by Wicked Ties
Still, Morgan knew she had to try, put on her best act until she could escape Lafayette and the psycho hunting her. The only alternative was death.
Like it or not, that made Master J—whose real name was apparently Jack and a relative stranger—her only hope for salvation.
With a few glances and fewer words, Jack had made it clear he was no saint. Even now, she felt his gaze burn her back. Against her will, she peered over her shoulder. Jack stared up with an intent gaze, eyes looking nearly black, as he watched her ascend the stairs. A speculative smile creased the chiseled features of his strong-jawed face.
She knew absolutely nothing about the man, except that he had the kind of looks that made women do double takes and drool. Oh, and that he liked to dominate in bed. Hard to forget that. But his smile made her nervous. Why would anyone look happy in the aftermath of a shooting?
Finally, she and Alyssa reached the top of the landing. The blonde led her through the door at the end of the hall, into a small but surprisingly luxurious suite.
Alyssa shut the door behind them, blocking out the loudest of the music’s throb. The floor beneath them still shook. The sexy tempo resonated around her, stark in its suggestion.
Morgan looked around the room. A large, rumpled bed lazed in the center, as a standing lamp cast muted golden light over the white sheets. Hardwood floors gleamed cherry beneath her feet. Soft beige walls accented flowing white sheers at the large window. Four black-and-white landscape photographs formed a grouping above the bed.
“You were expecting a red bedroom with a stripper pole in the middle?” Alyssa asked with a cocked brow.
Embarrassment stung Morgan. She had wondered . . . “I had no idea what to expect. This is lovely.”
Some of the starch bled out of Alyssa. “It’s peaceful. C’mon, let’s get you out of that ugly rag.”
Before she could ask for privacy and a bathrobe, Alyssa was unbuttoning Morgan’s coat and prying it off her shoulders.
With a casual toss to the bed, the coat flew away. Like the mom of a toddler, Alyssa reached next for Morgan’s purse and subdued floral-print T-shirt. Before she could sputter a protest, the stripper had them over her head and tossed them on the floor.
“If you’ll point me to a bathroom, I can undress—”
Alyssa ignored her and plucked at the front clasp of her lacy white bra. With a drag and a tug, it was gone . . . and Morgan stood nude from the waist up before a total stranger.
Alyssa studied Morgan’s breasts, lifting one in her hand to test its weight. “We can work with these.”
Morgan tensed, resisting the urge to cover herself like a self-conscious seventh grader in a locker room. “What are you doing?”
“You don’t have anything I ain’t seen, honey. 34C.” Another glance over the rest of her body, and Alyssa added, “You wear a size six. Right?”
“How did you know?”
She smiled. “It’s my business. Strip out of everything else and hang tight.”
Alyssa disappeared out the door, shutting it gently behind her. Morgan stared after her. Strip out of everything else? Like it was easy. Like she took her clothes off every day in front of people she’d never met. Well, Alyssa probably did, so it probably didn’t faze her in the least. And Morgan realized that if she wanted to get out of here without a bullet in the head, she’d better get over her modesty quickly.
With a sigh, she took off her jeans and white cotton panties, folding them neatly and setting them on the edge of the bed. She looked around for a robe or spare blanket. A towel—anything to cover herself. Nothing. Morgan was not accustomed to prancing around without a stitch on. Clearly, that didn’t trouble Alyssa.
The blonde returned with a black satin bra and a matching thong. With her teeth, she ripped the tags off, slipped a pair of gel inserts into the bra, and handed it all to Morgan.
Before Morgan could ask for privacy, Alyssa disappeared again, this time into the suite’s adjoining bathroom. Grateful for the reprieve from the woman’s keen gaze, Morgan wriggled into the thong. Not comfortable—who wanted a string up her ass?—but a perfect fit.
Alyssa emerged from the bathroom, carrying some very brief garments and her black high-heeled boots. In the doorway, the blonde paused, waiting. Morgan pretended not to notice her. Instead, she frowned at the gel inserts in the bra. The grown-up version of wadded-up tissues?
