Bayou Heat (3 page)

At least he was bleeding on the towel, she thought as she hunted down a lamp and flicked
it on. Yellow light from the dim bulb bathed his body in a soft glow. What was she
going to do with him? Several indecent and wholly female ideas sprang to mind, but
she ignored them. He wasn’t even her type.

She snorted under her breath. Who was she kidding? She was female and breathing. He
was her type. Her only saving grace was the security of knowing
she
wasn’t his. But then, as far as she’d been able to discover, she wasn’t any man’s
type.

Of course, his requirements were probably not much more demanding than the female/breathing
ones. Erin hated herself for the split second of yearning she experienced when she
flashed on the two of them together … that way. But she was helpless to stop it.

The gun. She forcibly dragged her mind back to that annoying little detail. Erin debated
the merits of easing the lethal thing from his grasp but dismissed the idea quickly.

With her luck she’d make him pull the trigger and wind up killing herself.

Instead she went into the bathroom, closed the French doors, ignoring the blood-smeared
walls more easily than the shower nozzle and it’s faded promise of cool relief. She
dug up several worn rose-patterned towels, a half-empty bottle of grape flavored children’s
pain reliever, and a handful of plastic strip bandages.

She smiled a bit wickedly at the bright green turtles decorating the last item. Wouldn’t
he look cute in those. Well, beggars couldn’t very well be choosers.

Stopping long enough to wet down a few washcloths, she crossed back to him. Staring
alternately at the gun and his half-hidden face, she carefully nudged his thigh with
her toe.

Nothing.

“Mr. Comeaux?” Still nothing. She crouched down beside him, his back to her, and dumped
her small stash on one of the towels. She shook his arm. “Teague?” He didn’t move
so much as an eyelash. She noticed, half-distracted, that he had the thickest, blackest
eyelashes she’d ever seen.

His breathing was deep and even. She prodded him a bit more firmly. Satisfied he wasn’t
pulling some sort of trick on her, she eased into a cross-legged position behind him
and went to work gently cleaning out the shallow gash just above his hip. With a pair
of nail clippers from her satchel, she fashioned a few crude, but effective, butterfly
bandages from the plastic strips and applied them over the deepest part of the wound.

With a dry smile at the green turtles decorating his dark hide, she gave him a light
pat on his perfect tush. “There you go,
mon Cajin ninja
.” She pulled the towel over his hip and tucked it in—firmly—at his waist. “Okay,”
she said on a weary sigh as she scooted over a few feet. “Upward and onward.”

It had been strangely easy to keep her eyes on his hip wound and off everything else.
Anatomy, she’d told herself. Basic arrangement of bone and muscle. Despite
the fact that he was just about as perfect a specimen as she’d ever encountered, it
was still just arms, legs, hips, buns … perfectly sculpted buns.

Get a grip, McClure
. Clearing her throat, she delicately probed the mat of blood-caked hair on his temple.
Okay, so perhaps she wasn’t as unaffected as she’d like to believe. As she needed
to be. Even unconscious, he was a bit bigger than life.

Hell, she was only human, she told herself. But Erin had discovered long ago that
her unusual life had stamped her with some sort of indelible mark that, even when
she was playing staid collegiate professor, alternately bewildered and intimidated
the men she occasionally dated.

Teague Comeaux didn’t strike her as a man who’d ever been intimidated by anything
life tossed at him. And picturing him bewildered was simply impossible.

Belatedly realizing she was stroking the side of his face, she tensed, inadvertently
pressing on his wound a bit too hard.

He moaned, low and guttural. She yanked her hand away too late. Her neck had been
taken hostage by a large, warm palm. One second later, he neatly flipped her over
his back, her bottom tucked in the cradle of his hips, her legs still dangling over
his waist. With her torso twisted against him, he dragged her face to his.

Glassy black eyes bored into hers. He wasn’t choking her, but there was no mistaking
the strength in his fingers. She didn’t try to move.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, his voice not more than a rasp, his eyes
still clouded with pain.

She swallowed slowly. “Playing Nurse Ratched?”

He winced sharply when his smile tugged at the split skin on of his lip. “
Mais yeah
, Florence Nightingale you’re not,
ange
.”

