Possession (5 page)

C
LAUDE REALIZED
he’d have to reassess his belief that beautiful FBI agent Akela Brooks was a woman not given to impulsive acts.

His gaze slid from the soft swell of her breasts, down to where the silky material of her slip skimmed her plain white panties, doing little to disguise the springy wedge of dark curls just beneath. A light sheen of sweat covered her supple skin and her chest rose and fell laboriously.

Another man might have viewed her suggestive request for freedom as a ploy toward escape. But if there was one thing Claude was an expert on, it was recognizing sexual need, and Akela’s softly spoken challenge had nothing to do with finding a way out of the cabin and the bayou, and everything to do with showing him exactly what she promised.

Only Claude couldn’t give in to the urge to unlock her cuffs, no matter how much he wanted to.
His legal position was too shaky right now. His avenues to clear himself were limited to the woman who was now looking up at him as if she wanted nothing more than to be kissed senseless.

But no matter how precarious his situation, and how vital his need to convince her of his innocence, he knew that’s exactly what he was going to do.

Drawing his fingers up her hip and over her side, at her quick intake of breath, he pressed his mouth against hers. And he was rewarded with her arching up toward him, her cuffs clanking, her body hot and supple.

His mama had been fond of saying that her brand of Cajun cooking could put the heat in anyone’s veins. That the hot spices didn’t just tease the tongue, they wove their way through the bloodstream, making the person restless and yearning for an unnamable something.

Of course, Olivie Lafitte also said that excusing yourself for bad behavior was inexcusable.

Claude felt Akela’s finger at the side of his neck, then her touch trailed down over his bare arm to his chest. She pressed her damp palm against his flat nipple, her eyes fluttering slightly open to watch his response to her bold move. Normally it would have taken a whole helluva lot more than a
touch north of the snap on his jeans to do it for him. But her tentative touch and the warm quicksilver of her eyes combined to make him feel as if he’d been sucker punched.

And that, more than anything, should have warned him to be careful before pushing ahead. But he couldn’t seem to help himself, could no sooner stop what was happening between them than he could the beating of his own heart.

He kissed her as his palm slid down the fluid material of her slip. The heel of his hand hesitated against her pelvis. And she bucked against his touch like a woman gone mad with desire.

Dear Lord…

She rolled over on top of him, her knees on either side of his hips, putting her in direct contact with his straining arousal. He closed his eyes and reveled in the myriad sensations caused by the move.

Then he heard an ominous click and he looked up to find himself staring down the muzzle of an all-too-familiar gun. Holding it was Akela, looking tousled and sexy as hell—and very much in control.

She licked her lips. “I told you when the gun was back in my hands, we were going to have that conversation again.”

E
VEN AS
A
KELA’S THIGHS
burned where they squeezed his hips, his powerful erection pressing against her delicates, she aimed her firearm. The metal was heavy in her free hand but she was well trained in the art of one-hand shooting. Besides, at this close range she couldn’t miss.

Claude’s green eyes took her in. “Ah, I wondered what you were hiding when I came in and you were pretending to be asleep.”

“Unlock the cuffs.”

Akela watched as he reached for the chain around his neck. She backed up a hair to give him the room he needed to ensure he couldn’t take the gun. Then she heard the teeth from her cuffs give as Claude released the metal shackle from her wrist.

She immediately grasped the gun in both hands.

Claude lay back and considered her.

“Do it,” he said quietly.

Akela’s throat tightened. She hadn’t retrieved the firearm in order to kill him. She’d merely been trying to regain her freedom.

“Go ahead, shoot. The way things look, I’m a dead man, anyway.”

She blinked at him, thinking he couldn’t be serious.

She began to climb off him.

That’s when he made his move. He took advan
tage of her being off balance and grasped her wrists, forcing the muzzle of the gun away from him at the same time he rolled her over, his body pinning her to the bed, his hips solidly between her legs. The gun was above her head, held there by his strong hands. But he didn’t appear interested in trying to take it from her. Rather he was staring at her as if in disappointment.

