by JoAnn Ross
“But Lila’s old news,” Mike said. “Updating our current story, I thought you might want to know that the murder in the city’s most prestigious hotel is about to hit the airwaves.”
Roarke’s curse was quick and ripe. “Did you get that little bulletin from your pals at the cop shop?”
“No. This came from an old friend of mine. Désirée Dupree.”
“The reporter you were living with last time I was home?”
“Yeah, that’s her. She ended up marrying another guy—a former prosecutor turned novelist—but we keep in touch.”
“I see.”
“You can wipe that smirk off your face, because we’re just friends. Not every O’Malley brother is into hit-and-run relationships.”
No. Just he and Shayne fit that description. Mike had always been the responsible brother. Which wasn’t all that surprising, Roarke considered, since with their father away so much of the time and their mother unable to handle three sons, Mike had been left to play the paternal role of disciplinarian while they’d all been growing up.
Given his upbringing, it was no wonder he’d become a cop. This way, Roarke figured, he could be big brother to the entire damn city. Or at least he had, until he’d gotten caught up in the juggernaut of political interests.
“What does the press know?”
“Only that a body was discovered in a room registered to a woman. Désirée got the impression that the cops have a pretty good idea who she is, but didn’t want to share the information right now.”
“They could want to wait until they pick her up to make the announcement to the press,” Roarke mused. “Or they could be after her themselves.”
Mike shook his head. “How the hell do you do it? A few hours in town and you’ve already gotten yourself mixed up in something dangerous.”
“It’s a talent.” Although the circumstances certainly didn’t warrant it, Roarke grinned. Then his expression immediately sobered. “Look, this is just between you and me, okay?”
A scowl moved across Mike’s face like a thundercloud. “I should punch you for even having to think you’d need to say that.”
“Sorry.” It was the truth. “I guess I’ve gotten out of the habit of trusting anyone.” That was definitely the truth.
“Join the club.” Mike folded his arms. “So, what is it this time? And please don’t tell me she’s a defecting Russian spy.”
“Nothing that glamorous. From the ID in her billfold, she’s a deputy prosecutor.”
“Daria Shea. I should have recognized the name.” He didn’t try to hide his chagrin.
“You know her?”
“Not personally. She got hired right about the time I quit the force. But I’ve heard about her. She’s got a reputation for being brainy and unflinchingly honest, which is a real anomaly in this town. She’s also reputed to be hardworking and willing to fight like a pit bull to put the bad guys away—no matter who they are. Which has ruffled more than a few feathers.”
“Like down at the precinct?”
“There have been rumors of some ongoing investigations into graft and corruption,” Mike allowed. “She’s also busted a couple of judges for fixing traffic tickets, and another for being on the payroll of one of the drug gangs.”
“A straight-shooting, aggressive prosecutor in this parish is bound to make a lot of enemies.”
“I’d say that’s an understatement.” Mike paused as if wanting to choose his words carefully. “She also doesn’t play the Southern-belle/steel-magnolia game like a lot of successful women do to ease their way in a male-dominated profession. In fact, now that I think about it, I’ve heard stories about guys getting frostbite just asking her out.”
Thinking back to that heated kiss she’d initiated, Roarke decided his brother had to be wrong about that little bit of information.
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of your going back to Moscow?” Mike asked.
“Not a one.”
“How about paying a visit to the network offices in New York?”
“Nope.” That was the last place Roarke wanted to be right now.
“Hell. I was afraid you were going to say that.”
“I can’t tell you what I’m going to do, Mike,” Roarke said with honest regret, “because I want to leave you with plausible deniability, whatever happens. There’s no point in risking your license.”
“My license doesn’t mean a thing compared to keeping my brother from getting killed.”
“It’s not going to come to that.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“And I’m still alive.”
“I know. And believe me, I consider that little fact proof that miracles do exist.” He shook his head. “At least promise to keep in touch.”
“Sure.”
“Are you taking her with you?”
When Roarke only gave him a look, Mike shrugged. “Okay. None of my business. Got it.” He took out a business card and a pen and scribbled a number on the back of the card. “This is my cell phone. Call me if you need anything. Anytime.”
Roarke took the card and put it in his shirt pocket. “I will. Thanks. I’ve always said it was great having a big brother.”
“And I’ve always said it was a pain in the ass having a kid brother who couldn’t keep out of trouble.”
The brothers hugged briefly, and in that fleeting moment Roarke understood why he’d come home. Family was a powerful magnet. Especially when your life had just come down around your ears.
“Would you do me one favor?”
“Sure,” Mike answered promptly.
“Hang around here for about ten, fifteen minutes while I make a phone call and take care of a couple of things.”
“Stand guard, you mean.”
Roarke’s expression was as serious as his brother’s. “Yeah. I guess you could put it that way.” He shot a quick, concerned look at the closed hospital-room door, then left to plan Daria’s escape.
Twenty minutes later, Daria was looking at Roarke in disbelief. “You can’t possibly expect me to wear that!”
