Too Wild to Hold (6 page)

And the way he was tracing a sensuous path from her neck to her ear with his tender kisses wasn’t hurting.

She knew he was breaking all kinds of protocols by involving himself with her, and the realization intensified the pleasure of his body against hers. With every swipe of his lips over her skin, every graze of his hands over her flesh, he proved what he was made of. It was one thing to don a crazy costume and go undercover long enough to find her, but it was entirely something else to play out a very real, very effective seduction of the woman he needed for his case.

His superiors would not be happy if the tape leaked out. She had no idea how the politics of the FBI worked, but if it was anything like her time with the New Orleans Police Department, he was in for some serious shit hitting the fans. She’d lost her job just because she’d put justice ahead of the chain of command.

God help him, but nothing turned her on more than a man willing to buck the system in order to get what he wanted—a fact made all the more exciting when what he wanted was her.

“Since we’re relative strangers,” he whispered between swipes of his tongue along the shell of her ear, “you’re going to have to tell me what you like. You know. To make this believable.”

The underlying chuckle in his voice told her he’d added that last part to tease her.

“Is that all you’re interested in?” she asked. “Making this believable for the pervs on the other side of the camera?”

He slid his hands down the arch of her back and cupped her butt with hungry possessiveness. “What do you think?”

She responded by tearing her hands through his hair, which was soft and scented with tangy citrus. “I think you’re hot for me.”

“I think you’re as smart as your file says you are.”

“Then how are you going to stop yourself from taking more than I might be willing to offer?” She slipped her hands between the open sides of his shirt and spread the material so that her palms rested on his broad, muscled shoulders. “You’re obviously very strong. And big.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up in a grin that melted her insides to a liquid heat. Drop by drop, the slick moisture eased through her body, then soothed the gentle throbbing between her thighs.

“Unlike the guy I’m protecting you from, I don’t have to use force to get what I want.”

“No, you’re using your case.”

“So are you,” he countered.

She placed a kiss on his pec, swirling her tongue and loving the salted flavor of his skin. “True. It’s going to be really, really
hard
not to go all the way. Guy like you. Girl like me.”

He grabbed the sleeves of her dress and slowly, sensually, tugged the material off her shoulders. She was suddenly very glad her aunt had convinced her to wear a corset so that she was not completely bared as the dress caught around her waist. In fact, she was better than bared. She was laced-in and pushed up in the most delicious manner, judging by the fire that ignited in his eyes.

“In situations like this,” he said, “I find that
hard
is a good state to be in.”

He brushed a trail of kisses across her chest, sparking an electric charge through the tips of her nipples. When he traced his fingers down the crisscrossed laces at her spine, she wondered…no, she
wished
…that he’d latch on to the satin ribbon that held the damned thing together, tug hard and set her body free.

No matter the banter between them, Claire knew this wasn’t just an act for the camera—not for him and definitely not for her. She wasn’t shy about sex. She liked it. She also hadn’t had any in a good long while, a fact she hadn’t been entirely aware of until now.

When had she stopped caring about sex? When had she stopped looking for the occasional lover to scratch her itch and give her a reason to leave the house for something other than work?

Now she had a chance not only to enjoy the rare, sensual delights of a man who knew how to use his body—and better, how to use hers—but also to keep her latest case from falling apart.

It was a win-win. She’d entered this old plantation house fully aware that the people around her had come here for sex, but she’d never planned to join them.

And yet, here she was, wishing that Special Agent Murietta would stop coiling the ribbons holding her corset together around his finger and just yank the knot free already.

“Laissez les bons temps rouler,”
she murmured, lifting Michael’s face so that she could smooth her cheek against his.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s what we say here in the Big Easy.
Let the good times roll.
”

He arched a brow, emphasizing the surprise in his eyes, dark from the expansion of his pupils.

“Is that an invitation?” he asked.

“Do you need an invitation? I could use the backside of that vellum card to write one.”

But he clearly needed nothing more than her consent, because with a growl, he tugged her lingerie loose. When she breathed out a sigh of relief, the stays surrendered and the corset slipped a half inch down her torso, baring her nipples to his widening eyes.

His throat bobbed with his deep swallow and Claire’s body thrummed with anticipation. When he licked his lips, she nearly groaned. He splayed his hands on her back, forcing her to arch upward so he could feast on her with his eyes—a feast that heightened her own hunger to a ravenous level.

He wanted her. She wanted him. So they’d take. That’s how things had rolled in New Orleans since the first French fur trappers had settled the bayous. Total surrender to lusty urges was a time-honored tradition. And who was she to argue with tradition?

She ripped the rest of Michael’s shirt aside and her hands spanned across his chest, tweaking his pale nipples, mimicking the attention she desperately wanted from him. She flicked her tongue across his flesh and suckled lightly while her hands dropped down his tapered torso to the rigid erection she could feel through his loose-cut pants.

