Midnight Bayou

by Nora Roberts

  “You’re going to want to get a grip, cher.”

  “Got one,” he said and reached up to squeeze her butt as he kicked the door closed.

  “I can’t tell you how flattered I am that you’d take time out of your busy day to come into town for a quickie, but I—”

  “Excellent idea. It wasn’t my first order of business, but why wait?” He hitched her more securely on his shoulder and headed for the bedroom.

  “Declan, you’re starting to seriously irritate me now. You’d better just put me down and—”

  She lost the rest—and the air in her lungs—when he flipped her onto the bed. He could see her eyes glittering dangerously behind her hair before she shoved it out of her face. And that, he thought, was perfect. He was in the mood for the fast and the physical, the sweaty and the sexy.

  “What the hell’s gotten into you? You come marching into my place like you own it, cart me off like I’m spoils of war. If you think I’m here to scratch your itch whenever it suits you, you’re about to find out different.”

  He merely grinned, yanked off a shoe and tossed it aside.

  “Put that back on, or hobble out. Either way, I want you gone.”

  He pulled off the other shoe, then his shirt. Her response to that was to scramble to her knees and spit out in Cajun so rapid and thick he caught only about every sixth word.

  “Sorry,” he said in mild tones as he unbuttoned his jeans. “That was a little quick for me. Did you say I was a pig who should fry in hell, or that I should go to hell and eat fried pig?”

  He was ready when she leaped, and laughing as she swiped at him. It was time for a fast tumble, fast and violent, and her clawing nails and bared teeth added the perfect punch.

  She slapped, cursed, kicked. Then bucked like a wild mare when he crushed her under him on the bed and covered her snarling mouth with his in a hot, hungry kiss.

  “Not what you expect from me, is it?” Breathless and randy, he tore at her shirt. “Given you too much of what you expect so far.”

  “Stop it. Stop it now.” Her heart sprinted under his rough hand. No, it wasn’t what she expected from him, any more than her electrified response to his dominance was what she expected from herself.

  “Look at me.” He clamped her hands on either side of her head. “Tell me you don’t want me, that you don’t want this. Say it and mean it, and I’m gone.”

  “Let go of my hands.” Though her gaze remained steady, her voice shook. “You let go of my hands.”

  He released one. “Say it.” His muscles quivered. “You want, or you don’t.”

  She fisted a hand in his hair and dragged his mouth back to hers. “J’ai besoin.”

  I need.

  She used her teeth, gnawing restlessly at his lips. Used her legs, wrapping them around to chain him to her.

  “Take me,” she demanded. “Fast. Fast and rough.”

  His hand shot beneath the short, snug skirt, tore away the thin panties beneath. Sweat already slicked his skin and hers as she arched to him.

  “Hold on,” he warned, and plunged into her.

  She cried out as the explosive sensation ripped through her, cried out again as he drove deeper, harder. Filled, invaded, took until needs, frantic, outrageous needs swarmed through her. Her nails scored down his back, pinched into his hips.

  De plus en plus. More and more, her mind screamed. “More,” she managed. “I want more.”

  So did he. He shoved her knees back, opened her and hammered himself inside her.

  It burned. His lungs, his heart, his loins. The ferocious heat, the unspeakable pleasure of going wild with her hazed his vision until the world was drenched with it.

  White sun beating through the windows, the brassy blast of a trumpet from the street, the mad squeak of springs as slick skin slapped rhythmically against slick skin.

  And her eyes, dark and glossy as onyx, locked on his.

  I love you. Endlessly.

  He didn’t know if he spoke, or if the words simply ran a desperate loop in his brain. But he saw her eyes change, watched emotion swirl into them, blind them.

  He heard her sob for breath, felt her vise around him as she came. Helpless, half mad, he shattered. And poured into her.

  Out of breath, out of his mind, he collapsed onto her. Beneath him she continued to quake, to quiver. And shudder, those aftershocks of eruption. Then she was still.

  “Can’t move yet,” he mumbled. He felt hollowed out, light as a husk that could be happily blown apart by the slightest breeze.

  “Don’t need to.”

  Her lips were against the side of his throat, and their movement there brought him an exquisite tenderness. A rainbow after the storm.

  “Would you believe I came in to talk to you?”

  “No.”

  “Did. Figured we’d get to this after. Change of plans. I owe you a shirt and some underwear.”

  “I’ve got more.”

  He’d recovered just enough to prop on his elbows and look down at her. Her cheeks were flushed and glowing. Curls of damp hair clung to her temples, spilled over the rumpled spread.

  He wanted to lap her up like a cat with cream.

  “Pissing you off got me hot,” he told her.

  “Me too. Seems like. I wasn’t going to do this with you again.”

  “Weren’t you?”

  “No.” She laid a hand on his cheek, amazed by the wave of tenderness. “I’d made up my mind about it. Then you come into my place, all sexy and good-looking, scoop me up that way. You mess with my mind, cher. You just go and unmake it for me, time and again.”

