Thigh High (10 page)

“Yes? What happens then?”

“The aunts started taking in boarders to pay for my school loans, and once that got going, it just never stopped.”

“Do the boarders bother you?” The sudden sting as she used a pre-moistened pad to sterilize the area made him hiss and then straighten.

He knew better. Never let them see you in pain.

But if she noticed his weakness, she gave no indication. “I think it would be lovely to someday come down to breakfast and have only family at the table.” With the scissors, she cut a series of butterfly bandages out of the tape, and her forehead puckered with concentration as she pulled the edges of the wound together and taped it tightly. “And I don't like my aunts cooking and cleaning and caring for strangers.”

“How long have you been working for the bank?”

“Seven years.”

“How long does it usually take to become a manager?”
Did she know?

She shifted her knees as if she were uncomfortable. “The average is maybe…five years.”

He drove the point home. “So if you're not a manager yet, you probably never will be. How much longer are you going to wait around to see if someone at the bank gets wise?”

“I don't know.”

“Do you have any other experience? What else can you do?”
Rob a bank, maybe?

“I can repair gunshot wounds.” She took the roll of gauze and folded a pad to fit over the wound, placed it over the gash, and taped it in place.

Shit. She was giving him the silent treatment. He was going to have to apologize again.

But no, when she had finished, she sat back on her heels and examined her work. “I wish you had gone to the hospital. My Girl Scout first-aid badge is hardly up to this.”

“You did a great job.” Taking her hand, he lifted it to his lips and pressed a kiss on her fingers.

Her wide, startled gaze flew to his.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“You don't seem like the Continental-kiss-on-the-hand sort of guy.”

“You're right.” Turning her hand palm up, he pressed his lips to her wrist. A mixture of scents—her perfume and her skin—filled his nose with the suggestions of vanilla, orange blossom, and warm, willing female. His smile sent her heart thundering in her veins. “I'm not.” Leaning over, he wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her up on her knees, and leaned down to meet her lips.

He kissed her.

Mac kissed her, and in that first touch of mouth to mouth, all the lies fell away.

Nessa
did
want him.

And she hadn't been wrong in that alley while the thunder rumbled and the hail fell.

He wanted her. She tasted the desire in him.

But he despised himself for it.

Because it was her? Or because passion was an emotion beyond his control?

For a man with a build like a WWE wrestler and scars like a New Orleans gang member, his touch was delicate. So delicate. He held her lightly, his arm loose around her waist, his hand clasping her wrist. He felt her caution, respected it, for his lips caressed hers lightly, making no move to deepen the kiss, satisfied to explore the contours of her mouth.

After a first minute of indecision, she relaxed.

After all, it was only a kiss. And he was only an insurance investigator, one who would be leaving town in a week or so. In a way, he would be perfect for her.

He lingered over her mouth, taking advantage of his strength and her mindless acquiescence to learn her desires. One large hand stroked her hip, her waist, her spine. The other rubbed her neck, smoothing tension until she moaned and curled closer.

He smelled…so good. He felt…so strong. His heat warmed the cold places of her body, and her heart expanded with the pleasure of having a man she could lean on.

A man she could lean on.

Where had that thought come from?

This was just a kiss—one she should end
now.

He must have felt her stiffen, for abruptly, the kiss became more. More heated, more intimate, just…
more.
He no longer tasted her. He absorbed her, enjoyed her, used his lips and tongue to savor her. He placed her hand on his bare shoulder. He lifted her up and into his arms.

Her bottom rested in his lap. Her breasts flattened against his chest. He slid his fingers under her hair at the base of her neck. Muscle upon muscle rippled across his chest, and with each breath he pressed her closer.

And she felt suddenly surrounded. Threatened. He was
big
, his shoulder heavily corded and so massive her hand couldn't encompass it. This man was the size of a caveman and kissed like the most skilled lover—a frightening combination.

He lifted his head, waited until she focused on him. “Stop thinking,” he whispered. “Let me show you how to feel.”

Her head rested in the crook of his arm. She was close enough to see the dark stubble on his chin, the thin white scars against his tanned forehead and cheek, and, most important, his beautiful, enigmatic green eyes. He had taken control of her, and she should struggle. But she was in her own home. Maddy and the caterers were in the next room. Today, he'd been shot fighting their mugger. And really, he'd done nothing shocking. It was just a kiss.
Just a kiss.

He pressed his lips over her eyelids, shutting them. His lips caressed her cheek, her ear, her jaw…and found her mouth. He teased her lips open, slid his tongue inside…. And precipitously, she fell out of prudence and into passion. Without a sound or a struggle, the dark surface of madness closed over her, taking her breath, stealing her will, leaving her with only one lifeline—Jeremiah Mac.

