Rising Moon

Chapter Eleven



His tongue tasted of whiskey and though I’d never been a fan, I wanted to suck on it, on him, and draw every inch of the flavor within.



I burned, yet his skin was hotter than mine, my fingers seemingly ice-cold against his heat. He moaned into my mouth, began to lift his head, end the kiss, and I wrapped my fingers around his neck, holding on.



He hesitated, even stopped kissing me for a minute, but when I nipped his lip, pressed my breasts against his chest, then slipped one finger beneath the waistband of his trousers and over the tip of his erection, the hesitation ended. If his reaction was anything to go by, he hadn’t had sex in nearly as long as I had.



The kiss that followed was long and wet and unbelievably thorough. He learned every inch of my mouth, as those clever, long-fingered artist’s hands explored the curve of my waist, the slope of my breasts, the swell of my rear. The latter made me shudder with reaction as his hand met the bare skin of my thigh. I wanted to feel every inch of him naked against every inch of me.



His glasses tapped my nose, and I reached for them, but he swung me around, backing me against the wall. Though my eyes were closed, I sensed the room go dark, even as I heard the muted flick of the light switch.



I opened my eyes; the room was completely black, the curtains drawn so that not even a flicker of moonlight penetrated the darkness. His mouth left mine, caressing my chin, then the curve of my throat as he moved lower, his hands sliding higher, cupping my breasts, teasing my already hardened nipples through the thin layer of my tank top.



The press of his erection was just a little too high to be of any help so I grabbed his hips, went on my tiptoes and felt his gasp of both shock and excitement as everything came together just right.



Suddenly I was spinning out of control, twirled around, off balance, unable to see. My cheek met the wall, the chill of the smooth surface startling against my heated skin.



He nibbled my neck as he murmured words I didn’t understand in Spanish, maybe Italian, even a little French, his breath icing the moist imprint of his mouth, making me shiver with cold, then shudder with the awareness of his body pressed tightly to mine.



I should have felt trapped, maybe a little scared. We were alone at Rising Moon; he was bigger than me, stronger, and possibly crazy. But we weren’t doing anything I didn’t want to do; arousal far outweighed any fear.



His teeth scraped my neck, and I caught my breath, the sound sharp and loud in the stillness that surrounded us. He froze, mouth hovering just above my skin, and I ached for him to—



“Do it again,” I whispered, arching my back, offering my neck like a sacrifice. .



He tensed, and the movement rode his erection along my backside in an enticingly intimate way.



Muttering curses in several different languages, he grasped my hips and whirled me back around, lowering his lips to mine.



This wasn’t what I’d meant, but I found it hard to complain with his tongue down my throat. Despite the voice in my head, which chattered that I was going to be sorry if I banged the boss, I didn’t really want to complain. He tasted so good, this had to be right. With him kissing me, I couldn’t be sorry about anything except that we were wearing too many clothes.



I slipped my hands under his shirt, ran my palms over the smooth, muscular expanse of his back. Though I would have liked to touch his chest, I still had the presence of mind to remember the thin, red slices he’d dismissed as mere scratches. Whatever they were, I had no doubt they hurt, so I did my best to keep my roving fingers away.



We both lost our heads; I’m not sure why. One minute my back was at the wall, and he was kissing me as I traced my palms over his shoulders. The next we were tumbling onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and clothing, buttons popping, elastic snapping, shoes flying, as we desperately attempted to get naked.



The attempt was mostly successful. I don’t think I got his pants completely off; they might have been hanging from one ankle; my tank top ended up bunched over my left bicep. It didn’t matter. I had to feel his skin against mine.



Warmth enveloped me; he gave off heat like an open flame; the hair on his legs brushed softly against my thighs as he settled between them. This time when I tugged on his sunglasses he let them go.



I resisted the urge to touch his eyelids, a greater intimacy than the one we would soon share. I didn’t want to do anything that might make him stop. My body was humming with arousal, perched on the precipice of release. If I screwed this up, I’d never forgive myself.



He nudged my knees apart; I opened for him gladly and the next instant he was inside, the slick, hard beat of him pushing, pulsing, bringing me closer and closer to the edge.



I strained upward, searching for that final touch that would make everything right, and he stilled deep within. His arms trembled; his breathing became labored.



“John?” I murmured, and if possible he tensed even more.



Afraid he’d withdraw and leave us both undone, I locked my legs around his, tilting myself more intimately against him. With a sound that was part arousal and part surrender, he began to pump his hips, faster and faster, deeper and deeper, the thrusts almost rough, but I didn’t mind. I wanted the friction; I needed the heat; I awaited the explosion with my eyes wide open to the night.



Lowering his lips to my breast, he scored the curve with his teeth. Pain and pleasure became one, and I urged him on with murmurs and moans. He laved my nipple with his tongue, drawing me into his mouth and suckling as his lower body continued to thrust.



My body tightened, milking him, yet still it wasn’t enough. He lifted his head, rising above me, driving into me, grasping my waist with his once gentle hands and just holding on.



The orgasm went on and on, and when I thought I was done, when I was gasping, limp and languid, he reached between us, his thumb finding my clitoris, working it, riding it, making me come again, stronger this time, so hard I sobbed, and at last he cried out, emptying all of himself.



