A Marked Man (9 page)

“Now it’s what I want,” Annie yelled. “Do what I want.”

Sinking her nails into his side, she swung around until his was the back that faced the wall. And she shoved him until he threw his arms wide as she had.

“Annie,” he said. “Do your thing. You’re angry and I don’t blame you. Beat it out on me.”

“Shut
up,
” she cried. “You don’t know anything.”

With the living room window at a distance, and behind her, he wouldn’t be able to see her as anything but light and shadow. Quickly, she pushed her jeans and panties down together and stepped out of them.

Her eyes flashed. Repeatedly, she tossed her hair back and he saw a sheen on her shoulders, the tops of her breasts. Annie sweated. He had sensed the instant when she passed over the edge of reason and went willingly to a place the timid avoided. She was intoxicated by the moment, by being with him, naked and longing for possession.

“Let me hold you,” he said. Even while he wanted to throw her down and sink himself inside her, the warning came that they were beyond any caution. He didn’t want to make her loathe him but if he couldn’t slow this down, that’s what could happen.

“Fuck me,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Fuck me, you fool. I don’t want to be held.” Her laughter shook and he thought she was crying. She had shocked him into silence.

He didn’t see her raised hand. Annie slapped his face hard. “Come on, hate me. I’m hateful. Repulsive. You don’t want me, so hurt me.” She slapped him again, and caught the corner of his eye. “Knock me down and leave me.”

Everything she did and said excited him. And it set off warnings. If this was a sexy game, he wanted to play. If someone had wounded her enough to destroy her confidence, he
had
to know that.

“Max!”

What he did was catch her wrist and hold it while he grabbed for the other. She eluded him each time and landed closed-knuckled punches wherever she found a part of him. After driving a fist into his diaphragm, she reached between his legs again, took hold of his shaft and pumped. She strained downward until he was afraid he’d dislocate the arm he held, and let go. On her knees, Annie drew him into her mouth, reached around to pinch his buttocks and almost released him from her lips before she drove along him again, her mouth hot and wet.

If he wanted to stop her, he could, in a moment.

No way would he do that.

Annie sprang to her feet again. What she felt now approached nothing she had experienced before. The few times she’d been with a man, her role had been that of the victim, debased, hurt—once almost killed. But she had never guessed at her own hunger for sex.

She shivered. Painted only by a faint glow, the strong lines of his face became terrifying. His features were twisted and he had tensed. He waited as if ready to attack her. Annie heard small sobs from her own throat and started to scuff away from him.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Max said. “You want it. You asked for it and you’re going to get it because you made sure I don’t have a choice anymore.”

He squeezed her waist, pushed a thigh between hers and ground into the flesh that already wept for release.

She lifted her arms as if in surrender.

“What’s the matter with you?” he said. “How can you be two women in one?” Holding her breasts, he used the tips of his thumbs to draw circles around her nipples, coming closer and closer but never quite touching them.

“Please.” Annie bucked toward him. “Do it.” And she meant she wanted him to play with her nipples, to ignite the white hot prickling.

With no warning, he dipped, caught her behind her knees and landed her on the carpet.

Horror engulfed her. “Max—”

His mouth cut off whatever she might have said, and he kissed her repeatedly, and while he did, he positioned himself and thrust inside. She felt his body give a great shudder and opened her mouth to scream, but his bellow drowned her out.

Once, twice, three times he battered into her, testing her, finding his rhythm, and with each thrust, Annie bit down on her bottom lip to stop him from hearing her moan.

She let her hands flop above her head. Tears streamed. He fell to pumping steadily, groaning, but with satisfaction, with pleasure.

On and on he went until a sensation both unbearable and thrilling, speared her and shot exquisite burning into her labia and down her legs. A heavy pulsing began, just as Max shouted her name, gave a last upward lunge and slumped with his body half on and half off hers. He slid off her but kept her in his arms.

“Annie, Annie,” he muttered, as if slipping into sleep. “Whatever it takes, you’re going to be mine now.”

For moments she lay still. The pain had ebbed but she still hurt. And she had to get away. At first she thought she would slide free without him noticing, but he reached for her face. “Rest,” he said.

Within moments, his arms relaxed. Annie rolled away, grabbed her clothes and made a dash for her bedroom. She passed straight through to the bathroom and locked herself inside. The fan hummed to life, then the shower water beat down. A woman could take a shower when she felt like one, couldn’t she? It didn’t have to mean anything. And while she was under the water, she wouldn’t hear Max if he came after her.

