“My, how long indeed?”
He rubbed his freshly shaven chin. Barnaby still took pride in performing his own personal care.
“Let’s see. I met Odilon in 1810, when he threw his lot in with that scurrilous Louisiana privateer, Jean Lafitte. I was on my tour of the New World, always on alert for shrewd investments. There was good money to be had in smuggled goods and supplies for shipbuilding to help the American military leading up to the War of 1812. We worked for Lafitte’s company for a year, but the Indebted kills became too concentrated around New Orleans. I next saw him around 1975, after I transitioned to human, and then again in 1995 after my lovely Jane passed on. Time seems to move too quickly for our kind. I haven’t seen him since Jane’s death. The way time passes for the Indebted, it’s as if only yesterday she left this world without me ...”
At his slumped shoulders and faraway stare, Ruth eased the door shut. Barnaby’s wife had died much too young, a shame considering the immense risk he’d taken to be with her. Had the sacrifice been worth it?
She considered Barnaby’s smile, both sad and joyous.
In the sitting area, she straightened the already neatly arranged furniture. Anything to distract her until room service delivered brunch.
At a knock on the door, Ruth rushed to the door of the suite, expecting to greet the waiter.
A tall man stood at the door.
As his intense stare zoomed in on her face, Ruth’s stomach dropped out from under her.
To be more precise, he didn’t stand, he nearly vibrated, such was the male confidence that radiated in all directions. A lazy smile spread across his sensual lips, which were surrounded by a closely trimmed scruff of dark beard and moustache. If his appearance veered toward handsome, the crooked nose likely from a prior injury pushed his features back to rugged. Even though she’d seen only half of his face last night, she’d recognize that jawline anywhere.
Beneath thick, dark brown eyebrows that slashed color across his forehead, his pale green eyes narrowed. His gaze, the color of backlit bottle glass, smoldered. Sooty lashes shadowed his eyes until his brows shot up.
Now someone else knew her Indebted status and how she used her body to lure in each kill.
How she had failed.
Even though Ruth was fully clothed, she wanted to pull a blanket around herself. Each sweep of this man’s gaze virtually raked her bare.
Pressure mounted—fire against ceramic. She had to escape his scrutiny, or her protective shell would break.
She shivered.
Chapter 3
Mon dieu!
If the woman from last night did not stand before him, then this was her prim and proper twin. Today, instead of long waves of blond hair, gleaming auburn tresses had been unjustly confined to a knot at the nape of her elegant neck.
And her figure? Instead of those curves being poured into leather, she filled out plain tan work pants so as to bless the shapeless garments. A deep breath raised her ample breasts to strain the knit fabric of her forest green polo shirt.
Odilon couldn’t help himself. He inhaled along with the woman, instantly in tune with her.
This mystery woman had haunted his thoughts since last night’s encounter. At the demonstration of her strength and speed and her bizarre reaction to the dead man, Odie had realized she was also an Indebted. He, of course, empathized with her plight, trapped in his own macabre existence, compelled to perform murder. Perhaps she, too, had been forced to make a grim choice with a loved one, right before becoming Indebted. That’s normally how it worked. That’s how it had happened for him, at least.
God, what he’d give to destroy Jerahmeel once and for all.
Enough. Time enough for plotting later. He needed to concentrate on the beautiful woman in front of him.
The top of her head came to right below his eye level. How would this glorious woman fit against him? Odie needed to know. His hands itched to reach for her.
He had to know what she’d feel like beneath him, all that soft porcelain skin sliding over his skin. An image of her auburn hair, fanned out on a bed as he gripped those locks in his fist and drove into her body ...
Never in his centuries walking this Earth had he experienced such a rapid response to a woman. Sure, he was a lusty man in a general sense, but he always retained self-control.
Why the hell did she command his interest? Was it because she was an Indebted like him? He shook his head.
All he knew was this woman, as she stood there in such plebian clothing and subdued adornment, appeared even lovelier than the woman he met the evening before. Which woman was real? He had to find out.
