In Dreams. Patricia Rosemoor
here she was, being taken care of by the man she’d made love to in her dream—make that dreams, plural—and she couldn’t even warn him that she’d put him in danger.
Which made her feel awkward and intimidated.
“This courtyard,” Justin said, “is it near your home? Would those two be able to find you easily if they went looking for you?”
“The murder took place near Canal, and I live right off Esplanade, so no, I don’t think so.”
“Opposite ends of the French Quarter,” he mused. “So you chose to leave the city instead of going home. And you were on foot so late at night?”
“I walk for exercise,” she hedged. She really did, even if that hadn’t been her purpose last night.
“But your car was nearby.”
Oops. Caught. Now what?
Not thrilled that he was questioning her like a cop with a prime suspect, Lucy took the offensive. “If you don’t believe me, just say so!”
Justin stared at her for a moment before lowering his lids, stopping her from reading his expression. “I simply wanted the whole picture of what happened. More coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
Lucy tried to relax again, but Justin Guidry was throwing her off-kilter in more ways than one. This unsettled feeling was due to more than a couple of erotic dreams featuring Justin that might link him to the dangerous situation she found herself in. He knew she wasn’t telling him everything.
“Why run here to the bayou?” he continued. “Why not go straight to the New Orleans police?”
Irritation growing, she countered, “Why didn’t you take me to a doctor and report a gunshot wound to the closest sheriff’s office?”
“Impulse. It was only a flesh wound…and I wanted to hear your story before acting.”
Pacified by his explanation, she echoed him. “Impulse, right. Me, too. I was too freaked out to think clearly. But afterward, I had time to give it some thought, and I was going back to New Orleans, straight to the police, when those creeps caught up to me. Now I don’t know what to do.” Another way of saying she was afraid, Lucy supposed. She didn’t want to end up dead like that poor woman last night. “What about you? Are you going to turn me in?”
“Interesting turn of phrase,” Justin mused. “But no. I don’t want to bring you more trouble than you already have. I’m aware that things aren’t always black or white, and secrets have a way of staying hidden in bayou country.”
A thrill shot through Lucy, and she wondered if he meant something beyond her own situation.
She certainly wasn’t a bayou country kind of girl, so the hiding part was only temporary. Sooner or later, she was going to have to return to New Orleans and deal with this mess.
But the ache in her side and fear made her opt for later.
LUCY RYAN was hiding something. That much was obvious. And she was afraid.
Looking out over the bayou where a lazy alligator pretended to be a floating log, Justin let all his questions drift at the back of his mind.
Let her be, part of him thought. But letting her be could get her killed, and I don’t need another death on my conscience.
Whether he liked it or not, he was going to have to go back to New Orleans sooner than he liked.
Hearing movement at the door, he turned to face Lucy, who’d insisted on cleaning up the breakfast dishes. Funny the way, each time he looked at her, she got more appealing. With her womanly hip pressed against the doorjamb, her gaze soft and her lips parted slightly, she was downright tempting.
He cleared his throat. “You ready to go to town?”
She met his gaze and lifted both hands. “These are the only clothes I have, so what you see is what you get.”
Justin liked what he saw and wouldn’t mind getting some of it for himself, he thought, his groin tightening.
Her soft body wasn’t weak, merely inviting to a man’s hardness. Her reddish brown hair made her complexion appear pale and delicate, despite the splash of freckles across her short nose. She had alluring gray eyes and a luscious bow-shaped mouth. The thing that tempted him most, however, was the smooth expanse of skin between her short top and low-cut pants. Skin that he’d had to look at and touch when he’d tended to the wound in her side. Skin that he longed to taste….
For a moment, he forgot about New Orleans and murders and guilt. For a moment, he wondered what it would be like to take her right there, in the doorway. For a moment, he felt so connected to this woman that he didn’t even know what he might do to protect her.
And then the moment passed.
Fighting off the sexual haze, he decided any questions he had for her could wait.
“No bridge?” Lucy asked, looking around at the nearby bank in confusion.
“No bridge. No vehicles out here, either.”
“Then how do we get to town?”
“Pirogue.” He indicated the shallow, flat-bottomed boat tied to the houseboat.
“We’re both going to fit in there?”
“Unless you want to walk through the swamp.”
“Been there, done that,” she muttered. “I have no desire to be a snack for an alligator.”
He stepped down into the boat and held out his hand. She took it and then stepped in gracefully.
Still, the pirogue tilted slightly and her body brushed against his. He slipped his hands around her waist to steady her. Her eyes flared and he dared to think her reaction was personal. With one hand, he touched her cheek. A becoming color again filled her face. He rubbed the fleshy part of his thumb against her mouth until her lips parted, and she flashed her tongue over the full lower one as if in expectation….
What the hell was he thinking? They were standing in the pirogue in the middle of the swamp, breathing hard like two teenagers.
“You’d better sit down,” he said more softly than he was feeling.
She nodded curtly, then dropped like a rock.
He untied the pirogue and pushed off.
“What’s the name of the town?”
“LeBaux.”
“You have people there?”
He immediately thought of his mother who would be ecstatic when he walked into the house with a woman on his arm. She’d been after him to marry for years. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to marry. He’d even felt love for a woman before, but that emotion had been fleeting. They hadn’t meshed in the essential way two people needed to so they could make a life together. He’d drifted from one woman to another, and once he’d hit his thirtieth birthday still single, his mother had played matchmaker. He’d come to Sunday family dinner several times in the past year only to be treated to a prearranged companion. Nice women, but he’d felt no connection, not like he did with Lucy.
“My mother,” he said, “twin younger brothers, two aunts and an uncle, assorted cousins.” He’d been the only one in the family struck by the urge to move to the big city. “But to tell the truth, the whole town is like family. Anyone there would do anything for one of their own.”
“I don’t even know my neighbors,” she admitted.
He shoved off, and as always, ever since he’d been a kid, nature held him in thrall.
They drifted through patches of duckbill grass and under cypress trees draped with Spanish moss. Here and there a water lily poked out of the water and wild flowers were scattered along the banks. Ahead, an otter swam, and