For the life of her, Akela couldn’t figure out why he would be disappointed.

He rolled off her and pushed from the bed. Then he held his hand out to her. “I wasn’t going to do this until the sun goes down, but I can see I no longer have a choice.”

Akela swallowed hard, leaving her hands and the gun above her head. “Do what?”

He didn’t say anything.

Dropping the gun to her side, she took his hand with her free one and he hauled her from the bed.

“Gather your things and come on.”

Akela felt oddly out of sorts as she watched him turn and walk through the door. Keeping a tight grip on her gun, she quickly put her skirt and blouse back on, barely buttoning the top before joining him where he stood on the porch staring out at the bayou.

Shadows were lengthening and the autumn sun
light gave the mist-heavy air a purplish, surreal tint. A light breeze teased Spanish moss. The tall cypresses spoke to each other.

“You grew up here?”

Akela was somewhat surprised to hear her voice ask the question as she tucked her gun back into the holder inside her jacket. She was surprised further that she wanted to know the answer to it.

“Mmm. My brother and I were raised by our mother.”

“And your father?”

She felt his gaze on her and blinked to find him staring at her while he slowly fastened the buttons on his denim shirt. “Could have been one of three men, if you believed the rumors.”

“The truth?”

“He was a shopkeeper on the outskirts of the bayou who was already spoken for.”

“Married?”

“Yes.”

In the social circle in which Akela had been raised, being someone’s bastard child was tantamount to death. At least if the situation wasn’t socially remedied. The way her mother told it, if a woman in their social circle was in trouble, in the kind of situation Claude’s mother had been in, there was always the son of a congressman whose
sexual orientation was in question who could pose as a perfectly good substitute. And the child himself…well, he’d never have to know of his true parentage.

Such incidents happened all the time.

And in Claude’s mother’s case, it might have been an older, maybe widowed man from another part of the bayou who could have been a companion to her, a father of sorts to her sons. But she hadn’t chosen that route.

Strangely, Claude didn’t appear to be apologizing for his mother’s behavior. He was merely stating fact.

“Did you know him growing up?”

“My father? No. He died when I was three. I have no memory of him. Not that I would have even if he had survived.”

She nodded. Of course not. The woman would have raised her bastard son on her own, allowing for the gossiping around her, never asking for anything from the man who had fathered the child.

Akela wasn’t sure which way was worse: her own mother’s or Claude’s mother’s.

“Come.”

He took her hand and led her down the steps then around the house. They’d walked for some
time before he reached the car he’d used to drive her out there.

She asked, “Aren’t you afraid I’ll remember the way?”

Claude looked at her, then handed her into the passenger’s seat. “If you can remember your way back here, then I deserve to be found.”

She looked around even as he climbed in next to her and started the car.

“So you’re letting me go, then,” she said quietly.

“So I’m letting you go, then.”

Akela wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about that. A few short hours ago she would have been elated. Would have been planning exactly what she would do and how she might go about apprehending the man who had taken her prisoner.

Now she could only stare out at the sights around her, the bayou, the swamps, listening to the utter quietness as Claude turned the car around and drove in the direction of the nearest highway, seemingly unconcerned with her taking mental notes on their whereabouts.

She feared the reason for her ambivalence was that she didn’t want him to let her go. Not yet.

Somehow she felt as if the past few hours had existed as time outside of time. The bayou and perhaps even Claude himself had worked their
way under her skin. And, she discovered, she was worried about what would happen from there. Worried about Claude. Worried that if her instincts were right, and he hadn’t killed Claire Laraway, that he would never be able to prove it.

She stared at his hands where they gripped the steering wheel. Thick, long and calloused, they seemed incapable of touching her as gently as they had. She rested her own hand against the side of her neck, noting the heaviness of her pulse there. She had the feeling that Claude’s hands weren’t all that unlike the man himself. Hardened by a difficult upbringing, he still had a gentleness that touched her on a level she had been helpless to protect herself against. And she couldn’t help thinking that somehow her short time with Claude Lafitte had changed her, possibly forever.

