Unclaimed (23 page)

“You are one sexy bitch.” Kerry grinned broadly and shut the door to Samantha's bedroom. She leaned back and folded her arms to get a better look at the bride. “Seriously, does Malcolm know how freaking lucky he is?” she asked skeptically. Kerry bent down and smoothed out the train of Samantha's simple ivory gown.

“Oh he does, and so do I.” Samantha smiled serenely and adjusted the bodice of her strapless silk wedding dress. Kerry stood behind her best friend and removed the one or two kinks in the delicate veil. She smiled at their contrasting reflections in the oval antique mirror. Kerry was a good head taller than Sam. Sam's hair, swept off her neck, was as blonde as Kerry's was black. Samantha had always been beautiful, but today she was truly radiant.

Tears stung at the back of Kerry's eyes. Her best friend, her only friend, was getting married. She took a deep breath, wrapped her arms around Sam's waist, and braced herself. It was always a gamble touching another human being. Samantha was the only person Kerry could bear to touch. Everyone, including Sam, thought it was a germ phobia. The truth was much more complicated.

It was far more frightening.

She embraced Sam and saw the one image that always burst into her mind, an enormous gray wolf. As odd as it was, that unique image gave her comfort. Since they were children that was the only thing Kerry saw when she touched Sam. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case when she touched other people. Kerry let out a heavy sigh, a mixture of relief and comfort as Sam gave her arms a squeeze.

“I'm not going to Mars, you know. I'm just getting married.” Sam laughed. “Now I'll be two houses down the beach instead of one. At the very most I'm a phone call away.”

“That's what they all say.” Kerry sniffled and released Sam from the embrace. She turned quickly and wiped the tears away, feeling foolish for such a display.

“Besides, you're the famous model,” Sam said with a teasing lilt in her voice. “You know… always jet-setting around the world on photo shoots. We only get to see each other a couple of times a year anyway. Who knows? We may see each other more now.”

Sam took Kerry's hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. The wolf image burst into Kerry's head, but at least there was no pain. She could almost tolerate the visions. It was the crippling pain that terrified her. Kerry's body stilled, and she prayed her friend wouldn't notice.

“I promise nothing will change! Look at it this way, every time you come to your parents place for a break at the beach, you can count on me being here.”

“He better not be one of those Neanderthal types that won't let you have a girls' night out. I mean I don't even know this guy. Are you sure this is it? You've only known him for a month.”

Even as the words escaped her lips she knew what the answer was. In truth, she'd never seen her friend this happy. Ever since Samantha met Malcolm, she glowed. Kerry had heard about that but hadn't witnessed it until now. Her lips curved. She had always been envious of Sam because she'd been raised in a household with real love and affection. Sam's family was a far cry from the icy environment of her own childhood.

Sometimes she wondered if her parents' cool behavior was a reaction to her unusual… sensitivity. They hadn't tried to embrace her or touch her in years. They had tried a few times when she was a child, but whenever they did she screamed bloody murder and wouldn't speak for days. Soon they just stopped trying. It saddened her to know that they never would've adopted her if they'd known how different she was.

To top it all off, she didn't exactly fit the preppy, upper-crusty mold that the Smithsons were cut from. She towered over everyone in the family and was built more like an Amazon than a delicate WASP. In every picture she stuck out like a sore thumb. Tall, big-boned, dark-haired, dark-eyed… loner. They didn't know human contact brought not only horrifying images, but excruciating pain.

Except for when she touched Samantha. There was something special about Sam. Thank God.

“Hey!” Sam snapped her fingers and brought Kerry out of her trance. “Hello in there? You okay?” Sam knitted her brow worriedly at Kerry. “Maybe we should've postponed the wedding? I don't think you're quite yourself since…”

Kerry put her hand up in protest before Samantha could finish her thought. “Don't even think about bringing up that ugliness, especially today! I'm fine. I don't even remember any of it. I mean it!” She clapped her hands and quickly changed the subject. “Hey, why are we standing around here? You've got a big hunk of man waiting to marry you underneath that beautiful tent on the beach.”

Sam smiled and gave a quick nod, knowing her friend well enough to know the subject was closed. She picked up her bouquet of red roses and headed out the door toward her new life. Kerry held Sam's train off of the floor, a traditional maid of honor duty, and followed her down the stairs. She tried to concentrate on the smooth fabric between her fingers, instead of the fact that she'd just lied to her best friend.

She did remember.

She had a vivid memory of one thing from the day she was attacked. A pair of eyes had been fixed on her, eyes that glowed like embers in a fire, accompanied by a deep guttural growl. Every night since the attack, her dreams were haunted by that memory. As she walked into the bright September sunlight, she couldn't help but wonder if she would ever sleep soundly again.

