by Rebecca York
“So, you admit you were operating under false pretenses,” Jarvis snapped.
She kept her gaze steady. “That’s what undercover work is about.”
To her relief, Jarvis didn’t object to the explanation. But he didn’t let her walk away, either. With more skill than she might have expected, he took her through the recent events in the bayou, with particular attention to how she had gotten away from Rivers.
Even when the lawman came at her from different angles, she stuck to her story about escaping on her own.
“Are we done?” Dan finally asked.
Morgan wanted to turn the tables and ask the sheriff some questions. She was thinking that Rivers had probably paid the man off. But she figured she’d better keep her mouth shut. She could investigate the sheriff later.
She was relieved when Jarvis said, “We’re finished for now.”
When he had left, Dan turned to her. “Do you want me to stay?”
“Do you think I need you?”
“I think Jarvis is satisfied with your answers.”
They walked back to the kitchen, where Janet was busy washing dishes.
“Frank advised me to get a room in town,” Dan said.
“Oh, he did?” Morgan asked.
“Yes. He said you and Gascon . . . had some issues. And you probably wouldn’t want me hanging around.”
Morgan didn’t know whether to be grateful or upset that Frank had reported their private conversation to a third party. “How much did he say?” she asked.
“Not much.” He cupped his hand over her shoulder and squeezed warmly. “I can see you don’t need me here now. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
She might have insisted that he stay at the plantation. But in truth, she wanted to talk to Andre—in private.
As soon as Dan and the sheriff had cleared out of the kitchen, she turned to Janet. “Where’s Andre?”
“He washed up, then went out,” the housekeeper answered.
“Out where?”
The woman hesitated. “To his garden patch.”
“Which is where?”
Janet sighed. “I guess you’re not going to allow him any more time.”
“For what?”
The woman gave her a stony look,
“Right, you’re not about to tell me. I have to figure it out for myself.”
Janet gave her a small smile. “You’re learning. Come on, I’ll show you where to find him.”
They stepped outside, and, to her surprise, Morgan saw that the sun was already sinking low in the western sky.
Janet paused and looked at the sunset, then quickened her pace as she led the way across the back lawn. When they reached the swamp area, Morgan felt her throat close. She’d gotten into serious trouble out there. Coming back so soon hadn’t been in her plans. When Janet glanced back at her, she firmed her jaw and followed.
The housekeeper gestured toward a patch of wild roses. “Back there.” Then she stepped around Morgan and started back to the house.
Morgan watched her leave before walking slowly toward the brambles. As she approached the screen of thorny greenery, she caught a familiar scent—the scent that she had associated with Andre.
Through the rose canes, she saw him dressed in jeans and a dark tee shirt, down on his knees, weeding a patch of low plants that had curly leaves tinged with red. He was totally focused on his work. The sight of him going about his normal routine made her heart squeeze painfully. As she stepped closer, he stopped moving, obviously aware that he was being watched.
“It’s a little difficult to talk with a bramble patch between us. How do I get in there?” she asked.
Silently he stood and carefully pulled some rose canes aside, so she could step into the enclosure.
She wanted to reach out toward him, but his posture warned her not to come any closer.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I could ask you the same question.” She breathed in a draft of the humid air, feeling enveloped by the brambles and the scent of the plants—the scent of Andre himself.
Kneeling down, she rubbed her fingers over a curly leaf, then brought it to her nose. “What is this?” she asked sharply, wondering if he would finally tell her the truth.
“What do you think it is?”
“A drug,” she shot back. “But not anything I recognize. Is that how you’re making your money, growing some new illegal substance?”
He laughed. “Is that what you really think?”
“I don’t know! Since you won’t tell me anything. But I saw your pot of leaves on the burner in your bathroom when Jarvis searched the house.”
“Hardly enough to sell on the open market,” he answered, then changed the subject abruptly. “I didn’t thank you for getting Dan Cassidy down here. He’s an excellent lawyer. Without him, I’d be back in custody—at least for the short term.”
“Yes, Dan is good. But we’re not going to talk about him now. We were talking about this plant—and the tea from it that you’re making in your bathroom.”
He signed. “It’s not illegal—as far as I know. And it’s not a drug in the usual sense.”
“Andre, stop playing games with me,” she cried out in frustration. “I’m tired of all the secrets you’re keeping. Just let me in on the punch line.”
He stood up and brushed his hands on his jeans. “Maybe it’s more than you want to know.”
“Try me!” Morgan shouted.
Resignation gripped Andre’s features. He gestured toward the plants. “I told you about the voodoo curse.”
“Yes.”
“This is part of it. I have to stay here at Belle Vista. I have to cultivate these plants, so I’ll have a continual supply of the leaves, because I have to make a tea from them and drink it every day.”
“Or what?” Morgan asked.
“Or I’ll die,” he said in a flat voice. “If you want to call that being addicted, you can. But I’m the only person I know who needs this stuff. Well, my father and my grandfather did.”
