Crescent Moon

by Delilah Devlin

  Her free hand was wrapped around the plastic bag he’d found to hold the wrappings and the amulets she’d gathered from the crate. He didn’t know a woman alive who wouldn’t have been more concerned about the amount of skin she showed.

  But one corner of her mouth curled.

  He narrowed his eyes, wondering if she’d known her nudity bothered him all along and was messing with him now. “Uh, you’re flashin’ again.”

  She glanced down at her exposed décolletage. “I’m sorry for my immodesty.”

  “I’ll find somethin’ you won’t have to think about to keep covered,” he muttered. “Once I get you inside.”

  Her gaze widened a bit. “I guess I hadn’t thought much about our destination. Not with everything out there.” She glanced toward the noisy street outside.

  He reached into his back pocket, pulled out the leather folder, and flipped it open to show his badge. “Promise, I’m one o’ the good guys. I didn’t think you wanted to go to the station. There’d be more people drillin’ you for answers.”

  “Police station?” she asked. At his nod, she dipped her chin as well. “I wish my presence to remain unnoted.” Her lips twitched. “Not that I would be in your system.”

  “You an illegal?”

  Her chin lifted. “I am an ancient.”

  More cult talk, no doubt. Cryptic, but not yet annoying. He placed a hand at the small of her back, ignoring her gasp, and herded her toward his door. Once inside, he hit the light switch, realizing this was the first time he cared that his place was sparsely furnished, not a single picture on the walls or a cozy rug on the old wood floors. But it was clean. He had a cleaning lady come in every week because he missed things, like pizza boxes shoved under the couch.

  He gripped her shoulders and waited for her to quit sweeping his place with a wide-eyed stare. When she raised her golden-brown gaze to meet his, he said. “Don’t move. I’ll get you somethin’ to wear. Then we’re gonna talk.”

  “As you are my guide, I will do as you ask.”

  Her guide. Sweet Jesus, he wished she didn’t talk like that. Or trust him so quickly. Made him feel guilty about the vision her words conjured in his mind. All sweetly submissive. Eager to please. Merde, he was a horny bastard. But his thoughts couldn’t be reined in any more than his libido. Heat seeped from under his collar and pooled in his groin. He sucked in a deep breath and willed his heart to stop thudding so hard against his chest wall. Subservience from a woman wasn’t something he normally craved. A woman who needed to be led was too much damn work.

  And she didn’t really seem the least bit submissive. Just confused. When he started questioning her, he’d have to keep that in mind. But maybe she needed something to eat first. Or a shower … He cursed under his breath, realizing he deserved to ache, head to toe, for stepping over the line with this woman.

  Entering his bedroom, he pulled open the bottom drawer of his bureau and rifled through his sweats. Something with a drawstring because he didn’t have anything that would fit.

  Juste knew he wasn’t acting like a cop. Right now, he was thinking like a man. One who was just a bit flustered by the beauty in his living room. One who hadn’t been in a relationship for a while because then he’d have to be on time for things, or simply be there when his girl wanted to talk. And he knew better than anyone he wasn’t made for that. There wasn’t a woman on the planet who’d kept his interest longer than the time involved to get her into bed.

  Although they’d met under strange circumstances, the girl in his living room wouldn’t be any different. He’d unravel her mystery, maybe see someone else arrest her, because he’d screwed his chances at being part of the investigation. Or maybe he’d simply help her reunite with her husband … someone he kept forgetting she had in her life.

  The static roar of the TV turning on in the living room surprised him. He hadn’t seen the remote in a while and had given up on it, nursing his heartache in the quiet.

  But the sound of channels changing, from music to the rev of engines to the exaggerated voices of cartoon characters, and moving faster than his remote had ever managed, drew him to the doorway. He stuck his head out of the door to spot her standing with a hand on the screen and the channels changing at a blinding speed. “Hey, how’d you do that?”

  Her hand pulled away and the screen went blank. “How did I do what?”

