“That’s all very well,” Marguerite said, “but this is police business. I don’t see why Constantine can’t just leave.” She winced.
Oh, fuck, oh fuck. He hadn’t corralled his emotions well enough. He’d hurt her again, just as he had on the mound. He snarled at the distant bird. See? I don’t have control.
Marguerite gazed at him wide-eyed, a flurry of emotions traversing her face, but he had no difficulty recognizing one of them.
How dare she feel sorry for him?
Marguerite knew by Constantine’s aura that she had hurt his feelings. He was quiet as stone, but he wasn’t made of it. Well, of course not. Nobody likes rejection.
She fumbled for the right words. “I would chalk it up to stress,” she said, “but that’s no excuse. It’s just that I hate being in the public eye, and the more I associate with you, the more I will be. I don’t know how you stand it, day in and day out.” Not only that, his horniness would drive her crazy, but no way was she getting into that discussion with Gideon here. “If you want to put the books away, that would be great.” That wasn’t entirely sincere, but she meant it when she added, “Although I’m sure we’d love to hear you play the cello.”
“No, we wouldn’t,” Gideon said, apparently unaffected by the emotions roiling around the room. “We’re working on a murder case. We need to be able to think.”
Constantine’s grin would have convinced anyone else. “I think better when I’m making music.”
“Well, I’d like to hear you play it,” Marguerite said. His aura calmed slightly; evidently, he believed her.
“I’ll leave in a couple of minutes,” Gideon said, “and then you can do all the playing and thinking you like. How do you want me to handle this, man?”
“Leave it to me for now.”
“But…” With something akin to panic, Marguerite blurted, “I don’t mean to be rude again, but what does Constantine have to do with this?” She turned to Constantine, desperate to explain without hurting his feelings again. “I really appreciate your going through the house first to make sure I would be safe, but you’re not a police officer.” To Gideon again: “Constantine can’t investigate Pauline’s murder—which you can’t just ignore, regardless of what your chief thinks—and besides that, Constantine and I aren’t really involved with each other. I was unlucky—at the wrong place at the wrong time—and just happened to be drugged and left on the mound.”
It didn’t just happen, Constantine said in her mind. Judging by the expression on Gideon’s face, he agreed.
Oh, God.
The connections tumbled through her brain like vowel shifts across the centuries. She started pacing again. “It’s a sort of daisy chain—a link between Pauline’s death and this ransacking.” A turn. “The ransacking and my drugging.” Back again. “My drugging and…” She gazed into Constantine’s dark, cold eyes. “Nathan and his informant. The one who told him to come to the mounds this morning.”
“Yep,” Constantine said.
“His informant and the murderer,” Marguerite said, and sat plump down on the sofa.
Gideon sighed. “Told you she was smart.”
Constantine’s mouth quirked up. “So you did.”
Whoa. Gideon had spoken to Constantine about her? When?
Constantine’s smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. What a pity, because it had been a genuine smile.
She marshaled her thoughts and took a deep breath. “So you don’t think I was a random choice for drugging last night.”
“It kept you out of your house for a good long time,” Gideon said, “and it provided a victim for the scenario on the mound.”
“Thereby killing two birds with one stone,” Constantine said.
“But he couldn’t have known I would be at the concert. I was driving home from the coffee shop, and some kids yelled to me from their car. They’d just heard about it and were telling everyone they passed.”
“Maybe it was a spur-of-the-moment decision,” Constantine said, “like the concert. We were jamming in the Cat and just decided to go for it.”
Gideon stood, turning to Constantine. “Anything else you want me to do?”
After a distinct pause, Constantine told him, “I’ll text you.”
“About what?” she demanded, glaring from Constantine to Gideon. “Detective O’Toole, if Constantine is planning to beat up… some innocent person to get information, you need to know right now that Pauline wouldn’t have approved any more than I do, even if she was murdered.”
