Hell on the Heart (9 page)

“Wasn’t necessary. The crone backed off.” The water from the lake had an eerie calmness that had him scanning the cloudy sky and listening for the sounds of warning from the animals.

“How’d the men take it?”

“What? Oh, I did the right thing. Once they got the healer out the door, I was not only more accepted, they brought out the good alcohol, some overly sweet, plumy liquor called Slivovitz.”

“Apart from the wine tasting, did you find out anything?”

“Something happened Friday night that no one’s talking about. I’m going to squeeze Czigany for details in the morning to get the info we need.”

“Good luck.” His tone was anything but confident.

John signed off and shoving the phone into his pocket. Great, his team doubted he could get the job done.

As though John had summoned her, Cezi sat on the far end of the dock next to a boat fuel pump. She’d changed from slacks to a long black and blue skirt with a blue sleeveless blouse. Her feet dangled in the water and a colorful blue and orange scarf bound her inky locks. All she lacked was heavy eyeliner and a lot of jangly bracelets to complete his picture of an ideal gypsy.

He groaned, reminded of the numerous people who expected to see him in a beaded vest and a war bonnet.

“Hey.”

She focused her attention in his direction and raised a hand in a half-wave. Had she not smiled he might have kept on walking. “So is this place completely self-sufficient?”

The dock swayed, moving with the weight of each step.

“Almost. There’s a service station, a post office, a grocery store and a clothing store. We raise most of our own food. Women run everything, except the dock store.” She gestured with her shoulder to indicate the building behind her. “Too much contact with the public. Men have jobs in the community and contribute cash.”

John frowned and lowered himself to sit on the smooth wooden planks beside her. Refusing to remove his wingtips and socks meant he couldn’t dangle his feet in the water. “Why does every woman snarl when I walk by?”

Flashing her chiseled dimples, she kicked out her leg mischievously. “They’re cautious about outsiders.”

“Careful,” he warned when the water hit him. He maintained a stern countenance though the desire to push her off the dock and dive in after her was strong.

 “The community protects the women by keeping them at home. Most have never been as far as downtown Armadillo Creek.”

“But you have and I’ll bet you’ve traveled more than that.”

She pulled her slender legs out of the water, tucked them under her and rose gracefully. “Oh, sure, I’ve been to Wichita Falls, Jacksboro, Pumpkin Center. I’m a world traveler.” Her voice was filled with merriment, but her eyes held a yearning, he suspected she wasn’t aware of. The fleeting glimpse of her vulnerability touched him.

He wasn’t sure what prompted him to say, “Your family thinks I’m here to protect you, but I am not taking you with me when I leave.”

Cezi whipped her head downward to stare at him. The shocked expression had her large ebony eyes sparkling either in anger or determination he couldn’t say which. Forcefully, she held her palm outward to hold him back although he hadn’t moved.

“Even if you invited me, the answer would be no.”

Without waiting for John to respond, she stepped into her sandals, spun on her heel and marched up the dock toward the path. Cezi walked as quickly as her feet would move. Why couldn’t she have just kept her mouth closed?

She didn’t need saving. Her life was perfect. Nothing was wrong with it that required rescuing.

“Czigany. Wait.”

She forced her legs to slow, hating the way it thrilled her that he used her full name and with that deep voice that made her think of warm sighs and dark bedrooms.

 No way did she want to continue this conversation, so when he was within earshot, she asked, “which guest house did they assign you?”

“I’m staying at your father’s house.”

“What? Why?” Cezi’s heart sank. If her father agreed to him staying, then the Elders felt he was The One.

“What is
marimè
?”

Marimè
? The Elders spoke openly in front of him. How could she explain gypsy philosophy to an outsider? While she searched for a simple explanation, her thoughts were interrupted by the scream of sirens.

“Tornado alert.” She grasped his arm and tugged. “Hurry, we’ve got to get to shelter.”

