Bayou Bad Boys (21 page)

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Authors: Nancy Warren

BOOK: Bayou Bad Boys
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“Oh, no. The fresh air will be great.”
When they were both in the car, she gave him a curious look. “I had you in mind as older.”
He put the car in gear, reversed to make a turn, and slanted a gaze her way. “Marilee again. She thinks anyone over thirty was around when they built the Statue of Liberty.”
“How old are you?” she asked, while making a rough braid from her long hair and securing it with a blue stretchy thing she'd dug from her tote.
“Thirty-nine.” He eyed her, decided on tit-for-tat. “What about you?” Twenty-six, he guessed.
“Thirty-two. Next month.” She finished her braid, rested her head back on the seat, and drew in some long deep breaths.
As heaving bosoms went, he rated hers an A-plus. Hell, they'd be A-plus whether they heaved or not.
With her eyes still closed, she asked, “Do you live far? I can't wait to get out of these clothes. Take a long—make that endless—shower.”
Dane's mouth went dry, and his Neanderthal brain thickened with sexually charged images.
What was behind his zipper thickened, period.
“A half hour tops.” He geared down, revved the Porsche's powerful motor, and screamed out the gate. For the first time he understood the relationship between a fast car and a man's libido.
They were at his house in twenty minutes. His best time ever.
 
Two seconds after she closed the door to her room and shut out the dour-faced Dane McCoy, Esme flipped open her cell phone and called Marilee, because one second after meeting her brother, she'd smelled a rat—and it wasn't him.
Marilee picked up.
“What's going on here?” Esme demanded, her heart thumping in her chest with enough force to damage her ribs. She'd spent the last half hour being cool, and she'd run out of ice. Nothing about McCoy jibed with Marilee's description, and she wanted to know why.
“I don't know what you mean.”
“You told me your brother was some kind of middle-aged hermit, a super nerd—your exact words as I recall—with no time for—” She stopped.
“Sex?” Marilee finished. “And it's the truth . . . almost.”
“Almost?” Loaded word, almost. So conveniently vague.
She sensed Marilee's shrug. “He sees women when it suits him, I guess. But he doesn't seem to like them much, and he doesn't put much effort into it, if you ask me. But sometimes they call or just . . . show up.”
I'll bet!
Esme thought, visions of his cobalt eyes slanting down at her with enough residual punch to make her swallow.
Marilee went on doggedly. “But mostly he never sees anyone, hardly ever goes out. Except for those weird trips he takes with Janzen, who's pretty high on the weirdness scale himself—to do business stuff. All he does is sit at his stupid computers and count his gold. Kind of like that Midas guy.” She stopped. “I thought, if he met you—”
“You're matchmaking!” She sat solidly on the edge of the king-size bed. “How could I have been so stupid?”
“I am not doing anything of the kind.” Marilee sounded incensed. “I just thought you could loosen him up, bring him out of himself . . . you being a therapist and everything.”
“Ex-therapist. And I didn't come here to ‘loosen up' your brother. I came to make a simple delivery, and do a house drawing in exchange for some hospitality. I have no intention of interfering in your brother's life.”
“He's awfully cute, though, isn't he?”
My God, he's so far beyond cute he's in another dimension.
“Cute has nothing to do with anything,” she said, striving for prim, which was a major joke.
“Okay, I'll level with you. Leonardo and I really need Dane's help to open our spa. It just makes sense. You know Leonardo has the credentials—”
Esme couldn't deny that. Leonardo was a brilliant, caring and dedicated psychologist. He also had three degrees behind his name.
“—and I'm already back at esthetician college. But Dane won't even talk about what we want to do. I swear he thinks we plan to open some kind of high-class brothel or something. He's totally off the wall about it.” She paused, took a breath. “What we want to create—in tandem with the usual reinvigorating spa environment—is a place where a person has the time and privacy to discuss sexual issues and deal with whatever inhibitions stop them from experiencing the joy and bonding inherent in a healthy, happy sex life, and—”
“Stop quoting Leonardo, Marilee. I know exactly what he wants to do.” And she thought it was a fabulous idea. In her years as a sex therapist she'd learned one thing: there was a woeful shortage of understanding and a glut of confusion surrounding sexuality, much of it mired in guilt and secrecy. And a lot of people were unhappy and depressed because of it.