  But her eyes were a little too wide. And again, the lapels were parted, giving him a view of a strip of flesh straight down her torso to her bare mound. Good lord, he started to sweat.

  Her gaze noted where his had landed, and she glanced down at herself. “Again, I am sorry for my immodesty.”

  “But not sorry enough to cover yourself.”

  She shrugged and the jacket landed on the floor behind her. “I am ready for my bath.”

  Juste’s mouth dried right up. His tongue must have stuck to the roof, because he stood there quietly while she walked toward him and his heartbeats revved like a stock car engine. He swallowed hard and forced his gaze to rise to her honey-gold eyes. “Who are you, really?” he asked.

  “Amun’s wife. The God’s Wife. Although, by your expression, you have no idea what that signifies.”

  He cleared his throat, forcing his gaze to remain locked with hers, because she stood close enough that if he sucked in a deep breath, their chests would touch. “You some kinda nun?”

  Her head tilted. Her gaze blurred as her lashes lowered, before they widened as though slowly digesting his words. “I suppose … that is similar. I live to serve Amun. Or at least I did. And now I must bathe before I pray to him.”

  “Amun is a god?” he asked, his tone gruff because she stood near enough he could have reached out and pulled her against him. More than anything, he wanted to feel her lithe curves against his body. Her scent, like some incense he’d once smelled in a head shop, was pleasant, making him a little dizzy.

  “Yes, Amun is the god I serve,” she said softly, her lush mouth pillowing when her lips closed. “He speaks through me.”

  “Uh huh.” Juste shook his head. Crazy as a loon. Just his luck. “The bathroom is down that hallway,” he said, indicating with a hand wave. “First door to your right.”

  “Will you draw my water?”

  “All you have to do is turn the tap.”

  Her eyebrows drew together.

  He sighed. “I’ll show you.” He walked ahead of her, aware of her soft tread behind him. Flicking on the light switch, he ignored her gasp. After stepping to the tub, he pulled back the shower curtain and bent to turn on the faucet, placing his hand beneath the stream to test the temperature until it warmed, and then quickly straightened.

  She stood so close, he bumped into her. Her eyelashes fluttered down to fan across her cheeks, which were reddening. “I am sorry. I wanted to watch what you did.”

  “Turn them counterclockwise to close the tap,” he said, unsure whether she was mocking him or being serious. Didn’t nuns have running water?

  “Clockwise?”

  “Just get in.” He shook his head. “I’ll turn it off for you when the bath is full.”

  She stepped into the tub and lowered herself.

  Juste turned to the cabinet and pulled out a washcloth and towel. “Shampoo’s on the ledge. It’s for your hair,” he explained, since she didn’t appear to know anything else. Which should have been suspicious, but a condition he was quickly accepting as a fact.

  The woman had led a sheltered existence. Light fixtures astounded her. Traffic amazed her. She didn’t know how to operate faucets, and yet, she spoke perfect English. Better than his. The situation just didn’t add up.

  His own actions confused him too. He’d hustled someone from a crime scene, without telling a soul or taking her to the station. Or at the very least alerting his partner. He’d followed his gut, not his training, and he didn’t give a shit if he lost his job over it.

  He couldn’t have let anyone else solve the mystery of who she was and h
ow she’d come to be wrapped up like a mummy and left for dead.

  Khepri stared at the shampoo bottle with her brows lowered.

  Shoulders slumping, he sat on the toilet next to the tub, resigned that the next half hour would be pure torture. “Get your hair wet,” he growled.

  She bent her legs and slid her whole torso and head under the water, her eyes open and staring up at him.

  A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, which drew his brows together, because he refused to laugh. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his shirtsleeves, and then reached for the shampoo bottle. Somehow, he knew she was accustomed to people attending her—washing her hair, scrubbing her back, brushing her hair. Because she sure hadn’t blinked an eye when she’d dropped his jacket and asked to bathe, her gaze so expectant he knew she expected him to jump to fulfill her wish.

