Tristan on a Harley (Louisiana Knights Book 3)

by Jennifer Blake

  They swerved from the main road after a bit, taking a dirt track. The trees overhead created a cool green tunnel, one which they rode through like a surfer threading a turquoise ocean pipe. Dust billowed out behind them, cream and rust from the mix of sands, though they outrode it all the way to what appeared to be a driveway. It billowed past them as they turned again, coating the road’s edging of dried grass and the nodding weeds with a fine powder.

  The house appeared at the end of the drive. It was large and imposing, yet oddly human in scale, another of the many old plantation houses that dotted the area. Trees, vines and head-high shrubs had taken possession of what had once been farmland behind it. They encroached on the house as well, with honeysuckle and saw briers climbing the shutters, and massive azaleas doing their best to cover the front steps.

  It was a Southern Planter’s Cottage in style, with one main floor and a second one under the steep roof that received light through dormer windows. The floor-to-ceiling windows across the front were protected by shutters, as was the fan-lighted entrance door, and all were set behind a long, railed porch. The building appeared almost derelict, however, fighting a desperate rearguard action against the forces of nature that were trying to take it down.

  Trey eased the bike to a stop and put out his feet to brace it on either side. For long moments, he simply sat looking at the place.

  “This is where Lance and Mandy hid out for a day or two last year, isn’t it, when those mafia guys were after her?” Zeni scooted from behind him, dismounting as she removed her helmet and dropped her goggles inside it.

  He tipped his head in a nod. “They pulled the RV out of sight around the back. I’ve never seen a female as happy as Mandy was when she saw the clothes you sent her.”

  “Being half naked while in the company of a man you don’t know from Adam can do that to a woman.” Her voice held more than a little asperity.

  “Guess I’ll never be able to check that out,” he said and heaved a sigh.

  “I should hope not, if it includes people trying to kill you.”

  He gave her a quick grin as he removed his helmet, then took hers and hung both on the handlebars, but he made no answer.

  A sidewalk of faded red brick led toward the house’s front steps. Zeni followed it, scuffling through mats of decaying leaves, avoiding patches of green moss, stepping over rotted limbs and twigs. The motorcycle’s engine rumbled to a stop behind her as Trey turned the key, and she heard his footsteps when he trailed after her. His progress was stop-and-go, however, as if he was assessing the place for future reference.

  “So what’s this about?” she asked over her shoulder. “You feeling a sudden yen to get back to your roots?”

  “Something like that.”

  She’d been kidding, just getting in a dig at him as she’d done a thousand times before. Something in his voice as he answered snagged her attention. She halted and turned back toward him.

  “Really? You mean it?”

  “I own the place now. Several relatives were involved in the ownership after my granddad died. My dad signed over his interest to me, and I finally raised enough money to buy out my sisters and a couple of aunts and uncles.”

  “And you’re going to do what with it? Spend a fortune restoring this big barn of a house and then live in it?”

  “Is that so hard to believe?”

  An acid retort crossed her mind, but the defensive sound of his voice kept her from letting fly with it. He expected her to be scathing, and that made her wary. It was an odd turn of affairs.

  “It will take a lot of work,” she said instead, turning back to stare at the house.

  “Or a good contractor, after I get some of the clean-up done.” He stopped beside her.

  She tilted her head. “I’m pretty good with a broom.”

  “You mean it?” The look he directed toward her was more than a little surprised.

  She did, oddly enough. Something about the mats of leaves on the steps leading up to the porch, the layer of dirt scum on its floor and the grime on the old wavy glass of the one or two windows uncovered by shutters made her itch to get to work. It had nothing to do with Trey, however. No, not at all. It was only that she hated dirt and disorder on general principles.

  “Why not?” she asked with a challenge in her eyes, daring him to make something of it.

  Why not, indeed, Trey thought, as he gazed down at Zeni.

  It was a novel experience, being of the same mind with her. Though they saw each other nearly every day, she was usually so busy or prickly that they never really connected. Oh, they discussed the day-to-day running of his different enterprises, but they were brief exchanges, all business. To talk to her, be close to her, provide something that gained her interest, was an event worth extending.

  Besides, they had just arrived, and he wasn’t ready to head back to town and all his usual responsibilities, much less the sight and sound of the movie company invasion.

  “The problem,” he said deliberately, as he turned back to survey his property, “is figuring out where to start.”

  “Right here and right now is always a good answer,” Zeni said, and gave him a smile that set the blood to sizzling in his veins.

  An hour later, the leaves were gone from the steps, and the porch—the part of it not so rotten it was dangerous to set foot on it—was clear of vines and bits of limbs and engrained dirt. This was all done with a rusty knife found in the barn out back and a piece of a broom discovered in the closet under the stairs. Though it was a pleasant fall day, they were both hot, sweaty, and in need of something cold to drink by the time they had made a showing.

  Trey pulled a couple of bottles of water from the insulated bag attached to the bike. Handing one to Zeni, he pulled off his T-shirt over his head and used it to wipe the sweat from his face and the back of his neck before settling beside her. He dropped the T-shirt between them, and then twisted the cap from his water.

