Poison Princess

27

I broke the surface, sputtering, shoving water out of my face. “Have you lost your mind? Ugh! I am not skinny-dipping with you.”

In a scandalized tone, Jackson said, “Skinny-dipping? Evangeline and her dirty mind.” He glanced down. I could see he’d left on a pair of dark boxer briefs.

“Oh.” Had I sounded disappointed? “Still, I’m not all right with this. We should be—what do you call it?—watching our six.”

“So you do listen to me on occasion? Who’d-a thought . . . Look, I’m not goan to let anything happen to you. I’ll hear anyone coming in plenty of time.”

When I remained unconvinced, he said, “I told you, no one can get the drop on me. Doan you trust me?”

I didn’t have much of a choice. “You couldn’t have let me remove my boots?” I dragged them and my socks off, flinging them near his bow.

“You’re right. I should’ve let you strip.” Then he splashed me in the face.

I sputtered again, but he was grinning. Not a smirk—a real smile. As I gazed at his lips, I found my own curling in response.

I pointed behind him. “Oh, look!” Then I splashed the back of his head.

He faced me with his eyes wide. “Now you’ve done it! You mess with the bull . . .” He chased me around the shallow end until I was squealing with laughter.

It felt incredible to act like normal kids again. To flirt and play.

The voices were blessedly quiet.

Just before he caught me, I dunked under, swam around him and yanked back on his ankles. He couldn’t have known that in another lifetime, I’d been a terror in the pool.

He acted like I’d tripped him, sinking like a stone. Once he broke the surface, he looked surprised—and delighted—that I was messing around with him.

I’d never seen this playful, grinning side of Jackson before, had never seen him without his customary restlessness. I recognized then that I’d never witnessed him happy until now.

And, damn, it was a good look on him. “You’re smiling.”

“I should be.” His wet hair whipped over his cheeks. “Best day I’ve had in a long, long time.” He began edging me toward the side of the pool, and I let him. Streams of water slid down his broad chest and rock-hard torso.

I want to follow those streams with my lips. . . . Okay, so maybe Jackson wasn’t the only one strung tight. “Um, best day?” When my back met stone, he kept easing closer until I could feel the heat coming off his body. I had to crane my head up to meet his gaze.

His grin turned smug as he said, “Got me a new bike, a jolie girl who’s sweet on me, and a mansion for us to live in.”

Then I realized that I had a very real problem—add it to my tab. Jackson Deveaux was nearly irresistible like this. “Sweet on you? Please.”

“I can tell.”

“How?”

“You smell like honeysuckles when you’re liking ole Jack.”

Oh my God. Just as I’d been told, I did smell like flowers. No wonder everyone had kept complimenting me.

“When you’re mad,” he added, “you smell like roses. Excited? Sweet olive. I’m still figuring out the rest.”

Even as he continued to stun me with his insight, I muttered, “Th-that’s ridiculous.” How was I going to hide my secrets all the way to North Carolina?

“Is it?” He inched even closer.

“In any case, it’s not like you are sweet on me.”

“C’est vrai.” That’s true. “But I do know that it’s slim pickings out there.”

I glared, unable to tell if he was teasing. “Melt my heart, Cajun.”

He reached forward, clasping the edge of the pool on both sides of me, boxing me in.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting ready to kiss you for the first time.”

Heart stop. Form words, Evie. “Y-you told me something like that at my party, but I didn’t fare so well that night.”

“Me neither. God, I’d wanted me a taste of you.” His smoldering gray gaze was locked on my lips.

I wetted them, just as I had then.

“Do you know how many nights I’ve thought about almost kissing you? I remember every detail about you. I couldn’t tell if your eyes were blue or green. Your lips were so red—it was sexy, but I couldn’t decide if I liked it. ’Cause it wasn’t you, not really.”

That almost-kiss hadn’t been just a trick! He’d felt the same excitement and attraction that I had.

“Evangeline, you’re like . . . like a peekôn dans ma patte.”

A thorn in my paw. How appropriate. I guess that’s my nature, Jackson.

“And I can’t quite shake it, no.” His eyes were completely mesmerizing.

For the first time in months I wanted to draw—just to capture that look forever.

