Wildest Dreams Page 3

  It was all she could do to keep breathing. “Why on earth would I pretend to be an escort?”

  His serious gaze never wavered. “You tell me.”

  “I can’t, because you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  He let out a sigh of irritation. “Look, I’m tryin’ to do you a favor. You’re gonna get hurt if you mess with this crowd.”

  “No, you look, I didn’t come here to be harassed by a bartender. So I think I’ll just be leaving now.” She pushed to her feet, intent on marching from the room, but he stood just as quickly, blocking her way.

  She drew in her breath and lifted her eyes to find their faces only a few inches apart. Their bodies too. His musky scent permeated her senses.

  “How much?” he whispered.

  She drew back only slightly. “How much what?”

  “How much do you charge?” His warm breath seemed to infuse heat into her veins as the loaded question ran all through her.

  “Why do you care?”

  “Consider it a test.” His eyes glimmered in the dim lighting.

  Melody had told her how much, she was sure of it—but she’d never expected to get this far into a conversation about it, and the bartender had her rattled. “Two hundred,” she guessed, thinking it sounded like an appropriate amount for an upper-tier lady of the evening. Hadn’t she seen movies, TV shows, where regular street hookers charged only twenty, thirty, fifty dollars?

  “For what exactly?” he asked.

  Still more heat consumed her. “For one . . . go-round.”

  He didn’t smile, but his eyes filled with satisfaction. “Wrong answer, chère.”

  “What?” She hadn’t known there was a wrong answer. He still stood so close that she’d have sworn he could feel how fast her heart beat.

  “The goin’ price for a lady of your caliber is five hundred an hour, three thousand if I want you to spend the night.”

  Her eyes flew wide as her chest tightened. “If you . . . ?”

  Only then did his wicked little grin reappear. “What’s wrong, Stephanie Grant? Do I make you nervous?”

  “Of course not.” Sell it. Somehow. “One guy’s the same as any other. I just . . .”

  He tilted his head. “Don’t think a lowly bartender’s got that kinda cash? Surprise, beb, I do. And if you’re really in the business you say you are, this would be easy money. Not sure why you didn’t leave with any of the other men, but maybe it’s just my good fortune, no?”

  “No,” she said. Unequivocally.

  His fingertips grazed the length of her arm, rising onto her bare shoulder to stop at the thin strap there. Heat filled his touch and it was all she could do not to shiver. “Why not?” he asked.

  She had no idea how to answer without blowing her cover.

  He saved her the trouble by sweeping a tantalizingly soft kiss across her lips, tasting of cool mint. Her body blazed with wild desire and she gasped, trying desperately not to feel—but at the moment, she felt more than any man had ever made her feel before. A stranger. In a modern-day house of ill repute. It didn’t make sense.

  But then, what did? Did it make sense that she was masquerading as a lady of the night? Did it make sense that Tina was missing—could be somewhere dead or dying for all she knew? Put in that context, her current circumstances seemed a lot less bizarre.

  “What do you say, chère?” he purred in her ear, the soft Cajun accent melting over her, warm and encasing. With that, he brushed another sinfully short kiss over her mouth, leaving the same hint of mint, the same liquid lust pouring through her as he smoothly swept her into a loose embrace, lowering her lengthwise onto the velvet sofa. She lounged among the plush pillows as he grazed his palm over her cheek, jaw, neck, in a slow caress.

  She could have left a minute ago—she could have walked away. But she hadn’t, too caught up in his dark allure, and now she lay beside him, reaching for an answer. “No,” she finally whispered.

  “No?” To her surprise, his sexy expression revealed a hint of amusement. “You came here tonight to make money, didn’t you?” His heated voice whisked down through her, somehow making even those words sensual, tempting. “You came here to sell your body, chère. Why shouldn’t I take you up on it? Unless . . .” His voice stretched out the s sound.

  She bit her lip. “Unless what?”

  He leaned near her ear, his voice quiet, deep. “Unless there’s a reason you’re resistin’.”

