One Hot Night: A New Orleans Nights Story Read online

  Her cameraman shook his head. “You’ve got one fucked up family. Wonder what it’s like sittin’ around the Thanksgivin’ table. Bet the turkey’s not the only thing gettin’ carved up.”

  “Are you angling for an invitation?” she teased, knowing his mama wouldn’t stand for him being anywhere but seated at her table.

  “Mon dieu, non!” he said dramatically, clutching his chest.

  “Jerk.” She chuckled. Then she swept a hand down her dress. “What do you think? Will they know it’s me?”

  He gave a whistle which just about pierced her eardrums. “Girl’s got back!”

  “I don’t know why the hell I keep thinking you’re my friend,” she muttered, shaking her head.

  “’Cause I bring you Mama’s beignets. I only share ’em with my bestest friend.”

  She sighed. “Yeah, I don’t know how you can bear to give even one away.”

  “So, you ready?” he asked, placing his camera strap over his shoulder.

  “Wish me luck,” she said, then opened the side door of the van and stepped down.

  Once outside, she skirted around the side of the convention center, heading into the alley she’d been led to the previous evening. The door leading from the kitchen opened, and she quickly darted between a couple of the large dumpsters lined up along the alleyway, hoping she didn’t step into something nasty with her expensive heels.

  “Psst! Hey, Stace!” came the call from the doorway.

  She hurried out of her hiding place and raced toward the door.

  Before she climbed the steps, she pointed toward the camera above the stoop. “Did you get a chance to disable it?”

  “I unplugged it,” Billy Porter, one of the waiters hired for the event, whispered. “We’ve got maybe two minutes before someone tracks down the feed and turns it back on.”

  She held up a rolled hundred-dollar bill.

  He reached for it, but she pulled back her hand before he could take it. “Remember. I’ll need the feed cut again at 11:45.”

  “Gotcha, Cinderella.”

  She handed him the bill. “I’ll have another for you. Thanks so much!”

  “I’ll just go ahead of you and make sure the corridor is clear.”

  Once she passed the kitchen and made it into the hallway near the bathrooms, she ducked into the ladies’ room and into a stall. She had to wait about fifteen minutes before anyone else entered. The woman, a portly gray-haired woman left her purse on the well-appointed bathroom counter, likely trusting the fact that security was swarming the event and thieves wouldn’t make it past them.

  While the woman used the facilities, Stacia flipped open the woman’s clutch and took her nametag. “Thank you, Mirabelle Leahy,” she whispered as she tucked it into her own bag and left.

  She didn’t feel any guilt over stealing the woman’s identification. Mirabelle would whine at the door until her husband was located, and then she’d be waved inside. A mild inconvenience. And a reporter sometimes had to do slightly skeevy things to get her job done. The convention ID her uncle had wangled for her had been cancelled after last night’s fiasco.

  Winston had raked her over the coals that morning. “You got made the very first night! How is that even possible? Didn’t you do as I said and hover on the edge of conversations, like the wives and mistresses attending that party?”

  Stacia had sunk into her chair. “But they weren’t talking about anything interesting, and I had questions…”

  Winston rolled his eyes. “You’re a reporter. Sometimes, you have to simply observe. Be a witness. Which means not drawing undue attention to yourself. The second you asked a question—something those men would have looked at as a woman speaking out of turn—you were made. That second, they knew you were a reporter.”

  She lifted her shoulders. He was right. “They’re a bunch of misogynisti—”

  “They’re men in power who want to stay that way. Even if you’d been the President’s daughter, they would have patted your head, but the conversation would have turned to the goddamn weather.”

  “So, why am I even trying?”

  “Because you’re smart. You can put pieces of puzzles together. Hear one tidbit from one asshole and pick up another from some other asshole, and pretty soon, you’ll have a complete picture about why they’re really here.”

  “You mean, they’re not here to build bridges between countries to make sure the world’s economy flourishes?” she said, paraphrasing some of the convention’s website propaganda.

