Be My Baby (8 page)

Tension emanated off of him in almost palpable waves and Juliet found it contagious. Her heart drummed with excitement as she leaned as far forward as her shoulder harness would allow. “What’s he driving?”

“Looked like a Porsche, a red one.” His mouth twisted. “Arms trading obviously pays a helluva lot better than public servant work.”

Juliet rolled down her window and stuck her head out, scanning the alleys they passed and the streets ahead. “There! Up one—no, two—blocks, I think that’s him. He’s turning right, do you see him?”

“No…yes!” Beau’s hand flashed away from the gearshift knob just long enough to administer a hard, quick squeeze to her thigh. “Good work.” Moments later they made the same turn and he scowled at the taillights that had picked up quite a bit of distance once away from the heaviest flow of traffic. “Hell. Looks like he’s headin’ for the freeway. Brace yourself, sugar. We gotta catch up before he realizes he’s got company, because that Porsche’s capable of leaving us in the dust if he’s not in the mood to be pulled over.”

The words had no more than left Beau’s mouth when he thrust his foot to the floor, and Juliet was thrown back in her seat. Her heart pounded with excitement as he slammed through the gears and the night sped past in a hot roar of wind.

They were coming up fast behind the Porsche when Lydet suddenly jumped the red light and cut across oncoming traffic. Beau swore and fumbled beneath the seat with one hand. He came up with a portable magnetic flasher, thumbed the switch that started the blue light revolving, and reached out the window to slap it on his roof. He whipped his arm back inside and jabbed the heel of his hand against the horn, holding it down as he roared through the intersection in the Porsche’s wake.

A pickup truck bore down on Beau’s side, and Juliet’s shriek jammed in her throat as he wrenched the wheel, sending the GTO into a screaming slide before regaining control and shooting through an opening in the traffic that she would have sworn was too small to accommodate his big American car.

They hit the freeway on-ramp with a bounce just as the skies opened up in a torrential downpour. Reaching the top, Beau skidded across two lanes of traffic not far behind Lydet’s Porsche, but although he pushed the GTO to its limits, dodging in and out of traffic like a maniac to keep the sports car in sight, he knew it was a lost cause. The red marvel of Stuttgart precision engineering outstripped his car when it came to power, and the best driving in the world simply couldn’t compensate.

The gap between the two cars had widened considerably when he saw the Porsche roar down a distant exit. By the time he reached the surface streets in its wake, it was no longer anywhere in sight.

He could spend all night cruising up and down,
he supposed, in the hopes of getting lucky and stumbling across the Porsche again, but he accepted the bitter taste of defeat that sat firmly on the back of his tongue. He pulled over to the curb and slapped the gearshift into neutral, setting the brake. He could barely see ten feet in front of the Goat’s hood through the pounding curtain of rain, and his arm got soaked when he reached out to disengage the magnetic flasher and bring it inside. He cranked up the window. Turning to Juliet, he thought at least one small triumph would come of this fiasco: she’d be screaming for his replacement without any further effort on his part.

He found her straining toward him within the restraints of her seat harness, her gray eyes huge as she stared back at him. It was neither politely repressed anger nor disdain, however, that burned in those smoky depths.

A telltale pulse throbbed crazily in the hollow of her throat, hot color flushed her high, patrician cheekbones, and her lips, still sporting that damn siren lipstick, were parted to accommodate the breath that sawed in and out between white, orthodontia-perfect teeth. Loosened strands of thick, honey-brown hair sprang out of her French twist.

“Oh, shit,” he said hoarsely. “You liked it.”

“Oh, my God, Beauregard; oh, my God. I never knew such excitement
existed
.” She gave him a blinding smile. “Do you do this sort of thing all the time? Sweet mercy, I don’t know if I could bear up under the constant exhilaration. I feel as if my
heart’s trying to pound its way right out of my chest.”

His gaze dropped involuntarily and he really wished it hadn’t. Two rigid nipples formed peaks beneath the prim silk of her dress, and even though he knew they were most likely the result of adrenaline rush, that didn’t stop his hands from reaching out for her. His fingers plunged into her hair, dislodging a precariously placed comb and several pins, and he pulled her forward, slamming his mouth down on hers.

Her lips were every bit as soft and full as he’d known they would be, and their immediate obedience to the demand of his own caused a rough sound to crawl up his throat. That lush mouth clung with a sweetness that put him in a fever to lick up all her flavors and make them his own, and his hands tightened in the soft thickness of her hair as he twisted his mouth over hers.

“Oh,” she breathed, and her mouth widened in accommodation, adjusting to the forceful new demand.

Then he was inside her, and she was sweet, oh, God, so sweet. But as her head was pressed back farther and farther beneath the pressure of his kiss and her fingers fisted in the material over his chest, fervently anchoring herself, he discovered it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. He released a fistful of hair and fumbled with their seatbelts.

