Driven by Fire (11 page)

“Then why is she here?”

“Because Ms. Parker won’t go anywhere without the damned woman. Maybe Soledad is some kind of hostage. That’ll be up to you to find out. I get the sense she’d like nothing more than to get away from all of us, Parker included.”

“Interesting idea. Parker doesn’t look like she could hold anybody hostage, but I bow to your superior judgment. I get the feeling you’re not that anxious to get rid of the woman, and I don’t think it’s just suspicion that’s riding you.”

Ryder growled. “Shut the hell up. The woman annoys the hell out of me.”

“Exactly,” Remy said.

“Almost as much as you annoy me. Someone takes a shot at you, they can have you,” Ryder snapped.

“Oh, I can take care of myself. Why don’t you send the woman who’s sleeping in your bed home to her papa? The Gauthiers can keep her safe.”

“I couldn’t put her in any of the other rooms—I want to keep an eye on her, and I don’t sleep much. I feel better with her in my bed.”

“That’s the truth,” Remy drawled.

“Fuck you. And she refused to go home to her daddy. If I let her out of this place, she’ll end up dead by the end of the day and I won’t come any closer to having answers. There’s at least one person still out there, and if it’s not Parker then she knows who it is.”

“Not your responsibility,” Remy suggested. “If she’s dead the case is closed.” Ryder just gave him a look, and Remy shrugged. “I’m more pragmatic than you are. She’s the wealthy daughter of one of the most corrupt families in this city, and if she’s going to be so damned picky about who she’ll accept help from, then she deserves what she gets.”

“If someone kills her then the case isn’t closed until we know who did it,” Ryder said, part of his attention caught by the information scrolling by the computer. “I’d rather find out the truth about her first.”

“Uh-huh. And exactly where will you be sleeping?”

“Go fuck yourself.” Ryder didn’t bother to look at him, focusing in on the computer screen.

“I’d rather have a partner, thank you. Too bad I’m the only one who will.”

Ryder straightened suddenly, turning to glare at Remy. “You keep the hell away from Parker!”

Remy let out a long-suffering sigh. “Don’t be an idiot. I can recognize when you’ve staked your claim, even if you can’t.”

Ryder decided to ignore that absurdity. As far as he knew she was the enemy and he meant to keep it that way. “Keep away from Soledad too. You’re supposed to be looking out for her, not seducing her. You’ve never had any trouble getting women—just go outside and crook your finger. Don’t mess with the women in this house.”

“Not my style. I never was one for the virginal Madonna type. Parker, on the other hand . . .” His voice trailed off in a laugh as Ryder turned on him. “All right. You have no interest in her, you’re just doing your job. You want me to keep away from her for some unfathomable reason, and I’m willing to do so. Does that make you happy?”

“No,” Ryder growled. “Go away before I decide to throw you out a window.”

“But think of the uproar that would cause. Just be glad you’re not harboring some secret passion for the ‘annoying’ Ms. Parker. That would really complicate matters, and I know how you like things simple and straightforward.”

“They seldom are,” Ryder said, not moving his eyes from the computer screen.

“I’d remember that if I were you,” Remy said, and took his leave before Ryder threw something at him.

It was ridiculous, Ryder thought, giving the computer screen only half his attention now that Remy had left. The life he led wasn’t conducive to affairs, despite Remy’s determination to prove otherwise. Finding a woman to fuck and forget wasn’t as easy as one would think, even in a town as laissez-faire as New Orleans. Certainly he could do as Remy did—walk down St. Charles Street and find half a dozen beautiful women willing to come home with him.

But bringing women into the Garden District house was just too damned dangerous, and he didn’t have an apartment like Remy had, far away from the business, to conduct his affairs.

It was easier to do without. He didn’t trust anyone, and if he needed to, he could always make do with his hand. He wasn’t a man who got lonely, who needed or felt affection, and if he really needed to get fucked he certainly wasn’t going anywhere near a Gauthier with a martyr complex.

