In Your Wildest Dreams (17 page)

"I wasn't in trouble, for your information. I wasn't going to talk to any men, just the escorts," she argued as he delivered her into the car. "Melody said they'd be more open with another hooker than with a guy."

He climbed in behind, shoving her over on the seat to make room for him.

"And why on earth are you going with me? Why aren't you going back in there and grilling that bartender some more?"

"LaRue House, on Esplanade," he told the driver.

"You might think I'm totally incapable," she went on snippily, "but I can certainly get myself back to my place without your help."

"I know you can,
chère,
but I got no confidence that you
will."

"Look, I'm sorry I
disobeyed
you,
Master,"
she said, rolling her eyes at him. "But I knew there might be information out there about Tina and I had to try." The cab crossed the wide thoroughfare of Canal Street, then dipped into the French Quarter, the buildings on either side closing in darkly around the car. "And if anything had happened, you were there," she added with a brisk take-that nod.

"Damn good thing, too, because in case you didn't notice, nobody lifted an eye, let alone a finger, when I manhandled you out of there. If somebody had wanted to hurt you and I hadn't been there, Stephanie
..."
He was peering at her in the darkness, seeing only the shadowy shape of her, but feeling her warmth pressed up against him—and he found himself unable to go on because his throat was closing up at the very idea that some guy could have hurt her. Some guy could have hurt her and he might not have known, or might have been gone by then. Some guy could have hurt her and there wasn't a damn thing he could have done to stop it.

"What?" she whispered, shaking her head softly when he didn't go on.

Unwanted emotion clogged him up inside. It seemed to stretch like a physical thing from his throat down through his chest, then into the depths of his gut. He couldn't look at her anymore, even in the dark, so he focused on the back of the cabbie's head—a dark, greasy ponytail. Finally, he took a deep breath and spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. "I just can't
help
you if I have to
worry
about you at the same time."

"Then don't worry. I'm a big girl. I can take care of—?..

"No, you can't," he snapped. "I already had to rescue you once, and I thought you understood then what the deal was."

"But listen, Jake." She grabbed his wrist, her hand warming his skin. "I showed Tina's picture and found out she
has
been there before. The girls I spoke to haven't seen her in a few weeks, but they said she has a friend named Raven. They haven't seen Raven, either, but it's
something.
Another
name.
A place she's actually
been.
Did you get anything from the bartender?"

He sighed. "No." And he hated to admit it, but maybe she actually
had
done them some good. Raven was a lot more uncommon name than Tina. It was another piece of information to give Tony, a name he could drop at Sophia's.

As the cab pulled to a stop on Esplanade, Jake paid the driver, then took Stephanie's hand as they exited the car. Realizing he still held it once they reached the sidewalk, the taxi speeding away behind them, he let it drop, but automatically lifted a palm to the small of her back to propel her down the brick walk to her room. The gnarled oaks and their moss-draped boughs provided a canopy overhead.

"You have to admit that's helpful information, right?" she asked.

"Yeah,
beb,
you did good work tonight, but"—he stopped and turned her to face him, taking her hands in his—"you can't keep doin' this, understand?"

Their gazes met in the night, a
s
li
ver
of moonlight righting its way down through the trees to make her eyes sparkle, and Jake's desire for her rose yet again. Had it ever waned since he'd set eyes on her this evening? Her hair was simple, falling over her shoulders in the same soft waves he'd seen earlier, only tamed now. Her filmy dress, its two wide swaths of black fabric tied behind her neck, made him think of old Hollywood glamour and sophistication. He caught sight of her nipples pushing against the fabric, and he wanted her naked, wanted to see her, touch her, explore her in a leisurely way he hadn't done with a woman in a very long time.

Since Becky, of course. Everything always led back to her. A more stinging guilt than usual bit at him with the knowledge that he didn't want to think about her right now. He only wanted Stephanie. No one else.

Finally, she turned and walked ahead on the path, digging a key from her fancy purse. "Well," she said, "looks like you managed to get me home safe and sound. I guess you can go now."

"No," he said, and as she stepped inside, he followed, shutting the door behind them. He heard a click as a dim lamp ht the room, which was filled with antique furniture and thick, elegant fabrics.

"I'll stay here this time, I promise. My work for the evening is done." She sounded far from contrite, though—more like pissed.

Well, that was too damn bad.

He watched as she dropped her purse on the bed, before reaching to undo the bracelet that sparkled at her wrist, tossing it carelessly on a dresser. When she turned toward him, he stepped up close to her. "You still don't get it, do you?"

"Yes, yes, I get it. While you search for my sister, I have to trap myself in this room, stare at the walls, and feel powerless, all because you think I'm defenseless."

"Damn it, Stephanie!" His voice raised without his intending it to. She flinched beneath him and he locked his gaze on hers, needing to make her understand. "I don't want you to get hurt, for God's sake!" he shouted, then tried to speak more gently. "That's not so hard to understand, no?"

But for Stephanie, it
was
hard to understand. Who was he? The gruff ex-cop who was all business? Or the softer man she saw only tiny hints of, hints so small that she wasn't even sure if they were real or simply in her tortured imagination? The answer mattered, a lot—because wouldn't it be easier to let herself sleep with him if she thought he cared for her?

