by Anne Stuart
“Anytime,” Mrs. McKinley said, the warmth she showed Carrie not extending to Carrie’s mother. “I like children.”
“You have to earn Mrs. McKinley’s approval in this house,” Uncle Remy intoned. “She’s even harder to please than my mother, and you know what a harridan she is.” He drained his whiskey and, still holding the glass in his hand, announced, “I’m going for a refill. You certain you won’t join me, Margaret?”
She shook her head. “No, thanks. I don’t drink much.”
A distant smile tilted Remy’s lips. “You’ll learn, Margaret. You’ll learn.”
For once Carrie went willingly enough, brushing her teeth and climbing into the four poster with an aplomb not unmixed with exhaustion. “I like it here, Ma,” she confided as Margaret sat down on the bed beside her.
“Do you?” Margaret said carefully. Her own reaction to Maison Delacroix was a tightly controlled panic, but she had enough sense not to communicate that panic to her daughter. Children were amazingly adaptable, she’d learned, and Carrie had already started to make herself at home in her new surroundings. She didn’t need to be privy to her mother’s neurotic fears.
“I like Mrs. McKinley and Grandmère,” Carrie declared. “And Uncle Remy’s funny. He reminds me of some of Daddy’s friends.”
That made sense, Margaret thought, since most of her father’s friends were either gamblers or drunks. “What about Cousin Wendell and Lisette?”
“Naaah,” Carrie said, dismissing them. “You know, Ma, I sort of like this bedroom. The bed’s cool.”
Margaret had to keep herself from smiling. Her tomboy daughter was being seduced by that most feminine article, a canopy bed. Before long she’d end up in dresses, particularly if Gertrude had her way, though if it came to a battle of wills between Carrie and her great-grandmother Margaret would be hard put to pick a winner.
“I like the bed, too,” she said with a straight face. “So you don’t mind if we stay here for a while?”
Carrie considered it, her eyes drooping. “No. I’d like to stay.”
I wouldn’t, Margaret thought, watching her daughter drift into a. deep, restful sleep. I want to get the hell out of here, as fast and as far away as I can.
But that wasn’t possible, and she knew it. Carefully rising from the bed, she switched off the bedside light and tiptoed toward the door. With a broken car and pocket change in her purse, she and Carrie weren’t going anywhere, not for the time being.
She had no choice but to learn to deal with it. Carrie hadn’t been in school since Thanksgiving, and while she was a very bright child, she needed both the socialization and the formal schooling. Margaret knew she would have to talk to Gertrude about getting her enrolled. When she got a job she could probably drive her to school on the way to work.
The hallway was dark and shadowy when Margaret stepped out of Carrie’s bedroom, and she had to stifle her lingering worry that her tough little daughter was going to be so far away. She’d gotten overprotective in the past year, understandably so, but it was time she learned to let go a bit. After all, they were with family.
Of course, that family happened to include a deranged murderer, she reminded herself with a curl of her lip. Not that Peter Delacroix, with that arresting face and scholarly brow looked dangerous, but she’d only had to watch the others’ reactions to know that things were not necessarily as they seemed. At least she could take comfort knowing the powers that be wouldn’t have let Peter be paroled into the bosom of his family if he was a threat. After all, as Remy had so crassly put it, men who killed their wives weren’t the same as your run-of-the-mill murderer. Maybe as long as they stayed single they were like everyone else. That is, as long as they kept away from matches and radio music, that is, she reminded herself, reaching for the doorknob.
“Is she asleep?”
The deep voice came out of nowhere, startling her, and she fell back against the door, muffling a panicked shriek before turning around. She already knew whose voice it was, even though it had a lot in common with Wendell’s smooth tones. She looked up into Peter’s green eyes, and forced her face into relaxed lines, still gripping the doorknob. If she screamed, someone would come. Wouldn’t they?
“Is who asleep?” she asked, managing to get her voice under control.
