by JoAnn Ross
As he pulled on his black jeans, his stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t had any dinner last night. He would have breakfast, then figure out a plan. Maybe Daria would wake up this morning with more of her memory restored. Feeling more enthusiastic than he had in a very long time, Roarke went off in search of the kitchen.
THE SMELL OF COFFEE drifted into Daria’s consciousness like wisps of fog along the levee, teasing at the ragged edges of the dream from which she could not escape.
She was in the bayou again, running as fast as she could across the trembling ground, her blood pounding in her ears, her breath coming in deep, burning gasps that were literally ripped from her lungs.
If the men with the shotguns discovered her, they would kill her. Then they would throw her body to the alligators.
The full moon created streaming silver ribbons of light and deep purple shadows that appeared to hang from the ancient cypress trees like Spanish moss. She tried to stay in the shadows, but from time to time she would have to race across a clearing, knowing that she might as well have been running through a spotlight.
She tried to stay calm; the bayou was a haunted maze that a person could enter and never escape from. Like that man lying back there on the ground, with a fist-size hole in his chest.
An owl screeched, sounding like a woman in pain. Dogs were baying; she worried they might be bloodhounds sniffing out her trail. Her legs were trembling; forcing them forward became more and more difficult. Just when she was certain she couldn’t run another step, she slammed into a fallen tree trunk and went sprawling. As she struggled to push herself to her feet, she saw the cars parked along the dirt road.
She half crawled, half walked to her red convertible and pulled her keys from her jeans pocket.
Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. She tried again and again and finally managed to get the door open and crawl into the driver’s seat. Then her hand was trembling so badly she couldn’t stick the key into the ignition.
Finally, she succeeded. She pulled the lever for the parking brake and put the car into neutral, hoping it would roll a safe distance away. But the land was as flat as a billiard table, and it drifted less than three feet before coming to a stop. She was forced to start the engine.
It roared to life with a noise that seemed deafening. Her pursuers would be sure to hear it. She shifted again and began driving toward New Orleans as fast as she could. As she drove, the image of what she’d witnessed flashed through her mind in all its gory detail. Bile rose like acid in her throat as she was forced to picture that dead man; forced to acknowledge the horrifying fact that her worst fears had been realized.
She pulled over to the side of the empty two-lane country road, got out of the car, fell down on her knees and began retching into a stand of tupelo.
Finally it was her own coughing that woke her, dragging her from the painful nightmare. Daria looked around the room in confusion, at first not recognizing the magnificent antique hand-carved bed, the damask-covered walls topped with crown molding, the windows draped in gold-and-burgundy brocade.
And then she heard the murmur of voices drifting up the stairs, realized it was coming from a television, and the night before flooded back. She remembered her arrival at this luxurious mansion, the chase through the darkened night streets, her hospitalization, and most vividly, running into the Whitfield Palace’s Blue Bayou Lounge and kissing Roarke O’Malley.
Okay. So, if she could remember all that, why wouldn’t she recall what she’d been doing before she’d dashed into that cocktail lounge?
“The doctor said not to push it,” she muttered as she climbed out of bed. “Easy for her to say.”
Although she’d worn it all night, the T-shirt still smelted like Roarke—a a dark, masculine scent that stirred feelings she was better off not thinking about.
“Whatever happened, Roarke O’Malley is a complication,” she reminded herself firmly as she locked the bathroom door. “One you don’t dare risk.”
With that warning ringing in her mind, she stepped into the shower and took advantage of the shampoo, conditioner and liquid soap in the Lucite dispenser beneath the shower head. The needles of hot water drumming against her skin felt like heaven; she tilted her head back, allowing the streaming water to wash the lingering disinfectant odor down the drain along with the fragrant lather.
She wrapped a fluffy white bath sheet around herself, then found the toothbrush and toothpaste she could just barely recall using the night before. She brushed her teeth, picked up the silver-backed brush and dragged it through her thick wet hair.
She was debating searching for a hair dryer when she suddenly became aware of another scent, more enticing than the shampoo and even more stimulating than Roarke’s T-shirt.
She exited the bathroom and came face-to-face with him standing beside the bed, arms folded as if he’d been waiting for her.
6
ALTHOUGH SHE KNEW she was not accustomed to greeting men she hardly knew wearing only a towel, the thick bath sheet effectively covered her from her breasts to nearly her ankles, which was a great deal more than either that ridiculous harem outfit or Roarke’s T-shirt had done. That being the case, she refused to reveal any embarrassment. She also decided to ignore the flash of desire in his indigo eyes.
“Is that bacon I smell?”
As he took in the sight of her wet and nearly naked, Roarke had to remind himself yet again that bedding Daria would be the second-biggest mistake he’d ever made. “And pain perdu.”
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d indulged in the delicious local treat of French toast made with French bread.
“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
“That’s what we’re trying to avoid.” He took a robe from the back of the chair. “I found this in a closet. Although you look damn good in that towel, I think it might offer a bit more temptation than I’m capable of handling at the moment.”