“No point in pretending to be something you’re not.”

The smile disappeared from his eyes instantly, and Erin felt the hair on her arms
and neck rise. She swallowed again, but this time she tasted a tiny bit of fear.

“I’d appreciate having my neck back, thanks,” she said with all the bravado she could
muster.

He loosened his hold but kept his fingers pressed to the skin covering her pulse.
Her rapid pulse. So much for cool. Erin wondered if she’d ever have any secrets from
this man. Even the tiny, sanity-saving ones.

No. Teague Comeaux wouldn’t let her have even the smallest edge. Ever.

“Why didn’t you leave?” he asked quietly.

Good question. “You know damn well why.”

“Smart girl.”

She veered sharply from feeling like a small trapped animal to feeling supremely human
and very female. The only similarity between the two was the fear of being devoured.
Whole.

Trying to forget she was draped across his mostly naked body, Erin discovered that
looking into his eyes was just as fraught with danger. But maintaining eye contact
was a universal method of proving strength, equality, invincibility. And the only
prayer she had of getting off this floor.

“Why didn’t you just tell me right off who you were?”

“I was a bit out of it,
chèr
,” he reminded her. “Until your lovely screech woke me up.” He seemed amused by her
scowl. “And then there was that show you put on. What man in his right mind would
stop that?”

“We’ll never know, will we?”

The deep grumble of sound he made might have been a chuckle, she wasn’t sure. She
was too busy feeling his body move under hers. “Since you know I won’t run, can we
get off the floor?”

His finger traced a lazy pattern along the vein in her neck. “The floor’s not so bad,
ange
.”

Erin’s blood warmed and seemed to pool low in her belly. “Let me up,” she said roughly,
not caring what he saw, what he knew he was making her feel.

He released her neck, but when she moved to slide off, he held her captive again with
one finger to her chin. “This time.”

Careful not to hit his wounded hip, she lifted herself off him and scooted several
feet away before standing and moving to a small, overstuffed chair.

Facing him now, she sat down and braced her elbows on her knees. “Let’s get one thing
straight up front. I’m here to do research on a project I’ve dedicated most of my
life to. Not to indulge in some steamy bayou affair with the local parish stud.”

“And here I thought my reputation had spread statewide.”

His tone told her he wasn’t the least bit intimidated by her words. But he didn’t
bother to deny the proposition
he’d clearly made. Hell, he was a living, breathing proposition just lying there doing
nothing.

She barged ahead. “I appreciate your taking me into the bayou. I know you realize
how important your role is in my research. And because of that I’m willing to overlook
being held at gunpoint and having my room invaded.”

“No questions?” Gone was the teasing scoundrel. He looked wary. The predator, sniffing
the air for danger once again.

She squared her shoulders. “Just one.”

“Shoot.”

She glanced at the gun. “Very funny.”

“I aim to amuse,
chèr
.”

I’ll bet you do
, “I’m counting on you to get me in, to be a sort of translator/guide/ambassador.”
She sighed heavily when he quirked his brow at the last part. “You know these people,
right? So they’re used to you.” Her tone clearly said she couldn’t fathom such a thing.
“Are you prepared to do this?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Okay then, we have a deal.”

“That’s it? No more questions about tonight? About this?” He lifted the gun off the
floor.

“Would you answer them honestly?”

“Probably not.”

“Then why bother, right?” Pressing her palms against her knees, she stood. “You’re
not expecting anyone else to crash in here tonight, are you?”

“At this late hour?” The rogue smile returned. “Why that would be so rude,
mon chèr
.”

“Yes, I’m sure your friends, that’s accepting you have any, are all well-mannered
gentlemen.”

“We may not be the classiest bunch, but we know how to treat people right,
ange
.”

“Yeah.” She gestured to his bruised forehead and swollen mouth. “I can see that.”

“Aw,
chèr
, that weren’t nothing but a little barroom brawl between longtime acquaintances.”

“A real fun date, I’m sure,” she said dryly. “All this and live ammo too.”

He chuckled, then winced and held his hand to his mouth. “And here I didn’t plan on
liking you very much.”

