by Rebecca York
“Let’s hope not.”
He was about to say something more when the sound of footsteps in the doorway made his head jerk up, and the woman he had been waiting for stepped into the room.
Her gaze swung from him to Janet and back again. “Don’t let me interrupt your conversation.”
“You’re not interrupting anything. Not really,” he said.
###
Morgan stifled the urge to fold her arms across her chest. They had been talking about her. She’d heard that much. But they’d stopped as soon as they’d become aware of her.
Well, it wasn’t exactly surprising that she’d cut off the conversation. Talking about your houseguests wasn’t polite. At least in front of the guest.
But really, nerves had made her voice come out more sharply than she’d intended. It wasn’t just from the conversation she’d interrupted. It was seeing Andre sitting there at the kitchen table looking so much like the Andre in the dream that she couldn’t tell them apart, except for his modern clothing.
She’d been kissing the man in the dream. A lot more than kissing. He’d stroked her breasts, pulled her on top of his body, made her . . ..
She cut off that thought. But she couldn’t prevent the feelings that went with the dream. Linette had been in love with Andre, so in love that she was willing to jeopardize her future for the pleasure of making love with him.
Those weren’t her feelings, she told herself. They belonged to another woman. She pulled herself up short. Linette wasn’t real. Morgan couldn’t blame Linette. The dream had come from somewhere in her subconscious. From when Andre had rescued her from the flood and held her close?
Unable to move forward, she stayed where she was in the doorway. She wanted to keep her distance from Andre. She didn’t want to feel anything for him or get him mixed up with the man in the dream.
“Come sit down,” he said in the deep voice that was his and also the voice of the other man from long ago.
There was no way to explain last night’s experience—to him or to herself. So, she crossed the room and pulled out a chair, being careful not to brush his knee when she sat.
“Did you sleep well, child?” Janet asked.
“Mostly,” she allowed.
“Coffee?” the housekeeper asked.
“Yes, please,” she answered politely.
The woman brought her a cup of thick black brew, rich with the smell of something she didn’t usually associate with coffee.
“What kind is it?”
“A Cajun brand. With chicory. The best you’ll ever taste.”
Morgan took a cautious sip. It was good—but strong. And she decided that despite her usual custom, cream would make a good addition. It did.
A plate of eggs and French toast sat on the table. Andre had already taken several triangles of toast. He pushed the plate toward her—a very ordinary gesture. A host offering his guest some breakfast. But sharing food had taken on an unintended intimacy as his strong hand brushed against hers, and a current of energy seemed to spark between them.
His voice turned deeper as he said, “Janet’s eggs and pain perdu are excellent,” he said.
“That’s the . . . Cajun . . . name for French toast?”
“Yes. But it’s better than any you’ve ever tasted.”
She put his bragging statement to the test and found he was right. The toast was rich and crusty, and sweet with the addition of real maple syrup.
Janet sat down at the table with them and helped herself to the toast and scrambled eggs flecked with onion and sweet red pepper. She might work for Andre, but they apparently didn’t stand on ceremony.
Morgan took several bites of toast, watching the other two people at the table from under lowered lashes. The questions circling in her head were making it difficult to swallow. Finally, she asked, “Who was it that I heard outside last night?”
Janet’s cup clattered in the saucer.
Andre finished the bite of eggs in his mouth, then asked, “Chanting and beating a drum?”
“Yes.”
His lips quirked. [RG2]Would you believe LaToya Jackson?”
“No”
“More like the voodoo priestess,” he said.
“The one who lives at the edge of town?”
“Yes.”
She raised her chin. “Why didn’t you tell me about her before I came here?”
He had the grace to look uncomfortable. “Is this breakfast or a business discussion?”
“Both.”
“It’s better for the digestion if we separate the two. We can talk about business in the office later.”
Morgan wanted to press the issue. But this was his house, and she had come here to work for him. Which meant she couldn’t turn everything upside down—not without a good reason.
So, she took some more bites of the toast and eggs while he poured himself another cup of coffee.
“Where are you from?” Janet asked.
“Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.”
“How did you get into the investigative business.”
“I . . . uh . . .worked in covert operations until my husband died.”
“You were married?” Janet asked in surprise.
“Yes,” she answered.
Andre’s expression didn’t change, and she suspected he had already known that fact—and probably a lot more.
When he told Janet that the meal had been excellent, Morgan added her praise—along with a sigh of relief that they were going to get to work.
Andre led her down the hall to a small room outfitted with a desktop computer sitting on a broad antique desk, shelves full of books and French doors that looked out to a carefully cultivated swath of garden.
The chair faced the window, so that when Andre was seated, he could see the garden.
As she watched, he walked around the desk and stood for a moment gazing out the doors.
Morgan watched him making an effort to relax the tension in his shoulders. Her eyes flicked from him to the view, and a sudden insight hit her.
