On the Edge

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  “Okay,” Dwayne said.

  “It’s just that—”

  “ ‘Nuff said. A friend I respect asks somethin’ of me, he gets it.”

  “Thanks.” Celina had done a bad job of trying to burn the black underwear and silk bonds that had been in Errol’s room. Jack had already started to regret holding the evidence back—unless it did, indeed, belong to Celina.

  Damn, he couldn’t get emotionally involved with her.

  “Hush,” Dwayne said abruptly, holding up a hand. “I do believe we’ve got more company.”

  They looked at each other and listened. There was no doubt that someone was climbing the outside steps from the courtyard to the second story.

  “Let us not forget that our dear friend was murdered in this house less than forty-eight hours ago,” Dwayne whispered. “Could be whoever did that to him decided to come back for somethin’.”

  Jack slanted a glance at the wastebasket and said, “Could be.”

  The outside door to the corridor opened, then closed, and the footsteps advanced.

  “We don’t want Celina upset anymore,” Dwayne said, going for the corridor himself. “I’ll deal with this.”

  “Not on your own, you won’t,” Jack told him, and they went to greet the latest visitor side by side.

  And stopped—side by side.

  Jack didn’t tend to spend a lot of time analyzing men’s looks, but the man he confronted now was probably the most handsome specimen he’d ever encountered.

  Dwayne murmured, “Oh, my,” under his breath, then, “Good evenin’, could we ask you to come into the sittin’ room before you explain yourself. There’s someone sick here.” When Dwayne said, “here,” it was so pronouncedly “heeyah” as to sound affected—which it wasn’t.

  The very tall newcomer nodded and approached. Jack and Dwayne stood back to allow him access to the sitting room.

  “Where is Celina?” the man asked, facing them. “How sick is she?”

  The navy-blue slicker he wore dripped on the worn carpet. Jack noted that water beaded on well-polished shoes that were nevertheless old and deeply creased. His dark, curly hair was cut short and currently soaked.

  “How did you get that wet?” Dwayne asked. “Where did the cabdriver let you out, for goodness’ sake?”

  “I walked,” the man said shortly. “I asked about Celina.” If he was surprised by Dwayne’s caftan, he gave no sign.

  “The doctor’s with her now,” Dwayne said. “She’s had a terrible day. We all have. A shock, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m deeply sorry about Errol. Such a loss.” His eyes were an extraordinary color, not blue or green, but a mixture of the two. Every line of his face was sharply defined and ruggedly perfect. He had the straight-backed, leanly solid physique of an athlete, perhaps a rower. “Celina told me about it on the phone. That’s why I came at once. Fortunately I had to come into New Orleans for a meeting and I’d given her a number where she could reach me when I got in tonight. I’m glad I was here.”

  The phone call, Jack thought. He was sure he’d never met the man, yet he seemed familiar. “I’m Jack Charbonnet,” he said, extending a hand.

  “Cyrus Payne.” A long-fingered hand enveloped Jack’s in a firm shake. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I said Ι was Celina’s brother.”

  Jack smiled, and immediately hoped he didn’t look as relieved as he felt. And then didn’t want to think too hard about why he felt relieved. “I didn’t know Celina had a brother.”

  “The priest,” Dwayne said, taking his turn at shaking Cyrus’s hand. “Of course. I should have known the moment I saw you. You look like Celina. Oh, priests are so fascinating to some of us, you know. So mysterious.”

  Cyrus raised one very well-defined eyebrow and said, “Really?”

  “Yes,” Dwayne continued, apparently unaware that he’d amused his audience. He gestured expansively and got closer to Cyrus. “I’m Dwayne LeChat, by the way. A friend of Celina’s. There’s a forbidden quality about priests—maybe a keep-away quality would explain it better. Do not touch. There, that’s it. It’s the whole thing—the collar, those lovely robes. You don’t even have to say anything to cast a spell.”

  “I wish I could just stand in front of the congregation at mass and cast a spell without saying anything. How long has the doctor been with my sister?”

  “Not very long,” Jack said. “She hasn’t felt well all evening. We think she may have food poisoning.”

