- -
- 100%
- +
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 a good actor—which meant he couldn’t be trusted.
“Why are you here?” she asked, tugging back slightly. Unlike the other women at Nouvelle Placage, she hadn’t dolled herself up in silk and simpering sweetness to get all cozy with a man. She had a job to do. And the longer she swayed around the bedroom with this intoxicating fed, the harder it would be for her to accomplish her goal.
“You received a scarf,” he said.
“Yes, I know,” she snapped. “I was there. I delivered it to your field office myself, which I didn’t have to do, you know. I could have waited until I was done with this case. I should have waited.”
“Maybe, but then you might be dancing with an unhinged rapist rather than with me.”
He spun her, the twirl both expert and effortless.
She gasped, a little dizzy. A little impressed.
“It matched the ones left with the other victims,” he explained, his voice soft, but weighted with importance. “Didn’t the agent-in-charge explain what the scarf meant?”
She groaned. “He just said that some wack job who thinks he’s the Frito Bandito might try and abduct me to fulfill some sort of non-sexual sex fantasy.”
Agent Murrieta stiffened, but continued to maneuver her in a tight square in the center of the room. When she looked up, she was surprised to find that his eyes had hardened into twin blocks of blue ice.
“It’s not non-sexual. Not anymore. He’s escalated. You’re in serious danger, Ms. Lécuyer. And I’m going to make sure he doesn’t get to you, whether you want me to or not.”
3
FRITO BANDITO? Had she just equated his storied ancestor with the retired mascot for corn chips? At the spot where his right hand rested just below her shoulder blade, his father’s ring burned.
Or at least, he imagined it did.
The family heirloom had reportedly once belonged to the very man whose reputation Claire had just unknowingly insulted. Centered by an emerald etched with a Z and flanked by two large opals that reflected vibrant blues and greens among the inky black, the ring had always been his father’s most treasured possession. Now it connected Michael to his brothers, to his family legacy—and to this case.
No one at the FBI knew that Michael was the direct descendant of Joaquin Murrieta, the very real and very notorious California renegade after whom the fictionalized Zorro was based. He’d drawn the line at allowing the unsub to be branded with the name associated with his famous forebear, so he certainly wasn’t going to let Joaquin Murrieta be reduced to a mustachioed Mexican stereotype.
“The unknown subject, whom my colleagues have dubbed The Bandit, is both delusional and dangerous. Just because he’s fixated on a character who wore black masks and capes in the movies doesn’t make him any less dangerous. Especially to a delicate woman like yourself.”
The last part was a cheap shot, but it hit the target. Her eyes flashed and he had to increase the pressure of his grip to keep her swaying to the music rather than punching him in the face.
He shouldn’t have baited her, but somehow, he couldn’t help himself. Unintended insult to his ancestor notwithstanding, Claire Lécuyer took herself entirely too seriously. He would know. He usually did the same.
But not tonight. Not with her. Casting aside the fact that he was dressed like an idiot while prancing around for some voyeur’s video camera with moves he hadn’t used since his ballroom-obsessed fifth grade teacher taught her class the box step, Michael felt entirely at ease. Dancing with Claire—no, holding her close—felt nearly as natural as taking her into his protective custody.
Again, he wondered about the ring. According to legend, it allowed the wearer to access the three qualities most often associated with the dashing character the unsub had appropriated for his sexual fantasy. A strong desire to impart justice to the wicked. An insatiable desire for adventure. And, of course, an enviable talent with women.
Michael didn’t believe any of that nonsense, but he knew one thing for sure: if he was going to go up against a madman to save Claire Lécuyer, he’d take all the help he could get.
“I don’t need a bodyguard,” she murmured, her lips drawn in a severe line. “I used to be a cop, you know.”
“Of course I know,” he replied, taking a chance at a second twirl that made her gasp in surprise. “I’ve made it my business to know everything about you. At least, everything that could be collected in an FBI file. But law enforcement experience doesn’t make you invincible.”
“No, but it does make me smarter about my safety than the average woman.”
“So smart that I had my hand around your throat and could have taken you out of here without anyone thinking it was more than some sexual game?”
Claire swallowed, the movement mesmerizing, particularly in the uncertain lamp light. Getting the jump on her had been a lucky break, but she didn’t need to know that. Between the music, the lights, the swirl and swish of multi-colored gowns, it was a miracle he’d spotted her so quickly.
Though she was pretty tough to miss.
The rest of the women had gone to great lengths to look young and fresh, but Claire was naturally both. She’d applied her makeup with a light hand and wore a gown of pale ivory that emphasized the rich caramel hue of her skin. From the curves and lines in her shoulders and bare arms, he guessed that she worked out regularly—probably outside in the wet Louisiana heat. Despite the sweet young persona she’d adopted, she moved with a bold confidence that had snatched the attention of nearly every other man in the room. Any with taste.
For that reason, he’d acted quickly. The minute he’d sensed her scanning the room for the woman she was looking for, he’d darted into action.
