“Thanks, Saria,” Bijou said. She hurried into the house before either of the Boudreaux brothers could say another word to her.

Bijou stripped the moment she was safe in her bathroom, tossing her ruined clothes onto a plastic bag she found inside the trash can. It was small, but it worked. The hot water felt wonderful and she let it pour over her head as she worked the long, thick braid loose so she could wash her hair.

“You know you could have been killed.”

She screamed and threw the bottle of shower gel at the intruder, nearly jumping out of her skin. So much for her early warning system. “I locked the door. How did you get in here?”

Remy shrugged. “You didn’t lock your balcony door, and in any case I’m very good at pickin’ locks.”

“Get out of here.”

“We need to talk,” Remy said, resting one hip on the sink.

“We should have talked this morning, you cretin. Not now. Get out of my room right this minute. I’m naked.”

“It’s a little late to suddenly become modest, don’t you think?”

“It really isn’t a good idea for you to be remindin’ me about last night,” Bijou snapped. “Get out of my bathroom right now. I’m hangin’ on by a thread, Remy, and I’ve got a show to do tonight.”

“We’re goin’ to talk.”

“Fine. But not now. Go away, and don’ be thinkin’ you have the right to come into my personal space anytime you like. I mean it, Remy. Just because we . . . We . . . Whatever you call what happened last night, doesn’t mean it’s goin’ to happen again. Go away.”

“It’s goin’ to happen again.”

She wasn’t going to argue that point. If he kept sitting there, all arrogant and hot-looking it might happen again and she needed him gone. Now. This instant. Her body was already coming alive, that terrible craving starting. He had to go.

“Please go, Remy. Please.”

He sighed and straightened up. “But we’re talkin’ after your show tonight. I know you’re goin’ to be tired, chere, but it’s important.”

She didn’t answer, but turned away from him, mostly out of self-preservation. She was truly in trouble around Remy. Her body seemed to rule her head, not the other way around, and she had to find a way to conquer her need of him.

10

REMY stood in the back of the packed club, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze moving over the crowd restlessly. His leopard had never liked being indoors, let alone in the midst of a throng as big as this one. He was surprised the fire marshal, who was sitting in the crowd, hadn’t complained.

He spotted Arnaud at a table up front, clearly a welcome guest. Just the sight of the man set his teeth on edge and if Bijou smiled at him one more time, he just might have to go drag the sculptor right out of the club and throw him in the bayou again. What the hell was she thinking? Leopards weren’t nice about sharing mates. They were jealous and bad tempered, and his leopard was one of the worst. Remy disliked Arnaud on principle, but his leopard despised him.

Basically, he despised any man who came near Bijou, but especially the ones she smiled at—or sang to. Remy’s gaze went back to Bijou. She always astonished him when she sang. Her voice was such a blend of smoke and sex. There was a husky, sinful quality to her vocals, rich and beautiful, the tone unique. She had some of the gravel her father was famous for, and the wide, wide range, but the soft, sensual quality was all her own.

She looked beautiful. There was no other word for it. She was in a long gown that hugged her phenomenal figure, emphasizing her small waist and drawing attention to her full breasts and rounded hips. She was breathtaking as far as Remy was concerned and he had the feeling that a good number of the men in the audience felt the same.

Each set seemed better than the last. He knew she’d suffered trauma, and yet she was totally relaxed, genuinely smiling and very friendly to her audience—completely different while performing than when she was simply Bijou. Bijou was shy and withdrawn, but as a singer, she was confident and smooth, and very sexy.

Her voice burned through his skin to sink into his bones. It sounded like a cliché to him but she took his breath away standing up there, belting out her soulful, bluesy song so effortlessly, the notes so clean and pure, yet blending one into the other until she took them all on a journey with her of heartache and need.

He was a man who was extremely cynical. Even more than that, he didn’t trust anyone, not with his job, yet when he looked at her, his heart pounded, his mouth went dry and his body went as hard as a rock. He was a man always in control, and yet with Bijou, he was on the edge, or lost it completely. His mind was always logical, everything in his world had to make sense, because the killing never did. It wasn’t logical to fall for Bijou Breaux.

She had too many interested men gawking at her. He was the jealous type—well—not him—his leopard. She had too much money. He couldn’t even conceive of the kind of money she had. She was in need of rescuing and refused to even consider that possibility. Worse, she stood up to him, which was exactly what he wanted and needed in a woman, but not when it didn’t suit him.

He swore under his breath for about the tenth time. And that was another thing wrong with her—she made him swear and he wasn’t the swearing kind.

Gage nudged him. “You’re doin’ it again, bro. You’re actin’ like a fish out of water gaspin’ for breath.” He grinned at Remy’s dark scowl. “I’ve never seen anyone have it so bad. Not even Drake, and he was just a fool for our sister. You can’t stop starin’ at her, and you’re lookin’ at her like any moment you’re going to be carryin’ her off to a cave somewhere.”