Angel at Risk

by Leann Harris

  “I’m just grand, Guy,” he said with forced cheerfulness.

  After a long, awkward silence, Guy said, “Why don’t we go inside? Father and Catlin are waiting.” He offered Angeline his arm. Much to Jean-Paul’s disgust, she took it and entered the house.

  “Only for you, Angel,” Jean-Paul muttered under his breath as he followed, “would I endure having dinner with these snakes.”

  Guy led them inside to the formal living room. Catlin sat on a white French-provincial couch, a cocktail in her well-manicured hand. Roger stood by the window, his hands folded behind his back, an appraising look in his eye.

  “Angeline, you remember my father, Roger,” Guy said, escorting her to Roger’s side.

  “Yes.” She nodded, but offered no other gesture of polite meeting. No smile, no extending of her small hand.

  Good girl, Jean-Paul cheered in his head. Make him squirm.

  “I’m glad you consented to join us tonight. It will give me an opportunity to apologize for my outrageous behavior in court the other day. You came as somewhat of a surprise.”

  I’ll just bet, Jean-Paul thought. Her appearance shot your plans for Marianna’s property all to hell.

  “I’m afraid we’ve all been surprised by the revelations of this past week,” Angeline supplied. “I didn’t know until I arrived here that I was adopted.”

  The muscles of Roger’s neck tensed, but the old wolf managed a smile.

  Guy guided Angeline toward the couch. “And you’ve also met my wife, Catlin.”

  Catlin set her drink on the coffee table. “Of course we’ve met,” Catlin gushed. “And much to my chagrin, it was under the worst of circumstances. I hope you’ll overlook my words that night. I was afraid you might try to use your relationship with Guy to enrich your bank balance.”

  “That’s quite enough, Catlin,” Guy commanded.

  She put on a pouty moue. “But dear, I was only trying to protect you.”

  “We all know what you were trying to protect,” Jean-Paul groused.

  The older woman glared daggers at him. He didn’t care one whit. It was Angeline’s look of displeasure that reminded him that he needed to behave.

  A young woman dressed in a maid’s uniform appeared at the doorway. “Mr. Boudreaux, dinner.”

  Angie breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe if everyone was eating, they wouldn’t spar with each other. Again, Guy offered her his arm. She glanced over her shoulder at Jean-Paul, silently pleading with him to understand, then looped her arm around Guy’s. The other three followed them into the dining room.

  A massive chandelier hung over the table, the hundreds of prisms shooting colored rays of light all over the room. Angie stopped, awed by the sight. “That’s so beautiful. I’ve never seen one so...”

  “Gaudy?” Jean-Paul whispered as he walked by her.

  “You like that?” Roger asked, strolling into the room. “I designed it myself. It was made in Paris and shipped over here right before France fell in World War II.”

  “It was one of the first things I fell in love with when I came here as a new bride,” Catlin remarked. “It spoke of distinction and the uniqueness of this family.”

  Jean-Paul rolled his eyes but thankfully said nothing. Of course, Catlin’s words said it all. The Boudreaux family had money, and Catlin liked that, as evidenced by the enormous diamond gracing her right hand.

  Angie shook her head. She was beginning to think too much like Jean-Paul. Her innate sense of fairness screamed that she needed to give these people a chance to prove themselves and not take for granted Jean-Paul’s judgment on their character. But when had he been wrong before, hein?

  Hein? Hein? He really was turning her into a Cajun.

  “You’re smiling, Angie,” Roger said. “Care to share what it is that amuses you?”

  “Father, don’t put her on the spot like that,” Guy protested.

  “I want to know, too,” Catlin chimed in.

  All eyes were fixed on her. “I’m pleased to be here, that’s all.”

  Sweet liar, Jean-Paul mouthed.

  Her words seemed to smooth over the rough spot and dinner went amazingly well. Guy told Angie about his law practice and mentioned his upcoming bid for the governorship of Louisiana. Angie turned to Roger. “I’m sure you’re very proud of Guy.”

  “Yes. The governorship has been our goal for a long time.” The dark hunger in Roger’s eyes made her shiver. He wanted power.

