Page 4 of Ace (The Deuces Wild #4)

The woman he’d been sent to retrieve, one Mariposa Church, lived east of Slidell, near the western edge of the Pearl River Wildlife Management Area, which put her damned near in Florida.

Which meant ticks, chiggers, mosquitos, and fleas aplenty, not a pleasant homecoming for a Southern boy who’d been away too long, and who, if not for Isaiah, wouldn’t be here now.

But here Keller was, standing in early morning sweltering humidity of St. Tammany Parish at Mariposa Church’s front door, trying to maintain his customary professional demeanor while sweat trickled down his neck, his back, and into the back of his pants. It didn’t get any better than this.

More derelict than home, the boathouse lacked the slightest hint of proper maintenance.

The paint had long since peeled fore to aft.

Moss crept up the rotting gangplank like an encroaching green army.

On the southern side, the several pecan trees leaning into each other needed staking and serious pruning before they’d produce any pecans, which was too bad.

Keller loved fresh pecan pie. Gaunt and gangly, their branches sported barely any signs of life, certainly no tender sprouts, which they should have by now. It was spring after all.

But that mighty oak on the north side, the one dragging its brittle branches over the houseboat’s roof like wicked witch fingers?

That poor old thing had to go, sooner than later.

It’d probably drowned when the last hurricane to make land pushed inland.

The old guy’s impressive deep tap root hadn’t been able to handle saltwater.

Even the smallest tidal surges would’ve been enough to kill it, though there was no standing water nearby that Keller could see now.

Not like it mattered. The damage was done.

It’d only take one stiff wind to bring that giant down on this derelict, wannabe houseboat and crush everyone inside.

Things would be different if Keller owned this piece of junk.

He’d renovate the houseboat, landscape the surrounding acreage, and he’d trim those trees.

Hell, he’d plant new trees. He’d control Mother Nature even as he let her close in and block out the rest of the world.

That was what he’d do. But this wasn’t his land and he didn’t have time for pipe dreams.

Pursing his lips in frustration—because he had heard voices inside, yet no one had answered—Keller knocked again.

Louder. Brasher. Determined to get whatever secret this old woman possessed back to Isaiah in time.

Damn, it was hot. Washington, DC knew sweltering heat, but spring in the District was nothing compared to spring in the bayou.

How did people stand to live where merely stepping outdoors could parboil them at the crack of dawn?

Known as the ‘ Northshore’ because of its location on Lake Pontchartrain, affluent St. Tammany Parish was where the high class, well-to-do folks, those who wanted to stay near, but not in New Orleans, lived.

Here they could avoid the riffraff, hucksters, gangsters, and the drama of living in the high-powered, take-your-chances, watch-your-step Big Easy.

But enough common folk lived here too, especially along the undeveloped shores of the bayou.

“Damn it, talk to me. I don’t have all day,” he cussed as he glared at the lackluster surroundings he’d trudged through since parking his rental nearly a mile away.

Virginia creeper, moss, and kudzu had taken over everything around this shabby house.

Weeds even covered what he suspected were two Adirondack chairs on what might have at one time been a decent concrete patio.

The lumps under all those vines could’ve been chairs.

Hell, they could’ve been Chinese stone temple dogs for all he knew, the weeds were that thick.

But just like back at the Deuces Wild office with Isaiah, there was a malevolent presence here. The feeling at the back of Keller’s neck was eerie, as if someone were standing in the dark shade of the cypress trees. Watching. Warning. Urging him to run. To hurry and leave and never come back.

He shook it off and once again raised his fist to knock when the door swung open.

Caught off guard, Keller all but fell into the deepest, angriest, chocolate eyes he’d ever seen.

The young woman standing there was dressed in a skimpy, pink tank top pulled over faded denim shorts that enhanced her already long, glamourous mocha-colored legs.

She was one of those incredibly welcome sights for sore eyes.

Red crystal beads hung around her neck, leading to a crucifix tucked between her breasts.

A rosary. Didn’t it figure? He huffed at the sight.

Louisiana’s culture was a crazy mix of heathen voodoo and Christian.

But she wasn’t happy to see him. Her chin jutted forward.

