She obviously needed to tell her stallion she was fully recovered. He must be hovering outside, eager for admittance.
Humming softly, she waved good-bye to the room and put her hand on the doorknob.
“Bring the agreement into my cabin, where I can sign it,” Don Rafael said from the corridor just outside her door.
Celeste went completely still. She’d known he’d come to negotiate something with Monsieur Armand but she’d thought he’d forgotten that nonsense, in favor of enjoying her attractions.
“Are you satisfied with it, Jean-Marie?” His deep voice was crisp and calm, appallingly businesslike.
“Completely, sir. Monsieur Armand would probably have bargained longer but he wants us gone so he can concentrate on quieting his city.”
Gone?
She was certain he adored her. He’d proven that a thousand times over during his visit, especially with his talk at the ball about all the feats a man in love would do. When he’d hugged her afterward, she immediately knew he meant her.
But passion, even slavish worship, was not the same as a life together.
If he left, what would she do? Go with him—to Texas? The land of cows and dirt and Indians? Never, even if she could leave New Orleans.
Maybe she was wrong and he planned to stay. He was certainly strong enough to take over New Orleans, if he wanted to.
“And we can silence those drunken riots in the West Texas oilfields.”
“The mesnaderos will shut them down within a few days, once we’re back,” the Frenchman agreed, and their steps faded down the hallway.
Celeste sagged against the door. Oilfield riots meant less oil and less money. Don Rafael couldn’t remain here—and she’d hate living in Texas.
She flung herself across the bed and tried to think.
No, the only answer was to persuade him to move here, which meant binding him into a permanent alliance with the New Orleans patrón.
Monsieur Armand, who couldn’t even manage to throw a Mardi Gras ball? Bah!
Plus, the idiot barely controlled New Orleans and its suburbs, not even as far as Baton Rouge, only eighty miles away. All of Texas and Oklahoma bowed down before Don Rafael, more than three hundred thousand square miles.
A New Orleans patrón would probably have to hold everything from Louisiana east and south of the Ohio River, in order to have an esfera Don Rafael would consider impressive. And worthy of forming a lifetime bond with.
She rolled over onto her back and flung an arm over her eyes. But if she had such an esfera, she’d have a damn good chance—if not a certainty—of claiming Don Rafael for herself, for always. And ending this cycle of loneliness forever.
Her jaw set hard. She could do it. After all, she’d seen it done often enough in New Orleans that she’d memorized the techniques by now.
But every successful candidate for patrón always started with an absolutely deadly alferez. A killing machine to make everybody else fall back in fear . . .
Georges Devol blinked, forcing a little water out of his eyes, and tried to kick. The sun had long since set, making this a good time for traveling.
His right leg was no damn good with two bullets in it—but nobody’s legs were worth much against the Mississippi, even when they were healthy. It was more important to travel far and keep the damn warden guessing as long as possible, no matter what.
He’d escaped Angola by turning the tables on a guard during an affair. The fool had thought he controlled Devol but had wound up serving him. Now he’d certainly keep his mouth shut as long as possible about Georges’ methods and route, just to save himself.
Georges had to be close to the Mouth of Passes, where he could catch an oceangoing ship.
He was cold, so very cold. Probably because it was spring and the river was in flood. Hopefully not because the guards had gotten lucky and done more than nick him in the side.
He turned his head sideways, trying for a little pocket of air inside the waterlogged tree branches. But he overbalanced the fragile wood and it dipped, sending his mouth into the muddy river.
He spat and choked, gasping for air, and his stomach spasmed again. Water lit a trail of flame inside his nose.
Stars spun behind his eyes, fading into blackness, while his chest’s objections eased into slow flutters, then stilled. The bayou had never seemed farther away.
“Man overboard!”
What? Police wouldn’t be that polite.
He blinked, barely aware of the greedy river spilling over his head and shoulders. A light danced over the water and caught the tree, casting a net around him.
He’d be warm again, back in the pen. Back on Death Row.
Yeah, and they’d ask him again to be sorry for killing all those respectable women. Like hell. His only regret was he hadn’t done it sooner. Or meaner.