  Cyrus took off his slicker and looked around for somewhere to hang it. Dwayne took it from him and tossed it on a chair. “A little rain can’t make that monstrosity any worse.”

  “Celina doesn’t care about material possessions herself,” Cyrus said. Despite already knowing he was a priest, the clerical collar was almost a shock. “She was born with her priorities straight.”

  “Is that why she competed all the way to the Miss USA Pageant?” Jack began to feel his tongue was a liability tonight.

  “If Celina wants to talk to you about that, she will.” The lady’s brother had a hard edge to his deep voice, and the eyes might just be able to see their way to a man’s world-worn soul. Not at all a comforting idea.

  Dr. Vauban joined them. He nodded when Cyrus introduced himself, and took a seat on the couch, where he started writing prescriptions. These finished, he dropped the pad into his bag and took out a notebook. “I’m going to leave some instructions,” he said. “She’s tired. Emotionally as well as physically. She needs sleep and care. She needs to eat properly. And she needs understanding, support.”

  “She doesn’t have food poisoning?” Dwayne asked.

  “No, and she doesn’t wish she did,” Vauban said. “She’s resting now. She told me I could talk to you, Father Payne. I was going to leave a number where you could reach me. But we’ll chat right here, if it’s all right with you.”

  “It’s fine, but I prefer to be called Father Cyrus.”

  Dr. Vauban cast a significant glance at Dwayne and Jack. Naturally he wanted them to leave.

  “Lordy,” Dwayne said, grinning. “I know what this is all about. We’re going to have a baby, Al, aren’t we?”

  Dr. Vauban wasn’t quite successful in smothering his own smile. “Not unless you’ve only been passing all these years.”

  Dwayne laughed aloud. “You know what I mean. Celina. She’s pregnant, isn’t she? Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Jack’s mind refused to deal with what he was hearing, or what he was thinking.

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss that with you,” the doctor said. “If Celina and her brother choose to share information with you, that will be their decision.”

  Father Cyrus went, very deliberately, to the door and closed it. He looked from man to man, and said, “Obviously, there’s no secret here. But as far as what you’ve learned tonight goes, you’ve got short memories. This is my sister we’re talking about, and I won’t see her hurt any more than she’s already been hurt. Do we understand each other?”

  Dwayne nodded.

  Jack barely stopped himself from swearing. He needed to be alone, to think.

  “Celina is pregnant,” Cyrus Payne said. “That’s why she asked me to come this evening.”

  Chapter 10

  Several nights of storms, and the temperature only seemed to rise. Buffeted by the warm wind, Celina rested her umbrella on top of her head and angled it to allow her to see. Lamps illuminated the approach to Jack Charbonnet’s riverboat, but the surface was slippery underfoot.

  She’d taken advantage of Cyrus going to an evening mass to sneak out of the house. He would be disappointed when he got back and discovered she had failed to keep her promise to stay put. And he would be there waiting, and worrying, until she got back, but he wouldn’t be angry, only glad to see her safe again.

  Cyrus, the son of a demanding mother and a weak father, had somehow managed to grow into a strong man who was most happy when he was serving others. She had never told him how mu
ch she had missed him when he left to go into a seminary. He would be deeply troubled only if she explained that the loss of him had doubled their parents’ demands upon her.

  Boats slipped along the river, their running lights blurred by a steamy mist that hung in the air. The legs of Celina’s cotton slacks clung moistly to her shins. She ought to be uncomfortable, but she liked the mystery of the water at night.

  Avoiding Jack Charbonnet in recent days would have been simple even if he had tried to see her—which he hadn’t. The doctor’s instructions that she sleep had as much as possible allowed her to evade everyone else but Cyrus—and Dwayne. Dear, dear Dwayne, who loved with such abandon and such utter loyalty. He’d wheedled his way past Cyrus to bubble about the wonders of new life. Celina smiled at the memory. Dwayne had promised that no mention of Celina’s pregnancy would pass his lips without her permission and she knew she could trust him.

