Free Bayou Nights by Julie Mulhern Page B

the treasure is?” His hand closed on the door handle.
    “You don’t talk to a fifolet .”
    His fingers lingered on the handle. “Why not?”
    “Because as soon as you open your mouth it will invade your lungs and suffocate you.”
    Drake loosed the handle. “Good reason.”
    “I think so.” Why then did she have an odd feeling that this fifolet didn’t mean them harm? She couldn’t risk their lives on an odd feeling.
    “Where do you want to go?” the driver called. “I ain’t driving through that.”
    “The Commercial Hotel,” said Drake.
    The driver backed the hack then turned around. Christine looked out the window at the blue light. It twinkled at her, beckoning. That’s what fifolet did. They tricked people into following them then led them to their doom. Christine sat back against the seat and closed her eyes.
    A few moments later, the driver rolled to a stop in front of the hotel. Drake leapt out then lifted her down.
    She straightened her hat, reminded herself of a heritage that stretched back two centuries, lifted her chin, and walked into the thankfully empty lobby.
    Antonio Monteleone himself stood behind the registration desk. Christine breathed a sigh of relief. The man was discreet, a veritable vault. No one need ever know she’d appeared at the front desk looking like a hoyden, or that a man had brought her.
    They walked—well, Drake walked, she limped—to the registration desk.
    “Mrs. Drake will need a room tonight,” said Drake.
    For the love of Pete! Mrs. Drake?
    The hotelier looked at her and his brows rose—just a tiny bit—if she hadn’t been looking at him when it happened she might have imagined that rare manifestation of surprise at one of his guest’s requests.
    “What Mr. Drake means to say, Mr. Monteleone, is that someone attempted to rob my shop today and I don’t feel comfortable staying there alone.”
    “Of course, Mademoiselle Lambert. We have a lovely suite available.”
    “The same floor as my room?” asked Drake.
    This time the hotelier’s jaw slackened. Just a smidge, but she saw it.
    “What Mr. Drake means to say is that the robber attacked me and he wants to be nearby should I need him.”
    “I do hope you weren’t hurt and that nothing valuable was stolen.”
    Christine offered up a small smile. “You’re kind to ask. Is that suite on Mr. Drake’s floor?”
    “It is.”
    “Perfect.” She wanted a bath more than she wanted to breathe.
    “Bags?” he asked.
    There was a wrinkle. She had nothing. She drummed her fingers against the counter for a moment then said, “I’m afraid not. If you have some paper…”
    He slid a piece of hotel stationery across the counter. She took up a pen and wrote a quick note to Molly then jotted the girl’s address on the envelope he provided. “If you’d see that this is delivered first thing in the morning, I’d be most grateful.”
    “My pleasure, Miss Lambert.” He pushed a key across the registration desk. “I believe the kitchen might still be open. May I send something up?”
    Drake’s stomach rumbled.
    “Please. Would you send an extra cellar of salt?”
    Monteleone didn’t blink. Extra salt was apparently not something that surprised him.
    They took the lift to the third floor and Drake escorted her to her door. “Thank you, Mr. Drake.” She inserted the key in the lock.
    The damn man reached around her, opened the door, and stepped inside.
    Christine turned on the light. “I’d like to take a bath.”
    “Don’t let me stop you.”
    “Perhaps you didn’t understand, Mr. Drake. I’d like to take a bath without a man in my room.
    “No.” He settled onto the chaise. He even put his feet up as if he meant to stay for a long time. “Leave the door cracked.” Then he folded his arms behind his head and reclined.
    If he heard her teeth grinding, he gave no indication.
    “I’ve known you less than twelve hours.”
    “Give or take,” he agreed.
    “Have you any idea how inappropriate this