SWEET SUSPICION

by Nina Bruhns

  She took another shot. "How so?"

  "He lives by himself way out on the bayou, where he runs a multimillion-dollar computer security software company from a … bien, a shack on stilts in the middle of a swamp."

  She swung the camera lens to him. "You're kidding."

  "What can I say?" he said, and she snapped a picture. He made a face—too late. "Dev doesn't like people much."

  "But he likes you."

  Remi grimaced. "I worked with him on a particularly nasty case, once, involving computer kiddy porn. We burned the bad guy together and in the process became good friends."

  "And you think he won't mind sharing his shack out in the middle of the swamp? Will he have room for us?"

  Remi chuckled and she snapped another picture of him.

  "He also owns a bunch of small houses that aren't quite so primitive, scattered around the wilderness. He lends them out free of charge to environmentalists, artists and just plain people down on their luck who need a place to stay. We'll be handed a key, no questions asked."

  She paused for a second, then snapped a final picture, capturing the suggestive, bad-boy expression that slowly crept over his face. The man definitely had mischief on his mind.

  Ever since she'd spilled Gary's secret, Remi's mood had improved markedly. She could only imagine what he thought that fact gained him.

  On second thought, she'd rather not know. Whatever it was she wasn't ready for it. He might think she was, but she wasn't. She would never be.

  "Remi," she ventured, taking her time changing the lens on the Hasselblad, replenishing the film, then tucking it safely back into the camera bag. "I think we need to talk."

  He held things for her, handed them back and took the bag when she'd gotten everything squared away, lifting the strap onto his shoulder. "About?"

  "Tonight."

  He was silent for a moment, and she watched him turn and take in the decaying beauty of the old plantation spread all around them. The fecund green foliage spilling over tumbled brick walls and leaning ionic columns, formerly white but now streaked with emerald moss. The rich smells of humid earth and sweet honeysuckle and jasmine. The soft, sultry breeze stirring the blades of grass and the ends of their hair.

  "Reminds me of home," he murmured. "Beau sans coeur. Beautiful but rotten." He looked up. "What about tonight?" he asked.

  She filed away his puzzling comment and let out a sigh. "I think we should ask Dev for a house with two bedrooms."

  He turned to her, expression unsurprised. "If that's what you want."

  "It's not what I want. But it's for the best."

  He shook his head. "Non. I think you're ready."

  She gave him a cheerless smile. "I don't think I'll ever be ready," she said, and started walking toward the Porsche.

  "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, following.

  She decided not to deny the obvious. What was the point? The man saw far too much. "Not especially."

  "It might help to talk."

  "Already done that."

  "With…?"

  "My sister and my shrink. I'm over it."

  "I noticed."

  She couldn't help laughing at his wry tone, despite the painful subject. "Look, I just don't like sex. I'm sorry. Believe me, I wish I did. Never more than last night."

  He gently caught her arm from behind and swung her around to face him. His expression was dead serious now, filled with the hard determination that sent shivers down her spine every time. Not of fear, but of recognition that this man would lay down his life to protect her. And wouldn't accept anything but complete honesty in return.

  "Tell me what happened," he quietly demanded. His fingers slid down her arm and laced with hers. "Tell me what he did to you."

  She hadn't even told her mother, just Grace and the psychologist her sister had referred her to a few years later when Grace had started her psych major at college.

  Could Muse trust this man, with his dark good looks and seductive tones and the ability to strip back her defenses like an orange peel?

  She didn't even have to think about it.

  She took a steadying breath. "We were on a date. In high school. He was a football player. Very popular. Very big. He wanted to. I didn't. He held me down and did it anyway. End of story."

  In the quiet morning, birds twittered overhead, bees buzzed by on their never-ending quest for nectar. She swore she heard the hushed rasp of an orange slowly being stripped of its peel.

  "Not end of story. Not by a long shot."

  She scowled. She didn't know what she wanted to do more, smack him silly or fall into his arms and sob.

