Mitch edged around one side of the group to stand only a few feet away. Her pulse spiked. He looked about to grab her, and she retreated.
Her boot heel caught in a crack and she teetered. His hand shot out to steady her. Sparklers skyrocketed along her nerves, repeating over and over like images on a video console. Game ready. Game ready. Game so ready.
Mitch Guidry had the longest eyelashes, and those creases at the corners of his dark eyes and… No, no, no. She didn’t care about his eyelashes or any of his other physical attributes.
His hands held her arms firmly, the rub of hard calluses ridiculously seductive.
Those dark eyes. Those incredible eyelashes. The scratched record replayed in time with the bubble machine. Cath tugged her arm free and smoothed her hands down her hips. “Thank you. You’re such a gentleman.”
That sounded polite enough. Formal enough. Don’t-touch-me-again-even-if-I’m-tripping enough.
“I aim to please.” One corner of his mouth twitched.
“I’m sure you do.” If he really wanted to make her happy, he would walk away. Only problem there would be she’d never find out what he wanted.
“I thought ghosts hung around because of some unfulfilled desire.” Mitch gazed at her. Plenty of unfulfilled desire lingering there.
Too bad. Cath rubbed her sweaty palms together. He could roast in hell before she’d touch him voluntarily.
“Or do they return out of revenge?” His jaw stiffened.
He was angry now? After she’d gone against all her urges and treated him politely? “You think they’re looking for closure?”
“Why not?” Mitch lifted an eyebrow. “Everyone else usually is.”
Mitch would have already gotten closure with his bounty after putting Les back in jail. A vise closed around her throat. What was happening with her brother? Why hadn’t she gotten that one allowed phone call from him?
Her other customers listened avidly, and she made the most of Mitch’s comment. “Some ghosts do want revenge, or so the stories go. But this is only speculation. Who knows what the spirits feel? Who knows why Père Dagobert sings?”
She walked to the base of one of the cathedral towers. “After France lost the territory to Spain, local citizens threw out the Spanish governor when he arrived. In retaliation, the rebels were killed and their bodies dumped in front of the church.”
Mitch straggled behind the others now, that laser beam of his locked on her. Cath swallowed hard. Maybe if he kept looking at her like that, she’d build up immunity. She sure didn’t have any now.
“In the dead of a night just like this one, the priest brought the bodies into the church.” She leaned closer to her group to whisper. “Defying the authorities, he gave them the holy sacraments so their families could bury them. Some people say he sang beautifully. Listen and see if you hear him.”
Cath tiptoed into the illuminated square to wait for her tour. She couldn’t have asked for a better night for a ghost walk. Gray-white fog swirled in from the river, muffling the noise of cars and buses and curling around the bronze statue of Andrew Jackson. Even a foghorn on the Mississippi struck the proper eerie note.
She scanned her phone for a text message from her brother. The police would allow him to make contact with family, right? A chill rippled over her. She pulled her shawl closer, but the cold persisted. She turned to see Mitch striding toward her, his jacket flapping open to show off his chest. He’d kept his gaze trained on her ever since he’d joined the tour. But…but… Her pulse sputtered. Had he been the one watching her on the street earlier?
Nobody had been watching then. You checked.
Mitch stopped in front of her, crossing his arms and bracing his feet apart. He’d be the perfect picture of a soldier if he locked his hands at his side. He stuffed them in his pockets instead, but she wouldn’t be surprised if he bought clothes at an army-navy store so he could pretend. His mouth twitched. “This is interesting.”
“I’m glad you think so.” Cath blessed him with her best guide smile. “I have to say, though, I don’t appreciate you taking over my tour.”
The edges of his mouth tilted up. “What do you appreciate?”
What did he expect her to say? A hot bounty hunter?
She did appreciate his mouth. The rest of him looked pretty good, too, but a man with an ego like Mitch teased people only for a reason. She’d bet right now he wanted to soften her up. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”
“Take a shot.”
Cath stepped behind a bench. “How about I tell you what I don’t appreciate?”
She squeezed the cold top rail as if she could absorb the strength of the hard steel by osmosis. “We can start with your controlling behavior. Which is not the most becoming trait.”
He propped a boot on the seat. “I recall unbecoming behavior on someone else’s part.”
He had to be talking about the alley. She twisted her hands in the knot of her shawl. “I just wanted you to leave.”
“And all this time I thought you were demanding an apology.”
How long did he plan to torment her? How long could she stand his pestering before she lost her mind? “Why did you join my tour, Mr. Guidry?” she asked, bracing for an unpleasant possibility.
“It’s Mitch, remember? Why else would I be here?” One corner of his wide mouth lifted. “I want to learn more about French Quarter ghosts.”
The sun-scored creases beside his eyes crinkled with suppressed amusement. How could she have found them so sexy before?
“Please share the joke.” She forced another smile. Two could play the game of softening up. “I could use a laugh.”
“I doubt you waste your time that way.”
Laughing? A giggle bubbled inside Cath at his skeptical look, but she clamped her jaw tight. “How did you know where to find me?”
“Easy.” He tucked his thumbs into his belt, the action emphasizing his trim hips. “There was a magnet on your fridge.”
“You didn’t even look that way.” She shook her head. “Try another explanation.”
“Scout’s honor.” He saluted. “I never miss anything important.”
Had she missed something?
His shoulders stretched out like the horizon from Lakeshore Drive. Nothing new there. The sleeves of his windbreaker spanned his arms. Nothing to see there, either, but when she swept her gaze back over his chest, a gasp escaped.
Dark splotches covered the bottom of his T-shirt and blotted out most of the words identifying him as a bounty hunter. A faint scent of dried blood reached her. She pressed a fist to her mouth. Her brother’s?