This was no longer just a kiss. It was sex. Slow, hot, wet sex.

With each push inside her, he stole her will, made her move restlessly, try to get closer, press her aching breasts against him. She wanted to take the lead, wrap her legs around him, make him want, make him hurry.

She'd experienced passion before, but all her memories were driven onto the rocks of
now
and smashed beyond recognition.

Just as she reached the greatest depths, ready to take the plunge into submission, he murmured against her lips, “Someone's knocking on the door.”

“What?” Nessa opened her eyes. She stared at him in confusion.

Gently he sat her up on his lap. “Someone's knocking on the door.”

“Oh.” His eyes were very intent, his lids heavy. His lips looked swollen.

His lips looked delicious.

The door swung open. “Miss Nessa. Miss Hestia sent a shirt down for Mr. Mac to wear.”

Nessa snapped to attention—but not in time.

Maddy stuck her head in. “Here it is…. Oh, Miss Nessa.” She took in the scene: Nessa scrambling to her feet, Nessa's well-kissed mouth…. Jeremiah's wide, bare chest. Her brown eyes twinkled. “Well! This will make your aunts very happy.”

Nessa straightened her skirt. “Come on, Miss Maddy. Don't tell them.”

“I won't have to.” Maddy shook out a white linen shirt with ruffles at the cuffs and a front that laced up from the breastbone to the neck.

Jeremiah stared at it, his eyes narrowing.

“I know what you're thinking, Mr. Mac. You're thinking you're going to look like a damned fool. But Miss Nessa's grandfather wore this for Mardi Gras, and so did her father. They were supposed to be a pirate, Jean Lafitte to be exact, and those two were the only men big enough to loan clothes to you.” Maddy looked him over. “You'll look like a big brawn of a man in anything you wear.”

Wasn't that the truth? Most men—straight men, anyway—wouldn't be able to carry off the pirate shirt, but the thought of Jeremiah in ruffled sleeves made Nessa drool.

She took a long breath. She needed to remember—sex wasn't on the menu. Not for her. Not tonight. Not with him…

Jeremiah rose and walked to the door, and as he reached for the shirt, the muscles of his back flexed in an intricate, glorious network. “Thank you, Miss Maddy. I would be honored to wear Mr. Dahl's costume.” His voice was deep, warm, respectful.

Tiny Maddy smiled at him, the wrinkles on her soft old face deepening as she took in the magnificent sternum right before her nose. “You're welcome, young man. Now, hurry up and get dressed. The caterers need that sink!” She whisked away, leaving the door open.

The noise of kitchen work filled the room, dispelling the intimacy—but not the desire.

The desire would subside soon. It always did. But Nessa knew damned good and well that until Jeremiah left, this desire would nag at her like a toothache that wouldn't go away.

“I'm afraid I'm going to need help getting into this shirt,” he said.

“Well, of course you need help.” Because when every instinct was screaming at her to get away, she had to touch him, stare at that broad chest, get within range of those long arms again.

She approached him cautiously.

He stood waiting docilely.

Docilely. Sort of like a bull mastiff trained to attack but waiting for the command.

Just a kiss, huh?

Then why did she feel like this was the morning after? It hadn't been sex. It had been…just a kiss—and far too intimate for a first time.

Not that he'd groped her boob or made a grab for her butt.

No, she'd been the one who'd responded too completely.

And why? She dated. She exchanged kisses; good ones, too. But not one of them ever sent her out of her mind with lust.

In fact, none of them ever distracted her from the next day's schedule.

So it was Jeremiah. His fault. He'd done something to her. And he'd better not try to do it again.

Because she might…um, she might not be able to stop, and if one taste of him made her that hungry, she'd hate to try the whole tamale. For the first time, Nessa realized she would have to put her brain to work to help solve the Mardi Gras robberies. If she didn't, she'd be drawn into an affair with a Yankee from Philadelphia who fought like a hero, looked like a trucker, and kissed all too well.

He was, she feared, an unforgettable combination.

 

Mac stood in the foyer, watched Nessa scurry up the stairs, and smiled the kind of smile that, if she had seen it, would have made her very nervous.

Some people would say he was a lucky man. He would agree, if luck consisted of knowing what he wanted, putting himself in the right spot at the right time, and making split-second decisions that took advantage of every opportunity that came his way. And if lucky was getting shot by a mugger on his first day in New Orleans.

He breathed in the scent of Old English furniture polish and lilies arranged in a crystal vase, and glanced around at the Dahl House.

