Cole Dempsey’s Back in Town

by Suzanne McMinn

  She felt more ill by the second. She knew where he was headed. Drake’s father, the prosecutor responsible for the case against her father. “That’s a loaded charge, Cole. And all you have is a grudge and the word of an old, dying man to back you up.”

  “I have more than Randol Ormond’s word.” Suddenly the emotion in his eyes was too clear. And it wasn’t bitterness or anger. It was pain, pure and scorching. “He still had the original report in his private files, Bryn. He got his daughter to track it down and give it to me.”

  She could barely breathe. “What does it say?”

  “It says that the DNA beneath Aimee’s nails didn’t match my father’s.”

  Her head reeled, and she grappled for perspective. What if Wade really hadn’t murdered Aimee? What if everything she’d believed all these years was wrong?

  But everything else she knew about that night warred with Cole’s new evidence.

  “Mistakes happen,” she whispered. There had to be another explanation—

  “And so do lies.” His face twisted. “It’s too late for my mother’s peace of mind. I can’t do anything for her now. She died while I was in Tampa talking to Randol Ormond. But I can still clear my father’s name. Randol Ormond can’t be the only one in Azalea Bend who knew the truth about what happened. Someone else fought with Aimee that night, and that someone else fought with my father. I believe my father interrupted the killer, perhaps even tried to save Aimee. I’m here to find out who that was, Bryn. I won’t leave till I find out. And I need your help.”

  Bryn’s heart tore. What Cole was suggesting was almost too horrible to contemplate. If there had been evidence to clear Wade Dempsey, evidence that had been suppressed to justify her father’s fatal act that night…

  Blood roared in her ears. She didn’t want to believe any of this. It couldn’t be true. “I can’t help you.”

  “Oh yes, Bryn, you can.”

  She jerked back from the desk. Her chair hit the cabinet and she stood, bracing her weight as much as possible on her uninjured foot.

  “My mother has been hurt enough. I’m not going to tell the world that she had an affair with your father to clear a dead man’s name. My mother doesn’t deserve any more pain. Whatever my father did or didn’t think that night doesn’t prove anything—”

  Cole stopped her as she came around the desk. He rose to his feet, took hold of her by both arms. “That’s not what I’m asking of you, Bryn.”

  “Then what are you asking?” she demanded wildly.

  “Nobody asked the right questions fifteen years ago. I’m here to ask them now. And I want answers.”

  “So what do you need me for?” She shook off his hold. “I can’t stop you from asking questions in Azalea Bend. You want to play private detective, go for it. You don’t need me. You’ve even got this supposed forensic report. If there were scrapings taken, have them retested.”

  Something flinched in his eyes at her obvious doubt. “The scrapings taken from Aimee’s fingernails are long gone.” He watched her steadily, letting go of her arms but not moving out of her way. “They disappeared when the original report was suppressed. Someone took them, Bryn. Probably the same someone who suppressed that report. But there was someone else in Azalea Bend who had scratches on their face that night, someone else who had a reason to kill Aimee—and I’m going to find out who it was. But I don’t have a prayer without you, Bryn. You’re a Louvel. That still means something in this town.”

  “I can’t help you.” Her entire being wrenched. She’d spent years trying to put those horrible events behind her. To put Cole behind her. And now that she’d finally started building a new life, Cole was here, asking her to dredge it all up again. “I can’t relive the past.” And she couldn’t believe what he was saying. No one else could have killed Aimee that night. No one else had a reason.

  But he wasn’t about to let her off the hook. “The original scrapings may be gone, but Aimee’s body hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s in St. Valerie’s Cemetery. It’s not too late to take new scrapings—”

  Oh, God. “No!” Horror washed over her. He was sure she held the key to gaining the answers he wanted, and now she knew just what he’d do to force her to help him.

  She could see the small muscle twitching in his jaw.

