Too Wild to Hold. Julie Leto

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      “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 СКАЧАТЬ