Untraceable (23 page)

“Thank you.” She started to walk away.

“Alex?”

She turned around.

“Watch your step.”

Alex felt sick as she exited the hospital. She was on her own now, but Nathan’s departure hadn’t brought the relief she’d expected. She needed someone to talk to tonight. Or even better, someone who wouldn’t talk at all, but would take her to a place where she could forget everything.

Nathan could do that. He could make the rest of the world just float away until there was nothing but the two of them and their private cocoon.

But then reality would intrude, as it always did. Their one amazing night together would turn into two. Then three. Then four, with lots of daylight hours mixed in. And if she wasn’t careful, she’d have a relationship on her hands.

And Nathan was right. She didn’t like relationships.

He’d start expecting things. She’d start expecting things. He’d get disappointed. She’d get disappointed. She’d been through the cycle just enough times to know it wasn’t for her. She had no interest in getting “landed,” as he put it. She didn’t know of a single happy marriage, and she’d looked around. Of course, a lot of that looking around involved tracking down cheating spouses and deadbeat dads, but still. Those were real-life examples.

Alex retrieved her car from the hospital parking garage and found her way back to the French Quarter. Her backpack was still at the bed-and-breakfast. And she still hadn’t checked out of the Hyatt.

Maybe she’d stay there tonight. It was late to be moving around, but the idea of spending a night in that big bed all alone depressed her.

She pulled into the tiny lot beside the B and B and scanned the selection of cars. No black Mustang. A lump of disappointment lodged in her throat. She’d gotten rid of him, just like she’d wanted, and now she felt like a world-class bitch.

Alex trudged through the courtyard adorned with twinkle lights, past the tables crowded with people drinking and talking and laughing against the backdrop of jazz music. She opened the door to the lobby and was relieved to see the man she recognized from last night seated at the desk in front of a computer. Instead of silk pajamas, he wore a neatly tailored suit with a lavender pinstripe.

He stood up and smiled as she approached. “Miss Lovell. What can I do for you?”

She pulled out her wallet, even though instinct told her Nathan would have taken care of the bill already. It was the sort of gentlemanly thing he’d do, even though he was ticked off at her.

“I need to check out,” she said, tugging out her credit card.

His brow furrowed. “I’m sorry to hear that. Nothing wrong with your room, I hope?”

She heard a noise outside and glanced past him, at the sidewalk bustling with tourists.

Then she saw the car.

“Miss Lovell?”

“Sorry. Did Mr. Devereaux leave yet?” She held her breath, waiting for his answer and telling herself she was pathetic.

“To my knowledge, no.” The clerk frowned. “I believe he’s at dinner.”

She let out the breath. She tucked the card back in her wallet. She walked to the French door and peered out, just to be certain.

“Is everything all right, Miss Lovell?”

She glanced at the clerk, who was watching her curiously.

“Everything’s fine,” she said. “Thanks.”

She pulled open the door and stepped into the damp New Orleans night.

CHAPTER TWENTY - FIVE

Alight drizzle started falling as she made her way through the crowded streets. By the time she crossed Toulouse, the drizzle had become a full-fledged rain. She spotted a familiar corner and turned left, then right again, trying to retrace the route they’d taken earlier.

The rain became a downpour. Tourists scattered, ducking into bars and restaurants, but none that looked familiar. Alex glanced around in despair. She’d been paying attention. What had she missed?

She spied the narrow alleyway. It was empty now, and shadowy, but the neon green sign in the window said
MCLEAN
’s. She made a dash for it.

The bar was warm and noisy and crowded with waterlogged tourists. Alex scanned the room. No Nathan. She elbowed her way to the back, to the raised platform where a sax player was warming up at the microphone. But the table they’d shared earlier was occupied now by a cluster of college kids.

Her shoulders sagged.

She glanced around, hopes fading. He’d grown up in the Quarter; he could have gone anywhere. What made her think she knew him well enough to predict his movements? Maybe that hadn’t even been his car.

“He’s upstairs.”

Alex turned to see Vera standing nearby, a tray of drinks hoisted on her shoulder. She nodded across the room, and for the first time, Alex noticed the stairs.

Her heart lifted.

“Thanks,” she told Vera.

“Sure thing.” The waitress squeezed past with her load lifted high. “But fair warning, sugar. He’s in a black mood.”

Alex wove through the crowd. The stairs were steep, and she climbed them carefully because her sandals were slippery with rain. She must look awful. Suddenly nervous, she finger-combed her hair. At the top of the staircase, she heard a sharp
crack
.

Four big lights shone down on four green tables, all of them occupied with players. She spotted Nathan, and her pulse spiked. He was at the far end of the room, cue in hand, rounding the table as he scoped out a shot.