If the so-called unsub was watching, then she hoped he learned a lesson. Claire Lécuyer didn’t get off on guys who resorted to drugs and masks and one-sided fake seductions. She wanted a man like Michael—hot, smart and honest. A man willing to risk everything just to have her, even if it was a make out session behind a screen.

“I’ll tell you something,” she said, her words coming out in ragged breaths while his nimble fingers worked at the last ties of her dress. At last the satin dropped to the floor, leaving her in nothing but the slack corset, bloomers, stockings and kitten-heeled slippers. She wasn’t exactly wrapped up in Victoria’s Secret lingerie, but judging by the darkening of his eyes, the outfit worked the same magic.

“By all means,” he replied, his voice ragged, his gaze roaming every inch of her, as if he couldn’t decide which part to sample first.

“I don’t usually strip down in front of strangers.”

He grinned. “I don’t usually strip down with women I’m supposed to be protecting.”

“Oddly enough,” she said, locking stares with him as she began working the buttons of his slacks, “I believe you.”

“Why is that odd?”

She slipped her fingers past the waistband of his shorts so she could squeeze his rock hard glutes.

“I don’t trust easily,” she said. “And sex requires trust.”

He cupped her elbows, disengaging her hands and drawing them to his lips. He kissed each knuckle, taking his time, swiping his tongue into the folds between her fingers and sucking the tips with such gentle pressure that she thought her whole body might explode. She wanted that suction on her breasts, her belly, and below.

“You can trust me,” he assured her, though in the miasma of need curling around her, she wasn’t sure why he was still talking and not tasting. “I never break rules, but if I’m going to put my career on the line, I’m going to make sure it counts.”

His words caught her up short and she forced her eyes open. “Why risk so much?”

“I can’t seem to help myself,” he confessed before pressing her forward so he could nibble on her shoulder. “And that’s new.”

As her bare nipples scraped against his chest hair, she laughed again. Delight at the sensations, at the freedom, at the irony of the situation spilled from a place deep down—a place that was simmering to be satisfied.

“I’m forever doing things I know I shouldn’t,” she confessed.

“And is this one of those times?” he asked, his mouth trailing closer and closer to where she desperately wanted him.

“God, I hope so.”

M
ICHAEL RAN HIS
hand down Claire’s thigh, losing himself in the softness of her skin before he was blocked by the silky edge of her stockings. He slipped a finger beneath the snappy garter and wondered if he’d lost his mind. He was
this close
to losing his career.

But damn, what a way to go.

Somewhere in the now fogged edges of his brain, he understood that touching Claire, kissing her, arousing her was all supposed to be an act intended to convince the voyeurs on the other side of the camera that both of them had truly bought into the theme weekend. But lying to freaks who’d rather watch than do was a hell of a lot easier than lying to himself.

This had never, ever been about his case.

Or hers.

From the first minute he’d seen her downstairs, his attraction to Claire was instantaneous and undeniable. Truth be told, reading her file, which had included pictures, had implanted ideas in his brain that he had no business entertaining. She was everything he’d never sought out in a woman—strong-willed, rebellious and entirely focused on her job. During her brief stint as a New Orleans city cop, she’d defied so many orders that her list of reprimands, transfers and punishments looked more like the rap sheet of a career criminal than the service record of a devoted law enforcement officer.

Even as a P.I., she’d broken a lot of unspoken rules, though she’d managed—barely—to stay on the right side of the law. Her reputation as a crusader willing to defy the cops in order to help her clients find justice should have made him dislike and distrust her.

Instead, she’d snared his interest like a skilled hunter with a steel trap. What made a woman like her tick? What possessed her to devote her life to rooting out criminals at the expense of the respect of her former colleagues?

But at the moment, none of that mattered. Who she’d been before they’d slipped behind the screen meant nothing to him. Beneath his touch, she became a willing, sensual woman who fired his blood and whose whimpers drove him mad.

He slid his palms slowly to her knee, reveling in the feel of the warm softness of her skin. Moisture built behind the joint, and his hand nearly slipped when he lifted her leg so that her center hit the sweet spot of his erection.

She moaned. And God help him, so did he.

The pressure was exquisite, torturous and inadequate to quell the ache of wanting. Even as he rolled his wet tongue over her nipples and caught the sound of her gasp, followed by a low, growling groan that transformed his blood cells into sharp star-shapes that pricked their way through his veins, his mouth dried. When she wrapped her leg around his waist and pressed even closer, he thought he might explode.

Her nipple was small, but stiff and responsive. With each flick of his tongue, he could feel her pleasure building, her need growing. She grabbed his cheeks and curved her back so that he could not stop, even if he wanted to.

