by Rebecca York
With the pole in one hand, she walked along the bank—searching for the island. It materialized out of the shadows several minutes later, looking dark and menacing. But she was pretty sure she was projecting her mood onto the place. It was just a patch of ground—like any other.
Before she could change her mind, she stepped up on the log and probed at the mud. As she had hoped, the water was only a couple of feet deep.
Feeling more confident, she moved the pole, taking each step slowly and carefully.
She was a quarter of the way across the log when the pole sank into thick muck, throwing her off balance. Her feet slipped on the treacherous surface, and she dropped the stick, pinwheeling her arms to keep from falling into the water.
As she went down, she heard the alligator make a sudden splash in the water. From the corner of her eye, she saw it glide toward her. Faster than she could blink her eyes, it shot out of the water, jaws open, aiming at her dangling foot.
Chapter Eight
Desperately, Morgan yanked up her foot, just as the animal’s teeth clanked together, millimeters from her tennis shoe.
She heard a scream and knew it had come from her own throat. But she didn’t waste any more energy on terror. Fighting not to plunge into the water, she pulled herself back onto the horizontal surface, teetering as she struggled to keep her body parts out of the jaws of the creature below.
She breathed out a sigh, but she knew she still wasn’t safe up here. Not when she’d seen how far the beast could jump out of the water. Although she had planned to visit the island, she abandoned the idea in favor of a strategic retreat.
The knife was tucked into her belt. She was lucky it hadn’t stuck itself into her body during her frantic scramble to stay on the log.
Looking down, she debated what to do. If she left the weapon where it was, both of her hands would be free. But that meant she was defenseless. Taking a moment to free the knife, she shouted at the beast to back off as she brandished the weapon. She knew the alligator had a tiny brain. But if it had been threatened before, maybe it had learned caution.
It stayed in the water under her as she carefully crawled along the log toward the plantation side of the log, the knife clutched in one fist.
Once she reached solid ground, she kept going, putting a dozen yards between herself and the bayou edge before she leaned against a tree trunk, panting, thinking about her narrow escape.
The log had been slippery. Like someone had greased it, hoping that whoever tried to cross would fall in and give the alligators a nice meal.
And she would have obliged, if she hadn’t thought to bring the stick. Even when it had sunk into the mud, it had kept her from tumbling off the log.
As she brushed mud off her jeans, she looked back toward the island. She wanted to know what was over there, but not until she figured out a safe way to get across.
Had someone set a trap for her, specifically? Or maybe it wasn’t specifically for her. Maybe it was for anyone who came poking around in the bayou country at Belle Vista. Who was hiding something out there? Andre? Janet?
Still feeling shaky, she started back toward the house. When she reached the edge of the trees, she remembered another mistake she’d made. She’d forgotten all about the evidence bag with the cigarette butts that she’d dropped on the ground when Sheriff Jarvis had visited the day before.
She walked to the spot where she and Andre had been standing. But the plastic bag was missing. Naturally!
Muttering under her breath, she walked several yards farther, searching the site. But the damn bag was definitely gone.
Well, she’d add that to her list of questions for Andre when he finally came home. Grimly, she turned back to the house, walking fast, breathing out a small sigh when she reached the lawn.
The day stretched ahead of her. She was trapped at this damn estate. Andre was right; the bayou was dangerous. So was walking into town—if she was in the mood for a hike.
Going back to her room, she pulled off her muddy clothing, left them in the hamper and washed the mud off her shoes in the tub before cleaning up the mess and showering.
While she was making herself presentable again, she thought about how she could proceed with her investigation until her car was drivable. Although she was feeling frustrated enough to search Andre’s bedroom, the thought of running into Janet was a powerful deterrent.
But maybe the library was a reasonable alternative, she decided.
Downstairs, she studied the shelves. Maybe she’d find a local history with a section on the Sonnier-Gascon feud.
She pulled out several local histories and learned how the French settlers had founded St. Germaine and how they’d almost been wiped out by malaria. Fifty years later, the Gascon family had come from France and bought up hundreds of acres in the bayou.
After putting away the history books, she took down a volume of old maps and found something unexpected. Folded inside the front cover was a set of new maps. Well, not regular maps. They seemed to be a geologic survey—as far as she could tell. So, what did that reveal? Maybe she’d found something significant—right under her nose.
When she heard footsteps in the hall, she quickly closed the book and pushed it back onto the shelf, just as Janet stepped into the doorway. “What are you doing?” she asked, her voice sharp, confirming Morgan’s suspicion that the woman was keeping a watchful eye on her.
Morgan turned slowly to find the housekeeper standing with a vacuum cleaner in her hand.
“I was going through some of the books.”
“Why?”
She fought to keep her voice even and her posture relaxed. “Basically, because I was hired to do a job. But I can’t get into town until the garage returns my car. I don’t feel safe going far from the house. And I can’t ask Andre any questions because he’s decided to disappear.”
