Poison Princess (33 page)

He must have suspected I was about to scramble off the bike like it was on fire—his hands, so rough and callused, captured mine, setting them well above his waist.

“Just so we understand each other.” Then he took off.

Strung tight?
What exactly was I supposed to do with that knowledge? I sat stiffly behind him as we gained speed down the lonely road, through the town and beyond—passing a forlorn playground, a wide-open clapboard church, a field with bleached cattle remains.

But with each mile, I started to relax. I'd noticed that whenever Jackson and I touched, the voices went silent. Not just muted.
Why?

I sighed, deciding to ponder that another time. For now, I just enjoyed the quiet. And the air blowing was like being in air-conditioning again. It almost smelled
clean.
I closed my eyes and raised my face.

“You like this?”

I opened my eyes to find him watching me over his shoulder. I bit my lip and nodded.

He gave me that sexy jerk of his chin, then shifted gears to go faster.

Adrenaline rush! I loved the speed, the feel of the bike, the way he could make it move so effortlessly. “Faster!”

He raised his brows over his shades. “Hold on tighter, you.”

As soon as I locked my arms around him, he floored the engine until the front wheel briefly left the ground. I yelped, then threw back my head and laughed.

How long had it been since I'd laughed like this?

Around corners, we'd lean in together. When he opened it up on a straightaway, I ducked down with him.

But soon I grew less interested in the ride—and more interested in the driver.

As his too-long hair whipped in the wind, I caught glimpses of the tanned skin on the back of his neck. I wondered what it would be like to kiss him there, to brush my lips against that smooth skin.

Jackson was often so rude, so
crude
, but all that could be forgotten when I thought about how warm and strong he felt against me. Or when I recalled how brave and intelligent he was.

Mom had said I could do a lot worse than Jackson Deveaux.

At that moment, I concluded she'd been right.

What would it be like to have him as my boyfriend? As I tried to imagine it, I sighed, pressing the side of my face against his back, fully relaxed against him. Soon exhaustion caught up with me. The constant rumble of the engine lulled me. My lids grew heavy.

“Sleep if you want.” Again, he covered my hands with one of his own. “I've got you.”

I loved it when he said that to me. “Are you sure?”

“I'm goan to find us a
bonne
place tonight. We'll have us a grand ole time.”

Though I was curious what Jackson would consider a “grand ole time,” sleep overtook me. . . .

When I woke, a full moon was high in the sky and Jackson was only now slowing.

“We haven't stopped for the night!” I darted my glance around. We looked to be in a rich subdivision. “What about Bagmen?”

“There weren't any,” he said. “The night's so bright, maybe they think the sun is out. Who knows?” He sounded
drunk
as he eased the bike to a stop. But he didn't smell like whiskey—at least not more than normal. “In any case, the road was clear.”

“The road to where?”

He booted the kickstand down in front of an intimidating driveway gate, with
lit
gas lamps on each side. “I guess to
here
,” he said, scratching his head with a bemused grin. “Hey, check out the security on this place, Evie, the fences. They'll be secure against brainless Bagmen.” Then he murmured, “Just not against us.”

When he climbed off the bike, he left me feeling cold and out of sorts. “Why would these lights be on, Jackson? This feels like a baited trap. How about we pass this one by?”

“Bet there's loads of food inside.” He was already wedging his crossbow between the two gates, using it as a lever to pry them apart. “Watch and learn,
peekôn
.” With a click, the flourishing crest in the center parted, the gates swinging free.

He turned back to clasp me around the waist and set me on my feet. “We'll walk the bike from here.” Once he'd pushed it past the fence, he shoved the gates back together behind us. Another click sounded as they sealed shut.

When the house—a gargantuan brick mansion—came into view, he whistled low. “Damn, Evie, you ought to feel right at home here.”

I narrowed my eyes at the landscaping lights. “Those are
electric
.”

“They've probably got a gas generator.”

“One that would've had to be filled up recently, right? This place must be occupied.”

He hadn't even slowed. “Or maybe we'll get lucky. What if the owner left to go source supplies and ran into trouble? He might've gotten attacked by roaming Bagmen. Like the rider of this bike.”

I rubbed my arms. “I've got a bad feeling about this.”

“The last time you had a
good
one, we lost everything we owned, nearly got enslaved, and spent the night in Bagman Swamp. I'm goan to take my chances here,” he said. “It's too late to find another place to stay, anyway. If there's someone here and he's decent, we'll barter jewelry. If he's not decent, we'll take it. Kick him out.”

“You're going to steal a house from its owner?”

“This house?” He smirked.
“J'pourrais.”
I might.

After we'd parked the bike near the side entrance, he cased the house with his crossbow in hand, taking in every detail before he approached the double doors. “Hasn't been rolled yet. Still locked tight.”

With the end of his bow, he hit one of the glass sidelights that flanked the door, busting out a pane. The noise seemed startlingly loud.

Instead of entering, he stood motionless, cocking his head. After long moments, he reached in and opened the door, inhaling deeply. The air smelled fresh. No Bagmen around?

Weapon raised, Jackson finally entered the house, with me close behind.

“This is a mistake,” I whispered, trying to recall something Matthew had repeated in all his mutterings and ramblings. It was tickling at my brain. “Why is staying here so important to you?”

“ 'Cause you'll like it here. Soft girl like you belongs in a place like this.”

“I'd prefer the shrimp boat.”

“I'll make a note.”

Lamps burned low, lighting the interior enough for us to search the lavishly decorated house. It looked like a movie producer's Hollywood pad. Even
I
was impressed by the wealth.

