Fangs for Nothing (12 page)

Clearing her throat, she closed the email quickly and glanced over at Johnny, worried that he was watching her. He was. He raised his eyebrows. “Everything okay?”

“I may have overspent with some online shopping last night.” She picked her phone back up. “Around four a.m. We must have been apart at that time as I can’t imagine you were interested in helping me online shoe shop.” Though he might have been all or partially responsible for the other purchases. A sudden thought occurred to her. Those had been American sales sites written in English. Clicking on the lingerie email, she groaned out loud.

“Damn it! Not only did I spend nearly two thousand dollars in sexy high heels and lingerie, I entered the shipping address as your apartment!”

“What? Let me see.”

While she was still recovering from the knowledge that she was a slutty shopaholic who clearly didn’t even remember her own address when intoxicated, Johnny looked at her emails. Belatedly she realized that meant he would see what she . . .

“You ordered a
vibrator
?” Johnny yelled much louder than she appreciated. “I don’t know whether to be turned on or offended.”

“It was probably your idea!” she said, suddenly wanting to laugh. This was all so ridiculous. “Same for the lingerie.”

His eyes had widened and he pinched the screen on her phone to expand the picture of the red scrap of lace. “Yeah, this might have been my idea. I could totally picture you wearing this and honestly, it’s making my pants hurt.”

“I can’t picture me wearing that.” She couldn’t. That wasn’t her style. She was more of a turn-off-the-lights-and-never-look kind of woman.

“Hey, Lizette?”

“Yes?”

Johnny handed her the phone back. “I know you were saying a little while ago that you were planning to return to Paris soon, but um, it looks like you canceled your return flight.” He pointed to an email from the airline.

“What?” She scanned the email. She had canceled her return flight and had shipped a bunch of panties to Johnny’s apartment. In her drunken mind, had she been planning to stay longer? That was either one compelling drug she had taken or he was impressive in bed. “I suppose it doesn’t matter at this point, since the damage is done, but what on earth was I thinking?”

“I don’t think we were. Though I have to say, your choice of vibrator intrigues me. That is no baby carrot.”

Her cheeks burned. “You are incorrigible.”

He laughed. “I’m just speaking the truth.”

Unfortunately, he had a point. “I imagine if I act quickly, I can cancel some of these purchase orders.”

“Now where would the fun be in that? I say we get the party started.” Johnny winked at her.

Lizette rolled her eyes. “Are you ready to leave? By the way, I am assuming you were unable to reach Saxon?”

“No, he didn’t pick up. I called Stella and Zelda is fine. She was dehydrated, so they gave her fluids.”

“I’m glad she is well, though I find being drugged more than a little unnerving.”

“You’re an investigator, right? How would you approach finding out what happened?”

“I would start with the guest list and question the caterer as to who she saw in the kitchen before the punch was brought out. But honestly, it could have been anyone. It was just sitting on that table for hours, yes?”

“I would think so.” Johnny picked up their empty glasses. “You ready?”

“Yes.” They stood in tandem.

“We need to cover your shirt,” Johnny said. “The blood is a little too realistic looking. Let’s see if Saxon has a jacket or something.”

He had a point. Lizette imagined she looked like a secretary who had been stabbed. It was not conducive to blending in.

“This will work.” Johnny pulled an olive-colored button-up sweater off the couch. Trying not to wrinkle her nose, she let him drape it over her shoulders, effectively covering her back and shielding her handcuffed hand from view.

It smelled like patchouli and didn’t match her outfit, but she supposed she had no right to be picky. Johnny smiled at her. “You look adorable. Like Mister Rogers.”

She had no idea who that was, but she suspected it wasn’t a comparison she was going to like. Nor did she have it in her to suggest they stop at the drugstore so she could purchase a pack of panties, which was what she really wanted to do.

* * *

THERE WAS NO
way Lizette looked like Mister Rogers, but it was amusing to Johnny to see the old-man sweater draped over her. She looked exactly like what she was—an elegant, classy woman who had taken her hair out of her bun and had some fun. Johnny just wished he could remember it.

As they left Saxon’s, he said, “Does all this architecture here in the Quarter remind you of home? I’ve never been to Paris.”

“Actually, the majority of this is Spanish architecture. Most of the French buildings burned down in the late eighteenth century. It does feel very European though.”

Of course she knew the history of New Orleans better than he did, because she was that kind of woman. Intelligent and well-read, and in desperate need of someone to shove her slightly off balance so she didn’t end up shitting diamonds. He was just the man to do it.

“Is that so?” he asked her mildly. “It looks as French as a poodle to me.”

“Poodles originated in Germany.”

