by Jenna Ryan
And he could feel every eye in the smoky room staring at them. The creepy fiddle continued—all conversation ceased.
“Nice to be noticed,” Mia said. “Unless your goal is not to be noticed. Since I’m assuming that’s our goal, I’d say we’ve come to the wrong place.”
“You must have missed the memo, Mia. Best place to hide is in plain sight.” But Ryder kept the remark low and hoped like hell he wouldn’t regret this. “Head for the booth on the back wall.”
“The back wall,” she repeated. “So you want me to walk past the two hulking men with ten teeth between them, fists the size of ham hocks, and leers that would make a female gator turn tail and run. Because if you do, I want you to pull that gun you just tucked away and give it to me.”
Humor stirred. “Are you reverting to the level of your bayou ancestors, Mia, or do you just like to shoot dumb animals?”
“Dead woman in an alley, Ryder, remember? I’m not ready to join her…Oh, damn.” She sighed out the last part.
“Hey there, sugar.” The larger of the two men got right in her face. “Let’s you and me dance.”
Ryder counted four teeth—two upper, two lower—and twin trails of saliva dribbling down the guy’s chin. Easing back a step, he let Mia distract the big man.
“You know,” she returned, “as truly lovely as that offer is, I don’t dance at funerals.”
He blinked, frowned. “Ain’t no funeral here.”
“Music says there is.”
The leer returned big time. “That’s just Tim making our ears hurt. His old lady tossed him out on his no-good cheating butt for doing a snake dance with her used-to-be best friend. Week or so goes by, she’ll simmer down, and he’ll stop bellyachin’. Then she’ll toss him out again.”
“Might be better if she tossed his fiddle instead.”
“Might be. But forget them.” Leaning in, he grabbed her hair. “You’re real pretty, sugar. Got a face like a movie star.” He took a deep sniff. “Smell nice, too. Let’s dance.”
As he circled, Ryder saw a shadow approaching her from behind and hoped he could pull this off.
“Let go of my hair,” Mia told the man. Then her eyes shifted slightly. “Your brother’s behind me, isn’t he?”
“Cousin,” the big man confirmed. “Name’s Paulie.” The leer widened. “He likes to dance, too. We’ll make it a—”
The fingers in her hair gave a quick jerk and sprang open. The man’s head snapped sideways. His eyes popped almost comically.
“Hey!” his cousin bellowed in Mia’s ear. “What the hell’d you do to Bo?”
The man called Bo hit the floor. Lips pulling back over mostly gums, Paulie shoved Mia aside and lunged. Ryder sidestepped. Catching her balance, Mia stuck out a foot and tripped the guy. His throat landed on Ryder’s fist. He collapsed on his knees, coughing and clawing at his Adam’s apple.
“Are you hurt?” Ryder wrapped his fingers around Mia’s arm. She angled her head to regard the stunned face of the first man, still lying pie-eyed and woozy on his back.
“I’m good. What did you do to him?”
“Guys have more vulnerable body parts than you might think, Mia. It’s not all about our balls.”
“So I see.” Shaking off her fascination, she glanced around the silent room. “Are we in trouble?”
It wasn’t Ryder who answered, but the rest of the Honey Tree’s occupants. As if cued, conversation slowly resumed. An accordion joined the fiddle, and the bartender, a string bean of a man with a red ponytail, called out, “Y’all want whiskey or beer?”
“Whiskey,” Ryder told him.
“Both.” Mia shuddered. “It’s been a long day.”
Ryder made a subtle head motion. “Rear booth. Watch your step.”
People might have been talking again, playing pool at the two side tables and knocking back drinks as if they were water, but every eye in the room was trained on Mia. And more than one pair of those eyes watched her from shadows too deep for Ryder to watch back.
She gave the still-gasping Paulie a wide berth en route to the booth. “I’m not dead, I’m a valuable witness, he’s a hot rogue agent,,” he heard her murmur. Then she sighed, halted, and turned. “Thank you for your help, but in the interest of clarity, just because you toppled those redneck goons back there doesn’t mean I’m impressed enough to have sex with you.”