When Morgan winced, Alyssa laughed. “You gotta do what you gotta do. They’re like an instant boob job. With clothes on, no one will know the difference.”
Releasing the breath she’d been holding, Morgan realized that was likely true. She had no business bemoaning the fact she wasn’t a D cup.
Morgan began to don the bra, acutely aware of Alyssa watching her every move. It was damn uncomfortable. She’d kill to have Alyssa’s easy attitude about nudity, but she just hadn’t been raised that way. She had been nearly twenty-one before she’d worked up the nerve to masturbate. After all, with a born-again mother who’d sent her to an all-girls school, she’d heard little about sex before turning eighteen. Until she’d gone to college, Morgan hadn’t really known the difference between her cuticles and her clit.
Pushing away the thought, Morgan fastened the bra and lifted her breasts into the cups—what there was of them. The bra was slung low on wire-thin straps. A slash of black lace barely covered each of her nipples. The gel inserts pushed the top swells of her breasts up and out on display. Instant cleavage.
Alyssa whistled and shot her a saucy look. “I’ll give you a piece of advice: Don’t show Jack your tits unless you want to drive him insane with lust.”
The blonde turned away, heading back into the bathroom. Morgan stared at the woman’s slender back and silky blonde strands clinging to her shoulders.
Centerfolds were less attractive than Alyssa. Though probably over thirty, she was still very striking. Morgan knew for a fact, based on Reggie’s extensive research, that Jack wasn’t gay. Given those facts, it seemed logical that he and Alyssa were . . . involved. From the woman’s offhanded comment, it sounded like Alyssa didn’t care if she enticed Jack.
Lord, she’d left Los Angeles, where she’d always thought of life as being somewhat surreal, and landed in Cajun country, a place she began to suspect was the South’s version of Oz.
“I don’t plan to show Jack my breasts,” she said, adjusting the bra, wishing for more cover.
“Maybe not, but ten bucks says he plans to see them.”
Morgan frowned. “Based on what? I was interviewing Jack for my show. And then, when the shooting started, he offered to protect me—”
“And he will. He’s the best. But Jack Cole is a breast man, and you’ve got a great rack.”
As if she’d just announced something as mundane as night falling, Alyssa turned and lifted a makeup case off the counter. Setting the case aside, she studied Morgan’s face with nothing more than a mild case of impatience.
“That doesn’t bother you?” Morgan couldn’t resist asking.
Her gaze strayed to the bedding, looking too rumpled to be caused by mere sleep. Morgan wondered if Jack had been here before meeting her—and why the thought bothered her.
“That Jack might fuck you?” She shrugged. “He’s not mine.”
Morgan frowned. Too weird. “Nothing’s going to happen between us. I have no intention of getting involved with Jack.”
“The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” Alyssa shot back with a throaty laugh.
Before Morgan could wade through her confusion and reply, the blonde switched topics again. “Let’s get your makeup on.”
Alyssa lifted a slender hand and took the straw hat and scarf from Morgan’s head.
A moment later, she began her cosmetics frenzy. A thick foundation coated Morgan’s face. Concealer came next, and Morgan hoped it would cover the worst of the damage wrought from missing so much sleep. Next came the bright rosy blush, the siren-red lipstick painted on thickly with a brush. Dark eyelin
er and eye shadow were applied in a quick blur. Black mascara followed, lifting and separating her lashes. An eyebrow pencil and brown mascara hid the fact that her brows were not the same pale brown as the other woman’s.
When Alyssa stepped away and prodded her into the bathroom before the mirror, Morgan only recognized her blue eyes and the basic oval of her face.
“You look great. Hell, most everyone out there will probably be too drunk to notice whether you’re me or not. But just in case they’re not, the clothes I’ve picked out will ensure no man’s gaze gets above your tits.”
Morgan wanted to protest—the words lay on the tip of her tongue. She stilled them. If dressing like a stripper kept her alive, well . . . she could survive embarrassment much better than a bullet to the head.
“Whatever works,” Morgan breathed.