She felt her throat clog, but she managed to say, “You’ve tried to do without it?”
“Yes. For a day and a half. I got very sick. You don’t want to hear the details.”
“Maybe I do.”
He looked up, apparently realizing that it was almost dark. Alarm streaked across his face. “I have to go.”
Anger surged inside her. “You always have to go! Just when the conversation is getting interesting. Or maybe I should say—dangerous.”
“You can think about it any way you want,” he muttered, then turned and walked away. “It’s getting dark. And I have to leave. Like I told you before, that’s not exactly my choice.”
“Wait a minute. You can’t just say something like that and disappear.”
“Watch me.”
“Come back here!” she shouted, anger and frustration and fear warring inside hr. “You can’t just walk away from me now.”
He ignored her, shouldering his way through the wild rose canes.
As she watched him stride into the bayou, her anger and frustration bubbled up. Scrambling to her feet, she hurried after him—deeper into the swamp where she’d told herself she didn’t want to go.
When he started running, she shouted after him. “You damn coward.”
He didn’t bother to answer. Instead, he ducked through a tangle of underbrush.
Some part of her knew she should just give up. Why the hell was she pursuing this man who obviously didn’t want anything to do with her. Or maybe she should put it differently—a man who was perfectly comfortable getting into a big e-mail correspondence with a woman who attracted him but who couldn’t deal with her in person.
Still, she kept floundering after him, mud splattering up as she crossed a marshy area.
“Go back!” he shouted, running faster, as he sped through the swamp. She was about to give up when her foot sank through the ground into a hole that hadn’t been there moments befor
e, and she made a strangled sound as she went down.
Chapter Fifteen
“Morgan!”
She sprawled on the ground, trying to catch her breath, hearing his footsteps reversing their course.
He came down beside her, gathering her to himself, holding her tightly as he looked at her leg and ankle. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know.”
He helped her to her feet. “See if you can walk. Put some weight on it.”
She did, and the ankle hurt, but not too badly.
“Can you make it to the house?” he asked.
She half turned, seeing how far she’d come. “I don’t know.”
He moved away from her, took a knife out of his pocket and cut a small branch, which he stripped down to a smooth pole. “Use this.”
“You’re not going to help me back inside?”
He looked torn. “I can’t.”
She had been through so much in the short time she’d been at Belle Vista. Somehow his refusal was the last straw.
“If you go off into the swamp now, I’m leaving tomorrow,” she heard herself say.
His face turned stark. “I’ve been waiting for you to say that all along. If that’s the way it has to be—then leave and stop torturing both of us.”
She raised her chin. I’m torturing both of us. All you have to do is help me walk—and while you’re at it, tell me what the hell is really going on here.”
He made a frustrated sound. “I told you, because of the curse, I have to spend the night in the bayou.”
“Or what?”
“Stay around here, and you’ll find out,” he grated and took a step back.
She tangled her fingers in his shirt. “Andre, please trust me. Start by telling me how you got out of the handcuffs.”
Pain suffused his features. “If you’re still here in the morning—I’ll tell you everything.” Then he detached her fingers from his shirt and walked into the gathering dark.
For long moments she stared at the spot where Andre had disappeared into the darkness. Then she realized that she could be in serious trouble. Heart in her throat, she looked back the way she’d come and was relieved to see the lights of the house shining in the darkness. But still, she had to cross uneven ground to get to safety.
Leaning heavily on the pole Andre had cut for her, she started toward the lights.
She wanted to turn her brain off, but thoughts kept whirling around inside her head like spiny little creatures—the spines stabbing at her.
Alone in the darkness, she considered her own life. For two years she had thought that no other man besides Trevor Kirkland would ever matter to her. Then Andre Gascon had started corresponding with her, and everything had begun to change.
It was as though he’d woken her from an emotional sleep. And when he’d taken her in his arms, she’d come instantly alive. But it had started before that. He’d made her care about him, even before they met. Even when she’d tried to keep the barriers around her heart intact, he’d broken through.
Yet were her feelings for Andre really hers? Or were her emotions all twisted up with those of another woman—Linette Sonnier? Linette had risked everything when she’d let herself fall in love with a man named Andre Gascon. She’d gone off with him—and lost her life.
Morgan would have liked to think that Linette had nothing to do with her. But somehow the dead woman had reached out across the years and dragged Morgan into her life. Which was why her feelings for this Andre were so intense, she told herself.
She stopped at the edge of the garden, then made her slow way across the lawn.
Janet was standing rigidly on the back balcony staring into the darkness. When she spotted Morgan, she ran down the steps and toward her.
“Are you all right, child?” she gasped.
“I hurt my ankle. It’s not too bad.”
“You need ice.”
“Yes.”
“Can I help you walk?”
“I’m fine.”
Janet kept pace beside her. “Did you talk to him?” she finally asked in a strained voice.
“Some.”
“What did he say?”
“He’s afraid to tell me the truth.”
