Part 2 (1/2)

Tessa had opened the door slowly, quietly, cracking it a brief margin and peering into the living room and beyond. She had seen Rene on the couch with a mostly empty bottle of whiskey on the table in front of him. He'd gone out earlier after they'd checked into the room, and now she knew why. He'd been buying booze.

He's drunk. Terrific. Just what I need, she'd thought, tempted yet again to call Brandon and Lina and ask if they had room in their car for her.

”h.e.l.lo?” the woman on the phone said again.

Rene had pulled the tails of his s.h.i.+rt loose from his jeans and sat with it unb.u.t.toned so it lay open, revealing his chest. Even from her vantage, Tessa could see he was hard-cut with muscles, his stomach chiseled above his waistband.

He wasn't an unattractive man; quite the opposite, in fact-and that was probably the most aggravating thing about him. He'd told her once he was in his fifties, but he looked only in his late twenties or early thirties. d.a.m.n near perfect when it came to physique, he had broad shoulders, a slim waist, long legs and strong arms. With caramel-brown eyes, sharp brows, high cheeks and angular features, Rene was handsome in a rugged, if not somewhat disheveled sort of way. He seemed content to let a day or two-or even three-lapse in between shaving, and his idea of styling his dark, sandy blond hair appeared to be simply running his fingers through it and letting the wind take care of the rest-a far cry from the men of the Brethren.

Tessa had never seen her husband, Martin, for example, in anything besides collared s.h.i.+rts and ties, no matter how hot the weather might be. The only exceptions to this seeming rule had been the nights he'd come to her for s.e.x, stealing into the small bedroom at the Davenant great house that Tessa had shared with her cousin Alexandra, who was also one of Martin's wives. Then he'd wear only a silk bathrobe, or at least that's what Tessa had a.s.sumed based on the whispering sound of the fabric swis.h.i.+ng against his legs as he moved. It was hard to tell anything else because she'd never open her eyes, never even move, not until he had finished and left her as wordlessly as he'd arrived.

Unlike Martin, Rene seemed to have a never-ending barrage of things to say. And he smelled good, too; another distraction Tessa found irritating.When the woman on the other end of the line hung up, Rene had dropped the phone with one hand and-to Tessa's surprise- raised a pistol to his head with the other. He'd closed his eyes and folded his finger against the trigger like he seriously meant to plug a bullet into his skull, and Tessa had panicked, her heart hammering in a sudden, frightened cadence. He may have been an a.s.shole, and she may have pretty much officially hated him as of that afternoon, but that didn't mean she wanted to watch him shoot himself. She'd bolted from the bedroom.

And the rest, as they say, is history, she thought, sitting on the bed again, her body still feeling tremulous and electrified in the aftermath of his touch. The scruff of his unkempt beard stubble had sc.r.a.ped against her cheek when he'd murmured in her ear and her flesh there still felt sensitive, nearly raw from the friction. She could still recall the sensation of his hand against her skin, his palm sliding along her thigh toward her b.u.t.tock. She could still smell him, the light, musky, pleasant fragrance of his cologne trapped and lingering in her robe. He'd almost kissed her. And she'd almost let him. Almost.

What the h.e.l.l is wrong with me?

Chapter Three.

The next morning, neither Rene nor Tessa said a word to each other, not even as they knocked elbows changing places in front of the hotel's cramped bathroom to brush their teeth. While Tessa showered and dressed-taking in excess of well over an hour- Rene sat on the couch, leaning his aching head back and keeping the heels of his hands pressed lightly over his eyes. He didn't get a hangover often, a lucky benefit of his Brethren birthright. The Brethren healed quickly, seldom fell ill and aged very slowly, all attributes he'd seemed to inherit, in spite of the fact his mother had been human. But he'd drunk heavily the night before, even heavier than usual for him, and he was paying for it that morning.

I suppose Mrs. Davenant would say I had this coming, he thought, listening as the water shut off-finally-from the bathroom.

