Predawn the same day
Propped against the wall, Bleu watched Roche roll onto his back, his face turned away from her.
The night had become an unreal memory.
A sheen from water on the uncurtained windows swirled across the white sheet around the man’s hips. His skin gleamed.
She didn’t know how long she had slept, but it couldn’t have been long.
She had fished her pajamas from inside the bed and slipped into them, careful not to awaken Roche.
The clothes made her feel safer.
Good women don’t flaunt their naked bodies. She held her throat, and tried to relax her tightening muscles. Michael had insisted she be dressed in bed, even if he had torn at her nightgown and bruised her skin each time he reached for her in the dark.
Never in the light. She almost smiled and the tune, “Never on a Sunday,” roamed her mind. That had been true, too. When she had been married, she’d craved Sundays and daylight because Michael never approached her at those times.
“Hey, green eyes.”
She started and looked at Roche’s shadowy face. Her tummy turned and she felt jumpy. “You slept,” she said. “You seemed peaceful.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, his voice rough.
Roche reached for her. She wouldn’t let herself refuse him. He pulled her down into the bed until he could hold her against him and wrap the sheet over her, too.
“Little pajama miss,” he said, ranging a hand over her back. “A kiss, please.”
Bleu watched his face while they kissed. His eyes were shut tightly. She couldn’t close hers. She was fragmenting again, freezing up as faint light crept into the room. They kissed, and Roche turned her to her back, rested on his elbows and held her still with his fingers in her hair.
He wrapped a naked leg over both of hers and she felt how hard he was again. Awkwardly, she patted his back and smoothed his hair.
“Come with me,” he said against her cheek.
Roche didn’t give her any choice. For a big man, he could move very fast. Almost instantly on his knees, he scooped her up by a hand under her shoulders and another under her knees.
“Put me down,” she said, pushing against his chest.
He ignored her but went only as far as a large, wall-mounted mirror and set her down. “There,” he said. “You’re down. Now stay put until I tell you otherwise.”
“Ew,” she said, catching sight of herself in the rumpled pink pajamas. “This is mean.” Her hair was tousled, her face too pale and her eyes so dark they seemed all pupil.
“Look at yourself,” Roche whispered into her ear.
“You’re mean.”
“I know a good thing when I see it. Look. Now.”
She raised her gaze to the mirror again and trembled. Standing behind and slightly to the right of her, Roche’s entire naked right side was visible all the way from his intent face, past broad shoulders, slim hips, the dark shadows at his groin and down his muscular leg.
“You cover yourself up,” he said quietly. “Why is that?”
She opened her mouth but couldn’t make herself tell him.
“It’s okay,” he said, softly rubbing the sides of her neck. “I think I know. When you’re naked you feel vulnerable, is that it?”
Her heart beat harder but she gave a single nod.
“Have you been humiliated in the past?”
She nodded again.
Roche slipped a hand beneath the front of her pajama top and stroked her ribcage. He slid just inside her pants to smooth her stomach and massaged upward until he stopped a breath away from her breasts.
“You’re beautiful. You never have to feel self-conscious about your body. Let me show you.”
She stiffened and Roche kissed the spot where her neck met her shoulder. “You’re okay,” he murmured.
Unerringly, he undid the buttons on her top and slowly separated the front. She tried to turn in his arms. Roche wouldn’t allow it. He held her still and revealed her breasts.
High and very white, they showed clearly in the mirror. He flattened his palms over her nipples and made circles until the little muscles at the entrance to her body jerked tight and she flinched at the sensation.
Cautiously, she put a hand on his thigh and her breath shortened when Roche groaned.
Slowly, he pulled the pajama top from her shoulders and let it fall. Bleu made fists to stop herself from grabbing for cover.
“Who told you it’s wrong to enjoy your body?” he asked.
Bleu shook her head.
Her back rested against his chest and he cupped her breasts. She tingled and burned, and she trembled. His thumbs, circling her nipples, did what he intended them to do. She dropped the back of her head against his shoulder and pinched her eyes tight shut.
Roche kissed her neck. He dropped gradually to his knees, kissing her spine again and again with firm, parted lips. And he ran his flattened hands down her body, catching the waist of her pants and pulling them to her feet.
He kissed the little dip at the base of her spine, licked and nipped her there and Bleu wobbled, tried unsuccessfully to grab him.
His fingers between her thighs, delving into the slick folds there, made Bleu glowing hot. She allowed herself another look in the mirror, and her skin flamed. The sight of his moving hands, tanned against her pallor, turned her blood to water. She breathed through her mouth.
She stared at herself, at him curled around her, pleasuring her. The woman in the mirror seemed a stranger, the man a dark and powerful force.
