by Jenna Mills
“The fire,” he said, spinning toward Jack, standing with an old journal in his hand, “in your grandmother’s neighborhood. That was no accident.” It was a diversion. “He knew I’d stay at the house, knew if enough time went by we’d fall asleep waiting—”
Jack put down the old notebook, one that had once belonged to his father. “If it was anyone else, I’d say no freaking way.”
Saura let the bloodied cotton ball fall from her fingers. “But it’s not anyone else.”
Cain retrieved an old sketch from the storage box he’d carried down from the attic. Even from several feet away, Gabe could see the image that had captivated them as children. “Mais, he has made one very big mistake.”
There were those who would have said it was an inopportune time to smile—Marcel Lambert had either just tried to kill him, or set him up—but Gabe met Cain’s gaze and felt the slow, deliberate curve of his mouth originate from somewhere deep and dark. Despite the passing of almost a quarter of a century, Lambert was the same cunning bastard he’d always been. A man who’d used his wealth and celebrity status to skate outside the law.
But Gabe was different. Cain and Saura were different. Jack was different. Camille…
They weren’t kids anymore.
And they weren’t going to let the son of a bitch win.
Gabe returned to the table and looked at the drawing Cain had set down. Jack and Saura closed in with him, the way they’d done as kids. The overhead light, illuminated the detailed drawing of his father’s passion: a fabled piece of stained glass smuggled out of France by two children during the French Revolution.
The children had been Robichauds—the stained glass from their family chapel in Brittany.
As a child, the stories had fascinated: a region of France renowned for healing, sacred waters, holy wells, fields of standing stones and a stained-glass window shrouded in mystery.
Now a man, Gabe saw the legends for what they were: a dangerous obsession and a tailor-made bluff. A few well-placed whispers, a rumor here, an allegation there and Marcel Lambert would come looking—as he had the night Camille had seen her father gunned down.
“Gabe—” Saura said, and in her eyes he saw a worry that touched him in ways very few people could.
“I know.” Stirring up a hornets’ nest was dangerous. He knew that. His plan could backfire, blow up in his face—or fall flat.
But he was done being played. The images flashed hard, not just of Marcel Lambert and the brother who’d set his sights on Saura several weeks before, but of Val who’d claimed to love him, but had only been using him. Of Evangeline.
Black-and-white, she’d said that night at the warehouse. That’s all you see, isn’t it?
He still wasn’t sure how she’d made his mantra sound like a crime. There was no such thing as a little bit guilty—either someone was, or wasn’t. Shades of gray were nothing more than flimsy shadows thrown up to distort reality.
What do you want from me? she’d asked, and, damn it, he would have sworn her voice had broken. For me to tell you I’m sorry? I’ve— Her eyes had darkened, and, like a fool, he’d had the dangerous urge to reach for her. I’ve already done that. More than once. It didn’t do much good.
He had touched her then, lifted his hand to her face and skimmed his thumb along her cheekbone. You sure you want to know what I want?
He crushed the memory and focused on the drawing, on now and Lambert. He had a big charity event in less than twenty-four hours. He would be strutting through the aquarium like a genteel, innocent son of the South. His tuxedo would be ivory, Gabe knew. It always was.
“By this time tomorrow night,” he said, looking first at Saura, then D’Ambrosia and Cain, lingering on Jack. “Lambert will be on his way down.”
A dark light glittered in Jack’s eyes, but he said nothing. None of them did. They all knew what needed to be done—and what hung in the balance.
But then Cain’s cell phone rang and he reached for it and turned away, talking quietly before handing it to Gabe. “It’s Vannah,” he mouthed.
“You on your way back?” he asked when he brought the phone to his ear.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve just left Evangeline’s.”
“Good.” That was all he let himself say.
“I took her by Dr. Collette’s, like you asked,” Savannah said, answering a question he hadn’t asked. “Physically she’s fine, might have a sore throat for a few days from smoke inhalation—”
He glanced at his watch, saw the hour nearing 4:00 a.m. “What time do you think you’ll be back here?”
