Bayou Heat Collection One Page 22

  “Blackmail,” Baptiste uttered coldly. He glanced over his shoulder at the Suit. “You’ve fallen pretty damn far down the well, Raphael.”

  The male’s eyes blazed gold fire. “I’d fall on a fucking blade for my Ashe and our cub.”

  Jean-Baptiste stared at him, let the words and their weight sink in as the sun sank into the calm waters of the bayou beyond. The air around them crackled with tension and heat. They couldn’t remain here, speaking like this for much longer. Soon the Pantera would be out, their cats playing after sharing meals with their families or Factions.

  “Why do you need the voodoun?” Jean-Baptiste asked. “You have the human doctor. Or was the attack more serious than Bayon let on?”

  If it was possible, Raphael’s skin pulled even tighter over his bones, and his eyes grew dark with fear and rage. “Ashe was injected with something. She’s not conscious, and she’s been…taken over by…I don’t know…”

  “What?” Jean-Baptiste asked.

  Raphael shook his head. “Some kind of dark force.”

  Holy shit. “A possession?”

  “We don’t know.” The Suit’s voice broke. “We don’t know.”

  “And the cub…?”

  “The cub has a strong heartbeat. That’s all they know.”

  Jean-Baptiste exhaled on a curse, ran a hand through his hair. He was surprised at the sudden and deep concern he and his cat felt for the new and important life inside Raphael’s mate. And yet, despite the hell he was experiencing as of late, he was first and foremost a Pantera. He wanted his kind to survive more than he wanted his next breath.

  “What the hell is happening to us?” he whispered blackly. “The Wildlands, the pumas, the magic?” His question wasn’t meant for Raphael, for anyone in particular, but the male answered it anyway.

  “I don’t know. But it’s growing worse.”

  Jean-Baptiste turned to face the male. “The borders aren’t holding.”

  “We must act, Baptiste.”

  “I’ll go tonight. But I will have your word, what we’ve said here tonight is never mentioned again.”

  Raphael nodded. “Done.”

  “I’ll report back if there’s a problem. Otherwise, I’ll see you in the a.m.” Jean-Baptiste started to walk away, but Raphael called him back.

  “One more thing.”

  Turning, Jean-Baptiste hissed at the Suit. “Trying to keep my cat caged here, and it’s not your biggest fan right now.”

  “You’re not going alone.”

  “Come again?”

  “I’m sending a Suit with you.”

  Baptiste shook his head. “No. I do this alone or not at all.”

  “I need to have backup there, a top negotiator, in case your voodoun becomes a problem.”

  “We agreed to keep this between us,” Baptiste growled. “No one else can know.”

  “She doesn’t know.” Raphael moved toward him. “She thinks she’s on assignment, bringing back someone to help Ashe.”

  “My voodoun could tell her—reveal our connection.”

  The Suit reached the window. He glanced inside, ran his hand down the glass, then fisted it and cursed. “That’s your problem. Mine is in there fighting for her life and the life of our cub.” He turned to glare at Jean-Baptiste. “The cub who might very well be the savior of us all.”

  Jean-Baptiste growled. “Who’s the Suit?”

  “The newest member of the Diplomatic Faction, Genevieve Burel.”

  “No,” Baptiste stated flatly.

  “You don’t even know her.”

  “I’ve heard about her, and with my cat so unstable and ready to pounce on anyone who even slightly irritates me, taking her to New Orleans would be a batshit move.”

  “She’s brilliant!”

  “She’s a pain in the ass! A prickly, buttoned-up, nose-in-the-air pain in the ass,” Baptiste returned hotly.

  “Good. Then she’ll make sure the journey is a success.”

  He growled. “Either that or my cat will take her down before we even leave the Wildlands.”

  * * *

  Genevieve Burel placed the perfectly folded shirt inside her shabby overnight bag and gently slid the zipper closed. Her critical gaze moved over her room, taking inventory: the neatly made bed with the quilt her mother had made for her when she was a cub; the ancient chair that couldn’t hide its desperate need to be re-stuffed; the scuffed wood floors she’d spent hours trying to sand; and the dusty pictures and photographs that hung on the faded walls.

