Night Game (GhostWalkers, #3)(27)

Flame went right up to the piano as though she owned it. She looked an elegant, classy lady as she seated herself on the bench, fingers poised over the keys, the uneven hem of her dress draped over her shapely legs. Thibodeaux hovered anxiously, bat wrapped in his meaty hands, his gaze on Flame as the first notes poured into the room.

Her voice was low and haunting, stealing into Gator’s mind and holding him in some kind of thrall. The first words of her song sank into his heart and soul, wrapping him up tightly, squeezing his insides so that her song was personal to him, only to him. Everyone else had dropped away. There was no other man in existence. Even the room dropped away so that they were wherever his imagination took them.

He could almost feel the softness of her skin as her voice beckoned to him, summoned him, trapped him in a web of sexual need and sensual stimulation. One song blended smoothly into the next, smoky notes transporting him into fantasies and making him weep inside for lost love and missed chances. It took effort to make his brain work when all he wanted to do was carry her off to a place where they could be alone.

His mind seemed sluggish, working at slow speed, and that bothered him. It made no sense why he couldn’t turn his head and look at his brother to observe his reaction to her, he could only stare, transfixed at the woman playing the piano. He saw the silk of her red hair, individual strands begging to be touched. Her skin gleamed, impossibly soft and inviting. Her neck was slender, bare when she turned her head, driving him to the brink of in sanity. All he could think about was pressing his mouth there and wandering, exploring, losing himself in the lushness of her body.

One song led into another while he struggled to control himself. His jeans were so tight he was afraid he’d burst, his aching, throbbing body hardened to the breaking point. In the end, he resorted to his old trick, tapping his fingertip on the table, establishing a counter beat, one he could concentrate on. Almost at once he realized how much power her voice wielded. Flame wasn’t simply mesmerizing with her incredible, sultry voice, she was hypnotizing her audience with her music and he had fallen into the trap right along with everyone else.

He took a cautious look around. No one moved. No one drank. Every eye was on her, everyone entranced by the seduction of her smoky, sultry voice. She didn’t look at them, didn’t catch anyone’s eye and flirt, she simply bent over the piano and allowed the music and song to carry her away. Her audience was transported right along with her into a world of satin sheets and steamy nights. He felt her under his skin, fingers stroking and teasing, her mouth hot satin…

Gator shook his head hard to clear his brain. She had an amazing gift, far too powerful for anyone, even Whitney, to conceive of. What would the doctor have done had he known she could captivate an audience the way she did? He was aware of the hypnotic effect of her voice, yet he still had to fight it. He tapped his finger harder on the table, counting out a rhythm in his mind to keep from losing himself in her voice. Lily would want to know. She maintained several contracts with the government along with a high-security clearance, and the government would definitely want to know what Flame could or couldn’t do with her talent. It was no wonder there was a flag on a computer somewhere trying to monitor where she was and whom she associated with.

Where would that leave him? He rubbed his temples and hummed to himself to keep from drowning in her voice. He had the same gifts, the same talents. Once it was known, how much of a guinea pig would he become? And if his past experiments ever came out, if the government—or Lily—figured it out, what would they do to him? He’d probably be sitting right alongside Flame in a cage somewhere.

The last notes of music drifted away. Her haunting voice died away, and the patrons of the club began to come to life, glasses rattling, voices raising, feet shuffling, and the inevitable crunching of peanut shells. Flame rose gracefully and smiled at the band. “I’m thirsty, any of you want a drink?”

“Oh, baby,” a man called out. “I’ve got something for you to drink.”

Flame turned her head, her gaze moving over the heckler with bored tolerance. “Lovely. But not happening.” She turned back toward the band, but Gator noticed she was in a defensible position and, although her head was averted, she was watching out of the corner of her eye.

Gator recognized Vicq Comeaux, one of a large family of brothers and cousins, mostly boys, he and his brothers had drunk and fought with since they were about fourteen.

Vicq yelled another lewd comment and pushed his way to the front of the crowd to stand directly in front of the stage. Something dark and dangerous swirled deep in Gator’s gut. A stillness took over. His world narrowed, tunneled, until there was only the newcomer, him, and the red haze of temper riding him hard. The rest of the crowd disappeared. He stood up, a fluid easy motion that propelled him toward the heckler.

“Gator…” Wyatt stepped in front of him, put a placating hand on his arm. “You don’ want to be fightin’ and me havin’ to explain to Grand-mere what happened. She’ll think I started it.”

Gator shook the hand off and stepped around his brother, brushing Ian’s hulking frame out of his way as he proceeded toward the band. The crowd parted for him until he was standing directly behind Vicq Comeaux.

“I don’ think you want to be sayin’ anything else to my woman,” he said, his voice pitched low and soft, almost gentle. “Not another word. You have anything else you want to say, you do it my direction.”