Page 23 of Ace
“Umm,” Savannah stalled. She’d thought she had him figured out, only now...
He was so cut and pressed. So clean. So proper. She could almost smell the starch on him. “Are you sure you want to do that? There’ll be barking and other noises, smells and—”
“Trust me. Those hound dogs of yours won’t smell any worse than some of the soldiers I’ve bunked with over the years.” He slapped two twenties to the tabletop as he tugged her over the slippery bench.
Savannah dashed her napkin to her mouth and climbed to her feet. Once again, his hand settled at the small of her back, and she lost track of where she was going. The world narrowed down to the firm outline of his palm and the illicit tactile sensation of each finger and thumb on her body. Even if his deference to her was nothing more than making sure she didn’t stumble like some backward hick, Savannah’s heart thundered at the sublime sensation of this man’s touch. His hand was warm and big, and it felt good. So good.
Agent Boniface seemed able to pass comfort with just a touch. No wonder Gran Mere had smiled after he’d checked her pulse. He wasn’t anything like her stoic, emotionless, letter-of-the-law Sergeant Friday after all. Uh uh. Agent Boniface was one tall, manly beacon of tawny eye candy, and Savannah meant to treasure this moment the rest of her life.
Like the pictures she’d taken of Gran Mere over the years, she’d shake the dust off this delicious memory in years to come. She’d recall how once upon a time an authentic gentleman had treated her like a real lady.She’d remember how his eyes simmered when he thought she wasn’t looking. Savannah was caught in the same teenage conundrum:Look. Don’t look. Eyes colliding. Oh, my gosh, he’s looking at me. Hurry! Look away! Only to glance back to see if he’s looking again…
Ah, the silly struggles of the heart.
When the heat of his palm coiled around her waist, she stopped where she stood, needing to savor the gentle way he held her without really holding her. The way he towered over her, making her feel sheltered and cared for. The all-male sensational way he smelled. Her lungs expanded as they filled with scents unique to this man. Honestly. Most of her days were spent with cats and dogs. She knew stink, and she knew how to disguise most of it. But all the air fresheners in the world couldn’t compare with the delectable, provocative scent of the male at her side.
Agent Boniface didn’t remove his hand until they were on the sidewalk, and she leaned away from him to climb into his rental, a sleek, silver Camaro. Forcing her mind off feelings she could never reveal, Savannah settled in, fastened her seatbelt, took a deep breath of that new car smell, and directed him to Sanctuary.
“Tell me what mojo you put in the bag,” Keller said, nonchalantly steering away from the restaurant. “I assume it’s for Isaiah. You want me to take it back to him?”
She dug into her front pants pocket and pulled up the red bag. “I almost forgot. Yes, I’ll leave it here in the center console. Tell him to wear it around his neck at alltimes. The cord’s long enough and it’s a small bag. It’ll tuck under his shirt. It won’t show.”
“What’s in it?”
She kept her eyes on the road. “The usual. Rose quartz to steady his heart. Iron for strength to fight. A single white feather for purity and…” Would Keller understand why she’d chosen the rose petal? Savannah hoped so. He seemed to understand the rest of Gran Mere’s ritual that, over the years, had combined her odd brand of Catholicism with the universe. “And one dried rose petal. That’s all he needs.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Savannah saw Keller’s lips purse. “A flower petal, huh? Never would’ve guessed that one.”
“Not just any petal. A red rose petal. It’s for love. I wasn’t casting a love potion, though.” Agent Boniface needed to understand that. “The petal magnifies the power of the feather.”
“So you don’t…” He coughed. “…you don’t kill anything? You don’t do the whole blood sacrifice thing?”
“Oh, heavens, no!” Where’d that crazy idea come from? “I know some folks might, but not me and Gran Mere, never. She always said more good came from prayer than ever came from cruelty. You really can catch more flies with honey, you know.”
That answer seemed to calm Keller. He nodded, his eyes still on the road.
Savannah pressed on about Isaiah. “Until this morning, your friend thought he was responsible for all the evil in the world. Somewhere during his life, heconvinced himself it was his job to save everyone else. The petal will help him remember who he is and who he isn’t. Like him, it’s one small part of the whole flower. It’ll help him focus on what’s true, not what everyone else expects of him.”
“And what is true?
“What else? His wife and his unborn baby boy. Everything else is less. Don’t you think a man’s family should be his first love, his first priority?”
“Well, yeah. Sure,” Keller said quietly.
Savannah knew she’d said too much to a man who’d lost his wife and still carried a torch for her. But that question about blood sacrifice bothered her. He’d seen things and had possibly done things that still haunted him. She could tell.
He drove in silence while Savannah directed where and when to turn. Past the rice paddies and crawfish ponds. Over the levee. Way out around the edge of the bayou, then over Jefferson bridge, past the turn-off to Gran Mere’s place and onto the southern-most corner of Gran Mere’s property. With his index finger tapping the steering wheel, he finally asked, “Would you mind explaining the bag?”
“The red pouch I put everything in?”
“No. The magic you believe you put into the gris-gris.”
Savannah turned in her seat to look at him then. Keller had unbuttoned his jacket after breakfast. His body was a study in angular, relaxed muscles. With his long legs folded, his knees bumped against the underside of the steering wheel. He’d loosened hisslacks at his knees, accentuating his muscled thigh every time his foot worked the accelerator. He kept one hand relaxed on the wheel, the other on the open window, his fingers tapping into the wind.
But mostly, she liked how his shirt wrinkled over his stomach before it tucked into his pants and belt. Keller was so much like a sleek gold puma, long-waisted, relaxed, yet wary. Simmering.
Loosening her seatbelt, she tucked one foot under her other leg. “You say it right, gree-gree instead of griz-griz like grizzly bear, which is how most tourists pronounce it. Yet you don’t know what it means? Didn’t you learn anything in Turkey Creek?”
Those wide manly shoulders lifted. “I know a little,” he admitted. But a dark note had crept into his voice since he’d asked the question, as if simply mentioning his hometown bothered him.
