“Kick her ass out of here,” Parry called after them.
“Parry, will you, please, stop being so hostile,” Clarice said. “You’re not helping the situation with your ugly outbursts.”
Once in the hallway, Jolie kept walking, but couldn’t resist saying, “Is that what you intend to do—kick my ass out of here?”
“Believe me, that’s what I’d like to do,” Max told her. “Unfortunately, you have every legal right to live in this house. I just can’t figure out why you’d want to.”
Jolie rounded the corner, opened the study door, and breezed into the room that had once been her father’s private domain. Even now, with Louis Royale dead and buried, this paneled den was filled with his spirit, as if at any moment he might return to sit behind the massive desk or smoke his pipe while resting in one of the huge wing chairs. Memories of childhood moments in this room washed over her, moving her swiftly through time, back to when she’d been her daddy’s little darling. Jolie shook her head, attempting to dislodge such senseless reminiscing. This is what you’ll be up against, if you stay here. Memories from the past, both good and bad. The kitchen where you found your mother’s body is still there; the room where you were shot and left for dead. And upstairs, the landing where Aunt Lisette died is waiting for you when you go up to your old room.
“Sit or stand?” Max asked.
“What?” Her mind was still fuzzy with thoughts of the past.
Max shrugged. “We’ll stand.”
She nodded. Max looked as if he belonged in this room, as if it were as much his as it had been her father’s. Aunt Clarice had told her that Max had become a true son to Louis. How happy that must have made Georgette.
“Why are you moving in here?” Max asked.
“Truthfully?”
“That would be nice.”
Jolie smiled. “Why am I moving into Belle Rose today?” She laughed, the sound a throaty mocking chuckle. “Because I can. And there’s nothing anyone can do to stop me.”
Chapter 10
Max had the overpowering urge to grab Jolie and shake her until her teeth rattled. He remembered her as a girl, running barefoot all over Belle Rose, riding her mare bareback, swimming in the pond on hot summer days. She’d been little more than a child, just a rebellious, pampered, undisciplined teenager—a great deal like Mallory. Both of them had been spoiled at a young age by a father who adored them. How many times had he listened to Louis talking about Jolie, always with a mixture of joy and sadness? She had broken her father’s heart by refusing to ever see him again after he remarried. Over the years, Max had grown to dislike Jolie intensely. He thought of her as an uncaring daughter who hadn’t matured enough to understand and forgive human frailties. The more he’d loved Louis, the more he’d hated Jolie.
Now, here she was, home at Belle Rose, where Louis had longed for her to be. But she hadn’t returned to make an old man happy. Too late for that now. No, she was here for revenge. And apparently she was still spoiled and undisciplined—with no regard for the feelings of others.
“You do realize that while you’re making everyone else miserable, you’re not likely to be anything but miserable yourself.”
Jolie shrugged. “It’s the price I’ll have to pay.”
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked. “Is your life in Atlanta so dull and meaningless that you’d rather stay here, live at Belle Rose, just to disrupt our lives?”
“What makes you think that my decision to live at Belle Rose has anything to do with you…or with anyone else who lives here?” Jolie plopped down in one of the wing chairs, making herself right at home.
“Give me one good reason, other than the one I’ve stated?” Max sat on the edge of the desk, then crossed his arms over his chest.
“Oh, my. So big and bad and dangerous.” Jolie placed her open palms on her cheeks and rounded her eyes, mimicking fear. “You’re so intimidating. Should I be trembling?”
“You have no idea how dangerous I can be.”
“Is that a threat?” Jolie met his menacing gaze head-on.
Damn her, she was daring him to prove himself. He was unaccustomed to having others stand up to him. Usually his killer stare was enough to make even the biggest, meanest son of a bitch back down. After all, Maximillian Devereaux had a reputation as a man you didn’t dare cross. So why was this sassy-mouthed woman unafraid? Didn’t she realize that he could break her in half with his bare hands?
