"She'd better be." Gage shook his head in disgust. "You're a damn good detective and a smart son of a bitch, but you don' know jack about women, bro."
Remy was beginning to be more than uneasy about leaving Bijou. Gage was right, although he wasn't going to admit it.
"Have you talked to Saria? Is she back at the Inn?" There was worry in Gage's voice.
Remy realized he relied heavily on his own reputation. The males in the lair had grown up around him. They knew him and his leopard. Few could hope to best him in a challenge, even if they tried double-teaming him as they had Drake. If you crossed one Boudreux, you crossed all of them. Remy had the reputation of swift and terrifying punishmen
t, and the males had always backed off if he stepped into a fight. But an unmated female was rare in their lair. More, Bijou was a celebrity with millions of dollars. On top of that she was beautiful and intelligent. Perhaps Gage had a point and he'd overestimated his lair's fear of him.
His gut churned. Turned over. Yeah. He'd been an idiot to leave her. He needed to get back to the Inn as soon as possible.
*
BIJOU pried her lashes open, groaning, afraid to face the light--or herself. Even the slightest movement sent pain crashing through her body. Every muscle hurt. She hurt in places she hadn't known existed. Bijou groaned and threw her hand over her eyes. Last night had been the most intense, exhilarating and absolute best night of her life. So why couldn't she just admit she loved every second of it and move on?
Why lie in bed and feel like she could never face Remy again? She was grown up, for God's sake. She could have a night of crazy sex and face him the next day, couldn't she? She let her breath out slowly and forced herself to sit up, drawing her knees up and rocking herself gently back and forth. She was traumatized, that's why. Totally, absolutely traumatized. She'd never done anything like this in her life. What had gotten into her?
She'd been utterly shameless. She groaned and wiped her hand over her face. Did it have to be Remy? Her Remy? Her white knight? Her fictionalized, fantasy Remy who was her dream man. She'd had a one-night stand with him. Given up her virginity to him in a wild night of crazed sex. She'd done things she hadn't ever imagined--or even knew she could do--and she loved it. She was some kind of pervert when it came to sex.
She always thought she had inhibitions, scarred from seeing her father on the floor having sex with multiple women. How many times had she walked into the kitchen, or their enormous living room or gone out to the pool and found him actually having sex. He didn't even stop when she walked in, just looked up and asked her what she wanted.
She'd been around three when she began to realize what he was doing with those women. Her nannies. The housekeeper. The maids. They came and went as he tired of them. When she was seven her teacher came to the house to talk to Bodrie about absences. He'd had sex with her right there, nearly on the front steps, right in front of Bijou. When Bodrie refused to see her after that, she'd tried using Bijou to get to him. When that plan failed, she'd hated Bijou and had made her life miserable.
How could she possibly have turned out like Bodrie? But she would have had sex with Remy on the front lawn. On the hood of her own car. Anywhere. She wouldn't have even recognized she was in a public place. She was a nymphomaniac. There could be no other explanation.
A sound escaped. A low, keening moan. She rocked herself back and forth for comfort. There was no blaming Remy. She would have gone into town and seduced someone, maybe--God help her--a total stranger. Remy at least had saved her from that humiliation.
How could she have gone from someone who refused to have sex with a man even when she was semi-interested, to such a total crazed, nymphomaniac? The last couple of days she and Saria had been out of step. Had she inadvertently flirted with Drake? Could she possibly be the kind of woman who would sleep with her best--her only--friend's husband?
She groaned again and once more covered her face with her hands. Her first inclination was to pack up everything and just get the hell out of New Orleans, but she knew from experience, she couldn't outrun who she was. No one could. The only good thing that would be accomplished would be not having to face Remy and not acting like her father in front of him ever again.
She didn't want to lose Saria as a friend. All she could do was apologize and move out. She could easily stay at a hotel until the renovations on her apartment were done. Avoiding Remy wouldn't be easy if he didn't want to be avoided, but she didn't trust herself around him. And maybe, hopefully, the physical attraction she felt toward him had been simply confused with her fantasies of him, and now that they'd had sex, she wouldn't think about him anymore.
Yeah. Right. She drew in a sharp, harsh breath. There was no other explanation. She really was just like her father. She had always said she would be nothing like him. She'd be responsible. She'd vowed to be the complete opposite of Bodrie, and yet here she was, a wild animal in bed. She hadn't been able to control herself, she hadn't even tried, not once Remy had kissed her. His mouth still burned on hers, his taste still potent and addictive.
She had to force her aching body to move. Every step into the bathroom just served as a reminder that she'd screwed up big-time. Sheets stuffed in the clothes hamper were stained with blood. Remy had put them there, but they were ripped up, useless, and she didn't want Saria to see or have to deal with them.
