* * *
Mondays were slow nights in the bar, though slow was a matter of perception. If it was located anywhere besides Bourbon Street, Landry would say they had a good crowd. Given that they were on Bourbon, it was slow.
It was nearly seven o’clock, not even halfway through his shift, when Alia walked in the door. He wasn’t the only one who noticed her, glancing about as a dozen male heads swiveled in her direction. They watched her stride across the room, admired her as she easily slid onto a stool, then went back to whatever had occupied them before.
Except him. He leaned on the bar in front of her, separated from her by her purse—tiny—and a plastic bag—huge. He didn’t need the whiff of warm bread, spicy meats and olives to know the bag contained food.
Folding her hands together, she smiled. The strength of it hit him in the midsection like a fist. “Hi.”
“Hey. Is that smile for me or the food?”
“It’s a toss-up. I’ve got muffalettas from Frank’s. Plus potato salad, tabouli and extra olive salad.”
“That’s worth smiling about.” He popped the top from an icy beer and set the bottle in front of her. “You look like you had a good day.”
“It had its moments. How was yours?”
He shrugged. “I went back to visit the Cadillac man. Camilla’s service is set for Thursday.”
Though he’d expected her smile to fade, he was sorry when it did. She was beautiful no matter what her expression, but she actually glowed when she smiled, as if life couldn’t possibly get any better.
He wasn’t sure when or if he’d ever smiled like that.
“I saw Mary Ellen and the kids afterward. She’s doing better.”
“Good. Great. I can only imagine how hard this is for her.”
It was the same for him. Somehow, after everything, Mary Ellen had stayed close to their parents. She had truly loved them, and now she truly mourned them, while Landry couldn’t summon any grief. Only regret.
“Did you talk to DiBiase and Murphy?” He didn’t want to ask the question, didn’t want to know the answer. Admitting that he’d been a victim was hard enough. Admitting that he’d been a victim of rape... His face flushed hot with shame. Men rarely reported sexual assaults, Dr. Granville had told him, just for that reason, because they found it humiliating, emasculating. It was neither, she’d insisted. He’d been a child, a victim, in no way responsible for what had happened to him. He’d had nothing to be ashamed of.
After a long time, he’d learned to believe her. But sometimes old habits were easy to slip back into.
Though he was avoiding looking at Alia, he sensed when she moved, laying her hand over his. “I told them everything. They’ll handle it with all the sensitivity it calls for.”
He snorted. “Sensitivity? DiBiase?”
“Jimmy used to be a sex crimes detective. His cases were primarily rapes, and he was very, very good with the victims.” Her voice lightened a fraction. “I know, I know. Surprised the hell out of me, too.”
Landry studied her hand on top of his, her fingers bare of jewelry, her nails neatly curved and painted with pale pink tips. Her watch emphasized the delicacy of her wrist, its gold gleaming against her brown skin.
He’d done a lot of hand-holding in his life, first with Camilla, then with Mary Ellen. He liked that Alia was strong enough to not need it, strong enough to offer it to others, yet soft enough to accept it if she’d wanted it.
He had to pull away to wait on a customer. When he returned, he asked, “Are you just going to let your sandwich sit there and get cold?”
She glanced at the bag, and that familiar gleam came into her eyes. “I was hoping you’d get a dinner break at a decent hour. I brought plenty to share.”
He didn’t normally eat dinner until closer to ten...but normally he didn’t have a muffaletta and Alia waiting for him. Catching the attention of the other bartender, he said, “I’m taking my break. I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”
Circling the bar, he picked up the food, gave Alia a hand down from the stool, then led her outside and through the gate into the courtyard. Her flip-flops punctuated their steps as they climbed the stairs.
“I envy your commute.”
“It comes in handy, but it limits the excuses when you’re late to work.”
“Ah, yes, no matter where I live, I can always claim traffic as an excuse. Well, unless they send me to a ship.”
Landry looked at her over his shoulder while he unlocked the door. “Is that possible—being sent to a ship?”
“You think crimes don’t occur on board ships?” She shrugged, a lazy sensual movement that came totally naturally to her. Granted, he found pretty much everything about her sensual. “Sailors and marines are people like everyone else. They commit crimes and are the victims of them. Of course, for a shipboard crime, you have the advantage of a limited suspect pool.”
He opened the door and stepped back to let her enter first. As she looked around, he tried to imagine the apartment through her eyes. It was a little over seven hundred square feet, two-thirds of it devoted to living room, dining room and kitchen, the remaining third a bedroom and bathroom. The floors were wood, the windows facing the courtyard were floor-to-ceiling and two paddle fans swirled the warm air.
“How long have you lived here?” she asked as she took the plastic bag from him.
“Ten years? Twelve? I don’t remember.”
She nodded knowingly. “Nice job of decorating.”
“What do you mean? I haven’t—” Breaking off, he laughed. “Be happy it has furniture. I wouldn’t have bothered with more than a mattress on the floor if Miss Viola and Mary Ellen hadn’t nagged so much.”
