Night Game (GhostWalkers, #3)(46)

She quirked an eyebrow at him. There were flecks of mud on her clothes and some on her face, but all he could focus on was the laughter in her eyes. Everything male in him responded to her, but when she laughed because of him, he felt almost as if he could fly.

“I can’t imagine you as anything but a rule breaker. You were a little outlaw as a child and you’re still one as an adult. You get away with too much because you’re so charming. It isn’t good for you.”

His grin widened and he poked her with his finger. “A-ha! I knew you found me charmin’. Even the toughest ones fall eventually.”

“You’re not nearly as charming as you think.” She started back toward the Jeep.

Gator trailed after her. “Yes I am,” he teased. “You’re trying to escape me now, but I’m going to say hello to Burrell and declare my honest intentions so he won’t be comin’ after me with that shotgun of his.”

She stopped so abruptly he ran into her and had to catch her shoulders to keep both of them from landing on the ground. “Your only intention toward me is to get me back to Whitney’s little laboratory,” she reminded.

“Well now, I wouldn’t say that was true,” he denied, heat gathering in his eyes.

“Hello, you idiot. I’m not pregnant. We haven’t slept together. We’re not engaged to be married. You’re here to drag my ass back to Whitney.”

He tilted his head to inspect the curve of her bottom. “And a nice ass it is too. You’ve got me wondering again about those pretty little panties of yours.”

“Stay on track here, Raoul. I think you have ADD.”

His hand slipped from her shoulder to slide the length of her arm, trailed to the curve of her hip. She glared at him. “And keep your wandering hands to yourself.”

“You like my hands.”

“Not that much.” She faced him squarely. “You’re making this hard.”

“Well, that’s fair. You make me hard.”

She threw her hands into the air in sheer exasperation. “Go home, Raoul.”

“Not a chance, cher. I introduced you to Grand-mere. Why don’t you want to introduce me to Burrell?”

“You already know Burrell. And don’t give me your puppy-dog look. It isn’t going to work. I’m not taking you home to him. If you give him your ridiculous story about pregnancy and engagements I’ll never hear the end of it.”

He grinned at her. “Of course he’s going to hear about it, Flame. This is the bayou. We have our own newscasters. Grand-mere has announced to all her friends and they’ve called all their friends. The news has traveled throughout all the parishes by now.”

“Great. Just great.” Her eyes met his. Sober. Penetrating. “Why did you insist on me going to see your grand mother? She’s a lovely woman and I really enjoyed meeting her, but why would you do that?”

“I told you why.”

“That wasn’t the reason. I saw you with her. You’re very protective of her, of your entire family. Why would you give me ammunition like that?”

There was a small silence. She held his gaze. Gator sighed and shoved a hand through his thick wavy hair. “I wanted you to know who I really am.”

She inhaled sharply, lips parting as if to speak. She shook her head. “I have no idea who you are, Raoul. You…” Her voice trailed off and she swung around to face in the direction of the swamp. She went very still as if frozen and stiff.

In spite of the distance, he heard it too, the sound of someone running, crashing through reeds and branches. The impact of a bullet, so distinct even with a silencer. The thud of a heavy body falling. The soft cry of pain was muffled, but the reverberation of a second bullet cut off the sound abruptly.

“Burrell.” She looked stricken, her eyes wide with shock. “Raoul, that was Burrell.” They stared at each other for one heartbeat of time—for an eternity. Her expression changed, became a mask of determination. She sprinted away from him, heading toward the island Burrell owned.

Gator caught up with her, signaling for silence and caution. She held up four fingers indicating four assailants as she ran across the narrow strip connecting the mainland to the island. He split his fingers and made a circle. She nodded and veered off, breaking away from him so they could approach from two directions. Gator increased his speed.

Burrell was probably dead and he didn’t want Flame to find the body. The ground turned spongy and dangerous. He had lived in the bayou most of his life, even taking a boat to school, and he knew better than to run haphazardly through a swampy area but he did it anyway. He dodged low-hanging branches and jumped over fallen logs, landing up to his ankles in mud. Cursing, he continued, batting aside the low-hanging moss, slowing enough to stay quiet and watch out for deeper bogs.

He found where Burrell had tied up his boat and walked to the site where he was planning to build. The cabin was laid out with string and Gator could see where Burrell had worked on adding fill to a small area around where he planned to put the house. He had walked over toward a cove where he must have done most of his digging. A wheelbarrow was overturned in the muck and a shovel lay a few yards from it as if it had been flung aside.

Gator knelt beside the wheelbarrow, looking for tracks. In the fresh dirt Burrell had dumped around the area, he could see several footprints of various sizes.