Relentless Seduction

As if she hadn’t already tried the police first thing this morning. Julia was an adult, they’d said. Must be missing for forty-eight hours, they’d said. They hadn’t taken Claire’s fear for her friend seriously at all. As if Claire didn’t know when something was really wrong with Julia.

She’d known Julia since third grade and Claire knew without a doubt that this was not just a case of Mardi Gras hangover. Sure, Julia had ditched her last night to hook up with that weirdo with the tattoo. Claire was accustomed to Julia’s free-spirited ways. Even when she hadn’t returned to their hotel room by this morning, Claire had calmly packed their things and gone to the airport, assuming Julia would come racing up to her at the last minute, full of false chagrin and a scintillating account of her adventures with the “vampire.”

But she hadn’t.

And Claire wasn’t leaving New Orleans without making sure Julia was alive and well.

“She might’ve been with a guy who had three blood drops t-tattooed down the corner of his mouth,” Claire called after the bartender.

The bartender froze, and several people at the bar around her quieted and stared at her. He turned back and leaned in close, conspiratorially. At last, she would gain some useful information. She leaned forward and caught a hint of his spicy intoxicating cologne.

“This is a vampire bar. Lots of people have that tattoo.”

Hope deflated. And irritation flared. He was taunting her. Then understanding dawned. She yanked her purse open, pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and slipped it across the bar toward him. “Perhaps this will help you r-remember the man or my friend?”

His eyes narrowed and his lips tightened, harsh and cynical. “You want a drink, I’m your man. Otherwise, I can’t help you.” He gave his attention to the waitress who’d stepped up with an order.

Claire fumed. “I’ll have a strawberry d-daiquiri,” she called out.

He glanced at her, brows raised. “A strawber—” His lips curved up at the corners. “Coming right up.” As he shook the hair from his wary eyes, a tiny silver loop in his left ear gleamed in the light.

He moved gracefully, spinning back and forth, grabbing bottles and pouring alcohol, and drawing beer into mugs with speed and precision. Tall, but slim, except for his wide shoulders and large biceps, he could’ve been a member of the Boston rowing club. Yet, unlike those privileged boys, this man seemed unaware of his masculine good looks.

Finally, the waitress left with her filled tray. Then he bent to lift a clear plastic bowl from under the bar.

Her gaze shot straight to his behind and the worn jeans outlining his impossibly sexy derriere. Wait. Was she actually checking out a man’s bottom? In her twenty-eight years as a female, she’d never understood why other women noticed things like that. But, now, now that her best friend was missing and possibly in danger, now she… noticed?

He peeled off the lid, grabbed a handful of large, red-ripe strawberries and dropped them into a blender. As he prepared her drink, he stole a strawberry from the bowl and popped it into his mouth. He glanced at her and she looked away, feeling her cheeks heat with embarrassment.

She should be searching the bar for her friend or that guy, showing Julia’s picture around. Claire spun, putting her back to the bar, and scanned the room.

“Here you go.”

She jumped and turned back as he set the fruity drink in front of her and took the twenty still lying on the bar. He sauntered over to a computer, touched the screen and made change when a drawer popped open.

Digging a business card from her purse, she scribbled her hotel’s name and her cell number on it and shoved it into his hand as he offered her the change.

“Please. Keep the change and if you see my friend, would you call me? My cell’s on here and where I’m staying—the Les Chambres R-Royale.”

Before he could refuse, she snatched up her drink and plunged into the crowd.

His fingers had been hot and rough. Claire swallowed back the tingle she’d felt at the brief contact.

Bringing up the picture of Julia, she began stopping each person and asking if they’d seen her friend. Someone here had to have seen Julia last night. Or that creep she’d left with during the Mardi Gras parade. It wasn’t even eleven yet. The night was young.

RAFE WATCHED THE WOMAN stop his patrons one by one and show them the picture on her phone. That couldn’t be good for business. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to throw her out. Her big brown eyes behind the thick lenses had sparked with intelligence, and… authentic concern.

Not your problem, Moreau.

He eyed the card she’d forced on him, debating whether to pitch it in the circular filing cabinet.

Dr. Claire Brooks, PhD Senior Scientist/Group Leader Cell Line Generation Cambridge, Mass 555-496-4949

Doctor? He whistled. What the hell was cell line generation?

He glanced at her again. She was still grilling his customers.

Boy, was she out of her element. The frizzy chestnut hair and decades out of style clothing couldn’t have stood out more if she’d been dressed like a nun. All it would take was her asking the wrong person… Plus she was corrupting the vibe. Tourists came here to enter a different world, and the freaks and true believers came here to get their crazy on.

If he looked up the word sensible, there’d probably be a picture of this woman. And yet. She’d braved this place to look for her friend.

As he watched she stopped one of his regulars, a die-hard vamp who had the three blood drops tattooed down the corner of his mouth. The guy tried to brush her away, but she moved to block his path.

He scowled and shoved her into another dude Rafe didn’t recognize and her drink splashed down the front of his T-shirt. The fact he was wearing a collar with sharp metal spikes was not a good sign. Dog Collar Guy grabbed her by the throat, his face inches from hers, his teeth bared.

Her eyes widened and filled with fear.

Damn it. Rafe leaped around the bar, shoved his way to the altercation and inserted himself between the collar-man and the good doctor.

“What the—?”

Rafe got in his face. “You lay hands on a customer of mine again, you’ll leave in an ambulance,” he snarled. “Now get out.”

The psycho hesitated and Rafe signaled his bouncer, Bulldog.

Why the hell he hadn’t let Bulldog handle it from the beginning he had no clue. Collar-man saw Bulldog headed toward them and raised his hands. “Okay, okay.” He made a beeline for the door.

The woman began coughing when collar-man released her. “Thank y—”

Rafe gripped her arm and dragged her toward the door.

“What are you d-doing?” She struggled, but she was no match for him. “Let go of me.”

“You’re disturbing my customers.” Once outside, he whistled for a cab down the street and tugged her to the curb as it pulled up. “Les Chambres Royale,” he bent to inform the cabbie, and then opened the back door for her.

“I’m not l-leaving without some information.” She managed to fold her arms over nice-size curves that had been hidden before by her crocheted… whatever she called that thing. At the same time, she hitched her huge purse up onto her shoulder and pushed her eyeglasses higher on her nose. Why did he find that appealing?

“Look, this isn’t the kind of place you want to be hanging around.”

She rolled her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I’m staying here to find my friend.”

“It’s my bar and I say you’re not.”

“Hey, is someone getting in or what?” the cabbie yelled out the window.

Rafe leaned in the front window. “Start the meter.” When he looked back at the woman, she was biting her thumbnail and he could’ve sworn he saw the wheels and cogs turning as a plan formed.

“If you don’t let me inside, I swear I’ll come back every night, stand outside your d-door and ask everyone before they enter—”