And he didn’t need to be wasting his time thinking about her. There was too much on his plate already, and with his usual single-minded determination he dismissed the memory of Jenny Parker and that see-through outfit. He had work to do.

Chapter Ten

It was pitch black, and she was starving. Jenny woke with a start, disoriented, but after a moment she felt her heart rate slow to a reasonable pace. She knew where she was. Dressed in an oversized T-shirt and boxers, she was safely tucked up in Matthew Ryder’s bed.

She knew it was his room, his bed, not because he’d left anything incriminating around. There was nothing personal—no photos, no knickknacks, no shaving kit or used toothbrush in the bathroom with the giant tub. Nevertheless, she knew it was his. She could almost imagine catching the scent of his skin on the soft sheets, though chances were if they’d stripped the bathroom for her, they’d probably changed the sheets. Nevertheless, she felt surrounded by him in the darkness, and for some reason her panic eased.

But not her hunger. She couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten—sometime yesterday morning, and since then she’d been through more excitement than she had in most of her life. Growing up in the Gauthier family had been so restricted that she never had any sense of danger, of violence, even though it had surrounded her, and it wasn’t until she had gone to school in the North that she discovered that real families didn’t include bodyguards and armored cars.

Once she’d returned to New Orleans, she’d done her best to keep her distance from her disinterested family—everyone but Billy—and her father and two other brothers were content to let it be. Women weren’t of much interest in the Gauthier family, and Jenny preferred to keep it that way. Her only hope was that Billy wouldn’t be drawn into the convoluted world of power and crime that was her family’s livelihood. She could face a little personal guilt if she could save him from that incontrovertible fall from grace.

Her stomach growled, wrenching her thoughts back. It was a good thing she hadn’t eaten—she probably would have thrown up at least once.

Her head was hurting, her leg ached, but it was her stomach that was giving her fits. If she didn’t eat something, and soon, she’d start in on Ryder’s feather pillows, and he wouldn’t like that.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and slid down awkwardly. It was higher up than she’d imagined, and her sore leg gave way a little until she caught herself. For some reason she didn’t want to turn on the light. She could see the outline of a window in the darkness, and she went and pulled up the shade, just enough to let in the streetlight and the faint glimmer of the moon overhead. It was cool and eerie and beautiful, a good night for gorgeous vampires to be roaming the streets of New Orleans in search of soul mates.

She laughed. If she weren’t such a goddamn romantic, she wouldn’t be in the state she was now. She wasn’t used to finding men—particularly dangerous strangers—attractive. She must have deliberately chosen a husband who had only a marginal interest in sex—no, that wasn’t true. He had plenty of interest in sex, but with someone else. He’d married her because she was a Gauthier, thinking the family business would set him up, and she’d married him because she was vulnerable and thought the only way to get past her lack of sexual interest was to get used to someone.

She never did.

And now Ryder of all people was stirring up odd feelings, sensitivities, emotions even, when all she should feel was wariness where he was concerned. She had everything to lose, and he wasn’t the kind of man to understand or forgive. Besides, he disliked her as much as she ought to dislike him. And she did dislike him. Except when she thought he was going to kiss her.

Luckily it was simply a matter of stress that was making her so impractical. Whether she wanted him or not, Ryder was unattainable. Besides, he’d be a pain in the ass to deal with on a daily basis, no matter how pretty he was. Those cold blue eyes of his were enough to warn her off. You couldn’t tame a wolf, and she didn’t want to.

Once Soledad was settled she wouldn’t have to see him again, and her common sense would return. She’d find some nice, safe man and forget all about Ryder. Growing up in her family had taught her to keep away from the dangerous ones, and it was a lesson she’d learned well. Which didn’t explain her sudden vulnerability where Ryder was concerned.

Her stomach growled again, loud enough to distract her from her thoughts. Food was a necessity, and she wasn’t about to wait any longer.

The hall was dark and quiet when she stepped out, her bare feet silent on the Oriental carpet. The other doors were closed, and she wondered if Ryder was asleep behind one of them. And she wasn’t going to be thinking about Ryder in bed—the image was far too distracting.

