by Meghan March
And the way she walks . . . fuck me. One foot in front of the other, strutting toward me like she doesn’t notice another soul in the room. Confident. Certain. She doesn’t look like she had a single doubt about tonight, when I was thinking she must be going back and forth, trying to decide whether to come. Or maybe I’m just getting drunk on the way she’s walking toward me.
Christ Almighty. Her frigging hair. It’s a sleek, nearly black curtain tucked behind one ear, falling to her shoulders.
But it’s her lips that nearly undo me, slicked with a sinful red that makes me think of only one thing—how fucking badly I want to hear her say she missed me.
I pull it together, because there’s no fucking way I’m going to screw up this gift I’ve just been given. From the expression on her face and the glittering hardness of her whiskey-colored eyes, it’s clear she’s storming into battle.
Fine by me, Mags. Do your worst. I can handle anything you throw at me.
I force my dick to behave and find the self-possession that has served me well since I seized control of a crew in Biloxi when I was practically still a fucking kid. Power, after all, comes from within.
With easy movements, I step around the table to meet her, the corners of my mouth tugging upward in a smile just for her. “You look stunning, mama.” The old nickname comes out of my mouth without thought.
Her eyes flare with heat as she shifts her weight on her heels. “Don’t call me that.”
I can’t help but grin. “Make you remember things you’d rather keep forgotten?”
“I never said I’d forgotten a damn thing, but I just got here, so save it. Unless you want me to leave already? And why the hell are you smiling like that?”
“Because I just had a prayer answered. Guess I’m fucking thankful.” And proud and relieved. “You came.”
Once and for all, the winds of change are at my back and guiding me home. Guiding me to the future. Guiding me to her.
Twenty-One
Magnolia
He’s smooth. Too fucking smooth for his own good. Goddamn it.
I shouldn’t be reacting to Moses at all, but just seeing him in a three-piece pin-striped suit, looking like the Creole kingpin he told me was going to become, I can’t help it.
I lift my chin higher, wishing I could look down my nose at him, but his tall frame seems even broader with the sleek lines of his jacket, making it impossible.
Although I’ll never admit it to him, I waited outside for a good twenty minutes, watching him through the window, wondering if he’d give up and leave. True to his word, he didn’t.
Too bad he wasn’t true to his word when he said he’d come back for me. The memory of being forgotten comes to the forefront and hardens my heart enough for me to take control of the situation.
“I’m here. If that’s an answered prayer, then you’ve got a fucked-up god.”
His teeth flash white as he smiles again. Damn. I forgot how much his smile affects me. I always know how to handle men, but right now, I’m not sure, and I hate the uncertainty.
I tried to come up with a plan, but Moses Gaspard can’t be planned for. Now I’m winging it.
“Maybe I just say different prayers than you do.” He gestures to the seat across the white linen tablecloth from him. This restaurant has been a fixture in the French Quarter for over a hundred years, and yet I’ve never eaten here.
“I don’t have much time for prayin’ these days. What with getting stabbed in elevators and whatnot,” I say with a phony bored undertone. My side still gives me twinges of pain, and the whiskey on the table looks like exactly what I need to forget about the wound—and the memories of how we once were.
“I’ve got some news on that front,” Moses says, pulling out my chair.
I take the seat, nearly shivering when his fingertips drift across the skin of my bare upper arms. My nipples take notice too. What the hell? They’ve basically been ornamental for years, but like the ghost across from me, they’ve been resurrected too.
I’m not used to physically responding to men like this. Not anymore. It’s been a long time since sex was anything but a basic urge to have met by someone who had no power over me. But with Moses . . . suddenly my body turns traitor.
And you’re surprised because . . . ? Ho-It-All pipes up, and I shake my head to shut her up.
As Moses takes his seat, the server comes to the table.
“Sir, I see your companion has arrived. What can I get you to drink, ma’am?”
