by Leann Harris
After their chuckles died down, Jean-Paul cupped the back of her head. “I’m sorry, Angel, for acting like a jackass tonight. You don’t need me adding to your troubles.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she murmured, kissing her way up the side of his neck. “You’re okay, that’s all that matters.” Her fingers lightly touched his injured cheek. “Oh, Jean-Paul.”
The need to reassure herself that he was all right overwhelmed her. She had been unable to sleep, missing him, wanting to come to him, but telling herself that she had a right to her anger. Jean-Paul’s actions had been reprehensible, but when the first shot shattered the darkness, their earlier fight faded into nothingness. Priorities fell into place. All that was important was that he was alive and unharmed.
She brushed a kiss across his wounded cheek, then settled her mouth over his. The warmth of his body and the liquid heat of his lips comforted her.
He lifted his head and looked down at her. “We’re fine, chère,” he whispered tenderly, his fingers stroking through her hair. He sounded as if he thought fear was her only reason for her actions. Well, the only part fear played was helping her know what was important.
Her fingers outlined his lips. “I know.” She leaned up and kissed each eyelid. “Love me, Jean-Paul.”
He grasped her wrists, holding her hands away from his body. The fire of passion burned brightly in his eyes. “Are you sure, mon ange, this is what you want?”
He was such a good man. He could have taken advantage of the situation, capitalized on her fear, but he gave her the opportunity to think about the decision and back out.
“Let go of my hands, Jean-Paul.”
His eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he complied. Angie wrapped her arms around his neck. “This is exactly what I want.” Her mouth met his and he returned her kiss with hunger that burned into her bones.
Jean-Paul’s hands roamed up her back, molding her curves into the hard plains of his body. His arousal pressed intimately against her belly, sending rivers of liquid fire through her body. He tugged at the hem of her nightgown and she raised up to allow him to slip the garment over her head. The action pressed her hips deeper into his.
She started to lower herself again when his hands cupped her buttocks, pressing her further into him. “Ah, Angel, that is heaven.”
His lips caught the tip of her breast and sucked greedily. Angie’s hands clutched his upper arms. Her head fell back as the piercing pleasure engulfed her.
“Do you like that, mon coeur?”
She could only moan her answer. He transferred his attention to her other breast. She wanted to return the plea- sure he was giving her. Sinking her fingers into his midnight-dark hair, she pulled back his head and her mouth melded with his.
He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her panties and pulled them down her legs. She returned the favor by peeling off his briefs. His fingers wrapped around her hipbones and settled her over his waist. She looked at him in surprise.
He threw his arms wide. “I’m yours, chère. Do with me what you want.”
The notion was totally foreign to her. He wanted her to take control. She liked the idea. A saucy smile curled her lips as she leaned down and kissed him. When he tried to deepen the kiss, her mouth moved down his neck to the flat male nipples. She nipped and sucked.
She felt the muscles of his chest quiver and jump. It gave her an odd sense of power that she could affect this man as deeply as she did. Her mouth moved lower, her tongue flicking into his navel.
When she made a move to go lower, Jean-Paul’s hands caught her around her waist. “You learn quickly, Angel,” he panted. He dragged her up to straddle his hips and with a single thrust entered her.
The fire that had been building in her veins flared high. She began to move with him, her hips moving in counterpoint to his. With a last single thrust, the fiery ecstasy consumed them both, melting the two and making one.
As Angie drifted in the sweet aftermath, she finally admitted to herself that she’d fallen in love. Hopelessly in love.
Jean-Paul stirred under her. “Come, Angel. This floor is a little too hard for my old bones.”
She smiled at him. “I kind of like where I am.”
He turned, pinning her beneath him. “Maybe you’d like to be on the bottom this time. I believe I have slivers in some rather unusual places,” he added, rubbing his buttocks.
She grinned up at him. “Try me.”