  She exhaled heavily. She’d just cleaned an hour ago.

  She slung her bag over her shoulder, then headed into the hall and down the stairs, careful not to grip the loose banister too firmly. On the small table that met her descent, the vase of Louisiana Iris she’d picked that morning were struggling to remain upright and full of color. The shockingly purple flower grew inside the magical borders of the Wildlands all year long, and was her grandparents’ favorite. In fact, it was their mating day flower. Genevieve tried to pick some every day, but the bloom was becoming harder to find.

  Scooping up the vase, she entered her Grands’ bedroom with a bright smile. The room had once been the parlor, but Genevieve had converted the large space into a bedroom after her mother and father left the Wildlands six months ago. It was easier for her grandparents to get around, and despite how the ancient and errant magic was slowly depreciating the house and its furnishings, Genevieve had done her best to make the room clean and comfortable.

  “Finished with your dinner?” she asked the pair, placing the vase down beside their bed. “I hope it was all right. You know I’m not so great with the stews.”

  “It’s was perfect, Bé,” her nearly bald Paw-Paw said, giving her hand a squeeze.

  “Yes, indeed,” her pink-cheeked Maw-Maw agreed, grinning. “Your culinary skills are far more advanced than you think they are.”

  Genevieve laughed, her cheeks warming. Her grandparents were the sweetest, dearest creatures in the world, and she didn’t know what she’d do without them.

  “You leaving now?” Paw-Paw asked.

  Genevieve nodded at the pair who were cuddled up in bed together, as they were most days now, the covers pulled to their waists as they sipped their tea. “Shouldn’t be more than a night, if that.”

  “We’ll be fine,” Maw-Maw assured her with a broad grin. “Lena’s coming. You know we adore that girl. Even if she is a Hunter,” she added with a wink. “So take all the time you need.”

  Paw-Paw nodded. “That’s right. Our Bé’s an important Diplomat now.”

  “Not that important,” Genevieve said. “And never too important to take care of my favorite Grands.”

  “We’re your only Grands, Bé,” Paw-Paw said with a chuckle.

  Genevieve met his soft chuckle with one of her own, but inside, her heart did that squeezee thing that made her feel like tears could appear at any moment if she wasn’t careful. Her Grands didn’t understand what was happening around them, just that Genevieve’s parents had decided to forge a life outside of the Wildlands. They saw the house crumbling of course, felt their bodies crumbling, too, but didn’t think—or refused to think—it could be more than just age and wear.

  Genevieve knew better.

  Where the magic inside their home, infusing their ancient blood, had once been impossibly strong, now it waned. The crackle of energy no longer permeated the air, and every item inside, every being, lacked luster. Genevieve’s parents might have chosen to run instead of “dealing with the shame of one of the ancient families being rejected by their magic,” as they’d put it. But Genevieve was determined to stay and fight, care for her Grands, and figure out why the weakening magic along their borders was moving inward. And why, according to the elders, hers was the only dwelling affected.

  She bent down and gave each one a kiss on the cheek. They smelled like chamomile tea and soap and gentle memories.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said. “And no tellin
g Lena to spike your sweet tea. I’ve already warned her about that trick.”

  While Paw-Paw snorted and grumbled, Maw-Maw cupped Genevieve’s face before she could get away. “Will you laugh at this old Pantera female if she says to have a good time? Maybe a little fun on your journey?”

  “No laughing here,” Genevieve assured her before straightening up.

  “I mean it, Bé.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  As Genevieve walked out of the room, Maw-Maw called after her, “If anyone needs to cut loose and have a good time, it’s you!”

  Placing her bag on her shoulder again, Genevieve headed for the front door. She loved her Grands more than anything in the world, and she knew they had her best interests at heart, but they didn’t understand how vitally important it was that she remain focused, controlled, and completely and utterly unflinching in her goals and assignments. Especially now. Unbeknownst to Raphael and the Suits, she was destined for the elders’ inner circle. Working alongside the three ancient females. It was a coveted position, a great honor, and it was in her blood. Many of the females in her line had worked under the elders. Even her mother had been selected as a candidate before her fear of shame had run her off.

