His head jerked toward her and immediately away. “You’re planning on staying in Bayou Gavotte?” He sounded appalled.
Her perkiness deserted her. “What’s it to you?”
“I thought you lived in Chicago.” His tone accused her; his eyes focused grimly on the road. “What about Miles?”
“He wants me to get away from the mob scene and find someone ‘suitable,’ but he doesn’t know what I am. He’s been like a father to me.”
She didn’t add that her father figure—in a horrible echo of her stepdad years earlier—had shown signs recently of degenerating into another lascivious male. Amazing, that she’d been happy at first when Titania showed up. Anyone but me, she had thought.
Rose folded the camellia petal into a squashed, pathetic lump and dropped it to the floor. “I bet there are plenty of guys who like vamps in Bayou Gavotte. It’s probably the perfect place for me.”
The heavy silence reasserted itself. Faced with the dreadful prospect of Rose permanently in Bayou Gavotte, Jack seemed to have forgotten about Juma.
“Rose.” There it was again, hardly a whisper. Damn, it shook her down to her guts, down to her soul.
What? she mouthed at him. When had she become so ridiculously needy?
Another whisper: “Not a matter of friendship. You just met her.”
Perhaps, but Juma had spoken in confidence.
Jack breathed, “For her own good.”
Maybe, maybe not, but that was irrelevant. “Maybe you don’t value friendship the way I do,” said Rose. “I’ve learned to treasure every second of friendship that’s offered to me, because most guys only want one thing, and most women…” Damn, she was getting maudlin again. “It doesn’t matter how good my intentions are; I am who I am, and things always fall apart. I can’t relate to my mother, I haven’t seen my little sisters in years, and although women frequently confide in me, they always end up hating me.” Which Juma already did.
“I don’t see how all this applies to someone you hardly know.”
She wanted to clobber him. “It applies to everyone. Don’t you care what people think of you?”
“Way too impractical,” Jack said. “I have no control over what other people think. My own opinion of myself is all that matters.”
A gasp erupted from Rose. “And you said I was conceited!”
“I misjudged you,” Jack said. “Later, I apologized.” Softly then, for her alone: “I didn’t say I had a good opinion of myself.”
Shaken, she faced the road stretching ahead of them in the darkness.
Like a shawl of kindness, he dropped his next whisper. “You’d see it as a betrayal of her trust.” His understanding rippled all the way to her solar plexus, which was absurd. She closed her eyes, trying to shut off the gratitude that threatened to well up through her voice. Way too needy. He tosses you back and forth like a shuttlecock. And you let him.
He took the turn for Bayou Gavotte, and their brief, bizarre intimacy was over.
“I have no idea how much risk we’re facing,” Jack said a few minutes later. “There’s no reason, as far as we know, why they’d expect either of you to show up here, or that I’d be with you, but since our puzzle’s missing most of the pieces…Ah, I see Juma’s awake. Keep your eyes and ears open, both of you, please.”
They trundled slowly through well-lit streets, past banks and gas stations and a mall, past side roads leading to darker residential areas, and on into downtown Bayou Gavotte. Juma, wide-eyed and anxious but at least speaking to her again, explained the layout to Rose.
“I ran away to Bayou Gavotte last summer and stayed with a friend in her dorm for two weeks before Grandma found me. Downtown’s about the size of the French Quarter in New Orleans. Most of the clubs are over that way”—she motioned left—“including Blood and Velvet and the Threshold, the dive where Stevie works. The other way leads to Hellebore U.” She pointed to a funky-looking restaurant with a blue CLOSED sign in the window. “That’s the Impractical Cat. Constantine Dufray’s drummer, Leopard, owns it, and Constantine hangs out there when he’s in town. He’s on tour now, though.”
“So far, so good,” Jack said. He turned suddenly down a side street and abruptly veered again, and then again, until by twists and turns they arrived at a tumbledown brick warehouse less than a block, if Rose’s sense of direction was correct, from the Impractical Cat. Jack turned off the headlights, pulled sharply up to a yawning doorway blocked by wrought-iron gates, and stopped. He rolled Rose’s window halfway down and said under his breath, “Look, listen, smell…”
“What’s going on?” Juma squeaked.
