Strip You Bare (5 page)

“You’re a regular,” Micah said when David had receded into the back.

“Really? That’s what we are going to lead with? I assumed you would have commentary on me calling you my bodyguard.”

“Oh, I have plenty of commentary on that, sweetheart.”

“Only kindly old southern gentlemen are allowed to throw pet names around that liberally.”

“I’ll call you what I want. I don’t work for you. I won’t correct what you told your friend here, but don’t you forget what’s really happening.”

She began to make a slow circle of the perimeter of the store, her hand raised, index finger extended as though she were ready to grab any item that caught her attention. “What is happening? I’m curious. Because you’ve thrown me over your shoulder, put my hand on your person without my permission, and told me you intend to stay close to me for the next month while I plan this party. So I think I have a right to know what’s happening here.”

He weighed whether or not he should tell her anything. Then decided there was really no harm.

“You didn’t know that your family no longer owned the mansion?” he asked, needing to confirm what she’d already said.

“No. And please don’t say it while out in public.”

“We don’t know why we have the mansion. And we need to know.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t. But our club president was killed about a month and a half ago and we’re looking for answers. That means we’re looking at anything that seems out of the ordinary.”

“And I imagine outlaw bikers don’t call the police.”

“They might be willing to look the other way while we go about our business, but they aren’t exactly going to drop everything and help us.”

“Maybe you should do a little community service. Endear yourselves a bit.”

“Not interested,” he said, leaning against the edge of one of the built-in shelves. “I’m only interested in making sure there’s nothing suspicious surrounding the acquisition of your lovely family home.”

She stared fixedly ahead, her eyes on the knickknacks in front of her. “I’m sure there isn’t. Look, my father is dead. He died during Katrina. I’ve long been suspicious of why he was down here in the Quarter during a storm. I—it’s either whores or it’s drugs, right? Gambling?” She turned to look at him. “It’s something. This is the French Quarter—you don’t come down here at night to drink sweet tea and preach a sermon.”

Something about that statement nagged at him. About her father dying in the French Quarter during Katrina. There was no reason to let it. He was hardly the only one. Still, it didn’t stop the unease that settled in his stomach.

“You’re wrong there,” he said. “Some do. Quite a few street preachers have tried to save my soul over the years. Sadly for them, I sold it a long time ago.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Don’t know why they bother, really. Jesus himself watches the whole French Quarter. You look right up St. Ann and he’s there with his arms spread wide, looking at all the debauchery, and on it goes.”

“Well, my suspicion is my father was here doing those same things. Though probably not in front of Jesus and everybody.”

“And what’s your point to telling me this?” Because she didn’t trust him. So either she was leading him somewhere on a lie, or she was feeling desperate.

“I can’t have you talking to my grandfather. He’s old and this . . . this will upset him. My mother died a few months ago, and even though we knew it was coming, it doesn’t make it easier. He lost both of his sons, Micah,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper, shot through with conviction. “A grandson.” Guilt lanced Micah when she said that. Because he well knew where that grandson was. And it was not six feet under, but rather very much aboveground, probably fucking Alice in the Priory bathroom. “My uncle died, and after that . . . Leonidas, my cousin . . . he disappeared. After his father died he just left. None of us knows what happened to him. Then my father died in Katrina. This mansion still stands. It’s one of the few things we have left of our family, and if my grandfather finds out his son—his dead son—lost this because of some debt to a bunch of criminals . . . it might actually kill him. So please . . . please don’t.”

For the first time, he saw a crack in that ice block she kept herself locked in. Her dark eyes shone with a kind of emotion he doubted he could find in the bottom of his jacked-up heart.

“Then don’t give me a reason to,” he said. “Keep everything looking normal. Let me hang out, see what I can find. But don’t be such a massive pain in my ass.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“You probably shouldn’t. Hell, you don’t have any power here, baby. Let’s be real. I could take a quick trip to your granddaddy’s big southern mansion and tell him the state of things. Or, we could play a little bit nicer.”

