by Anne Stuart
His hands moved down to cover her breasts, and she made a tiny, almost indistinguishable sound of protest. That protest drifted into a sigh of pleasure, and she dropped her head back, her hair flowing over both of them as he caressed her breasts through the thin lacy barrier of her bra.
And then the barrier was gone. His hands were warm and rough skinned against her sensitive breasts, and his mouth was at her neck, drawing her, drawing her. She turned, opening her eyes for a moment, staring up at him with a dazed expression, and then his mouth caught hers.
For a first kiss it was astonishingly intimate, familiar, but, then, she knew perfectly well it wasn’t their first kiss. Hadn’t he kissed her many times the night of Mardi Gras? Or his phantom counterpart? Too often, yet not enough?
She didn’t know whether he turned her or she turned herself, but her arms were around his neck, her mouth open beneath his, and she was kissing him back with all the passion that had been kept locked up in her body for more than thirty years. A passion that Dexter had never managed to unleash, a passion that frightened her. A passion she felt for the most dangerous man she’d ever met.
He pushed her down on the sofa, climbing over the low back and sinking against her body as if he belonged there. And he did, she thought; he surely did. Her hands were trembling as they slid beneath his shirt, and she could feel the heavy racing of his heart beneath his smooth, muscled skin. She pulled at his shirt, wanting that barrier gone, wanting to feel him on top of her, inside her, wanting there to be nothing but skin and sex and love and . . .
He caught her hands, stopping her, holding her. “Chère,” he said, his voice hoarse, “are you certain?”
She didn’t want to stop and think. She didn’t want to look up at him. She didn’t want reality to return. But it had, with his hand capturing hers, with his relentless voice. She raised her head, looking up at him into his passionate dark eyes, and knew that Peter’s own particular form of insanity must be catching.
“Let me go,” she said, her voice low and quiet.
“I don’t want to.”
He didn’t move, and she wanted to scream with rage and frustration. “Let me go,” she said again.
He levered his body away from her, standing up and running a hand through his rumpled hair. He held out a hand to help her up, and like a fool she took it, letting him pull her to her feet.
He brushed her thick auburn hair away from her face, gently. “Don’t look like that, chère,” he murmured. “It’s not the end of the world. You simply found out you’re human, like anyone else. You can’t be a mother tigress all the time.”
“I don’t have any choice,” she said, turning from him and starting for the door. She knew she was shaking, a tremor that started deep inside, but she didn’t want Peter to know. If he knew he’d try to calm her; if he tried to calm her he’d touch her; and if he touched her again she’d be lost.
“Are you coming back?”
If she didn’t know better she’d have thought his voice sounded forlorn. She paused with her hand on the door. “Yes,” she said. “I need the money. But I need you to promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“That you won’t touch me again.”
He smiled then. Just a faint, mocking upturning of his mouth. “Sure,” he said. “I promise.”
She knew he lied. Sooner or later he’d put those beautiful, terrible hands on her, and that time he wouldn’t stop. They were spinning, whirling toward disaster, and the only way to avert it was to keep her distance, to keep away from the attic and away from him.
But she could no more do that than she could take Carrie and walk to Florida and her mother’s tiny apartment. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she said.
“I know you will.”
His certainty jarred her, angered her, but not enough for her to make any denial. She paused in the act of shutting the door behind her. “I just want you to tell me one thing,” she said.
“Anything.”
“How did you manage to get into the streets of New Orleans during Mardi Gras?” And then she shut the door before he had a chance to lie to her again.
SHE’D LEFT THE ring behind. Peter picked it up, holding it, half imagining it still contained her body warmth. It had been a quixotic gesture on his part, a romantic, half-mad thing to do. It had been foolish on her part, to treasure it, to wear it hidden between her breasts.
He tightened his hand into a fist around it. If she only realized it, she could sell the damned thing for more than the price of a new car. She could make her escape, from this screwed-up family, from him, from her attraction to him, and maybe, just maybe, she’d be able to forget about him.
He wouldn’t be able to forget about her. He’d be left behind in this damned attic, moldering away, until he really was as mad as they said he was, but at least his dreams would be filled with a bewitching redhead, not Rosanne’s face.
For the thousandth time the question returned: wthe hell had killed his wife? It could have been anyone—her lovers, her lovers’ wives, anyone. She’d been toxic, cruel and unfeeling to anyone she came in contact with, once they saw through her sultry charms. The list of suspects was endless, but no one had a stronger motive than her own husband.
Except that he hadn’t given a damn who she slept with, what she did—he was just biding his time until she found a better offer. Sooner or later she would have left him, but someone decided enough was enough. He just didn’t know who.
He’d had Wendell hire private investigators, not content to trust the police detectives to investigate. He’d been wise not to trust them, but the men Wendell had hired had come up empty-handed. Anyone who hated Rosanne enough to kill her had been far away at the time with corroborating witnesses. Except her husband, a man who’d been stupid enough and angry enough to spend the day out at the old cottage, ripping up linoleum flooring, a man who’d been left without an alibi.