Her slender fingers came to rest over two softly-rounded hips that shouldn’t have gotten past Keller’s professional, guarded perimeter.

But they did. This lush woman was stark, raving beautiful in a way he hadn’t expected.

Gorgeous, came to mind. Right on its heels, goddess.

And something else he couldn’t put his finger on.

Childlike? Nah, that couldn’t be it. The anger humming off this woman like electricity from a downed powerline raised the tiny hairs on the back of his neck .

Her bare feet were spread in outrageous defiance. Her chin, though elegant, tipped up like a wall. Even her tiny, straight toes, the nails painted a delicious blood red that reminded him of cherries and further accentuated her richly tanned skin, were tapping out a storm warning.

Day-um. This wasn’t the old woman he’d expected to answer the door. Uh uh. This gal was a thousand times better. Prettier. Younger. Full of life and hair-raising vitality that reached out and all but slapped him across the face. Hard.

Long, athletically-toned legs. Tiny waist. Lord-help-me-cleavage that tested the fabric of her cotton top to its limit. Straight black hair hung to her shoulders, while blunt cut bangs framed a hostile but intelligent face. She was a melting pot of ethnicities all by herself.

The rich, deep color of her skin bordered on coffee with a good dose of sweet, rich, melt-in-your-mouth cream.

All by itself, it bespoke a mixed heritage Keller couldn’t precisely define.

Perhaps Asian? Her eyes were more almond-shaped than round.

Perhaps African too? Her nose flared just enough to make him wonder.

Perhaps both with a dash of Caucasian thrown in as well?

Not that he cared. Keller had learned long ago how little bigotry meant.

He knew the second her expressive brows narrowed and the thickest, blackest lashes he’d ever seen blinked out a definite, ‘Get the hell off my porch!’ This fierce woman was not to be toyed with.

He should’ve backed off. He certainly should’ve known better.

But his cock chose that precise damned second to stand up and take notice.

The damned thing wanted an introduction. Really? Now?

He hadn’t had that reaction in, well, years.

For reasons he didn’t want to analyze, Keller took an involuntary step backward.

He wasn’t intimidated, but he was smart enough to recognize a mental push when he felt one.

Okay, so this young thing was not only gorgeous but psychically gifted. He was used to folks like that.

Shaking off her gentle push of impending doom—because he’d never backed down from anyone or anything in his life—Keller spread his feet and steadied his stance, not willing to be pushed any farther.

Determined to do what he could to help Isaiah sooner than later, he stuck out one hand and relied on standard, every day FBI protocol.

“Good morning, ma’am. Sorry to disturb you, but I’m from Washington, and I’ve come a long way to speak with—”

“Don’t care where you’re from and don’t want what you’re selling, mister,” she bit out as she crossed her arms, drawing his attention to two small breasts now pleasantly plumped together and pointed directly at him. “This here’s private property. You’re trespassing. Beat it.”

Hot damn. It’d been years since Keller had been distracted by the mere sight of a woman’s body, but that tiny, pink tee was way too small for even the hand-sized packages beneath it. And those soft, warm packages would fit his palms. Nicely.

The sparks flying out of those wells of mystery were too much to ignore. Of all the things he’d never expected, his damned cock sprang to standing-room-only in his briefs. Clearing his throat, Keller tried again, his hand still extended even as he willed his body to, ‘Stand the fuck down already!’

“FBI Special Agent Boniface, ma’am. If I could just talk to you, I’m sure—”

“I’m busy. I said go, and don’t come back.”

“That was not a request,” he told her just as adamantly, pulling his hand back since courtesy hadn’t gotten him anywhere. “I have business to discuss with Mariposa Church, not you. This is her place, right?”

“This is not a good day,” the young woman declared, a definite edge in her tone. “Mizz Church, she... she doesn’t have time for whatever you’re peddling.”

There was something soft and plaintive in her tone, but Keller was task-driven, and bottom line, Isaiah didn’t have time to waste. “Sorry ma’am, but this is the only day I’ll be in town. I have business to discuss with Miss Church, not you, now please. Either take me to her or get out of my way.”

The cold disdain shadowing this woman’s countenance called his bluff. Thrusting her chin forward, she enunciated, “I. Said. No. Leave this place and don’t come back.”