Thigh High (13 page)

Jeremiah's gaze locked with hers. And he smiled invitingly, telling Nessa without words that he was harmless.

He lied.

“You dance very well for a…” She hesitated too long.

“For a thug?”

“Not at all,” she said, and wondered at his choice of words. “I was going to say…for a man.”

“Men don't dance?”

“Seldom, and unwillingly. At least in my experience.” And most certainly never this movement of thighs against thighs, of hips against hips, this slow, smoky seduction that tangled their bodies and created a heat unlike any she'd ever experienced…except during sex.

Dancing with Jeremiah was better than sex, and the motion, the friction, the sharing, pressed her to wonder what sex with him would be like.

She laughed at herself. Like she wasn't already wondering that.

“You've been hanging around with the wrong kind of men,” he said.

“That's probably true. But the only men I know who enjoy dancing are gay, and while I dearly love their company, I find I like that tiny fillip that happens between a man who's interested and a woman who's tantalized.”

“I am very interested, and I assure you, it's not tiny.”

“What isn't tiny?” She realized what he meant one beat too late.

“My fillip.”

She struggled to answer with some wit and no discomfort. “I…never thought it was. Why do you dance so well?”

“I worked my way through college as an escort to wealthy old women.”

“No, really.”

“No. Really.”

He sounded serious, but she couldn't believe that. “What? You couldn't get a scholarship?”

“I had an…accident when I was thirteen, fell behind in my grades, dropped out of school.”

She winced, wanted to ask about his accident.

But he whirled her in a circle, moved her under the second arbor and onto the flagstone patio, where the fountain splashed water against old, slick stone.

He continued, “I got a GED, which knocks you right out of the running for most college scholarships. But I always knew that somehow I was going to get through college, and one very wealthy, single woman offered to show me how to make a good wad of money while attending classes and making good grades.”

She didn't believe him. She couldn't believe him. She knew stuff like that went on, of course. But not to Jeremiah. Not to this man who defined self-confidence. “So you learned to dance.”

“To dance…and other things. I learned how to dress. I learned how to kiss.” He slid his hand under her chin and lifted her face to his. “And I learned how to make love to a woman to bring her the ultimate pleasure.”

He took her breath away. “You were a gigolo?”

“That's one way of putting it.”

“If you learned so much, how come you need me to be tactful for you?” She was trying to ground this conversation in reality, in the events of a long, hot, New Orleans day. But the shadows caressed his features, the play of dark and light emphasizing the heaviness of his lids, the glints in his eyes, his crooked nose and strong jaw.

“Those women never required conversation.”

Nessa didn't know whether to laugh in amusement or snort in disbelief.

“I was taught certain pat phrases. ‘Your eyes are ravishing tonight.'”

She started to thank him, then comprehended that he was reeling off a series of compliments.

“‘That dress accentuates your fine figure,'” he said in one tone deeper than normal. “‘Your voice reminds me of a nightingale.'”

“Have you ever even heard a nightingale?”

“No, but apparently it didn't matter. I finished college clear of debt, and with a recommendation from my original patroness, I landed a job at…at my company. I've never looked back.”

“Do you own your company?” she asked.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because you seem the kind of man who would not take orders from anyone.”

“You're right.” He spanned her waist between his two hands and swung her so that her back rested against the wall. “You're so right.” He kissed her.

No pressing of lips was this kiss, but a slow penetration of her mouth, a sweet meeting of tongues, of flavors, of heat. He kissed like a man with all the time in the world, like a man who pleasured women for a living. Nessa's breath caught again and again as his tongue slid in and out, tasting her, luring her.

The music sounded faintly through the air. The fountain played its own tune. The scent of lilies rose like heady perfume from the warm, damp earth. The seconds slid smoothly, one to another, becoming minutes marked by blissful sensuality.

If only she weren't already too relaxed, blindly trusting him to lead her where he wished, trusting him to care for her. Dimly, she knew she was a fool to feel this way about a man she'd only met this morning. But that man had protected her from the storm, saved her from a mugger, kissed her like a lover. In twelve hours, they'd been through more than most couples lived in a month.

