Sandra Hill - [Creole] (3 page)

Etienne and Cain gaped at Abel in absolute awe. Then they both asked simultaneously, “Really?”

“God, you two are dumber’n gator spit,” Abel hooted, slapping his knee appreciatively. “You’ll believe anything.”

Etienne and Cain glanced at each other with mutual self-disgust. Abel had a particular talent for fooling them, and they fell for his bait every time. In truth, this camaraderie and the ability to find comedy in their own foibles was the only thing that had kept them sane during an insane war, not to mention the insanity that had dogged them since then, too.

The engine jerked into motion suddenly and began to chug along. They all squinted out the train windows into the moonlit night, seeing nothing. There had been a problem with one of the tracks a short time ago, but apparently it had been corrected.

“Well, I’ll see you two in the morning,” Etienne said, heading toward the door and his own compartment. “We should arrive in Memphis about ten.” He stared at each of them in turn. “Abel, you’ll get the wagon and have it ready at the far end of the station, and Cain, make sure you meet me in the freight car before the train stops.”

Both men rolled their eyes, having heard these instructions a dozen times already tonight.

Etienne yawned widely, then added over his shoulder, “Lord, I hope the coffins are still there.”

Harriet had been asleep only a short time, or so it seemed, when she heard a jingle of spurs. She winced inwardly but wasn’t unduly anxious. As she’d told Oprah, it was the same old same old. And it was about time she handled this problem with maturity, instead of letting the problem handle her.

Opening her eyes, she watched, by the light of a full moon, as her personal rogue closed the compartment door and locked it carefully, double-checking the knob to make sure it was secure. Harriet recognized the exact moment he sensed her presence. With a hiss of indrawn breath and a curse of “Hellfire!” Steve froze in place and immediately whipped a revolver from the holster at his side.

Golly gee, a gunslinger, too. Will my fantasies never cease to amaze me?

“Well, well, well, darlin’,” he remarked in a lazy drawl, after lighting a kerosene lantern affixed to one wall. A yellowish, muted light filled the room. “Aren’t you a sweet little surprise?” The teasing words were delivered in an icy
tone which held no welcome. Stepping closer, he aimed the pistol in the vicinity of her heart and loomed over her. “What are you doin’ in my bed?”

“Well, I’m not one of the three bears, and you’re sure as shootin’ not Goldilocks,” she wisecracked. “And it’s my bed, cowboy, not yours.”

“Golden luck?” he asked, then jabbed her rudely on one breast with the tip of his gun barrel. “Listen, honey, you look downright delectable in that little wisp of a garment—and my favorite animal, too…the leopard—but I’m not interested tonight. I’ve got the beginnings of a blinding headache. I’m sure you understand.”

Not interested? Now, this is a new twist on the forceful seduction theme
.

“I don’t know where you’ve come from, but—”

“Chicago.” Still unafraid—why should she be afraid of a dream gunslinger?—she shoved aside the gun, which was pressed into the soft flesh of her breast, and leaned back on her elbows.

His jaw dropped open at her brazen posture and what he must consider a foolhardy action on her part in deflecting his weapon, but he immediately schooled his features into a cool mask. Then, with a whoosh of exhaled exasperation, he straightened, the gun dangling from his fingertips, and shifted impatiently from one booted foot to the other. The whole time, he studied her intently. “You boarded the train at Chicago?”

“Yep. I’m going to New Orleans.”

“I didn’t see you on the steamboat,” he said, still surveying her suspiciously.

If this weren’t a dream, she would have been embarrassed to be displaying herself so openly, like a nubile, airbrushed
Playboy
centerfold. The only thing missing was the staples.

“Well? Were you on the steamboat?”

“What steamboat?” she asked, disconcerted to realize she hadn’t been paying attention.

“At Cairo,” he explained crankily, putting his free hand to his forehead.

She had several patients who underwent hypnotherapy as a migraine treatment. If she wasn’t mistaken, his pale skin and bloodshot eyes were indicators of a stage-two migraine. His head probably throbbed like a jackhammer. “Cairo?”

“
Oui
.”

“What’s this
oui
business? Steve Morgan isn’t French. He’s half-Mexican.”

He blinked at her as if she spoke a foreign language, then tried again. “You must know, if you got on the Illinois Central in Chicago, that it only goes to Cairo. Then we had to take the steamboat across the river before boarding another train.” All that talking apparently made his head throb and he let out a painful exhalation of breath.

“Huh?” She shook her head to clear it, beginning to feel foolish as she maintained her provocative pose. Especially since Steve, after his initial shock, didn’t appear to appreciate the view. “You’re mistaken. I got the Amtrak Superliner in Chicago, and I’m going directly through to New Orleans.”