“Shh!” Jack held up a cautionary hand.
Rose peered into the darkness and listened hard. Dance music sounded from at least a block away; boisterous conversation came from somewhere on the far side of the warehouse. Much closer, garlic and ginger in hot oil made her nostrils twitch. Here, nothing but the tiniest rustle far away in the shadows and the odors of brick dust, mildew, citrus, and fresh rodent droppings. “There are rats in there. And oranges nearby?”
“Satsuma tree in the yard.” He looked a question, and Rose shrugged an okay. They did make a good team, just as Cindy said. Sadness swept over Rose again at the thought of what might have been.
Jack got out and opened the gates. “Here goes nothing.” Slowly, he drove into the pitchy depths of the warehouse. “Warn me of any impending collisions. I can’t see a thing.”
Clearly he knew his way well even in the dark, for unerringly he took the van past piles of bricks and bags of mortar mix, and a wheelbarrow topped with two shovels. Near the far corner, Rose spied a metal table with some apparatus on top, and beyond that the light-colored sides of what might be a kiln. And beyond that…
“A raku kiln? I love doing raku. Is that metal table a slab roller?”
“Gil’s a potter,” Jack said. “He used to have a store in New Orleans.”
“How can you see anything in here?” Juma said.
“It’s diet related,” Jack said sardonically. “Right, Rose?”
“Not right,” Rose retorted. “It’s genetic. It doesn’t matter what I eat. I assume you know there’s a wall up ahead?”
A little light penetrated from glassless windows high above them. Jack took a right and followed the wall into an area that no longer had a roof. He pulled up and asked Rose to listen once again, then jumped down to open a metal garage door in the wall ahead. The door rose slowly onto an empty courtyard flanked on three and a half sides by old brick buildings. A low-slung car covered by a protective cloth huddled next to one wall. Across the yard, an alley led to another street. Jack parked the van opposite the car and out of sight of the street.
In silence, they unloaded the van. Jack took the confiscated guns and the larger suitcase, and led the way up an external staircase in the dark. He unlocked a door on the landing and ushered Rose and Juma inside. With a minimum of words in a dry, businesslike tone, he showed them a clean, sparsely furnished apartment with high ceilings and tall windows: a bedroom and living room, a kitchen in need of redecorating, a bathroom with a dream of a shower in decadent Italian tiles. Thick curtains covered all the windows; a Persian carpet graced the aged pine floor.
Jack removed a classical guitar from the futon couch and placed it on a stand by the wall. “The futon will fold down into a bed for one of you. The other can use the bedroom. Blankets, sheets, and towels in the closet, shampoo and soap in the bathroom. There’s a bowl of satsumas on the table, and probably something to snack on in the fridge.”
He shoved to one side the small amount of clothing in the bedroom closet—actually a wood-encased nook in the wall with a rod to hold hangers—partly covering some largely empty shelves. “Rose, you can hang the costume and whatever else you want in here. The chest of drawers is available, too.” He dropped Rose’s car keys into her outstretched palm and showed her a spare key to the apartment on a nail by the kitchen door. “I’ll be over in the morning. You can
stay here as long as you want, but you’ll need a less conspicuous vehicle until we’ve sorted things out. I’ll get you a loaner in the morning.” Pause. “Juma?”
Reluctantly, Juma turned her attention from a glass-fronted cabinet with a distressed finish, its shelves full of books.
“Was anyone else with Stevie and Biff this morning?”
“Nope.” She zoned in again on the bookshelves.
Jack made an impatient noise. “Neither Stevie nor Biff carried ID. I need to know everything you can tell me. Have you met Biff before? Any idea where he works or whom he works for?”
Juma reached for a book. Jack put out a hand to stop her. “If you don’t answer my questions, I’ll take the books away. All of them. If you do answer, I might lend you a few.”
Juma’s expression wavered between annoyance and delight and resolved into a light frown. “Nuh-uh. Stevie was talking about him is all, when we were driving up there. He wants to be just like Biff, but he’s a little scared of him, I think.”
“He should be,” Rose said. “Biff’s probably ex-mob. Or a freelancer. Not a bad guy, considering. I’ve seen far worse.”
