Raisonne Curse (3 page)

She languidly opened her eyes, fixed that startling, light-eyed gaze on him and stared as he slowly rubbed the salt-conditioner every place he could. He went over the same areas several times—just to make sure, he told himself. But the truth was he wanted to touch her, wanted to stroke her long, elegant neck and cup her delicate shoulders in his hands. He wanted to see if her breasts felt as soft as they looked.

They stared at each other as these thoughts ran through his mind, and when her eyes narrowed, he worried she could read him, could see the stark, naked image he had of her…of them both. He’d never wanted to sink inside a woman as badly as he did her. Wanted to crawl on top of her and nestle inside her body as she exposed that gorgeous neck to his mouth. He would suck on it, lick her skin…maybe bite.

He did groan then. Couldn’t stop it.

“Is it all the way in?” she whispered.

His eyes flew open wide. “Huh?”

The corner of her mouth tilted up. “The salty goo you’re rubbing into my hair. Is it all the way in?”

He straightened, heat pooling at base of his spine. Pryor was so wrapped up in the fantasy image, he couldn’t think straight enough to answer her. Standing there, drying “goo” on his upraised hands, he breathed hard and ran his gaze down to her breasts, knowing they were free under his shirt—that the soft, worn material would slide over them if he put his hands there.

“Pryor?”

He took a step back. Then another. “Yes. It’s all the way in.” The gruff, husky tone to his voice couldn’t be helped. “Just lie there and I’ll go rinse my hands in the kitchen. This one is full of paintbrushes. The paste needs to stay on your hair a little while.”

She nodded, eyes still wide as if she had been reading his thoughts. He turned and strode from the room. Fast. His hands actually trembled from the effort it took not to slide them under that shirt. He felt this crazy sort of primitive joy, seeing his clothes on her body and that made him feel like a fool. A lust-crazed Neanderthal of a fool. Damn. The woman had come to him for help and he wanted to help her, he had to help her, but he wanted to help himself. To her.

This wasn’t like him at all. He usually preferred a slow build-up. Anticipation. This was a flat-out, hell-bent,
let’s get to it
sort of thing going on in his body.

The cold water snapped his attention to his hands as he rinsed the gritty solution from between his fingers. He had no business thinking about her that way, not when she’d come here for help.

Pryor grabbed a soft dishtowel and dried his hands as he slowly walked back into the small room with her. She was still stretched out. Vulnerable.

Like an offering.

Frowning, he turned back into the kitchen and leaned on the wall, closing his eyes. An offering? What the hell was wrong with him? He touched his stomach, alarmed by the dark gathering emotion there, by the overwhelming need he felt to take what was his.

What was his?

Straightening, he narrowed his eyes, cocked his head and sure enough, some of the whispers began to make sense.

Take the woman.

She is yours.

Alarmed, he cleared his throat and called out, “Elita? Just let it rest there a few minutes. I’m going to call one of my brothers and see if he can get home sooner.”

“Okay.”

“Is it itching? Hurting you in any way?”

“No. Feels like it’s sucking all the moisture from my head, but I can handle it. Are you sure this is going to help with the curse? It seems…too easy.”

Pryor stared at the red color of his palms where the magic had seeped from his skin. It would blister tonight. But that wouldn’t be the worst of his payback for releasing it from her. “It’s not easy. Trust me.”

He bit down on his tongue and cursed silently as he walked out of the kitchen and into the hallway. He paced up and down the hall twice before taking out his phone and carrying it all the way into the parlor. He barely noticed the highly uncomfortable antiques in this rarely used room anymore.

He dialed Wyatt. His older brother kept a small apartment in Chicago because most of his clients were in that area. He only stayed in it a week at a time. Two weeks was as long as he, or any of the brothers, could safely be away from the water, so they always played it safe. And one of them always had to be here. No matter what. Wyatt had only been gone a little over twenty-four hours, Mercer three days.

“Hey, Wyatt, think you can close things down earlier and come home?”

“Gettin’ that itch again, little brother?” Wyatt’s voice, laced with that ever-present wry amusement, rumbled over the line. He’d paid a nasty magic price at an early age and his voice had never recovered completely from the severity of a scalded throat. “Wanna use my apartment?”

