Bayou Heat

by Donna Kauffman

  Teague didn’t respond. He simply studied her for several seconds, the heat creeping back into his dark eyes.

  It filled her just as swiftly.

  He stepped closer. She didn’t move.

  “Your first choice is now, Erin.”

  She curled her fingers into her palms against the sudden need to touch him. To connect with him in a physical way, as if that could diminish or explain the connection she felt with him on an entirely different plane.

  “And what is that?”

  “Follow me into the swamp. To Belisaire. Enter my world.”

  Erin shivered. It was a delicious sensation she didn’t want to stop. She wanted him to touch her, run his hands over her sensitized skin, prolong it.

  “Or?” She struggled to keep her voice even.

  “Walk away, Erin. There are things you don’t understand.”

  “That’s precisely why I am here, Teague. To understand.”

  “I’m not talking about voodoun rituals and plant medicine.”

  “Well, that’s the only thing I’m talking about.” If he believed the lie, then maybe she could too.

  “Your decision is made then.” It wasn’t a question.

  “It was made long before I met you, Teague. I have to do this.”

  “Already ignoring Belisaire’s advice. I learned long ago the folly of doing that. She is never wrong.”

  “I want to do this. My choice.” She stepped back, a clear statement of her independence. “My responsibility as well.”

  He studied her for another long moment, then turned and walked away. “Follow me.”

  She did. And it was both the most difficult and the easiest thing she’d ever done.

  Teague watched, bemused, as Erin entered the small house Belisaire used as her hounfour, her center for worship and healing. There were a lot of memories tied up in that house. The summer after his mother took her life, it had been his refuge. When he didn’t get his act together fast enough to suit Belisaire, it became his prison. Confinement he’d desperately wished had been solitary. Not filled with people who wandered in and out at all hours of the day and night. He’d spent many a night in the small airless second-floor room, plotting his escape. From his father, from Belisaire, from Bruneaux.

  Belisaire had eventually prevailed. Teague stayed in school. Stayed out of trouble. Or at least made damn sure he didn’t get caught. The only thing she’d never gotten him to do was see his father again.

  And, after four years, at age eighteen, Teague had escaped.

  Now, more than a decade later, he was back. The woman who had saved his life at fourteen was in trouble, whether she believed herself to be or not.

  “Stubborn old lady,” Teague muttered under his breath, but there was more than a trace of affection and respect in his tone. She’d long ago earned both. The door closed behind Erin. Teague shook off the curiosity, the need to stay and observe how these two women who so fascinated him dealt with one another.

  That he felt so certain Erin would hold her own with Belisaire made him smile even as it made him uncomfortable.

  But he had no time for this. He shut off thoughts of Erin stepping into this part of his life, a part no one in his new life knew about, and turned them to the reason he’d come here tonight.

  He quickly disappeared into the trees until he came to a small dilapidated boathouse that was more of a covered mooring. He stepped inside, smelled the cigarette smoke, and breathed a small sigh of relief.

  “Skeeter, what do you have for me?”

  Erin stepped from the porch, nodding politely as several white-clad men and women walked past her into the small house. Apparently this was a common occurrence at any hour.

  She paused several feet into the clearing and breathed deeply. Thick and heavy with the scent of the bayou, it actually felt good. Maybe she’d get used to being here after all. A grin spread across her face and she gave in to the urge to hug herself. The meeting with Belisaire had gone better than expected. So much so that Erin could barely contain her excitement. Belisaire understood what Erin’s interests were and was willing, on her own terms, to help her. In fact, she’d made the whole meeting seem preordained, as if it were her idea.

  It was far more than she’d hoped for or had ever thought to gain this early on. She bit down on the triumphant laugh and looked around. Teague. She had to find him. Thank him.

  Much of her success that morning had to be due to his influence. Belisaire hadn’t specifically said so, but it had been clear to Erin by some of the questions the priestess asked her that Teague bringing her here had carried great weight.