  Angie glanced at her father. His face showed no emotion, as if he feared he would break down into tears if he let himself feel.

  “Yeah, it’s amazing what money can buy,” Jean-Paul said. “But that’s what you use money for, isn’t it, Roger?”

  “Jean-Paul,” Angie gasped, reaching out to him.

  “No, Angeline. You need to understand.” He pinned Roger with a burning glare. “Why don’t you share with your granddaughter how you made your money?”

  Roger brought his cup of coffee to his lips, sipped, then set it in the saucer. “I made my money on oil-and-gas leases in this and several parishes around here.”

  “And?” Jean-Paul prompted.

  Roger shrugged. “And my business dealings proved profitable.”

  Jean-Paul grasped Angie’s arm, pulling her around in her chair to look at him. “He ran through the parish, acting like a savior, buying the leases dirt cheap. It was the Depression and people thought he was an angel sent from heaven to rescue them from starving. Within weeks of his buying the last lease, oil was discovered in the next parish.” Jean-Paul threw a razor-hard glare at Roger. “He spent the rest of the Depression getting rich, while everyone else got poorer and poorer.”

  Angie pulled her arm free of Jean-Paul’s grasp. Roger sat calmly, drinking his coffee. Guy turned pasty white and downed in one gulp the contents of the highball glass in front of him. Catlin’s hand tightened around the fork she was using to eat her red velvet cake.

  “Is that not so, Roger?” Jean-Paul demanded.

  Roger toyed with his water glass, an air of unconcern resting on his shoulders like a cloak. “Yes, it’s true. I was lucky.”

  “I’d bet a thousand dollars that you had a geological report in your hot, little hands before you made any of those offers.” Jean-Paul’s eyes narrowed and he tapped his finger against his mouth. “Could be you even knew someone with the oil company, and he told you about what they suspected.”

  The tension vibrating throughout the room thickened until the air was hard to breathe.

  Roger crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Yours is a vivid imagination. You should write fiction. Or—” he leaned forward “—if you think you can back up your lies, have the attorney general charge me with something. Otherwise, quit accusing me of crimes. I could always sue you for slander.”

  Jean-Paul stood. His chest heaved in and out like bellows. Placing his hands on the table, he pierced Roger with a look of pure hatred. “But if I did, you’d simply buy off the state attorney like you did before. Or would you kill me, like you did Marianna? What did she have on you, you old bastard, that you needed to kill her?”

  Roger stood. “I don’t have to take talk like that, in my own house, from an ex-con who’s the son of a drunk.” Stepping behind his chair, he ordered, “Get out.”

  Jean-Paul straightened, but the air of menace clinging to him made Angie want to flinch. “You have nothing to fear from me, Roger. Physically, that is. I wouldn’t lay a hand on an old man like you. But if I can find evidence to ruin you, I’ll do it. That’s a vow. And I won’t stop until I’m dead or you’re indicted.”

  A deadly silence fell over the room.

  Angeline tugged on Jean-Paul’s shirt. “Let’s leave.”

  He looked down into her face and seemed to come back to himself. Although some of the roiling anger left his eyes, there remained a burning fire. He nodded, turned and headed out.

  Angie shot Guy a look of regret.

  “Go,” he softly commanded.

/>   With a parting nod, she hurried after Jean-Paul. He was waiting for her in his truck, the engine idling, his hands clenched around the steering wheel, his suit jacket and tie lying on the seat. She barely had time to close her door before Jean-Paul hit the accelerator and careened away from the curb.

  Angie clamped her mouth closed to keep from shouting at him. She wanted to be in control of herself, not a raving lunatic, when she took him to task for his behavior at dinner.

  He raced through town a good thirty miles over the speed limit. The second corner he skidded around broke Angie’s control. “Stop!” she yelled.

  He didn’t react. She grabbed the sleeve of his shirt and tugged. “Stop, right this minute.”

  After a quick glance at her, he slowed the truck and stopped by a curb. Immediately, Angie jumped out and slammed the door with enough force to make the old Ford rattle.

  “What do you think you’re doin’?” he asked, one hand on the seat bracing him so he could see out the passenger window. “Get back in the truck.”