”Did you prune in there?” he called, and was immediately sorry he had. Even the sound of his own voice ripped through him, making his poor skull throb.

”No.” The bathroom door opened and Tessa breezed out, a white towel piled atop her head, another wrapped around her slender torso. He had a momentary but appreciative glance at the coltish length of her legs and the way the terry cloth hugged the contours of her a.s.s beneath, and then she ducked into the bedroom and slammed the door behind her.

Which only rekindled the pain in his head.

”Please don't do that again,” he groaned. He'd come to that morning lying on his belly on the couch, the nasty flavors of bile and bourbon thick in his mouth. He discovered that he'd vomited at some point overnight in a nearby plastic garbage can. His pistol lay across the room, his cell phone on the floor by the sofa and the photograph of him and Irene on their wedding day in 1970 on the coffee table in front of him.

Jesus.

He retrieved his phone and flipped it open, thumbing to the last number dialed. He didn't need to see more than the 415 area code to realize what he'd done.

”Viens m'enculer,” he muttered. f.u.c.k me. In a world with caller ID pretty much standard in every household, the last thing he needed to be doing was getting wasted and calling his ex-wife. At least his cell phone number was unlisted so she wouldn't know it was him.

He had a dim recollection of having called her-only to sit there, as mute as Brandon, unable to summon the b.a.l.l.s or voice to talk to her-and of putting the pistol to his head. Whether or not he would have pulled the trigger had Tessa not come tearing across the room, he didn't know.

He also vaguely remembered pinning Tessa down against the couch just long enough to get a ma.s.sive hard-on from the proximity.

What the h.e.l.l is wrong with me?The urge to kill himself had come off and on over the years. He'd served in the Army in the late sixties and had done a tour of duty in Vietnam; the horrors he'd seen there had plagued his mind for a long time afterward-had been part of the reason Irene had ultimately left him, in fact-and still haunted him even now. The previous year, he'd lost his leg, ending what had, to that point, proven to be an enjoyable, burgeoning career as a police officer, and his inclinations toward suicide had been rather persistent ever since. Every time he'd somehow been able to talk himself down from the proverbial ledge, but he supposed there might come a day when even his own voice of reason would fail.

He groaned again as he rose to his feet. He wasn't accustomed to sleeping in his prosthetic leg, and the entire right side of his body felt stiff and sore as a result. For some reason, he felt uncomfortable removing the limb when Tessa was around. It wasn't as though she didn't know about it, because she did, but he still felt self-conscious anyway, like she would look at him differently, think about him differently, if she saw him without it strapped in place.

But why would I give a s.h.i.+t anyway?

He'd seen it before, the looks people would give him-women in particular-a mix of pity, curiosity and disgust. The same kinds of looks people in Thibodaux used to give him: Look at that poor, filthy little white trash boy.

Only now, the looks more conveyed: Half a man. Look at that poor thing-he's only half a man.

He fished through his duffel bag until he found the battery charger for his computerized artificial knee and frowned when he plugged it in and realized he was due for a recharge.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, he told himself. The battery needed regular charging and optimally that should have been done overnight with the leg removed, if he meant to go several days without fooling with it again. Normally, the knee would vibrate if it was extremely low on power. It wasn't to that point yet, thankfully, and he'd be able to get away with a quick fifteen-minute charge to get him through the day, maybe more if he kept it plugged in longer.

And with as long as it takes Tessa to get ready that shouldn't be a problem.

The prosthetic was d.a.m.n near something out of Star Trek as far as he was concerned. It had cost close to $50,000 to be custom- built, and in the little more than a year since he'd had it, he'd endured countless adjustments, refittings and visits to his prosthetist's office. The knee joint boasted microprocessor-controlled hydraulics that allowed Rene to enjoy a relatively natural gait and to pursue most any physical activity he wanted. With the press of a b.u.t.ton on a small remote control he kept tucked in the hip pocket of his jeans, he could even s.h.i.+ft the hydraulic mode to compensate for more vigorous activities like stair climbing or jogging. Not that he had very often, if at all.