  Genevieve wouldn’t be that weak.

  She headed out the door and into the warm bayou evening. Breaking loose and having a good time? Her Maw-Maw’s words echoed in her ears. Unfortunately, those two suggestions weren’t even on her radar.

  “Miss Burel?”

  In one second flat, Genevieve’s thoughts died and her entire body went up in flames.

  Standing on her rickety porch, with the chipped white paint and the sweet double swing, was the owner of that deep, demanding baritone. Genevieve stared at him like a mole who had just seen the sun for the first time. Hot, blinding and impossible to turn away from. She was sure she had never met him before. She would have remembered if she had. Her gaze moved over him. Yes. This male in dark blue jeans and a worn, black leather jacket wasn’t someone you walked past without either staring, double-taking or running into a tree. He was so tall his head grazed the roof of the porch, and so broad across the chest, the white T-shirt he wore strained against all that muscle. But it wasn’t just his size and fierce manner that had her skin vibrating with awareness, or the thick, dark hair, or the light dusting of stubble around his mouth—or, god, even those incredible liquid amber eyes that equally mocked and studied her. No. It was the brightly colored tattooed skull interwoven with tribal markings that covered his collarbone and ran up the length of his neck.

  And the piercings.

  Air seemed to gather in her lungs and stay there. Her mouth was uncomfortably dry. She couldn’t stop staring. At the metal barbell poking through his left eyebrow, and the two thin, silver rings fastened to his lower lip.

  Besides the individual black birth markings each Pantera had, she’d never seen anything like this on their males. She wanted to rush at him, place her hands on the skin of his neck and trace the colored lines, inspect them, study them. But instead, she backed up toward the closed front door, protective not for herself but for the two vulnerable Pantera inside. Was this indeed the Nurturer, Jean-Baptiste, who Raphael had assigned her to? Or someone else? Someone who wished her harm? After all, the Wildlands had been infiltrated, and everyone was being cautious.

  That eyebrow with the metal lifted. “Raphael told you I was coming.”

  It wasn’t a question. She suspected he wasn’t the type who asked a lot of questions. At least she knew he wasn’t the enemy. Not the kind she needed to be worried about anyway.

  She stuck out her hand. “I’m Genevieve Burel.”

  He didn’t touch her, just glanced at her hand, then dragged his gaze back up to her face. “I know.”

  Heat warmed her cheeks at his slow and obvious perusal. Males didn’t look her over this way. Inspect her. At least if they did, she’d never noticed it before.

  “Right.” She dropped her hand. “And you’re—”

  “Jean-Baptiste,” he finished for her.

  “Yes. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Baptiste.”

  A brief flicker of what she believed to be amusement crossed his features. “You sure about that?”

  “Pardon me?” His tongue had darted out and swiped at the twin rings of silver on his bottom lip. Her mouth filled with saliva and she gripped the strap of her overnight bag until her knuckles turned white. What the hell was going on with her? She’d never felt so flustered in her life.

  This is not acceptable. For a Suit, a Pantera or a female. But especially not for a disciple of the elders.

  “I’m asking,” he pushed away from the porch railing and moved toward her with sensual, cat-like grace, “if you’re sure it’s nice to meet me. Because frankly, Miss Burel, your face and body language scream the opposite.”

  Body language? She touched the pearl buttons at her throat, and tried to control the sudden outbreak of sweat under her arms. Lord, this was three shades of irritating. “I assure you, Mr. Baptiste,” she said, clearing her throat. “My body does not scream.” Wait. Did that come out right?

  His eyes narrowed. “That’s too bad.”

  No. It hadn’t.

  “What I mean to say is that I’m focused on our mission.” She cleared her throat again and tried to look him directly in the eye without her legs feeling funny. “Getting in and getting out.” Oh Christ, that wasn’t much better.

  His eyebrow—the one with the metal barbell through it—raised a good quarter inch.