Johnny laughed. “Thanks, Miss Encyclopedia Britannica. This is why I like hanging out with older women.”

“Older women?
Pardon
!”

She looked severely put out by the idea, which was ludicrous, given they were immortal and she would never physically age, so Johnny knew he had hit on a fun way to rib her. “Turn left here. And yes, you are older than me. Substantially older. I’ve always wanted to make it with a wise woman. I’ll be the student, you can be the teacher.” He gave her a wink.

“Is that a sexual reference?”

“Absolutely.”

Glancing at him from under her dark, luscious eyelashes, Lizette said with an honesty that he had come to realize characterized her, “Then I don’t imagine I can be much of an instructor to you. My sexual experience is rather limited.”

Now why was that suddenly so arousing to him? Johnny stopped walking and nudged Lizette until she was back up against a wooden door.

“What are you doing?” she asked, sounding suddenly breathless. “This is inappropriate.”

“I’m going to kiss you. Something I’ve been wanting to do for an hour.”

“I don’t think that is wise. We’re on the street.”

“Haven’t you noticed that sex and alcohol cling to all the dark corners of New Orleans? Everywhere you turn someone is making out or flirting or drinking. Normally I don’t act like a tourist, but I do like the freedom it gives me. No one is going to look at us if I kiss you.” Johnny studied Lizette, marveling at how delicate and sensual she was, and she seemed to have no idea. Her rich brown hair was thick and came down over the hills of her breasts in chocolate waves. He touched it, stroking his fingers back into it to get a sense of its weight, its soft silken texture.

Her eyes had widened, her shoulders stiffening, but she didn’t push him away and she didn’t tell him to stop. “I suppose I have no objections then,” she said, her French accent one of the sexiest damn things he’d ever heard, even when she was saying something as priggish as that.

“Good.” Johnny leaned forward, shifting his body in closer to hers. She smelled like a soft floral perfume, blood, and the tangy musk of desire. He briefly closed his eyes and drank in the scent. Normally, he wasn’t the least bit grateful for his heightened sense of smell, and he had long suspected it was why he’d taken up smoking. The cloying sweet cloud of cigarettes muffled the assault on his nose of everyday smells like garbage, fried foods, and the body odor of tourists sweating in the Louisiana sun.

But now he was glad for his sense of smell, because Lizette smelled beautiful, like everything feminine and delicious, a perfect aphrodisiac.

“Are you sniffing me?” she asked.

“No. I’m breathing you in.” Johnny leaned down over her neck, her breasts, hand still buried in her hair, torturing himself, dragging out the anticipation.

“This is where the student becomes the teacher then,” she said, “because while you may be substantially younger than me, you are most effectively seducing me.”

Male pride swelled, along with his cock. “That’s good to know.” He kissed the soft flesh of her neck, and moved down to rub his lips over the cleavage peeking demurely out of her blouse. “And here European men get all the credit for being romantic.”

“Aren’t you European?” she asked, her voice breathless, her lithe fingers gripping his bare arms. “You are Irish.”

“It’s not the same as being from the Continent. No one has accused Irishmen of being romantic like Italians or the French.” He lightly kissed just her bottom lip, enjoying the way she shifted restlessly, his slow brushes of flesh on flesh clearly stirring her arousal. “You know the Irish curse, don’t you?”

She shook her head.

“They say Irishmen in general are underendowed.” It was the rumor. Johnny couldn’t say with any sort of certainty whether it was true or not. Certainly in his youth, the lads had all bragged about their prowess.

“Oh dear,” she said, her head falling back as he nuzzled along her jaw to her ear. “You are not giving a glowing report for your countrymen. How do you compare then?”

“Well, you’ve said my charm is adequate. And I can assure you that you will be equally satisfied with the rest of me.” He was no porn star, but he hadn’t heard any complaints.

“So is my impending knowledge of your anatomy such a foregone conclusion then?”

“That’s entirely up to you.” Johnny finally kissed Lizette fully on the lips, tilting his head and taking her mouth with confidence, ready to taste her.

She didn’t disappoint. He’d known from staring at her all night that her lips would be soft and full beneath his, and as he kissed her, Johnny decided that he had found the perfect fit for his mouth. The connection felt amazing, like the closest a vampire was ever going to get to heaven, their bodies in sync and intimate, yet not exactly touching. It was satisfying, yet it wasn’t enough. It was a teasing taste of how far he wanted to go if she would let him.