  “I’m sorry, Bryn,” he said hoarsely. “I hate this as much as you do.” He lifted his hand, brushed his knuckle across her cheek. “I don’t want to see Aimee’s body exhumed. That’s not what I’m asking. There’s more than one way to find the truth. But people in this town aren’t going to answer my questions readily. They’d answer yours, though—if you help me. We can look for the truth together.”

  Together. The words seemed to hum in the air between them.

  She could so easily fall into those dark-rimmed, soulful eyes, eyes that looked no longer dead but very much alive and hurting, just as she was hurting. In spite of everything he’d just said, his agonized eyes drew her in, made her remember how much she’d loved him….

  Bellefleur receded around them, leaving only Cole’s eyes, Cole’s touch, and the memory of one steamy night by the river’s edge…

  Her legs wobbled beneath her.

  “Bryn…” Her name came out throaty, husky, and he was so close.

  Fifteen years vanished. She wanted him, just as she had in those halcyon summer gardens long ago. His lambent magic pulled her in, overwhelmed her, threatened to sweep away her reason. She should hate him right now for shattering her delicate peace, but instead she ached—had ached for him all this time….

  A pounding from the front hall jerked through her clouded senses.

  Bryn struggled for air, for rationality. She wasn’t sixteen. And he wasn’t that young boy. He was a man, indurate and cold, and he’d just threatened to have her sister’s body ripped from hallowed ground.

  She pushed past him, hobbling as fast as possible to the front door and away from Cole, snatching a pair of sandals from a hall closet on the way.

  Officer Martin Bouvier was a couple of years younger than Bryn, but she’d gone to high school with him. He came from a long line of cops, and he did his job methodically, without emotion. He recognized Cole right away.

  He took their statements, sealed up the brick and the note in plastic bags, and didn’t offer much in the way of encouragement.

  “Unless something else happens and we get more to go on, there’s probably not much we can do.” Martin watched Bryn from the torpid shadows of the portico. He nodded at Cole, standing behind Bryn in the doorway. “How long’s he staying?”

  Cole stepped forward. He was invading her space again.

  “Indefinitely,” Cole said.

  She gave him a glare, then looked back at Martin. “He registered for two weeks.”

  “You might want to consider cutting short your stay.” Martin’s voice was even, non-threatening, but she saw Cole’s eyes burn in response, the solar flares lighting within the caliginous green.

  “I’m here on business,” Cole clipped out. “And I won’t be leaving till it’s finished.”

  “Let me know if there’s any more trouble,” Martin said, directing his words to Bryn before heading down the steps.

  The sound of the cruiser’s ignition filled the thick night, then faded away as the taillights disappeared up the long drive. Bryn turned back to face Cole.

  She could still see the flash of bitter pain in his eyes from Martin’s advice. But she couldn’t afford to feel sorry for Cole. He’d chosen to come back to Azalea Bend.

  He hadn’t given her any choice at all.

  Bryn stalked past him, leaving him to shut the door. She stepped around the mess of broken glass. She was way too tired to clean it up tonight. All she wanted to do was go back to her bedroom and forget this day had ever happened.

  Ha. As if that was going to happen. But she could try. At least till morning, when she’d have to face him all over again.

  She used some plastic and tape to seal up the broke
n window, ignoring Cole. Finished, she headed for the stairs, put her hand on the balustrade.

  “Bryn.”

  She froze for a brief beat. Tension bristled behind her. She could almost feel his eyes on her back, pulling her, making her turn.

  His grim visage made her wish she’d kept right on going up the stairs. Damn him for making her feel like the bad guy in this situation. She couldn’t stop him from looking for this truth of his, whether he was right about the past or not.

  And how could he be right? Why would anyone else have killed Aimee? Nothing about his claims made sense. Wade Dempsey had been the one with the grudge against the Louvels. The one making threats. The one who’d charged back to Bellefleur drunk, looking for revenge. The one who’d been found with Aimee.

