Free Cajun Gothic (Blood Haven) by Nya Rawlyns Page B

The
place obviously didn’t cater to the lunch crowd. This was a reservation only,
late-night dinners, no prices on the menus destination for those in-the-know.
Tables for two and four were set far apart, assuring privacy and room for carts
to bring out specialty items like Caesar salad prepared at the table, or things
flambéed… I was only guessing, of course, as street vendors and delis were my
usual haunts. I left cuisine to Annie who provided me with as much authentic
Mexican fare as I desired.
    Like a lot of eateries in the city, it was long and
narrow, but the rear made an ‘el’ with a small, dark and intimate cubby housing
leather chairs and an octagonal table with place settings for two. The waiter
pulled out a chair for the woman. He pointed a long, aquiline nose in my
direction and left, closing a door I’d not noticed when we came in. The woman
smirked and indicated I should sit opposite her.
    “Would you like something to drink, Mr. Shephard?”
    “Micah. And yes, thank you.”
    Frigid air poured from an overhead vent and I was
glad for the sport coat. I would have been happier to have more light. Candles
flickered in wall sconces spaced far apart. The door to the main restaurant was
on my right, another, almost invisible in the dark wood paneling, was left and
slightly behind me.
    With peripheral vision on full-alert I caught a
glint in both quadrants as the weak lumens danced along the wainscoted walls.
Surveillance cameras. They were discreet, but not invisible.
    The disapproving waiter returned with white wine for
the woman and bourbon, neat, for me. He murmured something and the woman looked
up, inquiring, “Would you care for anything to eat?”
    “No, I’m good.” The Reuben sat heavy in my belly.
The bourbon would help with digestion, so I slugged down most of it and looked
up at the waiter expectantly. He took the hint but before leaving, he cleared
the dishes and silverware in front of me.
    I was getting tired of thinking of her as ‘the
woman’ so I asked, “And you are…?”
    “An advocate.”
    That was clear as mud.
    The ‘advocate’ proceeded to unbutton her silk
jacket, revealing a softly feminine pale blue blouse cut in a very low vee, the
cleavage exposing lightly freckled skin and plump mounds. Being a man-whore
isn’t easy, but I managed to direct my gaze back to her full lips, taking those
small triumphs over my lust where and when I could.
    I said, “I like knowing who I’m dealing with.”
    “I’m not important.”
    “I think I’ll be the judge of that.”
    She fiddled with the edge of the blouse, adjusting
it so the bits of lace fell flat along her rosy flesh. As a distraction, it was
a spectacular success.
    I’m not clever with verbal sparring on a good day
and this ‘he said, she said’ was definitely not going in my favor, especially
if I managed to swallow my tongue in the process.
    And a herd of horses was not getting me to stand up.
    If I couldn’t be witty, at least I could be
persistent, so I said, “Well?”
    “Why do you need to know, Mr. Shephard? Are you
planning on asking me out?”
    “Do you want me to?”
    She paused long enough to give me hope and no small
amount of fear that she’d say yes. This one was a complication I could do
without.
    She took a deep breath and exhaled, “Madeline.”
    Gripping the freshened tumbler of bourbon, I drank
deep and considered the black widow spider eyeing me with interest.
    “Are you as dangerous as your namesake?”
    She laughed out loud at that, seemingly delighted at
my reference to the actress who played the executive strategist on the original
TV version of La Femme Nikita .
    “Is that how you see me? Cold, cruel, efficient?”
    Add master manipulator and, yes, that’s exactly how
I saw her: an ice queen who could melt my bones.
    “You didn’t answer the question… Madeline.”
    “I thought I just did.” She took a sip of wine, then
said, “Perhaps we can explore next steps later. Right now we