“What if I ask Roscoe Wells about it?”
Yvonne’s eyes widened in horror. “Don’t you go near that man!”
“Will you tell me one thing, something that is my business?”
His mother stared at him.
“Is Roscoe Wells my father?”
Yvonne gasped; a fine mist of tears glazed her eyes. “No, he’s not, thank God. And if you want me to, I can swear to that on a mile-high stack of Bibles.”
Chapter 24
In less than twenty-four hours, they would have the Belle Rose massacre files. The truth about the murders had to be there in the files, somewhere. Otherwise, why would they be worth a million dollars? As much as she wanted to get a look at those files, Jolie dreaded the thought of what she would find. Crime scene photographs. Shots of her mother, her aunt, and Lemar. A forensic report, a ballistics report, a preliminary report by the deputies first on the scene and the medical examiner’s report. And God only knew what else. Clues that might lead them to the real killer or hard evidence in black and white?
Jolie lathered her arms and legs with sunscreen, then stretched out on the chaise longue by the pool. Waiting until eleven tomorrow wouldn’t be easy; already the two hours since Max and she had met with Aaron Bendall seemed more like two days. She lifted her sunglasses off the dry towel beside the chaise, put them on, and closed her eyes.
Relax, Jolie, she told herself. Worrying about tomorrow won’t make the time pass any faster. And escaping from Max for a few hours will not save you from him, either. Face it, you’ve simply given yourself a brief reprieve. She had come to realize that Max Devereaux was a force to be reckoned with when he wanted something. And it was obvious that he wanted her.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid I must ask you to vacate the pool area,” Mr. Fritz said. “There is some minor repair work that we need to do. I apologize for any inconvenience and appreciate your cooperation. The pool should reopen in a couple of hours.”
Jolie sighed. Just when she’d settled in, was halfway relaxed and knew she was temporarily safe from Max’s presence, the hotel manager decides to close the pool. Great. Just great. She rose from the chaise, picked up her towels and bottle of sunscreen, then started to follow the other hotel guests.
Mr. Fritz approached her. “Ms. Royale, please don’t leave. The pool area is not closed to you.”
“I don’t understand. I—”
“Thank you, Mr. Fritz.” Max appeared at the open gate, which was the entrance from the narrow, greenery shrouded, brick walkway that led from the hotel to the secluded pool area.
“Oh.” Jolie understood immediately. Max Devereaux wanted complete privacy at the pool, so he’d snapped his fingers and the hotel manager had closed the area to the rest of the guests.
Mr. Fritz disappeared hurriedly, latching the decorative wooden gate behind him. With two tall glasses in each hand, Max walked toward her. Be still my heart, she thought, then mentally laughed at her own silliness. Be still my heart, indeed. No big deal that Max resembled a half-naked Greek god in his royal blue swim trunks. So the man was drop-dead gorgeous. It didn’t matter that her body was already gearing up for some hanky-panky, her nipples peaked and her femininity moistening with each throb; nothing was going to happen between Max and her. She’d be a fool to fall into his arms. There was no way they could have a meaningless affair and then walk away from each other when this was all over.
Max held out one of the drinks to her. She dropped her towels and sunscreen to the patio floor, then reached over and took the glass, careful to avoid touching Max’s hand. He sat in the chaise next to the one she’d just vacated and spread out his long lean body. He took a sip of the slushy orange-pink drink.
“Mmmm.” Max placed the glass beside his chaise on the patio. “The bartender told me that this drink is called a Coral Blizzard.”
Standing over Max, Jolie glared at him. “Did it ever occur to you that I came down here to get away from you?”
“Never entered my mind.” He stretched his arms, twined his fingers together and placed his open palms behind his head. “Mind putting some sunscreen on me?”
Jolie slumped down onto the edge of her chaise, glared at her drink, then sipped the concoction through the straw. Fruity, sweet, and pleasantly refreshing. She took several more sips, then set the glass down and glowered at Max. “If you think I’m going to touch you, you’re out of your mind.”