He turned on his back and put an arm under his head. He couldn’t take in what had just happened, or how. The Annie he knew wasn’t the Annie who had goaded him, tried to subjugate him. He smiled at the thought. She didn’t seem to realize that she only did what he allowed her to do. Every move, every unbelievable word, inflamed him beyond reason. He breathed slowly in through his nose. What he’d said to her, he meant. Now they’d been together, like wild things, he wouldn’t rest until he had her again and again. He smiled faintly. Or she had him.

Why she’d rushed away, he didn’t know unless she’d managed to shock herself. He didn’t believe he’d just seen Annie as she’d ever been before. And now she hid to pull herself together.

The shower water was loud even from here. Max retrieved his jeans and walked into the kitchen. He turned on a light and found a glass for water. His dry mouth needed immediate attention.

He raised the full glass and drank it empty.

Tossing his jeans on the counter, he started putting on his shorts.

“For…Dammit all!” A small streak of blood smeared his penis and spotted the waistband of his shorts where it touched his groin.

“I
see you sneaking around out there, Madge Pollard,” Father Cyrus Payne said.

The door to his office was partly open and he saw his assistant moving about in the hall.

“Just takin’ Millie out,” Madge responded. “Won’t be a moment.”

“Wait, I’m comin’.” Cyrus moved rapidly from behind his desk and opened his door all the way. “I told you this isn’t the time to be alone out there.” He avoided looking at Madge’s black and white puppy. “A woman’s missing in this town. Give me that hound. I’ll take her out.”

“She’s not a hound,” Madge said and eased the front door open. Attached to a very long lead, the dog took off around the corner and Madge followed. “Have you finished your homily?” Her voice floated back.

Cyrus wandered after her. Her legs flashed pale beneath the swishing hem of a dark blue dress. “You don’t get enough fresh air,” he said.

“What?” The dog had wiggled under an azalea and Madge assumed a relaxed, waiting attitude. “Fresh air?”

“You’re pale. I know I don’t always take as much notice as I should but you’re looking pasty. Get out in the sun—with a hat on—for an hour a day. You need the vitamins.”

Madge didn’t say a word but he could feel her big, dark eyes on him and if he looked closer, she’d be grinning. “Someone has to look out for you,” he said. “You surely don’t take care of yourself. Ask anyone and they’ll tell you the same, and say you don’t get enough sleep because you work such long hours, too. You forget you have to add on the time it takes you to get back home to Rosebank in the evenin’. What’s that hound doin’?”

“Millie’s a papillon—butterfly dog to you—and a member of the spaniel family. I’ve told you the same thing several times. Why don’t you like her?”

He did, but he wasn’t planning to tell Madge. “If she was a real dog, I might like her. Under five pounds of nothing doesn’t count. Next time you take a good look at her, see if I’m not right. Maybe when she grows to full size she won’t look like a long-haired mouse. What
is
she doin’?”

“Pooping.”
Madge emphasized both syllables.

“Under one of my azaleas?”

“A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. This is her favorite spot because she can really get into it without some nosey poke watchin’.” She giggled.

“Nothin’ that small could take that long over—what she’s doing,” Cyrus said, getting close to laughter himself. He crouched on the gravel path beside the bed of azaleas and shifted branches until he could locate Millie. “She’s not poopin’. She’s sitting under there congratulating herself for getting you out of the rectory.”

“She’s an ounce or two away from full-grown,” Madge said. “She’ll soon be a year old. And I’m shocked at you for encouragin’ folks to gossip about me. I like my work. And I like being here. Rosebank is just where I sleep.”

Cyrus couldn’t think of a thing to say. He liked her here, too. All he needed to feel at peace was to know that while he went about parish business, Madge was nearby. And he wasn’t fair to her. Long periods passed when he could put aside the notion that he was probably standing in the way of her marrying and having a family, but it always came back. They were locked together by friendship…and love. The love wasn’t mentioned but they understood that it must stay in their hearts and be expressed only through kindness.

He clapped his hands at the little dog. “Come on out, you. Come on, come to me.” Flattened on her stomach, the dog wiggled, commando-style, about an inch closer to him. Her white teeth showed in what he would swear was a grin. She loved to play—not that he was interested in playing with dogs. “Look at that. She’s disobeyin’ me,” he said.

“You’re frightening her,” Madge said. “She’s hidin’.”