The ancient stairs didn’t even creak as she slipped down them, and once more she was astonished at the renovations this old place had gone through. The second floor was equally deserted, though there were fewer doors. She stopped and stared at the blank wall for a long moment, remembering the sliding bookcase. Was Ryder in there, holed up with a raft of computers?

After a moment she turned away, heading for the final flight of stairs, the broad curving flight that led to first floor. It was very dark down there, and for a moment she hesitated. These old places always came with rumors of ghosts—murdered lovers, abused slaves, Confederate traitors. She reached up and touched the burn mark on the side of her head from the bullet graze. There were a lot more dangerous things than the supernatural, no matter how much she’d like to believe otherwise.

She had no idea where the kitchen was, but logic told her the back of the house. In the old days it would be a separate building, but she doubted that whoever had done such a wonderful job of renovating this place had gone that far in the name of authenticity. All the doors were closed on this hallway as well, including the pocket doors to the main salon. She glanced at the door across the hall, then went over and tried the knob. Locked, of course. She put her ear to the door, listening to the omnipresent whirr of computer fans. What the hell was Ryder doing in this huge old house?

Her stomach rumbled, and she pushed away, starting across the darkened hallway to the back of the house. There had to be a kitchen there—otherwise she’d start eating the wallpaper. She was just moving when something came out of the dark, an arm around her neck, cutting off her breath.

She knew who it was immediately, and she stayed very still, waiting for him to release her. That, or she’d pass out, but she wasn’t strong enough to fight him.

“What are you doing sneaking around here?” Ryder growled in her ear. “What do you think you’ll find?” He gave her a little shake. “Answer me.”

She considered kicking back at him, but she was barefoot and she could hardly do much damage against his shins. She couldn’t make a sound with his strongly muscled arm pressed against her windpipe, and she was considering using her elbows, when the pressure loosened, and she was able to take in huge gulps of air.

“How am I supposed to answer if you’re choking me?” she wheezed.

He released her, spinning her around to face him. The hallway was very dark, and she couldn’t see his face, was only aware of him looming over her. His hands were on her shoulders, gripping tightly, and she’d probably have bruises tomorrow, she thought ruefully.

“Well?” he demanded.

“I was looking for something to eat, you idiot,” she said in a hoarse voice, not particularly worried about calling a lethal weapon names. “I haven’t had anything in more than twenty-four hours and I’m starving.”

There was dead silence from the shadowy figure. Finally he spoke. “All right. Follow me.”

That was the last thing she wanted to do. “Never mind. It can wait . . .”

“If you’re telling the truth and all you came in search of was food, then you may as well eat.”

“Do you remember when we last ate?” she said, her voice caustic. “Of course I’m really hungry.”

He grunted, and she wanted to kick him. He wasn’t giving her much choice though—he still had one iron hand clamped around her wrist and he was pulling her toward the back of the house, through what she should have realized was the logical kitchen door. Light flooded the room, and she blinked, momentarily blinded. And then she got a good look at Ryder.

He was shirtless. She hadn’t noticed that in her uprush of fear when he’d first grabbed her, or she might have fought harder against accompanying him. Of course he was glorious without his shirt on, chiseled abs like some athlete-model. Except for the scars.

He still had a white bandage covering his side, where Doc Gentry had patched him up, but there were other marks as well, ones she hadn’t noticed when he’d stripped off his T-shirt before. There was a long thin scar on his left side, the starburst of what was probably a bullet wound in his shoulder and his arm, and a half a dozen smaller marks.

“Jesus,” she breathed, tactless as always. “Were you tortured or what?”

His eyes narrowed. “Interesting that you recognize the signs of torture,” he said mildly enough, but she wasn’t fooled. Once more she’d said too much, igniting his suspicions.

“I was kidding,” she said, striving for dignity and failing. “You look like you were put through a meat grinder. Either you’re really, really accident prone or . . .”

“Or I’ve been tortured. Shit happens.” He’d released her arm, but now he took a step back toward her, and it took all her self-control not to back up. “Have you ever been tortured?”

