A Haunting Desire

by Julie Mulhern

  “I’m going to kiss you now.”

  “No.”

  He chuckled, the sound emanating from deep in his throat. “No, I didn’t tell you you’re beautiful, or no, I’m not going to kiss you? Because you are, and I am.”

  Of all the egotistical things she’d ever heard men say, that took the cake. She caught hold of his arrogance and held onto it like a lifeline. Damnable, conceited man. “No.” Her voice was barely louder than a whisper. They both knew she didn’t mean it.

  “You don’t sound too certain…” His fingers ran along her jaw. He ought to stop that. Her heart hammered in her chest. It was a miracle he couldn’t hear it. “What can I do to change your mind?” His breath, warm and scented with aged scotch, brushed across her. She trembled as it caressed her skin.

  “Nothing.” She turned her head away from his gaze, suddenly afraid to look at the lust swimming in his eyes. Afraid it might tempt her.

  “You’re sure?” His hand traced down the column of her throat and lower.

  “Positive.” If only her voice didn’t sound so choked.

  “No kisses.” His lips brushed her cheek. He paused, giving her the opportunity to turn her head or push him away or slip out of his arms. She did none of those things.

  “No kisses.” His lips caressed her mouth. “You’re positive?” He nibbled on the corner of her mouth and she was powerless to stop him. Worse, she didn’t want to.

  Her breath caught in her throat. His lips, firm and full, nipped and licked and teased until she couldn’t stand it any longer. Trula opened her mouth—barely—and his tongue slid inside, hot and searching and horribly seductive. A hand returned to her nape, angling her head for better access. His tongue explored, stroked, enticed. It took every ounce of her faltering willpower not to return his kiss, not to plunder his mouth, not to weave her fingers through his hair and pull him closer. Closer. She couldn’t want him. She wouldn’t allow it.

  He growled at her failure to react and his strong arms gathered the length of her body against his. The hardness of his muscles pressed against her. His scent, the woodsy smell of oak moss, scotch, and man, filled her. His heat, delicious and melting, threatened to thaw the ice that had long encased her heart.

  That she could not permit. Trula lifted her shaking hands to his shoulders. Her fingers splayed against the black cloth of his coat. She took a breath and shoved him away. “No.” Her voice was raw with unspent passion, and she didn’t dare look into the dark wells of his eyes. If she did, she just might change her mind. “Good night, Mr. Barnes.”

  He released her slowly. “Zeke. If you’re going to disappoint me, the least you can do is use my first name.” The lips that had so recently been tempting hers curved into a sardonic grin. “And you should know I like nothing better than a challenge.”

  A challenge? A game? He couldn’t have her and it made him want her more. A twinge of disappointment flitted across the surface of her heart. She shook her head, as if the movement could erase the feeling. She didn’t want to feel anything for him. Not lust. Not attraction. Not disappointment. Trula raised her gaze to his face.

  One of his brows rose, forming a devilish triangle.

  A challenge. “It’s time for you to leave, Mr. Barnes.”

  “Zeke. And you’re sure?”

  Trula closed her eyes against the enticing image of their bodies pressed together. “Should I call Gumbo to escort you out?”

  He leaned toward her and his kiss barely touched the plane of her cheek. “You win, Miss Boudreaux…for tonight.”

  Chapter Six

  How could the taste of a woman linger so long? He’d kissed Trula a full week ago and he still tasted her sweetness on his tongue.

  When Trula had walked into the police station and he’d realized she was a madam, all the impediments to tasting her lips whenever he pleased should have fallen faster than tin soldiers. The opposite was true. Trula and her lips were as unattainable as the stars, as far from his reach as the killer who lurked in the darkness.

  He’d spent seven days hunting the killer. He’d talked to those who knew the victims and to prostitutes who turned deaf and mute at his questions. He’d visited the places the bodies were found and learned nothing. His best clue came from a quixotic ghost.

  Go to Marie Leveau’s tomb. Find the woman who can tell you about voodoo. She has what you need.

  William had told him she held the answers he needed. He couldn’t afford to discount the ghost’s advice. Perhaps Trula knew something, some tiny detail she’d deemed unimportant. That detail might be the key to finding the killer. That’s why he went back to the house on Basin Street, night after night. At least that’s what he told himself when he woke thinking of her.

