by Nora Roberts
“Oh.” She looked around the sun-washed kitchen as though she’d never seen it before. “I should answer it?”
He nearly dragged her back. Her flushed, bemused expression had his fingers tightening convulsively on her arms. Carefully, he released her. “Yeah.” Disoriented, Laurel walked away. He’d come too close, Matt thought, too damn close to yanking her to the kitchen floor and taking her like a maniac. He turned to the hissing coffeepot, not sure whether to be grateful to whoever was banging on the door, or to murder them.
Laurel felt as though she’d been swimming underwater and had come up much too quickly. Drunk? She pressed her fingers to her temple as she reached for the doorknob. Whatever the martinis had started, Matt had finished. She shook her head, hard, and when it didn’t clear, gave up and opened the door.
“Laurel, you took so long answering I nearly went away.” Jerry Cartier, three-piece-suited and vaguely annoyed, stared at her,
“Oh.” Her blood was cooling, but the alcohol still swam in her head. “Hello, Jerry.”
Because she stepped back, swinging the door wider, he came in. “What were you up to?”
“Up to?” she repeated . . . and remembered. Laurel let out a long breath. “Coffee,” she murmured. “I was making coffee.”
“You drink too much coffee, Laurel.” He turned as she closed the door and leaned back on it. “It isn’t good for your nerves.”
“No.” She thought of Matt. She hadn’t realized she had so many nerves until a few moments ago. “No, you’re probably right about that.” She straightened as it occurred to her what Jerry would have to say if he realized just what she’d been drinking, and how much. The last thing she wanted was a twenty-minute lecture on the evils of alcohol. “Sit down, Jerry,” she invited, thinking just how much she wanted to lie down—in a dark room—in silence. If she were lucky, very lucky, she could cross the room and get to the sofa without weaving. She took one hesitant step.
“You’re not ready.”
Laurel stopped dead. He was right, of course, but crawling wasn’t such a good idea. Neither was standing still. “Ready?”
“For dinner,” Jerry told her as his brows drew together.
“Hello, Jerry.” Carrying a tray of steaming coffee and cups, Matt strolled in.
Jerry crossed one leg over the other. “Matthew.”
After setting down the tray, Matt walked casually to where Laurel still stood. “Condemn any good buildings lately?” In an unobtrusive move, he took Laurel’s arm and led her to the couch. As she sank down, she shot him a grateful look.
“That’s not my jurisdiction,” Jerry stated, lacing his fingers together. “The mayor did tell me just the other day about a building on the other side of town. Appalling plumbing.”
“Is that so?”
“Coffee?” Laurel interrupted. Martinis or not, she couldn’t sit there and let Matt calmly execute an unarmed man. Besides, if she didn’t have some coffee, she was going to quietly lay her head on the arm of the sofa and doze off.
“Only a half cup,” Jerry told her. “Are you sure you should have any more?”
She made a grab for the handle of the pot and prayed she could pour it. “I haven’t had any for hours.”
“So, how was your day, Jerry?” Matt asked him as he closed his hand over Laurel’s on the handle. Hearing her small sigh of relief, he nearly grinned.
“Busy, busy. There never seems to be enough hours to get everything done.”
Matt’s gaze slid down to Laurel’s, brushing over her mouth. “No, there doesn’t.”
Jerry reached for the cup Laurel passed him and had to lean to the right when she missed his hand. “Laurel,” he began, giving her an oddly intent look. “Have you been . . . drinking?”
“Drinking?” She set her heel down hard on Matt’s foot when he chuckled. “Jerry, I just poured.” Lifting the cup to her lips, she drank half the contents. “Why did you say you’d dropped by?”
“Dropped by?” He shook his head as Laurel leaned back, clutching her cup in both hands. “Laurel, we’re supposed to go out to dinner.”
“Oh.” He was probably right, she thought vaguely. If Jerry said they had a dinner date, they had a dinner date. He kept a very precise appointment book.
“Laurel and I are working on a story,” Matt put in more for his own amusement than to rescue Laurel. “We’ve run into some overtime on it. As a matter of fact, we were, ah, covering ground when you knocked on the door.” Not by the slightest flicker did he betray the fact that Laurel’s heel was digging into his foot. “Reporting really does interfere with a social life.”
“Yes, but—”
“You know what it’s like to be on deadline, I’m sure.” Matt gave him an easy smile. “Laurel and I probably won’t have time for anything more than a cold sandwich. We could be tied up on this for . . . weeks. You’ll give Jerry a call when things calm down, won’t you, Laurel?”
“What? Yes, yes, of course.” She drained her coffee and wished he’d go so that she could pour another. “I’m awfully sorry, Jerry.”
“I understand. Business before pleasure.” Matt stopped himself before he choked over his coffee. Jerry rose, setting down his cup before he straightened his tie. “Just ring my office when things are clear, Laurel. And try to cut down on that coffee.”
