She held her breath. Watched the ripple of muscle in his jean-clad thighs as he moved with a lazy grace that stole the moisture from her mouth.
This man was walking, talking, bad boy sex and he strolled toward her with a crooked grin that let her know he already had corruption in mind.
Pryor Bernaux had heard the noisy motor before the boat stopped at the dock, but it was the color of fire in the woman’s hair that sent him down the scaffold. She had reddish-blonde hair that sparked in the sun like she’d set her head ablaze. He’d always been a sucker for redheads. He started toward her, grinning in pleasure at the unexpected sight of a beautiful woman.
Then he’d seen her fall.
He started to run toward her, but slowed as he caught a glimpse of the black curse that wrapped her body like a shroud. He narrowed his eyes, looked closer. It would take potent magic to remove this one. It was nothing like the small
cunjas
that locals liked to mess with. No, this was something more. He steeled himself, knowing he’d be in for triple the pain without his brothers there.
Stopping a few feet from her, Pryor assessed the curse. Thick and tenacious, it swathed her entirely, encasing limbs and even her fingers. It was also old, had been gathering strength at least ten years, maybe more. The magic worker had power. A lot of it.
He reached down to help her to her feet and saw blood on her hand. Squatting, he pulled off his sunglasses and reached out to hold her wrist. The blood wasn’t coming from her palm. His gaze locked with surprised, light green eyes. “You came for help with a curse.”
It wasn’t a question, but she nodded. Her wrist felt so damned delicate in his hand, it raised a masculine, protective urge that had little to do with his usual need to break a strong curse. Her eyes stood out, the color of peridot, sharp and fresh against the beauty of her pale skin tone. The woman looked vaguely familiar.
She shifted and winced again. “Can you help with curses?”
“Yes.” He slid his sunglasses back on. “But the person who placed it should remove it.”
She bit her lip. “He died.”
“Well then, guess I’ll have to do what I can. May I?” He let go of her wrist and gestured at her shirt, where blood was soaking the side now at an alarming rate. When she nodded, he gently lifted the hem, revealing a four-inch gash and torn stitches. He touched the feverish, red skin around the wound and grimaced. “How did you get this?”
“A wall, rebar, and the curse.”
“You know what kind of curse?”
She shook her head, long red hair sliding over her shoulders. “My grandmother believes it’s a coffin hex and that Rattrap buried it someplace we’ll never find.” She bit her lip. “But I think maybe it was something more.”
Pryor briefly closed his eyes. She wasn’t the first victim to come to his home from Rattrap Rousalard. She wouldn’t be the last. The old asshole had tapped into potent magic and cursed anyone and everything that got in his way. It had taken he and his brothers days to break one of Rattrap’s generational spells the year before. “It would be better if you came when my brothers were home. The three of us together could work a more powerful reversal spell.” He lowered her shirt and gently tugged on her hands to pull her to her feet. “Old Rousalard cursed lots of things, so no, you’ll probably never find out what it was. Could have been a cherry pit. He was warped.”
“When do you expect your brothers?” She squinted at him, ran her gaze down his chest. Again.
Pryor hadn’t missed her first thorough look and damn, if he didn’t concentrate, his body would start to react. “About a week. But let’s bandage up your back while we talk. I’m Pryor Bernaux, by the way.”
She walked beside him, keeping her gaze on the ground—probably watching for more roots. He could have told her there weren’t any. There hadn’t even been the one she’d tripped over, as of yesterday. “Elita Raisonne.” She stopped and stared up at him. “Does that change your mind on the help?”
“Raisonne, eh?” That was why she looked familiar. He’d met her grandmother, Ninette, once in a Piggly Wiggly. One didn’t easily forget that woman. He started to grin, then remembered that Elita’s mother and aunt had both died in freak accidents. Hell, the Raisonne curse was legend around these parts. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure he could break it, even with his brothers’ help. “I’ll call Mercer and Wyatt and tell them to wrap up their work early and head back. I can drive you home, call when they arrive.”
“Will they come when they hear who I am?”
“Why wouldn’t they?”
She halted mid-stride, her pretty face tightening in confusion. “The brothers before you apparently tried to help my family once. It did lessen the curse for a time.”
Pryor tilted his head, squinted at her. “But it didn’t break it? Interesting.” He’d always heard rumors about the Raisonne curse, remembered hearing his father talk about it when he was a kid. He had, in fact, wondered why the women had never approached them. “We’ll try again then.”
