Night Game

CHAPTER 3

The low Cajun drawl was as smooth as molasses and set Flame’s heart pounding. Could he see her? Or, like her, did he just sense her presence?

“You’ve been a very bad girl tonight. I don’ know what was so important to you, cher, but someone should have told you stealin’, it be a bad, bad thing.”

She remained stubbornly silent, trying to get a fix on his voice. Was he throwing it? Projecting it from a false direction in order to trick her? She was fast, incredibly fast. She could streak across the lighted street and make a run for her bike, but he’d know exactly where she was. Damn Whitney and his experiments. She had no choice but to work her way down several more blocks. She cou1d feel the minutes ticking by. Saunders wouldn’t stay too long out of his ivory tower and the theft would be discovered.

When she had gone several blocks down and around the corner from her motorcycle, Flame burst out from the foliage, sprinted across the lighted street, and up three blocks until she gained the relative safety of the park. She slowed immediately, not wanting to give away her exact location by stepping on crisp leaves or dried twigs. She crouched low in the shadows and controlled her breathing. Sounds carried at night, even harsh breathing and more than once she’d slid past guards, knowing exactly where they were only by their ragged breath coming in short gasps after exertion. Flame used her psychic ability to keep any sound she might make from traveling.

She stayed low, moving with slow caution, taking care not to allow movement to draw the eye as she worked her way across the park. Nearing her motorcycle, she was dismayed to see a man sitting on it, casually swinging one leg back and forth while he waited. He didn’t have a gun in his hands; in fact, when she looked closer she noticed he’d been busy trying to steal her bike. There was a small piece of metal attached to her ignition.

Her motorcycle was her baby, one of the few items she bought wholly for herself and she’d made certain it wouldn’t be all that easy to steal, locking up the ignition and housing for the wires with a secondary lock needing a password. He’d evidently managed to either bypass the lock or found her password.

Anger swept through her and she stepped forward. “Get the hell off my bike.”

He whistled softly. “Woman, you have a foul temper.”

The way he drawled out “woman” did something funny to the pit of her stomach. His dark hair curled every which way and his generous mouth curved with amusement. His shoulders were broad and she could see the strength in his arms and upper chest. The man was built and he looked like he’d be good in a fight-or in bed. The unbidden thought pushed her temper up a notch.

“Get. Off. My. Bike.”

“And you’re stubborn too. I like that in a woman. Never have gone for the submissive type.” He winked at her. “I like a tigress in my bed.”

“Oh shut up.” This wasn’t going anything like she’d thought it would and he was throwing her off-kilter with obvious flirtation. “I certainly don’t care about your sexual preferences. Who are you anyway?”

He put a hand over his heart. “You wound me, cher. I thought we were going to get along so well.”

Flame put one hand on her hip and studied his face. It as a strong face with a very intriguing mouth that laughed often-if one could believe it, which she didn’t. She believed in the eyes, and his eyes didn’t laugh at all. They were focused and hard and moved ceaselessly, taking in every detail about her and the surrounding area.

Who are you?”

My friends call me Gator.”

Her eyebrow shot up. “I’ll just bet they do. I’ll just bet you got that name from wrestling alligators when you were a kid like every other boy in the bayou.”

“Ouch. That one struck home. Don’ be like that, cher. I’m famille, a GhostWalker, same as you.”

“You’re not my family. And you’re wasting your charm on me. Get off my bike.” She took an aggressive step forward, hoping he would meet her advance with one of his own.

He grinned at her, just sitting there, swinging his leg as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “So you noticed right away how truly charmin’ I am.”

“I noticed you have an ego the size of Texas. And you’re still sitting on my bike.” She lowered her pack to the lawn. He was a solid man, heavy muscle, but she had the feeling he’d be fast-maybe even as fast as she was.

“I’m comfortable, thank you.”

“You’re not going to be comfortable in another minute. What is that thing on my motorcycle?” She indicated the small piece of metal attached to the ignition.

“You stole whatever you’ve got in that bag of yours. Maybe we have something in common. I like vehicles.”

She shifted position slightly, giving less targets, making herself more mobile. “You’re such a liar. Whitney sent you after me, didn’t he?”

Raoul shook his head. “Not he, she. Lily. The old man is dead.”

