A Haunting Desire

by Julie Mulhern

  From his chair, Big Daddy Boog studied her, his eyes nearly lost in wrinkles of fat. What did he see? A notorious madam, a nosy white woman, or a meddling do-gooder?

  He smiled at her. All teeth. It wasn’t a reassuring sight. His hands gripped the arms of his chair and he leaned forward.

  “Please don’t get up on my account.”

  He settled back into the chair. “Mighty pleased to meet you, Miz Boudreaux. I heard tell you were a pretty woman. The boys who play jazz at your house sure enough got somethin’ right. Have a seat.” His voice was as low and mournful as the fog horns from the boats that plied the river.

  Trula settled into a rump-sprung twin of Big Daddy’s chair.

  “Lemonade?” he asked. A pitcher and glasses perched on a small table next to him.

  “Thank you kindly.” Fighting the chair’s curved back, she took a deep breath and straightened her spine.

  He poured a glass and handed it to her. Trula sipped the too-sweet lemonade. The cicadas and locusts droned. Inside the house, a child wailed and was quickly shushed. Trula swallowed another sip of lemonade. “You have a lovely home.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Have you lived here long?”

  His eyes twinkled. “Why you here, Miz Boudreaux?”

  She studied the twisted coils of the clematis vines. “We have troubles in the district.”

  He chuckled, a deep rumble. “Ain’t that the truth.”

  “Murder is bad for business.”

  He shrugged his enormous shoulders and his chair groaned in protest. “New Orleans is called the Port of Lost Men.”

  Trula fought back a scowl. “Most of those lost men don’t end up gutted in the streets of Storyville.”

  Big Daddy ruffled the wet air with his folded paper. “Why did you come Back of Town to ask about those troubles? You reckon I got something to do with them?” The jovial fat man disappeared, replaced by a hulking menace. His stare weighed more than the humidity in the damp air. The flowers trailing their way up the porch looked suddenly darker, a deep purple suitable for a funeral. Was Big Daddy going to hex her, her house, and her girls? “No. Of course not. I’m asking for your help.” The words tripped over each other in their rush. “I thought you might know—” She stopped.

  Big Daddy Boog’s eyes bored into her and in the shadows cast by the clematis vines, an entity appeared, swirling around him. He need only call the spirit to him and she’d be cursed.

  Trula’s heart thudded in her chest and her throat dried as if she’d swallowed a whole cup of Eulie’s brick dust instead of sugary lemonade. “I mean…I thought…that is…”

  Big Daddy hauled himself out of his chair and pointed a finger at her.

  The screened door slammed and Trula jumped in her chair. A woman, almost Big Daddy’s equal in girth, scowled at them both. “You stop scarin’ Miz Boudreaux.”

  The shadows faded back to sunshine and Trula drew a shaky breath.

  The woman’s lips curled into a welcoming smile. “Don’t you pay him no never mind. He’s playing at being the big man. He doesn’t know anything about dead men or murder.”

  Trula’s savior turned her dark eyes on Big Daddy. The enormous man shrank. “And you, you tryin’ to scare Miz Boudreaux? Ain’t you remembering what she did for my sister’s boy?”

  Big Daddy grunted and resumed his seat. His big hands fumbled with his newspaper fan as if he could unfold it and hide from his wife’s wrath behind its pages.

  “Who’s your nephew?” Trula’s voice was weak, breathless.

  “Edison Miller.”

  Trula offered a shaky smile. “He’s a fine boy. You must be proud.”

  “Prouder now that you’re helping him go to university.”

  “It’s my pleasure.” Edison was too bright to spend his life banging on piano keys in Storyville. The boy had the ability to accomplish so much more. She’d helped him gain admittance to one of the universities open to black students and gave him the money for tuition.

  “He never reckoned on getting more schoolin’, not till you put the idea in his head. We’re fixin’ to have a real doctor in the family.” A broad smile stretched across her face.

  Big Daddy shook his paper and grumbled. A real doctor was well and good, but Trula didn’t want a voodoo doctor hexing her.

  “I’m Vera Boog.” The woman stuck out her hand. “Call me Vera.”

