"Come on." Taking her arm, he guided her past the bar and pushed through the double doors, keenly aware of the eyes following their retreat.
The kitchen was a galley-style room with a single greasy window, a porcelain stove circa 1950, a refrigerator with a crease marring its facade, and a stainless steel sink that leaked like a sieve. There was no place to sit, very little room to turn around, but the lighting was good.
Nick cleared a small section of the scuffed Formica counter, wiped it down with his towel, and patted it. "Up you go."
"This really isn't necessary."
"Sure it is."
"It's just a bruise."
"On a very pretty face."
She looked away, but not before he saw that he'd embarrassed her, and for some inexplicable reason that charmed the hell out of him.
When she made no move to heft herself onto the counter, he put his hands beneath her armpits and lifted her. She was amazingly light and not for the first time he realized how slightly she was built, how soft she was, how good she smelled.
Then she was at eye level, and beneath the bright light he got his first good look at her up close and personal. Her gaze met his, and for an instant he felt it like the whisper touch of skin against skin. She had large, fragile eyes that made him think of high-grade turquoise. A deep bluish green that was as bright as the Gulf of Mexico on a sunny day. Within the depths of her gaze, he saw the remnants of a dozen emotions, each tempered by the resolve not to let a single one escape her control.
Realizing he was staring, Nick shook himself and stepped back, taken aback by his reaction to her. He wanted to believe his heart rate was up because it had been six long years since he'd been this close to a woman. But the hard tug he felt low in his gut was more complex than simple attraction and it went deeper than lust.
He walked to the freezer and proceeded to put crushed ice into a plastic bag. "So what are you doing at The Blue Gator all by yourself on a Friday night, chere?"
"I was looking for you, actually."
"Must be my lucky night,” he said dryly.
''I guess that depends on how you feel about what I told you earlier today."
Remembering. he felt a stir of anger. "If it has anything to do with my son. I'll take a pass." He wrapped the bag in a clean towel and walked over to her. "Tilt your head back."
When she didn't acquiesce, he put his fingertips beneath her chin and angled her head toward him. She winced when he set the bag of ice against her cheek. "Hurt?"
"What do you think?"
"You know, chere, for such a little thing, you have one hell of a right jab. You been taking lessons from Mike Tyson, or what?"
Her mouth twitched, and Nick felt the knot of tension at the base of his neck begin to loosen. It was the first time he'd seen her smile, and the simple beauty of it touched a place inside him that hadn't been touched for what seemed like an eternity. Her lips were full and looked very soft. He wanted to touch them with his fingertips. Maybe lean forward and set his mouth against hers . . .
"I hope he doesn't press charges," she said.
"Bellerose is a small Southern town. He'll be a laughing stock if he does."
"That's a double standard."
"Life is full of double standards. On the rare occasion when one works in your favor, take advantage of it."
"I'll try to remember that next time I get the urge to slug someone."
He thought about the things he'd heard between her and Ratcliffe, the things he'd heard from others in the crowd, the things she'd said to him earlier in the day, and for the life of him he couldn't reconcile any of them with the woman sitting on the counter looking like she didn't have a friend in the world.
"So why does Ratcliffe hate you so much?" he asked.
She closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, the sadness was back. "I'm his brother's widow."
"Being a widow is hardly your fault." He was still holding the ice to her cheek. His other hand was beneath her jaw, and he could feel her tightening up.
"Ward . . . was killed three years ago. Murdered. Along with . . . my son."
He could feel her trembling now. Minute tremors he wouldn't have been aware of had he not been touching her. Her breathing had quickened ever so slightly. He could tell she was trying very hard to control her reaction. But Nick knew enough about people to see how profoundly the subject had upset her.
"Hunt thinks I did it," she finished.
''Why does he think that?"
"Because I was there. The night it happened."
''That doesn't make you guilty."
"It made me a suspect."
"Officially? Or in the eyes of the Ratcliffes?"
"I was arrested, so I guess that would make it official."
Surprise rippled through him. Simultaneously, a voice in the back of his head reminded him that he didn't want to know this woman. That she could very well be guilty of what she'd been accused of. But Nick knew firsthand that Lady Justice didn't always get it right. "So there was evidence against you? What?"
"My prints were on the knife . . ." She looked everywhere but into his eyes. "I can't talk about this."
Nick didn't press her. The last thing be wanted to contend with on top of that pretty face and curvy body was tears. She was too close. Too sad. Far too soft. And he'd always had a weakness for troubled, vulnerable women . . .
When her gaze finally met his, her expression was fierce. "I didn't do it."
"But the Ratcliffes already tried and convicted you," he said.
"They need someone to blame."
"And the rest of the town?"
"I think you already know the answer to that."
Nick knew narrow-mindedness wasn't reserved for small towns. But he'd lived in Bellerose long enough to know people liked to label other people. He knew a label had been put on him. A label that didn't fit any better than the ones he'd heard thrown at this woman tonight.
''This town isn't exactly Mayberry for you," he said. "Why did you come back?"
Her gaze met his. "Because the bastard who murdered my husband and son got away with it. Because he's still in this town."
