by Laura Wright
“Too fast for you, Miss Burel?” he called over the breeze.
“Not at all, Mr. Baptiste,” she returned, her eyes forward, her expression tight.
“What about for your cat?”
“She’s also quite content.”
She. Jean-Baptiste’s brows shot together, and his fingers wrapped around the steering wheel just a hair tighter. He’d never heard a Pantera refer to their cat as he or she before, and damn if it wasn’t intriguing as hell.
“Do many Pantera have cars outside the Wildlands?” she asked, her eyes on the road in front of them.
“There are a few of us.”
“Us?”
“Car enthusiasts. We like to buy and restore. Keep them in private garages in and around La Pierre.” He touched the dash. “This one was a real piece of shit when I took her on.”
Genevieve turned to face him. Her eyes were wide with surprise. “You fixed up this car yourself?”
“Rebuilt the engine, but it was mostly body restoration.” That moonlight overhead was really working on her, he mused, and the wind whipping threads of blond hair about her face. She looked like a goddamn angel.
“You did an amazing job,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”
Shit, Female. So are you.
“How many Pantera are in this car club of yours?”
“Around ten. Something like that. It varies from year to year.”
“All males?”
His mouth twitched. “No. There are two females,” he said. “Both Hunters. Both crazy for Mustangs.”
“And is one of them your mate?” she asked.
His gaze cut back to her. She was staring at him, all prim and proper. He wanted to toss out a smartass remark like, ‘What do you mean, one?’ over the rush of bayou air, but this female didn’t seem like the type who’d find his brand of humor funny. In fact, she’d probably be insulted.
Damn, she really was just as Xavier had described her.
The Geek had told Baptiste all about Genevieve Burel, the supposed genius recruit he and his tech brethren had tried to bring on board the wannabe Faction last month. Rumor was she killed at decoding, and the Geeks had really pushed for her to give it a try. But after a couple of weeks, she’d bailed. The stories of her starched-collars, imperious attitude and one-word answers, however, had become legend.
“I have no mate, Miss Burel.” Jean-Baptiste let his gaze travel down her skirt to the sexy legs beyond. He might be willing to take on her imperious attitude if those legs were wrapped around him, and the starched collar removed.
Or ripped away, courtesy of his canines, he thought with a wicked grin.
“So, this woman we’re going to retrieve,” she said tightly. “She’s just an acquaintance of yours?”
“Something like that.”
“A friend?”
The wind turned cool around them. “She’s not my mate or an object of my imprint, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I’m not trying to get personal with you, Mr. Baptiste.”
“Clearly.” Spotting his exit, he banked the wheel to the right sharply. “Since you don't even seem to know my last name.”
The sudden movement made Genevieve jerk, and she reached out for something to steady herself. What she got was the door handle on one side and Baptiste’s thigh on the other. “Again,” she said yanking her hand back. “Not getting personal.”
But the movement came too late for Jean-Baptiste. And his cat. Her palm, her nails, had gripped him like a hungry lover, and his cock was now turning to steel behind his zipper.
“I only want to know more about the subject we’re to obtain and transport,” she said. “Collecting data. That’s all.”
Holy fuck, he mused. This female might be prickly and buttoned-up. She might be cold as dry ice on the outside. But her blood ran hot. Molten lava hot. He’d felt her sensual burn through his jeans, and the strike had awakened his already restless puma.
“I take my work seriously, Mr. Baptiste,” she continued.
“I can see that,” he uttered, his gaze narrowing as he headed for the Vieux Carré.
“I don’t have time to waste.”
“Why? You got a hot date later?”
He hadn’t meant to say it. After all, he was pretty sure she repelled all things humorous, and when she glanced over at him, pinned him to his seat with a glare so fierce her pale blue eyes resembled twin icebergs, he knew that assessment was spot on.
“You know,” she said tightly, “I was hoping you’d be more of a Pantera.”
The hard-on in his jeans, combined with the growling cat inside him—not to mention the unwanted sexual interest he was sporting for this female—caused him to abandon any shred of manners he might still have possessed. “Oh, I’m all Pantera, baby,” he said with a husky growl as he took the Toulouse entrance. “If you don’t believe me, I can pull over to the side of the road and show you.”
