Out of Mind coa-2 Read online

  He closed his eyes and made sounds of ecstasy. “Gumbo? When you live in the land of pork and poi, good as it is, gumbo sounds exotic. I’d love some, but there’s no hurry.”

  That got him another look. He could see her thinking that he sounded as if he was settling in. If he were sneakier, he’d tune in and listen to exactly what she was thinking. That was generally against his principles unless absolutely necessary.

  But he wasn’t ruling out running the risk if he had to.

  “Let’s go in the living room,” Willow said. “It’s tidy for once.”

  “It’s always tidy,” he reminded her.

  Her expression flickered as she must have remembered how much time they had spent there together in the past, but she used turning off the television to cover any awkwardness.

  “Do you still like background noise if you’re alone?” he asked, and winced.

  “Why don’t I take the boxes from you?” she said, facing him again.

  He’d as good as asked her if she was lonely. She used to use the television to fill up time when he was away from New Orleans.

  She didn’t answer him.

  “Can we see what you’ve got here?” He put the packages on the floor and sat on the edge of a well-worn blue armchair. But he stopped in the act of removing the helmet from the box. “Am I being too pushy? Taking too much for granted?”

  She took a bit too long to shake her head, no. “Look at it. It’s state-of-the-art and should be really safe.”

  Once she had got to the flat she must have immediately changed her clothes. She looked fresh and curvy in a yellow cotton dress that skimmed her body.

  It was far too long since he had touched her.

  Ben concentrated on the helmet. “Wow. Are you sure it’s not too heavy?”

  “Why would it be too heavy?”

  Looking straight at her and making no attempt at laughing anything off, he said, “Because although you’re strong, you’re small. I like to think of any equipment you use being the right weight for you.” He looked from her face to her sandaled feet—bare and smooth, just as her legs were. “It wouldn’t help much if I put you in a bulletproof vest that made it impossible for you to run, would it? You’d need one in your own size.”

  “Bulletproof?” She frowned and all traces of the blush disappeared. Her hand touched her neck again.

  “Just an example,” he said. An unfortunate one, given that she was so jumpy lately. “Do you have a rash?” he asked suddenly.

  Willow’s lips parted and her eyes grew bigger and an even brighter green. “What kind of question is that?” She checked her arms and legs.

  “That was clumsy,” he said. “It was your neck I had in mind. You rub it as if you think there’s something there.”

  Instantly, her right hand slid beneath her hair and she backed away.

  “What is it?” he said, getting up. “What’s going on, Willow? Sykes knows there’s something happening. They all do and now I do. Would you fill me in, please? Sykes only touched on what he suspected.”

  She shuddered and Ben caught hold of her shoulders.

  Her hands came up, but she didn’t try to push him away.

  Nothing had changed. He closed his eyes and dug his fingers into her flesh. Never before, and not since Willow, had he felt the searing jolt of pain and pleasure that immobilized him when they first touched.

  “When I left I actually hoped I’d forget this,” he whispered. “What a fool I was.”

  “I’ll never forget it,” she said. “We shouldn’t—”

  “Don’t say it. It may be true, but don’t say it. I can’t stand hearing you send me away again.”

  “I had to.”

  “Why?” He pulled her closer. “You never told me why.”

  “We aren’t meant for each other.”

  “My God,” he said, shaking with the effort of not taking her into his arms. “How can you say that?”

  “Everyone said…” She turned her face away again, but slowly looked back at him.

  “Everyone said what?”

  “Nothing. I’m not what you need. Leave it at that.”

  There was no decision; he just brought his mouth down on hers, hard and demanding. And she held still, her fingers resting on his chest. The web of raw sensation spun around them. He had never understood it. Only the Millets had this mystical Bonding element—he could vouch for that with certainty.

  Her mouth grew warmer and softened under his. Gasping, she stood on tiptoe and slid her hands up to his shoulders.

  Their lips parted, and their tongues entwined. He vaguely heard her moans and his own ragged breathing.

