Undercover Encounter Read online

  He pulled his attention back to the present, to the scantily clad woman sitting beside him.

  He’d made an error in judgment inviting her onto this bed with him. And now he had to do something about that.

  Focusing on her with laser intensity, he asked, “So what are you going to do if a john gets aggressive? What if he pulls a blade and gets ready to cut you up?”

  She sucked in a sharp breath, he could see from her face that he’d hit a nerve. While he had her on the defensive, he reached under the pillow and pulled out the knife he’d hidden there when she was in the bathroom. It wasn’t as sharp as it looked, but it could do damage, just the same.

  In a quick motion, he brought it down toward her breast. To his vast relief, Gillian reacted instantly, chopping the side of her hand down on his wrist, making him wince as he dropped the weapon onto the spread beside them.

  “Good going,” he muttered.

  “Did I hurt you?” she asked anxiously.

  Machismo had him answering, “No.” Although it was difficult to utter the syllable without wincing. Carefully he picked up the knife and slapped it onto the bedside table.

  She was sounding a little cocky when she said, “What other nasty tricks do you have planned? By all means, bring them on.”

  He debated his options, thinking there were a couple of ways he could go. He was betting that if he wanted to, he could tie her up and do any damn thing he wanted. But he chose to give her a fighting chance. Or maybe he was the one who needed the chance.

  “Okay. When a prostitute is with a john, he can request all kinds of sexual services. But the one thing he’s not supposed to do is kiss her. What are you going to do if some bastard tries the forbidden?”

  She opened her mouth to speak. But no sound came out. There was a charged moment when they stared into each other’s eyes. He was thinking that he’d trapped himself. Then, without giving himself time to question his own sanity, he brushed his mouth against hers. It was only the barest contact, but it made him understand why kissing was forbidden commerce in the oldest profession.

  His whole being absorbed the intimacy and the power of that simple act. He was instantly so hard that he was in pain.

  He waited, his heart pounding, for her to give him a quick shove. That was what she should do, but she stayed where she was.

  They’d come to this room as enemies, although neither of them had articulated that state of affairs.

  Suddenly they were catapulted into another time and place as the well-remembered essence of this woman surged through him, overwhelmed him with the taste of warmth and honey and desire.

  He was helpless to hold back the low sound of need that welled in his throat as he deepened the kiss. He had tried to forget the mind-blowing reality of kissing Gillian Seymour. But it had come flooding back before he could put up any defenses.

  Slowly he experimented with remembered sensations, rubbing his mouth back and forth against hers, increasing the pressure, nibbling, taking her lip between his teeth, then plunging deeper into her mouth.

  Somewhere in his brain he silently begged her to put a stop to what they were doing. But her arms only tightened around him.

  The kiss went from heated to white-hot in the space of heartbeats. Unable to stop himself, he angled his head, his mouth hungry and demanding, staking a new claim as his tongue slid against hers, tasting and stroking and stoking his arousal.

  How could he have given this up? he wondered with the part of his mind that was still capable of putting one thought in front of another.

  Perhaps it was the same for her. He hoped it was the same as he pressed her body to his, glorying in the twin pressures of her breasts against his chest.

  He needed more. Yanking at one of the gaudy buttons on the front of her dress, he eased it open so that he could stroke the inner curve of her breast.

  She made a small, gasping sound, fueling his need. He had told himself he could control his reactions, but suddenly it was impossible to deny himself the feel of her body against his aching erection.

  Hastily he pushed the pillows out of the way, then wrapped his arms around Gillian and lay back, pulling her on top of him, sighing at the wonderful weight of her body pressing down on his.

  Chapter Four

  Alex had unzipped his fly before lying down. The move had been part of his intimidation tactic. Now it only provided a spur to his own out-of-control desires. It would be so easy to get out of his jeans, to get Gillian out of her panties. To plunge himself inside her. He knew exactly what that would feel like. Because vivid, erotic memories sang in his brain, making his whole body vibrate with the need to possess her again.

  He was getting ready to roll her over and come down on top of her when he felt her body stiffen.

  His eyes blinked open and he stared up at her, taking in the mixture of arousal and confusion on her face. That look undid him.

  “Alex, don’t. We can’t.”

  He wanted her with a passion that shocked him. And he was pretty sure that he could make her forget her objections by sealing his mouth to hers. Yet he knew in that instant he’d be making a serious mistake if he pushed her. Hell, he’d already taken a giant step down the wrong path.

  He rolled to his side, easing her away from him. For just a moment he clasped his hand over her shoulder, then forced himself to break the contact.

  Standing, he zipped his pants, fighting the erection that made it difficult to work the zipper.

  “Sorry,” he muttered as he shoved his arms into his shirtsleeves and started on his shirt buttons. “Things got a little out of hand.”

  She sat up, discovered that the top button of her dress was undone, and began to fumble with the closing. As soon as she was back together, her eyes shot to the door, and he knew she was wondering if she could get around him to make a quick escape. The panic on her face shook him to the core. He wanted to step aside, but she was hardly dressed for the street. Her skimpy outfit would only make her a target in this neighborhood.

