Slave to Love (49 page)

"You on assignment?" he casually asked, his eyes wandering over her body.

"National Geographic. Freelance." It felt strange in her mouth, saying the unfamiliar words, but it was a huge rush, embodying all she'd ever wanted from life—money, prestige, security. Nobody would ever laugh at her again. All hinging on this one assignment.

"
Mais
, I'm impressed, me."

She bit her lip. "But only if I get these orchid photos. Otherwise, it's right back to the Daily Courier."

"Important assignment. I suppose that's why you came out all by yourself?"

She nodded. "I didn't have a choice."

He pinned her with a look. "Risky thing, wanderin' 'round the swamp on your own. Real risky. People get lost all da time. Disappear, even." Jacque's calm demeanor took most of the threatening edge off his words, but not entirely.

"Then it's lucky you were here to rescue me," she said, shifting nervously. Her trapped knees knocked against the insides of his powerful thighs.

A smile spread across his sensuous mouth and, for a split second, his legs tightened against hers. "Our pleasure."

A shiver vibrated through her whole body at the sudden prospect of being carried off and ravished by these two handsome strangers. Or maybe it was the prospect of being carried off and ravished by these two handsome strangers
and liking it.

Oh, God.

She scrambled for something to say to send her mind in a different direction than the one in which it was straying. "I tied markers to trees so I could find my way out of the swamp. I can't imagine what happened to them all."

She felt a gentle tug from behind as Quint pulled the loose ribbon from her ponytail. "Dey all look like dis?"

Her hand went instinctively to her hair, still wet and no doubt filled with twigs and duckweed. She didn't even want to think about what an unsavory mess she must look like.

Quint dangled the ribbon over her shoulder and Jacque took it, shaking his head. "No wonder they disappeared."

"What do you mean?"

"Luke Thibodeaux," Quint said, as if that made everything clear.

Jacque tapped his forehead. "He's a bit slow, him. But he loves his
fille
. And dat girl, she likes buttons and bows and pretty things like silk ribbons in her hair. Guess he didn' see the harm in helpin' himself."

She gasped, scandalized. "But I could have died out here!"

"Ah,
mais non, chérie
," Jacque said with a grin. "Luke, he tol' everyone he saw how he come by dem." He leaned forward and put his arms around her neck to retie the ribbon in her hair. Her skin sizzled from the contact. "Quint an' me, we figured somebody'd be pretty ticked off when they found dem ribbons missin', an' came out to have a look. Imagine our surprise when we found a
jolie fille
in need of rescuing."

His face shifted closer to hers. Close enough to feel his warm breath on her cheeks. Close enough to see his long, dark lashes and the little crinkles at the corner of his black, expressive eyes.

Close enough to kiss.

"Usually it's IRS or ATF agents."

"Huh?" She blinked, no idea what he was talking about.

"Ah, here we are. Home."

Sahara gave herself a mental shake and looked in the direction he was pointing. A rickety wooden jetty stuck out precariously into the swamp. Tucked into the trees behind it was a small, ancient house on stilts. Made of neatly whitewashed clapboard, it was surrounded by a wooden gallery, its roof pitched in the distinctive Cajun style. The cabin was something straight out of National Geographic.

Or, take away the stilts and gallery and put it in the middle of the desert, and the tiny grizzled structure could be something right out of her own past. She felt instantly claustrophobic.

The sensual spell Jacque had woven shattered, replaced by alarm. "What's this? I thought you were taking me to the bus?"

Jacque looked at her placidly. "Bus won' be there for ages. You can get cleaned up here. Play your cards right, I might even make you some of my world-famous gumbo for supper. Nothin' to eat at dat bus stop."

She looked uneasily from him to Quint, who'd hopped onto the jetty and was busy tying up the boats. She glanced at the shack. Despite its age, it looked well-kept and welcoming. White curtains fluttered behind bright blue shutters and a pair of rockers sat invitingly to one side of the front door. A wind-chime tinkled softly from the porch ceiling. Not exactly the sort of place a pair of serial killers would live.

She hoped.

Besides, she really could use a bar of soap and a washcloth. The gumbo didn't sound bad, either.

Against her better judgment, she assented. "Okay. Just as long as I make that bus."

***

Skittish. Very skittish.

Jacque watched the bathroom door close behind pretty Sahara Jensen and counted to ten, more than half expecting it to fly open once she discovered there was no lock.

Non, mais non
. She was nothing like the women he and Quint had occasionally brought home in the past. Those women had all been eager, enthusiastic participants in the seduction game, looking forward to a night of unparalleled pleasure and kinky sex with the infamous Cherchat boys.

The corner of his mouth tugged upward. This could be fun.

It was amazing that she was on assignment for National Geographic. He'd have to give his old friend Miles Landau a call. Put in a good word for her. By the time they let her go, he'd surely owe her at least that much.

"
Dieu
, she's a shy one," Quint remarked, perusing the well-stocked wine rack for a good vintage. "I think I'm in love."

"She's mine," Jacque reminded his brother coolly. "You can share—if Lisette doesn' get here an' skin your hide first. But I call the shots on dis one."

