In Your Wildest Dreams Page 8

  The next time she looked at him, they'd both finished eating and he was digging in his pocket, drawing out a roll of mints. He held it out, offering one, but she declined.

  After putting a mint in his mouth, he shoved the roll back into his front pocket and his legs shifted slightly beneath the table so that their knees touched. Again, it was like a current of electricity, this time shooting up her thighs.

  Pull your knees back. She didn't. Couldn't. Neither did he.

  She found the will to slowly raise her gaze. His eyes were locked on hers, a silent affirmation of the sensual vibes passing between them. What now?

  Again, it should have been awkward, but instead, all Stephanie experienced was heat, raw and naked—no hiding what she felt, and at the moment, she didn't care. It went back to the red room, she supposed. There'd certainly been no hiding what she'd felt when he'd laid her back on that couch. They'd already been here once before.

  "We should get started," he finally said. "Night isn't gettin' any younger."

  "Right," she said, drawing her knees away.

  But pulling back didn't squelch the sensations, her whole body throbbing for what she wanted. She wanted to have sex with Jake Broussard more than she wanted to breathe.

  It was a startling admission.

  At a horrible time.

  She had a feeling it was going to be a very long night.

  Chapter 7

  Jake scooped the check up off the table and reached for his wallet.

  "Let me get it," Stephanie said. "It's the least I can do, considering why we're here."

  He simply shook his head and threw a few dollars down for a tip. "Not necessary, chère." Odd, he'd suggested coming here because it was loud and dingy and, therefore, perfect for a meeting he wanted in no way to feel like a "date," yet old-fashioned masculine pride wouldn't let him allow her to pay.

  Damn, she looked good. He was trying like hell to concentrate on what they had to do tonight, trying to concentrate on passing the money to Ada at the cash register, trying to concentrate on anything—but it was as if Stephanie Grant had cast some sort of spell on him.

  He supposed it had just been too long since he'd had sex. Good, all-night-long, touch-each-other-everywhere, kiss-each-other-everywhere sex. Had to happen eventually, he told himself as he held the door for her, following her out into the dark, balmy night. Had to come a time

  when he'd want that again, need it. But it didn't mean anything, he insisted inside. It didn't mean there was anything special about this woman. It was just attraction, chemistry.

  It was the first time he'd seen her not dressed to seduce, yet she remained just as seductive. The plain pale yellow sheath covered a few more inches of thigh and followed her curves more loosely than the other dresses he'd seen her in, but that just made her sexiness shine through more naturally, seem more genuine. The reduction in makeup revealed a pretty face, and a pure sparkle in those bluer-than-blue eyes. Her blond hair fell softer around her shoulders now, bouncy. He had the bizarre urge to reach for her hand as they walked side by side down the old, uneven sidewalk.

  Damn, what was that about?

  Just Becky. Just missing Becky.

  Probably the first time you've walked down a street with a woman since her—odd as it seemed. But it was true. He wrote off the urge to old habits.

  Even so, what he'd feared was already materializing— it wasn't gonna be easy to locate her sister with all this heat between them. He'd indulge in it if she gave him half a chance, and judging from the look in her eyes across the table when their knees had touched, she might. He knew Stephanie Grant was a prim and proper lady in one sense, but he could feel something hot bubbling beneath her surface.

  First things first, though.

  As they turned up one of the Quarter's meaner streets, the sidewalks dirtier than most, the balconies sagging and the brickwork falling away from the walls in jagged chunks, he again fought the urge to take her hand. This time, though, it was about protection, putting her at ease in case she figured out this wasn't the best part of town. But he couldn't protect her—not really, and a handhold wouldn't change that. He'd learned the hard way that he couldn't really protect anyone.

  "Where are we headed?" she asked, apparentiy noticing that the buildings had turned a little grayer, more neglected.

  "In here," he said, gesturing to his right. A neon arrow of dulled blue pointed to the entrance of the Pirate's Den, a dive bar and cop hangout. Before pushing through the door, he tossed a glance over his shoulder at what was surely the prettiest sight to hit this street tonight. "Don't let any of the crusty old couillons in here make you nervous, chère."

