ELEVEN
Remy held the door of the shoe store open for her and she stepped outside. The clear azure sky had given way to rain-heavy clouds while they’d been doing . . . whatever they’d been doing. No one in their right mind would call it shoe shopping.
“Well, thanks for your help with . . . that.”
“What are you up to now?”
“Heading back to the hotel. I have some calls to make about scouting prospects, and tonight I’m taking a walking tour.” Yes, I’m so busy. Don’t even think about asking me out for a romantic candlelit dinner.
He squinted at her. “A walking tour? Fake history and faker ghosts?”
“I’m a tourist in the most haunted city in the U.S. That’s what tourists do.”
“Which one are you doing?”
She fumbled with her purse and withdrew the brochure given to her by the hotel’s concierge. “This one. It meets at the cathedral at 6 p.m.” She did not say that to encourage him to join her. Of course, he wouldn’t want to do some tourist trap ghost tour in his hometown.
“I’d recommend a different one. Put your phone number in there, and I’ll send you the name of it.”
He handed off his phone, still warm from the heat of his jeans pocket, where it had been close to his—no, no, no. Not thinking about her employee’s penis. Not at all.
“Oh, it’s already in here,” she said with a touch of saccharine. “Probably from when you called to fill me in on your travel plans post-trade. And look, I’m listed as Big Bad Boss. How appropriate.”
“Now, Harper, would you rather I called you Incompetent Spice?” His grin was unrepentant as he took back the phone, plugged in a text, and returned the device to its penis-heated cocoon. “Are you staying at the team hotel?”
She nodded, but he’d already taken the shopping bag from her hand, cupped her arm, and steered her a few steps. “I’ll walk you back.”
“There’s no need. It’s perfectly safe.”
“I’d feel better if you’d let me do this for you.”
There was that gentlemanly streak again. The way he stood whenever she entered the locker room. The shelter of his body the night of Ford’s birthday party. His obvious concern when she tried to work up the nerve to tell him about her run-in with Stroger.
He removed his hand from her elbow, but remained close enough to keep her in a state of sexual aggravation as they weaved by slow walkers and clumps of tourists.
They didn’t talk as they headed toward her hotel. There was so much unspoken between them, this curious energy that was a language all its own. Making small talk would ruin it. Trying to explain it would burden it with too much significance. She let him lead, but within three minutes recognized that they were heading in the wrong direction.
“I think it’s that way.”
“Wanted to show you something first.”
A half block later, he stopped at an intricately wrought iron gate and pressed a code into a keypad. With a wave of his hand, he sent her ahead into a cramped passageway. About ten feet in, they came out into a clearing framed by a brick arch.
One of the Vieux Carre’s secret courtyards.
History and atmosphere assailed her from all sides. The courtyard’s focal point was a brick-framed central garden with a fountain urn that tied into the blue window shutters above. Cast-iron balconies covered with ferns and late-flowering blooms that had managed to survive the fall looked down on them. Sasanquas, holly ferns, sweet olive, and agapanthus along with colorful annuals welcomed her into a relaxing and fragrant atmosphere. They’d stepped through a portal into another world.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Oui, ça l’est.” He was closer than she’d thought. “A lot of these places have hidden courtyards, secret spaces for the natives to get cool.”
“So we’re trespassing?”
He hesitated slightly before answering. “This belongs to a friend of mine, but he’s out of town.”
In her four-inch Louboutins, she picked her way over the cobblestones, imagining she was a lady of a previous century with a parasol and petticoats. The rain clouds had cleared, though the sun’s brightness appeared muted in the courtyard. No street sounds intruded.
Her heart’s th-thunk more than made up for that.
She turned to find him watching her. Gone was the playfulness he’d displayed at the shoe store; now he gave off an intensity that knocked her sideways. His beauty pained her in a delicious way. Those blue eyes had deepened to navy; his mouth had tightened in a grim seal. He looked how she felt.
Hurting with lust.
A few drops of rain fell from a cloudless sky, soon followed by more in steady succession. Chicago wasn’t known for sun showers, but New Orleans was like a foreign land. Exotic. Erotic.
“C’mere,” he said roughly, his hand gesturing to a doorway on the courtyard’s west side. The rain fell harder as she click-clacked quickly to shelter, and she expected him to stand to her side, but instead he faced her, protecting her from the inclement weather like a human umbrella. He moved his forearm up along her cheek, a beefy bicep straining against his long-sleeved Henley. She wanted to take a bite out of it.
“I’ve never understood sun showers,” she said, suddenly nervous. Suddenly more nervous than she had ever been in her entire life, even during the worst of times when fear had ruled. These nerves were borne of excitement, though. She knew he’d never hurt her.
“It’s the devil beating his wife.”
“What is?”
“The sun shower. That’s how the saying goes. Like the devil’s the sun’s rays and his poor femme is crying her eyes out as he beats her.” His eyes dropped to her mouth.
The devil beating his wife. She knew it was just an expression, but she didn’t like the ball of hurt it knotted behind her breastbone.
He continued to stare at her, his gaze flickering between her mouth and her eyes.
“You cold, Harper?”
She’d started to shiver. Those memories, the damn memories.
“Your back—it must be getting wet.” This apparently gave her an excuse to grip his arm and pull him a few inches closer out of the rain. It seemed the polite thing to do, even if her fingers enjoyed the hard muscle they encountered a little too much. She imagined steam rising at every droplet that met his warm skin.