Now, scarlet women—those beautiful bitches were something different and far, far better. He especially loved how the top-drawer bitches could have those high-powered SOBs pleading for a moment of their time. Hell, they were even immune from being sent to Death Row if they caused trouble.
He tried to push the tree away but it bobbed, catching his arms, dragging him down.
Water swept over him and he began to fight, thrashing, clawing, kicking, heedless of any injuries.
Suddenly, somebody caught him by the scruff of his neck and lifted him bodily from the Mississippi, as if he’d been a child. Something shifted nastily in his side and he passed out, a curse slipping from his lips.
Georges came to, stretched out on a fancy sofa in a very grand saloon. Polished brass everywhere, and teak glowing as if it wanted to be a mirror. Ducks were carved into the furniture and woven into the upholstery, yet everything was sturdy enough for a man’s frame, not flimsy and stupid.
It was a rich man’s palace, probably somebody who knew the governor and would start yelling as soon as they recognized him.
But how much did it really matter? His head ached; his throat was sour and sore as if he’d poured acid down it. His leg had no more feeling in it than a dead snapper. His body was icy cold, his clothes stiff against his clammy skin.
“Who is he?” a woman asked.
A woman? A genuine Frenchwoman? He tried to turn his head toward her voice.
“We just finished cleaning his face and don’t know yet. He hasn’t said anything, mademoiselle.”
He managed to open his eyes just as she arrived beside him. She was a small woman, with ivory skin, raven hair, and the most superb breasts he’d ever seen, unashamedly displayed by a green silk dress which clung to her curves. She was beautiful, definitely not a respectable woman, and absolutely perfect.
“Bonsoir, ma cher madame,” he greeted her, offering her the highest accolade he could award, something he’d never willingly given another woman—the honorific of lady.
She smiled, red lips curving over sharp white teeth.
Lovely, truly lovely.
“Bonsoir, mon brave,” she cooed, her long black lashes magnificently framing her eyes.
She called him brave? Why was she being polite, let alone complimentary? Who the hell cared, when he felt like he could tap-dance across the Mississippi?
A long shadow fell over them. A tall, blond man was watching him, his good looks insufficient to mask his deadly calculations. Two more men stood beside him, one an impassive dandy with the lightly balanced stance of an experienced knife fighter.
The third was the most dangerous. He was massively built, and his hooded gaze, crooked nose, and scarred face bore witness to the deadly fights he’d already won.
“Georges Devol,” the blond announced flatly.
“The Bayou Butcher?” the lady squealed.
Damn. Now she’d run. He kept his eyes fixed on the men but couldn’t stop stealing quick glances at her.
“Are you sure?” the big man asked.
“Look at him. Average features, average coloring, but very strong. The perfect camouflage for murdering thirteen
women, the officers and board of St. Mary’s Orphanage.”
All of those bitches had been liars and worse, pretending they knew nothing of the goings-on there. The boys and girls used for slave labor, or worse, raped night after night in their beds. And every month, those respectable vouduns had visited the orphanage for their fine luncheon, smiled at the children—while ignoring their bruises!—and left.
Georges kept his mouth shut. Talking had never helped, not from the day he’d been born at St. Mary’s. But killing those female hypocrites had made him feel a damn sight better.
He concentrated on breathing slowly and pushing back the pain. The longer he lived, the better chance he had of escaping.
A woman’s slender fingers curved over his wrist. His eyes shot up to her face, startled.
She smiled down at him, her small red tongue teasing her lips. “You’d fight that hard for me, too, wouldn’t you?”
“I’d do anything for you, cher,” he assured her fervently. Unlike most Cajun men who used the phrase freely, he’d never called a woman sweet before. But she was finer than whisky or honey. Perhaps there truly was a God, to have allowed him to meet her.
“You wonderful man.” She sank down onto the sofa beside him, still holding his hand.
“Get away from him, mademoiselle,” the blond ordered.
“No.” Her retort was machine-gun sharp. “He’ll be my first hijo.”
