by Nina Bruhns
A large male hand reached out, beckoning from behind one of the ubiquitous wrought-iron courtyard gates, this one just beyond the apartment building she was running past.
Thank God! Saved!
Who was it? A friend. That's all that mattered. She grabbed the man's hand and let him pull her through the narrowly opened gate. It closed behind her with a quiet metallic snick.
Relief. Talk about timing!
"Quick!" she commanded, launching herself at the man's broad chest. "Pretend to kiss me!"
It had always worked in the movies. Why not in real life? Black hair, she thought as she swung them both behind the shrubbery, using the foliage and his body to shield herself from being seen by her pursuer. Not blond, but long, raven-black hair. And startled blue eyes. She had just enough time to register a quirk of sensually sculpted lips before they descended.
Her rescuer's mouth was warm and inviting. The timpani of her heartbeat stalled, then started up again for a whole new reason. Her throat made a small sound, her panic frozen in surprised suspension. Who was this guy? She tried to pull away but backed right up against a thorny shrub.
Slowly, languorously, as if there was all the time in the world, his lips began to ply their tender mercies upon hers.
She leaned into him, just a little, sighing out the rampant fear that had jolted through her just moments before, ending with a moan of halfhearted protest. Whoever it was definitely knew what he was doing.
He didn't touch her—other than his lips and a gentle hand cradling the back of her neck—a thing as unique as the rich flavor of his tongue as it slid erotically into her mouth.
"Open for me, chère," he murmured, and this time her moan was of pleasure.
The warm breeze stroked over her skin, teasing her nostrils with the exotic scent of frangipani from the overflowing flower bed at their feet, and the faint, spicy musk of the man who was kissing her.
She should escape! Run away as fast as she could! But for the life of her she couldn't remember why.
Lord, oh, Lordy.
Despite appearances, she didn't usually let herself get too close to any man. A kiss or two was about as far as she ever went. Unfortunately, most men were lousy kissers, more interested in what came next than in enjoying the moment.
But this man's kiss was simply wonderful, unlike anything she'd ever experienced. It was warm as a hug from a friend on a cold night, sensual as sipping café au lait on a midnight balcony, comforting as the smell of croissants baking on Christmas morning.
Blood still pounding, she laid her hands on his chest and opened to sweet, sweet sensation.
Long moments later he pulled back a fraction, letting her up for air. Gazing into his eyes, she was struck by their clear, penetrating expression. The startlement from earlier had been replaced with a mix of calculation and hunger—a look that sent a shiver coursing down her spine.
She looked closer. The man from the bar?
"Shall I keep pretending?" he asked, drawing his index finger along her jaw.
"Pretending?" she murmured, unable to put a coherent thought together. Mercy, what he did to her insides…
His sinful lips bowed. "Mais, yeah. Pretending. To kiss, like you told me."
Definitely the man from the bar. His voice was that same wicked rumble of Louisiana French-accented tones, each word more seductive than the last.
She peered at the impressive man before her. Tall and rangy with wide shoulders that even filled his loose, casual shirt; muscular, athletic legs encased in black linen slacks; long, thick, pirate hair decadently skimming his collar. Even with the small scar running through his top lip and a defiantly sexy diamond stud glinting from his earlobe, the man was heart-stoppingly handsome.
"Are you following me?" she asked, and tried to take a step back. Like she needed another stalker. Though that didn't make sense. Hadn't he said something about getting his beauty sleep?
"You in the habit of asking perfect strangers to kiss you?" There was just the slightest edge to his voice.
Such impertinence. She cocked her hip and planted a fist on it. "Hardly perfect," she returned, eyeing him up and down—there was that scar, after all. "And you didn't seem to object too strenuously."
His mouth curved up and he gave her a lazy Gallic shrug. "Always glad to help a lady in need."
She just bet. "Anyway, I thought you were a friend."
His brows went up.
