Midnight in Ruby Bayou (14 page)

“Who says I'm going to?” Walker asked quickly.

“Experience,” she retorted. “Remind him that I'm billing Donovan International for the deposit I lost at the Live Oak place, just like I'm billing DI for the whole trip to Savannah.”

“You're not going to split it down the middle?”

“If Archer wants things his way, he can damn well pay the freight.”

“There you go. Do they have a safe here?”

“Yes, but there's a ten-thousand-dollar limit on their insurance.”

Walker sighed. Wearing a ruby necklace next to his skin—no matter how carefully wrapped the jewelry might be—wasn't comfortable. The necklace was beautifully articulated. It folded into a remarkably small packet. But he was sensitive in the places that the chamois bag was hidden. More sensitive at moments like this than he wanted to admit.

Faith's lips shifted into a smile. “Is something, um, chafing?”

“I've lived with worse. At least Archer isn't insuring the rest of your jewelry for this soiree,” Walker said. “If I had to wear any more of your creations this way, I'd have to hop down the street like a rabbit.”

He eased out of the car and shut the door behind him. He walked stiffly toward the back of the Jeep. His leg hadn't liked being crammed into an airline seat.

Faith reached past Walker into the cargo area. She grabbed her suitcase and the custom-made aluminum case that held the other pieces she would be displaying at the Savannah Modern Jewelry Exposition.

“I'm not too crippled up to carry your baggage,” he said.

“Neither am I.”

“This is the South. Women don't carry their own things.”

“Men carry purses here?” she asked, widening her eyes dramatically.

Giving up, Walker got out his duffel bag and cane and followed her up the short, steep porch stairs to the inn entrance. He beat her to the door handle, opened it, and gave her a hard grin as she walked by. She gave it right back.

“This way,” she said.

Memorizing every detail of the access to the inn, he followed her to a numbered door at the end of a short hall. Two other rooms opened off the hall. The lock on their suite wasn't as old as the building, but it wasn't modern, either. He would have preferred an electronic dead bolt.

The chain lock was no better. One swift kick would pull the punys screw out of the casement. In the South, history meant dry rot. Walker preferred up-to-date steel.

“Beautiful,” Faith said, looking around. “Rose and green and cream. Such elegantly textured wallpaper, like silk. And the wainscoting looks original.”

“Doubt it. Old riverfront factories were real short on frills even when they were new. This paneling probably came out of an old hotel teardown or some new outfit that specializes in historical reproductions.”

She barely heard the southern pragmatist talking beside her. This was her first taste of the historic South and she was enjoying it. “Look at the ceiling. The edges are sculpted with floral designs. Do you suppose it's the original plaster?”

“Hope not. This climate rots plaster almost as fast as meat. The floor is original, though.”

Glancing at her feet, Faith saw only a lush, modern wall-to-wall carpet. Expensive, very tasteful, but not a bit of flooring was in sight. “How can you tell?”

“The way it drapes over the support beams. You don't get that kind of sag in less than a century.”

“You really would have preferred soulless modern.”

“Wrong. But that doesn't mean I don't know the difference between a level floor and this one.”

Walker looked at the overstuffed, subtly flowered couch that would be his bed. He hoped that the fold-out mattress was harder than the cushions, but he doubted it. Absently he rubbed the stiff muscles of his thigh. “Next time I flip the coin for the bed.”

She bit her lip against a smile until she turned and saw that he was kneading his hurt leg. Guilt washed through her. She was angry with Archer for being unfair in wielding his corporate power, yet she was punishing Walker for her brother's arbitrary decision. Talk about unfair.

“I'll take the couch,” she said. “I wasn't thinking.”

There was a flash of deep blue as Walker's glance cut back to her. “What weren't you thinking about?”

“Your leg.”

“It's fine.”

“You're rubbing it.”

“Want to do it for me?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I should take you up on it, just to watch you squirm.”

“Anytime, sugar.”

“Okay. Right now. Facedown,” she said, pointing toward the floor.

“What?”

“Facedown on the floor.” She flexed her hands and smiled in anticipation. “I just finished a three-month course in deep-muscle massage.”

His dark eyebrows shot up. “Why?”

“Same reason I took courses in metallurgy and Celtic art and ancient roses and Sun Tzu's theory of war and the migration pattern of birds.”

“And that reason would be?”

“I was curious.”

Walker laughed softly. “I'll bet you get lost on the Net for hours at a time.”

“Net? As in computers?”

“Sure.”

“Not a chance. I had all the computer I'll ever need in college. I called it the Antichrist. That's when I was feeling good about it.”

“You really do all your design work by hand?” he asked, surprised.

“Beats having three weeks of work booted into the ether because the Antichrist burped.” She shrugged. “Kyle got the computer gene in our family. He can make them sit up and do tricks that I'm sure are illegal.”

Walker had firsthand reason to know that some of Kyle's skills could land him in federal prison, but didn't say anything to Faith about it. Sometimes ignorance was indeed bliss.

“Facedown,” she said. “I'll have that leg loosened up in no time.”

“This is going to hurt, isn't it?”

“What makes you think so?”

“Your alligator smile.”

“Maybe I'm just dying to get my hands on your body.”

“Yeah, and alligators cry,” he said. But he eased himself onto the floor. Even if it hurt, it had to feel better coming from her hands than from his own.

“Where does it hurt?” she asked.

“Everywhere.”

“Well, that sure helps.” She knelt beside him and began running her fingertips over his left thigh, testing for soreness. “Where does it hurt the most?”

Walker didn't think she wanted to hear about the ache in his crotch, and he was damn well sure he shouldn't be talking about it. “Midthigh, in front, and just above the knee.”