“Gabe.”
Because the censure in her voice stung, he ignored it. “We’re going over details—”
“She asked about you.”
Four little words. That was all. But they went through him like a shot of cheap whiskey. He stiffened, felt his jaw go tight—felt four pairs of eyes watching him. Swearing, he turned and walked into Jack’s oddly out-of-place gourmet kitchen, tried not to gag on the scent of dark-roast coffee.
“Gabe?” Savannah asked over the static. “You there?”
He brought his fingers to his temple. The pounding of earlier in the evening had faded, leaving a dull ache. If he hadn’t taken that pain pill—“I’m here.” But he didn’t let himself ask—didn’t want to know. “Thanks for taking her back. Cain will fill you in—”
“My God, Gabriel, aren’t you even going to ask?”
“There’s nothing to ask.”
“What about ‘What did she ask?’” Savannah shot back. “‘Is she scared?’ or ‘Is she okay?’”
“You already told me she’s okay.”
“I said she checked out fine with Collette,” Savannah corrected. “Physically. But I never said she’s okay.”
The quick brutal slice caught him by surprise.
“Because she’s not okay,” Savannah went on, before he could ask—or tell—her to stop. “She did a great job of hiding it, but she’s scared, Gabe. She’s worried about you. Worried about your arm and your headache and what you’re going to do next—”
“Savannah, stop.” He didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to imagine. “I don’t need you to—”
“When you asked me to drive her back to New Orleans,” Savannah rolled right on, “I knew who she was and what she’d done to you, and I didn’t understand how you’d let yourself end up in the middle of nowhere with her, of all people. For all I knew she torched the evidence just to finish what she started last fall.”
Savannah’s insinuation slammed into him. He stood there as a flash flood of nasty pieces swirled around him, falling into a disgustingly tidy picture. Gabe had no doubt Lambert was stringing him along, setting him up, planning to take Gabe out before he could take Lambert out.
Recruiting Evangeline would be a stroke of genius.
Chapter 9
“N o.” The word ground through Gabe. He’d seen the look in Evangeline’s eyes when he’d talked of Camille and his father, of loss—when she’d talked of her brother and her father and loss. He’d kissed her and tasted the same yearning that had been there all those months before. But also something new and different, a fear and uncertainty, a tentativeness that had almost sent him to his knees. And then later, after the fire, when she’d turned to him and looked up at him, he’d seen horror in her eyes—
“No,” he said again, this time softer, and then he realized that Savannah was talking, had been all along.
“…spooked, Gabe, but not because she’s working for someone else. I saw something in her eyes that I used to see every morning in the mirror, a struggle between caution and longing. You have no idea what that’s like, Gabe, to stare at a mountain of evidence that tells you to stay away from someone, but to want them anyway….”
He closed his eyes. Hard. Because he did know, damn it. He knew too damn well.
“Gabe…” Savannah said, and he wasn’t sure whether it was disappointment or admonishment in her voice, but slowly he
opened his eyes and stared out at the shadows beyond the window, seeing another window…back in New Orleans, in which a set of floral wind chimes hung.
“Drive safe,” he said, then disconnected the call.
She barely slept. After crawling into bed shortly before four, Evangeline was out by six and in the shower for the second time. But no matter how much warm water rained down on her, the acrid residue of smoke wouldn’t fade.
She tried to review her notes about the Lambert case, but her mind wouldn’t stay in one place.
She fed Simon then called juror number eight to see if he could meet earlier, but reached only his voice mail.
By 9:00 a.m. she was on her way to Angola, only to be told upon arrival that Jimmy had declined her visit.
Early afternoon found her back in New Orleans, checking her voice messages as she drove Uptown—and listening to the district attorney rant. “I don’t know where you are, Angie, but I need you to call me. The press is crawling all over me,” Vince Arceneaux said. “They want to know about the fire.”
