by Anne Stuart
“Better this way, chère. Some mysteries aren’t meant to be solved.”
She nodded. She didn’t want to look into a face that was a pale imitation of Peter Delacroix. Even worse, she didn’t want to discover he looked like her late husband. She shivered at the thought.
“You’re cold,” he said, misinterpreting her sudden tremor. “You should go in.”
She nodded, uncertain what to say. All the usual thanks seemed so prosaic, anticlimactic, yet necessary. “Thank you for everything,” she said, knowing she sounded stilted. “Goodbye.” She turned and opened the door.
She was unprepared for his reaction. Catching her arm, he whirled her around, enfolding them both in his voluminous cape, and this time when his mouth met hers it wasn’t gentle, or teasing, or quietly seductive. His kiss was harsh, full of demand and despair, and she wrapped herself around him and kissed him back with all the longing and emptiness that seemed ready to explode inside her, lost in the same sense of desolation and need.
Then abruptly he released her, and she sank back against the doorway of the old building, her breathing rapid, her eyes shut.
“Next time, Marguerite,” he whispered, “I want to see your red hair.”
When she opened her eyes he was gone. There was no sign of him on the street, only the last few straggling tourists wandering home in the early-morning light. The two vampires at her feet slept on, untarnished by the sunlight touching their faces.
There were bodies everywhere in the old house, and a cacophony of snoring. Her bedroom, which had originally held four, now had nine people sleeping, including someone in the cot allotted to her. Her suitcase and clothes had been dumped on the floor, next to a blonde’s sleeping bag, and Margaret’s muffled curse went unnoticed.
She scooped up her clothes, making no effort at silence, but no one stirred. She headed for the bathroom, knowing full well that this was probably the last chance she’d get to use it in a house that overcrowded. Stripping off the nun’s habit, she took a long shower, washing her hair, scrubbing her skin, stealing someone’s bottle of Chanel No. 5 and dabbing it on with a liberal hand.
She dressed in jeans and an old black sweatshirt, cramming the costume and everything else in her suitcase. Wendell had wanted to take her to an elegant lunch, but she wasn’t staying in this city a moment longer than she had to. If he wouldn’t take her home, if one of the Delacroix or Jaffreys weren’t heading in her direction, then she’d hitchhike.
There wasn’t a spare foot of floor space in the entire building. She hadn’t the faintest idea where Wendell was sleeping and she didn’t care. Stepping out onto the front steps once more, she surveyed the New Orleans morning and wondered where the phantom had disappeared to. It didn’t really matter. He was part of Mardi Gras, a fantasy that was bound to disappoint in the harsh light of day.
Wendell hadn’t lied to her. The Jaguar was wedged into the narrow parking area with a good fifteen or twenty cars behind it. Anyone with any sense would lock a Jaguar in the midst of a city, but from what she’d seen of the lighthearted Louisianans she had little doubt the car would be wide open to any intruder.
It was. Dumping her suitcase on the floor, she crawled onto the back seat and curled up against the soft leather. It wasn’t until she was drifting off to sleep, the bright sunlight disturbing her not one bit, that a sudden thought occurred to her. How did Andrew Delacroix know she had red hair?
“HAVE A GOOD TIME?” Francene demanded to know when he’d let himself in. She was sitting on an oak stool by the kitchen counter, drinking coffee, and her old quilted bathrobe had seen better days.
Peter Andrew Delacroix stripped off his mask and cape and moved toward his cousin. “Do you have any more of that?”
“I do. I stopped at the Café du Monde and bought some fresh coffee and an order of beignets. Was it worth it?”
He poured himself a cup of the chicory-flavored coffee and added sugar and cream, stalling for time. He usually drank his coffee black, but Francene’s coffee was enough to make a strong man weep. “What do you mean?”
“I mean it was stupid beyond belief to come to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, when almost every single member of your family would be here, too. Charlie recognized you, of course, though I didn’t say anything. I imagine other people did, as well.”
