“I couldn’t put her in any of the other rooms—I want to keep an eye on her, and I don’t sleep much. I feel better with her in my bed.”
“That’s the truth,” Remy drawled.
“Fuck you. And she refused to go home to her daddy. If I let her out of this place, she’ll end up dead by the end of the day and I won’t come any closer to having answers. There’s at least one person still out there, and if it’s not Parker then she knows who it is.”
“Not your responsibility,” Remy suggested. “If she’s dead the case is closed.” Ryder just gave him a look, and Remy shrugged. “I’m more pragmatic than you are. She’s the wealthy daughter of one of the most corrupt families in this city, and if she’s going to be so damned picky about who she’ll accept help from, then she deserves what she gets.”
“If someone kills her then the case isn’t closed until we know who did it,” Ryder said, part of his attention caught by the information scrolling by the computer. “I’d rather find out the truth about her first.”
“Uh-huh. And exactly where will you be sleeping?”
“Go fuck yourself.” Ryder didn’t bother to look at him, focusing in on the computer screen.
“I’d rather have a partner, thank you. Too bad I’m the only one who will.”
Ryder straightened suddenly, turning to glare at Remy. “You keep the hell away from Parker!”
Remy let out a long-suffering sigh. “Don’t be an idiot. I can recognize when you’ve staked your claim, even if you can’t.”
Ryder decided to ignore that absurdity. As far as he knew she was the enemy and he meant to keep it that way. “Keep away from Soledad too. You’re supposed to be looking out for her, not seducing her. You’ve never had any trouble getting women—just go outside and crook your finger. Don’t mess with the women in this house.”
“Not my style. I never was one for the virginal Madonna type. Parker, on the other hand . . .” His voice trailed off in a laugh as Ryder turned on him. “All right. You have no interest in her, you’re just doing your job. You want me to keep away from her for some unfathomable reason, and I’m willing to do so. Does that make you happy?”
“No,” Ryder growled. “Go away before I decide to throw you out a window.”
“But think of the uproar that would cause. Just be glad you’re not harboring some secret passion for the ‘annoying’ Ms. Parker. That would really complicate matters, and I know how you like things simple and straightforward.”
“They seldom are,” Ryder said, not moving his eyes from the computer screen.
“I’d remember that if I were you,” Remy said, and took his leave before Ryder threw something at him.
It was ridiculous, Ryder thought, giving the computer screen only half his attention now that Remy had left. The life he led wasn’t conducive to affairs, despite Remy’s determination to prove otherwise. Finding a woman to fuck and forget wasn’t as easy as one would think, even in a town as laissez-faire as New Orleans. Certainly he could do as Remy did—walk down St. Charles Street and find half a dozen beautiful women willing to come home with him.
But bringing women into the Garden District house was just too damned dangerous, and he didn’t have an apartment like Remy had, far away from the business, to conduct his affairs.
It was easier to do without. He didn’t trust anyone, and if he needed to, he could always make do with his hand. He wasn’t a man who got lonely, who needed or felt affection, and if he really needed to get fucked he certainly wasn’t going anywhere near a Gauthier with a martyr complex.
And he didn’t need to be wasting his time thinking about her. There was too much on his plate already, and with his usual single-minded determination he dismissed the memory of Jenny Parker and that see-through outfit. He had work to do.
Chapter Ten
It was pitch black, and she was starving. Jenny woke with a start, disoriented, but after a moment she felt her heart rate slow to a reasonable pace. She knew where she was. Dressed in an oversized T-shirt and boxers, she was safely tucked up in Matthew Ryder’s bed.
She knew it was his room, his bed, not because he’d left anything incriminating around. There was nothing personal—no photos, no knickknacks, no shaving kit or used toothbrush in the bathroom with the giant tub. Nevertheless, she knew it was his. She could almost imagine catching the scent of his skin on the soft sheets, though chances were if they’d stripped the bathroom for her, they’d probably changed the sheets. Nevertheless, she felt surrounded by him in the darkness, and for some reason her panic eased.
But not her hunger. She couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten—sometime yesterday morning, and since then she’d been through more excitement than she had in most of her life. Growing up in the Gauthier family had been so restricted that she never had any sense of danger, of violence, even though it had surrounded her, and it wasn’t until she had gone to school in the North that she discovered that real families didn’t include bodyguards and armored cars.
Once she’d returned to New Orleans, she’d done her best to keep her distance from her disinterested family—everyone but Billy—and her father and two other brothers were content to let it be. Women weren’t of much interest in the Gauthier family, and Jenny preferred to keep it that way. Her only hope was that Billy wouldn’t be drawn into the convoluted world of power and crime that was her family’s livelihood. She could face a little personal guilt if she could save him from that incontrovertible fall from grace.
Her stomach growled, wrenching her thoughts back. It was a good thing she hadn’t eaten—she probably would have thrown up at least once.
Her head was hurting, her leg ached, but it was her stomach that was giving her fits. If she didn’t eat something, and soon, she’d start in on Ryder’s feather pillows, and he wouldn’t like that.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and slid down awkwardly. It was higher up than she’d imagined, and her sore leg gave way a little until she caught herself. For some reason she didn’t want to turn on the light. She could see the outline of a window in the darkness, and she went and pulled up the shade, just enough to let in the streetlight and the faint glimmer of the moon overhead. It was cool and eerie and beautiful, a good night for gorgeous vampires to be roaming the streets of New Orleans in search of soul mates.
She laughed. If she weren’t such a goddamn romantic, she wouldn’t be in the state she was now. She wasn’t used to finding men—particularly dangerous strangers—attractive. She must have deliberately chosen a husband who had only a marginal interest in sex—no, that wasn?
?t true. He had plenty of interest in sex, but with someone else. He’d married her because she was a Gauthier, thinking the family business would set him up, and she’d married him because she was vulnerable and thought the only way to get past her lack of sexual interest was to get used to someone.