Stepping up behind him, she said, “You designed this garden—for your own pleasure.”
“Yes,” he answered without turning.
“A lot of men wouldn’t care about the view.”
“This is my home. It’s in my soul,” he said.
The emotion in his voice made her chest tighten.
He sat down at the desk, putting the wide surface and the computer between them like a barrier.
Morgan sat in the wingback chair in the corner. “You sent me a lot of material before I arrived. But you didn’t give me a report on any voodoo priestess.”
He sighed. “I wasn’t sure the Decorah Security Agency would take the job if I started talking about her.”
“Explain that,” she demanded.
Chapter Five
Andre shifted in his seat. Damn the priestess. She could have given him a couple of days grace. But she’d been right there chanting and drumming like the wicked witch of the south last night. Probably because she knew what he was up to, and she didn’t want him to succeed.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything he could do about her except try to contain the damage she’d caused.
He had loved every minute of his long e-mail correspondence with Morgan. He had felt so free to tease her and joke with her and absorb every scrap of information he could pick up about her.
But he hadn’t thought through the details of their day to day life in the armed camp where he lived. Now he was forced to give her his best imitation of an open look, as he said. “I didn’t want you to think I was a nut case. I wanted you to meet me first and see that I was . . . grounded. A realist. Admit it—if I’d started talking about a voodoo priestess in my e-mails, you would have decided I was a candidate for the funny farm. But if you got here and found that a . . . disturbed woman came to my garden at night and chanted and beat a drum, you wouldn’t hold that against me.”
It was Morgan’s turn to look unco
mfortable. “You’re right.”
He leaned back in his seat. “Thank you for being honest.” He was having trouble concentrating. Even with the desk between them, he was too aware of her. They’d only met in person yesterday, yet it felt like he’d known her all his life. Maybe he had.
Seeing her clinging to a tree in the middle of a raging torrent had made his heart stop. Then he’d leaped in to rescue her and held her close. And he could remember the feel of her body pressed to his—even if the reason had been strictly nonsexual. That hadn’t prevented him from reacting—on so many different levels. Their meeting had been dramatic. Much too dramatic.
And the drama hadn’t ended with the rescue. After months of obsessing about her, he’d finally brought her to his house. Then he’d been forced to disappear—to spend an agonizing night wondering if she was going to pick up her suitcase and leave in the morning because the situation into which she’d stepped was just too weird for a normal person to cope with.
In the morning light, she was still here, and he wanted to scoop her up and hold her the way he had the day before. But he knew it would be a disaster to rush their personal relationship. So, he stayed behind the desk. When he realized his fingers were clamped on the arm of the chair, he deliberately loosened them.
“Tell me about the priestess,” she pressed. “What’s she doing in your garden?”
“Scaring away the vampire bats.”
“I’d appreciate it if you took the question seriously.”
“I thought you liked my jokes.”
“I did. Now I want information.”
He sighed as he weighed how much to tell her. “Okay. About a hundred years ago, a young man from my family wanted to marry the niece of the local voodoo priestess. Both sets of parents forbade her to see him.”
Morgan looked startled but asked, “What happened?”
Picking his words carefully, he said, “It ended badly.”
“So, what are you saying—that woman comes out here to keep up an old . . . grudge?”
“Yes. But she’s just chanting and beating a drum. She’s not my major problem. She’s not killing people and leaving them in the swamp.”
“How do you know?”
“Would she be so open about her hostility if she were?” he shot back.
She gave him a little nod. “I guess not.”
He used the opportunity to change the subject. “You already know two men followed you from town. You think someone at the gas station may have sabotaged your car.”
“Yes.”
He spread his hands. “Focus on them—not her.”
“I guess I have to. But appearances can be deceiving. I met some other people, too. Like the head of the Chamber of Commerce, Dwight Rivers. And probably Sadie Delay. You did a good job of filling me in on the players. They seemed nice, but they didn’t know I was coming out to Belle Vista.”
“You’re right, of course.” Thinking that he shouldn’t have wedged the two of them into this small room, he pushed back his chair and stood up. “We should take a look at the library and my book collection.”
“Why?”
“So, if anyone comes by, it will look like you’re doing the job you told them you were hired to do.”
“Is it likely that someone is going to check up on me?”
He managed a small shrug. “You never know which busybody from town is going to drop by—at least in broad daylight. And there’s your car. I arranged to have it pulled out of the ditch and towed into town. Someone will bring it back here when it’s finished.”
She made a rather unladylike exclamation.
“What’s wrong?” he asked quickly.
“I forgot all about getting the car towed. Thank you for taking care of that.”
“You’ve had a lot on your mind since you got here.”
She studied his face. “Don’t tell me the car is being towed to the same gas station where I stopped?”
“That’s the only alternative. I talked to the rental company, and they asked me to pay the bill—then get reimbursed from them.”