He shrugged, helping himself to one of the beignets. “They’re family. What do you think they’re going to do, report me to the police? I’m not on probation, Francene. I don’t think I broke any laws.”
“You probably broke at least half a dozen of them. If you’re going to get away with this you’re going to have to be more circumspect. If people know that crazy Peter Delacroix is out wandering the streets of New Orleans they’re going to start putting up a fuss. Why couldn’t you have headed for one of the northern cities if you needed a break? That’s what you’ve done before. That way you get a few weeks off, Doc Pitcher covers for you and no one’s any the wiser.”
“I wasn’t in the mood for Boston,” he said, sinking down on the couch and taking another deep gulp of the coffee. “Come on, Francene, what do you expect from a Delacroix? It was Mardi Gras time and I was free, at least for a few days.”
“And Margaret Jaffrey was going to be here. Did she know it was you?”
He shook his head. “She took me at face value, of course. She’s terrified of Peter. She did wonder whether I might be faking insanity, but Doc Pitcher set her straight. He said she almost started crying.”
“You never were the sort for leaving a trail of broken hearts behind you, Peter. What gives?” Francene followed him to the couch. She’d taken over his apartment when he’d been arrested, subletting it and putting the rent in a secret account to cover his expenses whenever he managed to maneuver a break from his captivity. He’d had to have Doc’s connivance, and Pitcher didn’t want him to abuse the privilege. If anyone caught wind of what they were doing he’d end up back in the state hospital—or worse, in a state prison—so fast that he wouldn’t have time to say goodbye to Marguerite.
And he didn’t want to say goodbye to her. There were a great many things he wanted to say to her, but goodbye wasn’t one of them. No, he had to be careful. He couldn’t afford to succumb to a transient passion, even if it felt like a forever kind of longing.
“What gives?” he echoed. “I really don’t know, Francene. Maybe I want to play with fire.”
“Fire is that little witch Lisette who’s always had the hots for you. Margaret isn’t the type to relish a little danger in her love life. Margaret strikes me as the type who needs safety, security and a happy-ever-after kind of ending. I don’t think you can offer her that.”
“Very astute, Francene. And she has a nine-year-old daughter who needs the same things.”
“So why don’t you back off? Wendell would be much more her speed.” Francene’s rough practicality couldn’t hide the sympathy in her voice.
“He would, wouldn’t he?” Peter said glumly. “There’s just one problem with that, chère.”
“What’s that?”
“She doesn’t want Wendell. She wants me.”
“Which you is that? The phantom or the crazy?”
Peter’s expression was rueful. “Both of us. Maybe Peter’s relapse ought to last a little longer. Maybe Doc Pitcher could get some real shock treatments to knock this obsession out of my brain.”
“I think he’d draw the line at that. It’s bad enough he’s providing fake sedatives. If he was found out he could get his license taken away for malpractice.”
“Doc has never paid any attention to state boards or rule and regulations in his life, and you know it. He cares about the patient first, and the proper thing second.”
“Nevertheless, you don’t want to get him in trouble, do you?”
“I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. This is a
mess I don’t want to share.” He drained his coffee, shutting his eyes and settling back on the couch. “Damn. How the hell did I ever end up in such a clusterfuck?”
“I know what you need. Lunch at Antoine’s.”
“You bet. And how many relatives do you think will end up there today? I can’t very well show up in my mask—Mardi Gras’s over.”
“Guess we’ll have to settle for McDonald’s.”
“I’ll settle for a couple more beignets and a few more hours of sleep.”
“And then?”
He didn’t bother to open his eyes. “You already know the answer to that. And then I’m going to see about going back to my attic prison, and if you have any more good advice you can just keep it to yourself, Francene.”
“Just one, Peter. Be careful.”
He opened one eye. “I will, chère. I will.”