She arched one brow. “Yeah, us ethnobotanists are always getting a bad rap.”

“I can see that.”

The quietly spoken words unnerved Erin as nothing else had so far. “Can you point
that thing somewhere else?” she snapped.

Teague looked down at himself, then up at her. “You want to clarify that,
ange?
”

“The gun,” she ground out. “The deal, remember?” Gun or not, she turned her back to
him and poked into her duffel. Dragging out a pair of baggy, ratty sweats, she tossed
them at him. “Here, I imagine they’ll be a bit short, but probably easier to get into
than your jeans.” She nodded to the small pile next to him. “There’s some alcohol
and wet washrags and children’s medicine. That’s the best I could do. Help yourself.
I’ve got to get some sleep. I have an appointment in—” she looked at her watch and
groaned, “four hours.”

Without further hesitation, she stalked to the small wrought-iron bed and drew off
the chenille spread.

“Does this mean I don’t get the bed?”

She climbed under the sheet and turned her back to him. “I believe the tub is still
available.”

“You’re more than kind,
chèr
.”

She rolled to her back and glared at him. “Considering you could be sitting in jail
right now, you’d better believe it. But be warned, I’m still mad about not getting
my cold shower. You owe me for that one.”

“Anytime,
ange
.” The words were too soft, too throaty. “Anytime.”

Teague watched her thump her pillow and rustle under the covers a moment or two, then
she was still. He spent another few minutes watching her breath move evenly in and
out. She fell asleep even more easily than he did. Which, considering where he’d ended
up tonight, really said something.

And just how the hell had he ended up naked in her tub? With a silent groan, he pushed
to a sitting position, then gingerly probed the side of his head. Ti Antoine. The
sneaky bastard. That answered how he’d ended up bloody. The rest was still a bit blurry.

One thing was certain. The stupid fight he’d been suckered into had cost him a very
important meeting. Ti Antoine—all three hundred and twenty-five pounds of him—was
a drunk and a bully, and he didn’t have to be the former to be the latter. But he’d
been plenty drunk that night.

Teague was well aware that Ruby had probably egged him on, taunting him with what
Ti wanted and
sure as hell would never get. But nobody messed with Teague’s waitresses. Not that
Ruby would thank him for his intervention. She preferred to fight her own battles.
God knows she’d wielded that heavy serving platter like an Amazon warrior.

His fingers hit a sore spot and he flinched, then swore under his breath as he mentally
tallied how much two new barstools, three tables, five pool cues, and half a dozen
beer mugs would cost him. Hell, he owned the damn bar. He’d just add it to Ti’s bar
bill. He drank so much he’d never know anyway.

He just hoped Skeeter could set up another drop point. If he missed the next shipment,
he’d be stuck down here for at least another six months, setting up another sting.
If he didn’t get himself killed first.

And lately that had been looking like the better alternative. Hell, who was he kidding?
If it wasn’t for Grand-mère and what he owed her, he’d have stepped in front of a
bullet years ago.

He sighed in frustrated defeat. It had always been family. Twisting him around and
binding him up, when all he’d ever wanted was to be free of them all forever. Something
he’d long ago realized would never happen. Family didn’t go away. It was a life sentence,
no matter how you looked at it.

Like now. After almost a year, it looked as if he was finally going to pull off the
bust, keep Grand-mère clear of the hassle, and once and for all get the hell out of
Louisiana. Nothing and no one could draw him back this time. This would make them
square. Even up whatever
debt he thought he had. They’d always be tied to him, but he sure as hell didn’t have
to live with them.

And now, bingo! Out of the blue, Marshall—who had made a point of never asking Teague
for a damn thing—comes out of nowhere with his baby-sitting request. The last thing
Teague needed was some flower-hunting scientist stomping all over the bayou … and
his operation. But Marsh had made it clear she’d stomp with or without a guide and,
having met her, Teague didn’t doubt his half-brother’s assessment.

Teague slowly rolled to his knees and stood, snagging the sweatpants at the last second
but leaving the towel where it fell. He stayed bent over for some time, certain not
to make the same mistake he had earlier. Passing out again at this point was unacceptable.