Damn! They’d found her once more, the Dark Man and his son. She had to prepare.
She exhaled painfully and rolled to her knees, gathering her torn skirts with her left arm because her right was broken.
Men! Even the brightest of them were still terrified by women who could think, and these two—cowardly bastards! Eventually something would have to be done about them. If only she knew what. How did one kill what would not die?
CHAPTER FIVE
Ninon felt the weight of every assessing male stare as she strolled into the cantina. The jukebox in the corner was old but still giving valiant if ever-fading service. “Forever Nightshade Mary” came to an end and a long silence followed until the pool players recalled that they were there to have a game and not stare at the petite gringa who somehow managed to stroll with the long-legged walk of an Amazon.
Ninon sauntered to the old juke without giving the slightest sign that she was aware of the attention, though she felt it as surely as the sweat on her skin and the heaviness in her lungs. She understood that if they thought her a Latina then she should be insulted by their scrutiny. If she were an American tourist then she should feel flattered. As a Frenchwoman she was merely amused, but that wasn’t a response they would understand, so she kept it simple and gave them what they expected.
It amused her also to see mixed in with the juke’s salsa music some old American pop tunes, including “St. Elmo’s Fire.” Her fingers hovered over D9, but then, not feeling like tempting fate, she moved on to E2. Again she hesitated. She liked some of Nine Inch Nails because of the genuine emotion in the songs, but didn’t think that this was the kind of place where a lone woman should have Trent Reznor singing to the world that he wanted to “fuck her like an animal.” Instead, she chose Patsy Cline’s “Crazy.” She kept her back to the room as the song engaged, allowing herself to sway to the music, and also allowing the men to look their fill at her body. A sexual fantasy was a lovely gift to give a stranger. And anyway, she never knew when she might need one of these men to help her. This was her way of putting them on retainer.
In the tarnished mirror above the record player she watched the hotel manager. He was behind the bar counting the take in the cash box—still staring at her, still smirking, still begging to have his fingers broken. Her gaze was not inviting but his conviction of his great sex appeal was inviolate. Ninon truly pitied his wife. She also gave Miguel credit for seeing this creature for what he was.
Ninon inhaled slowly. The bar seemed to be serving beer, tequila, and vin ordinaire that smelled a bit too ordinaire for her tastes. There were only so many compromises a woman could make.
She knew by the frisson that passed over her skin when Miguel arrived, and she turned slowly to face him. He was dressed all in black, a shadow. Dark on dark, he moved smoothly through the dim, smoke-choked room on silent feet. The other men didn’t exactly scatter in front of him, but whenever he arrived at a space, it was empty and waiting.
He seemed at ease with the gift of beauty that Mother Nature—or the Father of Lies—had bequeathed him. It was Ninon’s experience that scientific types didn’t dress up well. If they managed a suit or tie they chose the one their mothers had dressed them in for high school graduation circa 1968. Miguel didn’t have that problem. The delicate lawn of his shirt and the crisp linen of his slacks both begged to be touched so that their superiority could be known. And he wore no gun—though she was willing to bet there was still a knife in his sock. She evaluated the cost of his clothing right down to the handmade shoes on his narrow feet. Science was paying well these days. Or perhaps he had other sources of income, like an annual tribute of gold from superstitious villagers.
His eyes moved over her, every bit as appraising. She was willing to wager that he recognized who had designed her dress, and that it was a vintage piece belonging in some design museum and not in a cheap cantina. His eyes were hot. Maybe he wanted to touch her clothes too. Certainly he wasn’t seeing her for what she was and thinking she had a fine analytical mind and athletic body. Later he might find that her ability to think clearly, to resist being be-spelled—and able to take a bullet too—belonged on her list of attributes, but not right now. She was willing to bet that nowhere was there an internet ad placed by Miguel Stuart that said: Single smart male seeks same in female. Must live forever, be able to fight sorcerers, and jump from speeding trains without hesitation.
She knew a moment of melancholy. Which was stupid—how could any woman have a man stare at her with such fierce attention and be disappointed? It was just…What? That she wanted to be appreciated for what she was? And what was that—a monster far stronger than any normal man?
“Crazy,” Patsy sang, “I’m crazy for feeling so lonely.”
As had been pointed out lately by the voice in her head, Ninon was crazy too.
He’s a handsome devil, she thought.
He’s not a devil, cherie.
No. But he is probably a blood relative. He has to be. Look at him.
“You’re staring,” she said when he stopped a pace from her. It wasn’t an accusation, and it was said softly so that it didn’t disturb the soft hum of male voices around them.
“Around here, you don’t see too many women who dress like they love their bodies,” he answered. That surprised her a little. It was a clever thing to say—if he suspected she had a brain. Perhaps they were going to play a game with more than one level of meaning. She had always loved subtlety.
Remain focused, the voice warned. This is not a game.
But it is a game—survival.
“My body does many things for me. I like to give it pretty clothes as a reward.” Unspoken was the suggestion that her body could do many things for him too. She sat down on the edge of a bar stool and crossed her legs.