She eased off the gas and turned down the quiet tree-lined street.
“Of course, to tell them about the fire, I would actually need to know something,” Vince rolled on. “Like if you were really there and what in holy kingdom you were doing.”
Evangeline bit down on her lip, knew she couldn’t avoid her boss forever. Or the truth.
“Because I damn well know you’re going to tell me Gabe was not there with you. That he did not get his hands on critical evidence—and that you absolutely did not leave him alone with it.”
Her throat tightened as she saw the house, a renovated Victorian with a small screened porch. Two cars sat parked in the street beneath the canopy of an old oak. The sexy little convertible she recognized; the sleek BMW she did not.
“We’ll talk tonight,” Vince promised. “At the Aquarium.” That was where the fund-raiser was being held, the renowned tourist attraction that had survived Katrina with little physical damage, but had lost a significant portion of its aquatic life when a backup generator had failed.
Now again functional, the aquarium had yet to return to its former splendor, but the city was working on it. A portion of the proceeds raised through Marcel’s gala would go to acquiring more species, as well as efforts to attract dislocated citizens back to the city.
Marcel’s philanthropy, it appeared, did not discriminate. He clearly wanted his well-manicured hand in every effort that could provide glory—and good press.
“Don’t be late,” Vince said in that smoothed, cultured voice of his. “And, Angie? I trust you won’t say a word to the press until you talk to me.”
She eased Jimmy’s prized ’67 Mustang to a stop on the opposite side of the street. Even if Gabe saw, he would not know it was her behind the darkly tinted windows. She’d made sure of that. She’d kept the car in a garage, only let Gabe see the sports coupe she’d purchased when she moved to New Orleans.
For ten years every step she’d taken, every breath, had been with only one goal in mind: to prove Gabriel Fontenot had used his family’s wealth to make sure he won his first case as an assistant district attorney. She’d promised Jimmy and her mother that one day this whole nightmare would be over.
And now, at last, she had the means to levy a severe blow against Gabriel Fontenot. A few words to the D.A. and Gabe would be the one facing a criminal investigation—
Gabe, who’d lost his father and his sister, who’d grown from boy to man amidst the devastation of one single bullet. Who’d never given up looking for Camille, never stopped believing…
Gabe, who’d chased her through the shadows of the old warehouse and tackled her, but who’d scooped her into his arms and run for help the second he’d realized he’d hurt her.
Gabe, whom she’d betrayed, but who’d taken her face into his hands, anyway, and kissed her with a need that stunned.
Gabe, who’d lunged for her through the smoke-infested darkness of Marcel’s cabin, who’d shielded her as he’d smashed out the window, then’d picked her up and run to safety.
Gabe, who’d stood against the fire ravaging the little house, his face covered in soot and his arms covered in scratches, staring down at her through those dark, wounded eyes as if she’d accused him of some heinous crime.
Gabe, who’d turned from her, walked from her, hadn’t looked back.
Reality cut hard and deep, and with a determination that oozed like poison, she swallowed against the emotion and eased down on the gas pedal.
Gabe, who would hate her the second he realized who she really was and what she’d wanted all along.
She had to quit doing this to herself. Stop seeing Gabe as a series of disjointed snapshots. She had to focus on the black-and-white, rather than the gray she’d exploited for as long as she could remember. The end justified the means, she’d told herself. A few lies, a smile when she felt like crying, a hand offered in friendship when in reality she’d wanted to slap…As long as she was helping Jimmy, the steps along the way didn’t matter.
Until her attempts to fake a friendship with Gabe turned into something dangerously real.
And now, God help her, her own emotions closed in on her like the suffocating smoke from the night before, bringing with it the sobering realization that for one of the few times in her life, she wanted to be wrong.
It was all so very civilized. Marcel strolled toward Evangeline the second she stepped inside the crowded lobby of the Aquarium of the Americas. The perfect genteel host, he nodded and smiled at the well-dressed guests. The lines of his tanned face were easy, his dark eyes glowing with welcome. His tuxedo was ivory.