  And hadn’t he? He curled his fingers twice.

  She rose from the water, her neck bent back and her chest rising around a deep inhalation. “The water smells so good,” she said, smiling slightly as she turned her head his way.

  “It stinks of chlorine.”

  “It’s so fresh …” But she crimped her lips, perhaps sensing he was losing his patience with her act.

  He upended the shampoo bottom and squirted a dollop of soap in the center of his palm. “If you turn around, I’ll wash your hair.”

  “You are not my servant,” she said softly.

  “You just think o’ that? I’m a cop, Khepri. A damn detective, and I just did somethin’ fuckin’ crazy bringin’ you to my home.”

  “You followed your destiny,” she whispered.

  “My destiny?” He snorted. He’d followed his dick. “Turn around. I’ll wash your hair. It’ll be faster if I do it.”

  Moisture filled her eyes.

  He ignored it, swirling a downturned finger to tell her to turn. As he worked suds into her long hair, he lingered over the task, his chest filling with a strange contentment.

  Juste was confused—by his actions as much as by hers. These last few hours, she’d lifted a little of his burden. He hadn’t thought once about Bobby and the botched operation, about his career-limiting dive across the desk, or about his questionable future as a New Orleans PD detective.

  For that reason alone, he owed her. Luxuriating in the moment, he dug his fingers into her scalp. A beautiful woman sat in his bathtub and his fingers were working up a lather. Sometimes, that’s all a man could ask for.

  Episode Three

  Part III – Bite of the Scorpion

  Chapter Eight

  Khepri rubbed the towel against her wet hair as she looked into the reflective glass. She stared at her own reflection, so clear in her warrior’s perfect mirror that she could see every pore of her skin. Now she knew exactly what Justin Henry Boucher had seen when he’d been washing her.

  Despite the millennia she’d slept, she was still beautiful. Her features were even, nothing overlarge or too small, although her mouth was plump. Had he liked her face and her golden skin? He’d managed to touch her most everywhere as he’d patiently washed her hair, and then when she’d passed him the soft washcloth, smoothing it over her back and shoulders, her calves and thighs, only demurring from rubbing her breasts and between her legs.

  Perhaps she shouldn’t have teased him with her passively couched demands. She assumed he was trying to remain a gentleman—holding onto a little reserve in her presence. Justin Henry Boucher seemed irritated by her, or by the fact of his obvious attraction. Something impossible not to notice as he’d sat on the stool topped by a down-turned lid with his legs spread. Her own heart had beat a rapid tattoo at the rising evidence of his desire as he’d growled and grunted, trying to keep his roving hands moving rather than lingering—to wash her, not seek his own pleasure—although they had both found that.

  A smile stretched her mouth and she leaned closer to examine her white teeth. He’d left her a toothbrush but hadn’t bothered to show her how to use it, his hasty departure displaying the end of his patience, or perhaps his self-control. She would ask him to demonstrate the use later, although she had images in her mind of up and down motions and foaming, sweet paste. But having Justin Henry Boucher show her would make the experience something special.

  She liked saying his three names. Liked the lyrical cadence of his names, which reminded her of the musical lilting of his rasping speech. Her insides melted when he grumbled and growled, but grew slick and warm when his voice dropped and he purred—as he’d done when he’d washed her hair. In her lifetime, she’d been bathed hundreds of times, but had never experienced so much pleasure.

  Her bones had nearly softened. She’d fought hard not to rub against his hands like a kitten when he’d dug thick fingers into her scalp. True sensual torture had stolen her breath when he’d scrubbed a nubby cloth over her back to take away the last remnants of the resin sticking to her skin. He’d insisted because she hadn’t seen it and couldn’t reach it. And yet, when his hand had smoothed over the top of her shoulder and she’d bent back her head to give him access to her neck, and more if he would take it, he’d dropped the cloth in the water and left her to finish on her own.

