Chapter Ten
Sable was glad she didn't have a culling pole at that moment; she'd have brained J. D. with it for sure. "I'm not holding anything back."
"Aren't you? What were you talking to Colette about this morning? Why did Remy argue with you about Caine and his best friend and your mother?"
She couldn't tell him what Marc had said that had troubled her on the night before the murder; he'd think it was ridiculous and she was crazy. Remy had thought so. "We were talking about something else."
"What?" When she didn't answer, his hold on her changed. "Then tell me, why does it have to be like this between us?" He pulled her head against his shoulder, stroking her hair until she relaxed against him. "I can't let you shut me out again, Sable. The last time about killed me."
"I didn't do so great, either." Her throat hurt, and her eyes stung, but she blinked back the tears.
"Then talk to me, baby. Please."
His anger she could handle, but his gentleness was going to drive her insane. She had to put a stop to this, make him understand. "Jean-Del, what we had in the past is over. We're different people now, older and I hope a little wiser. I care about you, and I'm grateful to you for helping me, but I won't get involved with you again."
He tilted her face up to his. "Too late for that."
Sable willed herself to remain still as his mouth touched hers. If she responded, he'd know she was lying, and that he could have as much of her as he desired. Being skinned alive would have been less painful, but the alternative would only lead to heartbreak and ruin. Like him, she couldn't handle that again.
I don't want this. I don't want him.
It would have been easier if he'd been angry and rough, the way he had after hauling her away from Caine Gantry. But J. D. drew her into a quiet place full of darkness and heat where the world went away and there was only the two of them. He deepened the kiss at the same time he put his hands to work on her skin, stroking and gentling her, and the double assault made her head swim.
He lifted his head and buried his face in her hair. "Do you remember the first time I kissed you?"
How could she forget? They'd been caught in the rain outside her dorm and huddled together under the scant protection of a narrow overhang, trying to say good night without getting soaked.
That night he'd smiled down at her—It's only a little water—and he'd pulled her out into the rain, whirling her off her feet. She had wriggled and shrieked with laughter, covering her head. They'd both gotten soaked to the skin within seconds, but then he'd stopped suddenly. Sable had slid down the front of him, expecting to feel the ground beneath her feet again, but she'd never reached it. Instead he'd held her suspended between his hands and looked all over her face in wonder before staring at her rain-wet lips. God, you just glow. Like you're lit up from the inside.
In that moment, she'd lost herself in his blue eyes. You make me feel like I am, Jean-Del.
J. D. looked at her the same way now. "I never saw anyone so beautiful, the way you were that night." He bent his head, and murmured the last words against her mouth. "And the next night, and the next, and every other night I held you in my arms."
If there were a hell for lovers, it had to feel like this—she wanted him and feared him and could not escape him. The old pain blended with new as she felt herself reaching for him, threading her fingers through his dense black hair, moving against the press of his hard body on hers. "Kiss me again."
He did. The desire he'd drawn from her intensified, became as scalding as his hands and mouth were urgent, scorched through her body until she thought her skin would melt under the relentless heat. She moaned when he took his mouth away, almost mindless with need.
"You want me?" His voice teased her left ear as he stroked his hands from her shoulders to her hips.
He needed reassurance? "Yes." She turned her face, wanting his mouth again, but he was doing something to her throat—something with his tongue and his teeth that was going to make her scream. She must have made some sound, because she felt his smile against her skin.
"You trust me?"
That hurt a little. She'd given him so much already—didn't he see that? But if he needed the words, needed to hear them from her lips, she would give him those, too. "Yes. Please, Jean-Del—"
"It's okay, baby. I know it hurts. I hurt, too." He was walking backward now, drawing her out of the kitchen. "I'm going to make it better for both of us."
Her legs were starting to give out, and she clutched at him. "Now?"
"Right now." He halted at the threshold of one of the bedrooms to kiss her again. "Sable."