Lizette gave a soft sigh between kisses, an acquiescence that made him feel oddly happy. If anyone had told him two nights before that he would be pleased that Lizette Chastain was giving in to his advances, he would have laughed himself sick. He still wasn’t sure even now why he wanted to so desperately, other than that he was of course attracted to her. But it was more than that. It was her sincerity, her unwavering honesty, her clear loyalty that appealed to him. Plus she was damn cute when she was quivering in indignation. It wasn’t indignation that was making her shift restlessly against the wall in front of him now though.

“So what do you think?” he asked her, spreading his hand across her waist to the small of her back, enjoying how petite she was, how big and powerful he felt standing in front of her. He kept his tone casual, but he had a deep desire to give her the most intense pleasure she’d ever known. “Want to see what I’ve got?
Voulez-vous coucher avec
moi?
”

It was about the only French he knew besides counting to ten, and he sure as hell couldn’t spell it, but it seemed if there was ever going to be a time he could bust the phrase out, it was now.

“I suppose there is no harm in it,” she responded in her usual formal speech. Yet her tone was different. It had dropped lower and carried a slight tremor in it.

She was in. It was there in her voice.

He stepped away from her. “Then let’s start walking again before I compromise you right here and now. And while having your back up against the wall never feels good, considering this is brick it really won’t.”

Their cuffs rattled as she smoothed her hair back and moistened her lips, purse firmly on her shoulder. Johnny had almost forgotten they were attached at the wrist. He was getting used to it, which made him pause for a second. Could he get used to a woman in his life, like Wyatt had with Stella? He hadn’t thought so.

He still didn’t. Did he?

Maybe he did.

That thought scared the living shit out of him.

Chapter Ten

DUDE LOOKS LIKE A LADY

“E
VERYTHING
is gone.” Josie Lynn said as soon as she saw the barren courtyard. Nothing remained of the gothic wedding but the tables and chairs that belonged to Gautreaux’s.

“Probably the venue employees cleaned up everything,” Drake said, his voice low and calm.

He probably saw she was about to have a panic attack. What if all her catering supplies were gone? Her career was over before it even started.

“Let’s check the kitchen,” Drake said, placing his hand on the small of her back. She didn’t pull away from the touch, actually appreciating his support. He’d been nothing but polite and conversational since their talk about whether they’d had sex last night. Which she found nice, but also a little unnerving. It made her have those feelings again that Drake could honestly be a good guy. Even though with those smoldering dark eyes, naughty smile, and killer body, he looked the epitome of bad boy.

Just as they reached the swinging kitchen door, it whipped open. Drake looped his arm around Josie Lynn’s waist, pulling her back against him to avoid them both being hit.

“Oh. I didn’t know anyone was here.”

“Eric?” He was the last person Josie Lynn would have expected to be here, and he carried a bucket of sudsy water and a rag. He appeared to be working. The king of the slackers—working? When there was actually no reason he should be?

“What are you doing here?”

“I came back to see what happened last night,” he said, shifting awkwardly from one sneakered foot to the other. “I—I kind of blacked out or something.”

“Yeah, that seemed to be going around last night,” Drake said.

“Yeah,” Eric nodded.

“So what did you find when you got here?” Josie Lynn asked.

“The place was pretty much a mess. Nothing had been cleaned up, so I decided I should probably do some picking up,” Eric explained.

Josie Lynn looked back at the nearly spotless courtyard. “That was a lot of work. Did you call Ashley? Did you try to call me?”

“Umm—” He shook his head, brushing his disheveled hair back in an almost agitated way. “Nah. I didn’t think to call anyone. I just decided to get to work myself.”

Josie Lynn nodded, but she found his story strange. Since he’d started working for her, Eric had needed his hand held. Unlike Ashley, who would take initiative and do tasks on her own, usually wrong, but at least she tried, Eric waited to be told what to do. And then he moved at the pace of a snail with mono.

So why was he cleaning now?

“Where are all the dishes that were on the buffet?” she asked.

“I washed them and loaded them into your van.”

Oh yeah, this was suspicious. Definitely.

She wasn’t going to let her employee know that was what she was thinking, but she did want to talk to Drake about her suspicions.

“Well, thank you, Eric. I’m going to go—see how the kitchen is looking,” she said. She didn’t give Drake a look to indicate she wanted him to follow, afraid Eric might notice it.

But she didn’t need to give Drake a sign. He followed her anyway.

Once in the kitchen, which was almost as tidy as the courtyard, she turned to him.

“Something is not right about this,” she whispered.

“I was thinking the same thing. I watched him just cleaning up the spilled tuna last night. He was being totally half-assed about it. Yet he’s cleaning this whole place, without any go-ahead from you.” Drake shook his head. “Something is fishy about that.”

“I agree. So do you think
he
drugged the punch?”