She moaned again and looked into the mirror. Her eyes had dark circles under them. Her lips seemed swollen. There were strawberry bites all over her neck and throat. A clear path of love bites went from her throat to both her breasts and even lower still. She blushed, thinking about what her inner thighs might look like.
To wake herself up, and give herself more time to think, she stepped into the shower. She couldn't help thinking about how Remy had run a hot bath while she dozed on the floor. He'd carried her into the bath and carefully washed and then braided her hair. It was still wet and would be if she didn't pull out the braid and dry it. She'd felt . . . cared for. His hands had been gentle, at odds with his near savage sex. She couldn't remember a time in her life when anyone had ever made her feel as if she mattered to them, other than when Remy had dragged her from a hotel room the night she'd made up her mind to end her life.
She slid down the wall of the shower stall, sinking onto the tile in a crouch while the hot water poured over her. It took several minutes to realize she was crying. She'd been alone for so long in the midst of a crowd. She'd been surrounded, her entire life, by managers and handlers, and she'd been so lonely, yearning for so long for a family. For a real friend. For one person to care whether she was alive or dead.
Remy had cared all those years ago and so had Saria. She'd come back to them, looking for something that had always been out of her reach. She had all the money in the world, and no one to share her life. She knew she had issues. She'd worked hard to overcome them, but trust just didn't come easily to her.
She let out her breath slowly and forced herself to stand up. She'd made a mistake, but she didn't have it in her to take the easy way out and run. She'd picked New Orleans to make a stand. She loved everything about her home city. The people and the music. The bayous and swamps called to her. She loved the food and the fishing boats. The laughter and hard work. She loved the sunsets and the birds. She even enjoyed the alligators. New Orleans was the only place that felt like home. Her own stupidity wasn't going to run her out of town.
She dressed slowly, taking her time with her makeup and hair. If she had to face Saria and confess her sins, whatever they might be, she needed a little armor. She was feeling extremely vulnerable and she had the feeling if she lost Saria, it would be a blow she might not readily recover from.
She could hear the cell phone she'd left on the nightstand playing the song her manager loved the most. It was a good five years old, one of the first that had been truly a big hit, rising to number one on the charts almost immediately. She hesitated answering. Lately they'd argued. Well, he argued. She'd made up her mind. No more touring. No more huge venues.
She hadn't talked to Remy about her manager being so angry with her. When she'd made the decision to stop the circus, a lot of people were very upset, and she couldn't blame them--she'd made them a lot of money. She let the phone pick up another message from him--as she'd been doing for the last few days. She was ashamed of herself for ducking his calls, but she couldn't face him yelling at her again over the same thing, not after waking up a total, absolute wreck.
She shoved the cell in her pocket, sighing, trying to ignore the way her skin itched in waves, as if something alive ran beneath the surface, settled and then repeated the movement. She had the sudden urge to grab the handrail and leap
over the railing to the floor below. Her fingers curled, her knuckles throbbing, her fingertips feeling as though they might burst any moment. Every muscle ached and her skin felt too tight as if it was stretched over a larger frame and didn't quite fit.
She found, once she went downstairs to make herself coffee, that the Inn was empty. Saria was gone as well as Drake and she was the only guest, which allowed her a little extra time to think things through. It was very weird, but she swore her sense of smell was heightened. She could almost track Remy's every move throughout the house after he'd left her bedroom.
The moment his scent filled her lungs, her body went into some sort of heat flash. Blood surged hotly. Pooled. She closed her eyes and switched directions; she needed to be outside. Remy was everywhere, surrounding her, making it impossible to breathe properly.
The phone vibrated and she pulled it out impatiently and nearly dropped it, her heart pounding and her breath catching in her throat. Remy Boudreaux. Immediately her hand shook. What a freaking coward she was becoming. She shoved the phone back into her pocket with a trembling hand, and rubbed both palms down her thighs as if she could wipe the effect he had on her away.
Her jaw hurt, a deep pain in the bones she couldn't escape. Her teeth seemed to have grown overnight and felt too big to fit into her mouth. The terrible itch beneath her skin persisted and she scratched her arm, hoping to make it stop. Instead, she tore a strip of skin from her arm, a terrible rake mark that bled like crazy. She cursed softly in Cajun French, something she'd done since she was a child, but well under her breath so her teachers couldn't add that sin to the long list she'd had back then. Could the day get any worse?
She examined the horrendous scrape down her arm. It looked as if she'd been clawed by a jungle cat and felt like it as well. The cut was deep and long. She frowned at her fingernails. They were long, but not that long. Shaking her head, she wrapped her arm in a towel she found in the car.