  The slide of her fingers up his neck to rest on his jaw left a trail of heat. Her body bent into his and Ben’s pelvis jerked against her, hard. He felt the pulsing, the throbbing in his groin. Willow had to feel his erection.

  “Willow,” he said. “I’m breaking apart.”

  Her breath came in sobs and she shook so hard he clutched her to him, smoothed her back, rocked them together. He smoothed his hands up to the sides of her breasts.

  “We can’t,” she said brokenly. “We can’t let this happen, Ben. You know it.”

  They grew still but hung on to each other.

  “I had to do that,” Ben said. “I had to find out if anything had changed. It hasn’t. Are you still going to say you’re not what I need?”

  When Willow didn’t answer, he sat down again and rested his face in his hands.

  “Don’t,” she said.

  “Don’t what?”

  “I don’t know. Feel bad, I guess. You’ll meet the right woman, just give it time.”

  He didn’t understand what point she was trying to make, unless… “Tell me you don’t feel anything for me and I’ll help with any business that needs taking care of here and get out of New Orleans again.”

  “Don’t ask me questions like that,” she said. “Look, we haven’t seen each other in a long time. It’s a shock. We’re reacting to that.”

  “That was some hello, Willow.” Parts of him kept right on reacting to her. “Do you still say there’s nothing out of the ordinary—or not normal, as you call it—about you?”

  “Yes,” she said emphatically. “I’ve started to admit that the rest of you have some sort of weird traits, but I don’t have them.”

  “You,” he said, “are either a liar or you’re in denial. Down there in the shop, when you didn’t expect me to contact you, you responded. You’re telepathic—at the very least.”

  At first he didn’t think she’d answer him at all. Then she took a deep breath and said, “Whatever you say. Do you still want to eat?”

  He swallowed the “no” that wanted to snap out and said, “You bet.”

  “Fine. Come and help then. I’ve still got a job to do tonight.”

  “Tonight?” He looked pointedly at her dress. “Dressed like that? And at night?”

  “Yes, like this. I’m going to help a customer host a party. His wife can’t be there until later. It’s a casual party—pool party.” She patted her hip. “I’ve got my swimsuit on already.”

  Chapter 5

  Willow and Ben didn’t share gumbo that night.

  After she’d told him to go and find someone who wanted him to run her life, he had left. Now she felt irritable and disappointed.

  But she couldn’t let him march back in and take over.

  Could she?

  She couldn’t get over that kiss, that he had started it and she had let him. And enjoyed it.

  That’s probably all we could ever have in common—amazing sexual attraction. Willow sighed.

  “What’s your problem?” Pascal said when she went into the shop again, new helmet in place, to let them know she was on her way to a job. “And Ben? What did you do to him? He hardly said a word when he came through on his way out.”

  “I’ve got to get to that job,” she said, avoiding his questions. “I’m helping out at a party.”

 
“You’re angry, too,” Pascal said.

  “No,” Willow said. “I’m not. And I’m only letting you know I’m leaving because everyone’s so upset at the moment.”

  “But you’re not upset?”

  “No. Bye.”

  “Where are you going?”

  She wanted to say she didn’t owe him a schedule. Instead, she said, “Uptown. Right off St. Charles Avenue. Near Bordeaux Street. The people’s name is Brandt, Val and Cleo. They’re very well-known in New Orleans—socialites.”

  “I never heard of them,” Pascal said.

  Willow planted a kiss on his cheek. “You only hang out with old money, Uncle. The Brandts don’t even have one important generation behind them, so they aren’t your kind.” She gave a mock shudder.

  He shook his head. “Probably vulgar. And you shouldn’t be waiting on them, either.”

  She laughed. “I run a housekeeping and all things domestic business. I should be picky about who I work for? ‘We are Mean ’n Green—you need it, we get it, or do it or fix it.’”

  “Of course you can’t be calling me a snob—nothing could be further from the truth.” He shook his head. “So why is Ben mad at you?”

