Magnolia Moon

by JoAnn Ross

  “I can’t say I’m not relieved, for Josh’s sake, that the guy ended up with only a concussion from being knocked out,” Nate said. “But I sure wouldn’t mind if he ended up being some burly lifer’s girlfriend for the next fifty years.”

  “I still can’t understand why no one was looking for him,” Julia said. Finn and his new wife had returned home for Mardi Gras, and when she’d first met the actress this afternoon, Regan had been a little intimidated by her beauty and lush, natural sensuality. But Julia had turned out to be warm and caring, and had lightened the conversation over dinner by entertaining them with tales of her recent adventures on location in Kathmandu.

  “Child welfare agencies across the country lose hundreds of kids every year,” Finn said. “Florida’s DFC is the poster child for what’s wrong with the system. If these kids had anyone watching out for them, they wouldn’t have ended up in residential care in the first place. Once they do, it’s real easy for a kid to fall through the cracks.”

  “Especially when they want to disappear,” Regan said. She’d seen it too many times to count. When she’d been on patrol, she’d done her best to coax as many street children as possible into nonprofit agencies who knew best how to help them, and she’d always carried phone cards paid for out of her own pocket so the kids could call home.

  “We can’t let him go back,” fretted Shannon, who’d not only filed charges against her husband but also made an appointment with an attorney to begin divorce proceedings.

  “The boy won’t be going back to Florida,” the judge said, speaking with such authority not a single person in the kitchen doubted him.

  “Are you sure you should have left Josh at Beau Soleil?” Regan asked later that evening, as Nate drove away from the house.

  “He wanted to spend the night. He seems okay, and after all he’s been through, it’s probably good to be with kids his own age.”

  “I suppose so.” She reached over and put a hand on his thigh.

  He covered it with his own and squeezed her fingers. “You want to go to the inn? Or my place?”

  “The inn,” she decided. “It’s closer.”

  What was it about this woman that kept putting him at a loss for words? As they entered the suite, just the idea of taking her to bed again had him burning from the inside out. It was as intense a feeling as when he’d been wracked by chills at the idea of Mike Chauvet deciding to play shooting gallery. If it wasn’t love, it had to be one helluva case of flu.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” she murmured.

  “Just enjoying the company.” He forced a smile he still wasn’t quite feeling. “And thinking how funny life can be.”

  “Yeah, today was a real barrel of laughs.”

  “Not that kind of funny. If I hadn’t been remodeling the office, I never would have been cleaning out those old files. And if I hadn’t been cleaning them out, I never would’ve found that journal.”

  “And if you’d never found that journal, you wouldn’t have come to L.A., I wouldn’t have come here, and we wouldn’t be about to spend the rest of the night making each other crazy.”

  “I’m already crazy, mon ange.” His hands settled on her waist. “Crazy about you.”

  She looked up at him from beneath her lashes, the way belles seemed to know how to do from the cradle. It seemed a little out of character, but he couldn’t see a bit of guile in her warm gaze. “I’m almost beginning to believe you, Callahan.”

  “You should.” He pulled her closer. “’Cause it’s the truth.”

  He pressed her against him and kissed her. When her tongue stroked his, it was all he could do not to throw her over his shoulder and carry her to bed.

  “I think I made a mistake,” he groaned.

  “What mistake is that?” She dipped her tongue into the space between his lip and his chin he’d never realized was directly connected to his groin.

  “I shouldn’t have upgraded you to this suite.”

  “Why not?” She brushed her mouth against his, retreated, then came back for seconds. “Aren’t I worth a suite?”

  “Sugar, you are worth the entire inn.” He skimmed a hand through her hair and splayed his fingers on the back of her head as he kissed her again. Harder, deeper, longer. “It’s just that there’s somethin’ to be said for a room where the bed’s closer to the door.”

  “Well, then, I guess we’ll just have to start here.” She tugged the T-shirt from his jeans. “And work our way across the room.” Her fingers played with the hair on his chest, skimmed beneath the waist of his jeans. “Anyone ever tell you that five buttons might be considered overkill?”