"Mmmm?..." She chased his mouth again. If he teased her much longer, she'd rip all their clothes off herself and knock him to the floor.
He started on the other side of her throat. "You are going to tell me about Billy, aren't you?"
That softly murmured question was as effective as a bucket of duckweed-slimy swamp water. Sable went immobile, locked in disbelief that he would use her own response to him like this.
We protect our own, Hilaire had said, and so do they.
She didn't hit him again, mainly because she was afraid she wouldn't stop if she started. No, now she had to be clever, more clever than Jean-Del was.
But he was already looking into her eyes, and there was resignation in his. "I shouldn't have pushed. I'm sorry."
Actually she thought he'd done quite well. He'd almost gotten her crazy enough to tell him whatever he wanted, just to have him. If she told him what Marc had said, what she was thinking now that only made sense to her, he would have to make a terrible choice.
And he won't choose me.
Carefully she extricated herself from his embrace. "I really do have to take a shower." A long shower. A long, cold shower. She made her expression soften. "It'll be okay, Jean-Del."
"I need to make some calls anyway, see about this APB." He sighed and rested his brow against hers. "Don't take too long."
Not long. Only the rest of her life. "All right." She kissed one of his dark eyebrows before she slipped out of his arms. "Make us something cool to drink, will you? I think we're going to need it."
Sable could almost hear her heart breaking as he chuckled and wandered back to the kitchen. She went into the bathroom and locked the door, then studied the dimensions of the window. It was a simple, singlepaned crank type, and large enough for her to fit through comfortably. She popped the screen out and hoisted herself over the edge, looking in both directions before dropping to the ground. She'd have to avoid the front of the house and the lake, but she could hear the sound of traffic in the distance. She followed it until she emerged from the scrub pine on the edge of a busy road leading from the lakeside to New Orleans.
Before she'd even thought about where to go from there, a red convertible filled with a pair of laughing college students pulled off the road a few yards away from her. "Hey, sweetie!" One of the girls waved to her. "You need a ride?"
She couldn't go back to the bayou, not with Gantry and his men looking for her. Jean-Del wouldn't look for her in the city. She smiled and started walking toward the car. "That would be great, thanks."
J. D. emptied the ice he had crushed into the pitcher of lemonade, and tried not to think about Sable naked in the shower. With a little more patience he'd get her to tell him about Caine and Billy, and then he could spend the rest of the night in bed with her.
Night, hell. We'll be lucky to come up for air, food, and water in a week.
Sable's insistence that Remy was innocent didn't bother J. D.—she was only being loyal to the man who had raised her—but there were too many coincidences. If he could find evidence that the fire at the warehouse and the one that nearly killed Remy were somehow connected...
Cort would know. His task force had been collecting evidence and data on arson cases for years, entering them into the database so that repeat offenders could be identified and stopped more quickly. But Terri had already indicated that he was
pissed off, so J. D. didn't want to call him directly.
On impulse he dialed the private number to Krewe of Louis.
His easygoing father answered the restaurant phone with a snarled, "What you want?"
"Some of your gumbo would hit the spot right now," J. D. said. "How about you?"
"I'm out of my mind with worry about you and near ready to divorce your damn mother. There ain't enough cognac in New Orleans to make me happy." Louis exhaled heavily. "You want to come on home now, boy?"
"I can't just yet. Dad, I need you to do something for me." He explained the situation to Louis and how he needed Cort to get whatever records he could on the old arson case. "Tell him to compare the evidence from that one to the warehouse fire. I need to know if there were any similarities at all."
"Your brother's out hunting for you all, but I'll see what I can do." The old man sounded tired. "J. D., you watch yourself and look out for that girl, you hear me?"
"I will, Dad. Talk to you soon." J. D. switched off the phone and frowned. He knew from experience that the shower in Terri's bathroom was strong and noisy, but he still hadn't heard any water running. Then he recalled how big the window was in there and ran from the kitchen.
