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Too Wild to Hold
Julie Leto
Hot nights in The Big Easy…In the sultry heat of New Orleans, a masked man stalks his next prey…private investigator Claire Lecuyer. In order to protect her, FBI agent Michael Murrieta–the descendant of a real masked legend–must go undercover at her hiding place…a sensual retreat, where decadence and sin beckon from every room.Once immersed in this world of pleasure, Claire and Michael find themselves teased by the languidly sexual environment–and their blazing attraction to each other. But even as they "mask" their true identities, it's too late. Now Claire and Michael are caught up in the danger…and their desire. And the longer they stay in the sensuous world, the more dangerous it is!


“Just how far are you willing to take this?” Michael asked.
“As far as we have to,” Claire said, breathless, even as her voice hitched when he pressed his lips to her neck. Suddenly, she didn’t care that they were being watched. “You?”
“As far as you want to go,” he replied. He pressed her full against his body, so that she could not mistake the feel of his erection against her, even through the layers of her gown. “I came here with no intention beyond getting you to safety as soon as possible. But I’d be lying if I denied how beautiful you are or how hot you look in that dress, especially now that it’s half-off. Making love to you would not be a hardship. In fact, it would be my pleasure.”
Her jaw dropped open momentarily, then she lifted her chin and laughed. “Then I think I’m going to like working with you, Special Agent Murrieta.”
“If we do it right, it won’t be work. And please, call me Michael.”
“By all means, Michael. Let’s give those pervs behind the camera something worth watching.”



Dear Reader,
I love old movies. Not all old movies, mind you. I prefer the epic, swashbuckling films where swordplay rules the day and the heroes survive not only because of their skill and speed, but also because of their irrepressible charm with the ladies. Pirate movies are a personal favorite, but I also adore stories set around the exploits of a certain black-masked bandit who rode around colonial California and fought for the rights of the downtrodden. And at the same time, he somehow managed to win a beautiful woman who really shouldn’t have had anything to do with him.
Over the years, this hero has been played by many great actors, each giving him their own spin. So I thought, why not do the same with the heroes of my series, who are all fictionally descended from the real-life outlaw who supposedly inspired the legend? Three brothers couldn’t be more different than wealthy, educated Alejandro (hero of Too Hot to Touch, August 2011), FBI agent Michael and their black sheep brother, Daniel. Each man has inherited some of their infamous ancestor’s daring, bravado and charm, but all in a different way.
Recreating a historical legend in order to fit my own imagination was a true pleasure. I hope you enjoy Claire and Michael’s story as much as I did writing it.
Happy Reading,
Julie Leto

Too Wild to Hold
Julie Leto


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Over the course of her career, New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author Julie Leto has published more than forty books—all of them sexy and all of them romances at heart. She shares a popular blog—www.plotmonkeys.com—with her best friends Carly Phillips, Janelle Denison and Leslie Kelly and would love for you to follow her on Twitter, where she goes by @JulieLeto. She’s a born and bred Floridian homeschooling mom with a love for her family, her friends, her dachshund, her lynx-point Siamese and supersexy stories with a guaranteed happy ending.
This book is dedicated to
Smarties and Kit Kat bars.

(Which means my next book will be dedicated,
once again, to Jazzercise.)

Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue

1
“DON’T MOVE. I’VE come for you—and only you.”
With the whispered threat came the clamp of a man’s gloved hand on the back of Claire Lécuyer’s neck. She commanded herself not to flinch or alter her features, which she’d schooled into relaxed amusement. She’d entered this crowded ballroom of her own free will and she meant to leave that way, even if she had to take a madman with her.
She started to turn, but he tightened his grasp.
“You don’t take orders very well,” he chastised.
He didn’t know the half of it.
Despite the rush of adrenaline pumping through her veins, Claire willed her voice to remain light and lilting, in keeping with the character she’d created. Tonight she wasn’t just a former cop turned private investigator searching for a missing person—she was, in this undercover incarnation, a sweet Southern belle looking for her lover among the throng.
“But the night has just begun,” she said. “Who knows who is going to end up with whom?”
Two hundred years had passed since the first quadroon ball, but two weeks ago, Claire had learned that the traditions of old New Orleans had been reintroduced to modern Louisiana by sexual fetishists who called themselves Nouvelle Placage. In a leased plantation over an hour away from the French Quarter, the group recreated the grand ballrooms and strict rules of a system that had once been the means by which rich white landowners arranged for long-term affairs with women of the gens de couleur libre, a light-skinned French Creole class native to pre-Americanized New Orleans.
But the people here tonight weren’t re-enactors like the ones who showed up at Chalmette National Park every January to recreate the Battle of New Orleans. These modern men paid outrageous entry fees for women who would fulfill their every fantasy. They came from across the country to enjoy a weekend of anonymous sexual encounters dressed up with proper manners, old-world moral codes and romanticized dominance and submission.
In the past, the young ladies demanded homes, generous allowances, finest clothes and educations for their bastard children from the men they took as lovers. In this modern revival, the compensation was a hell of a lot more complicated. And the affairs only lasted for a weekend—which meant Claire had that long to complete her case and find Josslyn Granger.
Technically, Josslyn wasn’t missing, though for four years, her whereabouts had been unknown. According to her former husband, she’d announced her defection from suburban soccer mom to sexual deviant, filed for divorce and disappeared. But though she’d granted her perplexed husband papers to dissolve their marriage, she’d conveniently forgotten to give up parental rights for their two children.
Since then, Robert Granger had hired a dozen private investigators to search for his wayward ex-wife as she followed various sex partners and sex clubs around the country, but none had succeeded in pinning her down. When the husband heard she’d be in New Orleans for the Nouvelle Placage event, he’d hired Claire. Now that Granger had remarried, his job required frequent overseas travel, and his new wife, for both legal and emotional reasons, needed to adopt Josslyn’s kids. But for that to happen, Claire had to find Josslyn and convince her to sign the papers she’d hidden nearby.
The case was a welcome diversion from her usual background checks and cheating spouse investigations. She liked to succeed where others had failed. She adored undercover work and relished a chance to test her own limits.
What she didn’t like was being manhandled by some guy who may or may not be the stalker the FBI had warned her about. A stalker who was after Claire.
“You will end up with me,” he said, his voice a low, but confident promise.
She forced a girlish giggle. If he was the stalker, maybe a different persona would throw him off. He hadn’t come here expecting to find a pliant, vapid ingénue on the prowl for a man. He’d expected Claire Lécuyer—who was, in all ways, the complete opposite.
“Is that so?” she asked, her tone seemingly unconcerned. “But you have not yet negotiated my willingness to end up with you. Have you not been schooled in the ways of Nouvelle Placage?”
Around them, men in impeccable top coats and breeches circled the room, calculating and assessing their more-than-willing prey. From behind painted fans, women in decadent, empire-waist gowns flirted and fawned, hot with anticipation for a lover who’d soon devour them with unbridled desire and deep, deep pockets.
If not for the strains of a lively quadrille and the overpowering scent of candle wax, a stranger might mistake the scene for a modern-day masquerade. But this place was more than costumes and characters—this was the gilded antechamber into a dark and scintillating world. Claire had busted her ass to get in to this guarded community and she sure as hell wasn’t going to let some mystery man derail her, no matter who he was. Maybe he was just an attendee who’d missed orientation. Or maybe he was the stalker.
Didn’t matter. She wasn’t dealing with her own problems until she completed her case.
“Perhaps I should call Monsieur Masterson to remind you of how things are done here?” she suggested, invoking the obviously fake name of the man who seemed to be in charge. Unfortunately, he was nowhere in sight.
“I know all the rules, Ms. Lécuyer,” the mystery man assured her. “But like you, I believe that some rules are made to be broken.”