  “They’re classic. Traditional.”

  “Granted.” She flicked open the first metal button with a skill he’d admire later. Much, much later, when his skin didn’t feel as if she’d just set a match to it. A second button opened. “They also make it harder to seduce you.”

  “Is that what you’re plannin’ to do?”

  “Absolutely.” The blood that had been pounding in his head surged straight down to his cock as she moved on to the third. And fourth. He sucked in a quick, painful breath when she skimmed those short fingernails over his belly. “And you are going to love it.”

  The final button gave way, allowing his erection to jut out of his jeans. When she curled her fingers around it, lust tightened into a painful knot.

  “It must be hard,” she murmured, moving her hand up and down in a long stroking motion.

  “I’d say that’s self-evident,” he managed.

  Her laugh was rich and throaty and sexy as hell. “That’s what I meant.” She continued to torment him with her fingers and her nails, tracing the shape, the length, breadth, and heft of him. “There’s nothing subtle about you men.” She followed a throbbing vein from root to tip, causing his penis to jerk in her hand when she flicked a thumb over the hood. “There’s no way to hide the fact that you want a woman.”

  “Women get wet.”

  “Well, there is that.” She smiled, a slow, breathstealing smile. “In fact, my panties are drenched right now.”

  He groaned at the idea of sliding his fingers into that hot moist flesh.

  “Not yet,” she murmured, backing away as he moved to do precisely that. She undressed him as he had her, driving him to the brink again and again, teasing, tasting, tormenting. Every time he tried to caress her, she’d slip deftly away and find new regions to explore.

  Somehow they made it to the bedroom, and as he lay on the antique bed, watching her undress in the silvery moonlight streaming in through the window, it crossed Nate’s mind that this was the first time that he wasn’t expected to do anything but to take.

  She returned to the bed, wearing nothing but a wicked smile. “I love the way you feel.” She ran her palms down his chest. “And taste.” Her tongue swirled around his nipple, dampening the puckered flesh, nipping at it gently before moving on to plant a lingering kiss against his navel.

  Even knowing what was coming, Nate was not prepared for the slap of lust when she took him into her mouth, her tongue and teeth following the same scorching trail her devastatingly clever fingers had blazed earlier. He was about to warn her that she’d pushed him to the very brink when she went up on her knees and reached over his aching supine body.

  “I have a surprise for you.”

  “You went shopping this morning,” he guessed as she took out the foil package.

  “I did.” She tore it open. “But that’s not the surprise.” Took out the condom. “Watch.”

  How could he not, Nate thought as he watched her put it between her luscious lips. Surely she wasn’t going to… No, he told himself—his detective was sexy as hell, but she was not the kind of woman who’d—mon Dieu. She lowered her mouth to him again and without touching him with her silky lady’s hands, smoothed the thin latex all the way down.

  The last thin thread of Nate’s control snapped.

  “That’s it.” He dug his fingers into her waist
, lifted her up, and thrust his hips off the mattress as he lowered her onto him. They both froze for a moment, body and eyes locked together, Nate buried deep inside her, looking up at her as she stared down at him.

  Then they began to move. She pressed her knees against his legs, riding him hard and fast as they both raced over that dark edge together.

  “How the hell did you learn to do that?” he asked when he could speak again.

  She was curled up against him like a kitten, but her smile was that of a sleek, satisfied cat who’d just polished off a bowl of rich cream. “Back when I was working vice, we raided this place that had hookers working upstairs while the owner had a thriving porno studio on the first floor. Part of the evidence was this so-called instruction video with an obviously phony nurse showing women how to get men to use a condom.”

  “If I didn’t already practice safe sex, that little trick would certainly change my mind.” He skimmed a hand down her slick body. “I’ll bet it took a lot of practice.” He wasn’t all that fond of the idea of his detective tangling the sheets with a string of California males, but since he couldn’t claim to be a monk, he decided the stab of jealousy was unfair.

