“I don’ forget faces, Bijou,” he admitted. Or eyes like hers. What the hell had happened to her in the growing phase? Her mouth should be outlawed. “Of course I remember you.” He took her outstretched hand and knew instantly it was a mistake to make physical contact. “It’s nice to see you again.” Damn. How absolutely mundane was that? He couldn’t take a step, his body hurting like hell, his leopard roaring at him.

Her hand was small, fingers slender, slightly trembling as she shook his hand—or attempted to. He placed his other hand over hers, holding her still, locking her to him while his eyes searched hers. Her lashes came down immediately, hiding her thoughts from him. She definitely had trust issues.

“Are you visitin’, or back with us?” He didn’t let go of her hand, waiting for her answer. His body went still, watchful, his cat coiled, every muscle locked and ready.

“I bought a club in the French Quarter. I’m home for good.” She smiled at him, a brief flash of perfect white teeth. “It’s difficult to stay away. I think the bayou gets in our blood and just doesn’t let go.”

Her voice stroked his body with caressing fingers. He felt her touch right through his veins so that his blood surged hotly and his cock jerked hard. He let her go to keep from pressing her palm on that throbbing, burning hard-on that wasn’t going away anytime soon.

“But you’re not stayin’ at the Breaux estate?” Hell. He had to keep the conversation going because he couldn’t move. He was grateful there were no lights on.

“I’d rather burn that place down then ever set foot in it again.”

That smoky velvet tone didn’t go with the words at all. It took him a moment to assimilate what she’d actually said, he was too busy trying to tame his wild craving for her. He told himself she was a baby. A kid. He was a damned pervert even thinking about her, let alone losing control and nearly throwing her up against a wall.

His cat had a vicious temper, a powerful, passionate animal he worked at keeping in check at all times. If his cat was influencing him sexually, it would be the first time—and it was a hell of a time to choose. He forced his chaotic mind to get a grip. Bijou would rather burn down a mansion than set foot in it again, and what did that say about her childhood? The sad part was, he was probably the only one who would ever understand.

“Are you puttin’ the estate on the market?” Reluctantly he allowed her hand to slip away. His heart ached for her. She was all woman on the outside, but there was still a small part of her that was that child who had never had a childhood.

Bijou turned and moved away from him, a graceful sway of her hips, her long hair a waterfall of living silk tumbling past her waist, the ends caressing the curve of her buttocks. She crossed the floor to the counter where the coffeepot waited.

“I don’ know. Bodrie was so famous, and so loved by everyone.”

Her voice remained soft and sultry, without a hint of bitterness, but he noticed immediately she didn’t call Bodrie Breaux dad or daddy.

“Not everyone,” Remy disputed as he tested his ability to walk. Sympathy for her helped ease the terrible need raging through him. He managed to make it over to the table where he toed a chair around, dropped into it and stretched his legs out in front of him to ease the pressure in his jeans.

She turned her head to look at him through her long feathery lashes and clouds of black silk. “Be careful, Remy, you can get death threats if you don’ give him his due adulation.”

Before he could read her expression, she’d turned back to pouring his coffee as if she hadn’t just dropped a bomb in the room.

He took a breath to calm the explosive reaction deep in his gut to her announcement. Swearing under his breath, he exhaled, and shifted again to ease the muscles coiling and the adrenaline flooding his body. “What threats, Blue? Have you been gettin’ threats?” His nickname for her slipped out. He’d never called her Blue to her face, but mostly referred to her as Blue when he talked with Saria about her in the old days.

For some reason the moment he was around her he heard the song, “Blue Bayou.” More than that, when the sun shone on her thick, black hair, blue lights played through the strands, and then there were her striking blue eyes.

“Do you take your coffee black?”

“Of course.” He sent her a little smirk. “I’m Cajun, honey.”

A brief flash of a smile lit her eyes for a moment. “A manly man. How could I have forgotten? You were always scary.”

“Was I?” Remy asked. His eyebrow shot up. He was quite certain he had the ability to scare the hell out of anyone.

Bijou nodded slowly and took the chair across the table from him. She wasn’t safe. She might think she was, but she was well within striking distance, and somewhere in the back of his mind, that same fantasy was playing—throwing her up against the wall and ripping her clothes away from all that beautiful, soft skin.

“You still are,” she conceded. She glanced toward the door, clearly hoping Saria would appear suddenly to rescue her.

The sexual tension in the room was nearly as acute as their awareness of one another.

“That’s a good thing,” he said with a small grin, trying to ease the rising tension between them. “You were about to tell me about death threats.”

She sighed and took a cautious sip of the coffee she’d poured for herself. “I suppose I did bring it up so I can’t very well pretend I didn’t.” She ducked her head and thick strands of hair covered her face.