“Possibly.” Drake walked over to look in the fridge and near the sink. “There is no punch left. Even the punchbowl is washed and gone.”

Josie Lynn went to the back door. Her van was still in the back alley and she could see Eric had indeed put all her supplies into the beaten-up old Chevy. For a second she wondered if he had her keys. That might be a sign he was involved, too, but then she remembered that the back of the van had been open last night when everything had gone down. So he probably just loaded the already-opened van without the need of her keys.

“Why would he drug us though?”

“Robbery,” Drake suggested. “Maybe the Chers aren’t really involved. Maybe it was just this guy alone.”

Josie Lynn considered that possibility, but that didn’t totally add up to her. “Okay, if he drugged all of us to steal our money, cell phones, etc. . . . then why come back to clean up? He could have just taken off and been long gone by now. He wouldn’t even need to clean up any evidence, because there still would have been no way to pin anything on him. Yeah, he was near the punch, but so was everyone. So if he did it, why come back?”

“You’re right,” Drake said. “It doesn’t add up. Hey Eric!” he called behind him. “Come out here a second.”

“Yeah?” Eric poked his head out the door.

“Is there anything you want to tell me?” Josie Lynn asked gently.

Drake snorted. “It’s a miracle you haven’t been robbed blind.” He turned to Eric. “Dude, why the hell are you here cleaning up without a word to your boss?”

Eric gave a reluctant shrug. “I don’t want to get fired.” With that, he went back to banging around in the kitchen.

Josie Lynn looked thoughtfully after him. “Wow. I’m kind of impressed.”

“But he could still be involved. I think we have to find those Chers.”

Josie Lynn nodded. “But where do we even start?”

Drake gave her a knowing look. “You start at the top. Come on.”

He caught her hand, and they left out the back door.

* * *

JOSIE LYNN GRIMACED
as a raucous college student in a football jersey and baseball cap staggered into her. He gave her a cursory, and slightly slurred, apology, then kept moving with his group of equally wild and inebriated friends. Josie Lynn had been to Bourbon Street many times, but it had never been her thing—for reasons like that.

Growing up in a family of wild Cajuns, she’d seen her share of partying and fights and craziness. She didn’t need to come to Bourbon to experience that. But as they kept walking, she realized Drake was leading her to a section she didn’t know that well.

The first thing she noticed was that that clubs and bars looked better kept up than the places below the 800 block of Bourbon. The balconies were decorated with plants and lights. And while the party was still happening full tilt here, it did look less seedy.

Then she glanced over toward a beautifully decorated bar front, only to do a double take. Lined up in the opened windows were bare-assed men, shaking their naked cheeks to the pulsating music from inside the bar.

Okay, so not less seedy after all. Not to mention, she’d seen plenty of bare ass tonight already.

“Where are we going, exactly?” she asked once she managed to look away from the booty-grinding.

“Here,” Drake said, pointing toward a doorway Josie Lynn would never have noticed amid all the other lights and decorations. And butts.

“Where is here?” she asked as she followed him into the smoky darkness.

“The home of Madame Renee Chevalier.”

Josie Lynn looked around. Home? This was a bar. And honestly not a very nice one. In fact, the one with all the man butts looked considerably nicer than this place.

They walked down the length of a narrow bar toward the back and through another set of doors that opened into a larger room. This room was no less rundown and dingy. Wooden tables that had long since lost their polish were scattered around and surrounded by wing-back chairs covered in worn, red velvet. A few people, predominately men, sat at the tables, sipping drinks and smoking.

It reminded Josie Lynn of a gentlemen’s club that had seen better days. And as if to validate that image, curtains at the far end of the room parted to reveal a woman lounging provocatively across a chaise.

Drake took Josie Lynn’s hand, as he had when they had left Gautreaux’s, and led her toward the stage. He chose a table right in front of the woman languishing on stage. Pulling out a chair, he waited for Josie Lynn to sit.

She was about to ask him why they were here, when music began to play. She sat down and Drake hurried to take the chair next to her. They both turned their attention to the stage.

The woman, despite the heavy makeup and fall of bright auburn waves, looked like she was in her fifties, maybe sixties. She reminded Josie Lynn of what Ginger from
Gilligan’s Island
might have looked like when she aged. Well, except for the woman’s bosom, which was enormous under her gauzy white peignoir and robe. Actually, she looked more like Ginger and Dolly Parton melded together.

Then she started to sing in a voice so deep and husky that it startled Josie Lynn. She watched, amazed as the woman sang “Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps,” lolling on her golden brocade chaise, occasionally waving a hand for emphasis or to flip back her hair. Josie Lynn was certain the woman thought her performance was provocative. Which it was, Josie Lynn supposed. Just not in the way the performer probably intended.

