Kiss of Temptation: A Deadly Angels Book (13 page)

When he pulled into the parking lot of what appeared to be a run-down shack with a neon sign proclaiming “Heavenly Eats,” she glanced at him with surprise.

“Were you expecting a fancy Garden District restaurant with fou-fou waiters and sterling forks?” His blue eyes sparkled beautifully at her.

She inhaled sharply, feeling like the sparks were actually hitting her skin like carnal caresses. It took all her self-control to get back to the conversation at hand, which had nothing to do with carnality. “No, but this restaurant is a far cry from deluxe dining.”

He chucked her under the chin. “Don’t judge a book by its cover, or a restaurant by its exterior.”

“You’re right. Just because a chicken has wings doesn’t mean it can fly.”

“You’ve been around Tante Lulu only a short time but already you are picking up her sayings.”

She grimaced. “I’m turning into a batty Cajun golden oldie?”

“Hardly,” he said, giving her a hot . . . very hot . . . survey.

Laughing, she decided a change of subject was called for. “I’ve yet to see you in a tie.”

“I was wearing a tie in our dream.”

“
Our
dream?” she choked out.
No, no, no! I am not thinking about that blasted dream.
“If you did wear a tie, it would probably be something outrageous. Blinking wings, or clouds.”

He chuckled, knowing perfectly well how embarrassed she was at his reminder of the dream. Her flushed face, if nothing else, would have given her away. “Anyhow, what any of that has to do with shabby restaurants, I don’t know,” she grumbled, and exited the car, which was ungracious of her, she realized immediately. It’s just that she had been expecting something different. Perhaps a table on an open gallery overlooking a lake or even a bayou stream. After all, he had mentioned showing her the best side of the Old South. If this was it, God help Dixie.

Her opinion changed dramatically, of course, the minute they stepped inside. The exterior might be downright shabby, but inside it was downright chic. Like a Bourbon Street supper club, it was, with soft lighting and intimate tables. There was even mellow jazz playing on an old-fashioned jukebox.

“This is lovely,” she said, glancing up at Ivak.

But his attention was directed toward the kitchen where a short, rotund black man in an apron smiled widely and came toward them, arms extended in welcome. “Ivak, Ivak, where you been, boy? It’s been months since you’ve been here. Colette will be so happy to see you. Colette, Colette, come see who’s here.”

Soon, Gabrielle was introduced to Pierre and Colette Fortenot, father and daughter owners of this small restaurant. Colette, a late-twenty-ish, mocha-skinned blonde in a pretty fuchsia sundress and white high heels, the apparent hostess, was even happier to see Ivak than her father was. That was clear in the way she’d hung on a bit too long when Ivak reached down to hug her and in the way she eyed Gabrielle with question.

They were seated in a booth Ivak requested on the far side and Colette handed them menus, telling them that a girl named Terese would be their waitress. Before she left, she laid a hand on Ivak’s arm and said, in a sultry voice, “We’ll talk later,
cher
?”

“Definitely,” Ivak replied in an equally sultry voice—
the louse!
—and squeezed Colette’s hand in return.

Once they were alone, Gabrielle blurted out, “Do you always flirt with other women when you’re on a date?”

Ivak’s eyes went wide with surprise. Then he laughed. “Are we on a date?”

“No. Of course not. I just meant it’s not polite to ignore the woman you’re with . . . I mean . . . oh, never mind.”

“You’re jealous,” he accused with a smile of pure male triumph.

“I am not.”

“Colette is married to a doctor from Lafayette. They have two children.”

That made Gabrielle feel better. Still she said, “That doesn’t stop some men.”

Instead of going all offended on her, Ivak admitted, “There was a time when that wouldn’t have bothered me at all, but I’ve changed. Leastways, I hope I have.”

She was appalled to suddenly realize something. “I never asked . . . are you married?”

“No.”

Whew!
“Ever?”

“Never.”

He deliberately declined to elaborate, but he did ask her, “You?”

She shook her head. Time to change the subject. Gabrielle opened her menu. “What kind of food do they serve here? I assume by their names that the owners are Cajun.”

“Creole actually. Do you like Creole food?”

“Love it!” she said, sharing a smile at their having something in common.