  “They’re here to line their own damn pockets.” Her uncle sat back in his chair. “Look, you might very well learn nothing we can use. However, you might notice hangers-on, some poor lackeys, who are drinking a little too much or look unhappy. You might have better luck helping them get drunker in order to loosen their tongues. Also, if you can get close enough without getting made, you might try to figure out from the security folks around the event about any threats they’re watching out for.”

  She sat straighter. “Threats? Have you heard anything?”

  “Money is here. Big money. There’s always someone who follows it around—whether it’s thieves or terrorists. Someone wants what they have—money and power.” He pursed his lips. “Since you burned the invite I acquired for you, any ideas how you’re getting back inside?”

  She smiled. “I slipped a card to a waiter. He called me this morning. I have my ‘in’.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  So, maybe her uncle had eased the pressure by confiding he wasn’t holding his breath that she’d find a good lead, but that didn’t make her complacent. In the end, she’d at least be able to create a credible description of the event for the fluff piece she’d have to write anyway. Emil’s photo of Britney’s crotch had been nixed by their editor, but he’d still made a nice little bundle by selling it to a tabloid. She’d told him that was his one “gimme”. Tonight, he needed money shots of the celebs for their own paper.

  “But they’ll be in costumes!” he’d said.

  “Think you won’t recognize their boobs?” she’d shot back.

  “Oh. Yeah.” He’d grinned and said he’d give her what she needed—photo-wise anyway. “You should think about gettin’ that cop’s number,” he’d teased. “Just to take off the edge, ya know.”

  “I do not need dating advice from you.”

  “Who says you have to date him to take him home?”

  Her mouth curved into a rueful smile, thinking about their conversation. Anyone listening in would have thought it was all kinds of wrong and unprofessional. But she liked their relationship. She called him her “work husband”, and he pretended to be a pussy-whipped one whenever anyone else was around. It was their thing. She was just glad she wasn’t his type—Emil liked big girls.

  As she approached the double doors where security was checking IDs, she drew a deep breath and pasted on a haughty look. A look like her father might have worn. One that said he was too important to have to be polite to the staff.

  When she presented her ID, she glanced into the ballroom, pretending to be bored.

  “Enjoy your evening.”

  She didn’t bother with a response, knowing one wasn’t expected.

  Inside, she quickly glanced at the seating chart, looking for any empty seats, one where she could park her butt with a crowd of people and not be noticed while she took her time studying the room.

  When she found her spot, she moved toward the table, plucking up a place card along the way that started with “Mrs.” and tucking it behind her purse as she continued on. Once at the table she’d selected, she laid her purse on tabletop then lifted it, leaving the place card standing. With a close-lipped smile to the one couple seated there already, she settled in, knowing the dinner that preceded the dancing would be interminable. At least, they weren’t serving convention “rubber chicken”. No, this group would have filet mignon, along with Creole sides—nothing too spicy, of course.

  It was going to be
a long night.

  The small of Remy’s back felt tight from so little movement for so long a time.

  Two of his teammates kept up a whispered, light patter on the comms, talking about the terrible costumes and masks. Most masks had been laid on tables during the dinner and endless speeches. Remy had walked the perimeter of the ballroom, searching for one particular face, but he hadn’t found her. Not yet.

  “Hey, Remy,” came Thibaut’s voice. “That your girl? At your nine, next to the wall.”

  Remy scanned the darkened room and found the table. Eight people were seated. Five men. Three women. Of the women, only one was young enough. Her features weren’t all that clear in the shadows, but the silhouette of her breasts wasn’t right. “Not her.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. Chest is fuller.”

  Remy chuckled. “You know her bra size?”

  “A B cup at most,” he quipped.

  A throat cleared. Likely Ballard’s.

  “Sorry, boss. I’ll keep lookin’.”

  At last, the emcee announced the end of the speeches and invited the attendees to enjoy dancing in the neighboring ballroom.