Elita pressed her hand against her back. “Thank you. I really am sorry to just show up like this. The suggestion to come here and the ride with Tooter happened kind of fast. I would have called but I dropped my cell in the swamp.” Her shoulders slumped. “Things have a way of not going to plan with me. Tooter did say he’d come back and get me in a few hours. If you have a bandage, I don’t mind waiting on the pier.”
Pryor grinned. Old Tooter would be back, all right. And he’d be looking for cold beer. He was one of the few who didn’t avoid this part of the swamp at night. Well, close to night anyway. Pryor took her elbow as they closed in on his home. The sudden loud creak of the scaffold just as they passed underneath made him grab Elita and pull her out of the way. She let out a funny squeak as she fell against him, one arm wrapping around his neck, one soft breast pressing against his chest. He lifted her off her feet, skirted the whining scaffold and got her safely inside.
It hadn’t made any noises like that before and he briefly looked over his shoulder as the feeling of another’s presence tickled the hair on the back of his neck. Nothing was there. Nothing he could see anyway.
He set her down in the parlor, knowing she’d be able to see his arousal, but there was nothing he could do about it. He’d been alone on the plantation a long time, having put off his usual trip out of town for feminine company. Elita Raisonne was every inch a tempting beauty with her shapely legs, and curvy hips and breasts. Turning away, he headed toward the downstairs bathroom, where they kept the first aid supplies. “Follow me. We’ll get your back fixed up.”
As he walked down the hall, the indistinguishable whispers of many Bernaux generations began again.
Startled, he stopped, cocked his head, feeling the rumble of emotion building. He touched the wall, and the crackle of energy humming along the surface tickled his fingers. The Bernaux had been silent for years.
He turned and watched the woman’s face, taking in the slide of her gaze right and left, the way she hugged her arms to her chest despite the heat.
She heard the ghosts of his family.
Something only a Bernaux was supposed to do.
Rattled, he continued leading her toward the large downstairs bathroom. Technically, it was on the second floor since the first was mostly a series of brick pillars, but they’d always called this downstairs, because their rooms were even higher. He flipped on the light and glanced around to make sure the bathroom was clean. With three bachelors in the house, they sometimes let a few rooms slip the cleaning noose. A red towel lay crumpled on the floor next to the pair of filthy jeans he’d worn shrimping three days ago. They didn’t smell so great.
Oops.
But the old-fashioned claw foot tub, toilet and sink looked shiny and clean.
After opening the cabinet over the toilet, he pulled down the big, plastic container filled with first aid supplies, then handed her a clean towel. “I’ll wait in the hall if you’d like to pull off the shirt and use this until I can get you a clean T-shirt.” He swiped up the dirty towel and jeans.
He was surprised when she nodded almost absently, clutching the towel to her chest, gaze darting past him and into the hall. Her eyes flared. The hair on the back of his neck stood again, and he glanced over his shoulder but saw nothing. Felt it though. It was like a smear of a nightmare had stood in place long enough to leave an oily residue in the air. He sniffed, frowned and left the bathroom, pulling out his cell phone as he walked down the hall and out of earshot.
“Yeah, whatta you want?”
Mercer’s lazy phone manner never failed to amuse Pryor because his oldest brother used it with everyone—even his investor clients from up north, who probably squirmed with impatience waiting for him to get sentences out.
“One of the Raisonne women showed up here.”
The silence on the other end said a lot. Pryor could practically hear the worry pouring off his brother.
“Don’t even think about it. You wait until Wyatt and I can get home.”
Pryor frowned at the loud whispers coming from the walls, their urgency causing an uncomfortable knot in his gut. “Can’t. It’s bad. It’s one of old Rattrap’s curses.”
Something clattered in the background. “Listen to me. You can’t take on that kind of magic by yourself. Wait for us. I can wrap things up fast and fly in by Wednesday. Can you get her to stay there? Pryor, you can’t turn her down.”
“Of course I won’t turn her down.” Stay here? They never wanted overnight guests. And for good reason.
“I mean it. Do not turn the Raisonne woman down, and don’t let her leave—”
This time, the crashing noise came from the bathroom. When Elita cried out, Pryor hissed, “Gotta go.” He flipped the phone closed on his cursing brother, shoved it into his pocket, and ran to the bathroom. He pushed open the door, ignoring the buzzing phone in his jeans.
The cabinet that held towels and the first aid supplies had crashed to the floor. Elita was in the process of moving the towel she’d held over her breasts to the new cut on her arm where the cabinet must have hit her. Mouth open, he walked to the wall and touched the holes left by the bolts he’d used to anchor that cabinet. Turning back to her, he couldn’t help but notice she had beautiful breasts. Full, round, and tipped by nipples a lighter color than her hair. His mouth went dry.
