Bayou Nights (18 page)

If she stood on the general’s pedestal, she wouldn’t waste her time staring at the heavens.

She hurried toward the area at the center of the square, the wet grass snatching at the hem of her dress.

Bang!

In the quiet that followed the shot, Christine’s ears strained with listening. Was he hurt? Just the thought hollowed out her chest.

She ran through the grass, across the path that circled the park, and scrambled up onto the general’s pedestal, sliding on the wet stone. Her hand circled the horse’s back leg and she hauled herself up.

The view was…dark. High ground meant nothing when only a few streetlights cast weak light.

The sky seemed darker, almost bubbling, near the corner of St. Peter and Decatur. Desdemona’s demon? Le Grand Zombi? She looked out toward St. Ann. Two men crept down the street. Light smudged across their backs as if they were mere charcoal sketches. They weren’t. They were all too real. The glint of their drawn guns was too real.

Bang!

Where was Drake?

Why had he run into the square without her? Surely by now he’d figured out that they were better together than apart.

Bang!

She whirled, squinting her eyes. The shot seemed to have come from near the corner of St. Peter and Chartres, where she’d been mere moments before.

A man’s moan tiptoed across the grass.

Drake?

She had to do something!

She inched forward until her hand rested on the horse’s neck then called, “I’m here.”

…

Her voice, southern honey laced with a shot of vinegar, carried through the night and Drake’s heart stopped. Of course it was too much to hope that she’d keep to the safety of the alley. Her voice seemed to come from the center of the square.

He wasn’t the only one who heard her. The demon that seconds before had been intent on defeating Marie Laveau’s snake used its forked tongue to test the mist. The beast turned in mid-air, leaving the coiled, hissing snake and Drake behind.

Bang!

The sound of a bullet hitting metal carried through the mist-heavy air. So too did Christine’s gasp.

Drake ran toward Jackson’s statue, the humid air pooling in his lungs, his heart beating at three times its normal rate.

An arm reached out to stop him and he sliced at it with his knife without slowing.

Its owner’s cry of distress trailed his steps.

He cleared the edge of trees and stumbled, slipping in the wet grass. Landing on his hands and knees.

He looked up at the statue at the exact center of the square.

She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She had.

Holy hell! Christine stood next to the charging General Jackson.

Desdemona, her demon floating behind her, strode across the grass.

Hector, gun drawn, stood not twenty feet away. His ancient eyes seemed to track Desdemona’s progress, then he turned and watched yet another group of men approach.

“Stop there!” Hector’s voice carried centuries’ worth of authority.

The men ignored him.

Drake narrowed his eyes. Ty Doucet, the man who’d threatened to rape Christine, was among their numbers.

“Stop!” Hector leveled his gun.

“Get down from there!” Drake yelled.

Christine turned toward his voice and—he couldn’t believe his eyes, it had to be a trick of the poor light—smiled. Only then did she have the sense to slide down the pedestal, giving up her title as easiest target in the square. The constriction around his heart eased—a bit.

“Give me the water,” Desdemona demanded.

“She doesn’t have it. I do.”

Desdemona and her demon turned toward him.

Having Le Grand Zombi slither past gave him hope.

“Where’s my father?”

Her father? Drake didn’t give a damn about her father. It would be a miracle if they made it out of the square alive. He rose to his feet, took the flask out of his jacket pocket, and held the container above his head. “Here it is!”

For an instant, his pronouncement was met with silence. He felt the gazes of every being in the square land upon him. Then the demon’s roar split the night.

Fear stiffened his resolve.

He drew his arm back and threw the flask as far as strength and adrenaline would allow.

A long, long way.

The container flew toward the corner of St. Ann and Decatur, the one part of the square without demons, voodoo witches, immortal Spaniards, or men with guns.

A stampede followed.

Let them find the bottle in the dark. Drake raced toward Christine. “Let’s get out of here.”

She shook her head. “We have to save my father.”

Of course she wanted to search for the one person they hadn’t seen that night. He pulled her toward the street.

A hail of shots rang out in the corner of the square.

Christine struggled against him as if, once again, she meant to run toward danger. “We can’t leave him.”