  "Okay," she said, already looking uneasy.

  But he liked that about her—that being nervous didn't seem to hold her back, from anything.

  A wall of smoke hit him as he stepped inside.

  "Hey, bougre," said Shorty, the ancient Cajun bartender who had to be pushing eighty if he was a day. The wrinkled smile he cast at the sight of Jake brimmed with sincerity—he hadn't been in here for over two years. The greeting touched Jake unexpectedly.

  He gave a brief nod, a quick grin. "What you say, Shorty?"

  Other greetings sounded from around the bar as cops and old-timers recognized him. For some reason, he hadn't thought anyone would much notice his presence— maybe until now he'd forgotten it had been so long since he'd socialized with this crew.

  "How's it hangin', Jake?"

  "Long time, no see, buddy."

  "Look what fatras de cat drug in." The last came from

  Fat Eddie, a big Cajun from even deeper in the swamps than Jake. He'd worked more than a few cases with Fat Eddie back in the day and he stepped forward to shake his old compadre's hand. "And wid a jolie femme on his arm, too. Life treatin' you fine den, Broussard?" "Good enough," he lied.

  "Ah, listen to him," Shorty snorted from behind the bar. "Life's gotta be treatin' you good you got a woman like this with you. Come here now, catin," he said, waving Stephanie toward him, "and I give you a drink on the house. What's your pleasure? I'll show this old dog how to treat a lady right."

  Next to him, Stephanie produced a sweet, blushing smile that, for some reason, nearly ripped a hole in his heart. "Um, okay, I'll have ... a glass of wine. Maybe a Chablis?"

  He couldn't help smiling inwardly. Still totally unpredictable.

  "You ain't from around here, are ya?" Fat Eddie leaned around to ask. "You in de Big Easy now, sugar. Shorty, fix dis femme a hurricane."

  Shorty drew back in mock warning before addressing her again. "I don't know 'bout that, catin. Awful strong drink. You don't wanna get drunk, let this fella take advantage of you now, do ya?"

  Jake cast a soft smile down at her, sorry she'd been put on the spot by his old friends, but curious to hear her answer.

  She returned a look of amusement, then focused on Shorty. "I'll take my chances."

  Light laughter rose from the bar and Eddie looked to Jake. "Ah, now, dis one, she's a good one. I like her. You wanna keep her around."

  Maybe he should have said something to make it clear they weren't a couple, but he couldn't quite find the words. He hadn't anticipated any of this, hadn't thought any further ahead than this being a good place to show Tina's picture. But his old drinking buddies seemed so happy to see him with someone else, it didn't seem necessary to let them know he was still in a bad way, and that not much had changed in his life since he'd left the force.

  He made small talk with Eddie and a few other guys, some in uniforms, until Shorty passed Stephanie's drink across the bar. "Put it in a clean glass and everything."

  She smiled, and Shorty handed Jake a bottle of beer, still remembering what he drank. When Jake reached for his wallet, Shorty stopped him. "Ah, no, bougre, your money ain't no good here—tonight anyway. You get comin' in regular again, then you pay."

  They laughed as Jake nodded his thanks, then took Stephanie's hand, drawing her deeper into the bar. They were halfway d
own the narrow passageway between bar stools and tables before he realized he'd followed the urge this time—taken her hand. Despite himself, he didn't let go until they reached their destination.

  Tony sat by himself at a table in the corner with a mug of draft. His light brown hair was messy, his jeans and loose T-shirt just as telling. "Rough day, pard?" Jake asked.

  His old partner smiled up at him through tired eyes. "Rough enough. Better now, though."

  Jake could read his thoughts with ease. Tony was happy as hell to see him acting human for a change, actually coming out to a bar, and with a new woman, no less. "Don't get too excited," Jake said, glad someone had put money in the jukebox—"I'm No Angel" by Gregg All-man half-drowned his words. "Not what you think."

  "Why don't you pull up a chair for yourself and the lady, and fill me in."

