“Might not be a bad idea for you to get out of the country.”
“I’m way ahead of you.”
The dial tone hummed in Roscoe’s ear. Hellfire, where were the smart men, the ones who knew how to follow orders and keep a low profile? What happened to the men who could move in quickly, do the job, and never get caught? He didn’t know this guy, another recommendation from an old friend. They’d never met. He called himself Wesley, but that might not be his name. The guy had come highly recommended, but then pickings were slim these days when it came to redneck hoodlums willing to do anything for the right price.
“Daddy, what have you gotten yourself into now?” Garland stood just inside the doorway to Roscoe’s den.
Damn, he hadn’t heard his son enter, hadn’t realized his conversation with Wesley had been overheard.
“What did you hear?” Roscoe asked.
“Just you telling someone that it might not be a bad idea if he got out of the country.”
Roscoe sighed with relief. “It’s nothing. A minor irritation. Don’t worry about it.”
“But I do worry about you. I worry that sooner or later you’re going to get caught doing something illegal. I know, despite what you profess to the world, that you’ve still got ties to some rather ruthless people. I’d hate to see everything you’ve worked for all these years destroyed by a stupid mistake.”
“Yeah, well, the mistake won’t be mine. I cover my tracks. You know that.” Roscoe eyed Garland. His only son. His heir. “Tell me, boy, have you given any more thought to my idea of your running for the U.S. Congress? I’ve got all the wheels in motion. All I need is a word from you and we’ll start laying the groundwork.”
“I don’t know, Daddy. I’m not sure I’m suited for the life of a politician.”
“Nonsense. Politicking is in your blood. Hell, your great-great-granddaddy was the governor. There’s been a Wells involved in Mississippi politics since before the War Between the States.”
“I know. And I promise I’ll think seriously about taking a shot at the congressional seat that Tom Watkins is vacating.”
Roscoe rounded his desk and walked over to Garland, whopped him heartily on the back, and smiled. “You do that. You do that. And stop fretting about me. I can take care of myself.” And I can take care of you, too. I always have and I always will. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.
“Promise me that if you need my help…legal help—”
Roscoe laughed. “Everything’s going to be just fine. Stop worrying. I got myself a little problem to solve, but it’s nothing I can’t handle and it’s nothing that needs to concern you.” No, this needn’t concern you, son. Everything I have done—in the past and in the present—to bury the true facts about the Belle Rose massacre, I’d do all over again. There’s no need for anyone to even suspect you were involved in any way.
Jolie couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t even lie in bed and rest. She paced the floor, back and forth in front of the French doors that opened onto the balcony. Her mind kept replaying the events at Ginny Pounders’ house. Even with her eyes wide open, she could still see the woman’s slashed throat. And the blood. So much blood.
An eerie tingling radiated from the base of her spine upward. She could almost feel the killer’s hands grabbing her. She shuddered, closed her eyes momentarily, and shook her head, trying desperately to dislodge the fear. She could have died tonight, been murdered just like Ginny Pounders had been. If Max hadn’t shown up. If Max hadn’t fought off her attacker. If Max hadn’t risked his life to save her.
Earlier tonight, Max and she had gotten his prescriptions for the antibiotics and Percocet filled at the Wal-Mart pharmacy. The downtown pharmacy that the Royale family normally used closed promptly at six each evening. On the ride home to Belle Rose, both had been quiet. Max had actually dozed on and off.
“Why don’t you stop fighting the effects of the shot the doctor gave you,” she’d advised him.
“Bossy woman.”
Yes, she was bossy. She was used to being the one in charge, the one giving orders. But in this case, she would have had to fight Max’s family in order to control the situation. The minute they had arrived at Belle Rose, the whole lot of them had come swarming out of the house, Georgette and Clarice fussing over Max as if he were a six-year-old who’d skinned his knee. At least Parry had done something constructive. He’d helped her get a slightly woozy Max up the steps and into the house, despite Parry’s own wobbly condition.
Once inside the foyer, Mallory had all but shoved Jolie out of the way. “I’ll help Uncle Parry take Max up to bed. I think you’ve done more than enough.”
Sarcastic little bitch, Jolie had thought. “Here’s his prescriptions.” She’d held out the white paper sack to Mallory, who had grabbed it quickly and done her best to ignore Jolie.
That had been hours ago, even though it seemed more like days. She’d tossed her bloody clothes in the bathroom wastebasket and taken a nice long shower, scrubbing herself thoroughly from head to toe. She’d chosen a pair of thin cotton pajamas and then crawled into bed. She’d dozed off for about an hour, then woke with a start, thinking she’d heard Max calling her name. It had taken her several minutes to realize she’d been dreaming.
Admit it, she told herself, you want to check on Max. You want to see for yourself that he’s all right. Yes, damn it, yes, that’s exactly what I want to do!
What would it hurt? Who would ever know? The entire household was asleep. Max was probably still drugged from the injection he’d been given in the ER. She could go quietly down the hall, open the door to his room, and peep in, just to make sure he was resting peacefully. If she did that, then maybe she could get some rest herself.