A climax began its shooting arch. She tossed her head and body and flailed to touch him wherever she could reach.
“It’s good,” he murmured. “You are so good. Go with it. There’s so much more.”
He spun her to face him and she moaned. “Don’t stop, please.” She couldn’t bear it.
Roche didn’t stop. At once he reached to part her again, and stroke her again, and when she could barely hold back a scream, he bent his legs then slid himself hard inside her, lifted her to ride his hips.
The strength of each thrust bounced her on his hips. She clutched his hair. He sucked on a breast.
And they both gave in to spasm after spasm until Roche lowered her to lie on the floor and covered her, still sending himself deep inside, slowly now, grunting, then catching her moans in his mouth.
They lay there, wrapped so close they were one. Bleu kissed his face. She panted, locked her ankles behind his buttocks and reveled in the sensations of having him as connected to her as she could get him.
“Did Michael make you think you should keep yourself covered?” he asked very quietly.
Bleu held him even tighter. “All that’s over,” she said. “I’m better now.”
Was she? he wondered. She was wonderful. He felt more sated that he could have imagined on any dark night filled with lone sexual longing. This woman would change him. She already had. But she wasn’t “better now,” just improving. God, was she improving! He bit the lobe of her ear and she batted weakly at him.
With effort, he stood and pulled her to her feet. And he kissed her, amazed at the tenderness he felt, tenderness that didn’t mask how his body began to quicken again.
Her arms raised high and surrounding his neck, her breasts, belly and thighs molded to him, she kissed him back with almost ferocious determination.
“Look again,” he told her, easing her face toward the mirror. “Tell me it’s a good idea to cover a body like yours.”
She did look, her eyes just clearing an upraised arm. “Yours should never be covered,” she said, and laughed. For a moment she stared at their naked, intertwined bodies, but then she pressed her face against him and held on tight.
“You’re so sexy, Bleu.”
“Only with you. See how we are?”
He saw—again—and braced against a raw jolt. “Back to bed.” Without giving her a chance for an opinion, he slid them both beneath the sheet and kept on holding her. “Are you as beat as I am?”
“Mmm.”
Stroking her hair, he dropped his head onto her shoulder and said, “I’m afraid to ask what time it is.”
“I’m not sure. The alarm on the radio doesn’t work. I don’t sleep a lot, so I don’t need one.”
“Is it getting light?” He kept his eyes hidden.
“Yes.” Shades of gray grew paler and paler, chased darkness out of the corners. “You’ve got to be somewhere?” She couldn’t bear for him to go.
“I don’t want to leave you.” On his elbows again, he looked down into her face. “Are you sick of me now?”
“What?” She swallowed. “Yes, absolutely sick of you.” If she had ever seen a man in her dreams, Roche would have been that man. Why couldn’t she have met him a long time ago, before Michael?
His hand on her breast felt too good. There were reactions that had lives of their own. Bleu arched her back toward him. Those shades of gray were disappearing and she saw the concentration in his very blue eyes. Beard darkened his jaw and showed even darker where the shallow cleft dipped in his chin.
There should be curtains at the windows. She hadn’t bothered because they cost a lot and she had no neighbors. The landlord had insisted the place was unfurnished and he didn’t have to provide window coverings.
“Bleu,” Roche whispered against her breast. He took her nipple between his teeth and shook lightly before he sucked.
The result was electric.
“Roche,” she said, combing his mussed hair with her fingers, convulsing at the sensations he made and holding his face hard to her breast.
“Mmm?”
Bleu responded elsewhere.
She shouldn’t let this happen again, not yet. They needed a little space first.
“I think you’re getting late,” she said.
He continued, deeply engrossed in what he was doing.
If the sky weren’t overcast and rain falling again, much more light would have come into the room.
Bleu breathed hard, but she turned her head sideways to look at his watch. “It’s well after five,” she said.
He burrowed his face into her neck and grew heavy on top of her. “It can’t be.”
“It is.”
He sprang to sit on the edge of the mattress. “Hell,” he said, and stood up, naked and breathtaking. “I’ve got to go, sweet.”
“The shower—”
“I can shower and change at the office,” he said. “Fortunately, I have my own entrance into the building.” He had started dressing.
When he’d pulled his shirt over his head, he stopped and stared at her. “Don’t you forget last night. Or this morning. You understand?”
“I couldn’t,” she said honestly.
He didn’t smile. “Good. I need to see you tonight.”
Bleu nodded and felt herself blush. She couldn’t have said no.
“It’ll be a longer night this time,” he told her. “I’ll come and get you. What time do you get home?”
