Relentless Seduction (7 page)

Claire hadn’t spent much time with Julia the past few years. Every time her childhood friend called to suggest a road trip, Claire had been too busy to go. Finally, last month, Julia had refused to take “too busy” for an answer.

It was their last year to be twenty-something, Julia had cajoled. She’d promised Claire would only miss two days of work, tops. So, despite being in the middle of a huge project at the lab, Claire had agreed to meet Julia in New Orleans for Mardi Gras.

And look where it had gotten them.

Could Julia be punishing her for the past years of neglect?

Rafe was still watching her intently.

“Did you know an average of three hundred and fifty thousand women are reported missing every year?”

“Uh—”

“That’s nine hundred and fifty-eight a day! Two hundred and thirty-three thousand women in the U.S. are raped or sexually assaulted.”

“You just happen to have all these statistics in your head?”

“I looked them up while I was sitting in the police station the first day.”

“And you remembered them?”

She shrugged. “I have a good memory for numbers.”

He just blinked.

“And also, government research shows that victims of nonfamily abductions and stereotypical kidnappings are most at risk of injury, sexual assault or death.”

Rafe frowned, examining his mug. “That doesn’t mean—”

“I know.” Dwelling on what-ifs wouldn’t do Julia any good. Claire took a sip of her coffee. “This is good coffee,” she said to change the subject.

He grunted. “You want more?” He swung a leg behind the chair and went to the coffeepot.

“No, thanks. I’d never get to sleep.” The sun was gradually lighting the room. Traffic noise was revving up for the day. She could faintly hear the bells of the St. Luis Cathedral ringing in the distance. Claire yawned and her eyelids were heavy, but she didn’t want their conversation to end.

She watched him refill his mug. He performed even this simple chore as deftly and masterfully as he did everything else. “You don’t just manage Once Bitten, do you? You’re the owner.”

Returning to his chair, he raised a brow. “How’d you guess?”

“You don’t seem like the type to take orders well.”

Rafe couldn’t help a chuckle. Claire was astute, he’d give her that. And not just that. She’d surprised him several times with her courage, and her stubbornness, and her loyalty to a friend who probably didn’t deserve it.

And all that passion kept tamped down, like a banked fire just waiting for someone to come along and stoke it up into roaring flames. And she’d set him ablaze, as well. She’d been so tight. So hot. He’d lost himself for a moment.

Was that why he’d been attracted to her? He’d sensed something inside her, a tension, a cord wound tight, ready to snap.

“So, how did you come to own a vampire bar?” As if she was readying herself for a long bedtime story, she scooted back, lay down and pulled a soft fluffy pillow under her head.

A woman. In his bed. He’d never brought a woman up here. It was much easier to go to their place—usually a hotel room—so he could leave whenever he wanted. And never have to talk afterward.

Damn, he shouldn’t have asked about her life. Now she thought she could question him. He could tell her he needed to finish that paperwork downstairs. But...“I grew up in New Orleans.”

He found himself standing, making his way to the bed and leaning against the bedpost. “My first job was in a bar. O’Sullivan’s down on Picayune. Cleaning up, doing whatever.” He didn’t tell her he’d learned to make most drinks before he was fifteen. “Didn’t take me long to realize somebody like me’s not going to get anywhere working for other people.”

Her gaze seemed to penetrate his protective shield. “People like you?”

He gritted his teeth. She could stare with those big brown eyes all day. He sure as hell wasn’t going to spill his guts to this woman. “Let’s just say I’m no doctor.”

“I’m really just a microbiologist.”

“Oh, well. That’s different, then.”

Her lips flattened. “So, why a vampire bar?”

He shrugged and finished his coffee. “It’s a way to stand out. Tourists love it.” Despite the coffee, his body was screaming for rest. His mind must need sleep, also, or he would never have talked so much about himself. And Claire looked damned sexy lying there all curled up in his satin comforter. He pushed off the bedpost, crawled in beside her, gently removed her glasses and set them on the bedside table.

Claire rolled to face him, reached over and ran her palm down his chest. Her hand felt soft and warm, soothing...