She set her beer on the coffee table, then began unpacking the food bag. She pulled out the small containers of side dishes, held up a bag of Evie Murphy’s lemon cookies with a grin, then removed the sandwiches. She’d hadn’t bothered with the quarter or half-sized sandwiches, a meal all in themselves, but had gone for the full ones, each about the size of a dinner plate, loaded with meats, cheeses and that incredible olive salad. They’d been toasted so that everything was warm and melty and the edges were crispy, and they reminded him how long it had been since lunch.
He got plates, silverware and a long wicked-sharp knife, plus a pop for himself, then joined her on the couch. “You said your day had its moments,” he reminded her as he cut a wedge from the sandwich she’d handed him. “What were the good moments?”
She had already taken a bite of her sandwich and now edged a chunk of olive from her lip into her mouth. After chewing slowly with her usual look of food-orgasm, she shrugged again. “It’s kind of hard to tell the good ones from the bad. I met with my boss, and that was kind of tough but good, and I met with Jimmy and Murphy, and that was kind of tough, too, but also good.”
Landry talked with his boss every day, but he imagined meeting with the special agent in charge of a whole field office was different in a lot of ways. His boss, Maxine, held a lot less power over his life than Alia’s boss did over hers. The worst Maxine could do was fire him, and he could have a new job by closing time. Alia didn’t have a job. She had a career.
He wondered when her career would take her from New Orleans. Wondered how lonely he would be when she was gone.
They’d met under damnable circumstances. By rights, they should never have crossed paths, never have talked beyond the first or second interview. He shouldn’t know anything about her, shouldn’t feel anything for her.
But he did.
She scooped portions of each side dish onto her plate, heaped more olive salad onto the next bite of her sandwich, then casually said, “I asked my boss to remove me from this investigation.”
Landry was swallowing a drink of pop when her words sank in, and he choked, grabbing for a napkin, co
ughing to clear his throat. “You what?” A croak was all he could manage.
Her look was level, steady. “You heard me.”
“Why?”
She pinched off a piece of sandwich and took a delicate bite. “I told you last night there was another option.”
I like you, too, he’d told her. So what do we do about it? Wait until the case is solved?
She’d asked to be taken off a major case because of her feelings for him.
He didn’t know how to react. This couldn’t be a good career move. Major cases put major marks in the advancement column. He imagined solving the murder of an active-duty admiral, to say nothing of the other six victims, would be a giant gold star for everyone involved. And she’d walked away from it. For him.
No one had ever made that kind of sacrifice for him. He didn’t know if he deserved it.
But damn, she’d walked away from all that for him. He was...flattered. Humbled.
She was watching him, her gaze still steady and level, but he saw just a flicker of vulnerability. She’d made a big sacrifice to give this thing between them a chance and was wondering now if she’d misread the situation, if she’d derailed her career for nothing.
Slowly he set his sandwich down, wiped his hands, then slid across the cushion separating them. He took the bit of sandwich from her hands, used the same napkin to wipe them, then for a long moment, he just looked at her. Whatever she saw in his face must have reassured her because the vulnerability faded and was replaced with something smoky and warm and dark.
He touched her face, brushing a long strand of hair back, tucking it behind her ear, then let his fingertips brush her skin. So soft, flawless, stretched across high cheekbones, warm enough to sear his fingers. He recalled the first time they’d talked, wondering if she’d dressed to downplay her looks. He hadn’t realized then that clothing was just a wrapper, that nothing could downplay the delicate lines of her face, the shape of her eyes, the arch of her brows, the stubborn line of her jaw, the kissable shape of her mouth.
Most of her hair was in a braid, but some of it loosely framed her face. It was as silken and sleek as he’d expected, wrapping around his fingers before effortlessly sliding free again. Reaching behind her, he pulled the band loose, then combed his fingers through as it fell loose.
Alia lifted both hands to his face, cupped her palms to it and kissed him. Damn, but he liked a woman who took what she wanted.
Her hands were hot, her touch sure. There was no hesitancy, no tentativeness. Her mouth covered his, and her tongue slid inside, bringing with it the taste of beer and food and something medicinal like a breath mint. Bringing with it hunger and need and a sort of unsteadiness in his gut that he remembered all too well. The first time he’d had sex with a girl, the first time he’d had sex with a woman who meant more than usual to him, and now the first time with Alia. Big moments in his life.
Too soon, she ended the kiss and put a little space between them, not much, nothing either of them couldn’t close by leaning forward an inch or two. “Now we have another option,” she said quietly.
“Keep our distance until the case is over or forget the case and have wild, hot, crazy sex every chance we get? In the real world, which of those is an option?”
She smiled, sweet and sly and a little devilish. “I was hoping you’d think that. So...you want to finish dinner or show me your bedroom?”
Landry picked up her left hand, keeping her from getting up if that had been her intention.” My bedroom isn’t bad. It has an air conditioner and a massive old bed that Miss Viola gave me when she found me sleeping on the mattress on the floor. It even has some stuff—some decor—hanging on the wall.” He gave the word decor a twist, making fun of her earlier remark and his own lack of ability and interest in making the place look nicer. “However—”
She faked a pout. “I hate that word. It usually means I won’t get my way.”
