Southern Spirits (16 page)

Mickey gripped Val tightly by the hips as he drove into her. ‘Him? That's Frenchie, some big Cajun slab of beef from deep in the bayou. Not much upstairs, but strong. Why? You know him?'

‘No,' Val lied, adjusting the pillow beneath her as her husband fucked her from above. Her family charm dropped to the right side of her neck. Outside their berth window, the retreating Louisiana wilderness was a blur of speed and darkness broken by the odd flash of light as the train passed a house near the tracks. ‘Risky, isn't it? Hiring someone you hardly know, and he's not even Italian.'

‘Riskier recruiting in Chicago; the Feds know us up there. Besides, he knows Spanish, and I want someone who does when I deal with those
cacasodo
Cubans again.'

Val understood. In the year they had been married, she had made many rail journeys between Louisiana and Illinois, sometimes with Mickey, other times with one or more of his men. Never alone. And always carrying money from Chicago, either to launder through their clubs in New Orleans, or to transfer to Cuba to help keep the government casino-friendly. But there was trouble brewing from revolutionaries in the hills, though Val doubted if that bearded mumbler Castro and his bunch of hairy rebels would get far.

She stroked his face, while squeezing his shaft with her pussy. ‘I don't like the look of him.'

Mickey grunted, quickening his pace. ‘I didn't hire Frenchie
for you to like, but to keep an eye on you and our investments in my absence. Keep that in mind.'

‘Yes, Mickey.' She let him go faster, kept her grip on him to increase the friction, while her mind drifted back to twenty minutes before, before they'd gone to bed for a quick fuck, when some of Mickey's men – including his latest recruit – came to the berth to check in with him. She could still see the heavy-framed figure standing respectfully in the rear, clad in an ill-fitting new pinstriped suit, the square jaw and aquiline nose and short-cropped chocolate hair. Their eyes had met, for only a moment.

You stupid bastard.

She willed Mickey to finish up and to shut up. Not that he did. ‘The Fratellis' anniversary party is this weekend. Think we can improve relations this time?'

Val didn't answer, having given up arguing about that as well. The Mob wives hadn't exactly accepted her into their collective bosom, seeing her as some unsophisticated Southern rube, though Mickey's standing within the organisation precluded them from saying so aloud, to her face. She found herself less hypocritical, however, more than once berating the beehive-haired bitches for their obsession with Tupperware parties and self-denial about their husbands' jobs and girlfriends on the side.

Of course, it was little better when she visited New Orleans. Her father remained the same, but her old friends now looked on her as a traitor, a whore who literally climbed into bed with outsiders.

She'd never felt so isolated.

So Val rode at his pace, made all the right sounds that pleased him, until he finished.

After a while, he regained his senses, rose and began cleaning himself up and dressing. ‘Gonna go meet up with the boys.'

She nodded, pulling the sheets up around her. ‘Whatever.'

He wasn't long out the door when she was moving her hands under the sheets, lightly stroking her breasts, letting the nipples stir and pucker and her skin tingle, even as she squeezed her thighs together, grinding against the mattress as if fighting an intruder. She had to do a lot of this lately too, Mickey having grown too busy to put much effort into fucking. She watched her body move beneath the sheets, catching glimpses of herself as she lifted a knee and raised the covers, seeing her soft light skin and dark delta . . .

There was a knock at the door and she cursed, the spell broken. She rose and slipped into one of Mickey's shirts, half-buttoning it, expecting the porter or maid . . .

‘Hello,
ma chère.
'

Enrique, large as life. Larger; he seemed to fill up the doorway.

Immediately she reached out and pulled him inside, slamming the door, the emotion she'd had pent up inside her since seeing him unleashed. ‘What the fuck are you doing here, you asshole?'

He blinked at her unexpected use of profanity and then recovered. ‘It's Frenchie now. Their idea.' He shrugged, smiling.

‘It's not funny! If he finds out who you were –
are
–'

‘How? I wasn't around on previous visits, and I had my friends give me a good story.' He drew closer, giving her that smile that made her ache more than once. ‘What, did you think I'd take “no” for an answer? Just leave you –'

‘Leave me what? Protecting my father's life, our business? Didn't those letters I sent explain clearly enough for you? Is that why you're doing this? Some stupid romantic gesture? The soldier boy come back to kill the bad guy and rescue the damsel? What then? Have you thought
any
of this through?'

