Night Game (GhostWalkers 3)

Flame skirted the edge of the cypress trees until she could hear the men shuffling back and forth, talking in whispers, crunching cans and muttering curses as insects bit and stung. One man scanned the canal continually with high-powered glasses while two others checked the interior of the swamp and the outer edges. None of them were very thorough, which led her to believe they weren't military. She couldn't tell exactly what they were doing or why they were there.

She had no choice but to head inland using the cover of brush and trees to get close enough to see them. With each step she sank into the mud nearly to her ankles. Behind her the dark water filled her tracks so it was impossible to see which direction she'd come from. She muted the sounds of her feet going through water and mud so there was no chance of giving away her presence to the intruders.

There were four men. Two shifted position continually, obviously uncomfortable in the humidity and spongelike surface of the marsh. Each time they moved, the mud made a squishing sound around them. The man with the binoculars would glare at them occasionally, annoyed by their constant motion. He objected when the fourth man lit a cigarette and it was put out instantly when he snapped the command to do so.

The men never approached the houseboat, simply observed the comings and goings on the water. They hadn't staked out her airboat or the Jeep. In fact none of them checked on the vehicles in the parking area, or the boats tied to the pier. She watched them for a long time, unable to ascertain what they were doing. After about a half an hour, the group of men entered the swamp, carrying what looked like supplies. They didn't look like trappers or hunters, but it was possible they were scientists. She knew several studies of the marsh were being conducted. "It's possible, Flame, even probable, that you are becoming paranoid."

She scooted backward until it was safe enough to stand in the concealment of the trees. As she made her way back to the Jeep, she tried to rub some of the mud from her clothes and kick it out of her shoes, but it was impossible. Swearing under her breath, she drove along the frontage road until she saw an older woman walking along with her groceries. She offered her a ride and quickly accepted the offer of a shower and a change of clothes. She drove very quickly to Gator's house. She was fifteen minutes late and he jerked open the door before she could even knock.

"About time you showed up," Gator greeted, stepping back to allow her into the house. "I was getting worried about you."

"I had to take care of a little business. I'm not normally late." Why had she said that? Flame nearly groaned aloud. She didn't need to explain or apologize.

She followed him into the kitchen. The room smelled of corn bread and jambalaya. A large pot on the stove simmered and a tea towel covered a plate of cookies. She couldn't help inhaling the scent of freshly baked bread and cookies she couldn't identify, but her mouth watered.

Only then did she notice the house was strangely silent. Her muscles tensed with sudden suspicion. "Where is everyone?"

Gator didn't answer. His gaze drifted over her, almost as if he were drinking her in. The intensity of his perusal caused a strange reaction in her body, her heart doing funny little flips and her womb clenching tightly. Up close, in broad daylight, she found him unbelievably attractive. There was a quirk to his mouth and a hint of laughter she found as sexy as all get out. His fingertips brushed her face, feather-light, his touch so gentle she was nearly disarmed on the spot.

"You've been doing recon." She stood very still, holding her breath as he brushed at another spot on her chin. "You didn't get this near my house."

"No. Someone was nosing around the houseboat. I thought it might be you, or a team sent by Whitney to assassinate me."

His eyes narrowed and his mouth hardened perceptibly. "Who was it?"

She was inexplicably pleased with his reaction but forced herself to give a casual shrug. "You don't want anyone stepping on your toes?"

"Absolutely not. If anyone gets to do you in, believe me, honey, it's going to be me after all the grief you've given me. Who was it?"

She frowned. "I'm not sure. They didn't look military or particularly skilled as fighters. Only one of them seemed competent in the bayou. The rest made too much noise. I didn't recognize any of them."

"What did they want?"

"I have no idea. I left them to a hot afternoon in the swamp. They're sitting on Burrell's little island and it's going to be uncomfortably muggy. If they're looking for me. . ."

"Is it possible Saunders had homing devices in the briefcases?"

She scowled at him. "I'm not an amateur. That was the first thing I checked for. In any case, the briefcases are at the bottom of the canal."