  “You missed a scratch,” she said. Picking up the shirt, she dabbed at a place on his face. It stung a bit, and the shirt came away with a smear of red.

  He jerked his head back in surprise. “Saw brier must have got me.”

  It was the best Trey could do since his brain was muddled by sudden, frying heat as she leaned close enough for him to catch her fresh yet exotic scent. It was compounded of sweet peas and patchouli, he knew, since he’d seen the bottle in her bedroom, but was enhanced a hundred times over by its grace note of warm woman.

  “You need to put something on it when we get back.”

  He didn’t need her to tell him that, but appreciated the thought, anyway.

  They drank their water in silence, while a breeze cooled their skin and sent dried leaves drifting down from the trees that surrounded the house, bringing with it the scents of parched grass, goldenrod and ripe muscadine grapes. The distant cawing of crows and high-pitched cry of a hawk added to the serenity of the Indian summer.

  Just then, a mewling sound came from the tall grass that grew at the edge of the trees. As they glanced in that direction, a small black cat stepped daintily around a clump of sedge and sat down, curling his tail around his feet as he watched them. He looked interested but wary.

  That a cat was somewhere around was no great surprise; the house smelled of them, and there was evidence they made their home on a stack of old blankets in an upstairs bedroom. Trey knew they hung close, but had made no attempt to remove them. They paid for their shelter by keeping down the rat population. Besides, he’d played with their ancestors when he was a kid.

  “It’s a kitten,” Zeni said, her voice hushed.

  “And probably feral,” he said by way of agreement.

  “Where on earth did it come from?”

  “My grandmother used to feed a dozen or more barn cats when she was alive, but it’s been a while. They’ve mostly gone back to the wild. I bring a sack or two of cat food when I come out here, but only catch a glimpse of one now and then.”

 
Zeni held out her hand toward the little feline, calling quietly, “Here kitty, kitty.”

  “I doubt it will come.” It wasn’t that he was the pessimist she’d called him. He just hated to see her try her wiles for nothing.

  “He doesn’t look wild,” she said with confidence.

  “I wouldn’t try to catch him. You’d probably get scratched worse than I did from the saw briers.”

  “I think he’s lonesome and wants company.”

  She called again, her voice so low and enticing that Trey could feel the sound invading his senses, gaining strength on its way down his body to the crotch of his jeans. If she ever called him like that, he thought in wry humor, he’d be all over her.

  The kitten must have felt the same. It rose and glided into a walk, making a semi-circle around her from one direction, and then reversing, coming just a bit nearer with the second pass.

  “Here, little kitty,” Zeni called in soft seduction. “I’ll scratch your ears for you and rub your back. You can even sit on my lap, if you like.”

  A corner of Trey’s mouth tug upward in a wry grin as his back began to itch. The power of suggestion, he was sure, wishing she’d scratch his back, but a fine daydream all the same.

  A second later, he was forced to sit and watch as the feline stretched out its neck to sniff Zeni’s fingers, and then give them a swift lick. Slowly, but with every sign of pleasurable domesticity, it began to weave back and forth across her ankles. When she reached down with slow care and picked it up, the kitten gave a meow of surprise but didn’t fight her. Seconds later, it was sitting on her lap, getting its ears scratched.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said.

  Her fingers were gentle but sure, and a small smile curved her lips as she ran her hand over the cat’s glossy fur. She hesitated, and then gave Trey a quick glance from under her lashes.

  “Do you suppose I could have him?”

  He stared at her in frank surprise. “You want to keep it?”

  “I never had a cat growing up. My mom was allergic to them.”

  “He probably has fleas.”

  “I can give him a bath, maybe take him to the vet for shots,” she answered, a pleading noted in her voice he was sure was unintentional. “He’s yours, isn’t he, if he lives here? And you own the apartment above the coffee shop. You get to decide.”

  He hadn’t thought about that; still he shrugged. “It’s all right with me, as long as he doesn’t wander around downstairs. I think there are laws against cats in food places. Dogs, too, of course, unless they’re service animals.”

  “Deal,” she said, as she scratched behind the kitten’s ears. “Midnight will be a good boy, won’t you?”

  “You’ve named him already? Sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “You said I should be bolder,” she answered with a spark of laughter in her eyes as she looked up at him. “Guess you were right.”

  What could he say to that? He watched her pet the cat while long seconds slid past. “You don’t mind that he’s black?”

  “Should I?” Her gaze was curious and somehow wary, as if she thought he intended to rescind his permission.

  “Some people think they’re unlucky. They deliberately run over them if they see them crossing the road in front of them.”

  “Superstitious idiots.”

  He had to agree, since he’d never seen that color made a bit of difference to the nature of the cats his grandmother kept all her life. Or to that of the human race, when it came right down to it.

  The only sound for a few minutes was the soft rumbling of the cat’s purr. It was a peaceful sound, adding to the odd contentment of the day. That was until Zeni looked up, her expression guarded, as if she was suddenly wary of the companionship growing between them.