  The excitement running through her changed … the wild hum turned darker, sweeter. Erin worked hard to shake off the temptation to explore why Belisaire was so interested in her thoughts on Teague. The older woman wore her mantle of power like a visible cloak. And Erin had quickly discovered she was incapable of not answering any question Belisaire posed to her. As if she’d been compelled.

  She’d told herself she complied as a means of establishing trust. But sitting in the shadowed peristyle, the roofed courtyard Belisaire used as her bagi, her innermost sanctum, Erin knew she was not the one in control.

  A sudden shiver raced over her, making her rub her arms.

  She closed the disquieting train of thought. She was here as a scientist and tonight she had had great success. Personal revelations didn’t play a part in her role here. She’d be wise to get that straight in her head right now.

  To that end, she moved toward the edge of the woods, near the trail she and Teague had taken to this spot. She’d find him, thank him for his help, and ask to be taken home. She needed to sleep. Tomorrow would bring long hours of transcribing the taped conversation Belisaire had approved.

  “Teague?” She kept her voice low. The only sounds she heard were the muted cries of the nutria and other night creatures. She stepped a few feet down the path and called his name again. Nothing.

  She thought about going all the way back to the bateau, but even with her exceptional navigational skills, she wasn’t foolish enough to enter the tangled web of trees on her own. Teague had spent the better part of his childhood here, knew these trails blindfolded.

  Erin found it impossible not to give in to her curiosity about her guide, his intriguing past, and the knowledge he must have of the voodoo practices in this area. She didn’t even bother telling herself her interest was strictly scientific.

  A rustling sound about ten yards to her left, then men’s muted voices, caught her attention. She walked in that direction and discovered a small trail cut into the dense stand of oak and gum trees. She’d gone several steps before she realized it wasn’t Teague’s voice she heard.

  “It has to be here by Sunday!”

  The heated whisper had Erin stumbling to a halt. Not sure whether to make her presence known or simply to retreat, she ended up hearing more.

  “I’m trying, dammit.” This voice was louder, deeper than the first one. Both carried an accent. Caribbean. Haitian maybe. Or something close.

  “It’s not my fault the damn boat got caught in that tropical depression offshore.”

  “Well, I have it set on my end. Unless you want to be gator bait, you get it here by Sunday. Because if Customs noses in and I go down on this, I take you with me.”

  Without realizing it, Erin backed slowly into the trees off the path. Her heart was pounding. Drug trafficking? Or something just as illegal. She was sure of it.

  Only one man emerged onto the path. Short, slight of build, and dressed in the same white cotton pants and tunic as everyone else she’d seen tonight. Damn. Not much of a description.

  For what, Erin? That stopped her cold. What was she planning to do? Run to the local sheriff? Bring local and possibly federal law enforcement attention here? Belisaire would shut down all communication in a heartbeat as soon as she learned Erin had made the initial call.

  Belisaire. Erin swallowed. This was her property. Was she in on thi
s? And what about—No. This didn’t involve her. Whatever those men had planned was none of her business. She was here to observe, to learn. Not get in the middle of a drug war.

  She waited several more minutes, until she was sure she was alone, then stepped from her hiding place.

  And directly into Teague’s unyielding chest.

  He balanced her weight against him by holding her shoulders. “What are you doing out here, Erin?” The demand was cold and unflinching.

  “Looking for you.” She wanted to move out of his grasp, but didn’t.

  “Well, you found me. Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Something about the way he said it, or maybe the way he scanned the area around them, made Erin uneasy.

  Just where had he been? What had he been doing back here?

  “Where does this path lead anyway?” The question sounded far from casual, so she was surprised when he answered her.

  “To a boathouse another half mile past where we docked.”

  She looked from the path to him. “Then why didn’t we dock there?”

  “Belisaire was occupied earlier. She asked that we come in from the front.” Teague didn’t bat an eyelash.

  So why was Erin almost positive he was lying? Or not telling her the whole truth?

