She nodded again, hating that she was crying in front of him. "I guess it's just. .. everything. Worrying about Tina. She's my little sister. When I imagined it being her in there, having guys look at her the way those guys looked at those girls .. ." She shook her head. "I'm sorry."

"Nothin' to be sorry for," Jake said softly, remembering a time when he, too, had held all women in such high esteem. Working behind the bar at Sophia's had hardened him to such emotions.

But no—it wasn't just Sophia's. It had happened before that.

He'd quit caring, or had tried like hell to and was still trying like hell, and maybe he'd come real close to succeeding—because this was the first moment he got it, really got it. Tina was her sister. Her little sister.

He'd never had a sister, but there'd been women in his life whom he'd loved, and the very thought of any of them having sex for money or stripping on a stage made his heart threaten to explode in his chest as he stood here before prim and pretty Stephanie Grant, who was getting initiated into this world the hard way.

He'd met her at the bar, masquerading as an escort— and yet even then he'd felt in her that primness, that sweetness that flowed so freely from her now. Maybe that was how he'd known she wasn't what she claimed.

It was the wrong time, he knew, but her face was so close to his, her hps so ripe and pretty, that he wanted to kiss her. Just to make her feel better. A comfort kiss. Hold her, kiss her, make the bad stuff go away for a minute or two—maybe for both of them.

It was more than the wrong time; it was a terrible time. She would think he'd gotten turned on in the club. But the dark arousal expanding from his gut was about so much more than anything he could see on a stage—it grew from someplace deep inside him he couldn't fully understand.

Which made it unstoppable.

Not a decision. A compulsion.

He bent his head, brought his mouth gendy down on hers. A soft, sweet melding of hps.

When it was done, he leaned his forehead against hers. "Wanna make you feel better," he whispered.

He felt more than saw her nod. Heard her soft murmur. "I know." Her voice trembled. It made him need more.

Slanting his mouth back over her tender hps, he kissed her slow, deep, felt the power of it moving through him like a warm drink of alcohol spreading through his chest, arms, downward. Just to comfort her, that's all. Just want to comfort her a little more.

A lot more.

Don't think about the depths of it, where it's coming from, how much you feel it—it's only comfort. Simple comfort. Keep telling yourself that and it'll be true.

The next kiss was just as slow, but it went hot on him, too—gut-wrenchingly, uncontrollably hot. He felt it in his groin, a sharp bolt of pleasure. He let his mouth linger over hers, hungry, so tempted, wanting to devour her the same way he'd wanted to in the red room.

Her fingers curled into the cotton on his chest as he quit fighting the heat and lowered a scorching kiss to her responsive mouth. He wanted her so badly. Wanted to touch her, to taste her. Wanted to bury himself inside her and stay all night long.

His hand drifted lighdy over her breast and she let out a ragged sigh just before he gripped her waist in a firm, slow caress. He needed to feel her curves, everything that was soft and female about her.

He pressed into her, hip to hip, the contact dragging a ragged moan from her lips. She'd turned him rock hard and he wanted her to feel it, crave it, the same way he craved her. His fingers curved around her ass, pulling her tight against him, and she began to move, grind, press the soft juncture of her thighs against the solid stone between his legs. He tried not to groan at the sensation, not wanting to attract the attention of anyone on the street, and wishing they were someplace else, alone.

When he dropped his kisses to her neck, she arched for him, inviting his mouth lower. He kissed a fine down the pale expanse of skin to her shoulder, then let his lips travel downward, along the neckline of her dress. He yearned for it to be cut lower, hungry for a taste of the ferriinine flesh he knew hid underneath.

In response to his craving, he skimmed his hand upward, to the side of her breast. She trembled harder at the intimate touch, her arms locked around his shoulders, her hands in his hair, her breath labored above him. He pressed gently on the malleable flesh until the top curve of her breast swelled from the neckline—beneath his kiss. Mon Dieu, yes.

His erection thickened, his chest throbbing with hot desire. He rained a trail of kisses across the soft ridge, knowing that if they were anywhere else, he'd be tempted to just rip the damn dress off her, straight down the middle.

By the time his kisses returned to her lips, he felt ready to combust. He stroked his tongue deeply into her accepting mouth, loving the tiny whimper that escaped her, then pulled back to look at her—sweet, prim Stephanie Grant, who was responding so eagerly to his every touch and kiss.

She bit her lip, appearing spent and passionate as she gazed up at him.

He kissed her again, quick and hard, on impulse, because the very sight of her mouth had made him need to feel it under his once more.

"My place isn't far," he breathed. "I want inside you. Wanna make you come."

Stephanie was drowning. High school, college—no passion she'd ever experienced had been like this. Utterly consuming. Her breast pulsed at Jake's touch, her sex ached at the heavy sensation of his hardness there, their bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces. Her flesh turned liquid in his grasp, even as her skin sizzled at each point where he kissed her.

The way they moved together was as steamy as the night itself and nothing mattered but the searing pleasure that begged for more. His words echoed through her. / want inside you. Wanna make you come.

It was the red room all over again, but not a game this time. What was it, then?

To think of where they'd just been was like a hook scratching at her heart. Was this happening because they'd just watched women dancing out of their clothes? How had they gone from that to this—pressing against each other in a dark doorway in this dark city of debauchery that seemed so adept at turning her into something she wasn't? It didn't seem real, couldn't be real. She couldn't be straining against this sexy man she barely knew, her body taking over her thoughts.

His lips still whispered across her skin—her neck, shoulder. His hand closed gently over her breast, making her gasp. He murmured something French, and despite not having any idea what he'd said, she pooled with wetness just from the sounds.

His kisses rose, skimming up her neck like an electric current until he nipped at her earlobe, his teeth capturing the sensitive flesh with a searingly tender bite that made her release a rough, hot breath. "My God," she whispered.

"Come home with me, Stephanie."

Why did that sound so intimate it made her flinch? Because he was inviting her deeper into his world, his life? Because she wasn't sure she'd ever heard him call her by her first name before? Or was it just his hot, deep voice delivering the words in that sexy Cajun accent that seemed to reach inside her and twist her soul into something unrecognizable? Something hungry. Something lonely. Lonely for what this man could give her tonight.

She clawed at his chest, drinking in his musky scent laced with the softer odors of alcohol and Deep South perspiration. It turned him so human to her—no longer just the hot, unattainable man behind the bar who seemed to know all her secrets the moment their eyes had met. He was human, just like her.

His tongue pushed past her lips as he stroked his thumb across her nipple. "So good," she breathed without quite meaning to.

"Let me make it better, chère. Let me take you all the way."

Say yes. Let him show you exactly what "all the way" could feel like. She knew instinctively it was a place she'd never been before, and she wanted to go there with him.

His hands sank to her bottom as he pushed against her in a slow, ancient rhythm. She'd never felt more captured by a man, enclosed by all he was—and she'd never dreamed such an experience could be so fraught with pleasure.

"I wanna sink deep into you, beb. Like this," he murmured, low, as he thrust slow and firm against her. "But no clothes, nothing between us." Each hot drive of his hips sent heat diffusing through her.

Say yes, her body begged her again. Just say yes.

Except then panic struck. Panic, reality; everything that existed outside this dark alcove where he'd nearly made her climax just from kissing and moving together. She pressed her hands flat against his chest, pushing him a step back. "We have to stop."

He didn't get it. "I know. Not here. Let's go." His voice was a warm whisper; his big hands still rested cozily on her hips.

Her next words came out shaky. "I can't."

He pulled back slightly to look down into her eyes— even in the shadows of their private doorway, she could feel the intense heat burning in them. "Why not?"

"I just can't." She shook her head, suddenly feeling unaccountably afraid. Not of him exactly, but of what she'd been so tempted to do with him.

His sigh of frustration weighed on her. "You got a husband I don't know about or somethin', chère?'

She bit her hp, made herself look up at him, and shook her head.

"A boyfriend then?"

She hesitated at that, but shook her head again. Curtis wasn't the reason she'd said no. In fact, he was so far off her radar screen that now guilt pummeled her, too.

Jake's expression still brimmed with seduction. "Then what's wrong with you and me gettin' together?"

Good question. She couldn't explain it, even to herself. "I don't know. I just... can't."

He ran one hand back through his thick hair as another sigh left him. She thought of apologizing, but caught herself—reminding herself there was nothing wrong with turning a man down for sex.

Even if you want it just as much as he does?

Confusion, frustration—too many indecipherable emotions swirled in her head. "I should go."

"Where?"

"Back to my room." She broke away from him and started toward the street.

He caught her wrist. "Where's-that, chère?”

“'The LaRue House, on Esplanade."

"You can't be walkin' that far by yourself."

"Why not?"

He looked dumbfounded by her protests. "I'd think a big-city girl would have the common sense to know you don't walk on dark streets alone at night. And you especially don't do it in the Quarter, beb. I'll walk you."

'Wo." She yanked her arm away, too hard, and he stared. She just... needed to be away from him, right now. She met his gaze and tried to act as if she hadn't just done something uncalled for. "I'll get a cab. I'll be fine. Really."

He tilted his head. "You don't seem so fine."

No, she seemed like a woman who was afraid of her own shadow, afraid of a man who'd done nothing but make her feel good. Too good.

"Look," she said, trying to sound more rational than she felt, "things just... went too fast for me. And I'm worried about my sister, more now than I was before. I just want to go back to my room and unwind."

Their gazes met and she was sure he knew there was more to it than that, but after a long moment he simply said, "Okay."

She bit her lip, a hint of regret rolling over her because she was peering up into those incredibly sexy eyes of his, where temptation still beckoned.

That meant now would be a good time to go, so without further delay, she turned and started up Bourbon, headed back to where the streets weren't closed off and she could find a taxi.

She plodded quickly, her low heels clicking on the pavement as she wove through the decadent crowd, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she turned a corner to find a cab sitting curbside. She opened the door and slid in, then grabbed for the door handle, only to find Jake's imposing body in the way.

Utterly shocked, she flinched. She'd been walking so fast that she hadn't even realized he'd followed her.

"Where we going, miss?" the elderly driver asked in his rearview mirror.

'The LaRue, on Esplanade."

"I'll do some more work on locatin' your sister, chère," Jake said, still leaning in the open door. "I'll call you at the LaRue."

She blinked, gazing up at him. "You're still going to help me find Tina?"

"I said I would, didn't I?"

She simply nodded, amazed. Somehow she'd been sure his help was over—because he'd tried with no luck, and because she'd just let him kiss her senseless before haring away from him like a madwoman. "Thank you."

"Nothin' to thank me for yet. You can thank me when we find her. And beb..”

"What?"

"Don't do anything stupid like go lookin' on your own again. Wait to hear from me."

She drew in her breath, tempted to argue, but then remembered the ugly scene on the balcony at Sophia's. "All right."

With a short nod, he closed the door tight and stepped away from the cab. As the car started up the narrow street, she found herself peering out at him until he faded into the darkness of the French Quarter.

It was like a replay of two nights ago. She lay in bed, aching for Jake Broussard's touch. She was an idiot to have denied herself the pleasure she knew he could bring her.

She was thirty years old, old enough for a night of casual sex if that's what she wanted. And yet, as things had grown more heated, as she'd grown more lost to his hands, his lips, the hard planes of his body, something unexpected had risen within her. Apprehension.

It was akin to what had made her push him away in the red room, but at least then, she'd had a reason—he'd thought she was a prostitute.

Now, though, there were no misconceptions or lies standing between them. And she'd been sure she would give in if they got close again. Yet as she'd gotten dangerously near to saying yes to all he had to offer, something had injected that irrational fear into her head. What was she so afraid of?

Was it him? This sexy Cajun ex-cop who wouldn't tell her why he wasn't a cop anymore? There might not be lies between them now, but secrets still existed, and maybe that was a good reason to worry. The possibility still existed that he'd done something wrong and been kicked off the force—maybe he'd even committed a crime. Underneath his gruffness, he seemed like a decent man, but what if that was just one part of him? Hadn't she just been telling herself people had more than one side to their personalities? What if Jake had a dark side? What if he was capable of doing something truly wrong? Maybe your instincts are holding you back; maybe some sixth sense is telling you he isn't a good man.

All of that made sense as she lay in the darkness, watching the shadows of thick tree branches dip ominously through the pale moonlight shining in the window. And even as frustrations continued to rack her, it made her glad she'd had the strength to resist him.

Except that one other possibility hung in the back of her mind, and she couldn't not ask herself the question: what if you're just afraid of the things he makes you feel?

In the beginning, he'd been a stranger. But now she knew him better and she trusted him more. She kept telling herself she barely knew him, but here in the darkness, she realized that was only a wall she was erecting between them, a reason to say no. If he was the good man her heart told her he was, well... it would be more than just two strangers grappling around in his bed. It might not be meaningful and lasting, but he was no longer just "the bartender." So why did it feel as if having sex with a man she deeply desired would be some sort of betrayal to herself?

What are you running from, Stephanie?

* * *

Jake headed south on 56 through the heart of Terrebonne Parish behind the wheel of the old pickup his father had driven when Jake was a boy. Amazing the beat-up Ford still ran, but despite all its clunks and rattles, it got him where he was going. After Becky was gone, he'd traded in the new Camry they'd bought together, leaving the old truck—which had been parked behind his mother's little shotgun house—for him to get around in. It was enougli— other than heading to the bayou, he didn't go anyplace that required a vehicle.

He flipped on the radio to hear a static-filled version of Matchbox Twenty's "Bright Lights" asking him who would save him from all he was up against in this world? Unlike the girl in the song, though, Becky couldn't come home. The sad strains added to his general melancholy, which had grown worse over the last couple of hours.

He could still smell Stephanie Grant's soft floral perfume, still feel the softness of her breast in his hand. The memory made his fingers itch and he curled them tighter around the steering wheel. He'd wanted her—badly. And he still wasn't sure why she'd said no. Of bigger concern to him, though, was why it had bothered him so much, actually leaving him with hurt feelings and a sense of rejection he hadn't felt in a long time.

So he'd walked home, changed clothes, and started toward the old house. He needed to get away, even if just for the night. He'd planned to spend his days off there like he did every week, but if he didn't come back tomorrow, Stephanie would surely get herself into trouble and he couldn't risk that.

There you go again, trying to save somebody, even when the song on the radio just reminded you—you need saving as bad as anyone. He hated himself for giving a shit about the woman or what happened to her, but maybe that just showed how truly weak he was. Can't even quit caring about women you don't even know.

Yet there was something about this woman, he thought as he turned onto a gravel side road. She was so different from him—so prim, and yet so haphazard when it came to finding her sister. And something about her kept calling him back for more.

Although she could wait a day while he unwound a little and got his bearings back. That's what the bayou house gave him.

It was the only place where he felt truly safe, from everything, and when he thought he couldn't survive one more day, he came here, and listened to the sounds, and let the moss-covered trees close around him—and he survived. Just enough to make himself go back to the city and survive a little longer there, too.

The end of the winding road appeared, the dark bayou waters ahead glinting in the moonlight. He parked the truck and walked toward the lean-to where he and a few other locals kept pirogues. Slipping a key in a lock so flimsy that anyone with a notion could break through, he dragged his boat down to the water's edge, overhung with ancient willows.

Pushing off into the water, he let the soothing qualities of the bayou fill him. Becky had always thought the bayou was "creepy," and as he drifted along the dark surface, he supposed he could understand what she'd meant. But since she'd been gone, it had become exactly what he needed—a place to close himself off from everything.

By the time he'd traveled a quarter of a mile downstream and paddled the pirogue into an even narrower tributary, he already felt a little better, a little ... emptier. For Jake, empty was good. Empty meant emotions were held at bay. Empty meant feeling as close to nothing as possible. The dark water calmed him, made him feel almost as if he were easing down into it, letting it swallow him in its blackness.

A few minutes later, the old house came into view on the bank, flanked by clusters of enormous cypress on both sides. The back porch served as a dock, where he tied off the boat.

Stepping inside, he didn't bother turning on any lights. Didn't want to disturb the sweet, consuming darkness that made it feel like he was in a dream. Well, he amended with a wry chuckle, not the kind of dreams he'd been having lately, all fiery heat and sizzling sex—but the vague dreams that came with good sleep.

"You're beginning to heal, Jake," Tony had said when Jake had told him the dreams were better—no more nightmares—and the sleep was getting more restful.

Yet Jake had only laughed. If this was healing, it was a hell of a weak remedy. Better than nightmares and nagging, gnawing despair—but he hardly felt like his old self. He could barely remember that person, in fact— could only see him in shades and shadows of memory, in old photos it hurt to look at. He didn't think he'd ever heal. The way he saw it, he was just doing his time for another thirty, forty years, until they buried him, too.

Despite the lack of light, he could make out the under-construction state of the kitchen—the counters currently torn out, the new one leaning against the back wall. Beneath him, the new subfloor he'd started putting in a couple of weeks ago. Maybe he'd devote a couple of hours to it before heading back to the city tomorrow. Stephanie could wait that long.

Stephanie. Writhing against him. Pushing that softest spot of her against his hardest.

Quit thinking about her.