Enrique's expression sobered now. ‘I promised I'd look after you. Everyone said you were fine. I didn't believe them.'

Val was torn between holding him tight and never letting him go, and throwing him off the train in order to protect him. She settled for: ‘You should have listened to everybody. I am fine. Mickey doesn't hurt me. He treats me OK.'

His face hardened at her words, and his eyes moved past her to the bed and its crumpled sheets. ‘I'll bet he does.'

The anger and fear boiled over at him, and Val swung up and slapped him across the face. She winced in pain but determined to repeat it, until he grabbed both her hands and pinned them behind her, pulling her up against him. Her blood boiling, she struggled in his grip, feeling the air in the berth touch her rear as her shirt rucked up. She felt overwhelmed by his closeness, the heat of his body and his male scent. So close again, so familiar, a reassuring presence in her life once more.

This was insane. She had to have Mickey fire him or reassign him. Anything to save his life – both their lives.

He held her tightly with one arm, the hand of the other reaching up and touching her face, drawing her tousled hair back, his fingers tracing along her ears. ‘I've missed you, Val,' he whispered in that husky, captivating way of his. Then he leant in and tongued and nipped the rim of her ear. Val moaned, her nipples aching as she felt the warmth and quickness of his breath, and the solid flesh pressing against her thigh through his trousers, as solid as the rest of him after two years in the army.

His mouth was soft, though, working its way across her cheek to the corner of her lips. She relished the gentle, seductive warmth and manner, then opened her mouth to his, her tongue a hot arrow winging its way to meet his.

Val began melting from his kisses, feeling stimulated in a way that Mickey had stopped doing for her. Her lips ached and
her pussy ached more – but this remained a very, very dangerous gambit. ‘N– No, we can't.'

Val turned in place to escape him. But Enrique gripped her again, this time from behind, one arm gripping her beneath her hot needy breasts, the other hand unbuttoning her shirt enough to reach inside and cup one breast, his thumb brushing against the tip. Val jerked, feeling her pussy thicken and heat up, thrumming in sweet response. She whispered a prayer of help to Mamselle Belagrís, for strength . . . ‘N– No,' she moaned weakly.

He slipped his hand out, as if genuinely listening to her.

And brought it down between her legs, jolting her . . .

. . . awake, Cat blinking in the strong morning light streaming in through the slats on the berth window; the train had stopped, as per schedule. She was resting her head in the hollow of Nathan's arm, her breath caressing his skin, her eyes seeing the outline move underneath the cotton sheet. Cat made a soft sound to herself as she recalled the events of last night.
Dios
, that was such a luscious fuck! To feel Nathan succumbing to her suggestions, his body against hers, tasting him . . . And when his hand dived down between her legs as he held her from behind . . .

No, that was the dream! Damn! What the fuck were those about anyway? Damn Wheeler and his mystical bullshit . . .

She pushed it out of her mind for a while, gently lifted the sheet and moved it aside to look at their naked bodies. His cock was soft and curved in its flaccid state until the russet head, collared by dark-tipped foreskin, rested against one ball, almost hidden beneath black curly hair. Its musk was strong, and it looked so peaceful, sleeping like its master.

But not for long . . . She reached down and playfully stroked the head. There was a twitch, one that repeated as she repeated,
running the tip of her thumb around the head, again and again. Cat felt the shaft pulse in response, though Nathan himself didn't stir.

Bolstered by the reaction, Cat softly engulfed the thickening shaft in her hand, feeling his pubic curls as she slowly drew the sheath of skin up and down, feeling it grow harder. She smiled mischievously to herself.

Nathan stirred, and she released him, drew the sheet back over them, pretending to have just awakened herself. He stared groggily at her. ‘Wha– What are you doing?'

‘Me? Nothing. Just felt something stabbing me in the side, thought you might have brought your gun to bed.'

He seemed to waken more now, blushed crimson as he slid out from under the sheet and turned away from her, searching and finding his boxers. ‘Sorry, I don't know what I was doing.'

‘I do. I was cold last night, you agreed to lie beside me. Share your warmth, as any good partner would do.' She regarded the lean, smooth line of his back and buttocks, smiling as he deliberately kept his back to her, his erection still obvious. ‘Remember?'