He shook his head. “You certainly have blossomed, chère.” His finger ran lightly over her jawbone. “And I like the rose.” Before she could wind her arms around his neck, he stood, then scooped her up into his embrace.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To bed. I like that little backside of yours so much, I don’t want to see it hurt.”
She kissed the side of his neck. “I love you, Jean-Paul.” The words slipped out before she could think.
He glanced down at her, a sad smile on his face. “I wish it were so.”
“It is.”
He shook his head. “Tell me the same when all this is over and life has settled back to normal. Tell me then, Angeline. Tell me then.”
He didn’t give her any more time to think. He tumbled them onto the bed and he loved her with a desperate intensity that made her wonder why he didn’t believe her.
* * *
Jean-Paul studied the sleeping woman in his arms. He still could taste the fear that had raced through his veins when the lamp exploded. Their trip through the historical-society files had riled someone, Roger Boudreaux being the prime suspect. Or maybe it was Jean-Paul’s actions at dinner that had set him off.
He curled a strand of Angeline’s hair around his finger as he recalled the words she had whispered so sweetly. They had wrapped around his heart, firmly catching him as a fishing net caught crawfish.
He wished to heaven that she meant the words, but she had been through so much hell in the past week that it would have been natural to confuse her feelings of gratitude for something more than they were.
Oh, she’d been generous with herself, giving him her support when he’d learned of Edward’s betrayal, but he couldn’t allow himself to grab on to that thin thread of hope that she really loved him. Because if he did, and she later came to realize her mistake, it would rip apart his life. And this time he knew he wouldn’t survive.
* * *
Angeline leaned back against the truck seat and let the wind blow her hair loose from the barrette holding it at the back of her neck. “Henri didn’t act at all surprised to see us.”
“I think, chère, he was secretly hoping you’d come today and visit.”
She laughed, the sweet sound caressing his mind and bringing his body to life. At that moment Jean-Paul could no longer deny the truth. He loved Angeline.
“Don’t tell that to Miss Eleanor. I think she would skin me if she knew that.”
The shrill siren of a police car sounded behind them. Jean-Paul glanced in his rearview mirror and cursed. He pulled his truck over to the curb and stopped.
Dennis stomped up to the truck, looking as mean as a wounded bear. “You were speeding, hotshot. Give me your license.”
Jean-Paul fished his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans, then handed the sheriff his driver’s license. Dennis flinched when he took it from Jean-Paul’s hand.
“How fast was I going, sheriff?” Jean-Paul asked.
“Three miles over the limit.”
“That fast. My, my, a real crime wave breaking out here.”
“Shut your mouth, Delahaye,” Dennis snarled. “If I had my way, you would’ve never made it out of prison.” Dennis handed him the tablet of tickets. “Sign.”
Again Jean-Paul noticed a grimace on Dennis’s face as he moved his arm. “Something wrong with your arm?” Jean-Paul asked as he penned his name.
Dennis’s beady eyes hardened. He ripped off the ticket and gave it to Jean-Paul. “I’m gonna get you, boy,” Dennis threatened, p
ointing the tablet at Jean-Paul. “And that’s a promise. You just keep looking over your shoulder. I’ll be there.”
Jean-Paul waited until the sheriff drove off before he pulled away from the curb.
“What was that about?” Angeline asked.
“I think I know who was shooting at us last night.”
She gave him a puzzled frown, then suddenly her eyes widened. “You don’t mean the sheriff, do you?”
“Did you see the way he flinched every time he moved his arm? I nicked our shooter last night. And today Dennis has trouble moving his arm. I would’ve loved to have seen what was under his shirt. Besides, he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt. Now why would anyone wear a long-sleeved shirt on a day when the temperature’s gonna hit the high nineties, if he didn’t have something to hide, hein?”
She visibly paled. He reached over and took her hand. He refrained from mentioning that he didn’t doubt that after the blowup he’d had with Roger last night, the old goat had called the sheriff and demanded Dennis take payment out of his hide. Unfortunately, it was Dennis who had paid.
