by Nina Bruhns
She stumbled back a step. "I want—" Torn, she didn't know what she wanted more, to rush in and put on a turtleneck sweater—
"What do you want, chère?"
—or to unbutton the last two buttons of her camisole, open it and beg him to breathe on her some more.
As a rose-scented breeze stirred the leaves of the trees and flowers, covering her in a rash of goose bumps, she imagined it was his breath. A lone cricket chirped in the dusking night. Remi gazed up at her, willingness written in his eyes, so she knew she could ask anything of him, anything at all, and he would give it to her.
But courage failed her. She couldn't.
"How about some supper?" she asked instead of what she really wanted.
Because the sad, honest truth was, she didn't know what she wanted anymore.
* * *
"Tell me about your family," Muse said and leaned back in her chair.
Remi gazed at her over the remnants of the meal they'd just shared. It must have been that second glass of touchy-feely California wine that gave him the impulse to actually give her a straight answer. He wasn't used to the stuff. He should have stuck to tequila. Safer by far. A real drink. Not prone to making a man spill his guts about things better left buried deep inside.
To show he was stronger than the wine, and the memories, he took another swallow and said, "Spent most of my childhood with my cousin Beau on their plantation, Terrebeau," then proceeded to entertain her with tales of growing up a very bad boy in Verdigris, Louisiana, in the company of his terminally good cousin, Beau, and how his only supporter was his equally feisty paternal grandmother known simply as Grandmère. No reason to bring up Beau Saint-Coeur and all that other stuff.
But at the end of the stories, instead of laughing heartily and rolling her eyes at his youthful antics, Muse gave him a sad smile and asked, "What happened to them?"
"They're both still living at Terrebeau, along with Beau's new wife, Kit."
"No, I mean your parents."
He froze, his third glass of wine halfway to his lips. He set it down. "Nothing. Why would you ask that?" He hadn't mentioned his parents. Not once.
"They must have hurt you very badly to make you do all those things."
He was too stunned to move, too taken aback to respond except to say, "I don't talk about my parents."
"I noticed." Her liquid blue eyes gazed softly into his. "I don't talk much about my father, either."
It took several moments for her statement to sink in. His eyes narrowed of their own volition. "What did he do to you?"
"He left. And came back. And left. And came back. Just often enough to give us hope, then snatch it away again."
Remi's jaw set. "Bastard."
"Grace was always the good sister. I was the bad one. That's how I know. About you, I mean."
He closed his eyes, understanding what she was saying. And recognized a kindred soul on the deepest gut level possible.
"Why were you the bad cousin?" she asked.
He let out a single, heartfelt oath. And looked at her. "My father thinks I'm a bastard. Literally. He's always believed I am a product of my mother's indiscretion. She denied it, of course, from the beginning. But she was a weak woman and went along with his decree that I was to be treated as a bad seed. Me, I just fulfilled their expectations. The really ironic part is I have an illegitimate half brother whom my dear father showers with his affections. No doubt the will is drawn up accordingly."
"Oh, Remi," she said, sighing, and took his hands across the table. "I'm so sorry."
"Don' be," he said, shrugging off the old agonies and outdated sorrows. It was all ancient history now. "I never wanted to own a plantation, anyway. And my juvenile delinquent background's served me well in my undercover work."
Enough true confessions for one day. He rose and gathered their plates. "Let's clean up and go out on the verandah for some stargazing."
Moments later they were snuggled together on the porch swing, looking out at the sparkling night canopy over the inky darkness of the garden. They spoke for a long time in hushed voices about the twists and turns fate had put into each of their paths, about how they'd pulled themselves out of the negativity and built something good of their lives despite their rocky beginnings. Muse managed to get in a few more questions about those bad old days with his parents at Beau Saint-Coeur and, amazingly, he was able to answer them before changing the subject. Muse just seemed to invite confidences. She listened to him, really listened and instinctively understood the turbulence of his childhood.
They had a lot in common, Remi realized. A whole lot. No wonder he felt like he'd known her his whole life. He just wished—
Non. No sense going there. Keeping Muse for longer than the term of this case would take some major changes in his life. His living arrangements, for instance. Being undercover for most of his career, he hadn't put any time or energy into a place to live. Four bare walls in a seedy part of town, something that blended in with the people he ran with, that's all he possessed in the way of a home. Why bother when he didn't see it for months at a time?
For the first time ever, he paused to consider his dangerous job and self-imposed nomadic lifestyle. Was he willing to give it all up for her, buy a place and settle down, even if she wanted him to?
Could he?
Though he seldom dwelled on it, he was fully aware that his avoidance of love and commitment was not based solely on his job.
Because of his childhood, he'd always been ultrawary of family and any kind of emotional commitment. Intellectually Remi knew his mother loved him, but in his whole life she never dared show him more than a glimmer of that love, choosing to reject him in favor of cowering to his father's bitter imaginings. If a mother's blood ties to her own child could be so thoroughly betrayed by a father's jealousy and suspicion, how fragile must be the simple bonds of love between two strangers?
If Remi fell for Muse, changed his whole world for her, could he trust that she would not make a similar, hurtful choice, breaking his heart all over again in the process?