What could he reasonably say to that? “Okay. I’ll make a note.”
“But the list goes on, doesn’t it? Long hair, five-day stubble, wicked eyes. You’re going to tell me we’ll be sharing a room, which I understand because, hello, not stupid. But sharing would be a damn sight easier if you looked like Sydney Greenstreet.”
“If I—Who?”
“Casablanca. Heavyset actor. White suit. Puffed on cigars.”
“You want me to smoke cigars?”
“What I want,” she said, “is for you not to make me see haunted Heathcliff whenever I look at you.”
“Because otherwise, we might have sex. Which could happen for two reasons now. One for taking out a goon—”
“Two goons.”
“Right. And the second for looking like Heathcliff while I did it.” More intrigued than concerned, he grinned. “Are you hysterical?”
“No, I’m pissed off—and please don’t ask me why. It’ll only make the day longer. Let’s just say I’m done with creeps and haunted heroes.” She held up a hand when he started to speak. “I’m also done with sex, so you can let that go, too. I had a moment. It’s over. I’m sorry I jumped down your throat. I’m not used to feeling spooked.”
“Not many people are.” His eyes gleamed. “Are you sure you’re done with sex, because we can talk more if it’ll help you get through this.”
She relaxed enough to smile. Which was a shame really, because wise or not, he’d wanted her to jump down his throat some more. Or maybe just jump him period.
And there they were again, he thought, those nasty, nagging twinges of guilt that weren’t twisting and twining so much as tying his belly in vicious little knots.
“Look, Mia—”
“Whiskey,” she reminded when he took her by the arm. “Want it. Need it. Now.”
So did he, Ryder reflected, just not for the same reason.
Determined not to cave, he started for the bar. Or would have if a bony hand hadn’t closed on his wrist. And on Mia’s, he realized with a frown.
A pale wraith of a woman hobbled between them. She held on tight. “Say nothing,” she whispered, and for some absurd reason Ryder felt compelled to obey.
Eyes closed, she addressed Mia. “Deception.” Her voice, like her skin, was as thin as tissue paper. “Snakes don’t lie. Men do. Yet when they do, they’re called snakes. Pity the snake, Mia. Beware the man.”
“How do you know her name?” Ryder began, but the fingers on his wrist tightened, silencing him.
“I heard you speak it just now. Listen to me, for you have as much to fear—and to lose—as she does. What you seek is more than you know. Death opens many doors. Which threshold you cross is up to you.”
Rattled more than he cared to admit, Ryder pried her icy fingers free. “This is insane, lady. We stopped here for a drink…” But he trailed off when Mia gave her head a small shake.
The old woman transferred both hands to Mia’s, held for a long moment, then released her. As if fastened to a rusty swivel, she pivoted. When her papery lids fluttered up, she showed Ryder her eyes. Her sightless, milk-white eyes.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mia’s head throbbed, as if the heart of every creature in the bayou was beating inside it at the same time and in the same off-kilter rhythm. Even more disturbing was the pouch that had materialized in her hand when the woman had clasped her bloodless fingers around it.
“Take what I offer,” she’d urged, “for you are marked at present by more than one man.”
Not the most comforting words she could have imparted. Add in the rheumy eyes, and Mia’s fear
factor had bumped up to a level that no bayou-born female could completely discount.
As suddenly as she’d appeared, the old woman vanished. But by then the lights had been flickering, someone was shouting at one of the men Ryder had leveled, and the fiddler was shaking his bow at the bartender for plugging money into the old corner jukebox. Chaos had reigned for several minutes. Plenty of time for one tiny woman to melt away into the night.
“I got us a room.” Mia hadn’t heard Ryder’s footsteps on the stairs, so his voice close behind her had her heart rocketing into her throat.
She pressed a fist to her sternum. “I wonder if Madame Medusa knows of anyone with a decent still.”
“Count on it.” Ryder peered over her shoulder. “What have you got there?”
Amused, she let the small pouch dangle. “Gris-gris. Madame M gave it to me. It’s meant to ward off evil, which is appropriate. On the other hand, I’ve been voodooed, and that’s not generally considered good.”
