Bayou Bad Boys (16 page)

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Authors: Nancy Warren

BOOK: Bayou Bad Boys
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“Thank you.” She watched him. “Were they very beautiful, those diamonds?”
“I've never seen so flawless a set.”
“Must have been hard to let them go.”
“If I kept everything for myself,
cousine,
I wouldn't have much of a business.”
She smiled, as he'd meant her to, but she wondered.
There could be all kinds of things that took a man out in the middle of the night, she decided as they resumed work. The coincidental timing did not make Claude a thief.
 
No, she decided three days later. Her cousin Claude wasn't a thief. He was a liar.
She was jogging early to avoid the heat and to get her exercise out of the way before she went to the university for a few hours. Her days were already falling into a routine after being here less than a week. She ran early, although this morning was earlier than ever. It was five-thirty, and she would still be asleep if some bird hadn't mistaken her for its mother or love interest and trilled at her from outside her window.
Oh, well, Lucy decided, it was a gorgeous morning, the early light soft and mellow, and if she ran now she'd have time to catch up on her e-mails from home with her coffee.
Then she and Beatrice would breakfast together, and afterward she'd take off for the library and her hostess would go shopping or lunch out or go to one of her many activities with her wide circle of friends. Lucy had discovered her hostess was a respected New Orleans socialite and philanthropist, and few charitable or social committees existed in which she wasn't involved. She was also an inexhaustible source of information about New Orleans society past and present.
There were loads more distant relatives in the area and Beatrice was busy planning a family get-together that would include lots of storytelling and reminiscences. Lucy was ready with her tape recorder and video recorder. Already, ideas for her book were flowing and her notes were often interspersed with a few paragraphs of her own text. Altogether, this was turning into a very productive work holiday, she thought as she jogged along dawn-quiet streets. The Lafayette Cemetery was on her right, free of tourists at this time of the morning, the dead, in their above-ground marble mausoleums, at rest in rare peace.
She was in a nice rhythm, her mind already planning ahead to the day's research, when she heard the rumble of a car engine coming toward her. It was more idleness than curiosity that caused her to look at the two people inside the car. The driver was an attractive woman in her early thirties, at a guess. She had café au lait colored skin and gold streaks in her long, dark hair. She was looking at her companion, and her expression was intense. Lucy glanced over and stumbled over her feet.
Claude was the passenger. Claude
“Oh, Lucy, trust me, I can't tell you where I was but I wasn't with another woman”
LeBlanc.
He was so busy talking to the woman in the car that he had no attention to spare for a lone, early jogger and in a second they'd passed her. She listened and sure enough heard the engine slow as it rounded the corner to the street behind Claude's house, and then a few seconds later came the slam of a car door. She wasn't positive it was the same car as the other night, but she felt certain it was. So, he hadn't been with a woman, huh? At least if he was off having sex, he couldn't have committed the diamond theft. Though, she realized, as she plodded along the street, sweat dampening her shirt so it stuck to her unpleasantly, that part of her would have preferred him stealing jewels to shagging another woman.
She decided to be philosophical about Claude and quietly celebrate that she hadn't done more than kiss him before she discovered what a rat he was. She was so busy being philosophical that she jogged an extra couple of miles out of her way. By the time she returned to Beatrice's house, she was overheated, sweating like a pig, and exhausted.
And in no mood to face the man sitting at the breakfast table sharing an early morning coffee with his mother. She was perfectly aware that she could win a one-woman wet T-shirt contest, she didn't need Claude's gaze licking at her like an eager tongue to remind her. And yep, her shorts were snug. Let him look. It was as close as he was going to get.
Refusing to bolt up to her room like a coward, she walked slowly to the fridge and drew out the jug of water with lemon slices Beatrice kept there. She drank down one huge glass and then poured another, sipping this one more slowly.
“Looks like you had quite the workout,” Claude said.
“I could say the same to you,” she muttered under her breath.
“What did you say, honey?” Beatrice asked.
