Night Game by Christine Feehan Page A

girls are gone. Some say dead, some say they ran, but I’m not going to let you risk your life to find out which it is.”
    She shrugged. “You’re a dear to worry, Capitaine , but truthfully, I have a tiny problem with orders. I’ve never been good at following them.”
    “You could get yourself into a bad situation,” he cautioned.
    “Joy doesn’t have anyone looking out for her. The cops buried the case and that means, wherever she is, whatever happened to her—she’s alone. I have to find out for myself that this girl is off somewhere safe in a city, not dead… or being caged like a rat by some monster.”
    He glanced at her sharply when her voice cracked. The boat creaked and rocked a bit with the lazy movement of the water. She held herself too still, her face without expression, and her eyes defied him to ask. He didn’t. Whatever had happened to her went too deep, was there in the dark places of her mind and swirling for just a moment in her eyes. There was horror there—and knowledge of things he had never experienced and never wanted to. He reached out and patted her hand. “Be careful.”
    Flame forced a smile. “I’m always careful. It’s my middle name.” She turned her head to stare out over the water. The gentle waves lapped at the sides of the houseboat, creating a motion she found soothing. She was inexplicably tired lately. Instead of singing in a club with the crush of a crowd surrounding her, she wanted to lie in her bunk and pretend she had a home. Or maybe, even better, she’d go back to Gator’s home and have tea with his grandmother.
    “Why are you looking so sad, Flame?” Burrell asked.
    “Was I?” She swallowed the lump in her throat. Why the hell was she so melancholy? Raoul Fontenot didn’t matter. Nothing he said or did mattered.
    “You never told me why a beautiful girl like you is all alone in this place,” the captain said, choosing his words arefu1ly. “Where’s your family?”
    “I don’t have any family.” She was horrified to hear the words slip out aloud. She was gifted at making up stories, making them believable, and she never forgot her own lies. She could come up with a line of bullshit faster than anyone she knew, but she hadn’t done that. She couldn’t look at the captain. She didn’t want to see pity in his eyes. Worse, in some ways, she’d compromised her own safety by telling the truth. She was a ghost, a chameleon, blending in with the local populace briefly and then simply vanishing. It was one of her greatest and most useful talents—and it was what kept her safe. She rubbed her temples to relieve a sudden ache.
    “I don’ have family either, cher . Maybe thas why we get along so well. You always have a place here with me, you know that don’ you?”
    She flinched at the compassion in his voice. It made her all too aware of what she was. Thrown away by a mother who didn’t want her. Sold by an orphanage with too many children. Caged and treated more like an animal than as a human being. It never mattered how much she worked to educate herself, to improve herself, somewhere deep inside, in a place she protected and defended, she still felt like that unwanted child.
    She forced a lighter note into her voice. “Thanks, Monsieur le Capitaine .” Deliberately she looked at him, blew him a kiss. “I’m a wanderer. I love to see new places. I can’t imagine staying in the same place all the time. It’s a good trait to have. If I didn’t, I’d never have had the pleasure of meeting you.”
    “You’re good for an old man’s soul, Flame.” His gaze narrowed on her choker. “What’s that on your neck? It looks like bruises.”
    “Does it?” She fingered the choker, drawing it up closer around her trachea. “How odd. I hope the dye isn’t rubbing off. I’d better go check.” Before he could look again, Flame was already halfway across the deck to jerk open the door.
    She inspected her neck beneath the choker. The bruises were