Chills & Thrills Paranormal Boxed Set (14 page)

Zach pulled her close, placing her right hand over his
heart. His shirt hung open again, and the firm steel of his muscles gave her a
shock she would have preferred not to identify. But she knew what it was, and a
barely audible sigh left her lips. When Zach's mouth turned up, she was almost
certain he'd heard.

Although the lights had already been low, they seemed dimmer
now, and she felt almost as if they were moving together to the music of an
invisible band. He gently pressed her head against his shoulders, holding her
close, and led her into a waltz of sorts. It felt right being in Zach's arms,
safe again in a way she hadn't felt since they'd explored the bayous together.
She felt one with him, moving as he moved, dipping as he dipped, their thighs
and hips and bellies touching and parting as they rocked and swayed to the
music.

He stroked her hair, lightly, just grazing it, yet his touch
emanated a current that flowed into her scalp, down her spine, ending in a
crackling white-hot ball that lodged low in her body, bringing up a languid
yearning that forced another sigh from her lips.

"What do the words of the song say?" he asked.

"Roughly translated?"

He nodded, and she began to sing along in English.

"'Sweet Lorilee, you smell of honeysuckle'" —her
voice was childlike and slightly off-key, a delight to Zach's ears— "'but
your beauty is greater, far greater, oh, greater. Sweet Lorilee, I miss you
so.'"

As the lyrics unfolded, Zach began to wish he hadn't asked.

"'One black morning I get up . . . and you are . . .
gone.'" Her voice fell behind the band. " 'Sweet Lorilee, why did ...
you go? I . . . loved you so. "

"That's good enough, Liz." He pulled her closer,
aching from the meaning of the song, aching from wanting her. A feather in his
arms, that's what she felt like. She sighed again, and Zach went instantly
hard. Her pelvis brushed against his, and by her responsive shiver, he realized
she knew the effect she was having. He barely contained his groan, then found
he wasn't in a hurry anyway. So sweet, the pain of holding her this way, unable
to do anything but touch and want. And he did want her, no matter how she'd
hurt him, no matter how she'd changed. God help him, he wanted her.

"Back there on the road,
cher
," he
whispered, his lips a hair's breadth from her silky cheek, "when you were
standing in the road, your hair tossed by the wind, all curly and wild, your
eyes sparkling in the moonlight . . ."

"Hmm?" She snuggled closer, which put his lips in contact
with her skin. She smelled so good, sweeter than Lorilee of the sad, sad song.
A light mixture of rose and gardenia mingled with the musky smoke and cypress
scent of Harris's beat-up old jacket. Like the bayou, like Louisiana in bloom,
and Lord, how much he wanted her.

"You looked how you did when we'd paddle my old pirogue
through the backwaters. Things have changed, I understand that, but back there
. . ." He felt her stiffen, knew he should curb his vodka-loosened tongue
right now. ". . . back there, you looked like Izzy again."

She arched her neck to meet his eyes. "But I'm not
Izzy," she said firmly. "I don't want to be Izzy. She's gone and
she's never coming back. Why can't people understand that?"

She wasn't angry, just very stern, and while her reaction
didn't surprise him, he still felt a flash of rage.

"I can see that," he said. "Izzy was warm and
caring. Izzy . . . Izzy would never have let me think she died. Izzy wouldn't
have left me at all." He let go of her, his anger mounting to fury. He
wanted to hurt her, make her ache the way he had for years because of her
omission. "You can't even cry at your mother's funeral, lady, and you take
business calls at her wake. I don't know who you are, but you're sure not Izzy.
It was my mistake thinking you were, one I won't make again."

Liz's arms dropped helplessly to her side. "Zach—"
But he spun and headed for the long wooden bar, leaving Liz in the center of
the floor. The music stopped mid-song.

"You not gonna dance no more?" Harris called from
the stage.

"No," Liz said, feeling like she'd just been
through a blitz.

"Too bad, too bad. You two look good together."

 
Zach's snort of
laughter could be heard across the room.

"Looks can be deceiving," Liz replied, grateful
that the darkness hid her burning cheeks.

