THE RIGHT SIDE OF THE LAW Page 8

  It was the first, she mused. The first time she had ever lost herself in a man's kiss, to his hot touch. At least, that she remembered.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

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  He wasn't going to mention the kiss. And since she had refused to even look at him since they'd left Lema's, Blu figured it was safe to say the entire episode was going to die a slow death—a very slow death because he was still smoldering from the waist down.

  The kiss had been a way to keep her quiet. He'd acted before he'd thought. No, that wasn't true. He'd been dying to kiss her. Only he'd never expected her to give back the way she had. He'd never expected her to feed the fire that had sent him so quickly out of control.

  "You're sure he didn't follow us?"

  She sounded a little breathless, tired of the pace he'd set. Blu didn't break his stride as he ushered her onto DuBay Pier where the Nightwing rode the gentle tide. "I can't guarantee that. But we're not going to stick around and find out."

  She stopped. "Meaning?"

  Blu spun around. "Meaning, we don't have time for this right now. We're shipping out." He started walking again, hoping she would follow. He'd give her fifteen seconds and then she'd be over his shoulder whether she liked it or not. He heard her start after him. She was smart, he'd give her that. Hell, he'd give her more than that; that little mouth of hers could be the CIA's best secret weapon if they ever found out about it. He'd never experienced so much localized heat storming his groin all at once in his entire life.

  His body hadn't wanted to stop, and even the night air wasn't doing much to settle him down. The sight of Angel dressed in one of Lema's sarongs wasn't helping, either. In the moonlight, even in the wig, she looked like some erotic sea witch he'd pulled from the ocean. But it was over now, and to remind himself of that fact, he noticed she had grown as skittish as a cornered spider crab. With good reason, he admitted. Things had gone too far in that closet, he'd touched her in places he shouldn't have. Hell, fully clothed, he'd damn near made love to her in a two-by-two closet.

  When they reached the cruiser, he hurried aboard, then turned to help her over the side. Only there was no need, she leaped onto the cruiser's deck with seasoned agility, again reminding him that she was no novice where boats were concerned. Not even the red-and-purple, ankle-length sarong affected her deft coordination.

  It made him question himself another time. Did he know her? Was he supposed to? If she had lived in the area three years ago when would he have met her? Where? He studied the sarong and how it outlined her curves. Three years ago she would have been fifteen or sixteen. Seventeen at the oldest.

  While she had changed into the sarong, he'd glimpsed more bruises on her body. He'd agreed to step out of the curtained room, but as she'd turned her back to shed her ruined blouse, he had watched her through the open edge of the curtain. He'd seen dark marks along her fragile rib cage and the length of her spine.

  "Is that you, Blu?"

  The call came from below deck. Blu answered, "It's me. Get on up here, mon ami."

  "Who's that?"

  For the first time since they'd left Lema's, Angel was looking him straight in the eye. "That's Mort," he told her. "He works for me, and sleeps on the cruiser sometimes."

  Mort scaled the stairs two at a time. The teenager was sixteen, as thin as Angel and no more than two inches taller. But the experience that showed brightly in his clear blue eyes made him look much older, and years wiser. "What's up?" he asked.

  "I want you to bunk in with Brodie for a few days." Blu glanced toward the waterfront. There was still no one in sight, but he wasn't willing to take any chances.

  Mort cocked his head and eyed Angel. "Who's she?"

  "Never mind." Blu's voice bit hard as his gaze locked on Mort once more. "Just round up your stuff and take off."

  Mort grinned. "Not a problem. I'll be out of your hair in five minutes." Good at his word, in record time the teenager was back on deck with a small duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

  "Tell Brodie, until he hears from me, he's in charge of the fleet."

  Mort leaped to the dock, then spun around. "Why?"

  "Never mind why. Tell him I might be out as long as a week."

  "A week!" Mort glanced at Angel once more, then back to Blu again. "You've never taken any days off since … since we met."

  "Well, I'm taking some days now."

  It was true his routine for the past eight years had been well established, but Blu didn't question his decision, and he didn't like Mort questioning him, either. "Hightail it so I can shove off."