Max chuckled softly. “What are you so afraid of, chère?”
“Dammit, Max, why do you call me chère? It’s unnerving to hear that sort of endearment coming from you. You probably call every woman who appeals to you chère, don’t you? Do you honestly believe women find it irresistibly romantic?”
Max eased away his sunglasses, held them in his hand, and looked directly at her. “I’ve never called anyone else chère. Not ever.”
This was not the confession she wanted to hear. She didn’t want to be special to Max in any way. It would be so much easier to reject him if she believed she was only one in a long line of lovesick fools who’d succumbed to his dangerous earthy charm.
“Then why me?” she asked.
“Because it suits you. And it suits the way I feel about you.”
Don’t let him sweet-talk his way into your heart—and into your bed. What makes you think Max is any different from his mother? For all you know, he could be a user, a taker, a manipulator, just like Georgette. Ah, but are you still so sure about Georgette? Aren’t you beginning to believe that she truly loved your father?
“Did you hear some guy using the endearment when you were in New Orleans? Or since he’s originally from New Orleans, maybe your uncle Parry says it to all his lady friends.”
“You seem very concerned about a simple little word.”
Jolie scooted back in the chaise and crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re the one making a big deal out of it.”
“Would you really like to know who used that word for the special woman in his life?”
Jolie shook her head. “No, I’m not sure I want to know.” A sudden sinking feeling hit her square in the gut and a niggling suspicion formed in her mind.
“I imagine you’ve already guessed, haven’t you?” Max reached over the six inches separating their chaises and ran the tips of his fingers over her arm, from shoulder to wrist. “Louis called my mother chère. Somehow that one word said so much about how he felt, about the depth of his emotions.”
“Damn, I should have known.”
When Jolie started to get up, Max manacled her wrist. She rose from the chair and struggled to free herself. But he held tight, then jerked unexpectedly and toppled her off her feet and into his lap. She sat perfectly still, her breath caught in her throat.
“Please, Max, let me go.”
“I can’t do that.”
When he circled her waist and manipulated her body until she lay stretched out on top of him, she didn’t protest. They were eye-to-eye, her face only inches above his. Max reached up and removed her sunglasses. His hand at the base of her spine moved lower to cup one buttock. Jolie sucked in a deep breath.
“I don’t want this,” she told him.
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t. This thing between us, whatever the hell it is, can only cause us pain. Look what reckless passion did to my father and your mother? They harmed so many people with their affair. And undoubtedly your uncle Parry has never gotten over Aunt Lisette. He’s never married, has he? And just think what loving someone did to Aunt Clarice. She’s still in love with her Jonathan.”
“She seems to have fallen in love with Nowell Landers, so perhaps it’s possible to fall passionately in love more than once.”
“Not in that same mindless, all-consuming way,” Jolie said, wishing Max would stop caressing her butt, stop staring at her as if he wanted to take her here and now. “Besides, half the time Aunt Clarice thinks Nowell is Jonathan.”
“Nowell Landers is a fraud,” Max said, hi
s breath fanning Jolie’s neck as he nuzzled her earlobe. “I know you disagree, but—”
“Oh, I agree with you. I think Nowell is most definitely a fraud.” Melting into Max’s body, her breasts pressed against his chest. And his erection throbbed against her mound.
Clutching the back of her head, Max forked his fingers through her damp hair. She gasped as wild fluttering currents zinged through her body. She couldn’t let him kiss her. If he kissed her, she’d be lost. Not only now, but forever.
She lifted her hand and pushed on his shoulder. “Max, do you still have that private detective on retainer?”
“What?” He stared at her, his eyes glazed with passion.
“Would do you me a favor?”
“I’ll do anything for you, Jolie, if you’ll shut up and let me kiss you.”