That was the last thing he remembered until he woke from another nightmare about his pappy. The old man was yelling at him again, had the belt out, threatening like always to beat the crap out of him. But this time Pappy was raving about what a sad sack he was for letting Shadow get away.

And Rafe woke up knowing he was right.

7

C
LAIRE
WOKE
FROM
A
profound sleep, smiled and stretched in the big soft bed with the silky sheets. She hadn’t slept this well since—

Julia! The events of the past three days came slamming back, jolting her fully awake. She twisted and saw the empty space beside her.

Rafe was gone.

From the amount and angle of the light coming through the blinds, it was probably late afternoon. She listened, but heard no shower running. No music blaring from downstairs. Perhaps he was just finishing that paperwork he’d mentioned.

She had things she needed to take care of also. She wanted to call Sergeant Mulroney and see if they’d had any leads on Shadow or the laptop. If Shadow pawned it, hopefully there’d be surveillance tape from the store.

She found her purse, grabbed her cell and called, but the sergeant wasn’t at his desk. As it was Sunday, checking in with her office would have to wait until tomorrow. And she put off calling her parents, knowing she needed to share what information she had, but...she wanted a little while longer to bask in this blissfully sated feeling.

As she stepped into the shower, she contemplated the astounding events of this morning. Aside from the fact that she’d never experienced orgasm before, she’d never—not ever, been told she was beautiful—parents didn’t count. Not in this way. Not in the way Rafe had said it. As if he meant it. As if he actually saw her as a person of beauty. And she’d certainly never felt such white-hot desire. She’d assumed it just wasn’t in her. She’d been blessed with a high I.Q. and that—she’d believed—meant sacrificing other things. Like passion.

Half an hour later, feeling refreshed and in a clean change of clothes, she cautiously made her way downstairs. Her stomach was growling. Perhaps she could talk Rafe into going to the Café Du Monde with her and they could order beignets and café au lait.

At the bottom of the stairs, the spikey-haired, shaved head lady stepped into her path. She glared at Claire, then her gaze darted past her, up the stairs and back to her again. Her eyes narrowed. “I see the King of Flings has bagged himself another Mardi Gras conquest.”

Claire flinched, feeling suddenly self-conscious having been caught coming from some guy’s apartment. A virtual stranger.

“Aw, did he make you think you were special?” She pretended to pout. “Don’t worry, honey. That’s his forte.” She curled her lips and stalked out the back door to the parking lot.

Claire’s face was blazing hot and the room seemed to spin for a moment. The venom from that woman was enough to fell an elephant. But the heavy dose of reality was exactly what she needed right now. Had she actually started to go all moonbeams and starlight about this guy?

As she entered the bar, she steeled herself to face Rafe by thinking about her next plan of action to find Julia. Except she had none.

The bar was dark and empty, somehow seeming even more eerie and frightening for its lack of patrons. She pictured pasty-white beings asleep inside the coffins waiting for the sun to go all the way down before throwing off the lids and rising to feed upon unsuspecting tourists.

With a shiver she turned to the office, assuming she’d find Rafe.

As she opened the door, Rafe spun lightning fast to face her, aiming a large, black handgun. At her.

Her heart seized up. Her throat closed. She couldn’t breathe.

“Damn it!” He glared at her before pointing the weapon at the ceiling. “Don’t ever come in here without knocking.” There was a deadly edge to his voice, and his eyes were a hard, slate-gray.

“I’m s-sorry.”

Still glaring, he clicked something on the gun and a clip slipped out. And, just like in cop shows, he checked the chamber, then shoved the magazine back in again. But he looked nothing like a cop. Dressed in a tight gray T-shirt and low-riding jeans, he looked like a thief who’d come to rob this place instead of its owner.

He stood and gently laid the gun on his desk. “Did you need something?” Without looking at her, he grabbed a small box from his desk drawer. The assistant manager was right. Obviously she was nothing special to this guy. Why would she be?

“I—I thought I’d get something to eat.”

He glanced at her, pulled an extra magazine from the box and shoved it into his back pocket. “I have to work.”

“And you need a gun to work?”

He hesitated a millisecond too long. “Everyone in this neighborhood keeps a gun behind the bar.”