Only her husband had been chump enough to welcome the policemen who’d arrived, made them coffee, showed not one sign of shock or sorrow, and had gullibly answered all their questions. He deserved what he got for being so fucking stupid.
Margaret was wise to run, and he was a grade A turkey to go after her. He could offer her absolutely nothing but more trouble, and she’d had trouble enough in her life. The best thing he could do was help her get away from there.
He could have Wendell get the money for her. Except for the rent Francene paid him for the New Orleans apartment, all his finances went through Wendell. Chances were Wendell wasn’t any more eager to see Margaret leave than Peter was. He had his own plans for her. But Peter no longer felt even the faintest trace of jealousy. Wendell didn’t stand a chance with her. She was in love with him, whether she knew it or not, and she had enough self-control and self-preservation not to get herself trapped in another bad marriage.
Wendell wouldn’t see it that way, of course. No, Wendell wouldn’t be the right person to ask. He’d call Francene and see what she could do. She’d liked Margaret, and she would like Carrie if she had a chance to meet her. Maybe they could go stay with Francene for a bit.
Damn. He had to let her go. For the first time in two years he felt totally, completely, gloriously alive. He didn’t want to go back to that buried-alive existence.
Except that as things stood now, he didn’t have any choice. He was buried alive, in a living lie he didn’t dare retract. Maybe his best bet was to let Margaret go, to sink back into that dull apathy until one of the private detectives that his money was still supporting came up with new information, a new suspect.
He’d never been particularly noble, and he didn’t feel like becoming a plaster saint. Sooner or later Margaret would leave, and if he was a decent human being he’d help her. Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t. Right now he felt like a selfish bastard and he didn’t give a shit. H
e’d make himself let her go in a week or two, another month or two. That’s what you did when you loved someone, wasn’t it? You did what they needed, not what craved.
The very idea of love was absurd. He was desperate, driven to a real madness by the prison of this attack. Except that he’d never felt this irrational, powerful connection with anyone in his life, a connection that had nothing to do with the pure lust for her.
He could have spent his secret furlough up north screwing his brains out as he had in the past, but instead he’d risked everything to be with her, and he’d ended up blue-balled and crazier than ever. Much more of this and his lie would become a self-fulfilling prophecy.
He’d have to keep his hands off her; she was right about that. Already he kept remembering the feel of her skin beneath his hands, her mouth opening to his, her body stretched out beneath him. If he touched her again, things would blow up, and he didn’t want that to happen. He wanted her in his bed, her glorious hair spread out beneath them, but he wanted her warmth, her humor, her feistiness. Damn, he just wanted her. He couldn’t have her.
He tucked the ring in his pocket, the silver chain wrapped around it. She’d come back to him, and he’d give it to her. She wouldn’t ask him again about Mardi Gras, and he wouldn’t volunteer any information. She really didn’t want to know the answers, and he wasn’t ready to give them.
He moved over the window, staring down at the weed-choked driveway. Wendell was out there, standing by the Jaguar, and Peter could see a new dent in the rear fender. He’d obviously just come back from town. Margaret was out there, unconsciously rubbing the back of her neck. Did she still have her headache, or could she feel him watching her?
It didn’t matter. Wendell was looking apologetic; Margaret was trying to get away. She’d pinned her hair back again. Maybe he should sneak down into her room and steal all her hairpins. Anyone with hair that glorious should always wear it down.
Wendell took her arm, and for a moment Peter thought he saw her try to pull away. A moment later she started off with him toward the rose garden, her face serene. Peter watched them go, his hands clenching the bars across the window.
There was no way out of this mess. No way at all. With a muffled curse he slammed his hand against the barred window, shattering the glass.
Chapter Fifteen
“ARE YOU GOING to marry Cousin Wendell?”
As usual, Carrie’s question was baldly stated and completely without tact. At least they were out of earshot of any of the other inhabitants of Maison Delacroix, walking down the weed-infested drive toward the main road.
“Whatever gave you that idea?” Margaret countered, not ready to deny the possibility. She would have to be crazy to consider another bad marriage, when half the things that attracted her about Wendell really belonged to Peter, but she’d spent too many years living an uncertain life to rule out anything.
Carrie shrugged, kicking at a stone with one scuffed Nike. Carrie had begged and pleaded for those Nikes, and Margaret had been ready to sell her body on the streets to get them for her. Instead she’d sold the only piece of jewelry Dexter hadn’t stolen from her, a thin gold bracelet that had belonged to her grandmother, and bought her daughter her longed-for sneakers. And it didn’t take a mother’s practiced eye to realize that those million-dollar running shoes were now too small for her growing daughter.
“I know he likes you,” Carrie said, squinting into the afternoon sunlight. “He’s always making up to me, trying to win me over, because he likes you.”
“Don’t you like him?” Foolish question. She knew perfectly well that her daughter didn’t care for Wendell, no matter how hard he tried. What she couldn’t understand was why.
“Not much.”
“Why not?”
Carrie shrugged again, a gesture that was becoming both habitual and charmingly Gallic. She’d picked it up from her school friends, and while Margaret might have preferred a more verbal response, she decided not to push.