He held her tight. “We can. Your father’s already dead. This is our one chance to get out of here alive.”

She looked over her shoulder at the corner where’d he thrown the flask, where flashes of gunfire burst like fireworks in the night, then let him lead her onto Decatur.

“Can you run?” he asked.

She nodded.

Together, they raced toward Canal Street.

Christine stumbled and he picked her up, tossing her over his shoulder the way he had that first night.

“Are we being followed?”

“No.”

He didn’t dare slow his pace.

“Take the next right.” Upside down and backward, she was still giving him directions.

He set her down when the hotel came into view. Her face was flushed, her hair was mussed, and tears stood in her eyes.

“Are you hurt?” he asked

She sniffled.

Who knew such a simple sound could wound him more deeply than a bullet?

“Christine, are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” she squeaked.

“You’re not.” If she was fine, tears wouldn’t be glistening on her lashes like diamonds. “You’re crying.”

Her lower lip quivered and one of the tears balanced on her lashes toppled, trailing down her cheek. “I’m not hurt.” She bit her lower lip and stared up into the mist-filled sky. “We didn’t save him. What are we going to do now?”

Drake had no idea.

Chapter Fifteen

Drake wrapped his arm around Christine’s shoulders. Shoulders that seemed too narrow to carry the weight of grief that had followed them from Jackson Square.

“Let’s get you inside.” He escorted her through the lobby toward the elevator.

For once she didn’t stop and flirt with the concierge or bat her lashes at the lift attendant. She just stared straight ahead, tears running unchecked down her cheeks.

Her grief wasn’t an opponent he could fight. His fists were useless.

He led her to his room and sat her on the edge of the bed.

“Do you want a drink?” he asked. “Brandy? Bourbon? Water?”

Her chin jerked at the mention of water and fresh tears welled in her eyes.

Short of conjuring Warwick Lambert, what could he do to ease her pain? He sat next to her on the bed and lied. “We’ll find him.”

“How?” So much sorrow in one innocuous word.

“We’ll find a way.” Drake laid his hand on her back.

She wiped her face with the backs of her fingers. “You must think me a complete ninny.”

“No.” He rubbed a circle on her back and the brittle stiffness of her spine seemed to soften. He rubbed again, a slow circle, he hoped was comforting.

She leaned against him, her cheek against his collarbone, the top of her head tucked just beneath his chin.

He rubbed yet another circle.

She sighed softly then tilted her head and looked up at him through lashes spiked with teardrops.

Even with tears on her cheeks and her nose pink from crying, she was the most desirable woman he’d ever seen. He wiped away a stray tear with the pad of his thumb.

“I left him there.”

“We don’t know for certain that your father was actually in the square. Besides, he wouldn’t want you to risk your life.”

She made a sound deep in her throat. On another night he might have called the sound a laugh. Tonight, it was a sob.

Gently, he pressed her cheek back to his chest, dropped his lips to the top of her head, and kissed her. The soft cloud of hair that surrounded her smelled of some southern flower he couldn’t identify. Magnolia? Jasmine? Gardenia? He rubbed another circle. Her muscles relaxed beneath his touch.

This was a woman no one ever saw. Christine Lambert with her head on his shoulder and tears in her eyes was completely at odds with the woman who faced mobs and alligators and voodoo witches with a dangerous glint in her amber gaze. This was a woman who had let down her guard, who trusted him.

His heart seemed to swell.

Again she lifted her head and looked at him.

Her lips—so pink, so soft. Like a magnet that had to point true north, his lips had to touch hers. Their kiss was languid, gentle, tender.

He tasted the salt of her tears.

She brought her fingers to his face and explored the planes of his cheeks, moving with exquisite slowness, as if she could read the answer to all her questions in the stubble that roughened his skin.

Her lips parted, inviting his tongue to explore her mouth. Now he tasted sweetness. Her tongue moved against his—tentatively—as if learning the art of kissing.

She sighed and the sound fired something deep within him. Something primal—an urge to protect, to claim, to possess.

She nipped his lower lip and his groin tightened.