“We have company. Mercer didn’t call you?”

“He did. Doesn’t mean I answered.”

Mercer and Wyatt butted heads often, mostly because Mercer never got past his oldest brother need to boss both of them around. A huge part of that came from them losing their father so early. It sometimes annoyed Pryor, but he mostly brushed it off. Wyatt, however, got pissed. “One of the Raisonne women came for help.”

“I’ve heard about that curse.”

“Turns out it’s one of Rousalard’s.”

“I’d warn you not to mess with that ugly magic until Mercer and I can be there but I know my little brother. Already tried, eh?”

“Just a head wash so far.” Pryor rubbed his eyes, then winced when he caught a stray bit of salt in one. “But something else is happening here. The house is waking and though she walked in alone, she isn’t alone.”

There was a long silence on the other end. “I can be there tonight.”

“Good. It’s gonna take all three of us and it’s not gonna be pleasant.”

“Never is, Pryor. Never is.”

“Call Mercer and see if he can get in tonight too.” Pryor flipped the phone closed and turned to find Elita hovering in the doorway, biting her lip. The fast-drying salt paste had turned her hair into a clump that leaned heavily to one side.

“What do you mean it’s not going to be pleasant?” She lifted one hand to hold up her hair.

Pryor opened his mouth to lie and found he couldn’t. Not to her. And he didn’t know why. He held out his hands. “There is always a payback for using magic.”

She gasped and reached for his right hand, only to hover her fingers over the raw skin. “It burned your hands?”

He nodded.

She closed her eyes. “Nothing ever comes easy, does it?” Opening them, she stared at his hands, shook her head. “I’ll rinse this out of my hair myself and we’re done.”

“You can’t leave yet. I sincerely doubt this was enough to break the curse, even though I had to give it a shot.” He had no choice, but she didn’t need to know that.

“I don’t care. I didn’t know it would hurt you.”

“What about your cousins? Your grandmother? Hell, I remember being a kid and listening to the old men gossip about the Raisonne Curse.” He finished her earlier move and took her hand, ignoring the pain. “Let me help you.”

She bit her lip, turned his hand palm-up in hers and stared at the fiery red skin. “Will it help if we wait for your brothers?”

“It would.” Though, he had a strong gut feeling they couldn’t wait that long if his brothers couldn’t get in that night.

As the thought passed through his mind, the hair on the back of his neck prickled. He glanced over his shoulder and caught what looked like a shadow scurrying around the corner.

“Pryor?”

He turned back to her, gut churning at the utter wrongness, the heavy air it left.

“Did you see that thing too?” she whispered.

“How long have you been able to?”

“Weeks.” She shivered.

“I saw it. Don’t know what it is because I haven’t seen one before.” His tone was low, soft. “It tails you like a detached shadow.”

“I sometimes think it’s something from me. That it wove through me and pulled out the bad parts.”

“That maybe it’s some kind of gathering of your own negative energy?” The corner of his mouth turned up. “It’s not.”

“You don’t know.” She shook her head. “I’ve got a lot of resentment that built up over the years. Ma’man Raisonne misses her daughter, my mother. But I don’t. I never have. Maybe if she’d stayed the way she was when I was a kid…”

He didn’t feel he should ask, but couldn’t stop himself. “What do you mean?”

“In the months before that truck came out of nowhere and hit her, she’d lost everything we owned and had been reduced to begging for money. I know the curse made things hard for her, but she had this air of angry self-pity that made her miserable to be with. My feelings toward her have the same dark sensation as this thing. It scares me.”

He turned back to the doorway. “I hate to worry you, but I think maybe you have every right to be. Let’s rinse your hair.”

“I can rinse it myself. I really can’t let you use your hands.”

He waved them in the air. “Magic, remember?” The more he touched her, the more he could absorb the curse.

“No.” She shook her head.

He grinned. “Elita, this isn’t as bad as it looks and the cool water will soothe the burns.”

She looked skeptical, but finally nodded. He could feel her guilt like heat coming off her skin.

