Magnolia Moon

by JoAnn Ross

  “She’d have to invite me in, too.”

  His low whistle caused her lips to curl and something in her stomach to tug. “Hot damn, you are a clever woman. I’ll wonder if that L.A. mayor knows how lucky he is to have you fighting crime in his city.”

  “He hasn’t mentioned it lately.”

  “Well, now, there’s another reason for you to think about comin’ to work here. As mayor, it’d be my civic duty to make sure you felt duly appreciated.”

  “Dammit, Callahan, I really am beginning to like you.”

  “That’s the idea,” he said easily. “So, here’s the plan. I’ve got to enroll Josh in school tomorrow morning—”

  “I don’t envy you that.”

  “Strangely, he didn’t seem down on the idea. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was actually looking forward to it.”

  “He’s probably scamming you. Pretending to go along with the idea, then tomorrow morning you’ll wake up to find him and all your silver gone.”

  “Lucky for me I’ve only got stainless steel. Though there was this woman, a while back, who tried to get me interested in flatware. Which would you pick out if you were gettin’ married? Chrysanthemum or Buttercup?”

  “It’s a moot point, since I’m not getting married. And I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I assume these are sterling patterns and not flowers?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Gee, Callahan, is this a proposal?”

  There was nearly a full minute of dead air on the phone line. “I’m sorry, chère, if I gave you that impression.” His earlier light tone was regretful. “I thought we were just talking, fooling around to lighten the situation up a bit.”

  “That’s exactly what I thought. And it was going along pretty well until you decided to get domestic.”

  He chuckled at that. “There are those who’d tell you that my name doesn’t belong in the same sentence as anything resembling domesticity.”

  “I’ve not a single doubt they’re right. So why bring up that question in the first place?”

  “It just sorta popped into my head. Suzanne—that was her name—always said you could tell the kind of person a woman was by her flatware pattern.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “That’s pretty much what I said, thinking that she was just bein’ a little precious, but no, she had this book that had it all laid out, sorta like horoscopes. Apparently Buttercup girls are always cheerful and upbeat, and Chrysanthemum girls are more flamboyant. She liked to think of herself as being cheerfully flamboyant.”

  “Apparently there was a limit to her cheerfulness. Since you’re not married, one of you obviously broke the engagement.”

  “Oh, we weren’t engaged. She sort of got it into her mind that we were engaged to be engaged, but I never made her any promises about a ring, or anything.”

  “Or brought up registering for silver.”

  “Not a word.”

  Regan had begun to relax again. She twined the telephone cord around her fingers. “So does this story have a happy ending, other than you escaping the institution of marriage? Should I feel sorry for poor Suzanne, living alone with felt-lined drawers full of flatware she never gets to use?”

  “Oh, she got hitched to an old boyfriend she met at an Ole Miss reunion, so it worked out well for everyone. She finally decided on Chantilly, which hadn’t even been in the early running.” When she had no response to that, he added, “I went and looked the book up in Dani’s library after I heard. Seems Chantilly girls can be a bit prissy. And though they may seem real sweet, they were often fast in high school. Not that I’m sayin’ that about Suzanne.”

  “Of course not. Being a gentleman and all.” She was starting to get a handle on how this southern thing worked. A man might roll in the hay with every female in town, but reputations stayed more or less intact, since a southern gentleman didn’t roll and tell. “I realize the only reason you’re telling me about all this is to calm me down so I can sleep. But since you brought it up, want to know what kind of girl I am?”

  “I already know.”

  “Oh?”

  “You’re a mismatched stainless-steel person, just like me, when you’re not using the plastic fork and knife from the takeout package.”

  Nailed that one, she admitted.

  “But if you did ever decide to go all out, you’d be an Acorn.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask why. Is Acorn for belles who swear and pack heat?”

  “No, but you’re close. Brides who choose Acorn have a rebellious streak. They’ve been known to drink beer straight from the bottle, venture north of the Mason-Dixon line to college, and some of them even marry Yankees.”