He pulled away from her. “Christine.” His voice sounded ragged. “If we don’t stop—”

She looked up at him with her kiss-swollen lips and wide eyes. “I don’t want to stop.” She reached her hand around his neck, her fingers traced the length of his nape, and then she brought his mouth back to hers.

The sweetness of their first kiss remained but the tentative slide of her tongue against his changed. With this kiss, she searched, demanded, teased. He let her. For a moment.

Her fingers moved from his cheeks to his chest, trailing heat.

The kiss deepened, no longer teasing. Instead it was hungry.

“Christine.” They had to stop. She deserved love, a husband, a man who could treasure and protect her for all time—a man who wasn’t afraid of the consequences of loving.

She pulled away from him then picked up the neat ends of the lace bow tied at her neck. With aching slowness she tugged the bow loose, exposing her neck.

“What are you doing?” Was she mad? Testing his control wasn’t wise.

“Tempting you.” A knowing smile touched her lips as if she was the seductress and he the innocent.

Once again, she was running toward danger.

She knew—he’d told her—that women he cared for died. Now she seemed determined to drag some sort of declaration from him. That or drag them both into the bed where they sat.

Her fingers unbuttoned a button. It was as if she’d unbuttoned his ability to reason.

His mouth went dry. “You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.” She abandoned her buttons and loosed his tie.

They had to stop. Had to or… “I thought you were a…”

“A virgin?” Her cheeks flushed a becoming pink. “I am.” She shifted her gaze to her lap and caught her lower lip in her teeth. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

Christine? Disappoint him? Raw need grabbed him and refused to let go. “As if you ever could.” He swallowed. “Are you sure? Do you understand the mechanics?”

“I grew up in the country on a working plantation.”

“So, yes?”

“Yes.”

“You must tell me when things feel good and when they don’t.”

The flush on her cheeks deepened. “All right.”

“I don’t want to disappoint you.” He used her words.

Then she used his. “As if you ever could.”

“Do you trust me?”

“I do.”

The need that held him hostage roared its approval. “Then let me take us where you want to go.”

He waited for her to say
yes
. He got an uncharacteristically shy nod. That one gesture was enough. Drake reclaimed her mouth. If their first kiss was tender, their second exploring, this kiss was all passion. Two people. Two bodies. Two souls. About to become one.

He kissed her out of her shirtwaist. Kissing each bit of skin exposed by opening a button. He unlaced her corset, slid her skirt down the length of her legs, then her stockings. Kissing, tasting, and allowing his tongue the pleasure of small whorls on her soft skin.

She wore nothing but her shift, a whisper-thin bit of linen.

Even that was too much.

He fingered the lace edging the bodice. “This has to go.”

“But you’re fully dressed.”

“Ah, ah, ah.” He wagged his finger. “You agreed.” Then he lifted the bit of linen over her head.

Christine naked was a revelation. Certainly she had all the usual womanly parts. But they were
hers
, meaning they were perfect. His breath caught in his throat.

He touched the soft pink of her nipple. It tightened under his fingers. Not enough. He bent and took the delicate bit of flesh in his mouth.

The sound she made—something between a sigh and a plea—shot straight through him.

Gently, he used his teeth.

She arched into him.

His body throbbed with need. His body could wait.

With slow stokes, his hand traced down the length of her stomach until he reached her clitoris.

“Drake?” Her body writhed beneath him.

“Trust me?”

She looked up at him, her eyes darkened by desire. “I do. I trust you.”

His fingers brushed across her clit. His tongue and teeth teased her nipples. Christine strained toward him, her body eager for a joining he wasn’t yet ready to give her.

He lifted his mouth from her breast, replaced it with his fingers, then kissed his way down the length of her torso.

The first flick of his tongue made her cry out. He pushed her legs apart then took her clit in his mouth. Her back arched off the mattress.

She would not rush toward completion. He wouldn’t let her. He would take his time. He’d teach her just how exquisite making love could be.

Slowly, his tongue swirled around her most sensitive spot. Slowly he built tension until her body was taught as a strung bow. Only then did his tongue move faster.

Her breath came in short pants. Her fingers grabbed his hair. She called out his name. He didn’t stop. Not until he’d wrung the last bit of pleasure from her.

She raised her head and looked at him through heavy-lidded eyes. “The horses at the plantation didn’t do
that
.”

