Midnight in Ruby Bayou (36 page)

He slipped her legs over his shoulders and opened her even more, drawing her tight around him. He watched her as he traced her swollen flesh with his fingertips until he was as slick as she was. Then he plucked at the proud nub that had grown out of her softness. He felt the deep pulsing of her response even before he heard her throaty whimper. Shaking with restraint, he pushed deep into the clench and release of her climax, stretching her even more, sending her higher, then higher still.

Only when she was crying his name and her pleasure did he begin to move the way they both needed, hard and deep. She arched up against him and went rigid. He barely covered her mouth with his own before she screamed her release. It was no less intense for him, his shout muffled by her mouth as he pumped himself into her until the world went black.

Slowly Faith became aware of the room, the wonderful weight of Walker lying against her . . . and the fact that she could bite her own knee if she turned her head.

She laughed softly. “You were right.”

“Mmph?” Walker asked, too lazy to move his mouth from her neck.

“It didn't hurt. Still doesn't. I hope you don't mind my saying that I'm amazed.”

Reluctantly Walker stirred. “Is this going to be one of those meaningful male-female talk things?”

She smiled and closed her teeth over the edge of his jaw. “Nope. Just an observation. The
Kama Sutra
has nothing on us.”

His laughter was silent but obvious, for he moved inside her. Slowly he let her legs slide down his body. Then he shifted until he could nuzzle the tip of her breast. “I don't think that book was on the approved reading list in my high school.”

“Never read it, huh?” she asked, stroking his hair.

“In high school? Nope.”

“Junior high?”

“Nope.”

“Ohmygod. Kindergarten?”

He laughed again and she made a murmurous sound of pleasure at the reminder of how completely they were joined.

“Nope,” he said, nibbling over to her other breast.

“I refuse to believe you were reading in the womb.”

“First grade.”

“Oh, boy. I'll bet it was fun playing doctor with you.”

Laughing out loud, Walker wrapped his arms tightly around her and rolled over onto his back. She moved with him easily. When he realized the perfection of her lithe partnering, her unconscious adjustments to stay close, and the easy intimacy of their linked bodies, his laughter faded. He had never known a woman like Faith. Businesslike one moment, a dreamy artist the next. Slashing her heel down a mugger's shin and weeping silently in the moonlight. Deceptively fragile. Deceptively strong. Deeply passionate. She lured him in ways he couldn't describe, and she terrified him in the same ways.

For the first time he understood at a gut level why a moth flew into flame: it was better than staying alone in the cold and dark.

“. . . hear that?” Faith asked.

“What?” he said, shaking his head as though to clear it of his own thoughts.

“It's Mel. I think something's wrong.”

Suddenly, faint and yet all too clear, a woman's scream echoed through the silent house.

“God, I hope it's not the baby!” Faith scrambled off the bed and searched for her clothes.

Hurriedly Walker adjusted his million-dollar shorts, grabbed the knife in its sheath under his pillow, and lunged out of bed. Sheath clenched in his teeth, he reached for his jeans. By the time he got his pants buttoned, Faith had raced out the door in the first thing she could grab—his shirt. He spit out the knife and took off after her.

“Mel?” Faith cried. “Mel, where are you? What's wrong?”

The thought of Buddy Angel and a deadly Russian thug put wings on Walker's feet. Halfway down the hall, he caught up with Faith and grabbed her arm.

“What—?” she began.

“Stay here until I find out what's wrong,” he said curtly, cutting across her protest.

“But—”

“But nothing. This could be an ambush. They might be after you.
Stay here.”

“What about you?”

She was talking to his back. He went down the stairway like a ghost. When he turned at the landing, light from a sconce spilled over him. She saw him draw the knife and shove the sheath into a hip pocket. There was a shadowy pattern of fading bruises just above his waistband at the small of his back. She didn't know which shocked her more, the knife or the bruises.

She started to call out to him. Then what he had said about an ambush registered. Her stomach rolled over. She bolted back to the bedroom, snatched the little canister of pepper spray from her purse, and raced downstairs on silent bare feet.

Though Walker listened, he heard no second scream, no sounds of struggle. He was still wary. The old house was big enough to absorb all but the loudest noises.

He sensed Faith coming up behind him. Furious, he spun around and glared at her. She glared back stubbornly. Her eyes said that arguing with her was useless.

He hauled her close and said very softly into her ear, “Sugar, if you get any of that shit in my eyes, you won't sit down for a week.”

She nuzzled against his ear and spoke with equal softness. “If I get any of this shit in your eyes,
sugar,
you won't be able to see to catch me for a week.”

With a jerk of his head, he signaled her to get behind him. Her chin lifted, but she stopped trying to push past him in the hall.

Together they slipped silently through the lower floor of rooms, listening. Together they heard a mutter of voices from the direction of the kitchen.

Walker bypassed the library and headed swiftly for the back of the house. Faith was right behind him. The kitchen door was ajar. He put her on the hinge side and took the open side himself.

They listened.

“. . . dead!” Mel cried in a low voice.

Faith started forward. A look from Walker stopped her cold.

“No, he isn't, darlin',” Jeff said. “See? His side is moving real regular like.”

“Are you sure?”

Walker eased the kitchen door open to look inside. Mel and Jeff—wearing pajamas—were on the floor beside Boomer. The kitchen lights and the growing daylight showed Boomer stretched out on the linoleum like a thick, limp rug.

“I'm sure,” Jeff said soothingly. “Give me your hand. Feel him move? He's breathing long and deep. He's just fine.” But there was an edge of worry in Jeff's voice that he couldn't entirely disguise.

“Why didn't he wake up when I tripped over him?”

Letting out a long, soundless breath, Walker sheathed the knife and clipped it to the waist of his jeans.