“Ms. McHugh,” Gideon replied placidly, “if you would kindly show me the paraphernalia from the mound, I’ll be on my way. You can pick up the police report on the burglary tomorrow.”
Unbelievable. “How can you just leave a murder investigation in Constantine’s hands?”
“This is Bayou Gavotte,” Gideon said. “The police deal with some crimes, while the vigilantes handle the others. If Constantine can find the murderer and dispose of him without anyone the wiser, you’ll be safe, he’ll be safe, and the rest of our fair town will be ignorant but safe.”
“And what if Constantine—or any other vigilante—disposes of the wrong person?”
“I won’t,” Constantine said.
She turned on him. “But what if you do? How will you reconcile it with your conscience?”
“How kind of you to assume I have one,” Constantine said. “As far as I know, I haven’t screwed up yet.”
“And you’re okay with this?” she demanded of Gideon.
“Not really,” he admitted, “but it’s efficient, and I’m prepared to live with it until we come up with something that works better. We have a better record than the justice system, if that’s any consolation.” He went out the door, and Marguerite followed.
Lawless squeezed past her and into the street to greet Zeb, who was deep in conversation with a group of kids. She shook her head and flicked a hand at him. Go! Go! He gave her an unreadable look, detached himself from the group, and loped away down the street just as Constantine emerged onto the porch.
Judging by the defiant glance Marguerite shot at Constantine, she seriously expected him to take off down the street after Zeb. Seemingly, she also thought she could prevent him from doing whatever he needed to do to the kid, whenever he decided to do it.
God, she was such a turn-on.
Constantine strolled into the street, made nice with the kids hovering there, and signed the CDs they were clutching, while Gideon drove away in his old Mercedes and Marguerite retreated indoors, taking the dog with her. He called Lep to get the background on Zeb.
“He’s been suspended from school once or twice for fighting,” Lep said, “and he failed a couple of drug tests when applying for jobs. Tested positive for both weed and opiates.” This surprised Constantine; he wouldn’t have pegged Zeb as a druggie. “His mom was a vampire—which we already knew—and his dad’s acting head of Chemistry at Hellebore. Several years ago, he won the Sexiest Professor Award.”
Constantine did a mental eye roll.
“Seems to be at his wits’ end about the kid, who went down the tubes after his mom died,” Lep went on. “Zeb’s a bit of a loner, but he’s reasonably well liked by the other kids at school. No girlfriend at the moment, but he’s pals with that goth chick Juma who tutors him in French.”
This might seem like a strange pairing, but along with her dedication to schoolwork, Juma had major attitude—a result, Constantine assumed, of her difficult upbringing. He didn’t know her well, but she seemed like a good kid. He couldn’t see himself leaning on her for info about her friend.
“And the girl he beat up that perv over? It was Zelda Dupree.”
Even worse—Zelda was like a daughter to Constantine.
“As for Eaton Wilson, he’s a bit of an eccentric, but students like him. He’s been in the running for Master Teacher a couple of times.”
Constantine thanked Lep and texted Gideon with a request for more information, about whic
h he intended to say nothing to Marguerite. He didn’t need any more guilt trips just now.
Surprisingly, she’d left her front door unlocked. He found her manically sweeping the kitchen. “I can’t believe he just left me with you,” she said.
“If you didn’t want me to come back inside, you could have locked the door.”
“You pick locks.” Her grip on the broom slackened, and her expression softened. He could have sworn she sensed his inner turbulence, which was impossible. He had himself latched down so securely that he hardly noticed it himself.
Calmly, coolly, displaying no feelings whatsoever, he said, “But I wouldn’t have.” Not that he didn’t want to. He wanted to pick all her locks, break down all her barriers, and invade her.
She would like that, the bird said. The invasion part, that is.
Her fingers tightened around the broom again. Sweep. Sweep. “I realize that due to my stupid attempt to protect you from Nathan, I have to play a role for a day or two.”
This was so ass-backward. He was supposed to do the protecting. No one ever protected him.