She pretended to laugh, hoping to shake off her fear. “Your overconfidence does you no credit, sir. But if you are so intent on having me, perhaps you should begin by telling me who you—”
He cut off her inquiry by tightening his grip.
“You thought you’d be safe here, didn’t you?” While one hand held her immobile, the other trailed up the back of her gown, brushing the beribboned stays with exquisite slowness, as if he savored a chance to untie each and every one. “You thought you could protect yourself.”
Unexpectedly, his breath was tinged with the sweet scent of mint and creamy café au lait.
“You haven’t yet proven otherwise, sir,” she whispered.
Swallowing her fear, she’d pushed out the reply with a bold confidence that was only half-sincere. She didn’t know very much about the man who was after her. The local FBI agents had only told her to go someplace safe and wait for contact by the lead agent who was on his way from California. Since she only had the weekend to find Josslyn Granger among the attendees of Nouvelle Placage, she’d figured it was as safe a place as any.
She’d had to call in quite a few favors from her days at Vice to even get in here. She’d had to pay the dues, buy the clothes, endure the orientation, all in her bid to find a woman she knew was here somewhere, but who’d yet to show. She hadn’t imagined some wacked-out sicko who’d last been spotted in California would go to so much trouble to follow her.
But maybe she was wrong.
She moved her head just enough to catch a glimpse of her captor. His startling blue eyes widened, then narrowed before he tugged her back into place.
“You don’t follow directions very well,” he chastised.
She snorted. He wasn’t the first man to utter those words to her. And he probably wouldn’t be the last.
“It’s one of my unique charms, I assure you.”
His chuckle was low, but genuine, and soothed her anxiety rather than increased it.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“A man who caught you.”
He smoothed his gloved fingers around her throat and pressed gently against her carotid artery.
Her breath hitched. Damn, damn, damn.
Why hadn’t she listened more carefully to the local feds? The details she retained were sketchy. A special task force had put her name on a short list of likely victims for some creep who kidnapped women. He used the date-rape drug Rohypnol and incapacitated them long enough to act out some freakish seduction where he wore a mask and cape. Buried under by preparations for her own case, Claire had hardly given their warnings a second thought.
But then a black silk scarf embroidered with a scarlet letter Z had been delivered to her doorstep. She’d immediately taken it to the FBI, but refused their offer of protection and instead went ahead with her time-sensitive plans.
Which might, she admitted to herself now, have been a mistake.
One by one, she felt his fingers dig deeper into the skin along her throat. “One squeeze right here and you’d fall into a dead faint. A rather fashionable thing to do for young ladies of the early nineteenth century, wasn’t it? No one would blink if I carried you out for a moonlight tryst.”
His hand constricted, but not enough to spawn even the slightest dizziness. He was taunting her, perhaps even attempting to scare her.
And he was succeeding.
But she wasn’t going down easily. She shifted her elbows into striking range when he tightened his hold again.
“Don’t move,” he warned.
She bit back a curse. She’d nearly dropped her cover. The women of Nouvelle Placage came here specifically to be manhandled. If she reacted too much like a modern-day ex-cop and not enough like a woman on the prowl, she’d have to deal with more scrutiny, more questions—more possibilities for getting tossed out on her ass.
“Let me go.” She delivered the command with a honey-sweet Southern lilt, but though his grip slackened, he did not release her.
“Luckily for you, I’m not here to hurt you.”
Something in his tone sliced through her suspicions, along with the fact that he loosened his hold. Maybe he wasn’t the man who’d sent her the scarf. Maybe he wasn’t related to the FBI case at all. Her instincts kept returning to that possibility, and though her gut had often gotten her into trouble, it had never proved wrong.
Painting on a simpering smile, she turned to face him, chin up and eyes flashing.
She didn’t know him, but she’d seen him. When she’d first been paraded in the ballroom along with the other women intent on selling their services for the weekend, she’d become instantly aware of his presence.
Amid the assessing stares of the many men in attendance, his intense, sapphire blue eyes had stood out, causing a prickle of excitement to shoot through her system like liquid lightning. She’d immediately recognized the reaction. Lust. He was handsome, with a square chin and strong upper torso built more for helmets and shoulder pads than snug breeches and a fluffed cravat.
But just as quickly as she’d felt the flicker of desire, she’d dismissed it. This weekend might be all about sex for everyone else here, but she had a job to do.
Which, now that she saw her captor close up, was a crying shame.
“Of course you won’t hurt me,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes. “Unless I want you to, non?”
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. He wanted to smile, but fought the urge. Well, that wasn’t the only urge he’d have to fight tonight. He might have set his sights on her, but she had no intention of taking a lover—no matter how hypnotic his blue eyes were.
“We should negotiate our expectations in a quieter place, don’t you think?” he asked.
She softened her voice to a coy purr. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Not yet, ma cher,” he replied, his raspy voice scraping over her. “But I expect that, soon, you’ll know much more about me than that.”
Claire took a step back, dislodging his hand only for a second before he regained his touch.
“You may release me now, sir,” she said.
“That would not be wise.” The corner of his mouth quirked into a bold grin that liquefied her insides and gave a little tweak of desire to the tips of her tightly corseted breasts.
This was ridiculous. Why was he being so single-minded? And why was she so intrigued?
“Really? And why ever not?”
He leaned in close. His lips brushed against her curls when he spoke, but the voice that had been so accented and charming before now sliced across her skin with icy precision.
“Because you’re in danger, Ms. Lécuyer, and I’m here to protect you.”

2
SPECIAL AGENT MICHAEL Murrieta gave his captive a minute to let his words sink in. Once her eyes narrowed in suspicion and she visibly shed the cloying persona she’d adopted for the night, he released his hold. From the first word he’d read in her file, he’d figured she was going to be a pain in the ass, but he’d had no idea he’d have to cross the continental United States, don a crazy costume and borrow ten thousand dollars from his brother in order to find her.
He turned their bodies so that no one could see, then with practiced swiftness, flashed his credentials.
Her eyes widened and she mouthed an unspoken curse.
“Not here,” she pleaded.
She took a large step back again, but he quickly regained custody of her hand. “If not here, then where, cher?”
His accurate Creole accent again elicited a tilted eyebrow. He had to admit that she was very good at going undercover—but he was better. He did not have her family’s theater background, but Michael had years of experience with the Bureau and a partner originally from Louisiana who’d schooled him on the accent before he’d taken off to find Claire Lécuyer and save her from a rapist.
She had not made his job easy. Only hours after alerting the local office that she had received the telltale scarf, she’d dropped off the grid and disappeared into this sexual underworld. In order to bypass their intense security on short notice, he’d had to make quick arrangements for an authentic costume—oddly, not difficult to do in New Orleans—and borrow the exorbitant entrance fee from his brother, Alejandro. He had authorization to retrieve Claire Lécuyer and put her under protective custody, but he doubted his superiors would have approved of him paying his way into a sex club.
The case hadn’t yet become a major priority for the Bureau. They had serial killers to catch and homegrown terrorists to thwart. They’d only thrown the case his way because of an obscure tie between him and the rapist. But it was that same family secret that made him determined to catch this psycho before he hurt another woman. To that end, he’d finagled a consult from the Behavioral Analysis Unit at Quantico, received approval to call in Ruby, his partner, a member of his San Francisco team and was given open access to agents from the local office.
Otherwise, Michael was on his own.
It hadn’t been easy to find Claire, but he’d pulled it off with limited resources and time. He had no reason to believe that her stalker, a man who’d already kidnapped and tormented five other women, wouldn’t find her, too.
And when he did, Michael intended to catch him.
“So now that you have me,” she said, turning up the mocking quality in her Southern belle enunciation, “whatever are you going to do with me?”