“The Bayou Butcher? The man who tied up thirteen women, one by one, and raped half of them?”
She’d shocked the knife fighter out of his stillness.
“Before poisoning them all with strychnine, one after the other—and drinking champagne while he watched them die? Ten to twenty minutes each of agonizing pain, while the woman’s every muscle separately locked into rigor mortis. ¡Chingado! ” The scarred brute looked angry enough to take revenge for their deaths here and now.
The scarred brute grabbed for Georges’s throat, moving faster than a swinging scythe.
Despite himself, Georges flinched, as he never had in Angola.
“Don’t touch him!” the lady snapped, holding up her hand. “You can’t have him, since I’ve already taken hold of him.”
“He should be executed for murder, Celeste!” The big man’s fingers tensed again. “You cannot be so reckless as to claim somebody like him.”
“A most creative and sadistic killer, oui?” the lady purred, and scraped her teeth over Georges’s hand. A thin line of crimson sprang up in response, as if begging for her.
She began to lick him delicately, her tongue digging at him, delving into his sweat and his flesh, making him want to give more. Anything, everything.
He moaned softly, warmth building wherever she touched. Joy flickered over his skin and danced through his blood.
Her fingers fondled his hip, despite the reeking river-bottom mud which enveloped him. None of the partners he’d sought oblivion with had ever cherished him like that.
He didn’t know everything involved but if it included her and not Angola’s Death Row, he’d agree in a heartbeat.
“Celeste!” the big man snapped.
She stopped slowly, even reluctantly, and looked up.
“Celeste, he’s a murderer,” the big man warned.
She shrugged. “But he’ll be my murderer.”
Horror swept over the other’s face and Georges hid his grin, enjoying his strengthening heartbeat, and watched his lady trample society’s conventions.
“The perfect weapon, since he has no morals to stop him from doing exactly what I want.” Celeste glanced back at him. “Isn’t that right, mon brave?”
Do anything she wanted, in exchange for being her idea of perfection? His cock swelled, flaunting his masculine triumph. “Oh yes,” he whispered.
Her tongue started sweeping over his wrist again, melding her saliva with his blood, driving Georges slowly insane. He made a rude gesture at the big blond, who had to live around a moralizing bastard.
The other flushed and took a step forward, reaching for his weapon. An abrupt gesture from his master halted him.
“I can’t take him away from you, Celeste, since you’ve already sealed your claim by drinking his blood,” the senior man warned, his deep voice rumbling through the saloon and making the guards even more alert. “But I ask you to think again before you give him El Abrazo.”
“Oh, I know exactly what will happen, Don Rafael.” She smiled blissfully, kissed her fingertips, and brushed them against the bruise on Georges’s temple.
His eyes turned to slits in pleasure at her open claim.
The blond all but hissed.
“He’ll be the best alferez mayor in North America.”
Whatever that meant, he’d do it for her, better than any other man in the world.
FOUR
SOUTHWEST TEXAS, FIFTY MILES FROM THE MEXICAN BORDER, APRIL, PRESENT DAY
Steve Reynolds pulled her Expedition to a stop, flicked her turn signal on, and waited patiently for a count of three. She was well aware nobody could see the black beast at this time of night, even under a nearly full moon. She might not be able to bake a cake or clean candle wax from a tablecloth, but she could drive a cop car damn well. When no other vehicles passed by, she decorously turned left onto Avenida dos Lagartos and headed back to Gilbert’s Crossing.
The state road led through nameless mountains, following an ancient riverbed filled with scattered boulders and sand. Limestone bluffs towered overhead, with century plants’ tall spikes protruding like sentries. Almost two centuries ago, her ancestors had served in the Rangers along this border.
She’d first met Ethan Templeton on a night like this, when she’d pulled his black pickup over for speeding. He’d been handsome as a dream of sin, too, and just as irresistible.
Humming between her teeth, Steve automatically lined up for another tight turn. Half an hour ago, she might have tried to cut the corner a bit or push the speed limit in hopes of making one of her rare dinner invitations. But fifteen years as a cop, including all those as a state trooper, had taught her the benefits of driving well—and the penalties of driving recklessly.
