Riding the Storm (6 page)

He
closed his eyes and listened to the rain pelt the glass. It had seemed like
such a good idea, letting her come to Bayou Blonde to study his son. A good
idea until he helped the sweet young thing unload her equipment. All of a
sudden, his blood had run cold and nothing seemed so good anymore. The way
she'd talked, like T was a specimen in a petri dish and not a person, had
filled him with dread and a sense of foreboding.

If T
found out what he'd done, he wouldn't give a fig why. Remy could lose his son.
Sort of ironic, he supposed, given that he'd gotten his son out of loss in the
first place.

Raw
pain welled up in his throat as though his twenty-five-year wound had been
reopened. His lovely Fay Lynne, so supportive and trusting when he'd made the
decision to leave the Navy after his first term was up, when she was six months
pregnant and he didn't have a job to support them. If he'd only stayed in the
military, had tried a little harder to be a team player and not balk at every
command…

Shit,
he could play the If Only game all night and nothing would change. Fay Lynne
and his unborn son would still be dead, victims of a car accident he might have
prevented if he'd had the money to fix the vehicle when he first noticed the
brake vibrations. His life had ended with theirs that day, had spiraled out of
control until three months later when he heard about a baby boy born on his own
son's due date. Born during Hurricane Tessa and abandoned on the steps of the
old Baptist church that sat across from the intersection where the accident had
happened.

Remy
wasn't one to believe in curses or voodoo or even superstitions, but he
believed in fate. When the baby's mother turned up dead in the river and no one
wanted him because everyone else believed in curses, voodoo and superstitions,
Remy had found it easy enough to adopt the kid. Especially once the father, a
married New Orleans blueblood, made it simple by greasing some palms to keep
the whole thing quiet.

"Remy?
You still worrying 'bout your boy?"

Nodding,
he turned to face Widow Johnson, standing there in nothing but her skivvies,
holding a candle for light. "He's home."

"He
called? I didn't hear your cell ring."

"It
didn't." Thunder rolled through the house, through his chest. "I just
know."

"Then
come back to bed."

Reluctantly,
he followed her through the dark halls. He didn't deserve to sleep comfortably.
Not when T was probably already under the microscope, being tested and poked
and prodded after walking into a trap his own father had helped set.

Remy'd
seen the meteorologist's communications equipment, and if that woman worked for
the National Weather Service like she claimed, he'd eat one of them swamp rats
that lived right outside the widow's back door. No, Miss Haley Holmes was
backed by money and power, and once she figured out that his son could snap his
fingers and level a town with a tornado, T was in trouble.

Gut
clenching so hard that he stumbled, he did something he hadn't done since Fay
died. He prayed. Prayed his desperation hadn't cost him the only person he had
left in his life. Prayed his son would forgive him. Prayed his son wasn't right
this very moment in trouble and hating life.

Haley
was still there. Okay, maybe it was because she was partially trapped beneath
the weight of his body, but she didn't look scared or upset when Remy stared at
her face for traces of either emotion. She looked… satiated.

Son
of a bitch, what the hell was he supposed to do with that?

She
gently stroked a hand down his bare back, and he pulled away faster than if
she'd slapped him across the face.

"Remy,
wait," she said, but he grabbed an old blanket off the couch and handed it
to her, the same one he'd used all those years that the couch had doubled as
his bed and the only corner of the world he could call his. When she'd wrapped
herself in it, he picked her up and walked her over to the couch.

"Stay
put until I clear some of this glass," he barked, because he didn't know
what else to say to her. Thankfully, she complied and sank back into the
cushions. He yanked on his cargo pants, didn't bother buttoning them or looking
for the shirt he vaguely remembered losing outside. Instead, he lit two of the
closest hurricane lamps, since the electricity was still blown, and then
grabbed a broom from the kitchen floor.

The
storm wasn't over. He could feel it in the way his skin still tingled,
stretched, like it was too tight for his body.

He
could go again easily, right now, and the thought of swaying against Haley,
into her, made the faint buzz in his head grow louder. He forced himself not to
look back at her. Instead, he swept the glass and other debris into a neat pile
by the back door and wondered what in the hell to do next.

Sex
with her had been good—so damned good. Almost a real release, which he'd needed
on more than one level, because it had been a while for him. Four months away
in the desert with his team and his decision not to re-up had taken his focus
mercifully away from sex and weather, even as he'd been forced to reevaluate
exactly what the fuck he was going to do with the rest of his life when all he
could ever think about was sex and weather.

He
had friends who'd gotten into the lucrative business of mercenary work. The
hours were long, but the pay rocked and the adrenaline rush couldn't be beat.
Plus, it was something he could do alone.

But
he wasn't alone now.

"Did
I hurt you?" Haley was asking him. She was standing again, and the blanket
had opened, baring her body to him. Even when he stared, she didn't pull it
closed around her.

"Did
you
hurt
me
?" he asked in amazement, hating the way his
voice shook. He shoved the broom aside and rubbed the back of his neck where he
still felt the prickling on his skin.

"Your
ribs. The bruises. I tried to be careful around them… She'd moved toward him,
reached a hand out to touch his chest, and for a second he was spellbound at
the way her breasts swayed, still heavy and flushed from sex. Then he noticed
the angry, crimson bite mark on her shoulder.

"Don't.
Don't touch and don't worry about me," he said. She didn't reach out to
him again, but she didn't move away either, and for the first time in his life
he didn't feel cornered having someone stand that close. Her presence was
almost soothing, and he blamed his orgasm for the false sense of security.

That
damned tattoo was throwing him too. And, as if she'd read his mind, her fingers
played along the ink.

