Stop Me (Last Stand #2)(52)
Author: Brenda Novak

“How old was the girl who gave you these clothes?” she asked, turning back to the mirror. She’d waited in the truck when he’d gone into Casey’s house—hadn’t met Casey or her daughter. But he knew Casey had peeked at Jasmine through the windows. He’d seen the curtains move as he backed out of the drive.

“Thirteen.”

“No wonder.”

“She’s the only person in Portsville even remotely close to your size.”

“She’s not my size. This sweater is too tight.”

He agreed, but telling her so would only make her more self-conscious. “It’s fine. If we find a store that’s open, I’ll buy you something better along the way.”

“I’ve got to get back to New Orleans to pick up my money,” she grumbled. “I hate being so dependent.”

“The money will be there waiting for you.”

With a sigh, she stopped adjusting her top. “I guess this will have to work.

Anyway, it beats how I looked in your T-shirt and boxers.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” He caught her eye in the mirror and had a flashback of her staring up at him this morning, naked and on her back, their fingers and other body parts intertwined. Now that was a beautiful sight.

“Are we taking my car or your truck?” she asked, shifting her gaze away as if she could read his thoughts and they made her uncomfortable.

“I was thinking it might be fun to take the bike. I have an extra helmet,” he offered.

Her teeth sank into her lower lip as she considered it. “I’ve never been on a motorcycle.”

He pulled the keys from his pocket and tossed them in the air. “Alors vous allez à comme le tour.”

“English, please.”

“You’re going to like the ride.”

“That doesn’t mean I won’t regret it later,” she said.

And he knew she was talking about a different kind of ride altogether.

Jasmine couldn’t get comfortable on the back of Romain’s motorcycle, not when she was trying so hard not to hold on to him. She kept changing the position of her hands, searching for a good grip on the bike instead, but then he’d make a turn or switch lanes, and she’d have to grab him again.

Eventually, he pulled over to the side of the road and flipped up the screen on his helmet. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said.

“Why do you keep fidgeting?”

“The speed and motion of the bike makes me nervous,” she said, but that wasn’t true at all. He made her nervous.

He twisted to see her clinging to the backrest. Then he muttered a curse, lowered the screen on his helmet and they took off again. After another few miles, however, he reached back one hand at a time and brought her arms around his waist, and she didn’t move after that because he went even faster and she was afraid she’d fall off if she let go.

When they reached Mamou, Jasmine was exhausted from two hours of fighting her natural inclination to let her body relax into his. But staring up at Romain’s parents’ neat, middle-class home she felt too tense to worry about the fatigue. His family had already started pouring out the front door—a motorcycle didn’t exactly make a quiet entrance.

“Here they come,” she whispered as he took her helmet.

He didn’t respond. He was getting the packages he’d wrapped in ice out of his saddlebags.

Jasmine smiled politely as a tall, rather austere-looking woman, who had to be Romain’s mother, drew close to shake her hand.

“Romain, you didn’t tell me you were bringing a date.” His mother was obviously pleased, so pleased and acutely interested in Jasmine that Jasmine immediately felt the need to explain.

“I’m not a date,” she said. “I’m just…someone who—” She glanced at Romain, seeking his help. She didn’t want to mention Moreau or the investigation, didn’t want to bring up a difficult subject. But he didn’t fill the gap in the conversation. “I’m someone who didn’t have anywhere to go for Christmas so Romain dragged me along,” she finished lamely.

She’d said it with a laugh, but it didn’t come off as funny, which made her feel like even more of an idiot. She’d engaged in passionate sex with this woman’s son for no real reason except that she’d wanted him too much to say no. And now she was wearing the clothes of a thirteen-year-old girl while trying to explain her unexpected appearance at their house for dinner. Never in her life had she felt more out of place, even the year she’d gone to visit Sheridan’s family for Christmas and they’d forgotten she was coming and given the guest room to a cousin.

“You’re welcome here,” his mother said. “Any friend of Romain’s is a friend of ours.”

Romain handed one of the packages he’d taken from his saddlebags to his mother. “Shrimp,” he told her. “Merry Christmas.”

“Do I want to know what happened to your face?” she asked.

“Accident. Nothing big.”

“Accident,” she repeated as if she’d heard it too many times. But her expression as she hugged her son suggested she’d hold him longer if he’d let her.

“Jasmine, this is my mother, Alicia,” he said. “Mom, this is Jasmine Stratford.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Fornier,” Jasmine said.

“Please, call me Alicia.” She gestured toward the man with thick white hair and broad shoulders who had accompanied her down the front walk. “This is Romain’s father, Romain, Sr.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Jasmine said with a nod.

His large hand swallowed hers, and she sensed an inherent strength in the elder Fornier that reminded her of his son. Embittered or not, Romain gave the impression that he could hold his own in any kind of battle. Now she knew where he got it.

“Welcome to our home,” his dad said.

Their smiles made Jasmine feel a bit better—until she caught sight of the woman coming up behind Romain’s father. This had to be Romain’s sister. With their streaked blond hair and nice even features, they looked too much alike to mistake the connection. Unfortunately, the way she pursed her lips and lifted her chin suggested Romain wasn’t on good terms with her.

“A little late, aren’t you, T-Bone?” she said with a taunting lilt to her voice.

Romain’s face took on a look of indifference, but not before Jasmine caught a flicker of hurt. She suspected he cared as much about this member of his family as he did the rest but, for whatever reason, he wasn’t about to let on. “Jasmine, this is my sister, Susan.” He tilted his head to see the child trailing behind her. “And her eight-year-old son, Travis,” he added.