It was easier out here, in his private world. He succeeded in forcing thoughts of her away, even if he remained half stiff behind his zipper.

He looked around the room, wondering for the hundredth time why he was bothering to rebuild the place. To save this one safe haven from his childhood? Or just because pounding nails into boards took his head away from real life, gave him something simple and solid to concentrate on?

"You build somethin' wid your hands, boy," his father had once told him, "and you got somethin' to hold on to, somethin' that lasts. You can look at it, say, 'I made dat. Widout me, dat wouldn't be here.' "

On that particularly steamy summer day, it had been the back porch, built out over the water on thick pilings to keep it from sinking into the soft, volatile earth beneath the bayou. Back when this, his grandmother's house, had just been a place to visit on the weekend; back before he'd come to live here. But even on the weekends, it had felt like home. A place you didn't knock on the door, you just walked in, said, "Manière, I'm here," and she'd come scuttling from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish-towel, smelling like herbs and bayou water and all things warm. She'd laugh and say, "You done growed a foot since I saw you, Boo," even if she'd seen him just a few days before. "Come on, den, and look what I made," she'd say, dragging him in the kitchen to show him something dark, ground up in a glass bottle or jar. "Dis wild bark take away de toothache," or "Dis some grigery for Mr. Dulac's sore hands."

Jake found himself wondering, had she been alive after what happened with Becky, if his grandmother could have mixed him up something to make him feel better, feel alive again. Yet he smiled sardonically, since he could almost hear her answering, "Ah, now, you need to see de voodoo lady for dat, Boo—I can't fix no heart."

Nobody could.

Sighing, he grabbed a beer from the antique refrigerator and walked out on the back porch he'd rebuilt a time or two since his father had first constructed it, settled in the old glider, and looked out into the darkness, trying to quiet his thoughts. Just drink your beer. And feel home.

When he felt himself drifting off into blessed sleep a few minutes later, he didn't bother getting up and heading for bed. A little trick he'd learned: sometimes moving killed it, that sweet, feel-nothing drift into sleep, so he'd taught himself to just stay put where he was and let it steal him away. Setting his beer on the wood below him, he leaned back his head and closed his eyes.

The red room feels even more red, more lush, than usual, like someone has put red bulbs in the lamps. But the one thing you see clearly is her. She stands naked, her back to you, her body a collection of pale curves that beckon in silent temptation.

You entered quietly, yet you know she feels you there, wanting her. Without acknowledging your presence, she drops to her knees and bends across a red velvet chair, her liquid movements a blunt invitation.

Drawing closer, a moth to aflame, you study the arch of her back, the roundness of her ass, adorned with a tiny tattoo of a simple flower, yellow center, five red petals.

"Come to me, lover," she says, her voice a husky whisper.

You 're just as impatient, but as you kneel behind her, you can't help running your hands over her satin skin. Starting at her shoulders, you smooth your palms downward, molding them to her slender waist, then over her rear and down her outer thighs. You bend to deliver a soft kiss to her tattoo, which makes her sigh.

"Now," she says, so you grab firm to her hips and sink inside her, fast, easy. She is a soft, warm glove hugging you; you close your eyes at the profound pleasure. "Yes," she purrs, "yes," as you begin to move in her. Sweet. Slick.

Even with closed eyes, all you see is that same red glow, electric and hypnotizing, drawing you deeper and deeper into her. And in your mind, you see her amid that glow, but her face remains hidden by the color—she is only shadow, a silhouette.

Opening your eyes, you fall onto her, needing more. You press your upper body flat against her back, cocooning her; you rain kisses across her neck.

Somehow, even as you 're having her, you still want— want to see her face, look into her eyes.

You want her to love you.

You want her to be the only thing in your world.

You want her to shroud you, protect you, so that nothing can hurt you, or her, ever.

And in this moment, you believe she can.

Jake lay staring at a brown water stain on the ceiling, trying to focus on that and nothing else, as he lifted the barbell. He felt the welcome strain in his forearms, shoulders, chest, as he held the weight steady, despite the shakiness in his wrists.

Lowering it back into place, he let out a breath, glad for the burn in his muscles, but still seeing ... the woman in the dream. Her back, her delectable rear. Over a full damn day ago, and still he felt it. He refocused on the water stain as if it were a cloud, or a Rorschach, something he could remold in his mind. He saw a flower in the stain.

Like the little flower on the dream woman's ass. He went hard. Damn it.

Not quite ready to lift the barbell again, he did it anyway—to dull the memory and accompanying emotions. Why did these damn dreams make him feel so much? And he always awoke with such an overpowering sense of guilt. He wasn't supposed to feel this much for anyone else—anyone besides Becky. Even if it was only a dream.

He glanced toward the scarred, secondhand end table across the room and caught sight of the framed photo of her taken in Audubon Park one spring day. Mardi Gras beads they'd found hanging from a tree on the St. Charles parade route draped her neck. His chest sank and he nearly dropped the weight on himself before letting it fall into the Y-shaped brackets with a clatter. Merde.

Maybe he should have just stayed out at the bayou house for his remaining days off—he was so much more at peace there. But he'd come back yesterday and spent the evening making phone calls to other old connections on the force, all looking to turn up some sign of Tina Grant. It had been emotionally taxing—having to make chitchat with old colleagues, hearing the requisite concern in their voices when they asked how he was doing— and it had led to nothing. It was as if the girl had vanished into thin air.

As for Stephanie, he'd picked up the phone to call her twice last night. To make sure she wasn't out doing something stupid. And ... why else? Because he wanted to hear her voice? Because he was so tempted to try getting her to drop that barrier she'd put up when things had got too hot between them?

Maybe getting with Stephanie would bring an end to these haunting dreams.

Of course, he knew the woman in the dreams bore startling similarities to her—except he'd had the first dream before they'd even met, so ...

Ah hell, give it up, Broussard. Since when was he the type of guy to sit around analyzing dreams?

He wasn't, so he refocused on the water spot and thrust the barbell up over his head again.

A hard knock sounded on his door. "Jesus," he breathed, dropping the weight back in its rest. Pushing up from the weight bench, he strode to the door and yanked it open to find Tony on the other side.

His old friend gave him a long once-over, his eyes critical. "You look like you just ran a marathon. Or tried to and failed."

Jake glanced down at himself—his white tank was damp with sweat, and he doubted he'd raked a comb through his hair today, so it was probably pointing in all directions. "Liftin' weights," he said, realizing the activity had left him breathless. He'd been lifting for probably an hour or more.

"You're supposed to have a spotter for that, you know." Once upon a time, they'd traded the favor.

He only shrugged. He figured if that was the most reckless move he made, he was doing pretty damn good.

"You gonna invite me in or what?"

Jake stepped back and Tony came inside, heading to the Utile kitchen, where Jake heard him help himself to something in the fridge. "So about this beautiful woman you were with the other night," he called, "what's the deal?"

Jake plopped on his drooping couch. "Nothin' romantic goin' on, pard."

Tony eased down in an overstuffed chair across from him, popping the top on a beer, one of the few things probably in Jake's fridge. His friend's eyes urged him to say more.

"Just a woman I met at Sophia's."

Tony flinched. "She's a working girl?"

Jake laughed softly. "No. She was just there lookin' to find her sister, the girl in the pictures."

Tony nodded. "That's why I'm here. Might be nothing, but might also be a lead. A guy named Rich, who tends bar over at the Crescent. I was there last night, so I asked about her, gave her name and a description. He said he'd seen a girl there a few times who could've been her, but she'd quit coming around."

The Crescent was an old hotel across Canal Street, beyond the Quarter, where more than a few prostitutes found business in the cocktail lounge. It had just never occurred to Jake to start snooping outside the "high-priced hooker zone" because Stephanie seemed so sure that was where her sister had set up shop.

"He couldn't say for sure her name was Tina, but he thought it was something like that."

"What else? Customers she hooked up with? Other girls she came in with?"

Tony shook his head, his expression a familiar one from their days on the streets—it meant That's all I got. "Guy pegged me as a cop and clammed up." He sighed. "But it's something anyway."

Jake nodded. It was something. The best and only lead of any kind he'd gotten. "Thanks, man. That's a help."

"But back to the beautiful woman," Tony said, a suspicious smile forming.

Jake just gave his head a short shake. "There's nothin' there, man. Just tryin' to help her out."

"Come on, dude," Tony prodded, raising his eyebrows. "She's pretty. You're horny. That combination's gotta go somewhere."

Jake lifted his gaze from his coffee table to Tony, smirking. "How do you know what I am?" "You gotta be, man."

Jake just gave a cynical laugh. "Don't you know depression kills the sex drive?" It was a he in his particular case, but Tony didn't know about his dirty dreams, and he didn't need to know what had happened between him and Stephanie, either.

His friend eyed him for a minute, as if trying to decide whether or not he was holding back, then shifted his gaze to scan the apartment. "Well, something must be going better for you. You did some laundry and the place doesn't look like quite as much of a pigsty as usual."

True enough, he'd had a little more energy lately. Enough to do the laundry and some dishes. But he wasn't ready to attribute that to Stephanie Grant. "Ran outta clothes," he said simply.

Tony let out another sigh, his lips drawing into a slight frown. "Well, whatever the case, it was good to see you out the other night. Everybody at the Den was glad you came in, glad to see you with somebody new." He chuckled. "Shorty spent the rest of the night wondering if you were getting lucky."

"Shorty's got a big imagination." He decided to change the subject. "What had you so strung out that night anyway?"

Tony lifted his can to his mouth and got a faraway look in his eyes. "Still can't get any closer to Typhoeus," he said, and the name made Jake's stomach clench. "We found a young Latino girl who we think was dealing for him. She'd overdosed and ..." He shook his head lightly. "Just had me down, you know?"

Jake nodded, but his back had already stiffened, his throat grown tight, as he struggled to remain emotionless at the mention of the local drug kingpin. He remembered the day he and Tony had sat combing the Internet for clues to what this guy was about. They'd learned that in Greek mythology, Typhoeus was a giant monster—part human, part serpent. The story went that he was defeated by Zeus and imprisoned beneath Mount Aetna, but so far, in real life, no other gods had shown up in New Orleans and Typhoeus was wreaking havoc on the city at will.

"Don't suppose you have anything new on that for me?" Tony asked.

It was Typhoeus who Tony thought might be using escorts to filter drugs to wealthy clients on Sophia's third floor. On his good days, Jake tried to keep his eyes open for anything shady—but so far they had nothing but suspicion, and a handful of obscenely rich guys who seemed likely to be involved.

Jake didn't have anything new—because sometimes he let his guard down and didn't think about it, because sometimes it was easier that way. He'd been trying to accept that Typhoeus had beaten him already, and he'd been thinking maybe if he could just accept that, it would make things better, allow him to start moving on.

An hour later, Tony had departed and Jake wandered down the sagging stairs outside his apartment, into the courtyard. He hadn't seen Shondra in a couple of days, and when he crawled far enough out of his self-absorption to remember that, it made him feel like a shit. Not that he owed her anything. Not that he believed anything he could do for her would make any difference in her life in the end. But since he'd taken to coming out every day around lunchtime and giving her a few bucks to go get beignets, he found himself wondering what she'd done for food yesterday when he hadn't been around until late in the afternoon.

Making his way across the barren courtyard, he peeked under the stairwell where the mattress rested and found it empty—not even her backpack remained. His gut went hollow. She was gone. She hadn't seen him around and thought he'd abandoned her.

He straightened his spine, telling himself this was a good thing. He wasn't anybody's baby-sitter, and hell, maybe she was more capable of taking care of herself than he thought. Street kids got pretty good at that, pretty fast.

So she was probably fine. Just fine.

The words rang through his mind like an echo—just fine, just fine—but he didn't feel them as much as he would have liked. He let out a sigh, still staring down at the flimsy old mattress.

"Yo, you lookin' for me?"

Shondra watched as he turned to face her, and for the first time she realized how handsome he was. It caught her off guard.

"Where you been keepin' yourself, 'tite fille?”

"Right here, mostly." She tilted her head, weighing her next words. "I was wonderin' the same thing about you." She swallowed back the lump in her throat, instantly embarrassed to admit she'd noticed his absence. She had to get tougher than that, once and for all. Just because this dude was being nice to her didn't mean it would last. He himself had told her that, so she sure as hell couldn't start depending on him.

His eyes dropped to the pooch at her feet. She'd discovered Scruff couldn't be trusted to stay where she told him—he followed her everywhere. He was pretty cool about not running into traffic, though.

"That mangy mutt still botherin' you?" Jake asked.

She narrowed her gaze vehemently. "Don't be dissin' Scruff."

Jake's chin lowered slightly. "Scruff?"

She shrugged. "Seemed like a good enough name."

He cast a disparaging glance to the dog. "Suits him anyway." Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out his wallet. "Up for beignets?"

She bit her lip and nodded, trying not to look too enthusiastic.

"You get by all right yesterday? I wasn't around."

She nodded again, standing a little taller. "Don't worry about me. I get by fine on my own." And she had. She'd been hanging onto her six-dollar haul and she'd used some of it to buy some day-old doughnuts to share with Scruff.

"Okay then," he said, sending her off.

Scruff followed behind, and as she walked down St. Ann toward Café Du Monde, she realized how much his gentle panting and the click of his claws on the concrete comforted her. She might get by fine on her own, but it was nice to have a friend. Maybe two. She just wasn't as sure of Jake yet as she was of the dog. She'd even let Scruff share her mattress these past couple of nights. When the only sound was an occasional siren, she felt a lot less alone with him by her side.

Reaching the cafe's outdoor window, she placed the same order she had on the other days Jake had sent her, glancing down at Scruff, whose tongue already hung out one side of his mouth. "Just stay cool a minute, then you can eat yours on the way back." Had to eat his on the way back, actually, so Jake wouldn't find out she was slipping pastries to the dog.

A few minutes later, they were headed to Jake's building, Shondra stopping every block or so to stoop and feed Scruff half a beignet. He ate the last of his order not long before they reentered the courtyard.

Realizing her hands were dusted with powdered sugar, she reached into the white bag she carried and drew out a pastry, taking a big bite. It was only to cover for Scruff, but it tasted good to her hungry stomach. She'd gotten used to eating once a day or less, but when she did get to eat, it was like heaven.

Heaven must hold different things for different people, she thought, and after the past few months, she knew that heaven, for her, would hold food.

And dogs.

And her daddy.

Her mama and daddy together, like they used to be, like they were supposed to be.

When she and Scruff made their way into the courtyard, Jake sat on the half-rusted metal bench someone had parked in front of the dilapidated fountain that didn't work. He didn't see her coming—had his head leaned back toward the sun, his eyes shut, his muscular arms crossed over his chest, and his denim-covered legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles.

She lowered the bag and drinks to the metal slats at his side. "I'm back," she announced, settling on the other end of the bench.

When he opened his eyes, he looked amused. "Couldn't wait to eat with me, huh?"

"Hungry," she said past a mouthful of beignet; it wasn't a he.

As he uncapped his juice, his eyes fell on Scruff and his happy expression disappeared. "Looks like somebody else had a nice breakfast, too."

Scruff sat at her feet, peering up at them, his little dog lips covered with white powdered sugar. Uh-oh.

She bit her lip. "He must've, uh, gotten into a trash can at the Café Du Monde."

"Those cans are a little tall for him, no?" He gave her a come-clean-with-me look.

Finally, she sighed. "What? I'm supposed to make him watch us eat without givin' him none?"

Jake's eyes scolded her. "So you're tellin' me I been buyin' breakfast for all three of us these past days?"

She shrugged her shoulders and waited for him to come down on her.

Instead, though, he just leaned over and shook his finger in Scruff's furry brown face. "You best thank your lucky stars you got her lookin' out for you, dog." Then he shook his head, letting out a short laugh. "Damn dog needs to learn to wipe his mouth if he wants to keep a secret."

Shondra breathed a sigh of relief, laughing, too.

As their laughter faded, though, the merry mood seemed to die with it—and he turned to pin her in place with his dark gaze. "Tell me somethin' else, 'tite fille. What are you doin' here?"

She blinked, nearly choking on the thick dough and hoping he couldn't tell. "Here?"

"You know what I mean. On the street."

Her face heated in a way that had nothing to do with the hot French Quarter day. She peered down at the white bag in her lap, fiddling with the edge. "Just, you know, gettin' by." Her voice hadn't come out as strong as she'd intended.

He sighed. "No, I mean really. Why aren't you at home?"

She gave a little shake of her head, wishing he hadn't asked. Things had been going so good—her, him, Scruff, beignets—and now this.

"Why'd you run away, darlin'? You can tell me."

She raised her eyes at the unexpected endearment. But he was wrong; she couldn't tell him. She couldn't tell anyone. "Just... couldn't deal."

"Bet your folks are real worried."

She glanced down, trying to ignore the empty feeling in the pit of her stomach—it wasn't about hunger. Closer to loneliness, even with Jake and Scruff right here. "My mama don't care. Probably glad I'm gone."

"What about your dad?"

She let out a snort of sarcasm. "He ain't even around no more. Don't even know I left."

