Bayon/Jean-Baptiste (Bayou Heat) (14 page)

His eyes narrowed. “That’s too bad.”

No. It hadn’t
.

“What I mean to say is that I’m focused on our mission.” She cleared her throat again and tried to look him directly in the eye without her legs feeling funny. “Getting in and getting out.”
Oh Christ, that wasn’t much better
.

His eyebrow—the one with the metal barbell through it—raised a good quarter inch.

They needed to go, leave her porch, the Wildlands, get to New Orleans, complete their task, bring it back to Raphael, and never have contact again. Or at least never speak to each other again. Never look at each other again. Specifically
her
looking at
him
. And at that mouth. Those tattoos. Wondering where they disappeared to. How far down they traveled—

“Ready?” he said, interrupting her thoughts. Her incredibly inappropriate thoughts.

“Absolutely,” she said, wishing she could slap her own face without it looking odd, and possibly a little insane. “Shall we shift?” she asked, moving past him and down the steps. God, he smelled good. Leather and something completely indescribable, yet almost debilitatingly mouthwatering. “At least until we hit the border. I know the magic will refuse us once we’re on human soil.”

“We’re not heading to New Orleans on foot, Miss Burel,” he said, suddenly appearing beside her. “That would take too long. And I want this trip over as quickly as possible.”

She made the mistake of turning to face him again. The sun had set completely now, and twilight ruled lavender and gray around them. The evening bayou breeze moved through his shoulder-length dark hair, batting at his dark, fearsome face. As petite as she was, Genevieve had never felt intimidated by anyone in her life. She was a strong, hard-nosed female who dealt in reality, who knew what she wanted and went after it. The fears and insecurities of her heart never made it past their respective barriers. But under this male’s imperious, scrutinizing, sexually-fierce gaze, she felt like a small, tasty woodland creature who knew she was on borrowed time if she remained out in the open.

“If we’re not running,” she said finally. “How do you propose we get there? Did your voodoun acquaintance arm you with a generous supply of fairy dust or something?”

His eyes flashed with heat under the cool light of the bayou moon. “No fairy dust, Miss Burel. Just a
ride
.”

Genevieve’s legs threatened to buckle at his words—
no, just that one word
—and her mouth opened but nothing came out. Struck dumb by a great, inked-up beast of a Pantera male. She’d never been so ashamed of herself.

With a slash of a grin, Jean-Baptiste turned and started down the path. “Come along, Miss Burel. I promise I won’t go any faster than you can handle.”

Chapter 2

The female beside him would be smoking hot if it weren’t for all the buttons, zippers and pins, Jean-Baptiste mused, racing down Route 90, his cat eyes stunningly sharp in the dark. Sitting bone-straight in the passenger’s seat of his 1967 Jaguar Roadster convertible, her milky white fingers splayed on her wrinkle-free lap, the small, fantastically curved, wondrously-busted Suit was the very picture of prickly put-togetherness.

Except for all that honey blond hair trying to escape the confines of an overly tight bun.

Fuck, he hoped the bun lost.

“Too fast for you, Miss Burel?” he called over the breeze.

“Not at all, Mr. Baptiste,” she returned, her eyes forward, her expression tight.

“What about for your cat?”

“She’s also quite content.”

She
. Jean-Baptiste’s brows shot together, and his fingers wrapped around the steering wheel just a hair tighter. He’d never heard a Pantera refer to their cat as he or she before, and damn if it wasn’t intriguing as hell.

“Do many Pantera have cars outside the Wildlands?” she asked, her eyes on the road in front of them.

“There are a few of us.”

“Us?”

“Car enthusiasts. We like to buy and restore. Keep them in private garages in and around La Pierre.” He touched the dash. “This one was a real piece of shit when I took her on.”

Genevieve turned to face him. Her eyes were wide with surprise. “You fixed up this car yourself?”

“Rebuilt the engine, but it was mostly body restoration.” That moonlight overhead was really working on her, he mused, and the wind whipping threads of blond hair about her face. She looked like a goddamn angel.

“You did an amazing job,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”

Shit, Female. So are you
.

“How many Pantera are in this car club of yours?”

“Around ten. Something like that. It varies from year to year.”

“All males?”

His mouth twitched. “No. There are two females,” he said. “Both Hunters. Both crazy for Mustangs.”

“And is one of them your mate?” she asked.

His gaze cut back to her. She was staring at him, all prim and proper. He wanted to toss out a smartass remark like, ‘
What do you mean, one
?’ over the rush of bayou air, but this female didn’t seem like the type who’d find his brand of humor funny. In fact, she’d probably be insulted.

Damn, she really was just as Xavier had described her.

The Geek had told Baptiste all about Genevieve Burel, the supposed genius recruit he and his tech brethren had tried to bring on board the wannabe Faction last month. Rumor was she killed at decoding, and the Geeks had really pushed for her to give it a try. But after a couple of weeks, she’d bailed. The stories of her starched-collars, imperious attitude and one-word answers, however, had become legend.

“I have no mate, Miss Burel.” Jean-Baptiste let his gaze travel down her skirt to the sexy legs beyond. He might be willing to take on her imperious attitude if those legs were wrapped around him, and the starched collar removed.

Or ripped away, courtesy of his canines, he thought with a wicked grin.

“So, this woman we’re going to retrieve,” she said tightly. “She’s just an acquaintance of yours?”

“Something like that.”

“A friend?”