He nipped her, his teeth closing on her lower lip, teasing, just on the edge of pain, and she forgot to breathe. Her body jolted, each muscle tightened as if he'd shot an electric current right to her clit. God. God, she teetered on the edge of orgasm, fighting against a surrender too precipitous and too soon.

Rescue came when something—something big—fell off the wall and landed a few feet away in the flower bed.

Nessa jumped and shrank back against the wall.

Jeremiah put her behind him and faced the intruder.

It was a guy. He blundered around and cursed.

“What were you doing up there?” Jeremiah asked sharply.

“Whoa, you guys were really going at it.” Ryan Wright's drunken voice blared, and he brayed with laughter.

She flinched at his coarse hilarity. Had he been
watching
them?

“Go away.” Jeremiah's tone left Ryan—and her—in no doubt of his intentions if Ryan disobeyed.

“You think you're so smart.” Ryan slurred every word. “You piece of shit.”

Jeremiah moved toward him, a large, threatening hunk of a man.

Ryan stumbled back, whirled, and raced toward the house.

Jeremiah started forward.

Nessa caught his sleeve. “Jeremiah, please. Let him go.”

He halted. He looked down at his fists, then turned and took her in his arms again.

But it was too late. Ryan's vulgar taunt echoed in her mind.

Going at it? Yes, they'd been going at it, and for a long time. Ten minutes? Twenty? She didn't know. She only knew her back was against the wall, her body trembling with heat and need. One of his arms held her close to him, belly to belly, and his erection pressed in the cup between her thigh and her pelvis. His thumb brushed her nipple in small circles, each movement creating a greater tension, a greater intimacy…. With a man she barely knew. For Nessa, who had worked so hard all these years while ignoring her libido, Jeremiah was a temptation in which she never should have indulged.

Worse, one of her hands clutched the sleeve of his shirt over his bicep; the other wrapped his waist. She embraced him as if she couldn't stand without him—and right now, she wasn't sure she could. Shadows clung to one side of him, caressing him like velvet, turning his skin dusky. The sweep of his dark eyelashes hid all but the glint of his eyes.

“I'll spend the night.” His voice was low, coaxing. He didn't wait for an invitation. He made a demand.

“What? No. No, you…that's impossible, here, with my great-aunts in the house.” Then she thought,
I'm presuming too much
, and babbled, “I mean, you can stay, of course you can. We always have a lot of people who stay because they're too intoxicated to go home, and you were shot, so you should stay. But…”

He stroked his forefinger across her lips. “But you won't let me in your bed, which was really what I was asking.”

Okay. She hadn't presumed. Which made her feel less stupid, and yet more pressured.

Lots more pressure. He was leaning over her. Brooding over her. Holding her as if they'd not been sharing a dance but having sex. Every breath she inhaled was filled with his scent, and all she felt, still, was the intense pressure of desire pushed too close to the brink of climax. “We're working together. We've known each other less than twenty-four hours. We shouldn't even be…kissing.”

“Or dancing.”

“Exactly.” Was he laughing at her? “Probably this is all a response to the storm and the danger of the mugging and the, um, liquor we've consumed. No one gets this aroused merely standing in the garden in the honeysuckle.”

He chuckled, low and deep in his chest. “Honey, I'm a man. I get horny about the word
honeysuckle.
You know,
honey
…
suckle
.”

When he said it that way, he made
her
horny. She plucked at the laces on his shirt. “So you're not mad?”
Nice, Nessa. Right back to high school.

“I have the Garden Suite at the Olivier House. Going back tonight is no hardship—”

No hardship?
She guessed not. The Garden Suite was one of the city's premier rooms, and the fact that he stayed there told her all too clearly how much his company valued him.

“—But I don't believe this desire is the result of the honeysuckle or the mugging or the storm or the liquor. The first time I saw you, I thought—” He stopped.

“What did you think?” She desperately wanted to know what he thought. About anything. And everything. Because although he had just shared a part of himself, deep in her bones she knew he hid secrets he had never revealed…. To anyone.

“Someday, I'll tell you.”

Someday…all his secrets…but what would he require in payment?

In a slow, torturous motion, he pulled away from her. “So I'll go away tonight. What time should I pick you up tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

“We'll go on a…date.”