Finding a practiced smile, she watched Marcel close the distance between them. His wife walked by his side, her hair perfectly coiffed, her makeup understated, her jewelry elegant and tasteful. Her smile glued in place. She had her hand tucked inside her husband’s arm, as if she wasn’t about to let him go.
The irony streamed through Evangeline on so many levels.
“Evangeline,” Marcel greeted in a smooth, polished voice, with just a hint of Cajun. When he appeared on daytime talk shows to share recipes and promote the city, the accent had a mysterious way of deepening. “So nice of you to join us.”
She lifted her hand as he reached for it. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“You look lovely,” Caroline added, sweeping her gaze along Evangeline’s simple black dress and estate-sale jewelry, the stilettos she’d picked up on clearance last fall.
“Thank you.” From simple appearances, it would be impossible to know Marcel Lambert faced murder charges—and that the only reason he walked free was because the judge had granted bail against her vehement protests. Their choreography was that flawless.
“You do, as well,” she said, cringing as a photographer materialized.
“Smile,” Marcel said, and before she could even move, he slipped an arm around her waist and the camera flashed—and the image was captured, that of the murder suspect and the prosecuting attorney, together. Smiling.
And, without doubt, she knew Lambert had achieved his goal in sashaying over to her.
“You absolutely must try Marci’s shrimp remoulade,” Caroline was saying. “And his crabmeat cheesecake.” Her smile turned dreamy. “With pecan crust.”
“Sounds fabulous,” Evangeline said, as if there wasn’t even the remotest chance this man had come within minutes of having her killed the night before.
“Angie.” The urbane voice came from behind her. She turned, found Vince closing in fast. Reaching her, he put a hand to the small of her back and exchanged pleasantries with the Lamberts.
“I’m sure you’ll understand if I steal my girl for a few minutes,” he concluded, and Evangeline felt herself stiffen. She knew her boss had chosen the words for show, as he did everything. But the good-old-boy posturing made her cringe.
Gabe had never—
“There’s something we need to…discuss,” Vince said, ear
ning a garbled laugh from Marcel.
“I’ll just bet there is.” More smiles, more falsities, then he and Caroline swept away. Evangeline watched them pose for another picture, all Southern hospitality and smiles—
And saw him.
He stood toward the back of the room, next to one of the saltwater aquariums. The soft blue lighting used for the wall-sized tank provided an eerie backdrop for the way he stood so tall and unmoving in a tuxedo of all black, his body, his eyes, everything hard and fixed.
On her.
An entire room separated them, waiters scurrying around with trays on their hands, women in black and silver and gold, clusters of men. But all of that faded—the murmur of voices and the soft strains of jazz, the scent of Cajun delicacies and perfume—leaving only Gabe. Standing there, where he so categorically should not be.
At Marcel’s fund-raiser.
Watching her.
The way he’d refused to do the night before.
“Angie?” Vince asked, and started to turn toward the back of the room.
She intercepted him before he spied Gabe. “You don’t see a waiter, do you? I’d love a glass of chardonnay.”
Vince signaled for one of the staff. A young man in a pristine white jacket hurried over, allowing Vince to pluck two stems.
“If I didn’t know better,” he said after the waiter slipped into the crowd, “I’d think you were avoiding me.”
“Nonsense.” She smiled up at Vince, knew she couldn’t chance a look beyond his shoulder, couldn’t risk him following her gaze. But she felt Gabe, anyway. Felt the dull blade of his scrutiny scrape over every inch of her body.
“About this fire,” Vince was saying, frowning. “I need to know what happened.” He stepped slightly to his left, but it was enough to see the second man. And the third. The fourth.
They were all there—not just Gabe, but Cain and Jack and John D’Ambrosia. All tall and grim-faced, all dressed in black tuxedos. All strategically placed and standing unnaturally still. Watching.
Not her, though. But, Lambert.