by Rebecca York
He’d told her about his estate and sent her pictures. But nothing had adequately prepared her for the reality of Belle Vista. She stared at the graceful stucco building with its twin curved staircases and two-story porticos surrounded by manicured gardens. In the glow from the setting sun, it looked like a jewel that had been lovingly polished.
“Your home is stunning,” she breathed.
“Thank you,” he answered, sounding genuinely pleased. “It was getting a little run-down. I wanted to restore it to its former glory.”
As they pulled to a stop in the circular drive, she glanced around at what looked like an oasis in the middle of the bayou.
“Your gardener must put in long days keeping all this up,” she said.
“I do it myself,” he answered.
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that a lot of work?”
“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow,” he answered, tense again.
“Okay,” she said carefully, wondering what was bothering him now. Maybe the same thing that was bothering her. She’d gotten physically close to him a while ago. Maybe he was having a similar reaction.
She gave him a sideways glance as he stepped out of the car and turned toward the sunset. “We made it. But you need to get into the house.”
Quickly he exited the SUV, then came around to yank open her door. “Come inside.”
After her narrow escape from death, she wanted to linger in the driveway, watch the sun set over the trees and simply enjoy the wonder of being alive. But the tension radiating from the man standing next to her seeped into the bucolic picture.
Aware once again that she was barefoot and wearing a borrowed robe, she followed him up one of the curving staircases to a wide porch where he ushered her through double front doors.
They stopped in a large center hall, lit by a lamp on a marble-topped chest. She was craning her neck, looking up at the floating staircase when the sound of footsteps made her jerk around. She saw Andre striding rapidly toward the back of the house, disappearing into the darkness at the rear of the hall.
“Wait! Where are you going?”
He left her standing where she was. Alone and a bit confused.
She waited for him to come back. But as the seconds ticked by, she figured that wasn’t going to happen.
What was wrong with him? Had he undergone a personality transplant since their e-mails? Or had he carefully hidden the real Andre Gascon from her? Perhaps he dealt with people better from long distances. Was that it?
Because she couldn’t simply stand where she was, she finally started toward the back of the house. Daylight was fading quickly and there were no windows in the hall. The farther she got from the side lights framing the front door, the more difficult it became to see where she was going.
Then a door in front of her suddenly opened, and the blast of light made her gasp.
Someone else made a startled sound, then stopped short.
“Is that you, Ms. Kirkland?”
“Yes.”
A light snapped on, and she found herself facing a short, gray-haired woman wearing a flowered house-dress over her thin body. She looked to be in her early sixties. “Are you Janet Laveren, Mr. Gascon’s housekeeper?” she asked.
“Yes.” The woman spoke slowly, clearly looking Morgan up and down in surprise. “Well, bless your heart. You look a sight. Why are you wearing that robe?”
“I know I look a bit…odd,” Morgan answered, running her hand through her hair. It was stiff from the water, and she hated to think about the picture she made. “I…I was caught in a flash flood. Mr. Gascon rescued me.”
“Thank the Lord!”
“Yes.” Her hand fluttered. “Most of my clothes were swept away by the current. So Mr. Gascon dug this out of a bag of donations he was taking to a church sale.”
Feeling as if she was babbling, yet unable to stop herself, Morgan went on quickly, “I wanted to get my suitcase out of the car, but the water blocked the road, and my car was on the other side. Then Mr. Gascon said we had to get back here before dark.”
“He would,” Janet agreed.
“Where did he go?”
The housekeeper hesitated for a moment. “He’s never available at night,” she finally said.
“Why?”
“This is his private time.”
“Oh,” was all Morgan could dredge up. She wanted to tell Janet Laveren that Mr. Gascon was turning out to be a pretty strange man. But that hardly seemed like the way to start a relationship with the only other person who lived in the plantation house.
The woman’s voice softened. “It sounds like you had a close call.”
“Yes.”
The housekeeper was inspecting her closely. “Your hair is shorter than hers,” she murmured, “But your eyes are the right color.”
“Who?”
“Sorry,” she said quickly, “I’m old, and my mind starts to wander. I’m glad you’re all right. I was told to expect you today. Then, when it got late and you didn’t show up, I didn’t know if you were still coming.”
“Well, I’m here now,” Morgan answered automatically, touching her hair, wanting to go back to the previous few moments of conversation. But she suspected she wasn’t going to get Janet to tell her what she was talking about. The woman might be old, but her gaze was piercing.
Raising her chin, Morgan went on with her own explanation. “I was hired to catalog the books in the library for Mr. Gascon,” she added, giving the cover story she’d used in town.
The woman’s gaze remained steady. “You don’t have to give me that story, child. I know why you’re really here. Andre and I discussed it.”
“Oh,” Morgan managed. Gascon hadn’t told her anyone else knew about their real arrangement. But apparently he’d taken Janet into his confidence.
“I have some seafood stew waiting on the back of the stove. You told Andre you like it.”
“Yes,” she murmured.
In fact, she and Andre had talked about food in their correspondence. She knew he loved the spicy Cajun dishes his housekeeper made. And she’d been looking forward to trying them.