“I see.” But she didn’t. She also didn’t believe him. What was he planning to do with it? Was she totally naive to trust this guy? Her stomach heaved.

Maybe he was going back to The Pit. But why would he, when the police could handle it from here forward? He’d made it clear from the beginning he didn’t want to get involved. And why not tell her, if that was his plan?

Because he didn’t want her tagging along, getting in the way.

But still, something wasn’t right.

For once, Claire, go with your gut,
Julia would have said. But Claire didn’t place much faith in
her
gut.

“Something else you need?”

The way he asked made her wince. As if she were bothering him and he couldn’t wait for her to get out of his sight. As if they hadn’t been as intimate as two people can be not eight hours ago.

But what did she expect? An undying declaration of love just because they’d had sex? She knew better.

But it still...hurt.

“No, nothing.”

She went back upstairs, grabbed her purse and called a cab. But instead of asking the driver to take her to the police station, she had him park out of sight of the bar, but with a clear view of where Rafe’s Barracuda would emerge from.

Rafe had taught her one useful thing.

Don’t confront.

Follow.

* * *

L
ESS
THAN
TEN
MINUTES
LATER
,
Rafe’s Barracuda appeared at the corner of Dauphine Street and turned right onto Bienville.

Claire’s cab followed, but kept a safe distance as Rafe drove farther away from the French Quarter. Up onto the freeway headed toward Lake Pontchartrain, he was driving into a less affluent suburb of New Orleans. There were a couple businesses that had been boarded up, a vacant shopping center surrounded by overgrown weeds. And small, ramshackle houses that had seen better days. This was the kind of poverty-ridden area that bred hopelessness.

How did he know to come to this area? Her chest hurt to think he might be meeting Shadow here, conspiring with him. She just couldn’t believe that of Rafe.

The Barracuda made a U-turn, disappearing under a bridge about a quarter of a mile ahead. The overpass was one of several freeways all crisscrossing each other, forming six to eight clover-shaped viaducts overhead. None of which had any lighting beneath them.

She ordered the cab to pull into a twenty-four-hour convenience store parking lot a few blocks before the overpass, and then twisted in her seat to watch for Rafe’s car to appear on any of the highways. But no black Barracudas came into sight.

Spinning back around, she huffed out an irritable sigh. The other side of this bridge was a dead-end unless one U-turned back onto the freeway. If he’d somehow realized she was following, he might be sitting over there, idling, possibly waiting for her, or maybe he hadn’t, and had parked and was on foot.

She could either have the cab take the U-turn and risk Rafe seeing her, or wait here and possibly miss whatever Rafe was doing. Or she could sneak over there on foot.

Digging into her purse, she found her pepper spray, paid the cabbie and asked him to keep the meter running and wait, then swung open the door and gingerly stepped out.

Her stomach cramped and her whole body tensed as she all but ran down the sidewalk, casting quick glances at the people around her. Most just stared, but two young men started following her, their shaved heads and thick chains looped from their jeans gleamed in the freeway lights above.

She drew a ragged breath and prepared herself to cross the street away from the well-lighted store and into the murky shadows under the bridge where the Barracuda had disappeared.

Glancing behind her at the two skinheads following her, she put her finger on the button that activated her pepper spray and picked up her pace. The footsteps behind her sped up, as well. Her heart pounding, she made it to the other side of the underpass to find herself in a deserted field where several junked cars had been abandoned. And one black Barracuda parked by itself.

The delinquents behind her caught up and she spun, raising her can of pepper spray. But she fumbled the button and dropped it.

Both guys covered their eyes until they noticed nothing had happened. Then they grinned.

She turned and ran, scanning the area for any sign of Rafe.

“You don’t trust me, Claire?”

She yelped as Rafe stepped out from behind a huge cement support column for the highway overhead, his arms crossed in front of him.

“Rafe!” She flew into his arms, shaking in terror. Her heart couldn’t take much more of this.

For a moment his arms came around her, held her tight. Then he grabbed her shoulders, shoved her to his side and reached behind him, producing the gun. He aimed it at the two thugs, who were only a couple of feet away. “Beat it!”