  In the end he decided. He pulled her close, holding her as the unwanted tears of frustration welled, kissing her temple and rubbing her back as she unwillingly purged herself of the horrible memory of that awful night, wiping the wetness from her cheeks when she was finally able to drag herself back into that safe place she'd carved from the loneliness and guilt so long ago. Only to find she was no longer alone.

  "Feel better?" He handed her tissues from the camera bag.

  "Feel like an idiot."

  "Why? Because some creep violated you and took something precious he had no right to?"

  She gazed up at the man who'd spoken so fiercely, unable to stop one last hot tear from trickling down her face.

  His jaw set. "Who was it? I want a name."

  She'd never uttered it since that night, and wasn't about to start now. "Why?"

  "So I can kill him."

  He looked so angry and ferocious she actually believed him. Her hero. She sent him a watery smile. "Too late. Drive-by shooting. The suspect was never convicted, but I heard he'd had a sixteen-year-old sister."

  Remi hissed out a long breath, then took her face in his strong hands and pressed his lips to her forehead. "Better than the bastard deserved." He held her there for a long time. She felt his body slowly relax, muscle by muscle. Finally he said, "Let me help you."

  She swallowed, terrified by what she thought he meant. "Remi, I don't—"

  "Wait, hear me out," he interrupted. "It's obvious you're attracted to me. God knows I'm attracted to you. Have you been with anyone since … it happened?"

  She glanced away. "I've tried a few times. It wasn't all that great."

  "And yet last night you trusted me enough to give me permission, even though you'd get no pleasure from it."

  She leaned her forehead against his shoulder. "Not many men would have turned me down."

  "My greatest pleasure lies in seeing yours. Let me give you that pleasure."

  She turned away, ashamed. "It's no use. I'm frigid."

  He cupped her face in his hand, large and comforting and wet with her own tears, and made her look at him. His smile was both tender and reassuring. "Darlin', no woman who kisses like you could possibly be frigid." The corner of his lip curved. His fingers slid into her hair. "You jus' need a man who knows what's going on."

  His boundless self-confidence was endearing … and heartening, if misplaced. She smiled back. And was unable to resist teasing him. Just a little. "I thought you said to enjoy it I'd have to fall in love."

  His eyes widened. Just a little. Then he recovered, dropping his hand. "Ah, non. What I said was, to enjoy it, something about you had to be different. Falling in love was just one example."

  Suddenly she felt more lighthearted than she'd felt in years. Since … high school. She tucked her arm under his and led him toward the Porsche. "So you aren't suggesting I fall in love with you?"

  "That would not be recommended," he said, and cleared his throat. "Neither of us are interested in that kind of relationship. Right?" He glanced at her for confirmation.

  Her heart stopped, and for the briefest second she thought she might blurt out, "Wrong!"

  Totally against her will, of course.

  Because lighthearted or no, she wasn't interested in that kind of relationship. Even if she somehow miraculously learned to enjoy sex—which
wasn't going to happen—there was still that basic personality defect, inherited from her worthless father, preventing her from falling in love. Grace said it was because she was afraid of being abandoned again by a man she loved. But that wasn't true. Muse was simply unable to settle down, unable to commit to one person for the rest of her life. She liked being unattached and on the move. She was too restless, too rootless, to stick around. Just like her father.

  "Right," she affirmed, and prayed Remi hadn't misinterpreted her slight, meaningless hesitation. "No love involved."

  "Alors," he continued, "so you can give the physical a try with me and not have any pressure. If we don't succeed—" he shrugged in that peculiarly Gallic way "—no harm done, because our relationship doesn't depend on it coming off." He looked at her hopefully. "As it were."

  She blinked. Then burst out laughing.

  When she recovered, she said, "Lord have mercy, Remi, you really know how to sweep a girl off her feet."

  The grin that crept over his face was pure devilment. "Mais, yeah, chère. But that part comes later."

  She was just about to set him straight on that small detail when a loud voice from next to the Porsche boomed, "Step into the clearing and put your hands in the air."

