“No. We’ll get you a room at my hotel.”
She stopped on the banquette and stared up at him. Was he mad? Her dress was in tatters, her hat askew, her hair a disaster, and all that running had made her glow. As a result she suspected she smelled less than lovely. She couldn’t be seen like this. “Absolutely not.”
“Then I’m spending the night at your house.”
He was mad, crazy as a loon. Now she was sure of it. “Why?”
“We just went over that. Zombie. Possessed mob. God knows what will be next.”
“I mean, why do you care? This”—her free hand rose to the chain around her neck—“entails far more than tracking my father.”
He stared down at her. “You need someone to help you.”
That was either sweet or patronizing. Tired, in pain, and a mess, she was inclined to go with patronizing. Her shoulders tensed.
“I’m not leaving you alone.” His face looked like hewn stone.
“Are you helping me because of the treasure?”
“No!” His voice was too loud. It rose above the sounds of carriages rumbling over cobbles, over the drunken humming of three men—Congo Love Song? Perhaps. They were so drunk it was hard to tell. “No,” he repeated at a lower pitch.
Mr. Mattias I-cannot-tell-a-lie Drake was a liar after all. He might not care about acquiring the wealth but the search for it—the puzzle—fascinated him.
She primmed her lips and lifted a disbelieving brow.
“I’m not leaving you alone.” He looked down at her ankle, which throbbed its displeasure with her perambulation, then hailed a hack and loaded her into it.
Sitting next to her, he seemed too close, claimed too much space. It was like sitting next to a boulder, a warm boulder that smelled of bay rum cologne. She scooched away. “We need a plan.” She scooched even farther. “For tomorrow.”
“A plan?”
She nodded. “You heard Major Haywood. He was surprised Daddy won. Dominique Youx lost that card game on purpose.”
“There’s no way to be certain of that.”
She suppressed a bitter-as-chicory laugh. “Oh, I’m certain. Daddy never wins.”
“Then why does he play?”
“He can’t help himself. It’s like a sickness.” A sickness that had broken her mother’s heart, ruined their family, and cost Warwick his life. “Believe me, he never wins.” She stared at her hands that held the remnants of her skirts together. “You’d think dying would make it better, but no.”
“How did he die?”
“He was shot over a gambling debt.” The tone of her voice forbade further questions.
“What happened?” Of course he’d ignore the warning signs in her voice.
“He used collateral he didn’t own.”
“Oh?”
“I inherited it from my mother’s mother.” The words came too fast, like water rushing over a spillway. Why was she telling him so much? She never talked about this.
“He lost something that belonged to you?”
She didn’t trust her voice. She nodded then turned her head toward the window, hiding the tears that filled her eyes.
“Obviously you didn’t give it to him.”
How could she? She shook her head.
“And then he was murdered?”
“Shot.”
“And you feel guilty.”
Of course she did. Anyone would. But losing the house on Royal would have left her homeless.
The granite of his expression softened to limestone. “If your father hadn’t lost everything, you wouldn’t be a milliner.”
Probably not.
“You’d be married to someone with a last name like Gautreaux or Durand or Dubois.”
She didn’t argue.
“You wouldn’t be you.”
“Fifolet down there.” The driver’s panicked voice carried through the open window. The hack rolled to a halt. “It’s right in front of your stop.”
Christine leaned back against the seat and sighed deeply. “We can’t go to my house.”
Drake leaned his head out the open window. “What is a fifolet?”
Why had Zeke sent a man with no knowledge of New Orleans to help her? What he didn’t know could get him killed.
“Legend has it when a pirate buried his treasure, he murdered a member of his crew and threw the body into the ground with the treasure chest. It bound the dead man’s spirit to the treasure. The spirit becomes a fifolet.”
“So it knows where the treasure is?” His hand closed on the door handle.
“You don’t talk to a fifolet.”
His fingers lingered on the handle. “Why not?”
“Because as soon as you open your mouth it will invade your lungs and suffocate you.”
Drake loosed the handle. “Good reason.”
“I think so.” Why then did she have an odd feeling that this fifolet didn’t mean them harm? She couldn’t risk their lives on an odd feeling.
“Where do you want to go?” the driver called. “I ain’t driving through that.”
“The Commercial Hotel,” said Drake.
The driver backed the hack then turned around. Christine looked out the window at the blue light. It twinkled at her, beckoning. That’s what fifolet did. They tricked people into following them then led them to their doom. Christine sat back against the seat and closed her eyes.
A few moments later, the driver rolled to a stop in front of the hotel. Drake leapt out then lifted her down.
She straightened her hat, reminded herself of a heritage that stretched back two centuries, lifted her chin, and walked into the thankfully empty lobby.
Antonio Monteleone himself stood behind the registration desk. Christine breathed a sigh of relief. The man was discreet, a veritable vault. No one need ever know she’d appeared at the front desk looking like a hoyden, or that a man had brought her.
They walked—well, Drake walked, she limped—to the registration desk.
“Mrs. Drake will need a room tonight,” said Drake.
For the love of Pete! Mrs. Drake?
