Chapter Six

That night i fell into bed exhausted and was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow, only to come awake with a gasp and a start in that darkest of hours just before the sun appears on the horizon.

My heart was thudding so hard my straining ears could hear nothing but ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump .

What, if anything, had woken me?

I’d lived alone in Philadelphia; I shouldn’t be freaking out about being the only living soul inside Rising Moon.

Except Philly was home. New Orleans was a strange place, with an emphasis on strange.

Something scraped across the floor above me. I sat up; my neck creaked when I lifted my chin toward the ceiling and squinted. I don’t know what I expected to see. I didn’t have X-ray vision.

Holding my breath, I waited, but I didn’t hear anything else.

Still, something had woken me, made me nervous, even in dreamland. I wasn’t an easily spooked person, but I doubted I’d be able to sleep again until I made certain all I’d heard was a mouse, or a loose shutter, or the wind rippling through the eaves.

A few moments later, dressed and creeping barefoot up the back steps, I wished like hell for a flashlight, but there hadn’t been one anywhere in my room.

A scrabble, like fingernails against wood, sounded just ahead.

“Hello?” I called.

Something shot down the stairwell, something dark and small that screeched like the banshees of legend.

I flattened myself to the wall as it flew by.

Only when it had disappeared into the well of black below did the sound the beast had made register.

“A cat,” I managed. “Only a cat.”

Thunk.

My eyes lifted. “Or not.”

A cool breeze seemed to swirl in from nowhere, turning the sweat on my body to ice, and along with the breeze traveled an all too human whisper.

I’d never believed in ghosts; I was too practical for that. Of course, I’d never been confronted with one either. Seeing has always meant believing in my book.

Sullivan had referred to Rising Moon as “that cursed bar.” He’d said there were rumors the place was haunted, though from his manner he didn’t believe it. I hadn’t either.

However, standing in the whispering night all alone, I was forced to rethink my opinion.

I had to know the truth, so I took the remaining steps to the door at the top, turned the knob and walked in.

Despite my wide and staring eyes, I saw nothing, the darkness so complete it surrounded me like a velvet curtain. In the depths, something growled.

I flung out my arm, fingers groping along the wall. One flick and light glared down on the tiny room from the single bare bulb in the ceiling.

Near the heavily shrouded window stood a bed. In it a figure tossed and turned, moaning, muttering.

John Rodolfo seemed caught in the grips of a nightmare. He’d thrown off the covers; he wasn’t wearing any clothes.

I couldn’t help but see; I wasn’t blind. I couldn’t help but admire; I wasn’t dead.

His skin glistened with a fine sheen of sweat, which only emphasized the rippling muscles and smooth olive skin. For a musician he sported some mighty nice pecs and a decent set of abs. Had he been bench-pressing pianos?

Embarrassed to have walked in on him like this, I started to back out of the room, but he continued to thrash and moan as if in horrible pain and I hesitated.

I couldn’t leave him like this. I’d had nightmares—a lot since Katie disappeared—and I knew I’d rather be woken than forced to finish one.

“Rodolfo?”

The only response was another moan.

“John?” I spoke a little louder as I stepped a bit farther into the room.

“No!” he shouted, thrashing and straining upward as if someone were holding him down.

Now what? The sound of my voice seemed to be making him worse.

I stood in the doorway, uncertain. Should I shake him awake? That seemed forward, even for me. I bit my lip, shuffled my feet, sighed, and he stopped thrashing, turning his face toward the door. “Anne?”

I considered escaping to my room and saying nothing, but that would be cowardly, and I refused to allow it.

“Sorry,” I said. “I heard a noise. I didn’t realize you lived here.”

He sat up, reaching for the sheet, then drawing it across his lap. The motion only caused my gaze to slide there ahead of the white cotton, and I got an eyeful of something else that was mighty nice. I needed to get laid—soon—before I did something, or someone, really stupid.

“I—uh—” He put a hand to his forehead; he wasn’t wearing his sunglasses. This was the first time I’d seen him without them, and he looked younger, even with his eyes shut.

Strange. Why keep them shut? Unless—

Before I could stop it, my mind flashed on an image of him opening his eyes to reveal gaping sockets. I winced and turned away. Just because the man couldn’t see me didn’t mean I should stare at him while he was undressed and dopey from sleep.

“I get headaches,” he said. “I come up here to lie down.”

“Migraines?” I glanced back as he patted the night-stand, found his glasses, slipped them on.

“Mmm.”

I needed to leave; the poor man was recovering from a migraine. I’d never had them, but my mother did and whenever she woke up she was woozy from the pain if not the meds.

Nevertheless, I found myself moving closer. “Have you always had migraines?”

