Tristan on a Harley (Louisiana Knights Book 3) (12 page)

It was later, much later, when Trey reached the Watering Hole. The place was closed of course, but a light still glowed upstairs in Zeni’s apartment. He let himself in at the back with his key and made his way through the storeroom and into the front with its familiar obstacle course of tables and chairs. He didn’t turn on the lights; he didn’t need them, for one thing, but he also didn’t want some concerned citizen noticing through the window and banging on the door, maybe asking for news of Jake.

Sustenance was his purpose, and he moved around behind the counter to the refrigerator that sat beneath it. He’d just come from the hospital in New Orleans. They had a cafeteria there, but it was closed by the time he realized he was hungry. A plain ham sandwich, tall glass of milk, and a piece of Zeni’s coconut pie were what he needed now, and the sooner the better.

He knew when she started downstairs because the staircase light came on. He’d figured she would come down, which was another reason he’d stopped instead of going home—or to the house he called by that name. He’d called to tell her what happened, but she’d want the details.

That was probably all she’d want, but it didn’t much matter. Information in exchange for a sight of her in the white robe-like thing she’d worn before, one that skimmed her curves but left plenty of room for imagination, would be a fair exchange.

“I thought I heard you down here,” she said as she came around the corner.

“Who else?” He didn’t look up as he was carefully transferring two pieces of pie to a plate at one time.

“Right. You’re the only thief who raids the refrigerator instead of the cash register.”

“And a good thing to, since you don’t have even a baseball bat with you for protection.”

He paused to enjoy the view as she stood with the light behind her, outlining her curves with indelible precision. He stored the memory away with care, figuring he might like to bring it out now and then for, oh, the next hundred years or so.

“The last thing I’d need against you.”

“I don’t know so much about that,” he muttered as he reached for a carton of milk and tore open the top.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

The look she gave him held dark suspicion, but she let the comment pass. “How is Jake?”

“He’s okay.” He folded a slice of ham into a piece of bread and wolfed down a big bite, chasing it with milk before he went on. “Poor guy will have to wear a neck brace for a while, and can’t ride in the tournament. But he’ll be good to go in a month or two.”

“A neck brace?”

“Cracked vertebrae.” He finished his half sandwich. “He was damn lucky he wasn’t paralyzed. A few inches lower—” He shook his head.

“People have been saying that it should’ve been you.” She walked closer, maybe to see his face in the dim light of the neon window signs advertising beer, soft drinks, and various other tipples and edibles.

“Could be, who knows.” Trey didn’t intend to make a lot of the possibility, not until he and Lance figured out who was behind this supposed accident.

“They also say that board he hit was planted. Who would do such a thing?”

So much for keeping that part quiet. “Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. We don’t know for sure.” He started working on the pie.

“If it was, I can’t imagine how they hoped to get away with it,” she said with a frown. “I mean the board was right there. Did they think no one would notice?”

“The thing could’ve been left behind from some old rodeo event or repair project. At least, the culprit probably depended on people thinking that.”

Her face was tinted with blue and red from the signs, while her eyes glistened with a dozen colors. “What matters is that it was there, and was probably meant for you to hit. You might have been killed.”

“I didn’t and I wasn’t.”

She shook her head so her hair that drifted around her shoulders gleamed with colors as well, more fascinating than the dyes she affected so often. The need to touch those rainbow strands, to run his fingers through them, was so strong Trey curled his fingers around his fork until the handle almost cut into his palm.

“It could happen,” she said. “One minute people can be living, breathing, working, going about their lives without a thought, and the next they are just gone.”

She was really upset; he could tell from the quiver in her voice more than from what she said. Finishing the pie, he put his plate in the sink. He tossed the empty milk carton into the trash before he turned to her. Trying for a light note, he said, “Hey, don’t count me out. I have fight left in me yet.”