For the next few hours, Jean-Paul and Angie combed every inch of the office of the historical society. They checked every shelf, every drawer, even banged on the paneling to make sure there were no hidden compartments, but they found no backup disk. What they did discover missing were several of the files and journals Marianna had mentioned in her notes. Document file forty-two, which they needed, was one of the missing items.
Jean-Paul sat on the corner of the desk. “Well, whoever took the disk did a thorough job.”
Angie closed the old journal she held and placed it on the desk. “Why didn’t they take it all? Her files and the other disk?”
He rubbed his hand over his chin. “Maybe they didn’t want to cause too much suspicion. Who’d miss one disk and a couple of those document boxes? But if they took everything, then even Henri would’ve questioned the disappearance.”
“Which leaves us where?”
“That means, chère, we’re gonna have to read through all of Marianna’s notes and see if we can come to the same conclusion she did.”
“That sounds like a long shot, considering we don’t know what we’re looking for and we’re missing vital pieces of information.”
Jean-Paul pulled her into his arms. “You’re a sharp cookie.”
“Let’s hope so.”
He kissed her nose. “I know so.”
* * *
She wasn’t so sure by noon the next day. They’d read through most of the files and discovered nothing earth-shattering. Document file forty-two had been mentioned in reference to two other families in the parish.
Jean-Paul threw down the folder he’d been reading. “This is hopeless. I don’t see anything that would send Marianna to Edward to talk about corruption. Whatever was in forty-two is the key.”
Angie glanced at the stack of manila folders littering the coffee table. “We could go back to the historical society and see what files forty-one and forty-three contain. That might give us a reference point, to look at all these records again.”
He closed his eyes and laid his head on the sofa cushion. “That sounds as good as anything I can come up with.” His hand snaked out and he tumbled her onto his lap. “Are you ticklish?” Before she could answer, his fingers went to work on her rib cage.
“No,” she gasped, squirming and wrapping her arms protectively around her waist. “I’m not.”
His hands stilled, but there was pure devilry in his eyes. “Liar.” He whispered it so sweetly that he lulled her into a false sense of security and she relaxed her arm. His lips hovered over hers, then his fingers struck, tickling her on each side.
“Jean-Paul,” she squealed. “Stop.” She playfully slapped away his hands. “Stop it or I’ll—”
His hands slid up from her waist to rest beneath her breasts. “What will you do, chère?” He leaned forward, his mouth resting against her ear. “I hope it is very naughty.”
She pulled back and opened her mouth to reply.
“Excuse me. I hope I’m not intruding.”
Angie immediately recognized Guy through the screen door. Jean-Paul muttered a low curse, and she wanted to faint from embarrassment at being caught in such a position.
Her cheeks flaming, Angie jumped off Jean-Paul’s lap. “Of course not. Please come in.” She hurried across the room and opened the door.
The slight flush on Guy’s face told her he was as flustered as she was.
“I came by today to tell you how sorry I was about how things turned out at dinner.”
He looked so lost and forlorn that Angie couldn’t be angry with him. He wasn’t as strong a man as Jean-Paul or Roger. That much had been made painfully clear the other night. But that didn’t mean Guy was a bad man. Angie felt sorry for him, caught in a power struggle between the other two men.
“Don’t worry about it.” She started to say it wasn’t his fault, but she didn’t want to point a finger at Jean-Paul. He had his reasons for acting as he had.
“I was hoping you’d allow me to redeem myself with lunch today.” Guy glanced at Jean-Paul. “You are invited too.”
Jean-Paul shook his head.
“You don’t have to worry,” Guy hastily added. “My father has gone to Morgan City for a friend’s birthday bash, and Catlin is in New Orleans shopping.”
Jean-Paul looked from Angie to Guy, then back again. “You two go on. You need to get acquainted without any interference or interruptions.”
