“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.
“Not yet, but you heard the woman. They’ll be watching us.”
Claire couldn’t miss the glint of anticipation in Michael’s eyes or the flare of his nostrils that told her his senses were heightened—on alert. They might be in deep shit, but she suspected that the deeper the shit, the more excited this clever FBI agent became.
He fed on danger. Boy, could she ever relate.
“So what do you suggest we do?” she asked.
“Well, if they’re watching,” he said, giving the camera a cursory glance, “I say we should give them a show that brings down the house.”
4
THE MINUTE MICHAEL pressed his mouth to Claire’s again, a burning question seared through the sensations of her soft flesh against his.
Just how far was she willing to go?
And even more important…how far was he?
He had not planned to kiss her. Beyond working his way into Nouvelle Placage, he had not planned much of anything. The more he’d learned about the plantation party, the more he figured he would have to flirt and be charming before he convinced her that her personal safety was more important than finding some woman who’d willfully abandoned her kids.
But now they were trapped. He could flash his badge and get them out, but that would blow her case, and possibly his, too. Telling her the Bandit could be here watching had not just been a scare tactic. In all his other attacks, the guy had stalked his victims for weeks and ended up knowing more about their lives than anyone had imagined. If he was here watching Claire and realized she was being protected by the FBI, he could run.
And then he could change his patterns. If he did that, they might never get this close to finding him—not until he’d hurt another string of women. And maybe this time, he wouldn’t stop at kidnapping or rape. If Michael and Claire utterly destroyed The Bandit’s sick fantasy, he might cross the line and kill.
They were in now—they had to play this through to the end.
Wasn’t like it was a huge sacrifice to kiss Claire Lécuyer senseless anyway.
Since joining the Bureau right out of college, he’d trussed himself to his job. What free time he had, he’d given to his family, with only short, uninspired relationships that fired up quick and burned out fast. Never in his life had he kissed a woman he knew he shouldn’t—with strangers watching every slide of his hand down her waist, every curve of his fingers through the folds of her dress.
It was exciting.
It was dangerous. One call to his superiors, one viral video linked to the Bureau could destroy everything he’d worked for.
So why couldn’t he let her go?
Her lips were soft and slick; her tongue was hot and insistent. With no hesitation, no boundaries, she explored the full breadth of his mouth, skimming across his teeth and igniting a flame deep in his gut that would be impossible to extinguish, even if everyone in the plantation house burst in and doused him with pails of ice cold water.
Scrunching up the voluminous skirt in his hands, he found the back of her thighs, bare between her stockings and some sort of cottony drawers that cradled her backside like a cloud. Her flesh prickled and he wanted to warm her. Create friction. Share the burn.
She broke her mouth away from his, then trailed her lips over his jawline. “Is this what they train you for at Quantico?”
He braced his hands on the crest of her buttocks, resisting the urge to lift her fully and completely against his erection. “Not last time I checked.”
She followed her path of feather light kisses with a lush swipe of her tongue, her long lashes hiding her gaze as it trained on the camera. “You must really want my cooperation if you’re willing to put your credentials on the line for a chance to feel me up. My ass is choice, but probably not worth your career.”
Michael laughed, the sound bursting from his chest like the stopper on a bottle of sparkling wine. Self-deprecating, she was not. She was, however, gorgeous, sexy, sensual and irresistible. From the first moment he’d laid eyes on her, his need to touch her, taste her, seduce her had been harder and harder to fight.
And this wasn’t like him.
Not like him at all.
As if on cue, the center emerald of the Murrieta ring caught a flash of lamplight.
Up until a month ago, Michael had been exactly like his oldest brother, Alejandro. Serious. Responsible. Concerned with expectations and appearances and all the other prison bars society erected to keep anarchy at bay.
But then Alex had taken possession of their deceased father’s ring. In the span of a week, his entire life had changed. Not only had he fallen in love with a woman who’d completely lied to him about who she was, but he’d invested a large amount of cash and clout to ensure that Daniel, their middle brother, got off on the trumped-up charges that could have meant a long stint in the state penitentiary.
Now, Michael had the ring. Was it a coincidence that he was willing to turn away from what was right in order to revel in something wicked and wanton and undeniably wrong?
“Ordinarily,