Still, rinsing the dried wash from her hair took some time and effort and it just about killed the raw skin of his palms. Touching her more than made up for it. He often marveled over the level of trust people gave him and his brothers when it came to curse removals, and this time was no different. Elita stretched her neck back over the basin, baring that smooth, silky looking throat and before he knew what was happening, the whispers increased in volume. He kept running his fingers through her hair, but he glanced around expecting to see actual family ghosts hovering over his shoulders. When he turned back, her eyes were open and zeroed in on him.

“You have a noisy house.”

“Been some time since they were this talkative.” The power flowing from his hands burned, but he kept them steady.

“So, you think they’re reacting to me?”

He nodded. “The fact that you can hear them is the confusing part. Only a Bernaux is supposed to be able to.”

“I don’t think that applies here. I’ve been hearing and seeing things for weeks—around the time the smudge man showed up.” She shuddered.

“Smudge man?” He caught a rivulet of water with his thumb before it could run into her eye.

“That’s what I named him. When I don’t think he’s a part of me, I think maybe he’s like a stain of something bad left behind. You know, like that last, stubborn smudge you can’t get out of the carpet? It’s a less scary description than ‘evil spirit,’ wouldn’t you say?”

“Not sure I agree.” He grinned and ran his finger along her hairline and felt no gritty residue, so after one last rinse with warm water, he snagged a clean towel from the shelf next to him and, ignoring the pain in his hands, wrapped it around her head. “All done.”

“Think it worked at all?”

“We’ll see. I felt more power flowing during the rinse, so let’s give it some time and see what happens. Until then, what say you we take it out into the open? I want to finish painting that small section outside, then I need to put up the paint supplies, rinse out the brushes. You can keep me company. Off and away from the scaffolding, of course. Let the sun dry your hair.”

“So you don’t think the head wash did any good?” Water dripped from under her towel and she swiped at it with her hand.

He looked closer, saw that the black wrapping her had faded to gray, so no, not entirely. “It helped, but there’s no sense in taking a risk with you and scaffold. You can sit safely away from the heavy metal bars, enjoy some tea and tell me about Massachusetts.”

“What about your hands?”

The corner of his mouth turned up. “I’m used to working with sore hands. My real business is building furniture. Turned one of those outbuildings into a shop.”

She bit her lip. “We haven’t talked charges for any of this, by the way.”

“My brothers and I don’t charge for hex removal.”

“I don’t see why not. It’s a skill like any other.”

“Wouldn’t be fair.” He led her back into the kitchen.

“I can’t just let you do all this and suffer pain”—she pointed at his hands—“on my behalf without anything in return.”

“Sure you can.”

She looked around, her gaze zeroing in on the stove. “How about I cook for you?”

Food always perked his interest. “You cook?”

“Most definitely. Ma’man Raisonne taught all her children and grandchildren and for me, it stuck. It’s what I do best.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “With that sales pitch, I’d be a damned
couillon
to turn that down.

“Good.” She placed her hands on her hips. “Mind if I check the pantry?”

“You are welcome to anything you need to use in this kitchen.” He pointed to the double doors in the corner and had to grin when she let out a loud gasp, once inside.

“I’m in heaven with the shelves. Not so much with what you guys have on them. How can there be so many bare shelves? I take it no one around here cooks?”

“Wyatt likes to grill and I like to fish, so the freezer is stocked. We have fresh vegetables from my store run yesterday. But that pantry barely sees use. We might as well grill out tonight. Tooter will come back with something fresh, looking for a cold beer.”

“How do you know he’ll want to stay?”

“Trust me, Tooter always stays. I have something he can’t resist.”

“What’s that?”

He grinned. “You’ll see.”

Elita pointed to the refrigerator and opened it after he nodded. “Celery, onions, and tomatoes. Perfect. Got wine?”

“Got air?”

“I’ll whip up a nice court bouillon and we’ll add whatever Tooter brings. But first, let’s get some salve for your hands.”

He’d let her rub salve onto his palms. It wouldn’t help. The pain would stay in his hands until the swamp pulled him in that night.