Her eyes flashed fire. “For all your nonsense, I didn’t take you for a complete fool, but if you believe Dr. Whitney is dead, you deserve anything that happens to you.”

She moved again, a slight, nearly imperceptible gliding of her feet. Without warning, she launched herself, leaping into the air, shooting both feet at his broad chest. She went at him in an angle, determined to knock him off the bike, but at the last possible second, he deflected the double kick, driving her legs away from him with a powerful block of his forearm that sent her tumbling to the ground.

Flame leapt to her feet, landing in a fighter’s crouch, fists up and ready.

Raoul smirked at her. “You don’ play well with others, do you, cher?”

“I don’t play at all, especially with Whitney’s little puppets.”

The lazy swinging of the foot halted abruptly and the smile faded. “Now you done gone and insulted me, ma petite enflamme. That’s not a good thing to do when I’m holding your motorcycle hostage.”

She circled the bike, studying him from every angle. He could call her his fiery little one all he wanted, but he was the one about to be burned. He was far too sure of himself and, as most of her opponents did, he underestimated her. “Why are you here?”

“To bring you home, cher, where you belong.”

“Like hell you’ll take me back. I’d rather be dead.” She leapt into the air a second time, going over him and the motorcycle, one boot aiming for his face.

Gator whipped his head to one side. Her boot barely skimmed his jaw, burning a line across his five o’clock shadow. He caught her leg in a scissor lock and shoved, sending her sprawling toward the ground. Flame rolled with the scissor lock, tucking into a somersault, doing an aikido roll, and coming right back up into fighting position.

The man just sat on the motorcycle, a small irritating smirk on his face. Nothing seemed to ruffle him and Flame felt the small shift under her feet that indicated she was definitely ruffled. She’d been taking it easy on him, mainly to see what he’d do, but the more he sat there looking all puffed up and satisfied, the madder she was getting. Flame couldn’t afford to lose her temper.

Before she could launch another attack she saw his gaze shift toward the street. The small smile hovering around his mouth faded and he held up his hand in a silent signal of danger. His hand moved across his throat before showing four fingers. He had gone from amused male to commander in a split second. He looked lethal, dangerous, and every bit the predator.

Flame backed away from him, shaking her head. She wasn’t his ally. Anyone sent by Whitney was her enemy.

She crouched lower and studied the street. Not only were four guards spreading out, armed to the teeth with automatic weapons and heading straight into the park, but several black SUVs had pulled out of the Saunders estate and onto the street to patrol the area. She was certain they were looking for whatever she had taken from the safe. Anyone caught was going to be interrogated and searched.

Gator gestured imperiously toward the bike, clearly ordering her to get on it.

Flame ran to her bag, staying low as she swooped it up and secured it on her shoulder. She wasn’t about to get caught between a rock and a hard place. She’d take her chances with civilian guards rather than a genetically and physically enhanced soldier. She wasn’t about to kid herself. No matter how charming the Cajun might be, he was a weapon, the same as she was.

She ran for the center of the park where the shadows were the darkest. She heard Gator swear and her motorcycle start up, the engine loud in the silence of the night. He revved it up, deliberately drawing attention to his presence. Flame skidded to a halt and watched as he did several doughnuts with the bike, luring the guards in closer to him. They talked frantically into their radios and the SUVs circling the park changed directions to home in on the site.

Gator stopped his sweeping circles and signaled Flame to run. She heard the pulsing notes in her head, and realized he commanded sound in the same way she did. He could disrupt communications between the guards any time he wanted. Flame found a tree with high branches and heavy foliage and leapt up to conceal herself in its limbs.

The motorcycle roared off. The SUVs fell in behind him and, at the end of the street, the bike’s headlight went out. Once he got away from the streetlights, she knew Gator could maneuver by sound. The motorcycle was fast enough to outrun the SUVs. She sat there motionless, trying to puzzle out Gator’s motives. Nothing he did made sense, and she never went into battle without dear lines between friend and foe. He said he’d been sent to bring her back, but he hadn’t tried to force her. He hadn’t even asked her what she’d stolen or why.

