Betrayals (2017 Reissue)

by Carla Neggers

  She wasn’t impressed. “I’m the oldest of six kids. My father was killed by Vietcong guerrillas when I was eight. My grandfather’s an outcast. I grew up in a part of Florida that isn’t all beaches and air-conditioning and Disney World. We had poisonous snakes, mosquitoes, lizards, giant cockroaches, spiders, the occasional alligator. I dealt with all of that, Jared.” She crossed her arms under her breasts and gave him a scathing Boston Brahmin look that she could have patented. “You could have told me about Quentin.”

  “And how could I have justified it? ‘Oh, R.J.’s had so much thrown at her in her life, what’s a little more.’”

  She scoffed. “Letting me believe you and Tam had had an affair wasn’t exactly sparing me.”

  “What about the fortune in jewels you neglected to mention?”

  “That’s different.”

  “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.” Sitting back, he searched her eyes, and the past fourteen years melted away. “The minute you hit Saigon you knew I was in love with you. If you’d really loved me, you could have forgiven me a fling with Tam.”

  He could see her swallow, but she wasn’t one to back down. “And then what? Gerard would have shown up on our doorstep, and you’d have said, ‘Oh, well, I neglected to tell you this back in 1975, but Tam and I never slept together.’”

  “Think we’d have lasted fourteen years?”

  Her jaw set hard. “You shouldn’t have lied to me.”

  “I didn’t. You asked me if my name as Mai’s father was a mistake, and I said no.”

  “The intent,” she pointed out, “was deception, and that’s the same as a lie.”

  “The intent,” he said, rolling onto his knees and moving in on her, “was to spare you from having to suffer for choices you didn’t make. The intent, I’ll have you know, was to keep the twenty-year-old woman I loved from getting killed because of something I’d seen and done.” He put a hand on the headboard at either side of her, trapping her between his arms. “There’s a nobility of purpose in what I did that you fail to see.”

  “You made a choice for me that wasn’t yours to make.”

  His face was so close to hers he could feel her breath and the fire of her eyes. “Okay. What would you have done if I came to you in Florida after I got out of the hospital and laid everything on for you?”

  She thought a moment. “You wouldn’t have gotten the chance. I’d told Papa O’Keefe and my five brothers what a heel you were, and we had the shotguns loaded, the driveway booby-trapped, the sheriff on alert—”

  Jared was laughing, amazed at how good it felt. “I loved you, R.J.” And he suddenly grew serious, taking in the sight, smell, closeness of her, and he whispered, “God help me, but I still do.”

  * * *

  The memories that had been haunting Rebecca for hours receded, and there was only the present. For a change, it was all she wanted. Jared shut the door and she switched off the light. In the darkness, she listened to the wind and the sound of a siren in the distance, heard the bed creak when Jared sat back down, his bare feet on Eliza’s old Persian carpet. She was stretched out on her side so that his hip pressed against her thighs.

  “We’ll figure out this business with Quentin and Gerard and the Jupiter Stones,” he said softly. “We’ll figure us out.”

  She put a cool hand on his arm. “I know we will.”

  Turning toward her, he rubbed the outer curve of her hip through the soft, silky fabric of her nightgown. She saw that his arms and chest were still well-muscled. There was a no-nonsense toughness to Jared Sloan often belied by his nonchalance and teasing nature. He was willing to make difficult choices; he had made them.

  His hand slid over her hip to her waist, stopping just under her breast. “I don’t want to rush you into anything.”

  She smiled and rolled onto her back, so that his hand fell onto the flat of her abdomen. “Rush me.”

  It was all he needed to hear.

  He peeled off his jeans, and when he turned around, she was sitting up with her back to him, holding her hair up on top of her head. “I’ll go nuts trying to get these buttons,” she said. “Would you mind?”

  There seemed to be fifty thousand of the tiny, pearl-like buttons.

  “I’m liking this nightgown less and less,” he muttered. “It looks like something Queen Victoria would wear.”

  “She might have, for all I know. I never really thought of buttons as a deterrent, but you only have to unfasten about ten of them. Then I can just pull it over my head.”