  * * *

  Swift as a snakebite Remi stepped in front of Muse and assessed the situation. Older cop. Blue cruiser of local jurisdiction. No weapon drawn.

  Remi raised his hands as relief poured over him. The self-recriminations would have to wait. At least he'd be alive to invoke them.

  "What's the problem, Officer?" he asked.

  "I'd like to see your ID, please," the cop ordered. "The lady's, too."

  Not if he could help it. He was about to produce his FBI wallet from his pocket when Muse flounced her way past him waving her camera.

  "Hi! Are you a Louisiana State Trooper?" she asked, adopting the flat nasal accent of a Yankee tourist—and ignoring the local city police emblem big as a satellite dish plastered on the cruiser door.

  Apparently the officer was as dumbstruck as he was, and Muse continued blithely without interruption, "I'm so glad you came by! I'm a photographer and my fiancé here—he's from New Orleans, you know—well, he told me about this old place and I just couldn't resist coming by and snapping a few pictures since we were in the neighborhood, could I, sweetie?" She extracted the pack of Juicy Fruit from his breast pocket, gave him a peck on the lips and offered a stick to the officer. "Gum?" She whisked it away before he'd even had a chance to move. "We've been enjoying some good South Louisiana hospitality, haven't we, pumpkin? And now we're headed back to New Orleans. You know anything about the history of this place? It's so romantic! I'd love to hear about it."

  She took a breath and the cop managed to squeeze in, "Well, I s'pose I might know a bit—"

  She interrupted, saying, "Say, would you mind if I got a picture of you standing with me in front of this cute old cookhouse? That would be great—" she turned to Remi "—wouldn't it, pumpkin?"

  Remi tried in vain to react to being promoted to fiancé and being called "pumpkin" all within the same minute, but the whole situation had him frozen to the spot. What the hell was she doing? Lying to an officer of the law!

  "Honey pie, why don't you take a picture of the nice policeman and me?" she urged, shooting him a get-with-it-or-die look as she tucked the gum back in his pocket.

  She thrust the camera into his hands so he was forced to do something other than stare at her as if one of them had lost their mind. Just which one he wasn't sure. He started snapping shots to hide his consternation. And to cover up that he had no earthly idea how to keep things from deteriorating even further.

  "Who did you say built the place?" she asked the cop as she flirted shamelessly with him and for the camera.

  The poor guy didn't stand a chance. Nor did Remi. Every time he tried to take control of the situation, she snatched it back and got them in even deeper. Luckily the cop never noticed he was being led down the garden path.

  A half hour and two rolls of film later Remi'd heard as much as he ever wanted to know about local history and this run-down pile of rubble in particular, but the officer was finally pulling away in his cruiser.

  Never mind he'd never gotten around to checking their IDs, Remi was ready to strangle the woman.

  He let out a string of Cajun invective, right after he let out the breath he was pretty sure he'd been holding the entire time.

  "What the hell was that all about?"

  Muse glanced up in surprise. "I was getting us out of trouble."

  This was no doubt exactly the kind of stunt Morris had in mind when he'd said Muse was hard to manage. He should have listened.

  "You lied to a cop!"

  She looked indignant. "I did not lie! I just charmed the man."

  "Your 'fiancé'?"

  She lifted her chin in mock affront. "Well, if you don't want to marry me, the wedding's off."

  He rolled his eyes. "He could have arrested us!"

  "For exaggerating about being engaged? I doubt it. Besides he can't arrest you. You're with the FBI."

  He didn't bother to set her straight. "Why didn't you just let me tell him that in the first place?"

  She stuffed the camera back into the bag and zipped it shut. "I thought we were supposed to be incognito. What if he'd written us up in a report or something? Davies could get wind. I could get dead."

  "That's not going to happen," he gritted out. "It's my job to take care of you. My job. So from now on, let me handle things." To drive it home he added, "I'm the FBI agent, you're the helpless witness." He nearly choked on the words. She was about as helpless as a swamp cat. He tapped his chest with a finger. "I'm in charge. Got it?"

