Midnight in Ruby Bayou (17 page)

His quick, husky laughter made her want to lean over and nuzzle against his neck, then bite him just hard enough to make him take her seriously as a woman. The thought startled her almost as much as it intrigued her. Tony had always complained about her lack of sexuality. She never got hot enough, fast enough, to suit him. The harder she tried to be what he wanted, the worse the sex got. And the angrier he got.

Don't go there,
she told herself automatically.
He was as much at fault as I was. It takes two.

Sometimes—more and more often, lately—she believed that. When she didn't, usually in the middle of the lonely nights when her memories echoed with Tony's disappointment and rage, she simply poured herself into her work. There, she was sure of herself. Whatever her lacks as a woman, she could create ageless beauty by transforming her dreams into jewelry.

And when she got hungry to hold a baby or to heft the growing weight of a child, there were her nieces and nephew. They didn't get impatient when she wanted to cuddle and nuzzle and just absorb the miracle of another life, another laugh, another heartbeat close enough to feel.

“Now, that's a pure angel smile,” Walker said.

“I was thinking of Summer and Robbie and Heather.”

“That Summer is a pistol. Jake and Honor better get busy on another, or that kid will be too spoiled to breathe.”

Faith gave him a lazy, amused glance. “Says the man who brings Summer a stuffed animal every time he sees her. Which, according to Honor, is almost every day since you got back.”

“Hey, an almost-uncle has privileges.”

“Only when you arm-wrestle the other uncles.” Her smile widened. “I never thought I'd see the day when Justin and Lawe fought each other to hold a baby.”

“Good thing Archer sent them to Africa or the rest of y'all would never get within touching distance of Kyle's twins.”

Faith laughed. “Lianne cleverly had one of each sex, too. I wonder what it would be like to be twin to a male.”

“About like it would be for a man to be twin to a female.”

“Interesting.”

“That's one way of putting it. I figure Robbie is going to be the artist and Heather is going to run Donovan International and anything else she gets her hands on.”

“She'll have to go through Summer first.”

“Nope. Summer is a wanderer. She'll be backpacking over foreign mountains before she's out of college.”

“Do you spend much time peering into your crystal ball?” Faith asked curiously.

“Not enough, or I'd be as rich as your brothers.”

And Lot would still be alive.

It was something Walker tried to remember whenever his pants started to fit too tight in the crotch just because he was listening to or looking at or talking with Faith. She was a Donovan. He was a trusted Donovan employee who had vowed over Lot's grave never to tie himself to anyone else who might die trusting him. End of story.

Or it had been until Archer made protecting Faith's rubies part of Walker's job. To protect the rubies, he would have to protect her, too.

The thought was enough to send cold sweat down his spine. The last person he had been responsible for protecting was buried in the loneliest grave he ever wanted to see.

“Money can't buy the important things,” Faith said.

“It sure can take the cuss off being poor.”

The cool neutrality of Walker's voice told her that the subject was a tender one. She looked at the square that was sliding past her window. Same Confederate general. Same horse. Same pigeons whitewashing both.

“Fourth time is the charm, right?” she asked.

“You lost me.”

“The question is, have you lost the guy who's following us?”

He slanted her a quick glance. “What makes you think we're being followed?”

“Are you telling me that you normally drive in circles?”

“Squares, actually.”

“Or, to borrow a phrase from Jake, turning squares.” She faced Walker with a coolness that matched his. “As in doubling back to flush out or sneak up on a tail.”

“Smart man, that Jake.”

“Evasive man, that Walker.”

“Yeah. We're being followed by some clown with a white Caddy and a cell phone.”

“All the way from the expo?”

Walker nodded.

“Well, damn,” she said. “Why?”

“I don't know.”

But he was afraid he did. Someone hadn't bought the diversion with the rubies and the expo safe.
Shit.
He never should have left the expo hall. His taste for real food had put Faith at risk. Now he would have to carry the damn purse himself.

“Guess,” she said in a clipped voice.

“Maybe he wants to find the best fish shack in town.”

“Maybe I'm built like Miss February.”

“I'll have to take your word for it, sugar. Playgirls aren't my style.”

She wanted to believe him, and she knew she was an idiot for wanting. Every man alive lusted after the playgirl body, even if it came complete with scars from a surgeon's scalpel. “Such convincing lies. Must be those lapis lazuli eyes. No, it's that honeyed drawl.”

Those lapis eyes narrowed. “We'll get along better if you smile when you call me a liar.”

“White lies don't count.”

“Counting has nothing to do with it. I know what I like. You don't.”

“Right,” she muttered. “Like you aren't a man. Is he still following us?”

“Yeah. Hell's fire. I just drove by it.”

“What?”

“Cap'n Jim's Fish Shack.”

“So turn another square.”

Instead, Walker made an illegal U-turn and slid into a parking place in front of the café. It was the only parking spot along the block on either side. There was nowhere for the white Cadillac to hide. It continued on down the two-lane street, giving Walker a good look at the driver.

He was in his mid-twenties, black hair, sunglasses, no smile, and one big hand locked hard on the wheel. His other hand was fisted around a cell phone. From the look on his face, he didn't like what he was hearing.

The bad news was that their tail was wearing a black leather jacket despite the heat of the day. He was either a clotheshorse or he was armed.

Silently Walker swore at the complication.

“Sloppy,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“A pro would have changed his look. Different glasses, a hat, different jacket or no jacket at all. A pro would have had a partner to hand me off to the first time I started turning squares.”