  “I’ll clear out,” he said in a rough voice. “Lock the door behind you.”

  Scooping up his shoes, he headed across the room.

  Behind him, he heard her feet hit the floor. “Alex, we need to talk.”

  Not in this lifetime, he thought as he made a speedy exit from the training session that had gotten way out of hand.

  He might have paused in the courtyard to put on his shoes, but instead crossed the paving stones in his stockinged feet. Ignoring the stares of several people on the street, he carried the shoes toward the delivery truck that he’d driven. How could he have left control like that? All he’d intended was to intimidate Gillian into dropping the task force, because it was simply too dangerous for someone he cared about.

  The last part of that thought brought him up short. He didn’t want to deal with it now. So he tried to focus his attention elsewhere. Gillian had stood up to everything he had thrown at her. But thinking about the two of them together inevitably dragged him back to personal matters. Somewhere in the middle of the training session, he’d lost sight of his purpose. No, he’d lost his mind!

  His foot came down on a piece of gravel and he snarled out a curse, knowing the pain in his foot was just an excuse to give vent to the chagrin and frustration he was feeling.

  Once again, he went back to a mental exercise he’d invented: pulling up scenes from his past that made him a bad relationship risk—specifically for Gillian.

  There were so many incidents to choose from. A good one that came to mind was the afternoon Barbara Wallings, his dad’s third wife, had forgotten to pick him up after baseball practice. The coach had offered to give him a ride home. But he’d known that Barbara would be furious if she went to the trouble of showing up and he wasn’t there. So he’d waited at the edge of the parking lot—in the rain. He’d stuck around for half an hour, then walked home, wet and bedraggled.

  Barbara hadn’t even apologized. In fact, she’d been angry that he’d gotten he
r kitchen floor dirty.

  Or what about the time in middle school when the electricity had gone off? They’d sent all the kids home from school. He’d been the first one to walk into the house. When he’d heard moaning from the master bedroom, he’d found Cindy—his dad’s fifth wife—in bed with another guy. Alex had backed out of the room before either one of them had noticed him.

  He knew a kid with a whole drawerful of toxic memories wasn’t going to make either a good husband or a good father. So he’d vowed he wasn’t going to try at either.

  With a feeling of resignation, he stopped to put his shoes on, silently wondering how he was going to face Gillian Seymour the next time they met.

  “HEY, WHAT THE HELL do you think you’re doing?” the guy packing up produce at the stall in the French Market shouted.

  The girl with the long blond hair didn’t answer. She simply closed her fist around the orange she’d picked up from the fruit bin and wove her way through the merchants closing up for the night.

  “Voleur!”

  He’d called her a thief. She knew that from French class.

  The epithet rang out behind her, but she kept running into the side stands set up in the paved area beside the old market.

  She rounded the corner of a booth bright with African print dresses, then slowed down, lest she call too much attention to herself. She could go back to the cheap motel where she was living. At least for one more day. She had enough money left for the night. Then she was on her own.

  A spooky-looking man gave her the eye and she raised her chin and hurried on. She tried to look as though she were in control of her life. But she was seventeen and scared.

  “Damn you, Daddy dearest,” she muttered under her breath. “Why couldn’t you just have been in town?”

  She’d been counting on him to help her out when she’d arrived in New Orleans. But when had he ever come through for her?

  She hadn’t even seen him in a couple of years. He was always too busy. And she’d been okay with Mum, until last year, when she’d married again. Her husband, Marv, had turned out to have roving hands—and her home had turned into a nightmare.

  She’d tried to tell Mum her new husband was a creep. But she hadn’t listened. Or maybe she hadn’t wanted to hear about it. Which meant that getting out of the house had been the only alternative.

  So she’d raided the cash her mum kept hidden in one of her dresser drawers. It was a lot of money. Mum was stinking rich. And thank God she kept a bunch of American dollars around as well as British pounds. Enough to live for a couple of weeks in New Orleans, after she’d bought a one-way ticket from London.

  She’d thought she could meet up with Dad here. But she’d found out soon enough that he wasn’t home. And nobody could tell her when he was expected back.

  Fighting the tight feeling in her chest, she decided she didn’t want to be alone. So she headed back toward Jackson Square where the action was.

  She’d made friends with some of the kids who hung around there. Most of them were living on the street. At first that had made her skin crawl. Now she’d decided that if they could do it, so could she. At least until Dad got back in town.

  GILLIAN HAD WAITED with bated breath for Lieutenant LeBarron to ask about the training session. But he was busy with a spate of break-ins. So he didn’t have time for her.

  Still, she was on edge. She went out on routine patrols for the next few days. But the task force was always in the back of her mind. Especially after she’d gotten an official memo that she had been selected to work undercover in the bordello where the authorities suspected drugs were being distributed. Well, lucky her.

  What did Alex think about that? Was he going to try to get her off the assignment again? His attitude was maddening. On the other hand, one thing she knew for sure now. He might have ended their relationship. But he still wanted her. Sexually. He’d proved that when the training session had gotten out of control.