She opened her mouth to retort, then snapped it shut again. She didn't need to be standing here defending her actions. Okay, so she liked to kiss. So what? Considering it was the only pleasure she ever took from any of the men who constantly hounded her, she felt entitled to that simple enjoyment. Obviously, he didn't agree.
Not that this man's opinion of her mattered one whit.
All right, so maybe when she felt safe again she'd contemplate her convoluted lifestyle and see what could be done about the obvious contradictions.
Meanwhile, there were more pressing issues at hand. Such as how to get out of this huge mess she'd landed herself in with her latest brilliant idea. Who'd have thought the one truly selfless thing she'd done in recent memory could have gone so incredibly wrong? She glanced over her shoulder and out the gate to the street, suddenly recalling with a spurt of anxiety why she was hiding in the bushes with a man she'd barely laid eyes on and was growing less and less certain she could trust.
Time to leave.
"Thanks for rescuing me. I'll just be—"
But before she could take a single step, he grasped her wrist with a firm grip.
"Non," he said, shaking his head.
Instant, irrational panic raced through her. Omigod. He was one of them. "Let go of me! I'll scream!"
She fought to free her wrist from his determined grasp—and for a second he appeared as confused as she was terrified.
Abruptly he released her and reached for his back pocket. She stumbled away, holding her wrist, putting much-needed space between them. To her dismay she saw he was now blocking the gate, her only means of escape.
"I'm sorry, Miz Summerville," he said. His expression was contrite as he produced a leather wallet which he flipped open and held up so she could read his identification.
"I don't understand," she mumbled, willing herself to calm down.
"Special Agent Remi Beaulieux, FBI," he said. "I've been sent to bring you in."
* * *
Chapter 2
« ^ »
Remi figured if he looked up astonished in the dictionary, he'd probably find a picture of Muse Summerville's face as it appeared about now—right under a picture of his own a few seconds into that amazing kiss she'd given him.
Bon Dieu, the woman could kiss like an angel from heaven above.
Muse's gaze snapped from his FBI credentials to his eyes. "You're FBI?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Have they arrested Davies?"
Remi shook his head. "Not as far as I know."
"Then why bring me in?"
He lowered his wallet. "Orders."
"So what's changed?" Alarm flashed across her face. "He's found out about me."
Not a question but a statement. Sexy and smart.
"I'm not sure," Remi lied, tucking his thumbs firmly into his pockets along with his wallet.
"And Morris sent you for me?" she asked, suddenly appearing nervous—about him?
"That's right."
"Prove it."
"You don' believe my ID is real?"
"Would you?" she shot back. "In my position?"
"Non, I s'pose not," Remi conceded, his respect for the woman taking another upward swing. Make that very smart. "We better take a ride to the field office. Special Agent Morris will explain everything when we get there."
"How 'bout I call him first?" she countered, pulling a cell phone from her purse.
"Bon."
Fine with him. All Remi wanted was to shuttle Muse safely to the field office as quickly as possible. His attraction to h
er was making him uneasy. It was a complication he didn't need right now. The sooner he delivered her to Morris, the sooner he could forget about her and her mind-numbing kisses, bow out of this retrieval gig and get back to his real job.
As she punched buttons on the phone and asked for Morris, he kept an eye on the gate in case the blond man following her came nosing around. He just hoped Simmons had seen what was going on and tailed the guy. Every lead was invaluable in tracking down Davies. It could shave weeks off his upcoming undercover work if he had a bit more to go on.
Sure enough, Muse's call had just been put through when Remi saw the man stalk past the entrance to the courtyard looking for her. It wasn't Simmons.
Lightning-fast he grabbed the phone and growled into it, "We'll call you back," while he quickly nudged her toward a nearby door well. This time he was careful not to grab her arm.
"Hide yourself," he whispered over her protest, then ducked into the three-foot-deep alcove after her. "He's back."