  How dare Cole expect her to help him now? She wanted to charge right back down the stairs, shake him, strike him, do something, anything.

  Then he did something. He closed the space between them in two heartbeats.

  “We weren’t finished with our conversation,” he said quietly. The bright candescence of the chandelier played unforgivingly on his features. God, he was good-looking. Always had been. But now his face was etched with experience, and yet within those austere lines she could still see the boy she’d loved.

  His tormented bayou eyes had her aching with a raw need. They’d both given in to that need once and had found something in each other that had seemed too strong to break. But the horror their families had faced had broken it. She’d stood by her family and he’d stood by his. Their youthful trust and love had been shattered irreparably. They’d tried to talk, but they’d both been too hurt and too immature to overcome what stood between them, and eventually it had turned into a bitter chasm. And she wasn’t feeling any more capable of overcoming it now. So why did she suddenly wish things could be different?

  “Maybe you weren’t.” She forced her weak knees to move. “But I am.”

  She left him at the foot of the stairs, but her room was no escape. The pull of him reached her even there. She clicked the lock on the inside of her doorknob and sank onto the night-gloam of her bed.

  Sleep was a million miles away, but somehow she found her way into its dark, anguished arms. And the nightmares of Aimee’s murder pounded through the wispy night of ghosts and fears.

  It was sometime after midnight when a shadow lunged through her bedroom window.

  Chapter 5

  Bryn was screaming.

  Cole stumbled out from the rosewood half-tester bed. Sheets tangled around his legs and he almost fell. Bracing himself, he kicked the sheets away and tore from the room. All he could think of was the scream he’d heard the night of Aimee’s death. His heart nearly stopped beating and the blood froze in his veins.

  The Oleander Room was on the same floor as the room he’d watched Bryn enter a few hours earlier. He raced down the pitch-dark corridor, willing Bryn to be all right, praying in double time. God, if he never asked for anything again, let Bryn be all right.

  By touch, he found the door. The knob turned, but the door didn’t budge. It was locked.

  No sound came from inside Bryn’s room now.

  Cole pounded on the door. “Bryn! Dammit, Bryn, are you all right? Let me in!”

  When she didn’t answer, he reared back, prepared to break the damn door down if he had to. The shadow-black of the corridor yawned open as he threw himself against the door.

  But his body didn’t hit a door. It struck something soft and sweet-smelling. Bryn.

  Together, they fell against the hard pine floor. It took a stunned beat for him to realize what had happened, that she’d opened the door just as he slammed forward.

  “Bryn, are you okay?” He pulled himself off her. Pale moonlight tracing through her windows sketched her shocked face. Her midnight eyes stared up at him.

  “There was someone in my room,” she whispered starkly.

  The double French doors to the private balcony were shut, the drapes pushed back. Cole reached the doors, flung them wide. The moist air of the Louisiana night enfolded him, soupy and warm. He saw nothing but moon and trees, and heard only the murmur of the river and the rush of leaves in the light breeze. He swung back to Bryn.

  She was on the floor, sitting with her knees pulled up, her back braced against the foot of her bed, moon-gleamed blond hair framing her frightened face. Cole knelt beside her.

  “I don’t see anyone,” he told her, crossing the room to crouch down in front of her. “Are you all right? Tell me what you saw.”

  “I thought I saw someone coming into the room,” she whispered again, and he could see tears on her cheeks. He thumbed one away, the satin of her skin cold against his touch. “Oh, God, it must have been a dream.”

  “We should call the police—”

  “No,” she cried brokenly. “I’ve had this dream before. I dream I’m in Aimee’s room and someone else is there, too—and I can’t save her. I can’t stop the shadow from taking her.”

  In the pale moon, he saw more tears. They fell wet and warm against his hands. He felt like crying, too. He didn’t want to feel this connection to Bryn, but it was undeniable.

  They shared the pain of that night, whether they wanted to or not. She’d lost her sister. He’d lost his father. And they’d lost each other. Cole closed his eyes against the sudden onslaught of despair inside him.

