Be My Baby (2 page)

He was a little sweaty; she could see it in the sheen along his throat and where his black knit shirt stuck in spots to his chest and stomach muscles. But the hand he wrapped around hers to shake was dry and brown-skinned, long-fingered and hard. And it was warm, very warm.

Juliet dropped it as soon as was decently possible, feeling flustered and edgy. Curling her fingers, which retained the sensation of his touch within the shielding folds in her skirt, she felt heat climb up her cheeks. The men in her world had hands that were smooth and pale and somehow cool. A frisson of uneasiness crept down her spine.

“Beauregard will be at your service as long as you’re in New Awleans,” Captain Pfeffer said pompously and gave the detective a glare. “Right, Dupree?”

Keeping his eyes on her, Beau took a step that brought him much too close and cocked his head quizzically. “Is there a particular reason you need babysittin’, dawlin’?”

Unaccustomed to physical contact, she stepped back. Though she was too mannerly to protest the endearment, her chin came up and she’d opened her mouth to offer a cool reply when Pfeffer jumped into the breech.

“Ms. Lowell is down heah to open the Garden Crown, a fine new jewel in the glitterin’ tiara that comprises the Crown Hotels,” he said expansively.

“And she’s—what?—had the heap burgled already and needs a cop?” Beau’s eyes were insolent as he looked down at her. “In that case, sugar, you’ve come to the best.”

“Watch your tongue, Dupree. Ms. Lowell has received a threatening letter and I’m assigning you to keep her safe.”

Breaths were sucked in throughout the room and everyone drew back as if Beau were a ticking bomb primed to go off. Juliet wished she understood what the hell was going on. Clearly there were underlying subtexts here she didn’t understand. Sergeant Dupree’s black eyes glittered with pure fury as his gaze wrenched from her face to the captain’s.

“Guard dog duty?” he said through clenched teeth.

“Her fawtha was quite insistent, and he
is
Thomas Lowell, after all. Here’s a copy of the letter.” Pfeffer thrust it into Beau’s hands. “I’m sure you’ll want to study it. And of course you’ll be gratified to know you’ll also be Ms. Lowell’s escort for all the hotel’s pre-opening functions,” he added with gusto.

“Oh, shit,” someone murmured.

Beau scanned the letter. When his dark-eyed gaze raised, it locked on her face. “Daddy must have some connections,” he said with soft-voiced contempt. “’Cause this”—the white paper in one hand smacked against the long, brown fingers of his other—“is pure bullshit, but it looks as if he just bought his baby girl a brand-new boy anyway.”

If his initial charm had made her heart pound,
having all that fury transferred to her added an almost frantic throb to its erratic rhythm. Somehow this man managed to wreak havoc with her usually unshakable composure, leaving her feeling entirely unstrung.

Always remember who you are
. Her grandmother’s arrogant exhortation offered unexpected comfort, and she needed every ounce of ammunition at her disposal.

She gave him a cool smile.

He narrowed his eyes at her and said insolently, “You don’t talk much, do you, angel-face? I like that in a woman.”

Gardner rolled his eyes and Captain Pfeffer snapped, “That’s quite enough, Sergeant. You will mind your mannahs and address her as Ms. Lowell.”

Beau’s hard gaze left her face and zeroed in on the captain’s. His voice lost its honeyed drawl as he lashed out, “Or you’ll do what,
Acting
Captain Pfeffer? Remove me from her case and put me on somethin’ a little less…important—like the Panty Snatcher case?”

“
Forget
that piddly-ass case!” Captain Pfeffer’s polished facade cracked as he thrust his jaw pugnaciously near Beau’s. “I’ve given you your assignment, and you’ll do what you’re damn well told, or I’ll strip you of your gold shield.” It was an idea he clearly relished.

“Oh, please—” Juliet protested in distress, but Beau cut her off.

“Come on,
Miz
Lowell.” His hand wrapped
around her wrist and he headed for the door, pulling her in his wake.

“Dupree!” Pfeffer’s voice behind them was a peremptory warning to halt, but Beau never slackened his pace.

Stumbling along behind him, Juliet cast a brief look over her shoulder at the captain and Sergeant Gardner and gave them a helpless shrug. Then they were lost to sight as the warm hand that held her captive yanked her out the door.

