by Nina Bruhns
Bien. Maybe just a quick repeat of that unbelievable kiss?
He sighed. Non.
He'd been through this before. The FBI had rules. He could be severely reprimanded, even fired, for kissing Muse Summerville again—let alone anything else—regardless of how willing a participant she was. She was a witness, and it was his duty to safeguard her—not attack her himself. Besides, it would be unfair of him to imply he was interested in pursuing a relationship of any kind.
He realized she'd turned and was regarding him carefully. "We should eat," she said, her voice thready.
"Yeah," he agreed, firmly tamping down on his wayward thoughts. "But I don' see how. We shouldn' let ourselves be seen outside."
"Surely we could risk it in a dinky town like this?" She crossed her arms under her breasts, emphasizing how incredibly round and perfect they were. His pulse zinged into double time and he knew he was in one big, X-rated heap of trouble. Because the fact was, he wasn't sure he cared if he got fired.
One more taste of her might just be worth the risk. Le bon Dieu m'ait le main. God help him resist this woman. He surely didn't have the strength himself.
Just as he was about to reach for her, she slid off the bed, brushing down her dress with her palms. "Should we try?"
He swallowed. Oh, yeah.
She looked up. "I remember a diner just down the road…"
Diner. Food.
Not sex.
His stomach rumbled again, together with an inner groan. "All right, you win. But we'd better be extra careful."
He pushed off the bed and headed for the bathroom where he dunked his head into the sink and turned on the cold water faucet.
"Still tired?" she asked, hanging back at the door. "Just shaking out the cobwebs." And the overactive hormones.
"I could sleep for another twelve hours. That bed was wonderful."
She ventured in and handed him a towel when he groped at the rack for one.
It was a nice-size bathroom complete with clawfoot tub and a huge antique mirror, in which she watched him rub his hair dry. It smelled faintly of old roses.
"You may get your wish. Looks like we'll be stuck here overnight. No use setting off before dawn."
"Think we'll be safe?"
"I'm here to protect you," he said, holding her eyes in the mirror.
She gave him a brave smile. One tinged with fear and anxiety, but filled with trust. "Thank you," she said. "I know this isn't what you signed up for."
She slid her arms around his waist from behind and rested her cheek against his back. Luckily the damp towel dangling from his fingers prevented him from turning around and pulling her into an embrace.
"Thanks aren't necessary. It's my job."
"I'd never forgive myself if anything bad happened to you because of me."
He took his time placing the towel carefully back on the rack, tugging out every wrinkle and making it hang exactly square.
"Nothing bad's going to happen," he assured her. "Davies shouldn't find us. Not unless we give ourselves away. Remember, no credit cards, no traceable phone calls, no using our real names in front of anyone."
"I understand." She slid away from him and reached for her toothbrush. "What about Morris? Won't he send out the troops, thinking something's happened to us? He's got to know about the shootout by now."
"No doubt." He grabbed his comb and raked it through his wet hair. "I have a prepaid cell phone in my undercover gear in the car. We'll have to use it to call him. Hopefully he can place you out of state, somewhere Davies isn't able to compromise. But until then…"
"We'll be on our own," she said, facing him for the first time since leaving the bed. Worry blazed in her Caribbean-blue eyes.
"Just you an' me, darlin'." He set aside his comb and pushed back a lock of her thick golden hair. "Don' worry. It'll be fine."
She gazed up at him with such uncertainty, it took all his willpower not to lower his lips to hers, just to show her how fine it would be.
"Anything happens to you happens over my dead body. That's a pure, damned certitude," he murmured.
But what had him a whole lot more worried was what might happen with her … over his very much alive body.
"Remi—" she whispered.
"Let's go make that phone call," he said, before it had a chance to happen right then and there.
* * *
"You know as well as I, getting involved with a witness is against Bureau policy."
"Yes, I do know. But these are special circumstances."
Remi was speaking with Morris on the phone and he simply couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Especially a witness I'm supposed to be guarding," he added for emphasis.
"Get it through your head, Beaulieux. There's no one else available. It'll take several days to authorize an out-of-state transfer. Hopefully by that time we'll have Davies in custody. Until then she's all yours."
"But I told you, we've already kissed. Tonight we'll be sharing a—"
"Keep the details to yourself, Agent Beaulieux," Morris said. "I'm only interested in results. I want her alive for trial and I don't care what you have to do to accomplish that."
Remi sighed. His reputation for wild living while undercover was finally doing him in. Praying other arrangements could be made, he'd confessed twice now to the sizzling attraction between him and Muse, warning Morris where it was surely heading. But given Remi's history, Morris wasn't buying his objections to playing Romeo to Muse's Juliet. Normally he'd be right. But not this time. She just hit him too close to home to slip comfortably into that role.
Besides, he didn't care for the way the play ended.
"Muse Summerville is a difficult-to-manage witness with a well-documented defiant streak." Morris said. "Both our careers are in the balance with this one. I'm counting on you to keep her in line and the case on track."
"She's not difficult to manage," Remi objected. Much.
"You said it was Miss Summerville who returned fire at the safe house. Stunts like that could easily get her killed."