He bit back a grin, but allowed an eye roll. There was something about this woman that could drive a man to drink. Heavily. As it was, he’d taken a great risk snatching her the way he had, but he’d had a point to make. Despite FBI warnings, she’d gone off on her own. Her dossier overflowed with situations where she’d put her investigation above her own safety. She’d lost her badge for disobeying repeated orders from her superiors to stop her pursuit of a suspicious death case that had, because of her, resulted in a highly publicized murder conviction.
But he didn’t see her vindication as a victory. If she’d followed procedures and worked within the system, she might have had the same result and kept her job. Not that he was one to judge at this point. He believed in the rules set forth by the Bureau which ensured that investigations were both balanced and prosecutable.
On the other hand, if he hadn’t ripped a page out of her book tonight, he might never have found her before the unsub.
“The possibilities for what we might do together are endless, cher,” he replied, “but none would be appropriate for this company.” His eyes darted to the men and women mingling around them. “Perhaps we can move along to some place a little more private?”
Within the depths of her mossy green eyes, he watched her calculate the risk versus the reward. No doubt she wanted to get rid of him as quickly as possible so she could continue to pursue her case. Had their roles been reversed, he’d want the same. But she didn’t know yet what he had planned for her. If she did, she might change her mind about ditching him, which he was certain she would try to do.
Claire tilted her fan toward the foyer, then hooked her arm into his. “This way, sir,” she crooned. “If you wish to take me on, you’ll first have to consult with my maman.”
“Of course,” he said, tempering a grin.
Very wisely, Claire had arranged for backup of sorts in the form of her aunt, who had stepped into the role of maman for the night. As the designated “mother” figure, she would negotiate a proper arrangement for her “daughter.” In other words, she was the pimp. From Claire’s superior smirk, she expected that her aunt would dismiss any amount Michael offered.
Well, she’d soon see that while she was wily and had come prepared, so had he.
In the grand foyer, draped sheets of sheer organza and candelabras bright with beeswax tapers masked the peeling paint and moldy smell of the old plantation house. Michael had to admire the time and effort the organizers had taken to ensure that one step over the threshold transported attendees into a different world—an old world, a racially ambiguous world when the French dominated New Orleans.
Some of the accounts he’d read during prep for this case had claimed that white men who bought quadroon women did so out of true love and affection. Glancing at Claire, with her flawless coffee-stained skin and hypnotically opaque green eyes, he could understand the appeal. How hard was it, really, to be intrigued—enslaved, even—by a woman such as her?
With her exotic beauty and impeccable manners, what man wouldn’t promise away his entire legacy to possess her, even for just one night?
Michael slid his gloved hand over hers as they approached the veritable shelf of older women sitting in a row beside the open windows. A breeze scented with night-blooming jasmine cooled the air and ruffled through the swatch of silk she’d tucked into the neckline of her gown. He couldn’t help but wonder what he would find if he peeled the material away—then he realized that was probably the whole point of the costume piece.
She exhaled with relief when she spotted her aunt, seated and sipping on a cocktail. Clarice had spent most of her life involved with the theater, and since she’d also been born and raised in the French Quarter, she’d easily seen more sordid events than this laced up version of consensual prostitution.
“This is my maman,” Claire said by way of introduction, her voice lilting with confidence that he was about to be summarily dismissed.
Michael gave a low and reverent bow, took the woman’s lace-gloved hand and swept a kiss across her knuckles.
“Madame,” he greeted. From inside his jacket, he took out an envelope he’d prepared ahead of time.
Clarice took another sip of her drink, snatched the letter and gave it a quick, almost cursory read. Then, after looking him up and down, she nodded her approval.
“Maman!” Claire protested.
Michael fought to hide his amusement, but instead grabbed her elbow and leaned in close. “She knows who I am and she knows why I’m here. Now find us a place to talk in private or I’ll drag you out and whatever case you’re working on will be ruined.”
Claire cast one angry look at her aunt, who smiled benignly in response. “The man makes a fair offer, my love. Go with him. Hear what he has to stay.”
Claire continued to silently plead with her aunt, but the woman’s matching gaze was just as stubborn and intense and Michael wasn’t sure who would win this battle of wills. He had indeed sought out Claire’s “guardian” shortly after spotting her in the ballroom. Following the protocol of Nouvelle Placage, he had revealed his credentials and verified that the aunt was helping Claire on her undercover operation, then had taken the older woman on a short stroll and explained what he’d come here to do.
Though Claire had already told her aunt about the serial rapist, she’d downgraded him to a simple stalker. So when Michael filled Aunt Clarice in on the real story, she’d agreed to help him by approving him as her niece’s lover. Once alone, he and Claire could talk freely, and hopefully, Michael could convince her to leave.
For her own safety—and for her case—she had to trust him.
She muttered a very unladylike curse, and then hissed, “This way, monsieur.”

AS THEY WALKED to the curved staircase, Claire pushed away her anger. Nothing good ever came from reacting solely on emotions. She had to concentrate on the task at hand. This FBI agent, whose name she hadn’t caught as he flashed his identification, had gone to a lot of trouble not to muck up her case. The least she could do was hear him out.
Her reconnaissance at the old plantation house had been minimal, but she knew that one of the upstairs bedrooms, reserved for lovers who preferred a traditional setting rather than one of the more exotic locations throughout the house, would afford them a measure of privacy. Damn it.
She shouldn’t have called the Feds about the scarf. She should have kept her mouth shut until after she’d closed her case. But she hadn’t figured the government would act so quickly, not for a case where no crime against her had yet to be committed. Maybe the agent would be reasonable. Maybe he’d agree to leave her to her assignment until she’d found Josslyn and obtained the woman’s signature.
Or maybe he’d already messed up her chances of bringing her case to a close by spiriting her upstairs long before any of the other women had left the dance floor.
On the second story landing, they were met by a dark-skinned woman in a plain, black dress who led them to a room at the end of the hall. Without a word, she opened the door and stood, eyes down, while they went inside. Claire had seen the woman with Masterson earlier. Was she just an employee or one of the organizers? In this world, it was impossible to know all the players.
The door shut behind them with a tight click.
Claire opened her mouth to speak, but the handsome agent held up his hand while he scanned the dimly lit room.
The boudoir did not have much furniture. A large bed with a plush comforter and an array of pillows. A silk changing screen, a chaise lounge, a small table set with a brandy decanter and two snifters, three lamps and a fireplace filled not with logs in the summer heat, but with a fragrant blaze of orange and red flowers.
Just enough scenery to evoke the weekend’s theme, but not enough to detract from the real objective—sex.
When the agent looked up at an air vent in the corner, his shoulders stiffened for a split second before he turned and held out his hand with a gallant bow. “So, cher, would you care to dance?”
He remained in character, so she did, too. He’d spotted something. With her gaze cast coquettishly at her slippers, she shuffled closer. From the break in the light beneath the door, she could see that someone was listening in. She’d been warned that some of the people in the Nouvelle Placage entertained themselves not by participating, but by watching. Did that include eavesdropping at key holes?
After slipping her hand into the agent’s, she chanced a glance at the air vent that had put him on guard.
Tucked just beyond the cast-iron scrollwork was a camera.
And from the tiny green light, she could tell it was on.
“I’d love to dance with you, sir,” she said, “but we haven’t any music.”
“That can be rectified, I’m sure.”
He marched to the door and swung it open, startling the woman hovering there.
“You!” he ordered, his manners and stature every bit as imposing as a Creole-accented Rhett Butler. “We want music. And hurry up about it.”
Less than two minutes later, she wheeled in a device that looked like a gramophone, but was connected to a very modern CD player. The FBI agent practically pushed the woman out of the door, locked it, then slowly eased his fingers out of his gloves.
She did the same, but finished first as his right glove had snagged on a large emerald ring. She was just about to comment on the unusual size and style when he turned up the volume of the melodic waltz more than necessary.
He gave her a little bow, revealing a twinkle in his deep blue eyes that was not the least bit government issue.
