[Bayou Gavotte 00.0] Back to Bite You

by Barbara Monajem

  Nothing tentative about Gerry Kingsley.

  He let her go, shed his jeans and underwear, and pulled her down to the floor again. He crawled over her, kissing her hard, and thrust her legs apart with his knee.

  And stilled. “Damn.”

  “Don’t stop.” She took hold of his butt and arched against him. “I’m ridiculously horny, and you’re hot and hard and perfect, and . . . What?”

  He pulled away again. His self-control was driving her nuts. “Forgot.” At least he was breathing heavily. “Condom.” He heaved himself off her and went for his jeans. “I never forget. Can’t think what got into me.”

  She didn’t usually forget either, which only went to show how badly she wanted him. Hurry up, hurry up, I need you now. She shook with impatience, and when he finally thrust inside her . . . Oh, yes! She moaned with relief. She threw her head back, eyes closed, bathing in his aroma and his lust.

  Her fangs slotted sharply down.

  He reared up, leaving her empty and bereft. “Whoa!”

  Oh shit, oh shit! She should have told him, but she’d been so caught up. Dreading what she would see on his face, she retracted her fangs and opened her eyes.

  He gave her that cute, lopsided smile. “That explains a lot.” He lowered himself again, resting his forehead on hers, catching his breath, then slipped his tongue into her mouth and dabbed at the sharp tips of her fangs. “Let them back down, sweetheart. I’m not scared. I was just surprised.”

  She let out her breath with a whoosh, and her fangs slid slowly down. “You’ve been with a vampire before.”

  “A long time ago.” Gently, he explored Mirabel’s mouth, tasting her fangs. “Mmm.”

  She nipped at his lip, drawing blood, and he groaned and shuddered as she licked it up. Sweet, just as she’d known it would be. She arched up, opening to him again.

  He slid into her, thrusting slow and slick, all the while kissing her and playing with her fangs. Cupping and caressing her breasts, toying with her derriere, making her crazy.

  Oh, God, he was fun. She arched into him with gasps of pure pleasure. “Wherever did Arthur get the idea you were inhibited?”

  He laughed. “No talking about Arthur.” He thrust hard, the laughter dissolving into a rasp of heat. His throat pulsed, his blood calling to her.

  She whispered, “No talking at all,” and sank her fangs into his throat.

  * * *

  Afterward, they moved upstairs and spent a leisurely night in Mirabel’s bed, making love and getting to know each other better. It turned out Gerry’s first woman had been a virgin vampire. “I think she chose me because we were friends, and she felt safe with me. That was in our junior year of high school.” He paused. “Oh. That explains it.”

  “Explains what?”

  “Why my aunts were determined to believe the worst of you. They have a thing against vampires. They sent me to military school for my senior year to separate me from my vampire girlfriend.”

  “Did you tell them she was a vampire?” That was a big no-no.

  “No, of course not, but my grandmother came from an old New Orleans family, and April and June have lived there all their lives. They know lots of people and listen to a great deal of gossip.” He shrugged. “They thought I would get in with the wrong crowd, but that wasn’t going to happen. I’m just an ordinary guy.”

  Which was exactly why Mirabel was afraid. Vampires tended to end up with toughs for a good reason. Not that Gerry wasn’t well built and in good shape, but he didn’t smell of violence at all. He might have learned about fighting in military school, but not the dirty street-smart kind.

  “I guess that’s how they found out about you, too,” he added.

  Mirabel nodded. She had to keep him safe, but she couldn’t just drive him away. Even if she tried, he might not go. Something told her he was a stubborn sort of guy.

  “You’re not like any other vamp I’ve seen,” Gerry said, “which must be why I didn’t figure it out. You’re gorgeous and hotter than hell, but . . . not sultry at all.”

  “Sultry is boring,” Mirabel said. It also tended to attract even more of the wrong kind of guy.

  “Absolutely,” Gerry said. “You’re wholesome.” He kissed her. “My kind of girl.” His hands traveled all over her, seducing her slowly this time. Satisfying her like the vamp in her needed him to, loving her like the ordinary girl she was.

  Her kind of man.