  With a nod toward the house behind them, she said, “I guess all the antique furnishings in there are yours, too?”

  “They are, though what you saw are mostly the things too heavy to be moved. I packed up the rest and put it in storage.”

  “Super.”

  “There are a few good pieces, yeah. I meant to bring a camera to take photos for insurance appraisal, but forgot it.”

  “I meant super that you won’t have to buy everything new.”

  He inclined his head. “Some folks would toss out most of it in favor of modern stuff with light woods and clean lines. I like the old things, and figure they’ll be back in style one day. Then everybody will be throwing out the minimalist stuff they’re buying now.”

  “You may be right,” she said on a quick laugh.

  “What about you? You like old and fancy, or does it have to be new and simple?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve only ever had old and simple.” She ran her hand down the kitten’s back and then brushed away a puffball of fur.

  “No family heirlooms at your grandparent’s house?”

  “No grandparents.”

  “None?” He couldn’t keep the doubt out of his voice.

  “Well, none that I ever knew. Or ever wanted to, really.”

  “How did that happen?”

  She didn’t answer for the space of several breaths, long enough that Trey thought she was going to refuse.

  Finally she made a brief gesture with one hand. “My mother’s parents were both doctors, a surgeon and an obstetrician. When my mom got pregnant at seventeen, they pressured her to have an abortion, told her she was stupid for not taking advantage of the arrangements they could make. She left home before they could insist on the procedure.”

  “With the baby’s father?”

  “I don’t know—she never said. There was no marriage that I know of, and no man I ever called daddy. That means no grandparents on the paternal side, either.” Zeni’s smile was brief. A leaf floated down, landing on top of her foot. She picked it up and began to shred it.

  It was obvious she was uncomfortable talking about her family. Trey could respect that. He searched his mind for a different subject, but only came up with one thing.

  “Getting back to the furniture, you’d maybe keep the best things then add a few pieces that are—different, the way you did in your apartment?”

  “I guess.”

  “That’s what I figured on doing, though I’m not much of a decorator. He summoned a disarming grin as he saw the consideration in the gaze she turned on him. “I do like the color you painted the apartment walls, that sort of grey-tan, or whatever you call it. Maybe you can pick out paint chips for me when the time comes.”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  Trey thought he might have overdone the nonchalant bit as she looked away, her face turning bleak. Yet she went on in a slightly different vein after a moment.

  “You really care about this old house and all its antiques, don’t you?”

  “It holds a lot of memories. My granddad and grandmamma were married in what used to be the rose garden, as were my mom and dad. A great-uncle or two went to war from here, and never came back. My granddad was a brother to Lance and Beau’s grandfather, and we boys all used to come spend a month or so with him and my grandmamma every summer. She fed us her special coconut and pineapple layer cake, and he let us cut a couple of his prize watermelons and ride his old mule. We picked peaches and blackberries, nearly broke our necks jumping out of the hayloft, and half-drowned each other swimming away from water snakes in the creek that runs back behind the house.”

  “Fun times,” she said drily.

  “They were,” he agreed without hesitation. “We went barefoot all day, every day, had such tough skin on the soles of our feet that we never noticed when we got thorns in them—until my grandmother decided to dig them out with a needle.”

  “I’d like to have seen that!”

  Zeni’s laugh that went along with the comment had a free-flowing sound that was good to hear. It was a moment before Trey realized her attention had wandered to his bare shoulder where a sleeve-type tattoo covered the top and swirled down his bicep, one featuring a collec
tion of roses with thorns.

  “Speaking of needles, what’s this about?” she asked, her gaze shielded by her lashes as she lifted a hand and traced the rose design with a single fingertip. “Anything in particular?”

  “You really want to know?” The words were deeper and slower than he’d intended, in no small part to keep his voice even in spite of the shiver that moved over him at her touch.

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “I’ll tell you the story of mine if you’ll tell me yours.” He leaned backward a bit to glance at the top of her shoulders just below her neck. Unlike the tank tops she usually wore, her T-shirt covered the design done in sepia ink. It didn’t matter. He’d memorized the dandelion seed heads with their dancing, windblown puffs, and the writing beneath that said The answer is blowin’ in the wind.

  She let her hand drop. “I don’t have a story. I just like the old Bob Dylan song.”

  “Sure you do,” he said, recognizing that for another evasion. “And I just like roses.”

  “Black roses with thorns? I’ve always heard that stands for death and pain.”

  He met her gaze for long seconds before looking away. “Or not.”

  She sighed, a soft sound of defeat. “Fine, then. My tat is because of my mother. She was bright and talented, a free soul long after the hippie generation, one who lived for the day at hand, brought me up the best way she knew how, and then died young. But I never knew what she wanted, and I’m not sure she did either.”

  “Figures,” he said with a slow nod.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Only that you’re a lot like that.”

  Outraged color bloomed across her cheekbones. “I am not!”

  “No? You’re on board with the Boho trends, but are almost OCD about having everything clean and in its place.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Trey watched the hauteur that bloomed in her face with satisfaction. “There, that’s it. That’s your Zenobia expression.”