He glanced behind him. ‘Yeah. Yeah, that was it. Hope you . . . slept well.'

She smiled. ‘Oh,
si.
And I had this wonderful dream.' Cat moved in place, twisting around to lie on her belly with her head at the foot of the bed. ‘It was so erotic. I was drunk, and in trouble, and this cowboy took care of me, kissing me, undressing me, being so tender, so giving and satisfying.'

‘Uh-huh. Sounds like quite a guy.'

She rested her chin on her hand, grinning. ‘Pity he wasn't real.'

‘Pity. You hung over?'

‘Just hungry. How about you go out and bring back some breakfast?'

‘Me?'

‘Of course. You: big hunter-gatherer, me: helpless female.' She glanced down, just enough to reveal the upper halves of her breasts. ‘I can't go out. Look at me.'

‘Yeah, look at you.' He grunted, rising. ‘“Helpless female”, my ass.' Then he stopped at the knock on the door. He looked to Cat, who quickly sat up, securing the sheet around her before he answered it. ‘Yes?'

A buxom young redhead, one of the train staff, stood there in a skimpy black uniform. ‘Ms Montoya, Mr Ames, Mr Wheeler requests your urgent presence this morning.'

Nathan frowned. ‘Urgent? Does he know what time it is?'

‘I expect so, sir, but all he ordered me to do was escort you there as soon as possible. And to inform you that dress was very casual.'

‘“Very casual”?'

The woman smiled, taking a moment to look Nathan over. ‘That usually means whatever you wear to bed.'

Nathan nodded. ‘Wait out here, please.' He closed the door as the woman departed, and fixed his gaze on Cat, his voice low. ‘Well?'

Cat swallowed, her thoughts racing. ‘“Well” what? You think I gave something away, don't you?'

‘Well, you
were
drunk.'

‘I think if something had gone wrong he'd be asking us to pack our bags. And not show up in our skivvies.' Still, her mind raced back to last night, to the kitchen, and Wheeler down between her legs . . .
Dios
, that had been satisfying, though not as much as the time she had with Nate after . . .

‘Perhaps. Best be ready regardless.'

‘I'm always ready, Hound.'

‘I'll bet. Well, I don't run when Wheeler snaps his fingers,
I'm gonna shower first. Don't suppose you wanna join me before you go? Just to save time and hot water?'

‘Just hurry up.' She smiled as he disappeared into the bathroom, listened to the water running, remembered with delight the weight of him on her, how Enrique –
puta!
What the fuck was going on in her head? The dreams again. They had to mean something. Perhaps some half-remembered, subconscious facts about this case, ones her memory was bidding her recollect?

She rose, keeping the sheet wrapped around her, and retrieved her phone. ‘
Buenos dias
, Gordy.'

A groggy voice replied, ‘Mmm? Catalina? Is that you,
chica
?' Then the familiar lasciviousness returned. ‘Oh my God! What happened last night with you and Hound? I want details, figures, videos!'

‘And I want you to do some searching for me, regarding an Italian mobster from Chicago, active in the 1950s, known as Mickey Whisper.' Her brain struggled to recall the other facts from her dreams. ‘He married a girl from New Orleans called Valentina. There was also a local man he hired as a bodyguard, Enrique, nicknamed Frenchie.'

‘Some wiseguy, his squeeze and his muscle from fifty years ago? Are you serious? Talk about a waste of my considerable talents.'

‘Also, find me everything you can about someone named . . . Mamselle Belagrís. No matter how ridiculous it sounds.'

‘Oh sure, anything else?'

She dropped her sheet. ‘Would it motivate you if you knew I was naked right now?'

‘Bullshit.' But he couldn't keep the interest from his voice.

She ignored her bra and reached for her panties. ‘I swear, it's true. And I'm running my hands over my body even as we speak.'

‘Send a photo to prove it.'

‘Just get to work, Gordy.' She hung up, looked around to decide what might classify as ‘very casual' to someone like Wheeler.

Cat chose a new royal-blue shoestring camisole top with embroidered lace along the edge and matching French panties, something she found she looked very distracting in, especially to judge from Nathan's reaction, who'd chosen a more modest, simple black T-shirt and cotton boxers for himself.