  “Horrors.” Regan smiled. “They sound downright dangerous.”

  “That’s part of their appeal. My maman had Acorn. And the only other person I’ve ever met who’s as out-and-out spunky as her is you, Detective Chère, which is how I know you’d be an Acorn.”

  “Well.” What do you say when a man just compares you to his mother, whom he obviously adored, during a conversation where he’s reminding you that he’s not interested in any serious relationship? “Thank you.”

  “C’est rien. Now it’s your turn.”

  “My turn?”

  “To pay me a compliment.”

  Fair was fair. “All right. You may be frustrating and annoying at times, but you’re also very sweet.”

  “Sweet?” She heard the wince in his voice. “And here I was hoping for something more along the lines of the sexiest man you’ve ever met, who can turn you into a puddle of hot need with just a single dark and dangerous look.”

  “Your brother Jack got dark and dangerous. You got cute and sweet.”

  “Hell. Well, we’re jus’ going to have to work on that.” He paused. “If I asked you to do something for me, would you?”

  “I suppose that would depend on what it is.”

  “Tell me what you’re wearing. Right now.”

  “Is this going to be one of those dirty phone calls, Callahan?”

  “One can hope. What are you wearing, Regan?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’d really like to be there, but since I can’t, I’m trying to picture you.”

  “Well, you’re going to be disappointed if you’re looking for sexy, because I’m wearing a navy blue T-shirt that says ‘Property of the LAPD Athletic Department.’” She looked down at the oversize cotton shirt that covered her from shoulders to thighs. “I suppose you would have preferred me to lie and say I was barely wearing some skimpy lace number from Victoria’s Secret.”

  “Lace is nice. Skimpy’s even better, most of the time. Sometimes, though, contrast can be real intriguing. How long is it? To your knees?”

  “Not that long. And you’re just going to have to use your imagination from there, because I’m not having phone sex with you.”

  “Too bad, because if you want to moan lots of sweet nothings in my ear, I sure wouldn’t object. But since I’m enjoying just talking with you, how about I tell you a little Cajun bedtime story?”

  “Could I stop you?”

  “Sure. Anytime you want, you can just hang up.”

  “I will.”

  “Bien. Now, there was this Cajun who called himself Antoine Robicheaux, and he had himself this camp, which you’d call a cabin, way back in the bayou, miles from civilization. He was a handsome devil, he. Tall, real strong from swinging a hammer all day—”

  “He was in construction?”

  “General contractor.” A vision of Nate as he’d looked this afternoon—shirtless, tool belt slung low on his hips like a gunfighter—flashed through her mind, bringing with it a hot, reckless, sexual need.

  “Same as you.”

  “Now that you mention it, I guess we both do have that in common.”

  “Life’s full of coincidences,” Regan said dryly.

  “Isn’t that the truth? Well now, one night he was coming back from checkin�
�� his traps when he came across this jolie blon. She was on her knees on the bank of the bayou, tears flowing down her cheeks, mingling with the falling rain, leaves and moss tangled in her hair. And for a moment, seeing her in the moonlight, he thought he might have stumbled across a wood nymph.

  “But then he looked a little closer, he, and saw she was really just a pretty fille in trouble. He didn’t recognize her, and she didn’t seem able to speak, which made it harder for him to figure out how he was going to find out where she belonged. But having been raised up by his maman to be a gentleman, he decided she could spend the night at his place, then he’d decide what to do with her in the morning.”

  “And they say chivalry is dead.”

  “Like I said, he was a gentleman. Though he did have a bit of misgiving, since he’d heard tales of a witch living out in the swamp. But since she sure didn’t like your stereotypical wicked witch, like the one he’d seen when he was a kid in The Wizard of Oz, he helped her into his pirogue and took her back to his camp.