“I asked Claude what brings him here so early.”
“A party.”
She turned. “Really? What kind of party?”
“The historical society's annual ball. I was offering myself as an escort for you and Mama.”
“Oh, I wouldn't have thought that was your scene at all.”
His smile glinted. “Surprise.”
Claude would often come at some point in the day to work in his mother's garden. He spent a few hours every day at one of his stores, but he obviously had staff putting in the long hours. Leaving him more time for his late night rendezvous.
Beatrice and Claude seemed to enjoy the time together. It was difficult to hold onto her contempt for the man when he could be so sweet to his mom.
She tried, though.
A few nights he stayed to dinner and the three of them talked about family and shared history. She enjoyed him most then, for he wasn't trying to hit on her or seducing her with his eyes. Sometimes she'd catch his gaze on her and read the heat within, and she knew then that the blazing attraction between them wasn't imagined and, despite what she knew of him, it wasn't going away.
Five
It was a bit like dressing a panther in a tux, she thought, seeing Claude in his finery. If anything, the elegant evening dress only made him appear more predatory.
Not having brought anything appropriate with her for a society gala, she hadn't minded at all having an excuse to splurge in one of the amazing boutiques on Magazine Street. Her dress was a sea green silk chiffon number with a low-cut bodice featuring tiny crystal beads, a handkerchief hem, and a long wrap in the same breezy fabric, complete with its own scattering of bling.
Finding pretty, strappy shoes in the same color had consumed an entire afternoon, but the results, she decided, as she twisted in front of the mirror in her room, were worth it.
“I do love a party,” said Beatrice, sparkling with excitement. She wore a long skirt and jacket in gold brocade and looked regal.
But it was Claude who took Lucy's breath away. The sight of him in evening dress was like seeing Clive Owen at the Oscars. The tux only emphasized the animal qualities of the man inside it. Her breathlessness at the sight of him irritated her so much she could barely manage to be civil. The fact that his eyes glowed with admiration when they rested on her only mildly relieved her annoyance.
Claude drove them in his BMW—the roof up in deference to their carefully styled hair—to an antebellum mansion outside of town. The place was gorgeous with an avenue of ancient oaks leading to the house, which sat on acres of sloping land.
They headed into the lavishly decorated ballroom and Lucy took a moment simply to enjoy the spectacle. Even though she didn't know a soul, she could have guessed what Beatrice had told her—that anyone who was anyone would be here. An air of money and entitlement about these people suggested they knew their worth and, based on some of the gems and fashions on display, they knew how to flaunt their wealth.
Beatrice pointed out a few of the people she thought Lucy might be interested in. Here was a famous writer, there a prominent historian. That woman had lost a son at Pearl Harbor. Over there was the mayor. She had a few anecdotes to share about some of the more colorful people, most of them good-natured.
“Oh, I should have known they'd be here,” Beatrice said with unaccustomed animosity in her tone. She motioned to where a man in a toupee that seemed to be channeling Donald Trump stood with a woman so thin it hurt Lucy's bones to look at her. “She boasted to a friend of mine that she has to have her clothes custom made. Even a size two has to be taken in.”
“Ouch.” The form-fitting black sheath dress the woman wore certainly fit where it touched. She wore her blond hair up and her décolletage low so her long, Audrey Hepburn neck was the focal point of her ensemble. She wore a choker with three stings of fat pearls—the only thing fat on her body—centered by the biggest emerald Lucy had ever seen.
“Is that emerald real?” Lucy asked in a whisper.
“Oh, yes. The Grimmels. Husband's trying to develop land that he maintains is swamp and everyone knows is irreplaceable habitat for a rare species of frog. Horrible people.” Beatrice was usually willing to give everyone his due, but Lucy had discovered that she despised people who took from society and gave nothing back.
Lucy might not know a soul, but it was quickly apparent that both Claude and his mother knew pretty much everyone. Beatrice was soon swept into a laughing group of men and women. One older gentlemen with silver hair and a tan who looked a bit like Cary Grant in his older days kissed her cheek and obviously wanted her all to himself. Another man, balding but with an attractive smile, went off to get Beatrice a drink.