Before he could open his mouth to speak, their gazes locked. Air left him in a whoosh. Long, dark lashes framed eyes with such a unique hazel the myriad colors glowed with an amber light. Flecks of green, brown, and gold swirled in the depths. Her winged auburn brows rose. Odie caught himself leaning toward her until he jerked upright.
Her full lips were moving, but he heard nothing except air rushing past his ears.
“May I help you?” she said. The tone of her voice, like an icicle plinking water from the tip, contrasted with the warm auburn hair and creamy skin. Concentrating on polite conversation became impossible as he attempted to reconcile the image before him.
Fire. Ice. Sexy leather. Khaki pants.
“How are you, um, after the ... man ... last night, chère?”
Her bland expression didn’t change. “Unfulfilled.”
That made two of them. He swallowed hard.
“Perhaps I could remedy that state?” The sudden tightness in his groin encouraged his imagination to devise several methods of fulfilling this glorious woman. Those curves on display as he drove into her soft ...
“Sir?”
Heat spread from below his belt to wrap around his neck until he couldn’t breathe. “Ah, yes, about the kill. I had no idea that you were ...”
“Like you?”
“Well, yes. I haven’t encountered another Indebted in town. It’s been my territory for hundreds of years. I didn’t realize Barnaby was bringing another ... you ... like us, me, or I would have helped you take care of your ... business. You know, er, welcome you to town, so to speak.”
Mon dieu, he was babbling like a nervous schoolboy, squirming beneath her cool appraisal. He found he rather liked the idea of unlocking that constrained exterior, looking for the sexy, leather-clad spitfire that resided within.
Like the pull from a magnet, he leaned toward her again, satisfied by her sharp intake of air but ecstatic when that movement pushed her breasts up. So close, he could almost reach out and feel their fullness in his hands.
She backed up from the doorway and bumped into the wall, hands pressed against his chest. Her hot palms branded him, and he wanted more of that heat over every inch of his body.
Those beautiful eyes darkened as she looked up at him.
Certainly not an ice queen. The eyes gave it away every time. Any intense emotion turned every Indebted’s irises black. The Indebted couldn’t regulate that response.
Her now-obsidian eyes widened as she gasped. So. Not so prim and proper a façade as she might like to convey.
Not the leather-clad diva, either, though. Fascinating. She was neither character.
He lifted his hand until it hovered an inch from the skin of her neck.
Like a man about to jump off a cliff, he paused.
Damn it, he needed to touch her.
The vein pulsed at the base of her neck. That location would suffice.
He feathered his fingertips over the heated skin. Silk. Warm silk.
His existence boiled down to a two-inch square of this woman’s neck. And he couldn’t care less.
The sigh from her full, parted lips threatened his sanity. He inhaled, as if to absorb her breath, her scent of mint and lavender. The aroma made his head spin.
How in the name of God did the tiniest touch of his fingers on her skin create such boiling press
ure in his groin? Delicious and painful, the electrical sensation shot from his hand to his hardening manhood. He wanted relief.
He shifted, trying to decrease the pressure of garments that were suddenly two sizes too small. Damn it, the movement only made things worse.
She licked her lips.
He had to taste. A scientific study only, to see if that lush mouth tasted as good as it looked.
“Ruth?”
His old friend’s voice cut through the moment.
The woman, Ruth, startled and blinked those multicolored irises from onyx back to amber, and the spell was broken. She scooted away from him, back pressed to the wall, her cheeks flushed a delightful shade of pink.
“I’ll be right there,” she called over her shoulder.
The pulse in her neck danced. Good.
He took a step back, displeased that the heady scent of her no longer flooded his senses.
She licked lips too pillowy soft for conventional beauty but well proportioned within her sculpted face. “So you must be ...?”
“Odilon Pierre-Noir. At your service, mon chèri.”
Odie lifted her hand to his lips, inhaling the light lavender perfume once more. Darkness swallowed the gold flecks in her irises as she watched him.
