Possession

by Tori Carrington

  He turned her back around to face him, his gaze holding hers captive as he placed his hands on her shoulders. Akela swore she could feel his heat even though the temperature had to be somewhere in the nineties and the cloth of her jacket separated them. He slid his fingers up to her neck, placing his thumbs near her pulse points. She swallowed thickly, reading almost a smile and something darker in his eyes. Then he moved his hands down her arms, causing her to shiver in instant response.

  She gasped when he moved his hands from the sleeves of her jacket to inside the front flaps.

  “Hold still,” he said quietly.

  Akela didn’t think it was possible to hold still. Not with him touching her so intimately. And while it should be her instinct to survive which prompted her heart to beat fast, she suspected it was her growing awareness of him as a man that made her pulse race and restlessness settle into the core of her limbs.

  He pulled her ID wallet from her inside breast pocket, his actions breaking Akela from whatever Cajun spell he’d momentarily put her under. Next he took her cell phone from her right front pocket.

  He opened her ID and seemed to compare her with her picture.

  “Brooks, Akela, you’ll excuse me if I say you’re much more beautiful in person.”

  She turned her head away, feeling naked without the accoutrements of her job. During her ride in the trunk, some of her hair had escaped her tight French twist, and tendrils now stuck to her damp face.

  He pulled her gun from his waistband and put it and the cell phone inside a large and apparently empty water barrel, then secured the top. After he pocketed her ID, he pulled a wood-slatted chair on the porch closer to her. “Sit. The place will be hot as hot gets until it airs out a bit.”

  Akela remained standing, watching as he retrieved a key from inside a coffee can in the middle of dozens of others on the corner of the porch then opened the front door of the house. After sparing her a glance, he went inside.

  And Akela immediately turned toward the staircase.

  Before she got two steps, Lafitte was tugging her back and forcing her to sit on the chair backward, so that her front was against the back and her legs over the sides, making her skirt ride up.

  “Ah, even a man such as myself can’t help but take such bad manners personally.”

  Akela raised her brows high. “How do you expect me to take your kidnapping of me?”

  His small smile proved he wasn’t beneath appreciating irony. “Fair enough.” He slowly waggled a finger at her, then tapped the tip of her nose, his gaze seeming to linger a little longer than necessary on her lips, which felt swollen from the tape. “But try that again and I’ll be forced to take greater measures to ensure such attempts aren’t an option.”

  He turned toward the door again, disappearing inside the one-story house. She heard windows being opened, fans being switched on. She took advantage of the temporary freedom to look around. The bayous stretched out in front of the house with nothing breaking the green, mossy landscape. Not a house or boat to be seen. She couldn’t make out the sound of any cars, meaning they were far enough away from any major roads not to be heard.

  The hinges on the screen door squeaked and she snapped her head to find Lafitte stepping back outside. He’d taken off his T-shirt and was wiping the sweat from his face with it. Akela couldn’t help taking in the rock-hard ridges of his abs. The thickness of his biceps. The smoothness of his tanned skin. A jagged scar ran under his right nipple—an old wound that by the looks of it had never been tended properly. He turned from her and lifted the lid off another barrel, submerging his shirt into the water inside, giving her full view of another scar on the long flanks of his lower back near the waist of his jeans—jeans that hugged his bottom and thighs to pure male perfection.

  She caught sight of the rest of the tattoo she’d seen earlier on his upper left bicep. It had indeed been a snake. It formed the S in USMC. United States Marine Corps. The snake possibly signifying he had been a sniper, which would explain why he was comfortable around guns, and also why he seemed to know his way around a volatile situation.

  She turned her face away from him.

  Who was this man? And why was she attracted to him as much as she was repulsed by him?

  There was nothing but the sound of a kingfisher calling overhead as Lafitte filled his shirt with water then squeezed it over his head, dampening his hair until it shone darkly, droplets clinging to his skin.

  “Did she suffer?”

  Akela wasn’t sure she’d heard the question at first. Lafitte still had his back to her and was now dousing his face with the water.

  He glanced at her over a broad shoulder, his hair dripping down into his face, making him look even more like a wild predator.

  She cleared her throat. “I don’t know,” she said. “Did she?”

  He went still for a couple of long moments, and then he turned, T-shirt in hand. “Claire was still very much alive when I left her.” A shadowy look that could have been pain shifted over his face. Then he wrung out the shirt and hung it over the railing. “And happy.”

  He caught her looking at his abs and she quickly looked away.

  Even given her current circumstances, Akela couldn’t help but appreciate the fine image he made. Men like Claude Lafitte graced the covers of half the books at the bookstore. All Louisiana would have to do in order to improve tourism was to issue a poster of him looking exactly the way he did now, the untamed bayou surrounding him, and women would come in swarms.

  Yes, she admitted, even she was having a hard time ignoring the sexual aura he exuded in waves. She’d felt it when she’d run into him on Bourbon Street, before she’d gone inside the hotel to find the woman dead: a sort of fundamental electrical current, an awareness that drew a healthy female to a virile male.

