by strips of moonlight spilling through the windows. She tiptoed over to a corner and opened a door to the servants’ stairs. This wasn’t the first time she’d used them, but it was certainly the first time she’d used them after an experience like this. Taking care to avoid the last step, which always creaked, Juliette emerged into the second-story hallway. Leaning against the wall for a moment, she looked down the corridor, focusing on the rich, ruby-red carpeting and the crystal lamps that accented the damask wallpaper. The effect was opulent, yet tasteful—two adjectives that adequately described her life. Not for the first time that evening, she wanted to scream at the confining nature of her existence. However, her upbringing held sway. Screaming was discouraged. It wasn’t appropriate behavior. Although she’d recently screamed her head off in Shay’s arms as she’d succumbed to her first night of passion—loving every minute of it.
With a quick glimpse around to be sure she was unobserved, Juliette sped over the thick carpet to her room, which occupied an end suite off the corridor. She let herself in with a minimum of noise, then leaned back to relish her triumph. She’d managed to experience a true adventure—one even more exciting than she could have dreamed—and no one would ever be the wiser. Her brother would have assumed she’d gone to bed early, as she’d indicated she would when she left the restaurant. And there would have been no one to tell him differently, as her father had left last month for the family’s estate in France to personally handle a crisis involving his vineyards. With no one at home that evening, she’d followed her usual practice and even given the servants the night off. So her secret was safe.
Juliette walked over to her four-poster bed, the bed she’d occupied ever since she was a child. She ran her fingertips over the carved upright posts that stretched to the ceiling, and fingered the ivory silk quilt that spilled over the mattress to pool onto the carpet beneath. It looked different to her now. The last time she’d slept in this bed, she’d been an innocent. Well, she was innocent no longer. She was no longer a virgin, but a full-fledged woman, who’d not only experienced passion, but reveled in it.
Her body still sang with the force of Shay’s lovemaking. It had killed her to leave him as she did. He’d lain with one arm thrown over his head, as relaxed as a boy abandoned to slumber. With his eyes closed, Juliette realized that his thick eyelashes were the longest she’d ever seen on a man, seemingly incongruous with his intense masculinity. Yet it only added to his male beauty. She’d been tempted to press a kiss on his lips, soft with sleep, but feared to wake him. She hated to deceive him. He didn’t deserve that type of treatment. She felt very guilty about that, but had been unable to tell him the truth. Juliette gave a deep, unhappy sigh. It was better this way. Shay wasn’t the type of man who’d be happy to be used as a plaything or an escape.
She stripped off her clothing. With each movement she remembered Shay’s touch, his fingers here, his tongue there. She reached for her nightgown and pulled it over her head, letting the silk whisper past her knees. She got into bed and nestled down under the cover, staring up at the delicate, crocheted lace draping the arches of the canopy. The pattern above her had as many holes as the story she’d told Shay tonight. Yet he’d fallen for it, or pretended he had. Now that she considered it, she wasn’t sure why he hadn’t marched her to the nearest health clinic or police station. For the first time, she really considered the situation and wondered why. Why, beyond the obvious—that she’d seemed in need this evening.
Juliette remembered the vulnerable expression that came into his eyes right before they’d made love, when he’d relaxed and really looked at her. What was she to him? A casual experience, or was he searching for something himself? Was that what tonight was really about—two people with needs, instead of just one? She hoped so. She wouldn’t feel as guilty if that was the case.
She let her mind drift as she relived her night with Shay. From the moment she’d emerged, wearing only his robe, to discover him with his shirt hanging open and the top button of his jeans unsnapped, she’d been lost. Funny how that had happened. One moment she was an innocent, uncertain about her appeal. The next moment she was a siren who couldn’t sing her temptation song fast or loud enough. With this man, she’d discovered a side of herself she hadn’t known existed. Oh, she had imagined the sensual side was there, but had seriously doubted she’d ever be the type of woman to inspire a man’s hunger. She’d been amazed to discover her own hunger was as strong as his. She could still see him, his face tight with desire as he made love to her. Her sensitive body still sang from his lovemaking.
Shay.
She grew hot just thinking of him. She closed her eyes and drifted, smoothing her hands down her body, much as he had done. This is madness. I’ll never see him again. He would remain what he was destined to be—a memory to take into the future with her. But oh, how she wanted to see him again!
Her body moving restlessly, she tried desperately to refocus her thoughts. It was no use. She ached to see him. Make love with him again. She moaned, the ache intensifying as he continued to invade her mind as surely as he had invaded her body. She closed her eyes. Shay, please don’t hate me.
THREE DAYS LATER, Shay O’Malley strode into the first district house of the New Orleans Police Department. He blew past the uniformed sergeant at the front desk and attacked the stairs, climbing two at a time to the second floor, where he slammed through a door into an open room that looked like a bad stage set on a television show. The desks were old and unmatched, scarred with cigarette burns and gouges, stained with coffee rings. The walls were the institutional green that only the government could love, and the floor was linoleum that had been scuffed so often the janitors had obviously given up on it. The room resembled most of the other departments Shay had worked in with one difference. For all the bustle of ordinary police activity, there was a different feeling—one more laidback and easy. It drove him nuts—especially today. His temper was already short because he’d spent the past few days trying to track down his mystery woman. He’d run into dead ends everywhere, almost as dead as his line of questioning with the case that had brought him to New Orleans in the first place. Of course, the entire investigation wasn’t helped by the pace of life in New Orleans, which was dead slow. It was a thought echoed by the laid-back drawl of a female voice behind him.
“Land sakes, Yankee, if you aren’t some kinda busy man today. You’re bustling around like you’re the whole Northern army hell-bent on capturing N’awlins before noon.”
He snapped a glance over his shoulder, taking in the amused attitude of the tall, statuesque, blond-haired woman standing behind him. “I am a Yankee.”
With a casual gesture, she pushed back her hair, then smiled. “I know, sugar, but I don’t think it plays real well down here.”
Turning to face Detective Lucille Monteverde, Shay hitched a hip onto the corner of his temporary desk. “Excuse me?”
The woman adjusted the badge clipped onto the lapel of her well-cut beige jacket. “What I mean is, I don’t think your Northern attitude and way of doing things will get you a lot of cooperation down here.”
“What do you mean by that?”
She shrugged. “Just some of the stories I’m hearing, is all.”
“Such as?”
“Such as, I hear y’all are in town investigating one of our most illustrious families.”
“Yeah? So?”
“So…some people aren’t too happy about the way you’re going about it.”
Shay folded his arms across his chest. “I’m listening.”
“Well, now, far be it from me to make any suggestions to a visitor to our fair city, but in this town, you’ll catch more flies with honey than all your vinegar.”
“What the hell are you talking about? The only way I know to do my job is to ‘do my job.’”
“Well, now, if you don’t mind a teeny bit of advice… I’d suggest you smile a bit more if you’re trying to shake down a bank secretary for the financial records of Louis Fortier’s shipping association.”
Shay