Bayou Nights

by Julie Mulhern

  Christine turned her head away from her father’s voice. There was no need to rehash the past. She was all too familiar with betrayal.

  “That doesn’t mean that this man will betray you.”

  He already had.

  Christine shook her head. Slowly this time—a mere inch. She’d had enough pain.

  “Give him a chance,” Warwick insisted. “You’re wrong about him.”

  She wasn’t. The oblivion of sleep called to her and she let herself tumble into its waiting arms.

  The next time she slitted her eyes Warwick was gone. Drake wasn’t. He sat next to her, his hand still wrapped around her fingers. In this, he was dependable as the tides, steady as the Rock of Gibraltar. All that constancy made his betrayal even harder to bear.

  If only he’d behaved like a shiftless cad from the start, a man whose potential treachery was easily discerned. Instead he’d been…perfect. So perfect she’d fallen in love despite her misgivings, despite her better judgment, despite the hollow certainty that their affair would end badly. Despite every reason not to, she’d dared to hope. That cruelest of emotions had encouraged her to dream of something more. Now she was paying the price.

  She tugged her fingers.

  Drake’s grip tightened. “You’re awake.”

  “I am and I’ll thank you for my hand back.” She tugged again.

  Stubble darkened his cheeks, his hair was mussed, and the collar to his shirt stood open. He looked too handsome by half. Especially when he smiled that way. “I believe I’ll keep it for a while longer.”

  She ached too much to engage in a tug-of-war over her hand. He could keep it. For now. Although, if the determined set of his jaw was any indication, Drake wasn’t letting go anytime soon. She had two options. Honey or vinegar.

  The sweetness of honey could hide a multitude of emotions while the tang of vinegar showed only bitterness.

  Christine smiled—sweetly—then glanced at the joining of their hands. “I declare, I feel quite flattered that you’d want to hold my little hand.” She batted her lashes. “Whatever did happen at the Simms’ house?” She batted her lashes. “I imagine you were quite heroic.”

  The smile ran away from his face, replaced by something hard as granite. “No you don’t.”

  She blinked. “Don’t be silly, Mr. Drake, I’m sure you saved the day.”

  “Stop it.” His voice was as clipped and short as a Yankee’s could be.

  “Stop what?”

  “You don’t get to flirt and flutter and treat me like some man who doesn’t understand you.”

  So much for honey. “If you really understood me, Mr. Drake, you’d be on your way back to Massachusetts before I feel well enough to locate my gun.”

  Drake’s lips thinned. “Then it’s a good thing you don’t feel well.” He inched closer to the edge of his chair, closer to her. “Now tell me why you’re so angry with me.”

  She gaped at him. He’d taken her into his bed, made love to her, then, less than an hour later, had a different woman in his room. One he hadn’t planned on telling her about. “Who is Mike?”

  “You met her.”

  Lands but men could be dumb as posts. “Who is she to you?”

  “A colleague.”

  “Is that what they call it up north?”

  He rolled his eyes and his lips quirked. “You’re beautiful when you’re angry.”

  “So that’s what you notice?” Her voice squeaked. She took a deep breath and found a more measured tone. “You care how I look, not how I feel?”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Betrayed!” There it was. One word. Positively doused in vinegar.

  Drake looked at the ceiling for a few seconds then shifted his gaze to her, staring as if the mere act of looking into each other’s eyes could create a connection of some sort. “I didn’t betray you. I’ve known Mike for years.”

  She turned away and swallowed the lump in her throat. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  He caught her chin and turned her head, forcing her gaze back to his. “There is nothing between Mike and me. There never has been.”

  With his mussed hair and serious expression, she almost believed him. But believing left her vulnerable. Christine closed her eyes on the face that ninety-nine women out of a hundred would deem trustworthy. She was the one woman who knew better. “She asked you when you planned on telling me and you said never.”

  “That was a mistake.”

