Unleashed by Shadows (By Moonlight Book 10) (11 page)

“Soon.” He nibbled at her slight frown. “I promise.”

She accepted his kiss like his vow, somewhat anxiously, holding to his hard body to strengthen her resolve.

“None of that.” He pulled away with obvious reluctance. “I’ve got to get up early. I’m a working man now.”

“Mmmm. I should probably let you sleep.”

She stretched up for his mouth. Their tongues touched and gently mated, forcing him to finally groan, “Oh, hell. I’m already up anyway,” and rolled above her to prove it.

As much as she’d enjoyed their earlier rowdy couplings, she adored slow, sleepy sex when the focus wasn’t getting to an explosive end, but rather lingering over the intimate details. And one thing about Cale, he was very thorough.

He barely moved inside her, just enough to maintain a pleasing friction, seeing to those particulars. The leisurely way his hands buffed over shoulders, breasts, hips, thighs warmed her skin deliciously. Soft, sucking kisses drifted from her lips to chain about her throat. She arched and sighed, mapping out the powerful swell of his shoulders and scarred back beneath kneading fingers. A journey so gradual, so unhurried, the sudden conclusion struck like lightning from a blue sky.

Feeling it gather and roll through her, Cale gripped her hips hard, driving quickly to his own end with a fierce command.

“A son, Kendra. Give. Me. A. Son.”

*

She lay with eyes closed listening to the sound of him moving stealthily about the room getting dressed to leave her. She’d managed brief snatches of sleep, but not enough to drive away the weariness and worry. Surrounded by the scent of freshly washed hair and skin, desire, more needy than lustful, stirred when he settled on the edge of the bed. Fearing what she’d say to him in this moment of weakness, she pretended sleep.

His hand settled warm and wide on her abdomen. For a long moment, he didn’t move. What would she see if she opened her eyes? Yearning, impatience? Or disappointment?
Give me a son.

Finally, he leaned down, lips sketching across her cheek, whispering, “I love you, baby.” The edge of the mattress rocked, his weight lifting, her heart plunging. The door closed softly.

Her palm rested where his had lain, over the womb that would hold their future.

Words, pleas, arguments wouldn’t move him from whatever perilous course he’d chosen. But news of a pregnancy could. If she created that precious heir, he’d grab her up and whisk them both to the safety of their mountain compound, pulling their world in about them. The instinct to secure their line was the most powerful driving force known to their species, beginning with that season of madness in young males when consumed by the urge to mate in their fearsome natural form, and concluding with the primal drive to secure a bond.

Nothing meant more to Cale than fulfilling his legacy.

And nothing was what she’d provided.

It wasn’t because he hadn’t given her enough to work with. He’d sent a veritable SEAL team swimming upstream. Yet none of those determined warriors had planted its flag. Was it too soon to wonder if something was wrong?

Her female courses ran erratically, just like her life. She’d almost given up when they finally made an appearance late in her adolescence. Then they visited sporadically or not at all. Early emotional trauma was to blame  but shouldn’t hinder natural reproduction. That’s what she’d been told. Shouldn’t didn’t carry the same certainty as wouldn’t. Had Bram Terriot managed to have the last laugh after all?

What if the problem wasn’t hers, but with her bonded mate?

It had long been rumored that Bram’s mistress Martine had provided his rutting sons with some holistic concoction to keep them from scattering their plentiful seed in underserving soil. What if, in order to protect her own son’s inheritance, she’d turned contraception into impotency?

Kendra wouldn’t believe that. Couldn’t.

In order to save Cale’s life, she needed to conceive.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Alain Babineau’s idea of lunch was not what Cale expected.

They met in a tiny restaurant intriguingly named Daisy Duke’s. Booth and table seating was fairly full, leading straight to an open kitchen where steam rose from various pans, and staff dodged around one another. The detective had already claimed a booth near the back where he could face the door. Flashing his smile, he waved Cale over.

“Took the liberty of ordering for us. Was surprised by the invite.”

“Gotta eat.” Cale slid into the booth, a bit uncomfortable having the room behind him but trusting his brother-in-law to have his back.