  But when he finally dropped off to sleep, she lay awake, worrying. She had to get rid of the threat of Sergio, because until he found another woman, he would be obsessed with tracking her down. She curled next to Gerry, fretting until she too finally fell asleep.

  ***

  Bang! Bang!

  Mirabel leaped out of bed, fangs down, ready to defend her lover with her life.

  “Whoa there, sweetheart.” Gerry sat up, yawning, and pulled her back onto the bed. “That’s just my roofing crew.”

  She slumped against him, retracting her fangs, her heart still thumping way too hard. Her voice shook. “They scared the bejeezus out of me.”

  He put his arms around her and kissed her neck. His morning erection nuzzled her behind. Considering the number of times they’d made love last night, she was surprised . . . although not at all unwilling. Her fangs slotted down again, hungrily now. She would never get enough of him.

  He parted her legs and penetrated her slowly from behind. “Sorry, but what with one thing and another, I forgot to tell you I called them last night. It’s going to be a cloudy day, so it won’t be too hot to work.” A hand strayed to her breast, playing games with her nipple, while the other took advantage of her already throbbing clit. “The roof of the second story is way too steep and high up for you and me to deal with.” He bit her shoulder. “There may even be rafter damage over that one room.”

  She couldn’t think about rafters now. Suddenly, she was way too turned on, her fangs demanding blood. She squirmed, trying to turn, but one strong hand held her and the other tormented her.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” he whispered, fucking her smooth and slow, bringing her close to climax, close to desperation before offering her one delicious forearm. She bit him hard, and they came together, and oh, damn, it was heaven.

  He was a good, solid, sexy guy who could more than handle a vampire. But that didn’t mean he could defend himself against Sergio. She had to protect him, but how?

  “You’re an exhausting woman.” He dropped a quick kiss on her hair, then slapped her on the butt before leaving the bed. “I’d better clean up and get to work.”

  He didn’t act the least bit exhausted as he showered and dressed, but this solved one problem at least. Sergio wouldn’t freak out about a roofing crew. Among his construction workers—looking just like one of them—Gerry was safe.

  “I need you to go out the back way when you join them,” she said. “You won’t be so noticeable. Please.” He rolled his eyes but didn’t try to grill her again, merely wolfing down a huge slice of banana cream pie before going outdoors.

  She made coffee and fingered through the piles of paperwork Gerry had spread on the kitchen table. There were old bills and correspondence, mostly about the club, as well as a few Mardi Gras favors and ducal badges from years gone by. The university museum might want those.

  Strangely, yesterday’s reluctance to go through Arthur’s belongings was waning. Now she felt as if she were part of his family. As if she had the right to know. Ridiculous, since she’d only known Arthur a short while, and she had just met Gerry. Just because she’d slept with him, just because he was fun in bed, it didn’t mean . . .

  She shouldn’t lie to herself. She liked Gerry way too much. She felt tenderly toward him. Protective. Warm and loving. He was such a keeper. The thoughts of love she’d had when they first met made total sense. He was the kind of guy a girl would marry, settle down with, have kids with.

  No. She had to be practical. Not only was he not the kind of guy who could defend h
imself—and her—against all comers, but there was no reason to believe he wanted her for anything but sex. And sex didn’t give her the right to muscle in on his private life.

  Warily, she went onto the back porch; better if his workers didn’t see her. If they did, they might really notice her, draw the inevitable conclusion, and gossip about the incredibly hot girl their boss was shacking up with in Bayou Gavotte. Word spread fast in New Orleans and might reach Sergio.

  Gerry had set up a power saw in the yard. Bamboo debris still littered the lawn. Ophelia would come back later to clean it up and plant something less invasive. Mrs. Dodge, the elderly neighbor across the alley, puttered in the shady section of her garden. With her excellent vampire hearing, Mirabel couldn’t help but pick up the old lady’s mutters about the heat, the noise, and that dreadful Gerry Kingsley, as irresponsible now as when he’d stolen her strawberries as a child. Mrs. Dodge stomped back into her house, and Mirabel waited, watching Gerry, enjoying the competence with which he cut what must be a new rafter. He turned off the saw and gave her a rueful half-smile that practically melted her on the spot.