“Mmm-hmmm” was the best she could manage as her teeth were digging into her bottom lip. The door closed quietly behind him. “Oh, God!” Not sure whether she wanted to laugh or scream, Laurel covered her face with her hands.
“Tacky, Laurellie,” Matt murmured, pouring out more coffee. “Leaving it to me to untangle you.”
It would be satisfying to throw the coffee in his face, but she needed it too much. “With everything that happened today—the story,” she emphasized firmly when his grin broke out, “I simply forgot about dinner. And I didn’t ask you to untangle me.”
“That’s gratitude.” He tugged on her hair until she looked at him. “Not only do I let you break three of my toes, but I help you cover up your . . . impaired condition from your boyfriend.”
“He’s not.” Laurel drank cup number two without a pause, then set down the cup with a snap.
“You’re stringing him along.”
“That’s not true.” She started to rise, found it took too much effort and stayed where she was. “We have a perfect understanding. We’re friends. Damn it, he’s a very nice man, really, just a little . . .”
“Don’t say harmless again, the poor guy doesn’t deserve it. Then again, he doesn’t seem to be in danger of having his heart broken.”
“Jerry doesn’t see me that way,” Laurel began.
Looking at her, sulky-mouthed and sleepy-eyed, Matt leaned closer. “In that case, you can leave the pompous off of my earlier description of him.”
Laurel put her hand firmly on his chest. She wasn’t about to risk letting the room spin around her again. “I’m going to bed.”
The corner of his mouth tilted. “I love aggressive women.”
“Alone,” Laurel told him, fighting back a laugh.
“Terrible waste,” he murmured, taking the hand she held against him to his lips. Turning it over, he brushed them over her wrist and felt the wild beat below the skin.
“Matthew, don’t.”
He looked at her. It would be easy, so very easy. He had only to draw her to him and kiss her once; they both knew it. She wanted, he wanted, yet neither of them was quite sure how it had come to this. “Years from now, I’m going to hate myself for handling it this way,” he murmured as he rose. “I’d take some aspirin now, Laurellie. You’re going to need all the help you can get with that hangover in the morning.”
Cursing himself all the way, Matt walked to the door, then shut it firmly behind him.
Chapter 5
“Damn you, Bates.”
Laurel stared at the pale, wan reflection in her bathroom mirror while hammers pounded dully in her head. Why did he have to be right?
She deserved it. Laurel downed the two aspirins and shuddered. Anyone who drank four martinis in an afternoon deserved what she got. She might have accepted it with some grace if he just hadn’t been right.
It didn’t help her mood that she could remember what had happened after the drinking. She’d practically thrown herself at him. God, what a fool! He wasn’t going to let her forget it. Oh, no, he’d tease and torment her for months. Maybe she deserved that, too, but . . . Oh, Lord, did she have to remember how wonderful it had been, how unique? Did she have to stand here knowing she wanted it to happen again?
Well, it wouldn’t. Dragging both hands through her hair, she willed the pounding in her head to stop. She wasn’t going to fall for Matthew Bates and make an idiot out of herself. She might be stuck with him on the story, but personally it was going to be hands off and keep your distance. She’d chalk up her reaction to him to an excess of liquor. Even if it wasn’t true.
With a sigh, Laurel turned toward the shower. She’d do the intelligent thing. She’d soak her head. As she reached for the tap, the pounding started again—at the front door and inside her temples. Whoever it was deserved a slow, torturous death, she decided as she trudged out to answer.
“Good morning, Laurellie.” Matt leaned against the doorjamb and grinned at her. His gaze slid down her short, flimsy robe. “I like your dress.”
He was casually dressed, as always, but fresh and obviously clearheaded. She felt as though she’d walked through a desert, eating a few acres along the way. “I overslept,” she muttered, then folded her arms and waited for him to gloat.
“Had any coffee yet?”
She eyed him warily as he closed the door. Maybe he was just waiting for the perfect moment to gloat. “No.”
“I’ll fix it,” he said easily and strolled into the kitchen.
Laurel stared after him. No smart remark, no smirk? How the hell was she supposed to keep up with him? she demanded as she dragged herself back to the shower.
She’d been ready to battle, Matt thought as he reached for the glass container of coffee. And all she really wanted to do was crawl back into bed and shut down. A hell of a woman, he thought again. A great deal like her grandmother.
His thoughts traveled back to the evening before. Because he’d known better than to stay in his apartment, one thin wall away from Laurel, Matt had gotten in his car. A little legwork to take his mind off the woman. Olivia Armand would be a fount of information, and her opinion of the Trulanes was bound to be less biased than Laurel’s.
Olivia greeted him on her terrace with a look that held both speculation and pleasure. “Well, well, now the evening has possibilities.”
“Miss Olivia.” Matt took the gnarled, ringed hand in his and kissed it. It smelled of fresh jasmine. “I’m mad about you.”
“They all were,” she said with a lusty laugh. “Sit down and have a drink, Matthew. Have you softened that granddaughter of mine up yet?”
Matt thought of the fiery woman he’d held only an hour before. “A bit,” he murmured.