A waitress wearing the prerequisite shorty-shorts approached the table carrying a large kettle. Cale watched, bemused, as the detective spread papers out on the tabletop to receive the dumped contents of the pot.

A heap of bright red bugs with hard shells and all sorts of evil looking legs, feelers and pinchers spewed across the paper. Uttering a startled oath, Cale lunged back, rising up and nearly climbing onto his seat.

“What the hell are those?”

“Lunch,” Babineau replied with a grin. “Crawfish boil. When in Rome . . .”

On closer suspicious examination, Cale discovered the crustaceans weren’t beetles but more like small lobsters. He sank back down reluctantly, shooting the amused cop a wary smile. “What do I do with them? Use them as bait to catch something that looks more appetizing?”

Patiently, Babineau picked up one of the shellfish, holding it between thumbs and forefingers on either end. “You twist and snap the head away from the tail.” After he did so, he brought the head to his lips and slurped noisily.

Fearing he might have to use the kettle for a different purpose, Cale murmured faintly, “I did not just see that.”

Tossing the top half in the pot, Alain exclaimed, “That’s the best part, but you, being a tenderfoot, should probably stick to the tail.

Good idea, Cale thought, his stomach giving a queasy roll.

“Now, you just peel the shell from the tail the way you would on a shrimp and tug out the meat.” He demonstrated and extended the small piece across the table. Cale took a cautious bite, surprised by the sweet flavor exploding in his mouth.

“Seems like a lot of work for such a small reward.”

Babineau laughed. “That, my friend, is the Louisiana lifestyle. It’s not about the work. It’s about enjoying the time it takes to have good conversation.” He dismembered a few more of the little creatures then asked, “So, what did you want to talk about?”

Cale set about a steady rhythm of pinch, snap, twist, and pull while getting to the point of the invitation. “I met your friend Commissioner Brady last night.”

Babineau went still, eyes going deadly. “He’s no friend.”

“I’m pretty damned sure he’s not going to be mine, either. You never said why you want to pin him to the wall so bad.”

“No, I didn’t. Does it matter to you?”

Cale considered the terse question. “Not really.”

“Then spill.” He gestured for the waitress and ordered a beer, Cale declining since he had to return to work. Listening to a recap of what had happened on the rooftop, Alain grew pensive. “Does MacCreedy know about my interest in the Commissioner? Or what we talked about?”

“You asked me to keep it to myself. Not my business. At the moment.” He noted his companion’s tension and contrarily asked, “What’s the story?”

“Men like Carmen Blutafino, Jimmy Legere, and even Savoie, you know right up front who and what they are. Bad guys, law breakers, and they don’t give a damn if you know it. But Warren Brady, probably the worst of the lot, he hides what he is behind an office of decency and law while perverting both every way he can. I’d dislike him on principle.”

“But you have personal reasons, too.”

A brief nod. “Involving people I thought of as family who didn’t deserve what they got.”

That was enough to satisfy Cale, for the moment. “MacCreedy could be a lot more help to you than I am.”

“He also has those annoying principles that keep him from following through the way I hope to.”

Babineau meant to kill him, not to convict him.

“And you don’t think I have a conscience?” That bothered Cale more than he wanted to admit.

“Not when it comes to family. That’s why I’m willing to trust mine to you. If you still want the responsibility.”

No hesitation. “I do.” Then, he asked plainly, “Are you sure you want to let them go?”

“Yes.”

Said with enough steel to convince and sadden him at the same time. “Are they going to want to go?”

“They will.”

*

Returning to the docks, Cale pondered over that grim assurance. Too busy in his formative years worrying about his own skin to consider how others chose to wear theirs, his initial instinct was to mind his own business and ask no questions, but his fondness for the Babineau family made that difficult. Where was the line a man didn’t cross when it came to what another did with his own?

Tina was his half-sister, Oscar his nephew, but they were as new in his life as the tattoo on his arm. He had no right to influence them or interfere with what their husband and father decided unless it involved physical harm, in which case there wouldn’t be enough left of Alain Babineau to fill the carry out bag he toted. But Tina clearly loved her husband and the life they led here in New Orleans. Oscar looked up to his surrogate father even if their relationship was complicated. All Cale had to do was recall his own reaction to Silas insinuating himself into his plans for a future with Kendra and there was his answer. Be supportive, but butt out.

