Thigh High (20 page)

Jeremiah smiled. “I believe I have their approval.”

Nessa writhed with mortification. “Don't pay any attention. They're old-fashioned and like to know who I—”

“Am dating?”

“We're not exactly dating,” she said severely.
Sex in the vault is not dating.

The front screen door slammed open. Footsteps racketed across the hardwood floor, and two men's voices argued loudly.

“I think that's a dumb idea. Street musicians have to spend their time working the street, not putting the moves on every woman they meet, and if you think you've got a chance with Miss Dahl—”

“Shut up, man.” Nessa heard a thump. “Just shut up.”

“Ouch. That hurt!”

Nessa smiled weakly at Jeremiah. “That's Ryan. He plays the sax. And his friend, Skeeter. He plays the bass. Ryan boards here.”
And embarrasses me to death.

As if the musicians didn't even exist, Jeremiah still concentrated on her. “Will you go out with me tomorrow night?”

She stared at him, stricken by the realization that, no matter how sensible it was to no longer see him during their off time, she had to. She needed to know what his investigation was turning up. If he discovered something, she needed to try and divert him from the truth. She
had
to date him. Every night. Until the day he gave up this investigation.

A despicable plan, deceiving a man who was doing nothing more than his job. Yet she had no choice. She had to protect her family.

And the worst part was…she was glad. Glad because this gave her the excuse she needed to be with him. To get to know him, to look at his face, to bask in the sound of his voice…“Jeremiah, I would love to go out with you tomorrow night.”

The restaurant was decorated in warm hues and discreetly lit by antique crystal sconces. Fresh flowers adorned the tables, and the maitre d' ushered Mac and Nessa into a sumptuous private alcove.

Mac made a mental note to give Mrs. Freytag a bonus, for she'd outdone herself with this place. He then nudged the maitre d' aside and held Nessa's chair. “It was rough getting a reservation here, but I've heard the food is the best in New Orleans.”

“The best in New Orleans, and New Orleans has the best food in the world.” Nessa lavished a smile at the hovering waiter. “How are you, Jean-Paul?”

The waiter wore a suit that cost more than Mac's, a thin, silly-ass mustache, and a supercilious smile. He clicked his heels and bowed, then flicked Nessa's napkin in the air and laid it across her lap. “I am fine, mademoiselle, and as always, it is a pleasure to serve you and your friend.” His gaze fluttered over Mac, dismissed him, and returned at once to Nessa.

Taking Jean-Paul's hand, she said, “We missed you at the Dahl party.”

“Sadly, during Mardi Gras, it is too busy for me to attend, but I sent my thoughts and my finest bread pudding.” The guy had a corny French accent, and he fawned on Nessa in a way that made Mac slightly ill—and more than slightly jealous.

“It was gone as soon as it hit the table. When Mardi Gras is over, perhaps you can come and bring your waiters for one of Miss Maddy's home-cooked meals.”

“As always, we would accept with the deepest of pleasure.” Jean-Paul clicked his heels and waved at the hovering, suited female. “I leave you in Penelope's capable hands. If you have any desires, tell her and she will accommodate you at once.”

Mac watched the interaction between the two with resignation. “You know all the waiters here?”

“That was Jean-Paul Lambert. He's the owner.” Nessa gently mocked Mac's ignorance. “He came here from France fifteen years ago, opened this restaurant and two more, lost the other two in the hurricane, but refused to leave the city he loves. He's a wonderful man, he loves good food, and his chef is spectacular. We're in for a treat tonight.”

Not, Mac realized, because of Mrs. Freytag's manipulations, but because of Nessa, who truly did know everyone in New Orleans. If she had planned the robberies on Premier Central banks, and everybody in New Orleans realized it, no one would betray her.

And that was the problem.

Because he didn't want her to be guilty, either. He wanted her to be exactly as she appeared—wholesome, charismatic, sexy beyond belief, and unaware of her effect on men. And of course, fatally attracted to him.

But he was too practical a man to dismiss her actions during the robbery in the bank, so as soon as he had ordered the wine, he put his scheme into motion. “I've got to go back to Philadelphia.”

“What?” She stared at him, her butter knife laden and halfway to her bread, her deep blue eyes wide with dismay—or with what looked like dismay.

“The robbery is over for the year. No one caught the thieves. There's nothing else for me to do.”

“But there is! The thieves are still out there somewhere! Surely you've found more clues!” She watched him anxiously.

“No, no more clues.”

