She nodded and followed him up the roll-away scaffold stairs to the side of the float, where two waist-high metal braces rose from a small flat circle. There was a black satin oval backdrop behind it, and two spotlights at the front.
Not so high that I can't jump down to the ground as soon as we get out of here. She'd have to pull the hoop out, but as soon as she deflated her skirt she'd be able to blend right in with the crowd.
Gary helped her climb on, then got behind her and fiddled with something. "Tell me if this is too tight." He wrapped a transparent plastic band around her waist. "If you get into trouble, just call down to one of the street performers. They can help you and they'll chase off anyone who tries to grab you."
She swallowed. "They do that?"
"All the time, sugar, all the time. You can always give them a good kick in the crotch, too—that always sends the message." Gary finished making the adjustments behind her and patted her shoulder before stepping off onto the scaffold. "Just relax and have fun."
She reached behind her to feel for the strap release. "Um, how do I get out of this thing?"
"You can't." He grinned back at her. "I'll take you out of it when the float gets back."
Terri talked her boss into letting her have five minutes with her cousin, although she didn't know why she was bothering. Caine had done more harm to her career in one day than her father's lousy reputation had done in eight years.
Don't forget about Cort blowing the whistle on you, a snide little voice inside her head reminded her.
Yes, she owed Cort, too, but first she'd deal with family.
Caine was lounging in the interview room, idly sipping from a Styrofoam cup of water. The first thing Terri did after closing the door and locking it was slap the cup from his cuffed hands. "Don't you look all cozy. You having a good time, cos?"
"The best." He rested his hands on the table and regarded her with a slight smile. "Detective Garcia's gonna get your boyfriend to drop the assault charges so I don't sue the city. But I thought you were riding a desk from here on out, chère."
"You country dumb-ass. Garcia told you that to give the DA more time to get warrants to search your house and business."
He shrugged.
"Captain's given me five minutes to talk some sense into you." She dragged back a chair and sat down. "Time to stop playing, Caine. I know you wouldn't kill Marc LeClare, but you know who did that fire. I know you do."
He laughed and shook his head slowly.
Terri waited until he was finished. "I called Billy Tibbideau's wife. She wouldn't talk to me, so I called the manager of the trailer park and got the number of her best friend, who happens to live right next door. Lilah had a lot to say to me."
The humor faded from Caine's face. "Billy didn't do anything."
"Lilah saw Billy leave home before dawn on the morning of the fire. Before he left, she saw him loading some clear glass bottles and a can of gasoline in the back of his truck. She said she saw him come back later that day and get a shotgun. She also said you fired him." Terri leaned forward. "You didn't mention that, or why your punching hand is all bruised and cut up." She waited a beat before she added, "Feel free to jump in here anytime now."
"You always had a nice imagination, Therese. You should write books."
"I deal in reality, cos. Here's yours: The DA will hold you on the present charges for twenty-four hours, while Garcia and the arson task force try to place you at the scene. They've got motive. They'll check with your men, your friends, and your enemies. They'll impound your truck and have forensics go over it with a fine-toothed comb. They'll show your photo around the warehouse district, talk to people who were there that morning. I'm guessing they'll find enough evidence and witnesses to indict. If you were anywhere near that warehouse when it burned, they will charge you as an accessory to the murder."
"Let them."
"Billy went to the warehouse district, didn't he? And you went after him. Did you try to stop him? Is that how you bashed up your hand?" When he didn't move an eyelash, she sighed. Now she knew how J. D. must have felt, trying to get answers out of Sable Duchesne. "Caine, I'm not going to let you go to jail because Billy Tibbideau killed that man and burned down that warehouse before you could stop him. But if you helped him, even in the tiniest way, I'll lock you up personally and toss the key in Lake Pontchartrain."
"Poor cousin. I was wrong about you." All the anger vanished from his eyes, and for a moment he looked a little sad. "Go back to work, Therese. There is nothing you can do for me now."
