In Your Wildest Dreams Read online

  Robert exited the bathroom fully clothed—only his plum-colored tie hung askew around his neck. When he smiled at her, the skin around his eyes crinkled in that George Clooney way, which made it handsome. She didn't even mind that his dark hair was shot through with bits of silver—it only made him look distinguished, like a man to be reckoned with.

  "Leaving so early?" she asked. It wasn't that she couldn't bear the idea of being without him, but that she'd spent so much time by herself the last few weeks that she'd begun, for the first time in her life, to feel lonely.

  He stood before the dresser mirror, knotting the tie—a perfect double Windsor—but glanced over his shoulder. "I'm sorry, love. But a late business meeting can only run so late." He winked.

  "Do you still sleep with her?" she asked without quite planning it.

  Finishing the knot, he came to sit on the elegant little bench at the foot of the bed, reaching over to play with her toes. "Do you mean sleep in the same bed with or have sex with?"

  "Sex."

  He smiled his warm, winning smile—the one that made her so sure of him, like Stephanie had said she should be. "Of course not, love. Haven't for a long while now."

  "So when you tell her it's over, it won't come as a total shock. I mean, she knows the marriage is failing, right?" It wasn't so much that she cared about his wife, but on some level she did care what his wife thought of her. And what other people would think, too. She would eventually be taking Melissa's place, after all, socializing with Robert's friends, coming to know his children.

  "Yes, darling, she knows. We've never discussed it, but it's clear."

  "Do me a favor?" She let her eyes widen to moon at him in a way she knew he adored. "Anything. Name it."

  "When you tell her about me, don't tell her how we met." That you paid me for sex. "It's not that I think there's anything wrong with it, but some people are such prudes, you know?"

  He nodded, his look assuring her that he understood perfectly. She loved that about him. "No worries," he said as he got to his feet and came around to the side of the bed, bending to kiss her forehead. She liked when he did that. And in time, she'd grow to love him the same way she loved Russ, but better. Because he was worthy. Like Stephanie said he should be.

  "Is that all I get?" she asked.

  He chuckled, smiling into her eyes, then lowered a long, deep kiss to her waiting lips. She wished she felt it inside more—she'd thought maybe she would this time. But that was okay.

  "Good night, love."

  "When will I see you again?" She sat up in bed as he walked away, still careful to keep the sheet over her chest and still not quite knowing why.

  "I'll have to call you. Probably not tomorrow, but by the weekend."

  She nodded patiently. She could take a little loneliness for what she got in return. A life of ease and luxury. And as soon as he left Melissa, he was going to let her start managing the ritzy boutique he owned in the French Quarter—so soon she'd have a career, too.

  Maybe then she'd call Stephanie, and maybe even her mom and dad. She'd invite them all down to meet her classy husband and see their fabulous home. And she'd tell them all how fulfilling she found the world of high-priced fashion.

  She'd never been as smart as Stephanie, but at least she was pretty. And she'd finally found a way to make that work for her, a way to get everything she'd ever wanted.

  Nearly twenty-four hours after leaving Sophia's private party, Stephanie strolled down a narrow, old French Quarter street toward the diner where she had agreed to meet Jake Broussard. In the mood to walk, she'd forgone a cab as well as the rental car she'd procured but had hardly used since her arrival, given that parking spots were minimal in the Quarter.

  She still couldn't believe Jake had agreed to help her— it was a godsend, a new road appearing at a dead end.

  "We'll go some places I know, ask around," he'd said. "You got a picture of your sister, chèreT

  "Yes," she'd replied, still awestruck with fresh hope.

  Now, that hope mingled with the return of worry— what if this didn't help? what if they still didn't find Tina?—and it also mixed with something else she couldn't deny. Ever since the moment she'd known for certain she'd be seeing him again, her body had hummed with anticipation. Wondering if there was any chance he'd take her in his arms and brush another kiss across her hps. Praying he wouldn't, even as she burned for his touch.