“I’ll do that,” she said quickly. “But I hate trusting that guy Bubba to fix the brakes.”
“I’ll check out everything when it comes back.”
“You can fix a car?”
“Yes. Out here, you have to be self-sufficient. I would have done the repair work myself. But that would have meant dealing with the gas station for parts. And I’m trying to have as little to do with the town as possible—until the situation is resolved.”
“I understand,” she answered.
Of course, there was no way she could really understand the whole picture yet. That would have to wait. Or maybe his plans were only a pipe dream. Before she’d arrived, he’d convinced himself that everything was going to work out the way he wanted. Now he was feeling as if the ground was slipping out from under his feet.
“Come see the library,” he said, then strode out of the room.
###
This was the most unsettling job she’d ever accepted, Morgan thought. She’d come here on assignment for a guy who turned out to be a hunk. But that was no reason to start having erotic dreams about him as soon as they met.
She followed her host down the hall, staring at his broad shoulders, his narrow hips. In truth, she didn’t want to be alone with him any longer. She wanted to escape into town. But that was impossible, with her car out of commission. Besides, she had come here to solve a major problem for him, and that meant she couldn’t avoid listening to anything he wanted to tell her about the case.
Because her mind was focused inward, she almost bumped into him as he stopped to open a pair of pocket boards.
When she made a small sound, he turned. “Are you all right?”
“Yes!” she snapped, then modified her tone and added, “I’m fine. I just didn’t sleep too well.”
“I’m sorry that you had a disturbing night,” he answered as he stepped into the room beyond the doors.
Before she could stop herself, she shot him a question. “What about your night? How was it?”
He went still. Without turning to face her, he answered, “My night was the way it always is.” The way he said it was like a warning—don’t go there.
She might have pressed him, but she’d been worried about her dreams. What if he’d had the same dream?
As that thought flashed into her head, she was glad his back was still to her.
He couldn’t have had the same dream! That was impossible. And if he had, she didn’t want to know about it. With her teeth clenched, she tried to force that outrageous idea out of her head.
In the next moment, she had something else to focus on. The room beyond the doors took her breath away.
His office had been full of modern equipment. This room was like something she might have imagined in an old British university It was all dark wood and floor to ceiling shelves with beautifully carved moldings. As she walked inside, she could smell the unmistakable aroma of old books. It was obvious that he’d inherited a sizable collection of volumes along with the estate.
Scanning the shelves, she saw that some of the books were obviously old and rare. But he’d added to the collection, because others were modern. When she walked closer, she saw all kinds of nonfiction subjects including what she would have called coffee table books. In another section were some of the latest bestsellers.
The focal point of the library was a polished stone fireplace. In front of the hearth was an almost threadbare Oriental rug, forming a conversation area for two comfortable chairs arranged to take in a view of the leaping flames. But as in Andre’s office, the chairs were also positioned to look out over the beautifully tended gardens. While the office view had been restricted by high shrubs, the library windows looked on a used-brick patio and a wide green lawn rimmed with flower beds.
“So, do you spend a lot of time here?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said simply.
She walked over an
d ran her hand along some of the spines of the books. “You must haunt the bookstores in New Orleans.”
“No. I used to get catalogues from various bookshops. Now I mostly order online.”
“Oh.”
More books were piled on a polished library table. His recent acquisitions. Or maybe they were volumes he had taken out and hadn’t put back yet.
She picked up a slender book on Fermat’s Last Theorem and flipped it open. It was full of math equations. “You understand this?”
He laughed. “Barely.”
“But you find it interesting?”
“Yes.”
She examined other books, amazed by the diversity. Everything from alternate energy sources to auto repair to something called The Myth of the Werewolf.
“Why are you reading this?” she asked, thinking she wasn’t going to tell him about some of the men who worked for Frank Decorah.
He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “It sounded interesting, so I bought it.” Picking up another volume, called The Great Sailing Ships, he flipped it open. “About the same level of interest as this.”
“You’ve never seen a werewolf, have you?”
He stiffened. “That’s an odd question.”
“Your swamp would be the perfect place for one,” she heard herself saying.
“I’ve never encountered one there—or a sailing ship, either.”
She laughed, trying to get a handle on the man. He was a mystery. For all she knew, he had caused the problems with the town, and she had stepped into the middle of the mess he’d made. Now he was counting on her to bail him out
She didn’t want to believe that. She wanted to be on his side. Because she was living at his estate? Because she was attracted to him?
“What are you thinking?” he asked suddenly.
She felt her face heat. “Why do you ask?”
“You looked like you were working on an important problem.”
“Just thinking about the case,” she managed, then scrambled for another subject. “So, you love books and gardening. How do you make a living?” It was a pretty personal question, but not out of bounds—considering that she was working as an investigator for him.