The problem was-she liked him. She made up her mind fast about people. She was adept at reading them, and despite knowing she shouldn’t fall for his Cajun charm, and in spite of the bleak and dark and lethal shadows in his eyes-she liked him. She was honest enough to admit she probably was a little drawn to him because he was enhanced and he felt the same rush of power and same terror of making mistakes that she did. He had to suffer the same physical drawbacks and feel the same isolation.

It both amused and annoyed her that she couldn’t quite shake the pack mentality. She was solitary, yet she still wanted friendships and family and people around her, even though her particular brand of genetically engineered talent made it impossible for her. She was too sensitive to sounds. Filtering noises all the time was a difficult and wearing process. Flame required a lot of downtime when she could retreat into the haven of silence. She imagined Gator did as well. When she became intrigued by something she had a tendency to become obsessive-compulsive about it until she’d satisfied her curiosity- another one of her many failings. She was definitely intrigued by Gator.

The guards had fanned out and were covering the park, paying particular attention to the area where she’d parked her motorcycle. None of them thought to look up, but all of them were nervous. And it had nothing to do with being afraid of finding the thief. They talked in low voices when they came together and all of them were afraid of their boss. He wanted his briefcases back and he wanted them immediately.

Flame smirked. Let Saunders know how it felt. How many people in the bayou had he robbed? She listened carefully to the whispers, hoping to hear something about Joy Chiasson’s disappearance, but no one mentioned her. The smirk disappeared to be replaced by a frown. The authorities refused to believe that something had happened to the girl, but Flame was certain they didn’t want to know. Just as anyone in authority over Whitney hadn’t wanted to know how his valuable research had been done. As long as they got results, that was all that mattered.

She had hacked into Whitney’s files and learned about gene doping and genetic enhancement. He had used a virus to deliver the genes into her cells, and her immune system had tolerated it. She could run twice as fast for twice as long as most humans as well as do a host of other things, enough to know he had delivered the genes throughout her entire body.

She had a quick mind and she’d read everything she could find on gene therapy and knew Whitney was ahead of the game with his experiments. Of course, he’d used humans-not rats. She didn’t think he wanted the perfect soldier, or even the perfect child; he wanted his own creation. It was the end product that mattered, the idea that his brain had conceived and developed something superior. And if there were problems, it was the fault of the defective human-not his work.

As a child she had developed a very rare type of cancer, a blood disorder that Whitney had treated successfully enough to put in remission, not cure. And now, when bruises didn’t heal or she felt exhausted, she knew it was there, lying in wait to destroy her. The knowledge didn’t stop her from living her life or finding scumbags like Saunders to bring a little justice to. She might never have a chance at Whitney, but she could even the odds with others like him.

Saunders sold property to the older people in the bayou, the ones who didn’t believe in banks. He took their payments and when it came time for a balloon payment, just before they handed the money over, they were mysteriously robbed. Tonight, maybe a little justice was done.

The guards’ voices were beginning to fade and Flame immediately bounced sound waves through the park, using echolocation to pinpoint the position of each guard. Two patrolled on the side nearest the Saunders estate, while three others roamed through the interior of the park. Flame took the opportunity to leap from the tree, dropping close to the base, gloved hands up for defense, but close to her body so she presented the smallest possible target.

Where had Gator parked his Jeep? He wouldn’t park it on the street to be noticed by one of the guards, and he couldn’t have left it in the park. Where? She moved toward a cross street, down from Saunders’s estate but parallel to the park, keeping to the heavier foliage. She relied on sound to keep her informed, concentrating on echolocation, but keeping a visual as well.

The Jeep was parked in a driveway a block up and over from Saunders and just down from the park. The vehicle had the top up, but no doors on. Flame wrinkled her nose. She knew they were in for a shower and she was bound to get wet. On her motorcycle, it was perfectly fine, part of the entire experience, but in Gator’s Jeep, when she was already annoyed, the rain was going to be one more reason for revenge.

She waited until the guards were concentrated at the far end of the park before hot-wiring the Jeep and taking off. She didn’t use the headlights until she turned the corner and was out of harm’s way. She didn’t have the kind of patience needed for an encounter with Saunders’s men when she was angry and damn it, she was definitely angry that Whitney’s hunter had taken her beloved motorcycle.

She drove through New Orleans until she found a quiet street where she could pull over and, using a pen light, search the glove compartment for an address. The necessary insurance document and vehicle registration was neatly stuck in a plastic case. “Thank you, Mr. Fontenot,” she said aloud.

