Night Game (GhostWalkers #3)(19)
Author: Christine Feehan

“You pick up any information at the clubs?”

“Not really. Not of any use. I thought you might hear things I can’t.” It was the first time Wyatt had ever acknowledged he knew his older brother was different. When Gator continued to stare at him he finally nodded. “I watch you. I’m not nearly as dumb as I look.”

Gator unfolded his legs and stretched, toeing Ian’s cowboy boots. “You’re really going to stand out there, Irishman.”

“I stand out everywhere,” Ian replied with pride. He chugged another beer. “Hotter than hell here. Kind of makes me wish for the cool of Ireland. All emerald carpets and rain.”

“We have emerald.” Wyatt pointed his pole toward several plants. “And it rains every other hour. Just wait and we’ll get a shower soon enough.”

“Aw, laddie, that’s not what I mean by the cool of Ireland,” Ian protested.

“Don’t let him fool you, Wyatt,” Gator said. “He’s never been to Ireland in his life. He thinks the ladies will like him with that brogue he affects.”

“Pathetic,” Wyatt stated. “Everyone knows ladies love Cajuns. It’s in our blood, and our language is the language of romance.”

“Your language is the language of bullshit,” Ian corrected. “You’re a couple of good ole boys with pretty faces. Women just ought to know better. They should be looking for a real man.”

“You have red hair, Ian,” Wyatt said with feigned sadness, his hand over his heart. “It’s never going to happen for you.”

“There’s always dye,” Gator pointed out, eyeing Ian’s wild hair judiciously. “We could dye it black and help him learn to speak without that funny little accent.”

Ian reached for him, shockingly fast for a big man, whipping his arm around Gator’s throat and rubbing the top of his head with his knuckles. “I’ll show you a funny accent,” he threatened. “It’s a brogue. And a good Irish brogue at that.”

The pirogue tilted dangerously and the ice chest skittered toward Wyatt, who dropped the pole in the bottom of the boat and made a grab for the all-important beer. “Save the fightin’ for inside, you’ll need it,” he cautioned.

Ian grinned at him. “No one fights like an Irishman.”

Wyatt tied up to the dock and stepped out onto the pier, holding the boat steady while the GhostWalker leapt from the pirogue. Gator climbed out and stretched, rolling his shoulders and eyeing the club. The Huracan was one of the wildest and most popular clubs in the bayou. Accessible only by the waterway, mostly only the locals frequented the place. Once in a while some of the more astute music lovers in the business district discovered it, but for the most part, the Huracan belonged to those living in the bayou and they danced and drank and played hard there.

Music blasted out the windows and through the thin walls. The crowd sounded like thunder as individual conversations rose over the music. Ian leaned in close to Gator. “Are you going to be able to hear what you need to hear in that place?”

Gator nodded. “I can hear conversations through walls, Ian. It’s just a matter of sorting them out. If someone is talking about Joy, I’ll hear them.”

“It hurts though, doesn’t it?” Ian’s voice was pitched even lower to prevent Wyatt from hearing. “I’ve seen your face when you’re working with sound and it hurts like hell.”

“It’s difficult to filter everything out. I can hear a great distance, but I have to concentrate on separating and identifying all the sounds. It’s a lot of work and you know, when we open ourselves up for assault, we get slammed pretty hard.” He drew in a breath as he looked at the club. “I’ve trained for this. Lily’s exercises really helped. I noticed a difference right away, but I’ll come away with a whopper of a headache.”

“Lily’s exercises are to raise shields, not bring them down like you have to for something like this,” Ian pointed out. “The trail is cold on this girl. I don’t know that putting yourself in harm’s way is very smart, Gator. I know you want to do this for your family but…”

“I want to do this because there’s no one else looking out for that girl. She didn’t leave for the big city. She loves her family and she wouldn’t cause them worry. Something happened to her-something bad and some one has to care about her.”

Ian nodded. “I’m with you then, Gator. You pick up the information, any at all, and we’ll be all over it.”

Shades of blue cast eerie shadows over the long strands of moss sweeping the water below the trees. The moon shed light across the bayou and the sound of authentic Cajun music traveled for miles. Flame stepped out onto the deck of the houseboat and flashed the old man sitting there a quick grin as she did a small pirouette. “What do you think, Monsieur le Capitaine?” She held out her arms. The faded blue eyes took in her form-fitting sheath of green with its kerchief hem, exposing one shapely thigh and hiding the other coyly. The dress clung to every curve, emphasizing her lush figure. The wide black velvet choker around her throat drew attention to her neck and the straight fall of silky red hair. Her eyes were enormous, a vivid green surrounded by long thick lashes. Most of all it was difficult to miss her sexy, pouting mouth.

The old man removed his pipe and cap, giving her a j bow. “Cher, you are too beautiful for words.”

She gave him a small curtsey. “Bien merci!” She did a small two-step across the deck to lean down and kiss his temple. “I brought you a surprise.” She handed him a white pillowcase.

Burrell Gaudet glanced at her face and then pulled n the bag slowly. His eyes widened as he took in the cash. “What is this?”

You know very well what it is. Kurt Saunders stole your money. You had a legitimate business deal with the slimeball and he sent his men here to take your last payment so he could foreclose on your land.”

Flame had returned to the houseboat a week earlier, just after the place had been robbed. The captain was sitting with his head in his hands, his furniture smashed and mattress torn apart. He’d blurted the truth out to her, that Kurt Saunders had sent his men over to steal the last of his payments for his land. Saunders was going to foreclose and he’d lose everything. “I’m just returning what belongs to you.”

“Where did you get this?” he repeated, dazed, eyeing the bundles of cash.