  Once Mort was gone, Blu turned and found Angel glaring at him. "What?"

  "You were rude to him."

  "We need to get moving." Blu untied the boat from its moorings.

  "Do you always boss people around?"

  "I've never given it much thought." Blu headed for the helm.

  "Well, maybe you should."

  "This is my boat." He turned over the engine. "I'm the boss."

  "You're not the boss of me," she snapped.

  Blu turned to look at her. "At the moment, I'll have to disagree."

  "Because you're bigger and stronger?"

  Blu backed the cruiser away from the pier. "Can we talk about this later? Right now we need to get out of here." With that, he left the pier behind with a burst of speed. "We won't go far," he called over his shoulder, "there's a place at River Bay. It's about a mile from here."

  Ten minutes later, Blu nosed the Nightwing into a congested marina overrun with boats in all shapes and sizes—from sailboats to houseboats to luxury yachts. "There's only a handful of people who would look for me here," he told her, mooring the boat to the dock. "But no one you need to worry about."

  She was at the railing, searching the quiet maze of boats docked around them. "Do you think Salva's man contacted him?" She faced him. "Do you think they're searching for me right now?"

  The growing fear in her eyes was hard to watch. "We can't be sure that guy got a good look at you. But there's no sense taking chances. You'll need to stay out of sight for a while. And this is a good place. Finding someone here is next to impossible, that is unless you know what you're looking for. And they don't." Blu double checked the ropes that secured them to the dock. When he turned back, he caught Angel scanning the waterfront with more interest than he thought she should. "Don't be stupid," he warned. "This is a perfect hiding place for you."

  "Is it, really?"

  "Yes."

  She was suddenly looking at him with accusing eyes. "What? Why that look?" he asked.

  "That man in the bathroom tonight. It was almost as if… It looked like… Hitting him seemed to come easy. Was it?"

  He hadn't expected her to bring that up. "It felt right," Blu hedged. "I hit Sam because he was all over you and he deserved to pay for it."

  She looked as if she wanted to believe him, but then a half hour ago he had been all over her, too. The irony almost choked him.

  "You knew him?"

  "He's one of the welders down on the docks." Blu rubbed at his jaw, studied her some more. "You weren't exactly enjoying his attentions, as I recall."

  "No. No, I wasn't."

  "Then I don't see why we're discussing this."

  "You didn't enjoy it, then? Hurting him, I mean?"

  Of course he enjoyed sinking his fist into that bastard's face and sending him to his knees. But that's not what she wanted to hear, and the way she was looking at him…

  Oh, hell, his conscience was growing. "No, Angel I didn't enjoy it. I just wanted him off you." Hoping that would suffice, he said, "It's late. Past midnight. You need to get some sleep."

  "Sleep? No, I really—"

  "You look tired."

  "I haven't been sleeping well. I've been having nightmares."

  Blu strolled across the deck, opened the door that led below, then gestured to the stairs. "I've got two beds. You can have your own room. I'll bet once you stretch out you'll fa
ll right to sleep."

  The Nightwing was called "The Charmer" by the local fishermen. She was forty-five feet of sleek design and unchallenged speed. In a class by herself, the Nightwing, however, didn't stop with surface beauty and speed. Below deck, the well-crafted cruiser had a roomy U-shaped galley and generous living space, and was equipped with two private sleeping quarters, each with their own head.

  In comparison to the Dump, the cruiser was a floating mansion, well-cared for and cleaner than anyone would expect.

  "This is a surprise," she said as she came to stand in the teakwood galley.

  Blu glanced around. "She was custom-made for a guy over on Lake Borgne. When he died, his wife put her up for sale. She's a one-of-a-kind."

  "And yours?"

  "Oui, she's mine."

  Blu watched Angel as she considered the space with an experienced eye of someone who knew what she was looking at. "I know it's weird, but I feel comfortable here. Like maybe I used to live on a boat or something." She ran her hand along the teakwood cabinets. Suddenly she closed her eyes as if she were trying to remember. For several minutes she just stood there.

