The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 3

by Nora Roberts

  “No, it’s why I realized I could leave.”

  “You didn’t love her.”

  “No, I didn’t love her.”

  “It makes you sad to say that.” She drew out the bowl, got a fresh plastic fork, then handed it to him. His eyes were stormy again, she noted. With regret. “She love you?”

  “No. We looked good together. We were used to each other. She thought we wanted the same things.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “We never did. And the closer it got to D Day, the more I saw my life just . . . narrowing down until I was squeezed into this tiny slot. No room, no air. No light. I realized I felt the same way about marrying Jessica as I did about practicing corporate law, and if that was going to be the rest of my life, I could jump off a bridge or get out of the slot while I had the chance.”

  She brushed the hair from his forehead. “It was braver to get out than to jump.”

  “Maybe. This is good,” he said as he scooped up more egg. “Why don’t you have a man?”

  She cocked her head. “Who says I don’t?”

  He grabbed her hand before she could turn away. “I need to know if you do.”

  She looked down at his hand, back to his face. “Why is that?”

  “Because I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t get you out of my head, from under my skin. Because every time I see you, my heart kicks in my chest.”

  “You’re good at that, too. At saying things that stir a woman up.” If it had just been that, just a matter of being stirred by him, she might have eased in between those long legs and satisfied them both. But this wasn’t a simple man, she thought.

  Being with him wouldn’t be simple.

  “Eat your eggs,” she told him, and slid her hand free of his. “Why are you starting with the kitchen if you eat peanut butter and don’t have a single dish to your name?”

  “I’ve got dishes, just not the kind you wash. The kitchen’s the heart of a house. The house where I grew up—this big, old wonderful house with big, wonderful rooms. We had that cook, but it was the kitchen where we ended up if there was a crisis or a celebration, or just something to talk over. I guess I want that here.”

  “That’s nice.” She leaned back on a cabinet to study him. “You want to have sex with me, cher?”

  His pulse lurched, but he managed to hop nimbly off the sawhorse. “Sure. Just let me kick the plumber out.” He loved the way she laughed. “Oh, you didn’t mean right this minute. That was, what, like a true or false type of question. Let me check.” He laid his fingers on his wrist. “Yeah, I’m still alive, so the answer is true.”

  She shook her head, took the empty bowl from him and dumped it in the box he was using for trash. “You’re an interesting man, Declan. And I like you.”

  “Uh-oh. Hold on a minute.” He glanced around, picked up the screwdriver lying on a plank. “Here you go,” he said as he handed it to her.

  “What’s this for?”

  “So you can plunge it into my heart when you tell me you just want to be friends.”

  “I bet Jessica’s still kicking herself for letting you slip away. I do want to be friends.” She turned the screwdriver in her hand, then set it down again. “I don’t know yet if I just want to be friends. I have to think about it.”

  “Okay.” He took her arms, ran his hands up to her shoulders. “Think about it.”

  She didn’t try to pull away, but lifted her face so his lips could meet hers. She liked the easy glide from warmth to heat, the fluid ride offered by a man who took his time.

  She understood desire. A man’s. Her own. And she knew some of those desires could be sated only in quick, hot couplings in the dark.

  From time to time, she’d sated hers in just that fashion.

  There was more here, and it came like a yearning. Yearnings, even met, could cause a pain desire never could.

  Still, she couldn’t resist laying her hands on his face, letting the kiss spin out.

  Inside her, deep inside her, something sighed.

  “Angelina.”

  He said her name, a whisper of sound, as he changed the angle of the kiss. As he deepened it. A thousand warnings jangled in her brain and were ignored. She gave herself over for one reckless moment, to the heat, to the need. To the yearning.

  Then she drew back from all of it. “That’s something to think about, all right.”

  She pressed a hand to his chest when he would have pulled her into him again. “Settle down, cher.” She gave him a slow, sleepy smile. “You’ve got me worked up enough for one day.”

  “I was just getting started.”

