How could she possibly have turned out like Bodrie? But she would have had sex with Remy on the front lawn. On the hood of her own car. Anywhere. She wouldn’t have even recognized she was in a public place. She was a nymphomaniac. There could be no other explanation.
A sound escaped. A low, keening moan. She rocked herself back and forth for comfort. There was no blaming Remy. She would have gone into town and seduced someone, maybe—God help her—a total stranger. Remy at least had saved her from that humiliation.
How could she have gone from someone who refused to have sex with a man even when she was semi-interested, to such a total crazed, nymphomaniac? The last couple of days she and Saria had been out of step. Had she inadvertently flirted with Drake? Could she possibly be the kind of woman who would sleep with her best—her only—friend’s husband?
She groaned again and once more covered her face with her hands. Her first inclination was to pack up everything and just get the hell out of New Orleans, but she knew from experience, she couldn’t outrun who she was. No one could. The only good thing that would be accomplished would be not having to face Remy and not acting like her father in front of him ever again.
She didn’t want to lose Saria as a friend. All she could do was apologize and move out. She could easily stay at a hotel until the renovations on her apartment were done. Avoiding Remy wouldn’t be easy if he didn’t want to be avoided, but she didn’t trust herself around him. And maybe, hopefully, the physical attraction she felt toward him had been simply confused with her fantasies of him, and now that they’d had sex, she wouldn’t think about him anymore.
Yeah. Right. She drew in a sharp, harsh breath. There was no other explanation. She really was just like her father. She had always said she would be nothing like him. She’d be responsible. She’d vowed to be the complete opposite of Bodrie, and yet here she was, a wild animal in bed. She hadn’t been able to control herself, she hadn’t even tried, not once Remy had kissed her. His mouth still burned on hers, his taste still potent and addictive.
She had to force her aching body to move. Every step into the bathroom just served as a reminder that she’d screwed up big-time. Sheets stuffed in the clothes hamper were stained with blood. Remy had put them there, but they were ripped up, useless, and she didn’t want Saria to see or have to deal with them.
She moaned again and looked into the mirror. Her eyes had dark circles under them. Her lips seemed swollen. There were strawberry bites all over her neck and throat. A clear path of love bites went from her throat to both her breasts and even lower still. She blushed, thinking about what her inner thighs might look like.
To wake herself up, and give herself more time to think, she stepped into the shower. She couldn’t help thinking about how Remy had run a hot bath while she dozed on the floor. He’d carried her into the bath and carefully washed and then braided her hair. It was still wet and would be if she didn’t pull out the braid and dry it. She’d felt . . . cared for. His hands had been gentle, at odds with his near savage sex. She couldn’t remember a time in her life when anyone had ever made her feel as if she mattered to them, other than when Remy had dragged her from a hotel room the night she’d made up her mind to end her life.
She slid down the wall of the shower stall, sinking onto the tile in a crouch while the hot water poured over her. It took several minutes to realize she was crying. She’d been alone for so long in the midst of a crowd. She’d been surrounded, her entire life, by managers and handlers, and she’d been so lonely, yearning for so long for a family. For a real friend. For one person to care whether she was alive or dead.
Remy had cared all those years ago and so had Saria. She’d come back to them, looking for something that had always been out of her reach. She had all the money in the world, and no one to share her life. She knew she had issues. She’d worked hard to overcome them, but trust just didn’t come easily to her.
She let out her breath slowly and forced herself to stand up. She’d made a mistake, but she didn’t have it in her to take the easy way out and run. She’d picked New Orleans to make a stand. She loved everything about her home city. The people and the music. The bayous and swamps called to her. She loved the food and the fishing boats. The laughter and hard work. She loved the sunsets and the birds. She even enjoyed the alligators. New Orleans was the only place that felt like home. Her own stupidity wasn’t going to run her out of town.
She dressed slowly, taking her time with her makeup and hair. If she had to face Saria and confess her sins, whatever they might be, she needed a little armor. She was feeling extremely vulnerable and she had the feeling if she lost Saria, it would be a blow she might not readily recover from.