She wrinkled her nose. “That’s disgusting.”
“No, that’s the truth.”
“If you were truly Pantera you wouldn’t be making inappropriate comments when there is so much at stake—when the life and health of Raphael’s mate and cub are in danger.”
He turned onto Bienville, sharp and quick, and didn’t acknowledge her squeal of concern. She was starting to piss him off. Which, along with the attraction, was a pretty shit combination. “Don’t pretend to know the behaviors of our kind, Miss Burel. Pantera instinct, character and function are my department. You are as green as the moss that grows along the banks of the bayou. A student, an observer, barely out of your training pants—sent along to make sure I follow the rules. Which I won’t.” He raced up the street, getting hit with the scents of night-blooming jasmine and a hundred restaurants. “Now. I didn’t ask for company. But I got stuck with it. So, my prickly little puma, you’re going to have to deal with inappropriate and whatever else I toss your way.”
He was surprised when she uttered a very calm, “Or?”
“Or I get uncooperative and difficult to control. I know this is your first big Suit gig.” He stopped at a crosswalk, waited for a passing pedestrian or two. “You don’t want it to go badly, right?”
She was staring straight ahead, her jaw tight, a flood of color creeping up her neck. She looked damned good in pissed-off pink. And he was a jackass for noticing.
“Raphael should’ve been more forthcoming about you,” she said tightly.
No, he shouldn’t have. “What did he say?” He hit the gas, made a sharp right and headed down Chartres Street.
Genevieve’s gaze scrolled over the crowds streaming in and out of the restaurants and galleries to her right. “That you’re a Nurturer. An expert in the field of brain study. Brilliant and…” Her eyes darted toward him, and she snorted. Actually snorted. “Serious.”
He wasn’t sure why, but her easy censure bothered him. “And you think I’m not serious, Miss Burel?”
“With all that you’ve demonstrated so far, no.”
“You think because I crack a joke, I don’t understand the magnitude of what our people are facing? Or because I come on to a hot female, I’m not swimming in concern for Ashe, and rage for whoever has dared to betray us?”
“That’s exactly what I think,” she said quietly. “And don’t call me hot again, unless you want a nosebleed.”
Jean-Baptiste was silent as he pulled up in front of Isi’s place and killed the engine. The pale pink shotgun house was pretty unassuming, except for the massive blood-red shingle that read, THE CARE AND FEEDING OF VOODOO, and underneath it, Isi Rousseau. But Jean-Baptiste knew the depth and intensity of the magic that lived and breathed inside, and he never underestimated it. Beside him, Genevieve turned to get out of the car, but the sudden click of the locks halted her.
She whirled around, her expression stony. “Problem?”
His eyes moved over her face. Pale, perfect skin, a mouth that invited hot, hungry kisses, and a severe attitude that was supposed
to ward off all male attention, but somehow managed to turn Jean-Baptiste into a brain-dead, lusty, adolescent Pantera male.
Problem?
Fuck, yeah.
“Believe it or not, Miss Burel,” he said with barely contained aggression. “I would do anything to help the Pantera, to help Ashe and the cub. And I am. You have no idea.” He stabbed at the lock, growled softly as it released. “Let’s go.”
* * *
As Genevieve walked past Jean-Baptiste into the dimly lit shop, she once again reminded herself of the rules of this game she was playing. Make sure the voodoun didn’t get anywhere near the Wildlands, while acting as though that very journey was her one and only goal. All she knew was that the elders believed this human to be detrimental to the Wildlands, to Ashe and the child. And that was all Genevieve needed to know. The elders were not to be questioned. After all, they were the essence of Pantera, the wise ones and the ultimate protectors. They and their judgment were valued beyond all things.
“Remember, Miss Burel, I do all the talking,” Jean-Baptiste said, following her past a row of books, crystals, voodoo love dolls, and potions, all backlit by a mass of blue-flamed candles. “Isi’s not going to be happy about this.”
