She wasn’t going to go away. He was afraid of that. She already thought someone had tried to kill her twice. Even warning her about the car wasn’t going to scare her off. He got to his feet, his self-preservation instincts pushing him to bid her good luck and get the hell out of there. “So what are you going to do if you can’t find a room, which is likely?”
She shrugged. “I can sleep in the car.”
She was a lot more stubborn than he’d given her credit for. “Yeah, that’d be safe, for sure. Just don’t park in a parade zone, or they’ll tow you away. Lock your doors real tight, too. A lot of people come here for Mardi Gras and don’t have money for accommodations. They look for cars to sleep in. And be real sure that whoever it is you’ve got the attention of doesn’t know where you’re parked.”
She shivered at those words, the first real sense sinking into her expression. “Well, the car thing might not work out anyway because I have to return it tomorrow. But I can’t leave. Maybe my travel agent will produce a miracle. It could happen,” she added at his skeptical look.
He got to his feet, irritated at her stubbornness. He’d turn around, warn her to be careful, head out. Then forget about her. She wasn’t his problem. He hadn’t invited her here.
His feet wouldn’t move, though. His mouth wouldn’t form the words adios. He was going to regret this, he just knew it, but the words came out anyway. “If you don’t think I’ll snuff you in your sleep, you can stay at Brian’s house.”
For a moment she didn’t answer. The surprise at his offer was evident. Then she pushed out the words, “I don’t want to inconvenience you.”
“You’ll inconvenience me more if I’m thinking you’re out there sleeping in your car.”
He convinced himself that his real reason for putting her under his roof was he still suspected she had something to do with Brian’s state of mind before his fall. She’d held back information before about their relationship. It wasn’t a stretch to consider she was still holding something back.
“You don’t strike me as the worrying type.” She got to her feet, too, and jammed her hands into her coat pockets. “All right. Thank you, I’ll stay. If I need to,” she added.
“Call me if you don’t get your miracle.”
“If I need to,” she said again, as though staying with him were the last resort.
“But I’m not interested in your gumbo, got that?”
He raised an eyebrow at that. “We’re talking about my soup?”
Her mouth twitched for a second. “Of course.” She started to turn but paused. “What were you doing driving around the Quarter at this time of night?”
He gave her sly smile. She didn’t trust him, and maybe that was a good thing. “Just wandering. Go on back to your room. Call me if you decide to stay.”
She looked dubious, walking to the stairs but watching him, seeing that he was watching her. You don’t want to stay in the same house as me, cherie. That’d be a bad thing.
CHAPTER 8
Rita showed up on his doorstep late the next afternoon, a grateful, if sheepish, smile on her face. “Thanks. My travel agent is going to keep working to find me something, so hopefully I won’t put you out for long.”
Christopher wanted to snort at the idea of both her finding a room and not inconveniencing him. He contained it and stepped back so she could walk inside the house. Her determination said something; he just wasn’t sure what it was.
He realized he wasn’t being a good host and took her bag. “Upstairs,” he said, leading the way. “Did you visit Brian today?”
“Yes. No change. What do you think of the respiratory nurse, Sasha?”
He opened the door to the bedroom and set her bag on the bed. “She seems competent.”
“But not very friendly.”
“Maybe it’s just you.” When she looked at him in surprise at his bluntness, he added, “Maybe she doesn’t like you nosing around.”
She looked as though she were going to say something but clamped her mouth shut instead. “I’d love a shower.”
He opened the door that led to the bathroom and pulled a couple of towels out of the linen closet. “All yours.”
He returned to the kitchen, the one place in this house that brought familiar comfort. How many Saturday afternoons had he watched Rosie, their cook, make her famous Sunday gumbo? He was the only one in the family who had talked with her and not at her, and who was rewarded with her tales of her Creole childhood. And with her gumbo recipe.
He listened to the sound of the shower running and tried not to put a picture to it. The woman seemed to bring out the worst in him. Not that the worst was far off. He must be crazy for offering to let her stay.
He caught himself smiling at the memory of her face when the heat from the gumbo lit her mouth on fire yesterday. His smile faded when he remembered pinning her against the wall in the parlor, wanting to light her mouth on fire himself. What was the deal with that, anyway?
Oh, yeah, to keep her off-balance. Except that she was keeping him off-balance. Was she involved in Brian’s death? Obsessed with him? He’d been willing to write her off as unbalanced, but her determination had him wondering. He couldn’t figure her out. But he would. If he couldn’t charm it out of her, he’d resort to whatever tactics it took to get the truth.
Rita dried off and changed into a pair of casual pants and a long-sleeved shirt. Her room, like the rest of the house, had high ceilings and ornate scrollwork around the doors. The walls were the color of Dijon mustard. She hated Dijon mustard.
The old-fashioned furnishings reminded her of her college roommate’s grandmother’s house. Rita had tried to teach her father a lesson by making plans to spend Christmas with a friend. Good lesson. Her father had merely wished her well and sent the annual department store gift certificate. It was at her friend’s home that Rita tasted real family life. How they laughed and lovingly nagged. The grandmother had hugged Rita as she prepared to leave. She’d never been hugged like that, a warm soft hug filled with affection. Unsolicited affection stunned her. Before she could stop herself, Rita had clung to the woman, fighting tears.