  He arrived just in time for breakfast, the meal she served every morning at one.

  A groaning buffet held all manner of delicacies. Coddled eggs, crisp bacon, boudin sausage, fresh fruit, sticky sweet pecan rolls, French croissants, and beignets sat next to etouffée, red beans and rice, shrimp jambalaya, fried okra, and, of course, fresh oysters.

  Three seats away, Trula’s restless fingers twisted a thin, black ribbon hanging from the bodice of her lavender gown. She listened to Dalton Lee, smiled, batted her eyelashes. She let go of the ribbon then picked at a flaky croissant. She was bored. Couldn’t Lee tell?

  Apparently not. He waxed poetic about a new colt. The horse would run at Fair Ground next year. Would she come?

  “I wouldn’t miss it.” Somehow those four little words conveyed excitement, delight, and a promise he suspected—hoped—she didn’t mean to keep.

  A squeal of girlish laughter erupted down the table. He ignored it and gazed at Trula. Dalton Lee fawned over her hand, tracing the delicate bones, caressing the soft skin. Zeke’s hands tightened into fists and his blood thrummed with the need to knock the man clutching Trula’s hand somewhere into next week.

  Beating her customers to a pulp wouldn’t earn her good graces. He relaxed his hands and bent to hear the nonsense Ginger whispered in his ear. He didn’t register a single thing she said, but laughed anyway.

  “Miz Trula, you gotta come now.” He barely heard Gilcie’s whispered plea. The girl was pale and she wore a peignoir rather than a gown.

  “What is it?” Trula’s voice was low and calm.

  The girl’s voice was too quiet to make out. Trula’s reaction was easier to read. She blanched, pulled her hand free of Lee’s pernicious fingers, and rose from the table.

  She smiled at the man who’d half-risen. “Dalton, there’s a little something I must see ‘bout, but Gilcie here adores horses.”

  Zeke had spent an hour talking to Gilcie. She was city-bred and deathly afraid of animals. The girl couldn’t tell the difference between a draft horse and a thoroughbred. Trula was lying.

  She bestowed one last smile on Dalton Lee. “I’m sure she’d like nothing better than to hear all about your new colt.” Then she caught Gumbo’s eye and jerked her chin toward the door before slipping into the foyer.

  Something was terribly wrong. Zeke rose and followed her into the entry hall.

  She lifted the hem of her dress and flew up the stairs.

  …

  When had this staircase gotten so long? Trula’s heart thudded against the constraints of her corset. She gasped for breath and kept climbing.

  Laurelie’s room lay at the end of a long hallway, but the girl’s cries met her at the top of the steps. She hitched her skirts higher and ran.

  She closed her hand around the door knob then cursed when it didn’t turn. Inside the room, Laurelie whimpered. Trula dug in her pocket for the master key. She grabbed the bit of metal, slid it into the lock, and turned. Thanks above, Laurelie had followed the house rules and removed her key from the inside lock. Trula turned the handle and pushed. The door didn’t budge. Damn. She beat an ineffectual fist against the door, hoping the sound would interrupt whatever was happening inside.

  Laurelie screamed.

  Trula
was helpless. “He’s put a chair under the knob.” She turned to Gumbo. “You’ll have to break it down.”

  Gumbo took a few steps back and levered his shoulder into the solid oak door. He grunted as his shoulder made contact. The door shuddered but didn’t give.

  “Dirty bitch, I’ll make you pay.” Through the closed door, Trula heard the crack of a whip followed by Laurelie’s anguished cry.

  Trula covered her mouth with her hand to capture a scream of frustration. A madman was whipping one of her girls and she was powerless to stop him.

  Gumbo hit the door again. It held.

  “Together.” Zeke Barnes stood behind her.

  Where had he come from? It didn’t matter. They needed to get to Laurelie. Now. She stepped out of his way. The two men rammed their shoulders into the door and the frame splintered. A second attempt broke it entirely. Trula rushed past their restraining hands.

  Laurelie huddled on the floor next to the bed, her arms covering her face and head while a florid giant kicked her ribs, the whip in his hand ready to open another welt on her back.

  Gumbo’s fists looked like cannonballs, tight and hard and deadly. He stepped into the room filled with broken furniture, shattered glass, and Laurelie’s blood.