  The comms sounded with the team moving to new positions.

  Suddenly, “South entrance!” Thibaut said, his words clipped. “Not sure what’s happenin’. Movin’ there, now.”

  Remy headed out of the ballroom and walked briskly through the pavilion toward the foyer. As he drew nearer, he could see the problem.

  Protesters, men and women with political slogans written on their naked chests, were pushing through the doors. Their bodies appeared to be greased, and police and security were having a terrible time trying to catch them. Camera flashes refracted off shiny bodies so badly he had to squint to look. Remy didn’t know whether to laugh or curse.

  “Leave this to the police,” Ballard’s voice boomed in their ears. “Could be a distraction.”

  Remy took one last look and moved back toward the ballroom where the dance was underway. He was just as happy to leave it to the PD. He wasn’t sure how he would have removed the grease from his tux.

  “Unbelievable,” Thibaut said, striding up beside him. “Didn’t know whether to laugh my ass off or cuss up a storm.”

  Remy reached out and gave his brother’s shoulder a tap. “Didn’t think this would be a complete cake-walk, did you?”

  “I’m just glad I didn’t mess up the tux. Didn’t know how I’d explain it to the rental shop. No sign of your girlfriend?”

  “Not my girlfriend. Stop trying to tie that noose.”

  “I was sure that was her against the wall.”

  “Boobs were too big.”

  “There’s such a thing as padded bras, dude. And I wasn’t checkin’ out her boobs. I was lookin’ at her chin and mouth. Dead ringer.”

  “Huh.” And now, he’d have to take a harder look at every big-breasted woman inside the ballroom.

  “Just don’t get yourself slapped for ogling.” Thibaut gave him a grin then stepped through the doorway.

  Remy took a deep breath, straightened his bowtie, and followed him inside.

  Half an hour later, he spotted her. He informed the team and moved in. Apparently, she’d added a false ass to her costume, as well. Because there was no way she’d gained that much weight in a day.

  “I almost admire her tenacity,” Thibaut said in his ear.

  “Just get her out,” Ballard said. “Sit on her, if you have to. Just don’t let her come back inside.”

  “Will do.” Gladly, actually. He could think of nothing more entertaining than taking her to one of the nearby rooms Ballard had reserved for just such an occasion.

  When he was about ten feet away, he halted and crossed his arms over his chest. At the moment, she was standing to the side of a group surrounding some bigwig holding court. Her mouth was pressed into a thin line like she was annoyed, and one foot was tapping. Then her gaze snagged on him, and she quickly glanced away.

  It was her all right, despite the red-gold curls that fell around her shoulders. And Thibaut was right. Her mouth, displayed so clearly beneath her delicate mask, was a dead giveaway. Full bottom lip, a well-defined bow on top. Her bright red lipstick was the same shade she’d worn the previous night.

  Feeling a delicious heat flood his body, he lifted one hand from his crossed arms and tapped a finger against his mouth. He also lowered his brows, as though he wasn’t quite sure about what he was seeing.

  Her mouth pursed then eased into a sly smile. She turned casually from the group she’d been spying on and let her gaze return to him. Then she blatantly gave his body a onceover before sauntering toward him.

  “You shouldn’t stare so intently at a woman you don’t know,” she said, her voice pitched low and sultry.

  His cock stirred. He was going to enjoy this game. Surreptitiously, he reached up and tapped his earpiece to turn it off. No way did he want the rest of the team in his ear giving him advice. “Who says I don’t know you?” he replied, also lowering his voice to a sexy purr.

  She lifted a hand and patted her clutch against his chest. “I think you’re a naughty man. Tell me, should you even be talking to me? Me, a guest. You…” She bit her lower lip and shivered. “You, so dangerous…”

  He nearly barked a laugh at her attempting to be a seductress. Her voice sounded way too forced. “Ma’am, I shouldn’t be talking to you, but I couldn’t help staring. Fact is, I can’t take my eyes off you.” The truth. Ballard had given him this job. He’d thank him later.

