him where he was.
“You haven’t gotten much out of this,” he murmured.
“I will.”
She stroked his back and shoulders, kissed the side of his face, as she began to move her hips in a slow, provocative rhythm. Moments ago he had been on the verge of exhaustion. Incredibly, she aroused him again, and he found he was as hard as if he hadn’t just been satisfied—twice. But at least he was sure he could make it last a little longer.
He turned his head and their lips met. “I want this to be good for you, too,” he whispered.
“It is.”
“It will be,” he answered. Easing to his side, he took her with him, stroking her breasts, then down her body, finding the hot, wet center of her pleasure.
It gave him some measure of satisfaction to see her expression intensify, to hear her breathing accelerate.
This time he had enough control to wait until he felt her inner muscles contract before he let himself follow her over the edge.
They clung together, both holding on for dear life as orgasm took them.
She gasped out his name. Words were beyond him. He gave her one heartfelt kiss before easing away and flopping onto the mattress. Almost at once, his body felt like lead. He slept then, thankful for the mercy of oblivion, because he didn’t know how he would ever face Gillian again, not after the way he’d acted like a wild animal in rut.
Sometime later, his eyes snapped open. It took several moments for him to remember where he was and what had happened. And when he did, a horrible sick feeling blocked his windpipe.
Chapter Thirteen
Gillian was in the bathroom getting dressed, hoping that she wouldn’t disturb Alex. He looked pale and sick, and she knew from what she’d read that he needed to sleep off the rest of the drug’s effects. So she was giving him as much time as she could before she had to go downstairs to work.
That was an excellent reason for staying out of his way now. But that wasn’t her only motive. She knew Alexander McMullin pretty well. And she knew how he was going to react to what had happened this afternoon. He hadn’t done anything wrong besides try to pose as one of her customers. But he was going to blame himself for letting Babs slip him that drugged drink. And he was going to blame himself for what had happened afterward. She wanted to tell him that it was all right. But she suspected he wouldn’t listen. More than that, she suspected that any chance of a relationship between them was over, because he’d be too embarrassed to face her on any kind of personal level. In his eyes, he’d made a major mistake that had led to a humiliating episode. And she’d been there to witness that humiliation.
But she was keeping an ear out, in case he needed her help when he woke up. And when she heard a loud curse from the other room, she came flying through the door.
He was looking around, his face gray and panicked, his breath coming too quickly.
“Alex, you’re okay. You’re in my room,” she said as she hurried across the rug. She started to sit beside him, then thought better of invading his space.
He had pushed himself to a sitting position, but he still looked like he was freaking out, and fear leaped inside her chest. One of the worst things she knew about this damn drug was that it sometimes left its victims brain damaged. She had tried to keep herself from thinking about that. Now she knew she had to consider the possibility.
“Alex, what is it? What’s wrong?” she asked anxiously.
When he answered the question with another curse, the fear grew to intolerable proportions. Unable to stop herself, she came down onto the bed and took him by the shoulders.
“What?” she asked again urgently.
He ran a shaky hand through his hair, looking sick.
“Alex, say something coherent to me,” she ordered.
Because he kept his gaze averted and his lips closed, she tried another tactic. Dropping her hands away from him, she said, “I promise not to talk about the damn drug. But I have to know you’re all right. So look at me and say something intelligent. Or I’ll have to call the doctor.”
That got his attention. His head jerked u
p. When he lifted his gaze and focused on her, she at least knew he’d heard and understood her. But then his gaze slid away again, as though he couldn’t stand the sight of her. Probably he couldn’t.
Suddenly her throat felt tight. She wanted to fold him into her arms. She wanted to tell him that there had been no dishonor in what they’d done together. She wanted him to understand that taking care of his raging needs had made her feel closer to him. But she kept all that locked inside herself, because she knew he’d simply think she was offering kind words and comfort out of sympathy.
He cleared his throat—too loudly, and she waited with her stomach in knots for what he was going to say.
As if trying out his voice, he said, “I want to get up and walk out of here. But I came on business.”
“Okay,” she answered, relieved that he was coherent, and that he was talking business, even if he did want to leave.
“You turned off the microphone, right?”
“Yes.”
“Turn it back on.”
“Okay.” When she’d done as he asked, she looked at him questioningly.
“Courville isn’t happy with having you here. He’s pulling you off the case.”
She blinked in astonishment. “Did I hear that right? He’s ordering me out of here? After all I’ve been through.”
Alex’s mouth hardened. “Unfortunately, we thought we’d secured your boss’s cooperation. But he’s chickened out.”
This time it was her turn to curse. “He can’t! We don’t have the information we need.”
“Yeah, but he’s gonna do it. Tomorrow. Which means we have to get something accomplished tonight.”
He looked wildly around the room, as though he’d remembered something else. “Where the hell is my briefcase? Don’t tell me it’s down in the damn parlor.”
“No,” she assured him. “I guess you don’t remember, but I brought it up here, then put it in the closet.”
“Thank God.”
She hurried across the room and retrieved the case. When she turned, he was standing naked on unsteady feet, gathering up his clothing. “Give me a minute, will you.”
“Okay.” Stepping back into the bathroom, she fiddled with her hairdo, but her mind stayed on Alex. After a couple of minutes, she stuck her head back into the room. He was moving slowly. He’d gotten his pants on, but his shirt was still unbuttoned.