She wouldn't.
He didn't bother to knock, but used his shoulder to force the locked door in. The bathroom was empty and the window wide open. He swore as he climbed through the window and dropped down, looking in all directions. The sound of running feet through the pine needles made him take off toward the side of the house, where Terri kept her motorcycle in a utility shed.
J. D. used the spare key Terri kept in a magnet clip under the fender to start the Harley, then rode it through the woods and got to the road in time to see Sable take off in a red convertible with a couple of kids. He automatically memorized the license plate as he took a moment to pull on Terri's black helmet and snap the dark visor down to conceal his face before he pulled out and followed the convertible toward the city.
As Laure related what Terri Vincent had told her, Elizabet forgot her mother's ironclad rule about ladies always governing what they said with the utmost decorum. "I see. Ms. Duchesne has truly outdone herself this time."
Moriah picked up the tea tray. "I'll put this away, Laure." The girl hurried from the room.
"I don't know. I know Marc was involved with someone before he and I..." The other woman seemed ready to collapse at any moment. "Eliza, I don't know what to think or do. If she really is Marc's daughter—I know he would want me to help her—"
"But don't you see, Laure? That's why she made up this whole elaborate story, to gain your sympathy." Elizabet gestured at the portrait of Marc above the mantel. "I've known Marc since you two were newly-weds, and not once was he unfaithful to you. For her story to be true, Marc would have had to get her mother pregnant a month before your wedding. Do you really think he would have had an affair while you were engaged?"
Laure paled. "We weren't engaged all that long, but no, I don't think so."
Gratified that she had settled that matter, Elizabet smiled. "I've called all my friends and talked to them about what we can do. The most important thing is to present a united front. Jacob has already scheduled a press conference today to denounce this girl's claims. I think you should give an interview to the Daily News and do the same."
"I don't think that's a good idea." Moriah, who had been hovering in the doorway, walked slowly over and sat next to Laure. "I knew Isabel in school, Laure. She wasn't as bad as everyone said she was. She was a genuinely nice girl."
Elizabet gave her a hard look. "She has fooled a lot of people into believing that, Moriah."
"I think I need some time to myself." Laure got to her feet. "I appreciate you all looking after me, but you should go home to your own families now."
Moriah ducked her head. "There's something else you should know, Laure. Isabel Duchesne has very dark brown eyes. They're the color of black coffee." She let out an unsteady breath. "Just like Marc's were."
Sable was relieved by the time her ride dropped her off in the French Quarter. Besides insisting that she share in the bounty of their lukewarm beer, the two students had pulled off the road several times to buy souvenirs and once to stop for lunch, where they spent nearly an hour gobbling up Cajun fries soaked in ketchup and arguing about who was hotter, Elijah Wood or Justin Timberlake.
"Justin's got a great voice, but Elijah's eyes rock."
"Britney never dated Elijah."
"That's 'cause Elijah thinks Britney is a slut."
"Well, so does Justin."
What should have taken an hour turned out to take three with the stops and the traffic. By the time they reached the city, the girls tried to talk her into going with them to their hotel, where a local radio station was holding various contests.
"You got a beautiful pair," the young coed said, patting Sable's breast as casually as she would a cute puppy. "Plus they pay three hundred dollars if you flash your tits for the guys videotaping everything. It's easy." She got up on her knees as another car filled with students passed them, and jerked up her T-shirt to jiggle her bare breasts at the ogling boys. "See?"
Sable could only laugh. "Thanks, but I've got somewhere to be."
"Your loss, honey." The girl had handed her a badge. "Listen, if you still want to earn a few bucks, take this and go to parade staging on Canal Street. You can take my place; I'm supposed to work one of the floats tonight." She burped and giggled. "Only I'm so drunk I'd just fall off."