I don’t bother to look at him or the menu. “Three fingers of Seven Sinners’ Spirit of New Orleans. Neat.”
“Excellent choice. I’ll give you a few moments, and then I’ll be back to take your order.” The server, a middle-aged woman with a bun in stark black and white, hurries away through the tables.
I glance at the glass in front of Moses. “What are you drinking?”
“Did you really come here to shoot the shit about my beverage selection?”
My gaze cuts to his face, and I get snared by those damn green-and-gold eyes, but he asked for it. So I bite the bullet. “Fine. What the fuck do you want, Moses? Fifteen years is too damn long to assume you can come back for a woman, no matter what you said last night.”
“Who says it’s the first time I’ve been back?” He has one eyebrow with a thin scar above it, and it’s lifted. I wonder how he got it. It’s new, but he’s too damn smug to ask.
My mouth is agape, and before it draws flies, I speak so he won’t notice it’s because of what he does to me and not from what he said. “The fuck does that mean?”
Sometimes my street shows, and I check myself. Diners at the tables around us turn to look at me, so I fold my hands in my lap demurely.
Instead of replying to my question, he drops another bomb on me. “You’ve got a ghost.”
I look around, trying to find my calm, before I drill a stare into him. “What the hell are you talking about?” The only ghost I know is him, but at the moment, he’s more real than anyone I’ve ever known.
“The guy from the elevator. He’s a ghost.”
I blink and lean forward with my elbows on the table. “He wasn’t a ghost. He was living and breathing just like us. I know this because ghosts don’t stab people.” I’m proud of myself for keeping my voice low enough that no one else in the restaurant can hear a damn thing I’m saying over the murmur of conversation and clinking of silverware against china.
Moses mimics my movement, leaning forward far enough that I catch a whiff of cedar with a hint of spice. That scent nearly steals me away for another trip down memory lane, but I keep my focus on his lips as they begin to move.
“He’s flesh and blood, but he’s not in the system. Prints were a dead end. No hits on facial recognition yet. His ID was fake.”
My hair sways across my shoulders as confusion has me moving my head from side to side. “What does that mean? Is he . . . was he a hit man?” I ask quietly, because this isn’t exactly something we should be discussing here, although I have a hell of a lot more questions, including how Moses knows all this.
Although, Moses doesn’t seem to have any compunction about it. I remember he once told me the easiest way to get away with something was to do it in plain sight. Maybe that holds true for discussing murder at fancy restaurants. Hell, in this day and age, we could be simply having a chat about a true crime podcast for all anyone would know.
“Possibly,” he says with a hint of skepticism. “Or he’s someone who didn’t want to be found by people who wanted him literally dead. We’re still digging.”
I picture the man’s brown eyes that shined with evil intent from behind that balaclava he wore like a fucking coward.
He can’t get me. Not now. He’s dead.
But if he was a hit man . . .
“If he was truly after me and only me, will someone else be coming next?” I ask Moses quietly, the fear that I don’t want to acknowledge giving my tone a jagged, broken edge.
“Depends,” he says, his reply equally serious.
I fight a chill skating up my spine. “On what?”
“On whether someone paid him to kill you. If someone did take out a hit on you, they won’t send someone else unless they really want you dead bad, and have the money to pay someone else to do the job he couldn’t finish.”
The way he says it, so matter-of-factly, gives me pause.
“Fuck.”
Moses’s hand reaches out and covers my balled fist on the table. “Magnolia, I ain’t gonna let no bogeyman get you. Not on my watch or while I’ve still got breath in my body.”
Relief sweeps through me on a wave, but I don’t want to trust it. I know better. Bogeymen have almost gotten me before while he’s been gone. My mind flashes to a pile of corpses I was tossed on top of once. Where was he to save me then?
“I don’t trust you. You could have set all this up. Things were moving toward peaceful until you wandered back into town.”