The moment her shoulder harness slid free, he hauled her over the console. Rain thundered against the metal roof as he settled her sideways on his lap, and the steamed-up windows provided
an illusion of privacy when he lowered his head again. The world faded away at the renewed taste of her on his tongue.

He felt her arms circle his neck, her fingers slide into his hair, and he smoothed his hand up her side until it covered her breast. The hard little nipple poked at his palm and they both sucked in a breath. He closed his fingers over the tiny nubbin and tugged. A whimper purled up her throat and he felt her thighs shift apart, pressing herself against his erection. He reached as far down her leg as his hand would reach, wanting bare Juliet but getting only a handful of material instead. He worked his hand down to warm skin, and the hem of her dress began to puddle on his wrist as he eased his fingers up the long, smooth expanse of her leg.

There was a sudden, sharp rap on the driver’s-side window, and they both froze. Beau ripped his mouth away from Juliet’s, and she scrambled off his lap and back onto her own seat, frantically slapping her skirt back into place. Breathing hard, they stared at each other.

Her eyes were wild with disorientation and a dawning horror, yet hazed still with the lingering remnants of lust. Her mouth was swollen and ripe, kissed free of lipstick, and ringed with the abrasion of whisker burns. He wondered blankly how the hell she ever got all that hair into the repressed little French twist she normally wore, for it was an untamed, tawny-brown cloud that tangled in her eyelashes, exploded out from behind her ears where she attempted to tuck it, and wrapped itself
in clinging, wavy strands around her long throat. Sweet Mother Mary, where had the prim little socialite gone? Her nipples still stood firm behind the silk of her top and she looked like a little nun who’d just been thoroughly debauched.

Another impatient rap followed the first, and gratefully Beau wrenched his gaze away from her. Never in his life had he experienced such a lapse in professionalism.

For once in his life without a firm idea of how to handle a situation, he reached for the knob and rolled down the window.

H
ow could you be so foolish
? Morning sun slanted through the jalousie to form bars of light against the polished wooden floors as Juliet stood in front of the mirror, furiously dragging a brush through her hair.
No. “Foolish” is putting too kind a face on the situation. You were stupid, Juliet. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

She twisted her hair into a tight, sleek French twist, smoothing it back so ruthlessly, her eyelids stretched. She couldn’t believe that she, Juliet Rose Astor Lowell, had necked—
made out
—with an indiscriminately oversexed cop she’d known exactly two days! In the front seat of a car! Dear God, with a man who had made it abundantly clear she was a distasteful duty he’d rather do without.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, she’d been caught at it by an off-duty motorcycle cop who’d looked about twelve years old.

A soft moan forced its way past her clenched teeth as she remembered the knowing, way-to-go
look in the policeman’s eyes as he’d taken in her disheveled state while Beau showed him his ID. To Beau’s credit, he’d returned the other cop’s look with a cold lack of expression until the young man had stiffly ordered them on their way. But how was she ever going to face Beauregard again? When she thought of the way she’d clung to him, the sounds she had made when he’d touched her breast, how she’d opened her legs to his advancing hand…

Intimacy wasn’t something that came naturally to her, and the men in her world had always respected that. They were…urbane. Undemanding. They didn’t have hot hands and urgent mouths, and eyes blacker than crow feathers. Sex with them had been an infrequent, civilized undertaking that she’d secretly considered overrated, but she’d always assumed that was her fault. She hadn’t dreamed that it could be unruly, out of control. That it could heat you from the inside out, make you swell and moisten and throb like a heartbeat.

She hadn’t known it could turn you into someone you didn’t even recognize when you looked in the mirror.

Turning away as if the sight reflected there was the same one that had greeted her last night, she stalked over to the closet. It had been an aberration, that was all. The feverish arousal that had gripped her last night was simply a crazy by-product of a high-speed car chase over rain-slick roads. A single slip that meant nothing.

Less
than nothing. And it would never happen again.

She selected a pale gold linen calf-length skirt
from the closet and a gauzy, scoop-necked tunic. Slipping them on, she adjusted the sleeveless top’s beautifully crafted cut-work handkerchief hem. A long rope of pearls and tiny matching studs for her ears were her only jewelry. Opening her padded satin hosiery pouch, she chose a pair of ivory stockings. When she sat down on the slipper chair to put them on, however, she found herself simply staring down at the lacy elastic tops lying limply across her palms.

She stood up again, the hosiery dangling from her hands. She didn’t care how desperately she needed to regain her old self, she could not bring herself to don them. Temperatures in this town were horrendous enough without adding to her misery by wearing nylon stockings that refused to allow a breath of air to reach her skin. She picked up a pair of ivory leather flats and sprinkled some powder into them, then stood first on one foot and then the other while she slid them on.