“A
GENT
B
ROOKS
, A
GENT
B
ROOKS
! Officials report their fear that the suspect sexually mistreated you. Any comment?”

The following morning Akela ducked inside the front doors of Eighth District Police Station, keeping her chin down, her eyes straight ahead, no matter how much she wanted to refute the allegations that had swirled around her ever since Jean-Claude
Lafitte had set her free a block away from where he’d taken her prisoner the night before.

The chaos that had ensued immediately afterward was enough to make anyone sick. From accusations that she’d had a prior connection to the “modern-day pirate,” to stories that she’d actually helped him escape, the city’s rumor mills were running overtime with decadent possibilities. One morning-radio show personality had actually begun running a verbal serialization of the ordeal, providing a fictional account of what might have happened for entertainment value alone.

But, of course, no one but she and Claude really knew what had happened. Nothing.

Akela’s cheeks burned in the cold air-conditioning as she climbed the stairs to the second floor. Well, almost nothing had happened.

Twelve hours had passed since Claude had handed her out of the car as easily as if they’d gone on a date, then lightly kissed her temple, his fingers hot against her skin. And she had left her gun in her holster, not even attempting to place the fugitive under arrest.

“You should surrender yourself to authorities,” she’d whispered even as her eyelids had fluttered closed under the tenderness of his chaste kiss.

“I will,
chere
. But not yet. Not yet.”

An NOPD detective waved a morning paper at her as she entered the second-floor bull pen room. “Says here you’re due to give birth to Lafitte’s love child in nine months.”

Akela stared at him. “I’m sure it also says in there that aliens founded our fair city and the time clock is ticking on its destruction.”

“How did you know?”

A few detectives chuckled as she continued on toward the glassed office at the end of the large room. She rapped briefly before letting herself in, the cast of characters inside ones she’d gotten used to since last night.

Chief Detective Lieutenant Alan Chevalier sat behind his desk, his feet crossed on top, his fingers tented against the wrinkled front of his shirt.

“Agent Brooks,” the man in question said, “I didn’t expect to see you in again so soon.”

She ignored the sarcasm in his voice. Most local law-enforcement agencies didn’t appreciate federal involvement in any case, much less one as highly visible as this one. It was a territorial thing. In her case, however, she was there strictly in an observational capacity. Her own superior had released her from duty so she could assist in the apprehension of the fugitive that had bruised the FBI’s image by taking one of their own hostage.

She asked, “Have you gotten an address on the Lafitte house?”

“In the bayou? No.”

She took out a map from the inside pocket of her jacket. “I put my head together with a geologist at the field office. Here’s a rough outline of what I think we’re looking at.”

“Rough outline?”

“Mmm. A map. I already have a native lined up to drive us out there—or should I say, airboat us out there.”

“Agent Brooks, I wasn’t aware that the FBI had taken over control of this case.”

“We haven’t.”

Chevalier slowly removed his feet from his desktop, his gaze steady on her. “Then I’d appreciate you not trying to take control.”

She held his gaze. “Are you interested in catching Lafitte or not?”

She noticed a tick in his jaw. “Of course.”

“Then act like it.”

Chevalier sat forward, obviously insulted, which helped none of them at all.

Akela took a deep breath. This wasn’t the first time she’d been placed in the position of selling an idea. She just hadn’t thought she’d have to here. “Look, ever since your men picked me up last
night outside the hotel, you’ve been treating me like I’m the suspect, behavior I’m not very happy with. And now you want to try to lock me out of any attempt to apprehend a man who held me captive for six hours.”

“The last place Lafitte would go back to is the bayou,” Chevalier argued.

“Oh, yes? Well did that little pearl of wisdom form before or after I was released last night?”

Alan stared at her.

“Look, the last thing I want to do is undermine your investigation, Chevalier. But unless you have any other leads you’re working on—”