He was frightening her. Then again, she always felt that frisson of nervousness when he was close to her, and she hadn’t decided whether it was a justifiable fear or her ridiculous attraction to him.

“Fortunately the life I’ve lived hasn’t been conducive to torture,” she said primly, then hated the tone in her voice. “You said you were going to feed me?”

He watched her for a moment longer, as if he expected to catch her in a lie. But what lie? There was no way he could know what she’d done, and Billy was in Europe somewhere, well out of danger and the disgusting trade he’d accidentally dabbled in. “Peanut butter and jelly or peanut butter and jelly,” he said, opening the refrigerator and pulling out a couple of jars.

“I can hardly decide. Maybe I’ll have peanut butter and jelly,” she drawled.

“Good choice.” He shoved the jars at her. “Bread’s over there”—he jerked his head in the direction—“and knives are in the drawer beside you. Dull knives,” he added.

She opened the drawer. “Dull knives hurt more,” she said.

Again that crazy suspicion on his part. Maybe paranoia was an important part of his makeup, but it was absurd when it came to her. “How do you know that? Experience?”

She gave him a long-suffering glance, accompanied by a world-weary sigh. “Didn’t you ever see Robin Hood? The whole thing about cutting someone’s heart out with a spoon?”

His dark face didn’t lighten. “It’s been done.”

She just stared at him for a moment. “If you’re trying to scare me you’ve succeeded. Now why don’t you go away and let me get my sandwich without hearing about your paranoid fantasies?”

“And what’s my paranoid fantasy?”

“That I’m your enemy, when in fact, whether you like it or not, we’re colleagues.” She began assembling her sandwich. She would have gladly forgone eating if she could get away from him, but he wasn’t about to let that happen. If she could convince him she was no threat, had no secrets, then maybe he’d stop focusing all that intense energy on her and she’d be able to relax.

“Colleagues, are we?” He took the jar of peanut butter from her and proceeded to make his own sandwich. “What makes you think that?”

“We both want what’s best for the victims of the Calliverian trafficking business. We both despise the filthy trade you and your colleagues broke up. We both want to help Soledad. Isn’t that enough?”

“Depends. It’s far from over with. We haven’t cleared up the source
of the victims in Calliveria. There’s still at least one major player in all
this, someone on this side of the world. You strike me as a woman with
secrets. It was very convenient that you happened to show up at the ship just as we were taking down the final defenses. As far as I know there hadn’t been any word out on the scanners. So are you telling
me
it’s sheer luck that brought you there at the right time and place?”

She shrugged, pushing her guilt back. “I have friends in high places who make it their business to keep me well informed.” She stopped as his words sunk in. “Don’t tell me you think
I
have something to do with this wretched business! That you think
I
sold out women and children to be used abominably . . .” Her voice trailed off at the sudden sharpening of his expression.

He looked at her for long moment. “Interesting emphasis on the word
I
. If not you then someone else? Someone you know and are covering for?”

Stupid, stupid, stupid!
She was going to get Billy killed with her own carelessness. She took a breath, thanking God it wasn’t as shaky as she felt. “Don’t be ridiculous. Anyone involved in human trafficking should be shot.” The words came out instinctively, and she almost wished she could bite them back. Everyone should be shot but her baby brother, who had simply made a terrible mistake.

“I’m more for gutting them and letting them suffer, along with child molesters, but the end result is the same.” He was still watching her carefully. “Are you going to eat your sandwich?”

She would choke on it. “I think I lost my appetite.”

For a long moment he said nothing, and his dark blue eyes turned even deeper, almost black, in the shadowy kitchen. He set down his own plate and started toward her, and instinctively she tried to back up, only to come up hard against the kitchen island, the wooden countertop digging into her back. He put his hands on either side of her, trapping her inside the prison of his arms, and he was too damned close to her. She could feel the warmth of his skin, his soft breath on her hair, and she wondered if she stood any chance of shoving him away.

Not likely. She had to be calm, matter-of-fact, not let him know
how much he unnerved her. “Would you back off?” she said caustically.