Alex moved toward him, heart hammering now. She watched his athletic movements as he leaned over the felt. Every detail was visible under the bright light, and she drank it all in—his strong profile; his jaw, shadowed with stubble; the way his muscles strained against his T-shirt as he lined up the shot. She knew the instant he sensed her, although his gaze never left the ball. The cue moved—a slight jab—and balls glided across the felt.

He stood up.

His gaze locked with hers, and the sheer meanness in it hit her like a punch. She froze. Her breath backed up in her lungs as he pinned her with all that hostility.

She forced her feet to move forward. His attention shifted back to the table. No longer sure of herself, she cast around for a distraction. She saw his jacket, draped across a bar stool, and decided that was as good a spot as any. A half-empty drink sat at his place. She dropped her purse on the floor and caught the bartender’s attention.

“Rum and Coke, please.”

She glimpsed her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. It was worse than she’d imagined. Her hair was dripping wet, and her thin rayon dress was plastered to her body—and not in a good way. She tucked her hair behind her ears and tugged the fabric away from her skin, but it was pretty hopeless. When the drink came, she took a big gulp.

She caught Nathan’s gaze in the mirror, watching her, as he chalked his cue. She swiveled on the stool to face him. The intensity was there still, and she forced herself not to squirm. After a moment, she crossed her legs and tried to look nonchalant as she surveyed the pool table.

Nathan was stripes. He was winning, too, and Alex wondered about the black mood Vera had mentioned.

Did it have to do with her?

She watched his face as he took aim and called the pocket. He made the shot.

She turned around and stirred her drink. A minute ticked by. Two. She resisted the temptation to look in the mirror to see what he was doing. She’d made a mistake coming here.

An arm reached over her shoulder and picked up the abandoned glass.

She turned around and gazed up at him. “You win any money?”

He drained the drink. “Fifty bucks.” He plunked the glass on the bar, boxing her in with his arm.

“Not bad.”

His face was inches from hers, and she could feel his body heat surrounding her, seeping into her skin. Something dangerous smoldered in his eyes.

“I thought you’d be on the road by now,” she said, somewhat hoarsely.

“Thought you’d be at the Hyatt by now.”

She looked at her lap. He’d known she wouldn’t be comfortable at the B and B alone, not after last night. What did that say about her?

She glanced up and cleared her throat. “I went by the hospital,” she told him. “No change.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth.

“They’ve got a guard there. A U.S. Marshal.”

He eased closer and rested a hand on her thigh. The weight of his fingers burned through her dress and seemed to scald her skin. He bent his head down, and she thought he might kiss her, but he stopped just shy of her cheek.

“If you came here to talk,” he said in a low voice, “I’m not interested.”

He eased back and stared down at her. He smelled like sweat and bourbon, and the predatory look in his eyes made her throat go dry.

“I didn’t come to talk.”

His grip tightened on her thigh, and her breath caught. His thumb moved under the hem, and she nearly slid off the bar stool.

He took her wrist in his hand.

“Come on,” he said.

And she did.

Her wrist ached as he pulled her behind him down the rain-slicked sidewalk. Half running to keep up with his long strides, she stumbled over the uneven cobblestones. He towed her across a street, dodging a taxi. She leaped over a puddle on the other side, and nearly landed on her butt, but he caught her and pulled her up.

“You okay?”

“Uh.”

He didn’t even look, just dragged her along beside him until they reached a familiar pair of French doors. He yanked one open and nudged her in front of him, into the chilly lobby.

The clerk jumped to his feet, no doubt startled by their soggy entrance. Nathan didn’t even spare him a glance as he caught her hand in his and tugged her toward the elevator.

An elderly couple stood beside the call button, staring politely at the bronze doors as the elevator made its slow descent. He pulled her past them, past a planter and a bench, and pushed open the door to the stairwell.

“Watch your step,” he said, tugging her up the stairs, and laughter bubbled up in her throat as she remembered Holt telling her the same thing, only he hadn’t meant for her to “watch her step” as she sprinted up a stairwell to have hot, steamy sex with a man who looked like he wanted to strangle her.

They reached the third floor. Nathan pushed through the door. He snagged her purse off her shoulder as she tripped past him and immediately started rummaging for the room key.

“Side pocket,” she said breathlessly.

They stopped in front of the room. He jerked open the pocket. Anger flashed across his face as he spotted her SIG. He glanced up.

Oops.

But, come on. Had he really thought she’d come here unarmed?

Shaking his head, he dug through everything else until he found the clunky fleur-de-lis. He jerked it free and shoved the purse at her, then muttered a curse as he fumbled with the old-fashioned lock. She watched him, tucking her hand in the back pocket of his jeans as she waited, heart pounding. At last, he jammed the key home and shoved open the door.