  “Dark clouds drifted over the moon. As the boat wound through the darkness, lit only by the lantern at the bow, Antoine felt as if they were being watched. Occasionally, he’d see gleaming points of yellow amid the moss-draped trees, but he reminded himself that these waters were filled with animals and he was being overfanciful. Bein’ with a beautiful woman tended to do that to him, ’specially after he’d been working away from civilization for a while.

  “Even though the night was warm, the earlier rain had drenched the woman, and her cotton dress was still clinging to her like a second skin when he got her into the little camp. Now, he was a big man, and knew that his clothes would swim on her, but he gave her one of his shirts, pointed her to the bathroom, and went to put on some coffee, since she still seemed a bit in shock.

  “After some time, when she still hadn’t come out, he began to worry, so he knocked on the door. Since she hadn’t latched it, there she stood, still standing there in that same wet dress, staring out the window into the darkness. She was trembling badly, and he was afraid she might be chilled from the rain.”

  Regan could see where he was going with this. Still, she plumped up the goosedown pillows, leaned back, and prepared to enjoy the journey. “So, Antoine, being a gentleman, decided to help her out of her wet clothes.”

  “That’s ’xactly what he did. But he could tell she was a real nice girl, and shy, and he didn’t want to give her the wrong idea about his intentions—”

  “Which were only honorable.”

  “Mais yeah. He decided the best thing to do, so he wouldn’t scare her, would be to take things real slow.”

  “Sort of like this story.”

  “Want me to fast-forward to the good parts?”

  “No. It’s your story; go ahead and tell it your own way.”

  “Like I said, she was a real nice girl, and even though it was a hot and steamy evening, she’d fastened that dress all the way up to her pretty throat. So, he began talking to her, real quietly, like you might if you wanted to get close to a skittish fawn. When he flicked the first button open, his knuckles brushed against that little hollow where her pulse took a jump. But not nearly as big a jump as his own.”

  His voice was deep and vibrantly masculine, without any overt sexuality. But that didn’t stop her from lifting her own hand to the base of her throat, where it seemed her own blood had begun to beat a little faster. It had gotten warm in the room, so she threw off the comforter. Then the sheet.

  “He moved down, button by button,” Nate continued, “opening up that flowered cotton as if he was unwrapping a precious present.”

  Regan’s fingers unconsciously stroked her warming flesh along a similar path.

  “Her bra was a teensy bit of lace that looked real pretty against the curve of her breasts, which were rosy pink, like the inside of a summer rose, because she was blushing a little bit, due to the fact, he figured, that she wasn’t used to getting undressed in front of a total stranger.”

  “Even if he was a gentleman.” Regan could hardly recognize her voice. It was deep, throaty, undeniably aroused.

  “Even if,” he agreed, his own voice sounding more rough itself, as if her reaction might be turning him on.

  “Of course the bra had to go, too, but since he knew his way around women’s underwear, he didn’t have any trouble unfastening the front hook. ‘Mon Dieu,’ he breathed as her lovely breasts spilled into his hands, ‘you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.’ He wasn’t lying and found the way she blushed even deeper unbearably appealing. And erotic.

  “He asked if he could kiss her breasts. Her white teeth worried her full bottom lip as she considered the request, but he could see the answer in her eyes before she managed a shy little nod. Her skin was the color of pink marble, and just as smooth. But a lot softer. And warmer. As he took one of those little ruby nipples into his mouth and drank in the warm womanly scent of her, Antoine knew that one taste would never be enough.”

  Regan slid a hand down the front of the T-shirt and began touching herself as Antoine was caressing the mystery woman: shoulders, chest, then breasts. She rolled a taut nipple between her thumb and her index finger and felt a corresponding tug between her legs. The soft moan escaped from between her parted lips before she could stop it.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking. Right now,” he demanded softly.