"I don't like this."

"I didn't like it much either," she admitted. "On the other hand, they didn't seem interested in the houseboat or the cars so more than likely they were trappers and had nothing to do with me."

"I'm coming home with you after you visit with Grand-mere Nonny to see what these bums are after."

"No one invited you," she pointed out.

"So invite me because I'm going home with you."

"Be still my heart. I feel absolutely faint. Your charm is just overwhelming me."

"Let me see your knife."

She rolled her eyes. "You're obsessed."

He was, but not with her knife. "Stop stalling. Put the weapon on the table."

"Weapon?" Her eyebrow shot up. "Why would you think I only had one? I brought a freakin' arsenal along just in case you wanted to go a round or two." She leaned close so her breath was warm against his ear. "Does it turn you on?" She pulled a long knife from her boot and spun it in her hands, smirking a little at him. "Nice balance, but not the best for throwing." She laid it on the table.

It wasn't the same blade she'd had the night before, but he was beginning to think he had a kinky streak because something was turning him on. "Just how good are you with that?"

"I only carry it for show." She reached behind her neck and withdrew a second blade. It was quite a bit smaller. "This is a great throwing knife. One of my favorites." She placed the knife beside the larger one.

It wasn't the one she'd had strapped to her thigh the night before either. "Is that all you've got, cher?" He quirked an eyebrow at her in challenge.

" 'Course not. I knew you might have a couple of friends along, you know, just in case things got a little too hot for you to handle. I'm not afraid of you, but you do so hate being alone with me." She withdrew a thin wire, placed it beside the knives and added three small throwing stars. Her belt yielded a small tool kit that had two lethal-looking instruments beside the pick tools, and she pulled a small metallic round disk, innocent looking until she popped open the curved blades.

"Anything else?" The knife from the night before still wasn't on the table. He scowled at her, but she simply flashed him her killer smile, totally unrepentant.

"You wouldn't want me to strip naked, now would you?" She reached for the largest knife. "A girl has to have her secrets."

"The idea has possibilities." He pinned her wrist to the table while his other hand slid over her jean-clad bottom to the inside of her thigh. Even without the feel of her skin he found himself getting hard. "Where is it?"

Her gaze turned turbulent, a dark smoldering promise of trouble. "I don't like being manhandled so I'm going to once, that would be one time, ask you politely to remove your hands. If you don't, you're very liable to lose them."

He removed his hands, but crowded her close. "Don' be threatening me in my grandmother's house," he reprimanded. "Where is it?"

"If you act like an ape in your grandmother's house you can expect to be threatened a lot. Where is what?"

"The knife. The knife from last night. You were wearing it in a very intriguing place and I'm rather fond of it. Where is it, cher?"

"You really believe that you're utterly charming, don't you? I'm not wearing a dress. It's my dress-up knife. So sorry. Let me know what you want in the way of accessories next time and I'll try t

o accommodate you." She turned her head. "We're about to have company. I'm putting my toys away now. I don't share well with others."

"You don' do much of anything well with others," he observed.

A slow, heated smile curved her soft mouth. Her gaze drifted up and down his body in deliberate inspection. "There are a few things I do well with others," she corrected, "depending on who that other happens to be."

He groaned softly. "That's just not right."

She bent over to shove the long blade down into her boot scabbard. The action sent his heart racing. He found himself staring at the smooth line of her jeans curving over her bottom. As she straightened, she caught him staring and shook her head. "You need help."

"Don' I know it, sugah."

She lowered her voice to a mere wisp of sound. "Does your grandmother know she raised such a perv?"

Knives were the least of her weapons. She was a fighter, well-versed in martial arts and more than that, her voice alone was a devastating weapon should all else fail. Gator stayed close to her. "I'm only a perv when I'm around you." He swept his hand down her back, more to touch her than to frisk for additional weapons, but he felt the thin scabbard between her shoulder blades.

She merely raised an eyebrow. "Find what you were looking for?"

