an instant, their roles were reversed. He was no longer the monied Southern gentleman considering his options as he strolled through the lines of lovely ladies waiting downstairs.
He was the one on the block.
And she didn’t look at him like a sweet, innocent ingénue. The glint in her impossibly opaque green eyes was that of a distinctively modern woman, one who knew the pleasures that could be found in the arms of the right man.
With a squeal that announced she was back in character, she grabbed his hands and dragged him behind the silk screen in the corner. To anyone listening at the door, her giggles reverberated with giddy excitement. He barely had time to lock his brain on what was happening when she started to tear at his cravat.
“They can still see us from behind this screen,” she said, making short work of the loose knot at his neck. “Our shadows, at the very least. We’re going to have to make this look good.”
Despite the rush of blood roaring through his ears, Michael pieced together her meaning. She still assumed his kisses and innuendos were part of his cover—part of some plan to convince the gatekeepers of Nouvelle Placage that the two of them were just like everyone else in attendance—horny, costumed fetishists who’d come here not to dig into their secret world, but to revel in forbidden desires.
Okay. He could work with that. Especially if it meant stripping down with Claire and discovering the true lusciousness beneath her elaborate gown.
He spun her around and loosened the ties on her bodice.
“Just how far are you willing to take this?” he asked, trailing his tongue from the base of her skull, down her spine, to the gradually spreading laces of her gown.
“As far as we have to,” she said, breathless, her voice hitching when his tongue hit the spot directly between her shoulder blades.
She tasted like a gourmet dessert, a combination of flavors that played with the notions of salty and sweet.
“You?” she asked, tossing a sassy glance over her shoulder.
In another time, another place, another situation, he might have said that he’d only go as far as necessary to keep the mission intact. But here, now, with Claire, under the influence of his ancestor’s ring, all bets were off.
“As far as you want to go,” he replied.
She spun around. With her top sufficiently loosened, the stiff material of the bodice and sleeves floated around her corseted breasts like clouds of shimmering satin. Michael’s mouth instantly watered for a taste.
Just one taste.
“Care to be more specific?” she asked.
He smoothed his hands down her back, his fingers spanning her slim waist. Claire was not willowy or thin, but curvaceous and athletic. Her arms were tanned and muscled, but she possessed a natural softness that made him lift her up from her elbows so he could properly inhale the scent of the lotions clinging to her skin.
“How specific?”
He pressed her full against his body, so that she could not mistake the feel of his erection even through the layers of her gown.
“Oh.”
The sound of her surprise, coupled with the flush of pink across her cheeks, fired him even more. He tugged her to him, his lips so close to hers he could feel her breath as he spoke.
“I came here with no intention beyond getting you to safety as soon as possible. But I’d be lying if I denied how beautiful you are or how hot you look in that dress, especially now that it’s half off. Making love to you would not be a hardship. In fact, it would be my pleasure.”
Her mouth dropped open momentarily, but then she laughed. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pierced him with a stare so bold, he thought he might lose his mind.
“Then I think I’m going to like working with you, Special Agent Murrieta.”
“If we do it right, it won’t be work. And please, call me Michael.”
“By all means, Michael. Let’s give those bastards behind the camera something worth watching.”
5
“WHERE THE HELL are you, Michael?”
Special Agent Ruby Dawson muttered the question under her breath, her eyes trained on the blank screen of her cell phone. Except for one cryptic message telling her that Claire Lécuyer had taken off and that Michael was following a lead to catch up with her, all Ruby knew about her partner’s whereabouts was that he’d gone undercover without backup. If anything happened to him because he couldn’t wait six hours until she arrived on a later flight from San Francisco, she was going to kill him.
“May I buy you another?”
Ruby glanced up, momentarily surprised to discover a fine-looking man in a pale guayabera and khaki shorts smiling at her. He was holding a sweating mug of beer, nearly as empty as hers. His blond hair was cropped short. His cheeks were rough from several days of not shaving and his eyes, an arresting mixture of browns from deep chocolate to rich gold, shone with the kind of hopefulness only experienced by a man on vacation who’d just spotted a single chick in a bar.
Really? Now? Tonight?
Inwardly, Ruby groaned. Any other time, she might have grinned provocatively and enjoyed the free drink while she sized up the guy, doing a mini-profile in her head that would determine whether she said yes to his inevitable invitation to dance or declined when he offered to drive her home. Especially here, in Draper’s Dive, a cheesy, nautical-themed bar she’d been hanging out in since she was eighteen and her mom had taken an apartment two blocks over from. She’d honed her people-watching skills here, determining the winners and losers with such accuracy that the former owner had suggested she get a job with the FBI.
She’d taken his advice, and every time she came back to town, she hit the old place to drink a beer in his honor.
Didn’t happen very often anymore, but it was a tradition, much as it was a given that at some point during her tribute drink, a guy was going to make a pass.
Under other circumstances, she would not have minded. She was pushing forty, single, and lately, a little undersexed. But Michael was out of touch, and no matter how cold and delicious the local brew felt against the back of her throat, she had to track him down. She didn’t have time for a real diversion—even one with lips curved into a casual, if not arresting, smile.
“I can buy my own, thanks,” she said, turning her attention back to her cell phone, ignoring the twinge of sensation in her nipples.
That’s how it always started—with a zing. Followed by full-out flirting, laughing, usually a little more drinking and, if she was lucky, a succession of dance moves that would coat her skin with a slick sheen of sweat and inspire her to peel away her clothing, one layer at a time.
Where it usually ended, if she wasn’t on the job, was in bed. But this time, she hadn’t come home to New Orleans for fun. She was here to work…although, with Michael running around half-cocked and out of communication range, she really didn’t have anything to do.
“Of course you could buy your own,” the man said, sidling in between her bar stool and the empty one beside her, but making no move to sit. “But why would you if I’m offering?”
His bold self-confidence was interesting. He was good looking, even if in a little too familiar “movie star” way. The vibe he threw off wasn’t over-the-top pushy or creepy.
Just…persistent.
And Ruby kind of liked persistent.
“I don’t know you,” she replied, turning her shoulder so he’d get the hint.
He laughed. “I’ve only been in town for a few days. I don’t know anyone.” He leaned around her and held out his hand. “David Brandon.”
She