“Let’s take this off, cher.” When he reached for the hem of my soaked hoodie, I found myself raising my arms so he could pull it free, leaving me in my white cami.

Which was now see-through. I might as well have been wearing nothing.

When his gaze dipped, his lids went heavy and his Adam’s apple bobbed. In a hoarse voice, he said, “Mercy me.”

I’d never been looked at like this, had never been utterly certain that a boy was gazing at my body—while imagining how he wanted to touch it. My face and chest flushed with embarrassment.

Just when I was about to duck under, he said, “Non, you let me look.” His accent was getting thicker. “Waited a long time to see you like this.”

“But we’ve only been together a couple weeks.”

He grazed the backs of his fingers along my cheekbones, as if my face was made of delicate porcelain. “Uh-huh,” he murmured as he leaned down to gently press his lips to mine. His were so firm and warm. I could just taste the bite of whiskey.

He felt perfect . . . the kiss, right.

He parted his lips, coaxing me to do the same. Once I did, he leisurely stroked his tongue against mine . . . and again. Relaxed, wicked flicks.

Energy filled me, pleasure radiating. This was addictive—nothing meh about it.

Our tongues tangled, over and over, until I couldn’t stop a moan. I wanted more of him. I wanted this never to end. I needed more.

I was losing control; why wasn’t he? His kiss was sensual, but deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world.

As if he has something to prove?

Just when that thought arose in my foggy brain, he drew back with a cocky smirk. “There. Now that’s what I’m talking about.” He rubbed his thumb over my bottom lip. “You’re not laughing now, are you—”

“More.” I reached up, tunneling my fingers through his dark hair, clutching, dragging him back to me.

He rasped, “Evie?” just before our lips met again, our tongues . . .

I ran my hands down his back, over his flexing muscles. I couldn’t stop touching him, couldn’t keep my body from moving against his. With each sweep of my palms, he deepened the kiss. So I did it again. And again.

Soon I was gasping and he was groaning. His hands cupped my waist, descending to my wriggling hips. He squeezed them, then reached for my ass, gripping me with splayed fingers, wrenching my body even closer to him. Was he shuddering against me?

No more control for either of us.

I loved his abandoned groans, loved that I could feel them because we were pressed so tight together. Just as he’d promised, we were breathing for each other—and still I couldn’t get enough.

For me, this was the game changer, a line in the sand. Life before our kiss; life after.

He wrapped his strong arms around me, hauling me up, crushing me against his solid chest. I dimly realized my feet weren’t touching the bottom of the pool any longer.

He broke away to kiss my neck, saying against my skin, “Tu me fais tourner la tête! Ton parfum sucré, tes secrets.” You drive me mad! Your sweet scent, your secrets. Heated licks followed. “Ah, Evie, you taste as good as you smell.”

I breathed, “Jackson . . .”

He pulled back, letting me slip back down to stand on my own. His voice was raw as he said, “If you want me to kiss you again, you call me Jack.”

I couldn’t think. I made some sound of agreement.

“Say it.”

My head tilted back, and I whispered, “Jack.”

He cupped my face with his callused palms, so that I stared directly into his eyes. There was something possessive in his expression, something masculine and . . . older that I had absolutely no idea how to decipher—all I knew was that the intent look on his face made my heart race. “You said you wanted more?”

Of his kiss? “God, yes.”

He exhaled a pent-up breath. “Bien.” Then he lifted me again, cradling me in his arms. As he climbed the pool steps, he grazed his lips along my neck, keeping me in a haze of bliss. At my ear, he rasped, “T’chauffes mon sang comme personne d’autre.” You heat my blood like no other.

I quivered with delight, only vaguely wondering where he was taking me. And maybe why he’d swooped down to collect his jeans along with his ever-present bow.

My back met cushions. Gazebo? Reclining lounge chair for two?

Ah, more kisses! He licked my earlobe, making me cry out, my back arching. Was that my zipper?

I felt weightless for a moment, then cool air breezed over my damp legs, up to my panties.

He hissed in a breath. “Ma belle fille.” My beautiful girl. He followed me down, lying half on me, half on the chair.

When he fiddled with something in his jeans pocket, I murmured, “Jack?”

