Night Game (GhostWalkers, #3)(26)

The captain burst out laughing. “Fontenot is a very common name in this part of the country, cher. I need a little more information.”

“I think the boys were raised by their grandmother. One of the boys is named Raoul and another Wyatt.”

Burrell sat back in his chair nodding. “Good family. Oldest boy, Raoul took off to join the service but always sent his money to his grandmother to help care for the other boys. They’re wild and Raoul had a certain reputation for fightin’.” He winked at her. “All those boys have a way with the ladies, so you look out for them. Don’ you go off with any of them and don’ you believe their sweet talk.”

“No worries, Capitaine. I have no intention of ever getting that close to any of the Fontenot men.” She glanced again at her watch. “I’ve got to go.” She leaned down to kiss the top of his head. “You guard that money. Don’t say a word about it until you have a cashier’s check to give to Saunders. I’ll go with you when you pay him off. You’ll want a witness with you. And behave when I’m gone. I saw you giving old Mrs. Michaud that cute little come-on smile of yours.” She waved as she stepped off the houseboat into the airboat tied up beside it. He waved her off with a dismissing hand and a pleased grin. The last she saw of him, he was happily puffing away on his pipe.



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CHAPTER 5





Gator sat back in his chair, legs sprawled lazily in front of him, his fingers tapping a rhythm on the tabletop in beat to the music. The tapping allowed him to stay focused when each beat of the crashing instruments and the strands of conversations felt like nails pounding into his skull. He couldn’t take much more. And it wasn’t doing him a whole hell of a lot of good. He’d managed to hear two conversations regarding Joy. The first took place out side the walls of the cabin, whispered words of anger and conspiracy—brothers and friends wanting vengeance. In the second conversation two women had mentioned her in passing as they reminded each other to watch their drinks at all times.

He rubbed his temples, felt beads of sweat forming on his brow. Even his hair was slightly damp from the strain of sorting through the cacophony. Lily had been correct when she said the trick of listening to conversations at a great distance, even through walls, was to be able to sort out the multitude of noise. His head was about to explode. Even his teeth hurt. He needed to go somewhere quiet and peaceful, somewhere he could be alone to listen to the stillness of the night. He tried to suppress the sounds crowding in around him, but nothing worked. He reached inside of himself in an attempt to silence the myriad voices around him, to find the stillness in his mind that was his haven, but nothing could stop the noise from beating at his brain.

His stomach lurched. He was on serious overload. A stupid mistake, One he hadn’t made since he’d first been psychically enhanced. He was going to have to get out of the club as fast as possible. He glanced at his brother, already talking up a pretty woman over at the bar. Beside him, Ian tossed peanut shells onto the floor along with everyone else, laughing as he did so. Neither seemed at all aware of Gator’s predicament. Just as he pushed himself out of the chair, the door opened and Flame Johnson walked into the room.

Not walked. He couldn’t say walked. She swayed. Gator lowered himself back into the chair, sliding farther into the corner, into the shadows, his gaze drinking her in. She was beautiful, sexy. Too sexy. Instantly he became aware of the other men, the way their hot gazes rested on her body and slid over her soft curves. She moved across the room, her dress molding to her soft skin and as far as he could tell, it didn’t look like she was wearing panties.

Gator tried to drag air into his lungs, but there didn’t seem to be a sufficient supply. Her head turned abruptly, as if she had radar, and her eyes met his right through the crowd. For a moment they were the only two people in the room. She frowned, her gaze moving very slowly over him, taking in the fine sheen on his skin and the dampness of his curling hair. She saw way beyond his easy smile. At once the noise receded and he became aware of a soft, soothing note humming through his mind. The pounding in his head eased along with his churning stomach. She turned away, talking with animation to Thibodeaux.

Gator sat very still, feeling the first astonishing wash of utter jealousy. He had never experienced the emotion, but recognized it for what it was. His attention narrowed until there was only Flame. He could see the smallest details there in the dim lighting and smell her scent in the midst of the crush of bodies. His every sense was acute, so sharp, he could almost inhale her. It was an experience he’d never forget, and he sat there, sprawled in his chair, unable to control his body’s fierce reaction any more than he could his mind—and for a man like Gator, that was very dangerous.

His headache was gone, thanks to Flame. Why would she help him? Did she feel, in spite of herself, the same pull toward him that he felt toward her? He hoped so. He hoped he wasn’t alone in his need to see her.

Flame stepped up the one stair to the stage. Thibodeaux considered the Hurican an upscale blues club because of the perfectly tuned piano he owned. The instrument sat in the midst of chaos and peanut shells, gleaming like black obsidian, highly polished, with white ivory keys, his shrine to the music he loved so much. No patron ever touched the piano, only the musicians. It was an unspoken rule, but they all understood Thibodeaux carried the baseball bat for a reason, and it wasn’t because of the numerous fights that broke out. It was to keep the piano safe.