In Dreams. Patricia Rosemoor
he agreed.
“Under the right circumstances. I am a city girl at heart, though. I don’t fit in here.”
“Where do you fit?” he asked, thinking she’d fit perfectly in his bed.
“In a town house at the edge of the French Quarter. Dana Ebersole and I have been renting it for more than a year now.”
He couldn’t keep his disappointment at bay when he said, “Ah, so you live with someone.”
“Oh, no, not like that. I mean, Dana isn’t a man. She’s been my best friend since we were kids. She’s my business partner, as well.”
A clarification that brought a smile to his lips. “What kind of business?”
“A shop in The Quarter called Bal Masque.”
“Souvenirs.”
“That, too. And masks for Mardi Gras. But mostly art pieces. We also give classes teaching people how to make their own masks.”
“Are you an artist?”
“I went to art school. Not the same thing.”
“So, some of those art pieces you sell—”
“Are mine,” she admitted. “I lead the classes, as well. Dana was a business major. She’s responsible for numbers and organization and advertising. In other words, she’s the one who keeps us from going bankrupt.”
“The partnership sounds like a good match.”
“Very good. What about you?” Lucy asked, glancing at him again. “What do you do for a living?”
Not wanting to talk about his own work and the way he’d bungled his last case, he said, “Look, we’re just about there,” hoping to distract her.
He saw her tense up and scan the bank ahead, as if she were afraid the thugs were waiting for her. But all that awaited them were the buildings across from the dock—a small grocery store and a diner.
“Don’t worry, chère, I’ll see that you’re safe.”
Lucy glanced back at him. “I’m not your responsibility,” she said in all seriousness. “As soon as we get my car, I’m off.”
He wanted to tell her that wasn’t advisable, that she needed to give the flesh wound a couple of days to heal—anything to keep her with him a while longer, so he could see what she was all about, maybe even figure a way to help her—but he was fairly certain nothing he said would sway her. She seemed determined to be rid of him as quickly as she had the hoods who’d driven her into his arms.
He just had to decide if he was willing to let her.
3
WHEN JUSTIN TURNED from the languid stream of the bayou and poled up to a floating dock, Lucy anxiously looked around.
Part of her expected to encounter the men who’d chased her into the swamp waiting for her, guns drawn. But they were nowhere in sight. Lucy breathed a little easier.
Justin jumped out onto the floating dock first and with a few twists of rope against a wooden post tied up the boat. Then he hooked the hull to the dock with one foot and offered her a hand and a smile.
Heart fluttering at the way he was looking at her—like he knew, for heaven’s sake, like he could read her mind about the dreams—Lucy reluctantly took his hand. Their physical connection was immediate and more intense than she would have imagined. Her palm felt scalded and as the sensation spread up her arm, she swayed slightly.
Justin easily pulled her right into him. The tips of her breasts brushed his chest, oh, so lightly, but her nipples immediately tightened and sent a warning to parts below. She squeezed her thighs together and awkwardly pushed past him.
“Are you all right, chère?”
The dock swayed under her, the motion adding to her already wonky stomach. “Yes, why?”
“You seem…well…a little breathless,” he said, his voice low and warm as the sunshine. “I thought maybe the wound was letting you know it was there.”
“Yes, the wound…” She was lying, of course. She’d forgotten all about being shot. She shrugged and forced a smile. “Just a twinge. It’s fine now.”
“Good.” Placing a light hand at the small of her back, he started for the bank. “Watch your step here.”
Her quick jump to dry land—make that squishy land—was inspired by the touch of his hand. Being close to Justin was difficult enough. Allowing him to continue touching her would drive her nuts because the intimate contact would remind her of the hot dreams.
And then all she would want to do is tear off his clothes and see if the sex was as good as she’d imagined.
Nothing could be that good, she argued with herself. At least nothing in her experience had led her to believe that sex could be in the fireworks category.
But wouldn’t she like to find out?
No. NO. She couldn’t. Wouldn’t. That would mean involving Justin Guidry in her life.
And that would mean involving Justin in the murder she’d witnessed.
Totally unacceptable. She’d got herself into this mess, so she was going to have to get herself out of it without involving anyone else with the murderers or the authorities.
First, though, she had to get her car out of the bayou.
“So where’s the local garage?” she asked, as they walked along the edge of town. She was careful to leave a few inches of space between them. “I need to arrange for a tow truck.”
“All in good time, chère, all in good time.”
Now what was that supposed to mean?
Lucy thought Justin was headed straight through the center of town—all two blocks of double-story buildings, shops at street level, probably living quarters above. But he kept going, straight away from the bayou and toward a neat white house with a big front porch raised off the ground by cement-block stilts.
She looked around and noticed all of the houses were likewise equipped to deal with flooding from the bayou, the downside of living below sea level.
Suddenly Lucy felt Justin’s hand at the small of her back again, and she practically raced him up the front steps to the door so he couldn’t get a better grip on her.
“Hey, Mama, you got guests!” he called out, as he threw open the screen door.
The room was big and comfortable. Soft gold walls and dark rust couches were accented with brightly colored pillows and scarf valences at the long windows. A piano was set against one wall covered with dozens of framed photographs. Family, she thought, smiling.
A woman bearing an uncanny resemblance to Justin flew through the doorway. Her hair was dark with a single silver streak tumbling down over her heavy-lidded brown eyes.
“Justin, my oldest, my most wonderful boy, is that—” she stopped dead in her tracks and gaped “—a young lady you have with you?”
Though she was obviously surprised, Justin’s mother sounded pleased as punch, Lucy thought, amused at the way the woman addressed her son. There was great affection between the two of them, that was obvious from the big hug Justin gave his mother.
“Mama, I have brought home a woman in distress,” he announced dramatically.
“Oh, my. How can I help?”
What in the world was he going to tell his mother? Surely he wouldn’t alarm her with the truth.
As she stepped forward, hand held out, Lucy surreptitiously kicked Justin. “Lucy Ryan.”
“Marie Guidry,” the woman returned with a firm handshake.