Power Game (GhostWalkers 13)

Nonny took the pipe from her mouth. He noted the spicy tobacco wasn't lit. She was just chewing on the stem, an indication that she was worried. The knots in his guts tightened. Nonny wasn't a woman prone to worry.

"I always have the shotgun handy, and I'll tell Pepper to keep the girls close." Her eyes bore straight into his. "You stay safe, Ezekiel. Mind your surroundin's and stay cautious, even when you aren't with us."

"I will." He held out his hand for the note for the spices.

She hesitated. Not long. No more than a split second, but he saw it and felt it in his gut again. She put the scented notepaper in his hand, and he shoved it into his pocket without looking at it. It was a crap list, but he'd get it for her.

"It's important you stay alert even when you aren't watchin' over us," she reiterated. "We need you. You're important to us."

That monster in him rose fast and ferocious. He could feel it deep inside waiting to consume him. His fingers closed one by one until he had made two tight fists, the need so strong he held himself still so he wouldn't give himself away. So she couldn't see.

He was always needed. He was always so important. As a shield. A protector. He was born into that role, and there was no getting around what he was. Even Nonny saw it. What they never saw was the why of it. Why he was so fucking good at being a shield. He hoped to hell the ones he loved never did.

3

Ezekiel walked straight down the narrow, uneven sidewalk, head up, eyes moving restlessly, quartering the entire area out of sheer habit. Jackson Square was alive with tourists and street vendors. Dozens of street artists displayed their paintings and crafts as well as played music and mimed. He didn't like painted faces of men or women who could be anyone. He was a target. He would always be a target. He accepted that fact, even walking down a street filled with laughing people.

He didn't belong there and he never would. More, he didn't want to. Nonny, however, wanted these damned spices, so he would crawl through hell for her if that's what it took.

He was a hunter first and always. That was bred in him. Enhanced in him. He could follow a trail better than almost anyone. Some said he had the eyes of an eagle and a sense of smell equal to a polar bear's. It was close to the truth. Once he was set on a trail, few escaped him. Here, in the Quarter with the jazz players and the mimes and the street artists fighting for a small piece of the pie, it was more difficult to separate scents and spot the enemy.

Aromas from various small cafes and restaurants assailed him. Perfumes and the sweat of the street performers. The sweet smell of weed competed for space with tobacco. The river was close, and he could smell that and the ships that ran up and down it with their loads of cargo. The fish. The cars and horses. His mind processed it all, separating and cataloguing automatically.

The wind shifted minutely just as he was about to enter the store where Nonny bought all of her Cajun spices--at least the ones she didn't make herself. The scent stopped him in his tracks and he whirled around, for the first time in his life losing focus on his primary mission. He had to track that scent. Turning away from the spice shop, he followed the wind up toward the street opposite the Cafe Du Monde.

Out in the open, away from the shelter of the buildings, the wind was capricious, blowing in small eddies, stopping and starting from a different direction. One moment it seemed to be coming off the river and the next it was down from the Cafe Du Monde. He didn't stop moving, filled with a purpose he didn't understand and therefore was leery of, but he knew he had to catch the scent again.

A small restaurant right on the corner was tucked into the space between two shops. Tables were on an outside balcony on the second story as well as a few on the street and more inside. A waitress laughed softly as she served two women what appeared to be strawberry lemonade and some fluffy pastry. The waitress was small and slight. Her hair was pulled back away from her face, hidden under a rolled handkerchief. Her accent was very Cajun, as if she'd been born on the bayou and stayed there growing up. Soft. Sexy. A slow drawl that crawled inside a man and wrapped itself tight until he couldn't ever forget that sound.

More, for him, it was the elusive scent he couldn't quite name. She smelled--delicious. Sexy. Everything her voice promised. He didn't know how to saunter. To be casual. He didn't date. He didn't show interest in women. What was the use when he was a soldier? He was gone on a moment's notice, and his woman would never know where he was. Still, knowing that, his feet refused to move and he simply stood there, inhaling her, taking the scent of her deep.