Max eased off the desk, stood and walked over to her, then leaned down and grasped the chair arms on either side of Jolie. She swallowed hard, a hint of uncertainty in her eyes; but she didn’t break eye contact, nor did she show any sign of real fear.
“It’s a warning. I will not allow you to torment my mother or constantly aggravate my sister.”
His gaze clashed with Jolie’s. What he saw in her eyes was bullheaded determination. They were going to do battle. War between them was inevitable. His gut instincts warned him that she was no more likely to give an inch than he was, so this would be a fight to the finish. To the death.
She lifted her face until they were eye-to-eye, their noses almost touching, only a hairbreadth between them. “Just how do you plan on stopping me? By killing me? I’ve heard the rumors, you know. About your killing your wife. Poor Felicia. And about how some people believe you might have killed my mother, so yours could marry my daddy and move into Belle Rose. Tell me, Max, have you already tried to kill me once?”
She realized, too late, that she’d gone too far in her taunting. Pure rage burned in Max’s blue-gray eyes. Anger stained his cheeks. His nostrils flared and he snorted, like a bull preparing to charge. She opened her mouth to speak, to admit that she’d overstepped the bounds; but before she could utter a word, Max grabbed her by the shoulders, lifted her out of the chair and shook her. Roughly. Several times. She gasped for air, then finally managed to cry out as his big hands bit into her upper arms. Instantly he loosened his grip and shook her one last time, but with less force. Tears lodged in her throat, threatening to erupt at any moment; but she willed herself to remain calm and not show him any fear. Her gaze connected with his and what she saw in his eyes at that moment surprised her. Pain. An agonized, tortured expression.
Had she hurt him with her thoughtless accusations? Was it possible that Max Devereaux was capable of ordinary human feelings? If you pricked him, would he actually bleed?
“Damn you!” His chest lifted and fell heavily with his labored breathing.
“Max, I—”
He released her so abruptly, shoving her slightly in the process, that she almost lost her balance. “Move into Belle Rose at your own risk.”
“Another warning?” Now, why hadn’t she just kept her mouth shut? What was it about Max that made her want to antagonize him? Was it because, despite the fact that she intensely disliked him, hated his mother and resented his whole damn family, she’d never gotten over her teenage infatuation? Face it, you find him devastatingly attractive, but you know that he’s the last man on earth you should want.
“Keep it up, chère, and you’ll find out.” Without another word, Max turned and walked out of the room.
Jolie released a long strained breath, feeling as if she’d narrowly escaped the full effect of Max’s wrath. Sooner or later things would come to a head between them. Later, she hoped. She needed time to build her strength, to prepare herself. During the years she’d lived away from Belle Rose, she had fought more than her share of battles, many of them emotional; as a businesswoman, she had faced, fought, and bested worse bastards than Max. But she had never locked horns with an opponent who was capable of murder.
But was Max really a murderer? Did she truly believe that he was responsible for the Belle Rose massacre? And what about the unsolved mystery surrounding Felicia’s death? Twenty years ago she would have defended Max with her whole heart. But she had been young, foolish, and hopelessly enamored with the brooding bad boy. Now she was older and wiser and didn’t put her
trust in others so easily. Just because she was still attracted to Max didn’t mean she should let down her guard. She had no reason to believe in his innocence, no reason not to consider him a prime suspect.
“Well, what did he say?” Parry demanded as he paced the floor in his sister’s sitting room. “Does he have a plan to get rid of her? Has he contacted Gar?”
Reclining on the white silk-tufted chaise longue in her white-and-beige sitting room adjacent to the bedroom she had shared with her husband, Georgette sipped leisurely on her afternoon iced tea. On these hot, humid summer days, she did so enjoy these little luxuries. Ignoring Parry, she glanced around, taking note of her opulent surroundings. She’d have to redecorate these rooms soon, once an appropriate amount of time had passed. Louis’s presence was unbearably strong in her boudoir.
“Are you listening to me?” Parry asked.