He glanced down at the filmy harem outfit he’d bought from a ward clerk who’d quickly decided that spending the rest of her shift wearing a pair of green ER scrubs was definitely worth the hundred-dollar bill he was offering for her costume.
“It’s not that bad.”
Her scowl said otherwise. As she crossed her arms, he caught a glimpse of the hard-driving prosecutor Mike had described. Apparently the knock on her head hadn’t altered her basic nature.
“It’s nearly transparent”
“Not really. It’s got this spangly bikini to keep you decent.”
Her eyes narrowed as they raked over the glittery pieces of cloth he was holding out “I may have lost my memory, but I’m positive that I’m not the spanglybikini type.”
Remembering what Mike had told him about her icy reputation, he figured she might just be right about that However, frustrated that she was wasting precious time, but not wanting to blow even more time by getting into an argument, Roarke tamped down his temper and concentrated on his goal.
“It’s Mardi Gras. Time to live dangerously.”
“I’d say getting shot in the head was about all the danger I need for one night”
“Dammit.” He dragged his hand through his hair. “Are you always this stubborn?”
She appeared unmoved by his frustrated outburst She also seemed to be seriously considering his question. “I think I am.”
“Terrific.” No wonder people wanted to kill her. Much more of this and he would be tempted to wring her pretty neck. “Look, the cat-suit you were wearing when you were brought in is bloody—”
“I was wearing a cat-suit?”
“Yeah. And it fit like spray paint, which is why I don’t see any reason for getting your panties in such a twist over this outfit But, as I was saying, since you obviously can’t wear it, and I doubt you want to leave the hospital in that lovely designer nightgown they gave y
ou...”
“No,” she said quickly. “I’m one of those who believe air-conditioning made New Orleans livable, but I’m not wild about air-conditioned clothing.” She frowned at the idea of her bare bottom exposed to the breeze.
“Well, then, looks like you’re about to join the harem.”
“If I live here, couldn’t you just go to my home and get some of my clothes.”
“That’s not an option. At least not at the moment. I figure one of us getting shot in the head is enough for one night.”
She fell silent, her intelligent gaze taking in his grim expression. “You’re implying that my shooting wasn’t really accidental.”
Roarke reminded himself that this was an intelligent woman who, despite her amnesia, would be able to see through him in a minute if he tried to lie. “No. Considering the circumstances, and that dead guy in your hotel room, I don’t think it was.”
Her gaze dropped to the sheet. She traced random circles on the white cotton as she thought over his grimly stated words. “But why?” Her eyes were wide, laced with pain and distress. “Who would want to shoot me?”
“That’s what we’re going to have to figure out.” He held the costume out to her again. “After we get you out of here.”
Now that she had at least a partial picture of their situation, Daria didn’t hesitate. She plucked the harem outfit out of his hand and pushed the sheet aside, cringing only slightly as the movement caused the little man with the sledgehammer pounding away in her head to begin hitting harder.
“I’m not putting this on while you’re watching,” she said.
Roarke arched an eyebrow. “Hey, we’re married, remember? I’ve seen you without clothes lots of times.”
Daria was certain if she’d been naked with this man, she would remember it “Get out of here, O’Malley. Call me crazy, but your wife has a sudden need for privacy.”
It was the answer Roarke had expected. He wondered what he would have done if she’d been willing to undress in front of him.
“I’ll be right outside.”
The words, spoken with such authority, were more than a little comforting. Once again Daria thought how Roarke O’Malley, whoever he was, was a man capable of protecting a woman. And it seemed, for some reason, she was in dire need of protection.
Another thought—the most frightening thus far—flashed through her mind. What if the person she needed protection from was this man?
“What’s the matter now?”
As she watched his eyes narrow, Daria realized that Roarke was a man who noticed every little nuance, heard things in voices most men wouldn’t. Since she doubted that any woman would be able to keep secrets from such a man, that made him more than a little dangerous.
She opted for the direct approach. “How do I know I can trust you?”
“Good question.” His lips twitched in a way that if his eyes weren’t so serious would have made her think he was almost smiling. “I could ask the same thing about you.”
Roarke stood on one side of the railed hospital bed, looking at Daria in that shuttered, all-seeing way he had, and Daria stood on the other side looking back at him, caution warring with the need to believe him.
“Besides,” he said finally, “you’re the one who got us into this. I was merely sitting in the Blue Bayou Lounge, enjoying my first beer of the night, when you come out of nowhere and planted a kiss smack on my mouth.”
“I knew I’d kissed you.”
“You sure as hell did.” This time he did smile. A bold, quick, unabashedly masculine grin that was the most dangerous thing about him so far. “And believe me, sweetheart, it was a humdinger.”
For some reason, the idea that Roarke found her kiss pleasing—a “humdinger”—made Daria feel unreasonably pleased. “I suppose it’s not unusual for a wife to kiss her husband.”
“No.” Roarke suspected she still wasn’t buying that marriage story. “I suppose, since it’s also our honeymoon, it’s not that unusual for a husband to want to throw his wife down onto the dance floor and have his way with her, even if it does end up getting them arrested for indecent behavior.”