  How had she gotten so hung up on this guy? Two full days after their first encounter, she still hadn't a clue. All she knew was that he was a gruff, arrogant, know-it-all stranger who felt completely justified in bossing her around ... and who'd been there for her when she needed him last night, and was willing to help her again now. Not to mention that he was the sexiest man she'd ever come face-to-face with, without a shred of effort on his part.

  People had so many sides to them, so many facets to their personalities.

  She'd never noticed that so much until her immersion into the Big Easy, but suddenly it seemed an unavoidable notion. Her sexy bartender, so big and dangerous, yet unaccountably concerned for her well-being. Melody, a woman who'd once made her living having sex for money, now turned loving wife and doting mother.

  And even Tina. Stephanie laughed to herself, remembering her silly, feeble attempts today at crocheting, a hobby her sister had somehow stumbled into. She'd been shocked when Tina had shown her the fabulous winter scarves and hats she'd been creating, her eyes glittering with pride. She'd never before seen her sister do anything so ... domestic, tranquil. "I'm thinking maybe I could sell them at craft shows or something."

  Stephanie had simply laughed then, too. She couldn't see restless Tina content to spend her weekends in gymnasiums with craft-making moms who drove minivans and baked brownies. And yet the truth was, Tina was versatile, adventurous—traits Stephanie admired in her sister. She bit her hp now, realizing she'd probably never told her that.

  Tina had insisted on giving her a crocheting lesson, but such abilities were even less Stephanie's forte than Tina's, and she'd failed miserably. Yet, for some reason, when she'd been packing for her trip south, she'd tossed the little bag of yarn and crocheting needle into her suitcase, and she'd spent some time in her room today trying to pick up the skill. It suddenly seemed that if Tina found it a worthwhile activity that she should try to learn. She envisioned being able to show Tina a crocheted scarf upon their reunion. She could already see Tina laughing, amazed Stephanie had actually done it.

  Her imagined joy faded, though, when she reached the Crawfish Diner, where a red crawfish blinked on and off in an old neon sign in the dingy window.

  Jake Broussard was waiting inside for her. Like once before, her instincts told her to run, to just forget the plan and get as far away from him as possible. Any man who made her suffer such unadulterated want was surely trouble in her carefully managed world.

  Why did she always forget people had more than one side to their personality—just because she didn't? Well, she didn't think she did. But she had a feeling that if she'd said yes to his proposition the other night, she'd have become ... someone she didn't even recognize.

  Taking a deep breath, she pulled open a heavy door and stepped inside the long, skinny restaurant that smelled of Cajun spices. To one side of the aisle stood a counter with stools, to the other a row of booths.

  Before she could scan the seats, her attention was drawn to an old man in a dirty apron, who shouted at a middle-aged waitress in a bayou accent much heavier than Jake's.

  The red-haired woman, wearing a pair of too-tight white slacks, rolled her eyes. "Arlen, you don't know your head from your ass—I called out an order for shrimp, old man, shrimpl"

  The old cook muttered something in French as the waitress stomped away, a heavy tray balanced on one hand. She maneuvered the thin aisle with ease, stopping at a small booth crammed tight with four burly men. Just beyond them, Stephanie caught sight of Jake, and her pulse began to race.

  She'd never seen
a man who filled out a simple T-shirt so well. Tonight's was dark gray, and she knew without seeing that beneath the table he was poured into his jeans just as pleasantly. His dark hair was pushed back over his head, but as usual, a few locks dropped down above his eyes. Black stubble dusted his jaw and chin.

  God, was it hot in here? As she worked her way toward Jake, she glanced to the kitchen, hoping like hell that it was hot, that she wasn't starting to sweat because of him. On the other hand, though, why did that shock her? Just like every other time she'd seen him, a mere glimpse turned her inside out.

  His once-over slid from her head to her feet as she approached, and even as dressed down as she was tonight in a simple linen sheath, his look transformed her into that sexual entity she was getting to know better the last few days—against her will. She found herself wanting him to see her that way. Not an ad exec, or someone's big sister, but purely as a woman, with curves to be touched and hps to be kissed. Clearly, she'd gotten too good at her escort role, learned to "feel it" a little too well.

