Bayou Nights (23 page)

She tilted her head and parted her lips as if begging him to kiss her.

One kiss couldn’t hurt.

His lips touched hers. Her lips felt the same—soft and yielding and utterly delicious. It was the kiss itself that felt different. The kiss sent shoots of springtime into his heart, warmed him like a summer afternoon, swirled through him like an autumn gale. She loved him. Perhaps someday she’d love him as much as he loved her. This kiss was a promise.

Her fingers brushed against his cheek and she pressed her body more closely to his.

If she continued…well, she had to stop. “Christine, don’t.”

Her eyes widened with deceptive innocence. “Why?”

“Because you’re injured and I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” There was so much faith and trust in those two words. Too much. He wanted her so badly but he wouldn’t risk hurting her further.

She traced the open vee of his shirt with tip of her finger, sending burning chills straight to his groin.

He caught her hand. “You have to stop.”

“I don’t want to.”

Of course she didn’t. Her aim in life was to drive him demented.

“You’ll be gentle.”

She had more faith in him than he did in himself.

“We can’t.”

A smile curled her lips and the gold in her eyes sparkled. “We can.” She undid a button of his shirt.

He closed his hand around hers. “Christine.”

“No?”

“No.” He released her hand.

She stared at the vee of his shirt for a moment, caught her bottom lip in her teeth, then moved her hand to her nightgown.

She loosed the first button, then the second.

Drake’s gaze was caught, captured by the view of creamy skin that grew more erotic with each undone button.

He captured her hand but this time his fingers were pressed against the softness of her breast.

God help him.

Christine certainly wasn’t. “Kiss me.”

Perhaps if he did as she asked—kissed her thoroughly—she’d forget all about undoing buttons.

He closed his lips on hers and her sigh reverberated through him like a gong, vibrating his nerve endings, his blood, his cock.

A kiss—just a kiss. He moved his mouth against hers. His intentions pure.

Good intentions fell like tin soldiers against the invasion of her tongue. She tasted better than cool water on a sweltering day. He had no choice; his tongue met hers. Danced. Dueled.

Her hands wandered to his chest, up and under his shirt, moving slowly as if memorizing his skin.

Her fingers brushed the waistband of his pants. That garment, already uncomfortably tight, suddenly seemed unbearably restrictive. Then she caught his hand and brought it to her breast, pressing his palm into her softness.

Through the lawn of her gown he felt the tightness of her nipple. His fingers had to touch—if only for a second.

She moaned her approval.

Then her hands returned to his buttons.

“Christine”—his voice sounded as if it had been dragged through three counties—“we have to stop.”

“No.” The word was a sigh, breathless, wanting. “We don’t.” She pulled his shirt entirely free of his pants then hooked her leg over his body. “You won’t hurt me.”

“What if I do?”

“You won’t.”

After not having enough faith in him, suddenly she had too much.

“We can’t.”

She broke free of their embrace, lifted her arms, and pulled off her nightdress.

Naked.

She was naked.

Not even a saint could resist Christine Lambert naked and painted in the gold of late afternoon sunshine spilling through the French doors. He definitely wasn’t a saint.

Still, he had to try and think reasonably. He pointed to the bandage circling her ribs. “We shouldn’t.”

“I’m naked in front of you and all you notice is a bandage?” Her lower lip pouted provocatively and her eyes sparkled. “Do you honestly think I’d put all this effort into seducing you if I didn’t feel well enough to follow through?” She wet her lips. “Trust me.”

He’d asked for her trust, now she was asking for his. If they took things slowly, perhaps he could do as she asked without causing her any pain. He reached out and cupped her breast in his hand, rubbing her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She arched into the sensation, closing her eyes and craning her neck.

He leaned forward and kissed the delicate spot at the base of her throat.

She lowered her head and her teeth grazed his earlobe. The sensation traveled from the sensitive bit of skin to his cock in less than a second.

“Slowly,” he croaked. “If we do this, we do it my way.”

“As you wish, Mr. Drake.” Her voice held more than a hint of mockery. So too her expression.

That he could not have. He placed a finger against the full softness of her lips then slid it down her throat and lower. He paused at her left breast, circling the tight bud of her nipple. Then his finger dipped lower, skimming over the bandage that bound her ribs, stopping just above her mons.

Parted lips, shallow breath, and a body that seemed to thrum with tension replaced her mocking expression.

He lowered his finger another inch, not quite where she wanted.

“Tease,” she breathed. “It hardly seems fair that you’re wearing all the clothes.”

“You’re the one who removed your gown.”

She reached for it but he grabbed her wrist, staying her hand. “I like you naked.” He bent and swirled his tongue around her nipple.

Her moan of pleasure might have been his own.

“I take that back—I love you naked.”

“I wish I could say the same.” She tugged at his shirt.

“If you insist.”

She grinned. “I do.”

Who would argue with a smile that promised both laughter and passion? He yanked off his clothing and tossed it on the floor.

“That’s better.” Christine ran a finger down his chest, stopping just before she touched his erect cock. Flutter-flutter went her lashes. Was she mad? He wanted to be gentle, not half-crazed with desire. If she kept this up, gentleness might be impossible.

