Read Online Divine Madness by Melanie Jackson - Free Book Online Page A

corner was old but still giving valiant if ever-fading service. “Forever Nightshade Mary” came to an end and a long silence followed until the pool players recalled that they were there to have a game and not stare at the petite gringa who somehow managed to stroll with the long-legged walk of an Amazon.
    Ninon sauntered to the old juke without giving the slightest sign that she was aware of the attention, though she felt it as surely as the sweat on her skin and the heaviness in her lungs. She understood that if they thought her a Latina then she should be insulted by their scrutiny. If she were an American tourist then she should feel flattered. As a Frenchwoman she was merely amused, but that wasn’t a response they would understand, so she kept it simple and gave them what they expected.
    It amused her also to see mixed in with the juke’s salsa music some old American pop tunes, including “St. Elmo’s Fire.” Her fingers hovered over D9, but then, notfeeling like tempting fate, she moved on to E2. Again she hesitated. She liked some of Nine Inch Nails because of the genuine emotion in the songs, but didn’t think that this was the kind of place where a lone woman should have Trent Reznor singing to the world that he wanted to “fuck her like an animal.” Instead, she chose Patsy Cline’s “Crazy.” She kept her back to the room as the song engaged, allowing herself to sway to the music, and also allowing the men to look their fill at her body. A sexual fantasy was a lovely gift to give a stranger. And anyway, she never knew when she might need one of these men to help her. This was her way of putting them on retainer.
    In the tarnished mirror above the record player she watched the hotel manager. He was behind the bar counting the take in the cash box—still staring at her, still smirking, still begging to have his fingers broken. Her gaze was not inviting but his conviction of his great sex appeal was inviolate. Ninon truly pitied his wife. She also gave Miguel credit for seeing this creature for what he was.
    Ninon inhaled slowly. The bar seemed to be serving beer, tequila, and vin ordinaire that smelled a bit too ordinaire for her tastes. There were only so many compromises a woman could make.
    She knew by the frisson that passed over her skin when Miguel arrived, and she turned slowly to face him. He was dressed all in black, a shadow. Dark on dark, he moved smoothly through the dim, smoke-choked room on silent feet. The other men didn’t exactly scatter in front of him, but whenever he arrived at a space, it was empty and waiting.
    He seemed at ease with the gift of beauty that Mother Nature—or the Father of Lies—had bequeathed him. It was Ninon’s experience that scientific types didn’t dress up well. If they managed a suit or tie they chose the one their mothers had dressed them in for high school graduation circa 1968. Miguel didn’t have that problem. The delicate lawn of his shirt and the crisp linen of his slacksboth begged to be touched so that their superiority could be known. And he wore no gun—though she was willing to bet there was still a knife in his sock. She evaluated the cost of his clothing right down to the handmade shoes on his narrow feet. Science was paying well these days. Or perhaps he had other sources of income, like an annual tribute of gold from superstitious villagers.
    His eyes moved over her, every bit as appraising. She was willing to wager that he recognized who had designed her dress, and that it was a vintage piece belonging in some design museum and not in a cheap cantina. His eyes were hot. Maybe he wanted to touch her clothes too. Certainly he wasn’t seeing her for what she was and thinking she had a fine analytical mind and athletic body. Later he might find that her ability to think clearly, to resist being be-spelled—and able to take a bullet too—belonged on her list of attributes, but not right now. She was willing to bet that nowhere was