Night Game (GhostWalkers 3)

"I'm going to kiss you. If you stick me with that thing, make it somewhere not important to me." He gathered her to him, his arms locking around her, hands sliding up her back. His body was hard and hot and thick with need and he rubbed against her, massaging the terrible ache as he bent his head to hers.

Flame lifted her mouth to his, meeting him halfway, the slow burn igniting instantly when her lips touched his. His tongue swept into the moist heat of her mouth, the craving for her so strong it shook him. He felt an answering tremor run through her body as she melted into him, all soft flesh and lush curves. He tasted sex and sweetness and fury mixed together in a powerful concoction.

She was addicting, potent, the chemistry between them highly volatile. He wasn't simply kissing her, he was devouring her, feasting on her, long, hard kisses over and over because it wasn't enough. Her breasts were soft temptations against his chest and when she rubbed her leg over his thigh, aligning their bodies more closely, the breath left his body in a mad rush.

It was torment, his body so tight and hard he thought his skin might burst. His blood pounded and thunder roared in his ears. "Come to my cabin with me." He bit her lip, sucked it into his mouth and teased with his tongue. "Right now. Forget everything else and come home with me."

Flame fought her every instinct to climb on top of his body. "I didn't know you had your own cabin. You're staying with your grandmother." The temptation of being alone with him in a cabin with a bed was more than she could think about. Her brain was on total meltdown.

"When I visit, I stay with her. The cabin is small, a hunting cabin but it has a bed." He kissed her again, long, ferociously, a wicked combination of command and coaxing, his hands sliding down to her bottom to lift her closer.

Flame became aware of her leg wrapped around his waist, of her hands under his shirt caressing his bare chest, of the heaviness of her breasts and the terrible throbbing between her legs. She had never wanted anyone the way she wanted him. Her need seemed beyond lust, beyond attraction, bordering on obsession. She tore herself out of his arms, stumbling backward toward the edge of the pier.

It was more reflex than thought that allowed Gator to reach out and steady her, preventing her from falling into the reed-choked water. They stared at each other, both fighting for control.

"Let's not do that again," Flame said, shaken.

"I was thinking we should do that all the time," he countered. "You have the right name. I thought for a minute there I might go up in smoke." His grin flashed at her, a quick teasing smile that made her heart do some silly flip.

Flame wiped her swollen lips with the back of her hand. She could still taste him in her mouth and feel him imprinted on her body, pressed deep into her bones like a brand. "In case you aren't paying attention, they're fighting inside." Her voice was so low, so husky she hardly recognized it. She couldn't look away from his gaze, held captive there like a hostage.

"I hear them. Ian and Wyatt can hold their own. They're fighting with Louis and Vicq, which isn't surprising. Our two families have been fighting since we were about five years old."

The door behind them opened and Raoul spun around to watch as the crowd poured out of the Huracan Club. He took two steps to place his body between Flame and the throng of men, many still fighting as they spilled out into the yard and onto the pier. Several large men surrounded Emanuel Parsons and his son James as they pushed their way toward the relative safety of the end of the pier.

The older Parsons wore a long trench coat and with his silver hair and cane looked very out of place in the midst of the fighting crowd of men. His son, sporting a darkening eye and a swollen lip, shook off his bodyguard's hand as the group neared Gator and Flame.

"Raoul Fontenot," Emanuel Parsons offered his hand. "I met you at a fund-raiser a few years back."

"I remember," Gator said. "This is my fiancee, Flame Johnson."

Parsons's eyes flicked over her. "You're quite lovely, my dear. I've heard you sing a few times. Have you considered singing professionally? I can make a few phone calls if you're interested."

Flame flashed a perky smile, eyes wide with awe, her gaze flicking toward the bodyguards and the shadowy driver always in the background. "Really? Do you think my voice is that good?" She took Gator's outstretched hand and allowed him to pull her to his side. He curved his arm around her waist rather possessively, but she let it stay there while she observed Parsons's son. This was the man who had been engaged to the missing Joy. The man who swore he didn't know what happened to her. Joy's brothers had obviously taken a couple of shots at him in the middle of the brawl.

