One Hot Night: A New Orleans Nights Story Page 2

  “Why? Do you?”

  He snorted. “I’m a cop. This is a side gig. What do you think?”

  “That you’re wearing an expensive tux for a cop.”

  “My one and only,” he said, gripping his lapels and turning in a slow circle. “Like it? An old girlfriend told me every guy needed one.”

  “Sounds like an expensive date.”

  “She was. Well?” he asked, bending his neck toward her.

  “What?”

  “Name. Number.”

  “Why? So you can serve me with a warrant for my arrest, later?”

  “I don’t date girls with a record.”

  She glanced away then back at him. “Are you asking me out?”

  “Maybe.”

  She realized she liked sparring with him. And she wanted to do it, again. “Huh. This gig,” she said, “is it just for one night?”

  “I’m here all week.”

  Pleased, she gave him a nod. “Be seeing you, then.”

  With that, she turned and walked away. Behind her, she heard him chuckling. Her smile was wide, and she barely checked the urge to skip as she left him.

  Chapter 2

  Remy stood in the driveway outside the venue, watching as the last limo carrying dignitaries to their various hotels left. “That’s the last group leaving,” he said to inform the rest of the team covering the event.

  “Let’s meet at the dais,” Justin Ballard’s voice sounded in his ear.

  “Roger that,” came Thibaut’s immediate response.

  As he walked back into the convention center, he listened as others chimed in. Once inside the ballroom, he joined the team gathered around Ballard.

  “Good job, tonight,” Ballard said. “Just four more nights to get through.”

  There were groans and grins.

  “Other than the reporter who crashed the event,” Ballard said, eyeing Remy, “anything else we should be aware of?”

  All heads shook.

  Ballard nodded then took a deep breath. “Well, I was informed by the PD tonight that the FBI has picked up chatter about some extremist group planning some sort of demonstration over the course of the next few days. I don’t know any more than that, but I’ll need you all to keep your eyes open.” He glanced around. “Be sure to rest up. Hopefully, tomorrow night’s event will be just as boring.” His gaze swung back to Remy. “If you could stay behind for a minute…?”

  Remy nodded and tipped his chin at Thibaut. “I’ll see you back at the truck.”

  Thibaut gave him a salute and left with the rest of the group.

  “What’s up, boss?” he asked Ballard once they were alone.

  “I like Thibaut. I’m glad you recommended him for this detail. He’s a good fit.”

  By good fit, he meant that all of the team were either experienced law enforcement or military types. They were alert, focused, and could handle themselves when trouble surfaced.

  Remy nodded. “He jumped at the chance. I think he’s been a bit bored after leaving the SEALs, plus his upcoming wedding is costing an arm and a leg.”

  “Yeah, the wedding.” Ballard smiled. “Poor bastard.”

  Remy didn’t comment, knowing well Ballard’s wedding aversion. They’d worked security on a celebrity wedding once, and Ballard had acted like he’d had an allergy, grimacing over every toast. Not for the first time, he wondered what Ballard’s story was. He’d started his security firm over a year ago, was new to New Orleans, but had quickly opened doors to the rich and powerful. Too quickly. But Remy didn’t need to know, so he hadn’t bothered asking how the man had managed that feat. He liked the extra paycheck.

  “I’m sure you wanted to talk to me about more than my brother…” Remy said, knowing what the topic of the conversation would be about.

  “The girl…?”

  Remy nodded. “She was…resourceful.”

  “She’s a reporter. Hugo filled me in,” Ballard said, his lips twisting into one of his signature grimaces. “We can’t treat her like other reporters. Can’t just haul her out in handcuffs.”

  “No handcuffs were used.”

  “Can’t leave any bruises either,” Ballard said, narrowing his eyes.

  “I don’t leave bruises on women, unless they like them,” he said, arching one brow.

  Ballard grunted. “She’s from money. Hugo’s friends with her parents. That doesn’t mean she can go where she wants, and he wants her kept out of the venue.”

  Remy nodded. “Noted. Kid gloves.”

