Bayou Bad Boys (20 page)

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Authors: Nancy Warren

BOOK: Bayou Bad Boys
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I
N
G
OOD
H
ANDS
E. C.
Sheedy
One
Dane looked at the clock on the lower right of his screen and cursed. He had five minutes to make up his mind. Either he went himself to pick up this Esme Shane person, or he sent Janzen.
He hit the enter key, transferred another hundred thousand, and rested his dark head on his high-backed leather chair. He wanted to close his eyes. Hell, he wanted to close his mind—but thoughts of his screwball sister skewed his normally sane and logical brain patterns. To clear the frustration nettling his chest, he let out a long sweep of air. How he'd let her sucker him into taking on this damned inconvenient houseguest, he couldn't figure. He picked up a pen, tapped it on his desk.
Marilee was up to something. Had some Machiavellian plot up that designer sleeve of hers. He was sure of it.
If it had
anything
to do with the “amazing, incredible, brilliant, charismatic” Leonardo St. James, the guy currently ranked number one on her man meter, he'd strangle her—or worse yet, make a serious cut in her allowance. Dane might spoil Marilee rotten, but no way did his stupidity extend to investing in schemes involving her boy toys. She denied any form of subterfuge—naturally—but wariness being a big part of his genetic makeup, and guile being a big part of hers, he intended to be on his guard.
“Damn it,” he said to the bank of computer screens, double tiered in front of him.
When one of them beeped in response, he shook his head, again looked at the clock, and rubbed at the lines he felt deepening to wagon-size ruts in his forehead.
How the hell his sister Marilee always got the better of him was a mystery. One of those psycho-babblers would probably say their relationship got skewed after the death of their parents, and he'd had to take a more fatherly role in Marilee's life. Maybe so, but fatherly or not, he'd indulged her escapades once too often. And this latest Leonardo scheme? To run some kind of sex shop, featuring body and sexual awareness seminars in New Mexico?
Not going to happen.
Apparently, this Esme woman—due to arrive on his island retreat within the hour—fell into Marilee's breathless, “best-friend-ever” category, which meant she was probably as ditzy and irresponsible as his sister. Hell, it had taken him fifteen minutes to break through her singsong litany of the Shane woman's virtues. He remembered the conversation....
“You'll love her, Dane, I know you will. She's led the most amazing life. And she won't get in your way. She's a mouse, a quiet little mouse. All she needs is two weeks near the Gulf Coast to finish some special project she's working on—a beach book for kids or something. And it's not as if you're short of space. You've got at least twenty-five rooms in that godforsaken place of yours”—anything more than ten miles from the center of New Orleans was “godforsaken” in Marilee's mind. “She's just this
ultra
special person . . . good, kind, supportive when I needed her. I owe her, Dane. I truly do. When I broke up with Richard”—or was it Philip? Dane frowned, couldn't remember—“I'd never have made it without her. She introduced me to Leonardo, you know.”
She'd announced the last as if it were the clincher, then gone on with the pleading, every word hushed, heartfelt, and packed with sincerity. His sister would make a hell of a trial lawyer—if she believed in work.
Dane idly scratched his neck. Chances were good Esme Shane was involved in this scheme of hers and Leonardo's and would be angling for a fat check within hours. Saying no wasn't a problem, the hassle was.
“You have mail,” Six murmured. Dane had decided early on not to humanize the hardware arrayed in front of him by giving them names, but needing some way to identify each computer unit, he'd chosen numerals. One through twelve did the trick.
He looked at the old-style mailbox flashing on the screen. South Africa. Another message appeared. Some village in Alaska. Neither appeared urgent, but . . .
He decided to send Janzen. That would give him at least a couple more hours on the computer before his unwanted guest arrived and he'd have to face all that . . . mousiness.
The phone rang. He glanced at the call display, looked at the ceiling, and let out a noisy breath. He picked up.
“I knew you'd still be there,” she accused. “I just knew it!”
Marilee. Damn.
“I'm sending Janzen.”
“Don't you dare!”
Marilee's exclamation-point inventory was, as usual, overstocked. “The airport is a half hour away,” he said. “I'm sure Janzen can—”
“I told her
you'd
pick her up. She'll be nervous, flying on that glorified tin can of yours.”
“It's a Cessna. And Granger is a first-class pilot. She'll be fine.” His attention flicked over the message from South Africa.
“Dane, I don't ask you for much. I really don't.”
Her pout seeped out of the receiver and bloomed in the room like a full-color hologram, forcing Dane to attempt a decode of Marilee's definition of “much.” He came up empty. “Don't start, Marilee. And for God's sake, don't turn on the waterworks.”
She sniffled. “I never cry . . . unless”—she sniffled again—“I absolutely have to.”
Dane's lips twitched.
God, she was good.
“You are the biggest pain in the butt in Louisiana. You know that?”
“Of course I do.” She paused, and Dane sensed her smile. “Dane . . . please. She's such a shy little creature. She'd be completely overwhelmed with the chauffeur thing.”
“Janzen's not a chauffeur. He's . . . security.” Among other things.
“Whatever he is, he'll scare the daylights out of her. I know he does me. All that ex-CIA stuff gives me the vapors.”
“The what?”
“Forget it. Just, ple-e-ase, don't send Janzen. Go yourself. For me?”
“Like I said, you're a—”
“Pain in the butt. Fine. But does all that name-calling mean you'll go?”
Dane knew when he was beaten. He ran a hand over his too-long hair, his unshaven jaw, then he looked at his watch. “I'll go, but it won't be pretty. And if she's coming at me for money—”
“You're the prettiest man I know,” she said, cutting him off with the subtle precision of a chain saw. “And you'll love Esme. Absolutely love her. You won't even know she's there. Thanks, big brother. I'll call you later.”
Click.
Dane looked at the dead phone in his hand and shook his head. She hadn't denied the money thing. Damn.
Suckered again.
Six burped up another E-mail. He scanned it quickly.
Maybe not quite so suckered after all.
 