He pushed her back on the mountain of pillows.

She parted her lips. “I want you.” She reached up and closed her fingers around his nape, drawing closer. “Make love to me.”

How could he refuse? He slid inside her slowly. “Am I hurting you?”

“The opposite.” She canted her hips, accepting more of his length.

He lowered his head and kissed her, his arms caging her body, so connected they moved as one. Each thrust drove them closer together. He heard the soft sounds she made not with his ears but with his heart. She was his—for this sun-dappled afternoon. His as they reached for heaven. His for all time.

After, with Christine lying replete in his arms, he stared at the shadows the fan cast on the ceiling. His. He’d keep her safe—no matter what.

She snuggled closer to his side. “By tomorrow I should be able to help search for Desdemona.”

His body stiffened, the tension in his neck so tight it threatened to snap. “No.”

She lifted her head from his shoulder and stared at him. “No?”

“No.”

She donned the polite mask that hid the real Christine and pulled away from him.

That pulling away tore at his soul. He reached an arm out and caught her. She didn’t understand. “My sister…”

“Loving me must be terrifying for you.”

He took a deep, relieved breath. She understood him. She understood that the thought of losing her paralyzed him.

“You can’t pack me in cotton.”

He could try.

She traced his tensed jaw line with the tip of her finger. “Love is scarier than all of Desdemona’s demons combined, isn’t it?”

It was. Yet, Christine, a woman petrified by betrayal, had put aside her fears and let him into her heart. If he wanted to stay there, he had to put aside his fears as well.

The fan whirred, voices from the street and a gull’s sharp cry slipped through the window, the sheets rustled as Christine shifted her legs.

She waited.

He glanced around her room—sophisticated, feminine, so very like her.

There were two ways he could lose her. If he asked her to be less than she was, she’d eventually leave him. That was a certainty. If she continued on her current path—fighting bokos, running from mobs, facing down voodoo witches—she might die, but she’d be her glorious self until she drew her final breath.

He couldn’t ask her to give that up.

Drake touched the bloom on her precious cheek, traced the outer edges of her delicate lips. So breakable, so necessary. Then he swallowed—hard. “Where should we look for Desdemona?”

Chapter Twenty

Christine blew a wilting strand of hair away from her face. Next to her, Drake wiped his brow with his handkerchief. Mike, in her ice blue gown that perfectly matched her ice blue eyes, looked unaffected by the tropical feel of the air.

They sat on the patio of Café du Monde, away from the heat of the fryers, hoping for a breeze.

Honey, not vinegar. Christine pasted on a smile. “We’ve been searching for days. If Desdemona was still in New Orleans, we’d have found her by now.”

A breath of air from the river ruffled Mike’s hair. “I have an odd feeling and I can’t leave until we know for sure.”

Christine widened her smile. Putting the ice princess on a northbound train should be simple. It wasn’t. The dratted woman refused to leave. “We could wire you if we find her.”

Drake choked on a bit of beignet.

Mike offered up a cool smile. “That’s kind of you, but I believe I’ll stay.”

Christine would gladly accept all the blame if doing so put Mike on a train. She knew there was nothing between Drake and Mike. There never had been. She believed Drake. She did. But he and Mike had long-standing jokes that left her tilting her head wondering what she’d missed. Mike finished Drake’s sentences. They knew people she’d never heard of. Plus Mike looked like a Norse goddess. What woman wouldn’t want her gone?

Drake’s fingers wrapped around her own made honey not vinegar easier. “Drake and I are the ones who found the water, who removed it from its hiding place. It’s our fault.”

“Something is telling me to stay.”

Around them, people devoured beignets with singular focus. Not Mike. Her pastry still floated untouched on a cloud of sugar.

Christine glared at the bit of fried dough. “They taste best when they’re hot.”

Mike glanced at the beignet as if she hadn’t realized there was a plate sitting in front of her. “It looks…messy.”

It was. Drake’s coat was dusted with sugar. Only the napkin in Christine’s lap had saved her skirts. But was there a hidden meaning to Mike’s words?

Drake squeezed her hand tighter. “Where else should we look?”

They’d looked everywhere. Asked everyone. Even now, Warwick was out talking to ghosts. The woman had vanished.

Mike leaned forward, resting her forearms against the edge of the table. “I think we should…”

Christine let Mike’s voice get lost in the whir of the fans and the sounds from the street. She’d had enough of Mike’s opinions. Christine watched a little boy with a large stick incommode everyone he encountered on the banquette. The lad drew even with their table, looked her straight in the eye, and jerked his chin toward the interior of Café du Monde.

Someone had sent him. Who? Christine stood. “If you’ll excuse me…”

Drake rose from his chair, interrupting Mike’s proposal for searching the prostitutes’ cribs in Storyville.

Christine snorted softly. Wherever Desdemona was, it wasn’t a flea-bitten hole in the wall.

Inside Café du Monde, the boy, a dark-headed child with ridiculously blue eyes, waited for her. “Hector sent me.”

“Oh? Why didn’t he come himself?” She had questions for Hector. Where was he when Yvette abducted her? And, more importantly, did he know where they might find Desdemona?