Tears appeared in her eyes, gleaming in the semi darkness. He stepped from behind the counter and eased next to her. Using his thumbs, he brushed away the moisture that had gathered in the hollows under her eyes. She turned away for an instant, but then swung back suddenly and came into his arms. He folded her close, uncertain if he was worthy of her trust, much less the task of soothing her fear.

“Ah, Zeni,” he whispered against her hair. “Don’t cry.”

“I was so worried,” she said her breath warm against his neck. “Everyone was so sure at first that it was you who had been hurt. But then they said it was Jake. I felt so guilty at the relief, because I was glad—glad it was him, not you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said quietly against the top of her head. “It’s a natural reaction, being glad someone you know missed being hurt.”

She was so very soft and warm, the smooth resilience of her a tender enticement. The heat and shape of her that fit so well against his body sent such need arcing through him that he nearly groaned with it. On so many occasions—too many—he had imagined boosting her onto one of the Watering Hole’s tables. Once he had her there, he’d pictured skimming up under the short jean skirt she usually wore to touch and hold what lay underneath. He’d step between her spread legs and she’d clamp them around him, and then—

He’d tried so hard to keep a decent employer and employee relationship between them, to accept that she wanted nothing more and pretend he felt the same. He’d sparred with her, exchanged barbs and honey coated insults with her, and enjoyed every second while knowing it was a perverse form of courtship.

He’d allowed her to run the Watering Hole and his life, up to a point, in the half-acknowledged hope she might realize it could become a full-time job. She hadn’t taken the bait, and he wasn’t sure she ever would. He had the feeling she might be gone one day, drifting away from Chamelot like the dandelions of the tattoo on her back, going who knows where, seeking the answer that was blowing in the wind.

Prickly yet tenderhearted, sarcastic but concerned; she was everything he’d ever wanted or needed. Why she’d avoided him since the rainy night she’d taken him on as Zenobia he couldn’t say, but his heart clamored inside him with the need to see that it didn’t happen now.

The taste he’d had of her then merely whetted his lust for more instead of satisfying it. The days of being unable to touch her, to hold her, raised his need to an unbearable ache. These things coalesced in his mind, pushing at him until fantasy turned into reality. One moment he was holding her with no thought of anything beyond comfort and reassurance, and the next they were mouth to mouth and he was lifting her onto the table behind her.

She stiffened, pulling away from him. “What are you doing?”

Something I thought about so many times—you’ve no idea how many.”

“Getting it on standing up?”

“Getting you on top of a table, here where I’ve watched you moving back and forth, day after day.” He smoothed his hands up and down her back, easing them to her hips in an orgy of touch, before sliding them along her thighs. His every sense was alive to the realization that she wore nothing under her robe except some kind of silky slip of a nightgown.

“You mean—”

She seemed to lose whatever thought she might have had as he leaned to taste the skin of her neck, running his tongue down its curve. He smiled against the enticing spot where her neck joined her shoulder, not from ego satisfaction but from sheer joy that he was able to distract her. With that, in spite of his disclaimer, ran the exultation of being alive and well when he could just as easily be lying in a hospital bed or dead.

“I do mean,” he said against her skin.

“With me, not just any female in an apron?”

She was gripping his tattooed shoulder with one hand while rubbing the other over his chest, each small pass sending waves of fire over him. “Only you,” he said, the words so low he wasn’t sure she could hear them. “No other.”

“You’re not such a bad boy then,” she murmured, bringing her hand up to plow her fingers through his hair.

“Who said I might be?” Not that he cared about that; he only asked so she might not notice the slide of his fingers under the raised hem of her robe.

“The girls who come in here,” she said a little breathlessly, “teenagers impressed with your daredevil ways, your biker club and tattoos.”

“One tattoo.”

“Really? None here?” She shifted her hand from his shoulder to his back, and then down to grasp the curve of his backside. “Or here?”

“You should know better.”

“Except I don’t remember noticing the back so much as the front.”

“Zeni—”

It was a groan. Sometimes imagination could be painful. “I think you need to see just how good I can be.”

