Night Game (GhostWalkers, #3)(82)

“Sometimes I want to shake you until your teeth rattle.”

“Well try to control the impulse.” Flame moved around him to pace the length of the cabin restlessly. She knew the painkillers were making her anxious, but she couldn’t help it. “There are so many things I need to do. Burrell’s killers. Keep away from Whitney. Find Joy or at least find out what happened to her.”

“We’ve been looking for Joy, but we haven’t turned up any information that will help us yet.” He jammed his hands into his pockets as if to keep from grabbing ahold of her. “We’re not finished talking about this.”

“Well talk all you want. I’m finished. I’m really, really angry that you let that woman into my room when I was…” She broke off.

“Vulnerable? You were vulnerable. Say it. It happens to all of us at one time or another. I’m not going to let you die because you’re too damned stubborn to see the truth when it’s staring you in the eye.” He had to work to keep his breathing slow and even. She could make him angrier than any other person on the face of the earth.

“What truth? Yours? You didn’t even know Whitney was alive. You’re too trusting, Raoul, and it’s going to get you killed.”

“Maybe, cher, but lack of trust will definitely get you killed.”

“I’m going to get ready for bed after all. It’s warm in here.” It was warm just being in the same room with him. And for some reason, when he was angry, she found herself getting damp with need. Even her breasts ached. Maybe she was the pervert.

Gator snatched up a bottle of beer and uncapped it, using the edge of the table. He sank into the one good armchair and took a long swig of the cold liquid, hoping it would cool his temper. She damn well wasn’t going to die on him. And he couldn’t get the vision of her scar beneath the tattoo out of his mind. He wanted to kiss it better. He just plain wanted. He pressed the beer bottle to his brow. It was going to be a long night.

“Don’t you want to know why I bashed James Parsons in the head with his little crystal tumbler? The bastard.”

He turned his head and wished he hadn’t. She had her back turned to him and was in a man’s plaid shirt. He was certain this time it was his shirt. His grandmother’s version of nightwear? She was awkwardly shimmying out of her jeans, shoving them down with one hand and kicking at them to get the material away from her.

“Are you just going to sit there or are you going to help me?” She glared at him.

“Oh, cher. I’m goin’ to sit here. I’m not getting near you when you’re in such a mean mood.” He leaned back in the chair and stretched his legs out in front of him. “I rather like the show.”

“You would.” She gave a final kick to her jeans and they went flying off.

“So tell me about Parsons. I didn’t believe his story, but I didn’t have time to beat the truth out of him.”

She shook her head. “You aren’t the type of man to beat the truth out of anyone. You’re too nice.”

He took another pull of the beer and looked at her over the bottle. “Don’ you go thinkin’ I’m all that nice, cher. If that man did what I think he did, he is accidentally goin’ to die. He ripped your shirt, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

Something deep inside him he kept hidden from the rest of the world began to unravel. He felt rage. Cold. Absolute cold rage. He set the beer bottle down carefully on the floor and looked at his hands.

“Raoul.”

He heard her say his name softly, from a great distance. He curled his fingers into two tight fists. The man had been so close and on some level, Gator had known. Flame would never have sat in a car with her breasts bared to the world no matter how much blood she’d lost. If some other man had ripped her shirt in the swamp, she would have covered up before getting into the car. She had presence of mind to bash Parsons, she sure as hell would have covered up. He was going to kill the man with his bare hands.

“Raoul.” This time her voice was sharp. “You’re doing again. The cabin is old. Do you want it to come crashing down? He’s a skanky little punk.”

“He’s a dead man walking.”

She sighed softly. “There’s more. I saw scratch marks the leather and there was an earring. The earring was very distinctive. Joy’s mother sent away for the pair when she saw them in a magazine. They had silver footprints over gold. The footprints represented a poem Joy loved about Christ carrying her in times of need.” She frowned, trying to remember more details. “It was strange. I felt dizzy and everything seemed so dreamlike.”

She wiped at her face. “I still can’t remember very much.”

“You’ve lost a lot of blood and they have you on heavy painkillers.” His voice had a hard edge to it. He swallowed his anger and picked up the beer bottle, trying to distract himself from the memory of her covered in blood, in mud, bruised, battered, and her rescuer ripping her shirt open. He couldn’t drink enough to erase that.

“I’m all right now. You got there in time. My arm’s fine.”

Gator took another swallow then pointed toward the table because he couldn’t think about it now. He had to change the direction of the conversation and his thoughts or he would be in jail by morning. “Take a look at those pictures. Kadan pulled those out and said to have you take a look at them. He thought you might see something the rest of us don’t.”