by Rebecca York
“As a matter of fact—no. He came to St. Germaine when the town was looking to upgrade their police force. He’s well trained, but I guess he bought into the stories he heard about me.”
She nodded, because she had to agree.
“You were good at handling him,” Andre said.
“I’ve had experience with men like him.”
“Which is?”
“Suspicious. Anxious to pin something on you. Guys who get off on being an authority figure so they can throw their weight around.” She sighed. “And men who think they’re better than any woman.”
“A good description.” He looked up and apparently saw that the sun was low in the western sky. “We generally have an early dinner, around six, at this time of year.”
“And then you’re going to disappear and be unavailable, the way you did last night?” she asked, hearing the edge in her voice.
Chapter Seven
“Yes,” Andre clipped out. “That’s a given.”
Morgan kept her gaze on his face. “And another one of the factors that you forgot to mention when you hired me for this job.”
His features closed up. “Sorry. Maybe you should take the sheriff’s advice and leave.”
“Don’t tempt me,” she shot back.
While they’d been talking to Jarvis, she’d felt herself and Andre drawing closer, forming a solid front in the face of the lawman’s hostility. The feeling of connection had snapped again—replaced with mistrust.
She wasn’t sure what to say. Apparently, neither was he. After several seconds of silence, he turned and started back across the lawn.
She thought he was going into the house, but he veered off toward a clump of azalea bushes.
He hadn’t invited her to follow, but she did anyway, curious about where he was headed.
When she got closer, she saw that the large azaleas hid a garden shed, painted green and brown to blend in with the landscape.
He took out a key and unlocked a padlock holding the door closed. She stopped just outside, marveling at the interior. The walls were covered with pegboard on which garden tools were hung with military precision.
There was a place for everything, with everything neatly put away. She shook her head as she compared his system to the jumble inside her own garage. And she shuddered when she thought about what he’d say about the junk piled in her spare room.
“What?” he demanded.
“You’re neat and organized.”
“That’s bad?”
“It’s admirable.”
“It makes life easier.”
As she watched, he got down several sizes of clippers and a pair of gardening gloves, which he set in the bed of a wheelbarrow.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m going to trim some of the bushes.
“Why?”
“Because I try to do some work in the garden every day. That way, nothing gets out of hand.”
Methodical again. Stepping aside, she watched him steer the wheelbarrow toward the edge of the lawn and debated whether to follow.
She doubted she was going to get any more information out of him at the moment—unless it was about plants and flowers. So, she said, “I’ll see you at dinner,” and headed back to the house.
###
Andre watched Morgan depart, then waited to make certain she wasn’t going to change her mind and come back.
When he was sure he was alone, he wheeled the equipment across the lawn—and under the trees. He’d made a hedge of wild roses to keep animals and people out of his private garden. But he knew how to weave his way past the thorns. Inside were beds where he cultivated plants he’d found in the bayou and brought to a spot near the house.
He always felt a little anxious when he approached this place. The low-growing plants with their curly red-edged leaves had assumed a frightening importance in his life. Once when the temperature had dropped below freezing, his entire supply had been wiped out. He’d had to comb the bayou for more—and he’d been in a panic until he’d found them.
Now Morgan’s bag of cigarette butts had him worried that someone might stumble in here. With a grimace, he squatted down, inspecting his stock. They were doing well, including the new transplants.
He snipped some yellowing foliage off one of the mature specimens, then cut several new green leaves. Lifting them to his face, he drank in the familiar, earthy aroma. An aroma he knew had invaded the pores of his body.
Later he would take them back to the small lab area in his bathroom and cook them up—making sure his supply of the tea he made from them didn’t run out.
For now, he tucked the clippings into a small carry bag. Then he headed back to the manicured area near the house, where his father had planted a bank of forsythia. They grew like weeds, and the only way he could keep them in check was to cut them back every few months.
He worked steadily, selecting canes that could be thinned and clipping off runners that had crept out from the mature plants. Most of those were rooted, and he hated to throw them away. But he’d learned that an orderly garden meant a ruthless gardener.
He kept his focus on the work. And he managed not to think about Sheriff Jarvis. But Morgan kept creeping back into his mind.
He had thought he knew what to expect when he contacted Decorah Security and asked specifically for Morgan Kirkland. He hadn’t known that she wasn’t great at following directions. She made her own decisions, sometimes too impulsively—like tramping off into the bayou.
His heart had stopped when he’d seen her come out from under the trees—and known that she could have gotten into big trouble.
He wasn’t used to dealing with someone like her. In truth, he wasn’t used to dealing with anyone besides Janet on a daily basis.
Probably he was too set in his ways. And unrealistic.
In the face of conflict, his natural tendency had always been to withdraw. Like when the kids at school had teased hm about his weird old man.
At the moment, he was thinking about telling Janet that he wouldn’t be coming down to dinner. Then he reminded himself that avoiding Morgan would be a mistake—even when she made him uncomfortable. He needed to get to know her better. And hiding in his room wasn’t the way to do that. So, he dumped the forsythia canes into the compost pile before methodically putting his tools away and going in to start brewing his special tea before taking a shower and changing his clothing.