  “Not that much.” Her quick grin pulled a thousand unnamed chords. “Though the room service waiter did look at me a little funny this morning, after my third fruit bowl.”

  “Are you saying—”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat another banana again.”

  He chuckled and kissed her, enjoying her taste, the feel of her in his arms. “That’s quite a sacrifice. Perhaps we can come up with some way to make it up to you.”

  “Well, now that you mention it.” She flicked a finger down the center of his chest. “I’ve always fantasized about making love in one of those old-fashioned lion-footed tubs.”

  Amazed by the surge of renewed energy that shot through him at the prospect, he scooped her from the cooling sheets. Regan laughed with throaty pleasure as he flung her over his shoulder and carried her into the adjoining bathroom.

  27

  Blue Bayou’s Fat Tuesday festivities demonstrated yet again that this part of southern Louisiana was a world apart. Beginning with the fact that they left the inn just as sunlight had begun to spread gilt-tipped fingers of lavender and shimmering pink over the bayou.

  “What kind of party begins before dawn?” Regan doubted she’d gotten more than two hours sleep. Not that she was complaining about the way they’d spent the nonsleeping hours.

  “A good party,” he assured her. “I promise you’ll pass the best time you’ve ever had.”

  “I’m not sure that’s possible. If I’d passed a better time last night, I wouldn’t be able to move this morning.”

  He laughed, leaned over, and with his eyes still on the narrow causeway, gave her a quick hard kiss. “The courir is somethin’ special,” he explained. “No one’s real sure when exactly it started, but we do know our Acadian ancestors were doing it before the War between the States. It’s fashioned after a French medieval holiday called the fête de quémande. It was the one time a year peasants were allowed to mock royalty without fear of the consequences.

  “They’d dress up in outlandish costumes and roam the countryside, singing and begging for alms. Our coureurs do the same sort of thing, but these days we dance and sing for une ’tite poule grasse, which is a little fat hen, and the ingredients for tonight’s gumbo pot.”

  “Like singing for your supper,” she said.

  “That’s pretty much it. These days it’s just part of the tradition, but I suspect that in medieval times the people really did need help from the farmers to get enough food together for the feast.”

  A crowd had already begun to gather when they arrived at Beau Soleil. There were a great many men and women on horseback and others in the back of pickups. Two tractors had been hooked up to flatbed trailers outfitted with benches and festooned in traditional Mardi Gras colors of green, purple, and gold, as well as bright yellow and red.

  The mood was already festive; more than half the people were in costumes reminiscent of the colorful scraps of cloth the long-ago peasants might have sewn together. Many wore tall conical hats, much the same as medieval women once favored, and several had donned animal masks adorned with hair or feathers. Neighbors were milling around, catching up on any gossip they might have missed, including, Regan guessed, stories of yesterday’s adventure at the courthouse. There was already singing and dancing, and more than a few celebrants had begun drinking their breakfast.

  “It’s part of cuttin’ loose,” Nate said when he saw Regan’s slightly furrowed brow. “But it’s the capitaine’s job to maintain control so things don’t get out of hand.”

  Her gaze moved from Josh, dressed in a Harlequin costume and laughing with Holly and Ben and some other kids she hadn’t met, to Judge Dupree, who was seated astride a gray stallion, wearing a bishop’s miter and looking very much in control of things.

  “I doubt the town could have chosen better.”

  “He’s been capitaine since before I was born, ’cept for those years he spent in Angola Prison after bein’ framed by a bunch of wise guys who were trying to get their hands on Beau Soleil to turn it into a casino. It’s good to have him back again.” He waved to the judge, who gave a regal nod in return.

  “He doesn’t look as if he’s having that good a time.” His expression was stern as his gaze swept the crowd.

  “Since it’s his first courir in seven years, I’ll bet he’s having a dandy time. He’s just sorta like Finn.” Nate waved to his older brother, who, while not in costume, at least had arrived wearing not his old standby FBI suit but a pair of neatly pressed jeans and a black T-shirt. “Dancin’ on the inside.”

