At Risk (6 page)

She stroked his shoulder. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s part of my job.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s why Frank Decorah sent me—and not somebody else. He knows I can enter a scene generated by things I touch. He thought it might help me figure out who’s behind the muggings.”

“Has it helped?”

He answered with another laugh—this one more hollow. “With this case? Not so far.”

oOo

After Rafe had figured out that touching things could give him impressions of the object’s owner, he’d played around with it, trying to figure out who had been doing what. Once he’d stumbled into a scene where one of his friends had been bent on seduction in the backseat of a car. Another time he’d seen his father sitting alone in his room, holding a picture of his mother. That had cured him of making a game of eavesdropping on people. And since beginning his investigative career, the skill had turned into serious business.

He moved on the sofa and winced.

“What?”

“I hit my side against a desk.”

“When?”

“When I was . . . away.”

“You can get hurt in one of those visions?”

“Yeah.”

“So now you’ve gotten hurt twice in less than two hours. I’ve made a mess of this, haven’t I?” she said suddenly.

“What do you mean?

“I never should have gotten sucked into letting Calista hold a voodoo service at Chez Eugenia.”

“Whose idea was it?”

She dragged in a breath and let it out. “Calista’s.”

“Why did she want to do it?”

“She said it gave her access to a clientele she wouldn’t have otherwise met. Which makes sense. She seemed to be trying to expand her customer base.”

Glad to take the focus of the conversation off himself, he asked, “How did you meet
her
?”

“At a big reception I was catering out at one of the plantations along the river.
They’re open to tourists during the day, and at night they can be rented for private functions. We were both hired help, and we got to talking. Then she suggested we meet for coffee sometime soon. She called to arrange it, and I agreed. I guess she had already started thinking about using my restaurant as a venue for holding a service.”

“Nice.”

“It worked out for me, too. It was a fusion of New Orleans cultures, and that made it interesting. She called some of the local publications, and we got an article about the first event.”

“I saw it—in one of the tourist magazines.”

“Right.”

“You’re a good cook; you don’t need tricks to get customers.”

“How do you know I’m a good cook?”

“I remember your chocolate chip cookies—and your pecan pie,” he said, hearing his voice thicken.

“Kid stuff.”

“You had the knack.”

“Okay, I know I have the knack. More than that, I know I’m good at thinking up interesting flavor combinations. But when you’re first starting out, every little bit of advertising helps. There are a lot of great restaurants in the Big Easy. Anything I could do to draw in customers was a plus. If someone came to a voodoo performance on a whim and liked my food, they might come back. And it also attracted people from out of town. But it turned out to be a bad idea.” She laughed. “As soon as I saw a live chicken in a cage, I cringed.”

He asked one of the questions that had been bugging him.
“Was she going to kill it?”

“Not in the restaurant. Maybe she does out in the bayou.”

He sat forward. “Why did you say—the bayou?”

She shrugged.
“I was just picturing her there, in a clearing with a lot of followers.”

He nodded.
“Didn’t you read up on voodoo before you agreed?”

“Yes. But, like I said, I didn’t think she was going to go that far in a restaurant in the French Quarter.”

“Well, don’t beat yourself up over it. You made a mistake, but you don’t have to do it again.”

Her voice rose. “A man is dead because of me.”

“Not
because
of you. It’s not your fault.” He gave her a considering look. “Are you afraid of Calista?”

She clenched and unclenched her fists.
“Yes,” she whispered.

“Why?”

“She has abilities other people don’t.”

“You believe that?”

“I’ve seen things happen. Someone will come into money. Or lose it. Or . . .” she lifted one shoulder. “Or they might end up in the hospital.”

“You think she has the power to do that?”

“I’d be foolish not to act as though I did. You said I had the touch as a cook. It’s like that with Calista and voodoo.”

“Do you think she killed Villars?”

“I don’t know. I mean, what would be her motive?”

“He could have done something to her—something you don’t know about.”