###
Because Morgan had never felt comfortable being waited on, she arrived in the kitchen a little early and asked what she could do to help Janet get the meal ready.
The housekeeper pointed her toward the drawers where the cutlery was kept, and she was setting the table when Andre came into the kitchen. She’d been listening for him, but somehow, he’d snuck up on her, silent as a cat. Her hand shook, and she dropped a fork on the table, hearing the clatter above the sound of Janet making her final dinner preparations.
“I’ll wear lumberjack boots next time,” he said, sounding like he was trying for a playful tone.
“No harm done,” she answered in the same tone.
It looked like he’d dressed carefully for dinner, in a crisp dress shirt and dark slacks. And she was glad she’d changed into a simple knit dress and sandals.
Turning away from Andre, she found Janet watching them. Caught staring, the housekeeper quickly whirled back to the stove. But she hadn’t hidden her interest
What was her stake in this? Probably she wanted Andre to solve his problems. Probably she was wondering if Morgan was the right person for the job, and she hadn’t made up her mind yet.
Meanwhile, she made a good buffer between the other two diners.
When they were all seated and had served themselves, they ate in silence, until Janet jumped in with a question the way she had at breakfast.
“So where do you live in Baltimore?”
“Not really Baltimore. Beltsville. It’s actually closer to Washington, DC.
I live in one of the new apartments they’ve built in the area.
Changing the subject, she tipped her head toward Andre. “Your turn. Where did you go to school?”
“If you mean kindergarten through high school—in St. Germaine.”
“What about college?”
He shifted in his chair. “I didn’t go beyond high school.”
She struggled to hide her surprise, but it apparently showed on her face.
“I was needed at home. My father was sick, and I had to run the estate.”
“At eighteen?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re obviously very intelligent. You’re interested in a lot of subjects. You should have gone on with your schooling.” Realizing that probably sounded condescending, she closed her mouth before she could stick her foot in any farther.
“You don’t have to go to college to be well read. That’s one of the reasons I have so many books. If a subject draws me, I read about it.”
Morgan nodded.
“You ought to have seen him when he was three,” Janet chimed in. “He taught himself to read. He’d come to me with a book and point to a word and say— ‘does that say yellow?’ or ‘does that say neighborhood?’ And it would. He picked up reading with a little help from me. When he was eight, he sent away for a kit and built a color TV set because his father wouldn’t buy one.”
A look flashed between Andre and the housekeeper, and Morgan could see that their relationship was strong.
“You helped his mother take care of him?” she asked.
The woman’s features contorted. “His mother left,” she said.
“Janet raised me,” Andre said gently.
“What about your father?”
“He was usually holed up in the library.”
Morgan was about to ask another question when Andre glanced up. As he looked toward the window, the blood drained from his face.
“What?” she asked, wondering what he’d seen.
“I forgot the time,” he said, his deep voice turning hollow.
“It’s cloudy out,” Janet answered. That’s why it’s so dark.”
“Maybe,” he muttered. Shoving back his chair, he bolted from the room. Moments later, she heard the back door slam.
Morgan pushed her chair away from the table and started to follow him. Janet jumped up and grabbed her arm. “Let him go.”
“Where?”
The woman gave her a fierce look, then made an effort to relax her features. “Out,” she said, making it clear that she wasn’t going to answer any more questions about Andre’s strange behavior.
Snatching his plate from the table, she carried it to the counter, covered it with plastic wrap and stuck it in the refrigerator.
Morgan wavered for a minute. “It’s been a long day. I think I’ll go up. Thank you for a delicious dinner.”
“You don’t have to leave—just because he did.”
She debated staying in the kitchen and trying some other question on the housekeeper. She had the feeling she’d be wasting her time—since both of them were now on edge. So, she repeated her thanks, left the room, and headed for the stairs. Before she got there, she changed her mind and went back to the library. Switching on the lights, she scanned the shelves, amazed all over again by the wide variety of subjects—especially now that she knew that Andre’s higher education came from this library.
He ran an estate. Managed his investments. Did his own gardening, landscaping and home remodeling.
Unconsciously, she found herself comparing him to her husband. Trevor had been wound up with his job. Most of their conversation had been about their assignments.
Andre seemed to be the complete opposite. He was wound up with what DIY shows might call “nesting.” A lot of women would consider him an excellent catch. Except that there was something strange about him. He had secrets. And he kept disappearing at inopportune times.
Why? Was he a drunk or a drug addict? Was that where he went at night—to drink himself into a stupor or drown his pain in chemical remedies? Or was he mentally ill?
Suddenly she remembered a conversation she’d once had with the mother of a friend who worked in a nursing home. There were some old people she’d called—what was it?” Morgan thought for a minute. “Sundowners.” That was the term for the residents who seemed okay during the day. But as soon as the sun went down, they wigged out. She didn’t know why that was true. Could it apply to someone Andre’s age?