  Given the choice between riding a horse and riding on the flatbed, Regan opted for the flatbed. Although she suspected that Nate would have preferred being out front with the others, he stayed with her, explaining events as they unfolded.

  “Capitaine, Capitaine, voyage ton flag,” the throng sang out in unison. “Allons se mettre dessus le chemin.”

  “Captain, Captain, wave your flag,” Nate translated. “Let’s take to the road.”

  They continued to sing as they traveled through the countryside. A great many of the songs were in French, and a few sounded as if they might actually date back to the Middle Ages. When they broke into “The Battle of New Orleans,” Regan was able to sing along.

  They reached a small wooden house set in a grove of oak trees. “Everyone has to stay here,” Nate explained as the judge rode toward the house, carrying a white flag that symbolized the chase. “While the capitaine asks the folks if they’ll accept us.”

  A man and woman came out, and there was a brief discussion, after which the judge turned back to the group and waved his flag.

  “Now we have to go start earnin’ the feast.”

  The tractor rumbled into the front yard and everyone piled off. Musicians with fiddles and accordions began playing, while the others danced and sang and begged for a contribution to the gumbo pot. After receiving a bag of onions and several links of sausage, they were off again.

  “Capitaine, Capitaine, voyage ton flag. Allons aller chez l’autre voisin.”

  “Captain, Captain, wave your flag,” Nate translated again. “Let’s go to the neighbors.”

  And so it continued for the next four hours, each stop an opportunity for a party that managed to be spontaneous without losing any of its tradition. Every so often someone would throw a live chicken into the air for the Mardi Gras celebrants to chase, like football players trying to recover a fumble. Often when they’d stop, several young men would climb trees.

  “I don’t know why,” Nate said, when she asked him about it. “I read a book once that said it’s some ancient fertility ritual, like symbolically associating with the tree of life. Or maybe they’re just fooling around. The one thing that professor never mentioned is that Mardi Gras’s supposed to be the last blowout before
Lent, and it’s hard to have a bad time when you’re climbing a tree.”

  That explanation, Regan thought as she watched Josh and Ben scramble up an ancient oak, was as good as any. Swept up in the timeless event, as the brightly costumed courir advanced across the drab late-winter countryside, Regan knew if she lived to be a hundred, she’d never forget this day.

  When they finally arrived back at Beau Soleil, they were welcomed back by those who’d chosen to get up at a more sensible time. The food they’d gathered was dumped into huge gumbo pots cooking on open fires. Outdoor tables groaned with more food brought by neighbors.

  The sun that had been rising when Regan had dragged herself out of bed eventually sank with a brilliant flare of red-and-purple light into the water. Campfires had been lit to ward off the night chill; sparks danced upward like orange fireflies; smoke billowed from the many barbecues; dust rose from dancing feet. The mood was joyous, the food lavish, seasoned with enough Tabasco to clear Regan’s sinuses for the rest of her life.

  “I am never going to eat again,” she groaned as she swayed in Nate’s arms to the slow ballads that were beginning to replace the jauntier dance tunes. Although she’d never considered herself much of a dancer, she was able to follow him smoothly as he twirled her with fluid ease.

  “That’s the trouble with Cajun food.” He pressed his lips against the top of her head. “Four days after you eat it, you’re hungry again.”

  She laughed lightly, nuzzling against him. She’d tried to put away thoughts of Linda Dale for this one special day, wanting it free of any unpleasant memories. But now, as the celebration began winding down toward its midnight conclusion, Regan couldn’t help wondering how her life might have been different if her mother hadn’t been killed.

  She knew from the journal that Dale and her lover were planning to leave Blue Bayou. But would they have stayed in Louisiana?

  “A dix for your thoughts,” he murmured as he nibbled on her earlobe.

  “What’s a dix? And if it’s anything more to eat or drink—”