“But I've introduced you to Chief Cutter—you could work with him some more and—” She caught herself as if embarrassed. Placing her knife on the edge of her plate, she leaned across the table and said softly, “I'm sorry. This is stupid. I'm not telling you the truth.”

I suspected that.
“Tell me the truth, then.”

“I want you to stay because I enjoy your company.”

If she was acting, he was her ideal audience. “I enjoy yours, too. I enjoy the places we go together.”

“Yes, but you could take me to the swamps and I'd be happy.”

“You should have told me that sooner.” He grinned at her.

“Do you really think you've played out all your leads? You don't think you'll get back to Philadelphia and suddenly remember a suspect you should have questioned?”

“If I do, I'll come back.”

“That would give me something to look forward to.” She reached across and caught the hand he rested on the table. “I know Mr. MacNaught said I couldn't help you, but maybe I could look at the video of that last robbery and find something you missed.”

Or she could get the chance to mislead him.

“I wish you could stay. Because the thing is…I think I might just”—her gaze clung to his—“love you.” She jerked back in her seat as if her confession had shocked her. She pressed her lips together and waited, apparently terrified, for his answer.

The world had shifted on its axis.

He didn't know what he thought, what to say, whether to believe her or not…And yet, he did believe.

The Ionessa he thought capable of robbing his banks no longer existed in his mind. This woman, vulnerable and so real, had taken her place.

She loved him.

And he wasn't sure…. It was almost too difficult to imagine…. And was oh, so dangerous…but he thought that perhaps he loved her.

Turning his hand up, he twined his fingers in hers. “Maybe I could stay a little longer. To investigate.”

“Good.” Her gaze clung to his. “I'd like that.”

 

Later that night, Jeremiah dropped Nessa off at the Dahl House. He kissed her long and hard, and in a husky voice, he commanded, “Sleep with me tonight.”

“No. I can't.”

“Why won't you sleep with me, Nessa?”

“It wouldn't be right.”

He smiled a slow, painful grin. “What would make it right? A ring with a huge diamond, accompanied by a marriage proposal?”

“Do you think I'm that shallow?” She traced his jaw with her fingertips.

“I hope so.”

She shoved him away. “Go back to the hotel, wicked man, and tempt me no more.”

He stood posed on the top step of her porch. “A big diamond, a prenup, and a proposal that outlines all the reasons we should marry?”

“Get out of here!” Laughing, she pointed to the long, dark car that waited in the street.

He hurried down the steps and ducked inside, and she waved as his driver took him away.

Then she clutched her aching head in her hands.

When he said he was leaving, why had she objected? What had she been thinking? That was exactly what she'd been hoping—that he would leave. Because if he left, all her stress would dissolve. She'd have a whole year to dissuade her aunts from robbing the bank again. She'd be happy!

Except she wouldn't be happy, because she wanted Jeremiah Mac in New Orleans, where she could see his rugged face, listen to his rough voice, smell him…. He smelled so good, like clean male and good leather and great sex.

Her knees gave out and she leaned against the wall.

She'd told him she loved him.

And he hadn't believed her. Or maybe he did, but he didn't understand love.

Maybe…maybe, over the next few days, while he continued to search for the Beaded Bandits, she'd show him what love really meant.

Because one thing her great-aunts had taught her—love was a miracle.

And a miracle was exactly what Nessa needed.

Why won't you sleep with me, Nessa?

Because it's not professionally responsible.

Why won't you sleep with me, Nessa?

Because we have nothing in common in our backgrounds and we live miles apart.

Why won't you sleep with me, Nessa?

Nessa sat at the table in the Garden Suite at the Olivier House Hotel, barefoot, relaxed, sipping the last of a very fine Pinot Noir and waiting for the question Jeremiah had asked every night for the past week. She hoped with all her heart that the excellent dinner and fine wine didn't tap into her inherent honesty and make her blurt out the truth:
Because my aunts are the Beaded Bandits and it's bad enough I'm dating you to find out what's going on in the investigation, but if you ever find out about who they are, I won't have you say I slept with you to distract or influence you.

That would be just ugly.

She also hoped that the next time he asked
Why won't you sleep with me, Nessa?
she wouldn't knock the dishes off the table, grab him by his collar, and have her way with him right there. Because it had been seven very long days and steamy nights since they'd been locked in the vault, and she was so horny that every time she took a breath, she thought of him. And every time she thought of him, her temperature rose another degree. And every time her temperature rose, she reminded herself who the Beaded Bandits really were and that a relationship with the man who was investigating them was impossible.

Then she took another breath and the whole cycle started over again.