The flight was smooth and the view from the window pretty, but Esme's butt ached just the same. What with the bus, the airport, the fancy airplane, she'd been sitting for ten hours straight. She couldn't wait to get on the ground, breathe some fresh air, and walk the soles of her Nikes off.
Again she studied the posh cabin of the sleek jet, everything in shades of gray. Cushy leather seats, gleaming lacquered bar with its display of crystal glasses—all aglitter under the afternoon sun beaming in through the plane's windows—and deep, ultra-soft carpeting. Luxury on wings.
She shook her head. Hard to believe a man with this much money was so closefisted when it came to his younger sister, so determined not to help her and Leonardo. Still, that was his right and none of her business. She was just grateful to get this time on the Gulf. It was the last beach in the book due to the publisher within the month and perfect for her purpose. So far the illustrations had worked beautifully—or so Veronica, the book's author, had told her when they'd last spoken.
And Esme so welcomed the change in venue.
Doing the drawings for Leonardo's
Sex For The Seriously Inhibited
had been a tremendous amount of work. The move from a closed stuffy studio, where she'd spent days positioning naked, or almost naked, models into simulated sex positions, to open, breeze-swept beaches, was like a dose of mega-rich vitamins, as was the challenge of drawing for children. Besides, there was only so much
pretend
sex a woman could take.
“Ya'll buckle up back there now, ma'am.” The pilot's voice, with its hint of the south, came over the intercom. “We'll be landing in a few minutes. Should be a smooth one.”
Esme did as instructed and peered out the Cessna's generous window. Delacroix Island, its saltwater bays, lake, and bayou, stretched beneath her. The endless expanse of sea beyond, the swath of low grassy dunes, sun warmed and waiting, looked lush and tempting. She imagined a few stolen hours from her work, basking on a towel by the shore, taking some long overdue downtime.
Esme sighed and leaned back in the plush seat. No more naked bodies; just two weeks of bliss and beaches, thanks to Marilee. All she had to do was drop off hers and Leonardo's business case and do a drawing of McCoy's home. A small price to pay for his hospitality. That done, she intended to work hard, and stay well out of his way. If Marilee was right, that wouldn't be a problem, because, according to her, he spent his days locked in a computer room making money.
Correction.
More
money.
Marilee said he'd made a gazillion running his company, some kind of electronics firm, then another gazillion when he suddenly sold it a couple of years ago. All he did now was stare at a computer screen and watch his fortune grow.
While Esme doubted it was that easy, Dane's preoccupation with moneymaking faintly repelled her.
Marilee described her older brother as a business shark, a fierce kill-the-competition-style workaholic, who was
totally
unstoppable when he wanted something. She'd also said he was
very
handsome in a middle-aged kind of way, but that he was always so “stressed to the max,” he looked like an ogre on mean pills.
In what Esme called her past life, the one lived before she began seriously pursuing her art, she'd counseled more than her share of Dane McCoys. The money gods, she'd called them, and to a man they were ambitious, driven, stunningly egotistical—and when required—utterly charming.
She didn't miss them . . . those empty men with fat wallets, thin libidos, and joyless souls.
She especially didn't miss the one she'd married.
Esme rubbed at the tight spot above her breasts, the site left vacant by love and inhabited now by wariness, self-protectiveness, and a determination to live—and love—her way, or not at all.
 
Esme Shane was no mouse.
Tall, dark-haired, and athletic, she was built for sport—both indoor and out. Meeting her was like rounding a quiet corner and bumping into a parade.
Wearing tight jeans, a wildly bright silk shirt, and yellow sneakers, she hit the eye hard and fast, a surge of energy and color that made everything around her muddy and gray. When she extended her hand, and Dane enclosed it in his, every bone and muscle in it vibrated against his palm. Damn near electric.
Esme Shane was hot.
Dane suddenly wished he'd shaved, had a haircut. Both thoughts pissed him off, as did the thought that this “mouse” was going to be damned hard to ignore for two weeks—if he let her stay that long.
“Dane,” she said, clasping his hand and smiling into his eyes. “Thanks for coming to meet me.” She stopped, tilted her head. “You're as good-looking as your sister said you were.”
“You're not,” he said, then cringed, shaking his head at his own stupidity.
Her eyes widened.
“Sorry.” He attempted a rally. “I didn't mean that the way it sounded. It's just that Marilee described you as more . . . conservative. And you're . . . not.” She'd said nothing about sharp, sexy green eyes, and a lush mouth he had trouble taking his eyes from.
She laughed, tugged her hand from his. “Compared to your sister, Paris Hilton is conservative.”
“Yeah.” Her mouth—smiling—caused a tight feeling in his throat. He began thinking about how long it had been since he'd had sex.
Shit!
Her smile grew and her eyelashes swept down. He had the sick feeling she knew exactly what he was thinking and was amused by it.
She was a witch. Marilee had sent him a witch—with an agenda.
Dane gestured toward the Porsche. “Your bags—”
“One bag, one portfolio case,” she corrected. “I travel light, and I didn't want to scare you by bringing so much luggage you'd be afraid I'd outstay my welcome.”
Not possible.
“Not a problem,” he muttered, again nodding toward the car, where Granger had stowed her gear. “The top's down. I can put it up if it bothers you.” Her hair, loose to the middle of her back, was as thick and straight as a curtain. The wind would mess it up big time.

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