He lived along the river, just north of the canal, in the same parish she was staying in, although she often used a boat to get to her current residence and Wyatt Fontenot had a much more convenient drive. On her motorcycle. The bastard. Rat bastard.

Flame pulled back on the street and drove with care, not wanting to bring attention to herself as she located the address. The last thing she needed was for a cop to stop her, In any case, she wanted Gator to feel very pleased with himself. She wanted him lured into a false sense of security and settled nice and comfortably into his own bed. If her motorcycle had been looked after properly, she might just be a nice girl and not drive his Jeep into the Mississippi, which is what he deserved.

All the while she drove, she thought of each item in her saddlebags. Had she left anything that might be a trail leading back to her? The address on her insurance and registration was from long ago. What else did she have? She often traveled with emergency belongings in the off chance she had to run. She had money stashed in the bike, but most likely, Gator would never find it, not unless he took the bike apart, and nothing would help him if he did that. Nothing. No one.

Flame crossed the bridge and worked her way through a ribbon of narrow streets surrounded by water until she found the long drive that circled back toward the river and the Fontenot home. When she was certain she had the right property, she parked the Jeep beneath a canopy of trees and curled up on the seat to go to sleep.

All the girls in Whitney’s school of torture had been trained to set and use internal clocks. She slept for two hours, giving Gator Fontenot plenty of time to feel safe and secure. Stretching to get the kinks out, Flame left the Jeep at the end of the road and took off on foot, not chancing alerting him to her presence. She walked slowly, taking her time, orienting herself to the place. She wanted the quickest escape routes possible. The property had iron gates and few people in the parish had them. These were high and closed to seal the property off from the road.

She could jump over the gates, of course, but why would Fontenot have his home fenced in? She noted an old flatbed with the wheels off one side and a broken-down pickup, just inside the fence, but nothing else. Certainly nothing to warrant a fence. Unless… She reached out with her mind and found the dogs. Hunting dogs if she wasn’t mistaken, already becoming aware of her presence. Before they could send out a chorus of warnings, she stopped them.

Of course he’d have dogs. Careless mistake. “And all because I lost my temper. See, Flame. That’s what happens when you get all bent out of shape. It’s not personal. Don’t take it personally.” Like hell it wasn’t personal. It didn’t get any more personal than someone stealing her motorcycle. Her fingers itched to wring his neck. She went over the fence, landing lightly, waiting to make certain the dogs stayed quiet and no sound gave her presence away.

There were two large buildings. The main house was dark and silent. The dogs moved restlessly in a nearby kennel. The second building, obviously the garage, was set slightly back from the house and had locks on the pull-down double door and the smaller, single entrance. Flame circled closer, wary of the entire setup.

She knew better than to get in a hurry. She cased the place first, checking on the enemy, determining how much room she’d have for escape, how long it would take her, and mentally mapping out several routes if she ran into trouble.

Flame knew she could be walking into a trap, but she wasn’t leaving her bike behind. First rule: Never treasure anything so much you can’t leave it behind on a moment’s no- lice. “Damn you to hell, Whitney. I won’t live like that. You can’t rule my life.” But he did. He would always rule her life until he had her killed. He played her like a puppet. She knew not to go into the garage. Whitney had taught her that. And he knew her inside and out, knew she detested his authority. Refused his authority.

The ground beneath her feet shifted and the trees swayed ominously. The dogs in the kennel whined. Flame leaned against the broad base of a tree and forced air through her lungs. Her head was killing her. She’d used too much psychic energy tonight and she was already paying for it. That was a bad sign. And she absolutely had to stay under control.

Gritting her teeth, she approached the garage. It wasn’t all that difficult to dispense with the locks and there wasn’t an alarm anywhere, so she gained entrance quickly. No motorcycle. Her precious baby was being held prisoner somewhere else.

Without hesitation, Flame made for the house. The stairs creaked under her weight and she moved off of them immediately, circling the deep porch to find a way to the roof. She was always more comfortable in high places. She went up the side of the house, using the porch railing and roof to gain the second story with ease. She crept onto the small balcony and found the French doors unlocked.