"I didn't see him." Muse flattened herself against the brick, watching Remi apprehensively. He couldn't tell if it was because her pursuer was back, or because she still didn't trust him.
"I'm on your side," he assured her. "One of the good guys."
Attempting to lean past him to peek around the corner, she muttered, "That's what they all say."
He gave her a grin and barred her way. At least she hadn't lost her sense of humor. "Mais, yeah, but I really am."
Damn, she was pretty, jumpy and all. Mere inches separated them, sandwiched as they were into a few square feet of door well, giving him the opportunity to study her closer. She had an unusual face, not classically beautiful, but the blue eyes, high cheekbones and shapely lips formed a combination that had his woefully disobedient body humming with appreciation.
She glanced up. "All right, then, Mr. Good Guy, get us out of this." Her big blue eyes were all wide and worried, and he felt an overwhelming need to reach out and pull her close.
Just to reassure her.
Not to steal another of those bone-melting kisses.
He pushed his fingers back into his pockets. "I'll see what I can do. But let's give it a few minutes first, in case he's still out there."
"Can I call Morris back? If I talk real soft?" She gnawed on her plump lower lip and he made himself look away.
"Sure. Go on ahead."
Closing his eyes for a slow count of ten, he fought to get his perspective back. The first kiss hadn't been his fault. She'd caught him off guard that time.
But it wouldn't happen again. He was on official assignment here.
Temporary official assignment.
There would be no more kisses.
Non.
Absolument not.
"What's wrong?" she said, interrupting his inner lecture. The phone was nowhere in sight and he realized she must have finished her call.
Oops.
He flashed her a smile. "Rien. Not a thing."
She may be a smart, intriguing party girl and exactly his type, but anything between them was completely out of the question.
Impossible.
She'd be gone from his life by tomorrow. Morris was setting it up right now. She would be stashed away with a 24/7 bodyguard, somewhere far away from Davies. And just as far away from Remi, who'd be deep undercover, getting next to the very man who was trying to kill her. Dangerous even to fantasize.
"What did Morris say?" he asked.
"You were staring at me."
"He did?"
Rolling her eyes, she gave an impatient wave of her hand.
"He wasn't at his desk, but his secretary said we should come in immediately."
Remi grunted. "Then let's go.
As he stuck his head out from their hiding place to check the scene, she repeated, "Why were you staring at me?"
He lifted a shoulder as casually as he could manage. "Une jolie femme—a pretty woman like you, what man wouldn'?"
"You weren't looking at me like that."
He glanced back at her. "Like what?"
"From the neck down."
He chuckled. "Non? I must be slippin'." He perused her from the neck down. Thoroughly. "That better?"
When he looked up, she was blushing. Now, that was really unexpected.
"No. I prefer the first way."
Personally, he thought both had merit.
"Stay here," he said, to prevent her from stepping out of the safety of the doorway. And himself from leaning in for the unruly kiss that was desperately trying to break loose from the grip of his resolve.
He eased up to the front gate and searched in both directions. After a full minute of careful observation, he was satisfied the blond man wasn't in the vicinity any longer. Nor did he see Simmons.
"Okay, we're clear." He signaled Muse to come out, and together they quickly walked to Decatur Street
, where they found a cab.
She went along with him willingly enough, but she still seemed mighty jumpy.
Not that he blamed her. Having one's life threatened by the biggest gangster Louisiana had seen since Reconstruction would do that to any sane person. What amazed him more was that she'd lasted as long as she had spying on the New Orleans crime boss. She had to have nerves of steel. Six months was a hell of a long time to play that game, even for a seasoned undercover agent like himself. And he had the whole FBI organization to support him, if needed. All she'd had for backup was her low-life boyfriend, Gary Fox.
Big help he'd have been—Fox, whose main job was to deliver Davies's messages and fetch his café au lait and beignets every morning. At least it had been, up until some weeks earlier.