He stayed silent so long she felt her own words hanging in the air. On a good day, she didn't think about home, didn't even let it cross her mind. At the moment, it seemed the biggest part of her.

"You know, there are places you can go that can help you work through your problems, give you a better place to sleep than that old mattress."

"No," she said, and this shake of her head came with vehemence. "Joints like that just wanna make you go home, and I ain't goin'."

"What was so bad there?" His eyes on her, looking perhaps kinder than ever before, seemed to drill some sort of hole into her that the truth might leak from.

But no, she couldn't give voice to what had made her run. "I don't wanna talk about it."

"I'm just tryin' to help, you know."

"I know," she said on a nod. "And I'm down with the food, and the place to sleep. But that's the only help you can give me." Then she reached down one powder-laden hand to the fur at Scruff's neck, giving a gentle scratch and letting his warmth comfort her again.

* * *

Jake walked the three blocks to Esplanade, worrying.

Worrying about Shondra, wondering what terrible secrets she had.

Worrying about Tony, wondering if his ex-partner would ever realize that no matter how hard you worked as a cop, you couldn't win. There would always be more bad guys stealing your hope, showing you how mortal you were.

Worrying about Stephanie—who he was on his way to see right now. How would she deal with it if they never found her sister? What if Tina Grant was in trouble, and what if it was already too late to do anything about it?

He spotted LaRue House, a historic mansion-turned-B and B, not long after starting northeast on the divided boulevard. Its Greek architecture, wrought-iron trim, and moss-covered trees were steeped in elegance, but his respect for the place dropped when he stepped inside asking for Stephanie Grant and the old woman behind the desk said, "She's in number five, around back," directing him outside toward the private entrance room he found with ease. He could be someone who meant her harm, yet the woman had pointed him right to her. Just one more reminder that no one was safe anywhere.

He knocked firmly on the crisp white door, and when he didn't hear any stirring, tried again, hoping like hell she'd just gone for dinner and wasn't out trying to track down Tina in another sexy dress.

He'd just about given up when the door opened. Stephanie stood before him in a little pair of flannel shorts and a tight white tee, no bra. The sight nearly took his breath away.

When she realized where he was looking—he was a guy, he couldn't help it—she crossed her arms across her chest, going red-faced. It didn't help—in fact, it only thrust her breasts higher. T ... wasn't expecting you."

He swallowed. It was bad enough that the last time he'd seen her, they'd been making out like maniacs, but now this. It was all he could do not to grab her and kiss her. He finally managed to wrench his eyes from her chest, moving them to her prettily blushing face. "Who were you expectin' that you answered the door like this, chère?"

She shook her head, looking flustered. "I... fell asleep, wasn't really thinking when I opened the door."

Ah. That explained how sexily mussed she looked. Like she would look, he thought, if he ever got her in bed.

"Wait a minute," she said, walking away to return a moment later wearing a white cotton blouse over her sexy little T-shirt. He missed her breasts instantly.

"I came by to bring you this." He held out a Styrofoam container.

"What is—" She took it and opened the latching lid to reveal the slice of pie inside. "Oh."

He wasn't sure why he'd done it, but... "From a little bakery on St. Peter. Don't know if it'll hold up to your grandma's, but it's the tastiest apple pie in the Quarter."

She lifted her gaze to his, her eyes gone soft and pretty. "That's nice, Jake."

He played it off with a shrug. "I also came to tell you I might have a small lead on Tina."

She tensed visibly and he regretted not prefacing the news with a warning.

Better late than never. "Now, don't go gettin' your hopes up—it might be nothin'. It's a very light lead."

Her eyes remained wide and blue on him. "Well?" Blue as pictures he'd seen of the Mediterranean.

It distracted him for a second, until he got his wits back. "You remember my friend Tony?" He explained what Tony had told him that morning about the Crescent's lounge. "I just never thought of lookin' there since it's a whole different league of prostitutes than you'd find at Sophia's."

"Maybe Tina ... exaggerated about the elegant part," she said quietly, clearly thinking out loud. "Maybe she thought that made it sound better." Then she turned anxious. "So what do we do with the information?"

"We don't do anything, beb," he said, looking pointedly into those ocean-colored eyes. "You stay here and do whatever you been doin'—go back to sleep if you want. I'm gonna go check it out. I'll stop by later and let you know if I've found anything new."

"But if the guy made Tony for a cop," she said, using the language he had when explaining, "won't he do the same thing with you?"

He shook his head. "First thing, I'm not a cop— anymore."

"That didn't stop you from worrying the doormen at the Playpen would think you were."

'True enough. But second thing, now that I'm wise to them bein' on guard for cops, I know how to approach the situation."

"How?"

"Like I'm one of her customers, lookin' to get with her again."

"Oh," she said, her body seeming to deflate a little.

She didn't like that, he thought, unduly pleased. Didn't like even the pretense that he could be with her sister that way. But maybe it was a little quick to get arrogant— maybe it was just the idea of any man being with her sister, under the circumstances.

"Maybe I should go, too."

He let out a sigh. "Why would you need to go?"

"The same reason you took me along the other night. I might hear something in a different way than you. He might drop some bit of information only I can recognize."

"Normally, I might agree, beb, but guys seekin' female company don't usually bring a date."

She smirked, taking on a forlorn look he'd seen her wear before. It gave him the urge to wrap his arms around her and just hold her.

Only problem with that was—he didn't think he was capable of simply holding Stephanie. Holding would bring on kissing and touching, and he was already half hard just from being around her, just from seeing those dark nipples jut through that white fabric, just from remembering how hot they'd gotten together a couple of nights ago.

"I still think I should go," she argued, but she spoke more softly now as she peered up at him, and he wondered if she was recalling the same thing he was. "I just... feel like this is a whole new playing field, and like /need to investigate, too."

"We had a deal, chère. You remember it, no?"

She nodded somberly. "You'll only help me if I do what you say."

"Right. And right now I say you stay put. Watch TV. Eat your pie. Call a friend. Whatever you want. If I need you to get involved, I know where to find you."

Stephanie sat on the bed trying her damnedest to crochet. She'd been trying for two days, but she had to face facts: she had zero skills with needle and yarn. Still, learning took on more importance to her with each day Tina was missing. She let out a wry laugh at the insanity of her compulsion. This whole situation was pushing her so far outside her usual boundaries that she feared she was starting to lose it a little.

Case in point, Jake Broussard. Every time she saw him, she craved him more. Getting so intimate with him in the Bourbon Street alcove had left her wondering what it would be like to get even more intimate with him. And wondering why she couldn't.

If you're ever going to have a wild, hot, hedonistic affair in your lifetime, this is your opportunity. Her inner voice whispered the words, begging her, pleading with her not to let this man and everything so sensual about him pass her by.

Yet something continued to hold her back.

Even now, after he brought you pie? She'd already eaten it, torn the whole time between thinking he was sweet and horrible and everything in between.

Because even as thoughtful as bringing the pie had been, he'd ruined it by demanding she stay home and twiddle her thumbs while he was out searching for Tina. She should be out there looking, too, no matter what he said.

In a fit of frustration—multiple kinds—she flung the crocheting needle down to the bed. She walked to the desk, to her laptop, and—ignoring an e-mail from Curtis—pulled up an Instant Message box to see if Melody was online. When Melody didn't respond, she went through her saved mail file until she found the one she sought—containing Melody's phone number.

She'd been keeping Melody up to date on her progress—or lack thereof, and the other woman had said if she needed to reach her and couldn't do so via computer that she could call her cell phone. She'd done it once before, and feeling a little frantic, she decided to do it again now.

"Hello?" Utterly refined and sophisticated—it all came through in that one little word.

"Melody, this is Stephanie. Can you talk?"

The other woman hesitated. "Um, yes. But hold on just a moment." She heard Melody tell her husband that it was one of the other mothers from the play group, and that she was going to take the call in the den. "I'm back now, Stephanie."

"I'm sorry to have caught you at a bad time."

"No, it's fine. Is there news about Tina?"

Stephanie explained what she'd learned, asking, "What can you tell me about the Crescent?"

The other woman's voice went lower. "I didn't know girls still worked there. When I was in the business, the Crescent was crawling with cops and became considered an off-limits place. But it's possible that's changed."

"Do you think some of the same girls who work Sophia's work the Crescent? Or could I find a whole new set of escorts who might know Tina?"

"The Crescent is ... a big step down from Sophia's, I'm afraid. And while most of the girls at Sophia's work under a madam, the girls who worked the Crescent were more the type who worked strictly for themselves. More freedom, but less protection. For what it's worth, they might be more open with you than the girls at Sophia's. Whenever I met any of the lower-paid girls, they seemed to think we were all sisters, if you know what I mean. They trust each other in a way high-end escorts don't."

After they disconnected, Stephanie plopped back on the bed. She'd promised Jake she'd stay put, but there might be women at the Crescent who would know Tina. They might tell her something they wouldn't share with Jake. It felt absurdly like going back to square one, and yet how could she not?

Picking the phone back up, she called for a taxi and slipped into a dress designed to entice. The timing was bad, but Jake hadn't turned up any leads other than this one, so she had to explore it to the fullest. She simply couldn't sit on her hands when she might be able to do something constructive. She knew there were dangers, but Jake had made her feel useless when it came to locating her sister—and she didn't like giving up control that way.

She'd be careful tonight—she wouldn't talk to men, only other girls. And as for Jake, well... who cared what he thought? In fact, why had she let him tell her what to do in the first place? Bottom line, she had to find Tina. Even if it meant breaking the rules.

The Crescent lay a couple of blocks outside the tidy grid of the French Quarter, and as Stephanie passed a ten-dollar bill to the cabdriver and stepped out into the night, she noticed the area lacked the charm of the historic Quarter, giving off more of a this-could-be-any-city feeling. It looked like one of a hundred streets she might find at home in Chicago, with clumps of small, older buildings squeezed between cold skyscrapers.

The Crescent was one of those older places, nothing glossy or glamorous about the dark, squat hotel—and as she walked through the door, she felt more like what she was pretending to be than she ever had at Chez Sophia: a hooker.

That should have horrified her, but maybe she was becoming more seasoned—or desperate—about this whole business. She was no less intimidated than she'd been that first night—she was just getting better at handling it. Sell it, she told herself as she moved through a plush but dated lobby. Tonight, though, it wasn't an urgently needed pep talk, just a simple instruction. The transformation came easier.

This is Jake's fault, she decided. He'd loosed something inside her, from the very first time she'd met his gaze—something brazen she couldn't quite stuff back in the box it had oozed out of.

Even as she moved across slightly worn carpet toward the double doors beneath a sign that read crescent lounge, her body ached and yearned for him. It was insane and uncontrollable—and she couldn't think about that right now. Sell it, she whispered inside as she reached for a big brass door handle.

Inside, dark wood beams saturated the room with a certain dullness. Lights burned low. Clusters of people mingled beneath a layer of smoke hovering near the ceiling. A baby grand piano, as dull in sheen as the rest of the lounge, sat in one corner and an old man with thin, greasy hair played a jaunty tune from the crooners' era. Stephanie felt like she'd stepped back in time.

Thankfully, the place was kept dark enough that no one seemed to have noticed her entrance. Three girls drinking martinis and wearing sequins caught her eye—her prey this evening. She spotted Jake, too, sitting at the bar, but at least his back was turned. Arrogant, bossy, even-if-you-are-gorgeous man. Her skin burned, part attraction but also part irritation at him for making her feel so... helpless. As if she could do nothing to aid their search. Well, she could, and she was going to prove it.

She would have liked a drink—both for the nip of courage a little alcohol could deliver and because she felt empty-handed approaching the escorts without one. But since Jake hadn't seen her yet, she didn't want to go to the bar. So she took a deep breath and sauntered toward the young women, ready to conquer her task.

"Hi," she said, and all of them looked her way—wary,

skeptical. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I'm looking for a friend. Maybe you know her. Tina Grant?" Damn it, she'd just used their last name again, automatically.

A pretty redhead, who was managing to chew gum even as she drank a trendy appletini, spoke up. "Tina?" She looked to an exotic Latina brunette in red spangles. "Was that one girl's name Tina? Raven's friend?"

Thrilled to the core at this quick nibble, Stephanie hurriedly dug Tina's pictures from her tiny beaded black purse, passing them to the redhead.

The girl nodded. "Yeah, that's her."

"You know her? You're sure?" She struggled to keep the excitement from bubbling in her voice.

"Only met her a couple of times," the Latin girl said. "She was new. Real green. Barely knew the business at all."

Stephanie nodded. "Yeah, that sounds like her. Do you know how I can get in touch with her?"

Both girls gave vague head shakes, while the third—a petite blonde—ht a cigarette and blew smoke toward the layer already floating above their heads. She said, "I'm gonna get to work, look for a trick," then set off into other parts of the cavelike room.

"It's really important," Stephanie said to the remaining two, her stomach churning. "What about the friend you mentioned—Raven, was it? How can I find her?"

The redhead shrugged. "Haven't seen Raven in a few weeks."

Stephanie's hope dropped further, but she couldn't give up. "Do you know where Raven fives? Or"—God forbid—"... maybe you know which guys Tina... hooked up with, and you could put me in touch with them?"

The girls stared at her. Her desperation was showing.

She needed to explain herself. "It's just that... I haven't heard from her in a while, and I'm worried about her. We're ... close."

The Latin girl cast a skeptical look. "Honey, you seem pretty green yourself. Too nosy."

"Yeah," the redhead added. "This ain't a job for asking a lot of questions. People get the wrong idea about you." She glanced toward the door, where a tall, handsome man who appeared too sophisticated for his surroundings stood looking about the room. "Oooh, one of my richest customers. Gotta go."

So much for Melody's claim that these girls would be nice. But on the other hand, they'd told Stephanie enough to make the trip completely worthwhile.

"Sorry, buddy, I don't know the girl you're talking about, and even if I do, I don't know where to find her."

This guy, Jake thought, was no help at all. Every sentence out of his mouth contained a contradiction. Probably a not-real-bright guy's attempt to cover up now that Tony had made him think the cops were looking to bust the Crescent.

"I hooked up with her here before," Jake lied. "Sure you don't know if she comes in regular?"

Rich, a thirty-something guy with receding blond hair, braced his hands on the bar. "Look, pal, I don't know what to tell you. But you want a blonde so bad, there's a hot one waiting to get picked up right over there."

Jake turned to look where Rich pointed, his eyes landing on a knockout in a sexy black dress. Stephanie.

An unprecedented rage rose in him until he felt like a volcano about to blow. Never mind that she looked absolutely stunning, the flowy material of the low-cut dress hugging her breasts, their round swells creating enough cleavage for him to drown in; never mind that his heart pinched oddly at the sight of her. He was gonna kill her.

Without another glance at Rich, he slapped some money on the bar for his half-finished drink and crossed the room. She stood alone, so he didn't have to worry about niceties. "What the fuck do you think you're doin'? "he bit off.

Her back went rigid, but she didn't shrink beneath his tone. "I'm coming at it from another angle."

"Are you deaf or somethin'? Did you not hear me tell you to stay put? Are you tryin' to drive me out of my mind? What is it with you and simple instructions?"

She started to respond, but he wasn't listening, because no matter what she said, it wasn't good enough. He latched onto her arm and pulled her toward an exit that opened into a dank alley. It was only as he was dragging her toward the street that she wrenched away from him. "Would you let go of me?" she snapped, her blue eyes wide and luminous beneath the streetlights.

He grabbed her hand tight and proceeded forward again. "No way, beb. Seems if I don't keep hold of you, you run off and get yourself in trouble." Upon reaching the sidewalk, he flagged down a taxi with his free hand.

"I wasn't in trouble, for your information. I wasn't going to talk to any men, just the escorts," she argued as he delivered her into the car. "Melody said they'd be more open with another hooker than with a guy."

He climbed in behind, shoving her over on the seat to make room for him.

"And why on earth are you going with me? Why aren't you going back in there and grilling that bartender some more?"

"LaRue House, on Esplanade," he told the driver.

"You might think I'm totally incapable," she went on snippily, "but I can certainly get myself back to my place without your help."

"I know you can, chère, but I got no confidence that you will."

"Look, I'm sorry I disobeyed you, Master," she said, rolling her eyes at him. "But I knew there might be information out there about Tina and I had to try." The cab crossed the wide thoroughfare of Canal Street, then dipped into the French Quarter, the buildings on either side closing in darkly around the car. "And if anything had happened, you were there," she added with a brisk take-that nod.

"Damn good thing, too, because in case you didn't notice, nobody lifted an eye, let alone a finger, when I manhandled you out of there. If somebody had wanted to hurt you and I hadn't been there, Stephanie ..." He was peering at her in the darkness, seeing only the shadowy shape of her, but feeling her warmth pressed up against him—and he found himself unable to go on because his throat was closing up at the very idea that some guy could have hurt her. Some guy could have hurt her and he might not have known, or might have been gone by then. Some guy could have hurt her and there wasn't a damn thing he could have done to stop it.

"What?" she whispered, shaking her head softly when he didn't go on.

