Free Night Game by Christine Feehan Page A

to fear curled in the pit of her stomach. “Don’t you worry about me, Gator. I’m not so tired I can’t slit your throat. Let’s get this done. Sit up slowly.”
    “I don’ know if you want me to do that.” Amusement was plain in his drawling voice. “I’m in my altogether so to speak. I don’ like many clothes when I sleep.”
    She couldn’t stop the color stealing into her cheeks. Damn him, he seemed to be so in control, so calm and sure of himself in spite of the fact that she had a knife to his throat. Was he really that good? For the first time doubt crept in.
    The door to the bedroom burst open so hard it bounced against the wall with a hard crash and nearly swung shut. A hard foot smashed it back open, splintering the wood, and a younger copy of Gator stood framed in the doorway, his narrowed gaze fixed on the knife at his brother’s throat.
    “You look like you’re havin’ woman trouble, Gator,” he greeted, confirming Gator’s belief that he wasn’t the only one in the family with natural psychic talents.
    Flame tightened her grip on Raoul. “Tell him to back the hell off,” she snapped.
    The tension in the room stretched to a screaming point. Without warning, Gator caught her wrist in a gripping vise, thumb digging hard into her pressure point so that her fingers involuntarily opened and dropped the knife. At the same time, he jerked down, relieving the pressure on his throat, his other hand whipping up to catch her around the neck in a throw.
    Flame went sailing over his head to land at the bottom of the bed. He was already on top of her, pinning her to the mattress. He looked up at his brother with a huge grin on his face. “I don’ never have trouble with the ladies, Wyatt.” He lowered his head until he could nuzzle Flame’s neck. “Ah cher , you smell so good.”
    Fury burst through her, a bright bubble of anger so that the room narrowed, her vision tunneled, and she saw red as she glared up at his smirking face. The house shook, the walls vibrating, and Wyatt clutched his stomach, doubling over.
    The smile was gone in an instant, Gator’s black eyes glittered dangerously as his fingers closed like a vise over Flame’s trachea. “Stop now.”
    “Kill me then,” she dared, her voice hoarse, eyes defiant.
    “Wyatt, get out of here,” Gator directed.
    “That won’t save him.” She gasped for breath, but refused to panic. If she panicked the entire house and all its occupants would go down with her.
    “He’s an innocent. You keep this between us.” He bit out each word distinctly between his white teeth, his black gaze narrowed and hard.
    “I don’t know if I can.” Flame tried to be honest. Her gaze met his squarely, wanting him to see the truth there.
    He let his breath out slowly, easing the pressure on her trachea. “Breathe, cher . Breathe it away. You do it every day of your life. I know. I’m the same.” He glanced toward the door, toward his brother, but both of them heard the soft footsteps hurrying toward them.
    Her gaze clung to his and she reached with desperation for his breath, for the air moving in and out of his lungs, regulating her own breathing, pushing the anger away enough to regain control.
    “That’s it ma petite enflamme . You’re fine.”
    Her eyes softened for just a moment, a hint of gratitude there and then she glared at him. “I won’t be fine until you give me back my bike, you thief.”
    “That’s the pot calling the kettle black,” he retaliated.
    “Raoul Fontenot!” A woman’s voice cut through the tension. “What are you doing with a woman in your bed and you nekkid as the day you were born?”
    Shocked, Flame looked at the little old lady wrapped in a robe and holding a shotgun nearly as big as she was in her hands. Her silver-white hair was braided and looped in a neat bun at the back of her head. Her skin was paper thin and white, but her eyes were clear and steady, her lips compressed tightly in disapproval.
    Gator