That's why G.o.d made elevators and sports cars.

Through an interlocking framework, the knee connected to a padded sheath that supported his thigh and allowed for a seminatural contour beneath his pant leg, held in place with a silicone sock he wore over his stump. His foot was thin and flexible, designed for athletes, even though Rene had never put it to that sort of durability test. He had a foam latex cover that he could use if he chose to cover the foot and pylon calf and make them look more like flesh and bone, but most of the time, he didn't bother. He felt more self-conscious trying to disguise the leg into looking lifelike than simply leaving it alone.

Sometimes he still suffered from what his doctors had termed phantom sensations, the peculiar and annoying feeling that his missing leg was somehow still there-and worse, that it was either c.o.c.ked at an unnatural and uncomfortable angle, or aching him.

His physical therapist had worked with him on muscle techniques he could use to relieve these bizarre sensations, and although they didn't prevent them, it did help somewhat. Drugs also didn't hurt; Rene usually kept an a.s.sortment of prescription pharmaceuticals on hand in keeping with both the old Boy Scout motto-be prepared-and Timothy Leary's sage advice: turn on, tune in, drop out.

Although he couldn't just get up each morning and go anymore, as long as he kept the battery in his knee joint charged, Rene was able to do just about everything he had prior to his amputation. He'd trained himself to drive without any special accommodations, such as the installation of a left-side accelerator, and had simply learned how to operate the gas and brakes with his left foot instead. It had felt awkward at first, but now was pretty much second nature to him, something he didn't even lend much thought to. While his knee charged, Rene went through his daily routine of inspecting his stump and dusting it with powder before returning the silicone sleeve in place. He kept an anxious eye on the closed bedroom door the entire time. He knew he shouldn't give a s.h.i.+t; if Tessa saw the leg, then she saw it, and big f.u.c.king deal, but at the same time that stubborn hint of pride remained. He'd had his share of pity and didn't need anymore-especially from Tessa.

He'd often wondered if his accelerated healing ability would have corrected the damage done to his knee when he'd been shot.

When he'd been in Vietnam, he'd been wounded in the gut, d.a.m.n near eviscerating him. He'd fed shortly thereafter-for the first time, in fact-and had been taken by medevac to an Army hospital where he'd healed in a matter of weeks without as much as a hint of scarring. He supposed the knee might have fared as well, but human doctors didn't understand such things as bloodl.u.s.t or a heightened metabolism. They'd seen a brutally damaged joint and done the only thing they'd thought viable. He couldn't blame them for that, and didn't.

Much.

An hour and a half later, they loaded their belongings into the car and walked to a small diner adjacent to the motel. As Rene stirred powdered creamer into a steaming cup of desperately needed coffee, he glanced at Tessa. ”I'm going to start calling you Posh.”

She looked up from the laminated menu and frowned. ”What?”

”Posh,” he said again, tapping his forefinger in the air to indicate the salmon-colored, sleeveless blouse she wore over a pair of white capris. He hadn't let her grab her bags from her husband's car before hitting the road for New Orleans, and she'd apparently taken this as an open invitation to spend a small fortune at the boutiques in the French Quarter. He was willing to bet she hadn't paid anything less than $150 for the s.h.i.+rt. ”As in Posh Spice. Do you own anything with a sticker price that wouldn't feed a small family for the better part of a week?”

Her frown deepened. ”If you had let me get my things, you might have found out.”

”I probably would have needed to rent a U-Haul trailer,” Rene remarked, taking a long swig of coffee.

”And you're a fine one to talk anyway,” Tessa said. ”Do you have any cars that didn't cost you an arm and a leg?”

He shook his head. ”No. Just a leg.”

Her eyes grew round and her hand darted to her mouth. She looked so comical, so utterly and absolutely mortified, that Rene laughed, choking on his coffee and nearly spraying it out his nose.

The waitress, a cute young thing with blond hair and perky b.r.e.a.s.t.s named Dee, approached their table. ”Is the coffee all right?” she asked, her pretty face scrunching up with momentary worry.