“Or how bad?” She asked on a gasp as he put his hands on her knees and spread them apart.

He showed her instead of answering, pulling her gently rounded bottom to the edge of the table and pushing her back until she lay down. Then he dropped to his knees.

She was succulent and delicious, tart yet sweet, as heady as some fruit-flavored liqueur with a mind-bending hint of coconut pie. He enjoyed her in slow indulgence, probing with his tongue, applying suction, biting gently. He brought his fingers into play until she moaned with a musical sound of need and the pulsation of internal muscles. She writhed in extremity and escalating fervor until she cried his name and her thighs quivered as she fought his grip. And when that paroxysm began to fade, she pushed up, reaching for him as he stood, releasing his belt and zipper while he stripped away her nightclothes and then retrieved the condom he’d replaced in his wallet days ago.

She took it from him and sheathed him with shaking fingers. Then she drew him between her legs and guided him home. She dragged him closer with both hands while inhaling so deep that the warm surfaces of her breasts surged against his chest. Yes, and then flattened against it as he sank deeper still.

And it was every bit as miraculous as he’d expected. It was purest surging magic that he fed by laying her back again, watching the play of neon light in red blue and green on her breasts, her belly and thighs, watching her face as he touched her, took possession of her with fast, jarring thrusts. And she watched him, her lips parted and swollen as she panted for breath, her face flushed and beautiful, holding his eyes with her own.

That was until she convulsed around him, until he pumped a final time before bending protectively over her. She let her lashes fall then, shutting him out.

One corner of the big exhibit building being used by the movie company for reception and registration had been set up as a cantina. Zeni’s arrival there had a two-fold purpose. She’d delivered warming trays of biscuits stuffed with sausage or ham, and open trays of doughnuts, muffins or homemade granola bars, setting them out on the serving table next to the industrial sized coffee and juice machines provided by the Watering Hole. Then she sat down to wait for her early morning appointment that Derek had set up the day before.

He was nowhere in sight, but she didn’t mind; it was good to be off her feet for a few minutes. She’d been up for hours, baking for the movie crew as well as for her usual customers. The last pans of biscuits had still been in the oven when she left, though Gloria had arrived to see they came out on time and to make any special breakfast orders from the retirees who congregated every morning at daybreak.

Gloria could handle it just fine, Zeni knew, but she still hoped the run-through of the dream sequence wouldn’t take long. She usually caught up with her paperwork between the breakfast and lunch rush hours on Gloria’s eight-hour shift days. If she didn’t get back to it fairly soon she’d be working late tonight, as well as getting up early again in the morning.

Just the thought of it was enough to make her yawn, though sleeplessness the night before could have had something to do with it. She might as well not have gone to bed, for all the good it did her. She’d lain awake for hours, thinking, wondering and remembering. Heat rose in her face and the blood fizzed in her veins, even now, as she thought of the use Trey had found for one of the coffee shop tables.

Never in her life had she felt anything that came close to the moments they’d shared. The closeness in her apartment had been a revelation, but the encounter on a table in the dark had changed her in some way she couldn’t quite understand. That he’d wanted her as she wanted him, that he’d needed her so desperately he would risk public exposure, had sent her soaring.

She’d thought she wanted nothing from Trey if she couldn’t have it all. She was wrong.

She wanted whatever she might be allowed from this mock engagement, all the sweet joy and passion that she’d found in his arms and might again, however fleetingly. At the same time, she felt a profound connection of mind and soul to him, as if he’d somehow become half her whole.

It was that last which made her toss and turn. She couldn’t see how this was going to turn out, feared the physical accord between them could never lead to anything more. If it ended when the movie was done, she wasn’t sure she could stay in Chamelot. As painful as it might be, she would have to go.

She’d done that after her mother died, simply walked away and left everything behind—the apartment in the old house they’d shared, their ratty furniture, most of her clothes, the degrees and job prospects she’d earned as a prodigy. Over a period of four or five years she’d slowly worked her way upriver, but diverted to investigate Chamelot for no reason other than she liked the name. Staying had never been in the plan. After her car died on her, she’d intended to work long enough to get it fixed then move on. Somehow, it hadn’t happened that way.