She still hated to have missed it. She’d have enjoyed drinking margaritas and watching Fred drive off to a lifetime of guarding Chihuahuas for the bottle blonde he’d married. Yappy little dogs, just like their mistress, that gave him no chance of ever having his own child.
Served him right, the bastard. Steve had dreamed of being a twenty-first-century Donna Reed, thought his big family and steady job qualified him as a great husband. Shit, she’d even been willing to talk to counselors about their endless arguments when she wasn’t around to do the things he demanded, like smile at prospective clients. But she wasn’t about to put up with a third party in their marriage, least of all somebody like that bitch.
Her foot sank a little harder onto the accelerator.
An instant later, she emerged into a broad plain, its thousands of cacti shimmering in the moonlight like rifles at an assassins’ convention. Another range of mountains offered their dark canyons and promontories a few miles ahead.
A few well-established ranchers and large corporations like the Santiago Trust still held sway here, those who’d long since adapted their breeds and ranching techniques to the mix of barren rocks, hidden water, and harsh desert. Very hardy, ancient breeds of cattle and goats made a good living here.
The radio scanner clicked into life.
“Two-eleven, would it be clear for a forty-three?”
Steve’s mouth quirked at this sign of normalcy. Clark Duncan was going off duty for dinner in Gilbert’s Crossing, probably down at Uncle Junior’s Diner. Thursday night was their fried pie night.
Wonder if she’d make it in time to have any?
She was a Texas Ranger with a star in a wheel on her badge and three counties to look after. Regulations said she should obey all the traffic laws. But she could have toasted Fred’s new leg-shackles with fried pies, almost as well as with margari
tas.
Still, there was the speed limit.
The black truck growled its disdain, sending the speedometer creeping up.
“Yeah, you understand, don’t you, big guy?” She laughed at herself but patted the wheel anyway. “Well, I spend more time with you than with anybody else.”
She throttled back, easing down to the speed limit, automatically watching for any sweeping beams of light signaling other vehicles. Maybe a rancher, or somebody from town taking the old road down to the border. Or a couple of scientists, taking a break from studying the local fossils, those older lizards this road had been named for. Not that she’d seen any so far, or expected to.
“Two-eleven, stand by to copy.”
Imelda was calling Duncan back from Uncle Junior’s?
“Two-eleven, copy a signal sixty-three, five-nineteen Sunflower Street . . .”
Somebody wanted backup at Nikki Castillo’s house? Odd, very odd. Nikki was a sweet lady whose biggest concerns seemed to be her two children, three cats, chocolate—and not talking about where she’d gotten that new Mustang from.
Scenes flickered behind Steve’s eyes, the way they often did on a case: Nikki screaming, her kids running out the door in terror.
Cold whispered over Steve’s skin, lighter than any breeze her state-procured vehicle could conjure up.
Her county, her town, her people. The speedometer’s needle slid a little more to the right. She pushed a recalcitrant lock of hair off her forehead, clearing her vision.
“Shots fired, shots fired!” Clark Duncan’s deep voice burst into the radio’s silence. Oh damn, that must have been why the first cop had called for backup. The unmistakable staccato drumbeat of heavy weaponry reaffirmed the alarm call. “Officer down! Officer—”
A single, loud bang! cut off his words, followed by a muffled thud.
Steve’s heart slammed into her chest.
Oh, hell, may neither of them have been hurt too badly. Two cops shot, one of them for trying to help a lady and the other for coming to their rescue. Damn the trigger-happy bastard, whoever he was.
She slammed the accelerator down, sliding her Expedition against the speed limit’s edge. A quick grab shoved her blue flasher onto the dashboard and flipped it on, sending its eerie warning whirling through the night and her siren howling. She raced along the road’s center line, watching for headlights, and praying she wouldn’t meet a stray cow. Her hands were light on the wheel but adrenaline pulsed through her blood like a rock band’s heavy bass guitar, hammering out the chase’s fundamental chord.
Bond of Darkness Page 4