“Let’s get this hair pinned up and the wig on.”
“I can manage.” Morgan lifted her fingers to her head and rubbed.
“Wigs can be such a bitch. Sorry you’ll have to wear one, but to pass for me, you have to look blonde.”
Morgan shrugged. The discomfort was a small price to pay to stay safe.
“And make sure it’s on good. Jack will want to inspect you before you leave. He won’t let you set foot outside until he’s convinced you can pass the test. He takes protecting clients seriously.”
The idea of Jack inspecting her made her stomach jump. Jack was gorgeous, and the fact he was a dominant man only intrigued Morgan more, despite her wariness and fear.
Securing the long blonde wig in place, Morgan pushed the thought away. She was just tired. Lord knew she was stressed. She would not be having sex with Jack, so his sexual preferences made absolutely no difference to her.
Someone pounded on the door. Morgan started, her heart racing. Had the shooter managed to follow her here? She cut her gaze to the window, hoping it might prove to be an escape route.
Then the door opened. Jack entered, wearing a ratty T-shirt and faded jeans, a backward baseball cap, and a false moustache. Those few external changes made him look considerably different. But she still couldn’t miss his pissed-off expression.
“Damn it, what are you two doing in here, having a slumber party?”
“Bite me, Jack. I worked as fast as I could since I need to get back to business,” Alyssa said with a smile, then kissed his cheek. “And good luck to you,” she threw back to Morgan.
Then she exited, leaving Morgan alone with Jack.
His gaze flew across the room and latched onto her. Black eyes scorched her, and a slow, sinful smile spread across his mouth. That look made her stomach clench. Quickly realizing she wore nothing but a revealing bra and thong, she glanced around for something—anything—to cover herself.
She darted across the room and reached for the white satin sheet draped over the bed. Jack ripped it out of her hand.
“No time for modesty, cher,” he whispered in her ear, his voice inflected with a lilt that was decidedly Cajun French.
His body buffeted her backside, legs glancing hers, chest brushing her shoulders. The heat he gave off warmed skin she hadn’t realized was chilled. Despite his heat, goose bumps multiplied their way across her skin and a shiver ran down her spine. Her nipples made a sudden, unwelcome appearance.
She swallowed. He might be one of the good guys, but at the moment, his posture was pure predator.
“I don’t need you in here while I get dressed.”
“Mais yeah, too bad for you I plan to supervise. We aren’t leaving here until I’m convinced you can pass for Alyssa.”
“I’ve been putting on my own clothes since I was three. I think I can manage alone.”
“True, but I use Alyssa as cover for cases. We walk around pretending we’re drunk on hurricanes and sex. People are used to seeing me touch her. Often. But you . . .” He snaked a hand around her and laid a palm flat on her belly.
She jerked and gasped when his broad hand blanketed her bare midriff, his heat seeping under her skin, insidious, unstoppable.
“You,” he murmured in her ear, “jump when I touch you. You do that in public, and people will know you’re not Alyssa.”
With every word, Jack made her more aware that he was male—all male—and she was female. He had the kind of personal power that drew her. Her stomach flipped when he spoke. Her breasts swelled. She felt jumpy, unsettled, when he stood too close. Morgan swallowed tension so thick she thought it might choke her and tried to ease away from him.
Jack didn’t budge—or let her go.
Gnashing her teeth, she said, “There must be another way out of here besides you pawing me.”
“I wouldn’t take that bet. You wanna make it out in one piece, cher, without your stalker recognizing you through your disguise, you’ve got to act right. We’ve got to look real.”
The hand on her stomach started inching slowly north.
Morgan’s brain buzzed with the intimation in his words. He would touch her out in public, where complete strangers would see. Instantly, her breasts swelled again. Moisture gathered between her legs.
This is impossible. She wasn’t into public displays. And Jack’s caveman tendencies shouldn’t be arousing her. Having such fantasies was one thing. Living them . . . that was completely different. Stupid to indulge, especially with a stranger.