“Only not good if you believe.”
“I’ll err on the side of caution.” Eyes dancing, Mia tucked the bag that smelled faintly of jasmine and cayenne pepper into her bra.
When she would have turned away, Ryder held her in place and lowered his mouth to her ear. “I wouldn’t be upset if you wanted to try some voodoo on me tonight. There’s only one bed.”
Lips curving, she leaned against the wall and traced the line of his cheekbone with her finger. “Is that your idea of a tempting offer?”
“Call it a statement of fortuitous fact.”
“I have an amulet, cher, and in the voodoo world, nothing to fear from you no matter how many beds the room has.”
“You believe in your charm that much?”
“Is there something beyond what I already know that I should be worried about?”
His eyes glinted in the wash of moonlight that trickled through the stairwell window. “Only if you see me as a danger. But if that’s how you see me, you really shouldn’t have mentioned having sex downstairs.”
Her smile widening, she used a light fingernail to scrape his cheek. “Pretty sure the argument I made was about us not having sex.”
“Your argument got me hard. Then and now.”
“In that case…” She touched her lips to the corner of his mouth, hesitated a moment, then tossed caution to the wind and used her teeth on his earlobe. “I need a favor.” Another quick nip, another teasing brush of lips. “Bath, bubbles, music and, unfortunately, time.” She eased back. “I need an hour, Ryder, to settle myself.”
His eyes searched her face. “Talking about danger is one thing, Mia. Flirting with it takes it to a very different level.” Catching her chin, he set his mouth on hers for a kiss that quite literally sucked the breath from her lungs. “You’ve got sixty minutes.”
* * *
She shouldn’t have done that. Deliberately tempted a man she’d met less than six hours ago. Yes, he got her hot and bothered. And she’d certainly given more than a passing thought to the idea of having sex with him. After all: gorgeous, haunted hero—who wouldn’t want sex? But seduce him in the stairwell of a ramshackle bayou bar? She deserved to have her senses thrown into a tailspin for that. If she hadn’t been feeling the heat before, she definitely was now. The heat, the heavy air, and a whip of excitement that slid through her like a snake through still water.
Speaking of which…
The old woman’s words had shaken her almost as deeply as Ryder’s kiss. She’d smelled of bourbon and the swamp. Although she’d tried to rub it away, Mia could still feel the clawed fingers that had clamped around her wrist while the woman herself spoke of snakes and men and deception.
“Spooky,” Mia said aloud. “But, sorry, Madame M, not the real deal.”
Resolved to put the encounter behind her, she skimmed her fingertips through the bathwater. Temperature was perfect. She’d soak in a mountain of scented bubbles for twenty minutes, then call Iona or Henri. Talking business would get her mind off sex and murder, and strange old women who smelled of alcohol, offered a warning about death and told her to pity the snake.
Mia’s eyes slid to the tiny window across the room. Who would issue warnings like that to complete strangers? Why issue them?
Lightning continued to flicker in the distance, and if she listened hard she could hear lingering rumbles of thunder. Or was that her heart beating just a little too fast in her chest? Pumping blood and ripples of fear to her brain.
She stood there on the threshold, unsettled and uncertain. Lightning flashed again, deep in the bayou. When the thunder behind it faded, she thought she detected a small scrape in the corridor outside her room.
She heard it again, below the croaking frogs and the persistent buzz of night flies. Wary of something not quite right, she regarded the narrow strip of light that shone under her door. It held for five seconds. Then there was another scrape, the light vanished, and both the corridor and her room went black.
* * *
The rain moved on, but the heavy air it left in its wake felt like fifty pounds of lead dropped onto Ryder’s shoulders.
He shucked off his jacket and told himself not to think about Mia or a kiss he’d started that had made him so damn horny he’d been forced to sweat it out in the stairwell for several painful minutes before returning to the bar. Two bottles of beer later, he couldn’t say he felt a whole lot better.
Hoping what passed for fresh air would help him there, he stepped outside and closed the door with his foot. He breathed in as he stared into a cluster of trees laden with Spanish moss and rainwater. And was only mildly put out when a familiar voice whispered, “You’re a deception, a lie.”