  “I believe it.” She let out a breath, pushed her hair back. “I’ve got to go. I’m working the bar tonight.”

  “I’ll come in. Walk you home.”

  However calm his voice, his eyes had storms in them. The sort, she imagined, that would provide a hell of a thrill before they crashed over your head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Lena. I want to be with you. I want to spend time with you.”

  “Want to spend time with me? You take me on a date.”

  “A date?”

  “The kind where you pick me up at my door and take me out to a fancy dinner.” She tapped a finger on his chest. “Take me dancing after, then walk me back to my door and kiss me good-night. Can you handle that?”

  “What time do you want me to pick you up?”

  She smiled, shook her head. “I’m working tonight. I got Monday night off. Place isn’t so busy Monday nights. You pick me up at eight.”

  “Monday. Eight o’clock.”

  He grabbed her arms again, jerked her against him. There was no glide into heat this time, but a headlong dive into it.

  Oh yeah, she thought, it would be quite a thrill before the crash.

  “Just a reminder,” he told her.

  A warning, more like, she thought. He wasn’t nearly as tame as he pretended to be. “I won’t forget. See you later, cher.”

  “Lena. We didn’t talk about what happened upstairs.”

  “We will,” she called back, and kept going.

  She didn’t breathe easy until she was out of the house. He wasn’t going to be as simple to handle as she’d assumed. The good manners weren’t a veneer, they went straight through him. But so did the heat, and the determination.

  It was a package she admired, and respected.

  Not that she couldn’t handle him, she told herself as she got into her car. Handling men was one of her best skills.

  But this man was a great deal more complicated than he seemed on the surface. And a great deal more intriguing than any she’d met before.

  She knew what men saw when they looked at her. And she didn’t mind it because there was more to her than what they saw. Or wanted to see.

  She had a good brain, a strong back and a willingness to use both to get what she wanted. She ran her life the same way she ran her bar. With an appreciation for color and a foundation of order beneath the chaos.

  She glanced in her rearview mirror at Manet Hall as she drove away. It worried her that Declan Fitzgerald could shake that foundation the way no one had before.

  It worried her that she might not find it so easy to shore up the cracks when he walked away.

  They always walked away. Unless you walked first.

  He fell asleep thinking of Lena, and drifted into dreams of her. Strong, full-bodied dreams where she lay beneath him, moved under him with hard, quick jerks of her hips. Damp skin, like liquid gold. Dark chocolate eyes, and red, wet lips.

  He could hear the sound of her breath, the catch and release, little gulps of pleasure. He smelled her, that siren’s dance of jasmine that made him think of harems and forbidden shadows.

  He dropped deeper into sleep, aching for her.

  And saw her hurrying along a corridor, her arms full of linens. Her hair, all that gorgeous hair, was ruthlessly pinned back, and that tempting body covered from neck to ankle in a baggy dress covered
with tiny, faded flowers.

  Her lips were unpainted and pressed tightly together. And in the dream, he could hear her thoughts as if they were his own.

  She had to hurry, to get the linens put away. Madame Manet was already up and about, and she didn’t care to see any of the undermaids scurrying in the hallways. If she wasn’t quick, she could be noticed.

  She didn’t want Madame to notice her. Servants stayed employed longer when they were invisible. That’s what Mademoiselle LaRue, the housekeeper, said, and she was never wrong.

  She needed the work. Her family needed the money she could bring in, and oh, but she loved working in the Hall. It was the most beautiful house she’d ever seen. She was so happy and proud to have some part of tending to it.

  How many times had she stared at it from the shadows of the bayou? Admiring it, longing for a chance to peek in the windows at all the beauty inside.

  And now she was inside, responsible in some small way for the tending of that beauty.

  She loved to polish the wood, to sweep the floors. To see the way the glass sparkled after she’d scrubbed it.

  In his dream, she came out of the corridor through one of the hidden doors on the second level. Her eyes tracked everywhere as she hurried along—the wallpaper, the rugs, the wood and glass. She slipped into a dressing room, put the linens away in a cupboard.