Cyrus bounced to his feet. “I don’t frighten anybody. I reckon that’s the problem, I don’t get respect because you all think I’m a pushover. It’s time to change that.” He liked being trusted. Sure, he allowed himself to be used, but it was his choice.

“Go back inside,” Madge said. “You’ve been busy in there. Don’t let me interrupt.”

He looked around. The night had a way of growing soft fingers and a whispery voice when trouble came around, and trouble had really slipped into town today. First he’d found Annie Duhon in the church, looking wild and fighting him like she thought he wanted to hurt her. Afterward she wouldn’t say much, although she’d promised to come back and talk to him. Then came the news of a stranger gone missing from the Majestic. Spike had said he’d call when Cyrus was needed for a search party. No call had come yet.

“Cyrus?” Madge said softly. “You’ve got a lot on your mind. Time to get it on paper.”

“No big ideas in my head. I was just fiddlin’ in the office. Is she ready to go in yet?”

“Writing a homily doesn’t count as fiddlin’, Father. I just bet you were prayin’ for a diversion so you could get away from it.”

He smiled a little. “No such thing.” He longed to put off writing the weekend homily. Dark as it was out here, a walk would be preferable—with Madge and the mutt as long as they didn’t make any noise. He needed to think, and hope he got some inspiration—pray he got some inspiration, that was. This was the first weekend of the annual pledge drive.
God, send me a new way to beg—please.

Millie emerged from her bower, her ridiculously small body whipping from side to side, her long-haired curly pig tail swishing over her back. Cyrus looked down into a pair of shiny black eyes. Why the creature thought she loved him, he had no idea, but despite the way she sometimes pretended otherwise, he believed she did.

An engine ground unevenly in their direction.

“Someone’s coming,” Cyrus said. Headlights appeared and the beams swung down Bonanza Alley.

“Are you sure?” Madge said.

What could a man do when his assistant had been with him so long she’d taken control? He smiled but didn’t respond.

Rattles and bangs joined the rough engine noise and Wazoo’s van crunched onto the gravel parking lot above the rectory.

“Hoo mama,” Madge said, sounding delighted. “This is something. Now why would Wazoo be comin’ here at this time of night? She can’t stand you.”

“No such thing. Wazoo has a grudgin’ admiration for me. It comes out sounding rude, nothing more.”

Madge cackled, there was no other description that would fit the sound she made. She cleared her throat and said, “Sorry. That wasn’t nice.”

“You down there, God man?” Wazoo yelled, standing beside the open driver’s door of her liberally decorated van. Planets, zodiac signs, snakes, gators, an ad for her “critter therapy” and another letting the world know, “There’s no sadder singing than Wailing Wazoo. Your burial is my burial. Let me sing them into heaven—or wherever they going—for you.”

“Hey, Wazoo,” Madge called. “We’re down by the azaleas.”

Wazoo, who let it be known that she was available to offer helpful spells—conjures, as she called them—and that those in need of a little voodoo were always welcome, treated Cyrus with suspicion. She preferred to keep distance between them. Occasionally she ruined what Cyrus had decided was an act by turning to him for help. Or she ruined the act by going over the top into comedy.

“Does she do her own paintin’ on that sorry vehicle?” he asked Madge, keeping his voice down.

“Surely does. On the other side she advertises vehicle logos. Air brushing. Wazoo doesn’t believe in newfangled computer generated efforts, or wraps.”

“No I do not,” Wazoo said, although she shouldn’t be able to hear them yet. “Inspiration, intuition and raw talent, that’s what it takes to turn a vehicle into a rolling endorsement.”

“Evenin’, Wazoo,” Cyrus said. “Nice to see you here after so long.”

“It’s not nice to be here, but thanks. Me, I get the creeps when I get close to—” she nodded toward the church. “I put myself at your mercy. Protect me, Father. Don’t let the good fairies get me.”

“Fairies?” Cyrus shook his head. “Are you coming in?”

“Oh, no,” Wazoo said. “Me, I only drove here to frighten myself out of my red silk drawers.”

Madge coughed and made a great deal of gathering up Millie, Millie who licked her boss’s face then leaped out of her arms before Madge could stop her. Millie landed against Cyrus with the innocent confidence of one who has never been dropped.

“Will you look at that?” Wazoo said. “You better sign that dog up with me. And fast. She ain’t got no taste when it comes to people. Not good, Madge.”