Her own grandmother was not plump and soft and draped in matronly clothing dotted with flour. Maura was sleek and seductive, like Lauren Bacall. Her affection was reserved exclusively for her son.
Rita packed her toiletries back into their assigned slots in her organizer and folded her clothes just so. See, everything under control like always. She stared at her reflection in the large mirror over her dresser, wondering what Christopher saw when he looked at her.
She grimaced. Chicken broth.
French doors opened out onto the balcony she’d seen from the kitchen, but she hadn’t bothered to push aside the filmy fabric to peer out to the courtyard. Okay, bothered wasn’t the right word. She didn’t want to think about Brian splayed out on the concrete deck.
She swallowed hard, turning to her cell phone on the bed. She’d been putting off the call, but it was in her own interest to let someone know where she was. Unfortunately, she had only one bar’s worth of charge left. When she’d made her calls to the hotels, she’d realized she hadn’t brought her charger.
Marty answered without preamble: “Where have you been? You leave this vague message about needing some time alone, and that’s not supposed to worry me?”
Rita couldn’t help smiling at the motherly tone in Marty’s voice, though she hated worrying her. “Guess where I am.” It was in that same singsong voice that weird nurse had used.
“At Bill’s?”
Rita grimaced. “Totally wrong. I’m in New Orleans.”
“What?”
“Staying at Brian LaPorte’s home.”
“What?”
“With Christopher LaPorte.”
“That’s it! I want to see you in my office first thing.”
“It’s too late to talk me out of it. I’m here, it’s done. I can’t explain it, not even to myself. But I…I didn’t tell you everyth
ing.” Rita took a deep breath and spilled about the gray place and the man who had approached her. “Now I know the man I saw while I was in my coma is the Brian here at Mercy Hospital. I need to find something concrete so these people will believe me. Once I do, I’ll leave it to the police and come home.”
“Rita, why are you doing all this for a man you never even met? Not only is this uncharacteristic of you, it could be dangerous.”
“Because I’m the only one who can do this. Everyone else thinks I’m crazy.”
“Ya think?”
“I’m not crazy. In fact, I feel more alive now than I have for years. This is something I need to do, for Brian and for myself. You’re the one who keeps telling me I need to face things and be more adventurous.”
Marty let out a long exhale. “I can see there’s no convincing you to come home now, this minute, on the next flight. I’m not sure I understand it, but I do understand your need to do this. Just be careful of him, you hear?”
“Christopher?” As if she had to ask. “I’ll be on my guard.” Like you were when he backed you against the wall? She shook away her conscience. “I’ll be fine. I’ll call you later.”
She went down to the kitchen. On the table was a note, in that bold handwriting she recognized from Christopher’s business card saying that he’d gone out to get them something for dinner.
She wandered around the parlor taking in the objects that spoke of a long devotion to this party called Mardi Gras. A glass case was neatly arranged with origami invitations to masquerade balls, tiny jewel boxes, pins, purple and gold coins engraved with different years and insignias. In one enlarged photo a man sat high in his perch, wearing robes and a mask. A brass frame announced him as the king of Xanadu, 1972. That mask was sealed in the glass case. A gold coin set apart from the rest was engraved with a woman’s face and beneath it, Iris Deveraux, Queen of Rex, 1960. A glittering pair of gold shoes perched on a stand.
Atop the marble mantelpiece sat several family portraits. It didn’t take an expert in psychology to see that Brian was the favored son, always standing closer to his parents than Christopher, who stood apart. Their parents usually had a hand on Brian’s shoulder. Christopher looked indifferent.
So many women she had worked with over the years still dealt with the ravages of their parents’ abuse and neglect. She felt the familiar anger engulf her, anger at the power parents wielded over their children’s sense of self and value. In college her thesis had been a feasibility study of requiring parents to take a course on parenting. Not just on how to take care of babies, but how to love and nurture their children throughout their lives. She had published articles on the subject as well.
“How much do you know about Brian’s past?”
Christopher’s voice startled her, making her whirl around and rushing the blood to her face. Was this being careful, letting him sneak up on her like this?
She caught her breath and tried to act calm. “He didn’t say much about his childhood or his family. Only that his parents had passed on and sometimes he seemed worried that he was letting them down somehow. Come to think of it, whenever I asked if he had siblings he changed the subject.” She looked back at the pictures, not able to meet Christopher’s probing eyes.
“You said he regretted telling me no one wanted me at the funeral. How do you figure that?”
“I told you that when he touched me, I saw images of his life, like maybe what we see when our life flashes in front of our eyes. It’s like a slideshow on hyper speed. I was able to hold onto a couple of the images, and those images come with his feelings—what he was feeling at the time. I saw a funeral, heard words about the prodigal son returning. And I felt his regret.”
He absorbed that for a moment. “What else did you see?”
Blood. A flash of a blade. Where did that fit in? “Someone wearing a mask rushing up to him at the end.” Her voice dropped. “And he was afraid.”
