In Your Wildest Dreams (14 page)

"Now," she says, so you grab firm to her hips and sink inside her, fast, easy. She is a soft, warm glove hugging you; you close your eyes at the profound pleasure. "Yes," she purrs, "yes," as you begin to move in her. Sweet. Slick.

Even with closed eyes, all you see is that same red glow, electric and hypnotizing, drawing you deeper and deeper into her. And in your mind, you see her amid that glow, but her face remains hidden by the color—she is only shadow, a silhouette.

Opening your eyes, you fall onto her, needing more. You press your upper body
flat against her back, cocooning her; you rain kisses across her neck.

Somehow, even as you 're having her, you still want— want to see her face, look into her eyes.

You want her to love you.

You want her to be the only thing in your world.

You want her to shroud you, protect you, so that nothing can hurt you, or her, ever.

And in this moment, you believe she can.

Chapter 9

Jake lay staring at a brown water stain on the ceiling, trying to focus on that and nothing else, as he lifted the barbell. He felt the welcome strain in his forearms, shoulders, chest, as he held the weight steady, despite the shakiness in his wrists.

Lowering it back into place, he let out a breath, glad for the burn in
h
is muscles, but still seeing
...
the woman in the dream. Her back, her delectable rear. Over a full damn day ago, and still he felt it. He refocused on the water stain as if it were a cloud, or a Rorschach, something he could remold in his mind. He saw a flower in the stain.

Like the little flower on the dream woman's ass. He went hard. Damn it.

Not quite ready to lift the barbell again, he did it anyway—to dull the memory and accompanying emotions. Why did these damn dreams make him feel so much? And he always awoke with such an overpowering sense of guilt. He wasn't supposed to feel this much for anyone else—anyone besides Becky. Even if it was only a dream.

He glanced toward the scarred, secondhand end table across the room and caught sight of the framed photo of her taken in Audubon Park one spring day. Mardi Gras beads they'd found hanging from a tree on the St. Charles parade route draped her neck. His chest sank and he nearly dropped the weight on himself before letting it fall into the Y-shaped brackets with a clatter.
Merde.

Maybe he should have just stayed out at the bayou house for his remaining days off—he was so much more at peace there. But he'd come back yesterday and spent the evening making phone calls to other old connections on the force, all looking to turn up some sign of Tina Grant. It had been emotionally taxing—having to make chitchat with old colleagues, hearing the requisite concern in their voices when they asked how he was doing— and it had led to nothing. It was as if the girl had vanished into thin air.

As for Stephanie, he'd picked up the phone to call her twice last night. To make sure she wasn't out doing something stupid. And
...
why else? Because he wanted to hear her voice? Because he was so tempted to try getting her to drop that barrier she'd put up when things had got too hot between them?

Maybe getting with Stephanie would bring an end to these haunting dreams.

Of course, he knew the woman in the dreams bore startling similarities to her—except he'd had the first dream before they'd even met, so
...

Ah hell, give it up, Broussard.
Since when was he the type of guy to sit around analyzing dreams?

He wasn't, so he refocused on the water spot and thrust the barbell up over his head again.

A hard knock sounded on his door. "Jesus," he breathed, dropping the weight back in its rest. Pushing up from the weight bench, he strode to the door and yanked it open to find Tony on the other side.

His old friend gave him a long once-over, his eyes critical. "You look like you just ran a marathon. Or tried to and failed."

Jake glanced down at himself—his white tank was damp with sweat, and he doubted he'd raked a comb through his hair today, so it was probably pointing in all directions. "Liftin' weights," he said, realizing the activity had left him breathless. He'd been lifting for probably an hour or more.

"You're supposed to have a spotter for that, you know." Once upon a time, they'd traded the favor.

He only shrugged. He figured if that was the most reckless move he made, he was doing pretty damn good.

"You gonna invite me in or what?"

Jake stepped back and Tony came inside, heading to the Utile kitchen, where Jake heard him help himself to something in the fridge. "So about this beautiful woman you were with the other night," he called, "what's the deal?"

Jake plopped on his drooping couch. "Nothin' romantic goin' on, pard."

Tony eased down in an overstuffed chair across from him, popping the top on a beer, one of the few things probably
in
Jake's fridge. His friend's eyes urged him to say more.

"Just a woman I met at Sophia's."

Tony flinched. "She's a working girl?"

Jake laughed softly. "No. She was just there lookin' to find her sister, the girl in the pictures."

Tony nodded. "That's why I'm here. Might be nothing, but might also be a lead. A guy named Rich, who tends bar over at the Crescent. I was there last night, so I asked about her, gave her name and a description. He said he'd seen a girl there a few times who could've been her, but she'd quit coming around."

The Crescent was an old hotel across Canal Street, beyond the Quarter, where more than a few prostitutes found business in the cocktail lounge. It had just never occurred to Jake to start snooping outside the "high-priced hooker zone" because Stephanie seemed so sure that was where her sister had set up shop.

"He couldn't say for sure her name was Tina, but he thought it was something like that."

"What else? Customers she hooked up with? Other girls she came in with?"

Tony shook his head, his expression a familiar one from their days on the streets—it meant
That's all I got.
"Guy pegged me as a cop and clammed up." He sighed. "But it's
something
anyway."