  “You’re everything I want.”

  “And nothing that’s good for you. Go on.” She gave his shoulder a little push. “Get off me. Two of us are a sweaty mess.”

  “We’ll take a shower, then we’ll talk. Talk,” he repeated when she raised a brow. “Scout’s honor.” He held up two fingers.

  “I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “Angelina.”

  “All right.” She waved him away. It was, she knew, no use arguing with him. God knew why she found that mule-headed streak of his so appealing. “Go get yourself cleaned up. I’ll call down and make sure everything’s covered for the next little while.”

  She stepped into the shower just as he got out. He imagined she’d timed it that way, to avoid the intimacy. Giving her room, he went to the kitchen, found the expected pitcher of tea, and poured two glasses.

  When she came in, wearing that same sexy skirt and a fresh shirt, he offered her a glass.

  She took it into the living room.

  In the last few days, she’d resigned herself to what needed to be. Throughout, part of her had indeed pined for him. And every time she’d caught herself glancing toward the bar door, looking for him, or waking up in the night reaching for him, she’d cursed herself for being a weak fool.

  Then she’d glanced at the door, and there he was. Her own soaring pleasure, depthless relief, had annoyed her even before he’d nipped at her pride by plucking her out of her own bar.

  “Declan,” she began. “I wasn’t fair to you the other day. I wasn’t in the mood to be fair.”

  “If you’re going to apologize for it, save it. I wanted to make you mad. I’d rather see you angry than sad. She makes you both.”

  “I suppose she does. Mostly I hate knowing she’s out there with Grandmama, knowing she’ll hurt her again. I can’t stop it, I can’t fix it. That troubles me. But you shouldn’t have been brought into it.”

  “You didn’t bring me into it. It happened.” He angled his head. “Correct me if I’m wrong. You’ve got the impression that since I come from where and who I come from, I’m not equipped to handle the darker, the more difficult, the stickier aspects of life. Your life, in particular.”

  “Cher, I’m not saying you’re not tough. But this particular aspect of life, my life, is out of your scope. You wouldn’t understand someone like her.”

  “Since I�
��ve been so sheltered.” He nodded. “She came to see me today.”

  The healthy flush sex and heat had put in Lena’s cheeks drained. “What do you mean?”

  “Lilibeth paid me a call around noon. I debated whether to tell you about it or not, and decided that I’m not going to keep secrets from you, or tell lies. Not even to spare your feelings. She came by, invited herself in for a cold one. Then she tried to seduce me.”

  “I’m sorry.” Her lips felt stiff and ice cold as she formed the words. Her throat burned like fire. “It won’t happen again; I’ll see to it.”

  “Shut up. Do I look like I need your protection? And save your outrage until I’m done,” he told her. “When she reached for my zipper, I told her not to embarrass herself. Her next tack was to fling herself down on the kitchen table and cry.”

  He eased down on the arm of Lena’s sofa. The tone of conversation, he thought in some corner of his brain, didn’t lend itself to lounging among all those soft, colorful pillows. “She didn’t manage to work up many tears along with the noise, but I give her marks for effort. The story was how bad, mean people were after her. They’d hurt her, you, Miss Odette if she didn’t give them five thousand dollars. Where could she turn, what could she do?”

  Color rushed back into Lena’s face, rode high on her cheekbones. “You gave her money? How could you believe—”

  “First a sheltered wimp, now a moron.” He gave an exaggerated sigh and sipped his tea. “You’re really pumping up the ego here, baby. I didn’t give her a dime, and let her know, clearly, I wasn’t going to be hosed. That irritated her into threatening to go to my family. Seems she’s asked around about me and got the picture. She figured they’d be shocked and shamed by the idea of their fair-haired boy falling under your spell. For good measure, she’d tell them I’d fucked her, too.”

  “She could do it.” It was more than the cold now. The sickness roiled in her belly. “Declan, she’s perfectly capable of—”

  “Didn’t I tell you to wait until I was finished?” His voice didn’t whip, didn’t sting. It was simply implacable. “The cost doubled to ten thousand for this spot of blackmail. I don’t think she was pleased with my response. I kicked her out. That’s about it, so you can be outraged now if you want. Don’t cry.” He spoke roughly when her eyes filled. “She’s not worth one tear from you.”

  “I’m mortified. Can’t you understand?”

  “Yes. Though we’re both smart enough to know this had nothing to do with you, I understand. And I’m sorry for it, sorry to add to it.”

  “It’s not you. It’s never been you.” She wiped a tear from her lashes before it could fall. “That’s what I’ve been trying to get through your head from the start.”

  “It’s not you, either, Lena. It’s never been you. I looked at her. I looked close and hard, and there’s nothing there that’s part of you. Family’s the luck of the draw, Lena. What you make of yourself, because of or despite it, that’s where the spine and heart come in.”