MARGARET DIDN’T want to wake up when Wendell climbed into the front seat of the Jaguar. She’d spent the morning sleeping fitfully, awakening when car after car started and drove away, knowing that sooner or later Wendell would appear with a bunch of unwanted questions. She lay in the back with her eyes closed, hoping he’d take the hint and drive her home in silence.
No such luck. “I saw your eyes open, Margaret,” he said, his voice stiff with effrontery. “You may as well join me in the front seat. I don’t want to spend the entire drive home looking in the rearview mirror.”
Reluctantly she pulled herself into a sitting position, noticing with surprise that the sky was dark with approaching nightfall. She’d slept the day away in the back seat of the Jaguar.
It wasn’t the first time she’d slept in a car. And without a doubt, the Jaguar was a lot more comfortable than her late, unlamented Escort. Still, if she had any choice in the matter, this was the last time she’d spend the night in an automobile, even a luxury one.
“I’m awake,” she said, climbing over into the front seat and sinking down beside him. “What time is it?”
“Half past five. We won’t be home until late, especially if we stop to eat.”
She’d never responded well to disapproval, and Wendell was looking at her as though she were a naughty little girl. “I haven’t eaten anything since pancakes around four in the morning. I’d sell my soul for some coffee.”
Wendell’s disapproval lightened somewhat. “There’s a thermos at your feet.”
“Wendell, I love you,” she said, diving for the thermos, missing his troubled expression.
He ground the gears as he backed out into the busy street. “Where were you?”
“I looked for you, Wendell,” she said once she’d swallowed a huge gulp of very sweet, very hot coffee. “Francene was looking out for me, just as you asked her to, and we searched and searched. But there were too many vampires.”
“I didn’t . . . never mind.” He stared straight ahead, concentrating on the traffic as they headed out of the city. “Who did you spend the night with?”
“I didn’t exactly spend the night with anyone. I mean, I did, but it was spent wandering around the streets. With another cousin, of course. I think everyone in this city must be related to you.”
“Not everyone. Francene said it was Cousin Andrew from Baton Rouge.”
“If you knew, why did you ask me?” she said quietly.
“She knew you went off with him. I want to know what you did with him.”
“None of your business.”
“Cousin, I feel responsible for you. You aren’t used to New Orleans, or Mardi Gras, and I was afraid you might have gotten into trouble.” He looked at her, concern in his eyes. “I care about you, Margaret. I didn’t want to leave you unprotected on a night like Mardi Gras.”
She told herself she shouldn’t overreact. “Wendell, I spent the night walking the streets of New Orleans, drinking too much champagne, eating pancakes, dancing to street bands and having a wonderful time. The only thing dangerous I did was visit Marie Laveau’s grave, and no ghosts bothered us. Then Cousin Andrew brought me home, gave me a chaste kiss on the forehead as befitted a nun and left.” It wasn’t the strict truth, but close enough to be acceptable to Wendell.
“Everyone goes to Marie’s grave. Couldn’t he have been a little more original?”
“I found it fascinating.”
“And he didn’t make a pass at you? Try anything out of line?”
“You’re forgetting, Wendell. I was a nun. He was very well behaved, I was very modest and we had a wonderful time. No better than I would have had with you, I’m sure, but I couldn’t find you.”
Wendell nodded, momentarily appeased. “Are you going to see him again?”
“I doubt it. I don’t particularly care to.” That wasn’t strictly the truth. Her life was already too complicated by her absurd attraction to a certifiably insane murderer. She didn’t need to start mooning over another member of this damned family. There was something about her phantom that was far too enticing, and she didn’t have room for that kind of enticement in her life. Not from him, not from Peter.
The first real smile lit Wendell’s face. “Good,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
For the first time Margaret remembered where they were going, and her certainty faded. She would have given ten years off her life to jump out of the car at the next stoplight and start running in the opposite direction, and if it weren’t that her daughter, the person she cared most for in this world, was still stuck out at Maison Delacroix, she would have done just that. She had no choice but to return to that stifling old house with its smothering inhabitants.