Not wanting the subject of his own son to arise again, Nick raised his hand. "I've heard enough."
"I don't think you have."
He removed the ice from her face, set it on the counter and stepped back. "You can take the ice pack with you."
"Mr. Bastille, please listen to me."
Turning away from her, he started toward the door. He wasn't sure where he was going. Away from her. Away from those sad, haunting eyes. A body he wanted to touch. And words he didn't want to hear.
"You said you'd listen to me if I found a witness," she called out.
He stopped. For an interminable moment he stood there, facing the doors that would take him back to the bar and away from words he knew would only rip open a wound that had barely begun to heal. Slowly he turned and strode toward her, stopping halfway there. "Let me give you some advice, chere," he ground out. "Don't fuck with me about my son."
She slid from the counter and started toward him. Her eyes were fierce and direct. Not the eyes of a liar, he thought, and that scared him. To consider the possibility that his son had been murdered was simply unthinkable . . .
"I have a witness," she said.
"I don't believe you."
"Let me prove it to you." She stopped a foot away from him. her eyes clear and beseeching.
"Are you trying to tell me someone saw . . . what happened to Brandon?"
''That's exactly what I'm telling you."
''Why the hell didn't they come forward? Why didn't they talk to the police?"
"I can't answer that."
He choked our a sound of incredulity and frustration. "Can't or won't?"
"Look, you said you would listen to me if I came up with a witness."
He stared hard at her, trying to read her, trying even harder to understand what she could possibly hope to accomplish b
y lying. "What the hell do you want from me?"
"Come to my house. Tomorrow morning."
"I'll meet with you on one condition."
''What condition?"
"I want to talk to this witness one on one. No games. No fucking around. You got that?"
“I got it."
For several interminable seconds they stared at each other. Then, as if realizing her business was finished here, she brushed by him and started toward the door.
He watched her walk away, aware that his heart was pounding, that her words had upset him despite his efforts not to let them. And like a fool, he was already looking forward to seeing her again.
# # #
He watches her from the shadows beneath the stand of live oaks at the edge of the bayou. He is as silent and deadly as the alligators that slither along the murky river bottom and mud flats. He is patient, but the bloodlust torments him. A hunger that drives him to commit unspeakable acts. Acts he has been able to conceal through cunning and brilliance and a conscience that has ceased to exist since long before he made his first kill.
He can't believe the bitch is back. He can't believe she's asking questions and opening old wounds just when they'd started to heal. What can she possibly hope to accomplish after all this time?
The answer eludes him. But he knows Nat Jennings is a threat. A threat that must be dealt with swiftly and permanently and without raising suspicion. He has worked too hard to risk having his secret uncovered now.
The parking lot is nearly empty as she crosses to her car. He watches her, taking in the long strides. liking the way she moves. Stupid, crazy bitch. He could have the knife buried in her throat before she even hears his approach. Before she can scream. She would be helpless against the knife. And his troubles would be over forever.
He imagines the dark spray of blood. The warmth of it on his hands. The copper smell in his nostrils. The terror on her face. Her energy pouring into him. The thought of killing her arouses him. His senses heighten to a fever pitch. The rush of blood to his groin is intense. His sex grows heavy and full and the hunger becomes an unbearable pain.
Come to me . . .
The night throbs with the symphony of the bayou. The rhythmic chirp of crickets and frogs, the lap of dark water against ancient cypress trunks, the quick slide of a reptilian body over mud. Music as primal as death.
His heart is pounding, a mix of hunger and rage and dark anticipation he feels all the way to his bowels. Sweating, he slaps at the mosquitoes. Feeling the stickiness of blood on his fingers, he brings them to his mouth and suckles, enjoying the salty tang. The beady rush of energy.
He watches her climb into the car, the taste of blood metallic on his tongue. He imagines her blood in his mouth. The thought excites him. And even though the night is muggy and hot, he begins to shake.
He wants to believe it is anticipation making his muscles quiver and twitch. But deep inside he feels the fear encroaching. stealing his enjoyment, his power, and he hates her for it. Fear is the one emotion he cannot allow, the one thing he will not tolerate. Fear equals weakness, and be has sworn that he will never be weak or helpless or humiliated again. He has power now. And the power is the only thing that will save him.
He watches the taillights of her car fade into the night, and the hunger is alive inside him. Removing the pocketknife from its sheath, he opens the blade and sets it against the underside of his forearm where no one will notice a cut. Just one, he promises himself. He slices the flesh and watches the black spread of blood. The pain arouses him. His mouth waters as the metallic smell fills his nostrils. He sets his mouth against the wound and begins to lap.
Nat Jennings has no idea with whom she's dealing. He will stop her. Only this time, he will stop her for good.
Chapter 9
Nick knew better than to pass the time thinking about Nat Jennings. The woman was trouble any way you cut it. She had it written all over that curvy little body of hers in big, bold letters. A more cautious man might have heeded the warning. But Nick had never claimed to be cautious, especially when it came to women.
