Born to be Bad. Crystal Green
“This does seem more like a local watering joint, but that’s the fun in a place like this—getting to know the customers.”
And picking their brains about Theroux. Not that she’d found out much tonight. When she’d had time to ease any questions into a conversation, the answers had been limited to, “Damien’s not much for socializin’ with the likes of his neighbors anymore,” or, “Damien’s done right by himself.”
Soon, she’d talk to Roxy and the other staff. Maybe they would shed some light on the man. And as for the prostitution angle? Well, there hadn’t been much traffic up and down the stairs tonight. Just a short, muscled African-American man and a woman dressed in what could only be called Irish-lass-fetish garb who’d gone up about a half hour ago.
She’d have to explore to see what was going on.
Roxy placed a pale, vein-etched hand on Gemma’s arm, squeezing it. “You done well tonight, Gem. I checked on those references you left, and I’m hoping you’re one to stick around this place.”
Good. Gemma had asked some California friends to pretend that they were ex-employers who’d hired Gem James. They’d obviously come through for her.
Roxy added, “I still need that paperwork, though.”
“I’ll get it to you.” She was procuring some false documentation, complete with a fake Garden District address, that would be ready tomorrow.
Patrons were starting to leave the bar, slowing the night’s pace. Gemma sighed and slipped a hand to the back of her bared neck, kneading her nape.
“How about you go into the back room and get me some napkins?” Roxy asked. “And take a few minutes off those feet while you’re there.”
“Thanks.” Gemma thought about staying to talk with the waitress for a second, but decided instead to seek privacy and scribble down some notes. There would be time to gab with Roxy and the other workers later.
After winking at the string-bean bartender, Wedge, who pointed his finger like a gun at her and winked back, Gemma entered a room stacked with cardboard supply boxes and bottles of liquor. She found her purse where she’d tucked it on a shelf between two pillars of paper napkins, then attacked her notepad with gusto.
She scribbled colorful details about the bar and the customers for about ten minutes, realizing how little she’d turned up so far.
Back at the office, she’d done some preliminary research on Theroux, not finding anything she hadn’t already known. Thirty-four years old, business owner, New Orleans native. Real exciting stuff. Tomorrow she would have more time to do a deeper search, but still…
She wanted more. What she had—even for day number one—wasn’t nearly good enough.
Heavy footsteps sounded on the hallway tiles, and Gemma scrambled to put away her notes.
The door swung open, revealing Damien Theroux.
Her blood twisted direction, shocking her system, leaving her weak with a mix of attraction and guilt.
Whoo, he was tall. Slim, but solid enough to fill out that black suit. It wasn’t hard to picture toned abs and cable-muscled arms under those fancy clothes. Unlike this afternoon, when his dark hair had been loose, he’d secured the top strands away from his face with a band, allowing the bottom to wave down to his wide shoulders.
Time to go to work again.
She forced herself to meet his blue-diamond eyes. “I’m just taking a break,” she blurted.
Suave. Could her words have been any more spastic?
“Roxy says you’re back here for napkins.”
He leaned against the brick wall, taking his time, bracing himself with one shoulder as he ran his other hand over his angled jaw. He smoothed a gaze over her.
From her pumps…up her bare legs…over her skirt…her torso…her breasts…still on her breasts…still on her…
Gemma covered her chest with her arms, blocking him.
He smiled, doused it, then glanced up at her from beneath his dark brows. “I like your pirate motif.”
The skull and crossbones. Right. “Don’t you mean ‘motifs’?”
“Those, too.”
There they went—the motifs—hardening into sensitive peaks that brushed the cotton of her shirt. As she adjusted position, keeping her arms crossed and leaning nonchalantly against the shelves, her nipples scraped against the outsides of her thumbs. A flush roared over her body, prickling her skin with new sweat and heat.
“Am I disturbing you?” he asked.
She tried to stay unaffected. “You walked in the door just as I was trying to relax. Scared me half to death.”
As if to prove it, she raised a hand to massage her neck again, leaving the other arm to still cover evidence of her inconvenient desire.
Theroux unfolded himself from the wall, stepped forward.
Fear shot through her, but not because she felt threatened. No, this was the safe fear of her fantasies, where unknown men would approach her, cover her with their shadows, slip into her, then disappear into the corners of her mind.
A stirring, a warm shivering, bloomed in the pit of her stomach. She slid her palm there, liking it. Hoping it would stop.
He was still moving toward her.
The rational part of her panicked. “So, do you hit on all the new waitresses, like some sort of initiation?”
Why had she said that? Because she thought it would create some kind of distance she didn’t really want?
He paused a mere foot away, his taut body remaining as still as a held breath. “If you think I’m hitting on you now, chérie, you’ve got some lessons to learn.”
Another blush prickled over her skin. “It’s just… My space bubble. I don’t think you’re aware of the concept.”
“Am I getting a little too close now?”
“For a stranger.”
Tilting back his head, he surveyed her, a grin quirking his mouth. He had a full lower lip. Sensuous, soft.
“Stranger,” he repeated, rolling the word over his tongue, savoring it.
That slightly exotic accent—a tinge of French?—stretched over her, bare and slick, burying her under its promising weight.
By now, Gemma couldn’t contain the excited quiver traveling her limbs, settling between her legs with electric anticipation.
Theroux must have sensed that she liked the way he’d touched her this afternoon. That she wanted to test the dark waters outside of her wading pool. And maybe…
No.
Yes. Maybe this was a good way to ask a personal question or two. It’d worked for Mata Hari.
He moved closer to her. Closer. Inches away, until he was staring down, arm curved over her head as he rested it on the shelves, body slightly hunched, eclipsing everything else around them.
His scent filled her—rain, brandy—making her giddy.
“A stranger?” he whispered. “I’m easy to know.”
While Gemma pressed her arm against her sensitized breasts again, the hand she held against her neck tightened involuntarily. “Listen, you’re not my type.”
“Yeah?”
He took up where they’d left off this afternoon, with him skimming his palm up her arm to capture her hand—the one rubbing her neck. The weight of his touch reduced her next words into a quiet struggle to suck in oxygen.
“I usually…go for more…of the roses