John expected her to run. Instead her knees buckled. He grabbed her before she hit the ground. Her head was tucked under and he could see her fists clenched. She pulled against him, but her legs weren’t steady enough to support her. That’s when he heard it. The wheezing.

“What’s going on?” She lifted her head, between the shrill piercing of the siren blasts, he wanted to groan and smack his head. This was not happening. No weakness. He liked her strong, defiant, able to care for herself. Feeble meant her family was right; she needed someone to look out for her.

He huffed out a breath and tried not to notice how she struggled to breathe. He couldn’t watch this. Swooping down he gathered her into his arms, ignoring the halfhearted protest before she slumped against him.

“Which house is yours?” In lieu of an answer she pointed to a solitary pastel dollhouse on the distant hill. “Do you have an inhaler with you?” Her head gave a negative shake. “I’m going to run. Hold tight to me.” He pushed her arms around his neck and took off, trying not to jostle her as he covered the distance by cutting across the grassy knolls rather than sticking to the longer winding path.

She was so not the damsel in distress and he was so not Sir Galahad. Yet, his fingers curled around the softness of her skin as she cuddled next to his chest. Her scent of warm exotic spices jolted his body to attention, but he’d been trained to maintain control. Once he deposited her somewhere safe, he vowed not to touch her again.

He’d seen exercise-induced asthma before and he was pretty sure he was seeing it now. It worried him that it hadn’t taken much to trigger an attack. Fine one minute. In trouble the next. Asthma was nothing to play around with. Why didn’t she have this under control?

The gypsies may have guarded her, but she obviously kept them at bay as much as she could. The tiny home was nestled into the clusters of trees and separated from the other homes by a considerable distance. The setting may have been quiet. The house was not. At least fifteen sets of wind chimes lined the porch each clinking in the wind. As soon as he kicked open the flimsy door, he knew she lived alone.

Threading his way through the living room to the bedroom, he had a flash of femininity that would’ve reached up and sucked a normal man under with the tide.

None of the men in her family would have tolerated a pink couch and filly curtains. The house was so damn girly, he couldn’t believe it belonged to her. She was all spark and determination not pink and fluffy.

He kept his thoughts to himself as he laid her across the floral bedspread thankful the sirens and the wind chimes weren’t quite as deafening. “How are you feeling?” He gentled his voice and stroked her cheek.

Whatever color her velvety skin possessed had drained to stark white. “Where’s your inhaler? The bathroom?” She nodded. “Breathe easy. I’ll be right back.”

The entire bathroom counter was littered with an array of inhalers. He swooped them all into a towel, rushed back to her bedside and dumped them beside her. Cezi’s hand shook as she put one of the inhalers to her mouth. Her eyelids fluttered shut, letting the medication slowly began to release the tension around her eyes and mouth.

He clenched his fists and paced back and forth beside her bed. Wanting to do more, but uncertain what she needed. Shrouded shadows cast gloominess over the room and he reached to flip on the tableside lamp, but she waved her hand to stop him.

“Open all the windows and doors.” Her voice was weak, but in the dim light he detected a pink flush returning to her cheeks.

The first window he jerked hard. It zipped to the top of the frame like an express elevator then shuddered at the force of impact. He eased back his strength on the second. Wind whipped inside, blowing the curtains and flipping open magazines on the coffee table. A vase of artificial roses tipped and bounced on the floor. In the kitchen a set of metal measuring cups inched their way across the counter until he tossed them into the sink. When the front door refused to remain open, he braced it with a chair. A couple of sets of wind chimes had dropped to the porch and he stepped onto the porch to gather the others and bring them inside, each tinkling in protest at being moved.

The heavy air smelled wet. The black sky hovered menacingly. This was no spring storm. Within seconds he expected the storm to batter against the house.

Cezi stood in the bathroom, staring at an oversized claw-foot tub. She gave him a brief glance as she brushed by him to enter the second bedroom. “Take off your clothes.”  .

Her reaction caught him off-guard. Back to business. No grateful speech or even simple thanks. No shy smile of gratitude. Just the command to disrobe.