"For true, missy, that sure be for true. And a body
gotta be careful. Fool's gold glitters, the ol' shellfish, he got the pearl,
huh?"

The old man was telling her she was misjudging Zach, but she
knew who she was now. And who she wasn't. Zach was all wrong for her, and
letting him in her life could—no, it would—expose her. It was too late to look
back, because Izzy Deveraux really was dead. She'd died the day Izzy left Port
Chatre.

"No, no,
cher
, Izzy be much alive."

Liz tilted her head. Had Harris really said that? She'd
rejected her mystical upbringing—it had caused her so much pain. But maybe fate
did sometimes intervene. Was all of this—her mother's death, her return to Port
Chatre, her father's disappearance, and her quest with Zach—simply a means to
finally put her past to rest?

It was all a bit mind-boggling, so she forced a hollow
laugh. "Good words for a song, Harris. Why don't you play it for me?"

That said, she returned to her table.

Harris let out a low chuckle, then went back to strumming
his banjo with the band.

Liz fidgeted in her chair for a while, still feeling a bit
uneasy about the old man's uncanny remark, and also unable to tear her gaze
from Zach. He was slumped over a drink, staring at nothing in particular.
Finally, she got up and went to sit beside him.

"I know I hurt you, Zach. I'm sorry."

He didn't look at her, but he let out a bitter chuckle.
"Hurt? Hurt doesn't begin to describe it." He turned toward her then,
his blue eyes full of ice and fury. "I asked you to be my wife! And you
said, yes! Then you run out on me?"

She touched his arm and he jerked it away. "We were
just kids, too young to make that decision."

"Yeah, well I wasn't. I knew what I wanted and it was
you." He leaned forward suddenly, his face coming within inches of hers,
the edge leaving his voice. "You remember the first time we made love?
Beneath the bleachers, after the game. Magnolia blossoms in the air, and you so
soft and sweet in my arms. God, I knew then I'd never leave you, and I vowed I
never would. Why did you leave me? Why did you let me think you died?" He
let out a scornful laugh. "Hell, you did die. You aren't the same girl I
loved."

 
His voice had broken
several times, and Liz realized what his words were costing him, but she was
too caught up in his unfair accusations to really care.

"I'm sorry, okay? Sorry, sorry, sorry. But I'm also
damned sick of this guilt trip you're laying on me. I am who I am, Zach, and
you're not so perfect yourself." Then a memory, one never completely lost,
flooded back to her. "And you did leave me. You did. After
Grandmere's
funeral, I begged you to take me away. You remember what you said?" She
felt her face twisting with a fury she hadn't known in years. "You said
Richard would take your place in the football game, and you couldn't risk it
because the coach was about to choose a captain. So stop trying to make me feel
guilty!"

"You were nutty that night, talking about
le fantome
noir
and other things you turn your nose up at now! I tried to talk you out
of it, but you didn't listen."

"I talked about what? That's absurd!"

"Absurd?" Zach snorted, spinning to face the bar
and slamming down his fist. "Hey, gargoyle," he shouted, "I need
this damn glass filled!"

The doorman had been drying beer glasses, which looked
ridiculously small in his hands, and now he put down the towel and stormed to
stand in front of Zach.

"What did you say, man?"

Zach glared up at him. "I said fill this damn
glass."

"You called me something."

"Oh that. I called you a gargoyle."

"Zach," Liz cautioned.

He put out a hand to warn her off. "You've got the
ugliest face I've seen in decades. Know what that means, decades? Maybe you
don't even know what gargoyle means."

"I know. I also know you already had too much."
The man reached for Zach's empty glass. Fast as a striking snake, Zach's hand
shot out to stop him. "I said fill it!"

Suddenly, the man had Zach by his collar. "Look,
creep," he snarled. "Maybe you're a friend of Harris's, okay. That
don't give you the right to—"

Liz swung desperately toward the stage, hoping Harris was
watching. She saw
 
he'd put down his
banjo and was signaling the other players to go on without him. He came down
from the stage, amazingly agile for a man his age, and rushed toward the bar.

He arrived just as Zach's fist was about to deliver the
giant a blow that Liz figured would do as much good as punching the side of a
barn.