“Oh crap,” she muttered, yanking the towel back over those breasts. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.
Je préfère les en-cas sucrés
.”
She narrowed her eyes and he had to swallow a chuckle. He could see her mind working a translation.
“That cabinet shouldn’t have come down like that,” he murmured.
She looked down at the floor. “It looks intact. If it’s broken, I’ll get you another. These things are happening so fast now.”
“I don’t care about the cabinet. I do care that it hurt you.” He knelt and rummaged in the spilled items and found the first aid supplies he’d need. “Let’s get you bandaged up. I’ve decided not to wait for my brothers. We need to try a hex reversal spell fast.”
Whispers floated in the air and he wished he could decipher them. There were too many voices, too many emotions. He stared at Elita as she looked toward the hall.
Something about her was raising the ghosts of his home and that wasn’t such a good thing. The Bernaux had suffered through the yellow fever epidemic, then several floods. In every generation, three brothers carried the ability to break curses. But it was a gift that came with a price.
And there was nothing more dangerous than angry dead.
Chap
ter Two
There were too many ghosts in this damned house.
Elita shivered, fear tightening her chest as so many voices uttered words she couldn’t understand. The faint wailing and sobbing that threaded the whispers made her want to run outside. Some of these ghosts had suffered badly enough to carry the pain into death. Shuddering, she held the towel over her breasts, trying to ignore the stinging in both her arm and back now. She’d just peeled off the sweaty T-shirt when the cabinet had toppled over. If she hadn’t jumped out of the way, the heavy monster would have slammed into her head.
She stared into the mirror at the washed out color of her skin, the stark terror in her eyes that stood out against the flowery wallpaper reflected in the mirror. She couldn’t run away like a ninny. If she found a way to end the curse, she could help her cousins. Besides, Pryor fascinated her. She was pretty sure he’d just told her he preferred sweet snacks. She blushed at the thought of him treating her breasts like snacks.
He straightened from gathering spilled supplies off the floor. He took her breath away as she looked up into eyes the color of dark gold. She couldn’t stop herself from looking at the gorgeous, tanned expanse of his chest. The tattoos fascinated her and without considering what she was doing, she reached out to run her finger over the largest one on his smooth chest. It looked like a phantom, the design elegant with flowing, curved lines and realistic shading.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“A weirdling. A being of magic.”
She caught his sudden, narrowed stare and noticed the tic at the side of his sensual lips. “Like you?”
“Like me.” He frowned.
She dropped her hand, embarrassed she’d touched him so intimately. But she had felt like she
had
to touch him. She wanted to keep touching him, and she had to curl her free hand into a fist to stop herself. The other still clutched the towel over her breasts. Her bare breasts. Or sweet snacks, as he’d called them.
“Turn around,” he said, voice low.
She faced the mirror again and watched him as he bent to examine the wound on her back. A rivulet of sweat dripped down his temple and cheek. She glanced at the tub, thought about stepping under a cool stream of water with him, knowing the two of them together would never keep cool for long. Unexpected need swirled heavy in her abdomen, and she had to grip the sink with one hand to keep from turning and touching him way more intimately than she had before. His breath flowed over her back, and she gasped when he pressed something cold to the wound.
“I’ll try to be gentle.”
“Don’t worry. I’m tougher than I look.”
He smiled, causing an intriguing crease to appear in his narrow cheek. “I bet. You’d have to be to carry a Rousalard curse for so long. So, where have you been living?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You’ve lost a lot of the melody of our local language.”
“Massachusetts.”
“And did you think some distance would help?”
Feeling her cheeks heat, Elita nodded. “I know it’s stupid, but we had to try.”
“We?”
“My cousins. Ava and Audrey left too, though Ava has been back a year. Audrey’s in South America looking for a particular shaman.” She gritted her teeth when he pulled the wound together to put a butterfly bandage over it. “Is that what you are? You and your brothers? Shamans?”
He looked up in the mirror, meeting her gaze. “Is that what you’ve heard?”
She lifted one corner of her mouth. “I’ve heard a lot of things about the brothers Bernaux. Most of them aren’t worth repeating.”
He straightened and touched her shoulder, almost as if he couldn’t stop himself. “Tell me.”
She bit her lip, desperately trying not to move into his caress like a complete wanton. “You must have heard some of the rumors.”