  “What was your relationship to the deceased?” she asked quietly, making the mistake of looking up into his face for his reaction—a mistake because his reaction was a dark and dangerously sexy look.

  “I should think that’s obvious.”

  “The only thing that’s obvious is the possibility that you are her killer.”

  “I don’t make a habit out of killing women I enjoy,” he said quietly. Too quietly. “But I suppose I should be relieved that you admit there’s a possibility that I didn’t kill her.”

  She shifted in the chair. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “No, I didn’t.” He fell silent for long moments and she thought he might ignore her question altogether. Then he looked at her, his face devoid of expression. “My mother, bless her soul, taught me the art of discretion.”

  Akela refused to give up. “Long-term or short-term?”

  “Miss Claire and I became acquainted last night.”

  Acquainted. Now there was a new word for it.

  It had been obvious by the dead woman’s state of undress, and the appearance of the bed she’d been lying in, that she and Claude Lafitte had become very well acquainted indeed.

  He crossed over to stand in front of her, putting his bare torso mere inches away from her face. Akela suddenly had a difficult time breathing.

  “It’s not what you think, between me and Claire,” he said.

  She watched as he ran his hand through his hair.

  “Then again, maybe it is. I don’t know. All I know is that I didn’t bring her any harm.”

  This time, Akela looked away from the conviction on his handsome face.

  “You must be hot,” he said, helping her to her feet. “Let’s get you out of those clothes.”

  4

  AKELA BROOKS WAS WOUND UP tighter than a fishing line. Of course, that might have something to do with the fact that her presence wasn’t exactly voluntary. But he’d never had a woman look at him in fear. And he hated that he’d ignited that in her.

  “I’m not going to ravish you, Agent Brooks. Just trying to help you cool off, that’s all,” he muttered, turning her around so that her bottom was facing him.
And despite circumstances, he couldn’t help noticing what a fine bottom it was, too. As he cut the tape from her wrists and slid her suit jacket down her arms, he saw that Akela was finely shaped. He supposed her career demanded she be in prime physical condition. But he suspected that she didn’t realize how perfectly made her body was for the joys of sexual pleasure.

  Then again hadn’t sexual pleasure landed him in the middle of this mess?

  He methodically stripped her blouse off then unbuttoned the back of her skirt, allowing it to drop to her feet, leaving her in a simple white slip that looked not at all simple on the stunningly attractive woman.

  Claude caught himself running the backs of his knuckles along the exposed nape of her neck and upper back. Goose bumps ran up her bare arms as she shivered.

  When he realized what he was doing, he stopped.

  “Come on,” he said, grasping the back of her arm and urging her toward the door to the house.

  He had to give her credit for not saying anything as he moved her toward the double bed in the corner of the one-room house. But her response to his actions was evidenced in the puckering of her nipples beneath her thin slip and bra and the thick way she swallowed. He supposed it wasn’t every day that a woman used to being in control had that same control stripped away from her.

  He motioned for her to sit on the bed and when she did, after a moment’s hesitation, he noticed the way she kept her thighs tightly pulled together and her back reed straight.

  Claude clamped a handcuff attached to the wrought-iron headboard to her right wrist.

  This did get a reaction as she snapped her face up to stare at him. “Why am I not surprised you have cuffs already waiting?”

  “And who’s to say I didn’t attach them when I opened the house?”

  Her gaze skittered away and slight color spilled across her cheeks.

  Claude caught her chin in his hand, wondering at the contrast of his thick, calloused skin against her flawless, smooth face.

  “I didn’t bring you here to seduce you, cher,” he said quietly.

  “Then why did you bring me here?”

  “To give me time to figure everything out.”

  He forced himself to turn away from the curiously probing look in her eyes and grabbed a towel. “I’ll be only a shout away.”

  “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  He stopped, but didn’t turn to face her. “Let me guess. It hit you at the same time the handcuffs did.”

  “Are you going to let me go or not?”

  “Not,” he said after a long moment, then slung the towel over his shoulder. “I won’t be long.”

  “Is that a promise or a threat?”

  “I suppose that depends on your point of view.”

  He turned and headed for the door, listening to the squeak of the box springs as she shifted on the bed. He heard her cuss viciously under her breath as she apparently realized there was no quick way out of her restraints.

  AKELA YANKED on the cuffs again then felt defeat settle into her muscles. The handcuffs appeared to be police-grade quality and were firmly secured to an iron headboard that was bolted to the wall.

  Bolted to the wall. The only other place she’d seen beds set up like this was motels and hotels, so that the headboards wouldn’t bang against the wall during wild sex.

  She closed her eyes and stretched the tension from her neck. Funny how the word sex kept popping up every five minutes since she’d been in Claude Lafitte’s company. And not because of his sexual connection to a murder victim, either.

  It was upsetting to find herself physically attracted to a man who was not only a fugitive from justice but her kidnapper. Oddly, she wasn’t in fear for her life, which she figured was the way she should be feeling now, considering the crime he was suspected of. But something on a gut level told her she had nothing to fear from Claude. Nothing, that is, that had anything to do with his harming her.