She could hear the cell phone she’d left on the nightstand playing the song her manager loved the most. It was a good five years old, one of the first that had been truly a big hit, rising to number one on the charts almost immediately. She hesitated answering. Lately they’d argued. Well, he argued. She’d made up her mind. No more touring. No more huge venues.
She hadn’t talked to Remy about her manager being so angry with her. When she’d made the decision to stop the circus, a lot of people were very upset, and she couldn’t blame them—she’d made them a lot of money. She let the phone pick up another message from him—as she’d been doing for the last few days. She was ashamed of herself for ducking his calls, but she couldn’t face him yelling at her again over the same thing, not after waking up a total, absolute wreck.
She shoved the cell in her pocket, sighing, trying to ignore the way her skin itched in waves, as if something alive ran beneath the surface, settled and then repeated the movement. She had the sudden urge to grab the handrail and leap over the railing to the floor below. Her fingers curled, her knuckles throbbing, her fingertips feeling as though they might burst any moment. Every muscle ached and her skin felt too tight as if it was stretched over a larger frame and didn’t quite fit.
She found, once she went downstairs to make herself coffee, that the Inn was empty. Saria was gone as well as Drake and she was the only guest, which allowed her a little extra time to think things through. It was very weird, but she swore her sense of smell was heightened. She could almost track Remy’s every move throughout the house after he’d left her bedroom.
The moment his scent filled her lungs, her body went into some sort of heat flash. Blood surged hotly. Pooled. She closed her eyes and switched directions; she needed to be outside. Remy was everywhere, surrounding her, making it impossible to breathe properly.
The phone vibrated and she pulled it out impatiently and nearly dropped it, her heart pounding and her breath catching in her throat. Remy Boudreaux. Immediately her hand shook. What a freaking coward she was becoming. She shoved the phone back into her pocket with a trembling hand, and rubbed both palms down her thighs as if she could wipe the effect he had on her away.
Her jaw hurt, a deep pain in the bones she couldn’t escape. Her teeth seemed to have grown overnight and felt too big to fit into her mouth. The terrible itch beneath her skin persisted and she scratched her arm, hoping to make it stop. Instead, she tore a strip of skin from her arm, a terrible rake mark that bled like crazy. She cursed softly in Cajun French, something she’d done since she was a child, but well under her breath so her teachers couldn’t add that sin to the long list she’d had back then. Could the day get any worse?
She examined the horrendous scrape down her arm. It looked as if she’d been clawed by a jungle cat and felt like it as well. The cut was deep and long. She frowned at her fingernails. They were long, but not that long. Shaking her head, she wrapped her arm in a towel she found in the car.
She needed a distraction, and that meant getting away from the Inn and Remy’s overwhelming scent. Sliding into her car, she turned up her music and took off driving. She was performing at her club in the evening, but she could do a little exploring and maybe give her body a little reprieve. For some reason even Remy’s masculine smell sent her i
nto a sexual meltdown.
The farther from the Inn she got, the more her body seemed to settle down and become her own. After a few miles the air didn’t feel as if it was being squeezed out of her lungs, and she could breathe properly again. She heaved a sigh of relief. Even the terrible itch between her legs subsided, giving her a reprieve—hopefully for a very long time.
She found herself relaxing as she drove along the bayous. At night the roads could be spooky. She had grown up with reports of strange sightings and whispers of ghosts and legendary creatures prowling the swamps and bayous.
She almost missed the SUV pulled into the shadow of the cypress grove leading out to the water’s edge. She saw it at the last moment and braked quickly, her reaction far faster than she anticipated. She was out on one of the back roads, and if the SUV had gone off the road, whoever it was wouldn’t have cell service and might be in trouble. Backing up, she cautiously maneuvered her much smaller car into the grove, but well away from the water.