Roxanne was already at her desk when Juliet reached the office a short while later. She stopped next to her assistant’s desk.

“I’m sorry about leaving you in the lurch yesterday.”

“Hey, no problem.” Exuberantly kissing her bunched fingertips at Juliet, Roxanne flashed her a smile. “If a cutie pie like Dupree came growlin’ around for me, I’d be off like a shot, too.”

A gasp of hysterical laughter escaped Juliet. She wanted desperately to ask Roxanne some pointed questions about men, women, and sex, but of course Astor Lowells did not discuss such things.

God, what a bunch of prigs the Astor Lowells were. Why was it so darn important to conform to all these rigid rules and restrictions that seemed to apply only to them? Oh, and to
their kind
, of course. She took a deep breath and eased it out, determined for once in her life to ignore the precepts on which she’d been raised.

And discovered in the end that training received in the formative years went to the bone. “How did it go with Celeste after I left?”

“She was quiet, very stiff. But we did get the rest of the schedule coordinated.”

“You’re a marvel, Roxanne. Remind me to request the salary increase form from Human Resources when we get back home.”

“Why wait?” Roxanne gave her a sly smile. “It just so happens I have one right here in my forms file.” She efficiently riffled through the filing cabinet and extended the paper to Juliet a moment later.

Juliet laughed. “I’ll fill it out immediately. Meanwhile, please get Brentano’s on the line for me. The bar glasses were supposed to be delivered two days ago, and they’re still not here.” She started for the inner office, but then stopped, turning back. “Would you do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Would you call Dillards department store and order me a tube of Clinique lipstick? The color is A Different Grape. Or maybe just Different Grape.”

“You want a tube of purple lipstick?”

“It’s not purple, it’s raisin.”

Roxanne considered her. “Ooh, yes. I bet that
looks super with your coloring. How did you hear of it?”

“A very…interesting…person recommended it to me yesterday. Send the driver to pick it up.”

Roxanne gave her a funny look, and Juliet knew it was because she
never
exploited her position by asking employees to run personal errands for her. If Grandmother ever heard about this she’d be severely disappointed in her, but against all sense, Juliet still harbored vestiges of yesterday’s rebelliousness and she shrugged the thought away. “Please,” she added softly.

“I’ll make the calls right now.”

Juliet held the salary increase request form aloft. “And I’ll go fill this out. The smartest thing I ever did was hire you.”

Juliet talked to the boss of the crew installing thermostats in the guest rooms, and she and Roxanne were deep in organizational details an hour later when the limo driver delivered the package. Roxanne barely waited for him to clear the door on his way out before she leaned forward. “Try it on. Let’s see how it looks.” When Juliet had complied, Roxanne leaned back in her seat and whistled softly. “Holy catfish, girl. You look great.”

Feeling a bit self-conscious, Juliet gave her assistant a faint smile. “Thanks. I like the color.” She smoothed her hands over the gauzy fabric of the tunic covering her hips.

Celeste tapped on the open door then and strode in, immaculately coifed head held high, back ramrod straight. “The Historical Society function is across the river and there is often a line for the
ferry,” she said imperiously. “So if you’re ready to join Edward and me, the limousine is waiting.”

“Oh, Celeste, I’m sorry, I should have told you.” Juliet rose from her seat behind the desk. “You and Edward go ahead. Sergeant Dupree will be taking me.” If he hadn’t run for the hills after last night.

“Sergeant Dupree?” Celeste could not have sounded more astounded if Juliet had admitted to attaining her escort from the
Gambit
personals.

“Yes, you remember, you met him yesterday.”

“That ill-bred young man who interrupted our meeting? He’s a police officer?”

“The pride of N’Awlins PD, ma’am,” Beau said from the doorway, and Juliet’s head snapped up. She immediately felt flushed all over.

From embarrassment, nothing more.
He
wasn’t the least bit embarrassed, she noticed, and didn’t know why she’d wondered if he’d show up or not. He probably hauled women over the console of his car to kiss them silly all the time. Heat throbbed in her cheeks.

His lean cheeks shone with the satin gleam of the freshly shaven, even though an underlying bluish shadow formed a line of demarcation where his beard grew. He was dressed more formally than usual in black pleated slacks, a short-sleeved cocoa-brown silk shirt, and a black and tan tie whose knot had yet to be snugged up under his Adam’s apple. Only his tan, rubber-toed high-top sneakers detracted from the look…or at least that’s what she thought until he came closer and turned to move past Celeste. Juliet stared in horrified fascination at the hint of leather from his inside holster and the
ominous pistol butt snugged just to the rear of his left hip.

“Is that truly necessary?” she inquired, nodding briefly toward the gun.