Who was this guy?
She curtsied as she’d learned to do before she’d gotten herself kicked out of cotillion class and then willfully walked into his arms.
His hand on her waist was taut, but the one that cupped her palm was surprisingly gentle. He was a mass of contradictions, this nameless man.
“I thought the local FBI instructed you to lay low until I arrived,” he said as they swayed to the string-heavy waltz.
“I don’t even know who you are.”
“Special Agent Michael Murrieta.”
“Shh,” she admonished. His voice was strong and would easily carry over the music. “If the room has a camera, it clearly has listening devices, too.”
“These freaks aren’t the only ones with hardware. I slipped an amplifier onto that gramophone. It’ll boost the sound—the only thing any bugs will pick up is Mozart.”
She smirked. “Actually, this is Strauss.”
“It’s still a cool gadget. They can watch us, but they won’t hear a word we say.”
She couldn’t help but be impressed by both his preparedness and his slightly boyish enthusiasm for spy toys.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“I’m the lead on your case.”
“I’m not a case, Special Agent. I’m just a private citizen who turned over evidence, as instructed. But I do have my own case and I’d like to get back to it before you screw it up.”
He withdrew just enough that she could see the full breadth of his cocky smirk. “Do I look like I’m screwing anything up?”
She turned her cheek, unwilling to confess that Special Agent Michael Murrieta did appear to be incredibly competent—not to mention smooth.
He’d dressed the part of a Southern gentleman to a tee, from his polished boots to his well-fitting breeches, tapered jacket and expertly tied cravat. He’d adopted mannerisms and speech patterns of an antebellum gentleman with sparkling ease and charm, like Nathan Fillion channeling the spirit of Clark Gable.
It was disarming.
She suddenly had no trouble understanding how women could get so wrapped up in this world. The sexual allure was powerful.
At least, the sexual allure of Special Agent Michael Murrieta.
He was clearly a good actor—which meant he couldn’t be trusted.
“Why are you here?” she asked, tugging back slightly. Unlike the other women at Nouvelle Placage, she hadn’t dolled herself up in silk and simpering sweetness to get all cozy with a man. She had a job to do. And the longer she swayed around the bedroom with this intoxicating fed, the harder it would be for her to accomplish her goal.
“You received a scarf,” he said.
“Yes, I know,” she snapped. “I was there. I delivered it to your field office myself, which I didn’t have to do, you know. I could have waited until I was done with this case. I should have waited.”
“Maybe, but then you might be dancing with an unhinged rapist rather than with me.”
He spun her, the twirl both expert and effortless.
She gasped, a little dizzy. A little impressed.
“It matched the ones left with the other victims,” he explained, his voice soft, but weighted with importance. “Didn’t the agent-in-charge explain what the scarf meant?”
She groaned. “He just said that some wack job who thinks he’s the Frito Bandito might try and abduct me to fulfill some sort of non-sexual sex fantasy.”
Agent Murrieta stiffened, but continued to maneuver her in a tight square in the center of the room. When she looked up, she was surprised to find that his eyes had hardened into twin blocks of blue ice.
“It’s not non-sexual. Not anymore. He’s escalated. You’re in serious danger, Ms. Lécuyer. And I’m going to make sure he doesn’t get to you, whether you want me to or not.”

3
FRITO BANDITO? Had she just equated his storied ancestor with the retired mascot for corn chips? At the spot where his right hand rested just below her shoulder blade, his father’s ring burned.
Or at least, he imagined it did.
The family heirloom had reportedly once belonged to the very man whose reputation Claire had just unknowingly insulted. Centered by an emerald etched with a Z and flanked by two large opals that reflected vibrant blues and greens among the inky black, the ring had always been his father’s most treasured possession. Now it connected Michael to his brothers, to his family legacy—and to this case.
No one at the FBI knew that Michael was the direct descendant of Joaquin Murrieta, the very real and very notorious California renegade after whom the fictionalized Zorro was based. He’d drawn the line at allowing the unsub to be branded with the name associated with his famous forebear, so he certainly wasn’t going to let Joaquin Murrieta be reduced to a mustachioed Mexican stereotype.
“The unknown subject, whom my colleagues have dubbed The Bandit, is both delusional and dangerous. Just because he’s fixated on a character who wore black masks and capes in the movies doesn’t make him any less dangerous. Especially to a delicate woman like yourself.”
The last part was a cheap shot, but it hit the target. Her eyes flashed and he had to increase the pressure of his grip to keep her swaying to the music rather than punching him in the face.
He shouldn’t have baited her, but somehow, he couldn’t help himself. Unintended insult to his ancestor notwithstanding, Claire Lécuyer took herself entirely too seriously. He would know. He usually did the same.
But not tonight. Not with her. Casting aside the fact that he was dressed like an idiot while prancing around for some voyeur’s video camera with moves he hadn’t used since his ballroom-obsessed fifth grade teacher taught her class the box step, Michael felt entirely at ease. Dancing with Claire—no, holding her close—felt nearly as natural as taking her into his protective custody.
Again, he wondered about the ring. According to legend, it allowed the wearer to access the three qualities most often associated with the dashing character the unsub had appropriated for his sexual fantasy. A strong desire to impart justice to the wicked. An insatiable desire for adventure. And, of course, an enviable talent with women.
Michael didn’t believe any of that nonsense, but he knew one thing for sure: if he was going to go up against a madman to save Claire Lécuyer, he’d take all the help he could get.
“I don’t need a bodyguard,” she murmured, her lips drawn in a severe line. “I used to be a cop, you know.”
“Of course I know,” he replied, taking a chance at a second twirl that made her gasp in surprise. “I’ve made it my business to know everything about you. At least, everything that could be collected in an FBI file. But law enforcement experience doesn’t make you invincible.”
“No, but it does make me smarter about my safety than the average woman.”
“So smart that I had my hand around your throat and could have taken you out of here without anyone thinking it was more than some sexual game?”
Claire swallowed, the movement mesmerizing, particularly in the uncertain lamp light. Getting the jump on her had been a lucky break, but she didn’t need to know that. Between the music, the lights, the swirl and swish of multi-colored gowns, it was a miracle he’d spotted her so quickly.
Though she was pretty tough to miss.
The rest of the women had gone to great lengths to look young and fresh, but Claire was naturally both. She’d applied her makeup with a light hand and wore a gown of pale ivory that emphasized the rich caramel hue of her skin. From the curves and lines in her shoulders and bare arms, he guessed that she worked out regularly—probably outside in the wet Louisiana heat. Despite the sweet young persona she’d adopted, she moved with a bold confidence that had snatched the attention of nearly every other man in the room. Any with taste.
For that reason, he’d acted quickly. The minute he’d sensed her scanning the room for the woman she was looking for, he’d darted into action.
But for all he knew, the Bandit had been in the room, too, stalking her just like he was.
“Is that what this is?” she asked. “Some sort of sexual game you’ve invented to get me into bed?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he replied, trying not to give the idea any serious consideration. “This is all an act we’re putting on for whoever is watching us. We’ll play their game until I can get you the hell out of here.”
“I’m not leaving,” she insisted.
“You have a maniac after you.”
Her frown emphasized her plump lips. “You don’t think I’d notice if someone was stalking me?”
“No,” he answered simply. “Not this guy. He knows all about you. He knows you used to be a cop and that you’re now a private investigator. He’d realize that you’d be a challenge. He’d change his mode of operation. He’ll pull out all the stops. Whatever it takes.”
“But how could he get in here, with all the security? And how would he know I was here? I had to be super cautious to make sure these people didn’t suspect I was lying to them about who I was.”
“I found you. And I got in on less than a day’s notice. For all you know, he owns this joint.”
She snorted. “That’d be one hell of a coincidence. Your case and mine intertwining so neatly? He’s not here.”