C
hapter Three

Tooter’s boat rumbled up the bayou late afternoon. Pryor strode into the kitchen just as Elita finished placing a bowl of marinated zucchini, onions and peppers inside a basket she’d found in the pantry. She’d already filled the bottom of the basket with plates, napkins and silverware. She’d also organized the chaos in his refrigerator, hoping he wouldn’t mind.

“The court smells good. Lots of red, the way I like it.” He spread a towel on the counter and laid wet brushes on it. “Glad you made a lot of food. Tooter’s boys can put it away.”

Elita had watched Pryor working most of the afternoon and had decided she could make a career of observing the man move. Her gaze locked on the flexing muscles in his arms as he washed his hands in the sink. He’d worked with those damaged hands all afternoon. She didn’t get it. If her palms looked like that, she’d avoid touching anything. He went still and she looked up to find his narrowed gaze on her. The man looked like he was thinking of eating her instead of the food she’d prepared.

Heat seeped into her cheeks with the thought. She doubted very much she’d mind that. Amusement filled his eyes and she hurriedly stuffed a roll of paper towels into the basket, looking everywhere but at him.

“Une miche?”
He tucked in a round loaf of French bread.

“Looks good. Where are your knives?”

He pointed but came forward to crowd her as she opened the drawer and lifted a nice, serrated bread knife. “This one’s good.”

His breath brushed over her neck and this time she couldn’t stop the shiver. Or the small gasp that escaped her mouth. The heat of his body bled into her back, and she closed her eyes. Need swirled in her gut as his arms came around either side of her. He propped his hands on the counter, caging her in, and before she could talk herself out of it, she slowly turned to face him, looking up into stunning hazel eyes. He stepped so close and she had to bend her neck back to keep meeting his gaze. He curled one hand around her hip, shook his head like he was giving in to something he wasn’t sure he should, then tucked her against his body. His gaze dropped to her mouth.

She nearly swallowed her tongue at the hot, electric feel of him against her. At the taut line of his impressive erection.

Tooter’s boat suddenly went quiet.

Pryor lifted his gaze from her lips and smiled faintly with regret before stepping back.

Elita sucked in a deep breath, her skin so hot and flushed, she knew she had to look as red as the soup simmering on the stove.

“I’ll get the basket; come back for the court bouillon. Why don’t you grab that other bottle of Merlot?” He lifted the basket and stepped away.

Elita wrapped her fingers around the bottle on the counter and followed Pryor out the back door.

Sure enough, Tooter had showed up with a mess of fresh fish and had his boys cleaning them on the pier. He walked with casual familiarity around one of the outbuildings and, curious, Elita followed to find a grouping of picnic tables on a slab of concrete. Portable canopies shaded three of the tables. When the old fisherman ran his hand over the massive stainless steel grill to the side, she grinned. Of course, she understood. It was a beaut with two long grill shelves, built-in rotisserie, and two side grills. Tooter opened the bottom cabinet and she saw a mini fridge full of beer. She glanced around back and spotted the extension cord running from the outbuilding.

She set the wrapped bowl of marinating vegetables on the side grill while Pryor unloaded the basket onto a picnic table. He placed a small bottle of insect repellent on the table as well. She turned a full circle, taking in the lush trees surrounding the eating area set up for a big family.

“For people who don’t like to cook, you sure have a lot of nice cooking areas.”

“Cooking? No. Grilling? Oh yeah. My brother built that kitchen as a model for his business. Never cooks in it. We all like to grill though.”

A loud splash came from the pier before Tooter’s sons started yelling. Tooter grinned. “De boys, making the
misère
.” He held up a beer, lifted an eyebrow.

She held up the wine and smiled back.

When Pryor fetched the court bouillon, Tooter sniffed appreciatively. “Coo-Wee! De red wine court. See Ma’man passed on her magic. Dis gonna be good!”

He yelled at his sons to hurry with the fish and announced he would be master of the grill. Elita watched Pryor as he chuckled and lit the citronella torches strategically placed around the concrete slab. She hoped they’d work to keep the insects back, but grabbed the bottle of repellent and stepped away from everyone to coat her arms and legs.