  Was she? Resisting? His palm closed full around her waist, his thumb brushing dangerously near the underside of her breast, and still she didn’t make a move to leave.

  “Unless,” he went on, “you aren’t what you claim. Unless you aren’t really here to sell all these pretty curves.” His hand glided down over her waist, hip, thigh, as if outlining her.

  She heard her own breath, broken and labored, and wished the room were darker, wished it were okay to pull him to her and do everything she suddenly wanted to do. Press his body against hers, let him touch her—everywhere. Take him inside her.

  He lowered more soft kisses to her neck, then reached behind her ankle to slide his hand slowly up her stocking to the spot behind her knee. Her heavy breath mingled with his now, the only sounds in the red room.

  “Last chance, chère,” he whispered, his palm edging higher.

  Even as a shot of hungry pleasure blasted upward, she said, “No. Stop.”

  He never flinched, only lifted his mouth to breathe warm in her ear. “Tell me why.”

  “What?” She could barely think.

  “If you were really an escort, you wouldn’t make me stop, no?” His voice was a low growl. “You’d let me have you.”

  His palm skimmed around to the front of her thigh, fingertips grazing across the lace top of the stocking, making her body scream with conflicting yesses and noes that all blurred in her mind for a fraction of a second, until finally she knew she couldn’t let this go any further. “No, I can’t. Stop!”

  His hand stilled in place and he drew back to look at her.

  She knew he was waiting for more, and it suddenly seemed stupid to have kept up the pretense this long . . . unless she’d really wanted . . .

  No—that wasn’t it! She just didn’t like having her cover, however thin, completely blown.

  “I’m not really an escort,” she admitted softly into the still air.

  She thought he looked at once disappointed but pleased. He withdrew his hand from beneath her dress and pulled it back into place, then sat up beside her.

  She felt like an idiot, but slowly raised herself upright as well. They stayed silent and the moment reminded her strangely of high school—nights of kissing and touching and wanting more, but finding the strength to say no. This was the part where everything turned awkward.

  She drew in her breath lightly at the shocking memory—she’d nearly forgotten a time when she had known these feelings. She shook her head to clear it.

  “Why’d you lie?” he asked, slowly raising his gaze.

  Her lips trembled when she tried to answer. “I . . . need to find someone.”

  “Tina Grant,” he confirmed. “How are you related?”

  She looked up in surprise, but then remembered—escorts didn’t use their last names, and she’d stated it both when asking about Tina and introducing herself. She sighed. “She’s my sister.”

  Their eyes met. “How old?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  He seemed to understand much more than she’d told him. “Twenty-five is all grown up, no? Old enough to do what she wants.”

  Stephanie let out a small sound of disgust. The last thing she needed was a lecture. She already knew part of Tina’s decision might be her fault, and that alone was hard enough to bear without his superior attitude. “But she’s missing.”

  She’d thought that
would catch his attention, yet it seemed not to shock him at all. “Define missin’, chère.”

  She took a deep breath. No reason now, she supposed, not to lay everything on the table. “She came down here from Chicago a few months ago, chasing a guy. When I finally heard from her, she told me the relationship hadn’t worked out, but that she’d decided to stay anyway and become . . . an escort.” When referring to her little sister, the simple word became much harder to say. “I was upset, of course, and tried to talk her out of it, but the next time she called, she’d already started . . . working.” She stopped a minute, her chest aching from the picture the words created in her head.

  “And?”

  “And she didn’t call the next time she was supposed to. And she hasn’t called since. No cell phone to try because she didn’t pay the last bill, and she refused to give me a number where I could reach her. And she hasn’t been in touch with her old boyfriend, either, because I checked. So after weeks with no contact, I had to do something.”

  “Probably just didn’t want to talk to you, knowin’ how you feel about what she’s doin’.”

  She released a perturbed breath. This guy just thought he knew everything, didn’t he? He might even be right, but his matter-of-fact tone made her worries sound practically unfounded. “You sound just like the cop I talked to. I did try that route before coming to look for her, just so you don’t think I’m totally crazy. But I couldn’t get any help from them.”