His hand continued the sweep, molding the curve of her bottom almost lovingly. "You're wearing one of those sexy little thongs, aren't you?" He whispered the question as his grandmother, Wyatt, and Ian entered the house and started down the long hall toward the kitchen.

She leaned into his shoulder and turned her face up to his until their lips were a breath apart. "Am I?"

Heat shot through his body, blood pounded in his veins straight to his aching, thickening groin. He had to stop touching her. The alternative was unthinkable, not with his grandmother coming through the doorway with a welcoming smile on her face. He nearly groaned, catching the back of Flame's shirt to hold her in front of him. "That's just so not fair," he said.

Her soft laughter taunted him, teased his senses as she deliberately moved back until her bottom rubbed up against him, a mere brush, but it was enough to send a jolt through his entire body.

"How wonderful to see you again," Nonny greeted. She reached out and tucked her hand in the crook of Flame's arm. "Let's sit in the parlor, cher, and get to know one another. Raoul, you can bring the tea in."

"I'm sorry I was so late getting here, Mrs. Fontenot," Flame apologized. "It was unavoidable."

Nonny patted her hand. "Thas' just fine, no worries," she assured. "I understand you're staying with Burrell on his houseboat. He's a good friend of mine, child."

"That's what he said." Flame cast Gator a smoldering look over her shoulder promising retaliation. She knew he'd really put a homing device on the airboat, that he'd already checked up on her. "He's a wonderful man."

Gator sent her his quick, easy grin, balancing the tea tray easily in one hand as he trailed after them.

Nonny sank down onto the couch and patted the seat beside her. "Sit here, cher, and tell me all about your family."

"My family?" Flame echoed, a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She didn't want to lie to this old lady the way she lied to everyone else. Why hadn't she considered that it would be the first thing the woman asked her? Nonny Fontenot was all about family. She was concerned for her grandson and wanting Flame to be the mother of his future children.

Gator watched the color fade from Flame's cheeks. She glanced up at him almost helplessly and his heart turned over. She actually pressed backward into the pillows of the couch as if to get away from the question. "Flame's an orphan, Grand-mere. No blood relatives."

Nonny clucked her sympathy. "That don' matter, cher. When you marry Gator, you'll have all kinds of family. More family than you know what to do with." She patted Flame's hand again, more of a stroking than a pat.

Flame had a foolish desire to cover the back of her hand with her palm, to hold that small gesture against her skin and take it out later to feel it all over again when she was alone. She flashed Gator a look of anger. How could he have betrayed his family for Whitney? She wanted to slap his face. Wake him up. Shake him. This wonderful, sincere woman loved him and surrounded herself with his pictures and drawings. She'd probably fixed him chicken soup and read him stories when he was sick.

"How long have you known Burrell?" She needed a good, safe topic.

Nonny gestured to her to pour the tea. "Oh, a lifetime. We both grew up in this parish. He was so handsome and smart, but the river claimed him. All he wanted to do was travel the Mississippi. Of course he came to every fais dodo when he wasn't on the river and all the ladies wanted to dance with him."

Gator made a sound of pure shock. Nonny quelled him with a stern look. "I'm not dead, Raoul, just old. Of course I noticed how handsome Burrell was. He brought me flowers every couple of months after Rene died. Sometimes he'd come over and we'd sit a spell on the porch and smoke a pipe. He's the only man I ever smoked a pipe with."

"I love the smell of his pipe," Flame admitted. "I tell him smoking is bad for him, but I do inhale a lot when I'm around his pipe."

"In your delicate condition," Gator said, "do you think you should be inhalin' cher?"

The teacup rattled on the saucer as Flame handed the cup to Nonny. She gave Gator a swift, scowling reprimand, but he simply grinned at her. "I do hope you have pictures of Raoul when he was a boy. I'd love to see what he was like. I imagine he was curly-headed and strong-willed."

Nonny nearly clapped her hands. "He still has that wonderful head of hair." She raised her voice. "Wyatt. Bring me the family album."

"No. Grand-mere," Gator groaned. "Don't do that to me."