Every room was even more luxe than the one before. “This feels like a trap,” I repeated.

“Trust me, Evie, this place is goan to be a beauty. Remember? I got a sense for these things. And just think, if there's power
and
a well, there'll be a hot shower.”

I nearly moaned at the idea of piping-hot water. But when a breeze wafted from overhead fans, I still said, “Why is the occupant so wasteful? Eventually, the gas
will
run out.”

“Heh.”

“Why
heh
?”

“The gas was already running out before the Flash. But I bet every room in your big ole mansion was cold as an icebox all summer long.”

“This situation is more
acute
.”

“If you think you could die tomorrow, why not go all-out? Part of me admires the owner for this.”

Sometimes when he said things like that, I was reminded of how different we were. Like fundamentally different. “We'll have to agree to disagree. . . .”

We searched both wings upstairs and down, finding even more delights. The bedrooms had closets full of designer clothing and shoes. The garage housed camping supplies, hi-tech survival gear—and a colossal storage tank of gas.

No car, though.

In the enormous kitchen, Jackson opened one of the two refrigerators, which was surprisingly well-stocked with jellies, condiments, and drinks.

He briefly closed his eyes at the feel of cold air, then said, “Come here, you.” He shoved me in front of him so I could feel it too, then stood behind me with his hand on my shoulder. “Admit it, this was worth it just to feel the icebox.”

Though I was still wary about being here, I reminded myself that Jackson was the bogeyman, as long as he had that bow. So I closed my eyes too, and we just stood there for long moments.

Then I felt him reaching past me. “Jesus,
chilled
long-necks. Okay, that's it, I'm on the lookout for three bears.” He snagged a couple of bottles, twisting off the tops. Pressing a beer into my hand, he led me into the biggest pantry I'd ever seen. “Find us something to eat, woman.”

I arched a brow, but did inspect the goods, enough to last two people for months—canned and boxed foods, airtight cartons and bags, fruit juices. After hastily stuffing my backpack with PowerBars—just in case we had to flee—I perused the shelves for dinner.

A jar of maraschino cherries had my mouth watering. I snagged them, as well as a couple of cans of black olives, a carton of Pirouette cookies, and a bag of giant pretzel sticks, making a picnic on the counter.

For our main course, we enjoyed beer and pretzels. For dessert, Jackson hit the cookies, while I dug into the cherry jar. When I dropped one in my mouth, my eyes rolled with pleasure.

“You like
cerises
, huh?” He eased closer to me. “I've got an
envie
for a cherry.” A craving.

Cajun innuendo, Jackson?
“Here.” I smiled sweetly, holding one up by the stem for him. “Enjoy the only cherry you'll get from me.”

“Sounds like a challenge.” With a wicked gleam in his eyes, he nipped it from my fingers with his even white teeth.

Flustered, I took a swig of my beer. But he pressed his finger to the bottom of the bottle, tipping it until I'd finished it with a gasp.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” It was working. I'd always been a lightweight, and now one beer had me pleasantly buzzed.

“Sans doute.”
Without a doubt.

Okay, he was definitely flirting with me. Because I was the only game in town and he was . . . strung tight? Had to be.
Still the same old Evie here.

He finished his own beer, chasing it with a shot from his flask. “Let's see what's outside.” He collected his bow in one hand and my free hand in his other, then led me to a line of towering french doors.

We exited one onto a huge screened lanai that was like a wonderland, with gazebos and an outdoor kitchen. The moon was full overhead, lighting the area gently, until it looked untouched by the apocalypse.

Escorting me farther outside, he declared, “We are
home
, Evie Greene—”

He fell silent at the sight of a pool, sparkling in the moonlight. A
filled
pool.

Water. A death trap.

“Christ,” he muttered, darting his head around. “Moon or no, why ain't we swarming with Bagmen?”

I pulled on his hand. “Jackson, we've got to go!”

“Stay here.” He strode to the side of the pool, crouching down to dip a finger. After tasting the water, he rose with a thrilled expression. “It's saltwater,
bébé
.”

Salt? “Then they'd be repelled, right?”

He nodded. “And the water's
warm
.”

“Where'd it all come from?”

Propping his bow against a lounge chair, he said, “Private well. Just like you had at Haven.”

But we hadn't wasted it
to swim
. “Jackson, please. The owner could return at any minute!”

“Why would someone be out this late if he's coming back?” Jackson kicked off his boots. “Finders keepers.”

“You're not going in!”

In answer, he pulled his shirt over his head, revealing rigid planes of muscles. Yes, I'd caught glimpses of him shirtless before—but this was the first time I'd utterly lost my breath looking at him.

His face and his broad chest were still tanned, his eyes seeming to glow in the moonlight. That onyx rosary around his neck glinted with his movements.

He was stripping before my eyes, yet I couldn't look away. I bit my bottom lip. Any minute I would turn my back. Any minute . . .

As he began to unbuckle his belt, his stomach muscles rippled.

I grew weak in the knees.
Any minute.

When he reached his zipper, he cocked his head and met my gaze.

I was frozen, could do nothing but stare. He raised his eyebrows at me in challenge, his fingers inching his zipper down.

A second after I'd finally found the presence of mind to turn my back, I heard his belt buckle ping on the tile floor, the rustle of his dropped pants. Eyes wide, I snapped, “This is foolish, Jackson—”

In the space of a heartbeat, he'd snagged my pack off my back, looped an arm around my waist—and hauled us both into the pool.