Just as Josie Lynn started to lean toward Drake to ask again why they were here, the music suddenly changed and with another flip of her hair, the woman started to croon “Three Times a Lady.”

Really? This woman was doing a Doris Day/Commodores mashup?

“Why are we here?” she finally asked once the shock subsided.

Drake leaned closer, but his gaze shifted between Josie Lynn and the woman on stage as if he couldn’t quite manage to tear his attention away. Josie Lynn had to admit the woman was oddly fascinating in a train-wreck sort of way.

“If anyone in the French Quarter is going to know of a band of Chers, it is this woman.” Drake then added, “Well, you know, this man who impersonates a woman. She’s been working here for over three decades. She knows everyone.”

Ah, now it made sense. It also did a lot to explain her low, husky voice, too.

“Well hello, loves,” a very tall woman, who Josie Lynn assumed was also a female impersonator, sashayed over to the table, working her short skirt and high heels a heck of a lot better than Josie Lynn ever could. There was no way she could wait tables in a pair of four-inch heels.

“What can I get you to drink?”

“I’ll take a whiskey, straight up,” Drake said, then looked to Josie Lynn.

“I’ll just have a Diet Coke.”

The waitress gave her a regretful look. “We have a two-drink minimum.”

After last night Josie Lynn wasn’t sure she could handle alcohol. The idea made her stomach churn, but she also realized places like this that supplied entertainment needed to make their money somehow. In fact, places all over Bourbon Street counted on booze to make their money.

“I’ll take a white wine.”

“Chardonnay, lovey?” She said, batting her very long, very dark, very fake lashes at Josie Lynn.

Josie Lynn found herself smiling. The waitress really was quite charming.

“That’s great.”

Drake settled back in his chair. “Renee should be done with her set in just another few songs, then I’ll see what she knows about those guys.”

The waitress returned with their drinks.

“That was quick,” Josie Lynn said, accepting her glass.

The waitress gestured around them. “Well, we’re not exactly packed tonight.”

That was true. It probably wasn’t too hard for the wait staff to keep up with the handful of people in here.

Josie Lynn took a sip of her wine, grimacing slightly at the acrid taste. But as it slipped down her throat, she could also feel its warming effect, even as it hit her stomach, and she was surprised and pleased the sensation wasn’t quite as unpleasant as she’d imagined it would be.

“So do you know Renee?” she asked after she’d taken a second sip.

“Yeah.” He took a swallow of his drink, polishing off half of it.

“How? You don’t seem like you’d hang out here much.” She didn’t know why she thought that. It wasn’t as if she knew much about this man.

“No, I don’t. But both Renee and I have been around New Orleans for a long time.”

“How long?”

Drake shook his head. “Damn, longer than I care to remember. Renee has been bringing down the house for forty years. You should have seen him back when he was young.” He finished the rest of his drink.

Josie Lynn smiled. “Well, it’s not like you saw him when he was young either. You can’t be much older than me.”

There was a pause, then he just shrugged. “I’ve seen pictures. It’s a small world when you’re working in this business.”

“So you aren’t from here?”

“Originally? No.”

“Where then?”

Josie Lynn knew she should just stop questioning him, but she was curious about this man. Why? Well, that was a question she wasn’t sure she could answer. Or better yet, she’d be reluctant to answer, because she’d have to admit that she was intrigued by him. Despite her better judgment—which as always was debatable anyway.

He looked around for the waitress, waving to her before he answered Josie Lynn. “I grew up in England.”

Stella and Katie had said he’d come from a privileged background, and she got the sudden image of a sprawling estate, and private boys’ schools with uniforms. He probably even played cricket, although she wasn’t sure exactly what the sport was.

But that did also explain something else. “I thought I noticed you had an accent occasionally.”

Drake frowned at her. “My accent is long gone.”

“Did you want the same, sweetie?” the waitress asked, giving Josie Lynn a moment to study Drake without his noticing. He definitely didn’t seem to want to discuss his past, which she could understand. Her upbringing was far from her favorite topic. But why even deny the remnants of an accent? Most people loved a British accent, herself included.

“Please,” he told the waitress, handing her his empty glass.

“Are you good, precious?” the waitress asked her.

Josie Lynn nodded and the waitress left.

Drake watched Renee, who now sang “The Lady Is a Tramp,” and strutted around the stage, her gown billowing out behind her.

Again, Josie Lynn got oddly entranced by the performance, but only until the waitress returned with Drake’s fresh drink.