"And bury our hopes for a conviction against Davies along with her," Remi conceded morosely, knowing he wasn't going to win this argument.
"Settle her down and gain her trust. But above all, make her obey orders."
"You'll work on the out-of-state transfer?"
"Meanwhile, do whatever you have to do. Remember, we need her alive."
* * *
Muse was terrified.
What on earth would she do?
As much as she liked Remi, there was no way she could spend the whole night with him in that bed. Or maybe it was because she did like him so much. Or maybe it was because they were stuck together for an undetermined amount of time and the last thing she wanted to deal with was sex. Whatever the reason, she could not sleep with the man.
Not that sleeping with him—actually sleeping—wasn't absolutely wonderful. When he'd tumbled onto the big canopied four-poster and nodded off within seconds, she'd been astounded, and elated. That meant she'd been able to curl up behind him and savor his cozy warmth and his delicious male scent, his strong, steady heartbeat lulling her into a soothing sense of comfort and security. Without all that other stuff.
She hadn't slept so well since, well, since that time she was dancing with a friend on Bourbon Street and he'd had a few too many and she'd felt obligated to tuck him into bed after he passed out. He'd felt warm and cozy, too, when she'd enjoyed a few stolen hours of closeness in his bed, sleeping next to his solid back, then sneaking out before he awoke the next morning.
No, sleeping with Remi would be fine. It was the other … complications, all the things he'd expect her to do before falling asleep, and enjoy, that was the problem.
Her only possible reprieve was the phone call Remi'd just made. Maybe the FBI would send her to Alaska or somewhere else, far away from the temptation of Special Agent Beaulieux's skillful kissing.
"So what did Morris say?" she asked, trying not to look too hopeful
.
Across the diner's dingy red-checkered tablecloth Remi studied his coffee cup, looking calm and composed. No, on second thought, looking agitated but attempting to appear calm and composed.
"We're on our own," he said.
Her heart stalled. "What about the transfer?"
"It'll take a few days to arrange."
"What about Davies's inside informer?"
"I didn't tell Morris where we are or where we're going, and he didn't ask. I think it's someone lower down."
"So I'm safe."
"As long as you're with me." He glanced up, meeting her gaze. The diamond in his ear glinted in the garish fluorescent lighting.
Oh, God, she was in trouble. Unless… "So, I guess this calls for a drink." Or maybe ten. "How about a beer?"
His lips tipped up wryly. "Are we celebrating or drowning our sorrows?"
She shored up her faltering courage and flashed him her best flirty smile. She could do this. "What do you think?"
He leaned back in the cracked vinyl booth and tipped his head. "I think we better eat hearty. We'll need our strength later."
Her pulse stalled. What had changed?
Before, he'd seemed to fight their attraction—like in the bathroom when he'd ignored her embrace, though she knew darn well he'd wanted to return it. But now, it was as though some barrier had been lifted and he felt free to pursue it, or rather, her.
She leaned back, too, careful not to let panic sneak through her facade. "What happened to 'this isn't a good idea'?"
The scent of red rice and hush puppies wafted over from the next table as the sounds of the busy diner receded. The clinking of forks and china, the conversations around them, the waitress calling up her orders, all became a low buzz in the background
Remi watched her, his gaze steady. "It still isn't a good idea. But we're going to do it anyway, aren't we?"
Before she could jump up and shout "No, no, a thousand times no!" the waitress appeared at their table, pad in hand, chattering on about blue-plate specials and how nice the bed-and-breakfast was and how her uncle Earl had helped with the renovations and how long were they staying? By the time the woman had scribbled down the order Remi gave for both of them it seemed like they'd been acquainted for years.
And the subject of Remi and her sleeping together had been dropped like a done deal.
She should bring it up again. Explain things. She could be honest with him; it wasn't as if he was her boyfriend or even her potential boyfriend. Despite their instantaneous attraction, there was no interest in that area on his part. He'd made it clear from word one he was an FBI agent doing his job. That was his sole interest in her—other than the purely physical, which was simply him being a guy. He'd understand that her refusal was nothing personal.
Or would he?
It was times like this when her lifestyle came back to haunt her in the worst way. He'd seen her behavior, the way she dressed, heard her suggestive comebacks, no doubt gotten detailed descriptions of her Bourbon Street
antics from that thick FBI file kept on her down at the field office.
How could she convince him she always ended up in bed alone? That it was all a pretense?
She couldn't. She was too good at it. Had kept it up for too long.
Her sister, Grace, the psychologist, said acting the part of a bad girl was Muse's way of seeking the love their good-timing, wastrel father had never given them. Muse thought her sister was delusional. She just adored flirting.
But she had to admit there might be merit to Grace's repeated warnings of repercussions. This was a golden example. And if Muse lived through the next few weeks, she made a vow to start changing her image. Move to a place they didn't know her and start over.
In the meantime she must deal with Remi.
"How's that étouffée?" he asked, interrupting her quandary.
"Great. But I'd really prefer to order for myself."
"And what would you have ordered?"
She huffed out a breath. "Étouffée."
He looked smug. "I knew that."
"How?" she challenged. After all, they'd known each other all of a day.