She let the woman lead her down the hall. As soon as they stepped through a swinging door into the kitchen, a delicious aroma filled the air.
“It smells wonderful,” she murmured.
“I know you must be worn-out. Please sit down.” The woman gestured toward a square wooden table that looked like a restored antique.
Morgan dropped into one of the pressed-back chairs and looked around. The table might be antique, but everything else was brand-new. The large room was lined with cherry wood cabinets, the countertops were a beautifully polished granite and the restaurant-grade range was stainless steel, matching the refrigerator and the dishwasher.
Janet ladled thick red stew over fluffy white rice, then brought the bowl to the table.
“Thank you,” Morgan said, spooning some up and blowing to cool it down before tasting it.
Janet was standing watching her, pleating the edge of her apron with her hand. “How is it?”
“Delicious.” Morgan smiled, trying to put them both at ease and thinking that praising the woman’s cooking was a good way to ingratiate herself. She was hoping Janet would be a good source of information. Or was she too loyal to Andre Gascon to be entirely honest?
“What can I get you to drink?”
“Tea. If that’s not too much trouble.”
“Oh, no. Regular black tea or herbal?”
“Regular is fine.”
The woman bustled to the sink, drew water and set a kettle on the stove. Then she got out a box of tea bags—English imports, Morgan noted.
“How long have you worked for Mr. Gascon?” Morgan asked.
“Since he was a little boy.”
Morgan nodded. After eating another spoonful of stew, she asked, “So I guess you’re worried about what’s been going on in the swamp and the way the town is bla
ming the incidents on Mr. Gascon.”
“The town is making a mistake,” she snapped. “But the problem in the bayou will sort itself out.” To punctuate the statement, the kettle began to whistle, and Janet snatched it off the burner, then poured hot water over a tea bag.
“How do you take your tea?” she asked.
“Just sugar,” Morgan answered, hoping sweetened tea might soothe her.
She had taken a couple of sips when a bloodcurdling roar from outside made her go rigid. Her hand shook, and tea slopped into her saucer. Her gaze shot to Janet. Both of them had gone absolutely still, staring at each other across eight feet of suddenly charged space.
Morgan spoke first. “What was that?” she managed, thinking that her nerves of steel were being tested again.
“An animal in the swamp,” Janet answered, her voice only the slightest bit shaky.
The answer wasn’t good enough, not when goose bumps peppered Morgan’s arms. “What animal?” she pressed.
“I don’t know. I mean, Mr. Gascon and his father before him warned me to stay inside at night.”
Morgan sat at the table, her breath shallow, as she waited to hear the roar again. When the silence lengthened, she gave Janet a direct look. “I didn’t tell you everything that happened on my way from the airport. Before I arrived here, I stopped in St. Germaine to get gas. After I left town, some men from the gas station ran me off the road. That was how I happened to get caught in that flash flood.”
“Oh, my word!”
“Before the flood, an animal came out of the swamp and chased the men away. Well, not chased them, to be perfectly accurate. They saw him and ran.”
“What animal?”
“A jaguar.”
A look of pure shock sharpened Janet’s features, a look Morgan knew the housekeeper couldn’t be faking. “Are you sure?” the woman breathed.
“As sure as I can be.”
“That’s very unusual,” Janet murmured, obviously more in control now.
Morgan nodded. “What does it mean?” she asked.
The woman waited several seconds before answering. Her voice turned low and serious. “That you’re under the protection of Belle Vista.”
“How?” Morgan demanded. “I mean, I understood from Mr. Gascon that the cat was just a myth.”
“Myth or not, that cat guards us,” Janet said. Then, changing the subject abruptly, she said, “You’ve had a hard day. You’re probably tired. Let me show you to your room.”
Morgan was dying to bombard the woman with questions until she got a better answer. But she was sure she’d have to win her trust before she got the real scoop.
And to be honest, it had been a long day, and Morgan wasn’t betting on her effectiveness at subtle interrogation.
“Okay.”
As soon as she agreed, the housekeeper visibly re laxed. “I chose a lovely room for you. Let me show you upstairs.”
Morgan followed Janet up the curved staircase and down the hall to the third door on the right. The room beyond was lovely. With its canopy bed, marble-topped dresser and tall armoire, it looked like something out of a set for a Civil War movie.
No, wait. They called it something else down here. The War of Northern Aggression.
“You have a private bathroom,” Janet said, opening another door. Like the kitchen, it was very modern with a huge soaking tub, a separate shower and a large pedestal sink.
A wave of fatigue hit Morgan with a body blow, and she swayed on her feet.
Janet gave her a sympathetic look. “You must be exhausted, child. Get a good night’s rest, and we’ll see you in the morning.”
Suddenly Morgan remembered what she was wearing. Gesturing toward the cast-off robe, she said, “I— I don’t have anything else to put on.”
“I’m sure Andre can get your suitcase from the car in the morning. I hope you don’t mind sticking with what you have for now.”
Morgan did mind, but she said, “No, that’s fine.”