“I’m going to have to read up on tornado safety,” he yelled after her. “I know I never heard a tip about being naked.”

She returned with a blanket and a pillow, which she spread in the tub. “I didn’t say get naked.” She eyed his crotch as though she could see through his slacks. “You’re not going commando, are you?”

John bit his lip to keep from laughing. “No, ma’am.”

“Good, it’s going to be hot and tight, so take off everything but your underwear.”

He suddenly understood her plan. “We’re going to lay together in the tub?” What was wrong with her? How did she expect him to react if she put them in this precarious situation? He was a man, dammit, not a saint. “Where’s your basement?”

“No basement. The land has too high a water table and I don’t have a closet that will work. It’s got to be the tub.”

Her teeth gnawed her lower lip and her eyes refused to meet his. Was she worried because she needed to protect him or because the situation was compromising at the very least?

He tried to ease her tension with a joke. “Should I worry your father will force me to marry you?” The humor escaped her.

She studied the tub for a few seconds further, before declaring, “It’ll be too cramped for any hanky-panky.”

Was she joking? It was a big tub. A creative male and an attractive female, both semi-naked? Lots of hanky-panky could happen. Her earlier comment made the skin on his arms itch. Was she a virgin?

“Well,” he drawled, waiting to see her reaction. “It’s not big enough to swing a cat…” His words drifted off as he evaluated her look of confusion.

She disappeared again. He removed his jacket and tie and slid his gun out of the shoulder holster and tucked it under the pillow. No matter what happened, naked or not, his gun, badge and wallet stayed with him.

Next, he unbuttoned his shirt, pulled the tail free, removed his belt, shoes and socks. Warring with an internal voice of reason that cautioned him to keep his pants on and his wits about him. Thumping sounded from the hallway.

He poked his head out the door. Cezi wore brown shorts and a yellow stretchy tube top as she dragged a single bed mattress along the floor beside her. Her hips tapered into long, straight legs that highlighted her smooth ivory skin. Touchable silk.

“What are you doing? Let me handle that.” He grabbed the mattress by the corded handles and carried it into the bath, widening the gap enough she could get by.

“Get in,” he snapped, his voice rough even to his own ears, but she set his body on edge. Unable to resist he looked to see if her nipples were visible through the stretchy material. Mentally he calculated the fewest number of seconds to have that bit of yellow fluff out of his way.

He rested the mattress against his body so she wouldn’t see the erection that had sprung to his navel and now pounded against his zipper. As she raised her leg to climb into the deep tub, her rosy toes gracefully pointed as though she checked the water temperature. John clenched his jaw. Instead of sitting, she stood, legs apart, and pulled her thick hair into a ponytail. With each movement of her arms, her breasts bobbed up and down, waving to him in greeting.

“You’re not undressed,” she said.

He jerked the shirt off his shoulders and was surprised to see her expressive eyes widen at the sight of his bare chest. He knew the exact moment she spotted his tribal armband tattoo. If he turned slightly, she’d see the tarantula that rose from under his armpit and covered a small portion of his back and shoulder. Silent, but deadly. Despite what he’d told her family, the spider represented his years in Special Ops, not his Indian heritage.

His entire adult life had been spent in one sticky situation after another. But lying in the bathtub with Cezi held the promise of being more dangerous than any he could remember. Particularly when he caught the hitch in her breath and the slight increase as her chest rose and fell. She turned her head, refusing to look at him. Her hair pulled up highlighting her long slender neck. In thirty-two years he had never paid the slightest attention to a woman’s neck and now his fingers itched to stroke the delicate bone structure. A black crow of warning flew over his head.

His hands reached for the hook and zipper on his slacks and as the fabric sank to his knees, the sirens ceased only to be replaced with the roar of a freight train.

“Hurry,” her lips mouthed the word, but the sound didn’t reach him. He flipped the light switch, casting the room into bleak shadows, and catapulted into the tub next to her.

“Let me be on the bottom.”