  Trula took Vera’s hand and endured a vigorous arm pumping. All too aware of Big Daddy crinkling his paper behind her, she said, “I’m sorry I bothered your husband about the murders in Storyville, Vera. I didn’t mean to suggest he had anything to do with them.”

  “He ain’t bothered. He just doesn’t know anything. Like I said, he’s playin’ like he’s the big man. You go see Granny Amzie. I reckon that witchy woman knows all about them. She can answer any question you got.”

  Trula heard a snicker from behind Big Daddy’s newspaper. It was time to leave.

  “Thank you, Vera. I’ll do that. And, thank you, Big Daddy, for your time and the lemonade.”

  The front path stretched too long and Big Daddy’s disgruntled stare prickled on her back. Trula prayed his wife kept him from casting a hex after her. What had she been thinking? That the most powerful voodoo queens and doctors in New Orleans would hand over their secrets because she batted her eyes at them? She needed a better plan.

  Questions played across Zeke’s handsome face. He helped her climb into the gig and his hand on her elbow was oddly reassuring.

  “What did he say?” Zeke sounded almost worried. “You’re as white as a sheet.”

  “They told me to go see Granny Amzie.”

  “Is she on your list? You didn’t mention her before.”

  “I’ve been to Granny’s and I can’t imagine she has anything to do with the murders. But…” Maybe Granny knew something and hadn’t told her. The old woman avoided giving direct answers better than Eulie. And Eulie was a master.

  Zeke’s eyes narrowed. “But you want to go? Today?”

  “Yes.” Trula studied the sky. Towering black clouds boiled to the west. “Although, it’s going to rain.”

  “I won’t melt.” His grin affected the hardness of her bones, liquefied them into warm pools of marrow. Zeke wouldn’t melt, but she might.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Granny lives out by Lake Ponchartrain.” Trula pointed in the right direction. “Follow the Seventeenth Street Canal.”

  “Oh?” Zeke’s eyebrow peaked. “I heard she lived by the river.”

  Too late she remembered the wild goose chase she’d created the last time she visited Granny. “Who told you that? Granny Amzie lives near the lake shore.”

  The skin near Zeke’s eyes tightened. His expression….well, she’d seen softer rocks.

  “Granny” —She cleared her throat— “can be…difficult. Who knows what will happen when we get there.”

  “That sounds interesting.”

  She certainly hoped not.

  The storm that threatened in Back of Town struck with a vengeance near the lake. Wind and water lashed at the phaeton. They arrived at Granny’s shack wet and out of sorts.

  She lifted a cold finger inside a sodden glove and pointed out to the lean-to where the horse could shelter from the storm.

  Zeke dropped her off near the dripping front porch and Trula hurried to the door. No one answered her knock. “Granny,” she cried, raising her voice above the wind.

  The storm yanked at her drenched hem. She pounded on the door. A particularly strong gust blew water horizontally, buffeting her back, drowning the feathers on the straw hat already disintegrating on her head. Trula twisted the handle and stepped inside, escaping the cold wind and biting rain.

  Granny’s house was empty and dark. The hearth was cold. Trula shivered in chilly air perfumed with Granny’s potions and powders.

  She fumbled through the miasma of candle stubs and vials of powder littering the mantel and found a box of matches. She l
it a match and blew on the wood shavings in the hearth until they caught. For once, the kettle was full. Trula hung it above the glowing flames.

  Next she searched for an oil lamp. Using one of Granny’s colorful candles was out of the question. There was no way to know which ones had been blessed or cursed. Instead, she used the flickering light from the fire to search for towels and blankets.

  Zeke walked through the door, soaked to the skin, and she handed him a dry towel. “You’ll catch your death.”

  His brows rose as his gaze moved from her destroyed hat to her wet dress. With a flick of his sooty lashes his midnight gaze shifted and took in Granny’s one-room cabin. The wobbly table, the bed covered with a colorful quilt, the rocking chair next to the fireplace, and the vivid altar. Then his gaze returned to her. She was all too aware of her sopping dress and lank hair.

  His stare trapped her, a lamb cornered by a hungry wolf. Her heart stuttered then beat far too hard and fast. She wrapped her arms across her chest. A useless protection. “Granny’s not here,” she said. Not that an old woman would offer any additional protection against the man who stared at her with such heat.