  Zeke’s roped hand caught at Gumbo’s arm. “Let me.” His dark eyes blazed and, like Gumbo, his fists were at the ready.

  Too lost in his anger to notice them, Carter Wayne lashed again. To this he added another kick.

  Laurelie didn’t react. Not even a moan. Trula moved toward her, but Gumbo’s hand grabbed her. “Wait. Don’t get in the way, Miz Trula.”

  Already, one of Zeke’s hands grabbed Wayne’s shoulder. He spun the man away from the inert girl and slammed his fist into Wayne’s jaw. Wayne’s bloodshot eyes narrowed. He raised the whip, snapping it like a lion tamer. Zeke let the supple leather circle his wrist, then wrenched the weapon away.

  The Yankee policeman’s expression was hard as stone and twice as cold. He landed a punch in Wayne’s gut that sent him flying into the wall. The man grunted in pain. Another blow landed near Wayne’s nose and blood splattered across the floor, mixing with Laurelie’s.

  Zeke didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he punched again and again. Carter Wayne stumbled and slid down the wall, but Zeke caught him before he hit the floor and squeezed the larger man’s throat. The horrid man’s red face turned purple and he scrabbled at Zeke’s fingers.

  Shaking loose of Gumbo, Trula latched onto Zeke’s taut arm. “Don’t kill him.”

  He didn’t seem to hear her. Zeke hit Wayne again. The sound of his fist meeting muscle and flesh and bone reverberated throughout the room. Trula pulled on his arm; she had to stop him. The police would close her down if a customer was murdered. He brushed her off as if he were flicking a gnat.

  “Zeke. Please.” Her voice was high, shrill enough to break glass. “Stop.”

  The misty outline of a boy appeared, shimmering like stars on a clear night. Small hands pulled on Zeke’s left arm, as if he too wanted Zeke to stop. How had the ghost made it past the wards? It didn’t matter. When Zeke killed Wayne she wouldn’t need wards—she wouldn’t have a house. She made a grab at Zeke’s right arm, digging her fingers deep into his muscles.

  He glanced at her then loosened his grip on Wayne’s neck. Wayne’s eyes rolled back in his head, his enormous body went limp, and Zeke let him fall to the floor. The impact made waves in the ghost’s misty form, almost like ripples on a pond. Now that Wayne was on the floor, the phantom seemed less solid. Already it was fading away. She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. She had more important things to worry about at the moment than how a ghost had made it into her house.

  “Is he dead?” Her voice squeaked. She couldn’t quite breathe.

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?” She prayed to every single saint she could think of. If the wretched man was dead, she’d be overrun with policemen. The girls would lose their home, not to mention Hattie, Diddy, Ada, and Gumbo.

  Blood spotted Zeke’s white shirt. His knuckles were raw but he grinned as if he’d enjoyed giving the man who hurt Laurelie what was coming to him. “I’m sure.”

  “Good.” She stepped over Wayne’s motionless body then knelt next to Laurelie. Trula checked for a pulse and exhaled in relief when she found a strong beat with her searching fingers. “Gumbo, send for Dr. Montrose.”

  Gumbo hesitated at the door and his eyes sought Zeke’s.

  The Yankee poked Carter Wayne’s motionless body with his foot. “I’ll stay with her.”

  Gumbo disappeared.

  How had this happened? If Gilcie hadn’t heard Laurelie’s cries, the girl might be dead. Anger burned through Trula. Carter Wayne was damn lucky there wasn’t a fireplace poker handy. She knew just where she’d put it. Perhaps she should go find one… She dismissed the urge. Laurelie didn’t need rage, she needed care.

  “Please, would you help me get her on the bed?” she asked Zeke.

  The room was destroyed. Wayne had ripped the mirror off the wall and shards of glass littered the floor. The chaise had suffered two broken legs and the mattress hung off the bed at a drunken angle.

  Zeke shoved the mattress onto the bed frame then bent and picked up Laurelie. With unexpected gentleness he laid the unconscious girl on the bed. “Does this happen often?” His eyes traveled from the girl’s bloody face to her ripped gown. His features chiseled with anger.

  “Not in my house.” She pushed past him and took Laurelie’s hand in her own.

