And the piercings.
Air seemed to gather in her lungs and stay there. Her mouth was uncomfortably dry. She couldn’t stop staring. At the metal barbell poking through his left eyebrow, and the two thin, silver rings fastened to his lower lip.
Besides the individual black birth markings each Pantera had, she’d never seen anything like this on their males. She wanted to rush at him, place her hands on the skin of his neck and trace the colored lines, inspect them, study them. But instead, she backed up toward the closed front door, protective not for herself but for the two vulnerable Pantera inside. Was this indeed the Nurturer, Jean-Baptiste, who Raphael had assigned her to? Or someone else? Someone who wished her harm? After all, the Wildlands had been infiltrated, and everyone was being cautious.
That eyebrow with the metal lifted. “Raphael told you I was coming.”
It wasn’t a question. She suspected he wasn’t the type who asked a lot of questions. At least she knew he wasn’t the enemy. Not the kind she needed to be worried about anyway.
She stuck out her hand. “I’m Genevieve Burel.”
He didn’t touch her, just glanced at her hand, then dragged his gaze back up to her face. “I know.”
Heat warmed her cheeks at his slow and obvious perusal. Males didn’t look her over this way. Inspect her. At least if they did, she’d never noticed it before.
“Right.” She dropped her hand. “And you’re—”
“Jean-Baptiste,” he finished for her.
“Yes. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Baptiste.”
A brief flicker of what she believed to be amusement crossed his features. “You sure about that?”
“Pardon me?” His tongue had darted out and swiped at the twin rings of silver on his bottom lip. Her mouth filled with saliva and she gripped the strap of her overnight bag until her knuckles turned white. What the hell was going on with her? She’d never felt so flustered in her life.
This is not acceptable. For a Suit, a Pantera or a female. But especially not for a disciple of the elders.
“I’m asking,” he pushed away from the porch railing and moved toward her with sensual, cat-like grace, “if you’re sure it’s nice to meet me. Because frankly, Miss Burel, your face and body language scream the opposite.”
Body language? She touched the pearl buttons at her throat, and tried to control the sudden outbreak of sweat under her arms. Lord, this was three shades of irritating. “I assure you, Mr. Baptiste,” she said, clearing her throat. “My body does not scream.” Wait. Did that come out right?
His eyes narrowed. “That’s too bad.”
No. It hadn’t.
“What I mean to say is that I’m focused on our mission.” She cleared her throat again and tried to look him directly in the eye without her legs feeling funny. “Getting in and getting out.” Oh Christ, that wasn’t much better.
His eyebrow—the one with the metal barbell through it—raised a good quarter inch.
They needed to go, leave her porch, the Wildlands, get to New Orleans, complete their task, bring it back to Raphael, and never have contact again. Or at least never speak to each other again. Never look at each other again. Specifically her looking at him. And at that mouth. Those tattoos. Wondering where they disappeared to. How far down they traveled—
“Ready?” he said, interrupting her thoughts. Her incredibly inappropriate thoughts.
“Absolutely,” she said, wishing she could slap her own face without it looking odd, and possibly a little insane. “Shall we shift?” she asked, moving past him and down the steps. God, he smelled good. Leather and something completely indescribable, yet almost debilitatingly mouthwatering. “At least until we hit the border. I know the magic will refuse us once we’re on human soil.”
“We’re not heading to New Orleans on foot, Miss Burel,” he said, suddenly appearing beside her. “That would take too long. And I want this trip over as quickly as possible.”
She made the mistake of turning to face him again. The sun had set completely now, and twilight ruled lavender and gray around them. The evening bayou breeze moved through his shoulder-length dark hair, batting at his dark, fearsome face. As petite as she was, Genevieve had never felt intimidated by anyone in her life. She was a strong, hard-nosed female who dealt in reality, who knew what she wanted and went after it. The fears and insecurities of her heart never made it past their respective barriers. But under this male’s imperious, scrutinizing, sexually-fierce gaze, she felt like a small, tasty woodland creature who knew she was on borrowed time if she remained out in the open.
“If we’re not running,” she said finally. “How do you propose we get there? Did your voodoun acquaintance arm you with a generous supply of fairy dust or something?”
His eyes flashed with heat under the cool light of the bayou moon. “No fairy dust, Miss Burel. Just a ride.”
Genevieve’s legs threatened to buckle at his words—no, just that one word—and her mouth opened but nothing came out. Struck dumb by a great, inked-up beast of a Pantera male. She’d never been so ashamed of herself.
With a slash of a grin, Jean-Baptiste turned and started down the path. “Come along, Miss Burel. I promise I won’t go any faster than you can handle.”
Chapter 2
The female beside him would be smoking hot if it weren’t for all the buttons, zippers and pins, Jean-Baptiste mused, racing down Route 90, his cat eyes stunningly sharp in the dark. Sitting bone-straight in the passenger’s seat of his 1967 Jaguar Roadster convertible, her milky white fingers splayed on her wrinkle-free lap, the small, fantastically curved, wondrously-busted Suit was the very picture of prickly put-togetherness.
Except for all that honey blond hair trying to escape the confines of an overly tight bun.
Fuck, he hoped the bun lost.
“Too fast for you, Miss Burel?” he called over the breeze.
“Not at all, Mr. Baptiste,” she returned, her eyes forward, her expression tight.
“What about for your cat?”
“She’s also quite content.”
She. Jean-Baptiste’s brows shot together, and his fingers wrapped around the steering wheel just a hair tighter. He’d never heard a Pantera refer to their cat as he or she before, and damn if it wasn’t intriguing as hell.
“Do many Pantera have cars outside the Wildlands?” she asked, her eyes on the road in front of them.
“There are a few of us.”
“Us?”
“Car enthusiasts. We like to buy and restore. Keep them in private garages in and around La Pierre.” He touched the dash. “This one was a real piece of shit when I took her on.”