Again she was cautious as she stepped out of her car, suddenly aware of the absolutely remote area she was in. Edging carefully around the SUV, she immediately saw a man’s suit jacket tossed carelessly on the hood. He was bent over, tying a rope to the hitch of his vehicle, using two locking carabiners for one master point to slip the rope through.
“Are you all right?” she greeted, trying not to startle him.
He straightened, swinging around to face her and relief flooded her system instantly. She hadn’t realized how tense she’d been. She recognized him instantly. Arnaud Lefevre, the famous sculptor whose work was even shown in the Louvre in France. His work sold for hundreds of thousands and he was grinning at her from the shade of the cypress grove on the edge of the swamp. He was dressed in his immaculate thousand-dollar suit, white shirt and hiking boots. That was Arnaud, an eccentric, but extremely talented and versatile.
“What in the world are you doin’?” Bijou demanded. “Arnaud, you can’t just come out here alone. This is a dangerous area.”
“I do it all the time.” He stepped forward and hugged her in welcome, kissing both cheeks before releasing her. “It’s a treasure trove here for me. I discovered it years ago.”
She laughed, suddenly feeling carefree. “That’s so you, Arnaud. Why are you wearing a suit? This is swamp right here just in case you hadn’t noticed.”
He raised a black eyebrow. “Woman, I always wear a suit. You should know that. You never know who you’ll meet out in the middle of nowhere and you have to look your best to impress.” He took ahold of her arm. “You want to tell me what happened here?”
Bijou frowned down at her arm, carefully unwrapping the material she’d tied over the rake marks. “I don’ honestly know, Arnaud.”
He very gently turned her arm over. “It looks like a very large and angry cat scratched it. Did you get into a fight with another woman?”
She pulled her arm away. “That sounds so like me.”
He laughed and went around her to open the passenger door. “I brought food and coffee. You up for something?”
“Sure. But what were you doin’ with that rope and your hitch?” Deliberately she looked around and up, as if looking for a cliff. “We don’ do a lot of climbin’ in Louisiana.”
“Every time I see you, I’m surprised again by your accent.” He glanced back at her over his shoulder, his gray eyes sparkling with laughter. “And you climb. I’d forgotten that as well. Come with me.” He pointed down to the edge of the embankment, a thirty-foot drop, with eroding rock, dirt and root structures. One tree was actually tilted, its weight over time slowly pulling it down.
She moved cautiously to the edge of the trees lining the bank and peered over the side. “Down there? Are you searching for alligators?”
Knobby cypress trees rose out of the water like giant stick figures, branches reaching like arms, moss hanging from them in drapes. The water pooled, dark and forbidding around the barren, misshapen trunks and lapped at the thin strip of a ledge only inches above the surface.
“Rocks,” he said, coming up behind her, and handing her a coffee mug over her shoulder. “You take it black, right?”
She took the coffee cup, frowning at him. “Rocks?”
“For my work. I pulverize them and get a variety of subtle color as well as texture. I get them from all over. Contrary to popular belief, Louisiana has some beautiful rocks and crystals, you just have to know where to look. Just below us, along the bank, there’s a vein of beautiful agate. That might not sound like much to you, but for me, the colors are perfect for my work. I don’t manage to get here that often, so every time I come, I make certain to get a few rocks.”
“You aren’t kiddin’, are you?” Bijou asked. She could hear the ring of truth in his voice, and more, he sounded boyishly enthusiastic.
“No, the rocks are beautiful in color and just the right texture for my sculptures. I don’t mine much of it, just a bit each visit, so hopefully I’m not contributing to the bank eroding.”
Arnaud pulled out a folding chair one-handed and opened it expertly, putting it under the shade of the cypress trees. “Sit down, drink your coffee.” He pulled out a second chair and sat down beside her.
“You do know there’s a killer hangin’ around, don’ you?” Bijou said as gently as possible. She hated to put a damper on his enthusiasm, but he had to take the warning seriously. It had never occurred to her that Arnaud Lefevre haunted the swamps looking for rocks for his sculptures. He was handsome and sophisticated with his thousand-dollar suit and hiking shoes he’d paid a fortune for. She knew he was a bit of an adventurer, but she hadn’t ever considered that he might go into the swamp—especially alone.