He seemed caught up in those last words. She could see in his eyes that he didn’t believe—or didn’t want to believe. “Dinner’s ready.” He walked to the kitchen and unwrapped two enormous round sandwiches. Two Dixie Jazz beers thumped on the table as he set them down, and she wondered if he had anything else to drink besides beer. Tonic. Hmph. He could make fun of her accent with his?
She investigated her sandwich. “What is this thing, anyway?”
He took a big bite, talking around his food. “Looking for traces of cyanide?”
“Cayenne.”
His laugh was restrained. “It’s a muffaletta.” His accent thickened, as it did occasionally. “That’s a big, round sandwich to you an’ me.” He leaned forward, and she tried to ignore the brush of his knees against hers beneath the table. “I’d stay away from those cherry-looking things. Hot stuff.”
Hot stuff indeed. She wanted to eat one of the peppers just to show him—no, to show herself. She wasn’t about to let him taunt her. He’d already gotten her with the gumbo.
She was getting hot just thinking about it.
So hot, in fact, that as soon as they finished dinner, she stepped through the door to the courtyard before thinking about Brian and the concrete deck. Don’t look there, don’t picture it. Still, her gaze went to the roof. The railing was only about three feet high, certainly not high enough for current building codes. Not high enough to keep Brian from going over. She forced her gaze back to ground level. Flowers bloomed here and there, though she could only identify the pansies. It seemed odd that New Orleans had an ordinary flower like that, as though it were some magical place different from any other.
The house was L-shaped, and the courtyard filled out the square. The air outside was cool, but the breeze didn’t reach down into the courtyard. It rustled the tops of the tall trees that bordered the back of the property. The deck, made up of two-foot squares of concrete, was gray with dirt. Between those squares moss protruded like green grout.
“Get any vibes out here?”
She closed her eyes to his sarcastic voice for a second before turning to him. The dying afternoon light enhanced the angles of his face, making him look harsher.
“I don’t get vibes. You think I’m some psychic melodramatic?”
Somehow she’d invited his scrutiny, because he took a long moment to assess her. “Don’t know what you are.”
But he knew who she was. “How did you find out where I worked?”
“You’d be surprised at what information is out there.”
To keep her gaze from straying to the roof deck, she wandered to the other side of the courtyard. She leaned against one of the sculpted white columns that supported the second floor balcony. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“I know your driver’s license number, your social security number, that you have two bank accounts at Boston National, that you just bought a 2003 Volvo S60…” As he’d spoken, he’d walked closer. He stopped a foot away, and his voice lowered. “Don’t look so shocked. I don’t know all your secrets.”
“What are you, some kind of hacker?”
“If I need to be.” He moved closer still, and she wondered if he could hear the thumping of her heartbeat.
“What else do you know about me?” She felt the grooves of the column pressing into her back. Felt the heat emanating from his body, only inches from hers.
“I know you’re afraid.”
She met his eyes, could not look away from them. Why couldn’t he be fair and lighter, like Brian? Why did he have to look like…Christopher?
“I’m not afraid.”
“But I don’t know what you’re afraid of,” he continued as though she’d never contradicted him. “Losing Brian? The person you think tried to run you down? Me?”
She tried one of her old tricks: imagining him looking vulnerable in his underwear. Unfortunately, he didn’t look vulnerable. He looked…sexy, sexy, sexy, she thought with Tammy’s emphasis. It was better to imagine the boy in the pictures. Standing apart, always apart, his own island. She
felt his hands slide up her arms, felt his fingers tighten on her skin.
“Are you afraid I might find out who you really are inside?”
No, he would never find that insecure girl who lurked inside her, the one who ached to know why she wasn’t worthy of her parents’ love. The woman who was still trying to patch up the holes in her insecurities.
“I’m not afraid,” she said.
“I don’t believe you.”
He had pinned her arms against the column, his body barely touching hers. Was he still that boy deep inside? He wasn’t a hurting boy, he was a man. A large, muscular man who was arguing with her in a low, sensual voice that drugged her instincts.
“Tell me the truth, Rita.”
The truth was she needed to put distance between them, tell him that she didn’t appreciate his using sexual intimidation. She did not like gumbo, she liked chicken broth. Her body, evidently, liked gumbo. Heat snaked up from where his hands touched her arms and swirled up to her neck and face.
“I told you everything.”
Except that she’d never felt this hot, spicy heat that made her eyes feel heavy and her tongue tingle.
“I think you’re holding something back.”
What was he asking her? She’d forgotten what they were even talking about. Was he asking for her deepest secrets? Should she tell him about those dreams, how she woke in a hot sweat, her body throbbing and toes curled?
He opened his mouth to say something, but leaned forward and covered her mouth instead. The tip of his tongue against her lips electrified her, making her body stiffen, filling her chest with air. Her breasts pressed against the hardness of his chest, and he moved closer yet, so that their bodies touched more intimately. Her fingers stretched out but made no attempt to form fists to push him away. His mouth softened, and hers opened in some instinctual response she didn’t know she even had. He deepened the kiss, and every stroke of his tongue sent warmth deeper into her body.
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