  But since when did he owe her whole truths? Especially as they applied to himself?

  And why was it those were precisely the truths she most wanted to know?

  Erin stepped back, out of his grasp. “I overheard a conversation tonight.” She was operating on pure instinct, not of a scientist but a woman.

  “Is that so?” He held her gaze steadily, the mask so complete she couldn’t read anything in his expression. “Is that how you research? Hide behind bushes and eavesdrop?”

  “Hardly. Belisaire has been more than generous,” she said, not allowing him to goad her off the subject. “I wouldn’t return her goodwill by spying on her followers.”

  “What did you hear, Erin?”

  “Two men. Setting up a deal.”

  “What kind of deal?” Again, the same flat, emotionless tone. About as far away from the black sheep, heart-breaker, pool hall entrepreneur as he could get.

  Yet it wasn’t until now that she felt as if she was seeing the real man. Emotionless? Cold? Inviolable?

  Erin repressed the shiver that raced over her skin. On the surface, yes. But what she felt was heat. Intensity. A sharp focused energy that cut through everything else.

  And she somehow doubted he’d gotten all that from shooting eight ball with a bunch of drunks.

  Who are you really, Teague Comeaux?

  Gambler? Thief? Bokor?

  Drug dealer?

  “What sort of deal, Erin?”

  She studied his eyes and found herself telling him the rest of it. “I’m not sure. I assume drugs or something else equally illegal. They were talking about boats and shipping times and U.S. Customs getting in the way.”

  Teague didn’t react. And yet the air between them suddenly sizzled with tension.

  “Tell me what they said.”

  It was the sudden softening of his tone that had the hair on her arms standing on end. This man was deadly.

  The question was, Who would his target be? The good guys?

  Or the bad?

  “Did you see either of them?”

  It was too late to stop now. “I saw one of them. A man, short, dark skinned, wearing white cotton pants.” She cut off his next words. “I know. That hardly narrows the field. But it’s the best I can do. I couldn’t see his face clearly enough even to guess his age. But I—”

  “He didn’t go back toward the house?”

  “No.” She pointed down the path she’d asked about earlier. “I guess he went to the boathouse.”

  Teague was silent for a moment, then he turned away, facing the way she’d come. “We’d better go. You have a lot of work to do later this morning, I imagine.”

  Erin felt like someone had just spun her hard on a merry-go-round. “Wait a minute. That’s it? End of interrogation?”

  “Well, it doesn’t sound like you heard or saw enough to do anything about it.”

  “I could still contact the parish police.”

  She didn’t realize she’d tossed that out as bait until he didn’t take it.

  “Fine. But I doubt they will do anything. There have been rumors of everything from drug running to white slavery rings being operated out of the swamps, chèr. Without any real evidence, your story wouldn’t make the top third of the pile.”

  “But I know what I heard, what I saw.”

  “And I happen to know that all those rumors aren’t rumors either.”

  “How is that?”

  He stepped closer, blocking out the night and all of her surroundings. “I grew up in the swamps. I know firsthand how dangerous it is out here.” His accent deepened, all the more foreboding for the lazy way it sounded. “The gators out here aren’t all the four-legged variety.”

  Her heart began to pound in her ears. “I told you before, Comeaux. I can take care of myself.”

  “And for the most part, ange, I believe that. Truly I do.” He lifted a hand to her face, rubbed the side of his thumb down her cheek, the gesture meant to seduce rather than soothe.

  It was working alarmingly well.

  The man might be a drug dealer or gun runner, Erin. Tell my body that! She eased back a fraction, until she felt only the heat of his skin. It was almost as powerful as his touch. “Then let me do what I think is best. If what you say is true, why not tell the police? At least I’ll know I reported it.”

  “Belisaire won’t appreciate having that sort of attention drawn to her.”

  Is that your only concern here? she thought. “I know that, Teague. Trust me, I wouldn’t do something I thought would compromise my study here if I didn’t think it necessary.”