“No.” His lips turned up ruefully. “They’re a recent development.”

Ding-ding-ding ! A head injury might cause blindness, which would also explain the headaches.

“Did a trauma cause you to lose your sight?”

He choked, the sound one of surprise and… amusement? “Trauma?” he repeated. “I guess you could call it that.”

I waited for him to be more specific, and when he remained silent, I asked. I couldn’t help myself. “What happened?”

“Nothing I can explain,” he muttered.

I opened my mouth, shut it again. I couldn’t make myself keep pressing him. I guess there was a limit to how far even my curiosity would take me.

“Will the headaches go away eventually?” I asked.

“Not if they’re penance for my sins.”

“What?”

“A j oke. Never mind.”

He got to his feet, wrapping the sheet around his hips and securing it with a quick, practiced twist. Then he padded to the sink, splashed his cheeks with cold water and slicked his hair back so sharply droplets of liquid flew, pattering against the ancient wooden floorboards like rain.

“Does it make you uncomfortable to be alone with me?” he asked.

I lifted my gaze from the floor to his face. The sunglasses shrouded his eyes. Whoever had coined the phrase “windows to the soul” had known what they were talking about. Not being able to see Rodolfo’s eyes was really starting to bug me. The mirrored glasses made it seem like he had no soul.

I let out a short, derisive laugh—at both my thoughts and his question. “No,” I said. “And even if it did, this is your place. You can stay here if you want to.”

“I have an apartment on St. Ann. I don’t use it much. It’s easier…” his voice trailed off.

I understood. He worked here, why traipse several city blocks, especially when getting there couldn’t be all that easy for him? The convenience of this third-floor room had to far outweigh any need he had to get away.

“I should thank you for letting me stay,” I said.

“With Mardi Gras coming up.” He shrugged, the muscles in his arms and chest flexing, rippling beneath the skin like smoothly flowing water. I hoped I wasn’t drooling, but at least he couldn’t see me if I was.

“Beggars can’t be choosers, oui?”

His use of French startled me a bit. “I thought your ancestors were Spanish.”

“I am what I am. My family is long gone.” He turned away. “Everyone I ever knew here is dead.”

The desolation in his voice called to me. I understood loss and grief, the nostalgia that both helps and hurts. Which was the only reason I crossed the room, reached out and touched him.

He’d warned me not to. Why couldn’t I learn?

At the first hint of flesh against flesh he spun so fast my eyes detected only a blur. His hands closed over my elbows, his palms so hot I flinched at the sensation if not the pressure as his fingers tightened just a little too much.

“John,” I began, and he cursed, the words a jumble of Spanish and French, muttered too low to be understood even if I’d ever been any good at either language.

I stared at my reflection in his glasses; I didn’t look as frightened as I felt. Once again I appeared prettier than I was, both alluring and enticing. No wonder he kissed me.

My mouth opened on a gasp as he yanked me onto my toes and covered my lips with his. He didn’t hesitate; he took; he ravaged; I liked it.

I was not the type of woman men devoured. Or at least I hadn’t been before today. Today John Rodolfo kissed me as if he’d been waiting to do so his entire life.

He savored my mouth as if he planned to memorize every inch. His teeth scraped my bottom lip, the slight pain a bloom of pleasure even before he laved the tiny hurt, then suckled. His grip on my arms gentled; I didn’t run away. Instead, I sighed, surrendering.

The short, neat mustache and goatee were both sharp and soft, a new sensation that tempted me to rub my cheek against his face—and several other places.

The sheet slithered to the floor, and I barely noticed, my mind and body centered where we touched. My skin tingled as if static electricity flowed from him to me. I’d never felt so alive.

He tasted like midnight. He smelled of summer rain. His hair beneath my fingers was slick and wet and far too short. I couldn’t help it; I ran my hand from his neck over his shoulder, down his chest, then lower still.

Right before I reached his belly he stumbled back, bending to grab the lost sheet, then covering himself, though nothing was going to disguise the erection that made a pup tent of white cotton just below his hips.

He cleared his throat. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“I didn’t mind.”

His head went up. “This is a bad idea.”

“What is?”

“You. Me.”

“Seemed like a terrific idea from my end.”

“There are things you don’t know—” He shoved his fingers through his hair, pausing when he encountered the stubbly strands.

I opened my mouth to ask “What things?” then shut it again as the bright light from the ceiling bulb hit

Rodolfo’s raised hand.

A thin white scar bisected his wrist.

My gaze flicked to his left hand, twisted in the sheet around his waist. I couldn’t see if there was a corresponding line there, but it didn’t matter. One was enough to reveal the truth.

Once upon a time, John Rodolfo had tried to kill himself.