"You've
got to tell me what that was all about," she said softly.

He
wanted to ask her the same thing, wanted to put his mouth to her hip again and
trace the familiar lines with his tongue, wanted to be buried inside of her to
the hilt. Instead, he shrugged like none of this was a big deal and the pent-up
energy still begging to be released from his body wasn't dangerous for both of
them. "Hurricanes get me hot."

"Um,
yeah, I'll say." She paused. "Those bruises didn't just happen
tonight, did they?"

He
glanced down at the dark blemishes that had formed almost immediately after the
attempted mugging last night. Two men had cornered him by his car, while a
third and fourth grabbed him from behind. They'd nearly taken him down hard,
something that shouldn't have happened, given that he'd been trained to take
out double that crew with no weapons other than his bare hands. At one point
during the fight, his wrists had seemed bound together, although when he'd
looked down at them, they'd been completely free.

"No,
not from tonight."

"From
work?"

"No,"
he said abruptly, and he willed her to use the blanket to cover her body. The
lights in the house flickered on briefly and then buzzed off again. "Not
from work. Are you sure I didn't hurt you?"

"You
didn't hurt me, Remy," she said. "I'm tougher than I look." She
smiled, and damn her, he almost let his guard down and smiled back. When he
didn't, she sighed. "I think we both need to get cleaned up. I'll scrounge
up some food and make a shack. We can eat while we talk about this."

For a
split second, he wondered what it would be like, to talk to someone who might
actually understand this roller coaster his body and Mother Nature took him on.
Maybe she could explain it to him logically.

And
maybe being inside her had screwed with his head, because he knew damn good and
well his relationship with the weather had nothing to do with logic.

"There's
nothing to talk about," he said. "Besides, I need to find my
father." His gut tightened at the thought of Remy Senior, reminded him
where he was and why he'd come home again.

"You
can't go out there now to look for him—it's not safe."

He
laughed. "
Bebe
, I know these swamps like my own fingerprints.
There's nothing around here that scares me."

Except
you.

"Your
father obviously knows his way around here too," she pointed out.
"I'm sure he's taken refuge somewhere, if he's even still in the
area."

She
had a point—if there was one thing the old man knew how to do well, it was take
care of himself. He could go out at first light and do a sweep of the area. He
could take some time now to clean up the rest of the mess, check the generator…
or he could sleep.

He
fought the urge to yawn, realized it had been weeks since he'd slept well. And
storms like this one always wrung him out. The familiar, bone-weary ache had
begun to settle in and he knew it was useless to fight it. He needed rest, and
for the first time in years, he knew he could actually close his eyes and
sleep.

She
was still standing close, looking at him almost protectively. Which was
ridiculous. He took a few steps away from her.

"I'm,
ah, going to catch some sleep. I'll clean up the rest of this later," he
said.

She
cocked her head and watched him until he felt like a fascinating new
microorganism on a microscope slide. "Are you always tired afterward?
After sex?"

Not
sex. Storms
. But even though he
didn't say the words out loud, wind stirred the air. The door had blown open,
and he closed it, righted a lamp that had been knocked over.

"You
might want to get some rest too," he said, ignoring her questions.

She
was still staring at him, and then he realized he was staring right back, but
not at her face. She blushed and tugged at the corners of the blanket, bringing
them together to hide her lush curves. Disappointment ran through him, even as
he yawned again.

"Okay,
you rest," she said. "I'm not tired, so I'll start the generator and
see what I can do about the rest of this place." She waved her hand at the
mess. Normally, he would argue, tell her not to touch anything, but not this
time. "Why don't you take my bed? It'll be quieter in the bedroom."

"I'll
sleep out here," he said.

"But
that old thing's so lumpy," she started, and he must have let his guard
down, let his expression betray the lingering bitterness of his childhood,
because she bit her lip and looked down. "I'm sorry."

"It's
fine. I'm used to it." He left her alone for a minute to use the bathroom
and clean up a little, and when he came out, she was already dressed and
hovering over her equipment. Grateful that she'd found something else to study
besides him, he sank into cushions that made the bare ground look comfortable,
and settled in. His eyes closed and his breathing eased into a steady rhythm
instantly, but his joints remained stiff, his muscles taut.

"Haley?"
he murmured, turning to his side. "The storm's not over."

"
Haley,
the storm's not over, "
she muttered as she scanned the most current
NOAA satellite pictures.

The
storm was, indeed, over. It had skirted them and turned northeast as it fell
apart. Aside from the stray cells drifting in from the Gulf, they should be
free of significant weather until a front moved in, and the next low pressure
system looked to be at least two days away.

What
puzzled her was the fact that nationally produced radar and satellite images
indicated a category one hurricane with outer bands that had fizzled before
they reached Bayou Blonde. According to the charts, this part of Louisiana had
been in the clear all along.

It
didn't make sense. She'd seen an intense echo pop out of nowhere on her portable
radar before she'd run outside, yet that same echo didn't show up on National
Weather Service products.

This
shouldn't be happening. But Haley had learned a long time ago that as advanced
as meteorological equipment was, Mother Nature could always throw a curveball.
Unpredictable weather happened. Yet this… this was just plain weird. And as
strange as the storm's behavior had been, Remy's had been stranger.

As
the storm had grown in intensity, so had his agitation.

She
didn't want to believe Remy was in any way connected to weather incidents, but
to be honest, the events of the past few hours had riddled her with doubt. The
weather had seemed to intensify every time Remy's mood did the same. Geez,
she'd thought the house would blow down with every orgasm. So why the lack of
data during the approximate times the weather had gone downhill? Why had the
storm she'd experienced disappeared and left no evidence?