His greenish-gold eyes pierce into me like he’s trying to see inside my brain. “It’s not me, mama. You know I wouldn’t hurt you. Other people, sure. But you? Never. I’ll earn your trust back. Watch and see.”
I jerk my hand out from beneath his palm. “Don’t be so sure about that.”
“I’m not leaving without you again. That’s something you and I can both be sure of.”
A tiny part of me wants to cling to his words and believe them, but I brush them off instead. After all, this isn’t a fucking fairy tale.
Twenty-Two
Moses
Magnolia eats with gusto, just like I remember. She doesn’t peck at her plate like one of those women who order salads because they care what the man across from them thinks. As far as I can tell, she doesn’t give a damn what’s going through my head. She’s unimpressed, and it’s no surprise.
But the mystery of who sliced her before he died? That’s got her off-balance. I was no saint in the past, but I made it a law a long fucking time ago that no woman ever gets hurt by me or my people. But I’m also no gentleman, so I have no problem exploiting Magnolia’s unsteadiness.
“You staying in your condo tonight?” I ask as she finishes half of the most expensive entrée on the menu, something that makes me smile like a damn fool.
Her tiger eyes lift to mine. “That’s no business of yours.”
I hold back my real answer, which is everything you do is my business, woman. Instead, I reply with, “What made you decide to buy a place in the Quarter?”
Her glare tells me it’s another subject to add to the long list of things she doesn’t want to discuss with me. Again, it’s too damn bad.
“No one knows I own it, besides a couple of people who won’t tell anyone. I’d prefer to keep it that way.” She goes back to her meal and ignoring me, but I dissect the statement for all it’s worth.
She doesn’t want anyone to know where she lives. And why might that be?
I think Ms. Maison is tired of living life the way she has been. Given all the changes in the last few years, I can’t say I’m surprised. It also tells me my timing may not be as bad as I thought. In fact, it might just be perfect.
“You’re keeping a low profile these days. Tell me about this new business venture of yours.”
It’s not a question this time, but I guarantee that won’t matter to Magnolia. She won’t tell me anything she doesn’t want to.
She looks up again. “Mount. Am I right?”
I tilt my head to the side as she nearly whispers the man’s name. That’s not a surprise either. He’s not someone most people discuss, in polite company or otherwise. Lucky for me, he and I have an understanding—finally.
“Right about what?”
“He gave you all sorts of information on me during your little meeting, didn’t he?” Her tone is threaded with annoyance, and possibly some betrayal too.
“He answered a few questions.”
“Like what?” she asks, the knife stilling in her hand as if she’s thinking about using it as a weapon.
I let a slow smile spread over my lips. “Like whether you have a man.”
Her grip tightens on the utensil. “I don’t need a man. Never have. Never will.”
“Mama, you need a good fucking more than any woman I’ve ever seen. Whoever’s been doing you over hasn’t taken a strong enough hand to you. You’ve forgotten what it’s like to scream when you come.”
Those amber eyes turn to lava as her glare threatens to burn me alive. Her chest heaves, but she attempts to control her rage . . . or is that something else?
Temptation? Vengeance? Or maybe just good old-fashioned lust.
Twenty-Three
Magnolia
I’m gonna kill him. I’m going to stab him right through the damn throat with a steak knife in the middle of the French Quarter. It’ll be the second man I’ve killed in two days, but I think I might be fine with that.
But not because he’s wrong.
Because he’s right.
Motherfucker.
No one dares to talk to me like Moses. Not in a long goddamned time. And I hate that his words can have this effect on me.
“Go fuck yourself, Moses. That’s the only action you’re seeing tonight.”
That stupid, beautiful smirk of his stretches wide across his face until the even stupider dimple pops out. He’s gorgeous and he knows it.
He also knows I know it. He probably even knows I want to claw his eyes out, right after I claw up his back as he makes me scream his name. The visual bursts into my mind with the subtlety of a runaway freight train.
My panties are soaked. My nipples are hard. And I want to fuck.