“Will they fight a duel?” Lucy asked Claude.
“No. Mother says she'll never marry again. She likes men, though.” He shrugged in a typically Gallic way. “You never know.”
She watched Beatrice for a few minutes, feeling proud of this strong, independent woman. She realized with a start that she'd become as fond of Beatrice in the couple of weeks she'd been here as she would be if they'd known each other all their lives.
“I love your mom,” she said to Claude.
“She's pretty crazy about you, too,” he replied. “Come on, let's find a drink.”
They made their way to the bar, and since there was some kind of bright pink punch that came out of a fountain, she went for that. How often did she go to the kind of parties where drinks came out of a very pretty mermaid's mouth? A Bud in a bottle she could get any day.
It was surprisingly fun having Claude as a date. He knew so many people that they were usually part of a group, and it didn't escape her notice that a lot of longing glances were sent his way by women in the room.
“Do you want to dance?” he asked after they'd been talking to a group of some of the younger people present.
She glanced at him under her lashes. “I haven't forgotten what happened last time we danced.”
He grinned at her. “Me neither.”
Oh, what the hell, she thought, putting her empty punch glass on a passing waiter's tray. They made their way to the crowded dance floor, and then she saw the woman who'd been driving the car that morning when she was jogging. The one he'd had the intense conversation with at five-thirty in the morning after who knew what had passed in the hours beforehand.
The woman was stunning. Even more so tonight in a pumpkin-colored evening dress. She was with a stern-looking man who kept a proprietary arm around her. To Lucy's surprise, the woman and Claude passed within touching distance of one another and neither made the slightest sign of recognition.
Somehow, seeing Claude and that woman pretend not to know each other took all the fun out of dancing with her sexy cousin. Why couldn't he have said, “Hey, Lucy, I'd like you to meet Ethel. She and I belong to a voodoo club that meets in the wee hours.” Or, “Hey, Lucy, this here's my good friend Ethel. We're both amateur astronomers. Did you know that the best stargazing happens between two and four
A.M.
?”
Instead, he acted like he'd never seen the woman in his life.
“What's the matter?” he asked her after they'd been pressed together for a few minutes in with the mass of other dancers. The magic she'd felt the last time they'd danced was gone.
“Nothing.”
“Your body doesn't lie to me, Lucy. Something's bothering you.”
He wanted to know? Fine.
She
had no reason to hide things. Unlike some people. “That woman we passed on our way to the dance floor, the one in the orange dress. I saw her drive you home at five-thirty in the morning three days ago.”
He bent his head to look down at her, and she was amazed to see not embarrassment or contrition in his gaze, but a blaze of anger. “And you naturally decided I'm having an affair with her.”
“Seemed like a logical conclusion. Now I've seen her with that possessive guy, I'd add adulterous to affair.” She stared back defiantly. “Are you going to tell me I'm wrong?”
“I told you to trust me. I promised you I wasn't seeing another woman.”
“I saw what I saw.”
“Come on.” He all but dragged her off the dance floor and outside to a floodlit garden with secret alcoves and stone benches. They passed the woman she'd seen in the car and he must have made some sign because the next thing she knew, the three of them were standing in a sheltered corner surrounded by the scent of night jasmine.
“This better be important,” the woman snapped.
“Isabelle, this is my cousin, Lucy. Please tell her who you are and how we know each other.”
Oh, this should be good. Voodoo club? Stargazing? She could hardly wait to hear what they'd come up with.
“Claude, you agreed—”
“It's important,” he snapped. Lucy felt the tension in his body.
Isabelle must have sensed it, too, for she shot him an annoyed glance and Lucy one of exasperation. She lowered her voice. “Can we trust her?”
“She's Canadian.”
Lucy didn't know what that had to do with anything and she didn't think Isabelle was overly impressed either, but after a quick glance all around, Isabelle said in a voice so soft Lucy could barely hear it. “Why does she have to know?”