  “You two seemed to get along…” When Remy raised his eyebrows, Ballard shrugged. “I watched the whole thing on camera, including the feed in the alley. Were you asking her for a date?”

  Remy pressed his lips together to keep from grinning. “I asked for her name. She offered her number, but then didn’t give it to me. I still don’t know her name.” Then he did smile. “I wanted to know who I was up against, because I don’t think she’s gonna stop.”

  Ballard chuckled. “Name’s Stacia Rice. Look her up. She’s with the Times. She’s supposed to be doing society news, but it didn’t look like she was even interested in talking to the Hollywood set. She hit up European and Middle Eastern bankers, likely for a hit piece.”

  “You mean, someone’s not happy about them all gatherin’ here?”

  Ballard blew out a deep breath. “Not given the current political scene. Everyone’s hunting the next Burisma or Deutsche Bank scandal. Seeing as you two have already danced, I’m putting it on you to watch out for her.”

  Remy nodded. “On it. I’ll stick to the ballroom rather than the red carpet. She’ll be workin’ on a way to sneak inside again. I already talked with the wait staff and cooks. They see her, they’ll find me.”

  Ballard gave him an approving nod. “You know, anytime you want to make some real money…”

  Ballard had asked him to come to work fulltime for him before. Remy shook his head. “I like what I do, Justin. And I like helpin’ you out. For me, this is easy money.”

  “Let’s hope things stay that way this week.”

  They shook hands, and Remy left. He found Thibaut leaning against his SUV. “Sorry about that. I know you have to be beat after workin’ a full shift before comin’ here.”

  Thibaut tipped his chin toward the building. “He want to talk to you about the girl?”

  Remy liked how quick Thibaut was. “Yeah. Said she’s some spoiled rich girl, workin’ at being a reporter. Said we have to treat her with kid gloves, but by no means let her have access.”

  “Finally get her name?”

  Remy had turned off his earpiece before escorting her out of the ballroom. Only his brother knew about his and the woman’s conversation in the alley. “Yeah. Stacia Rice.”

  “You’re drivin’. Want me to look her up on social media?”

  Remy laughed. “You scopin’ out my date?”

  “Thought you didn’t get a chance to ask her.”

  “She told me where she’s gonna be the next four nights. I count that as dates.”

  Thibaut whistled. “Man, sure you don’t wanna add a plus one for the wedding?”

  Remy shuddered. “I’m not bringin’ a date. Don’t want any woman gettin’ any ideas about me. Come on.” He signaled Thibaut to get into the truck. “Am I droppin’ you at the house or at Josette’s?” Thibaut had been splitting his time between their folks’ home and the house Amelie shared with her Aunt Josette in the leadup to the wedding. Their maman wanted some of Thibaut’s time to spoil him before he had a wife to do it, seeing as how she’d been denied the joy for all the years he’d been in the Navy.

  “Might as well drop me with the folks. It’s late now. Amelie has to open the store in the mornin’.”

  They both climbed in.

  “This was out of your way,” Thibaut said once they were driving. “Amelie needed my car today to do some shoppin’, or I would have driven myself.”

  “It’s no problem. I’ll crash there, too. Don’t have t
o be at the station in the mornin’. I took the week off.”

  “Only had three days I could spare. I’ve blocked out too many days on the schedule already for the wedding and the honeymoon.”

  “You two choose a place for your honeymoon?” He shot a sideways glance at his brother as he drove onto the ramp of US-90.

  Thibaut wiped a hand across his face. “She’s dyin’ to go to Hawaii. I booked our flights today. Don’t ask how much that cost.”

  Remy laughed. “Bet she makes you wear one of those flowered shirts.”

  Thibaut grinned. “I already have one.”

  They chatted about the wedding and the last of the repairs that were being made to Josette’s shop after the fire and vandalism caused by someone who’d had it out for Josette and Amelie until they reached their parents’ home.

  Remy parked in the driveway. Quietly, they let themselves inside the wrought iron gate. The porch light was on. So was one inside the living room.