G
oddam, sonofabitchin’ bureaucrat!
Beau punched the accelerator to the floor as his car sped toward the Garden District. This never would have happened if Captain Taylor were around. But then Taylor was a real cop, not a half-baked, arrogant, self-important politician like the Pissant. The thought made Beau snort.
Forget that piddly ass case, my butt
.

Okay, so he, like everyone else at the station, had considered the Panty Snatcher a bit of a joke at first. Cops dealt with some pretty grisly crimes and at least this pervert hadn’t physically hurt anyone. That didn’t make him harmless, of course, since his actions had terrorized more than half a dozen women who didn’t
know
they weren’t going to be hurt, until the Mardi Gras-masked burglar slipped away as soundlessly as he’d arrived. But so far he hadn’t injured any of his victims, so with the irreverence common in squad rooms, they’d tagged him with a number of rude handles, the least offensive of which was Panty Snatcher.

Beau’s insouciant attitude had dissolved like mist under the relentless noonday sun when the guy victimized Josie Lee.
That
turned it personal. Now Beau was determined to put him behind bars where he belonged.

And that was going to be a lot more difficult to accomplish with this bogus new assignment hanging around his neck. Playing guard dog to Ms. Lowell was going to eat up most of his time, and it was all due to his arresting the commissioner’s teenage granddaughter.

This was his payback.

The maddening thing was he hadn’t even been on duty that night, a little over a month ago—and he sure as hell wasn’t a traffic cop. But as he’d roared down the Huey P. Long, he hadn’t been able to ignore the way the car in front of him was weaving all over the bridge. It had come down to either pulling the vehicle over or living with himself if the obviously loaded driver ended up killing someone, when he could have prevented it. Throw in the fact that a damn drunk driver had been responsible for his parents’ deaths, and he’d had no choice.

He’d pulled her over, taken her in, and landed at the top of the commissioner’s shit list.

The union protected him from outright reprisal, and Beau knew his fellow detectives had just been waiting for him to invoke its name today. Playing escort to some uptight Northern socialite sure as hell wasn’t a division detective’s job. Ordinarily that would fall to someone way down the food chain.

But the commissioner had connections that reached deep, and this wasn’t a grievance a detective could point to as severe abuse of power. He could just hear the response now.
You say you have to escort a good-lookin’ woman wherever she wants to go? And the city or her hotel will pick up the tab? Oh, yeah, Dupree, we can see where you’re being misused
.

There was no way around it; Beau was stuck with Ms. Lowell.

He snuck a look at his passenger as he roared down St. Charles Avenue. God, she was a priss, with those cool rainwater eyes and that honey-brown hair all slicked back in a repressed little French twist. Not to mention the oh-so-restrained gauzy dress she wore, which exposed the delicate wings of her collarbones and her slender arms and ankles and not much else. Every time he looked at her he had this crazy impulse to muss her up….

No. Hell, no, what was he thinking? He yanked his attention back onto the road where it belonged. She wasn’t the type of woman a guy mussed up—and that was the only kind he’d ever been drawn to.

His gaze drifted her way again and got stuck on her mouth. Even innocent of lipstick, it was surprisingly lush, like something you’d expect to see on a porn queen. The unlikely analogy tugged one side of Beau’s lips into a derisive curl.

Talk about a case of false advertising—especially where he was concerned. It was hard to envision her cutting loose with any man, but he’d watched her take one look at him in particular and had seen those eyes go frosty and that aristocratic little nose
go up in the air as if she’d caught a whiff of something past its prime.

Beau’s shoulder hitched impatiently. Well, you won some, you lost some. It was clear, though, that she viewed him as a redneck peckerwood Louisiana cracker. And an oversexed one at that, since she’d caught the tail end of his conversation with Luke.

For just an instant everything within him stilled. Oh, shit, that was it. Why hadn’t he thought of it before?

There was no way in hell the Pissant was going to let him off the hook with this assignment. It was to be Beau’s personal punishment not only for the C’s granddaughter, but for hacking off Pfeffer in the past as well.

Pfeffer was a confirmed ass-kisser, however, and if the prim Ms.
Lowell
were to petition for his transfer, he’d have no choice but to comply with her wishes.