Shine a light where a light is needed,
Leonardo had said; Esme agreed completely.
“Well, I want it, too. For him and me.” Marilee's tone was stubborn. “The idea is, I'll deal with the tense and tired body while he handles the uptight sexual psyche. It's perfect.”
“Tell me something. Does Leonardo know you set me up as your business agent? Or to be more accurate, your Mata Hari.”
More silence filtered down the line. “No.”
“I didn't think so.”
“When Dane said no, Leonardo said that was his right, that we'd find the money somewhere else.”
“Sounds smart to me.”
“But we haven't!” Marilee said, her voice growing desperate. “And we're running out of time.”
“So you recruit me to seduce the money out of your brother?”
“No! Like I said, he refuses to talk to me about the spa. I thought if you could get close to him, he'd listen to you—or at least be polite. Then you could tell him all about Leonardo, how incredible he is . . .” She sighed. “I thought putting a face on things was so much better than dropping a file on his desk filled with a bunch of dry numbers and projections. That's all. Honestly.”
“Did it occur to you that Dane might hate me on sight?”
She made a dismissive snort. “I know my brother. When he isn't antisocial, he goes for smart, ambitious women . . . with great legs. You rate on all counts.”
Trust Marilee to have her own vision of things. “I'll give him your business case, because I said I would, and I'll talk about it—if he asks—but that's it,” Esme said. “Then I do my drawings, and I'm out of here.” A thought came, and she grimaced, afraid to ask the question that sprang from it. “Marilee, you told me your brother ‘wanted' an artist's rendering of his house. Is that true?” The drawing was how she planned to repay his hospitality.
“Well . . . almost. I said he'd ‘love' one . . . although he might not exactly know that.”
“I can't believe this.” With her free hand she shoved her hair roughly back.
“Esme, ple-e-ase. Just talk to him. If not for me, for Leonardo.”
“Good-bye, Marilee.” She clicked off, tossed the phone on the bed, and fell backward, arms above her head. “Damn!” she said to the ceiling.
I wonder where the closest motel is.
Two
Dane showed Esme to her room, went directly to the library, and poured himself a shot of single malt Scotch.
Janzen ambled in, took a seat on the arm of the sofa, and stretched his legs in front of him. “That is one spectacular female you drove in with,” he said.
Dane ignored him. “Want a drink?” he asked, raising the bottle in his direction.
“Sure.”
Dane poured a shot, walked over to where Janzen sat, and handed it to him. “You still have any of those shady connections of yours left over from your spy days?”
“One or two. Why?”
“I'm thinking of taking a contract out on Marilee.” He downed his drink.
Janzen laughed. “You're talking about the woman I plan to marry.”
“So you keep saying. Might be tough. She says you give her the vapors.”
He frowned at that. “I think I'll take that as a compliment.”
“You take everything as a compliment.” Dane poured himself another drink and forced himself to sip it, then sprawled in the leather wingback across from Janzen.
“This conversation isn't about me—or my future bride,” Janzen said. “It's about that beauty you just parked in the bedroom across the hall from yours.”
“It's a nice room.”
“It's a convenient room.”
Damned if it wasn't.
“Did you check out that South Africa deal?” Dane asked. Good a time as any to change the subject, get his mind off a leggy brunette who'd do nothing but distract it given half a chance.
“Yeah. It's clean. And a small investment considering the potential benefits. Fifty thousand should take care of it.”
“Personnel?”
“In place. They'll make sure the money gets into the right hands.”
“Good. I'll do the transfer later tonight.”
Janzen stood, finished his drink, and lifted his eyes pointedly toward the ceiling, the second floor. “What about her?”
“What about her? She's a friend of Marilee's and she's here for money.”
“You're a suspicious prick, McCoy.”
“That, I am. And I can connect the dots when I have to. How about this?” Dane eyed his partner and friend. “First dot, Marilee's got herself a new boyfriend. His name's Leonardo.”
That got Janzen's interest.
“Second dot, aforementioned boyfriend—and Marilee—want money to open some kind of sex shop.”
That made Janzen blink.
“Third dot, Marilee arranges for major sexpot to spend two weeks with her brother. The brother who has refused repeatedly to finance her and Leonardo's . . . rub-and-tug operation.”
Janzen narrowed his gaze. “Not necessarily connected.”