He raised himself over me with one straightened arm, flashing me that wolfish grin, so sexy he robbed me of thought. “I’m goan to take care of you, bébé.” He produced a condom in a wrapper, holding it between his white teeth as he rubbed one hot palm up my torso, rolling my cami higher.

He looked roguish and wicked and oh-dear-God-did-he-have-a-condom?

For me?

“Wait!” Everything was moving too fast, spinning out of control. “Wh-what are you doing?” I hadn’t agreed to sex! I shoved against him.

He’d teed me up to be his next gaienne—without a word about me being his girlfriend. And what if that condom broke? I could have sworn it’d come from the shrimp boat medicine cabinet. Who knew how old that package was!

His brows drew together. “What’s the matter, you?”

“I’m not just going to have sex with you!” What if I got pregnant?

I was fuming all the more because I’d loved kissing him, and then he’d gone and skipped over all the bases—the ones that I had never gotten to experience—and gone straight for a home run.

“Why you acting like sex with me is a fool idea?” he demanded, his expression exasperated.

I shoved his chest again until he drew back. “Where do I even begin?” Your ancient condom pack, our lack of a defined relationship, the fact that you were going about things at light speed—even though this is my first time.

Damn it, why’d we have to stop kissing? I just needed to think, with a clearer head.

But his own anger was already seething. “You told me you wanted more.”

“Of your kiss!” I brought my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs. Without him against me, I was shivering with cold.

A couple of weeks ago, I’d told myself that I would save my virginity for my boyfriend, no matter how naïve that sounded. Today, on the bike, I’d imagined what it’d be like if Jackson was mine.

There was something between us, something exciting and . . . combustible. Then I frowned. Tonight, he’d told me lots of things to let me know he was attracted to me. But not that he liked me.

Hadn’t he talked about it being slim pickings out there?

Even if there were no other girls for him to be with, I still wanted Jackson and me to get on the same page about what was going on between us. If we didn’t have some kind of understanding worked out, then sleeping together would only complicate things.

And I couldn’t let anything get in the way of reaching North Carolina.

So how to broach the subject of a relationship? “Jackson, you know that I’ve never . . . I’ve never done that before. And I was kind of looking for something more to go along with it.” Hint, hint.

Realization lit his expression. “You still think you’re too good for me. You’d let Radcliffe get first pick, but not me?”

I gasped. “Don’t you dare bring him into this!” Again, I thought of how happy-go-lucky Brandon had been, how many good times we’d shared at the beach, out on the water. Always laughing . . .

Those times with Brandon had been the last of the good times for me. Before the apocalypse, before the Arcana . . . My eyes watered.

Jackson saw my reaction. “You’re still in love with him!” He shot to his feet, then stabbed his legs into his jeans. “You were ready to lie down with that boy ’cause you thought him twice the man of me. But what the hell did he ever do besides drive a nice car or throw around a ball? I saved your life!”

I rose as well, darting for my soaked jeans, snatching them up my legs with difficulty. “Did you save me just so I’d sleep with you?”

“The idea might’ve crossed my mind! Hell, Evie, you’re probably the last girl on earth for me. Would it kill you to put out?”

“I can’t believe you just said that!” I felt like such an idiot! Believing we had a connection? The Cajunland player had merely intended to score another doe tag—and I was the only game in town. I stormed off for my hoodie, then worked it over my head.

“Believe it!” He closed in on me. “Remember, I’m the cruel and classless boy from the wrong side of the bayou. That’s all I’ll ever be to you!”

We were in each other’s faces, but I refused to back down. “When you act like this, it’s hard to see otherwise! Thank God I had the good sense not to become more involved with you.”

“Good sense? That’s one thing you’ll never be accused of having! Getting more involved with me is the smartest thing you could ever do. I’m the one who keeps you safe. Me”—he thumped his bare chest—“remember? ‘Thank you, Jack, it’s great to be alive.’ ”

“Admit it, this is the real reason you volunteered to help me—because you wanted to sleep with me!”

“Yeah, I’d pegged you for a snob, but I didn’t figure you for a miserable tease!”

“A tease? Did you believe I was a sure thing because we’re in a hell-on-earth situation? Or because every other slore you’ve been with has given it up? Tell me!”

He gave me that shrug. “A little of both.”