Easing the door open just enough to slide inside, Flame went in low, close to the wall, shutting the door without a sound. She stayed motionless, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the difference in lighting. The room smelled of gardenias and lavender. A rose-colored sheet covered a gray-haired woman sleeping in the four-poster bed. She looked especially fragile and Flame frowned, wondering why Whitney’s hunter had led her to civilians-unless he’d stolen the Jeep.

Flame moved with care, not wanting the floorboards to creak as she moved across the room to the door. There was a vanity with an old-fashioned brush and mirror set and several pictures just to the left of the door. Flame glanced at the pictures, trying to make out the faces in the dark. This was a home. It had the bayou trappings, but smacked of money. Somewhere along the line the family had come into money. She wondered if the money had come from Whitney, a bribe for Gator to hunt her down and bring her back.

Had Gator gone after Dahlia? Poor Dahlia. Flame remembered all of the other girls, every single one of them. Whitney hadn’t been any fonder of Dahlia than he had been of Flame. He’d locked Dahlia up in a sanitarium and kept her from the world, kept her from a home and family-just as he’d done with most of the others one way or the other. Dr. Whitney had experimented on infants, continued the experiments on them as toddlers, teens, and even into their adult lives. He was never going to let them go and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let the world discover what he’d done.

She looked around her, shocked that Whitney could get anyone to leave such a beautiful home to work for him. The structure had probably started out as a more traditional frame house one and a half stories, with a covered porch or galerie raised on pillars to keep the sill from the soggy ground. The Fontenot farm had a frontage on the bayou to ensure travel on the waterways as well as harvesting the waters. They had plenty of woods for hunting and harvesting trees as well as fields for growing what they needed to survive. From the looks of the house, they’d done well.

She crept down the hall to the long staircase, studying the layout below her as she went. How had Whitney lured someone like Gator Fontenot into his world of deceit and treachery? This was a home filled with love. She could tell by the pictures of laughing faces. Someone, most likely the woman asleep in the upstairs bedroom, quilted and wove cotton for material. There were beautiful home-crafted items throughout the house, items fashioned with care to detail. Something none of the girls Whitney had experimented on had ever known.

No wonder they were all so dysfunctional-they hadn’t grown up in a nice family environment with a sweet old lady to cook them breakfast every morning like this one. What had gone wrong with Gator? What would make him trade all that to work for Whitney? A flash of anger curled through her and she felt the house shift ever so slightly. Forcing air through her lungs, she continued moving, trying to think of other things.

She flashed the small penlight on the pictures above the stairs. Little boys smiled out at her, surrounding an older woman who looked both proud and stern. As Flame moved down the stairs, the boys became older, barefoot teens with alligators and fish, the same silly grins of their faces. She recognized Gator. He seemed the oldest of the brothers with their mops of black, curly hair and bright eyes.

At the bottom of the stairs was a chest with a marriage quilt thrown over the top of it. Three more chests stood in a row, each covered with a marriage quilt. In spite of the gravity of the situation, Flame found herself smiling. Someone was trying to not so subtly tell the boys something. It was amazing to think that families like this really did exist and Gator had been lucky enough to grow up in one. The knowledge made her angrier at him. It seemed a betrayal, taunting her with the very thing she had craved all her life. She fought back her rising temper. Maybe whoever raised him should have given him a swift kick. It wasn’t too late to administer one and she was the woman to do it.

She found him in the second bedroom, sound asleep, his hand on the seat of her motorcycle where it was parked only inches from his bed. Sliding a knife from the scabbard hidden in her boot, she positioned herself above his head, crouched against the wall so that her breath stirred the waves in his hair as she placed the blade against his throat with exquisite gentleness.

He woke instantly, completely alert, danger flooding the room, expanding the walls. Even the floorboards creaked as if disturbed, but he never moved a muscle.

“Cher. How nice to see you again.”

“You stole my bike.”

“I saved your pretty little ass is what I did.”

She felt the ripple of his muscles, actually felt it, tension was so strong in the room, yet she wasn’t actually touching his skin. He was far more dangerous than she’d given him credit for and her senses went on heightened alert. “Don’t move, Wyatt. I wouldn’t want to accidentally cut your throat and this blade is sharp.”

“Don’ go makin’ a mistake, cher, I’m Raoul, not Wyatt and I wouldn’t take kindly to you messin’ with my lil brother.”