  He touched her face again, this time letting his thumb come to rest on her bottom lip.

  “Be-besides which—” her voice broke and she swallowed hard, “if what you say is true …” The feeling of his warm skin on her lip as she spoke was driving her mad. Why didn’t he move away? Why didn’t she? “The rumors,” she went on doggedly, thinking she was in far more danger now than she had been eavesdropping on drug runners. “I would—I imagine Belisaire has probably dealt with worse.”

  Dear God, he was still staring at her mouth.

  “Teague, are you listening to anything I’m saying?” Her voice was a heated whisper now.

  “Oh, yes, Erin. Yes, I am.” He looked up. “Say it again.”

  “Beli—” She gulped when he pressed his thumb just a bit inside her mouth so it touched the tip of her tongue. “Belisaire—”

  He shook his head slowly. “My name, Erin. Say it again.”

  A long sigh eased out of her, past her now tender lips and his wet thumb, and with it went whatever was left of her common sense. “Oh, Teague.”

  “Mais yeah, chèr.”

  He slid his thumb in deeper, pressing the rough pad on her tongue. She swallowed, closing her mouth on it. Her heart was pounding hard, shooting blood to that aching place between her thighs, engorging the muscles there, forcing nerve endings painfully, exquisitely to life.

  “That’s it, ange. Taste me.”

  She drew her tongue over his finger. He groaned, low and soft.

  Bull’s-eye.

  She pressed her thighs together, anything to ease the ache.

  He crowded his hips against hers, moving her backward until her shoulders connected with the bark of a tree.

  He braced one forearm over her head and slowly withdrew his thumb. Holding her gaze with the sheer force of his will, he slowly and very purposely slid his now shiny wet thumb into his own mouth. She closed her eyes.

  “Open them, Erin.”

  She didn’t. Couldn’t. Not yet.

  Then she felt his fingers brush past her cheek, into the short length of her hair, pressing gently against he
r skull as he eased her head back a bit. When his thumb, warm and damp, came to rest on her temple, she trembled.

  “Erin.”

  He was close. So close.

  She opened her eyes. “We shouldn’t.” Her voice was throaty, hoarse.

  “Do you always do what you should, chèr?”

  “Yes.” Why did that sound pitiable instead of honorable?

  He lowered his arm, his hand cupping the other side of her face, tilting her mouth up until their lips barely brushed. “But is that always what you want?”

  “Teague.” There was pleading in her tone. For what, she couldn’t be sure at this point.

  “Do you want to kiss me again, Erin? Taste me like I tasted you?”

  “Just because I want—”

  “Yes, want,” he interrupted. “Want me, Erin.”

  “I do.” Full admission. What had she done?

  “Then take what you want.”

  Oh, God. “But—”

  “Take my mouth, ange.”

  “I—”

  “Take me.”

  SIX

  Erin reached up and captured his head, pulling him in that last breathtaking millimeter of space. His lips were warm and pliant on hers. Too pliant.

  A whimpering sound caught in her throat.

  “Kiss me, Erin,” he said against her lips. “Don’t just give. Take.”

  Such a simple request. Yet, for her, profound. The idea that she could take what she wanted. Take him.

  The power rush was almost overwhelming. No waiting to be wanted in order to feel it was okay to want the same things. To act on those wants.

  Equal. That’s what she felt. And it felt so damn good.

  “Come here,” she whispered, and tugged his head closer. She took his mouth slowly. God it was a beautiful mouth. Wide with that slightly fuller lower lip. Courtesan lips on a man. Sensual. So provocative. Made for pleasure. She took some for herself, gently pulling that lip into her mouth.

  He groaned, the sound low and tight. It made her clench so hard she almost came right there.

  “God, Teague,” she gasped. But she still controlled the kiss. Trembling hard, she slid her tongue into his mouth and tasted him.

  He tilted his head just a bit, pulling her tongue in deeper, then let his hands move to her hips.