“Will you have dinner with me?” Miguel asked. He too sat. His voice was liquid, a rolling tide of seduction that could not be deterred.
Thus spake the spider to the fly.
Is this wise, cherie? He is very good…
It’s what I came for. She didn’t know if it wise, though. Wisdom was another luxury she could not afford.
Ninon answered, “Sure,” sounding very Californian and laid-back, though it remained to be seen who would be eating whom at this meal.
A brief image of her naked body pressed up against his flashed through her mind, pointing out that her thoughts at least had more than one meaning. The subconscious double entendre startled and annoyed her. She also wondered if the image was her own or if she was picking up something from his mind. Perhaps he was sending out subliminal lures. Could that be part of his power?
“You’ve made my night,” he answered. His body, expression, and voice all said that he found her fascinating and couldn’t wait to hear what she had to say. She knew it was his natural—or unnatural—charisma and nothing personal, a lure he used on everyone. But it was still hard to resist.
He held out his hand, but she did not take it. She was prepared, in control—and yet there had been that small erotic image of the two of them in her brain. She couldn’t chance touching him. Not here. Not now. His clever fingers might drink in both her nervousness and attraction, and she didn’t want him certain about either feeling, though he had to suspect both.
“Would you like to bring your chaperone? I am sure that for a suitable tip, Corazon would be permitted to join us.” He was amused by her hesitation and showed it with his suggestion. He didn’t touch her though, seeming to realize that it would mean risking losing his fingers to her bite. Not that he was the type to fear pain, but he was probably clever and knew it was too soon in their relationship to let one’s prey know things could get bloody.
Still, it wasn’t a bad idea to fetch the cat. A witch should always stay close to her familiar…But, no. She could not risk putting Corazon in danger. He was just a cat, not a demonic imp.
“No thanks, he does not care for the local cuisine. He is on the Atkins diet and avoiding carbs. Beans a
nd tortillas would never do.” Ninon made herself smile.
“I don’t suppose there are many carbs in feathers,” Miguel agreed.
“None, I shouldn’t think. Anyway, he has a bad habit of licking the salt off my margaritas.”
Miguel smiled again, and this time she felt it was genuine and personal, a smile just for her. It made the muscles of her abdomen clench and she had to look away. She had not counted on this intense physical attraction.
A quick glance out the deep sill of the window revealed something unusual. An impressive palisade of black clouds was building on the horizon. They would finally have rain. And lightning. Had Saint Germain left Mexico and allowed Mother Nature to resume her natural course? Or did this mean just the opposite?
“It will be here soon,” Miguel said softly, looking in the same direction. “I’ve always loved the rain. It’s such a miracle in these dry lands. Sometimes I go out in the storm and let it bathe me.”
Naked. He went naked. As did she, though it wasn’t water she bathed in, but fire. Her breath caught on the image of the two of them naked, stuttered, and then stopped altogether.
“Let me buy you a drink—with extra salt if you like. The firewater is safe here too, though I wouldn’t touch the wine,” he said. He moved a little closer and the hair on Ninon’s arms raised slightly as though pulled erect by static. “Then we can go on to dinner.”
“A margarita please,” she agreed, looking away from him, away from the storm. She stared at her gold-gilt toes peeping out of her sandals and tried to regain her lost breath.
A moment later a drink appeared in his hand. Either more time had slipped by than she was aware of, or he had somehow managed to both anticipate and communicate his wishes to the bartender before she voiced her order.
“Here you go,” he said. Sensing her hesitation, he had dialed back the raw desire. It was uncanny how he read her. This was a master manipulator.
“Thanks. And extra salt too.”
She took the glass reluctantly—she should have been watching to be sure that nothing besides lime and tequila had gone into it. Ninon sipped cautiously. Some tequila was corrosive enough to cause second-degree burns on the lips and throat, but that wasn’t what she feared.
Her worries were foundless, the drink was smooth, and her keen tongue and nose said that there was nothing dangerous in her glass except his intention to relax her enough to bed her. Miguel sipped his own drink and then curled his tongue over the rim. Again came the flash of an image, his tongue traveling up her body, after the salt of her sweat. Hers or his? She didn’t know. Ninon stared, reluctantly intrigued.
Then, something else. She had seen only the quickest of glimpses when he licked the salt from his glass, but she was certain that he had black racing stripes on either side of his tongue. Natural coloration in tongues was not unheard of. Some breeds of dogs had blue and black tongues, but this looked deliberate, symmetrical—like the fine scars on his cheeks. But who the hell tattooed his tongue? It had to hurt like hell.
At least it isn’t forked.
She transferred her gaze back to the window. It seemed the safer place to look.
“Shall we step outside?” he asked. “There is a gazebo where we could sit and watch the storm.”
The idea of being outside where there was lots of room to run appealed to her. Ninon also enjoyed the contact high she got from nearby lightning. Of course, if it came too close she would have to leave him. Under her fake tan were the gold lines, evidence of her previous encounters with St. Elmo’s fire, and they would begin to glow if the lightning came near.
“That sounds perfect,” she said, lying, but not too much.
