Josette (11 page)

The moment of silence that passed between them while she stood so close filled him with an odd guilt. What had she been like as a baby?

He gave her a nudge toward Vivienne and the door. “And every now and then, when you find me in a jolly mood, I doubt I'd mind if that Cajun patois snuck up on you. God knows I toss my British and French accents about like so many rocks having a tumble. Sleep well.”

Without a word, Régine slipped into the room and set a slice of peach pie in front of Cameron and Josette, another at Vivienne's place at the table.

“Vivienne can take her pie in the kitchen,” Josette said. “Who knows how long it will take to settle Alexia in?”

Régine nodded and retreated with the portion in hand.

Cameron watched the woman disappear, then turned to Josette. Their gazes locked. A current passed between them as if the air were suddenly electric with an imminent storm. A surge of pulsating heat shot through him. There was no denying that she felt it too. The brown in her eyes deepened to a rich, sultry shade, the color of the dark Creole coffee he favored—hot and bold.

He tore his gaze from hers and his eyes roved leisurely over her exquisite face and supple lips. It had been a long time since he'd kissed a mouth like that. An image danced in his head of her naked and sprawled across his bed, her hair a tangle of curls. “Is there a reason you sent everyone away and left the two of us alone?”

Her throaty sigh floated across the table. His eyes snapped back to hers. To his surprise, the passion he'd seen in them only a moment before was gone, replaced by humor.

She took a sip of wine and smiled. “Don't bother. It won't work.”

Damn, she was something. “What won't work?”

“Your attempt to make me squirm in my chair. If you think my head is filled with fantasies of you, think again.”

Oh, he was the wrong man to trifle with. “You're telling me that delightful sigh was fake? My dear, is that the best you can manage?”

“I don't fake boredom.”

He chuckled. If games were what she wanted to play, she just might enjoy the one coming up. “You amuse me.”

He poured the last of the wine into his glass. When had he drunk so much? “I came here hoping for some honest conversation this evening, so please, do not disappoint me. Admit it—I do more than bore you. Far more.”

She scoffed. “You are so puffed up with yourself, it's a wonder your buttons don't burst.”

He lifted a brow. “Got any particular buttons in mind?”

She merely laughed.

Damn if he didn't want her.

He'd known that last night.

And he'd known it again this morning when she'd strolled into his office, a vision in blue and smelling all womanly. His body had been dangerously close to betraying him then, but once she'd gone, he'd kept his mind busy enough to forget about her. Not now, however. Every blasted muscle in his body had a mind of its own, and was about to betray him in truth if he didn't change the subject.

Holding the wineglass by the stem, he twirled it between his fingers, watching the slow swirl of ruby liquid, trying to keep his scandalous thoughts away from the opposite end of the table. He downed the rest of the wine while contemplating his next move.

“Tell me, Josette. Who delivered the stolen rum—
my
stolen rum—to you?”

She sat quietly for a moment, then said, “Would you care for another bottle of wine?”

So, she still refused to name her brother as the thief. Which meant she was either toying with Cameron, or René had not paid her a visit during the day and informed her of his new employment. Why she insisted on protecting him when she had Cameron's daughter sleeping upstairs, he didn't know. But she'd soon find out she played cat and mouse with the wrong person. With a grin that he knew bordered on wicked, he stood. “Henceforth, I'd rather drink rum.”

He extended his hand to her. “Shall we?”

The heat in Cameron's hand as he guided Josette into the parlor seeped through her lower back and shot straight into her womb. Good Lord, would she get through this night unscathed?

A fresh, clean scent of having recently bathed still surrounded him, penetrating her senses and scattering her thoughts. She'd had the same reaction when he'd walked into her home earlier. Back then it had been worse—his hair had been slightly damp. That he'd been naked only a brief time before arriving had provoked all manner of forbidden images. Another wave of heat rushed through her.

He shut the door behind him and turned the key.

At the click of the lock, Josette's heart missed a beat. What in the world was he up to? “You require a locked door in order to ascertain whether or not I am able to imbibe a certain amount of liquor?”

Sharp, amber eyes fringed with thick, sooty lashes flickered over her, then back to her face with nary a change in expression. Had she just been judged and found lacking? What had she been thinking, wearing something so revealing? With a quick swallow to wet her throat, she reminded herself that she didn't like him much so his opinion hardly mattered. After all, she'd only asked him to share a meal because of Alexia.

Having retrieved the bottle of rum from the black velvet sack, Cameron collected the crystal decanter sitting on the table between them. “Tell me how much to pour. I want to make certain it's the exact amount you claim to have drunk while alone last night.” He shot her a meaningful glance. “That is, unless you wish to tell me who delivered the rum, and I'll be on my way.”

Since she couldn't very well give René away lest there be bloodshed, she took a seat in a chair, folded her hands in her lap, and watched what he was about, hoping her deportment sent him the message that she refused to be intimidated. “You can stop near the shoulder of the bottle.”

He looked her way, then back to the decanter, as if checking to see if she'd been truthful. His long fingers held the carafe steady as he poured from the other bottle, his movements lithe and graceful.