  When he’d stopped, she’d been disappointed, but she was now grateful for the reprieve. The sensual pull of the threads binding them together was tightening. He was fighting the spell cast by attraction and desire. So should she. Even if Amun was responsible for putting Justin in her path, she had an obligation to resist. Although she no longer had a temple, she should still take her vows seriously. Amun had protected her. He loved her. She sensed it as surely as she lived and breathed.

  Temptation was a test; she was sure of that fact. Dark, curly brown hair, midnight blue eyes, and a rugged physique created a devastating package, but she was made of sterner stuff. Her head would not be turned away from her mission.

  Khepri shook her head, smiling ruefully at her reflection. For a woman who had known little about desire in her life, her afterlife was rife with breath-stealing possibilities. Her blood thrummed a little faster.

  Instinctively, not because she’d seen any sign or heard any whispers of advice, she knew she’d awoken in a distant future. One moment her eyes closed as she’d suffocated to death. The next, she roused from the deepest sleep due to the man who now paced restlessly outside the bathroom door. If he’d walked away at the moment she’d come whimpering back to life, she would have died, suffocated a second time, but he’d heard her frightened, breathless murmurs and worked feverishly to free her.

  He’d saved her. Now she was his responsibility. Amun had chosen this man, provided him the opportunity, guided his movements so he would find her. But knowing he was meant to serve her now, and getting the man to believe it … Well, she might have to use the gifts she’d considered blessings to convince him.

  He certainly seemed enamored of her womanly form—a fact she would use while making sure her own attraction remained under her control. Her first steps should be calculated. Before she set out on her quest, she had much to learn about this new world. She alone understood the peril the city faced.

  New Orleans. The words tasted like something cloyingly sweet when spoken. A rich delicacy that clung to one’s tongue long after the last bite. She rather liked what she had seen of the city from the passenger side of his conveyance. Justin’s car. Justin Henry Boucher. More sweet, succulent words. Just a hint of spice. They tickled the tip of her tongue when she repeated them out loud. Were his names another sort of spell?

  Khepri wrinkled her nose at her reflection. What was her husband thinking to send someone so palatable, so pleasing, to look upon to be her guide in this new, brazen world? Was this another temptation? Or a reward? She wished she could remember the time after she’d fallen into darkness to know whether she deserved a test of her moral fiber, or whether she’d already earned a sweet reprieve. But when she closed her eyes, there was nothing. Not a wisp of distant memory. Just a deep, dark void that frightened her more than she
would let herself consider for very long.

  The mirror fogged, and she used her towel to wipe it clean, not through looking at her reflection. Without kohl to line her eyes or crushed berries to redden her mouth, her face seemed bare. She used the comb she found in a drawer and untangled her hair, and then dressed in the ugly clothing he’d left in a pile on the counter. Long pants, gathered at the ankle, and with a drawstring to cinch at her waist. The joining of the fabric between her legs fell well beneath her sex, annoying her, so she rolled the banded waist to pull up the garment. The overshirt was large and reached to mid-thigh, but was soft and a pretty sky blue.

  She grinned, remembering how he’d repeatedly grumbled when she’d forgotten her modesty. How much of that had been discomfort, and how much his own attraction? He likely thought that covering her in ugly clothing would lessen her appeal.

  The neckline of the large shirt shifted, baring a shoulder, and she left it like that as she let herself out of the bathing room.

  Justin had stopped his pacing and was in the room nearer the outside door. He held a small object to his ear and was speaking into it. Rather than staring hard and wondering at its use, as she had so many things since she’d awakened, her mind found the object on an internal script, named it, and she knew instantly its label—a cellphone—and what it was used for. He was speaking to some unseen person far away.

  “Denise, thanks. I’m not sure what size, but she’s … narrower than you. Like a model, one that needs a sandwich or three.” His gaze landed on Khepri. “And she’s average height. Maybe five foot five.”

  Average height? Khepri snorted and squared her shoulders. In her time, she’d been quite tall and considered willowy. Did Justin like a larger woman? The thought pricked her pride.