Page 55 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

After the last phone conversation, he’d never heard from her again. He’d called, leaving messages, hoping to recapture that hint of breathlessness and resurrected youth he’d heard in her voice.

It hadn’t happened. She’d never returned his calls, and when he’d come down here he’d found her landlady distressed, her clients disbursed, his own silly dreams of rekindling a fire long dead, dashed.

Then he’d met Caitlyn Bandeaux.

Beautiful, sexy, recently widowed Caitlyn Bandeaux.

And she presented a whole new problem.

The ice in his glass clinked softly. He didn’t know what he was going to do with her. She’d called tonight, had sounded shaken up and had asked to meet with him tomorrow. He’d agreed.

In fact he was looking forward to the session. Couldn’t wait to see her again.

So you’re gonna play the shrink again?

His jaw slid to one side and guilt scratched at his conscience. He should stop this charade right now; go to the police and be done with it. But he couldn’t. Not yet. He had a job to do, a promise he’d made to himself. Even if Caitlyn Bandeaux held a fascination for him.

It was the kind of fascination that was certain to cause a man grief, but it was there just the same. He just had to figure out what do to about it. What to do about her.

The trouble was that no matter what he decided, he knew he’d regret it. He took a long swallow of aged Kentucky whiskey.

Like it or not, he’d just stepped into a lose/lose situation.

And it was only going to get worse.

Fourteen

Sugar stood in the shower and let the cool water wash away the dirt, smoke, sweat and sin that seemed to cling to her body. Closing her eyes, she leaned into the spray. Her head echoed with the loud music she’d heard for three hours, and a few of her muscles ached from the high heels she’d worn as she’d gyrated to the music, making love to the damned pole while the perverts watched from their darkened tables. God, she was glad when a night was over.

If it wasn’t for the money, she would stop. Dickie Ray actually had the gall to insinuate that she worked at Pussies In Booties because she enjoyed dancing nude, that she was enough of an exhibitionist to get off on the leers, jeers, hoots and hollers from the crowd, but he was wrong. It was just for the money. Nowhere else in this town could she bring in the kind of cash that she was making at the club. But then, her younger redneck of a brother didn’t understand that. In fact, he didn’t understand much. Oh, he was motivated by money, all right, but he expected it to come knocking on his door. His only ambition was to buy a lottery ticket every week. It was a wonder she put up with him. Because he was kin. The whole “blood is thicker than water” thing. Which she was beginning to think was a pile of crap.

She shampooed her hair and used the runoff suds to wash her face, shoulders and back. Then she splashed on some violet-scented body wash and took special care around her breasts and abdomen.

Though she didn’t get off on displaying her body for the nameless Joes in the audience at the club, she did enjoy showing off her curves and “spectacular breasts,” as she’d been complimented endless times, but only to one special man . . . the one who had promised to come by. As exhausted as she was, there was a certain frisson of excitement just at the thought of being with her new lover. She tingled at the thought. Not that the relationship would ever go anywhere. You don’t know that. Why not dream a little?

She felt sexy and naughty and a little wicked and she loved the feeling. She also experienced a twinge of superiority when she was with him, as if she was pulling a fast one on the bluebloods of Savannah. Supposedly the city had a reputation for being the stepsister to Atlanta, a Southern lady with a dirty hem on her antebellum gown, but if that was true, Sugar Biscayne never wanted to set foot in the state capital. There was plenty of snobbery here in Savannah to suit her style. Now finally, she was getting a little of her own back.

She twisted off the shower, toweled off and rumpled her hair with perfumed mousse. Body gel and lotion followed before she slipped on a black thong, piled her hair on her head loosely and let one wayward, damp curl slip free. A little rouge on her nipples, a brush of mascara and a quick sheen of lip gloss—he liked her to look young and innocent and hot. His ultimate fantasy was for her to play the role of seductive virgin, an untouched woman/girl who wanted him to give it to her . . . well, maybe that was every man’s fantasy, but for this one, she’d do anything.

You’re his love slave and he’s playing you for a fool, her conscience nagged, but she didn’t listen, already heard the sound of a finely tuned engine roaring ever closer and the crunch of expensive tires in the gravel drive. She gave her nipples one final pinch to make certain they were red and hard, then slipped her arms through the sleeves of a short white robe, the one he’d bought for her, the one that just barely covered her ass.

Beams of headlights splashed light on the wall as she hurried through the bedroom and down the short hallway, only pausing for a second at Cricket’s door. It was ajar and as Sugar pushed it open, she eyed the mess—rumpled bed with the sheets sagging to the floor, glasses and plates littering every surface—stereo, dresser, window ledge, night stand. Towels and clothes were dropped haphazardly on the floor, slung over the vanity chair or tossed casually over the open closet door. A bag of chips spilled and crushed into the carpet, shoes kicked off and left.

A pigsty.

Cricket had better clean up her room and clean up her act if she didn’t want to be kicked out on her butt. Sugar paid the bills, so she set the rules. Her baby sister could damn well abide by them no matter what form

of current depression, obsession or dependence Cricket was into. Sugar would be damned if she was going to pick up after Cricket. The kid was old enough—nearly twenty-four, for crying out loud—to clean up after herself. She wondered if her sister would show up at all. It was already pushing three in the morning.

Sugar shut the door to Cricket’s room. The rest of the house could pass a military inspection. Aside from the couch showing signs of wear, cat-claw marks compliments of Cricket’s cat, Diablo, and a couple of stains no amount of cleanser and elbow grease could erase, the double-wide was clean enough, just a little shabby, showing signs of age.

The purr of the engine stopped.

Caesarina growled low in her throat.

“Stop that!” Sugar ordered, but Caesarina was on her feet, big and glaring at the front door as Sugar swept by. “Be good,” she warned the dog as she flung open the door. He was already up the steps, his warm hands anxiously parting the robe to slide familiarly around her waist.

“You smell good,” he growled, lips at her nape, fingers cupping her buttocks to pull her tight against him. His erection pressed against the zipper of his slacks and she felt a little thrill, the beginning of desire firing her blood. Oh, this was good. So good. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, feeling the warmth of his lips and the slick promise of his tongue.

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