The hotelier looked at her and his brows rose—just a tiny bit—if she hadn’t been looking at him when it happened she might have imagined that rare manifestation of surprise at one of his guest’s requests.
“What Mr. Drake means to say, Mr. Monteleone, is that someone attempted to rob my shop today and I don’t feel comfortable staying there alone.”
“Of course, Mademoiselle Lambert. We have a lovely suite available.”
“The same floor as my room?” asked Drake.
This time the hotelier’s jaw slackened. Just a smidge, but she saw it.
“What Mr. Drake means to say is that the robber attacked me and he wants to be nearby should I need him.”
“I do hope you weren’t hurt and that nothing valuable was stolen.”
Christine offered up a small smile. “You’re kind to ask. Is that suite on Mr. Drake’s floor?”
“It is.”
“Perfect.” She wanted a bath more than she wanted to breathe.
“Bags?” he asked.
There was a wrinkle. She had nothing. She drummed her fingers against the counter for a moment then said, “I’m afraid not. If you have some paper…”
He slid a piece of hotel stationery across the counter. She took up a pen and wrote a quick note to Molly then jotted the girl’s address on the envelope he provided. “If you’d see that this is delivered first thing in the morning, I’d be most grateful.”
“My pleasure, Miss Lambert.” He pushed a key across the registration desk. “I believe the kitchen might still be open. May I send something up?”
Drake’s stomach rumbled.
“Please. Would you send an extra cellar of salt?”
Monteleone didn’t blink. Extra salt was apparently not something that surprised him.
They took the lift to the third floor and Drake escorted her to her door. “Thank you, Mr. Drake.” She inserted th
e key in the lock.
The damn man reached around her, opened the door, and stepped inside.
Christine turned on the light. “I’d like to take a bath.”
“Don’t let me stop you.”
“Perhaps you didn’t understand, Mr. Drake. I’d like to take a bath without a man in my room.
“No.” He settled onto the chaise. He even put his feet up as if he meant to stay for a long time. “Leave the door cracked.” Then he folded his arms behind his head and reclined.
If he heard her teeth grinding, he gave no indication.
“I’ve known you less than twelve hours.”
“Give or take,” he agreed.
“Have you any idea how inappropriate this is?”
He raised a brow.
If only she didn’t want a bath so desperately. Amidst the elegant furnishings of the suite, she felt more bedraggled than ever.
“I won’t peek.”
Now she raised a brow.
“Zeke would have my head,” he said.
“So the only thing keeping you away from my bath is your loyalty to Zeke Barnes?”
The man who’d carried her through a whorehouse answered with a smile—a slow one, as seductive as sin.
Christine’s body tingled and her mouth went dry.
“Of course, you could always ask me in.”
There was the cocksure attitude she’d come to expect over the past several hours. The tingling disappeared, replaced by a desire to pick up a lamp and smash him over the head. Instead she walked into the bathroom and turned on the tap. She contorted her arms over head to unbutton the back of her dress then contorted them low to unbutton the bottom. The middle was a problem.
She could ask Mattias Drake to help her. Hell would freeze over first. She yanked. A few buttons clattered against the tile floor. She slipped off the ruined garment then shed the rest of her clothes. The hotel had a bottle of bubble bath next to the tub. She poured a healthy dose into the water and the room filled with the scent of magnolias. She breathed deep then lowered herself into the fragrant water.
Heaven.
“Everything all right in there?” called Drake.
Not heaven. “Fine,” she snapped. “Let me enjoy my bath.”
Was he chuckling?
Damned Yankee.
“Where should we look for Youx?” he asked.
She didn’t answer. Instead she slipped beneath the surface of the water.
She stayed there for a second, submerged in the relaxing warmth. Then her lungs demanded air and she rose above the surface.
Mattias Drake’s head and shoulders had entered the bathroom. The rest of him didn’t look too far behind.
“What are you doing?” she squeaked. “Get out!”
“You didn’t answer.” His cheeks flushed. Perhaps from the heat and dampness of the bathroom. Perhaps from seeing her. He shifted his gaze to the bathroom ceiling.
“I. Am. Taking. A. Bath.”
His head and shoulders withdrew and he mumbled, “Sorry.”
Sorry? He’d seen her naked! Or he would have were it not for the prodigious number of magnolia-scented bubbles that surrounded her.
Really, Zeke should have sent someone old and portly and unattractive, a man who’d never dream of disturbing a lady in her bath.
In the twelve hours she’d known him, Mattias Drake had treated her like a helpless dimwit for approximately eleven hours and fifty minutes. It was those other ten minutes that bothered her. When he’d laughed with her on the bench. When he’d tested her ankle in Josie’s kitchen. When he’d stroked her cheek after that horrible man had accosted her. When he’d smiled at her just now. That smile—just thinking about it made her tingle.
Christine picked up the sea sponge at the side of the tub, squeezed some of the divine magnolia concoction on it, and scrubbed. Hard. As if washing the day’s trials off her body could wash Mattias Drake right out of her life.
…
Mattias collapsed on the chaise. There was no way the sight of a naked woman should affect him like this. He wasn’t some fresh-behind-the-ears pup. His head sank to his hands.