Garcia came in, looking as happy as Terri felt. "You've had your five, Ter." He went around the table. "Stand up, Mr. Gantry."
She got to her feet. "Herb, please. I just need a couple more minutes with him."
"Can't do it." He took out his keys and removed the handcuffs. "Mr. Gantry has some good friends somewhere." To Caine he said, "You're free to go."
Terri blinked. "Wait a minute. Does the DA know about this?"
"The DA's springing him. All charges have been dropped." Garcia pocketed his keys on his way out. "Have a nice day."
Billy waited in his trailer, and drank the rest of his whiskey while he waited.
She left me.
He'd woken up in his truck to find his shotgun and shells gone. He'd walked into his trailer to find Cecilia gone, along with all her clothes. He'd gone to Lilah's and kicked in the door, but their neighbor had packed and left, too.
She left me. His damn thieving wife had run off. For a dyke stripper.
Cecilia had made a tragic mistake this time. Billy would find her eventually. Caine would understand— he might even help him look. Caine believed in the sanctity of marriage.
Had she been with Lilah all this time? Sneaking over there behind his back? He wouldn't put it past her. They said once a woman violated God's law by diddling with another woman, it ruined her forever.
She left me.
Billy never wanted to touch her again. He'd only do what had to be done, what any self-respecting man would do. As soon as he had his money—which would be any minute—he'd hunt those two bitches down and send them to burn in hell.
The phone rang, and he nearly tore it off the wall answering it. "Cecilia? You'd better get your ass on home right now—"
It wasn't his wife. "Mr. Tibbideau, Sable Duchesne is still alive."
The Krewe of Orpheus parade flowed out from the staging area in slow but majestic procession. Sable could hear the sounds of a beautiful man's voice singing a famous Sinatra tune as the screams and the whistles erupted from the packed streets. Her own float was toward the end of the line, so she tried again to release herself from the brace strap.
She couldn't feel a snap or a tie or anything to tug on. "What did he do, sew me to it?"
Finally the Gone with the Wind float bumped over some potholes and onto the street, and Sable looked down to see the escort of street performers take position around the floating plantation home. They were dressed like Confederate and Union soldiers, and marched in double lines while spinning the rifles they carried.
"Hey, Scarlett!" a man in the crowd shouted. "Down here!" He wore a mask shaped like a weeping clown. "Throw me something!"
She plucked one of the bead strings from her forearm and tossed it to the delighted man. As soon as he caught it, a dozen other voices called to her and a flurry of hands stretched over the barricades.
"Throw me one!"
"Here, honey, right here!"
"I give a damn, beautiful!"
For a few minutes she concentrated on smiling and throwing her beads to the crowd; then something jogged her arm and she dropped some of the necklaces. The cinch strap caught her as she tried to bend over to get them at the same time that two hands clamped on her hips.
"Don't move."
Chapter Eleven
As soon as she heard his voice, Sable did the exact opposite of what he said—or she tried to. The strap held her bound to the brace rods. "Jean-Del. How did you know it
was me?"
"I followed you from the cabin." He bent closer, putting his mouth next to her right ear. "And I told you I was done chasing you, Isabel."
Renewed anger flooded through her. "I don't need your help. Your kind of help gets APBs put out on me."
"You need new lines, baby. No, what did Rhett say to her in the movie? 'You need kissing, and often.'" He used his teeth on the curve of her ear, biting down to almost the point of pain before kissing the stinging spot. "'And by someone who knows how.'"
In front of her, people in masks and costumes shrieked and waved, still calling for her to throw them something.
"Go on." J. D.'s low voice turned harsh. "At least give them what they want."
She felt him press closer, and her hand trembled as she tossed out several of the gaudy strings. She glanced over her shoulder, shocked to see that he had donned a mask as well—black edged with gold, a pirate's mask. That and his black T-shirt and trousers made him almost invisible against the black satin backdrop behind them. "What are you doing here?"