And he did not want to.

Instead, he slid a hand around to her buttocks and squeezed past her bloomers to the supple flesh underneath.

“Yes, yes,” she crooned.

He growled against her skin, wanting more. So much more. He moved to her other breast, sucking the nipple in deep and then releasing it with his puckered lips, millimeter by millimeter until she shivered. He plucked and pleasured until she squirmed in his arms, her pelvis grinding in to his until need built to dangerous levels. Blood thundered in his ears. She was dressed up in clothes that did not match who she was, in a world that embraced neither of them, yet he could easily imagine he’d known her for years.

“Claire, beautiful Claire,” he said, tickling his fingers down the curves of her ass, following a heated path to her hot core.

He clasped her buttocks, lifting her high so that he could press his mouth to the center of her ribcage. He murmured her name again, this time against her skin. He slid her down the length of his body, said, “Claire,” once more before brushing his lips against hers.

She did not move except to lock her arms around him. Then, for what seemed like ages, the only parts of their bodies that moved or touched were lips, teeth and tongue. As much as he ached to press into her again, as much as he yearned to retrace the heated path to her sex, he concentrated only on the kiss.

They learned each other’s flavors. They luxuriated in each other’s textures and feasted on their tastes.

Without friction, Michael’s body tensed and ached as if hit by a stun gun. If he denied the need to ravish her for much longer, he feared he might start to spasm or pass out. A statue of tangled nerve endings, he was keenly aware of the nearly imperceptible rise and fall of her breasts.

“Claire,” he begged.

The last repetition of her name sparked a mad dash of movement. She pulled herself flush against him and deepened the kiss until her tongue crashed with his in a wild exploration. In seconds, he tore off her corset, ripped aside the voluminous bloomers and pressed her hard against the nearest flat surface, which happened to be the wall behind the screen.

His trousers dropped to the floor, nearly tripping him up around the ankles. While he’d been divesting her of her clothing, clearly, she’d done the same to him.

When she spoke, she was panting.

“Seems like a shame to waste such an impressive erection.”

She squeezed her hand through the slit in his boxers and boldly grasped his sex. Michael’s brain function scattered as she teased the head of his penis with the tip of her thumb, her touch light, but precise. Insistent. Erotic.

“You’re sure?” he asked, desperate for her to say yes, even if it meant tearing himself apart if she opted for no.

“God, yes,” she said. She freed him from his boxers and positioned him between her legs. One slow slide, one unbridled thrust, and they’d be joined.

Voices rose in the hallway—angry female voices that could not be drowned out by the music or the madness of their lust.

He heard the woman who’d questioned his invitation.

And…

“Aunt Clarice!”

Claire pushed out from underneath him. He braced his hands to keep from crashing into the wall, then swiveled to see her sweeping her clothes up from the floor and diving into her gown, undergarments forgotten. While he scrambled to pull up his pants and thrust his hands into the sleeves of his shirt, she tugged at the lock and banged on the door.

“Maman!”
she cried, her terror convincing even as she cursed a very modern blue-streak under her breath.

Michael shot forward, ready to tear the door off the hinges, but he heard the key on the other side and pulled Claire back just as it opened.

For a second, silence exploded. The dark-skinned woman who’d questioned Michael’s invitation looked as if she wanted to throttle them all. Aunt Clarice waved a lace fan and gulped air, her eyes conveying some message to Claire that he could not understand.

“What’s happened?” Claire asked.

Aunt Clarice gathered her calm, then turned to the woman who’d locked them inside, her shoulders back and squared.

“This is a family matter,” she said.

“You can’t just go bursting into rooms!” the woman argued. “There are rules. Protocols. Promises of anonymity and safety to our participants.”

Claire guffawed, then hooked her thumb toward the air vent and the not-so-clandestine camera. “Sell that line to someone else, sister. If my
maman
needs to talk to me, then you can clear the hell out.”

With a huff, the woman spun on her heel and marched out of the room, her goons behind her. Claire was, after all, a guest at this shin-dig, not a captive. The minute the door was closed and dead bolted—from the inside—she shuffled her aunt back toward the screen. Once they were behind it, the older woman set to putting Claire’s clothing back together while chattering in a hushed tone about how she’d had to battle her way past three men in order to figure out what room they were in.

Michael made good use of the time, buttoning his pants over his persistent erection, tossing his coat over his rumpled shirt and retying his cravat, a task he failed at miserably. Luckily, once Claire emerged from behind the screen looking flustered but presentable, Aunt Clarice made a beeline for him and had his neck scarf unknotted and retied correctly in a matter of seconds.

His expression of shock must have showed. “I was costume mistress for the Lagniappe Theater Company for forty years. You look like you could go on stage for a revival of
Showboat.
Clearly, you’re a fine actor if you got past those bulldogs. Have you ever considered a second career in the theater?”