I drifted toward sleep before the heat between us had even cooled. The last thing I remember was Rodolfo tugging the covers up, even as he inched away.



I reached for him, and he took my hand, then kissed my knuckles. “Go to sleep, chica. I won’t leave.”



For some reason, I trusted him, and I relaxed. But as oblivion closed in I thought I heard him whisper,



“What have I done?”



And I had to wonder the same thing myself.



When I awoke he was gone. I shouldn’t have been hurt. When he’d said he wouldn’t leave, I doubted he’d meant forever.



What have I done?



The words flitted through my head. Had he said them, or had I only imagined he had because I’d been thinking them myself? In the bright light of day I had other concerns.



There’d been no mention or use of a condom.



I sat up. Though I was on the pill, had been since I was sixteen and got tired of missing two days of school every month with excruciating menstrual cramps, I didn’t have to worry about an unwanted pregnancy. Just unwanted—



“Disgusting diseases,” I muttered, and smacked myself in the forehead with the heel of my hand.



I’d heard stories of people so carried away by the moment they’d forgotten anything but that. I’d always scoffed.



Until today.



I glanced at my watch. Nine a.m. Far too early for nightwalkers like Rodolfo and me to be up. Where was he?



A door closed downstairs, and I leaped out of bed, crossed to the window, stepping over my scattered clothes as I went. Drawing back the curtains, I saw Rodolfo walking away with a man I didn’t recognize.



“Must have an appointment.”



The sound of my own voice, relieved, a little wistful, made me stiffen, then snatch my clothes and quickly put them back on.



I had no claims on him. What did I care if he wasn’t here when I woke up? We had separate lives. This had been a one-night stand. It wasn’t going to happen again.



Along with my unease over the missing condom, I felt a little guilty over the night’s activities. Rodolfo had been hurt, and I’d jumped him. Not that he’d complained, but he was a guy. He’d no doubt have sex on his deathbed if possible. I should have put a stop to things before they went too far, except I’d been as out of control as he was.



My cheeks heated. What was wrong with me? I barely knew the man.



Or at least I’d barely known him last night. This morning, at least physically, I knew him pretty damn well.



Such behavior was unlike me. I was a plain, hometown girl, who spent her days and most of her nights working. I didn’t have a boyfriend; I didn’t go on dates; I only entered bars to check out leads on Katie.



Yet I’d come to the Crescent City and started slinging drinks, roaming the night, and sleeping with strangers. If I didn’t know better I’d think I was under a spell.



Annoyed with myself, I stomped downstairs to my own room and pulled back the covers on my bed.



“Just because they call this place the voodoo capital of America doesn’t make it true.”



I picked up my pillow and a small cloth bag tied with string fell to the floor. “What the—”



Tentatively I lifted the tiny sack to my nose, sniffed and then sneezed—once, twice, again. The scent was not unpleasant, kind of musty, dusty, but also pungent and sharp, like red peppers cooked over an open flame.



Probably just potpourri, though I’d never known anyone to stuff potpourri into a pillowcase. Maybe it was a Southern thing.



With a shrug, I tossed the bag into the trash. If there was one thing I didn’t need it was an annoyance that might keep me awake when I should be asleep.



I managed to doze most of the day, rising with just enough time to shower, dress, and run down to the Central Grocery on Decatur for a muffuletta sandwich.



According to the propaganda, the muffuletta is a Sicilian creation. Though the Cajun and Creole cultures get the most press in New Orleans, Italians began coming to the city in the 1880s and formed a fairly large contingent.



I’d heard there might be a long line there, but I lucked out and only had to stand behind five people before I placed my order.



What appeared to be French bread was slathered with olive oil, olive salad, Italian cheeses, and salami. I wolfed mine down on the way back to Rising Moon, and considered going back for another. God, it was good!



If I ate like this for every meal, I’d put on ten pounds in a week. However, I was only managing one meal a day in between sleeping and my shift. At that rate, I might lose ten pounds, which wouldn’t hurt me. Did losing ten pounds hurt anyone?



There was no sign of Rodolfo when I arrived at work, and as the night wore on, and he didn’t show up, the crowd dwindled, and King got mad.



“Where in hell is he?” King smacked a tumbler onto the bar so hard I figured the glass would crack; instead Southern Comfort sloshed over the brim and onto his hand.



“I don’t know.” I set the glass on my tray. Not exactly a lie, I didn’t know where he was. And what good would it do to tell King that Rodolfo had been with me last night? The information wasn’t relevant.



Or was it? Had the man taken off because he couldn’t face me?



I stifled a wince as I delivered the drink to an older woman who sat at the front window, staring at the crowd on Frenchmen. Was she waiting for someone too?



Annoyed with myself, I spun away and ran smack into a massive chest sporting a tie shaped like an electric guitar.



“Oomph.” I stumbled back, and Detective Sullivan caught me.



“Hey.” He waited until I had my balance before releasing me. “You okay?”



