Ghostwalker 03 - Night Game

decision. Her shirt was pulled together over her breasts, but had slipped off her shoulders.
    He could see a hint of darker smudges marring her skin. He stepped closer to her, a small frown on his face. “Flame?”

    She glanced at her shoulders and jerked the shirt over her skin. “It’s nothing.”

    “It isn’t nothing. How did you get those bruises?”

    “I told you, I bruise easily. I got a little beat up driving the Jeep over rough terrain.”
    Flame buttoned up her shirt, wincing as the material brushed against her tight, sensitive nipples. His gaze dropped to her breasts, clearly seeing the outline. He licked his lips and turned away from her to start the airboat.

    Wrapping her arms around her waist, Flame refused to look at him as the boat skimmed over the water toward Burrell’s island. She would not be used as an experiment, not ever again. Certainly not for some perverted sexual experiment. She’d never responded to anyone like she had Raoul. She’d never wanted or needed anyone the way she did him, The ache in her body refused to subside and she simply didn’t trust the intensity of her craving for him.

    Raoul didn’t believe Whitney was alive. He certainly didn’t believe he’d somehow found a way to make them addicted to one another. But she knew what the doctor was capable of doing.

    She stared at the passing landscapes. The bayou was a beautiful place. She didn’t even mind the humidity so much. She loved the wildlife and the way it sat there, right out among the midst of civilization as all around it the city built up. Normally she didn’t care to be in cities, people crowding in where she couldn’t stop the continual assault of noise, but she liked New Orleans and the French Quarter. She thought the aboveground cemeteries looked like miniature cities, beautiful and different and perfect for New Orleans. Mostly, she liked the people with their smiling faces and their various accents and ready laughter. She didn’t want to leave any of it, and she especially didn’t want to leave Raoul.

    As if reading her mind, Gator’s fingers brushed her arm, slid down to tangle with hers until he was holding her hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

    “You had all this. How could you think whatever Whitney did was worth the trade?” She nearly choked on the question. She wanted his life. His grandmother and brothers and his wonderful home.

    “At the time, I didn’t think I was trading it away. I had some psychic talent and a huge sense of responsibility. I thought by getting more training I could save more lives. I’d already had so much special training in so many areas, Flame, it just felt like one more.
    Then it all went to hell.” He shrugged his broad shoulders, his gaze watching the waterway.

    With his foot standing on the gas and one hand on the stick controlling the rudder he had to be alert. The trail was narrow and the plants slick as they skimmed the surface of the marsh. He didn’t dare let up on the gas going over the mud because he didn’t want to get stuck. When navigating an airboat, he looked out for everything from other boats, to alligators and the knees of cypress trees, anything that could damage the bottom of the boat. The airboats were top heavy and could flip rather easily and he was very aware Flame was riding with him. He didn’t want anything to happen to her.

    Gator kept his fingers tangled tightly with Flame’s as they raced over the waterway and marsh to reach the small island Burrell had loved so much.

    “Do you regret your decision?”

    He glanced at her. “Not anymore. No.”

    Flame sucked in her breath. He just accepted what was between them. He didn’t care if Whitney manipulated them or not. He had no idea how protective he could look, how possessive and how intense the desire that shadowed his eyes was when he looked at her.
    She detested Peter Whitney and everything he stood for. Whitney believed the end justified the means and that humans were small sacrifices to make for the greater good of knowledge. She had seen so much pain inflicted on the other girls he’d bought from the orphanages as well as experienced it herself.

    Throwaways he’d called them. She still flinched inwardly every time she thought of it, every time she recalled the contempt in his tone. Joy Chiasson was not a throwaway.
    Neither was Burrell. Flame could stand up for the ones like her, the ones no one else would stand up for. Whitney with his billions might