  Blu came up behind her, but made a point to not touch her. "Do you remember something?"

  She blinked open her eyes, turned to face him. "I wish I did, but no. There's nothing." As if the ordeal of trying to remember had stripped her of her last ounce of energy, she stepped around him and sank onto the sofa bench that hugged the table on three sides.

  Blu retrieved a glass from the cupboard and ran water into it at the sink. "Here. You hungry?"

  "No."

  He slid the glass onto the table and she stared at it for a long time before reaching for it. He said, "You trying to decide whether it's clean or not?"

  "No. But now that you mention it, this place is quite a change from your apartment building."

  "It's going to take more than a little bit of cash to fix up the Dump and turn it into a house. Like I told Jackson, I'll get to it eventually. But there's more important things sucking my back pockets dry at the moment."

  "Like your fishing boats?"

  "The duFray Devils are more than just boats. They're a legend. To retire the fleet or sell them out would be a crime. More than thirty men and their families depend on that fleet. That's not to mention my mother's fish market, and a dozen others like it."

  She took a sip of water. "So the Blu Devil isn't as tough and heartless as his name implies."

  Blu scowled at her. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Only that your concern is puzzling. You care about your crew and your mother. But Sister Marian warned me that—"

  "Listen to her. I'm no saint."

  "I won't argue with that, and I'm sure that man in the bathroom tonight won't either." She set the glass aside, yawned, then crossed her arms on the table and laid her head on top of them. "I'm going to rest here for just a bit," she mumbled.

  Blu ambled down the hall to the spare bedroom to see what shape Mort had left it in. Disappointed, he decided to give Angel his room for the night.

  "You ready to turn in?" He had come back into the kitchen and was standing a foot away from where she sat resting her head on folded arms. Her eyes were closed, but he hadn't been gone five minutes. She couldn't be asleep. Not that quick. Could she?

  "Angel?" When she didn't answer, Blu hunkered down to study her face. She was sleeping, all right—her breathing was slow and even.

  He reached up and pulled the wig off her head and watched as her long blond hair tumbled over her bare shoulders and into her lap. Groaning, he drawled, "Bon Dieu! But you're beautiful, fille."

  He stood slowly, his groin pulsing with the sweet memory of how good she'd felt against him while they had been in Lema's closet. Frustrated, Blu returned to his bedroom and threw back the sheet, turned the light on that hung on the wall above the bed, then backtracked to the galley. Careful to not wake her, he lifted her into his arms and moved down the hall as light-footed as he could. In his bedroom, he gently laid her on the wide, built-in teakwood bed, then removed her shoes one at a time.

  She had slender legs, delicate ankles and feet with narrow arches. Her toenails, Blu discovered, were painted a soft pink.

  He set her deck shoes on the floor and as he turned back, she was stretching in her sleep. A moment later she was lifting one small arm high above her head, revealing the bruises above her elbow.

  Reminded once more of what she'd been through, Blu wondered if there were more bruises elsewhere. His curiosity piqued, he reached down and parted the colorful sarong to expose her legs.

  Though he enjoyed feasting his eyes on her beautiful legs, the best part was not finding anymore bruises. Relieved, he inched the sarong higher and uncovered a pair of nude-colored lace panties that showed off her flat belly and sexy little navel. The narrow V where her legs came together caught his attention. She was so damn petite and tiny that the idea of what kind of patience and restraint it would take to make love to her made him wince.

  She shifted, bent a sexy knee. It caused her legs to part slightly, exposing aging black bruises high on the inside of her legs. Blu frowned, then leaned over to examine the discoloration, as well as the size and position of the marks. A connoisseur of bruises, he knew exactly what he was looking at—someone had forced her legs apart, gripping and pinching at the same time. The angle of the hands and the separate finger definitions put that someone over top of her. Blu estimated that it had happened no more than four or five days ago.