Unwanted emotion clogged him up inside. It seemed to stretch like a physical thing from his throat down through his chest, then into the depths of his gut. He couldn't look at her anymore, even in the dark, so he focused on the back of the cabbie's head—a dark, greasy ponytail. Finally, he took a deep breath and spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. "I just can't help you if I have to worry about you at the same time."

"Then don't worry. I'm a big girl. I can take care of—?..

"No, you can't," he snapped. "I already had to rescue you once, and I thought you understood then what the deal was."

"But listen, Jake." She grabbed his wrist, her hand warming his skin. "I showed Tina's picture and found out she has been there before. The girls I spoke to haven't seen her in a few weeks, but they said she has a friend named Raven. They haven't seen Raven, either, but it's something. Another name. A place she's actually been. Did you get anything from the bartender?"

He sighed. "No." And he hated to admit it, but maybe she actually had done them some good. Raven was a lot more uncommon name than Tina. It was another piece of information to give Tony, a name he could drop at Sophia's.

As the cab pulled to a stop on Esplanade, Jake paid the driver, then took Stephanie's hand as they exited the car. Realizing he still held it once they reached the sidewalk, the taxi speeding away behind them, he let it drop, but automatically lifted a palm to the small of her back to propel her down the brick walk to her room. The gnarled oaks and their moss-draped boughs provided a canopy overhead.

"You have to admit that's helpful information, right?" she asked.

"Yeah, beb, you did good work tonight, but"—he stopped and turned her to face him, taking her hands in his—"you can't keep doin' this, understand?"

Their gazes met in the night, a sliver of moonlight righting its way down through the trees to make her eyes sparkle, and Jake's desire for her rose yet again. Had it ever waned since he'd set eyes on her this evening? Her hair was simple, falling over her shoulders in the same soft waves he'd seen earlier, only tamed now. Her filmy dress, its two wide swaths of black fabric tied behind her neck, made him think of old Hollywood glamour and sophistication. He caught sight of her nipples pushing against the fabric, and he wanted her naked, wanted to see her, touch her, explore her in a leisurely way he hadn't done with a woman in a very long time.

Since Becky, of course. Everything always led back to her. A more stinging guilt than usual bit at him with the knowledge that he didn't want to think about her right now. He only wanted Stephanie. No one else.

Finally, she turned and walked ahead on the path, digging a key from her fancy purse. "Well," she said, "looks like you managed to get me home safe and sound. I guess you can go now."

"No," he said, and as she stepped inside, he followed, shutting the door behind them. He heard a click as a dim lamp ht the room, which was filled with antique furniture and thick, elegant fabrics.

"I'll stay here this time, I promise. My work for the evening is done." She sounded far from contrite, though—more like pissed.

Well, that was too damn bad.

He watched as she dropped her purse on the bed, before reaching to undo the bracelet that sparkled at her wrist, tossing it carelessly on a dresser. When she turned toward him, he stepped up close to her. "You still don't get it, do you?"

"Yes, yes, I get it. While you search for my sister, I have to trap myself in this room, stare at the walls, and feel powerless, all because you think I'm defenseless."

"Damn it, Stephanie!" His voice raised without his intending it to. She flinched beneath him and he locked his gaze on hers, needing to make her understand. "I don't want you to get hurt, for God's sake!" he shouted, then tried to speak more gently. "That's not so hard to understand, no?"

But for Stephanie, it was hard to understand. Who was he? The gruff ex-cop who was all business? Or the softer man she saw only tiny hints of, hints so small that she wasn't even sure if they were real or simply in her tortured imagination? The answer mattered, a lot—because wouldn't it be easier to let herself sleep with him if she thought he cared for her?

He stood over her, his eyes filled with some combination of fury and tenderness so profound that she leaned back against the wall in an attempt not to wither and faint beneath his stare. She hated all the uncertainty, hated not knowing where she stood, not being in control of it. "What do you care?" she finally barked at him.

He shook his head. "What do you mean?"

"What do you care if I get hurt? What's it to you? You barely know me. You're only helping me because you think I'm a danger to myself, some stupid little waif playing private detective. And you couldn't really care less if we find my sister—except maybe to get me out of your hair so you'll never have to see me again."

As she'd spilled the indicting words, she'd watched his face tighten still more fiercely, aware that his shoulders were set tensely and his fingers curled into fists at his side. "You got one thing right, Stephanie Grant," he growled.

"What's that, tough guy?"

His hands closed on her shoulders and his expression appeared positively tortured. "If I never saw you again, it would make my life a hell of a lot easier." With that, his mouth came down on hers, hard and demanding, his kiss feeling as if he were attempting to wrench something out of her.

Her entire body responded, her breasts tingling, wetness pooling between her thighs. Their mouths struggled together, their tongues sparring hotly. And in that heated moment, she didn't care why he was kissing her, didn't care if he hated her and never wanted to see her again. She only wanted to take what he had to give, and wanted to give him whatever he needed. And clearly he needed. Something. No man had ever kissed her so powerfully.

His arms closed around her and she moved against him without hesitation, needing the sweet, hot friction, needing to feel his very maleness against her curves. Her lips felt bruised beneath his, but she didn't care. She clawed at his back, grabbed onto his hair, kissed him as feverishly as he was kissing her.

When one of Jake's hands sank to her butt, she clenched at the pleasure and unthinkingly lifted one leg, curling it around his thick denim-clad thigh. His erection pressed insistently between her legs, forcing a low moan from her throat. Oh God. Oh God. She closed her eyes as the heat licked at her inner thighs, the small of her back. She was lost to him, lost to the weight of the desire pressing down on her.

Then, without warning, the passion turned slower— kisses still hard, but lingering. She heard them both panting as the heat of his body warmed her from shoulder to thigh. He tasted of cool mint. The kisses ended with his forehead pressed to hers in quiet, breathless recovery, but still their bodies writhed slowly together, as if they just couldn't stop.

"I don't want like this," he whispered hotly.

"Huh?" His voice caught her off guard, his words not quite making sense.

He hesitated slightly, and when he spoke, it came between heavy breaths. "I don't think I've ever wanted a woman ... the way I want you. Since that first night... in the red room. The second I see you ... I wanna sink so deep inside you, beb. Let me."

Let me have you.

Could she? Could she let go of whatever held her back each time? Now they were in her room—a private, comfortable, safe place. Let go, she told herself. Just let go and feel him the way you want to.

He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. "Tell me you want me, chère."

"You know I do," she whispered.

They went totally still in that moment, no movement— just the connection of their gazes and the insistent beat of her heart against her rib cage.

She said it again, even softer this time. "You know I do."

His next kiss came shockingly gentle, swallowing and sweet; their tongues licked at each other, tasting deeply. Good, delicious kisses, the best of her life. She thought for a few moments that maybe she'd be content just to stand here and kiss him all night long. Her fingers curled in his thick hair and the musky, sexy scent of him permeated her senses. She wanted to crawl inside him.

When he slowly skimmed one hand to the side of her breast, her knees buckled, but he was there to catch her, his other arm anchored securely around her waist. The stroke of his thumb teased the outer curve, touching skin to skin, thanks to the bareness of her dress. Her breath grew more labored until she realized she was kissing him harder, pulling him closer, thinking, Touch me, please touch me, feeling sure that if he didn't, she would die. Please, Jake.

But she was careful not to voice her wishes out loud. That would be too much, giving away every last ounce of control—and she had to hang onto something, didn't she?

When his thumb passed over her nipple through the dress, she went weak again, but still he held her, drawing back to look at her from beneath shaded lids. "You get me so hot, beb."

She could only sigh, her breath trembling, glad when his kisses returned, because she was better with that, with simply being swept away, than with having to acknowledge her passion with words.

As his hand closed full around her breast, inside the dress, she let out a low groan and locked her arms tighter around his neck so she wouldn't fall. His tongue delved deeply into her mouth as he slowly kneaded her, his thumb and forefinger teasing the hard peak. Harsh pleasure spiraled through her.

When his kisses trailed away from her mouth, over her cheek, to her neck, shoulder, she could do nothing but acquiesce, leaning her head to one side. Her breath grew shakier with each inch he descended, his mouth getting closer and closer to where his thumb and finger played.

Yes, yes. Kiss me there.

She never realized his other hand had left her waist until she felt the smooth, light tug at the back of her neck—he was untying the top of her dress. Oh God. Her knees trembled and she fought not to let them give way.

She'd had sex with enough men that this part wasn't foreign. Yet it still felt new—with Jake. He pulled back slightly and the top of the dress slipped like satin over her breasts, falling away to leave her bared to the waist.

He studied her unabashedly, his gaze making her even hotter. "So pretty, chère," he whispered, slowly lifting his brown eyes to hers.

She felt lost. Free. Trapped. Confused but wild, and growing hungrier with each passing second. "Kiss me there," she murmured. It was an accident—words never meant to leave her lips.

But Jake didn't hesitate. Stepping up close again, he curled both hands over her breasts, massaging deeply as he delivered a long, slow kiss to her mouth—and then lower. Her neck. The hollow of her throat. The upper curve of plump, pale flesh. Then his tongue flicked over the dark pink tip.

She gasped and the juncture of her thighs spasmned. Her own thready breath was the only sound.

More. Please. This time she held it inside, didn't beg, thank goodness—but it was almost as if he'd read her thoughts anyway, because his warm mouth closed over her distended nipple, his tongue swirling around it in wet, intoxicating circles.

Thank God she had the wall to lean against or she'd surely be on the floor by now. She moaned and sighed, drinking in the pleasures from his mouth and hands, still caressing her breasts, molding, shaping, making her crazy with the hot joy of it. God, yes.

When he switched his ministrations to the other breast, licking and teasing with tongue and teeth, a tiny bite that seemed to reach all the way into her panties made her cry out. She held his head there, ran her hands through his thick hair, and peered down to find him looking back, his tongue raking across the moistened peak as his brown gaze seared her.

She wanted desperately to look away because his eyes made her so wild inside, made her simply want to rip his clothes off, push him to the bed, do everything she'd ever dreamed of—and never dreamed of. Her wildest dreams had never been as wild as he turned her.

But control, control. You have to keep at least a little control. She'd never felt comfortable giving that up— especially when it came to sex.

Just when she was sure there was nothing he could do to make her any more deeply aroused, he bent even lower to kiss the smooth plane of her stomach. Her whole body seemed to flutter at the light assault.

And before she could think, he was dropping to his knees, slowly skimming his hands down the fabric that covered her hips. He gazed up, heat rushing from his eyes as his hands closed around the backs of her legs.

"Wh-what are you doing?"

"Want to kiss you here now, chère," he rasped, then lowered a chaste, tiny kiss to the black filmy fabric that lay across the juncture of her thighs.

She gasped at the pure pleasure radiating through her. "Oh ..." she breathed.

His gaze rose to meet hers as his hands slid up the backs of her thighs, to her bottom, taking the soft black fabric with him.

"I never..." she whispered without meaning to.

"Never what, beb?" His voice was a deep purr from below.

Never felt such hot wanting. Never felt so on the edge of truly letting go.

He blinked, peering up at her. "Surely you've been kissed here before."

She nodded. "Yes, but..." It was never like this.

"But what?" he asked, lowering another soft kiss through the dress.

An unstoppable shiver rushed through her, leaving her unable to answer. Why had she even started talking at all? Words seemed ridiculously inadequate in summing up the intense heat surrounding them. He still looked up at her, waiting for a reply, but she only shook her head,

beseeching him with her eyes to go on. And just in case he didn't get the message, she eased one high-heeled foot to the side, parting her legs a bit farther. Kiss me again.

His eyes seemed to deepen a shade before he lowered them back to the part of her body so close to his mouth. His hands slid from her rear around to her knees, pausing just long enough to gather the fabric in front and push it up, higher, higher, until he held it bunched at her waist. She couldn't stop the trembling that assaulted her, but he seemed undaunted.

"Want to make you feel so good, chère." His voice fell over her as dark and soft as a shadow just before he kissed the front of her black silk panties, openmouthed, deep and passionate, as if it were a part of her that could kiss him back. Warm pressure and heat—his tongue—permeated her most sensitive spot, and without planning it, she began to grind against him. Maybe she could kiss him back—this way.

She closed her eyes, melting, thrusting—softly, softly. She pressed her palms flat against the wall behind her for support, then found her fingers curling, clawing at the slick wallpaper, reaching for purchase as she sank deeper into his ministrations.

She heard her own whimper as his fingers curved over the top edge of her panties. Yes. Take them off me.

Grabbing onto one side with both hands, he gave a rough tug and the thin elastic band snapped, leaving the underwear to fall away.

"Oh!" She drew in her breath.

Too much. This was too much. Too much pleasure, too much abandon.

Damn it, no—it was happening again, her body tensing sharply. And like everything else with this man, it was beyond her control.

Her legs snapped together tight as she tried desperately to quell the hungry sensations inside her. "I can't," she blurted out.

Still kneeling before her, he raised his gaze. "What?"

One glimpse of the disbelief in his sexy eyes and she couldn't continue to look at him. She tried to close her legs still tighter, but it wasn't possible. "I'm sorry," she whimpered, "so sorry. But I can't."

"You can't," he repeated, somber, bewildered.

"I'm sorry, Jake. I just..." She shook her head. Maybe she should tell him about Curtis. She didn't officially consider him her boyfriend, but maybe that's what this was about, some kind of guilt. God knew it would be easier if she had some sort of concrete reason to give him. Yet even without speaking the words, it sounded like a he to her. "I'm sorry," she said again.

He let her dress fall back down her thighs as he rose to his feet. Shutting his eyes, he ran his hands back through his hair and let out a heavy sigh of frustration. Feeling like the worst sort of tease, she remembered she was still half unclothed and began fumbling to grab up the front of her dress.

Casting only one last look of disappointment, he started for the door. "I'd better go." "Wait."

He paused, his hand on the doorknob, to look over his shoulder. Like always, his eyes nearly buried her.

"Wh-what about Tina? Do you think you'll be able to find her now that we know her friend's name?"

He looked dumbfounded that she could be talking about that at a time like this—and at the moment she couldn't blame him. She asked too much of him.

They stood like that for a long, tense moment, until finally Jake gave his head a quick shake. T can't do this anymore."

He turned to go again and impulse made her rush forward. Still using one hand to hold her dress up in front, she latched onto his wrist with the other. "What do you mean?"

Shaking free from her grip, he took a step back, looking more dark and forbidding than usual. "I can't be near you, Stephanie, without wantin' you. And if I haven't been able to locate your sister by now, I seriously doubt a girl's name is gonna make a difference. I can't help you." He shook his head again. "I can't keep doin' this."

With that, he stalked out the door, pulling it firmly shut behind him. The slam drove home for her how alone she suddenly was. She stared at it blankly, feeling as if she'd just lost... everything that mattered.

Idiot, idiot, idiot. Ten minutes after Jake left, Stephanie's fear of sleeping with him had faded, but her desire remained in full swing, pulsing through her body like something trying to get out. Idiot.

Pushing up from the bed, where she'd let herself collapse a moment after his departure, she stripped off her dress, changing quickly into a pair of blue jeans, a gray tank top she usually wore to the gym, and her comfortable leather sandals.

Locking the door behind her, she headed for the customer parking lot. Jake had once told her—only because she'd pried—that he lived in an old building on Burgundy.

That's all she knew about where to find him other than Sophia's. So if she had any chance of finding him tonight, she needed to beat him home, see him walking down the street. Finally, a use for the rental car she'd kept just in case her search for Tina led her beyond the immediate vicinity. Even driving, she'd still have to hurry, and still might not locate him.

She pulled out on Esplanade, heading toward the French Quarter. Passing Burgundy—a one-way going the wrong way—she turned onto Dauphine, speeding down several blocks before circling back to Jake's street again. That quickly, though, it seemed futile. Too many doorways. Too many balconies and windows and gates and shutters. He could be behind any of them. She briefly considered the phone book, but quickly concluded that a guy as secretive as Jake would be unlisted, even if just as a holdover from his days as a cop.

She crept up the street in the midsize sedan, studying the few people she spotted on the sidewalk, but none of them were Jake. Until, that is, she spied a man crossing toward an old blue pickup truck parked along the curb. Her stomach lurched at the sight of him.

She slowed to a stop, hoping he wouldn't realize it was her—although she wasn't sure why.

She'd been trying to tell herself she'd come to plead with him about not giving up on Tina, since he was the only person in this town willing to help. But the much bigger truth was that she'd come to apologize, because she was so sorry for what had happened back at her room, so sorry she'd said no. Something had compelled her to seek him out and make things right.

And yet now she hid within the safe confines of her rental car, just wanting to watch him, see what he did, where he went. He never gave her any answers about himself—maybe if she followed him, she'd finally learn more about him.

She flipped on her turn signal, as if waiting for his parking space, then watched the truck's taillights blink on before it rumbled away from the curb. Hanging back, she killed the turn signal and proceeded behind him.

She followed him up a maze of streets that led deeper into the city. Maybe this was childish, maybe it was downright stupid—but her heart beat faster wondering where he was going and what it would tell her about him. Within a few turns and stoplights, the blue pickup veered onto an expressway ramp, leading her onto Interstate 10.