Her aunts commented on her rosy glow, Georgia took note of her sparkling eyes, even Stephanie sourly mentioned that Nessa looked unnaturally flushed, like a syphilis sufferer.

Every day, that woman confronted Nessa's radiant face, and she hated it. Despite her best attempts, Nessa was not miserable…. And for some reason, the police force had not only ticketed Stephanie for two driving violations, but the animal control people had reported that her neighbors were complaining about her dog barking—and she didn't own a dog.

Nessa wondered how long it would be before Stephanie was sneaking out of town through the swamp filled with water moccasins. She hoped it would be soon.

Tonight, when Jeremiah had taken their dishes and put them outside the door, he came back and seated himself in the chair across from her.

He lifted his glass, took a sip, and instead of the usual
Why won't you sleep with me, Nessa?
he said, “There's no more leads to follow. So I have no choice. I'm going to have to call this year's investigation a failure, and return to Philadelphia.”

“B-but Mardi Gras is almost over. Only six more days until Fat Tuesday. You don't want to miss Fat Tuesday. We'll go to the parade!”

“As attractive as that sounds”—amusement quirked his cheek—“I've already fooled around too long trying to get into your pants.”

She must be getting used to him, because she hardly flinched at all. “Is that what you were doing?”

“And eating too much good food, drinking too much fine wine, and kissing the prettiest girl in New Orleans as often as she'll let me.”

Her toes curled at his tone.

Most guys disintegrated if they talked too long. Jeremiah was the only guy she knew who always started badly and got better.

“When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow on the two fifty-three.”

“Tomorrow? Afternoon? So soon?” She was shocked. “I thought we'd have time for…”

“For me not getting into your pants?”

“For me to get in yours.” Okay. She'd had enough to drink, because normally she wouldn't have said it so bluntly. But if he was leaving, all the reasons she had for not sleeping with him were void, and…well, she was free. Free to do what she wanted, which was to attack him and make him show her all the details he'd learned during his long apprenticeship with women.

She put down her glass. She unfastened two buttons on her blouse. She stood and offered Jeremiah her hand. “Let me show you a reason to return to New Orleans someday.”

He looked at her hand. Looked at her smiling face. Said, “If I'd known leaving would get you into my bed, I would have left four days ago.”

“You would?”

“And returned so I could leave again.”

She laughed, tossing her hair over her shoulders in a free and easy motion she didn't recognize as her own.

He rose as if pulled to his feet by an invisible tether, and she led him toward the iron spiral stairs. Halfway up to the bedroom, she couldn't wait anymore. Turning, she stood on a step above him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him.

The extra height made her taller; she liked that, liked kissing him at this angle. For the first time in their relationship, she felt in control. She caressed his earlobes with her thumbs, drew back and smiled into his face.

He looked up at her, and his eyes were green and intense. “Don't tease me, Nessa.”

“I'm not teasing you.” She opened his shirt and slid her hands inside. His chest rippled, the muscle definition strong and pleasing.

His jaw tightened. His green eyes glittered. Color bloomed over his cheekbones.

He unbuttoned her pants, put his hands on the top of her hips, and slid the pants, and the panties, down her legs. Pulling a condom out of his pocket, he gently pushed her down on the step. “I've waited too long,”

“I don't think so.” She unzipped his fly and freed his erection. “I think you'll wait as long as I tell you to wait.”

“Nessa, damn, please.”

She kissed his penis lightly, then took him in her mouth, sucking gently.

He arched as if he'd been struck by lightning. “Nessa. For the love of God. You're torturing me.”

Releasing him, she looked up into his face. “You don't look tortured.” She ran one finger up and down the smooth, damp skin of his penis. “You look like a guy who's having the best time of his life.”

“I…am,” he said through gritted teeth.

She wanted to giggle.

Except she'd forced the lid on her need, and now it bubbled up, heating her from the inside out, making her feverish, her skin stretched so tight she felt sunburned.

Taking his hips, she turned him and pushed him down onto a step.

“If you want, we
can
go to the bed,” he said. “We don't always have to do it in the most uncomfortable positions possible.”

“Are you uncomfortable?” She climbed on top of him, braced her knees on the step on either side of his hips, and kissed his mouth.

“Yeah, I'm uncomfortable. The steps are digging into my back and my butt barely fits….” he observed as she kissed his chest. “But I'm numb except where you're touching me.”

“And that part feels good?” She kissed his nipple.

“Feels real good.” He was barely able to speak.

She worked her way down his rippled belly.