  She planted her hands on her hips. "And what would you have done differently, Mr. Federal-Agent-in-Charge?"

  He clamped his jaw. "That's not the point. The point is, you do as I say."

  Her lips thinned. "Oh? And does that include tonight in bed?"

  He jerked back in disbelief. Like he'd been slugged in the gut.

  "Separate rooms, remember?" he ground out. Grabbing the camera bag, he stalked to the car and yanked open the passenger door. "Get in," he growled. When she slid in he reached down and jammed her seat belt home with a quick stab, mumbling, "Sorry," when she gasped at the unexpected gesture.

  "Do you always buckle your passenger's safety belt for them?" she snapped when he slid into the driver's seat and fired the engine with a roar.

  "Only the women I want to order around in bed," he answered curtly. He was a gentleman, so sue him. He made a mental note to let her buckle her own damn belt in the future.

  She crossed her arms under her breasts. He averted his gaze.

  "I'm sorry," she said, actually sounding repentant. "You didn't deserve that comment. It was awful of me, and I didn't mean it."

  He kept his mouth shut and drove. He was overreacting and he knew it. He just couldn't help being irritated. Bien, hurt.

  This was exactly why he didn't get close to people. No matter how much you tried to please them, they only ended up hurting you.

  A timely reminder that he was letting his guard down way too far with Muse Summerville.

  "I was only trying to help," she murmured, then stared out the window for the rest of the trip, all the way to the cutoff to Dev's place, embracing his silence.

  * * *

  "This is it," Remi said, slowing the Porsche to take a sharp turn off the highway onto a dirt track winding just inches above still, black swamp water. He stopped the car, recognizing the rusting black mailbox and dilapidated newspaper receptacle hanging off it by one nail. An old shotgun-blasted board on a nearby tree declared in a dark red scrawl, Private Property. Trespassers Will Be Shot.

  Very atmospheric. All for show, of course. The only mail Dev got was e-mail, he also read his newspapers online. Anyone trespassing would no doubt be blown to smithereens well before coming within gunshot range of the somewhat antisocial Mr. de Val
ein.

  "Nice," Muse commented with obvious sarcasm. "Very welcoming."

  "I told you he doesn't care for people."

  Remi glanced over at her, warring with himself. She'd apologized to him; he should apologize, too. Even though he knew he was right, it hadn't been necessary to come on quite so strong about being in charge.

  On the other hand, the gaping distance his firm scolding had established between them was a good thing. He'd been crazy even to consider sleeping with the woman, let alone designing a detailed plan of attack as to how he could teach her to enjoy the finer points of physical love.

  C'est fou, ça. Just plain crazy.

  From now on the woman was strictly off-limits. And in consequence this assignment would be a hell of a lot simpler.

  He gave the orders. She followed them.

  Simple.

  Smacking aside the persistent, niggling urge to make things right between them, he pointed from the gravel road to the mailbox post and back. "I want you to memorize this entrance," he said. "In case you need to find it again and I'm not with you."

  "Why wouldn't you be with me?" she asked, peering over at him in alarm.

  "I don't know," he said matter-of-factly. "But one should always have an escape route and a backup plan. If anything ever happens to me and you need help, come to Dev. He'll take care of you."

  After a short pause she said, "And what do you think might happen to you?"

  "I'm counting on nothing happening to me," he assured her. "But you never know. Running into that cop was a wake-up call. Better we're prepared for any contingency than to be taken by surprise again."

  "Thanks to you I am prepared."

  He followed her eyes when they lowered to the overnight bag, which sat unzipped at her feet. His spare Beretta rested on top of her clothes, right where he'd told her to put it yesterday when they'd left her apartment.

  "Davies will have to get through me if he wants to hurt you," she said with such calm he thought she was joking, except for the look in those blue eyes when he glanced up in surprise. She turned away to study the road and mailbox. "I think it's time I started fighting my own battles."

  "Not necessary," he countered. "That's my job."