“Oh.” She should get the hell off him as fast as possible. He was primed and ready, and she was fast losing control of the situation. “Would you… would you call that detective and ask him to run a check on Jonathan Lenz?”
“Why? The man’s been dead for over thirty-five years.”
“Just call it a hunch. Please, do this for me.”
“I’ll call Hugh later this evening. Now, is that all?”
“That’s all.”
Max forced her head down to his. Don’t let this happen, she warned herself. Max’s lips touched hers. Softly. A faint brush of flesh against flesh. Then a delicate nibbling, followed by his caressing tongue outlining her lips. She could feel herself dissolving into him, deeper and deeper with each passing second, as she fell more and more under his spell. Nothing in her life had ever felt this right, as if she had been waiting thirty-four years for this moment, for this one particular man.
“Please, Max, I can’t,” she whispered against his lips.
He closed his eyes. Every muscle in his body tensed. He tightened his hold on the back of her head and for a split second she thought he was going to force her into a more intimate kiss. But suddenly he withdrew, his movements stiff, as it took a great deal of strength to force himself to release her.
“Get up. Now.” The words grated from between his clenched teeth.
“Max, I’m sorry. I just can’t handle this. I’m afraid of—”
He shoved her up and off him. She bolted upright, shaky on her feet and breathing roughly. She stood there, shivering, her arms crisscrossing as she hugged herself. He shot up from the chaise, grabbed her chin and forced her head to lift and meet his gaze.
“You can postpone the inevitable, but you can’t escape it.” Releasing her, he turned and walked away.
Jolie released a pent-up breath. This isn’t love, she told herself. This is some sort of sickness. A passion that overrules common sense, that erases the past and the present, that seduces more surely than any narcotic.
And if Max was right, she was powerless against her own desire.
Roscoe closed and locked the door to his study. Mattie was still in the house somewhere and Garland could come home at any time. This phone call needed to be completely private.
After unlocking the bottom left drawer of his desk, he removed a small brown leather book, then flipped through the pages until he found what he needed. A phone number he hadn’t used in years. Another old friend who had been useful in the past. Roscoe silently repeated the numbers several times until he’d memorized them, then replaced the book in its safe hiding place and locked the drawer. He returned his key chain to his pants pocket, picked up the phone, and dialed. As the phone rang, he thought about what should be done first. He needed to deal with Max and Jolie. Then Yvonne was next. She and Clarice had kept quiet for forty-two years. He’d felt safe, even smug, knowing that they’d never tell anyone about what had happened. They’d been young and stupid and afraid of him. And they’d believed what he told them. Thank God for that, because if Mr. Sam had ever found out about what he’d done, the old man would have killed Roscoe with his bare hands.
Yvonne needed to be eliminated because she had threatened him, but who posed the most immediate danger? Yvonne or Max and Jolie?
Parry Clifton sat alone in his room. The cicadas hummed outside as evening turned to night. He should have gone into town, paid for a woman, and gotten rip-roaring drunk. These days about the only time he got any peace was when he was so drunk he couldn’t remember anything. Not his childhood, when he and Georgie had been slapped around by their abusive father. Not his teen years when Jules Trouissant had sold the use of his body to rich old men with a penchant for boys and had turned Georgie from a thirteen-year-old virgin into a seasoned whore. And not those dreadful years when Georgie had been married to Philip Devereaux and both she and he had tried so desperately to fit in with the damn blue bloods in Sumarville. And not those wild, reckless, and fun days when he’d fallen in love with Lisette Desmond. Just thinking about her hurt him deep inside, an unbearable pain that ripped at his guts. She’d been so beautiful, so exciting. And she’d been his. But damn her unfaithful little soul, she had betrayed him. And with that sniveling boy. He could have forgiven her for having an affair with Garland Wells, but he couldn’t forgive her lies.
Tears streamed down Parry’s face. Lisette. Lisette. Have you come back to haunt me? Do you want my forgiveness? Is that it? What if I say I forgive you? Would you forgive me?