Isi. Very pretty, Genevieve thought. Exotic. “Why’s that?”
“Let’s just say that the Wildlands’ magic and her own don’t mix well.”
Lucky for me. “How would she know that? Has she been to the Wildlands?”
“She’s been to the border.”
Genevieve’s insides hummed, and she glanced over her shoulder. Tall, broad, eyes wary, tattoos and piercings glistening eerily in the candlelight, Jean-Baptiste looked like the sexiest demon alive. “Alone? Or with you?”
“Curb the questions, Miss Burel,” Jean-Baptiste said coolly. “And don’t forget you’re here in a diplomatic capacity only.”
“I know why I’m here,” she returned.
Did the elders know about this? The voodoun at their borders? Was that their reasoning for keeping her out? Did they believe she had something to do with what happened to Ashe?
“Well, well, Baptiste,” came an almost otherworldly voice near Genevieve’s ear.
Startled, Genevieve whirled around to find one of the most extraordinary-looking women she’d ever seen. Not near her ear as she’d believed, or felt, but standing a full ten feet away in front of a cobalt blue curtain. For a second, Genevieve couldn’t put her thoughts together. She blinked several times. A sudden blast of incense impaled her nostrils, and her head grew fuzzy and slow. She reached out for something to steady herself, but there was nothing.
“Isi.” She heard Jean-Baptiste’s voice behind her, his tone thick with warning. “Cut it off.”
“But it’s so much fun,” she nearly whined.
“Now,” he growled.
The scent of incense died away, and the haze inside Genevieve’s brain vanished. She drew in air, and had the most extraordinary urge to turn around and run. But her feet were planted to the floor, and her eyes pinned to the woman.
Isi.
She was dressed in skin-tight jeans, black heels, and a sleeveless red top that showed her flat stomach on one end and her firm breasts on the other. She had short, jet black hair with blue streaks running through it, a tattoo of a rose wrapped around a candle that ran from just under her right ear down to her shoulder, and a diamond piercing in each nostril. Genevieve’s mind felt murky as hell, but even so she knew that this was the kind of woman Jean-Baptiste probably went for. A real kindred spirit, complete with ink and metal. And she wondered if he had lied about them being more than just friends.
“Hello there.” She shoved away the urge to fiddle with her top button and walked straight for the woman, her hand outstretched. “I’m Genevieve Burel. Diplomatic Faction for the Pantera.”
Her expression stony, the woman ignored Genevieve and her hand, and pushed past her. Genevieve watched. Heels clicked on the stone floor and hips swayed as Isi made her way to Jean-Baptiste. Goodness, the woman moved like she knew how to work her body at all things.
When she reached him, she instantly brought her hand up to his neck. “Looks good.”
“I think so,” he said.
She ran a finger down the cord of muscle in his neck. “Healed and ready for another?”
He grinned. “Always.”
The fuzzy head thing was gone, but something else—something far more worrisome—moved through Genevieve as she watched this woman. Isi’s hands moved over Jean-Baptiste’s body as if they had eternal permission to do so, and her voice practically licked at him, it was so intimate.
Were they lovers? And if so, why had Jean-Baptiste not disclosed it?
“I need to speak with you,” he said to the voodoun, his voice grave.
“Problem?” Isi asked.
He nodded.
Isi glanced over her shoulder at Genevieve. “Another foolish female fall in love with you, Baptiste? Must we administer a reverse spell?”
“No,” he said with a smooth chuckle. “Nothing like that.”
“No, nothing like that,” Genevieve returned with barely disguised irritation. More for herself than for them. She was getting real sick of this back and forth, pseudo-flirtatious, weirdly possessive behavior she was feeling and exhibiting. Her future, and her family’s future, rested on this pick-up and delivery. Or preventing it, and that was all she was going to be focused on for the next twenty-four hours.
“Miss Rousseau,” she said tightly. “As I said before, I’m here for the Pantera. To assist Mr. Baptiste in making sure you—”
Jean-Baptiste interrupted sternly. “I got this.” He took Isi’s arm and ushered her down the candlelit aisle. His eyes were hard, his mouth too. “If you’ll excuse us, Miss Burel.”