It wasn't as if she was strikingly beautiful. She was . . . nondescript. Hard to describe other than she was small. He couldn't take his eyes off of her. The more he took her in, the more he saw of her. Why hadn't he noticed her bone structure? It was amazing and her skin flawless. Like silk or satin. More, her skin appeared dew fresh, as if the morning mist had enveloped her and left her skin looking like the petals of Nonny's exotic flowers.

The rolled handkerchief covered most of her hair, but the sun struck her at an angle and he could see the shine, gloriously blond, so pale it appeared to be like the finest vintage of a fine white wine. He instantly had the need to touch her skin, to bury his fingers in that thick mass of hair peeking out beneath the triangle of cloth. When he found he'd taken a step toward her, he forced himself to halt, his hands curling into two tight fists against his thigh.

He didn't have a reaction to women. When one caught his eye, she was always tall, with dark hair and decidedly curvy. He passed over them quickly, because in his world, men like him didn't have a woman of their own. But this one . . .

Her eyes were large, a beautiful, startling blue. Framed with blond, almost blue-tinged very thick lashes. The color made her eyes even more exotic. He was certain she wore blue mascara, but there were no clumps or any other indication that her lashes weren't naturally that color.

His body stirred. Not just stirred--every cell in him reacted to her. It was damned embarrassing. He wasn't a teenager. He'd had control of his body since he was a young kid. Now, he doubted if it would be safe to take a step.

He found he wanted her to look at him. Not just look, but really see--and that was dangerous for both of them. He knew he shouldn't. He knew better. He was not only a hunter, he was a soldier and a damned good one. Things like this--things so unusual--were suspect, but he couldn't walk away, no matter how many times he told himself to do so.

She glanced up at him and stilled, like a doe caught in the predatory stare of a lethal cat. As if for just a moment she recognized the hunter in him and the prey in her. Those exotic long lashes fluttered and then she flashed a small smile.

"Would you prefer a table outside or inside?"

For a moment all he could do was stare at her. He felt like a fucking imbecile. A table? Why the hell was she going on about a table? A bed maybe, but a table? He didn't need either. A wall would do.

"Outside will do." He was never that comfortable indoors. He'd lived on the streets for years, and then traveled to the world's hotspots, most of the time where there were no accommodations. He was used to that life, and being inside often made him feel trapped. He remembered manners. He'd beaten etiquette into his brothers and yet his manners were damned rusty. "Thank you."

Her small smile in response made his cock jerk and pulse with demand. Shit. He was totally out of control, and not once in his life had that ever happened. Suspicion slithered down his spine. He kept his features blank and nodded toward the only table that afforded him any kind of cover while still allowing him to see anything coming at him.

Did she hesitate just for a split second before she turned and walked toward the table, indicating that he follow her? Was he so suspicious, even of a random waitress working the dinner rush? That was insane. No one could have known he would be in town at this precise hour and then randomly walk over to grab a bite to eat. He took a deep breath and inhaled her scent. A mixture of vanilla and orange. Good Lord, she smelled good.

"Tha

nks," he murmured politely and took the menu from her. He had a wild urge to run his finger along the back of her hand and touch her skin just to see if it was as soft as it looked. If he stooped so low, he'd be descending into the world of creepy stalker and that was just plain unacceptable. But he liked looking at her. And inhaling her. He knew he'd like touching her.

He watched her walk away. It was strange that when he'd first seen her he thought she was nondescript. She was vividly alive, a shimmering, beautiful woman he couldn't take his gaze from. For the first time in his life, he decided he was going to sit back and be normal. Just enjoy the moment. It would probably never come again, but right now, he was simply a man appreciating the beauty of a woman.

He sipped at the water she brought him after ordering food he didn't necessarily want, but he'd eat just to spend time watching her. He liked the way she moved, flowing over the stone of the patio, her hips a provocative sway. That didn't mean he could stop, even for a few minutes, the way he scanned his surroundings, checking rooftops and streets. He noticed everything, registered and processed data even as he kept an eye on his beautiful waitress.