“She thinks we're having an affair,” Claude said in a clipped voice.
A trill of laughter, quickly suppressed, came from the woman. She then shot a much more human glance at Lucy. “I'm not sleeping with him. I'm a cop. Claude is helping me with a case.”
“What kind of case?” Lucy asked, determined to show the pair of them that being Canadian did not equate with naïve, born yesterday, or stupid.
An irritated huff came from the supposed cop's direction. “Did you have to pick now, Claude?”
“Just answer her questions.”
“Robbery. Claude has knowledge of gems and a network of contacts that I need. We meet at night so no one will suspect he's working with the cops. That's all I can tell you, and it's too much.”
“I won't say a word to anyone,” Lucy said. She stared at the woman, realizing, oddly enough that she believed her. Almost. “Do you have some I.D.?”
“Claude!”
“Show her your badge and be done with it.”
A rustling in a small silk evening bag and Lucy was presented with a leather folder. Not that she knew a great deal about police identification, but this one looked official. Detective Isabelle DuBois, she read. NOPD. She nodded. “Thanks.”
“Okay, keep your mouth shut. I gotta go.”
Claude nodded and the woman melted away. Suddenly, Lucy realized she was in a sultry New Orleans garden all alone with a very attractive man she'd wronged. Well, one thing she'd learned in her life was to own up when she was wrong. “Claude,” she said, taking a deep breath and turning resolutely to face him. “I'm sorry.”
“It's not good enough,” he said.
She blinked. “What? An honest apology's not good enough? Think about this from my point of view. I saw you with her and anybody would—”
“No. Sorry's not good enough. You have to pay a forfeit.” There wasn't anger in his tone, more a kind of warm teasing that turned her body to mush and her brain to goo.
“A forfeit . . .”
“Yes. I think one perfect kiss should do it.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Who judges whether the kiss is perfect or not?”
“The injured party, naturally.”
He was so silly and so gorgeous and she was so happy to be wrong about Isabelle that she found herself smiling in the dark. The scent of night-blooming jasmine was joined by other scents, some she recognized, some not. A faint scent of roses, and the smell of rich, dark earth. Then there was the much more intoxicating scent of the man standing closer to her now than he had been a second ago.
“One perfect kiss,” he said, and covered her mouth with his own.
If perfect was a wild coming together of mouths and tongues and bodies so fevered they grabbed and rubbed and pushed closer and closer until their clothes felt like cement walls keeping them apart, then it was perfect.
She was so hungry for him she shocked herself. His hands were on her bare back, slipping around the front to rub her breasts, in her hair, gripping her hips, while his mouth was busy at hers, so hungry, so demanding.
“Oh,” she said, tilting her head back. “Oh.”
His mouth was busy at her shoulders, her neck. Drowning her with needs and emotions she couldn't keep up with. A soft breeze ruffled the scented air and stroked her overwarm skin.
“I need you,” he said raggedly.
“Oh, yes,” she answered, knowing now that this had been inevitable. From the first moment she'd seen him sweaty and dangerous, staring at her over his shovel, she'd recognized an attraction more powerful than any she'd ever felt.
Here and now, she faced it.
“I've been going crazy wanting you,” he muttered, his hands sliding into the silk bodice until he touched her breasts. They ached for him, and when he eased the fabric down so that she was naked to the moon and his gaze, she reveled in the freedom. Now he could see her, her skin so pale under the moonlight. Now he could touch the breasts that ached for him, now he could taste them. He bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth, and the sensation was so strong she felt that much more would be dangerous.
How had this happened? She never lost control like this.
It was as scary as it was exhilarating.
A burst of sound and she realized vaguely that a door had opened, letting out the sounds of the party. Voices nearby.
With a muttered curse, Claude rapidly pulled her dress back to cover her. “Let's get out of here,” he said.
She nodded, knowing she couldn't have made a coherent sound if she'd tried.

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