  Jack Charbonnet was a different matter. She had no idea what he might do with the information she’d hoped to keep from him. A fresh gust of wind carried fine rain into her face and she wiped her eyes. The instant Cyrus had left for St. Louis Cathedral in Jackson Square, she’d called Jack’s home number and been told tersely by Tilly that Mr. Charbonnet was not at home. On a hunch she’d caught a cab to the river. His floating casino soared above her, the lights outlining its decks and hull shimmering in the darkness. He might not be aboard, but on the other hand, he might, and if he was, she’d be the last person he expected to see. Celina was a neophyte at intrigue—a neophyte rapidly gathering experience—but she thought surprise might be a useful advantage.

  Somehow she had to convince him to keep her secret. For how long? She didn’t know the answer yet. Even the doctor had been surprised to confirm that she was approximately five and a half months pregnant. He’d remarked that some women, particularly women in good physical condition, did show little sign of their condition until quite late. He’d reassured her that despite her smallness, the baby did seem to be developing at an acceptable rate—and he’d commented that she could probably plan on being unable to conceal the pregnancy for much longer, if at all.

  She had to make plans for the future. Wilson Lamar must never be able to assume this was his child, and to pull that off she needed time, as much time as she could snatch.

  Steam rose from the wooden railings and boardwalk beside the boat. Celina leaned on the railing and stared down at the black water sucking and blowing between the Lucky Lady’s side, and the wharf. Heavy lines sawed at their moorings, and the air carried the scents of oil and tar.

  Raucous people plied to and fro on the ramps that led to a booth where Celina could see two women in short, fringed skirts, and a very large man with a bald head. This world didn’t feel as if it could belong to the cool, aloof man with the sweet little daughter.

  Memories of the night when Jack took her back to Royal Street from the Lamars’ swept back, and Celina gritted her teeth, mortified to think that someone who was almost a stranger, someone who had never let her doubt that he didn’t like her, had held her head while she vomited.

  Jack had been kind. She would cling to that and hope her misery had allowed her to see a side of him that might be her best hope for making him her ally rather than her enemy.

  Slowly she climbed the ramps to the booth, lowering the umbrella as she went. The brunette who took her money—the price of admission—smiled but didn’t make eye contact.

  She trod between rows of slot machines. The lights were bright, conversation loud, laughter and shouts of disgust or triumph louder. More women in short skirts delivered drinks to preoccupied customers.

  Ahead a wide flight of steps rose to another deck, and Celina walked halfway up so that she could study the scene she was leaving carefully, searching for any sign of Jack Charbonnet. She could ask if he was aboard, but that would snuff out the minor advantage she might get from her surprise theory.

  Celina didn’t see Jack, but she did see Charmain Bienville.

  Horrified at the possibility of the woman cornering her again, Celina fled to the next deck where she was confronted by a bar backed with mirrors. On one side of the bar was a small lounge where elevated video screens allowed patrons to play keno while they drank. A larger area at the opposite end of the bar was devoted to a restaurant called Velvet’s. Celina wondered if Jack had selected the name, and if so, why?

  Charmain’s voice reached her from the stairway.

  Above lay only an open air deck. It had to be coincidence that she was there on the same evening as one of the women who ranked as her least favorite. If there was a way to let Charmain pass, then escape downward, Celina decided she would give up this obviously ill-fated quest.

  Hooking her umbrella over a forearm, she approached the bar and slid onto a single vacant stool between two men deeply engrossed in their companions. One of the men turned to look her over thoroughly enough to be annoying, but Celina was no stranger to men taking more than casual inventories.

  Apparently unconcerned by the way his female friend fidgeted on her stool, he smiled at her and snapped his fingers at the bartender. “What’ll you have, pretty lady?”

  If she couldn’t see Charmain Bienville, her cameraman sidekick in tow, arriving at the top of the stairs, she would leave. Trapped, she said, “Thank you, but I’m waiting for someone,” and felt lame.

  “So, chère.” Dark eyes could show so little, or so much. These dark eyes were too interested. “Just because you wait for someone who isn’t here means you can’t have a drink with me?”