  His lips quirked as if he could read her mind, as if he knew she was trying to escape her fate. “I hope she won’t blame us for squatting. We can’t drive back to the city in this storm.” A clap of thunder shook the small cabin, emphasizing his point.

  She had to spend the night in Granny’s cabin with Zeke? The quilt-clad bed drew her gaze. She stole a glance at Zeke.

  He wore a grin. Damn him.

  “When the water boils, I’ll make tea.” She busied herself with finding mugs and tea leaves. “You should dry off.”

  He first removed his soaking coat and then his wet shirt. A droplet of water fell from his wet hair to his broad chest. It traced a line down the muscles of his abdomen and disappeared into the waistband of his pants. She lost the ability to swallow.

  Trula tore her gaze away and her lips curled in a wry smile. Girls who didn’t know better let their mouths go dry at the sight of a half-naked man. She knew better. She was far too wise to fall into Granny’s bed with him. Still, she couldn’t deny that Zeke’s acres of well-muscled chest made her fingers itch. His mere presence endangered her ability to remain aloof. “Granny knows when I’m coming. She’s usually waiting for me.”

  “Where do you suppose she is this evening?”

  Trula shrugged. The empty cabin was a mystery. An unwelcome one. She’d counted on Granny’s crotchety presence to protect her from…herself. The desire to touch Zeke made her fingers tremble. She turned back to the fire. It was better if she didn’t look at his wet body.

  “We’re alone for the night. An old woman wouldn’t be out on the roads in this.” A tongue of lightning flashed, filling Granny’s cabin with a momentary white glare. “We should get you out of that dress.” The suggestion was dangerous, the sound of his voice more so. Husky and deep, it tingled on her skin

  She turned. “Tell me, Mr. Barnes, did you plan this storm? Make a deal with a fallen angel?”

  His mouth curved into a smile worthy of Mephistopheles and his brows rose to peaks. Another bolt sizzled outside and the rain on the tin roof was near deafening. He took a step toward her. “I’ll never tell.”

  Trula held her breath as he came closer. The firelight gilded his bare chest, hard, muscled perfection. The wet sheen of his hair tempted her fingers. She longed to rake them through the dark strands. His damp trousers outlined the lean muscles of his legs and the thought of them entwined with her own sent a rush of fire shooting through her. She wanted to touch him. Wanted…needed to taste the rain on his skin, to let her fingers explore from the blades of his cheeks to the width of his shoulders, from the acres of his chest to the length of his legs. She sucked in a ragged breath.

  Yet another fork of lightning blazed, brightening the rain-slashed windows. The electricity inside the cabin burned hotter. Why was she fighting? She’d told him never and meant it. But now, as desire sang in her body, her promise punished her as much as him.

  “Have you changed your mind?” His breath tickled her ear and she shivered, quivered, really. She couldn’t answer. The one little word that would save her had disappeared. Lost. Buried beneath breathless impatience and ravenous need. The wind shook the cabin the way desire shook her body. She fisted her hands to keep them from reaching out to touch him. She couldn’t catch her breath. It escaped too quickly from her lips. The fire was too warm. The strength of her desire for him was too frightening. She straightened her spine and struggled to remember the word that might save her.

  No! The word was no. All she had to do was say it, now, before he touched her. Before the melting need that pooled between her legs drove her to madness. Letting Zeke Barnes get any closer would be the height of folly.

  The word was no.

  No to passion. No to desire. No to pleasure. And no to seeing her heart broken into a thousand pieces.

  “We need to get you out of that wet dress.” Was it his words or the sound of his voice that made every particle of her being tingle? His eyes caressed her. They touched her cheek, brushed her skin, stroked her hair. The feel of his gaze wasn’t enough. She gritted her teeth, turned away, poked at the fire, ignored the cravings of her fingers, her lips, her body. There could never be more between them than lust. And lust wasn’t enough. The word was no.

  “Turn around.” It was a command.

  She didn’t dare comply. He hadn’t touched her with anything more than the heat of his gaze yet her body burned hotter than the fire…but her ability to reason was reduced to ash, incinerated by longing.

  “Now.” His demand was unreasonable. Yet, she had to force her feet to remain still. She had to defy him. And not only him. She had to defy the charring need exploding within her.