“Because it’s taking a tremendous risk to talk about it.”
“What’s your stake in this?” Morgan demanded.
The woman answered at once. “I love him like a son. I want to see him happy.”
“Well, he’ll have to be happy by himself!” Morgan muttered as she pulled herself carefully up the steps.
“You’re leaving?” the housekeeper asked.
“Yes.”
Janet made a distressed noise. “I was so sure . . .,” she swallowed, then went on, “You can’t just walk away from him.”
“I think I have to.”
“You’ll feel better when you have some dinner in you,” Janet said hopefully.
Apparently, food was Janet’s solution to every problem. But the thought of eating anything now made Morgan’s stomach knot. “I’m not hungry. Just fix me a bag with some ice.”
The older woman sighed. “All right.”
Morgan took the ice pack up to her room and wrapped it in a towel. Sitting in the chair, she propped her leg on the footstool and draped the ice over the ankle. The cold felt wonderful.
When she looked up, Janet was standing there.
“What?”
The woman shuffled her feet. “I came to live here a long time ago.”
“I gathered that.”
“Yvonne and I are cousins.”
“What?” Morgan gasped. This time the question came out high and surprised.
“I guess you can say I started out as a spy for my family. They urged me to apply for a job at Belle Vista. At first, I told them what was going on around the house. I never did care much for the old man. I could see why his wife left him. He was harsh. And angry. He thought he’d gotten a raw deal in life. He couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to his son. That little boy needed somebody to care about him. And that person turned out to be me. I stayed on. It was easy to love him. Easy to help him grow and thrive. My family feels like I switched sides.” She sighed. “Maybe you could call it that. I call it giving him a chance.”
“And you want me to give him a chance, too?” Morgan asked.
“Yes.”
“That would be easier if he’d meet me halfway.”
“He’s trying. But he’s been in a difficult situation for a long time. There was nobody he could trust—except me. He’s had to rely on himself.”
They stared at each other for long moments. Then the housekeeper turned and left.
Morgan sat with the ice pack on her ankle, thinking about what she’d just learned and wondering if it made any difference.
After twenty minutes, she took a quick shower, then dressed in tee shirt and slacks and returned to the chair and the ice pack.
When she looked across at the bed, her chest tightened. She and Andre had made love there. And it had been wonderful, if she dared to be honest. But maybe that was because it had been so long since she’d been in a man’s arms. And great sex wasn’t enough for a great relationship, she told herself. He had to trust her—in person, not just long distance. He had to share his fears and his joys with her.
Maybe she would just sit here all night. Early in the morning, she was going to pack and leave—and go back to her life with Decorah Security. And she and Andre could start corresponding again. She couldn’t hold back a sardonic laugh. Right, they could be pen pals, since that had worked out better than face-to- face lovers.
She forced herself away from the edge of hysteria. Janet had given her some insights. But that didn’t make it easier to deal with a man who had so many secrets. And she couldn’t cope with her own confusion, either. It was almost impossible to judge what she was feeling for Andre—especially when everything was so muddled up.
She might not have planned to go to bed, but she was too exha
usted to stay awake. Her head lolled against the chair back, and she slept. Sometime in the early hours of the morning the sound of chanting and drumming woke her. The voodoo priestess was out there—at it again.
And it was impossible to ignore the performance. Cautiously, Morgan stood, relieved that the ankle felt much better than it had a few hours ago. Walking to the window, she peered out into the darkness.
She told herself that the woman couldn’t hurt her. Still, she felt her heart pounding. The reaction made her angry at herself.
Ever since she’d come here, outside forces had been manipulating her. It wasn’t just the priestess. Linette Sonnier, a woman who had died almost a hundred years ago was forcing emotions on her. She was dragging the new arrival at Belle Vista into dreams that were none of her business.
“Linette, you’re not playing fair with me,” she muttered. “And neither are you, Andre. You’ve been omitting information every time it’s not convenient for you to tell me something important.” She sucked in a breath and let it out. “And we won’t leave you out, Janet. You’ve been in on the fun and games, too. Including that last little meaningful conversation.”
Suddenly Morgan had had enough. Sitting around and brooding had never been her style. And since her husband’s death, she had taken refuge in action. Feeling like she was finally taking control of something, she charged down the hall.
Janet came out of her room, looking alarmed. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going out.”
“But Yvonne . . .”
“Yeah, right. How could you miss her?” As she spoke, she kept moving toward the stairs.
“Stay away from her,” Janet warned. “Her magic is strong.”
“So is mine,” Morgan growled. “And I’m tired of everybody telling me to stay in the house at night,” she tossed over her shoulder as she hurried down the staircase. Before she could change her mind, she stepped out the back door.
The night had been dark as black velvet. But Janet must have switched on the exterior lights, because suddenly the gardens around the house were flooded with yellow illumination.
Still, the priestess was beyond their range. Morgan descended to ground level and walked away from the house, into the darkness—toward the woman who wanted her out of the picture.