James Parsons stood slightly behind and to the side of his father, avoiding the stare of the bodyguards, uncomfortable in his role as the son of a powerful man. He stole hot licentious glances at Flame, but didn't speak to her and his father didn't bother with introductions. James was a handsome man, but to Flame looked spoiled and petulant, bored with his father talking to the locals and irritated that he didn't get an introduction when he so obviously wanted one.

No doubt he got that spoiled, bored look from his father. The older man had worn the same expression the night she'd spotted him in the club in New Orleans when several businessmen sat at his table with him drinking, making certain he had picked up the tab. James didn't want to step forward on his own and introduce himself; it would lessen his importance in his own eyes. She wasn't going to pander to his ego by noticing him. Behind him, the driver, who obviously observed James's sulky behavior, winked at her.

The crowd behind them fought ferociously, slamming one another to the ground and into the sides of the cabin. The porch creaked ominously as bodies hit the supports, and the sound of bottles breaking was loud in the night.

"Yes, I do believe your voice is that good and I have an ear for talent." The elder Parsons ignored the raging fight around them as if it didn't exist. He snapped his fingers and his driver stepped forward to pull a card out of a slim silver case. Emanuel Parsons took the card and handed it to her. "This is my private line. If you really want to see if you can make a go of it, give me a call and I'll see what I can do to make it happen."

Flame smiled up at him, all white teeth and wide innocence, properly awed that he could have connections in the music industry. Gator's fingers dug into her wrist as she reached out and took the card, clutching it to her chest as if the man had given her a priceless gift. A large man slammed into the driver, was pushed off, and fell into the water with a loud splash.

The tallest bodyguard leaned in close to Emanuel Parsons to whisper in his ear. "Sir, we should leave," he advised. "This is getting out of hand and there's a lot of sentiment against your son."

Emanuel Parsons quelled the man easily with one look. The bodyguard retreated and James smirked, obviously enjoying that his father had reprimanded him publicly.

"What brings you back to the bayou, Raoul?" Parsons asked. "I'd heard you were in the service. Are you out? I always have work for a good man."

"No, sir." Gator shook his head. "Home visiting kin. My grandmother lives here and I have three brothers in the area."

A large body flew past them to land hard against the post with a thud. Parsons smiled and shook his head. "I remember the good old days whenever I came out to the Huracan. It's always a breath of fresh air. It was a pleasure to meet you, Flame." He reached for her hand, carried it to his lips, dropping it just as quickly and turning away before she could reply.

Flame scowled after them, rubbing her knuckles against Gator's shirt. "Ew. He tongued me."

"Anyone would tongue you given the chance." He took her hand and rubbed the pad of his thumb across her knuckles. "I'll kick his ass for you if you want me to."

"I'll kick his ass if I want it kicked. What did you think of his son?"

"If that was Joy's former fiance," Gator said, "he didn't look all that broken up to me. He was eyeing you like you were whiskey and he had a long thirst."

"Lovely way to put it, but I think you're r

ight. He probably dated Joy to put his daddy's nose out of joint. There's definitely an elitist syndrome buried deep in that family." She glanced down at the card in her hand. It didn't even have Parsons's name, only a telephone number in a raised black font on a pale linen background. "Very elite."

"I saw the videotape of James's interrogation when the police questioned him about Joy's disappearance. He appeared very broken up. I think our boy has acting skills."

"Maybe he actually took acting classes," Flame said. "It would be easy enough to find out. Quite frankly he gave me the creeps. I don't know what Joy saw in him."

"Flash. Money. He's smooth enough and if he has the acting skills to pull it off, he probably convinced her he was in love with her."

"Until Daddy objected and humiliated her in front of his entire family," Flame said, an edge to her voice. "He did it on purpose. Her mother told me all about it." She whirled out of the way as one of the Comeaux brothers staggered backward and nearly bumped into her.

"Maybe James needs his father to object to his choices to make himself feel more important or to enjoy her humiliation."

"And prove to himself that he was above everyone else. He's a rat bastard," Flame declared.

"We don't know for certain," Gator pointed out. "And for the record, have you ever referred to me as a rat bastard?"

