Claire took a step back, dislodging his hand only for a second before he regained his touch.
“You may release me now, sir,” she said.
“That would not be wise.” The corner of his mouth quirked into a bold grin that liquefied her insides and gave a little tweak of desire to the tips of her tightly corseted breasts.
This was ridiculous. Why was he being so single-minded? And why was she so intrigued?
“Really? And why ever not?”
He leaned in close. His lips brushed against her curls when he spoke, but the voice that had been so accented and charming before now sliced across her skin with icy precision.
“Because you’re in danger, Ms. Lécuyer, and I’m here to protect you.”
2
SPECIAL AGENT MICHAEL Murrieta gave his captive a minute to let his words sink in. Once her eyes narrowed in suspicion and she visibly shed the cloying persona she’d adopted for the night, he released his hold. From the first word he’d read in her file, he’d figured she was going to be a pain in the ass, but he’d had no idea he’d have to cross the continental United States, don a crazy costume and borrow ten thousand dollars from his brother in order to find her.
He turned their bodies so that no one could see, then with practiced swiftness, flashed his credentials.
Her eyes widened and she mouthed an unspoken curse.
“Not here,” she pleaded.
She took a large step back again, but he quickly regained custody of her hand. “If not here, then where, cher?”
His accurate Creole accent again elicited a tilted eyebrow. He had to admit that she was very good at going undercover—but he was better. He did not have her family’s theater background, but Michael had years of experience with the Bureau and a partner originally from Louisiana who’d schooled him on the accent before he’d taken off to find Claire Lécuyer and save her from a rapist.
She had not made his job easy. Only hours after alerting the local office that she had received the telltale scarf, she’d dropped off the grid and disappeared into this sexual underworld. In order to bypass their intense security on short notice, he’d had to make quick arrangements for an authentic costume—oddly, not difficult to do in New Orleans—and borrow the exorbitant entrance fee from his brother, Alejandro. He had authorization to retrieve Claire Lécuyer and put her under protective custody, but he doubted his superiors would have approved of him paying his way into a sex club.
The case hadn’t yet become a major priority for the Bureau. They had serial killers to catch and homegrown terrorists to thwart. They’d only thrown the case his way because of an obscure tie between him and the rapist. But it was that same family secret that made him determined to catch this psycho before he hurt another woman. To that end, he’d finagled a consult from the Behavioral Analysis Unit at Quantico, received approval to call in Ruby, his partner, a member of his San Francisco team and was given open access to agents from the local office.
Otherwise, Michael was on his own.
It hadn’t been easy to find Claire, but he’d pulled it off with limited resources and time. He had no reason to believe that her stalker, a man who’d already kidnapped and tormented five other women, wouldn’t find her, too.
And when he did, Michael intended to catch him.
“So now that you have me,” she said, turning up the mocking quality in her Southern belle enunciation, “whatever are you going to do with me?”
He bit back a grin, but allowed an eye roll. There was something about this woman that could drive a man to drink. Heavily. As it was, he’d taken a great risk snatching her the way he had, but he’d had a point to make. Despite FBI warnings, she’d gone off on her own. Her dossier overflowed with situations where she’d put her investigation above her own safety. She’d lost her badge for disobeying repeated orders from her superiors to stop her pursuit of a suspicious death case that had, because of her, resulted in a highly publicized murder conviction.
But he didn’t see her vindication as a victory. If she’d followed procedures and worked within the system, she might have had the same result and kept her job. Not that he was one to judge at this point. He believed in the rules set forth by the Bureau which ensured that investigations were both balanced and prosecutable.
On the other hand, if he hadn’t ripped a page out of her book tonight, he might never have found her before the unsub.
“The possibilities for what we might do together are endless, cher,” he replied, “but none would be appropriate for this company.” His eyes darted to the men and women mingling around them. “Perhaps we can move along to some place a little more private?”
Within the depths of her mossy green eyes, he watched her calculate the risk versus the reward. No doubt she wanted to get rid of him as quickly as possible so she could continue to pursue her case. Had their roles been reversed, he’d want the same. But she didn’t know yet what he had planned for her. If she did, she might change her mind about ditching him, which he was certain she would try to do.
Claire tilted her fan toward the foyer, then hooked her arm into his. “This way, sir,” she crooned. “If you wish to take me on, you’ll first have to consult with my maman.”
“Of course,” he said, tempering a grin.
Very wisely, Claire had arranged for backup of sorts in the form of her aunt, who had stepped into the role of maman for the night. As the designated “mother” figure, she would negotiate a proper arrangement for her “daughter.” In other words, she was the pimp. From Claire’s superior smirk, she expected that her aunt would dismiss any amount Michael offered.
Well, she’d soon see that while she was wily and had come prepared, so had he.
In the grand foyer, draped sheets of sheer organza and candelabras bright with beeswax tapers masked the peeling paint and moldy smell of the old plantation house. Michael had to admire the time and effort the organizers had taken to ensure that one step over the threshold transported attendees into a different world—an old world, a racially ambiguous world when the French dominated New Orleans.
Some of the accounts he’d read during prep for this case had claimed that white men who bought quadroon women did so out of true love and affection. Glancing at Claire, with her flawless coffee-stained skin and hypnotically opaque green eyes, he could understand the appeal. How hard was it, really, to be intrigued—enslaved, even—by a woman such as her?
With her exotic beauty and impeccable manners, what man wouldn’t promise away his entire legacy to possess her, even for just one night?
Michael slid his gloved hand over hers as they approached the veritable shelf of older women sitting in a row beside the open windows. A breeze scented with night-blooming jasmine cooled the air and ruffled through the swatch of silk she’d tucked into the neckline of her gown. He couldn’t help but wonder what he would find if he peeled the material away—then he realized that was probably the whole point of the costume piece.
She exhaled with relief when she spotted her aunt, seated and sipping on a cocktail. Clarice had spent most of her life involved with the theater, and since she’d also been born and raised in the French Quarter, she’d easily seen more sordid events than this laced up version of consensual prostitution.
“This is my maman,” Claire said by way of introduction, her voice lilting with confidence that he was about to be summarily dismissed.
Michael gave a low and reverent bow, took the woman’s lace-gloved hand and swept a kiss across her knuckles.
“Madame,” he greeted. From inside his jacket, he took out an envelope he’d prepared ahead of time.
Clarice