They walked side by side on the paved path lined with whispering palm trees that were also a white man’s import. The gazebo was raised, slightly Moorish in its architecture, and had a view of a church, Iglesia de San Jose, which was little more than a pair of perpendicular white towers topped with bright red cupolas. It was not a thing of architectural beauty, but she made note of it because it was the tallest structure in town. She might need to make use of it if her time came and she had not found any help.
Miguel was being cautious, still respecting her obvious desire not to be touched, but she could feel his gaze on her face as they climbed the gazebo’s stairs. She knew that both his curiosity and hunger were growing. Who was she? What was she? Why did she not instantly fall into his arms? This was probably a new experience for him.
Take the ride or hide? Stop playing games? Should she tell him what she was and what she wanted? Assuming he didn’t already suspect.
No. Not yet. She might be genuinely attracted to him, but that meant nothing. Passion was not honest. He could be another Saint Germain. Only a fool would assume him to be a knight-errant because of his beauty. Other women in the first throes of desire might be trusting, but she had always thought intense attraction was like watching a two-year-old play with fire. She had been badly burned and was more cautious.
“Tell me a little bit about what you do,” Miguel urged.
Ninon smiled.
“I used to be a sort of Mary Poppins for those with relationship problems.” He blinked at her so she explained: “You know, Mary Poppins, the magical nanny who’d arrive with the North wind—or maybe it was the East, I never can remember. Anyhow, she’d work with a child until things got better, and then when the wind shifted, she’d fly off again.”
“I know who Mary Poppins is,” he said. “The image was just so…incompatible that it threw me for a moment.”
“Well, I work with adults, not children, but the idea holds.” She mounted the steps, letting her hips sway. Let him look at something besides her face, which she was having trouble controlling.
“So, you’re a sort of sex therapist?” He seemed to mull this idea over, perhaps feeling that it would explain her differences, why she could be sexy but not be ruled by sexuality.
“A sex therapist. I like that. I was thinking of myself as more of a counselor but—”
“I like counselor better,” he said.
So, he had a few old-fashioned prejudices. That was good to know. It also amused her, and that made her feel more in control. Men! It was so simple for them: Women were either Madonnas or whores.
“You’re sure? I think sex therapists would wear better underwear,” she said, resuming their flirtation. “Assuming they wore any, of course.”
Ninon set her drink on the flat railing of the gazebo and leaned against the ancient wood as well, forcing herself to finally meet his gaze and smile with an appearance of calm. She had left her gun in her room inside Corazon’s carrier, but she could feel the trench spike inside the satin sheath that rested on her thigh. It was made of pure steel and had a deadly sharp blade. It wasn’t being shown as a summer accessory in any of the fashion magazines, but like a good Scout, she believed in being prepared—and you just couldn’t count on someone else having a trench spike lying about when you needed one.
“You’re even more beautiful at night,” he said, changing the subject. A cliché, but his voice made the phrase seem like it was being spoken for the first time. That voice! Either he was pulling out all the stops for her, or else the reason he spent so much time in deserted pozas was because he was tired of beating off the females.
“Oddly enough, so are you.” Her voice wasn’t as even as she would like. “So, tell me something about yourself. A favorite color—or do you have a nickname? A pet?”
His head tipped to one side.
“Yes, I have another name. It is a difficult name. Many have trouble uttering it. Would you like to hear it anyway? Or perhaps you would like to choose a name for me.”
Ciuateto, the ozone-rich breeze seemed to whisper.
His eyes! Damn! It took only a moment of contact and she was again lost in their dark reflection, caught in a hall of mirrors where each glance showed her own desire, multiplied to infinity as the longing bounced from her gaze to his gaze and back again down the dark
tunnel of long-denied need. Meeting him at night was a mistake. That was when certain dark powers held greater sway and when she was weakest.
And she could read what was in his mind now. He had looked inside, sensed her want and he had a message just for her: Come close. I know what you need and do not judge. Just ask—pleasure, pain, amnesia, even death. I can give it all. Just say my name. Ciuateto. Say it, and I will give you everything.
She forced her eyes not to answer, grateful for the plastic film of the contacts that helped veil what was there. No longer innocent, she felt fear and longing in equal measure.
Was this his standard seduction? Or did he realize his particular appeal to her? She’d come from an age of sexual and moral repression, so his offer of freedom and acceptance, lust without limits or moral judgments, was the ultimate seduction. And the thought of punishment—well, that was seductive in its own way. The desire to accept his offer was stronger in her than it would be in any modern counterpart who had never known what it was to be forbidden sexual expression on pain of death.
Ninon tried to think, tried to pull back, but it was useless. The stronger part of her wanted to see this contest through. She was stronger than he! She had to be.
But looking at him, she knew he would transgress even her firmest sensual boundaries, that he would take her deep into the world of lust—as deep as she wished to go.
And perhaps even deeper. Was she ready to be sacrificed, even tortured? The voice in her head asked, did she really think that pain would bring absolution?
No, but she needed to know—how strong was he? Could she resist if she needed to? If seduction was her only recourse, the only means of persuasion, could she encounter him and survive? More importantly, was he stronger than Saint Germain?
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