The way he said
date
made her think he meant something entirely different. Her temperature rose, measured not in mercury but in increments of passion. “No, really. We can't…date. It's too soon. It's not right.” She expected he would point out that those were two different arguments completely.

Instead, he bent to kiss her, and pulled back at the last minute. “Then I'll see you Monday morning. We'll work on the case and pretend tonight never happened.”

“Yes. That's exactly what I want.”

“I thought it was.”

Saturday morning, Mac sat downstairs in the Garden Suite at the Olivier House, watching one of the robbery DVDs and going through Chief Cutter's notes. His cell phone rang, he glanced at the number, his eyebrows rose, but he muted the TV and answered at once.

No use hesitating. She couldn't help what she was, and he didn't care anymore.

“Hi, Mom. What's up?”

His mother's voice, hesitant as always, said, “Hi, Jeremiah. How are you?”

“Good. Busy.” Although he'd reviewed the videos a hundred times, he still kept an eye on the TV. “How are you? And how's Mitch?”

“He's good. He sends his love,” she said in a rush.

Right. His love was the last thing his stepfather wanted to send to Mac. “So what do you need?”

“I don't need anything.” She sounded anxious now. “But your brother's coming home on leave in a couple of weeks and I was hoping…I mean, I know you're busy, but it would be great if you could be here. For him, you know. He's always admired you.”

“He's a good kid.” Mac meant it. For all that he and Joe shared a mom with a less-than-stellar character, and his father was Mitch, the most easily irritated asshole Mac had ever met, Joe was a good kid.

“Not such a kid anymore.” Her voice trembled. “After his leave, he's going back for a second tour of duty.”

Mac sobered. “Good Lord, why?”

“He says he's good at what he does, and they need him.”

“What does he do?”

“He won't say.”

One of
those
jobs. “All right. I'll be there.”

“Good! Your stepfather said you wouldn't, but I knew you'd come for Joseph.” She sounded pathetically grateful.

Mac felt a twinge of guilt, and the twinge made him irritable and cruel. “Yeah. I'll come for Joe.”

As if he'd slapped her, his mother caught her breath. “Jeremiah, you don't come home enough, and
I
want to see you, too.”

For about a year now, his mother had been trying to talk to him about…stuff. Their relationship, he guessed, and what happened when he was thirteen. He didn't want to rehash old problems. Not now. Not ever. He should have shut up while he had the chance.

“I know, Mom. Listen, I've got to go. There's somebody at the door.” As if his words had power, someone knocked.

If he were really lucky, it was Nessa come to seduce him into doing her bidding.

He looked through the keyhole.

He wasn't really lucky.

Jerking open the door, he asked, “What are you doing here?”

Gabriel Prescott countered, “What are
you
doing here?”

“I guess it's important business?” Mac's mother said in his ear.

“It's my security man paying me a surprise visit, so I suppose it is important business.” He stepped back and let Gabriel walk through the door.

Gabriel's dark tan, black hair, and high cheekbones proved his Hispanic heritage. His strong body and lithe motions betrayed a skill with self-defense. His narrowed green eyes betrayed something entirely different—a European legacy and a fair amount of irritation.

“How did he get up to your penthouse without you knowing?” Mac's mother asked.

“I'm not in my penthouse. I'm in a hotel in New Orleans.”

“New Orleans? Why are you in New Orleans?” Her voice rose in excitement. “Are you in New Orleans for Mardi Gras? Did you actually take a vacation?”

Her enthusiasm made Mac grind his teeth. “No, Mom. It's not a vacation. It's definitely business.”

Gabriel dropped his overnight bag with a thump.

Mom's enthusiasm was undimmed. “I've always wanted to go to New Orleans. Please, Jeremiah, take a little time for yourself. Eat and drink and dance. Have some fun for a change!”

Remembering the party the night before, Mac said, “I already have, Mom.”

“That's good. So good. You don't take care of yourself enough.”

Whatever else she was, he guessed she remained enough of his mother to worry about him. “I gotta go. I'll let you know when I'm coming in. Tell Joe I'm looking forward to seeing him.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” He hung up. He had to. If he didn't, she'd draw out the good-byes like some sort of ceremonial mother/son ritual. “What
are
you doing here, Gabe?”