“It was a pretty public forum. Which means she’d be taking a big chance.” She clenched her fists. “This whole situation keeps getting worse and worse.”

“We’ll figure it out.
Did Calista ask who had made reservations?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting. She asked each time?”

“Yes.”
She swallowed hard. “I feel like my life is spinning out of control,” she said suddenly.

The distress in her voice tore at him. He gathered her close, turning her in his arms.
As they stared at each other, he went very still, and it was the most natural thing in the world to take comfort to another level.

oOo

In unconscious invitation, Eugenia tipped her head to a more convenient angle, her lips parted.

She heard Rafe mutter something she couldn’t quite catch.
Perhaps it was, “I’ve been wanting to do this all evening.”

Or was that what she wanted to hear?

Had the voodoo gods brought her soul mate back to her after all these years?

All she knew was that she had longed to feel his lips on hers—since when?
Not when he’d first walked into Chez Eugenia. She’d been too startled then, but she’d quickly started imagining it.

She wasn’t disappointed in the reality.
The first mouth-to-mouth contact was like a jolt of sensation, more than she had dared to imagine.

It had been eight years since she’d felt this surge of natural electricity with anyone.
She’d been married to another man and divorced. Yet those two years with Richard Delaney were wiped away as though they had never happened. At this moment in time, she knew only the wonderful taste of Rafe Gascon, the taste of man and animal awareness tinged with the same desperation she felt. The last time he’d kissed her, he’d been a teenager saying good bye. And even though he’d known exactly what he was doing, it had been a boy’s kiss. Now he was all grown up into a very formidable male. She felt the strength of his arms, the heat of his body as he gathered her close.

He made a deep possessive sound that claimed her as his own, overloading her senses and her mind, making the years they’d been apart disappear.

She had thought about him during those years, but her imagination hadn’t matched reality.

Perhaps long ago she’d intimidated him because she was Miss Debutante, and he was the son of the family handyman.
Now he had taken charge of the kiss—taken charge of her. When he picked her up and settled her in his lap, she made a needy sound and pressed her breasts against his chest. They had been this close before. Closer. He could make her body respond as no other man ever could. He knew what she liked and what would bring her to climax—with his hands and mouth because she had set the rules. Or avoiding pregnancy was one time when she’d listened to her mother. “If that boy gets you in real trouble, it’s your own fault.”

Tonight she longed to know what making love with him would be like. Not the way they’d played around as kids.
And she wasn’t sure what would have happened if he hadn’t suddenly and abruptly ended the kiss.

He set her back onto the sofa, and they sat in silence for long moments.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“About getting close to me again?”

“No. About kissing you when you just got hit over the head.”

He kept his gaze on her.
“Thanks for reminding me why I’m here. Who are your enemies?”

Chapter Five

“You kiss me—and that makes you think of enemies?”

“I’m getting back to business.”

She answered with a reluctant nod. She knew he’d responded to her. Now he was deliberately throwing cold water on the heat between them.

She turned her palm up in a helpless gesture.
“I didn’t think I had any enemies. Well—there’s that guy who tried to run out the door. You stopped him, but I could see he was angry with both of us. And Cumberland said he was an illegal alien.”

“You know his name?”

“I’ll have to get it from Calista.”

“She has reason to be mad at you, too.
You’re obviously not inviting her back. And you got her noticed by a very nasty cop.”

“All that happened after Villars death.”

“True. But the gris-gris wasn’t here earlier.”

“You don’t think Calista left it, do you?”

“I guess that’s too obvious.”

“Then who?”

“Like I said, who are your enemies?”

“Well the woman down the street who owns a beauty shop called Headliner was never very friendly.
Then when the muggings started, she began giving me dirty looks—like I was making the street unsafe.”

“And how is that connected to you specifically?”

“It never happened until I got Chez Eugenia started. And the people who were mugged were my customers.”

“And it didn’t start until after you got successful.”

“Yes.”

“What’s her name?”

“Mrs. Houston. She didn’t tell me her first name.”

“Friendly of her.” He wrote it down before asking, “Who else?”