  “Wonder who’s up.” Remy checked his watch. “It’s past midnight.”

  The front door opened, and their mother stepped out onto the porch, her slender figure silhouetted in the door. “Both my boys home for the night?”

  Thibaut paused and kissed his mother’s cheeks before slipping inside the door.

  Remy smiled at his mother and waited as she cupped his cheeks then gave him a kiss on each side. “So good to see you, mon fils. You’re stayin’, right?”

  “If you have room,” he joked, knowing his bedroom had been “preserved”, seeing as how he’d been the only child to remain in New Orleans throughout his adult life. Thibaut’s had been, too, but it was more of a shrine because his mother had always feared for his life when he’d been away in all those “bad places on the other side of the world.”

  “You stayin’ for breakfast, too?” she asked.

  “Think I’d pass on the chance for your chicory coffee? Gonna make me beignets?”

  “Have to—just to remind you how much better they are than at that place you go to in the city.” That place was Café Du Monde, where tourists flocked for their world-renowned pastries.

  Remy chuckled and held her hand as he moved inside the house. “What are you doin’ up this late?”

  She shook her head. “Sometimes, I get the insomnia. Can’t rest. So, I putter around the house, cleanin’.”

  The place did smell of lemon oil and Pine-Sol. Two scents that would forever remind him of his childhood. “Dad snoring?”

  She laughed and waved a hand. “After all these years, his snorin’ is like a lullaby.”

  He looked at her laughing and thought for the thousandth time what a beautiful woman she really was. Sure, there were lines, and her pale blonde hair glinted with strands of silver, but her blue eyes were still sharp, and her smile was a gentle curve. “You doin’ okay, maman?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “Right as rain. Just can’t sleep. I swear it’s not any more than that. I’m not gonna die on you anytime soon. Who’d look after your father?”

  He reached out and gave his mother a big hug. “You know I would, don’t you?” he said, his voice gruff.

  When he set her away, she laid a hand alongside his cheek. “You’re a good son.”

  “The best,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.

  “Now, you know I don’t have a favorite. I love all my kids.”

  “But it’s me, right?”

  She laughed and swatted his chest. “You stop. Go to bed. Someone has to get some sleep.”

  “You don’t have to cook for me in the mornin’. I know you’ll be tired.”

  She gave a fake yawn and patted her mouth. “I think I’m ready now. See? I was just waitin’ up for my boys to come through the door. Not the first time.”

  Remy waved toward the staircase and followed her up.

  Stacia hadn’t closed the door to her apartment when the phone began to ring. “That did not take long,” she muttered as she moved toward the end table with the handset. She’d had a cellphone for years, but her father had never bothered to learn that number.

  “Hello, Dad.”

  “’Bout damn time you got home.”

  “I was working. I had to drop off the van and Emil at the paper.”

  “Well, you’re not working for that damn rag any more. I just got off the phone with Winston.”

  She rolled her eyes. Winston had fired her every time her father had called demanding that he do it. And then he rehired her the next day. It was their thing. Her boss would rant and rage at the annoyance of having to talk to one of his reporter’s daddies, and then he’d settle in his seat until the redness left his face and ask her what she had.

  Winston was a big part of why she wanted to be a reporter. She liked his buoyant, bombastic personality and the fact he’d paid his dues as a foreign correspondent covering various wars and hot spots before returning to work at the Times, eventually being promoted to run it. Stacia looked up to him, but at the same time, she hated contrasting her puny accomplishments against his. Unless she left New Orleans, she’d never amount to anything, and her war with her father would be the main defining event of her life.

  Not that she was ready to go. She loved the city—its energy and nightlife. The music and food. Its seaminess. Even the stink wafting up from the storm drains couldn’t put a dent in her affection for the old city hugging the mouth of the Mississippi.

  “How dare you embarrass us—and in front of Hugo!”

  “Hugo will survive, Dad,” she said, sitting in the chair nearest the door. She kicked off the loafers she’d worn as part of her waitress disguise and sighed. The shoes had pinched her toes.