Christine Lambert was nothing but trouble wrapped in an exquisite package and tied with a satin bow. She attracted disaster like nectar attracted hummingbirds. Dire trouble flitted around her constantly. He need only look at the past few hours for proof. One day trouble would catch her.
His heart constricted.
He’d seen what trouble did to women. He didn’t want to see it again. He needed to find her father then get the hell out of New Orleans.
“Where can we find Youx?” he called. Better to think about solving the riddle of her missing father than how she looked in the tub. Wet and sweet-smelling and all together delectable.
“The Cabildo.” Angry rattlesnakes sounded friendlier than she did.
The ca-what? “Where?”
“It’s in Jackson Square, next to the cathedral.”
“Fine. What is it?”
“Mr. Drake”—there it was again, the patronizing tone she used whenever he revealed his ignorance of New Orleans and its customs—”you need to study history.”
He’d rather study her. He shook his head. No. Such was the way of the hummingbirds. “Why?” His voice sounded harsh.
“The Louisiana Purchase was signed at the Cabildo.”
Fascinating but hardly germane. “Why would a ghost be there?”
“It’s a government building.”
“You said he was a pirate then a soldier.”
“Yes, and then he became an alderman.”
What kind of city was this? They elected pirates to public office?
“I’m going to rinse my hair now.”
“Oh?”
“That means I’ll be under water again. Don’t come in here.”
No chance of that. He’d tortured himself enough for one day.
He heard her. The sound of water sloshing. Her sigh when she rose above its surface. The drips of water when she stood. The soft friction of a towel against her naked skin. Apparently he hadn’t had enough torture for one day.
“Oh…” Her voice was soft, southern seduction.
“What?” he barked.
“I don’t have any clothes.”
His body tensed, tightened. The loveliest woman he’d ever seen stood naked on the other side of a half-closed door. He drew breath deep into his lungs and held it.
“Do you have a shirt I could wear until Molly arrives?”
He exhaled in a rush. She wanted to wear his clothes? The tightening in his groin was almost painful.
He stood and snatched the room key off a side table. “I’ll be right back.”
He escaped to the hallway, pausing only to lock the door behind him. Then he opened the door to his room and grabbed his softest, longest linen shirt from the wardrobe. It would have to do.
Shirt in hand, Drake returned to Christine’s room and called, “Are you all right?”
“Of course I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Because she’d been attacked three times. Four if you counted the waiting fifolet.
An elegant hand extended from the bathroom. “Do you have something for me?”
He gave her his shirt.
Tap, tap, tap. “Room service.”
Drake opened the door and a uniformed waiter pushed a cart into the room. The smells rising from the covered dishes were almost enough to make him forget about the near naked woman in the bathroom. Almost.
He tipped the waiter, locked the door behind him, then lifted one of the covers. Shrimp and celery and tomatoes swam around a mound of white rice. His stomach expressed its glee with a loud rumble and Drake grabbed a spoon. He took a bite and flavors exploded in his mouth. Perhaps this city had a redeeming quality after all—the food.
He lifted another spoonful. Whatever it was, it was ambrosial.
Click. The sound of a door closing.
He turned. Christine stood just outside
the bathroom door wearing only his shirt. It didn’t quite reach her knees.
He choked.
She flushed, a delicious pink that began somewhere below the shirt’s collar and rose to her cheeks. Her lips thinned as if she knew he was trying to pinpoint the starting point of that blush. “Did they bring salt?”
He tore his gaze away from her. Two shakers sat on the cart. “There.”
She crossed to the bed, pulled a thin blanket from its foot, and wrapped it around her waist, hiding her legs. It was a bit like closing the barn door after the horse had fled. Covering her legs now couldn’t erase the sight of them from his memory. “Do you still have a handkerchief?” she asked.
Apparently she’d decided not to acknowledge her state of undress.
If she could, he could.
Although, it probably wasn’t affecting her in the same way. She probably wasn’t thinking about how all that naked flesh would feel pressed against him. She probably wasn’t wondering if her lips tasted as sweet as strawberries.
He yanked the piece of linen from his pocket. She plucked it from his fingers, opened the folded square, and poured two shakers of salt onto it. Then she unlatched the chain that hung round her neck and dropped the coin into the salt.
She pushed the bit of silver deep into the mound of white granules then tied the linen into a tight bundle.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“The others can’t sense the coin if it’s surrounded by salt.”
“The others?”
She nodded. “Spirits and what not.”
“How do you know?”
“It came to me when we saw the fifolet.”
“So it must be true.”
The skin around her eyes tightened. “Do you have a better idea?”
He didn’t.
“What did they bring?” She jerked her chin toward the cart.
“I’m not sure what it is.”
She lifted more covers. “Crab cakes with remoulade. Etouffée. Bananas Foster.”
“They had all this food sitting in the kitchen?”
“Of course not.” She spooned some of the etouffée into a bowl.
“But the manager said—”
“The owner said that so I wouldn’t feel bad about him hauling someone out of bed to cook for us.”
“And you let him?”
“We’re both starving. If it’ll make you feel better you can leave an extra-generous tip.” She filled a spoon with etouffée then lifted the spoon to her lips. They parted.
Bayou Nights Page 7