He scowled at her incredulously, then seemed to think of something else. “Why did the conductor let you into my compartment?” Harriet couldn’t see a speck of the usual lust in his glittering eyes.

Gee, he really isn’t interested tonight. Maybe he does have a migraine. But that can’t be so. Dream lovers don’t get headaches. Do they?
She giggled, even when Steve continued to glower.
Criminey! Why bother having erotic dreams if there’s no sex? Another of Steve’s mind games, no doubt. He’s probably waiting to pounce when I let down my guard. Well, I’ll put an end to it right now
. “Did the conductor let me into your compartment? No, silly. I already told you, this is
my
compartment.”

“That’s where you’re mistaken,
silly
. I left my
locked
compartment hours ago. So why don’t you just skedaddle on out of here? I want to get catch a few winks.” He ad
vanced on her as if he planned to throw her bodily from the chamber.

She shimmied back against the wall, holding up a halting hand. “Oh, no! If anyone’s skedaddling, it’s you, buster.” Harriet was beginning to take affront at his easy dismissal of her near nakedness, not to mention the threat of violence in his tightly clenched jaw. She folded her arms over her chest with belated modesty. Even if it was only a dream, she should be the one who brushed him off. “You don’t look as good as usual,” she commented, hoping to set him off balance. Actually, he looked a lot better, although there was a hardness about his features that normally would have frightened her.

“As usual?” he retorted testily, raising the gun again. “When in blazes have you seen me before?”

“Every darn night for the past two weeks.”

“What? In Washington?”

“No, not Washington. I was in Chicago on the Oprah show, and—”

“Oh, so that’s it. The opera.” He lowered his gun with a snicker. “You’re with Madame Dubois’s Opera House. Why didn’t you tell me that Cain and Abel hired you from Clarice at the opera show?”

“No, you misunderstood—”

But Steve just talked over her. “Those two are great ones for pranks, but, damnation, even they should know the timing is wrong tonight.”

“I don’t understand.” Who were Cain and Abel? And what did he mean about an opera house? “Why are you acting like this, Steve?”

“Steve? My name is Etienne.”

Harriet frowned, then immediately brightened. “Isn’t Etienne the French word for Steven?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“See,” she said, tossing her hands in the air in a “So there!” fashion.

“Whether my name is Etienne, or Steve, or Jefferson
Davis is not the issue,” he said stonily, then rubbed a hand over his whiskery jaw in frustration.

“That’s where I beg to differ. You’re Steve, of course, and you’re acting like I’m the intruder here, not you. Why are you trying to muddy the waters?”

“Muddy…muddy?
You
are the intruder.” Taking a deep breath, he tried a different approach. “I’d be obliged, ma’am, if you’d tote your delectable ass to someone else’s bed. Some fellow more randy than me. Is that clear enough for your
muddy waters
, darlin’?”

“Well, you sweet-talker, you!” she countered, not budging an inch. “And where’d you pick up the Southern drawl?”

Harriet had always loved the soft, melodious tones of a Dixie accent. Especially when spoken in the slow, lazy cadence of a self-assured man. But Steve probably knew that and had added it to his arsenal of sexual ammunition to use against her.

“I was born in Loo-zee-anna,” he replied, exaggerating his drawl.

“No, you weren’t,” she started to say. Steve Morgan was born in Baja California. But it wasn’t worth arguing about such a trivial point. “Oh, never mind.”

Golly, this dream was amazing. She’d never noticed so many details before, or heard such explicit dialogue. She would have to remember to record all this in the morning, fodder perhaps for a future book.

“Did you get paid already?” he asked as he replaced his gun in the holster and reached out a hand to pull her up off the bunk, and presumably shove her out the door.
The jerk!

“The Oprah show doesn’t pay. Well, only expenses.”

“How much do you charge, sweetheart?” He dropped his extended hand and reached into the pocket of his snug trousers.

This entire conversation was taking a strange turn that Harriet didn’t grasp. “I get two hundred dollars an hour
for regular sessions when I’m back home, but—”

“Two hundred dollars! Honey, you’d better have some special talent to charge those rates.” He thought a moment, then added with a wry grin, “Let me see your tongue.” He chuckled when she clamped her lips together. “You’re the one who does the buttermilk trick, aren’t you? That’s what I call expertise.”

She sniffed huffily. “Of course I’m an expert. I’ve been in practice for more than ten years.” She had no idea what he meant about buttermilk or tongue, but it sounded obscene.

“Ten years!” He peered at her closer, sweeping her body with a dismissive appraisal, which she found highly insulting. “You’re a little old for this business, aren’t you? Shouldn’t you be on the cull pile by now?”