“You’re slow, boy.”
“I’ve always thought a man’s more successful if he covers all the angles first.” He handed her a drink before he sat down beside her.
“Not joining me?”
“It’s hard enough to keep a clear head around you.” While she laughed, he sat back and lit a cigarette. “Where’s Susan?”
“Upstairs, being shocked by my journals.”
“What’d you think of her?”
Olivia took a slow sip. Little fingers of moonlight danced over the diamonds on her hands. Insects buzzed around the hanging lantern by the door, tapping against the glass. The scents from the garden beyond rose up lazily. “Bright girl. Well-bred, a bit shaky and sad, but strong enough.”
“She claims her sister was murdered.”
The thin white brows rose, more, Matt observed, in thoughtfulness than surprise. “So that’s what this is all about. Interesting.” She took another sip, then tapped her finger against the glass. “The poor girl was bitten by a snake in the swamps behind Heritage Oak. Tell me why Susan’s thinking murder.”
In the brisk, concise style he used in his reporting, Matt ran through the entire events of the day. He saw a bat swoop low over the trees, then disappear. The air was full of the sounds of crickets and the occasional croak of a frog. Palm fronds rustled overhead. The breeze carried a teasing scent of magnolia. A long way from New York, he mused.
“Not as cut and dried as the Trulanes like to keep things,” Olivia commented. “Well, Matthew, murder and mystery keep the blood moving, but you’re not telling me this to keep my arteries from hardening.”
He grinned. She could always make him grin. Leaning back, he listened to the sounds of the night. “I know the general background on the Trulanes, and Laurel gave me a few more details—through rose-colored glasses,” he added.
“A touch of jealousy’s a healthy thing,” Olivia decided. “Might get you on your horse.”
“The point is,” Matthew said dryly, “I’d like you to tell me about them.”
“All right. We’ll walk in the garden. I get stiff sitting so long.”
Matt took the hand she held out and helped her up. She was tiny; it always surprised him. She walked lightly. If there was any pain or discomfort in her joints, she gave no sign of it. He hadn’t lied when he’d said he was mad about her. Within five minutes of their first meeting, he’d fallen for her, and had had no trouble understanding why she’d been the most sought-after girl, then woman, then widow, of the parish.
“Marion was finished in France,” Olivia began. “There were rumors of an ill-fated love affair, but she’d never talk about it. She’s quiet, but she’s sharp, always was. For all her good works and elegant airs, she’s also a snob. I’m fond enough of the girl, but she’s not her mother, as some would like to think.”
Matt laughed, patting the hand tucked through his arm. “I knew I could count on you for a straight shot, Miss Olivia.”
“Can’t stand pussyfooting around. Now Charles was like his mother,” she continued. “Good-looking boy, head in the clouds. But he had talent. He was shy about it, but he had talent. One of his watercolors hangs in my sitting room.”
Then he was good, Matt mused. Olivia might buy the attempt of a poor neighbor, but she wouldn’t hang it in Promesse d’Amour unless it deserved it.
“I was disappointed in him for running off with his brother’s wife.” Catching the ironic look in Matt’s eye, she wagged a finger at him. “I have my standards, Yankee. If Louis’s wife and brother wanted each other, they should have been honest about it instead of sneaking off like thieves in the night. Louis would have dealt with it better.”
“Tell me about him.”
“Laurel’s first love.” She cackled at Matt’s expression. “Simmer down, Matthew, every woman’s entitled to one fairy tale. When he was young, he was a vibrant, exciting man. He was devoted to his family, and his family’s business, but he wasn’t serious or stuffy. I’d never have abided that. I believed he loved his first wife deeply and the betrayal destroyed him. It didn’t help when the rumors started that she’d been carrying Charles’s baby.”
“Did you ever meet Anne Trulane?”
“No, Louis was selfish with her, and I felt he was entitled.” She sighed and broke a blossom from an azalea. “They were planning a party in September. Marion told me it was going to be a huge, splashy affair, introducing Anne to New Orleans society. She said the poor child was torn between excitement and terror at the idea. I admit, I was looking forward to getting a close look at her. They said she resembled Elise.”
“They?” Matt prompted.
“The servants. Bless them.” She turned back toward the house, fleetingly rememberin
g a time when she could have walked and run in the garden for hours. “If I want to know what’s going on at Heritage Oak, I ask my cook. She’ll tell me what their cook told her.” She gave a gusty sigh. “I love espionage.”
“You remember what Elise Trulane looked like?”
“My memory’s twice as old as you are.” She laughed, relishing rather than regretting the years. “More.”
Despite the lines time had etched, her face was beautiful in the moonlight. The hand under his was dry with age. And strong. “Miss Olivia, where can I find another like you?”
“You’ve got one under your nose, you slow-witted Yankee.” She settled back in her chair with a little sound of pleasure. “Ah, Susan, come out.” She gestured to the woman hesitating at the garden doors. “Poor child,” she said to Matt, “she’s still blushing. How did you like my journals?”