Michael tugged her closer. She pulled back, trying again to twist out of his hold, but he wouldn’t let her. Whoever was on the other end of that camera was likely getting a kick out of this push-pull, but Michael was losing patience. He might find her strength sexy as hell, but he wasn’t going to let her run headfirst into danger.
“You don’t know where he is, and neither do I,” he confessed, turning her toward the camera while he spoke directly into her ear. “This man ingratiates himself into the lives of his victims long before he sends them a scarf. He learns their habits. He memorizes their routines. He doesn’t have a name or a face, but he’s always around. Maybe he’s the guy who delivers flowers to your neighbor. Maybe he’s the new tenant in the building two doors down. Maybe he’s the guy walking his dog down your street who seems more interested in his text messages than his surroundings. Trust me when I tell you he’s been watching you for weeks, maybe months. If he’s sent you the scarf, he already knows more about you than I do—maybe more than you know about yourself.”
The song ended. Michael stumbled when she drew up short, her cheeks slightly paler than before.
She waited until the next song started before she asked, “You think he’s here?”
“I don’t know.”
He swept her back into his arms. This time the music was slower, more sensual, more intimate, requiring not so much measured movements as close contact swaying. Michael had never been much of a dancer, but moving with her in his arms felt organic. Intoxicating.
“I need a drink,” she said, pulling away.
She spun to the table beside the bed and fumbled with the crystal decanter. With her back to him, he became instantly enraptured by her long, kissable neck, slim shoulder blades and trim waist. And though her skirt adequately hid the curve of her hips and legs, he imagined that underneath the silk was a body just as smooth as the satiny material.
She was pouring generous portions of brandy into the snifters when he approached her from behind. He spared the camera in the air vent a glance. Someone was capturing their every move, their every touch.
This should have worried him.
And yet, it didn’t.
“Brandy?” Claire offered.
Michael did not back away, but accepted the glass with what he hoped was an easy smile. “I take it some people don’t sign up to participate, but just to watch?”
She took a generous sip. “And here I thought you’d come here knowing everything about this place.”
“There wasn’t time for everything. Just enough to get me through the door.”
She spun prettily, then settled herself on a corner of the bed. To the casual observer, the way she let the snifter linger just at the edge of her lips would appear seductive and coy. Michael noticed that as well. But he also recognized that she’d positioned herself so that when he stood across from her, his shoulder braced against the tall bed post, their faces weren’t visible to the camera.
“And how’d you manage that, anyway?” she asked. “It costs a minimum of $10,000 for a man to buy his way in. That doesn’t even count the gifts and gratuities he has to lavish on his mistress of choice. I can’t imagine the FBI fronting you the money just so you can get me out of here.”
“The FBI has no idea I’m here.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“Wasn’t time. Once I figured out where you’d gone, which, admittedly, wasn’t easy, I could either follow procedure or find you before the bad guy did. I hope you agree I made the right choice.”
She sipped her brandy again. He hadn’t imagined her to be the thoughtful type—from what he’d read about her, she was more of an act-now, ask-questions-later type of woman. But something about him made her look before she leapt, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad omen.
“Where’d you get the money?” she asked.
“Does it matter?”
“I’m making small talk,” she said, turning her face so that her fake smile flashed at the camera. “Trying to decide whether or not to trust you. It’s not like I had a chance to examine your credentials thoroughly. I barely saw them.”
“Trust me,” he murmured. “Your aunt looked them over carefully. I take it you’ve given her some tips on ferreting out fakes?”
“Ha! Clarice taught me. She may be pushing sixty, but she’s the sharpest woman I know.”
“And she thought it was a good idea for you to come here when a serial psycho is after you? Oh, wait, you left out that part.”
“Your FBI counterparts didn’t say anything about him being a serial psycho,” she pointed out. “They just said he was a stalker. And I didn’t want her to be involved at all, but even I’m not hotheaded enough to come into this place alone. She has my cell phone and can dial 9-1-1 like a pro. She’s also a crack shot and carries a .32 in her purse. I know my plan wasn’t the best, but it’s all I could come up with on short notice. Sound familiar?”
With a chuckle, he toasted her with his snifter, then took a sip of the liqueur, not at all impressed by the taste, but appreciating the fortifying heat. He and Claire did have one very big thing in common—they’d both come here on false pretenses. If either one of them was found out, they’d be in a boatload of trouble. From inside and out.
“Very familiar.”
“Then why didn’t you just wait for me to get home? If I’m lucky, my case will be done tonight. I saw my client’s ex-wife’s alias on a guest list. Once I locate her and get her signature, I’ll be out of here.”
“Unless her fake name is fake.”
“What?”
“In the five cases we’ve connected to the unsub, he takes his victim within forty-eight hours of sending the scarf. You received yours the day before yesterday, right? Maybe if I hadn’t shown up tonight and enticed you to this bedroom, you wouldn’t be coming home. Ever.”
Outside the room, someone moved. Michael turned to the door in time to see shadows dance in the transom window. Voices argued in hushed tones. Maybe his device hadn’t worked as designed, or maybe the music had not been loud enough to mask their conversation.
Or perhaps, the voyeurs behind the video cameras were tired of watching them talk.
He set down his untouched brandy and grabbed Claire by the arm, tugging her close so that their lips were barely an inch apart.
She splayed her hand flat against his chest. “What do you think you’re doing?”
The lock on the door behind them jiggled.
“Taking what I paid for.”

CLAIRE’S SENSES EXPLODED in rapid succession. First, she heard the muffled sound of footsteps outside in the hall. Then Special Agent Murrieta had her on her feet, in his arms, his mouth on hers.
And oh, what a mouth it was.
Unlike in the ballroom, where he’d toyed between gentle and insistent, his touch from both hands and lips was now rough and unyielding. At nearly the same moment, her nostrils inhaled the spiced masculine scent of his cologne and her tongue, slightly numbed by the brandy, swelled with the powerful flavors of coffee, mint and man.
When the door burst open behind them, she did not have to feign a gasp of surprise.
He threw her behind him.
“What is the meaning of this?” he barked.
Claire leaned around his solid frame and saw the dark-skinned woman, flanked by two imposing men who matched Michael in height, but surpassed him in girth by about fifty pounds each.
The woman iced up her spine and spoke first. “I’m afraid we don’t recognize you, sir. Are you on our guest list?”
Claire’s mind whirled with myriad explanations, but even as she opened her mouth to speak, she realized that doing so would ruin the charade. Women of the gens de couleur libre were notoriously independent, but probably not so much when in the presence of their men. Even as she decided to hold her tongue, the FBI agent who’d gone to such lengths to blend into this world dug into his jacket and produced a square of thick vellum paper. An exclusive invitation to this weekend’s event.
“This is an outrage,” he muttered, tossing the card to the floor.
The woman did not react, but waited for one of her lackeys to retrieve the invitation and place it gingerly into her hands. The woman’s black eyes assessed Special Agent Murrieta from head to toe, sparing Claire only a single, questioning glance that she answered with genuine confusion. Who did the woman think he was, anyway? And why had they burst in?
One of the goons turned off the gramophone-disguised CD player, then proceeded to examine it from all angles. If he found the amplifier, they’d both be turfed out of the place. But Michael must have hidden it well. After two tense minutes, the man turned to the woman in charge and gave a hopeless shrug.
The corners of her mouth dropped into a frown.
“My apologies, monsieur,” she said with a little bow, her head tilted even as she gave Claire a second once-over. “It’s just that this mademoiselle is new to our society, as well. It is…unusual…for two people uninitiated in our ways to go off together so early in the evening.”
The woman’s mouth drew into a straight, unyielding line, but Claire could have bet she was censoring herself like a preacher on a tirade. They hadn’t been made, but the people-in-charge were suspicious.
Great. Just great.