  “He said you were arrested. Led away by some cop! My daughter!”

  “I wasn’t arrested. And the cop was very nice.” Nice-looking, too. Not that she’d admit that to her dad. He’d rather her date a dog-catcher or one of the soft-handed, snooty attorneys he invited to their family meals on Sunday.

  “Your mother is beside herself.”

  Her mother was likely comatose after her sixth martini. “Tell her I love her. Have to go. So tired,” she said then yawned loudly into the receiver.

  “Don’t you hang up on me.”

  She hit the button to end the call and flopped back in her chair. What a disaster of a night. The only bright spot had been her nearly getting arrested. She hadn’t learned even one new fact that she could use to hang an article around. Every time she’d found one of the men she’d circled on the list of guests she’d acquired from a convention center employee, they’d given her a leering look before she’d even opened her mouth. Once she had, they’d shut down and turned away. Icy brush offs, no less demeaning than the one Hugo had given her as he’d brushed his lapel.

  She might have let the humiliation curb her enthusiasm for this particular assignment, but she wasn’t one to cower. Her mother had told her that her least favorite word when she was a child was “No.” Even then, the word had been enough to stiffen her spine and her resolve. This time was no different.

  Again, she thought about the man who’d escorted her from the party. Just another reason she would be back. They had a “date”. Of sorts. She’d liked the way he’d narrowed his eyes at her. She’d bet money he gave a girl that same look when he was deciding whether to go “north” or “south.”

  But she also imagined a girl wouldn’t care which direction he chose.

  She’d also liked the small smile he’d given her, just the corners of his mouth curving. Settling deeper into the chair, she thought about that little spark she’d felt and wondered if he’d felt it, too. Tomorrow night, along with her goal of cornering one of the movers and shakers in the world of finance and banking, she added one to find out who he was.

  Although she knew the mystery was likely what enticed her. Once she solved it, she’d probably lose all interest. She didn’t need to know anything about his manly pursuits—whether he was a hunter who liked his women ready to carve up whatever he killed,
or whether he watched sports every Sunday with his guy friends, shouting at the television screen. Likely, he left his dirty underwear wherever it landed when he stripped for bed, just like her last boyfriend. Did he wash his hands after peeing? Did he spit in public? Pick his nose?

  Okay, so maybe she was inventing reasons why she shouldn’t follow her hormones, hoping to see this guy again, but it had been a really, really long time since she’d had a man in her bed, and he looked like he knew a thing or two about pleasing a woman. Hell, she’d probably orgasm just looking at him baring his…everything…even before he laid a hand on her.

  Hell, a man that good-looking probably had a wife.

  Which put an end to her fantasizing. She pushed up from the chair, walked into her guest bedroom/office, and powered up her MacBook Air. The first message in her inbox was from her boss. The message was just two words.

  You’re fired.

  Laughing, she typed a quick note, telling him she’d be in the next day to clear out her desk.

  A moment later, he replied. See you then.

  Yes, she didn’t need a man. She had a boss. A pain in the ass boss she loved. Thank goodness, she had Uncle Winston in her life.

  Chapter 3

  Stacia checked her makeup in the mirror of her leather compact—another vintage Dior piece Winston had given her after her aunt’s death. Then she donned the delicate ceramic mask decorated with peacock feathers that she hoped would be enough, along with the strawberry-blond wig, to give her some time before she was discovered amid the crowd in the convention ballroom that night.

  Her dress wasn’t an elaborate costume, but she’d “enhanced” her figure beneath the dramatic black lace gown with falsies, both to exaggerate the size of her breasts and her ass, in order to change the silhouette of her figure. If Mr. “You know I’ll be looking for you” glanced her way, she doubted he’d see beyond the gel embellishments.

  “Do you even know how many times you been fired?” Emil asked with a smirk.

  She chuckled. “I have better things to do with my time. Besides, it’s a game we play. He gets to vent after getting an earful from Daddy, while passing along the heat to me. He says keeping me around will help him live longer since I’m his ‘relief valve’.”