“Better than you getting wet,” he said.
“Such a gentleman.”
He grunted, a very male sound. “If you only knew.”
“You’ve been nothing but since the moment I met you. Mr. Polite when I enter the locker room. Protecting me when I walk down the street. Your mom raised you well.”
He moved closer. Nothing gentlemanly about it, yet it was Remy, so it was protective, and she wanted to think of him this way so she wouldn’t think the opposite. Of what his strength could do to her. How it could be as much a weapon as a shield.
His kiss would be protective. His body covering hers would keep her safe.
So strange to think that. So ridiculous to want it. She had been looking after herself for years, had weathered everything thrown at her, attacks both physical and emotional. She had only herself to rely on, yet Remy DuPre inspired in her something she couldn’t deny.
A womanly need to be cared for.
Those blue pools still wavered between her eyes and mouth. “I’m gonna kiss you now, minou.”
She might have nodded. She might have blinked. One for yes, two for hell yeah.
The kiss started soft, heartbreakingly so. On either side of her face, she was caged by his forearms, yet she didn’t feel trapped. She felt liberated with his mouth on hers, enough that she parted her lips to drink in more of his taste, his essence. Drops of rain dripped off the gable, splashing her hands, which had risen to shape his back and pull him closer.
His kiss became more thorough, inching into her. Stealing entry, cell by cell. Or perhaps it was all her, dragging him closer, needing his heat while she claimed her freedom.
The devil’s wife’s tears continued to fall and so did Harper’s resistance. She felt his touch, a gentle graze of his knuckles, along the jersey fabric clinging to her ribs. Her body shivered in pleasure; her nipples popped against the lace of her bra; his mouth smiled against hers.
The chain reaction of a kiss in the rain.
He cupped her ass and squeezed, bringing her closer to the erection now jutting into her belly. He wanted her to know how aroused he was, how much he wanted her.
The dress she’d worn today draped over her thighs, its loose fit making access easy, but he didn’t take the easy route. He just kissed her and fondled her rear, like he was learning her shape. Making plans for later.
His tongue tangled with hers, a deliciously sensuous dance. A small moan escaped his throat and set her on a path to wildness, giving her permission to enjoy this intensely physical connection. She was wet, and not from the rain. Between her thighs, heat she’d not felt in forever bloomed, all because Remy DuPre was slowly seducing her in a secret courtyard.
Forget his name. Forget who he is. Forget everything.
She rolled her hips into his erection because she was a modern woman and pleasure was hers for the taking. The action unmoored something in him. In them both.
Suddenly they were clawing at each other’s clothing below the waist, fighting to be the first to go hand to skin. Zipper down. Briefs tugged halfway off. I’m winning!
He refused to give her the lead. Large, rough hands hiked up her dress, kneaded her ass, and delved into her panties. Finally, finally he was touching her. He’s winning!
But it wasn’t enough, because she needed to feel all that hard perfection. She wrapped her hands around his cock and stroked.
He grunted. “Fuck.”
She did it again, this time sliding from root to tip. Controlling his pleasure, and the man with it, felt so damn good. Her mouth dried up and her pussy gushed, both clearly jealous of her hand.
“Harper—dammit—let me—”
His fingers stroked through her and it was amazing, but she couldn’t let him get ahead. Why should he dictate the terms? So it was expected that the woman should disintegrate first, but what if she couldn’t and why should she feel that performance anxiety and—
He pushed inside her, one finger, then two, the stretch amazing, and all the while his mouth devoured and destroyed, breaking her down pulse by shivering pulse. She loved and hated what he was doing to her. The pleasure she demanded that would only be her ruin.
She cupped his invading fingers and pushed them away, out of her body. Anything to get her bearings. Then she reapplied herself to breaking him with a hard, rough stroke, her fingers circling and pumping, using his pre-come to smooth her glide.
“Merde, Harper. This isn’t a fucking contest.” Oh, this dangerous man had her number, and to prove it, his fingers resought her heat, outside, inside, to the depths of her soul. Just a couple of strokes sent her flying. She came apart all over his hand, a victory for her damn hormones and a defeat for Clifford Chase’s daughter.
She needed revenge. She needed to see him on his metaphorical knees, because if she had to feel so weak, she wanted company on this ride to hell. Harder and harder, she pumped, stroked, raided.
“Oui, juste comme ça. N’arrêtez pas.”
His gaze was sticky hot on her hand, his groans louder with every stroke until he finally let go. Unlike her reluctant orgasm, Remy’s was wild, noisy, and joyful. She would expect nothing less.
She jerked back, thumping her head against the wall behind her. “Ouch.” Good. She needed the jolt to sanity.
His hand was splayed across her ass, now the other cradled her head. “You okay, minou?”
Tears sprang into her eyes, and not from her argument with the wall behind her. “I’m—I’m fine.” But she was far from it. She felt as if she’d lost some piece of herself, though she couldn’t say what.
“Hey, it’s okay, baby.” He wiped a tear that had escaped despite her best attempts to restrain it. “A kiss from me shouldn’t hurt.” His eyes crinkled with laughter, a joke in there about how they’d done a damn sight more than kiss.
His humor froze the blood in her veins. Kisses shouldn’t hurt. Men shouldn’t hurt. But the devil beat his wife, and that was the way of the world.
“I—I have to go.”
The rain had stopped, but even if it hadn’t she would have run through floods to escape him.
He watched her with a wariness that wasn’t there before. “I’ll walk you back.”