  “I’ll never be rid of her, not all the way. No matter what I do.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “I’m sorry. No, damn it, I will say it,” she snapped when his face tightened. “I’m sorry she came into your home. I’m sorry she touched on your family. I need to ask you not to say anything about this to my grandmama.”

  “Why would I?”

  She nodded, then rising, wandered the room. She loved this place because she’d made it herself. She respected her life for the same reasons. Now, because she cared for, because she respected the man who was so determined to be part of her life, she’d explain.

  “She left me before I was two weeks old,” she began. “Just went out one morning, got in her mama’s car, and drove off. Dumped the car in Baton Rouge. I was three before she came back around.”

  “Your father?”

  She shrugged. “Depends on her mood. Once she told me it was a boy she loved and who loved her, but his parents tore them apart and sent him far away. Another time, she told me she was raped on the way home from school. Still another it was a rich, older man who was going to come back for both of us one day and set us up in a fine house.”

  She turned back so she could face him. “I was about eighteen when I figured she told me the truth. She was high enough, careless enough, mean enough for it to be the truth. How the hell should she know, she said. There were plenty of them. What the hell did she care who planted me in her? One was the same as the other.

  “She was whoring when she got pregnant with me. I heard talk when I was old enough to understand what the talk meant. When she got in trouble, she ran back to my grandparents. She was afraid of an abortion—afraid she’d die of it, then go to hell or some such thing. So she had me, and she left me. Those are the only two things in this world I owe her.”

  She drew a breath, made herself sit again. “Anyway, she came back when I was three, made what would become her usual promises that she’d learned her lesson, she was sorry, she’d changed. She stayed around a few days, then took off again. That’s a pattern that’s repeated since. Sometimes she’d come back beat up from whatever bastard she’d taken up with most recently. Sometimes she’d come back sick, or just high. But Lilibeth, she always comes back.”

  She fell silent, brooding over that single, unavoidable fact.

  “It hurts when she does,” Declan said quietly. “Hurts you, hurts Miss Odette.”

  “She hurts everyone. It’s her only talent. She was high when she showed up on my thirteenth birthday. We were having a fais do-do at the house, all the friends and family, and she stoned, with some lowlife. It got ugly pretty quick, and three of my uncles turned them off. I need a smoke,” she said, and left the room.

  She came back a moment later with a cigarette. “I had a boy I was seeing, crazy about that boy. I was sixteen, and she came back. She got him liquor and drugs and had sex with him. He was hardly older than I was, so it’s hard to blame him for being an idiot. She thought it was funny when I stumbled over them out in the bayou. She laughed and laughed. Still, when I got this apartment, and she came back, I took her in. Better me than Grandmama, I thought. And maybe this time . . . Just maybe.

  “But she turned tricks in my bed and brought her drugs into my home. She stole from me, and she left me again. From then I’ve been done with her. I’m done with her. And I’ll never be done with her, Declan. Nothing I can do changes her being my mother.”

  “And nothing she does can change who you are. You’re a testament to your own grit, Lena, and a credit to the people who raised you. She hates you for what you are.”

  She stared at him. “She hates me,” she whispered. “I’ve never been able to say that to anyone before. Why should saying such a thing, such an awful thing, help so much?”

  “I won’t say she can’t hurt you anymore, because she can. But maybe now she won’t be able to hurt you as much, or for as long.”

  Thoughtfully, she tapped out her cigarette. “I keep underestimating you.”

  “That’s okay. That way I can keep surprising you. How’s this one? She’s connected to Manet Hall.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know, exactly, and can’t explain it. I just know she is. And I think maybe she was meant to come back now, to say what she said to me. One more link in the chain. And I think she’s pretty well done around here, this time out. Call your grandmother, Lena. Don’t let this woman put a wedge between you.”

  “I’ve been thinking of it. I guess I will. Declan.” She picked up her glass, set it down again. The useless gesture made him raise his eyebrows. “I was going to end things between us.”

  “You could’ve tried.”

  “I mean it. We’d both be better off if we stepped back a ways, tried to be friends of some sort.”

  “We can be friends. I want our children to have parents who like each other.”

  She threw up her hands. “I have to get back to work.”

  “Okay. But
listen, speaking of weddings, slight change of plans in Remy and Effie’s. We’re having the whole deal at my place.”

  She rubbed her temple, tried to switch gears and moods as smoothly as he did. “In . . . with half-finished rooms and tools and lumber, and—”

  “That’s a very negative attitude, and not at all helpful, especially since I was going to ask you for a hand. How are you with a paintbrush?”

  She let out a sigh. “Do you save everyone?”

  “Just the ones who matter.”

  Somewhere between Declan’s leaving the Hall, and Effie’s arrival, Lilibeth paid another call. She was riding on coke and insult. The lousy son of a bitch couldn’t spare a few bucks for the mother of the woman he was screwing, she’d just help herself.