She took her bottom lip between her teeth, then released it. “I guess I should mention my cousin Bennett. He . . . uh . . . was angry that my restaurant was doing better than his. At Thanksgiving, he’d had too much to drink, and he got me in a corner and threatened to put me out of business.”

“Oh yeah.”

“He was upset. I don’t think he meant it.”

Rafe pulled out his notepad.
“His last name is Beaumont?”

“Yes.”

“What’s his address? Home and restaurant.”

She gave them to him, then asked, “What are you going to do?”

“Have a chat with him. And tomorrow we can talk to Calista—after we talk to Pete Grady. But let’s get back to the enemies list.”

“A nice way to put it.
I’m not Richard Nixon.”

“Hardly. Did a patron ever threaten you?”

“For what?”

“Charging too much for food he didn’t like.”

“No.”

“What about your staff? Did you fire anyone who might resent it?”

She thought for a moment. “I did fire a kid who was washing dishes for me. But he was working over summer vacation. He’s out of town at college.”

“Okay.
If you think of anyone else, tell me.”

Eugenia gave him a considering look.
“You look done in.”

“Thanks.”

“You did get hit on the head.”

“And I don’t want to leave you alone for the rest of the night.”

“You don’t think the person who left the gris-gris will come back, do you?”

“I hope not, but I’d rather be here if he does.”

“I’ve only got one bed,” she said, then flushed as she thought about how that must sound.

“The sofa’s fine,” he answered easily.

“It’s not that comfortable. And you need to sleep. You can take the bed.”

“I’m not kicking you out of your room.”

The statement hung in the air between them.

oOo

Calista’s eyes narrowed as she looked at the tall man with coffee-colored skin and high cheekbones who stood in front of her with his head bowed. He was from the Islands, with that soft, lilting accent that she liked so much, but he probably had as much white blood as African. His heritage had combined very nicely to give him a tall, broad-shouldered body and pleasing features. A narrow nose. Sensual lips. Light-colored eyes and the kind of penis that she liked. Not overly long but nice and thick.

His name was Justin. She’d hired him six months ago to be her chief drummer, and he’d done well at that job.
But she’d quickly found that he had other attractions.

Now he had added to her problems.

Before the cops had taken them in for questioning, she’d told him to meet her back at her house in Gentilly.

She was angry with Justin, but she knew how to use that anger to her advantage tonight.
And tomorrow she’d face whatever else was coming her way from the fiasco at Chez Eugenia.

“You told me Lorenzo was okay,” she said in an accusing voice.

“I thought he was,” he answered in his soft island accent. “You needed another drummer on short notice. I knew he could handle the assignment.”

“You didn’t know he was illegal?”

“I . . .”

“You suspected.”

He answered with a small nod. “But I didn’t know someone was going to die tonight.”

“Are you sure?”

His face took on a look of outrage. “What do you mean? Of course I’m sure.”

“But you brought trouble to me.
Where is Lorenzo now?”

“He’s gone.”

“Where?”

He shrugged.
“Away from the cops.”

“And you are here. You must be punished.”

“As you wish.”

“Take off your clothes. Fold them neatly and lay them on the table.”

He kept his gaze fixed somewhere over her shoulder as he pulled off his tee shirt and folded it before laying it on the table beside him. Then he did the same with his jeans and shorts.

When he turned back to her, she saw that he was aroused.

“Precede me down the hall. You know which room.”

Again he did as she ordered.
She could feel her excitement rising as she stepped into what might have been a spare bedroom, unless you looked carefully. In one corner was a basket of artificial flowers hanging from the ceiling, secured by a very sturdy chain.

“Take down the flowers,” she said.

He did as instructed, exposing a metal hook.

“Hold out your hands.”

Again he followed her bidding and she opened the antique armoire to his right, taking out leather cuffs attached to a strap. She looped the strap over the hook, then attached the cuffs to his hands so that he was secured with his back to her and his hands over his head.