  Rage flared inside him, and in that same moment his past and the present collided head-on. He gulped air, tried to shake off the irony of it all. His own greed had put him in the business of brutalizing people to fix his own mistake. He'd felt justified because he'd made the excuse that he was saving the duFray Devils. But he was no better than Salvador Maland—hurting someone to get what he wanted, to keep what he wanted.

  Blu swore silently. If he was a superstitious sort, he would say someone was toying with his mind to get even for his past transgressions. And there was sure something to that. Lema would remind him that in the spirit world all things were possible. She would remind him of the time he had come to her and she had called upon Agwe, the voodoo sea god, to watch over his aging fleet. A request that had not been ignored—how else could he explain his ships returning to port safely day after day, their hulls full of shrimp, his crew healthy? His repairs minor?

  A sour taste in his mouth, Blu covered Angel with the sheet and left the room feeling a jumble of emotions: rage, revulsion for the man he'd become, disgust for lusting after an innocent. He'd been all over her like … like he wanted to climb inside her, as if he had the right to taste perfection. A man like him. Bon Dieu!

  Feeling like a hypocrite, Blu stood topside and watched as a band of dark thunderheads swallowed up the sky. The wind had picked up, and the high-masted sailboats on either side of him swayed and groaned with each sudden gust. But tucked safely within the sheltered berth of the larger boats, the Nightwing rode safe as a newborn babe in a cradle.

  He smelled the rain before he felt it, but it didn't chase him below deck—he had too much thinking to do, too much guilt to swallow.

  A half hour later, soaked clean through, Blu turned away from the railing, his decision made. Patch Pollaro knew people in low places and if anyone could find out the skinny on a scumbag named Salvador Maland, it was another scumbag. It was the right thing to do, he decided—to pay a visit to his old boss. Then why did he feel as though his life had just taken a giant step backward?

  * * *

  The old nightmare had a new twist. Kristen was drowning. But she wasn't drowning alone, someone else was there with her. Someone who wasn't going to make it back to the boat.

  The fear in those green eyes, the terror…

  Kristen cried out, tried to go back and help. The water was so cold and the waves so angry and unforgiving.

  No, he wasn't going to make it, and she couldn't reach him.

  "Ben!
No! Ben, noooo—"

  "Angel?"

  "No, Ben. Ben, please!"

  "Angel, wake up."

  Kristen snapped her eyes open and found herself staring into the scowling face of the Blu Devil. The next thing that registered was that he was all wet, a green towel curled around his neck. No, he wasn't just wet, he was soaked.

  "What's happening? What's wrong?" She scrambled up into a sitting position.

  "You tell me. Who's Ben?"

  "Ben?" Kristen shook her head. "I don't know. Why are you all wet?"

  "We've got a storm kicking up."

  "It's raining?"

  He nodded. "I was topside for a while. You were calling for Ben. Another nightmare?"

  "Yes." Kristen shoved the sheet aside and hugged her knees. The white sheets were surprisingly clean, the built-in bungalow was cozy and it smelled like… "Is this room yours?"

  "Yeah."

  "I thought you said there were two rooms."

  "Mort's stuff is all over the spare. He must have thought we were going to— I already planned on taking the other room, but if you prefer to stay there, I'll—"

  "No. This is fine."

  He turned away, tossed the towel on the floor, then stripped off his wet T-shirt. "Tell me about this nightmare."

  "I was drowning in the Gulf." His muscular torso caught Kristen's eye. Not wanting to stare, she began to study the room. She heard a noise, and she turned to see Blu rummaging in one of his drawers. Her gaze traveled the length of his broad back, then lower to where his wet jeans hugged his butt and long legs. She had been going to say something, now she couldn't remember what it was.

  She should look away. She should snap out of this foolish fog she'd drifted into and concentrate on the nightmare. But all she could think about was how alive she had felt when the Blu Devil wrapped her in his arms and kissed her.

  In his bed, seeing him half naked, she should be clutching the sheet and reliving the déjà vu fear that had been her life for three years. Yet as big and powerful as Blu duFray was, she wasn't afraid of him any longer. It was crazy, and she didn't completely understand why, but fear was no longer an issue.