“Around six, unless work keeps me.”
“I’ll be here at six, unless you call me. But if it has to be later, I’ll wait for you,” he said.
“You’d better go.”
“Bye,” he said, sticking his feet into his shoes and stuffing things into his pockets. “Later.”
“Later.”
By the time she heard the front door close, Bleu had sneaked from the mattress to retrieve her pajamas and put them on. In bed once more, she closed her eyes, even though she didn’t expect to sleep.
Scared shouldn’t be the first thing that came to mind when a man left a woman he’d made love to, and wanted to make love to many more times.
But he was, Roche thought, scared sick. The sex had been amazing, but he’d planned the way it would go. He hadn’t even known if he would be able to hold on and stay cool. Cool hadn’t happened, but he had kept himself in check.
If he told himself he wouldn’t try to educate her a little more each time they were together, he’d be a liar. Educate? He lengthened his stride to reach the bottom of the cul-de-sac. What he had in mind wasn’t taught in any course he knew of. You had to be a natural to get it right.
Damn, she was like honey, sweet and sexy-sticky, and she was supple. He could bend her body wherever he wanted it to go.
Watching her in the mirror had driven him wild. And he felt wild all over again.
He aimed his key at the BMW. A more serviceable vehicle was what he should have around here. This week he’d look for something. That car of Bleu’s was living on borrowed time. Maybe she’d accept the BMW.
Sure, she would. He could tell her he wanted to wait to sell it until he could be somewhere with a good dealer. Make it a loaner.
Take it slow and easy, buddy. The woman isn’t for sale.
He couldn’t let anyone see him. “Mess” didn’t cover it. Behind the wheel, he sat with one foot outside on the rough road while he started the car. He wanted fresh air before this day turned muggy. The rain had stopped at last and already a faint vaporous layer collected over the ground.
Roche reached to pull the door shut.
He stopped, and listened.
A dull boom. Like something exploding in a confined space. Or maybe a big bang muffled by layers of…layers of what?
The sound didn’t last more than seconds and he had no idea where it came from.
He closed the car door and adjusted his mirrors.
Smoke rose in a smutty plume behind him. It rose from Cypress Place.
He leaped from the car and took off the way he’d come. The instant he got around the corner his head started to pound and his palms sweated.
The smoke poured from the carport up the side of Bleu’s townhouse. While he ran, he saw a bush catch fire and crackle to nothing.
Thank God everything was wet.
An acrid, oily scent streamed energy through him. There could be all kinds of flammable materials in that carport. Paint, thinner, old brushes, oily rags.
The smoke got thicker and engulfed the side of the house. Flames licked at the carport—and Bleu’s car.
Damn it, the car would go up.
“Bleu,” he yelled, gasping as smoke reached him. He got to the driveway, dashed to, then up the front steps. Shit, he’d locked the front door—of course he had.
He stepped back and looked up at the bedroom window. “Bleu! For God’s sake. Bleu!”
Damn, Max. His twin had nagged Roche into not carrying a weapon anymore. He sure as hell needed it to deal with the lock.
Choking, he gave himself room, threw his body at the door and felt a rush of hope when it creaked on its hinges.
A few steps away, then he repeated the process, leaving the ground when he hurled himself against the cheap wood. This time it splintered—not on the handle side, but where the screws in the hinges were letting go.
The sound of sirens shocked him. He hadn’t taken the time to call anyone.
A third assault on the door tore the top hinge from the wood. He jumped, hitting the thing with both feet and all of his weight.
He landed inside, flat on his back on top of the door.
“Roche!”
There she was. At the top of the damn stairs. She’s more afraid of who might come through the door than she is of the fire.
“Come to me,” he yelled, starting up the stairs.
Wearing her baggy pajamas again and looking almost childlike, she got to her feet and took a downward step, her eyes locked on his.
Black smoke streamed through the open door.
He grabbed her from the stairs, threw her over a shoulder and went out over the rocking, fallen door.
The local fire truck, its crew working as fast as they could given their old equipment, ran toward the building, hoses unwinding as they went. Water drizzled at first, then shot out in a brave stream.
Another truck roared into the cul-de-sac, this one with the St. Martinville insignia on its side.
“Thank God for rapid response teams,” he said.
Bleu coughed. “You can put me down,” she said quietly.
“Farther away, first.”
A cruiser joined the trucks, followed by another.
Spike got out of the first one, tipped his Stetson over his eyes and plodded toward them. “Stick around, if you don’t mind,” he said to Roche.
More familiar bodies in slick-sleeved khaki uniforms and straw Stetsons came their way at a run, and passed by, but not without hard glances. They went into a huddle with Spike a few yards away, then separated and spread out in different directions.