  But as she turned back toward the door, something caught her attention, and she tiptoed to the window.

  He saw, as she saw, the riders approaching through the grand oaks of the allée. He felt, as she felt, a stumble of heart as her gaze locked on the man who rode a glossy chestnut. His hair was gold, and streamed as he galloped. Straight as a soldier in the saddle, with a gray coat over his broad shoulders and his black boots shining.

  Her hand went to her throat, and she thought, quite clearly, Here is the prince come home to his castle.

  She sighed, as girls sigh when they fall foolishly in love. He smiled, as if smiling at her, but she knew it was the house that caused that joy to fill his handsome face.

  With her heart pounding, she hurried out of the room, back to the servants’ door and into the maze.

  The young master was home, she thought. And wondered what would happen next.

  Declan woke with a jolt, in the dark, in the cold. He smelled damp and dust and felt the hard wood of the floor under him.

  “What the hell?” Groggy, disgusted, he stretched out a hand and hit wall. Using it for reference, he got to his feet. He felt along, waiting to come to a corner, to a door. It took a moment to register that the wall wasn’t papered.

  He wasn’t in his ghost room this time. He was in one of the servants’ passageways, as the girl in his dream had been.

  Somehow, he thought, he’d walked as she had walked.

  The idea of stumbling around in the dark until he found a way out had little appeal, but slightly more than the idea of spending the next few hours in there, waiting for dawn.

  He inched along. By the time he felt the seam of a door, he was drenched in sweat.

  He shoved his way out, offered up a prayer of thanksgiving when he gulped in fresher air, saw in the faint light the shape of the second-level corridor.

  There were cobwebs in his hair; his hands and feet were filthy.

  If this kept up, he told himself, he was going to see a doctor and get some sleeping pills. Hoping the night’s adventures were over, he went to wash, to chug down water for his burning throat. And to lock himself in the bedroom.

  7

  Declan took the load of books out of Effie’s arms, then kissed her cheek. “You didn’t have to come all this way to bring me these. I’d’ve come to you.”

  “I didn’t mind. I had a meeting cancel, and some time to spare. And the fact is . . .” Breathing slowly, she turned a circle. “I had to prove to myself I wouldn’t just turn tail and run when I started to come in this place.”

  “Doing okay?”

  “Yeah.” She let out one of those slow breaths, then nodded briskly. “Doing just fine.” Then she frowned at the shadows dogging his eyes. “Now, you, on the other hand, look worn out.”

  “Not sleeping so well.” But he didn’t want to talk about the dreams, the sleepwalking. The sounds that so often wakened him in the dead of night. “Come on back to the kitchen so I can show off. I’ve got some lemonade—not from actual lemons, but it’s wet and it’s cold.”

  “All right.” She touched his arm in a kind of silent acknowledgment and, because she understood, lightened her tone. “I’ve only got about half an hour, but I’ve got some information for you. Information and speculation. What’s going on in here?”

  She glanced into the front parlor. There were papers stacked on the floor, books spread open, a pile of paint and fabric samples.

  “My next project. I thought I’d start on a room where people could actually sit down when it was finished. What kind of information?”

  “On the Manets. Facts were easy enough,” she said as they continued through the house. “Henri Manet married Josephine Delacroix. They both came from wealthy and prominent Creole families. Henri was active politically. It’s rumored his father profited handsomely by running supplies during the War Between the States. The family became staunch Republicans during Reconstruction, and again it’s rumored they used their power and influence to buy votes and politicians. Oh my goodness, Dec, just look at this!”

  She stepped into the kitchen and beamed at the base cabinets he’d installed. “Why, they’re beautiful.”

  He hooked his thumbs in his back pockets, and his grin was crooked. “You sound surprised.”

  “Well, I am, but in a very complimentary sort of way. Remy can barely hammer a nail in the wall to hang a picture.” She ran her hand over the wood, opened and closed a door. “These are really fine. You must be so proud.”