  “Can’t I just tear it off?”

  She glanced around at him with one of her scrimy Blackburn looks.

  He undid the buttons. They were small and many and the job was pure torture, but the reward—

  She gave him the honor of lifting the nightgown over her head and tossing it onto the floor. His breath caught at the creaminess of her skin, the softness of her breasts with their pink-pebble tips. How the hell had he gone on without her?

  “R.J…”

  “I know.” Her voice was hoarse, and she brushed one finger along the edge of his sandpapery jaw. “It’s been forever.”

  The curtains at her windows billowed in a breeze that cooled her overheated skin and made her shiver, until Jared came to her and they fell back together onto the narrow bed. She felt hot and light-headed and very aroused. She could sense his hunger in their kiss, in the searing wetness of his tongue. And with the taste of him, the heat of his body against hers, she knew she’d been wrong; it hadn’t been forever.

  It had, it seemed, just been yesterday.

  He smoothed his hands down her sides, all the way to the middle of her thighs and back again, sliding them over her breasts, murmuring how beautiful she was, how much he wanted her. They kissed again, slowly, deliciously. He moved his hips against her. Rocked, swayed. Every movement was titillating and sexy.

  She raked her fingers through his hair and pushed his head back so that she could see his eyes and he could see hers. “I can’t stand it anymore.”

  “Good.”

  His voice was ragged, his eyes were dusky, and she knew he was perilously close to the edge himself. In the next instant, he thrust into her, and she pulled him in deep, crying out as they fell together.

  It was a long, sweet, frantic fall.

  Just before dawn, Jared eased out of bed and left Rebecca twisted in the covers, sleeping. And by the time he got downstairs, the cuckoo was counting out five o’clock.

  * * *

  He still didn’t sleep, but it was just as well. By five-thirty Rebecca was sitting cross-legged on the rug in front of the couch, Sweatshirt curled up placidly in her lap. Jared watched jealously.

  “I’ve got a new theory,” Rebecca announced.

  “Go ahead—shoot.”

  “Gerard never knew Tam had the Jupiter Stones the night she was killed. He wasn’t there because of them, he was there because of Quentin. He knew what Quentin was up to, tried to stop it, and at the same time figured it was something he could use as leverage with Annette.”

  Jared frowned. “With Annette?”

  “Right.” Rebecca stroked her cat’s soft ears. “She and Gerard must have known each other in 1959 when he was stalking the Riviera as Le Chat. Maybe he was in love with Annette, so he gave her the Jupiter Stones as a present.”

  “And then she fingered him as Le Chat.”

  “Nice of her, huh?”

  “You want to explain how you know all this?”

  She shrugged, then told him about the colored marbles she and Tam had found at the Winstons’ mas on the Mediterranean Sea all those years ago.

  “Mai’s picture brought Gerard out of the woodwork,” she went on thoughtfully, “because he was in Saigon the night Tam was killed and knew Quentin was responsible for her death—and nearly yours, mine, and Mai’s, as well. His leverage with Annette—to get her to give him the stones—is what he knows about Quentin.”

  “Why does he want the stones so muc
h?”

  “They’re incredibly valuable.”

  “Are we talking millions?”

  “I should say. I’m sure he’d also like to nail Annette for turning him in thirty years ago.”

  The cat crawled out of Rebecca’s lap, did one of his ugly cat stretches, and jumped onto the couch. He warily eyed Jared, then pounced, claws bared.

  “You’re in his spot,” Rebecca informed him.

  “Uh-oh.”

  Surrendering, Jared joined Rebecca on the floor. As it turned out, he liked it better that way. “So why does our Frenchman have a soft spot for you?”

  She grinned. “You don’t think it’s just my big blue eyes?”

  “Could be—”

  “Oh, stop. I guess it’s just because he and my father were friends and he doesn’t want anything to happen to me. Who knows? He’s an ex-jewel thief and a blackmailer, not a murderer.”

  “How much of this would you guess dear Aunt Annette knows?”

  Rebecca sighed. “She’s not a particularly sympathetic victim, is she? I would say, though, she must be aware of what Quentin did. That’s why she hasn’t asked anyone’s help in dealing with Gerard. She’s covering for Quentin.”