Carefully, Roche put Bleu’s feet on the ground.
If anything, the smell got worse and the smoke, blacker.
Roche scratched his forehead and rubbed at his stubbly chin.
Spike joined them again. “Hard night?” Spike said, immediately looking away.
Roche put an arm around Bleu and rolled her in so her face was hidden against his chest. “Save it,” he told Spike. “Sometimes less is more.”
Spike’s eyes slid toward him and there was no doubt the man was exhausted. “This damn town is falling apart,” he said. “Got any neat little platitudes for that?”
“Nope.” But Roche didn’t apologize for what he’d said. “How did you all know about the fire so fast?”
“A call came in. To the fire station and to us.”
“I didn’t make any calls,” Roche said. “I was around the corner and in my car when I heard something go up. Did anyone get a trace on the calls?”
“Save me,” Spike said. “Everyone’s a cop these days. This is Toussaint, Louisiana, not New York City. Maybe we’ve got something, maybe we haven’t.”
“Doesn’t have to be New York…” Roche decided not to finish. “Someone in Crawfish Alley must have called. That’s the closest street.”
“How long ago did this start?” Spike asked. With the St. Martinville crew on scene, the problem was all but over. Occasional cracks and pops came from the carport, following by more smoke, but the whole thing was calming down. Hoses snaked in every direction, and men who hadn’t taken the time to clamp the tops of their flapping boots shut, moved rapidly but not as if they were worried about a thing.
“Minutes,” Roche said.
“You sure you didn’t call?” Spike said.
“Sure, I’m sure,” Roche said. “Like I said, I was getting into my car down there.” He hooked a thumb toward the bottom of the street. “There was a thud like something went up under a heap of blankets. I almost didn’t come back.”
“That right?” Spike said, eyeing him. “Did you hear the fire sirens before you decided to get out of your car again and come back? It wouldn’t have looked good if you drove away. Someone might have come to the wrong conclusion.”
Damn it, the man was suggesting Roche could have had something to do with the fire. “Nice police work,” was all he let himself say.
“Like fire, do you?” Spike said, grinding out the words. “Is this a warmup for the little kids…no pun intended.”
Roche pressed his lips together.
Bleu pushed against his chest and faced Spike. “Spike, you say some nasty things sometimes. Roche didn’t set fire to the carport and run away. If he did, he certainly wouldn’t call for help and come back. Use your head. How about whoever did set that fire placed the call and hoped Roche would be blamed? Check Roche’s cell-phone records and you’ll see he didn’t call you.”
Roche enjoyed the way she rushed to his defense. He noted the interesting color in Spike’s cheeks.
“No one goes in there till the chief gets here,” he yelled, indicating the carport. “I’d still like you two over at the station,” he added to Roche and Bleu.
“I need to get dressed,” Bleu said.
She trembled and Roche wanted to punch Spike, who behaved as if he hadn’t heard her.
“I’ve got a coat in the back of my car,” Roche said into her ear. “Don’t worry. It’ll just look like you got woken up suddenly by the fire.”
She wrinkled her nose. “And what’s your excuse?”
He laughed. “If I need one, I’ll have one. I don’t think anyone’s going to notice a thing.”
“You can’t go back into that house until they’re sure the fire’s out, Miz Laveau,” Spike said. “It’s just a precaution.”
Roche didn’t miss the formality. “Can we stop by my office on the way to the station?” he asked. “There’s a shower there and my assistant will come up with some clothes for Bleu.”
Spike raised one brow until it disappeared into his hat. “Why not? You’re on your own recognizance. You’ve got time to clean up. Pick up doughnuts or something on the way. I’m starving. And pray there’s still hot coffee in my office.”
Roche saluted. “You’ve got it.”
Bleu was barefoot. He looked down. “Fireman’s lift or piggyback?”
“I can walk.”
He caught her around the back and picked her up from beneath her knees. Spike glanced at him and shook his head in that, “Women,” way that conveyed understanding between men.
A fireman scuffed from the carport, the tops of his boots flapping. “Hey up, Sheriff,” he said. “We’ve about got it done. At least the old junker didn’t go up. Looks like hell, though. Smells worse. We’ll have to open a wall just to make sure we’re not missing something.”
Roche pretended to be concentrating on something else.
“Thanks for the good work,” Spike said.
“Look at this,” the fireman said. He held up a flint fire starter, the melted, misshapen red handle wrapped in a rag. “The chief’s gonna be interested in this one. I reckon this is what got things started. It was in an old oil drum. Couldn’t have done the job on its own.”