“You sound as if I don’t have a choice about what might happen.”
“Ah, but that’s part of the dilemma, darlin’.” Despite the still-treacherous circumstances, despite the fact that just looking at her all wet and flushed had sent the blood roaring from his head straight into his groin, where it pooled, hot and thick, Roarke was feeling uncharacteristically upbeat. “You do have a choice. And from the way you kissed me last night...”
Believing that the best defense was a strong offense, Daria lifted her chin. “I have no intention of sleeping with you.”
He had the audacity to smile at that. A roguish grin that slashed white in his dark face and made his eyes gleam like sapphires. “Well, if you insist on splitting hairs, I think this is where I admit that sleeping wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
Shaken by the sexual awareness that hummed through her veins at the merest look or touch from Roarke, she willed her voice to chipped ice.
“Fine. Then let me be a bit more specific so you can understand. I’m not going to have sex with you.”
It was the same thing he’d been telling himself all morning while he’d been rattling around the kitchen, thinking of her lying up here all warm and soft, wearing nothing but his T-shirt. It was safer that way. Unfortunately, as he was struck with a sudden urge to lick those beads of moisture off the crests of her ivory breasts, Roarke remembered than he’d never been a real fan of safe. It was, after all, a close cousin to boring. Unfortunately, lust fogged the brain and caused a man to take foolish risks.
“I suppose, then, I’ll let you get dressed.”
“Thank you.” She plucked the robe from his outstretched hand. Their fingers briefly touched, creating a spark that shot straight to her bare toes. He was a testosterone bomb and whenever she was around him, Daria could feel the radiation burning through her. She glanced up into his face to see if he’d felt it; too, but his features were set into a smooth, unreadable expression.
When the phone on the bedside table rang, she jumped.
“That sho
uld be Mike. He promised to call me back.” Roarke scooped up the receiver.
“Yeah? Great, I’ll meet you at Monkey Hill in thirty minutes.” That said, he hung up.
The brief conversation told her nothing. “Why are we going to the zoo?”
“We’re not.”
“But—”
“I’m going to the zoo. You’re staying here.” When she opened her mouth to argue, he pressed a finger briefly against her lips. “In case you haven’t noticed, you don’t have the wardrobe for a day in the park.” Roarke trailed the wicked finger along the top edge of the towel, just centimeters from her skin. “Unless you feel like joining the harem again.”
“That wasn’t on my list of things to do today.”
“I didn’t think so.” He admired the way she seemed determined not to let her situation overwhelm her. He knew lots of women—hell, even men—who would have been basket cases about now. “So, I’m meeting Mike, who has already retrieved my luggage from the hotel, then we’re going over to your house and get some of your stuff.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Naw. You’re talking about the O’Malley brothers. We can take care of ourselves,” he added as he watched the color begin to fade from her cheeks.
“So, you’ve got about twenty-five minutes to make a list of what you want out of the house, if you can remember what’s there, and eat pain perdu, which is undoubtedly turning to roofing shingles in the warming oven.”
Shoving his hands deep into his pockets to keep them out of trouble, he left the bedroom.
“This IS DELICIOUS.” The French toast was golden brown, smothered in melted butter and syrup. “I never would have suspected you’d be a man who ‘knew how to cook.”
“Since eating isn’t exactly an optional activity, I figured I’d better learn.”
“I’m surprised.” She took a sip of sweet, rich café au lait. The small television on the kitchen counter was tuned to a local morning-news program. At the moment, an attractive blonde in a red jacket and a short, amazingly tight skirt was pointing out high-pressure areas on a Louisiana map.
He eyed her over the rim of his cup. “Why?”
“You seem like a man women cook for.”
“There are a great many things I’d rather have a woman do for me than cook.”
When his eyes took on that devilishly seductive gleam again, Daria looked away, dragging her attention back to the television.
“Oh, my God.” Recognition came crashing down on her.
“What?” Roarke immediately abandoned the idle fantasy of taking her on top of the kitchen table and followed her gaze.
“It’s James.”
Although Roarke had rarely been in New Orleans these past years, he would have had to have been covering wars on Mars and Jupiter not to immediately recognize the man whose handsome face was filling the small screen. James Boudreaux had begun his political career as a Jefferson Parish prosecutor, earning an unprecedented ninety-eight-percent conviction rating. Needless to say, a citizenry obsessed with rising crime subsequently rewarded the apparent hard-liner on crime with a U.S. congressional seat. Now rumor had him eyeing the bigger—and more stable—prize of a senate seat:
Roarke wondered if those same voters would be so eager to show up at fund-raising dinners if they knew his reputation among hardworking, often-beleaguered cops who grumbled that he only took on cases he was guaranteed to win, thus sending a great deal of scum right back onto the streets. Which, of course, raised crime rates, which in turn made Boudreaux’s law-and-order political stance even more popular.
He pointed the remote at the television screen, increasing the volume.
“Of course, it’s a black eye on the city any time a murder occurs,” the congressman was saying.