“My arrangement with the mademoiselle was made in complete accordance with your guidelines,” he said, snatching the invitation back. “And I may be new here, but I still prefer fresh flowers to the dry, wilted ones so heavily in attendance.”
From her vantage point, Claire could not see Michael’s expression, but his tone of voice tipped his metaphor into the dangerous range. He’d meant to insult the woman—and from the fury in her eyes, he’d accomplished his task.
“We will not disturb you again,” she said stiffly, “but we will be watching. To ensure you enjoy your stay.”
Her smile reeked of sarcasm. She spun on her heel and left, the two goons trailing behind her. The door closed and locked again—this time, from the outside.
Claire raised herself on her tip-toes so that she could whisper in her so-called rescuer’s ear. “Uh-oh. Think we’re in trouble?”
Michael reset the CD, ensuring that it played on a continuous loop, then turned and wrapped his hands fully around her waist. His grip, possessive and intense, sapped her breath.
“Not yet, but you heard the woman. They’ll be watching us.”
Claire couldn’t miss the glint of anticipation in Michael’s eyes or the flare of his nostrils that told her his senses were heightened—on alert. They might be in deep shit, but she suspected that the deeper the shit, the more excited this clever FBI agent became.
He fed on danger. Boy, could she ever relate.
“So what do you suggest we do?” she asked.
“Well, if they’re watching,” he said, giving the camera a cursory glance, “I say we should give them a show that brings down the house.”

4
THE MINUTE MICHAEL pressed his mouth to Claire’s again, a burning question seared through the sensations of her soft flesh against his.
Just how far was she willing to go?
And even more important…how far was he?
He had not planned to kiss her. Beyond working his way into Nouvelle Placage, he had not planned much of anything. The more he’d learned about the plantation party, the more he figured he would have to flirt and be charming before he convinced her that her personal safety was more important than finding some woman who’d willfully abandoned her kids.
But now they were trapped. He could flash his badge and get them out, but that would blow her case, and possibly his, too. Telling her the Bandit could be here watching had not just been a scare tactic. In all his other attacks, the guy had stalked his victims for weeks and ended up knowing more about their lives than anyone had imagined. If he was here watching Claire and realized she was being protected by the FBI, he could run.
And then he could change his patterns. If he did that, they might never get this close to finding him—not until he’d hurt another string of women. And maybe this time, he wouldn’t stop at kidnapping or rape. If Michael and Claire utterly destroyed The Bandit’s sick fantasy, he might cross the line and kill.
They were in now—they had to play this through to the end.
Wasn’t like it was a huge sacrifice to kiss Claire Lécuyer senseless anyway.
Since joining the Bureau right out of college, he’d trussed himself to his job. What free time he had, he’d given to his family, with only short, uninspired relationships that fired up quick and burned out fast. Never in his life had he kissed a woman he knew he shouldn’t—with strangers watching every slide of his hand down her waist, every curve of his fingers through the folds of her dress.
It was exciting.
It was dangerous. One call to his superiors, one viral video linked to the Bureau could destroy everything he’d worked for.
So why couldn’t he let her go?
Her lips were soft and slick; her tongue was hot and insistent. With no hesitation, no boundaries, she explored the full breadth of his mouth, skimming across his teeth and igniting a flame deep in his gut that would be impossible to extinguish, even if everyone in the plantation house burst in and doused him with pails of ice cold water.
Scrunching up the voluminous skirt in his hands, he found the back of her thighs, bare between her stockings and some sort of cottony drawers that cradled her backside like a cloud. Her flesh prickled and he wanted to warm her. Create friction. Share the burn.
She broke her mouth away from his, then trailed her lips over his jawline. “Is this what they train you for at Quantico?”
He braced his hands on the crest of her buttocks, resisting the urge to lift her fully and completely against his erection. “Not last time I checked.”
She followed her path of feather light kisses with a lush swipe of her tongue, her long lashes hiding her gaze as it trained on the camera. “You must really want my cooperation if you’re willing to put your credentials on the line for a chance to feel me up. My ass is choice, but probably not worth your career.”
Michael laughed, the sound bursting from his chest like the stopper on a bottle of sparkling wine. Self-deprecating, she was not. She was, however, gorgeous, sexy, sensual and irresistible. From the first moment he’d laid eyes on her, his need to touch her, taste her, seduce her had been harder and harder to fight.
And this wasn’t like him.
Not like him at all.
As if on cue, the center emerald of the Murrieta ring caught a flash of lamplight.
Up until a month ago, Michael had been exactly like his oldest brother, Alejandro. Serious. Responsible. Concerned with expectations and appearances and all the other prison bars society erected to keep anarchy at bay.
But then Alex had taken possession of their deceased father’s ring. In the span of a week, his entire life had changed. Not only had he fallen in love with a woman who’d completely lied to him about who she was, but he’d invested a large amount of cash and clout to ensure that Daniel, their middle brother, got off on the trumped-up charges that could have meant a long stint in the state penitentiary.
Now, Michael had the ring. Was it a coincidence that he was willing to turn away from what was right in order to revel in something wicked and wanton and undeniably wrong?
“Ordinarily, I’m a by-the-book kind of guy,” he said, dipping his head so that he could run his tongue down the elegant curve of her bare neck. “But for this case, I might have to push some limits.”
She arched her back, and with no reason not to, he smoothed his hungry lips across her collar bone and then down the edge of her square-cut bodice. “Personally or professionally?”
He didn’t know the answer. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. The instinct to remain in the moment, grab what he could while it lasted, proved more powerful than anything he’d ever felt before. He realized he’d say just about anything to taste the skin between her shoulder and neck.
“It’s all about the case,” he said.
“Which? Mine or yours?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does to me.”
She braced her hands on his shoulders and gave a push that instantly disengaged his mouth from her flesh. “I have less than three days to find the woman I’m looking for. The only lead I have is that she’s here, for this weekend only. I won’t hide in this room with you and I won’t run away on the off chance this so-called Bandit of yours has somehow managed to follow me here. Not until I’ve done what my client has paid me to do.”
The determination in her voice doused his libido.
“This man has targeted you, Claire. He won’t stop until he gets you.”
Her light laugh sparked a trail of heat underneath his skin, as if someone had injected his blood cells with gun powder and her confident smirk had lit the fuse.
“He’s never gone up against anyone like me before.”
This much was true. However, her cocky strength could just be the stressor that sent the Bandit over the edge.
He clutched her arms and forced her back a few inches, which, unfortunately, did nothing to squelch his need to kiss her again.
“Maybe not, but he’s still a serious threat.”
“He hasn’t killed anyone.”
“No, but he’s assaulted and raped. It’s only a matter of time before he goes even further, Claire. And maybe you’re the one he’s been working his way up to murder.”
He watched fear skitter across her expression—which impressed him. It was one thing to be confident, but it was something else to think you were invincible. Something incredibly unwise, if not downright stupid.
And Claire Lécuyer did not strike him as stupid.
“Why me?” she questioned. “Don’t criminals usually follow the path of least resistance?”
“Not always and not in this case. I fully intend to brief you on why he sought you out, but not here. This isn’t a game, Claire.”
She nodded, her mouth pursed in a serious, contemplative scrunch. After a moment, she locked her stare with his. “But I’m the best chance you have to catch him, right?”
His stomach constricted. She wasn’t going to give up easily.
“This is the first time we’ve had any knowledge of who he’s after before he’s attacked.”
Her increasingly confident grin bloomed into a full-on smile. “Then you need me to cooperate, Agent Murrieta. And for that, you will have to help me solve my case.”
So it had come to this: blackmail. Or if he was feeling generous, quid pro quo. He strolled to the bedside table to put down his brandy, giving him time to think. He’d had two things on his mind when he’d broken the rules in coming here. First, he would protect Claire by getting her out as soon as possible. Then, from a safe location, he would determine a way to use the knowledge they had about the Bandit’s patterns to set a trap and catch him. Except for the pull of desire that had caught him unaware, nothing had changed. He still had two goals.
