In Your Wildest Dreams (9 page)

"Shrimp, huh? Well, cross your fingers Aden's cleaned out his ears by now or God knows
what
you'll get." With that, she rushed off, calling out, 'Two
shrimp
étoufféel
Got that, old man?
Shrimp!"

Arlen muttered in French, and Stephanie couldn't help laughing lightly at the show they put on. "I'm not sure those two should work together."

"Have been for as long as I've been comin' here."

"I'm surprised they haven't killed each other yet."

Jake shrugged. "I suspect they like each other more than they let on, or they'd be divorced by now."

"They're
marriedl
To each
other?'

He gave a nod. "Used to come in here for dinner a lot when I was a beat cop. You listen to people for a while, you figure things out."

She couldn't help forming the impression that he'd probably been a good cop. But that begged the question
...
"Why did you give up police work?"

He shook his head lightly, glanced down, and started playing with a salt shaker. "Heart wasn't in it anymore." Then he raised his eyes, so very brown and deep, directly back to her. His gaze seemed to capture her—she couldn't escape. "Tell me about
you,
Stephanie Grant."

"Nothing much to tell," she began. "I've lived a pretty ordinary life. I grew up in a middle-class family in a Chicago suburb. Two kids and a dog, block parties, that sort of thing." She wasn't sure why she'd reached that far back in her life to begin, nor why she'd sounded so self-deprecating. She supposed that compared to him—even knowing nothing about him—she just felt so "white bread." She had the notion his life had been anything but ordinary. "I'm in advertising now," she added.

"What do you sell?"

She lowered her chin slightly, letting her eyebrows rise. "Besides myself, you mean?" She wasn't sure why she said it. Perhaps to beat him to the punch?

The corners of his mouth curled into a slight grin. "I was gonna be a big enough man not to mention that, but since you did, yeah. Besides yourself."

She bit her Up, wondering if her job would sound interesting or boring. "I head up campaigns for major corporations—everything from cars to breakfast cereals to fast-food restaurants." Boring, she decided as she finished. Or maybe it was just this situation with Tina making everyday Ufe seem insignificant.

"You like it? Happy doin' it?"

She considered her answer. She'd spent the years since college so concerned about her rise to the top of the corporate ladder that it wasn't a question she'd ever asked herself. "The corporate aspects of it are getting a Uttle old," she finally concluded, "but I love thinking of ideas, trying to hit on the perfect slogan or image. What about you? Are you happy tending bar?"

"It's a paycheck."

"You weren't happy being a cop?"

He raised his eyebrows, looking almost amused by her wilhngness to press the issue—before his mouth straightened in a grim
Une.
His voice sounded a soft warning. "You best leave that alone now,
beb."

Her annoyance was squelched by Ada, suddenly plopping a couple of plates on the table. "Might be hot. Watch yourselves," she cautioned. "And check to make sure that's shrimp, will ya?"

Rather than use his silverware to look beneath the reddish stew covering the dish, Jake forked a bite into his mouth. "Yep, shrimp."

"Hallelujah, it's a miracle,'' she said, rolling her eyes in the direction of the kitchen as she hurried off. "Dig in,
chère."

At first, the spicy dish was a shock to Stephanie's taste buds, burning her throat, nearly making her eyes water. But she tried not to let it show, taking large drinks of water, and soon the heat wore down enough for her to realize the smothered shrimp was delicious.

"You like?" he asked.

She nodded yet again, this time because her mouth was full. Upon swallowing, she said, "Hot. But good."

"Arlen serves up good food. His jambalaya's the best you can get around here. Not quite as good as my
grand-mère
used to make, but close."

"Used to?" She tilted her head.

He dug his fork back into the plate of shrimp. "Died when I was eighteen. Best Cajun cook on the bayou, though."

"I lost my grandma around that age, too. She used to make the best apple pie in the world."

"Where you get your pie now?'

She shrugged. "No place special. Haven't really found any that lives up to hers."

"I know what you mean. Things like that aren't easily replaced."

Somehow, his eyes said he really did understand those sorts of little losses that sometimes felt big, and the sudden connection made her nervous. She bit her lip and smiled. "So now you come here for your Cajun delicacies."

He laughed. "Sometimes. It's easy. Other times I make my own. Well, I used to. Wasn't half bad in the kitchen, if I do say so myself."

"Used to?" she asked again, trying to hide her surprise that the sexy bartender was also a cook. "No energy for it anymore." "Why?"

He leaned forward across the table, his eyes twinkling. "You sure are a nosy little thing, Stephanie Grant."

"Sorry. I just..." She dropped her gaze, but then raised it again, summoning the courage to be honest. "I'm curious about you."

"Why?"

Because I want you so badly I can't understand it.
She swallowed nervously and honesty fled the scene. "Because
...
you're being nice enough to help me."

He answered in a frank tone. "We best get sometbin' straight. Me helpin' you isn't from the goodness of my heart. It's only because if I let you go on about this business the way you were, I might not be able to live with myself."

"Well, whatever the case, I appreciate it."

"As soon as we finish eatin', we'll head to a few places I know, show your sister's picture, see if we can get a lead. New Orleans is a big town, but not so big if you check the right places."