“Your daughter,” Peter said. “I haven’t met her yet. Wendell says she’s charming.”
“Keep away from her.” The command was instinctive, rude and unforgivable. She’d warn him again, even at the risk of sending him into a murderous rage.
He narrowed his eyes, and a faint, mocking smile curved his mouth. “I’m a wife murderer, dear Cousin. Not a child molester.”
“Keep away from my daughter,” she said again. “And keep away from me.”
He was standing too close to her. “You don’t need to be afraid of me,” he said softly, his voice a seductive whisper. “I promise I won’t strangle you unless you marry me.”
She couldn’t help herself—she looked down at his hands. They were surprisingly beautiful hands, large, strong and deft looking. And murderous, she reminded herself.
His eyes had followed her gaze, and that mocking smile never faltered. He lifted one hand and touched her face, pushing back a tendril of hair that had escaped from its bun. It was cool against her flushed skin, and she felt a momentary, irrational urge to rub against it. It had been so long since she’d been touched.
“Please, don’t,” she said, her voice quivering despite her best efforts.
He stepped back, and the mocking humor left him. “What did Dexter do to you?”
His words shocked her. A madman shouldn’t have seen it, she thought dizzily. But, then, she’d heard that some crazy people were gifted. He’d been a professor—he must have been brilliant before madness and murder had destroyed his life.
She took a deep breath, raising her eyes to meet his. “It’s history,” she said in a more normal voice.
“History has a way of holding on,” he replied, still not moving. “Even when there’s nothing you’d rather do than forget, things conspire to remind you.”
“Sometimes. Sometimes you can move, put things behind you.” At least she hoped she could.
“Not if you’re locked in an attic.”
She steeled herself. “Locks don’t seem to stop you.”
He grinned then, an engaging, boyish smile that she could almost imagine responding to. Not that she would.
“I’m not one to roll over and play dead on cue.” His voice was unconcerned.
“Apparently not.”
“I’m not going to hurt you, Margaret. And I’m certainly not going to hurt your daughter.”
She met his gaze with sudden calm. “I know that,” she said.
He looked skeptical. “Do you? You didn’t seem to think so at the beginning of this conversation.”
“I think so now.” And suddenly she knew that she was safe. She really didn’t have anything to be afraid of. Peter wouldn’t hurt her, and he wouldn’t hurt her daughter.
“You’re not appeasing the madman?”
It was Margaret’s turn to smile. This odd conversation in a deserted hallway seemed unreal—part and parcel of an unreal day. “Maybe,” she said. “Do you need to be appeased?”
For a moment there was a heated expression in his green eyes, and for perhaps the first time in her life she knew she was looking into the eyes of a man who wanted her quite desperately. It was an odd, heated sensation.
“You’re a dangerous woman, Margaret Jaffrey,” he said softly, and his voice slid over her exposed skin. “I think maybe I should be afraid of you.”
Her smile widened. “It might not be a bad idea.” She sounded much more self-assured than she felt. “Good night, Peter. Go lock yourself in again.”
He shrugged. �
��You’re right. Welcome to Maison Delacroix, Cousin.”
“I’m not your cousin.”
“I know.” The words were soft, seductive, and then he faded back into the shadows, up the twisting flight of stairs to his attics. She didn’t move for a long moment, watching him go, still half bewitched by him. A minute later she shook her head, trying to force some common sense into her addled brain.
She’d also heard that madmen could be devious, cunning, charming and enticing. Peter Delacroix possessed all four of those qualities. She’d have to be careful. Not to lose her heart. Not to lose her life.
TWO MAJOR MISTAKES in one day, Peter thought, pouring himself another drink and sinking onto the sofa. He hadn’t been able to resist prowling, to resist seeing whether Margaret was as irresistible as he’d thought. It served him right that she was even more so; it served him right that she’d conquered her reasonable fear of him. It served him right that she was a mother tigress defending her cub; it served him right that on top of a brave soul and a beautiful face she had a sense of humor.