He wanted to believe his interest in her was purely physical in nature. After all, he was a red-blooded American male and hadn't been with a woman for six long years. That was more than enough time to wear down a man's resolve to stay the hell away from trouble. But that resolve hadn't kept him from looking. It hadn't kept him from liking what he saw. It sure as hell hadn't kept him from wanting to do a lot more than just look . . .
But while he couldn't deny the hard tug of lust every time he laid eyes on her, he knew he wasn't going to do anything about it. Nick had enough personal baggage of his own without taking on someone else's. Nat Jennings was lugging around a ton of it. The last thing he needed in his life was a troubled, sexy-as-sin female with a boatload of demons to slay. He could barely handle his own these days.
"Hell of a night, eh?"
Nick looked up to see Mike Pequinot limp to the cash register and remove a thick wad of bills. "Not bad for a dive a stone's throw from the bayou."
It was almost midnight, and The Blue Gator had been winding down for the last hour. Two men were still at the back, shooting pool. Another man in faded coveralls was slumped at a table smoking a hand-rolled cigarette and nursing a beer. A haunting Peter Gabriel tune keened from the speakers.
“Must have been your night for crazy women," Pequinot said with a grin. "First that polecat ex-wife of yours, then the Jennings girl."
Nick ignored the reference to Tanya. "What's Nat Jennings's story?"
Pequinot shot him a knowing look. "She might be good to look at, but you don't want to get tangled up with her."
"I'm not going to get tangled up with anyone."
"If it's a woman you're wantin’, I can hook you up--"
"I don't want a hooker, Mike."
"Just askin'."
"So are you going to tell me about Nat Jennings, or am I going to have to ask someone else?"
"Ti parele! Si! Laisee mon te dire!" Talk about. "She's been a favorite topic down at the diner ever since it happened."
"She kill them, or what?" Nick asked.
Pequinot rolled a giant shoulder. "Folks say she did. But I don't know. You know, people like to talk. But she don't look like no killer to me." He laughed. "Man killer, maybe."
"So what happened?"
''Murders happened about three years ago. Cops get a 911 call in the wee hours. Deputy arrives to find her husband the minister shot dead and her seven-year-old son's throat slashed. From what I hear it was a hell of a goddamn scene. Cops puking and what not. That girl was hysterical and covered with blood. She'd been cut, too, but not like them. She claimed she heard something, went downstairs and found them in the kitchen. That the intruder jumped her.
"But the cops strung together a different version. They suspected she orchestrated the whole thing. Turns out her minister husband was having an affair with his secretary. Nat Jennings was in line for a five-hundred-thousand-dollar life insurance policy. Cops had motive. They had her fingerprints on the knife. They got a doc out of 'Nawlins to say her wounds could have been self-inflicted. She claimed the intruder had come in through her son's bedroom window. But the knife that had been used to cut the screen was her own. And the screen had been cut from the inside, not the outside."
"Pretty damning evidence," Nick said.
"I'll say. Whole damn town was divided. I mean, you see that sweet face of hers and you think she couldn't possibly have done it. But you look at the evidence, and you're not so sure."
"So how did she get out of it?"
"She didn't, really. Alcee Martin arrested her the day they put her husband and baby in the ground. Cops pounded her all day and half the night. When they finally put her in a cage, she took a piece of tile and cut her wrists. Got the artery, too. Almost died, that one. Poor Alcee found her, carried her to his car, and drove her to the hospital hisself. But she lost so much blood she had some kind of stroke and went into a c
oma. I swear, Alcee ain't been the same since. He went above and beyond to make things right when he testified 'fore the grand jury."
It was the first time Nick had heard the story, and it shocked him. "Jesus."
"Can't figure why she's back, though. If I was her, Bellerose is the last place I'd want to be."
Nick thought about that. For a moment he considered confiding in Pequinot about the alleged witness she claimed to have with regard to his own son's death, but decided against it.
"If you want to go on home, Rita and I can close up."
Nick was tired. He'd been working nights at me bar and getting up at dawn, trying to work the farm back into shape. There was hay to be cut and baled, but the baler was on its last leg. He'd be lucky if he could get the damn thing running . . .
He'd just stepped out from behind the bar when the door swung open. A quiver of uneasiness went through him when Chief of Police Alcee Martin strode in looking like someone . had just killed his dog. His uniform was military neat. His boots polished to a high sheen. His Glock tucked neatly into its glossy leather holster.
His gaze swept the room, stopping on Pequinot, who'd stopped counting cash and looked up. "Mike."
"Alcee," Pequinot drawled. "Get you a beer?"
''Not tonight." Martin looked around the bar, his gaze lingering on Nick an instant too long before going back to Pequinot. "I got a missing child on my hands. I wanted to let y'all know. We're putting together search parties. We can use all the help we can get."
Pequinot came around the bar, his expression concerned. "Whose kid?"
"Becky and Jim Arnaud's boy. Ricky. I think he's their oldest, seven or eight years old,"
"Le Bon Dieu mait la main ." God help. "How long's he been gone?"
"Since about eight o'clock this evenin'. He was visiting little Jamie Beckett. Usually cuts through old man Gray's cornfield on the way home. Mama says he's always home before dark. But he never made it." Martin's gaze landed on Nick. "Gray's place is right next to your daddy's farm,"