“You wanted an immediate security upgrade at your banks. I came to check on my boys, the ones installing it. And what do I see on the security video? Mac MacNaught. Only they tell me you're not Mac MacNaught, but Jeremiah Mac, the insurance investigator come to get to the bottom of the Mardi Gras Robberies.” Gabriel threw out his arms. “Have you lost your mind? You're the CEO of Premier Central Banks. Shouldn't you be directing a board meeting? Don't you have anything better to do than chase after bank robbers?”

“No. How's the upgrade going?”

“Okay.”

“Just okay?” That was irritating.

“The wiring in the banks is ancient. We've run into termites. Hurricane Katrina did a lot of damage. Everything's taking twice as long as it should. I should have doubled my estimate.” Gabriel peeled out of his suit jacket.

“Tough.”

“Ain't it?” Gabriel collapsed on the couch.

“Make yourself at home.”

“Thanks. So why are you down here pretending to be an insurance investigator?”

“Because my last investigator fell in love with my primary suspect.”

Gabriel lifted his eyebrows. “Male or female?”

It took no more urging than that for Mac to find Nessa on the video and zoom in on her face.

“Wow. She's hot.” Gabriel sat forward, elbows on his knees, and stared.

So did Mac. “She blew it seven years ago, lost five hundred dollars—”

“She stole it?”

“No, the teller did, but Nessa didn't get the promotion she wanted. Right away, she goes in and arranges to have my bank robbed.”

“Far-fetched.”

Gabriel didn't worry about making his opinion known, Mac noted, and as blunt as he was, he reminded Mac of…himself.

“It would have been easier to change jobs,” Gabriel said.

“Not in New Orleans. She's a native, daughter of one of their oldest, most respected families. Apparently, that's important here.”

“Then why not steal a
lot
of money and be done with it?”

“Because then she's got the attention of the police and the Feds, and she's screwed.”

“If she gets caught, she's screwed, anyway. She might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.”

“That's not what it's about with her. She does it to irritate me.” And Mac
was
irritated. Irritated and intrigued.

“She doesn't know
you.
” Although Gabriel seemed to. It was like he'd researched Mac's background. “She doesn't know the CEO of Premier Central would pay any attention to such insignificant robberies. She doesn't know how much you hate thieves. Nothing about this theory makes sense.”

“What about these robberies
does
make sense?”

“Well. There you've got a point. Senseless crimes are always a problem. I can follow the logic of crime for money or for passion. But delinquency like this, with no rhyme or reason, leaves me with no direction.” Gabriel flexed his fists.

“I don't put my face out there,” Mac said. “There aren't any pictures of me hanging in the lobby. But I make my feelings known. Everyone who works for me knows I demand exemplary honesty and integrity from my people.”

Gabriel nodded. “Yet you still haven't convinced me Nessa Dahl is guilty, and if she is—who is this woman from one of New Orleans's oldest families manipulating for the trigger men?”

“That's the beauty of it. She's got a drag queen living in the boarding house with her. He's flawless.”

Obviously, Gabriel was turning it over in his mind. “So the cross-dresser recruits a compatriot to rob your banks…. All right. You've made your point. There is a possibility that she's at least close to the source of the problem. What are your impressions of her?”

“She's as smart as I thought. She and her aunts plead poverty, but they spend a lot of money on parties. Men would commit theft and worse for a chance between her legs.” And that was really what had Mac convinced.

Mac could see the question forming on Gabriel's lips.

Would you?

So Mac changed the subject. “There's a way into the Chartres Street branch vault.”

That brought Gabriel to his feet. “What?”

“A hundred years ago, the guy that built it was killed in there, the crime was never solved, and no one ever figured out how he got in.”

“You are kidding.”

“I just spent the morning going over the newspaper records online and reading every available account of the crime.” With a wave of the hand, MacNaught indicated his laptop. “Although they searched, they found no way in. They walled off the vault and turned the place into a store, and for years the area around it went to hell. When the French Quarter revival came in the sixties, some smart son of a bitch restored it as a bank. In the eighties he sold it to Security Corp, who sold it to Prime Finances International, who sold it to us. Never was I told the history of the bank.”