It occurred to him suddenly that he had taken her words at face value. He was trusting her in spite of himself.
“But the fact remains that you can’t stay here.” She put up a hand. “It’s not that I don’t like you.” One brush-off after another. “I’m sure you’re trying to help, but…”
Clearly, his spirit guide had gone out of its mind. Unfortunately, it was still in possession of his. He took the broom out of her clasp. Her bosom rose and fell, her nipples showing hard through the thin T-shirt. Nothing to do with sex, he told the bird. She’s just riled. He looked away and set to work with the broom, but it did no good at all. He wanted to pull the T-shirt over her head, peel the bra away from those quivering breasts, and feast on her.
“Gideon says I need your protection, and I don’t see why. The guy seems to have gone through Pauline’s stuff, and I already know there’s nothing worth anything there. He has no reason to come back.”
“We don’t know what his reasons are for anything he’s doing, except to get at me.”
“I understand your need for self-preservation—”
“You understand nothing about me. I refuse to be responsible for any murders I don’t commit myself. Therefore, I need to protect you.” He stilled the broom. “Go ahead and take your shower while I clean up.” No big deal; he wouldn’t imagine her naked and wet only a few feet away. He’d think about that new riff he’d been working on the other night. It was one hell of a sexy riff; he’d written it just after watching Marguerite and her dog from the safety of the bayou. He’d been thinking about toppling her into the water and taking her then and there.
Oops, said the bird.
Marguerite was looking at him as if he’d gone out of his mind. “You want me to take a shower.” Pause. “While you’re in the kitchen.” She threw up her hands. “Thinking about me wet and naked!”
“I’m not—that is, I won’t be—” Christ. He was babbling. What had happened to being Zen about sex? She was just another woman, and being horny shouldn’t reduce him from total control to incoherence. “I didn’t telepath anything. What are you, a mind reader?”
“No, of course not.” She averted her eyes. “I just know.”
He pounced on that. “How do you know?”
“I just do.”
Well. This was interesting, and it put him at a tiny bit less of a disadvantage. It might be fun to find out what went on in that honey-blond head, behind those hazel eyes. “It doesn’t matter what I’m thinking. I’m attracted to a lot of women, but I don’t act on the attraction. You’re a fan, and in your imagination you’ve painted me as something entirely different from what I actually am. You have a skewed idea of me.”
“No,” Marguerite said, “you are skewed.”
He couldn’t help but grin at that. “True, but you can go take your shower. I swear upon my honor and all that’s holy, I will not come on to you.”
“I believe you,” she said. “But has it never occurred to you that I might come on to you?”
“No.” Anxiety tore into the arousal in Constantine’s aura, shattering, scattering the sensual vibe. He put up a warning hand, set the broom against the fridge, and fended off Marguerite with the other hand, too, as if she really were attacking him. “Don’t even think about coming on to me.”
Now, this was genuinely bizarre. “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be thinking about it,” Marguerite said. “Believe it or not, devastatingly attractive as you are, I would prefer not to think about it. I do without sex most of the time. It’s just not interesting, but as long as you are aroused, I will be aroused as well.”
“No,” he said again. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Why? Are you HIV positive?”
“No, and I don’t have any other STDs that I’m aware of. I’m just not safe.”
Oh, God, he pissed her off. But it didn’t matter, since she had no intention of coming on to him, now or ever.
“What are you going to do to Zeb?”
“Whatever it takes,” Constantine said. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew him this morning?”
“Because I planned to talk to him myself. I arranged for him to mow my lawn, but that’s a bust now. He’s a troubled kid and doesn’t get on well at school or with his dad, but he gets on fine with me. He would have talked to me.”
“A friendly conversation won’t cut it,” Constantine said. “You know what Zeb let slip? That the guy who drugged you knows you and likes you, too.”
Nausea rose into her gorge.
“Scary, isn’t it? Makes you sick, doesn’t it?” His aura twisted and stretched, and a vision of a monstrous glistening snake flashed into her mind.