  She slid into the cracked red vinyl booth across from him before meeting his eyes.

  "Evenin', chère."

  His slow Cajun drawl delivered in that deep voice seemed to reach way down inside her to someplace foreign. Foreign but... getting less so. She couldn't decide whether or not to smile, so she settled on the "pleasant look" she used in corporate dealings. "Hello."

  "Find the place okay?"

  She nodded, letting her hands settle in her lap—then, feeling fidgety, she reached for the water glass that had already been delivered.

  Around them, people talked and silverware rattled. From the kitchen came the clatter of dishes being heaped in a metal sink. The red-haired waitress called out orders of things to be fried and smothered. And Jake Broussard's eyes pinned Stephanie in place, making her weak and excited and nervous all in the same breath.

  Say something. Anything. "So, you don't have to tend bar tonight?" Please don't let my nipples be showing through my bra and dress.

  He shook his head. "Only work a few nights a week."

  She tilted her head, caught her breath. Calm down. "What do you do with the rest of your time?"

  He quirked his mouth into a half-smile. "I take it easy."

  At her uncertain nod, he went on.

  "Job pays better than you'd expect. Big tips from those rich guys—payin' me to keep their secrets."

  "Oh." Made sense, she supposed.

  The redhead suddenly appeared, slapping two plastic-covered menus on the table. "Evening, folks. Name's Ada. Be back to take your order in a minute."

  "If you don't like the local cuisine," Jake said, "they have burgers and double-deckers, too."

  Don't just nod this time. "What would you recommend?"

  "You like shrimp?"

  "Mmm-hmm." She tried not to look at him over her menu, but her eyes kept drifting up.

  "How about onions, garlic, and peppers?"

  "Mmm-hmm," she said again. You 're such a sparkling conversationalist tonight.

  When Ada returned, Jake handed her both menus, saying, "Two orders of shrimp étouffée."

  "Shrimp, huh? Well, cross your fingers Aden's cleaned out his ears by now or God knows what you'll get." With that, she rushed off, calling out, 'Two shrimp étoufféel Got that, old man? Shrimp!"

  Arlen muttered in French, and Stephanie couldn't help laughing lightly at the show they put on. "I'm not sure those two should work together."

  "Have been for as long as I've been comin' here."

  "I'm surprised they haven't killed each other yet."

  Jake shrugged. "I suspect they like each other more than they let on, or they'd be divorced by now."

  "They're marriedl To each other?'

  He gave a nod. "Used to come in here for dinner a lot when I was a beat cop. You listen to people for a while, you figure things out."

  She couldn't help forming the impression that he'd probably been a good cop. But that begged the question ... "Why did you give up police work?"

  He shook his head lightly, glanced down, and started playing with a salt shaker. "Heart wasn't in it anymore." Then he raised his eyes, so very brown and deep, directly back to her. His gaze seemed to capture her—she couldn't escape. "Tell me about you, Stephanie Grant."

  "Nothing much to tell," she began. "I've lived a pretty ordinary life. I grew up in a middle-class family in a Chicago suburb. Two kids and a dog, block parties, that sort of thing." She wasn't sure why she'd reached that far back in her life to begin, nor why she'd sounded so self-deprecating. She supposed that compared to him—even knowing nothing about him—she just felt so "white bread." She had the notion his life had been anything but ordinary. "I'm in advertising now," she added.

  "What do you sell?"

  She lowered her chin slightly, letting her eyebrows rise. "Besides myself, you mean?" She wasn't sure why she said it. Perhaps to beat him to the punch?

  The corners of his mouth curled into a slight grin. "I was gonna be a big enough man not to mention that, but since you did, yeah. Besides yourself."

  She bit her Up, wondering if her job would sound interesting or boring. "I head up campaigns for major corporations—everything from cars to breakfast cereals to fast-food restaurants." Boring, she decided as she finished. Or maybe it was just this situation with Tina making everyday Ufe seem insignificant.

  "You like it? Happy doin' it?"

