Claire protested.
Michael fought to hide his amusement, but instead grabbed her elbow and leaned in close. “She knows who I am and she knows why I’m here. Now find us a place to talk in private or I’ll drag you out and whatever case you’re working on will be ruined.”
Claire cast one angry look at her aunt, who smiled benignly in response. “The man makes a fair offer, my love. Go with him. Hear what he has to stay.”
Claire continued to silently plead with her aunt, but the woman’s matching gaze was just as stubborn and intense and Michael wasn’t sure who would win this battle of wills. He had indeed sought out Claire’s “guardian” shortly after spotting her in the ballroom. Following the protocol of Nouvelle Placage, he had revealed his credentials and verified that the aunt was helping Claire on her undercover operation, then had taken the older woman on a short stroll and explained what he’d come here to do.
Though Claire had already told her aunt about the serial rapist, she’d downgraded him to a simple stalker. So when Michael filled Aunt Clarice in on the real story, she’d agreed to help him by approving him as her niece’s lover. Once alone, he and Claire could talk freely, and hopefully, Michael could convince her to leave.
For her own safety—and for her case—she had to trust him.
She muttered a very unladylike curse, and then hissed, “This way, monsieur.”
AS THEY WALKED to the curved staircase, Claire pushed away her anger. Nothing good ever came from reacting solely on emotions. She had to concentrate on the task at hand. This FBI agent, whose name she hadn’t caught as he flashed his identification, had gone to a lot of trouble not to muck up her case. The least she could do was hear him out.
Her reconnaissance at the old plantation house had been minimal, but she knew that one of the upstairs bedrooms, reserved for lovers who preferred a traditional setting rather than one of the more exotic locations throughout the house, would afford them a measure of privacy. Damn it.
She shouldn’t have called the Feds about the scarf. She should have kept her mouth shut until after she’d closed her case. But she hadn’t figured the government would act so quickly, not for a case where no crime against her had yet to be committed. Maybe the agent would be reasonable. Maybe he’d agree to leave her to her assignment until she’d found Josslyn and obtained the woman’s signature.
Or maybe he’d already messed up her chances of bringing her case to a close by spiriting her upstairs long before any of the other women had left the dance floor.
On the second story landing, they were met by a dark-skinned woman in a plain, black dress who led them to a room at the end of the hall. Without a word, she opened the door and stood, eyes down, while they went inside. Claire had seen the woman with Masterson earlier. Was she just an employee or one of the organizers? In this world, it was impossible to know all the players.
The door shut behind them with a tight click.
Claire opened her mouth to speak, but the handsome agent held up his hand while he scanned the dimly lit room.
The boudoir did not have much furniture. A large bed with a plush comforter and an array of pillows. A silk changing screen, a chaise lounge, a small table set with a brandy decanter and two snifters, three lamps and a fireplace filled not with logs in the summer heat, but with a fragrant blaze of orange and red flowers.
Just enough scenery to evoke the weekend’s theme, but not enough to detract from the real objective—sex.
When the agent looked up at an air vent in the corner, his shoulders stiffened for a split second before he turned and held out his hand with a gallant bow. “So, cher, would you care to dance?”
He remained in character, so she did, too. He’d spotted something. With her gaze cast coquettishly at her slippers, she shuffled closer. From the break in the light beneath the door, she could see that someone was listening in. She’d been warned that some of the people in the Nouvelle Placage entertained themselves not by participating, but by watching. Did that include eavesdropping at key holes?
After slipping her hand into the agent’s, she chanced a glance at the air vent that had put him on guard.
Tucked just beyond the cast-iron scrollwork was a camera.
And from the tiny green light, she could tell it was on.
“I’d love to dance with you, sir,” she said, “but we haven’t any music.”
“That can be rectified, I’m sure.”
He marched to the door and swung it open, startling the woman hovering there.
“You!” he ordered, his manners and stature every bit as imposing as a Creole-accented Rhett Butler. “We want music. And hurry up about it.”
Less than two minutes later, she wheeled in a device that looked like a gramophone, but was connected to a very modern CD player. The FBI agent practically pushed the woman out of the door, locked it, then slowly eased his fingers out of his gloves.
She did the same, but finished first as his right glove had snagged on a large emerald ring. She was just about to comment on the unusual size and style when he turned up the volume of the melodic waltz more than necessary.
He gave her a little bow, revealing a twinkle in his deep blue eyes that was not the least bit government issue.
Who was this guy?
She curtsied as she’d learned to do before she’d gotten herself kicked out of cotillion class and then willfully walked into his arms.
His hand on her waist was taut, but the one that cupped her palm was surprisingly gentle. He was a mass of contradictions, this nameless man.
“I thought the local FBI instructed you to lay low until I arrived,” he said as they swayed to the string-heavy waltz.
“I don’t even know who you are.”
“Special Agent Michael Murrieta.”
“Shh,” she admonished. His voice was strong and would easily carry over the music. “If the room has a camera, it clearly has listening devices, too.”
“These freaks aren’t the only ones with hardware. I slipped an amplifier onto that gramophone. It’ll boost the sound—the only thing any bugs will pick up is Mozart.”
She smirked. “Actually, this is Strauss.”
“It’s still a cool gadget. They can watch us, but they won’t hear a word we say.”
She couldn’t help but be impressed by both his preparedness and his slightly boyish enthusiasm for spy toys.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“I’m the lead on your case.”
“I’m not a case, Special Agent. I’m just a private citizen who turned over evidence, as instructed. But I do have my own case and I’d like to get back to it before you screw it up.”
He withdrew just enough that she could see the full breadth of his cocky smirk. “Do I look like I’m screwing anything up?”
She turned her cheek, unwilling to confess that Special Agent Michael Murrieta did appear to be incredibly competent—not to mention smooth.
He’d dressed the part of a Southern gentleman to a tee, from his polished boots to his well-fitting breeches, tapered jacket and expertly tied cravat. He’d adopted mannerisms and speech patterns of an antebellum gentleman with sparkling ease and charm, like Nathan Fillion channeling the spirit of Clark Gable.
It was disarming.
She suddenly had no trouble understanding how women could get so wrapped up in this world. The sexual allure was powerful.
At least, the sexual allure of Special Agent Michael Murrieta.
He was clearly