“You’re so horrible,” she said, her voice shaking. “I feel so sorry for you.”
Constantine’s aura burst into flames. He laughed—a short, harsh bark. “Me?”
“Yes—you.” Marguerite’s head hurt, and her stomach heaved, but she stood her ground. “You’re so unhappy and filled with… with pain and misery, and you hurt people instead of talking to them, and—”
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Constantine said icily. “I fed Zeb breakfast. I talked to him plenty. I offered him tickets and the pick of my groupies. I even offered cash, but he wouldn’t tell me what’s going on. If I have to hurt him, I will. And since you don’t want me here, I’ll send one of my bodyguards to protect you.”
“I don’t want your damned bodyguard,” she said. “If and when I decide I need one, I’ll get my own. Get out of my house. I’m going to lock the door. Kindly refrain from breaking in again.”
Constantine barely got in a few words about keeping the dog and her phone beside her at all times before she slammed the door behind him. His cell phone rang. He wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, but he never ignored Zelda. “Hey, kid. Can I call you back?”
“No,” said the vampire. “I need your help. I think my friend Zeb wants to kill himself, and I don’t know what to do.”
Constantine went slowly down the steps and stopped on the walkway, listening to Zelda blurt out her fears for Zeb and to the absolute silence in the back of his mind, which meant the bird knew full well it didn’t need to add a word.
“He’s your hugest fan in the world,” Zelda said. “If he’ll listen to anybody, it’s you.”
Constantine got rid of Zelda, offering meaningless comfort and help that he knew might have had a slim chance of acceptance yesterday but would now be refused. For all he knew, his threats had pushed the kid closer to the brink.
A blue jay fluttered past and landed on a crepe myrtle, looking ever so perky and pretty among the leaves. How about a truce?
Very funny. We tried that, remember?
Not with me, dummy. The jay cocked its head to one side. With the chick.
Constantine turned and considered knocking, considered trying Marguerite’s door, but… what was the point?
; You’d get laid, said the bird.
And then everything will be hunky-dory, right? It’ll all fall into place.
Yes! the jay screeched, and Constantine got into his glossy blue pickup truck and glowered all the way to downtown Bayou Gavotte, wishing he had the guts to believe it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
That’s one heck of a long penis.” Lavonia stared at the charcoal-pencil sketch Marguerite had just finished of the most intense sex dream of her entire life.
She supposed it shouldn’t be a surprise; she wasn’t prone to sex dreams as a rule, but awareness of Constantine’s desire for her was well-nigh impossible to shake off. For a long moment after shutting the door behind Constantine, she’d just stood there, resting her forehead against the cool wood with her eyes closed. She listened to his footsteps and to his voice, low and indistinguishable, as he answered his cell.
Done. Finished. Gone.
Violence was a lousy way to get information. She had to find Zeb before Constantine hurt him. Since he didn’t have a job elsewhere, he might have signed on at one of the sex clubs. Some of them didn’t care about the rules and hired any minor foolish or desperate enough to work there. They didn’t openly flaunt their infractions for fear of the underworld, but as a painted messenger boy, Zeb wouldn’t be easily recognized—by most people.
Because most people couldn’t read auras. Most people couldn’t control them well either. Zeb did, and because of this, Marguerite had a good chance of spotting him.
She locked the door, went straight for her phone, and called Tony Karaplis. If there was one man in town who could protect her and also stand up to Constantine, it was Tony. He also had entrée to every sex club in Bayou Gavotte.
“Love to go clubbing with you, baby,” came Tony’s deep voice, “but won’t that piss off Constantine Dufray?”
Cripes. “Please don’t tell me you’re afraid of him.”
Tony chuckled. “Nah, but I hear you’re his woman now.”
“I am not his woman,” she snapped, “and he can piss himself dry and shrivel up for all I care.”
[Bayou Gavotte 03.0] Heart of Constantine Page 10