By the time she settled in with a glass of red, Tooter was already placing her marinated vegetables on the grill. Soon the air filled with the rich scent of fresh, seasoned fish. The night creatures started their noise early—crickets forming a constant backdrop to the occasional croak of a bullfrog or the screech of a nighthawk.

She propped her elbows on the table, her chin in her palm, and let their conversation flow around her. Even though she told herself this world wasn’t for her, she’d missed Louisiana, missed the colorful people. She hadn’t made many friends up north because she’d had to work crazy hours just to afford her tiny apartment while she saved her money. Her stomach clenched when she was hit with the reminder that most of that savings was gone. Wiped out by her last trip to the hospital. Quickly shoving that thought aside for now, she refocused on the men’s conversation.

It revolved around subjects she’d grown up listening to—fishing, shrimping and food. There were healthy doses of bitching about the fate of the basin and even one of Tooter’s boys spoke up to gripe about the water hyacinths spreading like mad through swamp.

“
C’est bon!
Elita, you have a gift.” Pryor wiped his mouth with a napkin and picked up his wine—taking off one of the small, screened covers he’d put in the basket earlier. She was extremely thankful for the things because they kept the gnats out of the wine. A swarm of them swirled a couple of feet from their tables.

“Takes after Ma’man Raisonne, her.” Tooter grinned.

Elita tried not to focus on the small bit of zucchini Tooter had caught in his beard. “I can only hope to be as good as my grandmother.”

“Can’t imagine food being better than that,” Pryor murmured as he set down his wine and rested his elbows on the table. “Appreciate the fish, Tooter.”

“Did I tell ya where we caught dat batch today? Got to piss off a LaBarre, bro.”

“It’s always a good day when you get to do that.” Pryor laughed. “You know who we’re talking about?” he asked Elita.

She nodded and shrugged. “Vaguely. I remember hearing a few stories but I’ve never met them.”

Tooter launched into a story about finding a huge school of fish and getting shot at.

Elita rested her chin on her palm and listened as he recounted a tale involving stuffed birds, gnomes and a hungry alligator gar jumping out of the water, going after their catch. She’d never seen that sort of thing happen herself, but she got the feeling Tooter liked to embellish.

Two hours later, her belly pleasantly full and her muscles lazy from the wine, Elita realized nothing bad had happened since the head wash. Sitting up, she blocked out the conversation between Tooter and Pryor and focused. Her entire life, she’d felt the weight of the curse. Her shoulders slumped when she realized it was still there. Clinging, prickling her skin. Felt angry, but lighter than it had, and strangely hesitant. Almost like it was waiting to see what she’d do next. She decided to hold off saying anything to Pryor. She glanced at his hands, unable to see if they were worse. He had gorgeous long-fingered hands with a smattering of brown hair on the backs.

She frowned, realizing he had started to look kind of pale in the dimming light.

As darkness fell over the swamp, she couldn’t help but notice the nervous glances Tooter’s boys aimed toward Pryor. Tooter frowned at them in warning but within minutes of true dark, he stood and began hurriedly scraping plates into the trash can next to the grill.

And he was supposed to be one of the unafraid ones.

Nerves kicked in when she realized the goose bumps on her arms came from her own trepidation. An owl hooted, barely making a dent in the overpowering racket of night insects but it still made her jump. She stood fast to try and cover up her silly reaction. “Tooter, do you guys mind waiting while I run these dishes back and wash them?”

“No need,” Pryor said. He stacked their dirty plates in the basket, but his movements were slow. Kind of deliberate. “I’ll just throw everything into the dishwasher. Won’t take but a few minutes.” He reached for silverware, a wince tightening his features.

She stopped his movements, taking his hand gently in hers and turning it palm up. Blisters covered them, mostly on the fingers where he’d run them through her hair. It was worse than it had been earlier—almost like the coming night was affecting him.

Which was a completely absurd thought.

Glancing at Tooter, who stood nervously by the corner of one of the outbuildings, she realized his boys had already gotten onto the boat. She couldn’t leave Pryor to clean all this up with his hands like this. As someone who liked things planned, the question that came out of her mouth surprised even her. “You have a guest room, Pryor?”

He hesitated, kept his stare on her before shaking his head. “You don’t want to stay here, Elita. Go on with Tooter. Like I said, I’m used to working with my hands like this.”