If he hadn’t stopped believing in cruel fate he would have thought she’d been sent just to add to his torment. Things were bad enough. He didn’t need a redheaded tigress haunting his dreams.
Still, that was better than the memory of Rosanne. Better than the smell of smoke, and burning wood, and other, more horrifying odors. Maybe it was better to dream about the unattainable future and not the unchangeable past.
No, it was better not to dream at all. Draining his Jack Daniel’s, he poured himself another, straight. If he didn’t watch it he’d turn into Uncle Remy, lost in a bottle and ancient dreams. But at ten-thirty on a Thursday night, locked in an attic as he had been for two years, he really didn’t give a fuck.
“CARRIE WILL BE starting school next week,” Gertrude announced as she passed the plate of powdery beignets. “The locals schools are small and really quite good, but I imagine that in a year or two we might see about private school.”
Margaret mopped up the coffee she’d sloshed and told herself to be thankful that at least Gertrude had said “we.” It didn’t sound as if she, as Carrie’s mother, was really going to be consulted, but Gertrude had observed the amenities and it was what she had wanted, wasn’t it? In any event, they’d be gone by the time Gertrude deemed private school suitable, she reminded herself, taking another sip of the chicory-flavored coffee and trying not to shudder.
“That sounds fine,” she said carefully. “But I’ll have to see about getting my car up and running.”
“Why?” Gertrude eyed her calmly.
“To transport her to and from school.”
“We have an excellent bus system, one we taxpayers pay highly for.”
Margaret tried again. “I need to work, Gertrude. I thought I might find a job with similar hours and I could drop Carrie off on the way . . .”
“I’ve taken care of that, also.”
I should have known, Margaret thought grimly. “You have?”
“Wendell could do with some secretarial help a couple of days a week. Just light typing and filing. You could handle that, couldn’t you?”
“Of course, but . . .”
“And he’s agreed to pay you the same amount he paid his last secretary, which is very generous of him, considering you haven’t any legal experience. Have you?”
“No, but . . .”
“Mondays and Thursdays to begin with.” Gertrude plowed on. “You can either drive with Wendell or use the Cadillac. It should work out very well.”
“I still want my car working.”
“It’s Wendell’s considered opinion that your engine has seized, whatever that means. One thing that it does mean is that your car is beyond repair.”
The noisy, clanking sound as they’d made their final turn into the long, winding drive of Maison Delacroix had warned her of such a possibility, but she’d pushed it out of her mind, one too many things to deal with. But Margaret wasn’t one to give up easily. “I still want a professional to come see it,” she said stubbornly.
“And you shall have someone,” Gertrude said easily. “You can use your first week’s salary.”
“I’ll need more than two days’ worth of work.” She was still battling, but against Gertrude’s inflexible will it was uphill all the way.
“Never fear. There’s more than enough to keep you busy around here. Can you cook?”
“Not as well as Mrs. McKinley.”
“No one can. But even wonders like Mrs. McKinley get days off, and there’s no one else I can trust. Eustacia goes off into one of her dream states and burns everything. Lisette either drops cigarette ashes onto everything or she heats up frozen dinners. Can you manage better than that?”
“Yes.”
Gertrude’s smile was queenly. “Good. You can help Mrs. McKinley tonight and she’ll show you where things are kept. You’ll have to be careful, though. Mrs. McKinley is very possessive about her kitchen.”
“Fine,” Margaret muttered with little grace, draining her foul coffee. “Do you know where Carrie is?”
“I believe she’s in the rose garden with Remy. Out the back door to the left. You should be able to find them with no difficulty. Just follow the voices. How are you at gardening?”
Margaret was beginning to show belated sense. “Terrible. I pull the plants and leave the weeds.”
Gertrude sighed. “We’ll have to work on that. Go find your daughter and tell her about school. I imagine she’ll be charmed.”
“I imagine,” Margaret muttered, heading out through the kitchen.