Once on the open road, Jake drove fast and she struggled to keep up without him noticing. As they crossed the Mississippi, she found herself asking: Where does a man like Jake Broussard go at a time like this? To another woman, someone who wouldn't heat him up just to turn him down? Her stomach tightened at the thought. Why was sex so difficult for her? She wanted so desperately to explain it to him, but she didn't know the answer herself. She pressed on the gas a little heavier, lest she lose sight of the truck.

Soon they were on a more desolate, empty road and she was careful to stay back a reasonable distance, just barely keeping his taillights in view. The farther they got from the city, the darker the air became. She saw only the low-lying road directly in front of her. God, where on earth was he going?

If you had half a brain, you'd turn around and go back. Leave the man alone.

Yet she'd come so far, and to head back to New Orleans now would only leave her all the more curious and frustrated. Despite herself, she simply ... wanted to be close to him, wanted to be wherever he was.

But an hour into the trip, she let out a huge sigh, thinking he might never get to where he was going. And dear God, what was that on the side of the road? She only caught a glimpse, but was fairly certain she'd just passed a small alligator.

Following more twists and turns, Stephanie found herself pursuing Jake down a two-lane road labeled Route 56 and knew instinctively she was in the heart of bayou country. For some reason, it made her heart beat painfully—it somehow seemed dangerous and a little eerie to be out here in the middle of a deserted area she knew nothing about. Keeping up with Jake had turned into a safety measure as much as anything else—she no longer even cared if he figured out she was following him.

After ninety minutes of driving, Jake slowed and took a left. When she reached the turn, she nearly missed it, even knowing it was there—the narrow one-lane gravel road wasn't marked, and pulling onto it felt like crossing some sort of invisible line, some point of no return.

She crept slowly along the bumpy, winding path, afraid she'd come upon Jake's truck if she rounded a bend too fast, and also hoping she didn't end up driving into a swamp.

Around a curve and through thick trees, she spotted Jake's truck stopped beneath a single light pole, a dim beam illuminating the area. She pressed her brakes, bringing the car to a stop as she shut off the lights, then struggled to peer through the tall trees.

She could barely make out Jake's shape as he walked to a shanty-type building beneath the light, then pulled something long and narrow, bigger than himself, from the lean-to. She squinted as he moved back past the trees blocking her view to realize he was dragging a small boat. They must be at the water. And he was going to get in the boat and float away from her after all this?

Ripping the headlights back on, she gave it some gas. Only—damn it!—her tires were spinning. She'd gotten the car stuck—in a pocket of mud or something. "Oh, please, no—don't let this happen," she beseeched God or anyone else who might hear.

Taking a deep breath, she released the gas pedal, then slowly, patiently tried again. Nothing but spinning wheels and a horrible whirring sound that multiplied her fears. This can't be happening. After another deep breath, she asked herself what her father would do in this situation. Surely they'd covered such things when she'd been learning to drive. Put it in reverse, she told herself. Ease back and turn the wheel to let the tire find something new to bite into.

Voilà—a second later, the front wheel backed out of the mud, and Stephanie let out a huge sigh of relief as she drove around the hole and sped to where Jake had parked.

Yanking the keys from the ignition, she practically leaped from the car and raced to the shore, but saw only a pale wake that told her which way he'd headed. Damn it.

Looking around, her eyes came to rest on the shack Jake had taken the boat from. Jogging to it, she tried the wide door only to find it padlocked. Could nothing go her way?

Again, she lectured herself that anyone with any sense would get back in the car and head back to the city, where at least you could see the danger coming at you, where at least there were other people around if you screamed for help. But despite the insanity of it, she found her gaze dropping to a little boat turned upside down on the ground beside the weather-beaten building. Bending, she mustered the strength to turn it over, toss the accompanying oar inside, and begin dragging it toward the gently sloped bank.

She was moving on autopilot now—she didn't consider the risk of such an act, she didn't let herself think about getting lost in the bayou—she only knew she had to hurry if she was going to follow Jake's wake, and she hoped like hell the moon would provide enough light to show her the way.

"You can do this," she told herself as she climbed in, her bottom landing on a hard wooden slat of a seat. She took a deep breath and lowered the paddle into the dark water. "You can do it."

Besides the fact that she regularly used the rowing machine at the gym, she'd competed in many a canoe race at summer camp, and had even gone on a number of canoe trips with friends over the past few years. So this wasn't entirely crazy.

Probably no crazier than pretending she was a high-priced hooker.

Probably no crazier than following him this far already.

And she'd come too far to turn back now.

She ignored the painful beat of her heart as she labored to steer the boat, thankful she worked out three times a week—or at least she had before she'd come haring down to New Orleans and watched her whole world turn on its end.

Dim moonlight fought its way through Spanish-moss-covered trees, and—thank you, God—gave her a glimpse of the ripples Jake's boat had sent spreading across the water. She worked to calm her breathing, even as she paddled harder, trying to gain on him. The moonlit bayou seemed otherworldly, almost iridescent somehow, ancient tree stumps and drooping moss becoming giant stalagmites and stalactites, making the swamp a primeval cavern, the star-dotted sky overhead nothing more than a dark ceiling. A place as mysterious as he is, she thought.

No wonder he'd come here. Already, she had the sense of him blending with this landscape, belonging to it. It all felt so surreal, she actually found herself hoping he didn't somehow just dissipate, fade into the cypresses and dark water until there was nothing more for her to follow.

Floating along the isolated waterway was almost serene—if she hadn't been tormented by thoughts of never reaching him, of losing sight of his wake, of not being able to find her way back to the car.

She came upon a fork in the bayou and followed the rippling water to the right. Ahead, trees blotted out the light enough that she still saw nothing of Jake or his boat.

That's when the water rushed around her toes and she looked down to see that the floor of the boat had filled with water, at least half an inch deep. Half an inch that hadn't been there when she'd departed, because it had been upside down until then. Her boat had a leak.

Don't panic, she lectured herself. But the ache in her chest grew sharper as she realized just what a foolish decision she'd made. You're going to die out here. You're going to die and no one's ever going to know what happened to you.

Or maybe they would. They'd trace the car back to her, and Jake might help the authorities figure out that she'd followed him and set out in a boat after dark without a clue where she was going. Death by stupidity.

She paddled faster, desperation driving her.

Was the water around her shoes getting deeper quicker now or was that just her imagination? Exactly how many alligators lived in the average bayou? And did they aggressively attack humans dumb enough to end up in the water with them?

"Jake!" she yelled with every ounce of energy left inside her. Her heart was going to beat right through her chest soon. "Jake! Are you out there somewhere?"

Just then, a light came on in the distance, Jake's shadow within its beam. He stood on a dock, peering out over the dark water. She rowed furiously toward him, thinking, Thank you, God!

"Jake, it's me!" she yelled again, getting nearer.

"What the hell... ?" she heard him mutter, squinting.

"It's Stephanie!" she said, the dock just a few yards away now—and shit! She was about to float right past it!

She reached out and grabbed onto the canoe already tied to the pilings, but her boat kept going, until she was pulled off her seat, her butt sloshing in the water, her back slamming painfully into the rear concave panels of the vessel. She yelped in pain as Jake said, "Jesus," and held out another paddle to her. "Hold on to this."

She used one hand to grab the offered oar, the other to raise herself back onto the seat and hold steady. He pulled the opposite end of the paddle until her boat came flush against the moorings behind his—then he stared down at her, wide-eyed.

"Boat has a leak, chère."

She didn't have to glance down to see the water was up around her ankles now. "Thanks for the newsflash."

"Well, get the hell up here," he said, dropping the oar on the dock and reaching down to her. There was a ladder, but she clung to his arm and he pulled her most of the way up without her having to climb.

When they stood face-to-face, he simply shook his head, his expression one of pure disbelief. He asked her the same exact question he'd posed earlier at the Crescent. "What the fuck are you doin' here?"

T followed you."

Only this time she feared he might be even angrier. "Are you outta your mind?" He peered down to the boat. "Floatin' around in a leaky pirogue on a dark bayou where you don't know your way? You tryin' to give Mr. Coco-drie a late-night snack?"

She shook her head, trying to get her bearings, never so glad to have something solid beneath her feet, but feeling just as close to collapse as she had back in her room a couple of hours ago when he'd been kissing her so intimately. "No—I was just following you."

His expression remained bewildered. "I heard you the first time, but I still don't get it. Why the hell would you do that?'

Again, she found herself shaking her head, having run out of words that made sense—if she'd ever had any. Exhaustion buffeted her. "I just needed to apologize. For everything. For not doing what you tell me in regard to finding Tina. For..." God, this was hard. She looked at his feet, then made herself meet his gaze. "For not being able to ... you know ... be with you. The way I want to."

He gave his head a slight tilt. "From where I stand, seems I'm the only one really wantin' you to be with me. But that aside..." He shook his head and ran a hand back through his hair, focusing on her again with those captivating brown eyes. His voice came softer, nearly drowned out by the night sounds of the bayou. "You're a mess, chère. Come inside and let's get you cleaned up."

It wasn't until he took her hand, then pushed through a door, that she comprehended there was a small house attached to the dock. And as he led her through a dwelling that seemed to lie somewhere between old and new, in flux, she already felt the very essence of him here, and she knew this was where she'd find out the things she wanted so badly to know about Jake Broussard.

She might be a mess, but she still looked damn fine. Which was why he consciously averted his eyes as he led her through the kitchen, into the bedroom, finally into the tiny bathroom where an old sink ran a dribble of water that would have to do.

Her hands were scratched and dirty—pricks and thin lines of red that needed to be cleaned. He drew them under the faucet, making sure not to look at the swell of her breasts rising from the low neckline of her tank top or the way those jeans hugged her curves. He'd never imagined Stephanie could be so casual, nor tough enough not to complain about what she'd just been through, with hands that had to be stinging and a back that surely ached from the tumble she'd taken in the pirogue.

Having held her hands too long, he let go of them abruptly, passing her a bar of soap. "Wash up real good," he instructed as he turned away to find a towel, echoing words his grandmother used to impart.

He shuffled through the little linen cabinet, automatically seeking the least worn and raveled of the old towels

he'd never gotten around to replacing. But his mind traveled back, unwittingly, to the sight of her soft, round breasts, to the sensation of kissing between her thighs, to how lost in her he'd been, and how hard it had been to stop when she'd clamped her legs together.

He'd headed out here to get away, from everything, just for the night, but now here she was—she'd followed him, for God's sake. For a conservative woman, he was starting to think Stephanie Grant seemed pretty foolhardy.

Pulling out a small green towel, he turned back, silently watching her lather her hands, and felt how close he stood to her in the tiny room.

He couldn't stand the silence for another second, especially when he thought of the danger she'd put herself in by coming out here. She was beautiful, and tempting, but he was starting to wonder if she had any common sense at all. "Peter, Paul, and Mary, do you have any idea how goddamn stupid that was?" he exploded. "Do you realize how lucky you are you didn't get lost, and that you didn't sink in that damn pirogue?"

He waited for her to come right back at him, to defend her actions like usual, but instead, she only raised her head slightly and nodded, swallowing visibly as a look of regret washed over her. Her answer was an acceptant whisper. "Yes." She turned off the water and took the small towel from his hand.

He suddenly felt like an ogre, yelling at her, unable to take his eyes off her—unable to look away from her quiet strength. "Thank God nothin' happened," he heard himself mutter—then he pulled her into his arms for a crushing hug.

She was so soft and warm, smelting now of his soap and the sweet, lush scents of the bayou. He bent over her,

sinking his face into the silk of her hair. Her breasts pressed against his chest, her curves molding to him, and he was struck with stirrings that had just finally begun to fade with the horror of finding her in the bayou in a leaky boat.

So just as suddenly as he'd embraced her, he pushed her away and reached for a tube of disinfectant cream on a shelf behind him, shoving it into her hand as he squeezed past her out of the bathroom. "Put this on your hands. I'll be outside," he said over his shoulder, too brusquely.

Passing through the kitchen, he grabbed a beer from the fridge and, as an afterthought, reached for a second. Heading out to the old glider, he thought, / can't keep seeing her, I just can't. Because the truth was—part of him had been glad she'd turned him down earlier. It had alleviated the guilt, sending him home frustrated but free. Free of that nagging shame that battered him upon acknowledging how much he'd felt with her—again.

What had taken place back at the LaRue House wasn't just sex. It was about giving her apple pie to help her feel close to her grandmother. It was about holding her hand as they walked down the street. So many little things twined together in his heart when he was with her, making it so that he simply wanted to be with her more.

And at the same time, what had happened in her room had been all about sex. He'd been driven by something so deep in his soul he could barely understand it. He'd desperately wanted to give her something she needed. Something he needed, too. He'd forgotten about everything—anything—else in those moments. There had only been him and her and a raging desire that felt palpable, like it was wrapping around them, propelling his every action and emotion.

So it was pure hell that she was here now—in the one place that was his alone, where he could escape and not think, not feel.

He'd tell her she had to go. Then he'd take her back up the bayou himself and see that she got on her way. It was that simple. He'd break it to her as soon as she came out.

As if on cue, she pushed through the door and he silently offered the can of beer he'd been unsure she'd drink. Taking a seat next to him, she accepted it without reaction—as unpredictable as always, his Miss Chardonnay.

He stared out over the dark waters that usually brought him so much peace, listening as she popped the top and took a sip. "Drink your beer and then I'll take you back up the bayou."

He felt those blue eyes piercing him, but didn't turn to look at her. "I need to talk to you."

Something in his stomach pinched, yet still he stared straight ahead into the swallowing night. "So talk."

"It's about what you said back at my room. That you couldn't help me anymore."

He blinked, tried not to feel her nearness. Tried to push away the wanting that seemed to pluck at every pore of his skin. "What about it?"

"I'm desperate, Jake. You know that."

Her gentle sigh wafted over him, but he cut her off at the knees. "We've had this conversation before. If you've got anything new to say, get to it."

She stayed silent for a long moment, before speaking softly. "I don't have anything new. And maybe that's the point. Tina's still out there somewhere and I have to find her. But I know I can't do it alone. You're my only friend here. And you're also my only hope. Maybe Tina's only hope, too."

Finally, he turned his gaze on her, only in order to drive his words home, since they must not have sunk in back at her room. "What makes you think I have any more chance of findin' her than you do? I've already looked under every rock I know and no sign of her. What makes you think havin' my help makes the slightest difference at all?"

'For all I know, maybe it doesn't. But.. . you're all I have here. And I know you didn't want to help me in the first place and that I really have no right to ask, but I'm asking. I'm asking you not to desert me."

/ can't do it.

Tell her that. Say the goddamn words.

But something prevented him from it. He'd made the mistake of looking into those earnest blue eyes and his chest had tightened, his stomach shriveled.

"I happen to think we make a decent team," she went on. Yet when he narrowed his eyes in doubt, she added, "Although I'll do whatever you say if you keep helping me. I promise."

"You've promised before, chère. Tonight, for instance, you said you'd stay put, no? But then there you are, back in a slinky dress, puttin' yourself in harm's way. What reason do I have to take you at your word?"

She bit her lip, then took a page from his book—staring out into the black bayou. "Because I'm at rock bottom," she said frankly. "Without you, I truly don't have a clue what to do next." She turned to look at him again. "But I think you know me well enough by now to know I will do something. And I don't want to be stupid about it."

He tilted his head. 'Too late for that."

"Then I don't want to keep being stupid about it."

He withdrew his gaze once more. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place. The rock was the knowledge that she would eventually do something dumb enough to get herself hurt if he left her to her own devices—the same reason he'd agreed to help in the beginning. The hard place was behind his zipper, and he didn't know how the hell he was gonna keep dealing with that.

"What do you say, Jake? Give me one more chance?"

He still wanted to refuse, but he didn't have it in him. Face it, son, you was born to help folks, his mother had told him not too long ago. Stephanie. Shondra. That stupid, mangy dog. Jesus, what did they think he was, some kind of superhero? But no, not even close. Superheroes got the job done. He just tried to—and it didn't usually work. Becky could attest to that.

Finishing his beer, he calmly crushed the can in his fist and lowered it to the porch. Finally, he took a deep breath and focused on her again. "Let's get somethin' straight here. I keep lookin' for your sister, I do it on my own— there's no 'team' about it. Got it?" He didn't give her a chance to answer. "I do this on one condition and it's that you do nothin' independent of me, understand? I find out you did and that's it, I'm done, you're on your own. You give me the pictures of your sister and you're not involved in this anymore, other than hearin' what I find. Is that perfectly one hundred percent clear?"

She looked contrite, but far from beaten, as she firmly replied, "Yeah, it's clear."

"Good."

"Any other concerns?" she asked with a slightly sarcastic bite to her voice.

"Yeah," he said. "What about the other part?" She blinked. "Other part?"

He pulled in his breath, crossed his arms over his chest, and peered out over the water. "The part about me not bein' able to keep my hands off you."

The admission, though one he thought pretty obvious, hung between them for a long moment. Long enough that he grew restless, uncomfortable. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a roll of mints, popping one in his mouth.