“Y'all got a problem?” he asked as he walked into the kitchen.

Jeff jerked as though he had been stung. Mel just looked up, tears streaming out of her big brown eyes.

“It's Boomer,” she said simply, looking back at the dog. “He won't wake up.”

As Walker crouched over the hound, Faith followed him into the kitchen. The pepper spray was in the pocket of the shirt she wore.

“Are you all right, Mel?” Faith asked, kneeling near her friend. “I thought I heard you scream.”

“I was hungry, so I came down to the kitchen for some crackers,” Mel said without taking her eyes off the hound. “I guess I was so sleepy I didn't see Boomer lying here. I must have yelped when I tripped over him. I know I screamed when I thought he was dead.”

“I came running at the first scream,” Jeff said, stroking Mel's shoulder as gently as she was stroking Boomer's head. “Did you fall?”

She shook her head.

“You sure?” he pressed. “You didn't hurt yourself or the baby, did you?”

“I grabbed the counter so I wouldn't fall,” Mel said. “Why won't he wake up?”

Walker examined the hound with gentle hands. “No blood. No swelling or broken bones that I can feel. Heartbeat is steady if a bit slow. Same for his breathing. Seems okay, but you should call a vet.”

When Walker stood, he signaled quietly to Jeff to follow. The other man hesitated, looking at his fiancée, before he got reluctantly to his feet.

“Stay with Mel,” Walker said quietly to Faith.

She nodded.

As soon as the kitchen door closed behind Jeff, Walker asked softly, “Have you been poisoning varmits lately?”

Jeff shook his head. “There's nothing worth saving in the garden, and there's not enough poison in Hilton Head to keep the house clean of mice.”

Walker grunted. “Where's the nearest phone?”

“Library. I'll show you.”

“I think ol' Boomer was drugged,” Walker said as he followed the tall blond down the hall.

Jeff stopped in his tracks in the library doorway.

Walker looked past him into the room. “And I think I see why.”

He went to the wall where Black Jack Montegeau's huge picture stood propped against the wainscoting. On the wall above, the door to the big, rectangular wall safe stood half-open. Papers and an old family Bible were scattered around.

A pair of small headphones dangled from the safe handle, as though they had been set aside and then forgotten after their job was done. Thin cables ran from the headphones to a small rubber suction cup that had been used to attach an amplifier to the safe.

Archer used a set of earphones just like that when he had occasion to get in somebody else's safe. To his credit, it didn't happen very often.

“Call the sheriff,” Walker said after a glance into the safe. “Looks like you've been cleaned out.”

T
he veterinarian had come and gone, but the patrol deputies were busy breaking up a family brawl in one of the fancy waterfront condos. So it was Sheriff Bob Lee Shartell himself who walked up the back steps of Ruby Bayou. He was flanked by his chief deputy, a laconic snuff chewer named Harold Bundy.

By then, everyone except the senior Montegeau had showered and dressed. Davis still hadn't hauled himself out of bed. Jeff was relieved. It wouldn't take a sensitive nose to smell alcohol on his father, which would only add to Davis's growing reputation as a drunk. The island was a small place. Word would spread quickly, making it all the more difficult to resurrect the family status.

Fortunately, Tiga hadn't made an appearance yet. Her loopy monologues would just add to the gossip.

The vet had revived Boomer with a shot of something that encouraged him to give a groggy woof when lawmen knocked at the back door.

“Quiet, Boomer,” Jeff said sharply. “You'll wake up the rest of the house.”

Walker gave Jeff a glance. Despite the expensive slacks and freshly pressed shirt, he looked edgy as a cat in a wolf pack. Not that Walker blamed him. Being dragged out of bed at dawn by your lover's scream, then finding your dog drugged and your home burgled, wasn't a great way to start the day.

But Faith was the one who should have been snapping at everyone in sight. The stolen pieces could be paid for by insurance, but they never could be truly replaced. Despite that, she had kept her worries to herself and had spent her time soothing her friend, since Jeff seemed too upset to do it himself.

Boomer woofed again and tried to get to his feet.

“Stay,” Walker said, his voice as calm as his hand pressing the dog's head back to the floor. He pulled the blanket into place again, covering the big hound's shoulder. “Take it easy, boy. Right now you just need to sleep off your drunk.”

Boomer huffed, grumbled, and gave Walker's hand a sloppy lick. He stroked the hound's silky ears. They were warming up. The vet had been right. Boomer was already throwing off the shock of the drugs. He would recover quickly.

“Sheriff Shartell,” Jeff said, opening the back door with a jerk, “thanks for coming out so early.”

“It's my job,” the sheriff said, “but I wouldn't mind coffee if it's handy. One of these days, folks around here will figure out if they want twenty-four-hour protection, they got to pay for more deputies. This here is my chief deputy, Harold. He's taking over for Trafton, who finally got smart and took up bass fishing full-time.”

Harold nodded toward the civilians. The deputy was a long, lean drink of water. The sheriff wasn't. He had been a varsity wrestler in high school. Forty years later, his stocky frame was thicker and his light brown hair had thinned to gray wisps. The forty years had also added a measuring edge to his blue eyes and ready smile.

As always, the sheriff admired Mel's casual elegance. Though she wore nothing fancier than dark maternity slacks and a loose red blouse, she looked like a duchess visiting the downstairs help. The kitchen itself was as big as most apartments and showed all the scuffs and odd angles of a room that had been remodeled with every generation except the last. The floor was hardwood and the appliances were thirty years old, scrubbed clean as a young hound's tooth.

“Morning, Miss Buchanan,” the sheriff said, touching his hat to Mel, who was sitting on a kitchen chair near the blanket-wrapped hound. “How's the dog?”