***

The music from the lively band flowed lightly around Kerry and the rest of the wedding guests. She sipped the cool, crisp champagne as she watched Samantha dance with her new husband and could practically feel their happiness mixed with the late summer breeze. Her gaze drifted over the intimate group of guests gathered around the bride and groom. They all had that same serene look while they watched Malcolm and Samantha share their first dance as husband and wife. He towered over her as he twirled her around the dance floor, and the sound of her laughter peppered the air.

The two of them hadn't taken their eyes off each other for one second. If Kerry didn't know any better, she'd swear they were reading each other's minds. She chuckled quietly and sipped her champagne from the delicate crystal flute. The guests were limited to only thirty or so close friends and family members. Her own parents had sent their regrets from Europe, which was something of a relief. Kerry could only handle them in limited doses and didn't want their chilly demeanor ruining such a beautiful day for Sam.

“May I have this dance?”

The deep voice rolled over her like sudden thunder in the distance. She jumped with a yelp and splashed champagne onto her red satin gown. “Shit,” she hissed under her breath. Kerry brushed at the droplets, which were now making dark stains on her dress, and shot an irritated glance at Malcolm's best man, Dante. “I don't dance.” Something about this guy threw her off balance. Kerry prided herself on her ability to stay in control, and this guy rattled her.

“I'm sorry. I didn't realize I'd have that effect on you.”

The amusement in his voice made her want to punch him square in the mouth.

Or kiss him. Shit, she was in trouble.

She glared at him through narrowed eyes and put on her most stuck-up and obnoxious tone, hoping she could frighten him away. “Don't flatter yourself, Tarzan. I got startled. That's all.”

He had moved in next to her without a sound. How long had he been standing there? He didn't go away, but instead, he moved in closer, just a breath away from her. The warmth of his body whispered along her bare arm and all the little hairs stood on end. She was terrified he'd touch her and at the same time worried he wouldn't. She quickly turned her attention back to Malcolm and Sam, trying to ignore him, but failing miserably.

He was a difficult man to ignore. At five foot ten, she was usually taller than most men, and this guy towered over her, even in her Jimmy Choos. He was massive, well over six feet tall—a solid wall of muscle. He had a handsome, masculine face with the most enormous amber eyes she'd ever seen. His thick auburn hair was almost the exact same color as his eyes.

Not that she'd noticed him or anything.

Kerry scolded herself. There was absolutely no point in getting all hot and bothered over some guy she'd never be able to touch.
I
must
be
the
oldest
living
virgin
that
isn't officially a nun
. She drained what was left of her drink.

Her goal was to be as horrible to him as possible and get him to go away. Dante smiled as though he knew she was doing her best to upset him, and she could feel his gaze wander down the length of her body.

“You'll dance with me. Maybe not today,” he whispered seductively into her ear. “But eventually… you and I will dance.”

“What do you mean you rented the room to someone else?”

Lillian attempted to keep her voice calm, but her temper was getting the better of her. She glanced around the shabby apartment house and found it difficult to believe that it was booked solid. With all the gorgeous rentals in New Orleans, how on earth could this dump have no vacancies—especially since she had booked a room here for the next six months?

“Sorry.” The old woman took a long drag off her cigarette and blew the smoke into Lillian's face. Her pale blue-gray eyes stared back unapologetically as she shifted her rotund frame in the chair behind her desk. “I sent you an email, but you never responded, so I figured you were just pissed.”

“Well, I am now.” She ran her hands over her face and let out a sound of frustration. The row of silver bangles on her wrist jingled their familiar tune and instantly calmed her. Something about that tinkling sound always brought her a certain level of serenity.

“Here's your deposit back.” The woman shoved the envelope into Lillian's hands.

“Thanks… I guess.” She sucked in another cleansing breath and braced both hands on the desk, hoping to appeal to whatever human decency this woman may have. “Gladys, I've been on the road for almost ten days, and my computer died right after I left Washington, so I haven't had Internet access. That's why I didn't answer you—because I never got the email. What am I supposed to do now? I gotta tell ya, Gladys… you're asking for some bad juju. How can you do this to someone?”

“Aren't you a fortune-teller?” Gladys looked at her suspiciously and pursed her lips. “Must not be very good at it if you didn't see this coming.”

“I'm a palm reader.” Lillian adjusted the leather satchel slung over her shoulder. “I read palms—not minds.”

And she did. She could run her finger along the deep-seated lines in a person's palm and see their past, present, and future. She tried to read people in other ways, but it never worked. It wasn't just a touch of flesh. Touching someone on the arm or anywhere else didn't tell her squat.

It was the connection to those creases in the hands… the ones created in the womb that stay with us until the grave… those held a multitude of secrets and truths.

“Yeah?” She stuck her meaty hand out to Lillian. “Prove it,” she sneered.

Lillian bit back the urge to tell the old bag off and took the woman's plump hand. She turned it over and sucked in a deep breath before trailing her finger along the deep lifeline.