“You wouldn't have cared if you had been.”

“You're right.” Mac never hesitated to admit a possible fault.

“Do you have reason to think someone's using unauthorized access?”

“No, but I want that hole plugged, anyway, and discreetly, too.”

“Right. Talk about bad publicity.” Gabriel pulled his planner from his pocket and flipped through the calendar. “I'm only going to trust my top people with this one…. And they're not available. On a scale of one to ten, how do you assess the danger?”

“A one. It's been a bank for fifty years without a robbery in the vault. But if I can figure it out, someone else can. You need to deal with this right away.”

“It's not possible,” Gabriel said coolly.

“You're doing a big job for me, and I've got a lot of influence in the banking world. If I insinuate I'm not happy with your firm…”

Gabriel snorted, not a bit impressed. “My reputation is solid—and so's yours as a curmudgeon.”

Mac almost grinned. But that wouldn't do.

“Better to do it after Mardi Gras, anyway, when the streets are empty. So—in twelve days you need to clean out the vault. I'll be back for that.”

“How long are you staying this time?”

“I fly out tonight.”

“Right.” Mac flicked off the TV. “Come on. I'll take you out for coffee and beignets, and you can bring me up to date on the security upgrades.”

“Sounds good.” As they headed out the door, Gabriel said, “So, you're masquerading as an insurance investigator, hoping no one recognizes you, to infiltrate Ionessa Dahl's life and catch her in the act.”

“I want Nessa's head on a platter—or proof that she's innocent. And no matter what, I want the men who commit the robberies.”

“You could get hurt.”

“Do I look like someone who's afraid?” Mac checked the door of his suite to make sure it locked.

“No. You look like someone who knows how to fight.”

“Better than that.” MacNaught led the way onto the crowded street. “I always win.”

 

Russell Whipple slid into a tiny sidewalk table at the French Coffeeshop across from Deaux Bakery. “Coffee,” he told the waitress.

“Beignets?” She dimpled at him. “They're fresh and hot.”

“God, no.” Deaux had the best beignets, but he couldn't go there, could he? Mac MacNaught and his boyfriend were over there.

His waitress made a face and turned away.

He grabbed her hand. “Make it Bailey's coffee.”

“Right!” She dimpled again. He would have liked to think it was because she liked him, but he knew she anticipated a better tip.

Keeping his sunglasses on and his hat pulled low over his eyes, he watched the two guys talk. Their waitress obviously pegged them as hot shits; she was fawning over them. She made Russell sick. The whole setup made Russell sick.

“Here you go, sir!” The waitress set the coffee down, all sweet smiles and Southern charm. “With extra cream!”

“Great. Thanks.” He took a sip and burned his mouth. “Ouch. Shit, goddamn!”

“Are you okay?” She hovered sympathetically, but when he glanced up, she was grinning.

“Yeah, very funny. Get me some ice water.”

Her grin disappeared, and so did she.

She'd just seen her tip evaporate, and he bet she was going to forget the ice water. That bitch.

You're so skinny, the women will never notice you, boy. Are you sure you're not a faggot?

“Shut up,” Russell whispered, and flicked the thought away like he would flick away a fly.

The guys in prison thought you were pretty enough.

“Shut up!” he said.

“What?” The waitress stood beside him, dripping water on the table. She slammed the glass down. “You don't need to be a jerk!”

Across the street, Mac and his friend stood up.

Russell never took his gaze off them. “Gimme the bill.”

“It's eight bucks.”

He took a swig of the coffee, burned his mouth again, put a ten on the table, and followed them down the street.

Last night, he'd checked out MacNaught's whole setup.

In one day, that bastard MacNaught had managed to check into one of the best rooms in New Orleans, visit all his banks, and impress Nessa Dahl so much she invited him to the annual Dahl House party.

Of course, Russell had been invited, too, but the gossips never thought he was worth mentioning. They never talked about how he dazzled the old Dahl ladies, or spoke in awe of how he got shot defending Nessa from a mugger. They never called him Nessa Dahl's date, or whispered that he'd been seen kissing her in the garden. Nobody ever noticed him.