Jack interrupted her thoughts by cradling her breast between his thumb and fingers—and continuing to inch up.
Until Morgan slapped her hand around his wrist to stop him. “I don’t believe you. You don’t need to touch me that intimately to get me out of here.”
He stopped the upward progress of his hand. “Less than an hour with me and suddenly you’re the security expert?”
“This isn’t a game. It’s my life!”
“Exactly,” he growled into her ear. “Locals, not necessarily the trustworthy ones, will be out there tonight, seeing me with a woman they think is Alyssa. If you’re gasping and fighting and pushing every time I put a hand on you, they’ll know you’re an imposter. And if the man chasing you offers them money for information about a suspicious female . . . you’ll be an easy target to spot.”
And an easy one to kill. Jack didn’t say it, but he thought it. Just as Morgan did.
“Couldn’t I leave here as a bag lady or a nun or something?”
“Your gun-toting friend is going to be waiting, watching. Don’t you think the emergence of a nun from a strip club would send up a few red flags?”
He was right, damn it. She had to get a grip. If dressing like a stripper and letting a good-looking guy fondle her for a few minutes was all it took to keep her safe, she’d survive the embarrassment and the blow to her modesty.
There was just one problem: She reacted to Jack not like a decoy but like a woman. Her body heated for him with a few whispered words and a glance. Still, the embarrassment she felt for responding to him was short-lived, particularly compared to death. When this fiasco was over and she could find a new place to hide, she’d never have to see Jack Cole again or care that he knew he could arouse her.
Taking a deep breath, she let go of his wrist.
“Smart girl,” he praised.
Morgan sensed him, his watchful gaze over her shoulder as he turned his wrist until her entire breast rested in his palm. She swallowed. God, her flesh felt heavy in his hot hand. He hovered there, breath scorching the back of her neck. Tension ramped up in her stomach . . . and lower, tightening with an ache she wanted to deny—and couldn’t. Her nipples hardened impossibly under his hot gaze. Morgan squeezed her eyes shut.
Then he swiped a thumb over the taut tip. Electric pleasure shimmied down her spine.
Unable to resist, she arched, pushing her breast into his hand.
“Good girl,” he muttered in her ear, then grazed the sensitive curve of her neck with his lips.
Arousal tightened again, pulsing low and hard. Her heart pounded away like a hoard of hammering carpenters. She squeezed her thighs toge
ther.
His left hand joined the right, taking possession of her other breast in a hot swarm of fingers. She didn’t jump, but fought the need to squirm, as pleasure battered her senses with the double assault. It took biting her lip to hold in her groan.
Why did her body react this way to a man she didn’t know and who practiced a sexual life she didn’t participate in?
It ceased to matter when he pinched the hard pinpoints of her nipples between his fingers, rolling them slowly with erotic patience.
Need spiked in her belly, arrowing straight down between her legs.
“Jack . . .” she protested.
“Shh. You’re doing fine, cher. As long as you don’t act like I’m unfamiliar, we’ll be all right.”
All right? If he did that again, she’d be melting.
He didn’t. Instead, his right hand left her breast to glide down her stomach, lower, lower, until his fingers edged underneath the damp black lace of her thong and unerringly found her swelling, hungry clit. She gasped and tightened her thighs against him. God, he’d feel how wet he made her. This was ridiculous. He wasn’t going to touch her there in public.
“Don’t do that,” he warned, withdrawing his hand. “A tensing body and outraged gasps will give you away. Relax.”
“This isn’t necessary,” she argued, her voice strained.
He snorted a cynical sound. “Spoken like a girl who’s never run from a killer. He followed us here. Did you forget?”
“No, and I’m not a girl.”
“Non? Then stop responding like one. It’s going to take a damn convincing act to get out of here in one piece. I’m trying to save your life, not steal whatever virtue you might have.”
“Wouldn’t this kind of behavior simply draw attention?”
“New Orleans isn’t the only place that celebrates Mardi Gras. The sun is going down now, and the party is about to start. Being too good would make us stand out in the crowd, cher.”