  She faced him squarely, then looked past him to the woman at his side. “You’re both so very kind,” she said to the obvious surprise of the other. “I’ll have an orange juice, please.”

  The dark-eyed man tipped his head back and laughed. The lady with him ordered the orange juice and Celina found herself, for the present, a member of a party of three. She’d make her getaway as soon as Charmain passed. At the moment the woman remained too close to the head of the stairway.

  The orange juice arrived and Celina thanked her newfound “friends.’’

  “I’m Mavis,” the woman said. “This is Hector, him.”

  Musicians wandered onto a stage that separated the lounge from the gambling floor and began testing mikes before soothing their way into a gentle Dixieland number Celina didn’t recognize.

  “You like Dixieland, you?” Mavis asked.

  “A lot,” Celina told her, and laughed. “Probably because my parents don’t.”

  This brought laughter. Celina decided that Mavis had enjoyed the rebuff Hector had received, pleasant as it had been. “Oh, my God! It’s Miss Louisiana herself! Celina.”

  Celina slowly raised her eyes—and met Charmain’s in the mirror.

  All conversation faded.

  “Well, look at you, Celina Payne.” Charmain, resplendent in a short red-sequined dress, her white cap of hair spiked, rushed toward Celina with outstretched arms. “You are such an enigma, darling. You can’t resist doing the unexpected, can you?”

  Celina braced herself and swung the seat of her stool around. Both Hector and Mavis did likewise, as did the couple on the other side. Mavis leaned over and said, “You’re Miss Louisiana?”

  “I told you I had good taste, chère,” Hector said.

  The photographer’s camera flashed, flashed again, and again. Celina felt angry and helpless.

  Charmain embraced her at arms length and came in a little closer to land a peck on her cheek.

  Celina said, “I haven’t been Miss Louisiana for some years, Charmain.”

  “Oh, you’ll always be Miss Louisiana to me, darlin’. This is perfect. I called your place today and spoke to some man with a dark-honey-and-gravel voice. Οοοh!” She winked at Mavis. “He said you were otherwise occupied. And I thought, I’ll just bet she is. Who was that man?”

  “My brother,” Celina said shortly, bringing another gust of laughter from a rapt audience.

  A sly light entered Cha
rmain’s fascinating eyes. “Is that who that was? Now, there’s an interesting story, I’m sure. The beauty queen whose brother became a priest. The priest from the society family. Why, one wonders?”

  If Charmain’s design was to pry Celina from the stool, she got her way. Celina stood up and made purposefully for the stairs. She paused to call back a thank-you to Hector and Mavis, and gave the reporter the instant she needed to slip a hand beneath Celina’s arm and make it impossible for her to escape without making a scene.

  “I just know there are people who come here who wouldn’t want the world to know it,” Charmain said, leaning close to Celina and whispering as if they were friends sharing confidences. “These places are only supposed to be the playgrounds of the wanna-be movers. I’ve meant to come and take a look for ages. I think a lot of money changes hands here, and wanna-be movers don’t have that kind of money.”

  Celina made a polite noise. She didn’t ask which category she’d been judged to belong to, the wanna-be’s, or the real movers.

  “Let’s sit over there.” Without waiting for a response, Charmain half dragged her captive to a table in the lounge. “Why don’t we have a bottle of champagne? Just to celebrate? Get lost for now,” she told the photographer, who obliged.

  “What would we be celebrating?”

  Α momentary blank look smoothed Charmain’s face, then she said, “Why, you and me getting together at last, of course.” She signaled for a server.

  “No champagne for me, thanks,” Celina said.

  Charmain ordered a bottle of Dom Pérignon anyway and whipped out a small notebook and a gold pen from an enameled evening purse molded like a scarlet apple with bright green leaves. Charmain lifted the purse, said, “Judith Lieber, isn’t she the end?” and stroked the hard, shiny surface.

  “I need to get home,” Celina said. “I’ve already been gone longer than I should have been.”

  “Oh, nonsense. You’re a big girl. Don’t tell me that lovely brother of yours imposes a curfew when he’s in town—even if he is a priest. I want to talk to you about poor Errol.”