His tone was light, cheerful even, but she caught the edge of something lethal buried deep. Raoul Fontenot wanted people to think he was Mr. Charm, but his easy laughter hid something deadly, something only waiting for the right trigger. Her heart kicked into high gear, pounding hard with the knowledge she had a tiger by the tail.

“All I want is what belongs to me, Raoul. I couldn’t care less about you or your brother or the Whitneys. Just remove your hand from my bike and sit up very carefully and won’t have a problem.”

“We already have a problem, cher. You stuck a knife in my throat and I don’ take kindly to that.”

Flame snapped her teeth together. “Stop being unreasonable. It isn’t in your throat, it’s against your throat. I’m not buying the good old boy routine either, you snake. You tell your boss to back off and leave me alone. I’ll never go back there.”

His eyebrow shot up. “Who do you think is my boss?”

“I’m not playing games with you. I know you’re dangerous. You know I am. Let’s not be dumb. I just want my bike and I want to get out of here. I won’t even push your Jeep into the Mississippi. And I’ll leave you the keys. I think that’s a fair trade.”

“The Jeep belongs to Wyatt and he wouldn’t like losing it, but on the other hand, he’s a sucker for a beautiful face.” A slow, melting grin crept over his dark features. “And cher, you have a damned beautiful face.”

Her breath left her lungs in an unexpected rush and wings seemed to flutter lightly against the inside of her belly. The man was lethal. “I also have a very sharp blade and you’re irritating the hell out of me.”

His white teeth flashed at her. “I can hardly believe that. Most women find me charmin’. I think you’re lyin’ to us both, Flame.”

His voice was pitched so low, so sultry, drawling with enough molasses that her insides melted. The reaction to him scared her. She didn’t have those kinds of connections with people-especially not traitors. She despised men like Gator, throwing away everything she would have given her right arm for, just for money or power. Flame sucked in her breath sharply, trying to see him as the enemy when, for some strange reason, her body wanted to see him in a completely different light.

“You’re enhanced.” She made it an accusation. Maybe Whitney had figured out how to heighten sexual magnetism and Gator was the ultimate weapon against women. She gritted her teeth and inwardly vowed resistance.

“So are you.” He shifted enough, careful of the sharp blade against his skin, that he could rest his gaze on her face. “You look tired, cher.”

There was concern in his voice, in the depths of his eyes. Knowledge. Her heart thumped hard again and something close to fear curled in the pit of her stomach. “Don’t you worry about me, Gator. I’m not so tired I can’t slit your throat. Let’s get this done. Sit up slowly.”

“I don’ know if you want me to do that.” Amusement was plain in his drawling voice. “I’m in my altogether so to speak. I don’ like many clothes when I sleep.”

She couldn’t stop the color stealing into her cheeks. Damn him, he seemed to be so in control, so calm and sure of himself in spite of the fact that she had a knife to his throat. Was he really that good? For the first time doubt crept in.

The door to the bedroom burst open so hard it bounced against the wall with a hard crash and nearly swung shut. A hard foot smashed it back open, splintering the wood, and a younger copy of Gator stood framed in the doorway, his narrowed gaze fixed on the knife at his brother’s throat.

“You look like you’re havin’ woman trouble, Gator,” he greeted, confirming Gator’s belief that he wasn’t the only one in the family with natural psychic talents.

Flame tightened her grip on Raoul. “Tell him to back the hell off,” she snapped.

The tension in the room stretched to a screaming point. Without warning, Gator caught her wrist in a gripping vise, thumb digging hard into her pressure point so that her fingers involuntarily opened and dropped the knife. At the same time, he jerked down, relieving the pressure on his throat, his other hand whipping up to catch her around the neck in a throw.

Flame went sailing over his head to land at the bottom of the bed. He was already on top of her, pinning her to the mattress. He looked up at his brother with a huge grin on his face. “I don’ never have trouble with the ladies, Wyatt.” He lowered his head until he could nuzzle Flame’s neck. “Ah cher, you smell so good.”

Fury burst through her, a bright bubble of anger so that the room narrowed, her vision tunneled, and she saw red as she glared up at his smirking face. The house shook, the walls vibrating, and Wyatt clutched his stomach, doubling over.