Finally, her voice came soft, almost drowned out by the sounds of insects, but not so low that he didn't absorb each and every word. "Believe it or not, Jake, I don't want you to keep your hands off me. I... definitely want them on me."

"Could a fooled me, chère."

She glanced down at her beer can, fiddled with the ring on top. "I know. I'm sorry. I... can't explain."

He'd stopped trying not to look at her. "I wish you'd try."

Slowly, she raised her blue gaze, looking nervous and sad. Then she blinked and turned away. "I just have this thing about... not liking to lose control." She drew in a sharp breath and met his eyes once more. "And you make me lose control."

His chest began to sizzle. He hadn't seen that coming. Maybe he should have, yet it still struck him hard—and good. His muscles tensed with heat as he went stiff in his pants. But then again ... "Not completely, though. You always manage to stop, no?"

She looked emotionally spent. "I try to let go with you, Jake, but... no man has ever made me feel like you do."

"Which is?"

Her lips trembled slightly, yet she didn't break their gaze. "Wild. Like I don't even know myself. Because I want to do everything with you."

Jake leaned closer, without planning it, and lifted one hand to her cheek. "Tell me what you want to do with me, beb."

"Things I... don't even know about." She shook her head lightly. "Just... everything. Everything."

He moved still nearer, bending over her. "Think you'll ever be able to let go completely and let me have all of you?" His voice was a dark whisper just before he lowered a soft, slow kiss to her lips.

Stephanie gave in to the moment without thought or decision. She couldn't resist Jake's kisses. From the first one he'd swept across her lips to this deep, tender meeting of tongues, she was lost to him when his mouth covered hers. Heavenly sensations reverberated through her entire body until the kiss finally ended and she murmured, "God, I hope so."

"Mmm, me too, chère." A small grin softened his strong features when she least expected such tenderness.

She returned the gentle smile, repeating the same words she'd already spoken a few minutes ago. "What do you say, Jake? Give me another chance?"

He pulled in his breath, his eyes going darker with want, as his gaze settled on her mouth. His answer came in the form of another kiss, his tongue warmly seeking hers. He felt impossibly good—his hands gently cupping her cheeks, his mouth seeming to drink of her, the warmth where their bodies touched. Risking her life in the dark swamp had been worth it, for this.

His kisses grew shorter, but still tender, and as always, he tasted of mint and masculinity. She loved the very bigness of his body, the hardness of his muscles as she ran her hands over his broad shoulders.

When he laid her down on the glider, pain arced through her. "Ow! My back."

"Mmm, from your spill in the pirogue. You'll have a couple of nasty bruises come mornin'." He reached behind him for the vinyl cushion he'd been leaning against, sliding it beneath her. "Better?"

She relaxed, testing it. "Yes."

"Good." He lowered a gentle kiss to her forehead before bringing his mouth back to hers. She wrapped her arms around his neck, wanting him closer, wanting to feel the weight of his body.

When one hand covered her breast, she sighed with pleasure and instinctively arched deeper into his palm. His low growl fueled her, and as for any trepidation, it was—blessedly—nowhere in sight. There was only him, and her, and this dark, private place that seemed a world away from anything bad. His thumb gently stroked her nipple through her top and bra.

"These are so pretty, beb" he murmured, his breath warm at her ear. Shifting to his side next to her, he bent to lower a delicate kiss to the curve of feminine flesh exposed by her top. "I loved kissin' 'em earlier, loved how hard your pretty nipple felt on my tongue."

She whimpered, turned on by his erotic talk, and also because her nipples weren't the only things that were hard—his erection pressed like a column of stone against her thigh.

When his hand slid from her breast to the denim between her legs, she sucked in her breath, moving involuntarily against his touch. "And down here—mmm, I wanted to taste you down here, too, chère."

She shivered in his arms, despite the heat, then rolled to face him, wanting to feel his hardness where she yearned for it most. But when his hand eased onto her bottom, he pulled back, chuckling. "Your jeans are all wet back here. Why didn't you tell me? Want me to find somethin' for you to change into?"

"It's okay," she murmured. "No big deal."

He reached for the button in front, deftly undoing it before sliding her zipper down. "Why don't you just let me take 'em off you," he whispered.

Let him take your jeans off and God knows what you '11 do.

Lose control? Definitely.

Get that horrible shriveling, shrinking feeling that always seemed to strike at the most critical moment? Probably. In fact, the first hints of it were stealing into her already, replacing passion with a tinge of prickly nervousness.

She shut her eyes. Why does this have to keep happening?

"Uh-oh," Jake said. Only then did she realize she'd gone completely still.

She raised her gaze, her lips trembling not from passion now but embarrassment. "I'm sorry."

He smoothed his fingers back through her hair, his eyes earnest. "It's okay."

She shook her head. "No, it's not. I don't like this any more than you do."

He shifted to lay his head next to hers on the thick cushion, bringing their faces incredibly close. "What is it that makes you stop exactly?" His voice remained as gentle as the still water beyond. "What are you feelin' right now?"

She thought for a long moment and summed it up in one word. "Just... nervous." "Nervous how?"

She closed her eyes, unable to keep looking into his and summon an answer at the same time. And as for that answer, she'd never truly examined the emotion before now—she'd always been too busy running, trying to escape from the situation. "I guess maybe I'm worried... it'll hurt." "Hurt?"

"The sex. The penetration."

His eyes narrowed. "Why do you think that, beb? Is it always like this?"

She shook her head against the vinyl. "Not with other men. But... this is different. When I'm with other guys, I always stay ... in control. They don't make me feel... you know ... wild for sex. But you do, and somehow I worry that if I'm not careful... that if I'm not fully in charge of the situation ..."

"What?"

She shook her head and pushed back an unpleasant memory before it quite made it to the surface of her mind.

But he must've seen it flit through her eyes. "What are you thinkin' about? Tell me."

She shook her head again. "Nothing, really. Just something that happened a long time ago, but I don't like thinking about it, so it's ... nothing."

He lifted his palm to her cheek. "Sounds like some-thin'." Again, she shook her head, but he pressed her. "Tell me, Stephanie. What's this 'nothin" in your mind?"

She swallowed fretfully, uncomfortable at dredging up the recollection.

"Please," he added.

That was the part that got to her. When Jake went all tender, he was impossible to resist.

"Once," she began softly, somehow thinking that if she spoke quietly the memory might not seem so real, "I drove home from college a day earlier than my parents were expecting me. I came bouncing into the house in a great mood—it was Christmastime, end of the quarter. It was nine or ten o'clock at night and Tina wasn't home— spending the night with a girlfriend.

T walked in, about to shout hello, when I heard my mom and dad arguing." Her throat seized a bit, threatening to close up, but she pushed on. "So I stayed quiet, and I listened, and what I heard was ..."

"What?"

"My mom was ... crying ... and telling him she didn't want to, because it hurt... and he was ... making her anyway."

"Mon Dieu," Jake breathed, his eyes gone starkly sad.

She girded herself, just as she had that night so long ago. "So I walked back to the front door, and I made a lot of noise like I was just coming in, and I yelled out, 'I'm home!' Anything to stop it, you know?"

He nodded softly.

"A minute later, they were both in the kitchen listening to me explain how I got out of classes early, and my mother was getting out cookies and milk... and it was over." She took a deep breath. "But I've always had to wonder, ever since, how often it happened that way." Sighing, she shook her head. "So you see why I don't think about it. I just can't." She leaned her head back to look at the stars, seeking out the crescent moon as a distraction. "I don't know why that passed through my mind right now—it just does sometimes, but I kind of... block out the thoughts." She feared she sounded a little manic.

When she lowered her gaze back to Jake, he spoke gently. "Chère," he began, pushing her hair out of her eyes with warm, gentle fingertips, "don't you think this probably has somethin' to do with why you're afraid to have sex? The kind of sex that makes you lose control?"

Dear God. She thought about arguing, but his words made perfect sense. Or sort of perfect anyway. She was no psychologist, but... when had she become so dense? "I... I never thought about it that way before. I mean, since I hardly ever let myself think about that night." She lowered her eyes, planting them on the front of his light gray T-shirt, studying the hard planes of his chest where the cotton lay snug against him. "Before that happened, I was a virgin. But I wanted to have sex—badly. And then I did, once, with the guy I'd been dating for a long time ... and it hurt."

"Oh," Jake said, sounding sad for her.

Upon returning to DePaul after Christmas, she'd had that one night with Jason, when he'd tempted her past the point of no return. It had started out so good, but ended terribly. Afterward, she'd no longer been interested in sex—in fact, for a while the very idea of it had simply made her ill. And maybe it had made her think of her parents, too, stirring up the memory she'd wanted so desperately to forget. She'd been unable to explain any of this to Jason and they'd broken up by Valentine's Day. "Since then, I've never let myself lose control during sex—I just couldn't give that power up to a guy."

"Because of the pain?"

"And... I guess maybe never wanting to let a man have that kind of freedom with my body—like my dad had with my mother."

"Have you, uh, had much sex?"

"Some. But I've always controlled the situation, never let it get too wild, always kept it very mild—boring, actually. Up to now, it's always just been"—she shook her head, embarrassed, but still trying to be honest—"a thing that happens sometimes at the end of a date. Because I wanted to feel... normal. But I've never been with a guy since college who made me really want it again, who made me feel... you know."

His eyes widened slightly, hopefully. "Like / do?"

She nodded, whispered. "Yeah."

They stayed quiet for a moment, until finally Jake lowered a tender kiss to her forehead. "I'd never hurt you, chère. I'd never let you feel any pain."

She looked up into his eyes. "I guess, logically, I know that. You've been nothing but patient, and"—a sigh of pure longing escaped her—"sexy as hell."

He grinned, clearly pleased.

"It's just... hard," she said. "To let go. To trust somebody that much."

He nodded and said, "Then what about this? What about we don't have sex, you and me?"

Despite everything, disappointment barreled through her. "Huh?"

He smiled softly at her confusion. "How about we just fool around? No sex, no pain. And there's plenty you can do foolin' around."

She blinked. "And ... that'll be enough?"

"We'll make it be enough. Trust me."

As Jake scooped her into his arms, she bit her hp and laced her fingers behind his neck, thrilled to her very core. That was the one saving grace of her horrible affliction— it never seemed to outlast her desire for him. Not even close.

She looked up at his strong face, his stubbled chin, as he carried her through the door and to the bedroom. Lowering her to the bed, a massive piece of furniture she'd failed to notice the first time she'd passed through, he stood back and stripped off his T-shirt, tossing it on the floor.

The sight of him in nothing but well-worn blue jeans nearly stole her breath. And if the bulge at his zipper was any indication, he remained delectably hard. She wondered why that excited her so much if she wasn't going to have sex with him.

Kicking off his shoes, he stepped toward the bed and relieved her of her wet sandals. "These may not recover," he told her, studying one before letting it plunk to the floor.

"I'll live," she replied, just watching him, absorbing him in a way she'd never quite given herself permission to do before now.

Jake padded across the room on bare feet to an old record player in a little suitcase like container, where a stack of albums lay on the turntable—he lifted them up on the center spool, setting them to drop and play. The room's windows were pushed open wide, admitting the same scents and sounds that had punctuated the air outside, and a ceiling fan spun above, sending down a surprisingly cool breeze. A few seconds later, though, those sounds were blotted out by the dreamy sound of Etta James singing, "At Last."

The utter sensuousness of the old song swept Stephanie away that much further as Jake joined her atop an old quilt. He lay beside her, propped on one elbow, his hand sliding to rest on her stomach. "We'll go as slow or as fast as you want, beb—you just let me know if I do anything wrong."

"Wrong isn't the right word for it." She owed him this, at the very least. "Nothing you've ever done to me was wrong. It was just... too much for me, that's all."

He leaned closer, slamming his hand upward, across one breast, to gently caress her cheek. His forearm stretched up the center of her chest. "Then you'll tell me what's too much, no?"

She nodded, the spot between her thighs tingling.

"Good," he whispered, bending to kiss her.

He hoped like hell it wasn't too soon to do that again, but it was pure impulse driving him; he needed to feel her supple lips under his. They exchanged soft, sweet kisses for a few moments, and it felt almost easy to Jake—like maybe just kissing was enough, like maybe it wasn't going

to rip his guts out not to sink himself inside her sweet body the way he'd been wanting to since they'd met. He knew it wasn't tore—soon enough they'd get to the gut-ripping part—but he'd do his best not to let his torture show. Her story about her parents had pulled at his heart, and he wanted everything that happened tonight to be exactly what she needed. He wanted to take away her fears.

When their kisses ceased, he nuzzled his nose against her silken cheek. "How's that?"

She smiled. "You taste good—always taste good. Minty."

"Mmm," he purred, dragging the tip of his middle finger slowly down the side of her neck and onto her shoulder, then under her tank top to play with the strap of her bra.

"Why is that?" she asked gently.

He gave a soft chuckle. "I gave up smokin' a few years back. Now I'm addicted to mints instead."

"Ah." She tipped her head back into the pillow. "Well, as addictions go, that's not a bad one."

He'd quit smoking for Becky—both her parents smoked, and she'd hated it. He'd been sorely tempted to pick it up again after she was gone, but something had kept him from it—to this day, he didn't know what. But this one little conversation made him glad he'd persevered.

Stephanie's eyes sparkled on him in the low-lit room— giving him a reason to decide it must have been fate that had kept him from replacing a burned-out bulb in one of the lamps. He watched her studying him, her eyes traveling down over his jaw, cheek, and lower. Seeming to realize she'd been caught exploring, she bit her lip. "You have an incredible body."

He liked this honest side of her. Smiling playfully, he leaned to kiss her neck. "I like yours, too, beb." He slid his hand to her ass, reminding him her denim was soaked. "But we really gotta get you out of these jeans. If we're not havin' sex, no good reason to put up with a wet spot in the bed."

She laughed and didn't protest, and he checked her eyes to make sure they still twinkled. Conveniently, her jeans remained unzipped from out on the porch, so he sat upright, reached for the waistband, and said, "Lift up."

With a little tugging—her grabbing onto white cotton bikini panties to keep them on—the jeans came down around her thighs. He pulled them the rest of the way off, shucking them on the floor, and a few seconds later, he was molding against her close, letting his hard-on rest at the crux of her thighs as he slid his arms back around her.

"Underwear's just as wet, chère" he said when his hand returned to her rear. He couldn't hide his teasing grin. "I think we should take those off, too."

Her widening eyes came with a chiding laugh. "No, those stay on." She lowered her voice. "For now anyway."

He let another small smile unfurl. "For now," he repeated. "I can live with that. Even if it means we're doomed to havin' a wet spot without the usual perks."

She laughed and batted playfully at his chest. "You want perks, buddy—I'll give you perks." With that, she rose up onto her knees, facing him, then reached down to the hem of her sexy tank top, arms crossing, and pulled it off over her head.

He watched in awe. Her bra was conservative white lace, just as simple as the cotton panties, but everything about her was lush and sensual, from the curves and rises of her body to the sexy look of daring on her face.

Yet then she bit her lip and seemed to sink a little.

He tuned in immediately. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head, casting a sweet, sheepish expression. "I'm just not sure where to go from here. This isn't usually me—taking off clothes, making suggestions."

"Not a problem, beb. I'll be happy to take over for you."

She tilted her head, a lock of blond falling across her face, and looked so pretty he could have died.

"Lie down with me," he said, all playfulness fleeing the scene. "Let me make you feel good."

She lowered her head back to the pillow and he rolled to his side to look down on her. When he'd first seen her soaring toward him in that leaky old pirogue, he'd felt intruded upon. He'd never wanted to share this place with anyone—it had belonged to him alone. But now that he peered down on this woman, at once so sensitive and so damn determined and strong, he was glad he wasn't alone anymore.

Dropping his gaze from her eyes to her chest, he gently skimmed one hand up her smooth, pretty stomach and onto the lower curve of her breast. He played tightly with the hard bud of her nipple jutting through the lace before bringing on more kisses. Tender at first, then infused with a deeper passion than he'd meant to set free. He wanted to kiss her senseless, wanted to kiss her until neither of them could think. He wanted to lose himself in this lush body.

But whoa, slow down. You've got all night. And you've got a woman who needs you to be tender. Even so, his breathing hitched when he tried to soften the kisses. "You doin' okay, beb?” he whispered, their faces an inch apart.

"Mmm, yes, good." Her voice came high-pitched, fluttery, aroused.

He sighed his relief, glad his little loss of control hadn't taken her anyplace she didn't want to go. "You get me so hot," he breathed as he began raining kisses over her throat, chest. You make me want you more than I've ever wanted—

But no, he couldn't go there; he successfully stopped the thought midway through. Don't think, damn it. Just feel.

He kissed his way onto the lace that covered her, loving the rise and fall of her breasts, her breath audible and lovely. But that quickly, he couldn't bear having the lace between them anymore. Memories of earlier kisses to her bared flesh made him slip his fingers beneath the bra strap, then whisper, "Can I take it off?"

Her eyes glazed with pleasure even as her lips trembled. "Yes."

Reaching behind her, he deftly unhooked the bra with one hand and slowly eased it away. Tossing the lace aside, he swallowed at the delectable sight. "Just as pretty as I remember, chère."