Angie knew he was giving her the chance to talk to her father one-on-one. She also realized how much it cost Jean-Paul to yield. She walked over to him and kissed his cheek. “Thank you for understanding,” she murmured in his ear. “And don’t worry. I have on the Saint Christopher medal. I’ll be safe.”
* * *
Jean-Paul let himself in the office of the historical society and went straight to the shelf that held the document file boxes. He pulled out box forty-one. Miscellaneous documents filled the box. Marriage certificates, birth and death records, deeds and various legal papers from the ninteen-twenties.
Forty-three held the same sort of items from the nineteen-forties. Which meant box forty-two must have held papers from the thirties. He replaced both boxes on the shelf. What had happened in this parish in the thirties? And what did the Roucheaux, McKays and Saddlers have in common except that they were poor?
Poor with oil pumps on their land.
Excitement raced through Jean-Paul. Roger Boudreaux had signed everyone in the parish to leases in the thirties.
Damn, why hadn’t he thought about that before? Whatever Marianna discovered, it had to do with those leases.
He had to get his hands on copies of those leases, and the logical place to find them was in the office of conveyances, where all mineral and oil leases for the parish were filed.
He took a deep breath to clear his head. He needed a strategy. It was Sunday and the courthouse was closed. Also, he didn’t trust Lawrence Rush, who was in charge of the office of conveyance. The man liked money more than personal honor. So where did that leave him?
M’dame Eleanor. She would have a key and would let him in without alerting Roger or his cronies.
Amazingly enough, M’dame Eleanor eagerly embraced Jean-Paul’s idea.
“That Lawrence.” She clicked her tongue in disgust. “He goes whichever way the wind is blowing,” she said as she opened the office door on the registry of conveyances. “Who knows what he’s hiding?”
Jean-Paul closed the door behind them and turned on the light.
“All right, young man, what do you wish to see?”
“I want to see the oil leases on the Roucheaux, McKay and Saddler land. Also, I should check the lease on the Courville land.”
M’dame Eleanor retrieved the black ledger where all the leases were recorded. “This J-Book will tell us in what file the leases are located,” she said, setting it on the counter that separated the reception ar
ea from the work area. Pulling her reading glasses from her skirt pocket, she opened the book and quickly located the oil leases Roger had filed in the thirties. Her finger ran down the page.
“Here we are. McKay. File 334. The Roucheaux and Saddler leases are in the same file, according to this.”
As Jean-Paul waited for her to find the file, he silently read through the information on the page. Owner of the land: McKay. Length of the lease: eighty years. Person taking out the lease: Roger Boudreaux.
Eighty years...that didn’t seem right. Twenty-five, fifty, maybe even one hundred years, but eighty?
He looked closer. The shape of the eight looked odd. It looked as if someone had tried to make the number five into an eight.
“Ah, here it is,” she crowed with delight, holding up her find.
“M’dame, if you were negotiating an oil lease, how many years would you make it for?”
She put the file on the counter. “Who can say?”
“Just guess.”
Shrugging, she said, “Fifty years.”
“Not eighty?”
“Non.”
Jean-Paul pointed to the entry in the ledger. “Do these numbers look like they’ve been doctored to you?”
Squinting, she studied the numbers. “Yes. That’s not how Lilly made her eights. Look.” She flipped back several pages until she came across entries made in August. “See,” she said, pointing to the number. “Lilly was the clerk who recorded leases in the twenties and thirties. See how the top circle ends with a little comma on the inside? Nothing like this—” she turned back to the original page “—forgery.”
“Let’s compare it to the file.”
Jean-Paul eagerly opened the folder and spread the leases on the counter. In addition to the three leases he wanted to see, there were ten more leases on property that had proven to be unproductive. They all were for eighty years.
“Something is foul here, Jean-Paul.”
“Why do you say that, M’dame?”
“Because these duplicate leases are typed. At that time, there was not a typewriter here in the courthouse. If you’ll look at other documents done during that time, you will find they were handwritten. We got our first typewriter in 1934.”