Beau turned his head and gave her a big, feral grin. “What’s the address, sugar?”

She blinked those gray eyes at him. “Excuse me?”

“The Garden Crown, Jules. What’s the address?”

“Oh.” She colored, which he’d noticed she seemed to do easily, and supplied the information.

He cornered Fourth Street and then Coliseum Street with screaming wheels and raced up the final block, roaring through the filigreed gates and coming to a screeching halt beneath the porte cochere of the former mansion that was now the Garden Crown Hotel.

Oh, God, this was brilliant. He grinned again.

It hadn’t escaped his notice that little Miss Juliet didn’t seem to like him invading her personal space. He licked his lips, contemplating all the possibilities such a repressed personality provided. He’d just get a little up-close-and-personal with the woman. Hell, he could kill two li’l ole birds with one stone by dragging her to some of the Big Easy’s more tawdry establishments while he pursued his own case. Introduce her to a few select folk outside her rarefied social strata, and it shouldn’t take any time at all before she was demanding his replacement.

He hopped out of the car and rounded the hood to open her door. “Here you are, angel face: all signed, sealed, and delivered, safe and sound as ordered.” He felt almost tender toward her as he watched her unbuckle her seatbelt. Reaching out a hand, he offered his assistance out of the low car. “Why don’t we go on in and take a look at your schedule.”

She ignored the extended hand and sat there as if his muscle car were a throne: erect spine not quite touching the back of the leather seat, ankles together, hands folded in her lap. Those charcoalrimmed, rainwater eyes leveled on him. “My name is Juliet,” she informed him coolly. “I’d appreciate it if you’d call me Juliet, or Juliet Rose if you must, or Ms. Astor Lowell. But kindly don’t shorten my name. Nicknames are vulgar.”

He hadn’t thought she could possibly poker up any more than she already had, but damned if she didn’t actually manage it. He swallowed a smile.
“Whatever you say, Rosebud.” Reaching down, he wrapped a hand around her wrist and hauled her out.

Ah, man. This was gonna be like taking candy from a baby.

Juliet’s assistant, Roxanne Davies, slapped closed the appointment book that she, Juliet, and Beau had just finished perusing at the hotel’s front desk, and watched the detective saunter out the front entrance and disappear into a blinding wash of light. “Ho-ly catfish, mama.” Using the book to vigorously fan herself, she turned back to Juliet. “And you thought having a police escort was going to be a
bad
thing.”

A hysterical bubble of laughter nearly erupted from Juliet’s throat, but she managed to suppress it. “I’m still not convinced it isn’t,” she said with creditable coolness.

“Are you kidding? That is one whole helluva lot of man, Juliet. I can think of worse fates then to have a guy like that at your beck and call.”

That’s probably because you’d actually know how to handle “one whole helluva lot of man
.” Juliet still burned to remember the way she’d said,
Nicknames are vulgar
. Dear God, Grandmother had nothing on her—could she possibly have sounded more priggish? Aloud, she merely said, “Have you met with the Hayneses yet?”

“Don’t want to talk about the studmuffin, huh?”

Juliet winced. She had hired Roxanne over her father’s strenuous objections, digging in her heels with unaccustomed stubbornness when he’d ob
jected that the young woman “isn’t our kind.” Perhaps she wasn’t, and there were times like now when her blithe tactlessness could make Juliet cringe. But Roxanne had needed the job more than any of the Seven Sisters graduates who’d applied, she’d been fully qualified, and Juliet had rather admired her fearless frankness. It must be liberating not to weigh every blessed word before it left one’s mouth.

“Come on,” Roxanne coaxed her. “You do at least admit he’s studly, don’t you? I mean, the way he kept edging up so close to you, you must have felt the chemistry. He’s definitely different than the white-bread boys you usually call escorts.”

“Roxanne, I really don’t care to discuss this.”

“Well, all right—but I think this is shaping up to be a
most
interesting trip.”

Juliet strode across the empty lobby and entered her office with Roxanne on her heels. Taking her seat behind the desk, she looked across it at her assistant. “The Hayneses?”

“Edward’s a sweetie. That wonderful collection of Mardi Gras masks in the Blue Room is his, and I think it’s largely due to him that the gardens are as lovely as they are.”

