Page 7 of Ace
He did carry himself with a certain lethal charm, though. Shoulders back. Former military if that closely shaved head of his meant what she suspected. There was just enough stubble to prove the color was dark blond. Not brown. Not gold. Dusty. As if someone had sprinkled gold over sand and called it hair.
His black striped suit looked expensive. Pressed and immaculate, it was completely and utterly out of place, just like his white shirt. Silly man also wore a cotton t-shirt under that shirt. In this heat, he’d soon be pit-stained and sweaty.
His trousers were pleated but not rumpled despite the humidity of the day, the norm for Louisiana this time of year. Which was odd. He had to have walked through plenty of brush and weeds to get here, yet his black shoes still shone to a luster. If she cared to, Savannah expected she could see her reflection in that leather. Stuffy, uptight man must’ve dusted them off before he’d banged on the door.
Which made him interesting in an outdated, pretentious kind of way. Special Agent Keller Boniface was Gran Mere’s favorite rerun all over again. He was Sergeant Friday, the stuffy cop from her beloved“Dragnet.”
Which set off Savannah’s radar all over again. He was everything she wasn’t, a by-the-books,‘just the facts, ma’am’kind of guy. Uptight. Masculine. Averitable straight arrow. And he’d been in control since he’d knocked on her door. He’d taken charge.
That disturbed Savannah more than anything, because Special Agent Boniface also seemed extraordinarily sincere. She’d tried to disguise her feelings, but this guy had a way of looking through her, as if he knew precisely how badly her broken heart hurt. How fragile and vulnerable she was now that Gran Mere was gone. Not only interesting, but darned disconcerting. Used to controlling most situations, Savannah wanted him gone before he looked any closer.
“I am sorry I disturbed your last moment with your great grandmother,” he said gently. “I shouldn’t have bothered you so early today, and I certainly shouldn’t have knocked as hard as I did.”
“No, she was already gone, and I... I…” Gulping at what she’d just admitted, Savannah stared at her great grandmother in case she—needed anything? “Gran Mere said this would happen. She knew she was leaving today, but she never mentioned…”Y.O.U. Not unless you’re the warlock she warned me about, in which case I have no idea what to do with you.
He made a sound in the back of his throat. “But you chose not to believe.”
It was clear he’d dealt with death and disbelievers before. Were all FBI agents this observant? This over-the-top in charge and this… this handsome? She could barely tear her eyes away from him. They seemed bewitched or bedazzled or—something.
“No, I... I...” What could Savannah say? That her great grandmother had always been prone to wildprognostications and dreams as well as blessed with vivid sight? That she could tell the future as accurately as a learned historian could recite the past? Who in their right mind would believe that? “It’s just that she told me so many incredible things over the years, that I—”
“You chose to believe what was the easiest to swallow. So to speak.”
She answered with a noncommittal shrug even as she struggled to catch her breath. This ruggedly handsome Yankee seemed able to read her mind, not what Savannah needed when her only living relative had just passed away. Why was it suddenly so warm in here?
“We should let her doctor know she’s gone,” Sergeant Friday advised. “Do you want me to do that for you or—? Excuse me. I’m sorry, but you are Savannah Church, right?”
“Just Savannah,” she breathed, her gaze riveted on Gran Mere to keep from asking this stranger if he was real or magic, if he was the warlock, or if he knew who the warlock was.
“Mariposa was your grandmother?” He already knew that, and she had a feeling he’d already known her name, too. Why’d he ask?
“My great grandmother. M-my Gran Mere.” She swallowed hard at the quandary she found herself in. At one hand, her precious Gran Mere lay in peaceful repose like an angel. At her other hand, stood this breathtakingly beautiful, but extremely capable stranger, who was so not her type. Not that Savannahhad a type. She wasn’t experienced. She didn’t have a type or preference.
But Special Agent Boniface was intensely male. His stone face bore the requisite square Superhero chin, while those piercingly perceptive amber eyes betrayed barely concealed emotions beneath their calm surface. Still waters, that was what he was—the stillest waters in the bayou where the oldest living alligator cached its prey. Where it would lie in wait for hours until some unsuspecting catfish, long-legged bird, or land animal strayed.
He removed his jacket and hung it on the back of a nearby chair. His tie went next, tucked into his pocket. Then he folded up those long legs, and crouched at Gran Mere’s side.Oh, my my my.Not only was he handsomely attractive, but Agent Boniface was also armed. His jacket had concealed a leather holster looping over his shoulders. It ended with two hefty pockets positioned securely under his arms, both sporting identical pistols. That were probably loaded.
Not that Savannah was afraid of guns. She knew how to shoot the double barrel shotgun stashed behind Gran Mere’s front door. She had to. Everyone in these parts carried when outdoors, and most of the time, indoors as well. You didn’t call the bayou home for long if you ascribed to the liberal agenda of waiting around for the police to come protect you. Alligators, panthers, and the occasional Anaconda slithering across her porch or sunning itself in the weeds didn’t wait before they ate you alive.
Yet as surprised as Savannah was to see those two hefty weapons, she wasn’t fearful of this guy or his guns. Despite his size and bulk, Agent Boniface had been nothing but a gentleman so far. A handsome, remote gentleman whom she still wanted to leave.
She couldn’t make herself stop looking at him as he knelt beside Gran Mere, though. It happened slowly. Sergeant Friday reached for Gran Mere’s wrinkled cheek. Savannah held her breath. His confirming what she already knew—that Gran Mere was gone—would hurt.
He did have nice hands. Big, wide, and callused, both ended at neatly squared-off fingers. His nails were clean and trimmed, with perfect half-moons at the cuticle. But when he touched Gran Mere…
When he cupped her jaw tenderly as if she were a precious treasure...
When he whispered, “Be at peace, Mariposa. Your work here is done. We’ve got the watch now…”
Savannah’s heart collapsed into a soggy lump of grits. The exquisite tenderness in that single contact revealed a true gentleman and a man who valued the fairer sex. Who was, or had once, been loved by a lady. This wasn’t just a distasteful job for Agent Boniface. It wasn’t something to get over and done with as quickly as possible. No. He’d treated Gran Mere as if she were not only a person, but a queen. Perhaps the same way he treated his mother. Or his wife.
Sadness washed over Savannah like the gentle tide at the end of a hard day. Agent Boniface wasn’t anything like Sergeant Friday after all.
His index finger strayed to Gran Mere’s cheek and tucked that perpetually unruly strand of long gray hair behind her ear. “How long has she lived out here in the middle of nowhere?”
That got Savannah’s heart, too. “She… she owned this houseboat all my life, but it wasn’t here until a few years ago.”
His brow spiked. “Hurricane?”