  Opening his eyes again, he sat down beside her, shifting to put his arm around her. He couldn’t let go of her.

  “I heard you scream,” he said.

  She drew in a shaky breath. “I’m all right. I’m sorry I woke you. I just haven’t had a nightmare like that…in a while.”

  It was because of him that she was having nightmares now. He’d brought the terrible past back to her. And he’d told himself a hundred times before he got here that he wouldn’t care, but damn it all to hell, he cared anyway.

  For the first time, he noticed what she was wearing. Or rather what she wasn’t wearing. She’d left on the slim T-shirt she’d worn earlier, but had taken off the shorts. A wisp of panty peeked from between her pale thighs in the gloaming night.

  He jerked his gaze away, back to her face. She stared back at him with her huge, hurting eyes. She was trembling and without thinking, he rubbed her back, trying to calm her down. He could feel her heart pounding.

  “I still miss Aimee,” she said then.

  Her words broke his dead heart. “I know.” He still missed his father. His mother’s loss was new and raw. “The pain never completely goes away, does it?”

  She shook her head. “We always did everything together. When we were eight, we took swimming lessons. Aimee took a bad dive and hit the board, cut open her forehead. And after that, she wouldn’t go back. She wasn’t a good swimmer, anyway, and she’d always hated the water.”

  Bryn and Aimee hadn’t been identical, either in looks or personality. They had the same coloring, but Aimee was always smaller, shyer, somehow more fragile. It had been Bryn, with her bright energy, strong body and will and flirty-innocent eyes, who had captivated his attention—and held it.

  “She cried and cried because she thought she was letting me down when I wouldn’t go on with the lessons without her,” Bryn continued. “She knew I loved swimming. But that’s the way things were with us. We did everything together, or not at all. Until that last summer.”

  Cole didn’t say anything. He couldn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say, how to comfort her. He hadn’t known fifteen years ago, either. And she hadn’t known how to comfort him. A fresh wash of hurt struck him. They’d failed each other, terribly. It hadn’t all been Bryn’s fault.

  “I loved dreams when I was a little girl,” she whispered softly. “I always had good dreams. We loved to feed the brown pelicans down by the river, and I used to have this same dream over and over where I would take Aimee’s hand and we’d fly away with them. We’d go anywhere in the world we wanted to go, then we’d come home.”

 
“The two fairy princesses of Bellefleur flying away on wings of pelicans,” Cole whispered, still stroking her back, her hair. “I can just see it.”

  A long beat passed. Her eyes seemed to search his, and he had no idea what she was looking for. She looked achingly beautiful in the gossamer-gleam of her room. She could have been sixteen, she looked so young and vulnerable suddenly.

  Then she drew in a deep, shaky breath. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

  “I’m not your enemy, Bryn.”

  Her gaze held on to him. “Then what are you?”

  As he gazed back at her, he saw realization creeping into her eyes. The tension shifted into something else, something nearly electric. And now that the fear was past, the blood thrumming through him was communicating an altogether different need. And she felt it, too. He saw her desire in the glitter of her tear-drenched eyes.

  His gaze flicked to her mouth. Her soft lips parted as if in readiness. It had been so long since he’d touched her this way. So long since he’d kissed her.

  And yet he remembered exactly how she fitted in his arms. He knew her taste, her slight sigh and the way she tipped her head to the right just as his lips closed on hers.

  Her mouth was warm and she made him think of summertime and sugarcane. He remembered her kiss, her innocence, and all these years later she was only that much more intoxicating for not being quite so innocent anymore. He deepened the kiss with all the pent-up passion he’d blocked for so long. Her hands crept up to tentatively touch his chest, and she was kissing him back. He felt the fever in her response, and heard the choked sob in her throat—and he knew she was feeling everything he was feeling. Pain and need and rightness—

  And hopelessness and grief.