  He came over, wiping the sweat off his brow. “Need something?”

  You. “Do you mind if I go through Arthur’s stuff?”

  A shadow crossed his face, but he said, “Feel free. If it was left up to me, I’d chuck it all.” He leaned in and gave her a long, hot promise of a kiss—exactly what she’d been determined to avoid. She hurried back indoors, hoping no one had noticed.

  She brought three more boxes downstairs. They were all filled with cheap Mardi Gras paraphernalia—cups, coins, and necklaces, all plastic and probably all garbage, although she would leave that up to the museum to decide.

  She set everything aside and went upstairs for more boxes. They contained letters from the family during World War II. Arthur had served in the South Pacific. There were also divorce papers from the fifties; he had three daughters by then, and, from what Arthur had said, a horrible relationship with his ex. She examined photos of the three girls and one of Gerry’s mother with her two-year-old son—cute then, cute now. Gerry had lost his father in a car accident when he was only three years old, and his mother of cancer when he was ten. Poor little boy. Why had he been left to the mercy of his aunts? According to Arthur, Gerry had spent only vacations with him.

  By midafternoon, she reached the bottom of the closet at the very back. She pulled out the last cardboard box. Downstairs, she opened it and took out an ornate wooden chest. She eased the lid open. Inside, there was nothing but some tarnished silverware and a couple of letters tied together with a frayed velvet ribbon. “Shoot.”

  Gerry had come indoors for ice water for him and his workers. “What?”

  “I hoped this chest would contain something more interesting. I heard Arthur shifting boxes around one night. This one wasn’t anywhere near as dusty as some of the others, so I thought it might hold something special.” She clasped the packet of letters, remembering Arthur. “Maybe these letters mattered a lot to him. Do you mind if I read them?”

  “I already gave you carte blanche. Go ahead.”

  “They may be very private and personal.”

  “He’s dead, Mirabel. Read whatever you like.” He scooped ice cubes into a plastic jug.

  “Maybe these letters will provide some illumination,” she said, still needing to justify it to herself, if not to Gerry. “He opened them recently. I’m sure of it.”

  Gerry filled the jug with water and headed for the back door.

  She couldn’t keep it in anymore. “Don’t you wonder what went wrong?”

  He had that war-weary look again. “Honey, I’ve spent most of my life bouncing between Grandpa and my aunts, doing my best to get along with everyone. Now that Grandpa’s dead, their feud is over. Not worth thinking about. Finished, done, and gone.”

  He pushed the door open. “What I’d like to know is why you don’t want us to be seen together.”

  He left before she could decide whether this was a plea or a threat. Finished, done, and gone. Guys didn’t usually dump her, but this one just might.

  She went straight for her phone and called a friend in New Orleans. “Any news about Sergio?”

  “He’s stopped asking everyone where you’ve gone,” her friend said, “but last I saw, he’s still hopping pitifully from one girl to the next.”

  It might be weeks yet. She couldn’t string Gerry along. She had to tell him the truth. If he turned tail and ran, she’d just have to live with it.

  Gloomily, she untied the velvet ribbon. The top letter was written on the thin paper people used way back when for airmail. Dear, darling Arthur, it began, I already miss you. A love letter from a girl to her man, written with an old-fashioned fountain pen, judging by the ink smeared here and there. Tears? Probably, because the girl said she would love Arthur forever, but she was marrying another man. It will be safer for both of us, she wrote.

  Safer? Why?

  She signed it Your ever-loving Dee.

  Inside the letter was a dance card from a Mardi Gras ball in 1941. More than half the dances had been bestowed on Arthur. The owner of the dance card was Dorinda Darblay.

  Wow. The glamorous Dorinda had cut a swath through the social world of New Orleans. She’d been made queen of one of the more prominent krewes, ousting all the debutantes who had more right to that honor. A picture of Dorinda in her gown and parure graced the hall of the State Museum. Officially, she was just another beautiful Mardi Gras queen, but if you peered closely enough at her slightly parted lips, you saw the tip of one sharp, tiny fang.

  Rumor in the vampire community had it she’d fallen in love with a military man at that ball, but soon afterward she’d married a millionaire oilman and had several children with him. She’d divorced him after forty-odd years but was shot to death not long afterward. There were a number of suspects, but the murderer was never found.