Now that Sable was back in the city, she actually didn't have anywhere to go. Dancing, costumed tourists sloshing their plastic go-cups of beer choked the streets in unbelievable numbers, but she still felt uneasy, and looked over her shoulder several times. She negotiated her way out of the rows of bars and into the somewhat less crowded shopping district, but found the main streets had already been barricaded for one of the nightly Mardi Gras parades.
She took out the pass the girl had given her and almost laughed. Sure, I could work a float. Watch the murder witness on national television, tossing goodies to the unsuspecting tourists. She clipped it to her lapel. It might come in handy if someone stops me, though.
She followed the barricades for about an hour, looking for a pay phone she could use, but there were lines at every one she saw and she didn't want to wait. As it was she felt like everyone was staring at her, and when she saw two patrolmen working their way through the crowded street toward her, she abruptly turned around. A trio of glassy-eyed coeds bedecked in strings of flashy beads nearly collided with her before someone grabbed her arm and tugged her to the curb.
Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest as she stopped in her tracks and looked up into a stern, perspiring face.
"Hey." It was a man wearing a black jacket with KREW OF ORPHEUS and PARADE OFFICIAL emblazoned on the breast in white letters. He took the pass from her nerveless fingers and scowled at it and her. "You're in the wrong place, and you're an hour late. Why is your hair red?"
"Sorry." She tried to think of an excuse. "Traffic was insane. I got tired of being blond."
"Good choice, you're prettier as a redhead. Come on, I'm headed that way myself—I'll give you a ride." He took her arm and steered her toward a waiting car. "You haven't been drinking, have you?"
"Uh, no, sir."
"Good. Half the performers we've got are already too soused to stand upright." He opened the door for her.
The official took her to the parade-staging area, where gigantic papier-mâché floats sat lined up and waiting for the night's festivities. Hundreds of performers in outrageous glittering costumes wove in and out, helping each other with enormous headdresses, adjusting feathers and shouting out to technicians putting the final touches on the various props and wires on the enormous floats.
"Get over to costuming," the official told her, giving Sable a push in the direction of a huge striped tent just beyond the car.
Everyone was sporting some type of mask, so Sable walked
into the tent. Until she could find a way to get in touch with Hilaire or Remy, she needed the camouflage. The moment she stepped through the flaps, two women seized her from either side. "You're a size six, right?" one of them asked while stretching a measuring tape across her chest.
"Seven." She winced as someone tugged the pony-tail holder out of her hair. "Hey."
"She's the right height," the second woman said to the first, then asked Sable, "You ever wear a hoop skirt before?"
An hour later Sable stepped down from a dressmaker's stand, completely transformed. The two women had wrestled her into what appeared to be an exact replica of Scarlett O'Hara's green gown from the movie Gone with the Wind. The emerald velvet high-collared bodice and outer skirt shimmered against the lighter lime underskirt. Her red hair was hidden under a bubbly wig of chestnut curls and a hat festooned with black feathers and golden tassels.
"These are too loose." One of the women adjusted the golden cords around her waist, which duplicated the drapery pulls Scarlett had worn. "There. I think even Rhett Butler himself would be impressed."
The other woman humphed. "Remember, whatever you do, don't sit down in this thing. The hoop will pop right up in your face, and everybody in New Orleans will be looking at your panties."
Someone shouted for Scarlett from the front of the tent.
"Go with Gary." The woman pointed to a man hovering at the front of the tent. "He'll help you onto the float."
The technician gave her the once-over before handing her a huge armful of colorful plastic necklaces. "Have you ever done this before?"
Sable shook her head and gingerly arranged the beaded strings over one of her forearms.
"Okay, three things to remember—you wave, you smile, and you throw your beads. Four things—you try not to move around too much." He led her to a huge float where other performers were already being positioned around a miniature model of an old plantation house.
"What's the theme?"
"Great Southern movies—you're Gone with the Wind. Did you go to the bathroom? It'll be an hour before the parade starts, and you won't get off until nine or ten tonight."
Hall, Jessica Page 18