"'How fickle is woman.'" His breath touched the back of her neck. "Why did you run this time? Decide you couldn't go through with it? Finished using me?"
"I never used you." She twisted against the strap, straining away from him. "I can take care of myself. I don't need anything from you."
"Wrong." His hands pressed against the velvet folds of her skirt, sliding down to her outer thighs. "You're just like her, you know. 'You're like the thief who isn't the least bit sorry he stole, but is terribly, terribly sorry he's going to jail.'"
"I'm not Scarlett O'Hara and I am not going to jail. I didn't do anything wrong." If she got him angry enough, maybe he'd leave her alone. "But you are. Why don't you run on home, now, before your mama finds out you're trifling with swamp trash again?"
"Trifling?" He laughed, low and nasty. "Baby, I don't trifle."
She thought of how he'd touched her back at the cottage, using and tormenting her to get what he wanted. "If you want to get laid, you can go pick up someone in the street," she said, making her voice cold as she threw out another string.
"Why cat around when what I want is right here?" He reached down and grabbed the back of her skirt hoop, lifting it until the cool night air washed against the back of her thighs. "You want it as much as I do. Is that why you ran away? Because you're afraid of this?"
"No." She bucked against his arm, and then went still as he splayed a hand over her hip and pressed her bottom against the front of his jeans—which were open. All the blood in her body rushed in two directions—to her face, and down between her thighs. "Don't do it, Jean-Del."
"If you hold still and throw your beads," he murmured against her ear as he pushed his hand under the elastic of her panties, "no one will see."
"You can't—" She looked around wildly, but the street performers were watching the spectators, and the other performers on the float were too busy laughing and tossing out beads to pay any attention to her. Then she felt his hand yank at her panties, ripping the side seam. "Please. I'm sorry. I'll do whatever you want."
"'You're such a child,'" he said, still quoting Clark Gable. "You think that by saying, 'I'm sorry,' all the past can be corrected.'"
"I'll come back with you."
"You'll come right here and right now." He dropped her torn underwear, and it landed on her right foot. "And I'm going to make you scream for me when you do."
She couldn't free herself—she couldn't even turn around. Hundreds of people were staring straight at them. This was beyond decadent, beyond insane, and yet she had never felt more terrified—or excited—in her life.
"That's it." He worked his fingers against her, parting her folds and pressing them up into her softness. "You're wet, baby. Wet as I am hard." He brought her right hand back behind her, and forced her palm against the open zipper of his jeans. His erection nudged her fingers, and she reflexively curled them around the swollen length of him.
A pair of teenage boys gawked up at her. The girl between them yelled, "Throw me something, lady!"
She flung all of the strings in her free hand to the girl, making the teens squeal with delight.
"Generous." J. D. pushed through the circle of her fingers, nudging her legs apart with his knee. "What are you going to do for the rest of the parade? Besides ride me?"
Sable couldn't believe he would go through with it, even when he tugged her skirt back to better conceal what he was doing to her under it. Then she felt the weight of him between her thighs, the full satiny dome of his penis following the curve of her bottom, hunting until he seated himself against the elliptical part of her that was already slick and pulsing and aching to take him.
"J. D." Lights and colors and sound swirled around her in a dizzy collage. "I can't do this."
"You will." He didn't try to enter her. Instead, he stroked that silent mouth, gliding over it to nudge the hard knot of her clit before drawing back to nest against her once more. When she tried to move to accept him, he used his hands to hold her hips in place.
He wasn't making love to her. He was punishing her, torturing her—and the whole world was watching him do it. "Please, J. D."
"Please... what? Stop? Go on?" She could feel the throb of his heart beating in the rigid column, so hard it made goose bumps rise on the delicate skin of her inner thighs. "Be more specific, baby. You never want to talk to me—well, now you have to. Tell me you want this."
Would he stop if she said yes? Maybe. Would she scream if he did? Yes. "I can't."