Georgette did so wish that Parry would leave her alone. She’d had a most disturbing morning and her nerves were simply frayed. But knowing her brother as she did, she didn’t doubt that he’d keep pestering her until she responded. In some ways, Parry was like a pesky mosquito buzzing around, driving a person crazy. Naturally she loved Parry. He was her only sibling. And growing up more or less orphans in New Orleans—with their mother dead and their father a worthless drunk—they had found ways to keep body and soul together. They had done what they’d had to do. She was horribly ashamed of her past and prayed that no one would ever learn the truth about Georgette Clifton, who’d been a whore at thirteen. When she was eighteen, one of her clients, Philip Devereaux, who visited New Orleans several times a year, fell in love with her. She had been fond of Philip, but she’d been incapable of loving anyone. Not then. Not until years later. Not until Louis.
“Answer me, damn it, woman!” Parry got right up in Georgette’s face. “Jolie Royale is the fly in our honey. We’ve had it made all these years. Louis was a generous man. And completely devoted to you. But mark my word, that gal is trouble. She wants us out of Belle Rose and she won’t stop until she’s taken away everything we’ve got.”
“But she can’t take away…Louis protected me…protected all of us. He left my children two-thirds of his estate.”
As if he hadn’t even heard her, Parry grumbled, “Max needs to get rid of her. I’d be more than happy to help him dispose of her body. Maybe toss her in the river. She’d make good fish food.”
“Parry! You’re talking crazy. Max would never…Just hush up such nonsense. If anyone should hear you, it might resurrect all those ugly speculations that surfaced when Felicia died.”
“What do you think, Georgie? Do you think your son killed his not-so-loving and unfaithful wife?”
“No, I most certainly do not. Max is a good man. A devoted son. He may have a violent temper, but he keeps it under control.”
“Yeah, he controls his temper…most of the time. But I’ve seen him come close to losing it completely, and so have you. When he gets all closed-off and brooding, don’t you ever wonder if he inherited a weakness for evil from his father?”
“Philip Devereaux was kindness personified,” Georgette said. “The man didn’t have an evil bone in his body.”
A hint of scorn tinted Parry’s loud boisterous laughter. “Hell, Georgie, I wasn’t referring to Philip. I was talking about Max’s biological father.”
“Philip was—”
“Philip was the sap who married you and made an honest woman of you, but he didn’t sire that Black Knight son of yours and we both know it.”
Georgette would not listen to another word. How dare Parry bring up ancient history. Now, of all times, when the family should stand united, presenting themselves in the most favorable light possible. To the community. And to Jolie.
“Hush up such stupidity,” Georgette told her brother. “What if someone should overhear you? I’ve forbidden you to ever discuss anything about our lives before we came to Sumarville. And you promised me you’d keep our secrets.”
“I’ve never breathed a word. Not to a soul. Not even when I’ve been…when I’ve had a little too much to drink. At least as far as I know.” He chuckled, a mirthless, guttural haw, haw, haw. “Hell, you don’t think I’d want people knowing what I did when I was a kid, do you?”
Georgette reached out and grasped Parry’s soft smooth hand. The hand of a man who hadn’t done any physical labor in many years. Neatly manicured nails proclaimed him to be a gentleman. But she knew better. Beneath the polished exterior that Parry presented to the world, her baby brother was gutter scum, just as she was.
“Max has gone to the office today,” she said. “He’s meeting Gar for lunch to discuss our options. And until we have some legal way of dealing with Jolie, we are going to make her welcome at Belle Rose. Do I make myself clear? She is Louis’s daughter and I will not allow anyone in this house to mistreat her.”
“You really mean that, don’t you?” Parry gazed at her, puzzlement in his eyes. “You know, Georgie, sometime during the past forty years you’ve turned into a lady. A real lady.”