“I read something about it,” he admitted. “But what are the chances? I’m only here a few times a year and come to these places no one else knows about. There’s a lot of land out here, Bijou, and I doubt that our paths would ever cross.”
She scowled at him over the coffee cup. “Still, you shouldn’t come here alone.”
“I don’t have to worry now that you’re here,” he pointed out.
She rolled her eyes and laughed in spite of herself. He was good company. He always had been. He was intense when he was working, his mind wholly into his art. He didn’t notice anyone or anything when he was creating something new.
He leaned over and pulled at the chain, lifting the pendant—his jewelry. “This is a beautiful piece,” he said, impartially, as if he hadn’t been the one to create it. “I used chambersite, a rare crystal found here in this state, and ground petrified palm. I made the piece for you and I knew the one place you always called home was Louisiana, so I made certain nearly everything was from your state.”
“Sometimes, Arnaud, you’re so sweet you make me want to cry,” Bijou said honestly. Why couldn’t she be attracted to him? He was handsome. He had money in his own right—he certainly wasn’t after hers. When they were together, they laughed and talked about everything. Conversations were always interesting and lively. She even relaxed in his company. He loved some of the same things she did—such as climbing. She bet he had a climbing bag with his gear in his SUV just as she had hers locked in the trunk of her car. He traveled far more than she ever would want to, but still . . . Yet there was just no chemistry between them—not on either side.
Bijou sighed. It was Remy who made her wild and crazy. It was Remy she had always trusted, even though she hadn’t really known it. After her behavior last night, who knew what he thought of her.
“Tell me,” he urged, leaning close. “I can see you’re worried about something. I told you about my secret stash of agate and if you insist, I’ll trade your worries for the location of chambersite,” he teased gently.
She flashed him a smile. No way was she going to tell anyone about her wanton uncharacteristic behavior with Remy. She shrugged. “My manager is really, really angry with me. I can’t really blame him.” That was strictly the truth, so she didn’t feel too bad misleading him. Sh
e pushed back the stray strands of hair that had pulled free of her braid and were annoying her by falling into her face. She really should have dried it before she left the Inn. It would be a mess for the show. “I made up my mind not to tour anymore. I want to settle here and just sing in my club and record in the studio. I’ll be makin’ considerably less money.”
“So will he, I take it,” Arnaud summed up the problem quickly. He sat back in his chair, his gaze on her face. “Have I met him? Rob something, right?”
She nodded. “Rob Butterfield. You met him briefly in New York when I went to one of your shows. I feel bad about not touring, but I just don’ want that life anymore. He says I’m selfish and only thinkin’ of myself.” She sighed. “It’s probably true too, but I honestly couldn’t live that life anymore. I’m not cut out for the spotlight. I don’ like it. Don’ get me wrong, I love music and I have to sing, that part makes me happy, but all the rest . . .” She broke off, looking at the artist a little helplessly.
Outsiders looking at her life always thought she had it made. She had a famous father. All the money in the world. She could do anything she wanted. She had a voice that was a blend of smoke and fire according to all the critics, and she could draw thousands to a concert and easily sell over a million albums almost within the first week she put her recordings out. Outsiders would say, what the hell was wrong with her. That was her manager. Keep working. Keep going, no matter how unhappy the lifestyle made her.
Arnaud leaned close and laid his hand on her wrist, smiling at her. “In the end, Bijou, you must do what is right for you. This is a place I come to visit because it inspires me, but I couldn’t live here all year-round. The mosquitoes alone would drive me to drink.”
He laughed at himself, making her smile.
“I enjoy New York. The nightlife, the way the city makes its own music. I feel inspired there. I enjoy Paris, and believe it or not, Istanbul. I like to travel and see the world, but in the end, my studio is where I need to be.”
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