Helluva place. The carpets were threadbare, but man, they had cost a bundle when they were new. The floor shone, but over the years, so many feet had walked across the threshold they'd worn a slope into the wood. Gilt frames hung on the walls, filled with nineteenth-century paintings and mirrors so old the reflective backing had worn away in patches. Two sets of double doors stood wide open on the left. One room was a living room with an antique desk, two sagging couches, and a window seat that looked onto the street. The other was a huge, bare, elegant room that sparkled with crystal chandeliers—the ballroom. Since an eight-piece band was setting up in there, he wandered into the living room and over to the oil portrait that hung over the fireplace. The lady was clad in mid-nineteenth-century splendor, sitting stiffly upright in her blue silk dress. Her jet-black hair framed her pale skin, and her exotically slanted sapphire eyes clearly insinuated he had no business sullying her home with his uncouth presence.

“My God,” he said.

From the corner, an elderly lady's voice piped up, “It
is
amazing, isn't it?”

He turned to see a plump woman curled up in a large, worn easy chair, a book open in her lap. She studied him with a frankness that gave him leave to return the favor. She wore a fringed flapper dress and a turban wrapped around her head, her thick glasses made her blue eyes exorbitantly large, and she had such a marked resemblance to her sister he could safely assume she was Nessa's aunt Calista. “What's amazing?” he asked.

“How much Nessa looks like Althea Dahl. That is what you were saying, ‘My God,' about, wasn't it?” Removing her reading glasses, she carefully folded them, placed them on the table, and rose.

He looked up at the Dahl ancestor. “Yeah.”

Calista came to his side and stared up at the portrait with him. “People in New Orleans say Nessa resembles Hestia in her figure and me in her face, but all you have to do is look at that picture of Althea Dahl, and Nessa's face looks back at you.” She turned to him and offered her hand. “You're Jeremiah Mac. I'm Miss Calista.”

“Good to meet you.” He gently shook the fragile-looking fingers. “With looks like those, Althea must have been very popular.”

“Before the war, she was the belle of New Orleans. She was also the woman who sacrificed herself by marrying the rich Yankee invader, John Dahl, and thus saved her family from ruin.”

Sounded like crap to Mac. “It couldn't have been much of a sacrifice. Not if he was rich.”

“Well.” Without an ounce of compassion, Calista grinned. “It turned out
he
was the sacrifice, since the rumor claims that after she'd secured her Yankee husband's fortune, she poisoned him and lived to a ripe old age as a cane-wielding matriarch.”

“Wow.” He was impressed. “Don't mess with Althea.”

“Don't mess with any of the Dahl women,” Calista warned, and he understood she was talking directly to him. Then she added thoughtfully, “Although Nessa has none of the malice necessary to poison anyone.”

“
Does
she draw the line at murder?” He thought he sounded pleasant enough.

But Calista must have discerned an undertone in his voice, for she whipped around and attacked. “
Nessa?
Nessa is a dear girl. My sister and I wish she were a little tougher—if she were, she wouldn't allow That Woman at That Bank to take advantage of her the way she does—”

He reeled from the unexpected attack from the gentle-looking lady. “Who's That Woman?”

“Stephanie Decker, the manager.
Nessa's
the one who keeps things running smoothly.
Nessa's
the reason customers prefer Premier Central over any other.
Nessa's
the officer who secures the loans and brings in the savings accounts. That bullheaded man who runs the bank, Mr. MacNaught, has done Nessa a disservice, and he doesn't realize it. Or care.” Calista's voice dipped below freezing.

Obviously, if her aunts knew all this, Nessa had done plenty of griping about her job. “She's ambitious.”

“Of course she's ambitious.”

Everything Calista said solidified the suspicions in Mac's mind. “She
could
change jobs.”

“When Nessa was just starting, she made a mistake. Now she's nothing but a dogsbody for Stephanie Decker. She has tried to get another job, but That Woman has made sure everyone in New Orleans knows she'd messed up.”

“In banking, news travels fast.”

“It's not fair. Nessa is honest. She's loyal. She'll do anything for her friends and relatives, and even though the bank doesn't treat her right, she does everything for it.”

“But she resents the bank.”

“She's not stupid. Of course she resents the bank. It's been seven years since she made her mistake, and she hasn't made one since.” Calista's blue eyes snapped as she leveled them on him, demanding he agree.

“If everything you say is true, then…no, it's not fair.” But if Nessa was taking her revenge by robbing Premier Central banks, that was even less fair.

“If that sweet girl would leave New Orleans, she could have the job of her dreams.” Calista clasped her hands below her chin. “But she won't leave Hestia and me.”

“You want her to go?” He liked Hestia and Calista, but he could hardly believe they'd want to lose their living wallet.

“No, we don't want her to go. But we want her to have a life! Just this morning, Hestia said…” A pang of…something—horror? Amusement?—brought Calista to a firm stop. “Well, what Hestia said doesn't matter. The point is, Nessa feels responsible for us, and we Dahl girls want her to spread her wings.”