"Yes, several times, but in a different way. He's a slimeball rat bastard. You're just a plain old garden variety man-type rat bastard."

"Thanks for clarifying."

"Anytime." She smirked at him.

"Flame?"

"I'm going now."

"Put the knife away."

She glanced down at her hand. She'd pulled the knife without even being aware of it when Comeaux had nearly plowed into her. She held it low, blade up, close to her body, already in a fighting stance, light on the balls of her feet. "You don't like it?"

"It's sexy as hell, cher, but I don' want these men to get the idea you're a wild woman. I'd be in a fight every night. Go home where I don't have to worry about you."

She turned her back to the club and slipped the knife away, glancing over her shoulder at him. "You mean they'd like it if they knew I carried a knife."

"They'd be lining up to marry you."

She flashed him a tentative smile, the first time she looked less than assured. "You're a little bit crazy, aren't you?"

"Yes. Keep that in mind before making any decisions to cheat on me after we're married with several children and you think life is too tame." The moment the teasing words slipped out, he knew he'd blown it. A man named Whitney had taken her past from her and as far as he knew, the man had probably taken her future as well.

Her smile faltered for all of a microsecond and then it was back in place as she stepped aboard the airboat. "Have fun, Raoul." She waved toward the brawling men. Ian stood taller than most of them and stood out easily fighting at Wyatt's back. "I know you're dying to join in."

"You want me to escort you home, cher?" He didn't want her to go. He wanted to hold her, keep her safe somehow. Change her life. Change her mind about him.

She shook her head regretfully. "I'm not falling for the gentlemanly act. You just want to know where I live."

"Where do you live?" He watched her start the boat, his heart beating too hard and the urge to stop her so strong he was afraid to move, afraid he might actually try to stop her. She was heartbreaking and she was lethal.

She froze, turning her head so that her gaze met his squarely. "Did you plant a homing device on the airboat?"

"Of course." He flashed her a cocky grin and forced his body to move away from her, back toward the fighters. Behind him he heard her mutter something rude that sounded suspiciously like "rat bastard," but he didn't turn around. As he waded through the combatants, he heard the airboat retreating down the canal.

" 'Bout time you showed up," Wyatt called, grinning unrepentantly at him. He took a solid punch on the jaw that made Gator wince.

Gator spun around the man who'd hit his brother and landed a one-two punch combination that dropped him to the ground. Ducking a wild fist he shoved someone hard and managed to make it across the last couple of feet to Wyatt.

"So if you had to choose between being slimeball rat bastard"--he jerked his head aside to escape another fist and lashed out with his foot, dropping his opponent--"or a common garden variety man-type rat bastard, which would you choose, Wyatt?"

Catching one of the two men driving his brother backward, he tossed him aside and went after the second man. Wyatt bent over, catching his breath, grinning as Gator easily dropped his adversary. "Watching you fight is a thing of beauty, Gator." He rubbed his sore jaw. "I'd be the slimeball, bro. I wouldn't want anyone thinking I was common, you know?"

Gator hit him square on the jaw, dropping him like a sack of potatoes. Wyatt crawled over to the wall and fished around until he found the beer he'd brought out with him. Sitting on the ground he leaned his head back and grinned. "Guess that was the wrong answer. You didn't score, did you, bro?"

"Shut up before I break that bottle over your head." Gator shoved another victim out of his way and stomped inside.

The club was in a bit of disarray and he righted a couple of chairs on the way to the bar. "Great night, Delmar," Gator said. "I could use another drink. Most fun I've had in a long time."

"The boys needed to release a little frustration. You got yourself a beautiful woman there, but she goin' to bring you trouble. Lots of trouble, that one."

Gator grinned at him. "She's got a knife. A great big knife. I make her mad enough she shows me that knife."

Delmar whistled softly. "You're one lucky man, Gator. Don' go blowin' this one. I never understood why all the women find you so purty."

Gator tossed back his drink and put the glass on the bar, winking at the owner. "I'm charmin', that's why. Catch you later."