No. He couldn't.
Better not to take the chance.
During the last decade of his life, Remi had managed to let go of the pain of his past. Learn to see the disappointments in perspective. Understand that what had happened to him as a child was not his fault.
But he didn't think he could go through that process again as an adult. Not and remain sane.
Still, that didn't mean he shouldn't see where things led, on a strictly physical level, as long as they were together. Muse was the most attractive, exciting woman he'd ever met. If she was up to sharing his bed in any way, there was not a chance in hell he'd kick her out.
He just had to make damned sure when she got up to leave, she didn't take his heart along with her.
* * *
Someone was watching him. From the bedroom doorway. Vaguely surprised he'd actually fallen asleep, Remi lay perfectly still in his bed and let his senses tell him who it was.
Muse.
He could smell her. The hint of soap from her shower, the sweet perfume that clung to her hair, the unmistakable scent of her warm woman's body.
Moving only his eyes, he checked the clock on the nightstand, illuminated by the blue light of the computer monitor on a desk across the room. It said 3:42 a.m. The low, intermittent tones of the security system beeped softly without interruption. All was quiet.
Except his heartbeat.
Had she changed her mind? Dieu, he hoped so.
After their long talk, they'd shared a lingering kiss or two on the verandah swing. Or maybe it was three or four. He'd lost count, but she must have sensed he was about to act on his serious need to touch her and had pulled away, saying they should get some sleep. With that she'd slipped from his arms and gone to her room.
He'd felt her reluctance to leave him and could probably have talked her out of it. But for a single instant he'd hesitated. His reasons for wanting her were incredibly self
ish, he'd told himself. And before he could think of all the reasons they weren't, she'd gone.
But now she was back. Watching him in the dark.
What did she want? Him? Or was she just looking for company, unable to sleep?
Either way, he wanted her in his bed.
She moved away, toward her room.
He started to hum, harmonizing to the tone of the security monitor beeps. An old bump and grind tune, popular years ago. An invitation to sleep with him.
"Voulez-vous coucher avec moi," he sang in a low rumble, "ce soir? Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?"
She stopped, turned back. He could see her better now, cast in the pale-blue monitor light. She smiled, amused. She was wearing his shirt. The same one she'd worn to bed the night before. She looked sexy as hell.
He hummed another verse, then whispered, "I'm naked under this blanket," knowing instinctively it wasn't the sight of his body she was afraid of.
Her smile widened and she said, "Prove it."
"Come on over and prove it yourself," he dared with a grin.
The smile slipped a fraction. He could see the sassy wild child wrestle with the frightened victim within.
"No. I don't want to lead you on," she finally said.
"You won't. I think I know the score by now," he assured her and stretched, then crossed his arms under his head, letting the blanket slide down his chest.
He could feel her eyes on him as tangibly as if her hands were stroking over his skin. Her gaze caressed the coarse black hair on his chest, his pebbled nipples, his face and shoulders.
"You don't mind?"
He shook his head.
"How do you put up with me?" she quietly asked.
"It's my job," he answered. Evading her real question.
"And this?" she said, indicating the bed where he lay wishing like hell she would just shut up and slide in next to him.
He sighed. "You're the sexiest, most beautiful woman I've met in a long, long time. Is it so strange I'd like you in my bed?"
"Yes. Under the circumstances."
"Circumstances change," he said as she walked slowly closer. "We have plenty of time."
When she stood right next to the bed, she said, "You're so patient with me. How do you do it?"
"I wouldn't count too much on that patience," he said, patting the mattress at his side. "Hop in."
She licked her lips. "You won't try anything?"
He gave her a half smile. "I'm probably gonna try a whole lot of things. But I'll stop if you say no."
She didn't move for so long he thought his words had pushed her too far. He'd known it was a risk, telling her he wouldn't sleep politely next to her as though he were impotent, like Gary Fox. He would never be content to do that, so he'd taken a chance. It was part of his plan, to push her relentlessly verbally, then go very slowly with the physical. That way she'd be expecting him to demand much more of her, when in reality he would ask for very little. That should make her more and more at ease with him for every passing night.
Provided they had a few nights to spend together.
"All right," she said at last. "I can live with that."
As Muse slid into bed beside him, Remi had the fleeting thought that it might not be such a bad thing if it took several weeks for his colleagues at the Bureau to track down James Davies.
She looked up at him, her eyes filled with a poignant blend of apprehension and uncertainty. But mostly with trust.
Did he say weeks? Dieu, make that several months.
Now all he had to do was figure out how the hell he was going to find the strength not to roll her onto her back, jump her and relieve this incredible need he felt to thrust himself deep inside her, claim her and command her to love him as much as he was growing to love her.
Somehow he had to find the willpower to go very, very slowly.
And the good judgment to ignore the fact that he had just admitted to himself he was falling hopelessly in love with the woman.
* * *
Chapter 10
« ^ »
Muse listened to the soft burr of Remi sleeping next to her and couldn't quite figure out if she was in heaven or in hell.
Surely it was heaven. Because she was in bed with the man of her dreams, her body nestled up to his back. He was naked in her arms, they'd kissed and cuddled for ages, and he hadn't even tried to make love to her.