  “It makes sense,” Jared said. “I wish I knew whether or not to talk to her about it—and your grandfather. There’s no telling how much of this he’s figured out.”

  On that, they both concurred. “We should get some sleep,” Rebecca suggested, “and go at this again with clear heads. You okay?”

  He laughed, kissing her lightly. “I’m fine.”

  “I’ll take Sweatshirt back upstairs with me.”

  “No, let him have the couch. I’ll just lie here on the floor and go to sleep knowing I’m going to dream about you.”

  “You’re such a romantic,” she said, but he could see he’d cut through her Yankee Blackburn reserve. My God, he thought, is there hope for us, after all?

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  After hours of nightmares and tossing and turning—of obsessing about one thing and another—Annette gave up any hope of sleeping. She could feel Jean-Paul out in the street, watching her house, waiting for some sign that she was distressed—reveling in her discomfort. He wouldn’t need anything so human as sleep. Climbing out of bed, she refused even to turn on the light and give him the satisfaction of knowing she couldn’t sleep.

  He was out there. She knew that much.

  She pulled on her robe and ran her fingers through her hair, annoyed at how dry and stiff it felt—nothing but straw. She hadn’t taken very good care of herself the past few days. There were still pins in her hair, and her digestion was miserable, and she hadn’t done any proper exercise since seeing The Score. Ordinarily she took daily walks in the Public Garden or along the river to keep in shape. She went into her bathroom and shut the door, turning on the light and splashing her face with cold water. There were bags under her eyes and a grayish cast to her skin, a look of exhaustion and defeat about her that she abhorred.

  When she’d dozed, she’d dreamed of Jean-Paul and herself during those passion-filled, erotic weeks on the Riviera. He’d been so incredibly sexy. She’d never wanted a man as much. Thomas Blackburn she’d wanted to conquer; Jean-Paul she simply had wanted to bed…over and over again.

  She dried her face and went downstairs, careful in the semidarkness. Her knees were trembling. She heard one crack as she came to the first floor. You’re getting old, m’ dear. Nonsense. She was only sixty. Look at Thomas at seventy-nine—

  I won’t think about him or Jean-Paul!

  Her mind was whirling with images and memories and possibilities…herself as the unfaithful wife, the manipulative mother, the corrupt businesswoman.

  “Get hold of yourself, you fool,” she snarled aloud. Even if Jean-Paul blabbed all over town, he couldn’t prove any of what he’d have to say. Who’d believe that half-dead swine over her?

  But what was Thomas up to?

  Did he have the Jupiter Stones? How much did he know—how much had he guessed?

  Dear God, I can’t stand this!

  In just her bathrobe, she walked out into the street, quiet just before dawn. She felt cornered and uneasy…and yet she had the glimmer of a plan. Perhaps she should make one last attempt to get Jean-Paul Gerard out of her life for good—and, while she was at it, Thomas Blackburn.

  And all she’d be doing was following his advice.

  She whirled around, looking up and down the street for the pathetic, distinctive figure of Jean-Paul Gerard, but she saw nothing. Am I getting paranoid?

  “Can’t sleep, ma belle?”

  Startled, she flung around at him, and he was so close—so very close. Why hadn’t she heard him? His white hair glistened in the murky light, and his scars made him look frightening…monstrous.

  The man was indestructible.

  “It’s a lovely night,” she said, regaining her breath. “I thought you might be out here.”

  He only smiled.

  Their toes almost touched. She could feel his warm eyes on her, and her dream came to her…the memory of her arousal flooding over her. Even the current reality of him—his ravaged face, his ugly teeth, his thinness, his age—didn’t stop her from wanting him. If he so much as hinted he wouldn’t laugh, she’d have dropped her robe and made love to him there on the cold brick sidewalk.

  “Jean-Paul.” Her voice was sultry; she felt raw and vulnerable, her nipples straining against the filmy robe. Did he still think her desirable? She swallowed, plunging ahead. “Jean-Paul, I couldn’t sleep because I’ve been wondering if I didn’t make a terrible mistake thirty years ago.”