"So shy." He licked the tiny beads of sweat from the back of her neck as he put his hand back under the skirt and cupped her from the front, still stroking her from behind. His fingertips spread her, exposing more of her for quick, glancing prods. "No one will hear you but me."
If he didn't do more soon, everyone in New Orleans would hear her shriek. "I want you. I want you to do it. Just do it."
"I can make you come." He used a featherlight touch to tease her, caressing her clit with a few strokes before easing them away. "Like this."
She shook her head. People were screaming at her and she didn't know what to do. Her face was burning up, and she was breathing so fast it sounded like she was sobbing. "All of it. Please."
He shifted, angling himself against her now. "More. More of me?"
"Yes." She jerked her hips, but he still controlled her with his hands. "What else do you want? Do you want me to beg?"
"I want you to tell me what you want." He pushed against her, insistent. "Tell me everything."
Tears of frustration spilled down her cheeks. "I don't know what you want me to say."
"You know." He moved his mouth to the side of her throat. Against it, he murmured, "Say, 'Give me your cock, J. D.'"
"I want you, Jean-Del."
"You're not listening." He breached her a scant inch, just opening her enough to make her forget to breathe. "Say, 'I need you to make me come, J. D.'"
Desperate, she dragged in air. "I need you, Jean-Del."
"Last chance." He pushed in another inch. "Say, 'I want you to fuck me, J. D.'"
"No." She turned her head until her neck nearly kinked, so she could see into the slits of his mask. What they were doing was erotic and dangerous, but it wasn't only lust. Gently she brushed her lips over his. "I want you to love me, Jean-Delano. I want to feel you inside me, loving me, I—" A cry jolted out of her as he thrust into her, hard and fast.
Her vision blurred as one of the street performers came over to the float. He was saying something, asking her something. Was she all right? Did she need something?
"Beads," J. D. said against her ear.
"Beads," she blurted out, showing the performer her empty hands. "I don't have any more... beads."
"Here." The soldier tossed up another packet of necklaces and golden krewe coins. "Smile, honey— you're the prettiest girl in the parade."
She couldn't breathe until the man returned to his position in the line, and then her body cla
mped down involuntarily.
"No." J. D. used his hands to move her hips as he worked his way in, past the convoluted, constricted tissues. "Don't you fight me now."
The burning, stretching ache grew almost too much to bear, but he didn't stop, even when her cry became a strangled whimper. It seemed to go on for an eternity, and then she felt his thighs against hers and the coarse brush of his body hair against her tense flesh.
A low groan rumbled from him as he held her impaled on him, not moving except for his chest heaving against her back. "God Almighty..."
Show tunes were blaring, the crowds shouting, the performers dancing, but the slow restoration of the heat and need inside her made her blind and deaf to everything but Jean-Delano—and he was shaking now, his fingers dragging up and digging into her waist as he fought for another kind of control. She couldn't see him, couldn't draw his mouth to hers, couldn't comfort him.
There was only one thing she could do—move.
Slowly Sable lifted herself, stretched up on the balls of her feet until there was a small space between their bodies; then she lowered herself again. He didn't try to stop her, and the motion eased a little of the tightness. She tried it again, biting her Up. Relaxing allowed him to press deeper inside her but the discomfort ebbed and a different kind of throb began.
"Do you know what you're doing?" His voice grated on the words.
"No." She made a tiny circle with her hips, adjusting their fit. "Do you like it?" He muttered something low and filthy in French, and a strange laugh emerged from her throat as she tore open the bag with shaking fingers and threw out more beads to the reaching hands beneath them. "I thought so."
J. D.'s breath went ragged as he moved with her, sliding back by gentle degrees as she lifted, and moving up into her as she came down again. She felt herself go liquid around him, easing the way for his return. At the same time, the pulsing ache intensified, spreading from the gliding friction created by the moving union of their bodies, up into her belly and her breasts. She felt smothered by the green velvet dress now, beads of sweat gathering in the hollow of her breasts and under the confines of her wig.
Hall, Jessica Page 19