After the housekeeper left her alone, she washed her swamp-soaked underwear in the sink, then hung it over a towel bar before taking the fastest shower on record. She was swaying on her feet by the time she got out, toweled dry and used the hair dryer she found on one of the shelves.
She’d left the robe hanging on the back of the door, and the idea of putting it back on brought a strange, tin gling sensation to her skin. But it was either that or go to bed naked, and she certainly wasn’t going to do that in a strange house where her host had disappeared and wild animals prowled the grounds outside. What did people do if there was a fire, she wondered. Run outside and take their chances in the zoo?
The image made her giggle. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. She’d lived through a hell of a day, and she knew she was close to the edge of hysteria. She needed to sleep, then maybe she would feel better in the morning.
Snatching up the robe, she pulled it on and did up the buttons with clumsy fingers. She was in bad shape. Worse than any time she could remember in recent memory. She had never thought that she was afraid of the dark, but in this unfamiliar place, she wanted to be able to see where she was if she woke in the night, so she left the bathroom light on and left the door ajar.
Satisfied that the light wasn’t bright enough to keep her awake, she hurried across the room to the bed.
While she’d been in the bathroom, Janet had turned back the lacy spread, revealing a light blanket and crisp white sheets.
Gratefully Morgan climbed between them, made the pillows comfortable under her neck and closed her eyes.
On edge, she lay in the darkness, staring at the canopy above her head, feeling as if she’d stepped out of her old life and into another world where she had no idea what to expect from one moment to the next. It was important to think about Trevor. After he’d been killed, her grief had been like barbwire twisting in her guts. The pain had dulled over time, but she still missed him. She still knew that she’d never feel the same about any other man.
In the darkness she called up scenes from their life together. She’d brought Trevor to meet Mom and Dad. She’d always known that her churchgoing parents were protective of her. But Trevor knew how to win them over. He and Dad had gone fishing together. They’d puttered around in the garage, working on Dad’s prize 1958 Thunderbird. Trevor knew how to charm her father—and her mother, too. Every time Mom set a dish in front of him, he’d extravagantly praised her cooking. And he’d bought her candy and flowers as though she were the one he was courting.
She smiled, remembering how well he got along with people. How smart he’d been. How much fun. How he hadn’t had any of that male chauvinism that infected so many men in the intelligence services.
They’d talked about getting out of the spook business and opening their own security company. They’d talked about children, but she’d known deep down that wasn’t really what Trevor wanted. He was too much of an adventurer, while she’d secretly longed to put down roots. After he’d died, she’d thought that if she’d had his child, she wouldn’t have lost everything.
Remembering Trevor helped ground her. She was in a strange place, but she could always rely on the skills he’d helped her hone.
Outside, the sounds of the night lulled her. Nothing louder than the buzz of insects, or frogs calling to their mates.
This was Andre Gascon’s territory. He’d described it in loving detail over the past few weeks, made it come alive in her imagination. He’d said that in the quiet of the night, the sounds of the bayou were like a natural symphony. And as she lay in bed, she had to agree. He’d made her long to settle down in a place like this, if she were secretly honest.
Feeling more peaceful than she had all day, she finally fell asleep. For a while she was deep in oblivion. Then she woke up. Well, not exactly woke, because she knew she was dreaming. And once again, she knew she was someone else. A woman named Linette who lived in a small cabin at the edge of the bayou. It was like the dream she’d had when she’d fallen as
leep in the car.
“No,” she whispered. “Let me go. I don’t want to be here.”
“Yes, you do,” a voice whispered in her head. “Yes, you do. This is right for you. You’re home now.”
Whether she wanted it or not, it seemed that she had no choice. Once again she was sitting on the front porch, waiting for a man named Andre. Not the man who had requested the services of the Light Street Agency. Another man who had lived long ago. She was back there with him, in his world.
He was wearing an old-fashioned riding outfit, and he had come on horseback, along the trail from Belle Vista.
Belle Vista? The same house where Morgan Kirkland slept?
Yes.
The knowledge was confusing, unsettling. But she accepted it, just as she finally accepted who she was— Linette Sonnier.
Not just accepted. She was glad to be here. Happy.
She watched him stop for a moment at the edge of the clearing, barely visible from the porch. Then he beckoned to her before turning his horse into the shadows of the trees.
Papa was out in the bayou again. But Momma was home. Linette cast a quick glance over her shoulder, then quickly climbed down off the porch and gathered up the skirt of her long dress as she ran into the shadows, following Andre and the horse.
Finally he stopped and dismounted in a spot where the sunshine filtered through the leaves. After tying his huge black stallion to a tupelo tree, he turned to her. The horse nickered in greeting. Like his master, he knew her well. With a smile she turned to stroke her hand along his nose, wishing she had some carrots with her. “Hello, Richelieu.”
“Don’t you have a greeting for me?” the man asked, amusement in his voice.
“Oh, yes.”
He moved beside her, opening his hand, and she saw a carrot. When he offered it to her, she took it, then flattened her hand, feeding the treat to the horse.
“He likes you. So do I. Well, a bit more than like. I love you.”
The words made her heart squeeze, yet she whispered, “You shouldn’t.”
“I can’t help myself.”