  "I'll pull up a chair, but the fillin' in can happen another time." He dragged two wooden chairs from the next table and gave Stephanie the least rickety. As they took a seat, he got straight down to business. "Have the picture, chère?"

  Lowering her red drink to the table, she opened a little yellow purse that matched her dress. She passed him two photos—one a snapshot of a young woman in shorts and a snug tee standing on a wooden bridge, probably from a vacation, the other a professional portrait. "We both had these made for our parents' thirtieth anniversary a few years ago," she explained of the second shot.

  He didn't know why it surprised him that Tina was a knockout. Probably because he hadn't quite believed she could be as pretty as her sister. Whereas Stephanie was a classic beauty, Tina struck him as the sort of girl most men would fall for faster—her eyes were filled with invitation, her clothing cut to garner attention.

  He handed the photos to Tony. "Seen her anywhere?"

  His friend studied the pictures. "Afraid not. Sorry." Then he raised his gaze. "Who is she?"

  "An escort. Gone missin'." Sort of, he added in his mind. Jake still wasn't convinced the girl was missing at all, but if he wanted to find her, that kind of detail wouldn't help.

  Tony handed the pictures back to Stephanie and looked to Jake. "Haven't heard about any missing girls lately."

  "I called the police," Stephanie volunteered, "but they didn't seem concerned. She's my sister."

  "I am the police," Tony informed her kindly, "but yeah, they might brush off a missing person in that line of work quicker than not. How long has she been gone?" "A few weeks."

  Tony nodded, shifting his eyes to Jake. "I'll keep my eyes open."

  "Thanks," Jake said.

  "You might, uh, show those to Fat Eddie before you go"

  "Oh?" Fat Eddie worked homicide these days.

  "Girl down by the river last week." Tony spoke low, clearly trying to sound casual, and not saying the girl by the river was dead. Jake still thought it was pretty obvious, so he hoped Stephanie couldn't hear over Gregg All-man's gravelly voice.

  "Listen, beb, I'm gonna show these around the bar a few minutes," he said, plucking the photos back out of her hand. "You sit here and drink your drink, chat with Tony."

  "I wouldn't trust me with her if I were you," his friend quipped.

  "I'm not worried." Friendly banter, his way of saying Tony was no competition. They'd once exchanged similar conversation over Becky. The memory made his gut clench lightly, and for the first time since walking in the door, he remembered there was a good reason he didn't go out, didn't see people—it still hurt too much. For now, though, he pushed away the recollections and focused on what he'd come here to do.

  Approaching the bar, he placed his hand on Fat Eddie's shoulder. As always, the man wore a cheap suit and a tie with a spot on it. He held up the pictures. "Seen her?"

  Eddie leaned in to look close, shaking his head. "A hot cookie like dat, I'd remember."

  Jake swallowed. "Tony said you had a homicide down by the river."

  Eddie looked again, then gave his head a solemn shake. "Girl we found was heavier, didn't look like dis at all."

  Relief on Stephanie's behalf rushed through him. He wasn't sure when he'd gotten emotionally involved in this, but he couldn't imagine having to tell her Tina was dead. "You see a girl looks like this one, you let Tony know, okay?"

  "You got it, pal."

  As he started to walk away, Eddie grabbed his wrist and Jake looked up. "Really is good to see you, Jake. You should come around more, shoot de bull wid me."

  Jake pressed his hps together tightly. It was good to see Eddie, too—but as for coming around, he wasn't planning to make it a habit. "Maybe," he said anyway.

  Fat Eddie slapped him on the back and laughed. "Dat'd be good, real good."

  After leaving the Pirate's Den, they stopped at a couple of other out-of-the-way haunts, but not places where Jake seemed as well-known or warmly regarded. He showed the pictures to one or two guys inside each place, still with no luck.

  As usual with Jake, Stephanie found herself experiencing warring emotions. Her hope deflated a little at each shaking head they encountered, and at the same time she was shamefully overcome with an attraction to her companion that escalated with each passing minute. How could she be thinking about that at a time like this?