She’d started over once before with nothing except hope and a willingness to work. She could do it again if she had to, surely she could.

Oh, but she wouldn’t be completely alone. No way could she leave Midnight behind, now that he was a part of her life. She certainly couldn’t take him back to where she’d found him; it would be too much like abandoning him, as her mother, however unwillingly, had abandoned her.

No, the two of them could hit the road and just keep going.

The only problem was that she hadn’t known before what was missing from her life: this sleepy little river town and its warm and friendly people, the coffee shop and its regulars, the man who owned it and the tenuous yet heart-satisfying connection between them. Now she did.

The sharp click of stilettos on the building’s concrete floor snapped her out of her reverie. She looked around to see Bettina, Derek’s tall blonde assistant, bearing down on her. She was almost glad to see her, since it was possible she was coming to tell her the rehearsal was called off.

“First you were late, and now you’re early,” the woman said with glacial annoyance. “It would be helpful if you could at least be consistent.”

All right, so she wasn’t glad to see her. “I don’t believe the crew would consider it too helpful if I was consistently late with their breakfast.”

“I see. If you had told me you would be bringing it when I called, I might have arranged something so you didn’t sit here in the way.”

She was hardly in the way, since half the tables around her were empty. Zeni arched a brow and waited to see what the assistant wanted. It wasn’t long in coming.

“Before you see Derek, I need to lay out a few ground rules.” Bettina pulled out a chair and perched on the edge of it as if she had no time to waste.

Zeni was willing to allow that the woman was probably doing her job; still, her attitude was beyond irritating. “Rules for what?”

“Your relationship with Derek. It will be to your advantage if you cooperate fully in whatever he asks of you.”

“No doubt, since he’s the director.”

Bettina narrowed her eyes. “That isn’t what I meant. Most women who work—closely—with him are thrilled with the experience, and find him to be very generous when their time together is over. It can be a positive career move, as well as a pleasurable one.”

“Are you saying—” Zeni was afraid she knew, but needed to be certain.

“Don’t be stupid. Derek is a sensual man and an excellent actor who prefers a high degree of realism in his scenes. It gives him an edge, one that translates well to the screen.”

“In other words, he gets a charge out of making it with the women who are cast opposite him, even the bit players.” Zeni had grown used to plain speaking in her exchanges with Trey. It came in handy now.

“If you want to put it that way.”

“And you would be familiar with this method of his firsthand, having worked with him in television?”

Bettina’s smile was a mere lifting of her upper lip. “I’ve probably benefited more than anyone else, though you must realize the intimate association between Derek and myself did not end when
Rifle Fire
was finally canceled.”

“The two of you are still a couple then.” That was certainly what the rumor mill had said, though Zeni had wondered after her costume meeting with Derek.

“Naturally.”

“And yet—”

The look Bettina gave her was pitying. “We have an open arrangement, with sex as one of many benefits. We are partners, and the film we are making is of paramount importance to both of us. As Derek’s personal assistant, it’s my job to see that he has whatever he needs to do his best work.”

Zeni’s laugh held an element of disbelief. “Some job.”

“You can say whatever you like,” Bettina told her with chilly hauteur, “as long as you give him whatever he likes.”

“I don’t believe I can do—”

Bettina held up a hand to interrupt as she glanced toward the building’s open doorway. “Here comes Derek now. Remember what I’ve told you.” As she got to her feet she added, “Your boyfriend called to say we should find someone else to play his part. Under the circumstances, that was probably a wise decision.”

“My fiancé,” Zeni corrected, and was glad beyond words that she had that claim on Trey, at least for now.

“Are you talking about Benedict?” Derek asked as he joined them. “Such a shame that he’s bowing out, but I’m sure we can work around it.”

“I’ll leave you to get on with it,” Bettina said.