Chapter 25
Jolie had nixed Max’s plans for them to share an intimate dinner in their suite. In retrospect he realized that this afternoon by the pool, he had pushed her a little too far, a little too fast. The more persistent he was in pointing out to her that the strong feelings between them wouldn’t go away simply because she wanted them to, the more she dug in her heels, determined to prove him wrong. Jolie Royale was a stubborn woman. And she was running scared. She had returned to Sumarville after a twenty-year absence, buried a father she believed had betrayed her, discovered there had been a cover-up in the double murder case involving her mother’s and aunt’s deaths, and had barely escaped being killed by a hired gunman. And in the midst of all this trauma, an unsettling desire for a man she thought she despised had stirred to life within her. He understood her confusion; he, too, realized the irony in Louis’s daughter and Georgette’s son being cursed with what seemed to be an inherited passion. He had never counted on falling for Jolie—falling so damn hard that he was totally stunned by his reaction to her.
“We’re stuck in Key West until tomorrow,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean I’m trapped here at the hotel with you. I plan to go out and soak up some of the local nightlife.”
“I’m game if you are. What do you want to do? Where do you want to go?” he asked.
“Anywhere you’re not!”
Jolie didn’t bother saying good-bye when she left; she just walked away from him, exited their suite, and slammed the door, practically in his face. Apparently she didn’t understand that although she might run away from him, she couldn’t run away from herself. The yearning inside her wasn’t going away; if anything, the more she denied it, the stronger it would grow.
Max waited a few minutes, then followed her, doing his best to keep a discreet distance behind her. Didn’t she realize that he was not going to allow her to run around Key West alone? Any woman might be at risk, even in a semitropical paradise, but a woman as beautiful as Jolie would draw men to her like moths to a flame. And because she was so desperately afraid of her feelings for him, she might do something stupid just to prove to him and to herself that there was nothing special between them. The possessive protectiveness he felt where Jolie was concerned was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. It was utterly old-fashioned and perhaps a bit primitive, and God knew he hated himself for being unable to give her a wide berth, for hiding in the shadows like a conspicuous bodyguard or a scorned lover.
Max followed her north on Duval Street, where a gathering of tourists watched the incredible sunset and were entertained by musicians and carnival acts. When Jolie caught a glimpse of him half a block away, she tried her
best to blend in with the crowd.
Keep on running, chère. Try your best to escape me. But no matter where you go, I will find you.
As the last rays of sunlight melted into a swath of glorious colors across the western horizon, a piper played the hauntingly bittersweet “Amazing Grace.” Slowly but surely making his way toward Jolie, Max maneuvered around the people who were savoring the beauty of the day’s end. When he came up behind Jolie and put his arms around her, she gasped and glanced over her shoulder.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asked.
Tension tightened her muscles; anger flashed in her blue eyes. “Stop following me.”
“Why not ask me to do something easier…ask me to stop breathing.”
A barely discernible shudder rippled through her. “Don’t. Please, don’t.” She wriggled in his arms, trying to free herself.
“Don’t what?” he whispered, his breath warm against her ear. “Don’t want you to the point of madness? Don’t think about holding you and kissing you and making love to you…all night long.”
She jerked away from him and ran up the street. Several people noticed her hurrying away, but when Max didn’t pursue her immediately, no one said anything to him.
Giving her a chance to put a little distance between them, Max strolled in the direction she’d fled and soon caught sight of her simple red sundress as she darted into the Margaritaville Café. Standing outside on the street, he listened to the boisterous music blaring from the live band. After allowing her enough time to settle in and feel relatively safe from him, Max entered the café, a casual Key West joint, decorated with lime green walls and an assortment of Jimmy Buffet, sailing, and tropical paraphernalia. He stayed at the bar and waited for her to order dinner; then when her meal arrived, he carried his drink to her table and joined her.
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