Bayon/Jean-Baptiste (Bayou Heat) (17 page)

Chapter 4

Genevieve encircled the hotel suite’s sumptuous living room furniture for the fifth time, her cell phone pressed to her ear. Her skin was still humming from the elevator encounter with Jean-Baptiste, and her mind refused to drop the memory curtain on his face, his eyes, those lips. She didn’t understand what was happening to her, and why she didn’t seem capable of releasing it, forgetting it. He was gorgeous, yes. Had a body so long and heavy with muscle that she felt tiny and nondescript in comparison. He wore that dangerous, mysterious, don’t-get-too-close attitude like a second and very sexy skin. But she was a smart female. Logical and thoughtful. She had a job to do. A future to procure. A home and family to save and protect. And no male—not even the very captivating Jean-Baptiste—was going to get in the way of that.

No matter how much her body begged her to think otherwise.

“Dammit,” she grumbled, then yanked herself back to reality as the female on the other end of the line questioned her outburst. “No, no,” Genevieve said quickly. “Nothing to do with you. Everything’s fine, and I’ll be home in the morning. I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Miss Burel,” came a sharp, masculine growl behind her.

Genevieve startled, jabbed at the off button.

“Canceling that hot date?” he continued.

“I told you, I don’t have a…” Her words died away, never to be found again, as she turned around and her eyes focused on the drool-worthy specimen before her.

Standing in the bedroom doorway, only a white towel wrapped around his lean hips, was Jean-Baptiste. Clearly he’d just come from the shower because his hair was wet and slicked back from his face, and a few water droplets clung to the heavily tattooed skin of his hard chest. Her gaze ate up every inch, every marking, every color. She’d seen the skull and tribal ink adorning his neck and collarbone, but beneath that, covering his broad shoulders and down both massive biceps, were two gold and black pumas baring their teeth. Artistic lines of green and blue seemed to move beneath their paws, like water and grass, like the bayou.

Her perusal continued inward. His pectorals were free of ink, but one nipple was pierced, and down at the very base of his ripped abdominals the word Pantera was scrawled in cat-scratch markings.

For one brief second, Genevieve nearly demanded he turn around. God, she wanted to see his back, wanted to see what kind of tattoos had been inked into his smooth, tanned, thickly muscled skin.

But then her sane mind returned.

“I thought that was my room,” she said, gesturing behind him.

“It is.”

“And my shower.”

He sniffed with irritation. “I have a bathtub.”

“And that’s a problem?”

“I don’t do bathtubs, Miss Burel.” His eyebrow lifted. “Unless I have company.”

She might have had her sane mind back, but her body was still completely and totally refusing her call for control. Her legs were doing that made-out-of-water thing again, and her skin was pulling tight around her muscles. She could do nothing to stop it. This strange, new compulsion to attack.

Lust and deep sexual interest had never played a part in her life. She’d been too busy with establishing her career and caring for her Grands. And lately, refusing to be angry with her parents for acting cowardly and taking off, leaving her to deal with the dying magic inside their home. Sure, she’d found males attractive. But wanting them? Needing to feel their skin? Taste their lips? Run her fingers through their hair as she growled and begged them for all things dirty?

Not until now.

Until Jean-Baptiste.

Her stomach clenched. This…this attraction, this lust, this hunger, this desire to run at him and lick her way down his throat, chest, abdominals, hipbones…

It was going to ruin her if she let it. Working alongside the elders required full focus, a vow of chastity, and a gold star with this mission. She could not allow herself to be swayed.

“So, who was that on the phone?” he demanded.

Genevieve started toward him. If she could just get past him, get into her bedroom and close the door…

“I was just letting my family know I’m all right.”

“They worry about you?”

“Of course.” She moved around the leather couch.

“You don’t seem like the kind of female who would make a parent worry.”

Unlike you, Mr. Baptiste
. “I’m afraid I don’t know what that means.”

His mouth curved into a wicked smile. “Yes, you do.”

She stopped before him, waited for him to move aside. But he didn’t. “You have very strong opinions about who I am, Mr. Baptiste. I’m curious to know where that comes from. Are you listening to rumors, or simply judging a book by its cover?”

He looked her up and down. “Which one would bother you more?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You should be sure, Miss Burel. Because one is understandable, the other is not.”

“And which one are you?” God, he smelled good. Like soap and hungry puma.

His eyes lifted to meet hers. “Let’s just say we all make judgments based on appearances.”

So, he’d heard rumors about her
?
Who the hell was talking about her
?
And what were they saying
?

“You may think it’s understandable, but I don’t judge others,” she said, trying like hell to control her breathing. He was just so close. His clean scent, and all that naked, heavily inked, heavily muscled skin was making her dizzy. If her legs buckled and she fell, would he catch her? Maybe she should try it and see.

“Come now, Miss Burel. Don’t pretend you didn’t take one look at me, at this,” he pointed to his lip, “and these,” he brushed a hand across his shoulder, “and decide I’m bad news.”

Lucky hand. Lucky, lucky hand
. “I’m not going to deny it,” she said primly. “But I think my judgment in this case was right on.”

His eyebrow—the one with the metal—jacked up.

Her eyes locked with his. “You
are
bad news, Mr. Baptiste.”

“I’ve done nothing to you, Miss Burel.”

Nothing except make me question the direction of my future. Nothing except make me forget again and again why I’m here
.

He reached out then, and touched her hair, snagged a piece that had long ago escaped her miserable bun, and wrapped it gently around his index finger. “You have beautiful hair. Feels like silk in my hand.”