  “ ’Cause they know she’s probably fine.”

  She pursed her lips. “I took it a different way. I figured they didn’t care because, to them, she’s just another prostitute.”

  He shrugged—annoyingly. “Either way, I’m probably right.”

  She blinked, growing more irritated by the moment. “So I’m supposed to let her drop out of my life, forget she exists? Even if she is fine, I still have to find her.”

  “Some reason you didn’t hire a PI, beb? Most people who can’t get answers from the cops would try that route.”

  “For your information, I did. But within a few days he said the trail was cold. That left me no other choice than to track her down myself.”

  His gaze remained steady on her. “And when you do?”

  “I’ll talk her into coming home and putting this chapter of her life behind her. I’ll help her find a job. Help her get over the guy. I’ll be there for her, for as long as she needs me.”

  Jake thought about how to reply. Sounded to him like Miss Chardonnay was pretty controlling when it came to her poor sister. But since she already seemed pissed off, he wasn’t about to tell her that. “So you thought it’d be a good idea to come trottin’ yourself down to New Orleans and dress yourself up like a high-priced hooker?” he said instead.

  She looked as sheepish as he thought she should. “It wasn’t exactly my idea.”

  “You got a partner in crime?”

  She dropped her glance slightly before raising it again. “A woman I met doing research on the Internet—at a site where prostitutes trying to get out of the business can go for advice. Her name’s Melody and she’s an ex-escort—high-priced—who used to work the French Quarter. She thought the best way to find Tina was to ask the people who might work with her, or who might be her customers. And she doubted anyone would talk to me if I didn’t appear to be . . . one of them.”

  “Which is how you knew about this place.”

  She nodded.

  He lowered his chin, wondering the obvious. “Any reason Melody couldn’t ask around for you?”

  “She doesn’t move in these circles anymore. She’s married now, with a baby, and a husband who doesn’t know her past.”

  Jake shrugged—it was a good reason. Girls who chose this life didn’t usually end up where Miss Chardonnay’s hooker friend had. “Still a pretty stupid move,” he couldn’t stop himself from murmuring.

  She cast him a sideways glance. “What was I supposed to do? And why do you care so much anyway? You’ve got an awfully vested interest in this for a bartender.”

  She was right—like it or not, his old instincts were showing. Still, if the woman had any sense, she’d be grateful. “The way I see it, I might’ve saved your life tonight.”

  She let out a wry laugh. “That’s an exaggeration, don’t you think?”

  He gave his head a solemn shake. “It’s like I told you earlier—you fool around with these people, you’ll get hurt. It’s dangerous to say you’re sellin’ somethin’ you aren’t.”

  Her ire seemed to calm a little, her next question sounding more inquisitive. “What makes you so smart about these things?”

  “I see a lot. Hear a lot.”

  She looked at him long and hard with those soft blue eyes, clearly trying to see behind his. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you seem too smart to be a bartender.”

  He sighed. She sounded just like Tony, just like his mother. It made him feel tired, much older than his thirty-three years. “I used to be a cop, okay?”

  “Used to be?” She bit her lower lip, looking puzzled. “You’re not . . . working here undercover or something, are you?”

  He shook his head. “No way, chère. Just servin’ up drinks, that’s all.”

  “Why? Why would you go from being a cop to being a bartender?”

  If you’d been anywhere near this city two years ago, you’d know. But since she’d clearly missed all the newspaper articles and TV news spots, he wasn’t about to dredge up his past. “Nosy little girl, aren’t you?”

  “I came down here to ask questions,” she said with a shrug.

  He looked away, planting his gaze on the painting above the couch a few feet away. “But I’m not lost, chère. Not the person you came to find.”