Delmar snorted his derision. Gator stepped away from the bar, hesitated and turned back. "Answer me this, Delmar. If you had to choose between being a slimeball rat bastard, or a common garden variety man-type rat bastard, which would you be?"

Delmar cocked his head to one side while he mulled it over.

"It isn't a trick question, Del," Gator said. "Just pick one."

"Well then, that's easy enough. I don' want to be a common garden variety of anything. I'll be the slimeball rat bastard."

"That's just plain stupid." Gator threw his hands in the air in exasperation. "You want people thinking you're a slimeball?"

Delmar gave one of his slow nods. "Yep."

Disgusted, Gator stomped out, tipping over the two chairs he'd righted. "Come on, you two," he called to his brother and Ian. "Get up."

They were side by side sitting with their backs to the wall, legs out in front of them, beer bottles in hand. They exchanged a long look and both burst out laughing. "Could be a problem, bro," Wyatt said. "I'm not sure we can get up."

Gator scowled at the two of them. "Well you've had yourselves a time. Did you start it?" He glared at his brother.

Wyatt took a long pull on his beer, contemplating the answer. "I just might have, now that you ask."

Ian nudged him. "You threw the first punch and it sure was purty," he praised. "Vicq claimed your woman, Gator, and Wyatt here stood up for you."

Gator felt the rush of black temper seething and boiling in the pit of his stomach. It came out of nowhere; just like every intense emotion he seemed to feel when Flame was involved. "He has no claim on her. Hell, she's carrying my baby. He say he slept with her?"

Wyatt and Ian both took another drink from their respective beers. Gator observed their frowning faces with disgust. "Don't tell me you can't remember. It's an important detail don't you think? If she's runnin' around on me, I should know about it."

"Yeah," Ian agreed. "The baby might not be yours."

"Damn it, Ian. The baby's mine. She didn't sleep with Vicq Comeaux. I don't care what he said."

Ian and Wyatt looked a

t each other again and burst out with fresh laughter. "Thought you said there wasn't a baby," Ian said.

"Oh shut up. Did he say he slept with her?"

"I can't shut up and answer you at the same time," Ian pointed out pragmatically.

"Not that I recall," Wyatt said. "Vicq's been following her from club to club. Bet he didn't work up the courage to ask her for a date. He's long on running his mouth but doesn't do much when it comes to the ladies."

Ian nudged Wyatt. "He was bragging about what he'd do with a little hot thing like Flame."

"He wouldn't know what hit him," Gator sneered. "She'd slice him up his middle before he made the first move. I saved his worthless hide tonight."

Both Wyatt and Ian blinked up at him drunkenly. "That's right, man, she's got a knife."

Wyatt pushed himself unsteadily up the wall. "She had the biggest damn knife I ever saw and she actually had it against Gator's throat."

"You don't have to sound like you admire the fact she put a knife to your brother's throat," Gator objected. "She nearly killed me. Did you ever think about that?"

"It was awesome." Wyatt staggered forward and turned back to politely extend his hand toward Ian. "Plain awesome."

"Wish I'd seen it," Ian said plaintively.

"The two of you need to get in the pirogue before I decide to leave you here. Fat lot of good the two of you are to me."

Ian exchanged another long look with Wyatt, both looking as if they might erupt into another round of laughter. "He forgot you defended his claim on the woman, but I've got a long memory, lad, and I'll be reminding him."

"He's just really pissed at me right now," Wyatt explained, rubbing his jaw again. "I gave him the wrong answer to his question. Between Gator and Vicq, I got me a sore jaw. Vicq sure had a mad on for everyone tonight. He got himself into a heated argument with that city boy Parsons and then his bodyguards. I thought he was going to take all of them on."

"Yeah, until the driver said something to him and he backed off." Ian grinned. "I thought maybe he offered to drive him around New Orleans in that big fancy car."

The two staggered across the long wooden pier to the small pirogue, snickering together. Gator helped his brother into the boat and into the seat before turning back toward the larger Irishman. They all nearly ended up in the canal when he stepped off the pier into the middle of the pirogue, slipped, and crashed down onto Wyatt. The two men sat on the bottom of the boat howling with laughter.