Derek gave her an absent nod. If he noticed the intimate little smile she sent him before walking away, it wasn’t apparent. Nor was there any sign that he knew how Bettina had been attempting to smooth the way toward his next conquest. That last was the only reason Zeni was able to remain at the table with him when he took the chair his special assistant had been using.

“Finding another man to take Trey’s place shouldn’t be a problem,” Zeni suggested, thinking another warm body present during the rehearsal sounded like an excellent idea. “I mean, all he has to do is stand there.”

Derek’s smile was brief. “But the part isn’t at all necessary.”

It seemed Trey could be right, that adding him to the scene had been a petty attempt at payback, if not a rather snide joke. She hadn’t blamed Trey for opting out of it before; now she was actively glad.

She wished she’d never agreed to play Zenobia; she wouldn’t have if she’d seen the script ahead of time. And she would refuse the part this minute if she didn’t have such a strong sense of responsibility.

Letting people down was something she avoided at all costs. That was a reaction from childhood, she knew. Her mother had been artistic, charming, charismatic, and beloved by all, but it was a mistake to depend on her. A promise to her had been only a possibility; nothing was certain until it happened. Disappointments without number—birthday parties that never happened, permission slips never signed, shopping trips that never took, school programs and graduations never attended—had made Zeni her complete opposite.

“It might not be necessary,” she said with a tight smile, “but another character of some kind might add interest.”

“You have a specific role in mind, maybe a handmaiden?” Derek asked, sitting back in his chair.

That had not been Zeni’s first thought, but it would do. “Sounds reasonable for the time and place.”

“On second thought, forget it. Putting out another call for such a minor part would be ridiculous.”

“I could probably recruit someone.” Gloria was a possibility, though Zeni knew she would have to talk her helper at the Watering Hole into the role. Regardless, a handmaiden, even in exotic dress, might be too much like a maid for her to stomach.

“I’ll think about it. Meanwhile—”

He paused as the cleaner who had just finished clearing the nearest table came toward them. A rather plain girl with nondescript features and dishwater blonde hair, she halted beside Derek with a half-filled trash bag in one hand and a wet cloth in the other. The frown he turned on her warned against interruption, but she seemed oblivious.

“Excuse me, Mr. Peabody, but I couldn’t help overhearing,” she said, her voice breathless and eyes pleading. “I could be a handmaiden if you need one. I was in our school play last year, and I—”

“No,” he said in icy rejection, his features set and mouth turned down at the corners. “You aren’t the right type.”

“Oh, but if you’d only give me a chance!”

“I said no. Get on with your job.”

“I—yes. Yes, sir.” The girl’s face turned red in blotches and tears spilled over her eyelids. She backed away half a dozen steps. Turning, she ran toward the makeshift kitchen area.

Zeni watched the girl’s flight in helpless sympathy before turning to Derek. “Was it necessary to be so rude?”

“It was, yes. Otherwise she’d have stood there for ages, yammering on and on about her part in this ridiculous school play as if that gave her some kind of experience. She was a dog. Even if I wanted a handmaiden, I’d never choose her.”

“I can’t see that she has to be especially attractive for such an unimportant part.”

“You wouldn’t, since you aren’t in the business.” His lips curled at one corner. “She needs to be decorative for this dream sequence in particular and the movie in general. More than that, I like the people around me to be attractive, even if they can’t all be as beautiful as you.”

“If that is supposed to make me feel grateful for being chosen, I can’t say it does.”

His face took on a pained look. “You aren’t one of those women’s libbers, are you?”

“I don’t have to be an advocate for women’s liberation to feel for another female. That girl just wanted a hearing.”

“Sorry, but all women aren’t born equal, my darling Zeni. Some start out ahead of the game, genetically more attractive to the males of the species.”

She was no doubt supposed to be flattered. Instead, she was disgusted by the blatant egocentricity. It seemed all females in Derek’s movies were chosen for their suitability as his bed partners, with talent being optional. And what did that say about his selection of her?