“I absolutely will not!” Genevieve called after him, far more passionately than she’d intended. “This wasn’t the arrangement.”
She heard Isi grunt, and ignored it.
“We’re supposed to do this together, Mr. Baptiste,” she continued, going after them.
“Mr. Baptiste?” Isi said with a husky laugh. “What the fuck is that about?”
His expression fierce, Jean-Baptiste guided Isi through the curtain, whispered something in a terse tone, then re-emerged.
“I warned you, Miss Burel,” he said, halting her progress. “I don’t follow rules. Especially ones that were decided upon without me.”
She stared up at him, hated how fast her heart was beating. “I don’t care about any of that. I have a job to do. Raphael sent me—”
“Raphael sent you as a backup. In case I didn’t get the job done.” His voice dropped. “And I always get the job done, Miss Burel.”
Instead of muscle and bone, it felt like water suddenly resided inside her legs. And his scent, that heady, masculine, animal-like aroma, was forcing itself inside her nostrils, battling for dominion with the remnants of Isi’s head-screwing incense. This was impossible, she thought with deep irritation.
“Now,” he continued in a soft, deadly voice, “You’re going to remain out here, while I have a conversation with my…friend.”
“That’s not fair,” she growled. “Not how this was supposed to go.”
His eyes flashed amber fire. “Life is made up of the unfair, Miss Burel. Learn to accept that and you’ll never face disappointment.”
“Disappointment is my elixir, Mr. Baptiste. It gets me going, fires me up, turns me on.” She tried to yank herself back, but she couldn’t seem to curb her tongue.
“Well then, expect to be highly aroused for the next twenty-four hours.”
She could hardly breathe as they stared at one another. Dark hair fell over his cheekbones, a few stray wisps brushing against the two hoops in his lower lip. Her eyes traveled down to the full, lush flesh. What would it be like to kiss him? How would she do it? Would it hurt him if she tried to get the tip of her tongue inside, spear one of those small rings? Tug on it? Ease him closer?
A soft, male growl pierced the thick air between them, and Genevieve’s brain lurched back to the ‘on’ position. Oh, Christ. What was wrong with her? The things she was saying…the way she just openly stared at him, challenged him. The female who was all set to enter a life of service with the elders—a life where she would have no mate, no sex, no intimacy—was openly lusting over the very Pantera male she had to outwit.
This was bad.
Jean-Baptiste’s eyes narrowed, and he pulled back sharply. “I’ll be back in five minutes. Look around. Maybe you’ll find something you like.”
Too late.
“Or maybe you’ll find some happiness. Isi puts that in the gray bottles, I believe.”
What the hell was she doing? Genevieve thought shakily as she watched him walk away and disappear behind that blue curtain. Why was the top button on her blouse digging into her throat, irritating her, begging to be bitten off, when it had always lain so comfortably against her skin?
And why had her mission of making sure the voodoun never entered the Wildlands suddenly expanded into the disjointed goal of never allowing the dark-haired woman to put her hands on Jean-Baptiste again?
She turned to a table of potions, released a heavy breath, and started picking up random bottles. Forget happiness. There had to be something here that returned sanity to a clearly insane mind, and calm to a body that had never experienced the true meanings of the words lust and possession until just a few moments ago.
Chapter 3
“Have you lost your fucking mind?”
Jean-Baptiste eyed the petite woman with the foul mouth, quick wit and fiercely sharp brain. “You know I have.”
Isi smacked the seat of the leather recliner in front of her and huffed, “Then get your ass under Derek’s needle again because there’s no way in hell I’m stepping foot back in the Wildlands.”
“Derek,” he uttered blackly. “That idiot’s cat food.”
“What?”
“When I see him again, he’s dead.”
“Oh, Jesus,” she muttered, pulling on a pair of gloves. “What happened?”
“The guy you hired to perform magic-laced tats can’t keep his mouth shut. He told one of our spies, who informed the leader of the Suits just what goes in my ink and metal.”