“The basin thrives on rumor, didn’t you know?” He turned his attention to her arm, gently cleaning the wound.
“I heard that you and your brothers stand in the swamp during a full moon. All night. Just stand in water that’s up past your thighs. That alligators and snakes won’t bite you. I’ve heard others that are just as strange.”
“What would be the point of standing in the swamp all night?” He taped gauze over the wound, then lifted his hand and rubbed strands of her hair between his fingers.
“I have no idea.” She watched him touch her hair, sucked in a breath at the expression on his face. “Um, do you have that shirt?”
He slowly raised his gaze to meet hers again, and that swirling desire in her gut turned to throbbing, hot knots. They stared at each other and in her imagination, she dropped the towel and slid her naked, aching breasts against his chest. She traced his intertwined tattoos. She reached into the low waist of those faded jeans and—
She broke those thoughts off immediately, knowing her face had to look like she’d set it on fire. Damned pale skin showed blushes like she painted them on with a paintbrush.
His eyes widened, as if he could read her mind, his nostrils flared and he took two steps back. “Shirt. I’ll get it. Now.” His cell phone picked that moment to vibrate and he jumped, before shooting her another crooked grin as he pulled it out of his pocket.
When he left, Elita tried to remember how to breathe. Every part of her body burned. Her breasts actually ached, and she wanted that man on top of her or under her…or most of all, inside her. She clenched her thighs, shocked at her powerful arousal.
He felt it too. She could tell.
She didn’t usually react to men like this. Not this hard and this fast. It made her dizzy.
She felt eyes on her and looked down to find a Siberian husky sitting in the doorway. Poor thing looked like he’d been through hell, was covered in scars and missing a tail. He also had two different colored eyes. One brown, one ice blue.
“Don’t mind Moochon. He likes pretty ladies just fine.”
A blue T-shirt appeared in the doorway, followed by the smile she was beginning to think might be a big part of this magic he was supposed to wield so well. She managed to repress the shiver of awareness it caused as she reached for the shirt. “Thanks.” Smirking, she clutched it to her body and eyed the dog Pryor had named Nub. She was such a sucker for a sense of humor.
“While you change, I’ll get us some iced tea. Just turn left and follow the hall all the way. It spills into the kitchen.”
She nodded, watched the door close, then eyed the sweaty bra she’d pulled off with her shirt, shuddering at the thought of putting it back on. Her top had soaked up enough blood to transfer it to the white back strap. Hoping his shirt would be roomy enough to hide the fact she wore no bra, she hurriedly pulled the T-shirt on. The short sleeves hit her mid elbow and the shoulders sagged an inch or two below her own, but it was soft, dry, and it smelled good. Like morning sunshine.
After splashing a little cold water on her face, she stuffed her bra into her short’s pocket, and followed his directions. She slowly walked the hall, taking in the family photographs that covered every available surface.
Quite a few were black and white, and after about ten feet, she stopped and stepped close to peer at the small photos. Looked like every generation had three brothers and in each full family portrait, there was a brother who looked eerily like Pryor. A knot formed in her chest, and she put her hand under her breast, trying to calm the sudden eerie awareness that she stood in a house with more history, and from the expressions on their faces, more family suffering, than seemed fair.
“That was our father.”
Elita jumped when Pryor’s hand moved past her head to point to the man she’d been staring at. “He looks just like you.”
“Wait until you meet Mercer and Wyatt. They look like our uncles. In every generation, there have been three boys born to one brother.”
“You must have strong family genes.” She turned toward him, accepted the tall, cold glass of iced tea.
“We do.”
“So, where’s the rest of your family then?” She waved a hand over the walls. “With this many people and this big house, I would have expected a houseful.”
This time, he didn’t grin, just offered a small, sad smile, one that tore into her heart because it reminded her so much of her Ma’man’s expression when she was thinking of her daughters.
“We have a few cousins left but they moved away from the area years ago. The rest haven’t made it through various disasters—health and weather. It’s just Mercer, Wyatt and me now. I’m here most of the time. They run their businesses from here, but go out of town once a month.”
“So you stay here and paint the outside of the house?”
“That and a few other things.”
She sipped the tea, and smiled when she found it didn’t taste like the usual sugar water tea folks preferred around here. It was lightly sweet, just the way she liked it. She switched the glass to her other hand and wiped the now wet one on her shorts. “So you don’t want to wait for your brothers to try and break this curse?”
He shook his head. “We’ll try one on our own, but it’s possible it won’t work without them.”