Davies had gone to ground several weeks ago, followed by Fox and a handful of others a few days later. According to her file, Muse had seized upon that circumstance to give the little prick his walking papers, saying she didn't want to disrupt her life by disappearing with him.
Had she really grown tired of Fox? Or maybe the pressure had just gotten to her, but she was really still in love with the guy. After all, she had been with him for six months.
The agent in Remi warred with the man in him. Nobody had a clue where Davies and his cohorts were holed up. If Muse had chosen to go into hiding, she'd have reported back their whereabouts by now. Remi's undercover gig tomorrow would most likely have been unnecessary.
But then she'd still be with Fox.
For some reason, thinking about her together with a scumbag like Fox bugged the hell out of him.
Was she insane or what? Fox might be a good-looking guy on the surface, but the man was bien mauvais draigille—totally bad news. Not only a criminal, but from all indications, not a very astute one. A sharp woman like her didn't belong with a man like Fox. She belonged with—
None of his business, that's who.
Remi settled into the back seat of the cab, letting Muse handle the directions, and tried to reel in his badly wandering focus.
It was a damn good thing he was only the deliveryman for this package. He'd known the second he'd laid eyes on her that anyone in close proximity to Muse Summerville was in for a crazy ride. But how could he have ever guessed how strongly he'd be drawn to the woman himself?
Merci Dieu. Thank God it wasn't him who'd be babysitting her at the safe house until they could put Davies behind bars.
That would be nothing but a pure disaster.
* * *
Muse was able to control her dread over what Morris was about to tell her enough to sign in at the New Orleans FBI field station with a fairly steady hand and follow Remi down the halls to the conference room where Morris was already waiting.
"Miss Summerville, I'm so glad you made it in safely. I see you've met Agent Beaulieux," he said, shaking her hand.
Morris cordially invited her to be seated, pouring her a cup of coffee. Remi leaned a hip against the end of the massive, polished mahogany table, where he quietly contemplated them both.
Muse took a deep breath. "Agent Beaulieux
says you want to put me under FBI protection. Is that true?"
"Yes, it is," Morris said. "Didn't he explain, when he made contact?"
She looked from Morris to Remi, mildly flustered at the memory of how she'd attacked him in that courtyard—hardly giving him a chance for explanations or anything else. And he'd already clarified that he hadn't known about this development when they'd spoken the first time.
"Um—"
"We didn't really have a chance to discuss the whys and wherefores," Remi interjected smoothly. "Trying to avoid the guy trailing her."
"I wasn't thinking too clearly at the time, anyway," she admitted. She'd been too busy going into shock from that kiss.
Remi held her eyes, and her pulse skittered. Against her will, her gaze slid to his lips. A slow smile lifted the very corners of his mouth, warm and meltingly seductive.
So, he was remembering, too.
"Are you saying you want to put me in some kind of a witness protection program?" she asked, breaking the thick silence.
She and Morris had talked about it a few times during the half year she'd been spying for him, that it might one day become necessary. But the idea of turning her life completely upside down, giving up her job, her apartment, her friends, even for a few weeks, made her miserable just to think about. Not to mention the panic if Davies wanted to kill her.
"Afraid so. I know this isn't what you wanted—"
"Don't you think we may be overreacting?" she ventured, latching on to a last straw of hope. "I mean, we don't know for sure the blond man intends to harm me. We don't even know he works for Davies. It could just be some kind of joke one of my friends is playing."
"Trust me, this is no joke," Morris said. "I've had you watched for a couple of weeks now—"
"You what?" she exclaimed. "You mean all along this guy following me was your agent?"
"Agent Simmons isn't blond, Miss Summerville. There was at least one other person watching you, and we think there was even a third for a day or two."
A third?
"Was Simmons able to follow the man after Muse lost him tonight?" Remi broke in.
"Yes." Morris tapped his fingers on the table, then stood. "The suspect went straight back to his office, and Simmons was able to find out his identity. I just got off the phone with him."