He stroked her palm, making her shiver once, then twice before she curled her fingers over his. “However,” he repeated, “I have to be back at work in fifteen minutes. That’s not even enough time to finish one kiss.”
“The last kiss didn’t take fifteen minutes.”
“That’s because you were doing the kissing. I need more than that. I like kissing, and I’m really going to like kissing you.”
Her pout deepened. “I work all day. You work all night. I don’t see time in our schedules for kisses lasting more than fifteen minutes, to say nothing of anything else, until Saturday.” After a moment, she sighed acceptingly. “What time do you get off?”
“Three a.m.”
“I have to get up at five if I’m going to run before work.” Drawing a set of keys from her tiny purse, she peeled off a house key and gently squeezed it into his hand. “I’ll leave some lights on for you. Don’t do anything foolish like wander around the house or use the bathroom before you let me know you’re there. I sleep with a weapon.”
“So I’ve heard.” He didn’t look at the key, but the shape of it was practically burning into his palm. He’d never had a key to anyone else’s house before, not even his parents’. Camilla had been willing to trust him with it by the time he started middle school, but not Jeremiah. The housekeeper was always there during the day, and in the evening, Jeremiah assumed, Camilla always was. It had been her, Landry’s and Mary Ellen’s secret that sometimes when their father left town, their mother went out on it.
Alia trusted him with her key. Trusted him to come into her home in the middle of the night, when she very well might be asleep. Trusted him. That was a damn good feeling.
They polished off their dinner, and he turned down an offer of a cookie. He liked sweets but not the way she did. Even his nieces the sugar demons didn’t like them the way she did. She could indulge her sweets craving in the cookies.
He would indulge his in her.
His fifteen minutes had passed five minutes ago when they finally locked up and went downstairs together. Just outside the gate, where her car was parked in his boss’s spot, he slid his arms around her and pulled her near, feeling the bump of her pistol at her waist beneath her shirt. “There it is,” he teased.
“Mmm-hmm. The handcuffs are on the other side.”
“I bet a lot of guys, when they find out you’re a cop, ask you to use the handcuffs on them.”
“Um. But you’d be the first one I might actually say yes to.”
The streetlights were starting to come on, buzzing like giant insects, and foot traffic had picked up on the sidewalks. Music came from the open doors of the bar, a decent rendition of “The Sky is Crying,” competing with something heavy metal across the street. It was a good evening for taking a lazy walk through the Quarter, sitting in a restaurant courtyard over a leisurely meal...or laying down a beautiful woman and exploring every centimeter of her lovely body.
Soon.
Not soon enough. But he’d taken too much time off the past week, all for bad reasons, and would be off the day of Camilla’s funeral this week. Alia was worth waiting for, damn, as long as he had to.
He leaned close to her, nuzzling her neck, smelling the faint fragrance of perfume, the fainter scent of lemon and sugar. “You sampled Evie’s cookies on the way over,” he murmured, his lips barely brushing her skin.
“Murphy gave them to me this morning. It’s nothing less than a miracle that I hadn’t inhaled them by noon.”
With a laugh, he kissed her mouth, quickly, reining in the passion and need. “Thanks for dinner.”
“You’re welcome.” The look she gave him was filled with something far more than the routine gesture the words denoted, something more like a statement of fact. An invitation.
With a reluctance that matched his own, she pulled free and went to her car. Before sliding inside, she gave him a glance, a tiny wave, and murmured, “I�
��ll see you.”
“Absolutely.” He watched her get in, back up, then drive away down the street before he went inside the bar.
Nothing less than a miracle, she’d said. Simple words applied to a lot of things that, honestly, weren’t the least bit deserving of the designation. But feeling the way he did, after all the ugly emotions in his past...
That really was nothing less than a miracle.
And its name was Alia.
* * *
The ring of the cell phone an hour later jerked Alia out of a lazy, satisfied, full-stomach-glass-of-wine stupor. Drying her hand on a towel, she picked it up from the table next to the tub, glanced at Caller ID, then turned it to speaker. “Hey, Jimmy.”
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“If I’d been asleep, I wouldn’t have answered.”
“Liar. Are you busy?”
“No.” She gazed at the few remaining jasmine-scented bubbles dotting the surface of the water. She nudged the faucet with her toe, turning it to full blast to both revive the bubbles and reheat the water.
“Are you taking a bath?” he asked at the sound of the rushing water. “Hell, sweet pea, that’s not fair. How am I supposed to talk business when I’ve got this image of you in my head all naked and wet and soapy?”
She ignored the question and sank a little deeper into the water as it warmed. Her hair was piled on top of her head, but strands of it trailed in the rising water. “What business? I’m off the investigation, remember?”
“Does that mean two old friends can’t talk about their work?”
She was about to point out that they weren’t friends, but the realization that they really were stopped her. How had that come about? She’d loved him, hated him, wished he would disappear off the face of the earth. But, yeah, in their own way, they’d become friends.
“You know I’m supposed to be out of the loop now,” she reminded him.
He snorted. “You know I decide who belongs in my loop. That’s why I never became a big-time fed like you. I live by my own rules.”
Bayou Hero Page 19