He was saved from having to come up with a pithy reply when Claire grabbed her aunt’s arm and moved her closer to the CD player, which was still on.

“Why did you come bursting up here?”

Her aunt pressed her hand to her generous bosom. “Oh, right! I saw her,
cher.
Downstairs. Bold as brass, sashaying out to the back verandah with a man half her age.”

“Who?” Michael asked.

But Claire didn’t need any further explanation. Her worried expression instantly transformed into keen anticipation.

“You’re sure?”

Her aunt dug between her breasts and retrieved a handkerchief, which she waved as if in surrender. “
Cher,
I may have trouble remembering faces, but when you give me a person’s measurements, I can spot them from one-hundred paces. She’s a classic size ten. Thirty-six inch bust, twenty-eight and a half inch waist, forty inch hip. Her shoulders are broad like a swimmer’s and she’s got long legs for a woman who is only five-eight. I’m telling you. She’s your girl.”

Claire clapped her hands together. “This might truly be our lucky night, interruptions notwithstanding.”

She turned to her aunt, who was panting with exertion now that her adrenaline had eased.

“Do you have the papers?”

The older woman lifted her arm, revealing a dangling draw-string purse.

Claire unwound it from her aunt’s wrist, then dug beyond the powder compact and lipstick and removed a cardboard bottom. Beneath it, she took out a thick square of folded papers, backed with tell tale legal-blue.

“Great,” she said, then glanced down at her costume and realized she didn’t have anywhere to hide the papers. She tried shoving them in the thin pockets of her skirt, but the delicate folds couldn’t mask the stiff, sharp shape.

She glanced at Michael and slipped the document into his jacket, then gave his chest a confident pat.

“And those are?”

“The termination of parental rights papers my client needs his ex-wife to sign. He travels a lot for his job and he needs his new wife to formally adopt the children Josslyn Granger abandoned four years ago.”

Disgust must have shown on his face, because Claire reached up and smoothed her hand over his cheek, her jade eyes darkening even as her voice dropped to a sensual timber that reheated his simmering blood.

“Cheer up, Murrieta. Once she signs, my case is over. And then, I’m all yours.”

C
LAIRE TOOK A
deep breath and willed herself back into character while Michael swung open the door to the hall. They’d come up with a quick story to explain why he and his new “mistress” had been called away from their rendezvous, but once outside, they found no one around to question their departure.

Maybe their luck had finally turned?

With a slight bow and a twinkle in his eyes, Michael offered his arm. Claire flushed down to her toes. The minute her hands slipped around his impressive pecs, she mourned Aunt Clarice’s interruption. Yes, she’d instructed her aunt to be on the watch for her client’s former wife. Yes, she’d told her to move heaven and earth to alert Claire if she spotted the woman anywhere among the hundred or so people in attendance. Yes, she needed to put this case to rest so two kids could have the mother they deserved instead of the one they’d gotten stuck with.

But God Almighty, couldn’t Clarice have waited just ten more minutes?

Of course, her aunt had had no way of knowing that Claire had been seconds away from guiding Michael into her willing, wanting body. The pounding vibration of her unfulfilled lust still thrummed between her legs, at the center of her belly, in the tips of her breasts.

Even after they’d retreated to the bedroom and she’d realized they were being watched, she hadn’t imagined she’d actually want to have sex with him. Heavy petting, sure. Why not? He was hot. And a damned good kisser, whether he was plying his lips against hers or moving them lower. But going all the way with a law enforcement type she’d never met before tonight while they each pretended to be someone they weren’t?

That pushed even her limits—and she didn’t have that many of them.

Well, she did have a few. She didn’t date actors. Her father had been an actor; her mother a playwright. They’d lived, breathed and existed solely for the theater to the point where Claire, an unexpected and unplanned pregnancy, went from doted-on infant to curly-haired prop by the time she was two, pulled out for display at family productions otherwise known as Christmas, Easter and Mardi Gras.

The rest of the time, she lived with Clarice, enjoying a relatively normal childhood that included attending Catholic school, learning to cook and playing sports with the other kids who ran around the French Quarter as if it were the best playground in the universe.

Claire had figured out quickly that nearly everyone orbiting her parents—from bit players to temperamental directors—were masters of the lie. It was second nature for them to fool audiences into believing truths that did not exist. Trouble was, they often transferred their talent into real life. When her parents were around, Claire wasn’t sure which parts of her childhood were real and which had been staged for a maximum emotional response.

Luckily for her, she’d gravitated to the stage crews: the carpenters and production hands and costumers like Clarice whose jobs depended on understanding both the magic of make-believe and the very real limitations that reality brought into the world.