  “About how Antoine’s hands felt on her.” Regan licked her lips, which had gone unbearably dry. And how your hands would feel on me. She braced the receiver against one shoulder. Both of her hands moved beneath the shirt, caressing, squeezing, stroking breasts sensitized by that deep seductive voice and her own erotic imagination. “What are you thinking?”

  His answering laugh was quick and rough. “That I’m going to have to get bigger briefs.”

  “Maybe you should take them off.” Had she really said that?

  “I will, if you will.”

  She had never been a woman to play sexual games. In bed, as in all other parts of her life, she was straightforward and to the point. But there was something about being alone in the dark, with just that deep voice touching her all over, that allowed her to imagine she was the naked wood nymph in his story. “I’m already one step ahead of you.”

  There was a pause. Then a groan. “Wait just a sec, sugar.” A longer pause, during which time her hands stilled, waiting for him to make the next move. And then he was back. “I wanted to make sure the door was locked.”

  “You’re not used to talking about sex on the phone with a teenager in the house.”

  “No. But if Josh wasn’t here, I wouldn’t be talking to you on the phone right now. I’d be in the truck on my way over there, so we could be doing this in person. In the flesh, so to speak.”

  His flesh against hers was an arousing prospect. It also wasn’t going to happen tonight. “You were telling me about Antoine.”

  “Yeah, wouldn’t want to leave the poor guy hanging out there,” he said. “Well, as luscious as her breasts were, Antoine reminded himself that the goal was to get her undressed so he could get her into a hot shower. So he forced his mind back to the task and finished unbuttoning the dress, then let it drop to the floor. She was wearing little bikini panties that matched the bra, and he hooked his thumbs in the elastic and pulled them down. Over the swell of her hips, past the lush blond curls between her thighs, down each long, tanned leg to her ankles.

  “She stepped out of them without being asked. Crouched on the floor, looking up at her, he saw tiny beads of moisture glistening like dewdrops in those soft blond curls, and it took all the restraint Antoine possessed not to lick them off.”

  Moisture was flowing from her; Regan lifted the T-shirt above her waist and let her legs fall open a little bit more, to allow the breeze from the air conditioning to cool her heated flesh.

  “Antoine, he stood up, put his hands on her shoulders, turned her around, and walked her into the little tin shower, which barely had roo
m for one person, and turned on the water. Then he stripped off his own clothes.

  “Her eyes widened a little at the amazing size of his erection, whether from fear or anticipation, Antoine could not tell. Wanting to reassure her that he’d never do anythin’ to hurt her, he touched his mouth against hers in their very first kiss and felt her sigh against his lips.

  “He drew her into the shower and lathered the soap between his palms, and as the water pelted down on them and the stall filled with fragrant steam, he smoothed the lather all over her, his slippery hands sliding over her body from her shoulders to her feet, and everywhere in between. When he began washing his way down one smooth firm thigh and up the other, she closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall, her fingers linked together.

  “She was shivering, but not from the cold; it was as hot as a sauna in the shower. But not as hot as the thoughts scorching their way through his brain. Seems he wasn’t the only one aroused by their situation. ‘S’il vous plaît,’ she said on a soft little moan, which is French for please. So she could talk, Antoine thought. ‘I want…I need…Touch me…There.’

  “Antoine smiled. Mais yeah, he smiled at this request, since it was just what he’d been wanting to do himself, but had been afraid of pushing her.”

  “Being a gentleman and all,” Regan said as her own wandering hands fluttered down her rib cage and over her bare stomach. Then lower still.

  “’Xactly. So he carefully, with his softest touch, parted those slick folds. Now, you have to understand that Antoine considered himself a bit of a connoisseur of women, and there was nothing he found more beautiful than the female sex. It brought to mind a flower, with soft pink petals on the outside, and a deep rosy color inside. The little nub hidden in there was as hard and gleaming as a perfect pink pearl. She jumped a little when he brushed his thumb over it.”

  Regan did the same, imagining Nate’s clever, callused fingertip.