  “He doesn’t have any right to be mad at me,” she snapped. “I’m nothing to him.”

  “Is that a fact?” Pascal looked at the stairs to see his trainer, Anthony, coming down with a tall, green drink in a frosted glass.

  “I can hear you getting excited from three stories up,” Anthony said. No one looked better in a muscle shirt, than blond, tanned Anthony. “You know how bad it is for your blood pressure, Pascal. Sit down and drink this. It’ll settle your nerves.”

  Pascal grimaced and Willow took advantage of the moment to slip back into the courtyard and make her way through to the storeroom where she kept her scooter and trailer. Her office was in the Warehouse District, and the other vehicles were parked there, but she couldn’t see herself wasting money on something frivolous to drive to and fro—or wasting an opportunity to advertise Mean ’n Green on the trailer at all times.

  Ben hovered nearby, trying to feel guilty. He failed. If Willow wouldn’t look after herself, he’d just have to do it for her. That was what Sykes wanted him in New Orleans for anyway. The only puzzle was why Sykes didn’t do the job himself.

  Stand-in hostess for some man’s pool party? Was she insane? She couldn’t really think all the guy wanted was for her to stand around offering canapés.

  Willow swung open two heavy green doors to a crowded space where bicycles and her scooter, complete with trailer, were stored in front of boxes stacked to the rafters.

  He could follow her at a distance, but why bother when he would rather be as near to her as possible?

  Ben settled his presence into her trailer and grinned at the odd expression on her face when she noticed a change in the balance of her “wheels.”

  She looked cute in her little yellow dress, brown sandals, and wearing the green-and-white crash helmet complete with oversize rearview mirrors. Her skirt hiked way above her knees—something else he enjoyed.

  The kiss had been enough proof for him. He wanted Willow more than ever.

  This was the first close-up look he’d had of the scooter. It was well equipped enough to satisfy a long-distance motorcyclist, complete with GPS, a mount into which she slid a cell phone before adjusting an earpiece beneath her helmet, and a radar scanner.

  The scanner made him grin. He wondered about the top speed on a scooter pulling a trailer—even a very small trailer.

  With obvious increased effort, she wheeled the scooter into the passageway between the shop and one wing of the Millets’ flats. He did feel a bit bad about the way she had to strain, but he wasn’t happy with her at the moment.

  Willow hoped she wasn’t developing a problem with the scooter. Steering or something. The company’s small truck had cost a fortune in repairs lately and she needed to pad the bank account again.

  Sometimes Willow thought it would be faster to walk shorter distances than try to maneuver through city traffic with the scooter. Unfortunately, she wasn’t able to carry everything she needed in her arms.

  She set off for St. Charles Avenue.

  Honking on all sides. Vendors with carts on all sides. Screaming people on all sides. Usually when she was out here, she felt more alive than she did anywhere else. This evening she was steaming and everything annoyed her. Steaming, and so sad she kept blinking back tears.

  The only really important thing to worry about was that Billy Baker was dead. After the abrupt way Nat Archer left, she didn’t know if there was something she should be doing. Nat said he’d been told to back away from the case.

  When she reached St. Charles Avenue it wasn’t so busy. Willow could feel grit spitting against her bare legs. She should have taken the time to put an overall on top of her dress. Riding around like this had to look wacky and it wasn’t comfortable.

  The scooter was giving all kinds of signals suggesting it found the trailer too heavy. She had made the mistake of overloading it before.

  Billy’s death was unbelievable. His excitement over his own business rubbed off on her. He could make her grin with his ideas for whimsical sweets.

  That should be past tense now. Willow sniffed and her eyes burned.

  Too bad she had to do this job tonight. She was concerned about money right now. Business hadn’t been so great lately. If it had, she wouldn’t have agreed to do this job for the Brandts—she didn’t like the uncertainty of it. Cleo Brandt had told her to get there at eight to have time to talk to her husband, Val, before guests arrived. A pool party starting so late didn’t make sense to Willow.