Again, another nod—she'd given up trying for anything better. Sometimes thoughts of Tina, being out there in this city-with-a-dark-side, simply stifled her thoughts, made it so nothing else could come in or out of her head. She might be slowly starting to grow used to the way Jake made her feel with just a glance, but her worries for Tina didn't operate that way. They didn't grow more normal or acceptable, no matter how long she dwelled on them.

"Listen,
chère,
don't worry so much."

She supposed it showed in her eyes, and she was about to summon a response when he reached out to warmly cover her hand with his, where it curled loosely around the water glass. She froze, astounded at the strength of the desire the small touch sent racing through her limbs. Old—
ancient
—yearnings turned new, and even more powerful, beneath his fingertips.

She was sure if she tried to speak it would come out mangled and shaky, so in a bid for self-preservation, she finally drew her hand away, dropping her eyes to her plate, and resumed eating.

Conversation died then, which was at once awkward but not. He wasn't a highly talkative man, and it surprised her when he strung more than a couple of sentences together, so
that,
combined with her fear for her sister, somehow made the silence okay.

The next time she looked at him, they'd both finished eating and he was digging in his pocket, drawing out a roll of mints. He held it out, offering one, but she declined.

After putting a mint in his mouth, he shoved the roll back into his front pocket and his legs shifted slightly beneath the table so that their knees touched. Again, it was like a current of electricity, this time shooting up her thighs.

Pull your knees back.
She didn't. Couldn't. Neither did he.

She found the will to slowly raise her gaze. His eyes were locked on hers, a silent affirmation of the sensual vibes passing between them. What now?

Again, it should have been awkward, but instead, all Stephanie experienced was heat, raw and naked—no hiding what she felt, and at the moment, she didn't care. It went back to the red room, she supposed. There'd certainly been no hiding what she'd felt when he'd laid her back on that couch. They'd already been here once before.

"We should get started," he finally said. "Night isn't gettin' any younger."

"Right," she said, drawing her knees away.

But pulling back didn't squelch the sensations, her whole body throbbing for what she wanted. She wanted to have sex with Jake Broussard more than she wanted to breathe.

It was a startling admission.

At a horrible time.

She had a feeling it was going to be a very long night.

Chapter 7

Jake scooped the check up off the table and reached for his wallet.

"Let me get it," Stephanie said. "It's the least I can do, considering why we're here."

He simply shook his head and threw a few dollars down for a tip. "Not necessary,
chère."
Odd, he'd suggested coming here because it was loud and dingy and, therefore, perfect for a meeting he wanted in no way to feel like a "date," yet old-fashioned masculine pride wouldn't let him allow her to pay.

Damn, she looked good. He was trying like hell to concentrate on what they had to do tonight, trying to concentrate on passing the money to Ada at the cash register, trying to concentrate on
anything
—but it was as if Stephanie Grant had cast some sort of spell on him.

He supposed it had just been too long since he'd had sex. Good, all-night-long, touch-each-other-everywhere, kiss-each-other-everywhere sex. Had to happen eventually, he told himself as he held the door for her, following her out into the dark, balmy night. Had to come a time

when he'd want that again, need it. But it didn't mean anything, he insisted inside. It didn't mean there was anything special about this woman. It was just attraction, chemistry.

It was the first time he'd seen her not dressed to seduce, yet she remained just as seductive. The plain pale yellow sheath covered a few more inches of thigh and followed her curves more loosely than the other dresses he'd seen her in, but that just made her sexiness shine through more naturally, seem more genuine. The reduction in makeup revealed a pretty face, and a pure sparkle in those bluer-than-blue eyes. Her blond hair fell softer around her shoulders now, bouncy. He had the bizarre urge to reach for her hand as they walked side by side down the old, uneven sidewalk.

Damn, what was
that
about?

Just Becky. Just missing Becky.

Probably the first time you've walked down a street with a woman since her
—odd as it seemed. But it was true. He wrote off the urge to old habits.

Even so, what he'd feared was already materializing— it wasn't gonna be easy to locate her sister with all this heat between them. He'd indulge in it if she gave him half a chance, and judging from the look in her eyes across the table when their knees had touched, she might. He knew Stephanie Grant was a prim and proper lady in one sense, but he could feel something hot bubbling beneath her surface.

First things first, though.

As they turned up one of the Quarter's meaner streets, the sidewalks dirtier than most, the balconies sagging and the brickwork falling away from the walls in jagged chunks, he again fought the urge to take her hand. This time, though, it was about protection, putting her at ease in case she figured out this wasn't the best part of town. But he couldn't protect her—not really, and a handhold wouldn't change that. He'd learned the hard way that he couldn't really protect anyone.

"Where are we headed?" she asked, apparentiy noticing that the buildings had turned a little grayer, more neglected.

"In here," he said, gesturing to his right. A neon arrow of dulled blue pointed to the entrance of the Pirate's Den, a dive bar and cop hangout. Before pushing through the door, he tossed a glance over his shoulder at what was surely the prettiest sight to hit this street tonight. "Don't let any of the crusty old
couillons
in here make you nervous,
chère."

"Okay," she said, already looking uneasy.