Jack gave her an irritated look and turned back to Juma. “Dredge your memory. Anything you can come up with will help. The sooner I get these guys put out of commission, the sooner we’ll all be safe.”
Without a backward glance he left, taking the guns with him.
Jack hurried down the stairs and through the warehouse, shutting the garage door and the gates behind him. He had until tomorrow morning to figure out what was going on and find a way to protect Rose from Titania. If he hadn’t alienated her, she might have trusted him…No use dwelling on that.
A short walk around the block through the cool darkness brought him to Gil’s pottery shop.
Oh, shit. Parked in front of the store, glowing ominously purple under the streetlight, stood a Z-300. What the hell was Violet Dupree doing here?
Jack unlocked the darkened store. He stowed all the weapons except Stevie’s in a cupboard in the stockroom. Gun in hand, he crossed the courtyard. While Jack left the yard on the other side of the wall purposely unkempt, Gil trimmed and fed his shrubs and scattered homemade ceramic statues amongst them.
He let himself in through Gil’s back door. The aromas of steamed rice and stir-fry greeted him, accompanied by the clink of wineglasses and Violet’s throaty giggle. Gil’s two little Pomeranians pranced up to say hello.
Jack acknowledged the dogs and strode into the kitchen. Gil was shoving vegetables and steak around in a wok. Violet set the wine bottle back on the counter and saluted Jack and the gun with widened eyes and a catlike smile. Jack took one look at Gil’s air of bewildered well-being and dumped the pistol on the counter.
“Jeez, Violet. You didn’t.”
But of course she had.
Violet giggled again, running her hands through her lush orange hair—brassier than Rose’s and nowhere near as compelling. She rubbed her back sinuously against the counter. “Iachimo! How lovely to see you. Don’t blame poor Gil. He didn’t stand a chance.”
No duh, but while it undoubtedly did Gil good to get laid now and then, this was a complication they didn’t need. Jack’s exasperation must have shown, for Gil greeted him with the slightest jut of the chin. “Where’s the runaway?”
Apparently Gil hadn’t blabbed about Rose. Not that he blathered by nature, but with a vamp involved, one never knew. “Somewhere safe,” Jack said.
Violet pouted. “Your rescue operations are simply scrumptious, and I’m dying to help. I adore taking care of troubled teens.”
Jesus Christ. Since every damn female confessed her life history to Gil, evaluating safe havens was his responsibility and Jack had never interfered. So far.
Gil’s chin jutted even more. “Violet says the underworld won’t mess with anyone under her care.”
Jack eyed the vampire skeptically. “What were you doing here in the first place? You didn’t send me on a wild-goose chase so you could hop in the sack with Gil.”
“If I had known about Gil, I might have. Poor, deprived, little me.” She sipped her claret. “Darling, I was worried about you. You didn’t answer your phone, and I thought you were just a spoiled society boy. You could have run into any kind of trouble. I had no idea you were so intrepid.”
“Being intrepid didn’t stop me from getting shot.” Jack emptied his pockets and shrugged his jacket off. His injured arm twitched irritably, demanding rest. He showed Violet the hole in the sleeve and dumped the jacket in the trash. “Instead of a woman with Illinois plates, I got a hit man from Bayou Gavotte.” Pause. “At the hotel to which you sent me.”
Violet gazed at the bloodstained bandanna on his arm, licking her lips. She returned her eyes to Jack’s. “Someone doesn’t like you. Who knew you were there?”
“You.” Jack matched her stare for stare. “No one but you, Violet.”
Gil tsked, shaking his head, while Violet shivered and turned delicately away. “You have such irritating eyes. Surely you’re not suggesting I had anything to do with it. What earthly reason would I have to harm you?”
“None that I’m aware of,” Jack said. “I thought we were square.”
“So did I. Not that I ever felt you owed me; that was your silly idea. I would never blame you for what you did while under Titania’s influence.”
Jack glowered at her. “I take full responsibility for my actions.”
Violet rolled her eyes, but then her tone switched from casually bored to velvet over ice. “Are you quite, quite sure you’re not under Titania’s influence again? I don’t appreciate being double-crossed.”
What the hell? “Definitely not,” Jack snapped, hauling hard on his temper. “I hope I never see her again.”