The two backed off, cursing and using crude hand gestures.

After they were gone, he dropped his arm and turned to her. His lips—the same lips that had so sensuously pleasured her in the wee hours of this morning were a tight, hard line. And his eyes practically spit fury. “I ought to leave you out here to the mercies of those two.”

Claire blinked, looked back at where the skinheads had been and then returned her gaze to Rafe and swallowed. “I—I was only following your advice.”

His eyes flared, a spark of surprise in them.

Rafe spun on his heel and strode away, tucking the gun into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back. He headed farther into the cluster of highway overpasses, where the bridges came closer together and formed a huge covered area.

Claire hurried to catch up and glimpsed light flickering ahead. As she got closer, she saw it was a fire burning in a metal trash can, with a small group of people huddled around it for warmth. How cold they must get, exposed to the elements 24/7.

She stilled.

As she looked around, she saw dozens more, men, women and children sitting around, in makeshift beds of newspaper and cardboard boxes, or tattered bedrolls. Some even had tents pitched on the concrete.

A lump formed in her throat, and her heart squeezed. They were the nameless, faceless victims of mental illness or just plain poverty. The homeless.

Rafe had marched on ahead and stopped at a circle of rough-looking men. One by one, he clasped their hands and thumped their backs as if they were old school chums. They stood around talking, some shaking their heads, others nodding.

Why had Rafe come here? Several scenarios raced through Claire’s mind. Did he think Julia had gotten high and was wandering around lost? Not a bad theory, except the Julia she knew didn’t do any drugs. Was it possible she didn’t know Julia as well as she thought? Claire had to squeeze her eyes shut at that notion.

An old woman, her hair straggly, her face reddened from the cold, approached her, wheeling a rusted metal shopping cart. “You a friend of Rafe’s?” Her voice was scratchy, her teeth brown or missing.

A friend? Claire decided that accurately describing their relationship didn’t matter. What mattered was information. “Yes. He’s helping me look for a friend of mine who’s missing. Her name is Julia.” She grabbed her cell from her purse, pulled up Julia’s picture and showed it to the lady. “This is her. Maybe you’ve seen her?”

The lady looked at the picture and shook her head. “Rafael’s helping you?” She looked disbelieving, and then narrowed her eyes as she perused Claire from head to toe and back up again. “Why?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why’s he helping you?”

“Uh, I suppose because my friend was last seen in his bar.”

Her face scrunched up in a threatening snarl. “You tell the cops that? You get Rafael in trouble with the cops?”

“No! I—” Was that the only reason he was helping her? That thought left a bad taste in her mouth. She must be sure to tell him she wasn’t going to hold that over his head. “Do you know a guy who goes by the name of Shadow? He’s tall and thin, with dark hair, and he has three blood drops tattooed down the left corner of his mouth.”

The woman shook her head and kept shaking it. Then she poked Claire hard in the chest. “You hurt our Rafael and you’ll be sorry.” Her voice rose. “I’ll get the voodoo on you!” She started screaming incoherently, shoving Claire. Claire tried to reassure the woman, but it didn’t help.

Rafe appeared, put his arm around the old woman. “’S’all right, Ima Jean, everything’s all right now.” He spoke in that soft Cajun accent and rubbed her arm and soothed her hair back from her brow.

For Claire he had nothing but a cold glare before he turned the woman back toward the group by the fire. Once he had her settled, he stalked over to Claire.

“Let’s go.” He took her arm and started dragging her away.

And she let him. Whatever he’d come here for, he’d done it. And he wasn’t going to tell her what it was unless he wanted to.

But it all made sense now. The air of danger about him. The skill in knife fighting. The familiarity with a gun. She’d discovered a missing piece of the puzzle that was Rafe—Rafael Moreau. A piece, she guessed, most people didn’t know. A piece that made her want to know even more about him.

Rafe had once lived on the streets with these people.

* * *

R
AFE
PULLED
C
LAIRE
along to his Barracuda, barely keeping himself in check. He was tired. So tired. And pissed. And he had no patience for Ms. Stick-Her-Nose-in-His-Business. Although, strictly speaking, this was her business. But she just needed to let him handle it, damn it.