Night Game (GhostWalkers, #3)(44)

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 eves 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 fa?ade of charm and the image of an easy going 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.”

She turned away before he could see her answering smile. She wanted to think of him as an enemy, but it was becoming more difficult. She actually liked the lunatic. She especially liked how gentle he was with his grand mother. And, God help her, his warped sense of humor. It was one of her worst failings. She enjoyed people. She knew it was because she wanted to fit in somewhere. She wanted to belong.