  “That was a lie you didn’t have time or opportunity to tell.” She opened her eyes. Reading his face when he answered her mattered. Why it mattered didn’t bear scrutiny.

  “I should have explained about Mike. I made a mistake.” He ran his free hand through his hair. “I make plenty of them. I imagine you do, too. But when two people love each other they forgive each other.”

  The air around her stilled. Her heart tripped on its own rhythm. Her mouth dried to dust. “Pardon me?

  “They forgive each other.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “The other part.”

  “I love you.” He stared into her eyes—into her soul. “I think you love me.” Drake lifted her hand from the bed and held it against his heart. “I will never betray you, Christine. Never. Please believe me.”

  Did she dare?

  This was the man who had saved her life over and over again. He’d fought by her side, survived the bayou, faced evil spirits and voodoo witches, and kissed her till her lungs forgot how to inflate.

  He held her heart.

  With that came the power to crush her.

  Did she believe him? Did she trust him? Did she love him enough to risk everything? She stared at the ceiling, listened to the fan whirr, rolled the word love on her tongue, tasting its flavor. She found it sweet.

  Drake shifted in his chair. “Do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  He rubbed his eyes then his chin. “Believe me.”

  She did. “I do.”

  His strong face looked as vulnerable as she felt. “And?”

  “I love you.” The words lifted from her lips on wings, carrying with them a heavy load of fear and distrust. Her heart felt light as goose down. That alone would have made the risk worthwhile but the expression on Drake’s face…well, the skin around his eyes crinkled. His mouth stretched into a grin, showing off the white of his teeth. His eyes positively danced. He looked incandescently happy. Then his expression softened and he leaned toward her.

  His lips touched hers.

  Gentle.

  Firm.

  Perfect.

  Her hand closed around the nape of his neck, drawing him closer. This—right here in her bedroom—was heaven.

  “Ahem.”

  Drake stiffened and pulled away.

  Warwick stood in the doorway looking almost misty-eyed. If he weren’t already dead, she’d have killed him for interrupting. After all, how many perfect kisses did a woman get in a lifetime? Hopefully scads.

  “That Yankee woman with a man’s name is here. Should I send her in?”

  Drake didn’t move. Didn’t react. He was allowing her to make the decision.

  She was going to have to deal with Mike at some time, it might as well be now. “Fine.”

  A moment later, Mike sailed in as if she had no idea that her presence in New Orleans had almost destroyed Christine’s happiness. “Did you tell her?”

  A smile touched Christine’s lips and she swallowed a contented sigh.

  “Not yet,” said Drake.

  What hadn’t he told her? For a half-second fear came rushing back. Christine met it at the gate and turned it away. Whatever Drake hadn’t told her, it wasn’t a reflection of his feelings. She was sure of that. She was sure of him.

  Mike frowned at him then shifted her gaze to Christine. “After you fainted—”

  Of all the nerve. “I’ve never fainted in my life.”

  The skin around Mike’s lips tightened. “After you passed out due to
blood loss, Drake carried you out of Simms’ room.”

  Christine remembered none of it.

  “I gave a bottle of water to Simms.”

  Christine sat up in bed. Pain lanced her shoulder and her head throbbed. She ignored them. “Why would you do that?”

  “He had a gun. Besides, it wasn’t the real water.”

  Mollified, Christine laid back against her pillows.

  “While he was drinking, Yvette somehow pulled herself off the floor and grabbed the other bottle.”

  “The other bottle?” Christine asked.

  “We took two,” Drake explained. “A real one and a decoy.”

  “But if Mr. Simms drank the fake water that means that Yvette…” Her voice trailed to nothing and the blood drained from her head. “Do you know who she is?”

  Everyone in the room stared at her.

  “She’s Delphine LaLaurie’s granddaughter.”

  Only Warwick looked anywhere near concerned enough about this revelation.

  “Have you found Hector?” asked Christine.

  Mike tilted her head. “Why?”

