Free The Seventh Night by Amanda Stevens

reason why Reid would want to keep an eye on me. What if I learned something he didn’t want me to? What if—
    Stop it!
I admonished myself sternly.
Don’t let your imagination get the better of you.
In his own way, he was probably trying to be kind and considerate.
    But
kind
and
considerate
were two words I found hard to associate with Reid St. Pierre.
    “I just hate to impose.”
    “It’s no imposition, and besides, it won’t be for long. Just until you feel well enough to travel.”
    I glanced up. “What do you mean?”
    “I mean until you’re ready to go home. Back to Chicago.”
    I looked at him in astonishment. “You don’t actually expect me to leave Columbé until I hear from my father, do you?”
    “What if you
do
hear from him?” His tone sounded grim. “What then?”
    “Then I guess it’ll depend on what he says, won’t it?” I studied his silent profile for a moment, then said abruptly, before losing my nerve, “Why do I get the impression you want me to leave the island, Reid? Why do you act like you distrust me? What have I ever done to you?”
    “Nothing.” Then, under his breath, “Yet.”
    As quick as lightning the suspicion was back in his voice. The tension crackled in the car between us, and neither of us spoke again until Reid pulled into a long, palm-lined driveway.
    The house surprised me—a Victorian mansion on a tropical island. Nestled amongst palm, banyan and eucalyptus trees, it was a gingerbread creation complete with turrets and towers and lacy filigree—not at all what I’d expected.
    Reid brought the car to a stop in the circular drive in front of the house, and we got out. We crossed the garden and stepped up on the wide veranda that wrapped around the front and sides of the house. Reid pushed open the front door and stepped aside for me to enter.
    The foyer was wide and spacious, and a dramatic arrangement of bird-of-paradise blossoms sat atop a gleaming, ironwood table. The floor was black-and-white mosaic tile, with a strange-looking symbol inlaid in the center.
    Reid must have sensed my fascination, for he said behind me, “That’s a
vévé,
a symbol used to invoke the
loa.
Spirits,” he translated, his eyes holding just a hint of amusement when I looked at him in surprise. “That’s what the priest traced on the ground at the ceremony earlier.”
    “Which spirit is this a symbol for?” I asked with studied casualness.
    The dark eyes gleamed. “
Damballah Wedo.
His image is the snake. But I’m sure you gathered that much for yourself.”
    “Is he sort of the patron saint of Columbé?” I asked dryly. “I assume that’s why everyone wears those rings here on the island.”
    “Don’t assume anything in Columbé, Christine. Things are often not what they seem.”
    I frowned at his obscurity. “You used to wear one of those rings, as I recall.”
    “So you
do
remember that first meeting.” His tone was faintly mocking. “And I was so sure you’d forgotten all about me.”
    “Well,” I said defensively, “I remember that ring. Why don’t you still wear it?”
    “I lost it years ago. Besides, I’m not a
serviteur,
one who serves the
loa.
Some might consider it a sacrilege for me to wear it.” His voice lowered, and I thought I detected a hint of real concern. “Make no mistake,Christine. There are many on the island who
are
true believers, and they take their religion very seriously. That’s why I didn’t want you to interrupt the ceremony earlier.”
    “What would they have done to me?”
    He hesitated, a brief shadow gathering in the blue depths of his eyes. Then he shrugged and smiled, “Who knows? Maybe they would have convinced you to become an initiate, a devotee. Voodooists can be quite persuasive. Their methods can be very cunning and subtle. You’d find yourself falling under the spell before you knew what had hit you.”
    He was teasing me, I knew, but I didn’t find it amusing. Not after everything I’d been through. “What