“So you don’t want me to marry Wendell?” she prompted gently.
“I didn’t say that. You can marry him if you want. If that means we get to stay here.” She was staring down the paved roadway as they reached the end of the drive.
The house was out of sight, hidden by a curve in the driveway and the towering presence of the live oaks with their curtains of Spanish moss, and Margaret could almost imagine it had disappeared, taking all its inhabitants with it. Wishful thinking on her part, she thought. “Don’t you want to go to Florida? You can swim in the ocean there. Disney World is there.”
“No.” Carrie looked up at her mother, her eyes clear. “I like it here, Ma. I like my friends, I like Grandmère and the others. It . . . it feels like home. I don’t want to leave. If you’ve got to marry Cousin Wendell for us to stay, I guess that’s okay with me.”
“You want to stay that much?” she said lightly.
“Yeah. You could even have another baby or two. I’d really like a brother or sister.”
“You say that now, but what happens once I get pregnant?” Margaret countered, going with the fantasy. “You’re nine years old. How would you really feel about a new little baby taking up my time and attention.”
“Hey, he’d get my time and attention, too,” she said with great dignity. “Besides, I know you love me. You always say the more love we give, the more we have. You’ve got plenty for both of us. And Cousin Wendell too,” she added doubtfully.
Margaret slung an arm around Carrie’s shoulders and hugged her tightly. “You’re right, sweetie. But I don’t think I’m going to marry Wendell. For one thing, I’m not in love with him.”
She could feel her daughter’s sigh of relief. “But can we still stay here with Peter and Grandmère and the others?” she suggested hopefully.
Margaret ignored the tightening in her throat. She wanted to give her stalwart daughter everything she ever wanted, and more besides. Encouraging Wendell wasn’t that big a sacrifice, was it? “I can’t make any promises. But we can stay put for now. As long as it feels safe.”
“Why wouldn’t it be safe?” She looked up at her mother curiously.
Margaret shook her head. “I don’t know. I just worry sometimes.”
“You worry too much. That’s what Peter says.”
“Oh, really? And what else does Peter say?”
“He says you’re too smart to marry Cousin Wendell, but if that’s what you want to do I shouldn’t give you a hard time. And he says that no matter what happens you’ll always take care of me, because you’re a mother tigress.”
Margaret laughed, but her heart kept constricting. “I don’t know about the tigress part, but no one’s ever going to hurt you. Not if I can help it.” She peered down the empty roadway. “Are you sure you want to spend the weekend with the Fontaines? I never see enough of you.”
“Ma, I love you. But the Fontaines have horses.”
“I see. I may be a mother tigress, but horses come first.”
“You bet.” She leaned over into the road, scuffling her too-small Nikes. “I think that’s their van,” she said, observing an approaching vehicle. “I’ll tell you something, Ma.”
“What?”
“Maybe you could marry Peter. You’d probably have to be locked in the attic with him, but, then, maybe he wouldn’t be so lonely.”
“You like it here that much, huh?” She ruffled her daughter’s hair in an attempt to hide her own reaction. “Ready to sacrifice your old ma.”
“I like it here. And I like Peter. And he likes you.”
The Fontaines’ battered blue van pulled up, and their nine-year-old daughter popped out. “Hey, Carrie.”
“Hey, Corky,” came the appropriate response. Carrie turned and gave her mother a swift hug. “See you Monday afternoon, Ma.”
“Have a good tim
e, sweetheart.” Margaret hated to let her go, but Carrie wouldn’t have wanted any sentimental display. Waving a goodbye to Corky’s mother, she turned and headed back up the driveway, determined not to look back. If she did, she’d be half tempted to run after the van, begging a ride.
She didn’t want to stay in Louisiana, she told herself. She wanted to get away from here, away from the smothering Jaffreys and Delacroix, away from temptation that she was finding harder and harder to resist.
Peter hadn’t touched her since that tumble on the sofa. Or at least, not much. Occasionally his hand would brush against her shoulder; occasionally his arm would press against hers. Once she even thought she felt an airy kiss in her flyaway hair. But when she turned to glare at him he was halfway across the room, innocently absorbed in something else.
But that didn’t mean it wasn’t going to happen again. That didn’t mean that each innocent brush of his skin, each accidental contact didn’t carry the heat and force of repressed longings that threatened to explode. And if they did explode, it might destroy both of them.
But she couldn’t tear Carrie away from the first security she’d known during most of her lifetime simply because her mother was afraid of her own hormones. If worse came to worst she could always stop working for Peter. If she wasn’t going anywhere for the time being, then she didn’t need the money for a new car. She could keep working for Wendell, though there was hardly anything to do nowadays, and sooner or later she’d have enough for a down payment on the junker she needed. It would really be the wisest thing for all concerned.
But she wasn’t going to do it. Whether she liked it or not, she couldn’t keep away from Peter. Everything seemed bland, depressing, uninteresting at Maison Delacroix, except on the third floor. There she was alive, her brain was working; her heart and lungs and soul were working. She couldn’t give it up, couldn’t give Peter up, and still live there.