  “There must be a way to kill her.” Surely that was obvious.

  “You don’t understand,” said Drake. “Both bottles were fake. She’s dead.”

  “We knew she’d be expecting us to offer up a fake and keep the reserve. So, we took two bottles with tap water.” Mike sounded inordinately pleased with herself.

  “She’s dead?”

  “Dead,” said Drake.

  Christine smiled as sweetly as she could. “Would you be kind enough to hand me my robe, please?” She pointed at an ecru silk and lace peignoir hanging over the back of a chair.

  “The doctor says you are to stay in bed.” Drake’s voice was firm.

  “Fiddlesticks. I feel just fine.”

  No one made any move to give her a robe. Without the benefit of her peignoir, she swung her legs out of bed and stood.

  Stars whirled around her head—a whole galaxy of them. She rested her hand on the mattress and waited for them to fade. They didn’t. No matter. She took a step and the stars faded to black.

  …

  Drake studied Christine’s face. In sleep, her chin lost its stubborn tilt. She looked delicate…and perfect…and his.

  He leaned back in his chair and breathed his umpteenth sigh of relief.

  That she’d come so close to turning away from him was still enough to darken the chambers of his heart to bleak mid-winter.

  Her lashes fluttered then she opened her golden eyes. “What happened?”

  “You fainted.”

  She arched a brow. “I never faint.”

  “Your injuries overwhelmed you and you returned to bed.”

  She pursed her lips as if contemplating an argument. “Where is everyone?”

  “Your father and Mike are out looking for Hector.”

  “And you stayed here?” A simple question but he heard other more complex questions hiding in its depths.

  He looked into her eyes and said, “I won’t ever leave you.”

  “I know.” She scooted away from him, leaving a space on the bed. “Will you sit with me?”

  Drake kicked off his shoes, climbed onto the four-poster, and extended his arm.

  Christine nestled into his shoulder. “Mmmm. This feels good.”

  It felt like heaven. He dropped a kiss onto the top of her head.

  She reached her arm across his chest, nestling still closer. Her breasts pressed against him and her scent swirled beneath his nose.

  Desire stirred.

  They couldn’t. Could. Not. She’d spent the past three days convalescing. She had stitches in her side, a lump on her head, and a splint on her ankle.

  She tilted her head and parted her lips as if begging him to kiss her.

  One kiss couldn’t hurt.

  His lips touched hers. Her lips felt the same—soft and yielding and utterly delicious. It was the kiss itself that felt different. The kiss sent shoots of springtime into his heart, warmed him like a summer afternoon, swirled through him like an autumn gale. She loved him. Perhaps someday she’d love him as much as he loved her. This kiss was a promise.

  Her fingers brushed against his cheek and she pressed her body more closely to his.

  If she continued…well, she had to stop. “Christine, don’t.”

  Her eyes widened with deceptive innocence. “Why?”

  “Because you’re injured and I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You won’t.” There was so much faith and trust in those two words. Too much. He wanted her so badly but he wouldn’t risk hurting her further.

  She traced the open vee of his shirt with tip of her finger, sending burning chills straight to his groin.

  He caught her hand. “You have to stop.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  Of course she didn’t. Her aim in life was to drive him demented.

  “You’ll be gentle.”

  She had more faith in him than he did in himself.

  “We can’t.”

  A smile curled her lips and the gold in her eyes sparkled. “We can.” She undid a button of his shirt.

  He closed his hand around hers. “Christine.”

  “No?”

  “No.” He released her hand.

  She stared at the vee of his shirt for a moment, caught her bottom lip in her teeth, then moved her hand to her nightgown.

  She loosed the first button, then the second.

  Drake’s gaze was caught, captured by the view of creamy skin that grew more erotic with each undone button.

  He captured her hand but this time his fingers were pressed against the softness of her breast.

  God help him.

  Christine certainly wasn’t. “Kiss me.”

  Perhaps if he did as she asked—kissed her thoroughly—she’d forget all about undoing buttons.