Happy with that conclusion, he parked his bike by the office trailer where Philo Tibideaux sat on the metal steps going over some paperwork.

“Heads up!”

Philo caught the bag tossed his way.

“Afternoon snack,” Cale provided at his puzzled look.

His foreman peeked inside and smiled, genuinely thrilled with the creepy crawly meal. “Thanks.”

“Welcome. Had all I could stomach. Still feel ‘em trying to wiggle their way upstream.”  He gave his chest a meaningful tap, his cheeks puffing out as if struggling to keep them down.

Tibideaux laughed and vowed, “We’ll make a homeboy of you in no time a‘tall.”

Cale didn’t burst his bubble.  “Finished that inventory. What’s up for this afternoon?”

Before Philo could answer, sounds of a commotion brewing reached them. Philo set his clipboard aside with a grumble of “Now what? Those boys have been scrappy all damned day. If I didn’t know better, I’d think a full moon was a-coming.”

Purposeful strides carried the lanky Shifter down to a freighter they were loading. Cale tagged along. A group of stevedores who should have been busy working up top securing cargo containers gathered in a tight knot. Philo shoved his way through to find two of his men rolling on the ground already bloodied and intent on bodily harm.

“What the hell’s gotten into the lot of you?” he hollered. “You ain’t getting paid to throw down bets on my clock! Get them two separated, and get your dumb asses back to work!”

Several brave souls reached down to pull the battling pair apart only to be bruised and knocked back for their trouble. As the two began a renewed grappling, Tibideaux lifted one of the mop up buckets and doused them with its contents. That got their attention long enough for the others to intercede.

Just when they thought the episode ended, Amos, the bigger of the brutish pair, snatched up a pry bar and swung it at the other man. The motion halted a scant inch from breaking open the fellow’s head like a melon. Snarling, Amos whipped around to see the new guy, Mick Terry, gripping the other end.

“That’s enough.”

Terry’s cool drawl rekindled his temper. He swung, but Terry no longer stood in the same spot. He circled and turned right into the work boot that left its tread mark on his face. He stumbled but he didn’t go down, still too riled by what boiled through his system to recognize that his nose had been broken. He got in a few glancing blows then roared in frustration, charging wildly, trying to wrap the little sucker up in a crushing embrace, but with a duck and a slide, Terry got behind him. A fierce elbow chop between the shoulder blades dropped him to the ground with Terry riding his back like a bronc buster, a bulging forearm curled about his neck.

Shaking off the dazing effect of the fellow’s ham-sized fists, Cale pinned him, holding him helpless so that struggle cut off his ability to breathe. Yet still, he fought and would continue until Cale was forced to kill him. That, he couldn’t let happen. Not when the memory of his brother Michael surged in a battering tide.

“Easy, my man. I’m not trying to hurt you. We’re all your friends here. No one’s going to hurt you. Stop fighting. Stop before you hurt yourself.”

Chest heaving, the cords in his throat and eyes bulging, Amos howled and snarled until considerable pressure had him docile once more.

“I’m not your enemy. It’s okay. Relax. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.” Cale repeated that last over and over until finally, the man quieted. Even then, Cale held him close and subdued, his own breathing labored.

Finally, T-Ray knelt down. “I got him, Mick. You can let go now. Let go, Mick.”

For a moment, Cale just stared up at him as if confused by time and place then gradually, he loosened his grip and let the other man lift a wobbly Amos to his feet.

“I’ll see he gets home safe,” T-Ray assured Philo, and to Cale, he murmured, “Good job, Mick. You saved his life.”

That sentiment rumbled through the others in awed agreement. Bittersweet to Cale because he hadn’t been able to save the one that meant the most to him.

*

“That was something. Jumping in like that. How did you know you could take him?”

“I didn’t.”

Philo laughed, shaking his head as he closed the trailer door behind them. “You’re a crazy son of a bitch, you know that?”

“Yeah, I do. So, can I get back to work?”

“Not just yet. You and me need to have us a sit down.  Since it looks like you’re about to fall down, you’d best park it there.”  He pointed at one of the chairs. “You need some water?  Something stronger?”