“It’s the reason I was assigned to you, sugar. Hey, I read that terrifyin’ ole letter from whoever you ticked off by turning this old heap into a hotel.” He arched a black brow at her. “Gawd only knows what could happen at an event put on by the Historical Society. Things could turn ugly in an instant.” He’d worked his way over to her by then and stopped in front of her, crowding much too close as usual.

“You’re really enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yeah, I just purely love wearin’ a tie.” Then his gaze narrowed on her mouth with an abruptness that tangled his black lashes together in the outside corners, and all humor disappeared from his eyes. “Where’d you get that lipstick?” he demanded curtly. “I told you not to make a move outside this hotel without me. We both might think this assignment’s a farce, but that doesn’t prevent me from taking my work seriously.”

Stunned, Juliet merely stared at him, and it was Roxanne who replied. “She didn’t leave the hotel,” she said. “The lipstick was ordered from Dillards and we had it picked up.”

“Oh.”

“How on earth did you know it was new? But I guess that’s what they pay you detectives the big bucks for, huh?”

Dull color climbed his tanned jaw, but he was saved from having to reply by Celeste.

“If we don’t want to be late we’d best be leaving,” she said firmly. She extended a piece of paper to Juliet. “Here’s a list of the guests who matter. I’ve included a brief biography of each. I was going to go over it with you in the car, but you’ll simply have to study it for yourself on the way there.”

Beau made a rude noise and Juliet turned on him. “Be good. It’ll be a new experience.” She accepted the paper from Celeste. “Thank you. This will be quite helpful.”

“Hell, yeah. Wouldn’t want to ignore those who matter.” Beau latched onto her wrist and headed for the door. “Race y’there,” he challenged Celeste, and flashed a big, barbarous smile at the chilly curl of her lips he received in return.

“Call me paranoid, Rosebud,” he said as he dragged Juliet through the marble-floored lobby, “but I could almost believe that lady doesn’t like me. Can you imagine?”

Celeste worked the gathering at the old antebellum plantation house like a politician at a rally, going from group to group, smiling, chatting, introducing Juliet to the more important contacts whenever both women were in the same vicinity. She knew that outwardly she looked much the same as always. Inside, however, she was in a genteelly contained panic. That rude young man with the disrespectful eyes and the manners of a low-class Yat was a
policeman
.

This was a catastrophe. Sending that letter to the Crown Corporation had clearly been a mistake if this was what she’d brought down on her head.
She’d been so furious at the idea of her ancestral home being bought out from under her nose in order to be turned into a no-account Yankee
inn
that she’d given in to the need to pen a protest, knowing even as she was doing so that it was a hopeless cause. Oh, dear. How could she have made such a huge error in judgment? Just look where her impulse had gotten her.

Exchanging effusive, insincere flattery with May Ellen Beudrey, who had never forgiven her for stealing away that dashing Lieutenant Grayson at the Debutante Cotillion back in ’56, Celeste surveyed the crowd until she located Sergeant Dupree. She watched as he snagged an hors d’oeuvre from a passing tray, eyed the canapé askance from several different angles, and then tossed it in his mouth.

It was simply unacceptable to have a policeman constantly underfoot, particularly a rude, pushy one who didn’t seem to recognize his betters or appreciate his proper place in life. Celeste’s gaze then wandered to Edward, who was standing out in the foyer with Marcus Landry, no doubt discussing the best fertilizer to use on bougainvillea. A smile curled the corners of her lips.

She’d known the moment she’d met him that he was the one for her. They had the perfect marriage, one the youth of today would do well to emulate. There had only been that one problem years ago, the “marital duties” matter. She’d found that particular obligation rather distasteful at the best of times, yet somehow Edward had gotten the outlandish idea into his head that she’d submit to it
during
daylight
hours, of all things. And not only in bed where it was at least marginally appropriate, either. Well. Some of the things he’d attempted had been downright improper, but once she’d cured him of the misconception that she was
that
kind of girl, everything had settled down nicely. Their marriage had been quite exemplary ever since.

There
was
his recently acquired hobby of collecting ladies’ unmentionables, of course. She didn’t know what she was going to do about that. Edward had no idea she even knew of his little diversion, and she certainly saw no reason to raise the subject. One guarded against such secrets getting out; one didn’t discuss them. With anyone. Truly, though, when it came right down to it, it wasn’t as if he’d appropriated them from young women of
good
family, so what was the harm?

As long as word of it never circulated within the circles that mattered. Being all but destitute was difficult enough. It was nevertheless acceptable: this was the Deep South, after all, where impoverished gentility had been raised to an art form. But people were not likely to be as understanding of Edward’s little eccentricity.

Her eyes located the detective once again. She didn’t like his presence in their lives; she didn’t like it at all. He threatened the status quo, and that simply would not do. The problem was, she didn’t see what she could do about him.