“Thank you. For helping me.” She crossed her fingers behind her thigh before sending out a silent wish that her accidents didn’t hurt this gorgeous old home or the even more striking man about to help her.
“You’re welcome. Come into the kitchen.” He suddenly chuckled, a low sexy sound that made her shiver.
“What?” she asked.
“We’ll try a hex breaker that doesn’t require nakedness first.”
She choked on a sip of tea. “First?”
He threw her a heavy-lidded glance over his tattooed shoulder. “Yeah. First.”
Pryor led her into the kitchen and opened the back door to let Moochon out. The screen squeaked and he grimaced. Needed to fix that. He turned and smiled when her mouth fell open as she took in their crazy kitchen. Crazy, because it held all the modern luxuries of a new house, while the rest of their home reeked with outdated décor.
“Wyatt designed it,” he said.
She turned a full circle. “I could live in here.” She walked to the six-foot island in the middle of the room, set down her tea, and ran her hands over the dark granite counter top. “This thing has an indoor grill.” She leaned over, twisted her neck to look up. “Nice big ventilation hood.”
He nodded, trying not to eye her pretty, round backside in that position. He failed. “Wyatt designs kitchens and needed pictures for his website. It’s ridiculous, really, since we don’t cook much. Don’t even have all the cabinets filled.” He pointed toward a hallway next to the refrigerator. “We built a room down that hall and off the house a bit. It has all the supplies we’ll need for the reversal spell.”
She followed him, mumbling about how fast she’d have the cabinets filled before she broke off, her gaze going around the new area. He wondered what she thought about what Wyatt had dubbed the woo woo room. It was the size of a small bedroom and the walls were lined with cabinets and shelves filled with jars of herbs and other supplies. One entire shelf held a collection of old oil lamps and other crap collected over the years. It was really kind of a jumbled mess. Except for the clear top of the table he’d built and stored in here. Their washer and dryer were in this room too, so he walked toward the pile of clean, unfolded clothes on the top of the dryer.
“This table doesn’t seem to belong here.”
He turned to find Elita running her hand along the top of it. He smiled. “It doesn’t. I moved it in here temporarily after I finished it. Well, it was supposed to be temporary, but it has just the right height for mixing spells, so it might stay.”
“It’s lovely. Rustic. You made it?”
He nodded. “It’s a reclaimed barn wood table. I like recycling from old homes and barns. Some of the most beautiful wood comes from them.”
“It would be a shame to mess up this surface.” She turned, her eyebrow lifting as she took in the recliner and neck-grooved sink. “Who’s the beautician?”
“Head washes work on a lot of spells, so we installed this to make them easier.” He grabbed a black T-shirt and pulled it on, thinking it would be better if he touched her while fully clothed. Then he plucked a bottle of conditioner off the shelf and poured a generous amount into a bowl. He added a lot of salt, enough to make a thick paste then poured in a few oils, leaving his favorite for last because he loved the fragrance of rosemary.
“What do I do? Wash my hair with that?”
He shook his head. “You could, but I’m the one with the magic, remember?”
“So, I lie back and you rub that into my hair?”
“I have to make sure your scalp is completely covered as the magic flows from my hands. When I’m sure it’s everywhere, we let it sit. It won’t be comfortable, but twenty minutes or so should do it.”
She nodded, bit her lip. His big shirt draped her body like a shroud, emphasizing how much smaller she was. Small, but wonderfully curvy. He liked her wearing his clothes. Really liked it. And it was that, rather than the knowledge that she wore no bra, that made his body stir. He turned from her and willed the ridge in his jeans down. Last thing she needed was him poking her with that in the salon recliner.
She winced when she stretched out onto her back.
“You can turn on your side. I’ll keep the water out of your face.”
She shook her head. “No, I’m fine. It’s just that first touch, you know?”
In that chair, there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about her seeing his physical reaction to her. Her face was level with his problem and the image of her turning her head and unbuttoning his jeans nearly sent him to his knees.
Down, boy. Apparently, it’s been a little too long since you got laid.
Knowing that touching her was going to hurt his self-control, Pryor filled his hands with the mix and leaned over her to thread his fingers into her wet hair. He held his breath as he massaged it in deep, making sure to cover every centimeter of her scalp, then he nearly groaned when she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. Magic tingled in his forearms, traveled through his hands and into his fingers before sliding into her. He had to close his eyes for a second as the intensity, the heat, flowed through them. He’d done this for many people in the past and never, ever, had his magic felt like flat out sex. On his side anyway. Unfortunately, it sometimes affected those under his hands. His gaze locked on her soft, full lips.