  She considered her answer. She'd spent the years since college so concerned about her rise to the top of the corporate ladder that it wasn't a question she'd ever asked herself. "The corporate aspects of it are getting a Uttle old," she finally concluded, "but I love thinking of ideas, trying to hit on the perfect slogan or image. What about you? Are you happy tending bar?"

  "It's a paycheck."

  "You weren't happy being a cop?"

  He raised his eyebrows, looking almost amused by her wilhngness to press the issue—before his mouth straightened in a grim Une. His voice sounded a soft warning. "You best leave that alone now, beb."

  Her annoyance was squelched by Ada, suddenly plopping a couple of plates on the table. "Might be hot. Watch yourselves," she cautioned. "And check to make sure that's shrimp, will ya?"

  Rather than use his silverware to look beneath the reddish stew covering the dish, Jake forked a bite into his mouth. "Yep, shrimp."

  "Hallelujah, it's a miracle,'' she said, rolling her eyes in the direction of the kitchen as she hurried off. "Dig in, chère."

  At first, the spicy dish was a shock to Stephanie's taste buds, burning her throat, nearly making her eyes water. But she tried not to let it show, taking large drinks of water, and soon the heat wore down enough for her to realize the smothered shrimp was delicious.

  "You like?" he asked.

  She nodded yet again, this time because her mouth was full. Upon swallowing, she said, "Hot. But good."

  "Arlen serves up good food. His jambalaya's the best you can get around here. Not quite as good as my grand-mère used to make, but close."

  "Used to?" She tilted her head.

  He dug his fork back into the plate of shrimp. "Died when I was eighteen. Best Cajun cook on the bayou, though."

  "I lost my grandma around that age, too. She used to make the best apple pie in the world."

  "Where you get your pie now?'

  She shrugged. "No place special. Haven't really found any that lives up to hers."

  "I know what you mean. Things like that aren't easily replaced."

  Somehow, his eyes said he really did understand those sorts of little losses that sometimes felt big, and the sudden connection made her nervous. She bit her lip and smiled. "So now you come here for your Cajun delicacies."

  He laughed. "Sometimes. It's easy. Other times I make my own. Well, I used to. Wasn't half bad in the kitchen, if I do say so myself."

  "Used to?" she asked again, trying to hide her surprise that the sexy bartender was also a cook. "No energy for it anymore." "Why?"
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  He leaned forward across the table, his eyes twinkling. "You sure are a nosy little thing, Stephanie Grant."

  "Sorry. I just..." She dropped her gaze, but then raised it again, summoning the courage to be honest. "I'm curious about you."

  "Why?"

  Because I want you so badly I can't understand it. She swallowed nervously and honesty fled the scene. "Because ... you're being nice enough to help me."

  He answered in a frank tone. "We best get sometbin' straight. Me helpin' you isn't from the goodness of my heart. It's only because if I let you go on about this business the way you were, I might not be able to live with myself."

  "Well, whatever the case, I appreciate it."

  "As soon as we finish eatin', we'll head to a few places I know, show your sister's picture, see if we can get a lead. New Orleans is a big town, but not so big if you check the right places."

  Again, another nod—she'd given up trying for anything better. Sometimes thoughts of Tina, being out there in this city-with-a-dark-side, simply stifled her thoughts, made it so nothing else could come in or out of her head. She might be slowly starting to grow used to the way Jake made her feel with just a glance, but her worries for Tina didn't operate that way. They didn't grow more normal or acceptable, no matter how long she dwelled on them.

  "Listen, chère, don't worry so much."

  She supposed it showed in her eyes, and she was about to summon a response when he reached out to warmly cover her hand with his, where it curled loosely around the water glass. She froze, astounded at the strength of the desire the small touch sent racing through her limbs. Old—ancient—yearnings turned new, and even more powerful, beneath his fingertips.

  She was sure if she tried to speak it would come out mangled and shaky, so in a bid for self-preservation, she finally drew her hand away, dropping her eyes to her plate, and resumed eating.

  Conversation died then, which was at once awkward but not. He wasn't a highly talkative man, and it surprised her when he strung more than a couple of sentences together, so that, combined with her fear for her sister, somehow made the silence okay.