The child shrugged. “He says New Orleans grows too hot. He is off to Quebec. And”—the boy pulled a folded paper from his pocket and read—“if Desdemona somehow finds the water, drinks of the water, you must cut off her head.”

She’d expected as much, but the thought—decapitating a human being—it made her stomach tighten. She regretted the beignet she’d just eaten. It was a good thing the water was hidden again—in a place no one would ever suspect.

The boy delved farther into his pocket, withdrew a crumpled envelope, and handed it to her. “This is for the blond lady.”

Hector hadn’t even met Mike. Why was he sending her notes?

Before she could ask, the boy dashed out onto the banquette and disappeared into the crowd.

She hurried back to the table and sat before Drake had the opportunity to stand. “I have news.”

“News? Where did you get news?” Drake’s voice carried the thunder of an approaching storm.

“Hector sent a messenger.”

The storm settled on Drake’s face.

“Stop.” She raised her empty hands as if the gesture alone could hold off his anger. “It was a boy. There was no danger.”

“We agreed you’re not to put yourself in needless danger.”

“I wasn’t in any danger. It was a ten-year-old boy.”

Drake shook his head. “Will you listen to me when we’re married?”

Her heart jumped to her throat, hit the roof of her mouth, then skidded back to her stomach. Married?

Mike glanced back and forth between them then rose from the table.

“Wait,” said Christine. “This is for you.” She handed over the envelope. Right now, its contents didn’t interest her nearly as much as what Drake had said. Married?

Mike took Hector’s missive and threaded her way through the tightly packed tables.

Christine watched her go then turned her gaze back to Drake. “You never said anything about marriage before.”

“I thought it was understood.”

“So you just assumed I’d say yes.”

“I had to get your father’s permission. That took some doing.”

She bet it had. Knowing Warwick, he put Drake through absolute hell before offering his blessing. Now it was her turn. “But you assumed I’d say yes.”

He grinned that melting grin of his. The one that made her want to hurry back to her bedroom or his hotel room. “Of course you’ll say yes. We love each other.”

True, but a woman wanted a little romance—wooing. And then there were the practicalities. “Where will we live? What about my shop? What about your job?”

He waved such trifling concerns away with one hand, pushed back from the table, and dropped to one knee.

Around them people fell silent.

Drake reached into his coat and withdrew a small velvet box. He opened it, revealing the largest diamond she’d ever seen. He bit his lips then he cleared his throat. “Christine, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” His words weren’t clipped as usual and his tone—well, his tone was a far cry from the deep timbre she was used to. He sounded positively squeaky when he said
wife.

She tore her gaze away from the sparkling ring and looked into his eyes. He might talk as if her answer was a foregone conclusion but she saw a smidge of doubt there.

Was the trickle of sweat on his temple from the heat or nerves? His Adam’s apple bobbed. “We can live wherever you want. I would never expect you to give up your shop. I hope you won’t ask me to give up my job.” The answers to her questions tumbled from his lips.

“If you don’t marry him, I will.” The call came from one of the nearby tables.

Christine laughed. Or maybe it was a sob. She wasn’t in a state to tell the difference. “He’s all mine.” She held out her hand. “Of course I’ll marry you.”

A triumphant grin flashed across his face. “I never thought I could be this happy.” He slipped the ring on her finger, stood, and pulled her to her feet. Then, in front of God and everybody, he pulled her close and kissed her.

His kiss tasted of sugar and chicory. His arms wrapped around her were a safe harbor. The heat of his body had nothing to do with the temperature outside. She pulled away, looked into his eyes, and said, “I’ll love you forever.”

He dropped a kiss on the end of her nose. “I’ll love you longer.”

They were both right.

…

First Zeke, now Drake. The men she’d counted on, her brothers-in-arms, were dropping like flies.

Mike walked toward the river, leaving Drake and Christine to enjoy their moment without her. She didn’t care that no man would ever kneel in front of her wearing that desperate my-heart-is-in-your-hands look. She didn’t.

When a woman towered over most of the men she met, she had to adjust her expectations. When that same woman was a government investigator, even the adjusted expectations disappeared.

Around her gulls dove from the sky, riding invisible air currents. A pelican regarded her from its perch on a pylon. Mike claimed a seat on a bench overlooking the churning water.

She inserted a finger under the flap of the envelope Christine had given her and withdrew a brief letter written in a spidery hand.

Miss Swensen,

We have not met and I cannot see if we will.

The water that gave me eternity also gave me sight—unfortunately that sight is sometimes foggy.

What I can see is that you are the woman who can defeat Desdemona.

Mike lifted her head and looked out over the Mississippi where gulls soared on a breeze she couldn’t feel.

Her gaze returned to Hector’s letter.

She will return to New Orleans and she will bring evil with her. It’s up to you to stop her.

Know this, help will come from unexpected sources. You cannot succeed without it.

A gust from the river snatched the letter from her hands. It swirled in the air with the gulls then landed in the water, floating for a few seconds before sinking to the depths. No matter. The words were imprinted on her brain for all time.

She had a job to do. She was staying in New Orleans.

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