Protect Claire and catch a kidnapper.
In that order.
If he delayed his plans a couple of hours to give her what she wanted, who would it harm? The Bandit would not get to her here. He’d make sure of that.
“Before we negotiate, you need to know the whole story. This unsub isn’t your ordinary wack job. According to a profile provided by the Behavioral Analysis Unit at Quantico, he’s a fast-evolving, highly intelligent, power-reassurance rapist who believes he’s the reincarnation of the famous masked bandit from colonial California, righting wrongs during the daytime and seducing beautiful women in the dead of night.”
“Seducing? Don’t you mean drugging and kidnapping and tormenting?”
“To him, he’s playing out this grand romance. He’s not sloppy or random. He’s purposeful, calculating. Patient. If he’s taken the step of sending you the scarf, I’d bet money he knows you’re here. He might have followed you or he might even have been the one to manipulate you into coming in the first place.”
Her hand flattened against her stomach, as if the thought sickened her. “Wait, you think he hired me? Lied about my case so that I’d come to the plantation tonight?”
Michael ran his hand down the length of her arm. Her skin was pebbled again, but this time with fear instead of desire. “Is it a coincidence that your great-grandmother on your mother’s side was black, so that you’re mixed race just like the women bartered for in the real placage system?”
Her eyes widened. “How did you know that?”
“It’s my job to know, Claire. The more I know, the better I can protect you. And if I know it, you can bet he knows. Your family has been in New Orleans for centuries. One of your ancestors might have taken part in the real quadroon balls. Maybe in his obsession with you, he found that out and came up with a plan to lure you here. Or maybe it’s just a coincidence. They do happen sometimes. He’s never gone to so much trouble before, but maybe he’s never had to. He’s evolving. And like you said, you’re a different kind of victim.”
She straightened her shoulders. “I’m not anyone’s victim.”
“Not yet,” he replied. “And if you cooperate with me, not ever. But how sure are you of your client? Did you meet with him? Did you have adequate time to check out his story?”
He watched her throat bob as she swallowed, watched her eyes narrow first with doubt, then with shock and finally with fury. When she jumped to her feet, ostensibly to object to him questioning her professionalism, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her into silence.
She struggled to get free, but he did not yield. If the unsub was in the building, the safest place for her to be while they worked out a strategy was this bedroom. No device was going to cover up the sound of her shouting.
“Let me go,” she insisted, her words muffled by his mouth.
“Don’t struggle,” he murmured back. “They’re still watching. For all we know, he’s watching.”
He released her arms, but she remained flush against him, her gaze locked with his. In that moment, he couldn’t resist drowning himself in the creamy jade of her eyes, in the sweet milk and toasted coffee shade of her skin.
She was stunning. Not run of the mill tanned-and-gorgeous like he saw every day in California, but instead, everything the sponsors of Nouvelle Placage promised. Like the women bartered for hundreds of years ago, Claire was exotic, erotic and fresh in a way that had nothing to do with innocence and everything to do with attitude.
“You really think he set me up?” she whispered.
To her credit, she regained her calm quickly.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But to beat this guy, we’ve got to be smarter than he is. And we have to stick together. One contingency he hasn’t planned for is you having someone to watch your back. Or other parts of you, as the case may be.”
He’d crossed the line again, but he couldn’t help himself, particularly when her lips quirked into a tiny smile. She was so gorgeous, so defiant, so unlike any woman he’d been this close to.
As much as he cared about this case—as much as he cared about keeping her safe and ensuring the legacy of his family name—he cared about her more.
At least, he cared about kissing her, touching her, tasting her.
With focused fascination, he watched her coil her finger within one of the springy curls dangling beside her cheek. If not for the music still playing beside them and the rapid pounding of blood surging through his veins, Michael might have heard her brain processing all the information he’d just shared.
Her gaze darted to the camera hidden behind the air vent, to the shadows mingling with the light beaming from under the door, to the brandy, and then, back to him.
Of all the variables she’d considered, she assessed him with the keenest deliberation. She stepped back a few inches, looking him up and down with her eyes narrowed, her tongue tracing a hungry path between her plump, pink lips.
In an instant, their roles were reversed. He was no longer the monied Southern gentleman considering his options as he strolled through the lines of lovely ladies waiting downstairs.
He was the one on the block.
And she didn’t look at him like a sweet, innocent ingénue. The glint in her impossibly opaque green eyes was that of a distinctively modern woman, one who knew the pleasures that could be found in the arms of the right man.
With a squeal that announced she was back in character, she grabbed his hands and dragged him behind the silk screen in the corner. To anyone listening at the door, her giggles reverberated with giddy excitement. He barely had time to lock his brain on what was happening when she started to tear at his cravat.
“They can still see us from behind this screen,” she said, making short work of the loose knot at his neck. “Our shadows, at the very least. We’re going to have to make this look good.”
Despite the rush of blood roaring through his ears, Michael pieced together her meaning. She still assumed his kisses and innuendos were part of his cover—part of some plan to convince the gatekeepers of Nouvelle Placage that the two of them were just like everyone else in attendance—horny, costumed fetishists who’d come here not to dig into their secret world, but to revel in forbidden desires.
Okay. He could work with that. Especially if it meant stripping down with Claire and discovering the true lusciousness beneath her elaborate gown.
He spun her around and loosened the ties on her bodice.
“Just how far are you willing to take this?” he asked, trailing his tongue from the base of her skull, down her spine, to the gradually spreading laces of her gown.
“As far as we have to,” she said, breathless, her voice hitching when his tongue hit the spot directly between her shoulder blades.
She tasted like a gourmet dessert, a combination of flavors that played with the notions of salty and sweet.
“You?” she asked, tossing a sassy glance over her shoulder.
In another time, another place, another situation, he might have said that he’d only go as far as necessary to keep the mission intact. But here, now, with Claire, under the influence of his ancestor’s ring, all bets were off.
“As far as you want to go,” he replied.
She spun around. With her top sufficiently loosened, the stiff material of the bodice and sleeves floated around her corseted breasts like clouds of shimmering satin. Michael’s mouth instantly watered for a taste.
Just one taste.
“Care to be more specific?” she asked.
He smoothed his hands down her back, his fingers spanning her slim waist. Claire was not willowy or thin, but curvaceous and athletic. Her arms were tanned and muscled, but she possessed a natural softness that made him lift her up from her elbows so he could properly inhale the scent of the lotions clinging to her skin.
“How specific?”
He pressed her full against his body, so that she could not mistake the feel of his erection even through the layers of her gown.
“Oh.”
The sound of her surprise, coupled with the flush of pink across her cheeks, fired him even more. He tugged her to him, his lips so close to hers he could feel her breath as he spoke.
“I came here with no intention beyond getting you to safety as soon as possible. But I’d be lying if I denied how beautiful you are or how hot you look in that dress, especially now that it’s half off. Making love to you would not be a hardship. In fact, it would be my pleasure.”
Her mouth dropped open momentarily, but then she laughed. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pierced him with a stare so bold, he thought he might lose his mind.
“Then I think I’m going to like working with you, Special Agent Murrieta.”
“If we do it right, it won’t be work. And please, call me Michael.”
“By all means, Michael. Let’s give those bastards behind the camera something worth watching.”

5
“WHERE THE HELL are you, Michael?”
Special Agent Ruby Dawson muttered the question under her breath, her eyes trained on the blank screen of her cell phone. Except for one cryptic message telling her that Claire Lécuyer had taken off and that Michael was following a lead to catch up with her, all Ruby knew about her partner’s whereabouts was that he’d gone undercover without backup. If anything happened to him because he couldn’t wait six hours until she arrived on a later flight from San Francisco, she was going to kill him.
