Chills & Thrills Paranormal Boxed Set

by Flynn, Connie

  "Zacharie?" Harris squinted, looking up to take a closer look in the muted light. Then his wrinkled face broke into a grin. "Oui, oui, it is you."

  Harris nodded to the bouncer, who backed away and melted into the shadows, motionless, almost like a statue that had come to life for the occasion and now wasn't needed.

  Opening his arms wide, Harris enclosed Zach in a bone-crushing, good ol' boy hug. "You old troublemaker," he exclaimed, slapping Zach's back. "Good to see you, boy." Stepping back, he looked Zach over, then patted his stomach. "Filled out a mite, ain't you?"

  Resisting an urge to suck in his gut, Zach forced a chuckle. By then, Harris's eyes moved to Liz with a frank up-and-down gaze. "And who is this pretty lady, here?"

  "Liz Deveraux," Zach said. "We used to come here a lot . . . back then." Abruptly, he realized that in the whole scheme of life, their time together had been very short.

  "Ah, oui," the old man replied, peering at Liz with great interest. "The girl what came back from death. We been waiting for her."

  Liz went kind of white at the remark. "It was all a misunderstanding," she said, laughing uncomfortably. She spread her arms wide. "I've been alive all this time. See?"

  Zach wondered what the "waiting" part of Harris's remark was about, but his stomach was growling, his flask almost empty, and he was down to his last cigarette. He told Harris this.

  "And food," Liz pleaded. "Crawdads, red beans, rice, whatever you have."

  Harris wrapped an arm around each of their shoulders and guided them toward the door. "How 'bout some good 'n' spicy shrimp gumbo, like only Harris can fix it?"

  "Wonderful," Liz crooned, her pink little tongue sneaking out to lick her equally pink lips.

  Kissable lips, Zach thought, very kissable. And as they stepped into the warm room, alive with cheering game viewers crowding the bar, and rich with the aroma of down-home cooking, it was easy to believe he'd stepped back in time.

  "Umm," Liz said, shoveling in another mouthful of gumbo. She'd forgotten how wonderful Southern cooking was, and was making up for lost time.

  "Don't forget to chew," Zach said. He was slouched in a big barrel chair, sipping on a ginger ale and vodka, and even though the room was dim, she could see his eyes boring into her.

  "Don't you have better things to do than examine my every move?" she asked in a mild tone. "Like watching the game?"

  "Game's over," he replied. "Besides, you're better looking than the basketball players."

  His attention made her a bit uncomfortable, but she was enjoying herself too much to let it get to her. Which in itself was reason to be uneasy. A woman grieving for her mother and worrying about a father with a bad heart and no medicine out in the bayou shouldn't feel this good. But the big, red-plaid jacket Harris had found for her smelled of fresh tobacco and cypress smoke and reminded her of her father. And eating spicy gumbo and crumbly cornbread amid the mingled scents of freshly poured beer and simmering food, with a zydeco band tuning up on the floor, brought back the forgotten comforts of her girlhood.

  Seize the day, she thought, taking in another piece of cornbread.

  "Why aren't you eating, Zach? The food's great."

  Zach gestured to the half-empty bowl in front of him. "That's my second helping, 'case you hadn't noticed."

  She nodded and took another spoonful of gumbo. "Harris always cook like this?" she asked between bites.

  "Long as I remember."

  "You'd think with food this good the place would be packed."

  "It is. People all over when we came in." Taking another sip from his glass, he looked around. "Where'd everyone go?"

  "My point. We're the only ones here. Why do you think that is?"

  "It's late, it's far out, everyone went home."

  She glanced down at her watch. "At nine o'clock? On a Friday night?"

  "How should I know the vagaries of the restaurant business, Liz?" He took another drink from his glass. "I'm just a dumb PI, not a gourmet."

  "Who happens to run one of the biggest security agencies in the country."

  He put the glass down and propped his elbows on the table. "Now how do you know that?"

  "Investments are my business. I look for going concerns all the time." She waved an arm around.

  "Like Harris's."

  "You didn't answer my question."

  Before this his attention had contained sexual undertones, but she heard something new now. More precisely, renewed. He'd renewed his hostility. "It .. . It's . . . I get calls. Others wanting a going place to put their money. They ask if you're ever going public."