Code red. Time to get the hell out of here.
I drop my knife, which is a damn shame considering how delicious the dinner is. Forcing some pride into myself because I don’t know what the hell else to do right now, I set aside my napkin and rise from the candlelit table.
“I’ve lost my appetite.” For food, but my need for sex is rampant.
He shakes his head, that piece-of-shit motherfucker. “Nah, mama. You’re just getting it back.”
“I hate you. All over again.” Those words have never been so true as his grin widens.
“I know you do. But I don’t mind. I’ll give you a hate-fuckin’ for dessert. Lagniappe.”
I can barely form words, I’m so angry. Frustration sounds like a growl in my throat, and I grab my clutch. “If I hate-fuck anyone, it’ll be at the club tonight. And it sure as hell won’t be you.”
With that, I march out of the restaurant with steam surely rolling from my ears.
Cheers and screams from the revelers on Bourbon Street greet me as I push through the doors, but there’s not a goddamned taxi at the taxi stand. I turn on my heel, dead set on walking home, yet I don’t make it two steps before I find myself spun around and my back pressed up against the building.
Moses isn’t grinning anymore, and through the raging inferno of my chaotic emotions, I decide to take that as a victory. If anything, I’ve defeated that smug smile.
“Just try it,” he says quietly, challenging me. “See what happens to any man you touch. I promise you won’t like it, and neither will they.”
A shiver rips through me, ending directly at my clit, because clearly, I’m a wanton idiot.
I lift my chin, defiance flowing through me like it’s my lifeblood. “What are you going to do? Kill him?”
The wickedly handsome grin of his is back, and this time, it’s deadly. “Over you? Absolutely. Then I’ll march him straight to the gates of hell myself.”
This shouldn’t turn me on. No. Fucking. Way. But he does. That’s how fucked up I am.
I lick my lips. “You want me that bad, Moby?”
He inhales sharply when I call him that old nickname, and then bites his bottom lip as if holding back from sinking his teeth into mine.
Good. He isn’t immune to me either. The scales have leveled out.
“Guess y
ou shouldn’t have left and never come back. My bed hasn’t been empty in fifteen fucking years. You gonna kill them all?” It’s not entirely true, but if I get into heaven, it’ll be on the wings of white lies anyway.
“Only the ones who touch you now. You’re mine, Magnolia. You’d best start getting used to the idea, because I ain’t the kind of man who shares his woman.”
If I thought my emotions were chaotic before, now they’re a full-blown, tear-gassed city riot. I have to get away from him before that possessive attitude, which from anyone else would provoke me into violence, turns me on more than I can ever remember.
“No man owns me.” I’m proud my voice is steady.
“I don’t want to own you, mama.”
My nipples harden further, loving the way he talks to me, even as I try to remain immune.
Then he continues. “That ain’t why I’m here.” His narrowed eyes glitter like polished emerald and topaz.
“Then why?”
“I want you to own me.”
My heart slams into my chest at the sentiment beneath his declaration.
An unwelcome voice comes from behind Moses.
“Is there a problem here?”
I look around one of his broad shoulders to see a uniformed Louisiana state trooper standing a few feet away, no doubt stationed on Bourbon Street for the night to watch over the revelers.
Moses doesn’t miss a beat. He curls one arm around my waist, and together we turn to face the cop. “No problem at all, sir. We were just debating dessert.”
The cop takes in Moses’s suit and my dress, and huffs good-naturedly. “Café Beignet is just up the street. Might try there if Arnaud’s dessert menu wasn’t to your taste.”
“Thank you, sir. But I think the lady has something else in mind.”
He dips his chin at us and chuckles knowingly. “Have yourselves a nice evening then.”
“You too, sir.”
The trooper nods, and then his eyes widen as a Rolls Royce crawls through the intersection to slow right in front of the restaurant. The same goddamned Rolls Royce I saw when I was leaving Mount’s.