  Silence blanketed the small, lush room and he regretted bringing her in here. It was too intimate a space and he found himself wanting to kiss her again. He hadn’t planned that part of it and he remained surprised that it had felt so good, that stopping had been so hard. His game of coercing the truth from her had been a mistake. He didn’t want to want her—or anyone. He just wanted to go home.

  “Maybe you could help me.”

  Her hopeful words drew his eyes back to hers. “Help you how?”

  “Help me find Tina.” She suddenly sounded full of fresh optimism—misplaced optimism.

  “How the hell you think I’d do that?”

  “Well, you used to be a cop. And you seem to know your way around the escort industry pretty well. Surely there are people you could ask, places we could search.”

  “Whoa there, chère. What’s this ‘we’ you’re talkin’ about all the sudden? I don’t even know you.”

  She sighed. “But I need help and I’m desperate. And . . . I could pay you.” Her eyes lit with the idea and she reached immediately for her purse. “How much do you want? I can give you what I have now, and more later. However much you want to charge.”

  Ironic. Now she was trying to pay him for something he didn’t intend to sell, either. “No thanks, beb. I don’t want your money, and frankly, I don’t wanna get involved in your problems.”

  She looked crushed. He felt it in his heart, like a little dart sticking there.

  Damn it. Why wouldn’t people leave him alone? Of course, he’d started this—but he’d made his point with her and was ready to call it a night. “Look,” he said, “I’m sorry, but I got enough troubles of my own, okay?”

  She didn’t respond, only kept sitting there looking like the world had just come to an end, making the dart in his chest dig a little deeper.

  “Take my advice and go home to Chicago, Stephanie Grant. This is no place for a woman like you.” Jake got to his feet and walked out of the room, through the outer bar area, and exited onto the steps descending into the enclosed courtyard. The night air hit him like a brick—for a September evening, it felt m
ore like early August.

  But he didn’t really mind the heat—he’d grown up with it. At the moment, it was just something to feel, something to fight, something to wallow in, something to think about as he walked home—something other than Miss Chardonnay and those blue, blue eyes.

  Chapter Three

  SOMEWHERE IN THE distance, a siren split the night. As usual on his walk home, he hadn’t seen a soul since passing some partyers near Bourbon. As he moved up the sidewalk deep into dark, quiet streets, it was just him and the ghosts. That’s what Becky used to say, the reason she never felt comfortable in the Quarter late at night. “Too many ghosts.” Jake didn’t believe in ghosts, but he could almost believe he felt them tonight, too, peeking over balconies and lurking in hidden doorways. Once he even looked over his shoulder.

  Because he was losing his mind, apparently. Knock it off already, he scolded himself. What a night. Must be screwing with his brain.

  Despite the ghosts and the heat, he was still thinking about Stephanie Grant.

  He could have helped her. If he’d cared—about her search for her sister, about the worry haunting her gaze. But he didn’t. He might have cared about Miss Chardonnay’s fate enough to let her know she was playing a dangerous game, and he hoped she’d heed the warning. But like he’d said, her sister was all grown up. It was none of his business if one more sad girl spread her legs for money. He’d gone way overboard with Stephanie Grant tonight—and he couldn’t even account for why—but that couch, the red room, was where it ended.

  Still, a warm tremor ran the length of his body. Clearly, Stephanie Grant was all grown up, too—with ripe curves, lush lips, and soft breath that had grown heated when he’d kissed her.

  Not real kisses, though. Teasing ones; their mouths had barely met.

  Then why did he still feel them? And what about her had made him care at all what sort of trouble she might get herself into?

  Turning a corner onto Burgundy, he let out a sigh. What the hell had happened to him tonight? He saw breasts and curves and sexy dresses in Sophia’s every shift he worked and it didn’t affect him. But somehow Stephanie Grant had dug deeper inside him. From the start, she’d drawn a few smiles from him—a rarity in itself, even if they were the devilish sort. And when he’d ended up alone with her in the red room, something inside him had switched on. Something needful. Something he’d nearly forgotten about, yet suddenly there it was, rearing its head just like that old habit of taking care of people and fixing things.