In contrast to her cool demeanor, the porcelain skin of her hand radiated heat against his mouth. When he reluctantly released her hand, the silky slide of her palm against his fingers shot a bolt of longing into his gut.
She frowned. “Your last name, it’s different. We all take the surname of “Blackstone” when we become Indebted.”
“It’s French. Means ‘black stone.’ I prefer it to the English name.”
“Odilon?”
“Yes, old Acadian. Very old. My friends call me Odie.”
“OD? As in ‘overdose’?”
One arched brow quirked upward, but the rest of her expression remained impassive. She would make a formidable poker player, and Odie did so enjoy gambling. Bet he could change her countenance in the bedroom from guarded to cosmic pleasure. He’d gladly ante up all his chips trying.
With effort, he dragged his imagination away from images of her glorious body laid out for him on a soft mattress, or floor, or any surface that allowed him to explore her curves, and refocused on the conversation. “My mamam would be hurt; she was proud of that name.”
Just the tiniest quirk of a corner of her mouth. A chink in the defenses. Something for him to work on later.
“Hmm. All right, come with me then, Odie.”
She turned on her heel, giving him a spectacular view of her heart shaped derrière. Even the wiggle as she walked turned his mouth to dry sand. And the fact that she was like him only intrigued him even more. What a pair they would make in the bedroom.
Turning a corner, they passed through a small dining area. Suspended above a cherry wood table, a small chandelier flung pieces of morning sunlight onto the plaster walls. The Mississippi River, sod-brown and lazily flowing to the Gulf, reflected the Crescent City Connection Bridge above. Ah, how he loved New Orleans.
They entered a well-appointed salon, complete with velvet upholstered Victorian chairs and settees. Seated in one of the plush chairs was a bald, wizened man. Odie wouldn’t have recognized his old friend if not for the mischievous glint in those pale blue eyes.
“Barnaby?”
“Odilon, my old friend!”
He rushed to the old man but paused, uncertain how to proceed. Barnaby obviated debate when he held out a gnarled hand. His friend’s fragile skin showed veins and sunspots, but the strength had not completely departed that grip.
“Help me up, you smelly Cajun.”
Odie put a hand under his friend’s upper arm to help him to stand. Ruth hovered nearby. Protective of Barnaby? Good for the old man. She was a lovely companion, and even if his friend had gotten on in years, Barnaby couldn’t possibly be blind to her ... assets, even confined as they were under the staid attire.
Hugging carefully, Odie patted his friend’s stooped shoulders. Barnaby’s back was no longer straight. Bones ground together in the sockets, and the old man groaned.
“Getting old is not for the faint of heart, eh?” His friend chuckled and then coughed. “Sit, let’s catch up.”
Barnaby lowered himself back down, holding on to the ornately carved arms of the chair. Odie wanted to help, but the steely pride etched on the old man’s face deterred him. His old friend, still stubborn after more than 400 years on this Earth. Amazing.
At a knock at the door, Ruth slipped out of the room. Odie couldn’t help himself. He watched her leave, her smooth gait with those magnificent curves—it was impossible to look away.
Barnaby cleared his throat.
Busted, as they said in current parlance.
The old Englishman’s devilish smile didn’t help, either. But Barnaby knew the dance of attraction. Indeed, he had garnered the reputation as quite the paramour for hundreds of years. Barnaby was a legend. Hard to imagine, seeing his aging friend now.
Odie leaned back. “So it’s been, what, about twenty years? Much too long, old man.”
“Time has become somewhat fluid. But it marches on for me, now.” The barest crease formed at the corners of Barnaby’s eyes. Regret and ... relief?
Odie studied the rug pattern. “Sorry. You’re right. Um ...”
“It’s all right, my friend. I’ve been in your shoes. Ten, twenty, a hundred years? Means nothing when you’re long-lived.”