Violet tittered. “Still in reaction phase, I see. Being dumped by a vamp screws with a man in every way but the one he wants.”
Jack gritted his teeth. He’d never been one to kiss and tell, and he wasn’t about to start now—not that she would believe him. “Although I’m not unaware of the poetic justice, I don’t appreciate being a pawn in your petty revenge.”
Violet grinned. “It was a sweet thought, no?” Her face hardened, and the tips of her fangs peeked out. “Unfortunately, my plan seems to have backfired. My friend’s safe arrival in Bayou Gavotte was very, very important to me. What if Titania got wind of it and called on her dear, sweet Iachimo to help foil my plans? With promises of a suitable reward, of course.”
Christ. “Nothing would induce me to lift a finger for Titania.”
“I hope not, Iachimo darling.” Her fangs were all the way down. “I don’t approve of violence, but if you helped that bitch, I will show you no mercy.”
Jack shrugged again, ignoring the complaints of his arm, and went down the hall to borrow one of Gil’s shirts.
Violet’s voice followed. “If the girl herself went over to Titania’s side, she’ll rue the day she was born.”
If you touch Rose, I’ll kill you. Without breaking stride, Jack continued to the bedroom, thankful he’d turned away from Violet, because murder—and the reason for it—would have shown all too clearly on his face. He shucked off his grubby shirt, put on a clean dark T-shirt, and returned to the kitchen. Violet had retracted her fangs and was sulking over her wine.
Cool. Calm. He popped open a beer. “Why did you drag some poor woman into your stupid feud? You might feel justified using a schmuck like me, but a friend?” he said. “Doesn’t sound like friendship to me.”
“She’s not some poor woman; she not only makes fabulous costumes, but she does great wearable art. You wouldn’t believe the contests she’s won. She was even featured in Quilting Arts.” Violet pouted. “Besides, coming down here was her idea, not mine.”
Jack plunked himself and the beer at the table.
“I thought she was a friend.” Violet appeared genuinely concerned.
“What was so important about getting her here?”
Violet’s mood shifted instantly. Her fangs popped down. “None of your business. And if I find out—”
“No mercy, rue the day. I got that.”
She scowled. “Titania may have won this round, but she will not win the game.”
Gil scooped the stir-fry onto one of his homemade platters. A slice of red pepper dropped to the floor. He caught Jack’s eyes with his own, asking a silent question as he bent to pick up the pepper.
The answer was Hell, no. Jack wasn’t about to hand Rose over to Violet without explaining very clearly to Rose what she was getting herself into, and without offering her an alternative.
“I wonder who wants you dead?” Violet remarked. “Gil says it’s someone from the underworld, but they’re generally very civilized. Not like the mob at all, and believe me, I know. My daddy was from one of the New Orleans families.”
“Handcuffing a girl inside a car doesn’t seem civilized to me.”
Violet made a little moue. “I detest bondage, and it’s not permitted in my club in any form, but a lot of people come to Bayou Gavotte because they’re into that kind of kink. Are you sure she wasn’t willing?”
“Completely sure.”
Violet rolled claret around her tongue. “Leopard and Constantine won’t be happy to hear about this, but they’ve been gone on and off for months, so it’s no surprise things have gotten a little out of hand. Even though it didn’t happen here, the man had better be able to account for his actions. I dearly love Constantine, but he can get dreadfully violent.”
As usual, Jack couldn’t decide whether or not this was a plus. “The guy’s name is Stevie, and he works at the Threshold. Do you know him?”
Violet shuddered artistically. “Of course not. I never go near that horrible place.”
Gil heaped another platter with rice and set it on the table, then took the wok to the sink to clean it. “Go ahead,” he said. “Serve yourselves.”
“Hungry, Iachimo? I am.” Violet smiled with typical vamp innuendo, and Jack noted his indifference with relief. Maybe he was finally getting over the worst year of his life. Maybe, with a little more effort, he’d be back in control for good. He could never erase the past; anyone who let himself get involved with vamps had to live with the consequences. In spite of what he’d garnered from his father’s experiences, Jack had learned that the hard way himself, resulting in one debt he’d never be able to repay.
A Taste of Love and Evil Page 12