The smile was gone in an instant, Gator’s black eyes glittered dangerously as his fingers closed like a vise over Flame’s trachea. “Stop now.”

“Kill me then,” she dared, her voice hoarse, eyes defiant.

“Wyatt, get out of here,” Gator directed.

“That won’t save him.” She gasped for breath, but refused to panic. If she panicked the entire house and all its occupants would go down with her.

“He’s an innocent. You keep this between us.” He bit out each word distinctly between his white teeth, his black gaze narrowed and hard.

“I don’t know if I can.” Flame tried to be honest. Her gaze met his squarely, wanting him to see the truth there.

He let his breath out slowly, easing the pressure on her trachea. “Breathe, cher. Breathe it away. You do it every day of your life. I know. I’m the same.” He glanced toward the door, toward his brother, but both of them heard the soft footsteps hurrying toward them.

Her gaze clung to his and she reached with desperation for his breath, for the air moving in and out of his lungs, regulating her own breathing, pushing the anger away enough to regain control.

“That’s it ma petite enflamme. You’re fine.”

Her eyes softened for just a moment, a hint of gratitude there and then she glared at him. “I won’t be fine until you give me back my bike, you thief.”

“That’s the pot calling the kettle black,” he retaliated.

“Raoul Fontenot!” A woman’s voice cut through the tension. “What are you doing with a woman in your bed and you nekkid as the day you were born?”

Shocked, Flame looked at the little old lady wrapped in a robe and holding a shotgun nearly as big as she was in her hands. Her silver-white hair was braided and looped in a neat bun at the back of her head. Her skin was paper thin and white, but her eyes were clear and steady, her lips compressed tightly in disapproval.

Gator scrambled to drag up a sheet, half standing as he did so. “Grand-mere Nonny-”

His grandmother cut him off without a word sending him a glare. The older woman was magnificent. Flame would have given anything to be related to her. She sat up slowly, ignoring Gator’s hasty scramble to cover himself. She did sneak a peek though. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. I shouldn’t have come.” She lowered her gaze looking young and vulnerable, allowing her voice to tremble. “I sing in a club and he came in sweet-talkin’ and smiling at me and I know I was wrong. I’m really a good girl. And now there’s a baby on the way and I…“ She pressed a hand to her stomach as she stood up shakily. “I thought if I came, he’d do the right thing, but…“ she trailed off pathetically.

Nonny lowered the barrel of the shotgun to the floor, not appearing to notice as Wyatt took it out of her hand. He had a huge grin on his face.

“Grand-mere,” Gator protested. “Don’ be listenin’ to-“

Her hand came up sharply, palm flat and she waved him to silence with an imperious gesture, effectively cut ting him off from explaining that he couldn’t possibly have been there long enough to do what Flame accused him of.

His grandmother stepped forward and put her arm around Flame. “You poor child. You look very pale. Let me get you a cup of tea.”

“Bien merci! You’re so kind.” Flame cast a small triumphant glance over her shoulder at Gator behind his grandmother’s back before putting her head down as she walked off. “My family is going to disown me. I don’t know what to do, but I’m so sorry for coming here, I shouldn’t have. It was a mistake. Now he hates me more than ever.”

“He don’ hate you, child, He’s just shocked. Men never think their chickens is goin’ to come home to roost. Don’ you worry, cher, I’ll help you. We’ll get this straightened out fast. Gator, he lives up to his responsibilities. He’s been brought up right.”

“I need to leave. I can’t face him right now,” Flame said, flicking a glance toward the door. She’d have to leave without her bike, but she could make it to the Jeep before he could get dressed, pacify his grandmother and come after her.

“You look ill, child. Let me help you.”

Flame patted her arm, swallowed the sudden, unexpected lump forming in her throat. Gator’s grandmother’s concern was genuine and there was no doubt in Flame’s mind that she would have done her best to help out a pregnant, unwed mother. Damn Gator for his selfish choices. This woman was to be treasured, his family valued. He had no right to sell himself as a Whitney puppet.

“Merci. Bien merci.” She stammered it several times as she bolted toward the door and out into the heat and rain of the night. There were tears in her eyes and she didn’t know why, refused to ask herself why. She dashed them away and ran for the Jeep.