If he met his friend’s probing stare, Odie would reveal his desperate hope. So he studied the fabric on the chair and forced a neutral tone. “You mentioned Peter and Dante when we last spoke on the phone. I heard some rumblings, but you know how I keep to myself. What happened?”
“Both contracts broken.”
“How?”
“I can’t say.”
Two conflicting bursts of emotion fought inside of Odie. On the one hand, Indebted breaking their contracts would be a blow to Jerahmeel’s power base and good for Peter and Dante that they succeeded. But on the other hand, it meant more work for the Indebted remaining on this Earth.
“Of course you can’t tell me details. But was their experience like yours? Did they do it for a mortal?”
Barnaby’s watery eyes twinkled. “For women.”
“Figures.”
Odie had met each man before. Peter had only been an Indebted since the 1940s. He’d never accepted the perks of having unhuman strength and power and instead dwelled on the guilt of being a killer. Understandable that he would want to break the contract.
Dante, on the other hand, the giant Swede born 300 years ago, had embraced his Indebted prowess and reportedly applied it with great enthusiasm, especially in the bedroom. It boggled the mind to consider Dante settled down with only one woman.
Odie crossed his ankle over his knee. “My own urge to kill has increased over the past year or so, which makes sense. Fewer Indebted left to keep He-Who-Must-Be-Fed satiated.”
“You’re right. And may I say that pissing off Jerahmeel is a generally bad idea? After losing Peter and Dante, he’s sorely vexed, to put it lightly.”
“At Peter and Dante? Or at you?”
Barnaby rubbed the backs of his arthritic hands. “All of us. You see, while I didn’t exactly help, I might have had a tiny bit of involvement with each transformation.”
Adrenaline shot through Odie as he sat up bolt upright, boots planted on the floor. No one wanted to attract Jerahmeel’s interest. Ever. A mere mortal would never survive his boss’s rage. So did that mean Barnaby was now a marked man?
“Exactly how tiny?”
A flicker of pain passed over Barnaby’s face and then was gone. Fear? “Probably a bit too much involvement.”
“Can Ruth keep you safe?”
“That’s not her job, my boy. But yes, she does watch over me.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
The elderly man pulled a wistful smile. “I’m not
afeared of death, you know. Not anymore.”
“What are you saying, old friend?”
“I’ve said too much—”
At Barnaby’s stricken expression when Ruth slipped in the room, Odie snapped his mouth shut.
Her eyes narrowed as she studied the suddenly silent men, and her lips thinned. “Brunch is on the table if you two are ready.”
She turned to step out again, but Barnaby stopped her. “Dine with us, my dear.”
“I couldn’t. This is time for you to spend with your friend.”
“Even more reason.” Barnaby chuckled. “You keep yourself so cloistered with this old, rickety man all the time, you don’t get to be around anyone else. Like us, I mean.”
Ah, that particular shade of pink on Ruth’s cheeks, the color of strawberry buttercream, had Odie’s tongue watering. When she helped Barnaby up, damned if the tan fabric didn’t stretch perfectly over her hips. He followed her to the dining room, where they sat around the cherry wood table.
The Indebted did not require food, but Odie personally enjoyed preparing and eating it, a simple pleasure that helped to maintain a thin connection to his humanity.
Between bites of poached eggs in tangy hollandaise sauce, he shared tales of how New Orleans had changed since he had first arrived in 1768, when the city was little more than a few streets of wood homes that blew down during each hurricane season. He and Barnaby shared with Ruth one of their more notorious escapades when they evaded the British military with the aid of a brothel full of lusty and loyal Creole women. By the time the ladies of the night had finished, the Brits couldn’t walk straight, much less track down two suspected smugglers.
Ruth’s eyes glowed as her mouth curled up in reluctant amusement at the misadventure. How Odie would enjoy finding new ways to make her smile.
“So, are you still dabbling in genealogy these days?” Barnaby’s question caught him off-guard.
“Why, yes. I find it fascinating. With the advent of the Internet and an unlimited supply of free time, I’ve created new programs to trace family trees.”
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