"Great idea, Grand-mere," Wyatt said cheerfully. He went to a large antique sideboard and pulled open a drawer. The album was wrapped in a hand-crocheted shawl. Wyatt carried it over to his grandmother with obvious care.

Gator sank down onto the couch beside Flame, deliberately crowding her, his thigh tight against hers as he leaned forward to grab a handful of cookies off a hand-painted plate. "I was a cute kid," he admitted. "Everyone said so."

"There's a naked picture of him in there," Wyatt pointed out with glee as his grandmother opened the album cover, her hand smoothing over the pages with near reverence.

Flame leaned toward Nonny, away from Gator to peer at the picture of the baby happily throwing water into the air. He sat in an old cooking pot with two handles, looking joyfully at the camera in the first picture. In the second he stood waving chubby arms, hair dripping water into his face, laughing while giving a full frontal view. He looked about eighteen months to Flame.

Gator nudged her. "Even as I child I was well-endowed," he teased, feigning pride. He shifted his weight so he was wedged tight against her again.

Flame peered at the pages, listening to the pride in his grandmother's voice as she told stories of his childhood. Wyatt leaned over her shoulder and pointed to a black-and-white picture. There was five-year-old Gator with a torn shirt and ragged knees. He'd been protecting one of his younger brothers from a neighbor. The seven-year-old Gator had a black eye and a big grin. Nine-year-old Gator had tape over his nose and two little girls staring at him with wide-eyed wonder. Eleven-year-old Gator had two black eyes and a grin as wide as the Mississippi as he swept off his straw hat and bowed toward three little girls sitting on a pier.

"There seems to be a pattern emerging here," Flame said. "Was he always in fights? And was there always a female audience around?"

Nonny laughed. "Oh my, yes. He was a fighter, that boy. And a charmer."

"I still am," Gator said and lifted Flame's knuckles to his mouth.

She snatched her hand away, shocked that she was holding his hand and didn't even realize it.

CHAPTER 8

The afternoon seemed entirely surreal to Flame. She kept forgetting to stay on her guard, relaxing and laughing with Nonny before she realized she was doing it. Nonny talked

about the four Fontenot brothers, her voice spilling over with love. Both Wyatt and Gator talked in low, affectionate voices, and they leapt up to get Nonny whatever she asked for. Often they addressed her as ma'am. Flame found it very quaint and endearing.

She rose reluctantly to go. It was the first time she'd ever really felt at home and she was aware she probably would never get to have the feeling again. "I had a lovely time, Mrs. Fontenot," she admitted. "Thank you for the tea and cookies. Your home is wonderful."

"Come back soon," Nonny urged.

Gator took her hand as she stood up. "I'm going with you," he reminded.

Flame shot him a quelling glance as she made her way to the front door. "It's quite all right, Raoul. I'm perfectly fine on my own." She leaned close to him. "I've had enough of your company and you'll only get in my way."

He retaliated by kissing the nape of her neck. "I can run circles around you, babe. I'll follow you with your bike and we'll make the exchange at the houseboat," Gator added as he escorted her out the door.

"It's my bike. I'll take it home."

"You'll take off like a bat out of hell and I'll never see you again. The Jeep can't possibly keep up with that bike and you know it. I'm coming home with you."

Flame glared at him. "I hope Burrell has his shotgun out. He warned me about you. He said you were a lady's man and a bunch of other not so nice things."

He grinned at her. "Betcha you got all jealous and snarly on him."

She tossed her head, hair spilling around her face. "Get over yourself."

His grin widened. "You did, didn't you? No worries, cher, I've sowed my wild oats and am ready to settle down to wedded bliss. You're the one and only for me."

"I ought to insist on marrying you. You'd run screaming for the hills. Wedded bliss, my ass. You couldn't maintain your facade of charm and the image of an easygoing nature full-time."

He pressed his hand to his heart. "Honey, that plain hurts. Everyone in the bayou knows I'm easygoing and charmin'. I think you have the pre-wedding jitters. Don't you worry your pretty little head . . ."

"You're about to get kicked. Hard."

He laughed aloud. "Talk like that turns me on."