  “Other houses?” Somehow his accent was more pronounced. Each syllable clipped. Sharp.

  “All the time.” Disgust shook her voice. Laurelie’s lovely face was swollen and bloody. The whip had cut through her gown and flayed her skin. Wayne’s kicks had at the very least bruised the girl’s ribs. He might have broken a few.

  Zeke’s fingers brushed across the girl’s forehead. “How’d she end up here?”

  “The usual story.” The last bit of adrenaline filtered away and exhaustion grabbed her. She sank onto the edge of the bed and glanced around the ruined room.

  “I don’t know the usual story.”

  Of course he didn’t. He was probably from some fine, upstanding Yankee family. Why would he know anything about Southern poverty? “Small town, pretty girl. She’s bored, even restless. She wants more than a future of scratching in the dirt, hoping the cotton or rice or tobacco will grow. Then one day a handsome man appears. He tells her he loves her. He’ll take her away to the city and marry her. She can wear pretty dresses and stay at home while he earns a living. They’ll be happy.”

  “And she goes?” Zeke circled to the other side of the bed and picked up Laurelie’s other limp hand.

  “Almost always. By the time she realizes there’s no ring in her future, it’s too late. She’s soiled. She can’t go back home, her parents won’t take her. He’s all she has. Maybe he hits her and tells her it’s her fault. Most likely he gives her hop or morphine. By the time they reach the city, she’s completely dependent on him. She’ll do anything to keep him. She’ll even sit naked in a crib and spread her legs for strangers. The drugs help her forget what she’s doing and who she used to be.”

  Trula stroked Laurelie’s soft brown hair. “She only worked the cribs for a few weeks. Her fancy-man got himself gutted in a knife fight. Good thing, too. From what I heard he was mean as hell, took real pleasure in beating her senseless. When he died, Tom brought her to me.”

  “Tom?”

  “Tom Anderson. He owns the bar on the corner of Basin and Customhouse. He’s the unofficial mayor round here.”

  Laurelie groaned.

  “Is anyone coming? We should clean these cuts.” Zeke’s gaze traveled from the girl’s swelling eyes to the blood drying on her lips.

  “Hattie or Ada will be here any minute now. Laurelie, can you hear me, chére?” Trula asked.

  Zeke’s fingers ran down the length of Laurelie’s arm. So gentle. Trula did
n’t want him to be kind. She didn’t want him around her house—even if he had come to Laurelie’s rescue. She straightened her shoulders and looked straight into his eyes. “Thank you.”

  He shrugged. “It was nothing.”

  “No. It wasn’t. It was everything. You saved her life.”

  “Gumbo could’ve done the same.”

  “Maybe. But Gumbo needed your help breaking down the door. And if Gumbo beat Carter Wayne like that…” She glanced at the man on the floor. Bruises already colored his swelling face and marks from Zeke’s fingers darkened his neck. “Well, let’s just say we’d both be in a world of trouble.”

  Zeke patted the back of Laurelie’s hand before carefully putting it on the bed. Then, pushing off the edge of the mattress slowly so as not to disturb her, he came to stand behind Trula. His hands closed on her shoulders and his scent surrounded her body like a warm embrace. It was so tempting to lean back, to surrender to the comforting warmth of his chest, his arms. She turned and looked at him. His eyes no longer looked cold or angry or even mocking or lusty. They looked…decent. There was more to Zeke Barnes than she originally thought. She swallowed. “Please, just accept my thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” His voice was a whisper against her skin.

  “I brought towels, hot water, an’ arnica.” Hattie stood in the doorway, laden with supplies.

  Trula jumped away from the bed—and Zeke. A flush of heat warmed her face and she silently cursed herself for letting down her guard.

  The housekeeper raised her brows, rolled her eyes, and bustled into the destroyed room.

  Her moment of weakness was over. Trula looked directly at Zeke’s nose. That feature was nowhere near as compelling as his eyes and nowhere near as seductive as his lips. “Thank you again, Mr. Barnes. We’re grateful.”

  …

  She’d dismissed him and he didn’t want to leave. Damn the hesitation that kept him from taking Trula into his arms. She’d needed him. He knew it as well as he knew his own name. He should have held her and told her everything would be all right. The desire to offer comfort and support was a novel feeling.