Leopard's Prey
Page 43

She dressed slowly, taking her time with her makeup and hair. If she had to face Saria and confess her sins, whatever they might be, she needed a little armor. She was feeling extremely vulnerable and she had the feeling if she lost Saria, it would be a blow she might not readily recover from.
She could hear the cell phone she’d left on the nightstand playing the song her manager loved the most. It was a good five years old, one of the first that had been truly a big hit, rising to number one on the charts almost immediately. She hesitated answering. Lately they’d argued. Well, he argued. She’d made up her mind. No more touring. No more huge venues.
She hadn’t talked to Remy about her manager being so angry with her. When she’d made the decision to stop the circus, a lot of people were very upset, and she couldn’t blame them—she’d made them a lot of money. She let the phone pick up another message from him—as she’d been doing for the last few days. She was ashamed of herself for ducking his calls, but she couldn’t face him yelling at her again over the same thing, not after waking up a total, absolute wreck.
She shoved the cell in her pocket, sighing, trying to ignore the way her skin itched in waves, as if something alive ran beneath the surface, settled and then repeated the movement. She had the sudden urge to grab the handrail and leap over the railing to the floor below. Her fingers curled, her knuckles throbbing, her fingertips feeling as though they might burst any moment. Every muscle ached and her skin felt too tight as if it was stretched over a larger frame and didn’t quite fit.
She found, once she went downstairs to make herself coffee, that the Inn was empty. Saria was gone as well as Drake and she was the only guest, which allowed her a little extra time to think things through. It was very weird, but she swore her sense of smell was heightened. She could almost track Remy’s every move throughout the house after he’d left her bedroom.
The moment his scent filled her lungs, her body went into some sort of heat flash. Blood surged hotly. Pooled. She closed her eyes and switched directions; she needed to be outside. Remy was everywhere, surrounding her, making it impossible to breathe properly.
The phone vibrated and she pulled it out impatiently and nearly dropped it, her heart pounding and her breath catching in her throat. Remy Boudreaux. Immediately her hand shook. What a freaking coward she was becoming. She shoved the phone back into her pocket with a trembling hand, and rubbed both palms down her thighs as if she could wipe the effect he had on her away.
Her jaw hurt, a deep pain in the bones she couldn’t escape. Her teeth seemed to have grown overnight and felt too big to fit into her mouth. The terrible itch beneath her skin persisted and she scratched her arm, hoping to make it stop. Instead, she tore a strip of skin from her arm, a terrible rake mark that bled like crazy. She cursed softly in Cajun French, something she’d done since she was a child, but well under her breath so her teachers couldn’t add that sin to the long list she’d had back then. Could the day get any worse?
She examined the horrendous scrape down her arm. It looked as if she’d been clawed by a jungle cat and felt like it as well. The cut was deep and long. She frowned at her fingernails. They were long, but not that long. Shaking her head, she wrapped her arm in a towel she found in the car.
She needed a distraction, and that meant getting away from the Inn and Remy’s overwhelming scent. Sliding into her car, she turned up her music and took off driving. She was performing at her club in the evening, but she could do a little exploring and maybe give her body a little reprieve. For some reason even Remy’s masculine smell sent her into a sexual meltdown.
The farther from the Inn she got, the more her body seemed to settle down and become her own. After a few miles the air didn’t feel as if it was being squeezed out of her lungs, and she could breathe properly again. She heaved a sigh of relief. Even the terrible itch between her legs subsided, giving her a reprieve—hopefully for a very long time.
She found herself relaxing as she drove along the bayous. At night the roads could be spooky. She had grown up with reports of strange sightings and whispers of ghosts and legendary creatures prowling the swamps and bayous.
She almost missed the SUV pulled into the shadow of the cypress grove leading out to the water’s edge. She saw it at the last moment and braked quickly, her reaction far faster than she anticipated. She was out on one of the back roads, and if the SUV had gone off the road, whoever it was wouldn’t have cell service and might be in trouble. Backing up, she cautiously maneuvered her much smaller car into the grove, but well away from the water.
Again she was cautious as she stepped out of her car, suddenly aware of the absolutely remote area she was in. Edging carefully around the SUV, she immediately saw a man’s suit jacket tossed carelessly on the hood. He was bent over, tying a rope to the hitch of his vehicle, using two locking carabiners for one master point to slip the rope through.
“Are you all right?” she greeted, trying not to startle him.
He straightened, swinging around to face her and relief flooded her system instantly. She hadn’t realized how tense she’d been. She recognized him instantly. Arnaud Lefevre, the famous sculptor whose work was even shown in the Louvre in France. His work sold for hundreds of thousands and he was grinning at her from the shade of the cypress grove on the edge of the swamp. He was dressed in his immaculate thousand-dollar suit, white shirt and hiking boots. That was Arnaud, an eccentric, but extremely talented and versatile.
“What in the world are you doin’?” Bijou demanded. “Arnaud, you can’t just come out here alone. This is a dangerous area.”