I wanted to strangle him!

“Why’s everything always got to be so hard with you?” He turned to punch a wooden gazebo column, rocking the entire structure. When he faced me again, his chest heaved, his scarred hand bleeding. “You’re goan to make me crazy!”

“Well, then suck it up! Just like you said, I’m the best there is. It seems like you’d be a little nicer to the last girl on earth. Maybe you should—oh, I don’t know—try to be pleasant or boyfriendlike or, or . . .”

“Court you?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Maybe I have been—every time I’ve rescued your ass! And every night I’ve kept watch over you! But you just take all that for granted. Because you’re gâtée!”

“I am not spoiled!”

“Never knew a girl as spoiled as you—coddled your whole life. But that shit stops now.”

I rubbed my arms, dripping and dejected in my wet clothes. How had we gone from kissing to a fight like this? “What do you want from me?”

He pinched his forehead, saying in an odd tone, “I might’ve wanted something from you—but it’s clear you’re never goan to give it to me.”

Were we still talking about sex?

“You know why my mère drank?” he demanded, his voice a harsh rasp. “Because she wanted and waited for things that would never be. I swore I’d never do the same. In the past, whenever I felt my mind wandering in the wrong direction, I shut those thoughts down.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I got to do that now, me.”

“I don’t understand you.”

Suddenly what sounded like a sonic boom went off in my head.

—BEHOLD THE BRINGER OF DOUBT.—

As I tottered on my feet, Jackson lunged for his bow, swinging it around, aiming it behind us.

“Wh-what is it, Jackson? Is someone here?” He couldn’t have heard the voice, and I’d detected nothing around us.

He jerked his chin in the direction of a shadowy walkway. “Out there.”

“How do you know?”

He grated, “Experience.”

A girl moved out of the shadows, with her own bow raised. “Seems that I have company.”

A bow? In moonlight? When I saw her completely, my jaw slackened. Standing on the other side of the pool was the girl from my visions. Though her face had been blurry before, I’d recognize that beach-volleyball-player figure anywhere.

For a split second, a still-shot image seemed to be superimposed over her. I saw her as that red-tinged archer, poised like a goddess in the moonlight.

I swallowed. The image looked just like a . . . Tarot card.

I blinked. In the next instant, she was just a normal teenage girl. A gorgeous one. Her long mane of silvery-blond hair shimmered, her dark eyes watchful.

She wore a black halter, cropped khaki shorts—which showed off mile-long legs—and biker boots.

A leather quiver circled her freaking thigh, Lara Croft—style.

“What are you two doing in my home?” Her voice was exactly like it’d been in my head. Had she experienced visions of me as well? Heard my own Arcana call? Whatever it was . . .

I’d believed the Arcana were all real kids. She was undeniable proof that they existed.

Her eyes flashed to me—and they might have widened just a touch before her expression grew shuttered, her attention back on Jackson.

“Apologies,” he said, giving her a once-over. “Didn’t think anyone was here.” He looked like he dug what he saw.

And she certainly did. In a purring tone, she said, “I’ll drop my bow if you do, handsome.”

After a hesitation, he began lowering it.

I wanted to cry, “No, I don’t trust her!” But she popped her arrow from her bow and dropped it into her quiver.

Now that the immediate threat had eased, she raked her gaze over him, lingering on his bared chest. “That’s a sweet Ducati you’ve got.”

Had Jackson’s shoulders straightened? “Just picked her up today.”

Brushing her hair back, she said, “I’m Selena Lua.”

I now knew the name of one of the voices. Because she was standing right before me. One of the Major Arcana. What else could I find out from her? I had to talk to her in private. . . .

“Didn’t I tell you,” Jackson muttered to me, “that this place was goan to be a beauty?” While I bristled, he said to the girl, “I’m Jackson Deveaux, you can call me Jack.” He tossed an offhanded wave at me. “That’s Evie.”

With only another brief glance my way—and no glimmer of awareness—Selena returned her gaze to Jackson as though magnetized. “I don’t get many visitors. If you want to, I’m cool with you staying the night here.”

I’ll bet you are.

Jackson turned to me with a devilish smile. In French, he said, “All of a sudden, Evie, you’re not the last girl on earth for me.”