  "Others, huh? You don't have any interest yourself."

  "Oh, yes. If you ever decide, please let me know."

  "That would be insider information, wouldn't it, cher?"

  "No, no," she said with feigned cheerfulness, wishing he'd let the subject drop. "Not under certain circumstances."

  "Right, there's always those circumstances." Returning to his slouch, he sipped his drink, then sipped again. "Shouldn't you lighten up?" Liz asked.

  "I've got it under control." He took out a fresh pack of cigarettes that he'd purchased from Harris, unwrapped it with overdone care, then took one out and lit it before speaking again. "You knew where I was all along, didn't you?"

  She met his gaze. Direct, straight on. A shimmer of blue escaped from his eyes into the muted light of the room. "Yes, Zach. Yes, I did. . . I'm sorry."

  He surprised her by laughing. "No big deal, cher, no big deal." Then he dragged from the cigarette, leaned back again, and blew a long puff of smoke to the ceiling. "I just wanted to know, is all."

  "Well, now you do."

  She went back to the gumbo and cornbread, but shortly after she pushed it away, having lost her appetite. The weariness she'd felt in the last leg of the hike to Harris's returned.

  The band started playing, and the music was so lively it perked her up. Harris had turned the bar over to the statuelike giant and joined the jammers to strum on an old string banjo and croon throaty tunes in Acadian French. Before she knew it, her foot was tapping, her fingers drumming out the melody. There was something so elemental about Cajun and Creole music. Like the food and the smells, it took her back to the days before she'd left Louisiana and reminded her there had been much that had been good about it.

  "You remember how to two-step, cher?"

  She looked over at Zach, who was again regarding her intently, his hostility apparently gone, if his appreciative gaze was any measure.

  She grinned. "I'm not sure, but I'd like to give it a try."

  He took her hand and guided her out on the dance floor. She followed his lead, letting his expertise make up for her rustiness.

  "Now, this is like riding a bicycle," he said, as the pattern of the steps came back to her. "And a lot more fun."

  They finished that dance and entered the next one, alone on the floor. Harris watched them from the stage, grinning from ear to ear, and after two or three lively songs, the next one slowed into a haunting French melody about a beautiful woman.

  Zach pulled her close, placing her right hand over his heart. His shirt hung open again, and the firm steel of his muscles gave her a shock she would have preferred not to identify. But she knew what it was, and a barely audible sigh left her lips. When Zach's mouth turned up, she was almost certain he'd heard.

  Although the lights had already been low, they seemed dimmer now, and she felt almost as if they were moving together to the music of an invisible band. He gently pressed her head against his shoulders, holding her close, and led her into a waltz of sorts. It felt right being in Zach's arms, safe again in a way she hadn't felt since they'd explored the bayous together. She felt one with him, moving as he moved, dipping as he dipped, their thighs and hips and bellies touching and parting as they rocked and swayed to the music.

  He stroked her hair, lightly, just grazing it, yet his touch emanated a current that flowed into her scalp, down her spine, ending in a crackling white-ho
t ball that lodged low in her body, bringing up a languid yearning that forced another sigh from her lips.

  "What do the words of the song say?" he asked.

  "Roughly translated?"

  He nodded, and she began to sing along in English.

  "'Sweet Lorilee, you smell of honeysuckle'" —her voice was childlike and slightly off-key, a delight to Zach's ears— "'but your beauty is greater, far greater, oh, greater. Sweet Lorilee, I miss you so.'"

  As the lyrics unfolded, Zach began to wish he hadn't asked.

  "'One black morning I get up . . . and you are . . . gone.'" Her voice fell behind the band. " 'Sweet Lorilee, why did ... you go? I . . . loved you so. "

  "That's good enough, Liz." He pulled her closer, aching from the meaning of the song, aching from wanting her. A feather in his arms, that's what she felt like. She sighed again, and Zach went instantly hard. Her pelvis brushed against his, and by her responsive shiver, he realized she knew the effect she was having. He barely contained his groan, then found he wasn't in a hurry anyway. So sweet, the pain of holding her this way, unable to do anything but touch and want. And he did want her, no matter how she'd hurt him, no matter how she'd changed. God help him, he wanted her.