  Of course, the fact that she hadn’t been with a man in a long, long time might be partially to blame for her primal awareness of the sexy Cajun. But, still, it didn’t come close to explaining everything.

  She looked around the simple house that was little more than a functional shack. There was a galley kitchen in the opposite corner. A dresser was in the corner beside the bed. A small dining table and chairs sat next to that. And on her other side was a small living-room arrangement.

  She heard running water and turned toward the sound through the nearby open window. There in the backyard Lafitte was stepping under the spray of an outdoor showerhead, a wooden wall exposing his powerful calves and feet at the bottom, and his broad chest and shoulders at the top.

  Akela couldn’t seem to pry her gaze from him, watching as he lathered up, suds running down his wet skin, sunlight glinting off his soaked hair.

  Dear Lord.

  She frantically looked around for something with which to pick the lock on the cuffs. The place obviously belonged to a man, so there were no bobby pins lying around. No sunglasses so she could use the earpiece. She reached up with her free hand to check her earrings, but she wore her standard simple studs that weren’t long enough to do anything with.

  She drew in a deep breath. Think, goddamn it, think.

  No phone that she could see. Not that that was surprising. No television. No microwave. In fact, aside from a transistor radio on the kitchen counter, and the whirling ceiling fans, there didn’t appear to be anything of an electronic nature at all. Even the refrigerator appeared to be gas generated. That didn’t bode well because of the possibility that no city electricity at all ran to the house—the fans could easily run from a powerful battery or small generator—which meant that they were more isolated than she feared.

  The screen door squeaked and she looked up to find Lafitte wearing his jeans and running the towel along his neck and shoulders. Her body temperature shot up another notch, causing the sweat that had accumulated between her breasts to trickle down to her stomach. Suddenly she was all too aware of her state of undress. And, apparently, so was Lafitte.

  He looked at her and she felt his gaze straight down to her core. For a moment she thought he might act on the attraction she saw in his eyes.

  Then he switched on the transistor radio on the kitchen counter, picked up a few items and went back outside to the porch, the screen door slapping shut behind him.

  Akela virtually melted to the mattress, both disturbed by her attraction to this man, her captor, and frustrated that despite all her training and experience she was essentially chained to his bed.

  THE STRAINS OF ZYDECO wafted out on the thick air as Claude walked to the edge of the porch and dialed his brother’s business number from his cell phone. The receptionist immediately put him through.

  “Jesus, Jean-Claude, what kind of trouble have you gone and gotten yourself mixed up in now?” Thierry said in lieu of hello.

  He moved the towel on his shoulder to the railing alongside his wet T-shirt. He’d hoped the police hadn’t gotten to his brother yet, that they had slowed their determination to track him down. Obviously the hope had been in vain.

  He looked through the screen and watched Akela try to crane her neck so she might hear his end of the conversation.

  “Have you really kidnapped an FBI agent?” his brother asked.

  “Aye, that I have.”

  “Mon dieu.”

  The fact that his brother was treating him as if it was only yesterday when he’d last been in trouble, instead of over a decade ago, added to his disquiet. “Look, Their, I didn’t call to get the third degree from you. I need the number of a good attorney.”

  “Did you do it?”

  “Murder that woman?” He ran his hand over his face. “Do you even have to ask?”

  Silence for long moments, then a sigh. “No.”

  “Good then. Find that number for me, won’t you, brother? I’ll call back in ten minutes.”

  He rang off then ran his thumb over the lighted numbers of
the display. He wasn’t sure how sophisticated surveillance techniques were, but he wasn’t about to chance being traced through some sort of satellite GPS system. So he determined to keep any calls he made brief and to the point, and his phone powered off in between.

  Next, he dialed 411 and asked for the direct line to Eighth District Police Station, Homicide Division.

  CHIEF HOMICIDE DETECTIVE Alan Chevalier studied the details in his notepad, then reached for his coffee on the lobby counter of Hotel Josephine. He misjudged the position of the foam cup and instead knocked it over, spilling its contents all over the guest book he’d been going over.

  The hotel’s pretty owner, Josie Villefranche, hurried to sop up the mess with paper towels she pulled out from behind the counter.

  “Thank you,” he mumbled, taking a few sheets and wiping up what he could from his end. He realized that some of the hot liquid had splashed on his tie and he dabbed at that, as well.

  Even as he did so, he caught himself staring with distaste at the stained piece of cloth, along with his wrinkled overcoat.

  There was a time not so long ago that he had taken a certain amount of pride in his appearance. Even his co-workers had once jokingly named him “Best Dressed Detective” one year, complete with a plaque.

  Now he couldn’t seem to drum up the enthusiasm to take his things to the cleaners.

  At thirty-six, he felt fifty-five. Of course, it didn’t help that he knew he was completely responsible for the changes he’d undergone. When you bedded the captain’s wife—no matter if they were estranged and lived in separate houses—it was only understandable that the boss would be a little pissed. Over the past ten months he’d been run through the wringer, suspended twice—once for a week, the next for a month—had pulled double duty and caught the blame for anything that went down wrong.