She looked around her, shocked that Whitney could get anyone to leave such a beautiful home to work for him. The structure had probably started out as a more traditional frame house one and a half stories, with a covered porch or galerie raised on pillars to keep the sill from the soggy ground. The Fontenot farm had a frontage on the bayou to ensure travel on the waterways as well as harvesting the waters. They had plenty of woods for hunting and harvesting trees as well as fields for growing what they needed to survive. From the looks of the house, they’d done well.
She crept down the hall to the long staircase, studying the layout below her as she went. How had Whitney lured someone like Gator Fontenot into his world of deceit and treachery? This was a home filled with love. She could tell by the pictures of laughing faces. Someone, most likely the woman asleep in the upstairs bedroom, quilted and wove cotton for material. There were beautiful home-crafted items throughout the house, items fashioned with care to detail. Something none of the girls Whitney had experimented on had ever known.
No wonder they were all so dysfunctional-they hadn’t grown up in a nice family environment with a sweet old lady to cook them breakfast every morning like this one. What had gone wrong with Gator? What would make him trade all that to work for Whitney? A flash of anger curled through her and she felt the house shift ever so slightly. Forcing air through her lungs, she continued moving, trying to think of other things.
She flashed the small penlight on the pictures above the stairs. Little boys smiled out at her, surrounding an older woman who looked both proud and stern. As Flame moved down the stairs, the boys became older, barefoot teens with alligators and fish, the same silly grins of their faces. She recognized Gator. He seemed the oldest of the brothers with their mops of black, curly hair and bright eyes.
At the bottom of the stairs was a chest with a marriage quilt thrown over the top of it. Three more chests stood in a row, each covered with a marriage quilt. In spite of the gravity of the situation, Flame found herself smiling. Someone was trying to not so subtly tell the boys something. It was amazing to think that families like this really did exist and Gator had been lucky enough to grow up in one. The knowledge made her angrier at him. It seemed a betrayal, taunting her with the very thing she had craved all her life. She fought back her rising temper. Maybe whoever raised him should have given him a swift kick. It wasn’t too late to administer one and she was the woman to do it.
She found him in the second bedroom, sound asleep, his hand on the seat of her motorcycle where it was parked only inches from his bed. Sliding a knife from the scabbard hidden in her boot, she positioned herself above his head, crouched against the wall so that her breath stirred the waves in his hair as she placed the blade against his throat with exquisite gentleness.
He woke instantly, completely alert, danger flooding the room, expanding the walls. Even the floorboards creaked as if disturbed, but he never moved a muscle.
“Cher. How nice to see you again.”
“You stole my bike.”
“I saved your pretty little ass is what I did.”
She felt the ripple of his muscles, actually felt it, tension was so strong in the room, yet she wasn’t actually touching his skin. He was far more dangerous than she’d given him credit for and her senses went on heightened alert. “Don’t move, Wyatt. I wouldn’t want to accidentally cut your throat and this blade is sharp.”
“Don’ go makin’ a mistake, cher, I’m Raoul, not Wyatt and I wouldn’t take kindly to you messin’ with my lil brother.”
His tone was light, cheerful even, but she caught the edge of something lethal buried deep. Raoul Fontenot wanted people to think he was Mr. Charm, but his easy laughter hid something deadly, something only waiting for the right trigger. Her heart kicked into high gear, pounding hard with the knowledge she had a tiger by the tail.
“All I want is what belongs to me, Raoul. I couldn’t care less about you or your brother or the Whitneys. Just remove your hand from my bike and sit up very carefully and won’t have a problem.”
“We already have a problem, cher. You stuck a knife in my throat and I don’ take kindly to that.”
Flame snapped her teeth together. “Stop being unreasonable. It isn’t in your throat, it’s against your throat. I’m not buying the good old boy routine either, you snake. You tell your boss to back off and leave me alone. I’ll never go back there.”
His eyebrow shot up. “Who do you think is my boss?”
“I’m not playing games with you. I know you’re dangerous. You know I am. Let’s not be dumb. I just want my bike and I want to get out of here. I won’t even push your Jeep into the Mississippi. And I’ll leave you the keys. I think that’s a fair trade.”
“The Jeep belongs to Wyatt and he wouldn’t like losing it, but on the other hand, he’s a sucker for a beautiful face.” A slow, melting grin crept over his dark features. “And cher, you have a damned beautiful face.”
Her breath left her lungs in an unexpected rush and wings seemed to flutter lightly against the inside of her belly. The man was lethal. “I also have a very sharp blade and you’re irritating the hell out of me.”
His white teeth flashed at her. “I can hardly believe that. Most women find me charmin’. I think you’re lyin’ to us both, Flame.”
His voice was pitched so low, so sultry, drawling with enough molasses that her insides melted. The reaction to him scared her. She didn’t have those kinds of connections with people-especially not traitors. She despised men like Gator, throwing away everything she would have given her right arm for, just for money or power. Flame sucked in her breath sharply, trying to see him as the enemy when, for some strange reason, her body wanted to see him in a completely different light.
“You’re enhanced.” She made it an accusation. Maybe Whitney had figured out how to heighten sexual magnetism and Gator was the ultimate weapon against women. She gritted her teeth and inwardly vowed resistance.
“So are you.” He shifted enough, careful of the sharp blade against his skin, that he could rest his gaze on her face. “You look tired, cher.”
There was concern in his voice, in the depths of his eyes. Knowledge. Her heart thumped hard again and something close to fear curled in the pit of her stomach. “Don’t you worry about me, Gator. I’m not so tired I can’t slit your throat. Let’s get this done. Sit up slowly.”