“And the fourth dot?” He paused for effect. “The sexpot is the boyfriend's sister.”
“You checked her out.”
“With what I've got going on here, I check everyone out.”
“Then why'd you let her come?”
It was Dane's turn to blink. Hell, a guy couldn't admit to an ex-CIA type he was putty in the hands of his little sister. “I didn't get the information on her until just before I left for the airport.”
“What all did you get?”
“Not much. Full name, Esme Patience Shane. Divorced three years ago. No criminal record. She actually is an illustrator—been one for about four years. Successful by the sound of it. Before that she was some kind of therapist. She lives in San Diego. She doesn't lie about her age . . .”
She has intense, smart green eyes, a body created for a man's hands, and legs long enough to wrap—
“That's it?” Janzen prodded, looking puzzled.
Dane snapped back to the present “And her brother's name is Leonardo Billings St. James. Other than her being a ‘best friend' ”—he made quote marks in the air—“of my irresponsible sister, she's an all-round staid and upstanding citizen.”
Janzen made a show of shuddering, then grinned. “The worst kind.” He stood, drained his glass, and set it on the edge of Dane's desk. “You want me to get rid of her?”
Dane turned the glass of amber liquid in his hand, mulled over Janzen's suggestion. Getting Esme Shane off the property—and off the island—would be the smart thing, the safe thing. Then his brain veered off, formed an image of her luscious mouth, the way her eyes met his, warm and confident. In the five years since he'd made
Forbes's
goddamn rich-list, that kind of look was rare. More likely, a person looking at him now, had eyes full of avarice and manufactured friendship—or they were so nervous they sputtered.
“No.” He stood. “It'll be fun to let her pitch Marilee's deal and fail. Teach Marilee a damn lesson. But keep an eye on her while she's here, will you? I've got a lot on my plate.”
“No can do.” It was Janzen's turn to stand. “I'm out tonight, and I'm off to New York tomorrow, remember?”
No, he hadn't.
Janzen strode to the door, stopped. “You'll have to do your own ‘eyeing.' ” He grinned again. “And thinking of that babe upstairs, I can't bring myself to feel sorry for you. Have fun, McCoy.” He walked out.
Dane stared after him. Damn. He'd been counting on pawning the woman off on Janzen. So . . . he should be disappointed and pissed off that his plan was scuttled. Which didn't account for the expectancy pacing in his tired brain, or the odd lightness in his chest. Janzen said to “have fun.” Now there was a thought. Dane headed for the computer room. Hell, he wouldn't know “fun” if it hit him broadside.
And woman-type fun? More particularly Esme Shane–type fun? Uh-uh. That was an extreme sport he had neither the time nor the energy for.
He quickened his pace, but before he sat down at the computer console, he called the kitchen. “Peggy, Janzen won't be here for dinner, but I have a guest—”
He looked heavenward. “Yes, that's right, a ‘living, breathing' guest of the female variety. Call her, will you? See if she needs anything. She's in the green room. And tell her dinner will be at six. Yes, I know that's early.” He prayed for patience. “Six, Peggy. Thank you.”
He hung up and looked at the time on the screen. He had two hours to work . . . two hours to wait.
 
Esme didn't expect formality, and she wasn't disappointed. Peggy Street, the woman who ran McCoy's house and cooked for him, had helped Esme get settled; she'd told her Dane didn't like the dining room, that he preferred to eat in the breakfast room off the kitchen.
When she looked at the slim silver watch on her wrist, she realized she was a few minutes early and decided to stroll through the rose garden she'd spotted from the kitchen window. She wasn't looking forward to dinner with a man who'd been coerced into having her here, so she'd resolved to be pleasant—if it killed her—until she could make a graceful exit to the nearest motel.
The blooms were full and alive with color, their scent heady and rich in the strong Louisiana sun. She had her nose buried in a pure white blossom when she heard footsteps behind her, scrunching on the crushed oyster shells that formed a path through the dozens of rosebushes. She turned and straightened.
“You comfortable? Your room okay?” Dane McCoy asked, the words clipped, his eyes cool and hot at the same time.