  He seemed amused. “It’s taken you a long time to consider this possibility, ma belle.”

  She ignored his heavy sarcasm. I can’t go on like this—I have to do something. “You see,” she went on, “I lied to you. My God—Jean-Paul, I never had the Jupiter Stones. I just told you I did because I knew you wanted them and I needed to hurt you because I thought you’d betrayed me by stealing jewels from my friends, from people I knew—because I thought you’d betrayed me.”

  “Annette…”

  She grabbed his hand; it was surprisingly warm, and so callused—so hard. “No, hear me out. I’ve been upstairs lying awake wondering if I made a terrible mistake when I turned you in as Le Chat. I’ve been thinking…remembering…Jean-Paul, Thomas Blackburn needed money desperately then for his business venture—that absurd consulting company of his. He was in and out of France for several months.” Removing her hand from his, she found her throat tight, her breath coming in gasps, but she made herself go on. “Jean-Paul, you were innocent, weren’t you? You were never Le Chat.”

  Jean-Paul’s expression didn’t soften. “You know what I want.”

  “Yes, yes—the damn Jupiter Stones. Listen to me, will you?”

  “Annette, do you think it makes any difference if I were Le Chat thirty years ago or not?”

  “I’m telling you I made a mistake.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Bastard—”

  He shrugged, unaffected by anything she could say to him. “What do you want, Annette?”

  “You think I have no feelings—you think I don’t care about what I’ve done to you.” She brushed tears from her eyes, but Jean-Paul was unmoved. “Thomas came to see me earlier. Were you out here then? Did you see him?”

  “What if I did?”

  “Then you know I’m telling you the truth.”

  “All right. I saw him.”

  She smiled. It wasn’t much, but at least she had penetrated his skepticism. “Thomas told me he has the Jupiter Stones.”

  Nothing. Jean-Paul didn’t even move.

  “Did you hear me? Thomas has the Jupiter Stones.”

  “I heard you,” he said, almost inaudibly.

  “Gisela was his friend and he betrayed her. He stole the stones that meant so much to her. And he’s bred the hatred between us all these years. He let me go ahead and turn you
in as Le Chat. Jean-Paul, he could have stopped me. He let me ruin your life. Then when you turned up in Saigon in 1963, he arranged the ambush in order to kill you. Why do you think he backed out at the last minute? Because he knew what was going to happen.”

  “And what about 1975?” he asked.

  She hesitated only for a moment…seeing Jean-Paul coming out of Jared Sloan’s Saigon apartment…feeling that same terror she’d felt when she’d recognized him…feeling herself jump and shudder when she’d fired her gun into his face. And the relief. Feeling the washing, cleansing, beautiful relief that at least she was free of him.

  Only, of course, the invincible son of a bitch had lived.

  “I was in Saigon to stop the assassination that night,” she said quietly. “Tam had discovered Thomas was responsible for her father’s death and tried to blackmail him into helping her get out of the country. Thomas’s answer was to hire that assassin to kill her. I didn’t know he was responsible—I only just figured that out. But I knew she was in danger. I wanted to help her, Jean-Paul. All right, I didn’t want her as a daughter-in-law, but we were close when she was a little girl. I don’t care if you don’t believe me, but I shot you because I thought you’d been a part of the killing—”

  Jean-Paul remained impassive. “I only want the Jupiter Stones.”

  Annette clenched her fists. “And revenge against me for things I’m telling you I was duped into doing to you!”

  “Not anymore. Revenge would give me little satisfaction.”

  “I made a mistake. Thomas has the stones. He’s had them all these years and he’s known you thought I had them. He’s been using us both.” She slumped, exhausted and defeated, and waved a hand in despair. “I don’t know why I’m trying to explain myself to you. I know you hate me—you deserve to. But to make amends for my own idiocy, I’ll get the stones from Thomas for you. Come to my house on the North Shore after lunch today. Let’s end this, Jean-Paul, before someone else gets hurt.”

  Jean-Paul leaned forward, his face very close to hers. “I’ll be there, Annette, but I warn you—if you do anything stupid, I’ll kill you, as I should have thirty years ago.”