He stood over her, his eyes filled with some combination of fury and tenderness so profound that she leaned back against the wall in an attempt not to wither and faint beneath his stare. She hated all the uncertainty, hated not knowing where she stood, not being in control of it. "What do you care?" she finally barked at him.

He shook his head. "What do you mean?"

"What do you care if I get hurt? What's it to you? You barely know me. You're only helping me because you think I'm a danger to myself, some stupid little waif playing private detective. And you couldn't really care less if we find my sister—except maybe to get me out of your hair so you'll never have to see me again."

As she'd spilled the indicting words, she'd watched his face tighten still more fiercely, aware that his shoulders were set tensely and his fingers curled into fists at his side. "You got one thing right, Stephanie Grant," he growled.

"What's that, tough guy?"

His hands closed on her shoulders and his expression appeared positively tortured. "If I never saw you again, it would make my life a hell of a lot easier." With that, his mouth came down on hers, hard and demanding, his kiss feeling as if he were attempting to wrench something out of her.

Her entire body responded, her breasts tingling, wetness pooling between her thighs. Their mouths struggled together, their tongues sparring hotly. And in that heated moment, she didn't care
why
he was kissing her, didn't care if he hated her and never wanted to see her again. She only wanted to take what he had to give, and wanted to give him whatever he needed. And
clearly
he needed.
Something.
No man had ever kissed her so powerfully.

His arms closed around her and she moved against him without hesitation, needing the sweet, hot friction, needing to feel his very maleness against her curves. Her lips felt bruised beneath his, but she didn't care. She clawed at his back, grabbed onto his hair, kissed him as feverishly as he was kissing her.

When one of Jake's hands sank to her butt, she clenched at the pleasure and unthinkingly lifted one leg, curling it around his thick denim-clad thigh. His erection pressed insistently between her legs, forcing a low moan from her throat. Oh God. Oh God. She closed her eyes as the heat licked at her inner thighs, the small of her back. She was lost to him, lost to the weight of the desire pressing down on her.

Then, without warning, the passion turned slower— kisses still hard, but lingering. She heard them both panting as the heat of his body warmed her from shoulder to thigh. He tasted of cool mint. The kisses ended with his forehead pressed to hers in quiet, breathless recovery, but still their bodies writhed slowly together, as if they just couldn't stop.

"I don't want like this," he whispered hotly.

"Huh?" His voice caught her off guard, his words not quite making sense.

He hesitated slightly, and when he spoke, it came between heavy breaths. "I don't think I've ever wanted a woman
...
the way I want you. Since that first night
...
in the red room. The second I see you
...
I wanna sink so deep inside you,
beb.
Let me."

Let me have you.

Could she? Could she let go of whatever held her back each time? Now they were in her room—a private, comfortable, safe place.
Let go,
she told herself.
Just let go and feel him the way you want to.

He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. "Tell me you want me,
chère."

"You know I do," she whispered.

They went totally still in that moment, no movement— just the connection of their gazes and the insistent beat of her heart against her rib cage.

She said it again, even softer this time. "You know I do."

His next kiss came shockingly gentle, swallowing and sweet; their tongues licked at each other, tasting deeply. Good, delicious kisses, the best of her life. She thought for a few moments that maybe she'd be content just to stand here and kiss him all night long. Her fingers curled in his thick hair and the musky, sexy scent of him permeated her senses. She wanted to crawl inside him.

When he slowly skimmed one hand to the side of her breast, her knees buckled, but he was there to catch her, his other arm anchored securely around her waist. The stroke of his thumb teased the outer curve, touching skin to skin, thanks to the bareness of her dress. Her breath grew more labored until she realized she was kissing him harder, pulling him closer, thinking,
Touch me, please touch me,
feeling sure that if he didn't, she would die.
Please, Jake.

But she was careful not to voice her wishes out loud. That would be too much, giving away every last ounce of control—and she had to hang onto
something,
didn't she?

When his thumb passed over her nipple through the dress, she went weak again, but still he held her, drawing back to look at her from beneath shaded lids. "You get me so hot,
beb."

She could only sigh, her breath
tremb
li
ng
, glad when his kisses returned, because she was better with that, with simply being swept away, than with having to acknowledge her passion with words.

As his hand closed full around her breast, inside the dress, she let out a low groan and locked her arms tighter around
his
neck so she wouldn't fall. His tongue delved deeply into her mouth as he slowly kneaded her, his thumb and forefinger teasing the hard peak. Harsh pleasure spiraled through her.

When his kisses trailed away from her mouth, over her cheek, to her neck, shoulder, she could do nothing but acquiesce, leaning her head to one side. Her breath grew shakier with each inch he descended, his mouth getting closer and closer to where his thumb and finger played.

Yes, yes. Kiss me there.

She never realized his other hand had left her waist until she felt the smooth, light tug at the back of her neck—he was untying the top of her dress.
Oh God.
Her knees trembled and she fought not to let them give way.

She'd had sex with enough men that this part wasn't foreign. Yet it still felt new—with Jake. He pulled back slightly and the top of the dress slipped like satin over her breasts, falling away to leave her bared to the waist.