Silently she absorbed what Walker had said. And what he hadn't. “No wonder Archer trusts you. You must have led an interesting life. Like his, before he quit.”

“I was never a professional like your brother or your brother-in-law, Jake. I'm just a real cautious country boy. That's why I'm still alive.”

And why Lot wasn't.

The realization of loss and rage and guilt was always fresh, and always bit deep with teeth that never dulled.

With an edge to his expression that was as grim as his thoughts, Walker grabbed his cane and slid out of the car. Faith had the door open and was standing on the sidewalk before he got around the Jeep's square butt. Her smart, slim black purse dangled from its shoulder strap to her hip.

“I'll take that.” He slipped the purse from her shoulder.

“You're joking.”

He stuffed the purse into his sport-coat pocket. It didn't quite fit. “Am I smiling?”

The look in his eyes made Faith think better of the hot words crowding her tongue. “You think he knows that the rubies left with us? Probably in my purse?”

Walker grunted.

“My brothers taught me how to defend myself,” she said evenly.

“You do that little thing, sugar. I'm being paid to defend the rubies.”

F
aith stalked into Cap'n Jack's. The smell—fish and hot oil—rolled over her, but both were fresh, clean smells, not stale. Her salivary glands reminded her that a crumb doughnut and a cinnamon latte wasn't much breakfast for a woman who had just spent four hours on her feet answering the same questions over and over again. And smiling. Smiling until her face ached.

No wonder she felt like attacking something. Owen Walker, for example.

From the corner of his eye, Walker watched Faith's reaction to a hole-in-the-wall eatery whose décor could most charitably be described as modest. Worn linoleum floor. Faded beer advertisements on dingy walls. Fifteen cracked tables with mismatched chairs and randomly sized paper napkin holders, ketchup, and tartar sauce squeeze bottles.

The place was packed like fish in a tin with carpenters and painters, plumbers and workers whose hands were freckled from the sun and scarred from the tools of their trade. The men, and a few women who had wedged their way into blue-collar jobs, were up to their lips in the kind of deep-fried sin your doctor warned against. The customers' faces said that like many things sinful, the experience was divine.

The only polish in the place came from people sliding into and out of the plastic chairs. Not that Cap'n Jack's was dirty. It wasn't. It just looked like it had been bought at a neighborhood rummage sale and would be sold the same way. There was no hostess to seat customers, no server to take orders. Folks waited in line in front of a counter that was just big enough to hold a cash register. That was all Cap'n Jack accepted. Cash.

Despite the ruby necklace in his shorts and the woman's purse in his coat pocket, Walker felt right at home. He had been selling his catch to fish shacks like this before he got out of fourth grade.

In her expensive clothes, Faith looked as out of place as a princess at a demolition derby. If that bothered her, Walker saw no sign of it. She studied the chalkboard menu as though it held the answer to the meaning of life.

“Well, that security guard was right about the fancy part,” Walker said. “From the way folks are chowing down, looks like he was right about the rest.”

She was too busy trying to choose among the handful of menu items to do more than nod absently. Fresh shrimp, steamed or fried. Two kinds of fresh fish. Oysters, raw or fried. Scallops. She groaned, unable to make up her mind. “I'll have one of everything and two of the shrimp.”

He laughed, pleased that she didn't object to the shabby décor and grubby, hardworking customers. “If you like shrimp that much, I'll order fish and fried oysters and we can share.”

“Make it shrimp, then.”

“Steamed or fried?”

“Steamed. Two pounds.”

His eyebrows shot up.

“Don't look at me like that,” she said. “I know all about ‘sharing' with older brothers. It's like sharing a lamb chop with a hungry wolf.”

Before Walker could answer, she spotted three men getting up to leave. She shot over to the vacated table, politely cutting off two carpenters in stained Carhartt coveralls. Grabbing a handful of napkins, she wiped up spilled cocktail sauce and emptied the heaping ashtray into a trash container as though she did it every day. Then she looked expectantly at Walker.

Smiling, he went to order for them. When he came back, he was carrying a pitcher of cold tea and two empty plastic glasses that had the opaque finish that comes only from long, hard use. He set the pitcher down with a thump.

“What's that?” she asked.

“Sweet tea, the house wine of the South.”

He poured a glass and handed it to her. She sipped, swallowed, and cleared her throat.

“It's an acquired taste,” he said. “Like beer.”

“I'd rather have beer.”

Walker would rather have had beer, too. He drank tea anyway. Only a fool started sucking up alcohol when some Low Country knee breaker was parked outside, sweating in the unseasonable heat and waiting for Faith to reappear.

But that didn't mean she had to suffer along with everyone else. “I'll get you a beer,” Walker said.

He rose to order one, only to stop when her fingers locked with surprising strength around his wrist.

“No thanks,” she said. “I'd fall asleep before we got back. I'll stick to, um, the house wine.” She took a second sip. “Suppose they have any lemon?”

“Doubt it, but I'll ask. Around here, folks use tartar sauce rather than lemon on fish.”

“Wait.” She took a third sip, then a fourth. Cool, clean, brewed, and undeniably sweet, the tea was refreshing. “I'll drink it straight up, just like the natives.”

It didn't take long for the gravel-voiced counterman to call their number. As one, Faith and Walker headed for the food. He picked up the plastic baskets of fries, coleslaw, fish, and oysters, and a fistful of plastic silverware. She balanced a plate mounded with unpeeled shrimp and a plastic carton of shrimp sauce. When everything was unloaded onto the table, he tucked her chair beneath her. She was already stripping off her jacket and rolling up her silk sleeves.