  They needed to go, leave her porch, the Wildlands, get to New Orleans, complete their task, bring it back to Raphael, and never have contact again. Or at least never speak to each other again. Never look at each other again. Specifically her looking at him. And at that mouth. Those tattoos. Wondering where they disappeared to. How far down they traveled—

  “Ready?” he said, interrupting her thoughts. Her incredibly inappropriate thoughts.

  “Absolutely,” she said, wishing she could slap her own face without it looking odd, and possibly a little insane. “Shall we shift?” she asked, moving past him and down the steps. God, he smelled good. Leather and something completely indescribable, yet almost debilitatingly mouthwatering. “At least until we hit the border. I know the magic will refuse us once we’re on human soil.”

  “We’re not heading to New Orleans on foot, Miss Burel,” he said, suddenly appearing beside her. “That would take too long. And I want this trip over as quickly as possible.”

  She made the mistake of turning to face him again. The sun had set completely now, and twilight ruled lavender and gray around them. The evening bayou breeze moved through his shoulder-length dark hair, batting at his dark, fearsome face. As petite as she was, Genevieve had never felt intimidated by anyone in her life. She was a strong, hard-nosed female who dealt in reality, who knew what she wanted and went after it. The fears and insecurities of her heart never made it past their respective barriers. But under this male’s imperious, scrutinizing, sexually-fierce gaze, she felt like a small, tasty woodland creature who knew she was on borrowed time if she remained out in the open.

  “If we’re not running,” she said finally. “How do you propose we get there? Did your voodoun acquaintance arm you with a generous supply of fairy dust or something?”

  His eyes flashed with heat under the cool light of the bayou moon. “No fairy dust, Miss Burel. Just a ride.”

  Genevieve’s legs threatened to buckle at his words—no, just that one word—and her mouth opened but nothing came out. Struck dumb by a great, inked-up beast of a Pantera male. She’d never been so ashamed of herself.

  With a slash of a grin, Jean-Baptiste turned and started down the path. “Come along, Miss Burel. I promise I won’t go any faster than you can handle.”

  CHAPTER 2

  The female beside him would be smoking hot if it weren’t for all the buttons, zippers and pins, Jean-Baptiste mused, racing down Route 90, his cat eyes stunningly sharp
in the dark. Sitting bone-straight in the passenger’s seat of his 1967 Jaguar Roadster convertible, her milky white fingers splayed on her wrinkle-free lap, the small, fantastically curved, wondrously-busted Suit was the very picture of prickly put-togetherness.

  Except for all that honey blond hair trying to escape the confines of an overly tight bun.

  Fuck, he hoped the bun lost.

  “Too fast for you, Miss Burel?” he called over the breeze.

  “Not at all, Mr. Baptiste,” she returned, her eyes forward, her expression tight.

  “What about for your cat?”

  “She’s also quite content.”

  She. Jean-Baptiste’s brows shot together, and his fingers wrapped around the steering wheel just a hair tighter. He’d never heard a Pantera refer to their cat as he or she before, and damn if it wasn’t intriguing as hell.

  “Do many Pantera have cars outside the Wildlands?” she asked, her eyes on the road in front of them.

  “There are a few of us.”

  “Us?”

  “Car enthusiasts. We like to buy and restore. Keep them in private garages in and around La Pierre.” He touched the dash. “This one was a real piece of shit when I took her on.”

  Genevieve turned to face him. Her eyes were wide with surprise. “You fixed up this car yourself?”

  “Rebuilt the engine, but it was mostly body restoration.” That moonlight overhead was really working on her, he mused, and the wind whipping threads of blond hair about her face. She looked like a goddamn angel.

  “You did an amazing job,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”

  Shit, Female. So are you.

  “How many Pantera are in this car club of yours?”

  “Around ten. Something like that. It varies from year to year.”

  “All males?”

  His mouth twitched. “No. There are two females,” he said. “Both Hunters. Both crazy for Mustangs.”

  “And is one of them your mate?” she asked.

  His gaze cut back to her. She was staring at him, all prim and proper. He wanted to toss out a smartass remark like, ‘What do you mean, one?’ over the rush of bayou air, but this female didn’t seem like the type who’d find his brand of humor funny. In fact, she’d probably be insulted.