The emotion in her eyes flattened, hardened. “I doubt you know how to play nice.”

“A lot of women think I’m very nice. Though it depends on what you want to use me for.”

Her shoulders grew stiffer, and he could see her fighting for something, for control. And he could see the exact moment she lost it. When she let her eyes drift downward below the waistband of his jeans. Back to his cock.

“Yeah,” he said. “That.”

Her focus shifted back to the knickknacks on the shelves. “Don’t flatter yourself. Why would I dumpster-dive when I could eat gourmet?”

He chuckled. “Because that only works if you’re actually talking about food. When you’re talking sex, I guarantee you, dirtier is better.”

She drew a sharp breath and held it, her shoulders touching the bottoms of her glittering earrings. “Well, we will not be dining together. So to speak.”

“Fine with me. I have no trouble finding places to eat.”

“Excellent,” she said, her tone crisp.

He lifted his shoulder and lowered his gaze. “Not that I wouldn’t eat there.”

“Dinner service is closed.”

“I should talk to women more often.”

“You don’t often talk to women?”

“When I’m with a woman, her mouth is usually busy.”

She shot him an icy glare and walked away from him, moving toward a Christmas tree display that was decked with Mardi Gras beads and mermaids.

“I’ll just take this.” She turned away from the tree and walked back to the front of the store, hitting the bell with the palm of her hand, shooting him a look as though he were somehow at fault for her rash Christmas tree decisions.

A few moments later David appeared from the back of the store, his cheeks red, breathing hard. “Did you make a choice, sweetheart?”

“I’ll take all the decorations you have on the tree. I can send someone by to pick them up.”

“Oh, no need.” David waved his hand. “I’ll have them sent.”

“I don’t need them right away. If you want to just order everything you have there so you don’t have to dismember your display, that’s fine. And if there’s anything you think would look nice with it, feel free to add it in.”

“I’ll do just that. Did you only want decorations for a tree, or did you want all the trimmings?”

“Oh, I need trimmings. You’re welcome to see to all of that, if you want.”

He had most definitely gotten under her skin. He could tell, because all of her comments on liking shopping seemed to have dissolved in her anxiousness to get away from him.

“I’d be happy to,” David said, clearly pleased to be fielding such a big order. And from such a high-profile client.

“Thank you.” Sarah said the appropriate, polite goodbyes, and Micah said nothing. He wasn’t polite. He didn’t see the point in pretending. Manners, he had heard it said, were constructed entirely for the comfort of others.

He didn’t give a shit about the comfort of others. And when push came to shove, keeping other people uncomfortable often had its advantages. Sarah being case in point.

“Where are we going next?” he asked.

“To a very nice restaurant. And no, that isn’t a euphemism,” she said, glaring pointedly. “I’m going to arrange catering.”

“You could probably call that in.”

“I like walking around the Quarter. I love this city.”

“Why?”

She paused, a crease marring her brow. “Everything. The food. The people. The architecture. The music.”

“The hookers, the vomit in the streets, the fact that it feels like vacationing in Satan’s armpit.”

Much to his surprise, the crease at her forehead disappeared and her lips curved upward into a smile. “Okay. It has all of that too.”

“I guess you just overlook it?”

“I just focus on the other things. Anyway, I suppose it depends on what time of day you go out.”

“And which street you are walking on.”

“Fair.”

He followed her a few blocks up the road. An old townhouse had been converted into a restaurant that dominated the street corner. “This restaurant has a ghost,” she said as they crossed the street and made their way inside the front door of the restaurant.

“Is there a restaurant here that doesn’t have a ghost?”

“This ghost has his own table.”

He looked around at all of the expensive furnishings, the textured wallpaper, the hardwood floors with the rich berry rugs that accented them. He went out to places like this all the time in San Francisco for business. Or just for pleasure. But establishments like this had been off-limits to him when he lived here. So strange to step inside now and know that if he wanted to he could belong. He could buy the whole left side of the menu if he wanted and not miss the cash.