Although his grandfather had been a struggling Cajun rice farmer, no trace of the bayou remained in Boudreaux’s deep, cultured voice. The charcoal-gray suit was Italian, the burgundy tie was silk, and discreet gold links flashed on snowy white turned-back cuffs.
“The fact that the victim happens to be a federal attorney admittedly draws more attention to the crime, but the death itself is no more tragic than the loss of any other citizen.”
“I think I hear a speech coming,” Roarke murmured, wanting to mute the sound, but needing to hear what officials were telling the press about the man who’d been murdered in Daria’s hotel room.
“James is never one to miss an opportunity to wax elegant,” Daria said dryly. “Especially when it results in campaign contributions.”
“Sounds as if you know him well.”
“I do.” She sighed and listened as he went on to offer condolences to Martin Fletcher’s widow and children. She looked down at the diamond solitaire that was catching the morning light and splitting it into rainbows that danced on the walls and ceiling. “He’s my fiancé.”
In A FEDERAL reproduction home located in the heart of Alexandria, within walking distance of the Potomac River, James Boudreaux paced the antique Persian carpet of his library. He was more furious than he’d ever been in his life. And, dammit, for the first time terrified that everything he’d worked for, all he’d fought for in his entire life was about to come tumbling down around his ears.
“How the hell could they let her get away?” he demanded, turning on the man who’d reluctantly broken the bad news.
“They almost had her. If Roarke O’Malley hadn’t come along when he did—”
“O’Malley.” Boudreaux spat out the name as if he’d taken a bite of bad crayfish. “He and his brothers have given me nothing but trouble for years.” His jaw hardened; his pale gray eyes turned to chips of steel. “Tell them that when they find my fiancée and her knight errant, I want them to make certain they don’t get overenthusiastic and kill him.”
Pale eyebrows arched. “You want them to leave O’Malley alive?”
“Only until I get there. This is one execution I’m looking forward to performing myself.”
“Yes, sir.”
Boudreaux lit a thin black cigarette with a silver lighter, then glared out through the exhaled cloud of blue smoke.
“What the hell are you still doing here?” he demanded. “The longer it takes to find them, the more damage that bitch can do. And believe me, if she takes me down, I won’t be going off to Angola alone.” The idea of ending up in that hard-time prison with crack-heads, rapists and common murderers was enough to chill his blood. And harden his resolve.
“Call them back and tell them I expect results. And book a seat on the first flight to New Orleans.”
“Yessir.” The aide hurried away to follow instructions. He didn’t see the congressman from Louisiana slump down into the glove-soft cream leather chair behind his desk. Didn’t see him drag his hand down over his face, or pick up the Waterford replica of the Capitol Building Daria had surprised him with after the election.
“Goddammit!” Boudreaux threw the gift against the stone fireplace, where it shattered into hundreds of crystalline pieces.
“I DON’T UNDERSTAND,” Daria said, breaking the suffocating silence that had surrounded them since Roarke had turned off the television. She leaned forward and pressed her fingertips against her temples, feeling more confused and frustrated than ever.
“How can I remember being engaged to James and not remember what I was doing in the Whitfield Palace Hotel?”
“The doc said head injuries are unpredictable.” The nagging little suspicion that she might be lying raised its head again. “Let’s see what we’ve got so far. You remember being engaged to James Boudreaux.”
Her memory jogged, kicking out another piece of the puzzle. “For six months.” She looked up at Roarke in surprise. “I just realized that.”
“See, it’s all coming back. And you remember being an attorney.”
“I have a hazy image of arguing in court. But I can’t pin down any cases.”
“One step at a time. And you vaguely remember kissing me....”
“You looked like a man who needed rescuing.”
She watched as his eyes turned dark and almost hypnotic. “You felt a need to rescue me?”
“That silicone-enhanced blonde was definitely a barracuda.”
Roarke caught the edge underlying her tone and wondered if she could possibly be jealous. The idea, which should have sent him running in the opposite direction, proved strangely appealing.
“Nothing dangerous about you, sugar.” His deep drawl took the edge off his sarcasm, even as it set all her nerve endings vibrating again. He leaned back in his chair and took another long drink of coffee. “Okay. So you now obviously remember coming into the Blue Bayou Lounge. Want to try for what went on upstairs in your hotel room?”
“It couldn’t have been my room,” she insisted. “Why on earth would I need a hotel room, when I already have a house in town?” She paused and frowned. “Are you suggesting that dead Justice Department attorney...that Martin and I were...” Her “voice trailed off.
“I don’t know what you were up to in that room. But according to Mike, who’s got some informants at NOPD, you bear a striking resemblance to the woman who booked it two days ago. It’d be my guess, what with all that’s happened, that you’d booked it for some reason.”
“Do you happen to know if I—she—paid by credit card?”
“Cash.”
“Oh, God.” She closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips tightly against them, as if she could force the swirling colorful lights behind her lids to form into a coherent, visible image. “I hate this.”
He watched with admiration as she fought for composure. “Hey, maybe it wasn’t you at all. Or maybe you were just having a wild fling with the guy and ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