But for all he knew, the Bandit had been in the room, too, stalking her just like he was.
“Is that what this is?” she asked. “Some sort of sexual game you’ve invented to get me into bed?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he replied, trying not to give the idea any serious consideration. “This is all an act we’re putting on for whoever is watching us. We’ll play their game until I can get you the hell out of here.”
“I’m not leaving,” she insisted.
“You have a maniac after you.”
Her frown emphasized her plump lips. “You don’t think I’d notice if someone was stalking me?”
“No,” he answered simply. “Not this guy. He knows all about you. He knows you used to be a cop and that you’re now a private investigator. He’d realize that you’d be a challenge. He’d change his mode of operation. He’ll pull out all the stops. Whatever it takes.”
“But how could he get in here, with all the security? And how would he know I was here? I had to be super cautious to make sure these people didn’t suspect I was lying to them about who I was.”
“I found you. And I got in on less than a day’s notice. For all you know, he owns this joint.”
She snorted. “That’d be one hell of a coincidence. Your case and mine intertwining so neatly? He’s not here.”
Michael tugged her closer. She pulled back, trying again to twist out of his hold, but he wouldn’t let her. Whoever was on the other end of that camera was likely getting a kick out of this push-pull, but Michael was losing patience. He might find her strength sexy as hell, but he wasn’t going to let her run headfirst into danger.
“You don’t know where he is, and neither do I,” he confessed, turning her toward the camera while he spoke directly into her ear. “This man ingratiates himself into the lives of his victims long before he sends them a scarf. He learns their habits. He memorizes their routines. He doesn’t have a name or a face, but he’s always around. Maybe he’s the guy who delivers flowers to your neighbor. Maybe he’s the new tenant in the building two doors down. Maybe he’s the guy walking his dog down your street who seems more interested in his text messages than his surroundings. Trust me when I tell you he’s been watching you for weeks, maybe months. If he’s sent you the scarf, he already knows more about you than I do—maybe more than you know about yourself.”
The song ended. Michael stumbled when she drew up short, her cheeks slightly paler than before.
She waited until the next song started before she asked, “You think he’s here?”
“I don’t know.”
He swept her back into his arms. This time the music was slower, more sensual, more intimate, requiring not so much measured movements as close contact swaying. Michael had never been much of a dancer, but moving with her in his arms felt organic. Intoxicating.
“I need a drink,” she said, pulling away.
She spun to the table beside the bed and fumbled with the crystal decanter. With her back to him, he became instantly enraptured by her long, kissable neck, slim shoulder blades and trim waist. And though her skirt adequately hid the curve of her hips and legs, he imagined that underneath the silk was a body just as smooth as the satiny material.
She was pouring generous portions of brandy into the snifters when he approached her from behind. He spared the camera in the air vent a glance. Someone was capturing their every move, their every touch.
This should have worried him.
And yet, it didn’t.
“Brandy?” Claire offered.
Michael did not back away, but accepted the glass with what he hoped was an easy smile. “I take it some people don’t sign up to participate, but just to watch?”
She took a generous sip. “And here I thought you’d come here knowing everything about this place.”
“There wasn’t time for everything. Just enough to get me through the door.”
She spun prettily, then settled herself on a corner of the bed. To the casual observer, the way she let the snifter linger just at the edge of her lips would appear seductive and coy. Michael noticed that as well. But he also recognized that she’d positioned herself so that when he stood across from her, his shoulder braced against the tall bed post, their faces weren’t visible to the camera.
“And how’d you manage that, anyway?” she asked. “It costs a minimum of $10,000 for a man to buy his way in. That doesn’t even count the gifts and gratuities he has to lavish on his mistress of choice. I can’t imagine the FBI fronting you the money just so you can get me out of here.”
“The FBI has no idea I’m here.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“Wasn’t time. Once I figured out where you’d gone, which, admittedly, wasn’t easy, I could either follow procedure or find you before the bad guy did. I hope you agree I made the right choice.”
She sipped her brandy again. He hadn’t imagined her to be the thoughtful type—from what he’d read about her, she was more of an act-now, ask-questions-later type of woman. But something about him made her look before she leapt, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad omen.
“Where’d you get the money?” she asked.
“Does it matter?”
“I’m making small talk,” she said, turning her face so that her fake smile flashed at the camera. “Trying to decide whether or not to trust you. It’s not like I had a chance to examine your credentials thoroughly. I barely saw them.”
“Trust me,” he murmured. “Your aunt looked them over carefully. I take it you’ve given her some tips on ferreting out fakes?”
“Ha! Clarice taught me. She may be pushing sixty, but she’s the sharpest woman I know.”
“And she thought it was a good idea for you to come here when a serial psycho is after you? Oh, wait, you left out that part.”