He caught her under the arms, pulled her back up. He braced his feet on the step below, forming a lap for her to sit on. He gave her the condom and looked her in the eyes. “Next time, I promise I will let you do whatever you want me to. But I've spent three days with a hard-on—”

“Trying to get into my pants,” she teased.

“Trying to get into your pants,” he conceded, “so please, please put me out of my misery.”

“Are you begging?”

“Pleading. Supplicating. Beseeching. Entreating…”

She grasped his penis in her hand, fit him with the condom, settled herself over the top of him, and slowly worked her way down onto him.

As expert as he was at making love, she was the opposite. She'd never done anything like this, she was pretty bad at it, and so aroused she was tight and swollen. It took her a while to get the method of holding him, opening herself, using her body's moisture, entering a little, pulling back, entering a little more.

All the while, he writhed beneath her, sweating, his jaw clenching, his muscles bunching and shifting beneath her. “Nessa…you have to…woman, damn, you make me…” His hands clutched the banisters in a desperate attempt to allow her the control she craved, but every time she withdrew, his hips surged upward. “Close…come on…sweetheart, this is…” Tears of frustration welled into his green eyes, glistening like emeralds.

When she finally managed to take him all the way inside, tears glistened in her eyes, too. She braced her hands on his shoulders. Took a long breath and
felt
him deep inside. And whispered, “It feels so good.”

All motion ceased.

He stared at her as if she'd said the magic words.

She stared at him, breathless with excitement.

And beneath her, he exploded into action. Below her, he established a driving rhythm, his hips rising and falling.

She braced on the steps and levered herself up, over and over, meeting him fiercely, everything in her concentrated on one movement, one passion…this moment.

He twisted his hips, the motion feeding her need, yet holding climax at bay. Inside her, his erection rubbed every nerve, touched the deepest part of her. The fever between them rose and rose, higher and higher. She sobbed with frustration, needing, wanting the orgasm that teased and taunted.

Finally, he caught her hips in his hands, slammed her down and ground himself as deep as he could go.

And she came.

She threw her head back, moaning, convulsing over the top of him, while inside, his explosion filled her with heat.

And when they were finished, she took his hand, led him up to the bedroom, and they did it again.

 

Nessa and Jeremiah lay sprawled among the rumpled sheets, warm, exhausted, pleasured. His head rested on her rib cage, and she stroked his hair back and traced the scars on his face. “How did you get these?”

“How did you get these?” He kissed the underside of her breast.

“They just grew there.” She smiled at him.

“I'm grateful they did.”

He had evaded her question, but she wanted to know where he'd come from, what his dreams were…. Who he was. So she persevered. Stroking her hand across his chest, she said, “I love your body, too.” She traced the scars there. “Did you get these the same place you got the scars on your face?”

“Do they bother you?” He dodged the question.

Out of frustration, she dodged, too. “Am I acting like they bother me?”

“You didn't answer me.”

She sank her fingers into his hair, tilted his head, looked into his face. “There's a lot of that going on.”

He didn't answer. Instead he scrutinized her, trying to see…something.

Did he sense that she hid secrets? Did he suspect that she had spent the week with him for ulterior motives? Did he see the guilt that scourged her soul, the guilt that she would rather be with him to spy on him than to not be with him at all?

She tried again, with a subject less personal. “Where did you grow up?”

“In a little town in Pennsylvania. A company town.”

“You were poor.”

“After the company went away, I was.” He shrugged. “You know what that's like.”

“I don't think I was poor, exactly. Just under-funded.” From the look on his face, it was once again clear she'd skirted too close to painful facts. She continued, “My aunts were always there for me. But you said your mother didn't hang in there for you. Did you have to leave home?”

“Everybody's got to leave home sometime. And when I left home, I learned a few skills you've found a use for.” He slid across the sheets to her face and kissed her, parting her lips, sharing breath, sharing passion. He whispered, “Does it bother you to know I was an escort? Is that why you're asking questions?”

“No! You just know so much about me, and I know nothing about you, your background, what made you who you are.”

“It doesn't matter, because I'm leaving tomorrow.”

“Never to return?”

“You could visit me in Philly. In fact—” He started to get off the bed.

Delighted, she tackled him. “You want me to visit you? You'd let me see where you live?”

“Philly's different than New Orleans,” he warned.

“Everything's different than New Orleans. You'd invite me to your home? Seriously?”

He wrapped his arms around her. “Seriously. There's a lot of stuff we have to talk about. But…in the morning. We'll talk in the morning.”

He would, it appeared, share everything but himself.