Desire and Deception (20 page)

She closed her eyes as the crushing loneliness assailed her. At the moment, even Felix Duval would have been welcome, but he had left for the same ball that Lila and Jean-Paul were attending.

Felix was the one man who continued to pursue her, in spite of her
unattainability
. Intrigued by her very aloofness, he had propositioned her frequently during the past year. Recently, he had even offered to set Lauren up in her own establishment as his mistress.

But though his offer would provide her security and wealth, at least temporarily, and though she would be getting a home and affection of a sort, Lauren had refused him. Gently, of course, for Felix was fond of her, even if his primary reason was that she challenged his ego. Moreover, she didn't want to
allienate
him entirely, for she was benefiting from his attention. The rumor had somehow started that she was Felix Duval's special property—strictly off limits to the gamesters. Few were willing to force the issue and face the threat of pistols at dawn with the volatile Duval.

It had never come to this last, Lauren was thankful, but Felix was becoming too possessive for comfort. His frustration at not being able to have her was growing out of hand.

He thought she was holding out for marriage, she knew, yet her answer would have been the same had Felix offered for her hand. She wouldn't marry him—couldn't marry him. Not under false pretenses. She could never tell him about her past. Not unless she trusted him, and trusting any man would be difficult after her mother's experiences with Jonathan Carlin

and
her own with George Burroughs.

Giving a sigh, Lauren transferred her gaze to the clock on the mantel.
Only a few more hours.
Then she would be free of her duties and would climb the stairs to her room.
Quite alone.

When Kyle returned to the smoking room, having learned little of what he set out to discover about Andrea Carlin, he found Jason pacing the floor again. Kyle shook his head, acknowledging his lack of success. "I'm damned if I can tell, Jason. At first I thought it was Miss Carlin, for her voice and eyes were just as you described. But she seemed so . . . at home here. If she was faking that French accent, I couldn't tell. She said her name was Marquerite."

His report seemed to fall on deaf ears, for Jason merely said grimly, "She's Andrea Carlin."

"But what the devil is she doing in a place like this?"

Jason's jaw hardened as he shot a glance at his friend. "She must have come here with Lila."

"Then perhaps we should try to find Lila."

"I'll find her, all right—if she's still in New Orleans. But at the moment I'm more concerned about how to get Miss Carlin out of here without raising an alarm."

Kyle frowned and ran a hand through his hair. "I only have one question. Have you bloody well lost your mind?"

"Perhaps," Jason said, smiling humorlessly. "But I have some unfinished business with the lady. And if I know you, my friend, you have more than just one question. So out with them now, if you please."

"Very well.
Where do you plan to take her? And if you have that figured out, how do you plan to deal with the bruiser who was at the door when we came in? What about the
Gescard
woman? Do you suppose she will thank you for stealing one of her . . .
er
, ladies away?
And Duval.
What if his interest in Miss Carlin isn't mercenary? What if he isn't aware that she's an heiress? And," Kyle finished lamely as he saw his objections were having little impact, "Marquerite said she was occupied later this evening. What if she would prefer—"

"My money should be as good as the next man's," Jason returned, his voice low and harsh.

"
Jase
, you can't just abduct the woman," Kyle began, before Jason eyed him warningly. Kyle sighed, realizing that in this instance at least arguments were fruitless. He would have more luck trying to stop a hurricane in full force than Jason Stuart when he was roused. "What do you want me to do?" he offered.

"I have a hackney waiting in the rear alley," Jason replied. "I can leave with Miss Carlin by way of the courtyard if you will keep the majordomo occupied."

Kyle was reminded of the countless times in the past when he had heard Jason issuing orders in that same uncompromising tone. But at least he seemed to be approaching the problem logically now, without allowing the strong emotion that had gripped him earlier to interfere with his thinking. Kyle nodded slowly. "And then I should disappear for a time?"

Jason grinned, although his blue eyes remained cold. "You can have Veronique. The way she was eyeing that great hulk of yours leads me to believe she won't be disappointed by the exchange. I'll take Miss Carlin to the ship. I imagine I'll be staying there for a few days, at least long enough to determine what to do with her inheritance. I can send you word at the hotel, or here, if I need you."

"You relieve my mind," Kyle said dryly. "I thought for a moment that you had forgotten your original purpose for coming here."

"Not at all," Jason replied ominously.

Seeing his friend's grim expression, Kyle felt a sudden sympathy for the young woman he had just met. He reached out to grasp Jason's arm. "You might also remember that you wanted to marry her, not cause her any more trouble."

Jason's only response was a flexing muscle in his jaw.

Kyle released his grip and ran a calloused hand through his hair once more. "Hell, I still can't figure out what the heiress to a tremendous fortune is doing in a whorehouse."

Jason gave a derisive snort. "That, my friend, should be perfectly obvious."

*
 
*
 
*

When the last mellow chord of her song faded, Lauren left her place at the pianoforte and made her way to the refreshment table. She wasn't surprised to have been forgotten by the harried waiter; the parlor was more crowded than usual and the waiter was fully occupied with ensuring a steady flow of cognac and champagne for the guests. But she needed something to drink. Her throat was parched from so much singing, and the husky rasp of her voice had deepened.