  He closed his lips on hers and her sigh reverberated through him like a gong, vibrating his nerve endings, his blood, his cock.

  A kiss—just a kiss. He moved his mouth against hers. His intentions pure.

  Good intentions fell like tin soldiers against the invasion of her tongue. She tasted better than cool water on a sweltering day. He had no choice; his tongue met hers. Danced. Dueled.

  Her hands wandered to his chest, up and under his shirt, moving slowly as if memorizing his skin.

  Her fingers brushed the waistband of his pants. That garment, already uncomfortably tight, suddenly seemed unbearably restrictive. Then she caught his hand and brought it to her breast, pressing his palm into her softness.

  Through the lawn of her gown he felt the tightness of her nipple. His fingers had to touch—if only for a second.

  She moaned her approval.

  Then her hands returned to his buttons.

  “Christine”—his voice sounded as if it had been dragged through three counties—“we have to stop.”

  “No.” The word was a sigh, breathless, wanting. “We don’t.” She pulled his shirt entirely free of his pants then hooked her leg over his body. “You won’t hurt me.”

  “What if I do?”

  “You won’t.”

  After not having enough faith in him, suddenly she had too much.

  “We can’t.”

  She broke free of their embrace, lifted her arms, and pulled off her nightdress.

  Naked.

  She was naked.

  Not even a saint could resist Christine Lambert naked and painted in the gold of late afternoon sunshine spilling through the French doors. He definitely wasn’t a saint.

  Still, he had to try and think reasonably. He pointed to the bandage circling her ribs. “We shouldn’t.”

  “I’m naked in front of you and all you notice is a bandage?” Her lower lip pouted provocatively and her eyes sparkled. “Do you honestly think I’d put all this effort into seducing you if I didn’t feel well enough to follow through?” She wet her lips. “Trust me.”

  He�
�d asked for her trust, now she was asking for his. If they took things slowly, perhaps he could do as she asked without causing her any pain. He reached out and cupped her breast in his hand, rubbing her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She arched into the sensation, closing her eyes and craning her neck.

  He leaned forward and kissed the delicate spot at the base of her throat.

  She lowered her head and her teeth grazed his earlobe. The sensation traveled from the sensitive bit of skin to his cock in less than a second.

  “Slowly,” he croaked. “If we do this, we do it my way.”

  “As you wish, Mr. Drake.” Her voice held more than a hint of mockery. So too her expression.

  That he could not have. He placed a finger against the full softness of her lips then slid it down her throat and lower. He paused at her left breast, circling the tight bud of her nipple. Then his finger dipped lower, skimming over the bandage that bound her ribs, stopping just above her mons.

  Parted lips, shallow breath, and a body that seemed to thrum with tension replaced her mocking expression.

  He lowered his finger another inch, not quite where she wanted.

  “Tease,” she breathed. “It hardly seems fair that you’re wearing all the clothes.”

  “You’re the one who removed your gown.”

  She reached for it but he grabbed her wrist, staying her hand. “I like you naked.” He bent and swirled his tongue around her nipple.

  Her moan of pleasure might have been his own.

  “I take that back—I love you naked.”

  “I wish I could say the same.” She tugged at his shirt.

  “If you insist.”

  She grinned. “I do.”

  Who would argue with a smile that promised both laughter and passion? He yanked off his clothing and tossed it on the floor.

  “That’s better.” Christine ran a finger down his chest, stopping just before she touched his erect cock. Flutter-flutter went her lashes. Was she mad? He wanted to be gentle, not half-crazed with desire. If she kept this up, gentleness might be impossible.

  He pushed her back on the mountain of pillows.

  She parted her lips. “I want you.” She reached up and closed her fingers around his nape, drawing closer. “Make love to me.”

  How could he refuse? He slid inside her slowly. “Am I hurting you?”

  “The opposite.” She canted her hips, accepting more of his length.