“Yeah.” I glanced around, but no one was paying us any mind, including King, who was once again engaged in the seemingly never-ending j ob of loading the dishwasher with dirty glasses. “What are you doing here? I thought we agreed that I shouldn’t be seen with…” I waved my hand in his general direction.



“I didn’t come to see you.” He smiled. “Though that is a nice bonus.”



I automatically smiled back. He was such a nice guy. Why didn’t I want to rip his clothes off the way I wanted to rip off Rodolfo’s? My smile faded and Sullivan’s did as well.



“Something wrong?” he asked.



“Anne.” King’s voice made me turn. He frowned at Sullivan. “What the hell do you want?”



My brows lifted. “You know each other?”



“He’s been hasslin’ Johnny for months now.”



Sullivan was unperturbed by King’s hostility. “Is he here?”



“No,” King said, and returned to the dishwasher.



Sullivan followed, pulling a photograph from his j acket and placing it on the bar. “Seen this guy?”



King stopped loading long enough to take a peek. “Nope.”



“Never?”



“Sony.”



“This man, Harvey Klingman, was last seen at Rising Moon,” Sullivan said, and my stomach dropped.



I inched closer, trying to see the photo, but the detective’s big shoulders blocked it from view as he leaned over the counter to hear King’s response.



“I suppose he disappeared like the rest.” King didn’t even glance up. “And just like those times, I don’t know nothin’ about it or him.”



“You don’t think it’s a coincidence that people come in here and never make their way home again?”



“That’s exactly what it is,” King said slowly. “A coincidence.”



Around us voices rose and fell, glasses clinked, someone laughed. Sullivan drew in a deep breath, then let it out again. He tapped the photo with one thick finger. “This guy didn’t disappear. I know right where he is.”



“Then why are you wastin’ my time?” King snapped.



“Because he’s in the morgue.”



“Why?” I blurted. “The usual reason,” Sullivan said dryly.



I cleared my throat. “I meant, how did he die?”



“Hard to say for certain.” The detective glanced over his shoulder at me, then back at King. “Someone set him on fire.”



I started, remembering the barbecued bodies in the cemetery.



“Whether fire was the cause of death,” Sullivan continued, “or a way to cover up the cause has yet to be determined.”



“I don’t know nothin’ about that either,” King said.



“Then you won’t care if I look around.”



“Go nuts.”



The detective grabbed the photo and stuffed it into his pocket as he turned toward me. The movement tugged his j acket and cuff up just enough to expose a livid red scrape on his forearm.



“What happened?” I indicated the mark.



Sullivan’s lips tightened; he glanced at King, then drew me toward the front of the bar. “The other night, after I left you on Decatur, some guy jumped me on the way home.”



I frowned, remembering the weird canine shadows that had seemed to follow in Sullivan’s wake.



“A guy?” I repeated. “You’re sure?”



“Yeah.” He gave me an odd look. “Must have been on something. He tried to bite me.”



“What if he had rabies? You see a doctor?”



“I did. Luckily this”—he lifted his hand—”was from the pavement, or maybe his fingernails, which were pretty Fu Manchu. I never let his teeth get close enough to break the skin. According to the doctor, rabies is most often passed through saliva, although it can be transmitted through a scratch.”



“What happened after he attacked you?”



“I shot him.”



“You shot him?”



“I couldn’t let the guy run off and bite someone else. Even though there’s never been a documented case of human-to-human rabies infection, there’s always a first time. Besides, just getting bit by a person is bad enough.”



I nodded. Human mouths are filthy. Any bite usually gets infected and is a definite candidate for heavy-duty antibiotics.



“Did you hit him?” I asked.



Confusion washed over Sullivan’s face. “I swore I did, in the leg, even found some blood, but he ran like a j ackrabbit. There’ve been no reports of gunshot wounds in any of the ERs—or at least none matching this guy’s description.”



“Strange,” I murmured.



“Yeah, although I’ve seen druggies do amazing things. If they’re hopped up enough, they feel no pain.”



“What if he did have rabies?” I asked.



“That would definitely show up on the ER reports.”



“Unless he died on the street.”



“I’ve been checking the John Does. So far I haven’t found him.”



“How long does it take a human being to die from rabies?”



“One to three months.”



“Really?” I’d figured once bitten, the victim would turn into a slavering monster and die pretty quickly.



“Yes,” Sullivan answered, “though once symptoms appear, death follows fast.”



“What symptoms?”



“Extreme thirst but inability to drink, frothing at the mouth, confusion, convulsions.”



Silence fell between us. A silence Sullivan finally broke. “Have you seen Rodolfo?”



“Last night.” I conveniently left out how last night had extended into this morning.



“What about Harvey?” Sullivan tilted the photo toward me.



I stared at the face and tried to breathe. I shook my head and Sullivan strode toward the back door. I heard him stomping up the stairs, then across the second floor. I didn’t even care that he might be going through my underwear drawer.



Go nuts, as King had said. I had more important things to worry about.



“You knew him, didn’t you?” King stood at my elbow.



I shook my head again and retrieved my tray, performing a last call of the remaining customers as my



mind spun.



I didn’t know the man in the picture, but I had seen him.



Walking away from Rising Moon that morning with John Rodolfo.