  “No.” She began to walk.

  She heard him get out. “Angeline, it’s another two miles to the cutoff to my house. You can’t walk, chère. It’s dark and someone might not see you on the road.”

  She whirled on him. “You’re worried about my safety?” She poked him in the chest with her finger. “I’m probably safer walking than riding with you, Mr. Delahaye. I’d have been safer going over Niagara Falls in a barrel than riding with you.” She spun around and started off.

  Jean-Paul snagged her wrist, whirling her back to face him. “I’m sorry, Angeline. I was driving like a madman. Come back to the truck. I promise to drive at a normal speed.”

  Angie looked around at the dark and unfamiliar landscape. Her anger at Jean-Paul’s behavior hadn’t lessened, but it would be stupid to wander around blindly on this road. “All right,” she reluctantly agreed.

  “Good.” He tried to slip his arm around her shoulders but she stepped away from him. He studied her in the beam from the headlights. “So, I’m gonna catch hell from you for my conduct at the mansion, hein?”

  “Don’t you agree that your manners were sadly lacking? To insult your host like that was inexcusable. Last I heard, Emily Post didn’t condone accusing your dinner host of murder.”

  “Non, chère. What is inexcusable is how Roger Boudreaux feeds on the misfortune of others. He’s an evil man and so far he has been rewarded for his wickedness. Non, I don’t apologize for standing up to wrong. If more people did it, this world would be a better place. Then men like Roger wouldn’t get away with murder.”

  The rage burning her brain ate up all her caution. She took a step toward him, her hand resting on her hips. “Are you saying that I’m one of those people who allow evil men to rule? That I just turn a blind eye to their wrong deeds? Is that what you’re saying to me, Jean-Paul? Tell me, is that what you’re saying?” She shook with the tremors of anger and hurt.

  He ran his fingers through his dark hair. “Non, chère. Me, I’m just crazy with the fury that man creates in me.”

  “He baits you, you know that?”

  Jean-Paul kicked a rock out of the road. “Mais sho’, I know. ‘Course, he likes a good fight now and then. It’s sure that Guy don’t give him no back talk.”

  “Why are you always down on my father?”

  “Because Guy is a gutless wonder. He’s never once in his lifetime stood up to his papa.” He spat the last word, as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

  “Maybe if he had someone to believe in him, he could.”

  “He had Marianna, and he threw his chance away.”

  A car sped by, honking its horn.

  “Come, let’s get in the truck before someone runs us down.”

  Silently she followed him and got into the cab. They said nothing else until they were inside Jean-Paul’s house. He took a sheet and pillow from the hall closet and set them on the couch.

  “I think I’d better sleep here,” he said.

  “I think you’re right.”

  But as she walked to the bedroom, an overwhelming sense of loss clutched her heart. She had every right to be enraged over his behavior. Too bad her heart didn’t agree.

  Chapter 17

  Jean-Paul punched his pillow in a vain attempt to make it more comfortable, then lay back down. Fed up with sleeping with his knees under his chin, he straightened his legs. His feet hung off the end of the couch.

  Folding his hands behind his head, he stared at the ceiling. Well, he had certainly handled tonight’s engagement with all the finesse of an ape. No, that was wrong. He’d read somewhere that apes were very social creatures and acted according to a specific code. Which meant he’d acted worse than an ape. And look where it had landed him—out on the couch, aching for the woman in the next room.

  He groaned and covered his eyes with his arm. Why couldn’t Angel see her father for what he was? And why did she insist on defending him?

  Maybe because Guy was her last living parent, logic told him, and she wanted to hold on to him no matter what. Or maybe she was the kind of person who judged others on their actions, and so far she had no basis on which to judge Guy. The thought comforted him.

  He turned his head to the side and saw the box containing Marianna’s files. There was something bothering him about that missing disk. Wasn’t it standard practice to make backup disks?

  Jean-Paul heard the floorboard in the bedroom creak. So Angeline couldn’t sleep either. He got up and padded to the door.

  “Angeline?” he called through the closed door.