Like earlier, he started out just kissing her there, delivering gentle licks, but soon he was suckling. Her sighs came faster as she arched her breast upward, deeper into his mouth. Her responsiveness aroused him more than it would have with any other woman because this was Stephanie, sensitive Stephanie, Stephanie who was afraid of sex. Afraid, but so damn sensual at the same time. He loved drawing it out of her, loved making her want more, making her need it.

Only he had the sneaking suspicion he wasn't responsible for that. He thought she'd probably always needed it. Just like the woman in his dreams. Wanted it, needed it—but could only get it from him. She was the woman in his dreams. He'd known that, of course, just never let himself fully accept it—because it added to his guilt, and it also begged the question: how the hell had he dreamed her before he'd met her?

His hands left her breasts to roam and explore, wanting to learn every inch of her. His touch gently skimmed her neck and shoulders, the curve of her waist, the swell of her hip, the lushness of her thigh. It was pure instinct that led his hand onto the cotton between her legs until he was cupping her warmth, molding his palm to her, kneading softly.

Her breath grew more labored and her eyes fell shut, color suffusing her cheeks.

He couldn't not go further.

Easing his hand beneath the elastic below her navel, he grazed his fingertips across the smooth, satiny skin that led through a light thatch of hair, then down farther. He groaned as his fingers sank into her, gently beginning to stroke. Her sigh was one of abandon. He couldn't have asked for more.

Nipping lightly at her breast, he eased up near her ear. "You're so wet for me."

She only moaned in reply, lifting to his touch. His fingers dived deeper. He wanted to swim inside her.

When he curled his fingers into the elastic at her hips, she rose automatically and he drew the panties down her thighs and over her knees.

If he'd thought she looked lovely and passion-filled earlier, against the wall at the LaRue House, it was nothing compared to how utterly erotic she looked now, naked on his bed, thighs parted so he could kneel between. "You take my breath away," he whispered into the warm night air, then bent to lower a kiss just above the clump of hair that shielded her most intimate parts.

She whimpered needfully, sounding impatient, and he couldn't help grinning as he peered up the soft planes of her body, into her eyes. "Goin' slow for you, beb. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

"Yes, but..."

"But what?" He blew on the moist flesh just below his mouth.

She shut her eyes, looking tortured. "But... God, please."

"Tell me you want me to kiss you there, chère."

She nodded wildly against the white pillowcase. "Yes," she moaned. "Please, Jake. Kiss me. There."

Her words echoed through him hotly as he raked his tongue through her sweetness. Mmm, yes, so good. Even better than earlier, because something had changed since then. Hell, a lot of things. He knew her so much better than he had just a few hours earlier.

She moaned in response, and he dipped back for more, soon dragging the tip of his tongue over the swollen nub he knew lay at the center of her sensitivity. She sighed, lifting to him, and though he'd had every intention of taking this slow, making it last, giving her a gradual rise to climax—he couldn't hold back.

He let the taste and scent of her fill him as her body jerked reflexively. Her hands curled in his hair and she let out a small, heated cry at every stroke, her sounds driving him.

He instinctually pushed one finger inside her warmth. A heavier sob met his ears, but she kept moving with him, and soon he slid in a second, eliciting a hot whimper. "Oh God," she breathed above him. "Oh God."

The ceiling fan whirred above them, cooling his back, and Dusty Springfield crooned "Son of a Preacher Man" from one of his grandmother's old records, and he gave himself over to pleasing her completely. No thinking. No planning. Just doing. Just getting lost in her warmth, in her soft, sexy noises.

"God, Jake, God," she said, louder.

Yes, beb, come for me.

Her wild moan had her convulsing around him, thrusting, thrusting, climaxing against his tongue and fingers— and when she stopped moving and only the music remained, he stayed very still, too.

He couldn't quite believe it, but he knew if he moved a muscle, he'd explode in his pants. And that just wasn't good enough here. Even if it meant falling asleep with a hard-on, he didn't want to spend himself this way. Just in case. In case she wanted it for herself. He didn't think she would—he knew he was damn lucky to have taken her this far without her retreat. But even so, if he came tonight, he wanted her to be fully aware she was making it happen. Otherwise, it seemed empty. And he just couldn't abide that—not with Stephanie.

When the threat of eruption had passed, he moved from between her legs to crawl up beside her on the quilt. Their eyes met, hers filled with the last embers from the flames. "Good?" he whispered.

She bit her hp, casting a coquettish smile. He'd never seen such a sexy look on her face. "Amazing."

He returned a soft grin, leaning in for a slow kiss.

"Thank you."

He spoke deeply. "My pleasure." "No," she said. "The pleasure was definitely mine." "A different kind of pleasure on my end, beb. The pleasure of tastin' you, hearin' you, watchin' you."

She flushed slightly, her cheeks going pink in the pale light. "I'm just so glad..." She blinked prettily and met his gaze. "Glad I didn't... do what I usually do. Glad I didn't make you stop." "Mmm—me too."

She looked around the room, seeming to take it all in. "I feel a world away from New Orleans," she said, and he knew what she meant. When he was here, it seemed as if no other place existed. It was just him and the water and the cypress trees.

"This bed is extraordinary," she said, looking up above them at the thick headboard of dark pine.

He barely noticed it anymore, but her words reminded him that when he'd first started coming back out here a couple of years ago, it had struck him the same way, as if he'd never even seen it before. "When I was a kid, my dad and me made it for my mamère."

"Your mamère," she repeated slowly, trying out the word.

He delivered a soft smile. "My grandma."

She sat up, turning to study the wood. His dad had gotten the heavy pine in trade for repairing somebody's car in Houma, where they'd lived at the time. You gonna help me make your mamère a pretty bed for her birthday, boy. Gonna make her somethin ' nice, he'd said, slapping his hand flat on the wood. He'd been pleased his father wanted his help, and together they'd spent hours, his dad teaching him the right way to hammer a nail and operate a jigsaw.

"I can't believe you made this, Jake." She ran her hand over the hand-carved design in the center of the headboard.

He laughed. "Not me alone, chère. Like I said, my dad and me. Mostly him."

She looked him in the eye. "Tell me about this place. Where are we?"

"My mamère lived here all her life—the place was built by her père." He stopped to laugh at his tendency to think everyone understood him. "Her father," he translated. He paused to look around the room then, same as Stephanie had been doing, wistfully recalling all the ways this little house had become such a large part of his life. "My dad left my mother and me when I was twelve, so we came to live here with Mamère."

He appreciated the sadness that filled her expression. "Where ... did he go?"

"Don't know. You've heard the old story—went out for cigarettes one day and never came back? That's exactly how it was. Haven't seen him since. Over twenty years ago."

"I'm sorry."

He bent to lower a soft kiss to her smooth stomach, summoning an acceptant smile for her. "Not your fault, beb."

"Where's your mom now?"

"She lives in a little shotgun house in the Ninth Ward. Cuts and sets old ladies' hair in her kitchen and drinks too much. I used to try to take care of her, but..."

"But what?"

He shook his head and wondered when the hell he'd decided to open up to Stephanie Grant. "It's ... not easy. She tells me she's gonna quit drinkin', then I go over and find her drunk 'cause some old guy she was datin' did her wrong. I get where I can't handle it." He'd been in the can't-handle-it mode for the last two years, only going over when his hair got so long it started bothering him or when she got on a kick to call him day and night because she wanted to make him a pot roast and act like the two of them were a normal family, when they were anything but. "AU I know is there's nothin' I can do to make it better," he added without quite meaning to.

Merde. What was he doing spilling his guts to this woman? Usually, he was real good at keeping his troubles to himself—something Tony claimed was "part of your problem, man, part of why you can't move on." But he liked keeping things to himself just fine, and decided to go back to doing that, starting now.

Time to turn the focus back to what he wanted from Stephanie, and what he knew Stephanie wanted from him. That was easier. Well, in a way—if only she didn't make him feel so damn much.

But it felt too good to push that part away right now.

He dropped his gaze to her body, enjoying the simple fact that there was a naked woman lying beside him in bed. He bent to nibble at the taut peak of one breast. "Enough about this old place," he murmured, blowing coolly on her nipple and watching her bite her Up at the sensation.

She rolled to her side, her breasts swaying with the movement. "But I like this place. I.. .feel you here."

"Even so," he said with a grin, "I'd rather get back to feelin' you here." He ran one hand over her bare hip, letting it rest in the valley of her waist. Then he leaned close until they were chest to chest, her beaded nipples raking teasingly at his flesh.

He rolled to his back, taking her with him, so that she lay atop him, the crux of her thighs nestling his erection through his worn jeans. Anchoring one arm around her and lifting his other hand to her cheek, he reached up for a kiss—and instinct made him slide his hand from her back to her ass, pressing slightly, bringing her closer against him. A soft moan escaped her, washing over him in a wave of warmth. "Want me to make you come again?" he whispered.

She replied just as low. "No."

"No?"

"/ want to make you come now."

He blinked his surprise, taken aback. But then he remembered—she was the least predictable woman he'd ever met, constantly catching him off guard. This one topped the heap of things he hadn't expected from her, but the deep pleasure of anticipation settled into his bones as he lay back and smiled. "Won't take much, beb."

Stephanie's heart beat a mile a minute as she raised off him to kneel at his side. Her body still reeled from orgasm—hell, she was reeling from everything, the whole night. And now, here she was, hovering over him, wanting to do things she'd never wanted to do before.

Somehow, when she'd least expected it, things had turned easy with him.

No, not easy. Scary as hell, in fact. But her want truly overrode her fear tonight, and the pleasure he'd brought her was beyond anything she'd ever experienced. Now she wanted to please him, too.

The truth was, though, she barely knew how. She was more accustomed to being a recipient than a giver of sexual favors. But she was going to follow her instincts. She bit her lip, staring down at the thick bulge in his jeans.

She felt him watching her, studying her every expression and move. It should have increased her worry, made her feel she'd been placed in a spotlight—that's how it usually was with her and sex, when she deigned to have it. But with Jake, his penetrating gaze only made her want to please him that much more, made her want to be some sort of sexual vixen for him. "Don't be afraid, chère."

She took the words to heart. Don't be afraid, Stephanie. Not now. Just follow your instincts. And tonight, she realized happily, there was no selling it, no asking herself to be something she wasn't, no masquerade of any kind. Tonight, it was real—she was a woman who wanted to be with this man, in every way.

Reaching down, she undid the top button on his Levi's, hissing in her breath as she drew the zipper down to reveal white cotton straining from what lay within.

She touched him through his underwear, let her fingers close gingerly around the large columnar shape. Big. He was big. She gasped softly and prayed he hadn't heard since he was watching her hand now, his eyes gone glassy, his breath heavy.

She was probably the only woman on the face of the planet who took a man's pants off hoping he was small, but the realization made her understand: Jake was so right about what scared her, that the night she'd heard her parents arguing made her fear pain. And Jake was probably bigger than any man she'd been with.

That's okay. Because you aren't going to have sex. He said so. Just fooling around. That's all you 're going to do.

And like before, it was that affirmation that allowed her to push every ounce of trepidation aside and relish him.

Glancing from his erection to his face, she said, "Lift," and he did, allowing her to lower his jeans. Underneath, he wore snug boxer briefs that barely contained him, his stiffness stretching the top edge of the underwear. Next, she reached for the elastic and he rose up, helping her push them down. Her womb contracted with need at the sight of him.

She didn't bother taking his jeans and underwear the rest of the way off—just reached down and ran the flat of her palm up his length, letting his gasp of pleasure fill her. She slowly began to stroke him, thinking how amazing the male anatomy was. But wait, no, not every male. This male's anatomy was amazing, moving her in ways she'd never expected to be moved. How could he feel like satin and steel at the same time?

She lowered her mouth, kissing his tip.

His groan traveled the length of her body and made her want to give him more, so much more—so she followed the unfamiliar urge to sink her mouth onto him.

She moved slowly, feeling her way, sensing his pleasure. His hand wove through her hair, holding it back from her face. He murmured deeply in French and she savored knowing he watched her.

She was not a virgin at this, but it was the first time in her life she'd ever wanted to do it, ever felt the urge to give a man that gift without any prodding on his part. She hoped he could sense what it meant to her, how freely she gave, and as their gazes met, she believed he could. "Mmm, ça c'est bon, beb. Oui."

She wanted to take him where he'd taken her, to utter ecstasy—and within a few moments, his labored breath had turned to moans, until he uttered, "Now."

She rose off him, wishing he were inside her, wanting to feel him there—but before she could even weigh those thoughts, his rough groan permeated the air and his warmth splashed across her stomach.

She gasped, looking down, and he reached for her, kissing her wildly, his tongue plundering her mouth as he pulled her tight against him. "Mon Dieu," he whispered breathlessly between kisses. "Mmm, merci, chère. Merci."

A moment later, they lay unmoving, her body still plastered to his, when he kissed her forehead and offered a soft, sexy grin that nearly turned her inside out.

She smiled back. "You speak French a lot more when you're excited."

He arched a devilish brow. "Oui."

She chuckled, drinking in the mannish scent of him, and of sex that hadn't quite happened. And yet, even without the act of sex, she felt so close to him. He rolled them so they lay face-to-face on their sides, bodies still crushed together. She bit her lip and met his gaze. "What I did just now ... I don't usually do that."

He tilted his head against the pillow, those chocolate eyes seeming to bore into her soul. "That makes me a very lucky man, no?"

She smiled. "Yes."

His grin faded, their faces still close, his embrace loosening only slightly. "Why'd you do it, chère?"

"Because I wanted to. I just... wanted to. I can't explain it," she said, then laughed, thinking how many times she'd said that to him in their short acquaintance. "I can't seem to explain much when it comes to me and sex, but... I wanted to make you feel as good as you'd made me feel. I wanted to be... as intimate with you as I could."

His next smile came more warm than playful. "You succeeded. And some guys would say that's better than sex anyway."

"Some guys," she repeated. "What about you?"

"Don't get me wrong, what you just gave me was... incredible." He flashed a quick grin. "And I'll be happy to oblige anytime you feel that urge. But," he said, grin fading, "for me, nothin's quite the same as bein' inside a woman, as sharin' that ultimate connection. Know what I mean?"

Despite how meaningless that connection had seemed for most of her adult life thus far, she did know what he meant and she wanted that with him so, so badly. "I wish I were braver," she said softly, almost hoping the fan would suck the words out of the air, even as she spoke them. She didn't like admitting her weaknesses.

He pulled back slightly to look at her. "You're about the bravest woman I ever met, Stephanie Grant."

She flinched. "Me?"

He quirked a light smile. "I don't know any other woman who comes runnin' down to a strange city, ready to move hell and earth and high-priced prostitutes to get what she wants."

She swallowed and gave her head a short shake. "That's not bravery, Jake. That's... having no other choice."

"No, chère. That is bravery. I promise." She lowered her gaze. "Well, then, I wish I were braver about sex."

"You're doin' just fine, beb." He winked. "Do you see either one of us lyin' here frustrated?"

"Well, not anymore, but up to now ..."

"You act like somewhere along the way you became obligated to sleep with me."

"No, not obligated. But I wanted to. I really, really wanted to. From the first moment I saw you on the other side of the bar, I wanted to be with you. And when you came into that red room and things started up between us, and you were kissing me and touching me... God, Jake, it nearly killed me to say no."

"Really?"

She spoke with sureness. "You knew. You had to know."

"Okay, I knew in the red room. But I didn't know at the bar."

He kissed her then, warm and sweet, and she feared she'd been too honest, but she didn't care anymore—so far, tonight, honesty had taken them to some wonderful places. "From the first time I looked into your eyes," she admitted.

And he was kissing her again, deeper now—nothing sweet or casual, all heat, his tongue moving against hers, making love to her mouth as his thigh slid between her legs.

As they shifted in the bed, she felt the wetness not quite dried on her stomach and said, "Did we make a mess on your grandma's quilt?"

He laughed softly as he rubbed his thigh against her. "I told you, we're doomed to have a wet spot. But fortunately for us, Mamère wasn't real picky about that sorta thing."

"About you having sex on her quilt?" she said, giggling.

He grinned. "No. About things bein' kept perfectly tidy. She thought things should be used for what they were made for, and if they wore out or got messed up, it meant they were servin' their purpose."

"Just the same," she said, "I'd feel better if we pushed the quilt down. It seems ... kind of sacred or something, especially if she made it."

"She did," he said, sounding a little more reverent, and together they lifted and shoved until the quilt lay scrunched at their feet and only soft white sheets spread beneath them. "Speakin' of grandmothers, how was the pie?"

She grinned up at him, remembering. "Good. A hint more cinnamon and it would have rivaled Grandma's. Definitely the best I've had since hers."

He cuddled against her. "I hope it maybe made you feel... a little like she was still around or somethin'. Like I feel when I come out here."

Her heart warmed as she reflected. "Yeah, for a few minutes, I guess maybe it did." Then she reached up to touch his chest. "Thank you for that."

He just shook his head. "Nothin' big, chère." But she wasn't so sure she agreed.

'Tina crocheted," she said unthinkingly, just wanting to tell him.