  Another letter, on regular paper with ballpoint pen, had been crumpled more than once and flattened again by the looks of it. Dated in 1985 and also from Dorinda to Arthur, it was short and to the point: I don’t know who had you beaten. It wasn’t anyone in the vampire community, I can swear to that. I don’t think it was my ex, because he’s jet-setting around the world with his new girl, and I’d be surprised if he has a thought to spare for me. All I can say is I’m sorry, but in the long run, it’s better this way. Here’s something to remember me by. I love you, but I’m trouble, darling—always have been, always will be.

  Several months later, according to the newspaper clipping inside the letter, Dorinda was dead.

  * * *

  Gerry called it a day at four. He sent his crew home and went indoors to shower. He had retrieved his truck at lunchtime, and he refused to move it again tonight without a good reason. He’d lived for years surrounded by festering secrets about which he didn’t give a damn. He couldn’t live a single day with a secret estranging him from the woman he loved.

  Getting way ahead of himself again, but it was too late for that. He’d fallen for her lock, stock, and barrel, and if this wasn’t love, then love didn’t exist. This time, April and June’s interference had backfired on them. They had separated him from one vampire; they wouldn’t get to do it again.

  He sobered. The more he saw of Mirabel, the less he suspected her of being a gold digger, much less a murderess. But if she didn’t have ulterior motives, why was she so determined not to be seen with him? He couldn’t let their relationship go any further until he knew.

  He went upstairs. The door to the ruined bedroom was wide open, and the light was on. What was she doing in there? The room held nothing of interest or value. The chest of drawers sagged, and the beds were rubbish. What pictures remained on the walls hung askew. Not only that, the hole in the middle of the slippery, mildewed floor was mighty dangerous.

  Across the room, the closet door stood open as well. Some old coats hung on the rack. Mothballs were scattered all over the floor, stinking up
the room. Gerry eased his way along the wall. From the depths of the closet came a muffled wail. “Damn it, I was so sure.”

  He stuck his head into the closet. Mirabel had gone through the little door in the closet wall, which led to the plumbing access for the bathroom between this room and Arthur’s. “What are you doing in there?”

  She squatted inside the cramped space by the pipes and peered at him. “The day Arthur almost fell through the floor, he had opened the door to this access. There was something for the museum in here, he said. He wasn’t ready to give it away yet, but he wanted to show me. Later, when I offered to get it for him, he said it could wait until we fixed the floor.” She flicked off her flashlight. “I read those letters, and it suddenly hit me, and I thought I knew, but there’s nothing in here. Nothing at all.”

  He had no clue what she was talking about, and he didn’t much care. “That’s too bad,” he said. He was filthy and he stank. He loved her, and he was afraid he would lose her. If she didn’t tell him why they couldn’t be seen together, he would have no choice but to leave. “Mirabel, I—”

  No, he couldn’t bring up their relationship, such as it was, until he’d cleaned up. At least, that was his excuse to be with her one more time if he had to end it. “I’m going to take a shower. Want to join me?”

  “Sure,” she said, brushing off cobwebs as she emerged.

  They melted into each other under the hot water, steam and passion enveloping them. Afterward, wrapped in a towel and luminous with satisfied desire—God, she was beautiful, before, during, and after—Mirabel said, “I’ve decided to tell you what you want to know.”

  He felt as if he’d been holding his breath all day long, but this moment of truth was worse.

  “I dumped a boyfriend a couple of months ago. Guys often get fixated on me, and Sergio has some really violent tendencies.” She reddened. “I didn’t do such a great job of evaluating him.”

  “We all make mistakes,” Gerry said, letting out that bated breath, feeling totally lame. And fixated as all get out.

  “I came to Bayou Gavotte because I figured ‘out of sight, out of mind’ might work, but if he learns I’m here while he’s still obsessing, he’ll beat up any man who comes near me.” She paused. “I called a friend in New Orleans today, and she says he’s getting over me, but we’re not out of the woods yet. That’s why you can’t stay here. Why you can’t even be seen with me. I couldn’t bear it if you got hurt because of me.”