  He heard her walk to the door, then pause. He held his breath, praying that she would give in to her heart. Slowly the door opened and she peered out at him. Her gaze slid down his body, stopping at his briefs. Her eyes widened when his body stirred to life.

  The darkening of her blue eyes gave him satisfaction, and he had to hold himself in check not to snatch her into his arms and kiss their disagreement into oblivion.

  “Yes, Jean-Paul?”

  He leaned against the door frame and gave her a smile. “Since I couldn’t sleep, I got to thinking about the missing disk. Don’t you think Marianna would’ve made a backup disk of her work? I mean, wouldn’t you?”

  Her expression perked up. “Yes, I would have made a backup. Maybe that’s why her house was trashed. Someone was looking for the disk.”

  “It’s my guess that whoever searched her place didn’t find the disk. And since they couldn’t afford for you to run across such damning evidence, they set fire to the house.”

  She pulled her robe tighter around her waist, the brief flare of hope in her eyes dying. “If it was hidden in the house, it’s gone now.”

  “Or Marianna could’ve hidden that disk at the historical society, knowing it was risky to keep it at her house. Why don’t we retrieve the key from Henri tomorrow and search that office again.”

  “Okay.” Angie started to close the door but Jean-Paul grasped the edge, holding it open.

  “Angeline—”

  The lamp on the end table exploded, sending shards of glass flying down the hall. Jean-Paul felt a slight sting on his cheek. He dragged Angeline to the floor as another shot tore through the window screen and slammed into the living room wall.

  “You’re hurt,” she gasped.

  Jean-Paul wiped the blood off his cheek. “It’s just a scratch. You stay here,” he commanded her.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, laying her hand on his back as he started to crawl away.

  “To get my shotgun and level the bastard shooting at us.”

  “Be careful.”

  He gave her a short, hard kiss. “You bet, chère.”

  On his elbows and knees, he crawled to the hall closet and pulled out his shotgun and shells. He shoved several rounds into the breech and pumped one into the firing chamber. He scooted across the floor and peeked through the damaged screen. In the moonless night, he couldn’t see anything. Their sniper wasn�
�t out in the open.

  Jean-Paul fired through the opening, hoping to get the coward to return fire so he could get a bead on the man’s position.

  Immediately, his shot was returned and Jean-Paul honed in on the area. He squeezed off three rounds, peppering the area around the pecan tree in front of the house. A yelp split the night air. Jean-Paul reloaded the shotgun and waited. He strained, listening as the shooter retreated.

  He sat at the window, ready to send anything that moved to his Maker. He heard Angeline move. Turning, he watched her crouch, then run across the floor. She sat down behind him, silent for a few moments.

  “Do you think he’s gone?” she asked, a tinge of fear in her voice.

  “Yes, but I’m gonna wait here for a few minutes more to make sure we’re safe.”

  She nodded and he focused his attention on the yard beyond. After several moments of silence, she rested her cheek on his bare back. Jean-Paul nearly jumped out of his skin, stunned by her action, yet welcoming it. Her perfume, soft and flowery, floated up to tantalize him. He remembered how good she tasted, how sweet her kisses were, how her body had welcomed his.

  “Who do you think was shooting at us?” she whispered. “And why?”

  “Damned if I know, but I’ll bet my last dollar it’s connected somehow, some way, with our little visit to the historical society this afternoon.”

  “Why do you say that?” Her warm breath fanned over his bare back.

  “The sheriff’s car was parked across the street from the society when we left this afternoon.”

  “Oh.”

  They fell silent again.

  It was torture for Jean-Paul to sit here and watch the yard and not give in to the urge to turn and pull Angeline into his arms. The minutes seemed to stretch into hours and the torture escalated. His want turned to need, and his need turned into a driving force.

  She rubbed her cheek against his back, like an affectionate kitten. Her action proved to be his breaking point. Jean-Paul carefully laid the shotgun on the floor, then turned. Before he could reach for her, she launched herself into his arms, tumbling them to the floor. Angie ended up sprawled across Jean-Paul’s chest, their legs tangled. They stared at each other for a moment, then started laughing. Tension and fear evaporated.