"Hmm?"

"She crocheted. Winter scarves. I couldn't believe it— she's not normally the crafty type—so when she showed me this beautiful scarf she'd made, I was stormed. She gave it to my mom, but now I kind of want to get hold of it and pack it away, keep it pristine and perfect, you know."

"Mamère wouldn't have approved of that—and I don't know your sister, but I bet it'd mean more to her if the scarf kept your mom warm come wintertime."

Stephanie swallowed, soberly remembering just what had brought her to Louisiana. Her lost sister. "Tell me the truth about something, Jake. Do you think we'll find her?"

He nodded softly, surely. "We'll find her, beb. We'll find her. I promise."

A few minutes later, Stephanie stood in the tiny bathroom and peered at herself in the mirror, unable to believe she was in a house on some dark bayou, in bed with a man she'd just met, while her sister was missing. And she couldn't recall the last time she'd felt so safe.

When she exited to the bedroom, she found Jake sitting up, still wonderfully naked, a sheet pulled to his waist.

"Not going shy on me, are you, Mr. Broussard?" she asked with a smile.

He arched one eyebrow. "You're not serious?"

She laughed. "No."

"Good, 'cause you'd be sorely disappointed. I don't do shy." With that, he whipped back the sheet and drew her onto the bed until she found herself straddling his lap. She pulled in her breath and glanced down to find him erect again, pressing against her center. Jake was looking, too. "Neither does he."

It was her turn to raise an eyebrow. "He?"

"The little guy down there."

She tilted her head. "I... wouldn't call him little."

He slid against her in a smooth and utterly arousing stroke as the corners of his mouth quirked into a smile. "That makes him like you even better."

She couldn't help rubbing back, all amusement fading as passion returned full force.

"That feels so damn good, beb." His voice was a low growl.

She let out a breathless sigh. "For me, too."

"Playin' with fire, though. You gotta know that."

She nodded, unable to think clearly. "Kiss me," she said, and he braced one hand behind her neck, pulling her closer, delivering a series of hot, short, sexy kisses that nearly buried her.

He gazed down at her breasts before bending to capture one in his mouth. She locked her hands behind his neck and leaned back to offer him better access, unable not to press against the column that stood so powerful between them. Instinct led her into soft, rolling gyrations.

"Guess you're not afraid of fire, huh, chère?' he asked, breath labored.

"Not at the moment," she managed, unable to believe how badly she wanted him inside her, how much she yearned for that ultimate connection. Although she'd thought she'd grasped it completely before, she suddenly gained a deeper understanding of what he'd just said a few minutes ago—there was nothing like actually doing it, actually bringing your bodies together that way. She'd never felt that before with a man, but she felt it now.

Their kisses turned rougher, more needful. His hands roamed her—breasts, back, rear, before his fingers slid down over her bottom, into her wetness, making her move against him harder.

She found herself rising—without thought or decision—until she was poised atop his erection, teetering on the edge of heaven, and ready, so very ready. Fear be damned.

"Ah, beb," he breathed, his dark eyes filled with longing. "Does this mean you want me inside you?" His hands rhythmically kneaded her backside.

She nodded, lost in desire. "Yes." Then she bit her hp. "Do you have a condom?"

"Merde," he muttered, leaning his head back in frustration. "I can't believe this, but I don't."

She gasped. "I can't believe it, either." She was so close to sinking down on him, taking him into her, and her words came out sounding breathless. "No offense, but you seem like a guy who'd have reason to carry a condom with you at all times."

He managed a grin, even through ragged breath and what she thought incredible restraint. "I do, at least lately. But when I went home, I changed into old jeans for comin' out here in the pirogue, and forgot my wallet in my other pocket."

She sucked in her breath. Her breasts ached and the crux of her thighs yearned to be filled. "That's ... horrible." Especially given that she didn't know if she could stop now. She needed him inside her.

"If it helps, I've only been with one woman without usin' one—and I was her first, her only—so..."

"I'm on the pill," she said, "and always careful about condoms."

She saw him swallow, his eyes glazed over with how close they were to doing it. "It's your call, beb."

She placed her hands on his shoulders, curling the tips of her fingernails into his skin, peering at him intently. "How badly do you want this?"

Trembling, he appeared barely able to speak. "I'm about to self-destruct."

She drew in a quivery breath. "Me too."

Only one answer existed—nothing left to do but surrender.

She sank down.

That hungry part of her began taking him in, slow, deep—and he was so sweet, staying so very still for her, the heat in his gaze branding her heart. From the old stereo across the room, Solomon Burke wrenched out the soulful "Cry to Me," and the jolting rhythm prompted her motions. The song was an old favorite of her mother's, but as she made love to Jake to the searing notes, they moved her in a way they never had before. The music drove her to arch against him, lean her head back so he could kiss her neck.

"Hurt?" he whispered between little nips at her throat.

Their eyes met. It should hurt. He was so big. But it didn't. She simply shook her head. He let out a low growl of satisfaction, accompanied with a sexy smile as he met her next thrust.

"Mmm," she purred, their hips meeting in perfect unison to the beat of the song.

He pushed into her in long, smooth strokes, his hands in her hair, hers wrapped around his neck. "Ahhh, oui, beb."

Their movements stayed slow, intense—and except for the moments when passion drove one of them to let their eyes fall shut, they gazed at each other the whole time, so that when she moaned, she was looking into those warm brown eyes. When she cried out from the overwhelming pleasure, she was looking into those warm brown eyes. And when the heat began to rise inside her, as her breath went thready while she bucked softly against him, she was still looking into those beautiful warm brown eyes.

The spasms of release racked her body, drove her harder against him, made her moan, and moan, and moan with each amazing pulsation. She was still coming, their gazes still connected, when he rasped, "Mon Dieu, me too."

He emptied himself in her with a powerful groan, wrapping corded arms around her as they both panted their exhaustion.

"Sorry," he whispered in her ear when it was done.

She drew back slightly. "For what?"

"Long as it took us to get there, I shoulda made it last a little longer."

She was dumbfounded, letting a satisfied smile take her as she said, "Jake, that was the best sex of my life."

Their faces still close, the corners of his mouth turned up into a smile. "Then this is your lucky day, chère. 'Cause there's plenty more where that came from."

He lay next to her, the sheet pulled to their waists, his head propped up by one elbow. "I'm glad it didn't hurt." She was sure she'd never seen him look sexier than he did just now, naked in bed, eyes half shut, chin covered with a day's dark stubble.

She gazed up at him, listening to the night sounds. The records had all dropped and played, and the only remaining music came from the bayou. "Me too."

"Has it hurt... other times? I mean, since the college

guy?"

"A little, I guess," she said, swallowing. "But... you're bigger than the guys it hurt with, so I don't know ..." "You explained this yourself before, chère. It's 'cause you weren't hot for them—your body wasn't ready. Tonight, it was."

"Was it ever," she said on a heady sigh.

As he shifted, she noticed the tattoo on his arm. Inked in muted black and gray, the size of a fist, it looked too complex for her to easily make out the picture. She reached up to touch it. "What's your tattoo?"

"St. Michael, the archangel."

She looked closer to see a winged angel brandishing a sword and stepping on the head of some kind of demon.

"The patron saint of police officers," he explained. "He's castin' Satan into hell. It's a good-triumphin'-over-evil thing. We pray to St. Michael to protect us."

We, he'd said. As if he were still a cop.

"Does it work?" she asked.

He rolled to his back, put his hands behind his head, and peered up at the brown slatted ceiling. "Tricky question, chère. Depends on what you consider protection."

She turned onto her side to look down on him. "Were you ever wounded?"

He shook his head. "Guess Michael took care of my body okay. My mind, my heart, not so much."

The sexy, seductive Jake from earlier seemed to have faded slightly, making room for the other side of him she'd seen sizable, even if inexplicable, hints of. Something had hurt him—badly. She could almost feel the pain oozing from him like perspiration in the warm night air.

"Tell me why," she said. "Why aren't you a cop anymore?"

He gave her a long, somber look she couldn't read. Her heart hurt for whatever secrets he held inside. "Lost too much to keep doin' it," he finally said.

"What'd you lose?"

He shook his head and looked back to the slow turn of the ceiling fan above. "Stuff I don't wanna talk about."

She swallowed, trying to decide how much to pry. She didn't want to ruin what they'd shared tonight. She didn't want to dampen the sense of security she felt lying in his arms. "Remember, earlier, when I told you about my parents?" Her stomach pinched a little at the thought, but she pushed away the emotion and stuck to the facts. "I didn't want to think about it—but you kind of... made me. And that turned out to be a good thing, in a way. Don't you think?"

He shifted his brown gaze to her. "It got to the bottom of a problem you were havin', chère. I got no problems that can be fixed by thinkin' about unpleasant things."

She drew in her breath, wondering what had hurt him so much that he'd give up his career. A man who had the patron saint of police tattooed on his arm clearly cared about his job, considered it his life. It made the fact that he'd given up that part of himself in order to make a living serving drinks to hookers more monumental than she'd ever realized before. What did you lose that was so dear, Jake?

The question burned in her heart—she longed to ask it. She'd been right when she'd suspected that following him tonight would open up his world to her, and now that they'd made love, she wanted to know every thought in his head, every secret in his soul.

God, that was sobering. And bad—really bad.

Because this was sex—casual sex. That's what it was supposed to be anyway. All the more reason not to pry any deeper into what he held back, no matter how much she wanted to know. The greatest sex of her life aside, this would be a bad guy for her to get attached to—a guy who lived a thousand miles away from her, a guy who had troubles that probably ran deeper and blacker than the bayou outside. A guy who came from an entirely different world. Yes, this was sex and nothing more. And despite his patience and tenderness tonight, she had no illusions that he felt any different, and she knew he'd be glad she had the sense to take it for what it was.

"Besides," he finally said, flicking a glance her way, "I've got better things to think about right now." He rolled back onto his side and slid one hand beneath the white sheet to her hip. "Like this pretty body of yours."

The blatant sexuality flashing in his gaze made her summon a teasing smile. "I hope you're going to do more than just think about it."

He quirked a sexy grin. "And what exactly is it you want me to do?"

"Surprise me."

With that, he pulled her to him, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, hip to hip. A hot column of rock pressed against her abdomen. "Is that a surprise?"

"That's a very good surprise." Even better than earlier, now that she knew she could handle what he had to give. Peering into his eyes, she bit her hp and impulsively slid her arms around him, planting them on his firm butt.

"Mmm," he growled, doing the same. At which point he got a peculiar look on his face and said, "You don't have any tattoos I haven't noticed, do you?"

She pulled back slightly to laugh. "Me? No. I'm not really a tattoo sort of girl."

He chuckled at her reply, then pulled away and rolled her onto her stomach. Hand still on her bottom, he seemed to be inspecting it.

"What are you looking for?" She smiled over her shoulder.

"Nothin'," he said, shaking his head lightly. "Just checkin'."

"Checking what?"

He raised a grin to her. "Just seein' if your ass looks as good as it did in those blue jeans." "And the verdict is?" "Guilty as charged, beb."

A white room is filled with stiff, colored netting, like on a bridal veil or a ballerina's tutu. Pink, lavender, blue the color of the sky. Yards of it stretch back and forth across the space—and on the other side of it all, you see her.

Only her face is clouded by the netting, and the colors cast thick shadows. The one thing you can make out clearly is the vibrant tulip she holds, the shade of an amethyst—she stretches out her arm, offering it to you.

You push your way through the curtains of sheer fabric, hacking through it with outstretched arms like machetes helping you fight your way through a pastel jungle.

She beckons with one long, tapered finger that curls toward her, silently saying, Come here. But it seems no matter how many layers of netting you push past, more grow in your path and you never get closer.

Your heart beats like a freight train and you're determined to reach her, so hungry for what she has to give you. Not the tulip—everything else. You hope she sees how hard you 're working, trying to carve your way to her. You hope she knows how desperately you want her.

Finally, only one last layer of blue net stretches taut between you. Through it, you see her lovely flesh, pale curves, welcoming smile. The tulip is gone—her arms are spread open, waiting for you.

You gather the netting in your fists, tighter and tighter, but then ... the bunched swath of blue is covering your eyes. Just when you could almost see her without any barriers, your vision is fogged again by a blue blindfold.

Her small hands come firm on your arms, pushing you backward, and you wait to hit the floor, but instead you land on a bed, and you feel her climbing, crawling to straddle you, thighs stretched across your stomach. You still see her only in shadow as she pushes your arms over your head, holding you down, taking control.

You don't fight, though, because why would you? You want her to do everything she's doing—you want her to run her fingernails lightly down your chest, to lower her breasts to your mouth, to sheathe your hardness with her softness, connecting you to her warm and tight.

You want her to moan and writhe on top of you. You want her to kiss you hard and whisper your name in jagged breaths.

You want her to scream her pleasure. You want her to buck against you and make you feel every ounce of her joy. And you want to let it all push you over the edge until you come inside her, emptying all your desire into her accepting body.

When it's over, you want to hold her, feel her snuggled against you.

Only when the netting leaves your eyes and you strain to focus on the woman nestled at your chest, you still can't see her clearly, and despite the warm connection, you feel strangely alone.

The warm night wind whipped through Tina's hair as Robert's vintage 1957 Thunderbird zipped along 1-10. As they traveled the causeway across Lake Pontchartrain, the moon cast a silver glow on the water. She hummed along with the Tubes to "She's a Beauty" and clutched tight to Robert's arm while he drove.

The whole night had been beyond dreamy. They'd just shared a fabulous dinner at a ritzy plantation house out in the country and she'd felt like a princess. She wore an elegant dress he'd picked out for her, and earlier tonight he'd added a diamond tennis bracelet to the diamond necklace and earrings he'd already given her.

Now he sang along with the radio, too, occasionally turning for a quick kiss before refocusing on the road.

It was getting better, kissing him, having sex with him. Maybe not as good as with Russ, but that would come over time. And moments like this—just being with him, laughing, having fun—wasn't that what a relationship was really all about?

"I love you," she said, curling her free hand over his Armani-clad thigh.

"Mmm, I love you, too, darling."

A familiar thought edged into her mind: wouldn't Stephanie be surprised to see what a class act she'd become? The musing, though, made her a little sad. Despite herself, she missed Steph. She was tempted to call her when she got home, just to tell her—tell someone—what a fairytale evening she'd had.

But no, you can't. Not yet. Not until Robert was free of Melissa. It sounded much better to say you were dating a man who was in the process of a divorce than one who was still living with his wife. It would be a mistake to call Stephanie while it was any less than perfect, while there was still any ammunition her sister could fling at her. She loved Steph, but her approval was hard to come by.

"Can you spend the night?" she asked.

He cast her a you-know-better look. "You know I can't, love."

Yes, she knew, but for some reason it still stung, taking a little of the "perfect" out of the evening. "I can't wait until it's not like this anymore, until you can sleep beside me each night."

She hadn't always minded his leaving so much, but now she found herself getting lonely, and depending more and more on Robert for her happiness. As for the I-love-you, the words fell from her lips easier lately as well. The more time she spent with him, the more real it seemed that this man's life was becoming her life, that he wanted her to share in it. So maybe it wasn't as good as with Russ in terms of pure romance, but there was something about Robert, something so established and sophisticated—she wanted to belong in his world, and she wanted to be the sort of wife he could be proud of.

"Couldn't you make up some excuse, some business problem that ran all night long?"

Next to her, he laughed. "Not if I want her to believe me."

Does it really matter if she believes you? The question weighed on her instantly, making her wonder why he even cared about Melissa's reaction if the marriage was over. But she didn't want to ruin the night. She sighed. "When are you leaving her?"

"Soon, love. Soon."

"And then I can manage the boutique?" "Of course."

"I'm going to do such a good job, you're going to wonder how the place ever got by without me."

He flashed a debonair smile. "I already do, darling."

The reassurance shot straight to her heart. Soon everything would be perfect. "I love you," she breathed again. Saying it helped make it more true.

"Why don't you show me how much," he suggested, reaching down to cover her hand with his. He moved it higher up his thigh, between his legs.

"When we get back to the apartment," she cooed. ¹ "No, love. Now."

The light air of demand in his voice caught her off guard, and her stomach tightened. She spoke soft and sexy in his ear. "I'd rather wait. It won't be long. And it'll give you something to look forward to."

He only chuckled. "There'll still be plenty to look forward to. We can just call this an appetizer." He pressed her palm harder into him—without her realizing it, her touch had frozen in place. Lifting both hands to the wheel, he leaned back against the headrest, and said, "Unzip me."

She didn't want to. She wasn't sure why ... except that maybe this seemed like something you paid a whore to do, not something you insisted on with the woman you loved if she wasn't into it.

His eyes shifted from the road to her, his smile persuasive. "Do I ask so much, darling?"

No, he didn't. That she couldn't deny.

And why was she making such a big deal of this anyway?

He gave her everything—and asked for very little in return. Just her love. And her sex. She'd been working hard to meld the two together the past few days—that made it all real, made everything all right.

She swallowed. This would be okay. It didn't mean he still thought of her like a prostitute.

"What are you waiting for?"