Mrs. McKinley didn’t look up as Margaret greeted her, simply jerked her head in the direction of the back door. “They’re out there.”
“Thanks.” It was a warm day, damp and almost balmy. She could feel the promise of springtime, almost smell the roses. She could hear the voices, Carrie’s young, enthusiastic one piping up, a slower, deeper voice answering. She turned the corner into the hedged rose garden, a cheerful smile on her face.
“Hello, darling, how did you sleep?” she said, before realizing that the man kneeling in the fresh dirt with Carrie wasn’t Uncle Remy at all. It was Peter Delacroix.
“Just fine, sweetheart. How about you?” Peter replied, rising, a humorous glint in his eyes, and in his hand he held something that looked like a knife.
Chapter Four
“HI, MA,” CARRIE said, leaning back on her heels and taking the weapon from Peter’s hand. Actually, it wasn’t a weapon at all; it was a trowel, and with surprising deftness she began digging in the wet dirt. “We’re planting begonias.”
It took Margaret a moment to realize she was shivering, another moment to realize that her knees threatened to buckle beneath her in relief. “How nice,” she said, her voice not much more than a faint rasp.
Carrie looked at her curiously. “You getting a cold, Ma?”
She cleared her throat, concentrating on her daughter’s silky red hair, ignoring the curious, knowing eyes of the man standing beside her. “No. Just a frog in my throat, I guess. I’m not used to this damp climate.”
“I like it,” Carrie said firmly. “This is Cousin Peter.”
“We’ve met,” Margaret replied lifting her eyes briefly. Peter smiled at her. It was a smile devoid of his usual malice, only faintly tinged with mockery, and that mockery seemed directed at himself as well as her.
“Your mother didn’t sleep well last night,” he said. “She had nightmares.”
“Did you, Ma?” Carrie was still digging in the dirt, oblivious to the tension between the two adults standing over her. “You shouldn’t of been talking ‘bout murders. You always told me not to talk about scary things before you go to bed.” She looked up at Peter. “Is this right?”
“Perfect,” Peter replied solemnly, giving her
his full attention.
Margaret considered escaping before he turned that disturbing green gaze back on her, but there was no way in hell she was leaving her daughter alone with a confessed murderer. She might be temporarily trapped here, but she could be a tenacious bulldog if her daughter’s well-being was threatened.
“She’s right, you know,” he continued, looking back at her. “You shouldn’t gossip about ancient murders. It’ll just make you worry unnecessarily.”
“Who says it’s unnecessary?” she countered, wiping her damp hands against her jeans.
“I do,” said Pete lightly. “And I’m in a position to know.”
The fitful sunlight glinted down on them, gilding Peter’s dark brown hair. He looked completely normal, a tall, lean man with a narrow, handsome face, clever eyes and a mouth that could almost be called sensual. He didn’t look as though he’d prove a danger to anything but her own vulnerable heart. Except that she had decided that she would never let herself be vulnerable again.
Looks could be deceiving, she reminded herself. “Maybe,” she said. She glanced around. There was no place to sit apart from the damp ground, nothing to do but stand there, feeling like an idiot, while her daughter planted flowers.
Peter shrugged, kneeling beside Carrie again and handing her a begonia, clearly dismissing Margaret from his mind. In a moment the two of them were laughing, and Margaret stood frozen, a pain slicing into her heart.
She’d never heard Dexter and Carrie laugh. He’d had no time for his enchanting daughter; toward the end he’d had no time for anything but the gambling tables. He didn’t drink or do drugs, but Margaret hadn’t been able to avoid the thought that the effect would have been the same. They’d lived with a man in the throes of an addiction, a craving so powerful that family and pride had ceased to matter to him.
It should have been Dexter showing Carrie how to plant begonias, making her giggle with his silly talk about gluttonous gophers and mischievous rabbits. It should have been Dexter making Margaret’s pulse race when she wasn’t thinking better of it.