Janet made an obvious effort to relax her features. “I’m sorry if you find this situation difficult, child.”
Morgan wanted to say she was a fully functioning adult. Instead, she murmured, “I’d be justified in going back home and reporting that the client isn’t being cooperative.”
Alarm clouded Janet’s face, and the strength of the woman’s reaction startled Morgan.
“Please don’t leave.”
Morgan folded her arms across her chest. “Give me a reason why I should stay here.”
“Because he needs you,” she said, sounding like she was struggling to keep her voice steady.
“Then why did he run?”
“He’s not running.”
“What is he really doing? What can’t he get in St. Germaine?”
Janet set down the vacuum cleaner on the hall floor, looking resigned. “Blame it on me. I told him I couldn’t have a visitor here and not be able to bake. The oven thermostat is way out of whack, and I’m afraid I’ll burn the house down if I use it. I need a new one, and the only place to get it is an electrical supply company in New Orleans.”
“Couldn’t you order it?”
“That would take weeks. You’re here now.”
Morgan nodded, sorry that she’d made an issue of Andre’s absence.
“He should be back this afternoon. Then you can tear into him all you like.”
Morgan nodded. Before she could ask if she was going to get honest answers, Janet picked up the vacuum and marched down the hall. After waiting for several moments to make sure the woman didn’t pop back into the doorway, Morgan opened the book again. Feeling guilty, she took out the maps, then slipped them under her tee shirt.
In her room, she stuffed the papers inside the false bottom of her suitcase before using the toilet so Janet would hear it flushing.
Back downstairs again, she began looking through more books, hoping to find more hidden treasure. After finishing with the history section, she moved to another shelf of old volumes.
The first one she picked up turned out to be The Erotic Art of Japan, published in the first decade of the twentie
th century. Despite the copyright date, many of the stylized illustrations were quite explicit. They showed Japanese couples engaged in sexual acts of various kinds, some of which looked like they might require the skills of a contortionist. Next to it was a book called A Day in the Country, An Artistic Study. The title might be innocuous, but inside were what looked like early twentieth century photos of men and women, most of them naked or scantily dressed, picnicking and enjoying other pleasures in a bucolic setting.
The images were very erotic. Like the naked woman holding out a bowl of apples to a naked man, with her rosy breasts resting on the top of the fruit.
She studied the picture, responding to it on a sensual level, thinking about what made it a turn-on. Not just the breasts and the apples. The couple were looking at each other like they were going to be each other’s next meal.
She was so absorbed in the picture that the sound of someone stepping up behind her made her jump—thinking Janet had snuck up on her again[RG3].
“Interesting pictures,” a deep voice said behind her.
It was Andre; she knew that even before he spoke because she caught the familiar scent of his body.
“You didn’t tell me you collected antique porn,” she managed to say, still with her back to him, partly because her face was red with embarrassment at having been caught with this particular book
“I don’t,” he answered “This is my father’s private stash of sexually explicit material. All of it ‘collector’s items.’ I have records of his sending away to dealers around the country.”
“Charming.”
“Actually, these are some of the books that I was thinking about selling. I imagine they would be quite valuable—to certain book enthusiasts.”
“Yes,” she murmured. He moved closer to her, his front coming into contact with her back as he lifted the book from her hands and set it on the table. Reaching around her, he flipped the pages, then stopped when he came to a photograph of a naked woman sitting in a swing suspended from the branch of a tree, her head thrown back and her face a study in pleasure.
“This is one of my favorites,” he said, his voice low and thick.
Morgan focused on the picture. The ropes of the swing were artfully twined with flowering vines. But it wasn’t the foliage that drew Morgan’s attention. A naked man was holding the ropes. He wasn’t behind his partner. Instead, he was in front of her, standing with his hips between her spread legs, and either they were having intercourse in that interesting position, or the photographer had faked the scene.
Morgan felt prickles of heat on her skin. She should cut off this discussion. Instead she asked, “What do you like about it?”
“The dynamics. It’s a still photograph, but it has a strong sense of movement, don’t you think?”
As he spoke, he stroked his hands up and down her arms, and she found the sensations he was creating made it difficult to focus on a coherent answer. “Yes,” she managed.
“And then there’s the sexuality. If you’re knowledgeable about lovemaking, you’re pretty sure they’re locked together. But for someone more naive, it could just be a guy ready to lift a woman off a swing.”
“Except that they’re both naked,” she murmured.
He laughed. “Maybe it’s a nudist colony.”
“Right,” she quavered as he slid his lips along her cheek to her ear, his teeth and tongue playing with the delicate curl.
The sensation was exquisite. Without thinking, she threw her head back like the woman in the picture. He took advantage of the pose to slide his mouth to the side of her neck.
She wanted to turn, but he held her where she was, her body arched, her pulse pounding.