“May I buy you another?”
Ruby glanced up, momentarily surprised to discover a fine-looking man in a pale guayabera and khaki shorts smiling at her. He was holding a sweating mug of beer, nearly as empty as hers. His blond hair was cropped short. His cheeks were rough from several days of not shaving and his eyes, an arresting mixture of browns from deep chocolate to rich gold, shone with the kind of hopefulness only experienced by a man on vacation who’d just spotted a single chick in a bar.
Really? Now? Tonight?
Inwardly, Ruby groaned. Any other time, she might have grinned provocatively and enjoyed the free drink while she sized up the guy, doing a mini-profile in her head that would determine whether she said yes to his inevitable invitation to dance or declined when he offered to drive her home. Especially here, in Draper’s Dive, a cheesy, nautical-themed bar she’d been hanging out in since she was eighteen and her mom had taken an apartment two blocks over from. She’d honed her people-watching skills here, determining the winners and losers with such accuracy that the former owner had suggested she get a job with the FBI.
She’d taken his advice, and every time she came back to town, she hit the old place to drink a beer in his honor.
Didn’t happen very often anymore, but it was a tradition, much as it was a given that at some point during her tribute drink, a guy was going to make a pass.
Under other circumstances, she would not have minded. She was pushing forty, single, and lately, a little undersexed. But Michael was out of touch, and no matter how cold and delicious the local brew felt against the back of her throat, she had to track him down. She didn’t have time for a real diversion—even one with lips curved into a casual, if not arresting, smile.
“I can buy my own, thanks,” she said, turning her attention back to her cell phone, ignoring the twinge of sensation in her nipples.
That’s how it always started—with a zing. Followed by full-out flirting, laughing, usually a little more drinking and, if she was lucky, a succession of dance moves that would coat her skin with a slick sheen of sweat and inspire her to peel away her clothing, one layer at a time.
Where it usually ended, if she wasn’t on the job, was in bed. But this time, she hadn’t come home to New Orleans for fun. She was here to work…although, with Michael running around half-cocked and out of communication range, she really didn’t have anything to do.
“Of course you could buy your own,” the man said, sidling in between her bar stool and the empty one beside her, but making no move to sit. “But why would you if I’m offering?”
His bold self-confidence was interesting. He was good looking, even if in a little too familiar “movie star” way. The vibe he threw off wasn’t over-the-top pushy or creepy.
Just…persistent.
And Ruby kind of liked persistent.
“I don’t know you,” she replied, turning her shoulder so he’d get the hint.
He laughed. “I’ve only been in town for a few days. I don’t know anyone.” He leaned around her and held out his hand. “David Brandon.”
She sighed. She hadn’t traveled across the United States to flirt with some tourist in a French Quarter bar. However, what she had come here to do—provide Michael with backup while they tracked down the Bandit—was on hold until her partner resurfaced.
As soon as she’d secured her rental car from the airport, she’d verified that the Bandit’s likeliest next victim, Claire Lécuyer, was not home; and from the way the place was locked up tight, she wasn’t coming back anytime soon. Ruby had then checked in with the local FBI office and learned that while Michael had alerted their counterparts to his arrival, he’d given them no intel regarding his plans.
He had asked for the name and location of a discreet costume shop, though. That made her scalp itch with anxiety. Ever since Michael’s brother had given him their father’s ring, Michael had been different. He’d always been laser-focused on the job, but with his discovery of his new brothers—the heretofore unknown older brother, Alejandro, and the recently released jailbird, Danny—his drive and determination had hit new highs. Why couldn’t he have waited a few hours for her to show up? Instead, he’d gone off on his own, and until she found what the hell he was up to, she had nothing but time on her hands.
She gave the guy a little half-smile and said, “I’m Ruby,” keeping her last name to herself.
Mr. Handsome gestured to her pilsner glass. “May I?”
She shrugged and he took her nonchalance as acceptance. He motioned to the bartender to bring fresh drinks and then turned his assessing eyes to hers.
“You look comfortable,” he said. “You live around here?”
Her half-smile blossomed into a full grin. He was good. He turned the standard “where are you from?” into an interesting—and accurate—observation.
“Used to,” she replied.
“Lucky,” he said. “I’d move here in a heartbeat if I didn’t have obligations elsewhere.”
“Really?” she asked, skeptically. She often heard tourists make such claims, but few ever followed through. People didn’t move to New Orleans on purpose. They were either born and bred here or came here to work—and there wasn’t too much of that going since Katrina.
Her doubtful look did not deter him. “The food. The music. The color. The vibe. It’s old and smelly, but new and exciting at the same time. You never know what’s going to happen. You never know who you’re going to meet.”
Nice segue. Somehow, he kept the conversation about her hometown centered on her. He was good, this David Brandon.
“It’s a passable party town.”
“To the casual observer,” he said.
“Isn’t that what you are?”
He pressed his lips together, as if he withheld a secret that would fully explain his fascination with the Crescent City. “Sure, I guess. So, do you have family here?”
“Some,” she answered honestly, not disturbed by his quick focus on learning more about her. It was a natural question and this guy was nothing if not natural. “A bunch stayed in Houston after Katrina ’cause they found work. My mother’s people went back to Mississippi, where they were from originally, but my father’s cousins and my brother toughed it out in Metarie.”
The bartender arrived with the cold drafts while David expanded his questions about her family and shared a little bit about himself. She learned he had two brothers, neither of whom he knew very well, and that he’d never lived in one place very long during his childhood on account of his now-deceased mother’s wandering spirit.
For her part, Ruby answered his questions with practiced care, never revealing anything important while creating the illusion that she was spilling her life’s story. Some of what she said wasn’t even true—her brother in Metarie was actually in a cemetery—but she’d told the lies often enough that she no longer worried about not getting the story straight.
“So if you’re not in town to play,” he surmised once she declined his offer for a third refill, “why come at all?”
“Work,” she answered.
“What do you do?”
She speared him with an intense look and wondered whether to be honest or deflect the question.
She glanced at the clock on her cell phone. Nearly forty-five minutes had passed since David Brandon had made his first move. Michael still had not checked in and she was starting to feel the ache of cross-country travel in heavy eyelids and tight muscles around her neck.
“Law enforcement.”
“No shit? Me, too.”
She’d expected the guy to go running—learning that the lady was a cop often had that effect on men, especially tourists hanging out in bars and looking for a good time. But David just slid forward, and when the bartender appeared with two fresh glasses of beer that she couldn’t remember him ordering, he requested a pound of steamed oysters and asked Ruby if there was anything else on the menu she’d like to share.
She declined, but couldn’t fault the guy for perseverance. However, if he was trying to go the “aphrodisiac” route, he was going to be sorely disappointed. He was cute, but she wasn’t in the mood. Michael should have checked in by now.
“Look, you’re a nice guy, but I really need to get going.”
“Before the oysters? Come on, I love some slimy crustaceans, but I can’t down a whole dozen on my own. Not after all the jambalaya I had at lunch.”
He patted his stomach, which looked perfectly flat to her.
It nearly hurt for her to say, “I’m sorry, but I’m not interested.”
“In oysters?”
“No, I don’t normally turn down the oysters here. Their cocktail sauce is the kind you want to scoop up with a spoon. I’m just not interested in—” She waved her hand between them. “This.”
He bowed his head respectfully. “That’s cool. Then just stay for the oysters. I don’t force my attentions on women, but when I make an offer to share a meal, I don’t take it back. That wouldn’t be gentlemanly, now, would it?”
Ruby rewarded his honesty by not climbing off the barstool and heading out the door. She was such a sucker for charming guys. She wasn’t going to change her mind about only sharing an appetizer with him before she took off, but she didn’t need to be rude, either. Even if he wasn’t her type.

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