  "Back there on the road, cher," he whispered, his lips a hair's breadth from her silky cheek, "when you were standing in the road, your hair tossed by the wind, all curly and wild, your eyes sparkling in the moonlight . . ."

  "Hmm?" She snuggled closer, which put his lips in contact with her skin. She smelled so good, sweeter than Lorilee of the sad, sad song. A light mixture of rose and gardenia mingled with the musky smoke and cypress scent of Harris's beat-up old jacket. Like the bayou, like Louisiana in bloom, and Lord, how much he wanted her.

  "You looked how you did when we'd paddle my old pirogue through the backwaters. Things have changed, I understand that, but back there . . ." He felt her stiffen, knew he should curb his vodka-loosened tongue right now. ". . . back there, you looked like Izzy again."

  She arched her neck to meet his eyes. "But I'm not Izzy," she said firmly. "I don't want to be Izzy. She's gone and she's never coming back. Why can't people understand that?"

  She wasn't angry, just very stern, and while her reaction didn't surprise him, he still felt a flash of rage.

  "I can see that," he said. "Izzy was warm and caring. Izzy . . . Izzy would never have let me think she died. Izzy wouldn't have left me at all." He let go of her, his anger mounting to fury. He wanted to hurt her, make her ache the way he had for years because of her omission. "You can't even cry at your mother's funeral, lady, and you take business calls at her wake. I don't know who you are, but you're sure not Izzy. It was my mistake thinking you were, one I won't make again."

  Liz's arms dropped helplessly to her side. "Zach—" But he spun and headed for the long wooden bar, leaving Liz in the center of the floor. The music stopped mid-song.

  "You not gonna dance no more?" Harris called from the stage.

  "No," Liz said, feeling like she'd just been through a blitz.

  "Too bad, too bad. You two look good together."

  Zach's snort of laughter could be heard across the room.

  "Looks can be deceiving," Liz replied, grateful that the darkness hid her burning cheeks.

  "For true, missy, that sure be for true. And a body gotta be careful. Fool's gold glitters, the ol' shellfish, he got the pearl, huh?"

  The old man was telling her she was misjudging Zach, but she knew who she was now. And who she wasn't. Zach was all wrong for her, and letting him in her life could—no, it would—expose her. It was too late to look back, because Izzy Deveraux really was dead. She'd died the day Izzy left Port Chatre.

  Chapter Ten

  "No, no, cher, Izzy be much alive."

  Liz tilted her head. Had Harris really said that? She'd rejected her mystical upbringing—it had caused her so much pain. But maybe fate did sometimes intervene. Was all of this—her mother's death, her return to Port Chatre, her father's disappearance, and her quest with Zach—simply a means to finally put her past to rest?

  It was all a bit mind-boggling, so she forced a hollow laugh. "Good words for a song, Harris. Why don't you play it for me?"

  That said, she returned to her table.

  Harris let out a low chuckle, then went back to strumming his banjo with the band.

  Liz fidgeted in her chair for a while, still feeling a bit uneasy about the old man's uncanny remark, and also unable to tear her gaze from Zach. He was slumped over a drink, staring at nothing in particular. Finally, she got up and went to sit beside him.

  "I know I hurt you, Zach. I'm sorry."

  He didn't look at her, but he let out a bitter chuckle. "Hurt? Hurt doesn't begin to describe it." He turned toward her then, his blue eyes full of ice and fury. "I asked you to be my wife! And you said, yes! Then you run out on me?"

  She touched his arm and he jerked it away. "We were just kids, too young to make that decision."

  "Yeah, well I wasn't. I knew what I wanted and it was you." He leaned forward suddenly, his face coming within inches of hers, the edge leaving his voice. "You remember the first time we made love? Beneath the bleachers, after the game. Magnolia blossoms in the air, and you so soft and sweet in my arms. God, I knew then I'd never leave you, and I vowed I never would. Why did you leave me? Why did you let me think you died?" He let out a scornful laugh. "Hell, you did die. You aren't the same girl I loved."

  His voice had broken several times, and Liz realized what his words were costing him, but she was too caught up in his unfair accusations to really care.