He was her captive now, and she stroked her nails over his broad back, then down to his butt, kneading the hard muscles before reaching around him, clasping her hand around his cock, squeezing, dragging a moan from him.

“If you come before I give you permission, you will be sorry,” she warned.

He said nothing, only stood rigidly in place while she took off her gown, draping it over a wooden chair before returning to her captive.
She was as naked as he, and she undulated against him, rubbing her breasts against his back and her clit against his butt, feeding her own arousal as she reached to lightly stroke his cock, feeling it jump in her hand.

She went back to the armoire and examined the implements laid neatly on shelves, considering the advantages of each.
Finally she decided she wanted to see the short welts on his skin made by a riding crop.

After selecting the implement, she returned to Justin. Raising her arm, she brought the lash down on his back, hard enough to sting.
She gave him more blows, working her way down to his buttocks, hearing him groan as she punished him, knowing he was responding to the pain with excitement.

She was panting when she had finished, and she heard his breath in her ears as she unfastened the cuffs so he could bring his hands down.

His face was flushed. His body quivering.

She went to a rounded wooden chair with low arms and sat down, draping her legs over the arms and thrusting her hot, wet pussy toward him.

“Eat me,” she commanded.

He knelt in front of her, bending his head and expertly using his tongue and lips to bring her to a rocketing climax.

And only when she had been satisfied once did she lie down on the bed at the side of the room. Spreading her legs again, she looked up at him. Making him wait, she licked her lips and played with her nipples as she watched him.

When she thought he might go up in flames kneeling there, she said, “You may fuck me now.
And you may let yourself come.”

With a sound deep in his throat, he climbed to his feet and came down on the bed, covering her body with his, thrusting into her, bringing her to another enormous climax and then letting himself go.

He held her for a moment, daring to kiss her cheek.

“You’re heavy.”

He moved off of her, lying on the bed, breathing hard.

“You have good control.”

“For you.”

“Does your back hurt?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“You deserve it.”

“Yes.”

“And more.”

She rose from the bed, pulling up the straps that hung below the spread at the sides.

“Lie on your back.”

When he had complied, she secured his wrists and ankles, then reached for his cock, caressing him, bringing him to a full erection again. She had had a hell of a night, and she needed to relax.

She ran her hand over the smooth skin of his chest.
Then, lighting a candle, she brought it over and tipped it sideways so that the hot wax fell between his nipples, then directly on one of them. He winced but said nothing, and she moved the candle lower, dripping wax onto his abdomen, watching his muscles jump.

She had selected him for her retinue because he was an excellent drummer, and she had sensed that he would play the role of her slave. But he could reverse the roles.
If she wanted, he could bring her the pain that she sometimes craved.

oOo

“I have a queen-sized bed. It will be big enough for both of us.”

Rafe stared at her, wondering how much sleep he was going to get.

“I’ll put out a towel and washcloth for you.”

“Okay,” he answered, hearing the thickened quality of his voice.

So much had changed since he’d last seen Eugenia Beaumont.

He’d left New Orleans and made a good life for himself, and he’d told himself a million times that he was better off without a woman who would never understand the problems of a working stiff. He’d thought it was true—until he’d seen Eugenia looking just as beautiful and desirable as he remembered.
And seen the life she’d chosen for herself—a life that included a lot of hard work and sacrifice.

She could still be married to that rich guy, living in a fancy house with expensive furnishings, and spending her time playing golf and being on charity committees.
Instead she was doing everything she could to make her restaurant a success. He could see that she wasn’t spending much on furnishing her apartment, although he loved the effect she’d created.

The restaurant location was another clue to the state of her finances.
It was at the extreme edge of the French Quarter, beyond the French Market. Not exactly the best part of town. No wonder two of her patrons had been mugged. Or was that connected with this current case? Was Villars’ death an attack on Eugenia?

His mind returned to the kiss that should never have happened.
He could have taken it a lot further and made love with her, but he’d done the right thing and stopped before they’d gone too far. Too bad he was still in her apartment and headed for her bed.