  She could make love with him again. That might feel good—for a couple of minutes. But she knew it would leave her more humiliated than she’d been two years ago when he’d announced that they were through.

  Finally, after letting her stew for days, LeBarron called her into his office. He was a blunt man with cropped hair, assessing gray eyes and a face that had once been lean. Now it was going jowly, to match the rounded paunch that had crept over the front of his belt.

  “Sit down, Officer Seymour,” he said, speaking formally. He was usually a bit distant in his verbal communications. But she had seen him eyeing her in a way that bespoke personal interest.

  Conscious of his gaze on her, she sat in one of the wooden chairs across from his desk.

  “We’re getting ready to activate phase two of the task force,” he told her. “Alexander McMullin has definitely identified the establishment where the prostitutes are taking their customers.”

  At the sound of Alex’s name, Gillian unconsciously pressed against the chair back.

  “When we first agreed to work with the Department of Public Safety, I wasn’t so sure about McMullin. But he’s provided some useful information.

  “And Conrad Burke—who heads up New Orleans Confidential—is very pleased with his performance. He’ll be briefing you on the parameters of the assignment. Also, their organization is handling security for you, so McMullin will cover that end as well.”

  She struggled to keep her expression neutral. “I thought he was working undercover tending bar at Bourbon Street Libations?”

  “He’s been reassigned.”

  You mean, he got himself reassigned, she silently corrected. For a split second she thought about saying she’d prefer to work with anyone else on the NOC team. But there was one thing she had learned quickly in the department: patrol officers didn’t call the shots. They followed orders.

  LeBarron gave her an assessing look. “If you’re having second thoughts about going undercover as a prostitute, now is the time to say so.”

  She squared her shoulders. “I’m fine, sir.”

  “I know this will be a difficult assignment. But when I picked you, I thought you’d be up to the job.”

  “Thank you, sir. I am.” She cleared her throat. “Can you give me any more details?”

  The Lieu rocked back in his chair. “I’d rather let McMullin do that. You’ll be meeting with him at 2100 hours this evening—at the surveillance van that will be monitoring you when you go into the bordello.” He shuffled through the papers on his untidy desk, found the one he wanted and handed it to her. “Here are the particulars.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said again, rising, pretending that her stomach hadn’t tied itself into knots. She resisted the impulse to clench her hand around the paper and crumple it into a ball as she turned and left the office.

  Once in the hallway, she scanned the bold print. It noted the location where she was supposed to meet the van and stated that two officers would be assigned specifically to monitor her undercover activities. One of them was the man who had signed the letter. Alexander McMullin.

  THE NIGHT had turned foggy, and as Gillian hurried down Chartres Street, she fantasized that the mist had swallowed up the van she was supposed to meet Alex in.

  When she’d been a kid and Dad had driven her to school on foggy days, the landscape would be hidden by the white mist. Since she couldn’t see the familiar stucco building, she’d always hoped that Warren G. Harding Elementary School had drifted into the twilight zone. But the two-story edifice invariably emerged from behind the obscuring curtain—just the way the white van materialized now on the next corner. There were no windows in the back and no side door. The entrance to the cargo area was at the rear.

  The last thing she wanted to do was to climb into that van. But she didn’t allow herself to slow her steps. Instead she walked up to the back door and knocked.

  “Who is it?” a muffled voice called. The sound grated along her nerve endings. Muffled or not, there was no mistaking that it was Alexan
der McMullin.

  “Officer Seymour,” she answered.

  “Just a minute.”

  She stood with her heart pounding, waiting for the door to open, wondering if he was postponing the moment when they had to face each other after he’d made a mess of that training session five days ago.

  No, that wasn’t fair, she told herself. It had been as much her fault as his. When he’d lowered his mouth to hers, she hadn’t put up a fight. When he’d reached for her, she’d melted into his arms.

  Her fists clenched and unclenched. She’d relived the heated encounter a thousand times. But she’d told herself she could keep the red-hot memory out of her mind when she met him again.

  Now she knew she’d been lying to herself.

  Finally the door opened and they stood regarding each other. There was a lot he could say now. So could she, but she kept her lips pressed together.

  He cleared his throat and she waited for some kind of comment about the two of them. Instead he stepped aside and said, “Come in.”

  He was wearing jeans and a dark-colored pullover shirt, and unfortunately, he looked as good as she remembered.

  Resolutely she reached for the edge of the door and pulled herself up. But nerves made her step unsteady, and she almost fell as her right foot came down on the rubbery surface of the van floor.

  Alex’s hand shot out and caught her upper arm, steadying her, sending a zing of awareness through her.

  Quickly he pulled her into the van. Just as quickly, he took his hand away, so that she stood swaying slightly in the dimly lit interior, knowing that she hadn’t been the only one to react.

  She might have reached out to steady herself. But there didn’t seem to be a suitable surface to use. Every inch of the interior of the truck was crammed with expensive-looking, hi-tech equipment that was covered with dials and switches that she was sure she shouldn’t touch. She recognized several computers, television monitors, radios and other snooping devices—as well as stuff she couldn’t identify.