  "I'm sorry, okay? Sorry, sorry, sorry. But I'm also damned sick of this guilt trip you're laying on me. I am who I am, Zach, and you're not so perfect yourself." Then a memory, one never completely lost, flooded back to her. "And you did leave me. You did. After Grandmere's funeral, I begged you to take me away. You remember what you said?" She felt her face twisting with a fury she hadn't known in years. "You said Richard would take your place in the football game, and you couldn't risk it because the coach was about to choose a captain. So stop trying to make me feel guilty!"

  "You were nutty that night, talking about le fantome noir and other things you turn your nose up at now! I tried to talk you out of it, but you didn't listen."

  "I talked about what? That's absurd!"

  "Absurd?" Zach snorted, spinning to face the bar and slamming down his fist. "Hey, gargoyle," he shouted, "I need this damn glass filled!"

  The doorman had been drying beer glasses, which looked ridiculously small in his hands, and now he put down the towel and stormed to stand in front of Zach.

  "What did you say, man?"

  Zach glared up at him. "I said fill this damn glass."

  "You called me something."

  "Oh that. I called you a gargoyle."

  "Zach," Liz cautioned.

  He put out a hand to warn her off. "You've got the ugliest face I've seen in decades. Know what that means, decades? Maybe you don't even know what gargoyle means."

  "I know. I also know you already had too much." The man reached for Zach's empty glass. Fast as a striking snake, Zach's hand shot out to stop him. "I said fill it!"

  Suddenly, the man had Zach by his collar. "Look, creep," he snarled. "Maybe you're a friend of Harris's, okay. That don't give you the right to—"

  Liz swung desperately toward the stage, hoping Harris was watching. She saw he'd put down his banjo and was signaling the other players to go on without him. He came down from the stage, amazingly agile for a man his age, and rushed toward the bar.

  He arrived just as Zach's fist was about to deliver the giant a blow that Liz figured would do as much good as punching the side of a barn.

  "Hold on," Harris said quietly, circling his fingers around Zach's biceps. The giant let go of his collar, and Zach swiveled on the stool, taking his clenched fist with him. Just as he was about to let it land, he saw who had him.

  "Shit," he said. "Sorry, man." He l
ooked back at the giant behind the bar. "You, too. I take it back. You don't have the ugliest face I've seen. I've seen one or two uglier." The giant's face twisted in rage, confirming Zach's insult in Liz's opinion, but that still didn't excuse what he'd said.

  "I will take care of this bouffon, Samuel," Harris said. "I apologize for my friend. He drinks too much. Come on, Zacharie, time you sleep."

  "Whadya call me?" Zach asked blurrily. "Whad he call me, Liz?"

  "A fool," she said sharply, "a fool. Which is better than you deserve."

  "You called me a fool?"

  Harris only shrugged.

  Zach blew out his breath. "Okay, okay, mebbe, just mebbe, I have had too much."

  "Oui, mon ami, you have for true. Come sleep now."

  The steam went out of Zach. "Okay, okay." He slid wearily from the stool, then looked sadly at Liz. "You coulda phoned, you know, or even wrote a letter."

  His eyes bled with pain, and Liz felt the sharp prick of all-too-familiar guilt. She'd caused his agony, and with the death of her mother so fresh in her mind, she understood it better than she wanted to. "We'll talk again," she said softly. "Tomorrow. All right?"

  "Guess so." With that, he straightened himself with as much dignity as possible in his drunken state and followed Harris to a row of booths against the wall. The older man settled him there and disappeared for a moment to return with a blanket. Lifting cushions from the barrel chairs as he moved, he placed them on the bench of the booth. Then, gently, almost like a father, he helped Zach recline and covered him with the blanket.

  After that, he climbed back on the bandstand and launched into another love song with his whisky-thick voice. Liz returned to the table, listening to the sad music and aching for Zach. What happened to the optimistic boy she'd loved as a girl? His future had been so bright, and he'd lived up to it as far as she could see. But she was also certain his dream for that future hadn't included three ex-wives, a son he couldn't get close to, and a brother whose life was cut short by murder.

  Some time later, Harris again put down his instrument and went to the bar. She saw him fill a small mason jar with a dark liquid.