The old woman—Mia’s Madame Medusa—spoke from a long wooden bench that spanned the entire side wall of the bar. “You think I don’t recognize you,” she said, “but I do.”
Ryder glanced at the bathroom window above them. Mia would be up to her breasts in bubbles by now. Should he stay and listen, or get the hell away from the old spook?
Manning up, he crouched to regard a person he’d never laid eyes on before tonight. “How is it you recognize someone you can’t possibly know?” he asked. “I’m not famous or infamous, and I’m not public, not really.”
She stared sightlessly into the night. “You’re your father’s son.”
“Only in name, old woman.”
“Name’s some of what defines us. Name has weight. Your father…” She shook her head. “Not a good man.”
Ryder felt his teeth grind. “You can’t possibly know that, but even if you’re bluffing or, God help me, psychic, I’m not my father.”
More disturbing than when she stared at nothing, the old woman turned her white eyes to Ryder’s face. “You lie to her. You place her in danger. You serve yourself as any reptile would, yet as humans tend to, you do it with great deliberation. A snake doesn’t deliberate; it acts on its instincts. Being human, you ignore your instincts. You think because she’s a stranger, you won’t care. You’re torn, Rick Ryder. And a man divided cannot live.”
“Then I’ll die.”
“If that’s your decision, so be it. You’ll die, and take Mia LeMay with you. But only to the grave. From there, you’ll part ways.” Her milk-white eyes rose to the bathroom window. “She’s not alone…”
Okay, crazy, Ryder reflected, a wannabe clairvoyant whose mission in life was to levy guilt trips wherever she could. She might have hit pay dirt with him, but damned if he’d let her know it. One good guess didn’t make her any less fraudulent. Besides, from the smell of her, he hadn’t been talking to the woman, so much as the drink she’d consumed.
Giving the bench a tap, he pushed off. He was halfway to his feet when the lights went out upstairs, something crashed, and he heard Mia scream.
* * *
A hand snagged the belt of her robe. Big hand or small—in the dark, Mia couldn’t tell. Was it one of the men from the bar, or had Helene’s killer followed her to the bayou?
&nbs
p; Unable to free herself, she plunged an elbow into flesh and heard a low growl.
“That hurt, bitch,” her attacker snapped. “You’re gonna pay for jerking me around.”
She already was, Mia realized when his other hand sank into her hair and yanked.
“First installment.”
She smelled whiskey and wrenched her head sideways to avoid his mouth. Using the heel of her hand, she punched his ear. He swore and stumbled backward into the sofa.
Because they were still tangled together, Mia fell with him. Fell on him, in fact. Her butt landed on his stomach. He whooshed out a breath, and then reared up flailing as he struggled to wheeze air back into his lungs.
The terror that numbed her mind threatened to consume her. It might have succeeded if anger hadn’t been vibrating beneath it. Ryder had gone for the throat downstairs, and she could see just enough of her attacker to take similar aim. Until a thrashing arm knocked her sideways.
She hit the floor hard and scrambled to her knees. Recalling a large lamp on the desk, she went for it.
In a dim corner of her mind, she knew the door burst open. She heard rather than saw the edge of it slam into the man’s skull.
The hands that had closed around her ankle froze, then went limp. Mia immediately snatched her leg away.
Strong fingers gripped her arms and hauled her to her feet. “Did he hurt you?” She felt different hands now, in her hair and on her face, as Ryder inspected her for injuries.
“I don’t think so. He wasn’t—He’s not the killer.” She bunched the front of Ryder’s T-shirt. “I thought he was, but it’s Bo, the guy from the bar who wanted to dance.” She pried her fingers free. “How did you know to come back?”
“I saw the lights go out. I figured it was the murderer.”
Mia firmed up her trembling legs. “Can you make this creep disappear?”
“Gonna try.” Going to one knee, Ryder grabbed the groggy intruder by the hair, hauled his head from the floor and stuck the barrel of his gun under his chin. “You either stand up, get out and don’t come back, or I squeeze this trigger. Your choice, Bo.”