She clenched and unclenched her fists, hating the way her thoughts were branching off into strange speculation. If Andre had only been honest with her, she could stop making up answers to the questions spinning around in her head. He’d gotten her to trust him enough to come down here. Now she was wondering if she should have been more cautious.
She was angry by the time she reached the top of the stairs. The thought crossed her mind that maybe she should stroll down the hall and start opening doors. She could find his room and wait for him to come back. But that would be a clear invasion of his privacy. And she wasn’t going to do that—until she had exhausted other means of getting the information she needed to make sensible value judgments about him.
Instead, she walked slowly to her own room, stepped inside, and closed the door. Without turning on the light, she crossed the floor and looked out the window, her gaze searching the area under the trees where the voodoo priestess had put on her show the night before.
As far as Morgan could see, no one was there, and she breathed out a little sigh. Then a flash of movement caught her eye. Something stirred the shadows—fifty yards from where the woman had been standing the night before. She couldn’t tell what, but it didn’t look like a man. Or if it was a man, he was on his hands and knees.
She leaned toward the window, trying to get a better look, but the darkness under the trees frustrated her efforts to figure out what she was seeing. The thing moved closer. She saw a large elongated head, pointed ears, a low, lithe body covered with orange fur and black spots.
As the animal moved along the edge of the open area, its image solidified into a shape she had seen before, and a strangled sound rose in her throat.
It was a jaguar. The same one she had seen on the road—or his cousin.
There it had been out in the wild. Now it was right here—at Belle Vista.
The closed window and fifty yards separated her from the animal. But its hearing must have been excellent. It raised its head, the yellow eyes instantly finding and pinning her. Her breath caught in her throat as the animal stared at her, and she stared back.
The mottled tail lashed back and forth, the way a house cat would signal its anger. But this was no little tabby. This was a wild animal with claws and teeth that could rip a man’s skin to shreds.
As the cat stared directly at her, goose bumps rose on her skin. For heartbeats, she and the animal stood facing each other as though there were some kind of supernatural connection between them. The jaguar took a step back and another.
She had been frightened. Now she had to stifle the need to open the window and tell him to wait.
It was a strange impulse. A dangerous impulse. Yet she felt a deep sense of loss as the cat disappeared into the shadows, leaving her alone at the window.
She stood at the window for several minutes. In the darkness, the jaguar howled—a long lonely sound that pierced her like a sharp blade.
Quickly she reached up and pulled the curtains closed. He couldn’t see her now. And neither could the voodoo priestess.
With deliberate steps, she crossed to the night table and turned on the light. The warm glow was comforting.
Now that she was alone, she couldn’t help wondering if the jaguar had been real—or if she had made him up.
She didn’t know, but suddenly she felt cold all over. In the bathroom, she turned on the shower, waited until the water heated, then stepped under the hot spray, letting it pound against her back and shoulder, soothing her jangled nerves.
<
br /> After drying off, she went back to bed.
To her relief, she fell asleep quickly. When she woke in the morning, nothing had disturbed her sleep.
###
Full of renewed energy, she changed into jeans and a tee shirt and went downstairs. When she walked into the kitchen, Janet looked up. “Andre asked me to tell you he won’t be available today.”
Suddenly deflated, Morgan demanded, “Where is he?”
“He left early to go get some supplies.”
“In St. Germaine?”
“No. He needed some things he could only get in New Orleans.”
“He could have asked if I wanted to go with him,” she snapped.
“He wanted to get an early start. And you were still sleeping.”
Morgan struggled not to take out her frustration on Janet. Instead she ate a quick breakfast, then cleared her throat. “Can I borrow a knife?”
“For what?”
“I feel funny poking around in the swamp without any protection.”
“You shouldn’t be poking around in the bayou at all!”
“It’s part of my job,” she murmured.
Janet sighed and gestured toward one of the kitchen drawers. Opening it, Morgan took a medium-sized knife, then exited the kitchen, holding the weapon down beside her leg as she stepped outside and descended the steps, heading for the trees, thinking that Janet was probably watching her. But she refused to look around to find out for sure.
She had seen the cat under an oak tree. When she reached it, she stopped and couldn’t hold back a curse. Someone had raked the dirt, obliterating any chance of finding the prints.
Her jaw set in a determined line, she began walking in a circle, her eyes fixed on the ground, widening the circle every time she came back to a spot opposite the lawn where she’d started. It took her ten repetitions, but she finally found the tracks—leading away into a stand of small pines.
So, the cat hadn’t been her imagination!
Well, that was something, anyway. She was already pretty far into the swampy area. She glanced over her shoulder, thinking she should go back to the house. Instead, she deliberately went in the opposite direction—toward the bayou. Before she reached the island, she used the knife to cut off a sapling, then stripped off the small branches. If the water wasn’t too deep, she could use the pole to steady herself as she walked across the log.