Esme's heart hurtled upward to fill her throat. Dane McCoy—wearing a navy shirt and tan dress slacks, a darker tan leather belt circling his lean waist, his skin clear and clean-shaven, his scarily intelligent eyes fixated on her, half angry, half wolf—was blindingly handsome, and the bolt of attraction that made her bones crumble caught her off-guard. She'd felt it earlier today, the second their eyes met. Then it was a gentle wash of warmth that made her tummy curl, but now it was a flash flood affecting a more sensitive part of her anatomy—and God, it felt good.
It had been so long . . .
She waited until her heart settled down to where it belonged, waited for her vision to widen enough to encompass more than Dane McCoy, and said in as measured a voice as she could muster, “Everything's fine. Thank you.”
His eyes flicked to her mouth, stayed there. Too long. “Good,” he said, finally lifting his gaze to hers. “Dinner's ready. I hope you like to eat, because Peggy's gone all out. It's been a while since she cooked for a woman.”
Dane, only a few steps from the open kitchen door, went to stand beside it, waited for her. Esme followed, surprised and intrigued he'd been so honest about the lack of a woman in his life. She guessed none had called or “showed up” recently, which, according to Marilee, was how the mating game worked for Dane McCoy, the whole thing easy and effortless. No doubt women only rose on his priority list when absolutely necessary—when his body demanded them.
She twisted her lips to restrain a smile, thinking how irritating it must be for a power-hungry, money-obsessed male like Dane to have his work interrupted by an inconveniently demanding libido. Probably a quick and impatient lover, she thought. Not that she intended to confirm that. What she intended was to be polite and controlled until she could make her escape.
When she reached the door, he gestured her in, his hand briefly touching—warming—her bare elbow as she stepped ahead of him into the kitchen.
Peggy bustled around the table, setting down red beans and rice, lamb steaks, asparagus dripping in butter and parmesan, and long thin bread rolls to die for.
After she and Dane agreed on a red wine, Esme, who hadn't eaten since morning, started on dinner. “Oh,” she breathed, after her first bite of asparagus. “This is beyond heavenly.” After another couple of bites, she realized Dane wasn't eating. “What's wrong?” she asked, “Don't you like it?”
“Peggy's cooking? What's not to like?” He sat stone still in the chair across from her, twirling the stem of his wineglass on the white tablecloth, and looking at her as if she were a dissected frog from last week's biology class. No lust now—only enmity.
Quelling a prickle of unease, Esme set her fork down. “You're not eating.”
“I'd rather watch you eat.”
She met his gaze. “Why's that?”
“I like watching your mouth. The way your tongue comes out and sweeps your lips to pick up the last of the flavor.”
“You like . . . my tongue?”
“Ever met a man who didn't like your tongue?” His chilly expression didn't so much as flicker.
“Never met one who admitted it so openly within”—she looked at her watch—“four hours of meeting me. A woman might consider a remark like that a bit suggestive at this point, even insulting.” Esme wasn't sure what he'd meant by it. It certainly wasn't a come-on. And if it was intended as a put-down, he'd seriously miscalculated. Esme Shane was not
put-downable.
He nodded his dark head once. “Some women would, but not you. You didn't blush, didn't turn away, and you didn't stand and walk out of the room.”
“And that means what? I failed some kind of test?”
“It means you're not easily intimidated.”
She wondered how he'd react if he knew she'd spent years talking about tongues, penises, and vaginas for a living. She decided to find out. “I'm not,” she said. “At least not when it comes to sexuality, which is the category I'd put that remark of yours into.” She picked up her knife and fork and started in on her steak. “I was a sex therapist for six years before I decided to follow my bliss, as they say.”
“A sex therapist,” he repeated and raised a brow. “Do I even want to know what that means?”
“You would if you needed help getting an erection, or couldn't satisfy either yourself or your partner.” She looked at him, held back her smile, and adopted her clinical persona. “Do you? Because if so, while I'm here . . .” She cocked a brow in question. Yes, definitely the faintest of blushes warmed those remarkable cheekbones of his.
“I do fine, thanks.”
“Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
“Yeah . . . in the bedroom across the hall from mine.”
She put her eating utensils down and smiled at him through her confusion. This conversation was twisting and turning a bit faster than she could handle. “Why are we having this . . . intimate a conversation when we hardly know each other?”
“We can talk about sex or we can talk about money. For now I figured sex was the simpler of the two.”
She still didn't get it. “What are you talking about?”
He leaned forward. “I know why you're here, Esme Patience Shane.” He enunciated her name clearly and, she thought, with obvious distaste.

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