She was keeping an eye on him as well. At first he put it down to her being good at her job, watching out for her customers, but he was observing her closely and realized she barely took her gaze from him. She worked, laughed softly with people at other tables, took orders and brought food, but through it all, she always had her eye on him.

His first reaction was to be suspicious again. It wasn't as if he was good-looking. He was rough and scarred, covered with tattoos, and looked, according to his brothers, as mean as hell. A beautiful woman wasn't going to notice a man like him. She certainly wouldn't look twice--but she was.

"Bella! You need to take your break," a voice called from inside the restaurant just as she emerged with his bowl of gumbo.

She glanced over her shoulder, nodded and set the plate in front of him. "It's stuffy in there. I think they need another overhead fan."

He glanced around. There were no other tables available outside. "Join me. At least you can get off your feet for a few minutes. There's a good breeze coming off the river." His heart actually accelerated. His pulse never changed when bullets were flying, but asking her to sit opposite him and have a conversation was almost terrifying.

She hesitated, and he held his breath, uncertain if he wanted her to sit or to go. She slipped into the chair across from him and gave him a tentative smile.

"I'm Ezekiel Fortunes."

"Bellisia Adams. My friends call me Bella."

He liked that. Her name. It was unusual and sounded Italian to him, not Cajun or French.

"I've seen you before," she admitted with a shy smile. "You brought your three little girls into Baraquin's. They came out eating snowballs. Baraquin's makes the best snowballs in New Orleans."

He sat back in his chair, his muscles loose, one hand coiled around the handle of his fork. He could kill her in seconds and be gone before her body dropped. What the hell? She saw the girls? Noticed them? He was supposed to believe that? Deep inside, everything in him stilled. His heartbeat was as steady as a rock. This was his world. One of death. Of violence. He understood this world.

"They were adorable. Triplets. I think it's my first time ever seeing triplets."

He took a breath. A big mistake. Vanilla and orange inflated his lungs. Of course a woman might notice triplets. They were cute, with their mops of dark curly hair and big eyes. They could melt hearts at twenty paces.

"Not mine. My friend's." He couldn't even put a fucking sentence together. He sounded like a caveman. The next thing that was bound to happen was that he'd start grunting. Flinging her over his shoulder and carrying her off to a cave was looking pretty good to him, especially if he didn't have to talk. "They're his daughters." He made an effort to get his head out of his ass. "They love to go to Baraquin's. The moment they see me, they tug on my pant leg and look at me with their big brown eyes and I'm a sucker." It was the truth, and he was glad to be able to give her truth, especially when she sat across from him, innocent, and he'd thought about killing her to protect the girls.

"I have to confess, I like to go to Baraquin's for their snowballs as well."

"It's popular for that reason." Scintillating conversation. She'd go home and remember it for certain.

She nodded. "A friend told me about it and once I tried the shaved ice, I was hooked--as I suspect the little girls are. You weren't eating one though."

A ghost of a smile hovered. "I have two brothers. If they caught me eating a snowball, I'd never hear the end of it." And it wouldn't all be about the shaved ice, either, they'd make dirty jokes. He wasn't about to tell her that.

She laughed. It was a real laugh. Low. Sultry. Smoky even. Her laughter played over his body like the touch of fingers on his cock. He shifted just a little in the chair to give himself a little relief. Great. Now he was thinking with his dick. That wasn't improving things.

"I love that. I don' have any siblings, so I missed out on gettin' teased."

He had acute hearing. Her accent was perfect--or nearly so. He'd listened to Nonny, born and bred in the swamps of Louisiana, and Bella sounded close, but there was just a single note off. One. Single. Note. He tried to put that out of his mind. He wanted to stop being himself for one fucking hour and be a man enjoying the company of a woman.