Didn't he cut a fine figure, though? His dark jacket and charcoal trousers fit him to perfection. A snowy-white shirt and cravat, and a burgundy brocaded vest, made him look rather sin-filled with his mass of dark, wavy hair and sun-kissed skin. But it was more than fine clothing and a well-made form that caught her eye. He seemed always to be draped in a kind of dazzling charisma. And power. Lord, he must be a formidable force to be reckoned with when angry. Was her imagination playing tricks on her or was he growing more handsome by the day?

He filled two shot glasses and, handing her one, seated himself on the sofa with the apparent ease of someone used to being a guest in her home. He said nothing.

What a day she'd had, and now this. Until he'd shown up at her door this evening, she'd felt strangely empowered, having drawn Louis's old pistol on Émile Vennard. The shocked look on his face was worth the risk she'd taken. One of these days she ought to purchase a few bullets.

Cameron leaned back against the sofa, watching her. “You should smile like that more often.”

She'd been grinning? “I do so often enough.”

“Not like that, not with amusement in your eyes. Care to share your thoughts?”

His deliciously low, rough voice scraped across her skin. The fine hairs on her arms tingled. “I do not.”

“You don't play enough, Madame. Therefore, you can't possibly be having enough fun in life.”

“My brother René tells me the same thing. But since neither one of you lives my life, who are you to judge?” She finished the rum—because she desperately needed to—and set the shot glass on the table next to her. This was all she needed, a long, drawn-out evening. Well, so be it, because even though they both knew full well the name Cameron was after, she would not give him proof.

Cameron stood and walked over to where her glass sat empty. There was his wonderful, male scent again, rousing her senses. He picked up the glass but instead of refilling it, lined it up with five others alongside the decanter of rum. He proceeded to fill each of them precisely three quarters full, then set three on the table beside the sofa and three next to her.

Oh, dear. “What are you doing?”

“Since you refuse to give me a name, then we shall make a little game of this.” He spoke in such a way that implied it wasn't little and was perhaps not so much of a sport.

She drew in a slow, deep breath and exhaled just as slowly. Wherever this was leading, she had to keep her wits about her. “And what would this game of yours consist of?”

“It's called the naked truth.” He poured another shot of rum into the glass he'd held and returned to sitting on the sofa. His steady gaze, dark and powerful, settled on her as though it were a direct touch, sending another current of heat through her. “We used to play it at Cambridge. It was how we studied for exams . . . among other things.”

“And just how does it work?”

“When it's my turn, I get to ask you a question, any question.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “If you fail to respond, either because you do not know the answer or you refuse to give it, you are required to empty a glass of its contents and remove an article of clothing.”

“What?” Shock cut directly into her veins. Had she heard him right? The idea was so bizarre, she couldn't help but laugh. “You cannot possibly be serious.”

He held the small glass of liquor to his lips, watching her over the rim. “But I am, Madame. That is, unless you wish to tell me who stole my rum.”

This couldn't be happening. This
wasn't
happening. “Your proposal is ludicrous, not to mention indecent. And you actually expect me to take a turn, then have you do the same, only to repeat the process until one of us keels over? And possibly naked at that?”

A lazy, confident smile turned up the corners of his mouth. “Just say the name, Josette, and I'll be out the door.”

Oh, she couldn't have him go looking for René, she just couldn't. They'd once nearly killed each other. “Perhaps you should take your leave. I'll not play absurd games over a silly missing bottle of rum.”

He laughed then, deep and low. “A great deal more than a bottle is missing, my dear. If I take my leave now, it will be to go directly to the police.”

A shudder ran through her. Good heavens, what had René done? And was Bastièn involved? More than likely. They might be her brothers, but they'd gone too far this time, involving her. Come morning, she'd hunt them down and shoot both the fools.

“You seem to be considering my offer. Are we moving closer to getting on with the game?” His gaze never left hers, but his lids lowered slightly and his voice had deepened.

Something coiled inside her that was wicked, yet strangely playful. Just once in her adult life, she'd like to feel free enough to do as she pleased. And René, bless his unprincipled heart, had unknowingly set everything in motion.

Why not take part in this silly game? It would serve her brothers right for putting her in such a delicate position. She didn't have to let things go too far. Besides, Cameron would be gone from New Orleans soon enough, and she was in her own home. Who was around to start a scandal?

A delicious thrill shot through her. “You actually played this at Cambridge as a form of study?”

“That and . . . ah . . . at other times.” He gave her that slow smile he'd given her before. “A bunch of foxed young men running around in the skin they were born in, letting off steam before a rigid exam. I must say, I thought it quite healthy and productive. I did rather well in my studies, by the by.”

She choked back a bit of laughter. “And if I refuse to play?”

He picked a bit of lint that didn't exist from his trouser leg. “Then I shall call you out for being a coward.” He glanced up from his task, and she noticed that his eyes had taken on a smoky aura. “Every time our paths cross, I shall remind you that you have no sense of humor, that you must have plenty to hide, and that you are a poor sport.”