"Whatever you say, little brother," Quint agreed amiably and lifted the cork from the bottle he'd chosen.

A French label and very expensive, Jacque noted. He approved. This was a special occasion.

The shower went on, and they both glanced toward the bathroom. "Think she'll need a wrap when she gets out?" he wondered aloud, lifting his silk robe from the ornate wrought iron footboard of the huge bed that took up most of one side of his cabin.

"Oh, yeah. I think she will." Quint took the robe from him and headed for the bathroom. "Can't pack her off on dat bus wearing dirty clothes, now can we?"

Jacque sent him a grin. "What bus?"

Quint chuckled. "Still, better rinse out her things for her, eh?"

"I'm sure she'd be glad."

"Believe I will."

"
Bien.
I'll get started on the gumbo, right after I check my email and put out the day's fires at the office."

And send a quick note to Lisette...

***

Sahara closed her eyes and let the hot water run over her face and down her body. It felt wonderful. This was the best thing that had happened all day. She was happy she'd given in to Jacque's insistence she shower, using anti-bacterial soap to kill all the nasty germs she'd probably picked up during her unplanned dunk in the dirty swamp.

She'd had a bad moment when she'd realized there was no lock on the bathroom door, but had finally decided that, if her two rescuers had planned to jump her, they'd have done so by now. To be honest, neither had said or done anything the least bit untoward.

To be even more honest, a part of her might like it if they did.

Not that she could ever be serious about anyone who lived like this—poor and out in the middle of nowhere. Been there, done that. Never again would she be the town joke, laughed at for living in a one-room shack with parents who didn't believe in the benefits of money.

But she wasn't talking serious here. She'd only be staying a couple hours at most. And with the two of them competing for her, well, she should be safe enough.

The door clicked softly and she cautiously peeked around the curtain. No one there. Must have been the natural creaking of a house built on stilts over the water. She gave her hair a final wash and rinse, shut off the water and reached for a towel. She was really going to hate putting on those damp, filthy clothes again.

Except they were gone.

She stared at the empty space on the rack where she'd left her clothes and her pulse went into hyperspace. So much for being safe. They'd just been waiting until she was clean and naked.

A soft knock sounded on the door and she jumped a foot.

"
Chère
?" Quint's voice crept through the solid wood. "I took your clothes outside and gave 'em a good washin'. Go 'head an' use Jacque's bathrobe till they dry. It's hanging on the peg,
non
?"

She sagged with relief. "Um, okay."

"There's also some things in da cabinet you might need."

"Thanks." Forcing herself to be calm, she grabbed the silk dressing gown and wrapped herself in it. It was huge. The hem dragged the floor, the shoulders hit her elbows and the sleeves hung several inches past her fingers. It also smelled like Jacque.

Stunned that she'd recognize his unique smell, she lifted the sleeve to her nose and inhaled deeply. A little musky, a little spicy, and oh, so very male.

A tiny sound stole from her. It had been a long time since she'd been with a man, and until this very moment she hadn't realized how much she'd missed it.

No
. She didn't miss it. Not all of it, anyway. Just this—the smell of a man completely enveloping her, weaving its sensual, mystical spell around her will and her senses. Claiming her. Reducing her hormones to needy supplicants at the altar of potent male pheromones.

Sweet mercy.

She took another breath. There was something innately erotic about Jacque's scent. A hint of exotic cologne mixed with the clean smell of a healthy man's body. And more. A note of something she couldn't quite place. Almost like... home cooking?

Her stomach growled, putting an unglamorous end to her sensual reverie. She sniffed again. Hell, that was no bathrobe, that was supper.

She rolled up the robe's sleeves and poked through the cabinet, finding a new toothbrush, a mascara and a blusher. Obviously whichever brother lived here was used to having women around. Women who needed to renew their make-up.

Whose house was it, anyway? She'd only seen one bed in the large one-room cabin, and just the one robe had hung in the bathroom. Jacque's robe.

A quick sting of irrational jealousy stabbed through her. She firmly squelched it. The man was gorgeous. Shoot, both of them were gorgeous. Back in New Orleans, she'd have killed for a date with either one of the Cherchat brothers. They were attractive and nice, and apparently Jacque could cook, too. Naturally, women would be hanging all over them.

She shrugged. None of her concern. She'd be out of their lives before she knew it. She was only grateful to the women who'd trained them well enough to keep spare make-up in the bathroom cabinet. She happily made use of it and the toothbrush as well.

Folding a towel around her hair, she emerged to find Jacque standing in front of the stove and Quint sitting at a small kitchen table, both men sipping wine. A third glass had been poured and sat in front of an empty chair at the table.

The cabin consisted of one large room, divided by a big, cushy sofa and easy chair into a bedroom area and a kitchen-living room area. There was a desk in one corner, and bookshelves scattered around the walls, filled with a variety of books and magazines. The small, neat kitchen contained an impressive assortment of copper and Calaphon pots and pans hanging from a rack over the stove. The bed was huge, with ornate wrought iron head and footboards, and was canopied by a full-length
baire
, or mosquito net.