“Did you see the picture of the woman with the bowl of apples?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Another good one.” He brought his hands inward, cupping and lifting her breasts. Looking down, she saw the nipples standing out through her shirt. She knew he saw that, too, because he stroked his fingers back and forth over those aching tips.
She made a small, needy sound, asking for more. And he took his cue from her, slipping his hands under her top and stroking her through the silky fabric of her bra while he brought his mouth back to the side of her face, her ear.
“Let me turn around,” she whispered.
“Don’t you like this?”
“You know I do,” she managed, then tried to change the subject. “What are you hiding from me?”
“Not this,” he answered, pressing his erection against her bottom.
When she pressed back against him, she was rewarded by his quick indrawn breath.
He loosened his hold, and she was about to turn, when a throat-clearing sound behind them made them both jump.
“I . . . surely beg your . . . your pardon,” Janet stammered.
“What do you want?” Andre growled, his tone sharp as his hands dropped to his sides, and she was glad he was standing behind her, both of them with their backs to the door.
Janet spoke again. “I came to tell you two men have brought the car back. They want you to pay them. And they want to clear out as soon as possible.”
“I’ll be right there,” Andre muttered.
“No. I’ll do it,” Morgan managed, closing the book. Mercifully, Janet withdrew.
Morgan took a couple of deep breaths. She had told herself she was not going to get physically involved with Andre again. But all he’d had to do was sneak up behind her and start kissing her ear, and she’d been back in the same trap she’d been helpless to avoid before.
As she walked toward the front of the house, she straightened the front of her shirt. Andre followed her. Because she was angry with herself—and with him—she snapped, “Why did you destroy evidence outside last night?”
“Give me a clue. Evidence of what?”
She stopped and gave him a direct look. “I saw that jaguar in the garden. When I went out to find his tracks,” they were gone from the spot where he’d been standing. “You raked the area. I had to walk in a big circle to pick up his trail again.”
Andre’s features registered astonishment. “I didn’t rake anything.”
She stared at his face, trying to judge whether he was telling the truth or lying through his teeth. He looked genuinely shocked.
“If not you, then who?”
“I don’t know,” he answered, and this time she wasn’t so sure he was telling the truth.
“Do you have a rake—besides the one that’s locked in your shed?”
“No. But somebody could have brought one,” he added.
“Who?”
He only shrugged.
“Did you take away those cigarette butts I found?”
“No!”
Again, she studied his face. If he was lying, he was good at it.
“Let me get my purse,” she said, then detoured up the steps and into her room.
As she came back down the stairs, she saw that Andre was waiting for her inside.
Through the side light she could see her rental car—and another car—pulled to the side of the circular drive. Two men were looking nervously around and also up at the sky—which had darkened considerably since that morning. Another man was sitting in the extra car. It was Bob Mansard—who stared balefully at the house.
Morgan glanced at her watch. It was late in the afternoon; the clouds were obviously making it look closer to sunset.
The men turned toward the door when they heard it open. All of them eyed her—and Andre. Mansard stayed in the car, and she wondered again if he’d been one of the men who’d followed her from town the day she’d arrived.
And one of the standing men could have been his slenderer companion, although she couldn’t be sure, because of the baseball caps they’d been wearing.
All the men were bareheaded now. The ones in the driveway looked to be in their mid-twenties, with dark hair growing a bit shaggy. One wore overalls. The other was dressed in jeans and a tee shirt.
“Okay. How much is the bill?”
He pulled a crumpled sheet of paper out of his overall pocket and handed it to her.
Smoothing out the wrinkles, she read the amount. It was less than she expected.
“I’d like to check the brakes, if you don’t mind,” she said.
“We have to be getting back.” Nervously, he glanced at the sky again.
“This will only take a few minutes.”
Probably if it had been between her and Mr. Overalls, he would have insisted on leaving right away. And Mansard looked like he was going to add his weight to the discussion. But when Andre took a step closer, Mr. Overalls stood back and pressed his lips together.
She fished her keys out of her purse, then strode to her car and climbed behind the wheel. After starting the engine, she drove around the circle in front of the house, stopping every so often to make sure the car wasn’t acting the way it had on the road. Because she couldn’t get up much speed, she started down the access road.
Behind her, she heard loud shouts of protest. When she looked back, Mr. Overalls was running after her, for all the good that was going to do him. Quickly she accelerated to thirty, then slammed on the brakes. They responded well enough, so she made a U-turn and came back to the house.
The men, especially Mansard, were looking daggers at her as she climbed out, and she almost felt sorry for them. If they were in a hurry to get back, she wasn’t helping. But she was enjoying a bit of payback. Not her usual behavior. Today she thought she was justified.
She wrote a check to the gas station, handed it over, and added a twenty-dollar bill.
“Thank you for delivering the car,” she said sweetly.
“Thank you,” Overalls responded. Then added, “We’d best be going.”