Just because Jolie was back in Sumarville, there was no reason to panic. Even if she stayed for a while, what difference would it make? She doesn’t remember seeing me that day. She has no way of knowing what I did. If she could have, she would have identified me years ago. If there had ever been any evidence linking me to the crime scene, that evidence is long gone. Thank God, the local authorities had been more than willing to believe that Lemar Fuqua had murdered the Desmond sisters and then killed himself. The damn fools hadn’t looked any further, hadn’t even considered the possibility that someone else might have had motive and opportunity. And at the time Louis Royale had been so focused on whether Jolie would live or die that he’d seemed unconcerned about who had killed his wife and her sister. Or maybe he’d been glad that Audrey was dead, glad someone had removed the one obstacle that stood between him and the woman he loved.
I was lucky and my luck has held for twenty years. All I have to do is continue on as I always have. I have nothing to fear. Nothing except memories. Memories of that bloody day. Memories that won’t leave me alone, that have haunted me. I hadn’t planned on killing anyone. Why did I have to overhear her talking about me? Why hadn’t I realized sooner what a manipulative bitch she was? She forced me to do the unthinkable. It wasn’t my fault. It was her fault. She gave me no other choice. Damn the woman. I had hoped her soul was rotting in hell, but after seeing Jolie, I know now that Lisette’s evil spirit has come back to haunt me.
Now, look what you’ve done to yourself. Your hands are trembling. You’re feeling queasy. Why do you upset yourself this way? Because Jolie’s back, because she’s the only other person alive who was there that day. But she didn’t see you. She swears she never saw the person who shot her.
But what if she remembers something? What if…
Stay calm. Don’t lose control. You can wait her out. She’ll go back to Atlanta sooner or later, with no harm done. Except to your nerves.
Clarice met Nowell in the gazebo. Her heart raced as she approached him. He wore his usual faded jeans and cotton knit shirt. He’d pulled his shoulder-length gray hair into a ponytail. Sweat dampened his face; a trickle slid from his temple and down his cheek. Even she was perspiring slightly. Moisture dampened the undersides of her breasts.
She felt guilty being so happy today, so alive and so in love. It wasn’t right that her life was rich and complete, not with poor Louis buried only yesterday. And dear little Jolie, so hurt and angry, and so determined to wreak vengeance.
Clarice knew that people whispered behind her back, saying terribly ugly things about her and about Nowell. She wasn’t as dense as everyone thought. She had suffered from a nervous condition since she was eighteen, an emotional affliction that had worsened twenty years ago. But the Valium she took helped soothe her. After the doctors here in Sumarville had refused to give her the medication she needed, she’d found a man in New Orleans—a special doctor—who understood her pro
blem. The medicine kept the ghosts at bay, even though sometimes at night, in her dreams, the memories returned. Blood everywhere. The stench of death. Sightless eyes staring up at her. The faint beating of Jolie’s pulse.
Don’t think about it! Don’t relive that horrifying day. Jolie’s alive and she’s come home; reason enough to celebrate. Let the past stay buried. No need to dredge it up.
Nowell took her in his arms and held her. She loved the feel of being held, enjoyed the gentleness of this kind man. Despite his coarse appearance, he was such a gentleman. And he never treated her as if she were crazy, not the way so many others did. People thought of her as that poor, pitiful Clarice. She’s lived such a tragic life, they said. Lost her fiancé when she was just a girl and never quite got over his death. And then she was the one who found the bodies of her sisters and that black man at Belle Rose. She’s been touched in the head ever since.
Clarice clung to Nowell, embracing his strength, absorbing his masculine power, taking his vitality into her, believing in the impossible—that he loved her. Everyone had warned her against him. And at times even she wondered why a man such as he would be interested in her.
Nuzzling her neck, Nowell whispered, “How long can you stay?”
“Long enough,” she said. “Georgette thinks I’m taking my afternoon nap.”
“I’ve brought you something.”
Keeping one arm draped around her, Nowell reached down and lifted the flower off the built-in bench behind him. When he presented her with a perfect yellow rose, she sighed dreamily and accepted his gift.
“Is everything all right?” he asked. “When you phoned and asked me to meet you here, I thought I heard worry in your voice.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “I don’t want you worrying about anything. So, tell me what’s wrong and let me make it right for you.”
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