After slipping on her white terrycloth house shoes, she crossed the room, opened the door, and walked out into the hall. Quiet. Still. Only those dead-of-the-night muted rumblings peculiar to very old houses. She crept silently down the long wide corridor that led from her room to Max’s. Hesitating outside his door, she let her hand hover over the crystal doorknob. She glanced up and down the hall. No sign of anyone. She grasped the knob and opened the door just a fraction. Darkness lay beyond, but moonlight pouring through the long wide windows washed a path over the wooden floor and across the foot of the big oak four-poster.
Jolie felt as if her heart were going to beat its way out of her chest. She eased open the door a little farther and took several tentative steps. Max lay on his side, his back to the door. The covers rested at the foot of the bed, leaving his large body exposed. When Jolie tiptoed closer, she realized that he wore nothing except a pair of dark silk boxers. Sexual excitement stirred in her belly. No, don’t do this, she told herself. Don’t let yourself care about Max Devereaux.
She moved to the side of the bed and looked at him. She wanted to touch him. Wanted to caress his back, his uninjured shoulders, his chest, his…
Listening to his even breathing, she sighed. He was resting comfortably, probably still in the depths of a drug-induced sleep. He’d never know if she touched him, never realize that she’d been here in his room.
Her hand moved of its own volition, her fingertips caressing his thick dark hair.
He moaned.
Jolie jerked her hand away.
Max flopped over, reached out, and grabbed her wrist. She gasped.
“Sleepwalking, chère?” he whispered, then jerked her down and into the bed on top of him.
Chapter 18
Taken totally by surprise, Jolie didn’t respond verbally, only stared at Max, her gaze seeking his in the semidarkness. Her heartbeat trumpeted in her ears, obliterating every other sound. She lay on top of him, leaning slightly to the side. The thin material of her pajamas did little to protect her from the heat and solid strength of Max’s naked chest or his hairy legs—or the undeniable firmness of his erection. Her body betrayed her, melting against Max, molding itself around him. After releasing her wrist, he wasted no time in recapturing her with a swif
t move, shooting his fingers through her hair and gripping the back of her head with his big hand. Tension vibrated between them so intensely that it was almost visible, like tangible electrical currents connecting in the heavy, sensual atmosphere.
Her lips parted, whether to speak or to sigh she wasn’t sure and wasn’t given the time to decide. Max pushed her head downward and held her in place as he took her mouth with hungry passion. She responded instantly, as ravenous for the kiss as he was. Wild, screaming-and-clawing need exploded inside her, unlike anything she’d ever known. When his tongue delved inside, she reciprocated with manic thrusts, taking him as surely as he was taking her. He loosened his grip on her head and moved his hand down her neck, across her back and over her hips. His sex throbbed against her belly; she ached almost unbearably at the apex between her thighs.
When they came up for air, their breaths ragged, their bodies damp with perspiration, Max nuzzled her neck with his nose.
“I’m not in the best shape for this,” he told her.
“Oh, Max—your shoulder!” She eased off him and onto the bed.
He reached out to caress her cheek. “Ah, chère, what are we going to do?” Cupping her chin, he ran his thumb over her bottom lip. “We don’t even like each other.”
Her breathing settled, yet she felt as if a heavy weight suddenly dropped on her chest. “I know. Until last night I hated you. Or I thought I hated you.”
He glided his hand down her throat, his fingers like rough silk, creating tingles that tightened her nipples and moistened her.
“There is too much…past history…between us, isn’t there? Too many strong emotions that involve our parents as well as ourselves. It would be difficult for us to indulge in a simple little affair.”
She heard what he was saying, understood perfectly that they would be fools to begin a sexual relationship. But her body didn’t comprehend why it couldn’t have what it so desperately wanted. Every feminine compulsion she possessed craved this one particular man.
“I didn’t come to your room for…because I thought we’d…”
“You came because you couldn’t stay away.” His fingertips toyed with the top button of her pajamas.
“I needed to check on you, to make sure you were all right.” She lifted her hand and touched his face. “You saved my life.”
“A potent aphrodisiac.”
She smiled. “Yes, something like that.”
“You’re a smart woman. You must know that I can be dangerous for you.” He leaned over to place a kiss in the hollow between her breasts. She gasped. “That’s the way it is between us. I want you. And you want me.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You can save yourself if you leave now. My willpower will last for only so long.”
“You want me to—”
He dropped his index finger over her lips. “Once it’s done, there will be no going back. This is no mild flirtation between us.”
Oh, God! He was right. Damn him! “I don’t want this,” she said. “It’s the wrong time. You’re the wrong man.”
He moaned softly. “I understand. It’s the same with me.”
Jolie forced herself up and off the bed. She hovered at his side. “I—I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Of course. We have a great deal to do. Plans to make.”
She nodded, then hurried to the half-open door. Just as she eased through the door, he called her name.
“Jolie?”
She glanced over her shoulder.
He lifted himself up on one elbow. “Do you suppose they felt this way, in the beginning, when they first realized how much they wanted each other?”
“Who?” she asked but knew the answer.
