Her insides panicked. How could this man stand here and have a mild conversation with her? Any kind of conversation? “I told you he wouldn’t hear you.” She crossed her arms. “Didn’t you hear me say that?”
“Seems like I did. So what?”
She opened and closed her mouth, her blood so hot she couldn’t string words together for a moment. “Did you have to hurt him? Didn’t you try and talk to him first?”
A groove pulled his dark brows together. “What are you talking about?”
She gestured to his bloody T-shirt. “What happened?”
“I think I heard him.”
Cath jerked her attention to the child panting to a stop. Quick, what had he said? Something about the ghost? She circled the bench and perched on the seat. “You heard Père Dagobert?”
“The pear one.” The little boy nodded so vigorously, his hair flopped in his face.
“Wow. Not many people do.” She grinned and steered the child back toward the cathedral.
Mitch stepped into her side vision, his hands on his zipper, closing off the offending sight. Had he shown her the shirt on purpose? Because he wanted her to be troubled at the sight?
His tactic had worked, but she couldn’t do anything about her feelings now. After answering a few questions from her group, she counted heads and pointed out the matching redbrick buildings that flanked the square. “Look up past the offices on the ground floor, and you will see one of the first uses of wrought-iron balconies in New Orleans. Wrought iron is hammered out over charcoal fires and is known for resistance to rust, a very important quality in this rainy city. The upstairs apartments are still rented, but you have to know someone important to get one. Oh, and there’s a long waiting list.”
An irresistible force pulled her head around. Mitch’s dark eyes—were they really black to match his personality or merely very dark brown?—drilled deep.
Good luck with that.
Mitch continued to watch her with that fake-neutral expression. She tugged on her shawl, but her ensemble didn’t cover nearly enough under such intense scrutiny.
“Are there any ghosts there?”
Jolted, Cath searched her group for the speaker. The website writer must have been watching her too. All her customers did at some time during the tour. She peered up at the Pontabla apartments. “If there are any ghosts up there, they aren’t authenticated. There is a known ghost in the house I’m going to show you next.”
Cath started down the block, rubbing her arms against the cold fog penetrating her pores. Maybe the weather had nothing to do with her frigid insides. She flicked a glance at Mitch and led the way to a West Indies–style house. “Let’s turn here.”
She stopped in front of the plaque on the front wall. “A friend of Jean Lafitte lived here. And some people say they’ve heard footsteps coming from empty rooms.” She gestured to the porch of Madame John’s Legacy above. “Lafitte’s good friend and fellow privateer lived here. Take a moment to read about this for yourselves.”
Mitch had moved to the edge of the group, and he clasped a hand over his bicep, a muscle jerking in his jaw. Her heart clenched. Could the blood on his shirt be his?
She went over to him, her knotted stomach subduing the butterflies for once. Unfortunately, they didn’t die. Not when Mitch’s sexy macho heat surrounded her. “I saw Les grab a knife.” She drew Mitch out of earshot of the others. “Did he hurt you?”
“Surprised you care.” His lips twisted.
“Of course I care.” Good grief. She propped her hands on her hips. “I’m human.”
“Definitely.” His dark eyes raked over her.
A sizzle tracked his gaze. Her heart thumped wildly, and her neck instantly blazed. Did he have to be so obvious?
She’d been told she wasn’t beautiful. Not particularly lust-worthy either. The look he gave her could be another of his power tactics. Could be? She crossed her arms and lifted her chin. “Can’t you tell me? Or do you adhere to a code of honor that forbids sharing pain?”
His eyebrows soared. She must have hit a bull’s-eye.
“It’s just a scratch. Hardly bled.” He dropped his hand to expose a tear in the windbreaker’s sleeve, a white bandage visible underneath. “I only needed a couple of stitches.”
“That’s good. Glad it’s not serious.” She released a bottled-up breath. “But your shirt is so…” She needed to ask this somehow, had to know the worst. “Are you ever going to tell me about my brother?”
“Your brother?” Honest surprise flickered over his face.
“We even have the same surname.” She smirked.
How could she be glib with her heart beating hard enough to explode? “Tell me what you did to Les.”
He straightened as if a weight had rolled off him, but his long mouth thinned. “Not what I wanted.”
She flinched. What did that mean? “Just tell me one thing. Is the blood on your shirt my brother’s?”
“It’s my brother’s.” A muscle jerked in his determined jaw.
“Wait.” She extended a hand but stopped short of touching him. “The guy in the navy uniform is your brother?”
“Your brother”—he lifted a skeptical brow—“knifed him. My brother had to have surgery.”
Oh no. Surgery. Cath swallowed hard. “I’m so sorry.”
“Too bad words can’t heal.” He held her gaze, daring her to contradict him.
“I’m still sorry. Is your partner… I mean, your brother… Is he going to be okay?”
“He lost a lot of blood.” Mitch tensed like a lion about to spring.
“That’s not good.” She grimaced and waited for a fuller explanation, but Mitch remained silent. “Maybe you didn’t realize I asked a question. Is your brother going to be okay?”
His jaw muscle twitched. Mitch definitely didn’t take this injury lightly. She wouldn’t either, but did he have to be so cryptic? “He’s not going to die, is he?”
“He’ll need time to heal.”
Les had pulled the usual dumb stunts like staying out all night, playing practical jokes, dabbling in drugs. Stabbing qualified as an assault. Some prosecutor could make it into attempted murder. Getting a plea deal for Les would be harder now. Cold slithered up her arms, down her throat, and ker-chunked ice into her stomach.
The little boy who’d heard the ghost singing ran down the sidewalk toward her. “Why’s Mr. Lafitte important? Is that how you say his name?”