Meg Lacey - A Noble Pursuit

Her body still sang with the force of Shay’s lovemaking. It had killed her to leave him as she did. He’d lain with one arm thrown over his head, as relaxed as a boy abandoned to slumber. With his eyes closed, Juliette realized that his thick eyelashes were the longest she’d ever seen on a man, seemingly incongruous with his intense masculinity. Yet it only added to his male beauty. She’d been tempted to press a kiss on his lips, soft with sleep, but feared to wake him. She hated to deceive him. He didn’t deserve that type of treatment. She felt very guilty about that, but had been unable to tell him the truth. Juliette gave a deep, unhappy sigh. It was better this way. Shay wasn’t the type of man who’d be happy to be used as a plaything or an escape.

She stripped off her clothing. With each movement she remembered Shay’s touch, his fingers here, his tongue there. She reached for her nightgown and pulled it over her head, letting the silk whisper past her knees. She got into bed and nestled down under the cover, staring up at the delicate, crocheted lace draping the arches of the canopy. The pattern above her had as many holes as the story she’d told Shay tonight. Yet he’d fallen for it, or pretended he had. Now that she considered it, she wasn’t sure why he hadn’t marched her to the nearest health clinic or police station. For the first time, she really considered the situation and wondered why. Why, beyond the obvious—that she’d seemed in need this evening.

Juliette remembered the vulnerable expression that came into his eyes right before they’d made love, when he’d relaxed and really looked at her. What was she to him? A casual experience, or was he searching for something himself? Was that what tonight was really about—two people with needs, instead of just one? She hoped so. She wouldn’t feel as guilty if that was the case.

She let her mind drift as she relived her night with Shay. From the moment she’d emerged, wearing only his robe, to discover him with his shirt hanging open and the top button of his jeans unsnapped, she’d been lost. Funny how that had happened. One moment she was an innocent, uncertain about her appeal. The next moment she was a siren who couldn’t sing her temptation song fast or loud enough. With this man, she’d discovered a side of herself she hadn’t known existed. Oh, she had imagined the sensual side was there, but had seriously doubted she’d ever be the type of woman to inspire a man’s hunger. She’d been amazed to discover her own hunger was as strong as his. She could still see him, his face tight with desire as he made love to her. Her sensitive body still sang from his lovemaking.

Shay.

She grew hot just thinking of him. She closed her eyes and drifted, smoothing her hands down her body, much as he had done. This is madness. I’ll never see him again. He would remain what he was destined to be—a memory to take into the future with her. But oh, how she wanted to see him again!

Her body moving restlessly, she tried desperately to refocus her thoughts. It was no use. She ached to see him. Make love with him again. She moaned, the ache intensifying as he continued to invade her mind as surely as he had invaded her body. She closed her eyes. Shay, please don’t hate me.

THREE DAYS LATER, Shay O’Malley strode into the first district house of the New Orleans Police Department. He blew past the uniformed sergeant at the front desk and attacked the stairs, climbing two at a time to the second floor, where he slammed through a door into an open room that looked like a bad stage set on a television show. The desks were old and unmatched, scarred with cigarette burns and gouges, stained with coffee rings. The walls were the institutional green that only the government could love, and the floor was linoleum that had been scuffed so often the janitors had obviously given up on it. The room resembled most of the other departments Shay had worked in with one difference. For all the bustle of ordinary police activity, there was a different feeling—one more laidback and easy. It drove him nuts—especially today. His temper was already short because he’d spent the past few days trying to track down his mystery woman. He’d run into dead ends everywhere, almost as dead as his line of questioning with the case that had brought him to New Orleans in the first place. Of course, the entire investigation wasn’t helped by the pace of life in New Orleans, which was dead slow. It was a thought echoed by the laid-back drawl of a female voice behind him.

“Land sakes, Yankee, if you aren’t some kinda busy man today. You’re bustling around like you’re the whole Northern army hell-bent on capturing N’awlins before noon.”

He snapped a glance over his shoulder, taking in the amused attitude of the tall, statuesque, blond-haired woman standing behind him. “I am a Yankee.”

With a casual gesture, she pushed back her hair, then smiled. “I know, sugar, but I don’t think it plays real well down here.”

Turning to face Detective Lucille Monteverde, Shay hitched a hip onto the corner of his temporary desk. “Excuse me?”

The woman adjusted the badge clipped onto the lapel of her well-cut beige jacket. “What I mean is, I don’t think your Northern attitude and way of doing things will get you a lot of cooperation down here.”

“What do you mean by that?”

She shrugged. “Just some of the stories I’m hearing, is all.”

“Such as?”

“Such as, I hear y’all are in town investigating one of our most illustrious families.”

“Yeah? So?”

“So…some people aren’t too happy about the way you’re going about it.”

Shay folded his arms across his chest. “I’m listening.”

“Well, now, far be it from me to make any suggestions to a visitor to our fair city, but in this town, you’ll catch more flies with honey than all your vinegar.”

“What the hell are you talking about? The only way I know to do my job is to ‘do my job.’”

“Well, now, if you don’t mind a teeny bit of advice… I’d suggest you smile a bit more if you’re trying to shake down a bank secretary for the financial records of Louis Fortier’s shipping association.”

Shay could feel his neck turning red. He had gotten a bit short with that woman, who was as resilient and homely as one of Louis Fortier’s tugboats. “I tried to play nice, but when she didn’t hand over the information, I played the odds that she’d cooperate if I came on like a jerk.” He leaned forward, his most intimidating scowl in place. “I didn’t think I had a choice. I made a decision. I followed through.”

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