“And Celeste?”

“Would like an appointment to discuss the list of functions she’s arranged so far, as well as Crown Corporation’s expectations of her duties as she understands them. She was…gracious, but I get the feeling dealing with a lowly assistant is a bit beneath her.” Roxanne shrugged philosophically. “I
set up an appointment for tomorrow afternoon at three, if that works for you.”

“Thanks, Roxanne. That will be fine.” Juliet had come to value her assistant’s instincts about people in the year Roxanne had been working for her. She’d already known the Hayneses were impoverished Southern aristocrats who’d been charged with the care and maintenance of the lovely old Greek Revival mansion before its purchase by Crown Hotels. Now Juliet had also gained a glimpse into the personalities of the couple the corporation had retained to help open doors into New Orleans’ society.

She rose to her feet. “I assume from your remark about the Blue Room that you’ve had a chance to look around a little. I haven’t seen anything yet except this office and the lobby, and I’m dying to get a look at the renovations. Want to go exploring with me?”

It was odd how she felt so lethargic yet so restless at the same time, but she desperately sought the opportunity to move around. Her disturbing sense of anxiety was most likely a combination of the oppressive heat, which she swore she felt even within these air-conditioned walls, and knowing that she was fully responsible for the start-up of a hotel for the first time. Possibly part of it could be attributed to the necessity for police protection, too, which was a definite disruption of her routine.

It certainly had nothing to do with the escort himself, however. Why, she’d nearly forgotten he even existed.

It was jambalaya night in Beau’s little Creole cottage in the Bywater District, and the walls of the minuscule kitchen were bursting at the seams from all the people crowded within.

Fragrant steam rose from the rice in the pot as Beau stirred in tomatoes and every seasoning his youngest sister Josie Lee could find in the cupboard. She gave him a nudge with her elbow as she located one they hadn’t yet added to the pot, and without bothering to look up he reached out with one hand as he test-tasted the concoction-in-progress with the other. She slapped the container into his open palm. His middle sister Anabel stood hip to hip with him as she chopped shrimp and ham on the cutting board, Luke sautéed celery and onions on the burner next to him, and the oldest of Beau’s sisters, Camilla, and her husband, Ned Fortenay, threw together a salad at the narrow table in the corner of the room. “
Heeey, good-lookin
’,” Buckwheat Zydeco wailed from the CD player in the living room.

“
Whaaat
cha got cookin’?” Anabel sang along with the song, then interrupted herself to command, “Dump those veggies in the pot, Luke. I need the pan.”

“Yes, ma’am.” They traded places and she scraped the meat and shellfish mixture into the sauté pan. Filching a cube of ham, she popped it in her mouth and looked up at her brother. “Will you balance my checkbook after dinner? I’ve got all the stuff in my bag.”

“Damn, Anabel,” Beau groused, “you’re twenty-
four years old. When you gonna learn to do this for yourself?”

“You know how bad I am with numbers, Beauregard.”

He made a dismissive sound and said, “Which is exactly why they invented calculators, sweet thing,” but everyone present knew damn well he’d balance her checkbook after dinner. He’d accepted responsibility for his sisters a decade ago in order to keep the family together, and it was a hard habit to break.

But it sure was one he was itching to be shed of. And he would be—the minute he got Josie Lee’s situation straightened out, he was bustin’ free. No more constant worry and responsibility; it’d just be him and New Orleans’ loosest women. He was filling his little black book against the day.

A short while later, everyone crowded around the small table at the end of the living room to eat. The ceiling fan slowly whirled, moving the humid air in thick, slow eddies as they traded friendly insults and worked their way through the jambalaya.

“I’ve got news,” Josie Lee said into a momentary break in the conversation. “Pass that salad over here, Camilla.” She dished the greens onto her plate, then resumed eating without saying what her news was.

Beau looked at her across the table. Like everyone on the Dupree side of the family, she had dark eyes. Of all his sisters, though, she looked the most like Mama, with her black curly hair, long, narrow hands and feet, and killer smile. Anabel and Camilla had inherited Daddy’s sun-streaked brunette
coloring, but where Josie Lee and Camilla were fairly tall and busty, Anabel had a slight build. All three were alike in that they were opinionated and outspoken, however.