“Your father and my mother.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”
Jolie turned and ran down the hall, back to her own room. Once safely inside, she pressed her shoulders against the door, leaned back her head, and gasped for air. This couldn’t be happening. It just couldn’t! She didn’t want to feel such powerful emotions for Max Devereaux. And she didn’t want to believe that this type of gut-wrenching hunger had motivated her father’s love affair with Georgette. If it had, then he must have felt as helpless as she was feeling right now. But most of all, she didn’t want to put a label on her feelings. God help her, it couldn’t be love. A kind of all-consuming, animalistic, primitive love that made people do anything to be together.
Even kill?
Jolie went downstairs late, after everyone had eaten breakfast and left the dining room. Feeling slightly queasy, she poured herself a cup of coffee, added a liberal amount of cream and sipped the hot liquid as she went out into the hall. She had stopped by Max’s room before coming down and had seen that it was empty, his bed already neatly made. She had to find him. They needed to talk. After getting several hours of restless sleep, she had awakened knowing that she could not allow anything serious to happen between Max and her. No matter how tempted she was—and God knew she was—he definitely was the wrong man for her. Even on a temporary basis.
Instinct told her that, if he were still at Belle Rose this morning, he would be in her father’s study. Max’s study, now.
The temporary housekeeper stood in the hallway near the kitchen, giving instructions to the daily maids. Jolie paused, waited until the maids went about their duties, then spoke to Mrs. Tanner.
“Is Mr. Devereaux here?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am. He’s in the study.”
“Thank you.”
“Ms. Royale?”
“Yes?”
“He asked that when you came down, you join him,” Mrs. Tanner said. “I see you found the coffee. I cleared away the breakfast items at ten, just as Mrs. Royale requested, but if you’d like for me to fix you something, I could—”
“Thank you, no.”
Mrs. Tanner smiled.
Jolie took her time, sipping her coffee, strolling leisurely, as if she were in no hurry. Her emotions warred with her common sense. She longed to see Max again, wanted to rush into his arms and kiss him. But logic warned her to be cool, even distant, and to get straight to the point when she spoke to him.
The study door was closed. Should she knock? No, why should she? This was her house wasn’t it? Yes, but common courtesy required her to knock. She lifted her hand and knocked softly several times.
“Come in,” Max said.
Her heart raced wildly. Damn! She opened the door and entered the study. Max glanced up from where he sat in the big tufted-back leather chair. When he saw her, he jumped to his feet.
“Come on in. Did Mrs. Tanner tell you—”
“Yes, she said you wanted me to join you in the study.”
He came out from behind the desk, looking hail and hardy, not like a man who’d been shot fifteen hours ago. He wore a pair of charcoal gray trousers and a burgundy linen shirt, the top two buttons undone. Casual elegance. Odd, how that term fit Max perfectly. Even when he wore jeans, he exuded an air of elegance. But no matter how well dressed or well behaved he was, an aura of danger always surrounded him.
He paused in front of the massive Jacobean desk. “Did you sleep well?”
“Probably about as well as you did,” she replied.
A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “You’re awfully far away, all the way over there by the door.”
“It’s safer over here.”
He grinned. “Feeling as if you’ve been run over by a steamroller, chère?”
Jolie closed the door behind her but didn’t venture any farther into the room. “We need to talk about…I can’t deal with whatever is going on between us. There are too many other things more important…things that need my immediate attention.”
“I need your immediate attention.”
He took a step toward her; she backed up against the door. When she saw that he was still moving toward her, she held up both hands in a gesture for him to halt. He paused.
&nbs
p; “It’s all right, Jolie. I won’t come any closer.” He returned to the desk, sat on the edge, and crossed his arms over his chest. “I realize that we’d be fools to pursue anything of a truly personal nature. Our relationship is already too complicated. Sex would only muddy the waters even more. Besides, you still despise my mother. You still want my family out of Belle Rose. Nothing has really changed. Except now you’ve switched your focus from seeking revenge to unearthing the truth. You’ve taken Theron Carter’s cause and made it your own.”
Jolie blew out a dramatized huff. “I see that mind reading is one of your many talents.”
“I did pretty well in stating your feelings, didn’t I? Everything I said to you is what you’d planned to say to me, right?”
She nodded. “I’m glad you see things the same way I do.”
“Not about everything.” He studied her closely. “But for the time being, I agree that finding out what really happened the day your mother, your aunt, and Lemar Fuqua died here at Belle Rose comes first on our agenda.”
“Our agenda?”
“Someone hired three goons to kill Theron, but he’s tougher than they thought he was. And my guess is that one of those hired assassins killed Ginny Pounders, would have killed you, and shot me. There’s no doubt that whoever is behind these events does not want anyone digging into the Belle Rose massacre case. And this person knows you’re going to keep digging, so your life is still in danger.”
“What about your life? You saw the killer’s face.”
“He was a hired underling,” Max said. “Long gone by now. In Mexico or South America for an extended vacation. I’m no threat to whoever is pulling the strings behind the scenes—not yet—but you most definitely are.”
“Then if you don’t involve yourself any further—”
“I am involved.”
“Because you were shot?”
“No, chère. Because someone tried to kill you.”
“Max… ”
What She Doesn't Know Page 22