  The Millets had their rules. Willow grimaced; she also had rules and the main one was that she was completely independent. She had to be vigilant because finance wasn’t her strength.

  Her cell rang and she turned it on. “Willow here.” She wished she didn’t have to be connected to all callers at all times, but she did.

  “Zinnia’s pissed,” a male voice said and she frowned. “It’s Chris. I didn’t want to bother you so I tried Zinnia at home and you should have heard that bitch.”

  Chris was one of Willow’s three supervisors. Zinnia ran the office.

  “You know she doesn’t work when she’s not being paid,” Willow said, checking her mirrors. They really gave her a great all-around view. “What’s the problem?”

  “I dunno.”

  She winced. Chris was good at his job, but there were definite gaps in his communication skills. “Okay, Chris, why are you trying to reach one of us?”

  “We’re not catering the Brandt job, are we?” Chris said.

  “No,” she said, competing with a lot of noise at Chris’s end.

  That was something she had not told Ben. Her job tonight was to play the hostess and nothing more. Not even hand out canapés as he snidely mentioned. Cleo Brandt had called at the last minute and sounded embarrassed when she said Willow didn’t need to worry about anything but making sure the evening went smoothly. In other words, Mean ’n Green hadn’t gotten the most lucrative parts of the event.

  “Why wouldn’t they want us to do everything?” Chris asked.

  Willow’s patience thinned. “I don’t know the answer to that. You know we’re picking up all the business we can right now. We can’t be picky.”

  Chris was quiet for a few moments, then he said, “No. I just don’t like it if I think you’re being taken advantage of, boss.”

  She smiled. “Thanks. We’ll try to watch each other’s backs. But that wasn’t why you called.”

  “There’s that yellow tape stuff everywhere,” Chris said. “The whole place is off-limits unless you’re a cop or something.”

  The Brandt job receded from Willow’s mind. “What place?”

  “Where I’ve been watering the inside plants tonight. I took a break to get some dinner. I was only gone forty-five minutes or so, and when I got back, everything was nuts. I want to know
if I should go under the tape and finish the job. I still got to fertilize. I’ve got a key.”

  “Are you talking about the dance hall on South Rampart? Where the woman lives upstairs?”

  “Surry Green. She’s some sort of actress. Complains about the music all the time like she didn’t know she was renting over a dance hall. We do her shopping and take care of her plants. She’s got hundreds of them. You can’t move for the palms in there.”

  “There’s crime scene tape all around, you said?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The dance hall is taped off?”

  “That’s what I said. Must be trouble in there. Cop cars all over the place.”

  “You left in the middle of a job to get dinner?”

  “I knew you’d say somethin’ about that,” Chris said. “She was all in a twist because she had a date. I asked if she’d rather I went in after she left and she said, yes, to give her some time. Should I go up the side stairs anyway? She’ll be apoplectic if she gets home and I haven’t finished.”

  “No. The plants can wait. Call her later and explain.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Willow smacked off the phone. There had been occasions when Chris had taken duty too far. At least he’d called and given her a chance to stop him this time.

  The cell rang again.

  “Hey, Chris,” Willow said. “What’s up now?”

  “Something bad, I think. One of those coroner’s vans is here. Just a minute.” He spoke to someone in the background then said, “Let me find out what they’re saying now. I’ll call you back.”

  Willow moaned with frustration, then felt the rig swing awkwardly behind her and collide with the curb. She looked over her shoulder and slammed on the brakes. The trailer teetered toward the sidewalk.

  “I hate this whole day,” she yelled, jumping clear.

  Ben jumped, too, just in time to stop the almost stationary death trap from finishing up on its side.

  He had to make this look good.

  Willow tore off her helmet and prepared to watch a total disaster. At least no one was going to get hurt. Would the bank give her a loan if she explained her run of bad luck?

  She let her arms fall to her sides.