Jake nodded. It
was
something. The best and only lead of any kind he'd gotten. "Thanks, man. That's a help."

"But back to the beautiful woman," Tony said, a suspicious smile forming.

Jake just gave his head a short shake. "There's nothin' there, man. Just tryin' to help her out."

"Come on, dude," Tony prodded, raising his eyebrows. "She's pretty. You're horny. That combination's
gotta
go somewhere."

Jake lifted his gaze from his coffee table to Tony, smirking. "How do you know
what
I am?" "You
gotta
be, man."

Jake just gave a cynical laugh. "Don't you know depression kills the sex drive?" It was a he in his particular case, but Tony didn't know about his dirty dreams, and he didn't need to know what had happened between him and Stephanie, either.

His friend eyed him for a minute, as if trying to decide whether or not he was holding back, then shifted his gaze to scan the apartment. "Well, something must be going better for you. You did some laundry and the place doesn't look like quite as much of a pigsty as usual."

True enough, he'd had a little more energy lately. Enough to do the laundry
and
some dishes. But he wasn't ready to attribute that to Stephanie Grant. "Ran outta clothes," he said simply.

Tony let out another sigh, his
lips
drawing into a slight frown. "Well, whatever the case, it was good to see you out the other night. Everybody at the Den was glad you came in, glad to see you with somebody new." He chuckled. "Shorty spent the rest of the night wondering if you were getting lucky."

"Shorty's got a big imagination." He decided to change the subject. "What had you so strung out that night anyway?"

Tony lifted his can to his mouth and got a faraway look in his eyes. "Still can't get any closer to Typhoeus," he said, and the name made Jake's stomach clench. "We found a young Latino girl who we think was dealing for him. She'd overdosed and
..."
He shook his head lightly. "Just had me down, you know?"

Jake nodded, but his back had already stiffened, his throat grown tight, as he struggled to remain emotionless at the mention of the local drug kingpin. He remembered the day he and Tony had sat combing the Internet for clues to what this guy was about. They'd learned that in Greek mythology, Typhoeus was a giant monster—part human, part serpent. The story went that he was defeated by Zeus and imprisoned beneath Mount Aetna, but so far, in real life, no other gods had shown up in New Orleans and Typhoeus was wreaking havoc on the city at will.

"Don't suppose you have anything new on that for me?" Tony asked.

It was Typhoeus who Tony thought might be using escorts to filter drugs to wealthy clients on Sophia's third floor. On his good days, Jake tried to keep his eyes open for anything shady—but so far they had nothing but suspicion, and a handful of obscenely rich guys who seemed likely to be involved.

Jake
didn't
have anything new—because sometimes he let his guard down and didn't think about it, because sometimes it was easier that way. He'd been trying to accept that Typhoeus had beaten him already, and he'd been thinking maybe if he could just accept that, it would make things better, allow him to start moving on.

An hour later, Tony had departed and Jake wandered down the sagging stairs outside his apartment, into the courtyard. He hadn't seen Shondra in a couple of days, and when he crawled far enough out of his self-absorption to remember that, it made him feel like a shit. Not that he owed her anything. Not that he believed anything he could do for her would make any difference in her life in the end. But since he'd taken to coming out every day around lunchtime and giving her a few bucks to go get beignets, he found himself wondering what she'd done for food yesterday when he hadn't been around until late in the afternoon.

Making his way across the barren courtyard, he peeked under the stairwell where the mattress rested and found it empty—not even her backpack remained. His gut went hollow. She was gone. She hadn't seen him around and thought he'd abandoned her.

He straightened his spine, telling himself this was a
good
thing. He wasn't anybody's baby-sitter, and hell, maybe she was more capable of taking care of herself than he thought. Street kids got pretty good at that, pretty fast.

So she was probably fine. Just fine.

The words rang through his mind like an echo—
just fine, just fine
—but he didn't feel them as much as he would have liked. He let out a sigh, still staring down at the flimsy old mattress.

"Yo, you lookin' for me?"

Shondra watched as he turned to face her, and for the first time she realized how handsome he was. It caught her off guard.

"Where you been keepin' yourself,
'tite fille
?”

"Right here, mostly." She tilted her head, weighing her next words. "I was wonderin' the same thing about you." She swallowed back the lump in her throat, instantly embarrassed to admit she'd noticed his absence. She had to get tougher than that, once and for all. Just because this dude was being nice to her didn't mean it would last. He himself had told her that, so she sure as hell couldn't start depending on him.

His eyes dropped to the pooch at her feet. She'd discovered Scruff couldn't be trusted to stay where she told him—he followed her everywhere. He was pretty cool about not running into traffic, though.

"That mangy mutt still botherin' you?" Jake asked.

She narrowed her gaze vehemently. "Don't be dissin' Scruff."

Jake's chin lowered slightly. "Scruff?"

She shrugged. "Seemed like a good enough name."

He cast a disparaging glance to the dog. "Suits him anyway." Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out his wallet. "Up for beignets?"

She bit her lip and nodded, trying not to look too enthusiastic.

"You get by all right yesterday? I wasn't around."

She nodded again, standing a little taller. "Don't worry about me. I get by fine on my own." And she had. She'd been hanging onto her six-dollar haul and she'd used some of it to buy some day-old doughnuts to share with Scruff.