As she gratefully accepted a glass of champagne, she caught sight of Desiree
Chaudier
clinging to two florid-faced gentlemen. Desiree was one of the dealers at the casino, and the only woman with whom Lauren didn't get along. When their glances met, Desiree flashed
her a
look of veiled savagery, but since Lauren had learned to deal with the spiteful, jealous Desiree by simply ignoring her, she turned away.

She was just taking her first sip of wine when she suddenly froze, the crystal rim held to her lips. In the mirror, she could see an image of a man.
A tall man with sun-streaked chestnut hair.
And . . . heaven help her . . . intensely brilliant blue eyes. Those eyes were watching her, gauging her. She shut her own, but the image was still there a moment later: intimidating, powerful, vital.

She wasn't imagining him. The other guests had noticed him, too, for she could sense heads turning as he moved slowly across the room. Yet how could anyone not notice, when he dominated the room with his masculine beauty and magnetic, compelling presence? He looked impossibly handsome in his elegant evening dress: a form-fitting coat of blue superfine, gleaming white cravat, and buff
stockinette
trousers.

He was moving toward her, walking with the leonine grace of leashed power, stopping only a yard away.

Slowly, Lauren turned to meet those startlingly blue eyes, and the impact almost took her breath away. A dim roar of rushing blood sounded in her ears.

She was unaware when the glass slipped from her nerveless fingers to fall with a dull thud on the carpet. But she was quite conscious of the blue gaze
which
slowly raked her figure from her satin slippers to her fashionable headdress, then down again to her breasts.

Lauren stared back at him, her own gaze dropping against her will to his lips. She flushed in remembrance. Those chiseled lips had once pressed against her bare breasts, and she didn't need to look down to know that her nipples had suddenly hardened to aching points.

He seemed to have noticed as well, for his mouth twisted in an ironic quirk before he raised his gaze to meet hers.

For the life of her, she couldn't look away. Not even when she felt him searching her face, as if trying to see behind the mask.

Thankfully, that devouring gaze left her as he bent down to retrieve her fallen goblet. But it returned again in full force as he held the glass out to her. "Yours, I believe," he said gallantly.

She still remembered that velvet-textured voice, although she could hardly hear it above the thudding of her heart. Wordlessly, Lauren nodded, although she couldn't force her fingers to accept his offering.

Jason stepped past her to exchange the empty glass for a full one.
But when she wouldn't take that, either, he lifted it in a salute.
"When Kyle told me he had discovered a goddess, I had to come see for myself.
To your beauty, Mademoiselle Marquerite."

Lauren stared at him, trying to assimilate what was happening. He had made a similar toast once before, yet this time he had called her Marquerite. Was it possible that he didn't recognize her after all?

Unexpectedly, she felt a sharp stab of disappointment. How could he have forgotten so easily something that had affected her so deeply? Yet if Captain Stuart didn't remember her, she might yet escape retribution for drugging him four years ago.

With an effort, Lauren inclined her head graciously and forced a slight French accent into her speech. "I do not think, monsieur, that we have been introduced."

His eyes flashed briefly, glittering sapphires in his tanned face. "No," he replied, his chiseled features once again hardening, "we have never been properly introduced."

She could not have known that her fate had hung in the balance as he waited for her response. He had hoped—with his very soul, he had hoped—for a different answer. She knew who he was, he was certain. She hadn't been able to hide her initial trepidation beneath the mask she was now wearing.

He threw back his head and tossed off the champagne. Then with determination strengthening the already powerful line of his jaw, he forced himself to smile, to play her game. "Jason Stuart, mademoiselle, of the Siren, at your service. My ship could have been named for you, I think. I could easily believe you to be a siren, luring hapless sailors to their doom."

Lauren eyed him uncertainly. "Perhaps you mean to be flattering, Monsieur Stuart, but—"

"Jason, please," he said smoothly.
"Then, a goddess, if you care not for the other.
Your beauty is quite devastating. Do I dare hope that I might have the pleasurable company of one so lovely this evening?"

Her lashes lowered, veiling the gold-green eyes behind the mask. "I fear that will not be possible, monsieur." She almost jumped in shock when Jason gently grasped her fingers and raised them to his lips.

"Ah, mademoiselle, do not deny me, I beg of you," he murmured, his voice thick as honey. "I am but a mere mortal worshiping at your feet, a humble supplicant for your favors."

In spite of herself, Lauren sucked in her breath when he pressed his warm lips against the sensitive pulse of her wrist. His mouth was sending hot sparks shooting up her arm. She tried to withdraw her hand, but he held it firmly in his own large one, capturing her gaze just as inexorably.

Lauren shuddered, realizing now what it was about Jason that as a sixteen-year-old she had been too naive to recognize: raw, male virility. That was what held her gaze riveted to his as her knees quivered with feminine weakness. And that was what made her gasp as Jason's tongue flicked out to swirl slowly over her palm.

It was more than time to put an end to her breathless attraction.

"Monsieur," Lauren exclaimed, less forcefully than she would have liked. "I think you do not understand. I have a previous engagement for the rest of the evening."