He felt more like the boy he’d been here in Louisiana. It was way too easy to forget the man he’d become. Everything he had. The power that came with status and money, rather than brute strength and intimidation.

Now that he was back, he was remembering what it was like. And facing the sobering fact that he missed the brute strength and intimidation a little bit.

A petite woman with her hair pinned back in a neat bun, wearing a white shirt and a vest and skirt that matched the carpets and wallpaper, walked to the front and greeted them, a solicitous smile on her face.

Walking around the French Quarter with Sarah was like seeing an entirely new city. She didn’t command fear or the kind of respect he typically recognized as such. People were happy to see her. Eager to please. She had a key into businesses where he would have been unwelcome. He could have walked in if he’d wanted to, because no one told him where he could and couldn’t go. But his reception would have been markedly different.

“Hello. I’m Sarah Delacroix. I would like to see about having my Christmas party catered.”

The smile on the employee broadened. “Of course. I have a menu you can look over if you’d like.”

“Certainly.”

“Go ahead and have a seat.” The girl indicated the Victorian-style loveseat against the wall. Micah opted to stand. Sarah sat, all prim and proper, her legs crossed at the ankles, her hands folded in her lap.

As though they hadn’t just talked about hookers and Satan’s armpit. As though they hadn’t just spent five minutes engaged in a conversation where restaurants were used as metaphors for fucking.

She was like Teflon. All the grit and sticky of the city just slid right off.

Damn, he wanted to get her dirty. And make sure it stuck.

He blamed that desire on the part of him that had just woken up, spoiling for a fight. Who had just decided he was bored with the suit and tie and civility. That while he was here, he wanted to get a little bit raw. A little bit bloody.

That part of him had not asked for permission to rear his bastard head.

But then, he’d never been very good at asking for permission.

No matter where the fault was, it didn’t alter the fantasies. It also didn’t alter the fact that she was not what he’d come here to do.

It would make a nice distraction.

Yeah, it would. But there were plenty of easy lays around here. He didn’t need to tangle with Sarah.

His cock rebelled against the thought, getting hard as he surveyed her delicate profile, her sleek, tempting curves. Sure, he could have another woman if he wanted to. But he didn’t want to. He was stubborn, always had been. And now that his body had decided it was interested in her, redirecting was going to be difficult. Even if he did find another chick to screw, he would still want Sarah five minutes later.

All things considered, not having her would potentially be more distracting than just bending her over the prissy furniture back at the mansion. Thinking about it had pushed him to the point of painful arousal.

The woman returned then, a stack of menus in her hand. She handed two to Sarah, then offered them to him. He only stared at them, and she lowered her hand, smiling awkwardly before she left them alone.

“You could try to look less like a scary statue. And more like a human man.” She didn’t look up from the menus when she said that.

“I could.”

“But you’re not going to.”

“Fuck no. And I don’t have to.”

She didn’t say anything, rather, she kept on perusing the menu. The woman returned a few minutes later and Sarah stood. “I would actually like both dinner options. Service for one hundred.”

“Very good, Ms. Delacroix. Shall I take your information?”

“It should be on file. Have the chef contact me closer to the date.”

“I will.”

Sarah nodded decisively and then turned, leading them both back out the door.

“We probably need to go check on the workers and make sure they haven’t taken the house down to the studs and robbed you of all your antique hardware.”

“I already told you, no one is going to steal while working on a job for a Delacroix.”

“Only if they plan on staying in New Orleans. This might surprise you, sweetheart, but your name doesn’t exactly carry a lot of weight outside the bayou.”

“How funny. Because the Deacons’ name doesn’t carry a lot of weight outside strip clubs and dive bars.”

“Which, according to you, means your father may have heard of us.” He was being an asshole. And he was all right with that.

He was playing babysitter to a spoiled debutante and his patience was running low.