“And how will we know when the game ends?”

“When one person loses all of his or her clothing—”

She held up a hand. “I will
not
play your game to that extent. This is ridiculous as it is, and crude of you even to bring it to my attention.”

His chuckle, low in his throat, told her he didn't care. “Then tell me who was drinking a supply of contraband with you while my daughter was in residence, and we can call it a night.”

It would be so easy to tell him, get it over with, but she also knew that besides endangering René, Cameron would make his exit and she'd be left alone for yet another sleepless night. Alone to do what? Continue wearing out the floorboards in her room? “I'll play this little game with you, but only on the condition that you may not ask that particular question.”

He lifted a brow. “You have a big secret, don't you?”

No, she didn't, because he knew full well whom she refused to name, but she would not supply the proof, and by now this was too much reckless fun to pass up. She hadn't felt so wayward since she'd ceased picking pockets. She couldn't help but grin. “You've forgotten something.”

“Which is?”

“I wear far more articles of clothing than you, therefore—”

“Ah, but will you answer the questions I ask of you, or will you lose everything and become inebriated more quickly than you expect?” His eyes were filled with wickedness as his gaze cruised her body from head to toe.

“Who would go first?”

He lifted a brow. “Why, the lady, of course.”

Her heart in her throat, she sat back and studied him for a long moment. Until he'd shown up at her door, her life had been as predictable as the rising sun. Bettering herself had turned out to be little more than a ritual of going between a house and a shop, and living her days devoid of anticipation. Or daring. She darn well deserved a bit of naughty fun.

As if Cameron had read her thoughts, that lazy, sensual smile touched his mouth again. A corner of her heart squeezed. Lord, he was beautiful. And here he was, her lifelong fantasy, not six feet away and urging her to join him in a bold and risqué activity.

For however long it lasted, she wanted this brief interlude with him. Wanted the magic of staring into those mesmerizing amber eyes while she asked him question after question of an intimate nature. Perhaps when it was all over, she'd have her fill of him. Her blood thickened, rolled through her veins like hot lava. Oh yes, she'd sip his rum and join him in this provocative game. No matter what happened, how could she lose?

“All right,” she said. “Here is my first question. Have you ever before played this game with a woman?”

A pause, then Cameron stood, removed his jacket, spread it over the back of the sofa, picked up his shot glass, and emptied it. “Didn't you start out on a rather brazen note? My turn now.”

He sat back down, his eyes glittering in the flickering light. “There are times I look at you and find something oddly familiar. Was I known to you before I showed up at your front door with Alexia in tow?”

“Yes.”

“Did you—”

She lifted her hand. “Pardon me, but I do believe it is my turn, is it not?”

He laughed. “I suppose so.”

“Have you ever spent time behind bars?”

His eyes locked with hers. Then he untied his cravat, tossed it aside, and emptied his glass, his movements seamless.

Her throat thickened. “Oh, so you refuse to answer? I'll take that as a yes.”

Still holding the glass, he raised it as if in toast and pointed a finger at her. “That, Madame, is another question. I do believe it is my turn. Were you a virgin when you married old Louis?”

A buzz went through her brain. Despite the shock, she held steady. He was bound and determined to scare her into giving him René's name. Well, let him try. “Yes. And despite your feeble attempt to shock me as a means to get what you are after, I'm ahead in the game.”

Cameron stretched a long leg out in front of him and leaned back, propping an elbow on one arm of the sofa and proceeding to rub his thumb slowly back and forth over his bottom lip. “I believe the next question is yours?”

A breeze blew in through the open window, sending the curtains rustling like leaves in a fall wind. The tension in her blood ratcheted upward while she struggled to think of her next question. “Were you ever in love before you married your wife?”

“No,” he said quietly. “Are you still a virgin?”

A strangled sound left her throat. “You don't waste any time being impertinent, do you?”

“Uh, uh, uh, that's a question and it's still my turn.”

Of course she wasn't a virgin, but why give him the satisfaction of an answer? She emptied her glass and slipped off a shoe. His lazy gaze shifted to her silk-stockinged foot. Just for spite, she wiggled her toes.

A half grin slid over his mouth and he licked a drop of rum from the edge of his glass. “Aren't you turning into the sassy one?”

“I do believe that's a question, Monsieur Andrews.”

“Ah, we're back to formal names, are we? Trying to protect yourself?”

The low timbre of his voice raised goose bumps on her flesh. “That's two more questions, yet it is still my turn. Perhaps we should institute a punishment for breaking the rules.”

“Then to keep us on our toes, so to speak, an out-of-turn question requires a drink and the forfeit of an article of clothing.”

“Agreed.” She studied him while pondering what question to ask. Despite the heat in the room, a chill ran through her at the hazardous game they played. Oh, but she'd hungered to spend time with him for so many years, and here he was, locked in a room with her and challenging her in a kind of play that would scandalize the entire town were they to hear of it. But who was to know? And who was she to care? Oh, this was really quite delicious.