"Hold on," Harris said quietly, circling his
fingers around Zach's biceps. The giant let go of his collar, and Zach swiveled
on the stool, taking his clenched fist with him. Just as he was about to let it
land, he saw who had him.

"Shit," he said. "Sorry, man." He looked
back at the giant behind the bar. "You, too. I take it back. You don't
have the ugliest face I've seen. I've seen one or two uglier." The giant's
face twisted in rage, confirming Zach's insult in Liz's opinion, but that still
didn't excuse what he'd said.

"I will take care of this
bouffon
, Samuel,"
Harris said. "I apologize for my friend. He drinks too much. Come on,
Zacharie, time you sleep."

"Whadya call me?" Zach asked blurrily. "Whad
he call me, Liz?"

"A fool," she said sharply, "a fool. Which is
better than you deserve."

"You called me a fool?"

Harris only shrugged.

Zach blew out his breath. "Okay, okay, mebbe, just
mebbe, I have had too much."

"
Oui, mon ami
, you have for true. Come sleep
now."

The steam went out of Zach. "Okay, okay." He slid
wearily from the stool, then looked sadly at Liz. "You coulda phoned, you
know, or even wrote a letter."

His eyes bled with pain, and Liz felt the sharp prick of
all-too-familiar guilt. She'd caused his agony, and with the death of her
mother so fresh in her mind, she understood it better than she wanted to.
"We'll talk again," she said softly. "Tomorrow. All right?"

"Guess so." With that, he straightened himself
with as much dignity as possible in his drunken state and followed Harris to a
row of booths against the wall. The older man settled him there and disappeared
for a moment to return with a blanket. Lifting cushions from the barrel chairs
as he moved, he placed them on the bench of the booth. Then, gently, almost
like a father, he helped Zach recline and covered him with the blanket.

After that, he climbed back on the bandstand and launched
into another love song with his whisky-thick voice. Liz returned to the table,
listening to the sad music and aching for Zach. What happened to the optimistic
boy she'd loved as a girl? His future had been so bright, and he'd lived up to
it as far as she could see. But she was also certain his dream for that future
hadn't included three ex-wives, a son he couldn't get close to, and a brother
whose life was cut short by murder.

Some time later, Harris again put down his instrument and
went to the bar. She saw him fill a small mason jar with a dark liquid.

The barrel chair creaked and moaned when he pulled it out to
sink into the soft cushion. "Sounds like my old bones," he said,
putting the glass down in front of Liz. "Drink,
cher
. It make you
feel better."

"I really need to go to bed." She propped her
elbows on the table so she could cradle her chin in her hands. Her eyelids felt
heavy, and so did her heart. "I fix one in the booth soon, but it be
hard
  
sleeping. The drink, it help. You
get that warm stuff in your belly, you nod off like
le bebe
, yes?"

His dark, wrinkled face held such understanding. And those
deep-set, round eyes reflected decades of experience. He'd seen it all, done it
all, forgiven it all. If he said the drink would help, she believed him.

She sipped. "Blackberry brandy, umm, I always did have
a taste for blackberry brandy."

"It taste like what you want it to," he replied.

"Yes," she said, having no idea what he meant. She
took another sip.

The band resumed playing without him, and Liz continued
sipping, sitting with Harris in companionable silence. Relaxation seeped
through her body, and she soon discovered she wasn't sleepy anymore. Sleep
would come, if she wanted, she was sure of that, but her body and heart didn't
ache anymore. After a while, she realized she'd almost drained her glass.

"Could I have another?" she asked, surprised at
how much she wanted it.

"One's enough, Izzy." He hadn't called her that
earlier, but she found she didn't mind. It seemed right coming from Harris. He
looked taller now, his skin firmer, his eyes a bit brighter, as if the passing
of the night had made him younger. Leaning forward, he took her hand.

"You must listen carefully."

She widened her eyes in silent agreement.

"You go into darkness, girl. The time of
le fantome
is come. He have the power now, the fire opal be in his hands. Your papa, he
want to make it right, but he have no guardian by his side, him."

Something told her his words were odd, but Liz paid it no
heed and simply nodded. Right. She understood. The opal had to have a guardian
"Go on."