  She gave a sexy laugh and tossed back her hair. Then she strolled closer until her falsely large breasts brushed his chest. Trailing a finger down the buttons of his shirt, she looked up at him, her eyes sparkling from behind her mask. “Tell me, why are there so many of you at this little ole party?”

  “The mayor is only being cautious,” he said. “He doesn’t want his guests leaving with a bad impression of New Orleans, and he’s had trouble keeping the press away.”

  Her lips tightened for a half-second then stretched into another sultry smile. “Is there something more I should be worried about? I don’t have a big strong man looking out for me.”

  When she tucked her finger under his chin and held it there, he raised a hand and wrapped his fingers around her slender digit to pull it gently away. Then he leaned toward her. “Stacia,” he whispered. “Game’s over.”

  She froze, and then blinked. “So, you know my name…?”

  “And where you live. Who your father is. Your uncle. Your grade point at Tulane—”

  “No way. They’d never release that information.”

  He gave her a quelling glance. “Depends on who’s askin’. And yeah, I can be very persuasive,” he said, lowering his voice to that purr again.

  She screwed her face up and stomped her foot. “Dammit.”

  “And don’t think I’m just gonna escort you to the door this time. I have orders to sit on you.”

  “Seriously. Like in my lap?”

  He rolled his eyes. “You know damn well what I mean.”

  Still pouting, she crossed her arms over her temporarily ample chest. “This is so not fair.”

  He gave her a smile and waved his hand toward the door. “Are we gonna do this the easy way?”

  Chapter 4

  Stacia was torn between annoyance that he’d managed to find her so easily, and relief—because she’d been bored to death before he’d arrived. The banker she’d glommed onto had a penchant for droning on and on about all his successes, how important he was, how many important people answered his phone calls, and on and on…

  Now, she had tall, dark, and sexy leading her out of the ballroom, and he wasn’t going to simply hand her off to be escorted away. No, he was going to “sit” on her until the dance ended. Yeah, her evening was definitely not boring now.

  Keeping plenty of starch in her back while she tried to wag her bigger than normal ass was a complicated undertaking. When he chuckled behind her, she
aimed a glare over her shoulder but immediately bumped into a surprisingly solid chest. Glancing up, she met the coldest set of blue eyes she’d ever seen. Instinctively, she drew sharply away.

  “You should watch where you’re going,” the man muttered then straightened his tie and pushed past her.

  She glanced after him, wondering who the hell the tall, surprisingly fit blond man was. He didn’t look like muscle for hire. He was too haughty. But he was also too hard-bodied to be someone who spent his days behind a desk.

  A hand touched her shoulder. “Keep moving, Stacia.”

  “Stace,” she automatically replied. “Only family calls me Stacia.”

  “Well, Stacey,” he said, leaning close to her ear, “I have to take you someplace quiet for a while. Think you can move a little faster?”

  She almost blurted that no one ever called her Stacey, but she rather liked the sound of it when he’d said it in his raspy whisper.

  Continuing toward the exit, her mind flitted around possible escape strategies. However, if she did get free, she didn’t have a Plan B. At least, tonight, she’d already picked up some delicious celebrity tidbits, like how closely Britney the housewife had clung to a certain ambassador. And how he’d managed to slip a room key into her deep cleavage. And how the Saudi businessman, some lower prince, had played grab-ass with a giggling waitress. She’d also made mental notes about the designers women wore, the jewels. Thanks to her nearly eidetic memory, she’d have enough for the piece she’d been assigned. She had no fears Emil hadn’t taken the pictures she needed. So, tonight wasn’t a complete waste of time.

  Which meant her urgency to escape had more to do with the man guiding her down a hallway, away from the ballrooms, than any need to find another route to accomplish her goals. If she spent too much time alone with him, she was going to be tempted to do something she might regret…

  She glanced to her side. “You know everything about me. I don’t even know your name.”