“You may think it’s understandable, but I don’t judge others,” she said, trying like hell to control her breathing. He was just so close. His clean scent, and all that naked, heavily inked, heavily muscled skin was making her dizzy. If her legs buckled and she fell, would he catch her? Maybe she should try it and see.
“Come now, Miss Burel. Don’t pretend you didn’t take one look at me, at this,” he pointed to his lip, “and these,” he brushed a hand across his shoulder, “and decide I’m bad news.”
Lucky hand. Lucky, lucky hand. “I’m not going to deny it,” she said primly. “But I think my judgment in this case was right on.”
His eyebrow—the one with the metal—jacked up.
Her eyes locked with his. “You are bad news, Mr. Baptiste.”
“I’ve done nothing to you, Miss Burel.”
Nothing except make me question the direction of my future. Nothing except make me forget again and again why I’m here.
He reached out then, and touched her hair, snagged a piece that had long ago escaped her miserable bun, and wrapped it gently around his index finger. “You have beautiful hair. Feels like silk in my hand.”
“Thank you.” God, what else could she say? Her heart slammed against her ribs.
His eyes narrowed on the crown of her head, at her bun. “I have this irrepressible urge to take it down. I want to see what all that pale gold looks like floating around your face, kissing your neck, playing against the pale skin of your shoulders.”
Her chest tightened. Her breasts and nipples, too. “You mean against the fabric of my shirt.”
He shook his head. “No, Miss Burel. That’s not what I mean.”
Her stomach clenched with awareness, and below her waist, between her unsteady legs, she felt the heat in her sex turn liquid. Her lips parted and she started to pant. The button at her throat once again constricted her breathing, and she touched it with her fingers. Maybe she could undo just one button…
A knock at the door startled them both.
“Dammit.” Growling with true menace, Jean-Baptiste stalked past her.
Genevieve took the opportunity to make a break for her room, for safety, for a place to get her head on straight.
“You get that door,” she called after him. “And I’ll get this one.”
The last thing she heard was a great whoosh of air as Jean-Baptiste hauled back the thickly beveled glass, then snarled at whoever stood on the other side.
He’d put clothes on.
He’d even set the table.
But as he stared across the black marble at Genevieve, all he wanted to do was strip them both bare and take her on top of the china.
She was drinking a beer. That’s all she was doing. But it was the way she was doing it that was making his cock stand up tall and scream for an exit inside his jeans. Her long, pale fingers were wrapped around the bronze, pony neck, and her lips were sealed against the wet rim as she swallowed.
Fuck, he was in trouble.
His cat snarled and spit inside his chest in agreement.
Stay put, you bastard.
Never in million years would he have pegged this female for a beer drinker. Possibly a margarita. Wine, maybe. Shirley Temple, more like.
She looked up then and caught him staring. She gestured to the full plate in front of him with that nearly drained Bayou Bock in her hand. “You’re not eating.”
Very observant, Miss Burel. I’m too busy watching, lusting, and trying to keep my cat caged and my steel prick from exploding.
“I’ll get to it,” he muttered.
“Well, don’t wait until it gets cold,” she admonished. “It’s amazing. Best étouffée I’ve ever had. It was nice of your spy friend to arrange this.” She cocked her head. “Michel, wasn’t it?”
“Something like that,” Jean-Baptiste said, not liking the Suit’s name on her lips. “And he’s not being nice. Males don’t think that way. Pantera males don’t think that way.”
She paused, fork halfway to her mouth. “Really?”
“We stalk, claim and possess, Miss Burel. We’re natural predators. We see something we want, and we go after it.” He stabbed his fork into the center of the catfish and came up with a steaming chunk of white flesh. “He was trying to impress you.”
She looked thoughtful for a moment, then grinned. “Well, if he really wanted to impress me he would’ve had them bring beignets and coffee along with this étouffée.”
“I’ll let him know for next time,” Jean-Baptiste said, then stuffed the fish into his mouth.
“You will?” she asked, slightly taken aback.
“No.”
She laughed. Then took another bite of her food and groaned happily. “What do you think of the catfish? I like it spicy, don’t you?”
Did she have to keep taunting him unknowingly? Christ, he could practically feel the malachite leaching from him. “Just like mama used to make,” he said.
“Really?”
“No.” He glanced up. His face broke into a smile that mirrored hers. Damn, he couldn’t help himself. “She’s not much of a cook. How about yours?”
That smile suddenly died. “She was.” She started picking at her rice.
Shit. “I’m sorry.”
She shook her head. “It’s okay. It’s just me and my Grands now.”
“You live with your grandparents?”
She nodded.
Was that who she was on the phone with? And why did that belief, that hope, fill him with far too much relief?
“Do you live with your family?” she asked.
“No. Haven’t for many, many years.” He took another bite of fish. “They’re Nurturers. Very important. Very brilliant. Very consumed with their work.”
She nodded her understanding. “So no family dinners.”
“Not since I was five.”
She studied him for a moment. “That bothers you, doesn’t it?”
He shrugged. “You know, what kid doesn’t want his family crowded around a table, barking at him to sit up straight, to stop making disgusting noises, eat his peas?”
She laughed. The sound was like fucking church bells. “Most kids don’t want that, Mr. Baptiste. To be bossed around.”
“Sure they do.” He put down his fork. His eyes locked with hers. “They may gripe about it, but they want it. They want the structure and the boundaries and someone to take control so they don’t have to. All that strictness and nitpicking—just means someone loves you enough to give a shit.”
Her mouth fell open, but she didn’t say anything. She just stared at him, her eyes boring a hole in his head.
“What?” he said.
“You.”
His chest squeezed with tension. And maybe the thing beating rapidly inside it, too. “What about me?”
“Never judge a book by its cover?” She shrugged, her eyes glowing a little. “Never again.”
He nodded. “Back atcha, Miss Burel.” He tipped his beer bottle in her direction, and she instantly scooped hers up and gave his a solid clink.
“And who knows?” she said, after taking a quick swig. “Maybe you’ll have it.”
His brows knit together. “Have what?”
“A cub to boss around at the dinner table.”
His gut tightened. “Odds are against it, don’t you think? Fifty years and counting.”
“There’s Ashe.”
“She human.”
“So, go get yourself a human.”
This time, it wasn’t just his gut that tightened. It was every damn part of him. Even his fingers curled around his fork. “I don’t want a human.”