Keeping a straight face, Cyrus turned toward the rectory. “I’ve got a new wine I’d like you to try,” he told his visitor.

“You ain’t used it for one of them hootin’ and hollerin’s you hold over there, have you?” Again Wazoo indicated St. Cécil’s.

“The bottle hasn’t been opened,” Cyrus told her.

“That’s good then. Stop right where you are, God man.”

Cyrus, with Millie on his shoulder, licking his ear with great concentration, did as he was told. “Yes, Wazoo? What now?”

“You still drivin’ that disgustin’ old Impala, right?”

“Right.”

“Self-respectin’ folks don’t drive ancient red Impala station wagons with bent frames.”

He had long ago decided, perhaps because he was getting ornery, that he would drive his reviled vehicle until it shuddered and fell apart while he was in it.

“I’ve got the perfect solution,” Wazoo said. “You was admirin’ my van. And if I do say so—which I should—that’s one fine logo job I done there. I’m gonna do the Impala. I’m gonna put frames on the sides, the kind posters slide into, so we can change out the message from time to time. I could put the times of those hootin’ and—”

“Hollerings,” Madge finished for her.

“See if I don’t have folks pourin’ in on a Sunday mornin’. And money’s gonna pour right in with ’em. You’ll wonder why you didn’t do it before. There’ll be a permanent shout line that runs all the way around. At the top. Right under the roof. ‘Best donuts and coffee in town. Come gossip along with us. BINGO every night! BIG prizes.’” Wazoo drew up her shoulders. “I’m tellin’ you we gotta do it.”

He had asked for guidance in the begging department but this wasn’t what he’d had in mind.

Praying quietly, Cyrus went into the rectory and walked along a passage to the kitchen. In daylight, the big window gave a wide view of Bayou Teche and the rectory’s big back lawn, dominated by a two-dimensional bronze statue of five figures, some with flat braids flying, all capering. A gift from a previous housekeeper, the piece had a history and no one had the heart to take it away. At the moment, Ozaire Dupre, who worked part-time as a caretaker at the church, and part-time for Homer Devol, had attached goggle-eye glasses, with shocking blue eyeballs on springs, to each figure. This wasn’t because he was either a humorist or a practical joker, but because his prime entertainment came from infuriating his wife, Lil, Cyrus’s housekeeper.

With Millie perched at the back of his neck, her winglike ears trailing long black fur, Cyrus was forced to lean forward to balance her while he found a bottle of Merlot and carefully removed the cork. “Glasses?” he said, angling his face toward Madge. “Don’t think I can manage them.”

Madge took glasses to the big oak table by the window and the three of them sat down. Cyrus poured generous measures of wine and Wazoo made humming noises. They drank and she said, “To the missing,” before taking another big swallow.

For the sake of his own skin, Cyrus carefully disengaged Millie’s claws from beneath his collar. He put her on his lap and she curled up at once. This could get sticky if Madge started to question her dog’s loyalty.

“Confused,” Wazoo muttered, pointing a long forefinger at Millie.

“Why did you pray for the missing?” Cyrus asked.

“I didn’t. I toasted them. I don’t want to be here but I’ve got responsibilities to people I like. And I trust you.” She dropped her voice to an annoyed whisper on the last sentence. Shaking back her long, curling black hair, she frowned at Cyrus who thought what a lovely woman she was, despite all the affectation and attempts to shock.

Madge got up and set her glass aside. “I’ve got a few things to finish before I go home to Rosebank.”

“No you don’t,” Wazoo said. “This is your home. Rosebank is where you sleep and keep your clothes. A sad thing for a beautiful woman like you. Pining away for something that can’t be. Or it could be if
someone
sexy enough to melt fillings right out of you teeth would give in and do the things he wants to do.”

Cyrus put his elbows on the table and swirled the wine in his glass. If Madge weren’t here, he could warn Wazoo that she had stepped way over the line, but Madge was right behind him and he would not upset her more than she already would be.

“Would you mind stayin’, Madge?” Wazoo said in her sweetest tones. “I’ve got so much on my mind I can use all the help I can get, and I do appreciate another woman’s point of view. Cher, let’s face it, I need an interpreter here.”

Madge returned to the table and slid into a chair. She kept her eyes down and her cheeks were pink. Wazoo wasn’t wrong when she said Madge was beautiful to look at. What the woman didn’t know was how special his best friend was on the inside.

And this was a place he couldn’t afford to go.