They started with a sampler of finger appetizers: oysters Bienville served on the half shell, crawfish boulettes, a fancy name for tiny fish meatballs, stuffed shrimp with a Creole meunière sauce. For entrees, she ordered crevettes saute St. Lucia, which were French Creole–style sautéed prawns, while Ivak preferred a blackened redfish, a Louisiana specialty. There were sides of dirty rice; creamy grits with Creole shrimp; spinach Madeline; petits pois, a mixture of baby peas, pimentos, and other veggies; and fried green tomatoes with a spicy remoulade sauce. Red wine was served from a table decanter. For dessert, they went for the rum-laced bread pudding, which they shared.

The whole time, their conversation flowed freely, without stop. Who knew Gabrielle would have so much to talk about with a man so very different from herself, or the other men she’d occasionally dated? And Ivak constantly reached over with his fork to taste something on her plate, or to offer her something from his.

“I thought vampires didn’t eat food.”

“I’m a vampire
angel
, and Viking at that. We love food.” He’d just popped a cherry tomato stuffed with cheese into his mouth and chewed appreciatively.

“So, how long have you been at Angola?” she asked, buttering a second roll, that’s how hungry she was.

“Not long. A couple years. Ummm, try this.” He extended his fork with a sliver of redfish on it.

“Ummm,” she agreed. The fish was tender and succulent with its coating of the hot lemon pepper sauce that had been poured over it. “How long do you expect to stay at Angola?”

“I’m really not sure. The need for help is great. Never ending, really, but I’m not sure I’ll be the one to provide that help on a continuing basis.”

She was having a hard time concentrating. She’d rather watch Ivak eat and drink. It was a sensual experience. He chewed slowly, savoring each bite, occasionally closing his eyes in ecstasy. When he drank the wine, he let it sit in his mouth for a second before swallowing. Halfway through the meal, he asked their waitress to bring him a beer. “Do you mind?” he asked Gabrielle. “I’m a Viking. We like our beer.”

“I like beer on occasion. Make that two.” That seemed to please him.

Back to the subject they’d been discussing. “Would you want to stay at Angola?”

“Do you jest? I hate it there. It is the most dismal, cruel, sad place in the world. The living dead, that is what most of the inmates are. Totally without hope.”

Gabrielle gulped, knowing that her brother could very well be one of the living dead if she . . . they . . . didn’t help him. “If you feel that strongly, leave.”

“It’s not up to me. I go where I’m assigned.”

“But—”

He shook his head. “I do not get to cherry-pick my missions.”

She didn’t understand that, at all. He probably referred to that Viking vampire angel nonsense and St. Michael the Archangel. Jeesh!

“What would you do if you had a choice?”

He thought for a long moment, chewing slowly on a bite of his side salad. “Just freedom, I think. Freedom to do whatever I want wherever I want. Maybe in the end, I would choose to be at Angola doing exactly what I am doing, but it would be nice to have the choice.”

She nodded. “Even though the reasons are different, lots of people I know are locked into jobs or marriages that they hate but cannot leave because of their particular circumstances.” Herself included.

“I shouldn’t complain. I was given a second chance to make up for my sins. Without it, I would be in a far, far worse place.”

He was referring to Hell, she supposed. “Assuming I believed your story, and I don’t, have you ever met God?”

He shook his head slowly. “No, but I have sensed the spirit of Jesus on occasion. Glorious it is. There is a reason why some Christian religions say that Heaven is nothing more than being in the presence of God, and Hell is the absence of God. It is that essential and wondrous to the soul.” He glanced at her and could no doubt see her confusion. “I’m not explaining it well, but then there is no good way to explain God.”

“I’ve always wondered exactly how the world was created. The Bible mentions the seven days of creation, but lots of scientist go for the big bang theory.”

Ivak laughed. “I’m not going to give you answers to age-old questions, most of which I couldn’t answer even if I wanted to. I’m more inclined toward the big bang theory, though, as in God raised His hand, and bang! the world happened.”

“You make jokes about your being an angel
of sorts
, and you use a casual nickname for a revered archangel,
Mike
. One could make a case that you don’t take any of this seriously.”