"You grow up here?" he asked casually, and took a bite of the gumbo. It wasn't nearly as good as Nonny's. He kept his gaze on her face. The more he looked at her, the more he thought she was extraordinary. Especially those eyelashes. So long and thick with their exotic color. He was certain now that the bluish tint was natural.

She nodded, her gaze shifting slightly away from his. "Not right here, but close by. My dad fished. My mom was a nurse. I lost them a few years back and I left. There's something about New Orleans that drew me back."

She was lying. Damn it. She was fucking lying to him. He wasn't going to get his hour pretending to be normal, whatever that was. Still, she could have her reasons. People lied for all kinds of reasons. He might not get his hour, but he was going to touch her skin. The sun was still beating down and she was very fair.

He reached out and ran his fingers over her forearm, and down across the back of her hand. "You're going to burn out here."

She felt like paradise. Softer than he imagined. Like silk, only better. It was strange, but he felt as if he'd absorbed her through the pads of his fingers--as if she sank deep into his bones. His gaze drifted over her. Who the hell was she? Why did he have such a reaction to her? Why was he so damned suspicious, his warning system going off even as his body was telling him to carry the woman off and have his way with her?

She didn't give off the GhostWalker vibe. GhostWalkers nearly always knew when another was close by. They gave off a subtly different energy. He was close to her. Very close. Close enough that her scent was driving him right up the wall, but he didn't feel that GhostWalker power.

He knew. Well, maybe he knew. Bellisia just stopped herself from tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear. He was gorgeous. Not in a handsome, magazine model type of way, but a real man with muscle and tattoos kind of way. His hair spilled in every direction as if it wasn't to be tamed, clearly a herald of the man he was. She liked that too.

He'd touched her. Touched her skin. It felt like a caress. Her entire body reacted to the feel of his fingers on her. A shiver of absolute awareness went down her spine. Her sex clenched. She was acutely aware of her breasts suddenly aching. All because of a single touch. She had it bad for this man, and that was very, very dangerous.

She should get up and leave. It would be smarter and safer. She was very smart, but she was rarely safe, and really, why should she start now? She'd studied him for the last few weeks. Studied his entire team. Most of them were gone at the moment, and she liked how he stayed close to the adorable little girls and the older woman. Nonny, they called her.

She'd never actuall

y seen a real household before. She was drawn back time and again to spy on them. She hated the way it made her feel, the outsider looking in. She wanted that for herself. She hadn't known she did, because she hadn't known it existed, but she liked the laughter and camaraderie. She liked the way the men looked after Nonny, not that they made a big deal of it. Just small things really, but she loved that they did them for her.

Nonny was very respected and well known along the waterways and even in town. Less was said about the men living at the Fontenot home. The swamp was a place where the locals knew one another; they went back generations. That was the reason she'd told Ezekiel she was from a town close by, but not right there. If he made inquiries, there was a reason the locals wouldn't know her.

Without thinking about what she was doing, she picked up the water glass and dribbled water along her forearm to cool the burning sensation. She did the same to the other arm. When she realized what she was doing, her gaze jumped to his.

He frowned slightly. "You really are burning. Don't you use a sunscreen?"

She liked the genuine worry in his voice. That little edge that told her he was not happy that she had even a slight burn. He wasn't focused on her pouring water on her skin--and why should he be? She was just paranoid that he suspected her. But why would he? She was a waitress, doing her job. He'd happened by.

She tried not to stare at him, but she couldn't help herself. She'd watched him for so long she felt like she knew him. She especially liked to see him with the triplets. He told them great stories. She listened, of course. Who wouldn't listen? He was different around the children than he was with other people. For some silly reason, she wished he were different with her as well.

"Bellisia, do you use sunblock?" he persisted.

She doubted if that was a question he asked very many people, and for some reason it pleased her that it mattered to him. She nodded. "It doesn't always help. On the other hand, mosquitoes don' like me, so it evens out."

"I don't like you out in the sun like this. I don't burn, but it looks like it hurts when others do."