  “I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself. Counter guys just left. I’m going with solid surface. It’ll look like slate. Ordered this giant Sub-Zero refrigerator—for reasons I’ve yet to explain to myself—and a range, a dishwasher. I’m going to make panels so all you’ll see is wood.”

  He set the books down on a sheet of plywood he had over the top of the base cabinets. “Want that lemonade?”

  “That’d be nice.” She wandered into the dining room behind him. He had two of the top cupboards finished, and a third started. “My, aren’t they going to be pretty. You must be working night and day.”

  Losing weight, she thought. Getting a gaunt look in your face.

  “Better than sleepwalking.” He was jittery, and found himself dipping hands into his pockets again to keep them still. “Tell me more, Effie.”

  “All right.” She suppressed the urge to fuss over him and went back to the facts. “The original owners had lost most of their money during the war. They hung on, selling off parcels of land, or renting it out to sharecroppers. Their politics and the Manets’ were in opposition. There was a fire, burned the house down to the ground. Wiped them out. The Manets bought the land, and had this place built. They had two sons, twins. Lucian and Julian. Both went to Tulane, where Lucian did very well and Julian majored, you could say, in drinking and gambling. Lucian was the heir, and was meant to run the family busi-nesses. Most of the Manet money had dwindled, but Josephine had a considerable inheritance. Both sons died before their twenty-third birthday.”

  Declan handed her a glass. “How?”

  “Here we have rumors and speculation.” She sipped. “The strongest speculation is they killed each other. No one seems to know why, family argument gone violent. It’s said Lucian went into New Orleans, on his mother’s orders, to fetch his brother back out of one of the brothels he frequented. Julian didn’t want to be fetched, they argued, and one of them—odds are on Julian here—pulled a knife. They fought, struggled for the knife, were both wounded. Julian died on the spot. Lucian lingered about another week, then somehow got out of bed, wandered outside, and fell into the pond, where he drowned.
”

  The pond, he thought, choked with lily pads, steaming with mists at dawn. “That had to be rough on the parents.”

  “The father’s heart gave out a few years later. Josephine lived several years more, but had a reversal of financial fortune. She had the house, some land, but had all but run out of money. Again, speculation is Julian had gambled a large part of it away, and it was never fully recouped.”

  “Remy said there was a granddaughter. Lucian’s or Julian’s?”

  “There’s speculation there, too. Though the records show that Lucian married an Abigail Rouse in 1898, and that a daughter was born the next year, there’s no record of Abigail’s death. After Lucian was killed, the Manets declaimed the child, legally. Had her written out of the will. She was, apparently, raised by the Rouses. I can’t find anything on Abigail Rouse beyond the legal records of her birth and her marriage.”

  “Maybe they kicked her out when Lucian died.”

  “Maybe. I talked to Remy about it.” She wandered toward the windows, stared out at the messy gardens. “He’s a little vague, but seems to recall hearing stories about how she ran off with another man.”

  She turned back. “Stories from the Rouse side differ sharply. They lean toward foul play. You’d get a fuller picture of her, and what might’ve happened, if you talk to someone from the Rouse or Simone families.”

  “A clear picture about a girl who ran off or died a hundred years ago.”

  “Honey, this is the South. A hundred years ago was yesterday. She was seventeen when she married Lucian. She was from the bayou. His family could not have approved of such a match. I doubt her life in this house was rosy. Running off might’ve been just what she did. On the other hand . . . I saw something, someone, in that room upstairs. I don’t believe in that sort of thing. Didn’t.” Effie fought back a shiver. “I don’t know what I think about it now, but I sure would like to find out.”

  “I’ll ask Miss Odette. And Lena. I’ve got a date with her Monday.”

  “Is that so?” The idea brightened her mood. “Looks like we’ll have more rumor and speculation.” She handed him back the glass. “I have to get on. I’m sending Remy out here tomorrow to give you a hand and keep him out of my hair. I’ve got a fitting for my wedding gown and other bridal things to take care of.”