She watched him, not missing the pinched lips, the slight sway in his stance. He was hiding something from her—something more than wounded hands. “You said your brothers were coming in tonight.”

“Could be real late before they get here.”

“So, we’ll clean up and start early in the morning.” She bit her lip, then whispered, “Can you still see the curse on me?”

He frowned and nodded slowly.

“Then I should stay.”

He continued to stare at her for what felt like a full minute before nodding. “There’s a separate guest room off the side of the house. The top of the bedding might be a bit dusty, but the sheets are clean underneath. I can grab you another blanket.”

“That’s fine.” She turned to Tooter. Ignoring the butterflies going crazy in her gut, she approached the old man. “Pryor has hurt himself, so I’m going to stay here and clean this up. I can tell you don’t want to wait so I’ll stay the night. His brothers are coming in to help with the curse anyway.”

Bushy gray and black eyebrows climbed up to disappear under his grungy cap. “You wanna stay? Here?” He shook his head. “Missy, dat’s not a good idea.”

“Tooter, if the brothers can get this curse off me, maybe they can get it off Audrey and Ava. Off Ma’man too.”

He merely tightened his lips.

“Don’t worry. He has a guest place out back. Saw it earlier. I’m sure I’ll be fine. You still headed back to Ma’man’s tonight?”

“Somebuddy gotta teller you’re crazy.” His words flowed in a rhythm all his own.

She grinned. “Not crazy. I just have a feeling I should stay.” She knew it didn’t make sense to him. It barely made sense to her.

After they washed up and put everything away, Pryor gave her a pair of clean shorts and another T-shirt. “There’s a shower off the room. Has soap and stuff.” He walked her to the white wooden stairs leading up to the separate guest room and flipped on the small porch light at the bottom of the steps. He hadn’t started work at this end of the house, so the paint on the stairs had peeled in big sections, leaving gaps of aged, splintered wood.

The scent of honeysuckle was strong here.

She felt his eyes on her as he stood in the shadows, sensed an odd sort of connection to him that unnerved her, and maybe it was the alcohol, but she kept seeing his bare chest, the muscled planes of his body, the tattoos she wanted to explore.

Maybe she’d had one glass too many.

Something glittered in his expression that set fire to her already restless limbs. Without thinking of the consequences, she stepped close and lifted her chin.

“I don’t think this is such a good idea,” he whispered, eyes glittering in the dark.

“Just one kiss. I need it. I’m not sure why.”

“I know why.”

She frowned at the sad, resigned tone to his words, but didn’t have time to ponder them further because he closed his mouth over hers and the reaction from her body scattered every thought in her head. His lips were smooth, firm and the slight whiskery stubble that rasped over her cheeks made her moan. She opened her lips and wrapped both arms around his neck.

The collar of his T-shirt was damp with sweat and a faint trace of bug repellent still lingered on his skin, or hers, but that did nothing to stop the wave of want and need that swamped her.

Pryor must have felt it too. He groaned and tightened his arms around her, then slid his hand up to cup the back of her head. He slanted his lips more firmly over hers, slipped his tongue into her mouth, and she moaned as she tasted wine and a distinct masculine flavor that was Pryor’s alone.

Elita threaded her fingers in his soft hair and pressed closer as everything below her waist began to throb. It took all she had not to give in to the urge to climb him and wrap her legs around his waist.

But he abruptly pulled back, throwing her off balance. He grabbed her arms to steady her. “This isn’t a good idea. Sorry, I have to go—”

Disoriented from his switch from hot to instant cold, she blinked at him, but caught the fleeting glimpse of pain that tightened his features before he smoothed them out. She knew about hiding pain better than most. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

His shoulders snapped straight and again, she had the feeling something was really wrong. He took a few steps back and nearly stumbled. She’d watched the man moving and walking all day, mesmerized by the grace of his movements. This was so different, alarm sliced into her belly.

“Seriously, Pryor, something’s wrong. Are you sick? Did you get bad fish?”

He nodded, backed up a few more steps. “Think it’s bad fish. I have to go. I’m sorry.”