Finally.

He yanked her inside, and she barely had time to drop her purse on a chair before he had her flattened against the wall. His body was hard. His mouth and hands were everywhere. His hips pressed into her, and she felt the thick ridge of him through his jeans.

“Bed,” she managed, tearing her mouth away.

But he wasn’t listening. His hand was up, under her skirt, the other one crushed against her breast. He squeezed it through the wet fabric and seemed to realize she wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

He pulled back and down looked at her, panting, and the desire in his eyes made her knees weak. He jerked and tore at the buttons until her dress gaped open, baring her to the waist. Then his mouth was on her again, licking and nipping and pulling. His hands slid to her hips and suddenly she was up, off her feet, and pressed against the wall. She wrapped her legs around him and clutched at his head, his hair, whatever she could reach as he went after her mouth again.

Then they were moving, and she held on tight as he crossed the room. Adrenaline rushed through her as she let herself be
carried
off to bed. It was amazing. Romantic. Amazingly romantic. And then he dumped her on the mattress and gazed down at her, hands on his hips. Her breath left her. The look on his face said nothing about romance. It was raw and dangerous and made her skin tingle.

“Don’t like the bra I gave you?”

“Not really.”

The mattress sank as he rested a knee beside her thigh and slid his hand up her skirt.

“You like the rest of it.”

She closed her eyes and tipped her head back as his hand slipped under the lace.

“You like that?”

“Umm…”

His fingers stroked over her, and then his mouth was on her again, kissing and licking its way down her body. Somehow the buttons opened and the dress fell away and all her skin was exposed and chilly, but then his mouth glided over her, warming her, as his hands scorched everything they touched.

“Oh my God,” she murmured. Half-dazed, she fumbled for his waist, his jeans. Her fingers skimmed over him, managed to find his belt somehow.

But he pulled back.

She grasped the belt and jerked him toward her, but he leaned back.

“Now,” she said.
Right now.

But he didn’t stop what he was doing, and she couldn’t make him stop. He didn’t stop looking, either, gazing down at her with that fiery, triumphant gleam as she lay there, totally weak with need.

“Please?”

He lifted an eyebrow slightly. “You can’t always have your way, Alex.”

And then he slid his hands up her body, making her squirm and shudder, as he gently pulled her arms through the sleeves and removed the dress. He tossed it aside, and it landed with a
whoosh
on the chair. She shivered again, suddenly acutely aware of her damp skin, her wet hair, and the hot gaze that had zeroed in on the one scrap of covering she had left.

He slid it down her legs. Much too slowly. And she propped up on her elbows as she watched him. She reached for his belt again, and again, he backed away.

Impatient now, she got to her knees on the bed and tugged up his T-shirt as she hooked a finger inside his jeans. Finally he helped her, jerking the shirt over his head and tossing it away while she stroked her hands over that wonderful body she craved more than air. She started kissing him. She loved his smell, his feel, the salty taste of his skin.

But then he was nudging her back against the feather comforter and kissing his way down her body again. She squirmed and reached for him, and he caught her wrists in his hands and planted them up by her shoulders.

You can’t always have your way.
And he was proving it, right this moment, with every slow, languorous touch of his hands and mouth, while she quivered beneath him and he gazed down at her. He took her mouth, kissing her deeply, as she arched and pressed herself against him. He moved down her throat, lingered over her breasts, teasing her until she was ready to scream. And he knew it. He knew exactly what he was doing to her, and he was watching her, savoring every moment. He moved up to kiss her mouth again, and she hooked her leg around him, and the rasp of the denim against her bare skin frustrated her beyond belief. She moved under him and pleaded with her eyes. She was begging now, but the desire inside her was coiling tighter and tighter, and she knew she was going to explode if he didn’t hurry.

She squeezed him closer, and he smiled down at her in the dimness.

He knew. He knew exactly where she was. He knew
her
—she could feel it in every cell of her body as he shifted over her and she heard the scrape of his zipper.

She closed her eyes and nearly wept with relief as he moved over her. She listened to the tear of foil, the thud of his wallet hitting the floor. She bit her lip and waited, afraid if she uttered a single syllable, she’d choke.

And then he caught her knee in his hand and pushed into her.

Every nerve cried out. She wrapped herself around him and pulled him as close as she could. Her hands were in his hair, pulling his mouth down to hers. She moved beneath him, but he refused to be rushed, and he tortured her for minute after minute until she thought she’d die.

He whispered her name.

She opened her eyes, and the look on his face as he gazed down at her made her heart skitter.

He was
making love
to her. With every slow, sweaty thrust of his body, he was proving her wrong, letting her know that they were connected, linked, that this wasn’t just about sex, and they both knew it.