“I beg your pardon,” she seethed, sitting up. She gave him back an equal head-to-toe appraisal.

“I can’t believe I’m standing here talking to this dimwitted wench,” Steve muttered under his breath. Using his gun barrel to tip the brim of his hat up higher on his head, he scrutinized her with an unflattering lack of enthusiasm. “Lady, you look like the back end of bad luck to me, and that’s one card game I don’t need.”

She frowned with puzzlement. Hadn’t he pitched his hat onto her briefcase? No, that had been in her other dream. Whatever. Now she was getting her first good glimpse, more distinct than ever before, of the brute that had plagued her of late.

His black hair, a tad too long, was brushed off his face and behind his ears. Day-old whiskers stubbled the dark skin of his face, but did not hide the sharp cheekbones, strong nose and jaw, or full—sinfully full—lips. Vivid eyes, blue as pure lapis lazuli, sparkled with a burgeoning interest that he couldn’t suppress, headache or not. But it wasn’t carnal interest.

She decided to take the offensive. “So when does the forceful seduction begin?” She plopped backward on the
bed, arms raised above her head, her legs spread wantonly. “Could we get this over real quick, huh? I’d like to sleep sometime tonight.”

“Forceful seduction? What in blue blazes is that?” he said, his eyes about popping out as he gazed at her outlandish pose.

“You know, where the guy forces…well, persuades…the woman against her will to have sex, and like it,” she explained waspishly, squirming her tush a little to get more comfortable. “Really, let’s get this over with. Haul yourself on over here, hon. Come on, jump my bones. Do the deed. Rock my world.”

“Huh?”

“Do I have to spell it out? Let the fantasy begin.” She scrunched her eyes closed, bracing herself for his sensual attack.

Nothing happened.

She opened her eyelids a bit.

He was gaping at her, his astounded eyes roving her exposed body. Then he let out a hoot of laughter. “Forceful seduction? Damn, I’m gonna kill those two perverts.”

He was laughing so hard now, deep belly laughs, that he had to sit down on the opposite seat and hold his sides. He kept mumbling something about the biblical characters Cain and Abel and how he’d found his long-lost sense of humor, after all.

Harriet’s eyes widened as Steve just laughed and laughed. At her. It was a textbook dream scenario—naked woman, laughing man, or vice versa—that insecure people had all the time.

Me? Insecure?

With utter humiliation, Harriet realized the X-rated picture of invitation she made. And for the first time she began to wonder if this was a dream, after all.

But then Harriet homed in on his one word,
pervert
, and inhaled sharply at his obvious hidden meaning. “You want to tie me up, don’t you? No way! Uh-uh!”

“Tie…tie you up?” Steve sputtered and let loose with another burst of laughter.

Standing abruptly, she planted her hands on her hips and tapped a bare foot with indignation. She stopped tapping immediately when she noticed his eyes take notice of her loose breasts, which were bouncing along with her foot movement. So he wasn’t dead below the waist after all.
The lech!

“Listen up, lover, and listen good,” she declared haughtily, tossing her hair back over her shoulder with a theatrical flourish. “I’ve put up with this forceful seduction business of yours for weeks, but I draw the line at bondage. Even in a dream.”

“Bondage? Dream? Oh, God, oh, God!” Steve groaned, wiping at his eyes. “I haven’t laughed so much since…well, in a long time. Next you’ll be asking me to hang from the ceiling and you’ll be bringing out the buttermilk.”

Harriet clenched her fists and made a low, snarling sound.

“Did you growl? Did I just hear you growl like a
chatte
? Lord, what jungle did they find you in, little love leopard?” He chortled at his own joke.

He was making fun of her. Dr. Harriet Ginoza was the butt of this bozo’s joke. No one had teased her or gotten under her skin in ages…not since she’d learned how to use her brains and her razor-sharp tongue on Frankie “the Frog” Harris way back in third grade at St. Agnes School.

“Now that I think about it, it all fits together,” Etienne mused. “Leopards are cats. And Cain and Abel said you have a tongue like a cat. Oh, God, I hope you don’t have a tail. Turn around and bend over so I can see, honey.” He guffawed some more, then broke into another full-fledged bout of laughter.

She hoped he split a gut.

If she hadn’t known it before, Harriet did now…her sweet savage lover was a sweet savage louse.

“No, I don’t have a tail, but I damn well have claws.”
She pounced on him, threatening, “I’m going to kill you.”

Her attack was interrupted by three sharp raps on the door, followed by silence, then another three raps.

Steve’s laughter faded, and he drew himself up alertly. When three more raps followed, he put a fingertip to his lips, cautioning her to silence—not that she’d been the one making all the noise—then moved to the door.

“Etienne,” she heard a male voice whisper.