“Sorry if I’ve given that impression. It’s serious as sin. Mayhap I use humor to cover my nervousness over just how important the work is that I do. I don’t know. I do believe that God would not have created humor unless He had a sense of humor Himself.”

“I agree. Oh, I’m not religious at all anymore, but I loathe those religions that are all gloom and doom. Nothing about love and hope and faith. My disillusionment with the church probably started when I went to a priest after Leroy’s conviction, and all he talked about was my brother’s guilt and how we should welcome the pain of prison as a gift from God, a way for long suffering to promote our spiritual growth. Nothing about God’s love and forgiveness. Damn! I’m rambling. Obviously, this is a sore point of mine.”

He smiled. “You asked me what I would do if I had the freedom to choose? What would you do . . . what
will
you do when Leroy is released?”

“I’ve been afraid to think about it. It might jinx our chances if I start planning. Really, though, all I want is a normal life. I’ve never had normal, even before Leroy’s conviction. I’m not looking for a grand passion, just a good man who loves me. A house, probably outside the city because I’d love a houseful of children. Three at least. Far away from Angola, from any prisons actually. I can practice law anywhere. Peace and normalcy, that’s about it. Pathetic, isn’t it, that I dream so small?”

“Not pathetic at all,” he said, unexpectedly sad. He peeled away at the label on his beer bottle before revealing, “I cannot have children.”

“Oh. Sorry.” She put a hand over his, about to say that he could always adopt.

But he continued, “And I may be assigned to Angola for another week, or another century.”

What can I say to that? Better you than me?

“And I will never be normal.”

For a blip of a second she wondered if normal was all it was cracked up to be. His cell phone pinged then, cutting off any more of that dangerous line of thinking.

“Sorry, I have to take this,” he said, and quickly read whatever text message had arrived. His eyebrows shot up with surprise. After tapping back his own message, he clicked off and stared into space for a moment.

“Bad news?”

He shook his head. “No. It was from Mike. I was just surprised. He’s never texted me before. He has other . . . ways . . . of communicating. Harek must be teaching him some electronic skills.”

The call seemed to have put a damper on their time together, or maybe it had been the last part of their conversation regarding children and normalcy.

After paying their bill and making polite conversation with Pierre and Colette, they went back to Tante Lulu’s car.

“Do you mind if we take a slight detour before I drop you off at Tante Lulu’s place?”

“I don’t know.” She’d already spent more time with this man than was safe. He was too tempting by half.

“Mike wants me to check out a property for sale somewhere in Terrebonne Parish. An old sugar plantation.”

She raised her eyebrows in question. “For what purpose?”

“I have no idea. Last month he had me go to Transylvania, Louisiana, to look at an abandoned factory that could be remodeled into an apartment complex, or something.”

“There’s a Transylvania in Louisiana?”

“Yes. Northern Louisiana. The sign on entering the town reads: ‘We Welcome New Blood.’ ”

She laughed.

“You can laugh. They have ghosts, and bats everywhere. Even its water tower has a bat emblem on it.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish!”

“So, are you going to relocate there?”

“By the clouds! I hope not. There are less than a thousand people residing in the town, which would be a plus for us vangels, but, really, one Transylvania in our family is enough. Someday I will tell you about the bizarre Transylvania, Pennsylvania, where my brother Vikar lives. There was so much bat dung in the castle when he first arrived that they had to take the guano out by the truckloads. Of course, Louisiana is just as bad with its abundance of snakes.”

A castle?
“I read somewhere that there are ten thousand species of snakes, and nine thousand of them live in our state.”

He made a cute shivering gesture of distaste.

Gabrielle wasn’t too fond of snakes herself.

A companionable silence followed, broken when she remarked, “I notice that you have a nice suntan. I thought vampires couldn’t go outside in the daylight.”

“That’s an old wives’ tale. Actually, we vangels cannot spend much time outside if we haven’t fed properly or drunk our synthetic beverage, Fake-O. Otherwise, sun is fine.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We save sinners by taking their blood, the amount depends on how tainted by sin they are.” He shrugged. “The blood of a redeemed sinner sustains us for months. Without it, if we go outdoors, our skin gets lighter and lighter, almost translucent.”