“Your FBI counterparts didn’t say anything about him being a serial psycho,” she pointed out. “They just said he was a stalker. And I didn’t want her to be involved at all, but even I’m not hotheaded enough to come into this place alone. She has my cell phone and can dial 9-1-1 like a pro. She’s also a crack shot and carries a .32 in her purse. I know my plan wasn’t the best, but it’s all I could come up with on short notice. Sound familiar?”
With a chuckle, he toasted her with his snifter, then took a sip of the liqueur, not at all impressed by the taste, but appreciating the fortifying heat. He and Claire did have one very big thing in common—they’d both come here on false pretenses. If either one of them was found out, they’d be in a boatload of trouble. From inside and out.
“Very familiar.”
“Then why didn’t you just wait for me to get home? If I’m lucky, my case will be done tonight. I saw my client’s ex-wife’s alias on a guest list. Once I locate her and get her signature, I’ll be out of here.”
“Unless her fake name is fake.”
“What?”
“In the five cases we’ve connected to the unsub, he takes his victim within forty-eight hours of sending the scarf. You received yours the day before yesterday, right? Maybe if I hadn’t shown up tonight and enticed you to this bedroom, you wouldn’t be coming home. Ever.”
Outside the room, someone moved. Michael turned to the door in time to see shadows dance in the transom window. Voices argued in hushed tones. Maybe his device hadn’t worked as designed, or maybe the music had not been loud enough to mask their conversation.
Or perhaps, the voyeurs behind the video cameras were tired of watching them talk.
He set down his untouched brandy and grabbed Claire by the arm, tugging her close so that their lips were barely an inch apart.
She splayed her hand flat against his chest. “What do you think you’re doing?”
The lock on the door behind them jiggled.
“Taking what I paid for.”
CLAIRE’S SENSES EXPLODED in rapid succession. First, she heard the muffled sound of footsteps outside in the hall. Then Special Agent Murrieta had her on her feet, in his arms, his mouth on hers.
And oh, what a mouth it was.
Unlike in the ballroom, where he’d toyed between gentle and insistent, his touch from both hands and lips was now rough and unyielding. At nearly the same moment, her nostrils inhaled the spiced masculine scent of his cologne and her tongue, slightly numbed by the brandy, swelled with the powerful flavors of coffee, mint and man.
When the door burst open behind them, she did not have to feign a gasp of surprise.
He threw her behind him.
“What is the meaning of this?” he barked.
Claire leaned around his solid frame and saw the dark-skinned woman, flanked by two imposing men who matched Michael in height, but surpassed him in girth by about fifty pounds each.
The woman iced up her spine and spoke first. “I’m afraid we don’t recognize you, sir. Are you on our guest list?”
Claire’s mind whirled with myriad explanations, but even as she opened her mouth to speak, she realized that doing so would ruin the charade. Women of the gens de couleur libre were notoriously independent, but probably not so much when in the presence of their men. Even as she decided to hold her tongue, the FBI agent who’d gone to such lengths to blend into this world dug into his jacket and produced a square of thick vellum paper. An exclusive invitation to this weekend’s event.
“This is an outrage,” he muttered, tossing the card to the floor.
The woman did not react, but waited for one of her lackeys to retrieve the invitation and place it gingerly into her hands. The woman’s black eyes assessed Special Agent Murrieta from head to toe, sparing Claire only a single, questioning glance that she answered with genuine confusion. Who did the woman think he was, anyway? And why had they burst in?
One of the goons turned off the gramophone-disguised CD player, then proceeded to examine it from all angles. If he found the amplifier, they’d both be turfed out of the place. But Michael must have hidden it well. After two tense minutes, the man turned to the woman in charge and gave a hopeless shrug.
The corners of her mouth dropped into a frown.
“My apologies, monsieur,” she said with a little bow, her head tilted even as she gave Claire a second once-over. “It’s just that this mademoiselle is new to our society, as well. It is…unusual…for two people uninitiated in our ways to go off together so early in the evening.”
The woman’s mouth drew into a straight, unyielding line, but Claire could have bet she was censoring herself like a preacher on a tirade. They hadn’t been made, but the people-in-charge were suspicious.
Great. Just great.
“My arrangement with the mademoiselle was made in complete accordance with your guidelines,” he said, snatching the invitation back. “And I may be new here, but I still prefer fresh flowers to the dry, wilted ones so heavily in attendance.”
From her vantage point, Claire could not see Michael’s expression, but his tone of voice tipped his metaphor into the dangerous range. He’d meant to insult the woman—and from the fury in her eyes, he’d accomplished his task.
“We will not disturb you again,” she said stiffly, “but we will be watching. To ensure you enjoy your stay.”
Her smile reeked of sarcasm. She spun on her heel and left, the two goons trailing behind her. The door closed and locked again—this time, from the outside.
Claire raised herself on her tip-toes so that she could whisper in her so-called rescuer’s ear. “Uh-oh. Think we’re in trouble?”
Michael reset the CD, ensuring that it played on a continuous loop, then turned and wrapped his hands fully around her waist. His grip, possessive and intense, sapped her breath.