“Gotcha.”

He drew a sharp breath as her fingers closed around his upper thigh. “I said the
knee
.”

“If I started there, you'd go through the roof. Some things have to be worked up to.”

Walker bit his tongue and settled in to endure an interesting kind of torture.

S
he awoke to terror.

Steel fingers dug into her throat, choking her. Her cheeks burned even as something hot and wet slid thickly down to the lace-trimmed sheets. Something sliced down her arm in a trail of fire. She couldn't move, couldn't cry out, could only lie rigid with fear while a rough voice demanded over and over:
“The ruby! Where is it! Tell me or you will die.”

She told him all that she knew.

She died anyway, painfully, watching her killer's fixed, glittering eyes.

On the opening day of the Savannah Modern Jewelry Exposition, Faith and Walker were up early. She turned on the TV and headed for the shower while Walker went out and scrounged breakfast. He was back before she was finished drying her hair. He balanced the coffee and doughnuts, opened the door, and kicked it shut behind him. The TV and the hair dryer competed for his attention.

“This just in from reporter Barry Miller, live from the murder scene at Live Oak Bed and Breakfast, one of Savannah's most exclusive B and Bs.”

Swiftly Walker went to the set and turned down the sound. He didn't want Faith to overhear, but he sure was interested.

The TV picture switched from the cheerful, well-scrubbed news reader to a suitably rumpled and solemn-looking field reporter. Behind him, several police squad cars and detective units were parked haphazardly, blocking a street. Yellow crime-scene tape was strung in several directions like a modern cliché. Barry Miller held the microphone and looked directly into the camera.

“Words can't describe the savagery of the act. The knife-wielding murderer, or murderers, apparently came in through the bedroom window of the Gold Room, tortured the victim, and finally killed her. Ironically, the victim, whose name is being withheld pending notification of family, had obtained a room only because of a last-minute cancellation.

“Police are baffled by the brutal crime. No one saw anything or heard anything. Though the victim's wallet was taken and the downstairs safe was robbed, the police aren't saying that was the motive for the murder. They are presently seeking the victim's former husband and ex-boyfriend for questioning.

“We'll stay with this story and bring you updates as they happen. Barry Miller reporting from the murder scene at the Live Oak Bed and Breakfast. Back to you, Cherry.”

The picture cut back to the studio. Walker flipped quickly around the channels, found nothing more, and turned off the set. The hair dryer shut off a moment later.

“Why did you kill the TV?” Faith asked as she came out of the bathroom. “I wanted to see if the expo got any local news coverage.”

Walker looked up and was forced to swallow hard. Faith was dressed for work. Heels skyscraper-high. A cool silk blouse that matched the silver-blue of her eyes, rough silk skirt and jacket of a darker shade of blue, and sleek hair the color of a summer sun. She wore a pin of her own creation, combining opals and a beautiful baroque black pearl in a design that was neither shell nor sea, but suggested both.

“I thought you'd like to sit out along the river and have a quiet breakfast before the mob scene,” Walker said. “It's real pretty out.”

She grabbed her purse and headed for the door. “What are you waiting for?”

The riverside walk was warm by Seattle standards, but the dew point was so high that Faith and Walker could see their own breath. Over her objections, he took off his sport coat and made a clean seat for her on the bench, telling her that she couldn't show beautiful jewelry wearing a dirty skirt.

Anticipating the turmoil of the trade show, Faith was grateful for Walker's easy, silent companionship. She didn't have to worry about making conversation or entertaining him. He was content with the morning and his own thoughts. In blissful peace, she ate her crumb doughnuts and drank the cinnamon latte he had brought her.

Where sunlight managed to spear through the evergreen leaves of live oak and the lacy scarves of Spanish moss, the sun had enough intensity to make Seattle skin tingle. Walker didn't notice the intense sunlight. He was thinking about the TV news. Nothing he was thinking made him smile, but he was careful to conceal that from Faith.

“What was the name of the B and B you were planning to stay at last night?” Walker asked idly.

“Live Oak. I had the Gold Room, reputed to be identical to a southern belle's bedroom in the 1840s.” She took another sip of latte. “Why?”

Yawning, Walker stretched and let the sun beat down on his face. It didn't warm the ice in his gut. “Archer will expect a report and I couldn't remember the name.” Not quite true, but close enough to pass muster. He would be reporting to Archer shortly, and the name of the Live Oak B and B would definitely be part of the conversation. “You about ready to go?”

“Another sip or two.”

Walker gathered up his paper coffee cup and their paper napkins and stuffed them in the doughnut bag. He moved more easily than he had yesterday, thanks to Faith's skilled, surprisingly strong fingers. The fact that it had taken him hours to fall asleep afterward was his fault, not hers. She had never offered anything more sensual than a therapeutic massage.

He kept telling himself it was better that way. His mind believed it. His body didn't.

Faith drained the last of her latte, licked her lips, and sighed. Somehow, in a city of iced tea and drip-coffee drinkers, her unwanted escort had found an espresso place and then begged the cinnamon from the inn's kitchen. For himself, he drank the bitter brewed southern coffee with every evidence of pleasure. Of course, he had been raised on the stuff.

“Ready as I'll ever be,” she said, crumpling her cup.

“Not quite.”

“What?”

Walker's thumb brushed lightly over the corner of her mouth. “Crumbs.”

Faith's heartbeat hitched. Then it raced. The touch had been casual rather than seductive, yet the warmth of his skin against hers made her head swim. She wondered what it would feel like to be his lover. She had wondered the same thing last night, while she probed and smoothed his surprisingly muscular thigh. “Er, thanks. How's my lipstick holding up?”