“Thank you.”
God, what else could she say
? Her heart slammed against her ribs.

His eyes narrowed on the crown of her head, at her bun. “I have this irrepressible urge to take it down. I want to see what all that pale gold looks like floating around your face, kissing your neck, playing against the pale skin of your shoulders.”

Her chest tightened. Her breasts and nipples, too. “You mean against the fabric of my shirt.”

He shook his head. “No, Miss Burel. That’s not what I mean.”

Her stomach clenched with awareness, and below her waist, between her unsteady legs, she felt the heat in her sex turn liquid. Her lips parted and she started to pant. The button at her throat once again constricted her breathing, and she touched it with her fingers. Maybe she could undo just one button…

A knock at the door startled them both.

“Dammit.” Growling with true menace, Jean-Baptiste stalked past her.

Genevieve took the opportunity to make a break for her room, for safety, for a place to get her head on straight.

“You get
that
door,” she called after him. “And I’ll get
this
one.”

The last thing she heard was a great whoosh of air as Jean-Baptiste hauled back the thickly beveled glass, then snarled at whoever stood on the other side.

* * *

He’d put clothes on.

He’d even set the table.

But as he stared across the black marble at Genevieve, all he wanted to do was strip them both bare and take her on top of the china.

She was drinking a beer. That’s all she was doing. But it was the way she was doing it that was making his cock stand up tall and scream for an exit inside his jeans. Her long, pale fingers were wrapped around the bronze, pony neck, and her lips were sealed against the wet rim as she swallowed.

Fuck, he was in trouble
.

His cat snarled and spit inside his chest in agreement.

Stay put, you bastard
.

Never in million years would he have pegged this female for a beer drinker. Possibly a margarita. Wine, maybe. Shirley Temple, more like.

She looked up then and caught him staring. She gestured to the full plate in front of him with that nearly drained Bayou Bock in her hand. “You’re not eating.”

Very observant, Miss Burel. I’m too busy watching, lusting, and trying to keep my cat caged and my steel prick from exploding
.

“I’ll get to it,” he muttered.

“Well, don’t wait until it gets cold,” she admonished. “It’s amazing. Best étouffée I’ve ever had. It was nice of your spy friend to arrange this.” She cocked her head. “Michel, wasn’t it?”

“Something like that,” Jean-Baptiste said, not liking the Suit’s name on her lips. “And he’s not being nice. Males don’t think that way.
Pantera
males don’t think that way.”

She paused, fork halfway to her mouth. “Really?”

“We stalk, claim and possess, Miss Burel. We’re natural predators. We see something we want, and we go after it.” He stabbed his fork into the center of the catfish and came up with a steaming chunk of white flesh. “He was trying to impress you.”

She looked thoughtful for a moment, then grinned. “Well, if he really wanted to impress me he would’ve had them bring beignets and coffee along with this étouffée.”

“I’ll let him know for next time,” Jean-Baptiste said, then stuffed the fish into his mouth.

“You will?” she asked, slightly taken aback.

“No.”

She laughed. Then took another bite of her food and groaned happily. “What do you think of the catfish? I like it spicy, don’t you?”

Did she have to keep taunting him unknowingly? Christ, he could practically feel the malachite leaching from him. “Just like mama used to make,” he said.

“Really?”

“No.” He glanced up. His face broke into a smile that mirrored hers. Damn, he couldn’t help himself. “She’s not much of a cook. How about yours?”

That smile suddenly died. “She was.” She started picking at her rice.

Shit
. “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “It’s okay. It’s just me and my Grands now.”

“You live with your grandparents?”

She nodded.

Was that who she was on the phone with
? And why did that belief, that hope, fill him with far too much relief?

“Do you live with your family?” she asked.

“No. Haven’t for many, many years.” He took another bite of fish. “They’re Nurturers. Very important. Very brilliant. Very consumed with their work.”

She nodded her understanding. “So no family dinners.”

“Not since I was five.”

She studied him for a moment. “That bothers you, doesn’t it?”

He shrugged. “You know, what kid doesn’t want his family crowded around a table, barking at him to sit up straight, to stop making disgusting noises, eat his peas?”

She laughed. The sound was like fucking church bells. “Most kids don’t want that, Mr. Baptiste. To be bossed around.”

“Sure they do.” He put down his fork. His eyes locked with hers. “They may gripe about it, but they want it. They want the structure and the boundaries and someone to take control so they don’t have to. All that strictness and nitpicking—just means someone loves you enough to give a shit.”

Her mouth fell open, but she didn’t say anything. She just stared at him, her eyes boring a hole in his head.

“What?” he said.

“You.”

His chest squeezed with tension. And maybe the thing beating rapidly inside it, too. “What about me?”

“Never judge a book by its cover?” She shrugged, her eyes glowing a little. “Never again.”

He nodded. “Back atcha, Miss Burel.” He tipped his beer bottle in her direction, and she instantly scooped hers up and gave his a solid clink.

“And who knows?” she said, after taking a quick swig. “Maybe you’ll have it.”

His brows knit together. “Have what?”

“A cub to boss around at the dinner table.”

His gut tightened. “Odds are against it, don’t you think? Fifty years and counting.”

“There’s Ashe.”

“She human.”

“So, go get yourself a human.”

This time, it wasn’t just his gut that tightened. It was every damn part of him. Even his fingers curled around his fork. “I don’t want a human.”

“How do you know?”