“Arrested.”
It was not a question, Roarke noted. She’d said the word as if it rang some far-distant bell. He waited with uncommon patience, practically seeing the wheels spinning around in her head.
“Damn.” She closed her eyes and touched her fingertips to her temples, which were throbbing painfully. “I thought I had something.” It had been there, like the remnants of a dream hovering on the fringes of her mind after wakening.
“Don’t worry about it.” He didn’t admit that his frustration level was a lot higher than hers at the moment. “The doctor said not to push. The trick is to relax.”
“Easy for you to say,” she muttered in a way that made him laugh. “You find this situation funny?”
“Yeah. In an ironic sort of way.” He shook his head as he thought about Yogi Berra’s old chestnut. “You might say it’s a case of déjà vu all over again.”
The baseball great might have mangled the Queen’s English. But no one could accuse the guy of not having a handle on human nature.
4
DARIA DESPERATELY WISHED the room came with a full-length mirror. From what she could see in the small poorly lit bathroom one, the costume was not what anyone hoping to go unnoticed would wear.
The diaphanous material in the Mardi Gras colors of gold, green and purple allowed glimpses of her legs in a way she feared was more suggestive than the briefest shorts. And the spangly top that looked like something worn by the dancers down on Bourbon Street, definitely gave new meaning to the name Wonderbra. She’d never dreamed she could possess such cleavage without a great deal of plastic surgery.
Although Roarke had told her she’d been wearing a cat-suit when she’d been shot, the combination of fascination and horror she felt viewing herself in the costume only underscored the feeling that her usual tastes were far more subdued.
She was wondering if she could tear the sheer sleeves off and somehow drape them across her breasts when there was a knock on the door.
“It’s me,” the now familiar deep voice said. “Are you decent?”
“That’s a matter of interpretation.” She sighed and surrendered to the inevitable. It was either this or the hospital gown, which was, of course, no choice at all.
“Don’t you say a thing,” she warned as Roarke entered the room. “Not a single, solitary word.”
As if he could. Roarke was having enough trouble trying to keep from swallowing his tongue.
“And no leering.”
“Whatever you say.” Against his will, his eyes drifted toward those ivory breasts being presented to him like ripe pomegranates on a gold platter.
“Or looking.”
He shook his head. “My mama, who was brought up to be a true flower of the South, did her best to raise all the O’Malley boys to be gentlemen. And I’ve tried to live up to her high standards. But I gotta tell you, sweetheart, you may just be talking about the impossible.”
She drew in a deep frustrated breath, then realized her mistake when her breasts practically popped out of the gilt bra. “What is it about men that makes them prefer huge breasts over brains?”
“I don’t know about most men. But personally, I’ve always thought any more than a handful was overkill. As for brains, vacuous, empty-headed females bore me. After all, most sex is between the ears.”
Daria definitely wasn’t in the mood to talk about sex. Not when his gaze was practically making her skin sizzle. “Did you say something about getting out of here?”
Her tone was frosty cool and haughty, at direct odds with her dressed-for-sin appearance, and the red flush that spread across her breasts like a fever belied the ice in her eyes. He had told the truth about preferring intelligent women; and even though he knew it was the most reckless, stupid idea he’d ever had, Roarke was highly tempted to tumble her right here on that narrow hospital b
ed.
Tamping down the surge of desire, he concentrated on the immediate goal of keeping her alive until he could get his story and prove to the network brass that he wasn’t the burnout victim they thought him to be.
“I’m ready if you are.”
They left the hospital by a side door at the end of a narrow, dark hallway. Above the door a bright red sign warned that the exit was for authorized employees only.
“Won’t it have an alarm?” Daria asked, looking up at the wires running along the top of the door.
“It did.” He pushed the metal bar; the door opened with only the faintest squeak of hinges. “It doesn’t now.”
“I don’t know whether to be impressed or appalled.”
“It’s an old system. Anyone could jimmy it.”
“But not everyone would need to.”
He took her arm and began walking across the parking lot. “You’re the one who has people gunning for them, sweetheart Not me.”
What he said might be true, but Daria didn’t like his patronizing tone. A temper she didn’t know she possessed flared. “I’m so fortunate I have you to take care of me.”
She wasn’t particularly surprised when the sarcasm bounced off him without making so much as a dent. “You can say that again. Because you sure as hell weren’t doing a real good job of taking care of yourself.”
She might not know who she was. She might have the mother of all headaches and she might have been shot by someone for some reason she couldn’t recall, but Daria was not the type of woman to simply let some sarcastic, overly macho male roll over her. Even if it appeared that he had saved her life.
Roarke. went another two paces before realizing that she’d stopped dead in her tracks.
“What’s the matter now?”
“I think this is where I tell you...” Her voice, edged with anger, drifted off. She literally swayed on her feet.
Even as he tightened his fingers, Roarke followed her gaze to the black-and-white NOPD squad car pulling up in front of the emergency-room doors.
“Come on.” He put his arm around her waist and held her tight to steady her as he resumed walking. “I think it’s time we blew this place.”