"In the car." At her raised brows he went on, "When we talked about the restaurants we like in the Quarter. Wasn' too hard to figure out you like Cajun food. I jus' listened."
He just listened.
To her.
To what she liked. And he actually remembered.
"I always make a point of listening to the woman I intend to make love to."
She closed her eyes and tried to stem the tide of feelings that flooded through her at his low-spoken statement. Amazement. Longing. Bewilderment. Desire.
How long had it been since she'd felt desire?
Had she ever felt desire?
She opened her eyes to find him draining his beer.
"Remi—"
"Vien. Come, let's get out of here. I saw a place where we can dance."
Another thing he knew she liked.
"Remi, I—"
"Unless you'd rather go straight back to the room?"
She shook her head, unable to put the truth into words. How could she tell this man she couldn't … didn't want to… "You don't think it's too dangerous?"
"Being seen in public, you mean?"
"Y-yes," she stammered. Coward. That's not what she'd really wanted to ask. She'd really wanted to ask if he was feeling as threatened by her as she was by him.
But of course that was impossible. All he was feeling was a healthy male anticipation for the coming night.
She had to do something. To stop it.
Like go back to Plan A. Forget about telling him the truth. That was just too complicated.
"I think we're okay for tonight. Davies's men would have shown up by now if he knew where we were."
"Great," she said. "Guess we better eat, drink and be merry while we can."
With emphasis on the be merry.
Plan A: get Remi drunk. So he'd fall asleep or pass out. Then everything would be okay. Tomorrow, in the bright light of day, she'd tell him how things stood. When she didn't risk frustrating him. Or worse, angering him.
He paid the bill and escorted her out of the diner, coming close to her side when they began walking. His arm went up, and assuming he was about to sling it around her shoulders, she braced herself. But instead, he brushed lightly at her sleeve, showing her a ladybug before he sent it flying on its way.
"I hear ladybugs are good luck," he said with a smile, then took her hand, tucked it in the crook of his elbow and led her toward a bar with a flashing neon sign in the window.
"Let's hope so," she murmured.
She could use all the luck she could get. In outrunning Davies.
And in outwitting Remi.
* * *
Chapter 5
« ^ »
"I got you another," Muse said.
Remi accepted the tequila from her. His third. He and Muse had talked for over an hour, sitting at a microscopic Formica-topped table in the murky bar. His back was to the wall and hers was to a small wooden dance floor where nobody was dancing to the jukebox that blared a popular country tune. But it was still early, only about nine.
Between the shots, the beer chasers and the few hours of sleep he'd gotten, Remi was feeling a whole lot more relaxed. Maybe too relaxed. Because he was starting to think sleeping with Muse Summerville was actually a good idea—a sure sign of some form of diminished capacity.
"Thanks," he said and put it to his lips, taking a tiny sip of the liquor. No sense going overboard. He wanted to have all his faculties intact. "But I'd better slow down."
Her gaze cut to his. "I thought you said we were safe?"
He shrugged. "Still best to be careful. Besides, I wouldn' want to pass out on you." He gave her a wink. For a split second he thought she blanched. Must be the neon lights.
He pulled a yellow pack of gum from his breast pocket, methodically drew a stick out and folded it into his mouth, enj
oying the sweet fruity taste that contrasted with the sour tequila on his tongue.
"That is so disgusting," she said, wrinkling her nose. "How can you stand that combination?"
He grinned. "Just think of it as an instant margarita."
She made an even more disgusted noise. "Gross."
"Don't knock it till you try it." He jerked his chin at her. "Vien ici. Come, give it a taste."
He'd been wanting to do this since waking up next to her. He leaned over the table and captured her lips before she could protest. Not that he thought she would. Even though she'd been acting a little peculiar since they left the diner, he knew she'd been thinking about kissing him just as much as he'd been thinking about kissing her. He could tell by the way she kept looking at his mouth.
He gave her a quick taste then pulled back. "See?"
She looked surprised, and he couldn't decide whether it was because she liked the strange combination or that she'd expected him to keep going.
Off balance. That was a nice change. Up till now it had been him struggling to stay upright. Much better this way.
"Pretty good, non?"
"Very good," she agreed, and again he wondered if she was talking about the gum or his kissing. She licked her lips and he smiled inwardly. He was betting on the latter.
He leaned back, savoring the hint of her that lingered on his tongue. "So, tell me about your sister."
"Grace?" Her focus shifted and she gazed into the distance. "I moved away from home when I was eighteen, but she's still my best friend."
"You miss her."
"A lot." She smiled wistfully. "We call each other every week, but it's not really the same. I wish…" Her words trailed off.
"You understand why I can't let you contact her, right? We have to assume Davies knows about her. Especially if someone at the field office is feeding him information."
"You think Davies is watching her? Or tapping her phone?"
"It's a possibility. We don't want to take any chances."
She nodded bleakly. "The last thing I want is to put her in danger. But I'm really concerned."
"About?"
"We have this pact."
"What kind of pact?"
"To come to the rescue. If we don't hear from each other on our regular calling day, that means one of us is in trouble and needs help. The other is supposed to come at once. It was the only way I could get her to stop worrying about me when I moved away."