  Each small touch of his hand, every meeting with those dark eyes, carried her a little deeper into desire. Such an unfamiliar territory. Unfamiliar, at least, for a very long time. It made her remember that as a teenager, she'd never really gotten hold of it, never reached a place where she could push it away with any success. And as an adult, she'd had no practice with it.

  So when they turned a corner onto Bourbon Street, suddenly thrust into flashing lights and a street party that happened every night, she didn't flinch when Jake took her hand. She hated being unable to control her reaction to him, but at the same time she loved succumbing to it.

  Although it was September, heat and humidity still soaked the air where people stood in clusters, drinking, laughing, eating. Open-air storefronts offered T-shirts, Mardi Gras beads, and frozen daiquiris in countless flavors, while music spilled onto the closed-to-traffic thoroughfare—rock, jazz, and Cajun all vying to be heard the loudest.

  They passed a strip bar where two young women wearing skimpy bras and thong panties posed provocatively in the doorway. Just as she felt her face growing warmer with embarrassment, one of the girls smiled at Jake—and Stephanie wanted to kill her. Could she not see they were holding hands? And—

  Oh God. This was it. She was losing her mind.

  You and he are not a couple.

  And the only reason he tried to seduce you the other night was to teach you a lesson.

  "Where are we going now?" she asked, growing uncomfortable in the heart of the red-light district.

  "Place just up ahead here. The Playpen."

  She came to a dead halt, jerking Jake to a stop as well. He turned to look at her.

  "Is that a strip club?"

  He nodded easily. "Yeah. Why?"

  She pulled in her breath. "Why on earth would we go to a strip club?"

  Jake blinked, tilted his head, his look making her feel childish. But she couldn't help it—she couldn't imagine going into a place like that.

  "Chère, you remember the last guy we spoke to, at LaFitte's?"

  She thought back to the bar, and the guy—a handsome man in his late thirties with curling brown hair—then nodded.

  "Danny Richards, my boss at Sophia's. He's a decent guy, I've known him a lotta years, and he's pretty familiar with the clientele on the third floor. What I'm sayin' is, he knows the high-end escort business in this town."

  "And?"

  "I mentioned Tina by name and showed her picture, and he's never seen her."

  Stephanie's heart plummeted a little further.

  "Makes me think we've exhausted our resources in the high-priced escort market," he said. "But what happens to some girls is—they try turnin' tricks, can't handle it, and take the next highest-payin' road, which is strippin'."

  "Oh. Oh God," she
murmured as the idea settled over her.

  It shouldn't seem worse than prostitution, but she couldn't imagine taking her clothes off for a roomful of men. At least at Sophia's, there was some semblance of elegance. She shook her head. "I don't think Tina could be a stripper."

  He narrowed his gaze on her, pointed but kind. "Did you think she could be a hooker?"

  Another flood of ugly acceptance washed through her as she whispered her reply. "No."

  "Then we best start checkin' some of these places out. The Playpen's the classiest in the Quarter, so if a girl knows anything about the business, she'd apply there first—and Tina's pretty enough to get hired on."

  She began shaking her head. "Even so, I can't go into a place like that."

  He lowered his chin, looked matter-of-fact. "Not a big deal, chère. There'll be other women inside."

  "Naked ones."

  When she least expected it, he laughed. "No, not just them. There'll be couples, groups of people. More men than women, sure. But otherwise, almost like any other bar."

  "Really?"

  He gave her a gentle nod, and only then did she realize he'd never dropped her hand and now stroked his thumb gendy back and forth over the top, trying to comfort her. "Hate to tell you this, but it's not like on TV. Not just a seedy place where old guys in bad sport coats hang out. It's more like ... a tourist attraction."

  Unfortunately, his attempt at comfort couldn't override her shock. She opened her eyes wider, feeling as if she'd been born in some other universe and couldn't begin to comprehend the things happening in this one.

  "It's like Eddie told you, chère—you're in the Big Easy now. Some things are just different here."

  Not that she had the first idea what a strip club was like at home, either. She'd just assumed they were patronized strictly by men. She took a deep breath and looked into Jake's warm brown eyes. Despite herself, for some reason, she trusted him. "So you're saying men aren't going to gape at me if I go in this place with you?"