“Yes,” she said flatly, twisting the silver filigree ring on her finger. “Let’s go home.”
Chapter Twelve
THE OLD MANSION was quiet when they arrived home shortly after midnight, and Margaret bit her lip in frustration. Trust Uncle Remy to have picked tonight of all nights to retire early. Though it made sense. If he was at all like his New Orleans relatives, his Mardi Gras celebrating had been excessive. Even a dedicated imbiber like Remy must have limits.
She was afraid, terribly afraid, that Wendell was going to kiss her. She didn’t expect an all-out assault. For one thing, Wendell wasn’t the type to be aggressive. For another, she wasn’t the type to inspire that kind of reaction. Except in phantoms, she thought with a stray shiver. And that had a great deal to do with why she didn’t feel like accepting Wendell’s kiss, gentle and undemanding though it would probably be. She wanted to keep her mysterious adventure still wrapped tightly around her, like her phantom’s cloak. Once Wendell kissed her, the sleeping fairy-tale heroine would awake, into a world full of too many problems and not enough solutions.
She wondered how Snow White and Sleeping Beauty felt. Carrie, despite her tough-guy persona, had been devoted to the Disney classics, and Margaret had spent more than her share of time watching animated fantasies play out in front of her. Sleeping Beauty might have had a hard time, going from a tiny cottage in the woods to life as a royal princess. Sixteen years old was too young to be married, even to someone as cute as the cartoon prince Philip. As for Snow White, she’d only met her hero once. If she had any sense at all she would have said, thank you for the kiss, but seven short men who adore me are better than one tall one. And life is much better without sex complicating it.
Of course, Walt Disney hadn’t known sex existed. Those beautiful fairy-tale princesses never had to deal with quick, uncaring tumbles on unmade beds, with a husband who was more interested in gambling than saving enough to feed their baby. Walt Disney only knew of happy endings.
“We’re here,” Wendell said unnecessarily as the Jaguar bucked to a halt in front of the broad front steps. “Penny for your thoughts.”
“I was thinking about fairy tales and happy endings,” she said honestly, reaching for the door. Maybe if she moved very fast she’d be able
to slide out and get in the house.
He caught her arm, and there was no way she could escape, not without an undignified tussle.
“Wait, Margaret,” he said earnestly. “I wanted to apologize.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for, Wendell,” she said, giving her arm a surreptitious tug. He ignored it. “I had a wonderful time, and I can’t thank you enough.” But let me go, her mind added fiercely.
“I’m sorry you weren’t able to find me,” he said, gently kneading her arm. “And I’m sorry I was so possessive. You had every right to spend Mardi Gras with someone else. I had no right to be jealous, considering it was my fault I didn’t keep a better eye on you.”
“Wendell . . .”
“What I’m trying to say, Margaret, is that I care for you. And if you’d let me, I could care a lot more. I know I’m not very exciting, but I’m a good man, a safe man. I could take care of you. I could take care of Carrie. If you’d let me.”
For years she’d had no one to rely on, no one to turn to. Here was a man offering to take care of things, to take on those burdens. Why did the very thought of it send shivers up her back?
“Wendell,” she said carefully. “I don’t know what to say. I can’t really think of getting involved with anyone right now. Carrie and I have been through too much in the past couple of years. I need time.”
His smile was wry and sad and very charming, and Margaret called herself a fool a million times over. “I can wait,” he said. “It’s not as if I have any rivals knocking down the door. Do I?”
She thought of Peter, locked in some sanitarium somewhere. She thought of Cousin Andrew, probably back in Baton Rouge by now, probably forgetting all about her. “No rivals,” she said, bracing herself for his kiss.
It was just as she’d expected. Soft, undemanding, respectful. What woman in the world wanted a respectful kiss, she wondered briefly, shutting her eyes and letting his soft lips press against hers.
And then he released her. “Have a good night’s sleep, Margaret,” he murmured. “We’ll take this thing slowly.”