He laughed. He couldn’t help it.

“What about the mechanics I would recognize?”

His cock throbbed. Let it. This was Christine, not some woman he’d leave in the morning. “We can stop.” He might have to spend an hour in a cold shower, but they could stop. She could leave his room with her innocence intact.

“Stop being noble. I don’t want to stop.” She pushed her delightfully mussed hair away from her face. “You have on too many clothes.”

She was entirely right.

Christine pushed herself up on her elbows and watched him undress as if she was some sort of erotic princess and he a slave brought in for her pleasure. The lamp next to the bed cast her in gold, gilded her. She was the most beautiful thing Drake had ever seen.

Her eyes widened. “Are you sure that will fit?”

Drake glanced down. Grinned. “I’m sure.”

“Positive?”

He nodded, fighting another grin.

“Well, if you’re certain…” She lifted her arms, beckoning.

She was exquisite.

“You take my breath away.”

A naughty smile played across her lips. “I hope so.”

…

She’d seen naked chests before, sweaty from working the fields or off-loading a ship, but a naked man, a naked Mattias Drake…oh, my.

Drake seemed lighter without his dark suit, as if he’d shucked his responsibilities along with his coat and pants. The smile that lit his face as he stared down at her could light a city. Why did he keep that smile hidden? Maybe it was just as well, the radiance on his face made her heart skip beats.

He advanced on the bed.

She could still say
no
. He’d respect her wishes. She knew that.

She also knew that something had happened to her in the square. She’d thought Drake might be hurt or dying and her world had ended. Drake wasn’t like her father or grandfather. She could trust him. He wouldn’t betray her. Ever.

“You’re sure?” he asked for the umpteenth time. If there wasn’t very prominent evidence to the contrary, the question might have made her doubt his desire.

“Come here,” she purred. Did she sound silly? Apparently Drake didn’t think so, his—what was she to call it—jumped.

His lips reached her first, claiming her mouth. Next his hands, those roamed her body. Then his body, warm and heavy pressed against hers.

She ran her fingers over the muscles of his chest, his arms, his back.

“Christine.” The way he said her name against her lips sounded like a prayer.

His mouth moved to her jaw, to her neck, to her breasts.

She’d thought herself sated. She’d been wrong. She arched into the feeling of his teeth grazing her nipple. Electric need raced through her veins and her lungs seemed incapable of fully inflating. But more than she wanted the sensations to continue, she wanted him to feel the same way. “I want…”

“What do you want?” His voice teased.

She wanted
this
. She wanted this moment, this feeling, this warm syrup coursing through her veins to last. Forever. “To touch you.”

He froze for an instant, then pushed away from her, raising himself to his knees. His erection jutted forward like the prow of a ship. She lifted her hand and hesitated—a very large ship.

With the tip of her finger, she stroked his length, steel covered with skin as soft as velvet. His breath caught at her touch. She stroked again. And again. “You like that?”

The planes in his cheeks looked harsher than ever. He made a croaking sound deep in his throat and nodded.

She never would have imagined that the simple act of touching a man could make her feel…powerful. She stroked again.

Drake lowered his chest, his arms and elbows caging her. “Open your legs.”

Perhaps feeling powerful was over-rated. There was a lot to be said for the growl of a man who suddenly seemed twice his normal size. She did as he said.

He rewarded her with a trail of kisses. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” She canted her hips.

His penis nudged against her. “You’re sure?”

“Stop asking me that.”

Then his tip was inside her. “More,” she told him.

He slid deeper inside her.

“More.” She raked her fingernails down his back, down his buttocks.

He thrust. There was a second’s pain then a sense of fullness, not just the stretching sensation of welcoming Drake into her body but a sense of completion, of rightness.

He thrust again and she stopped thinking. Instead her body rose to meet his. They created a rhythm. Slow and easy morphing into hard and fast. Hard and fast until the muscles and tendons of Drake’s body stood out in bas-relief and he called, “Christine.”

He lay on top of her, his lips nuzzling her neck.

She’d expected more dizzying fireworks exploding in her blood. She’d found a sense of closeness, completion, commitment. “So this is mechanics.”