Her eyes rolled back in her head and her lids fluttered closed. Images flashed through her mind as she moved her finger slowly along the crease in her palm—like a slide show of Gladys's entire life.

Playing in the bayou as a child. Sitting on Santa's knee at Christmas. Fooling around with a boy behind the bleachers of her high school football field. Stumbling drunk out of bars on Bourbon Street. Coughing up blood, and finally, lying in a casket—not long from now.

Gladys tugged her hand away. “I said, let go.” She rubbed her hand and looked at Lillian with a scowl. “Well? What'd you see?”

“Been to the doctor lately?” Lillian flicked her gaze to the still-burning cigarette dangling from her lips. “They call those coffin nails for a reason.”

“Whatever.” She shrugged and took another drag off her cigarette. “The holidays are just a few weeks away, and the tourists have already invaded the Quarter, so I doubt you'll find anything around here.”

The cell phone on the desk rang, and the horrible creature picked it up without sparing a glance at Lillian. She started yelling at the caller. It was someone named Bob, and from the way she was screaming—Bob was in deep shit.

Looking around the beat-up old place and listening to Gladys berate poor Bob, Lillian decided that perhaps it was better this way. The old bat was not someone she wanted to deal with on a daily basis. She had bad karma.

Resigned to her fate, she stuffed the envelope in her bag and turned to leave.

“Hang on,” Gladys barked into the phone, before holding it to her ample bosom. “The only place you might actually find a room is over at The Den. It's a bar just down the ways on the corner of Ursulines and Dauphine. Word has it that Boris has a room for rent, but since that thing happened with his sister, no one wants to rent the place. That's your best shot.”

Lillian nodded absently as she pushed the screen door open. It creaked in protest and slammed shut behind her with a nerve-shattering crack. She stepped onto the sidewalk and made her way to her old VW bus as she fought the tears threatening to spill down her face.

Great. Her only chance of renting a room was with some guy who had a shady story involving his sister. Boris? He was probably some fat, crusty Russian dude who barked at everyone. Could this day get any worse?

Standing on the corner, she wondered what in the hell she was supposed to do now. The truth was that she had limited options and even more limited funds. She rolled into town on fumes and had only fifty dollars in cash in her pocket. She had no credit cards, and the banks were closed, so she couldn't deposit the check.

She shielded her eyes from the bright afternoon sun and looked up and down the quiet street. This place was nothing like the wild stories she'd heard about New Orleans, but she was on the edge of the French Quarter, not on Bourbon Street—perhaps that's where all the action really was. She had planned to check into her room and then go have a look around Jackson Square, where she'd be working for the next six months—so much for her bloody plans.

Lillian checked the locks on her van to see that they were secure and decided to take a walk up Ursulines to see if she could find the place that Gladys mentioned. She figured she had nothing to lose by trying. Everything she owned was locked in her flower-and-peace-symbol-covered van. She'd already spent the past week and a half sleeping in it—a streak she was looking forward to breaking once she reached New Orleans.

Sleeping in her van was uncomfortable, but she hadn't been sleeping well in general for the past few weeks anyway—van or no van. Her dreams had been bright, loud, and persistent. It was the dreams that got her to change her plans and come to New Orleans instead of San Francisco.

She'd always considered the tiger her spirit animal or personal totem. She'd dreamt of tigers her entire life, and the dreams were strongest when she was at a crossroads or needing comfort. When she turned eighteen she even got a tattoo of a tiger on her lower back. It lay along the top of her ass and looked at the world through glowing yellow eyes—just like it often did in her dream.

Her mother, of course, freaked out, and that was the last straw before she was kicked out. She'd been on her own ever since, living like a gypsy, roaming from city to city, and reading palms along the way to earn her keep.

A few weeks before her scheduled move to San Francisco, she dreamt of her tiger, but for the first time—he spoke. He told her to come to New Orleans. The animal never actually moved his lips and spoke—but she heard him—his deep, smooth baritone whispered, calling her here.

Lillian tied her wavy blond hair back with an elastic band from the pocket of her jean jacket as a cool gust of wind whipped her ankle-length skirt around her legs. She tripped, almost falling in the middle of the street. Her face heated with embarrassment as she looked around to see if anyone noticed because the activity increased as she moved closer to the French Quarter.

Satisfied that nobody saw her typical clumsy move, she let out a sigh of relief. Stranded and homeless was bad enough, but falling on her face in public would add insult to injury. As she unfurled the batik skirt from her legs, the treacherous voice of self-doubt nibbled away.

Why had she listened to that voice in her dream? Why didn't she go to college and settle down like her mother always wanted her to? Why did she always follow her gut instinct and listen to talking tigers in her dream?

Look where it got her. Alone and essentially homeless.

“What a dope.” She hugged her jacket closed against the surprisingly brisk wind and wondered if she was doing the right thing.