“It’s possible.” She sighed. “I honestly can’t think of another way you would have come into possession of the house. My grandfather takes pride in our legacy. In what this family built here.”

“Or at least what the people your family owned built for them,” he said, because he never saw the point in playing into this fantasy of self-made men in the South. Not when things had been built on the backs of other men.

“That doesn’t have much to do with my grandfather. I wasn’t exulting the entirety of my family history.” She looked him up and down. “Anyway. Criminal biker, are we really going to talk about human decency?”

“We could. I’m comfortable with myself. I’m an asshole. But I’m an asshole to everybody.”

“Your version of equality?”

He lifted a shoulder. “Yeah.”

“Do you just enjoy making me angry?”

“I enjoy it, I won’t lie.”

She sighed again, holding on to the strap of her purse tightly, walking on ahead back toward the mansion. “Most people do their best not to vex me.”

He chuckled. “Baby, I have no problem vexing you. I’d vex you all night.”

“I think perhaps you don’t know what that word means.”

“I know what it means. I’m trying to get you hot and bothered.”

“Well, you don’t do it for me. So good luck with that.”

“I don’t do it for you?” He dodged another pedestrian on the narrow walkway, slowing his pace so he could keep in step with Sarah. “Then what does it for you, Ms. Delacroix? A nice, soft southern boy. Maybe a pretty southern girl? I could think about that for a while. You and some other socialite taking off each other’s corsets.”

“The first one,” she said, clipped.

“I personally like the second option. It makes for a better fantasy.”

“Oh, well, allow me to adjust my sexual history to better fulfill your dirty dreams.”

“There’s that southern hospitality you hear so much about.”

“I was engaged until recently. If you’re curious.”

He put his hand on her lower back, just because he could. Because he wanted to touch her. She flinched beneath his palm, but didn’t move away from him. “I wasn’t.”

“We broke up a couple of weeks ago. You can’t return custom-made bridesmaid dresses. Or wedding gowns that have already been altered. Just some information for you.”

“Oh, in case my dream wedding falls apart?”

“Yes. I would hate for you to waste any money. Be very certain about the person you’re engaged to before you go putting down deposits.”

They rounded the corner and approached the mansion. “Good thing you’re rich.”

She walked up the steps, turning the ornate knob on the door and pushing it open. “Good thing. Bad thing that so many people were invited. And that the breakup has been nothing short of a public humiliation.”

“And what kind of man was he?” He was curious. Curious what it took to get beneath that unruffled exterior of hers.

“A flaccid dick with saggy, empty balls where his brain should have been.” She continued on into the house as though she hadn’t just spoken the crudest words he’d heard on her lips to date.

He went in with her, slamming the door behind them. “I take it things didn’t end amicably.”

“I didn’t appreciate him sticking it in other women.”

As far as Micah was concerned,
relationship
meant sleeping with the same woman more than once. So he couldn’t exactly imagine what the fuss was about.

“I suppose you might frown on that. It’s sort of counter to the objectives in marriage.”

“Sort of,” she said, her tone icy.

“One of the many reasons I don’t have a use for the institution. But then, I can’t say I have much use for any religious or political union.”

“What is it you have use for?” Her tone was resigned, almost weary, as if she knew exactly what he was going to say. He could hardly disappoint her.

“Fucking. That’s about it.”

“At least you’re consistent.” She looked at him then, her lips curving slightly. “At least you’re honest.”

“I don’t see any point lying about what I am.”

“What exactly are you?”

“You’re curious now?

She shrugged. “The way I see it, we both need each other to cooperate. Yes, I need it more than you do. You’re just here doing what you’re told. I haven’t gotten any sense that you want to be here. Loyalty. Strange convictions. Whatever it is . . . it’s not the same for you. I’m playing nice because I need to protect my family. I love my grandfather. I don’t want to upset him. So I need you to stay away from him. And if we are going to spend any time together, I might as well know who you are. I might as well know what you are.”