The wind turned cool around them. “She’s not my mate or an object of my imprint, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m not trying to get personal with you, Mr. Baptiste.”

“Clearly.” Spotting his exit, he banked the wheel to the right sharply. “Since you don't even seem to know my last name.”

The sudden movement made Genevieve jerk, and she reached out for something to steady herself. What she got was the door handle on one side and Baptiste’s thigh on the other. “Again,” she said yanking her hand back. “Not getting personal.”

But the movement came too late for Jean-Baptiste. And his cat. Her palm, her nails, had gripped him like a hungry lover, and his cock was now turning to steel behind his zipper.

“I only want to know more about the subject we’re to obtain and transport,” she said. “Collecting data. That’s all.”

Holy fuck, he mused. This female might be prickly and buttoned-up. She might be cold as dry ice on the outside. But her blood ran hot. Molten lava hot. He’d felt her sensual burn through his jeans, and the strike had awakened his already restless puma.

“I take my work seriously, Mr. Baptiste,” she continued.

“I can see that,” he uttered, his gaze narrowing as he headed for the Vieux Carré.

“I don’t have time to waste.”

“Why? You got a hot date later?”

He hadn’t meant to say it. After all, he was pretty sure she repelled all things humorous, and when she glanced over at him, pinned him to his seat with a glare so fierce her pale blue eyes resembled twin icebergs, he knew that assessment was spot on.

“You know,” she said tightly, “I was hoping you’d be more of a Pantera.”

The hard-on in his jeans, combined with the growling cat inside him—not to mention the unwanted sexual interest he was sporting for this female—caused him to abandon any shred of manners he might still have possessed. “Oh, I’m all Pantera, baby,” he said with a husky growl as he took the Toulouse entrance. “If you don’t believe me, I can pull over to the side of the road and show you.”

She wrinkled her nose. “That’s disgusting.”

“No, that’s the truth.”

“If you were truly Pantera you wouldn’t be making inappropriate comments when there is so much at stake—when the life and health of Raphael’s mate and cub are in danger.”

He turned onto Bienville, sharp and quick, and didn’t acknowledge her squeal of concern. She was starting to piss him off. Which, along with the attraction, was a pretty shit combination. “Don’t pretend to know the behaviors of our kind, Miss Burel. Pantera instinct, character and function are my department. You are as green as the moss that grows along the banks of the bayou. A student, an observer, barely out of your training pants—sent along to make sure I follow the rules. Which I won’t.” He raced up the street, getting hit with the scents of night-blooming jasmine and a hundred restaurants. “Now. I didn’t ask for company. But I got stuck with it. So, my prickly little puma, you’re going to have to deal with inappropriate and whatever else I toss your way.”

He was surprised when she uttered a very calm, “Or?”

“Or I get uncooperative and difficult to control. I know this is your first big Suit gig.” He stopped at a crosswalk, waited for a passing pedestrian or two. “You don’t want it to go badly, right?”

She was staring straight ahead, her jaw tight, a flood of color creeping up her neck. She looked damned good in pissed-off pink. And he was a jackass for noticing.

“Raphael should’ve been more forthcoming about you,” she said tightly.

No, he shouldn’t have
. “What did he say?” He hit the gas, made a sharp right and headed down Chartres Street.

Genevieve’s gaze scrolled over the crowds streaming in and out of the restaurants and galleries to her right. “That you’re a Nurturer. An expert in the field of brain study. Brilliant and…” Her eyes darted toward him, and she snorted. Actually snorted. “
Serious
.”

He wasn’t sure why, but her easy censure bothered him. “And you think I’m not serious, Miss Burel?”

“With all that you’ve demonstrated so far, no.”

“You think because I crack a joke, I don’t understand the magnitude of what our people are facing? Or because I come on to a hot female, I’m not swimming in concern for Ashe, and rage for whoever has dared to betray us?”

“That’s exactly what I think,” she said quietly. “And don’t call me
hot
again, unless you want a nosebleed.”

Jean-Baptiste was silent as he pulled up in front of Isi’s place and killed the engine. The pale pink shotgun house was pretty unassuming, except for the massive blood-red shingle that read, THE CARE AND FEEDING OF VOODOO, and underneath it,
Isi Rousseau
. But Jean-Baptiste knew the depth and intensity of the magic that lived and breathed inside, and he never underestimated it. Beside him, Genevieve turned to get out of the car, but the sudden click of the locks halted her.

She whirled around, her expression stony. “Problem?”

His eyes moved over her face. Pale, perfect skin, a mouth that invited hot, hungry kisses, and a severe attitude that was supposed to ward off all male attention, but somehow managed to turn Jean-Baptiste into a brain-dead, lusty, adolescent Pantera male.

Problem
?

Fuck, yeah.

“Believe it or not, Miss Burel,” he said with barely contained aggression. “I would do anything to help the Pantera, to help Ashe and the cub. And I am. You have no idea.” He stabbed at the lock, growled softly as it released. “Let’s go.”

* * *

As Genevieve walked past Jean-Baptiste into the dimly lit shop, she once again reminded herself of the rules of this game she was playing. Make sure the voodoun didn’t get anywhere near the Wildlands, while acting as though that very journey was her one and only goal. All she knew was that the elders believed this human to be detrimental to the Wildlands, to Ashe and the child. And that was all Genevieve needed to know. The elders were not to be questioned. After all, they were the essence of Pantera, the wise ones and the ultimate protectors. They and their judgment were valued beyond all things.