No, it had to be hell. Because she was in bed with the man of her dreams, her body nestled up to his back. He was naked in her arms, they'd kissed and cuddled for ages, and he hadn't even tried to make love to her.
And for the first time ever in her life, she wanted more. Could she be experiencing sexual frustration?
Impossible. Muse Summerville didn't want men. Muse Summerville was frigid.
And yet there it was, a sharp hunger lodged deep inside her, between her legs, in her belly, making her breasts ache. A hunger only Remi's touch could satisfy.
How had this happened?
The man was from Louisiana. Obviously he'd put some kind of voodoo spell on her.
She tried to imagine what it would be like if she woke him up, told him she was ready to give it a try.
He'd be gentle, of course. He'd kiss her tenderly, roll her onto her back and climb on top of her, lever himself between her legs. She braced herself, imagining the weight of him pressing down on her, onto her breasts and stomach. The strength of his knees pushing her thighs apart.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she took a deep cleansing breath, told herself it wasn't real, she was just imagining. And tried to get back the feelings of hunger and desire.
It was no use.
She licked her lips, tasting salt.
It was a good thing he hadn't tried to make love to her. She would never be able to enjoy it, even with a man as wonderful as Remi Beaulieux.
She placed a tiny kiss on the back of his shoulder, mourning the loss of that brief flare of hope.
Ah, well. She'd known it would be this way, despite what he believed. She would survive this disappointment, too. Hadn't she always? This time it might take a bit longer to recover, like about eighty years…
In the meantime she'd savor the warmth of his body sleeping next to hers, the smell of him on her skin, the feeling of perfect safety in the circle of his protection. So she'd remember.
Yes, it was heaven after all.
* * *
Muse awoke to the smell of bacon and coffee. Remi's side of the bed was cool and empty, his weapon gone from the nightstand. The strains of a Cajun squeeze box tune wafted in from somewhere, accompanied by French lyrics in a deep baritone she recognized from the night before.
The split-screen monitor across the room caught her eye, and she realized one of its screens showed the kitchen. Remi was in front of the stove dressed in perfectly tailored black slacks, a white muscle shirt, and his shoulder holster and gun. With his long black hair and diamond earring, he looked more like a gangster than an FBI agent. No wonder he did so well in his undercover work.
She fluffed up her pillow and settled back on the bed with a smile, enjoying the sight of her man singing and flipping bacon to the rhythm of an old-time Cajun waltz. She almost fell off the bed when at the end of the song he turned to the camera and pointed his spatula at her.
"Get up, you lazy bones. Breakfast is ready. You've got five minutes to get your butt in here."
With a laugh, she bounded out of bed and ran to the bathroom to brush her teeth and jump into some clothes. She made it to her seat at the table with twenty seconds to spare.
"That's what I like. A woman who follows orders." He gave her the once-over approvingly. "And looks good doing it."
She'd put on the first thing her hand had hit in the closet, a baby-blue sundress with a clutch of spaghetti straps, a low-cut front and a high-cut hem.
She liked Remi's reaction to its sexiness, but she made a mental note to tone down her wardrobe at the same time she reinvented her image. She never wanted anoth
er man to look at her with the desire she saw in Remi's eyes as they moved over her. After Remi, she didn't want another man to look at her at all. She'd have to consult Grace. Her sister was a master at dressing to avoid men's notice.
Of course, turnabout was fair play.
"You're not so bad yourself, sugarcane," she said, taking a second gander at the muscle shirt that stretched over his pecs and abs like a second skin. The raw maleness of it, along with his sophisticated black trousers, made a surprisingly sexy statement. "Where'd you learn to dress like that? Mafia U?"
Remi chuckled. "James Dean and Philip Noiret. Beau and I used to devour old film noir movies growing up. I guess the look stuck with both of us."
"Works for me." She bit into a piece of bacon, fried to perfection. "Mmm. Now, that's what I like. A man who cooks," she said, and winked. "And looks good doing it."
* * *
"Show me your black lace."
Remi sidled up to Muse on the sofa where she sat several hours later fiddling around with the photos for her book. He nuzzled her ear with his lips. "I want to see all of it."
She turned to him uncertainly. "Excuse me?" She didn't remember packing any black underwear, and even if she had—
He smiled and kissed her, a slow, thorough kiss, one that both asked and claimed in one long, delicious persuasion.
"Sorry, got distracted by your … dress," he murmured, and she completely forgot the topic of conversation. He took his finger and pushed one of three thin spaghetti straps off her shoulder, placed a kiss where it had been, then dragged off another, kissing where it had been, too. She held her breath, waiting for him to slide the last one from its place.
He looked up and said, "Well?"
She blinked. "Well what?"
"Your wrought iron?"
She glanced down at the coffee table, littered with her photos of iron fences and railings. "Black lace" fences and railings. Comprehension finally slogged its way through her muddled brain.
She stared at him openmouthed. "How do you do that?"
He settled back in the sofa. "Do what?"
"You kiss me and make me forget my own name, you touch me and make me forget the project I've been working on for three years, you whisper in my ear and all I can think about is sex."