  “It’s cold, Trula. You’re soaking wet. I’m taking that dress off you with or without your cooperation.” He was strong enough to do it. “Now, before you take a chill.” That voice. Demanding. Sure. Unrelenting.

  In a daze, she let the fire iron slip through her fingers. She turned. The rush in her ears…was it the wind or the sound of her blood racing? Why was it so hard to breathe? The air in the cabin was swollen with humidity, heat, desire. She couldn’t fill her lungs. His hands moved to the buttons at the back. He undid the first one. His fingers grazed the sensitive skin of her neck and she barely contained a gasp.

  His touch was…insidious. It filled her senses and robbed her of the ability to form a coherent objection. She wanted him. He wanted her. They were both lonely. What could it hurt? One night. He didn’t care for her. Maybe that didn’t matter. Lust, not affection. One night. Then, when the fever was spent and she could think straight, she’d send him on his way and deal with the memories and regrets and pain by herself.

  Another button opened and he lowered his lips to her exposed neck. His warm breath chased the last of her reservations clear to the next parish. He loosed a third button and she turned, snaking her arms around his neck. She tasted a droplet of rain on his chest and heard him growl.

  The next few buttons flew open and then he pulled the damp weight of her dress down. She stepped out of the sodden garment and stood before him in nothing but her shift.

  The sharp, appreciative intake of his breath warmed her far more than the fire’s puny heat. He pulled her toward him, capturing her mouth. Her lips parted for him and his tongue entered her in an explosion of sweetness and a blaze of longing. He stroked the inside of her mouth, exploring, demanding, claiming. He was everywhere. He nibbled at her lower lip, his tongue tested the smoothness of her teeth and his taste, as clean and fresh as the rain, filled her. It was the taste of unattainable dreams.

  Her fingers curled into his dark hair and she answered his kiss. Her tongue learned the contours of his mouth and the velvet fever of his lips.

  “Trula,” he moaned. His hand slid down the length of her back, burning through the flimsy protection of her shift, biting into he
r bottom, pulling her closer.

  Her hands mapped his chest. The smooth, warm skin was a miracle beneath her fingers. His muscles quivered at her touch. “You’re so beautiful,” she whispered into his questing mouth.

  “That’s you, my darling.”

  She shook her head. Her fingers traced the line of his collarbone, the hardness of his pectoral muscles, the dark areola of his nipples.

  He hissed at her touch and pulled her closer.

  She stopped him. “No. Let me. You are beautiful…like a statue…and young.”

  “Young?” He kissed her eyes closed. The sensation liquefied her bones. Only his arms held her upright.

  “Young.” Then because he’d destroyed her ability to think, she added, “John was old. He…” Her voice died as his fingers tightened on her shoulders.

  “John?”

  She’d ruined it. She’d given in to one night of passion then made the most basic of mistakes. She’d mentioned another man. She nodded, not trusting her voice.

  “I asked around. He was old enough to be your grandfather.”

  Trula bit her lips. There was nothing she could say. He knew she had a past.

  “You’ve only been with old men?” His voice sounded harsh.

  Why did men always confuse being a madam with being a whore? “Just one. Just John.”

  She looked up into Zeke’s dark eyes, steeling herself for condemnation or disgust. Instead, something soft, almost gentle, flitted across their surface. Then, he lowered his lips to hers and claimed a kiss so eager and fierce it seared her soul.

  …

  Deep inside, in a spot suspiciously close to his heart, Zeke exulted. One man. She’d been with one man. There was no way a man as old as John Dupree could have given Trula the pleasure she deserved. Tonight he’d show her what pleasure meant. He’d enslave her with it.

  Zeke loosened the ribbon holding up her shift. It whispered to the floor. Her exquisite body shimmered in the firelight. He’d never wanted a woman the way he wanted Trula. He’d dreamed of her, ached for her and now, finally, she was his.

  His mouth, hungry to taste her skin, moved from her lips to her throat. He drank in her scent. His tongue savored her sweetness. He licked each delectable inch, traveling lower to the peachy nipple that strained to meet his lips. He circled the tight bud with the tip of his tongue and reveled in her soft moans. He wanted her melting, begging, regretting that she’d denied them this pleasure for so long. His mouth closed around the perfection of her breast and suckled until Trula shuddered in his arms.