by Anne Stuart
“Forget about Wendell. You boys are too old to be scrapping over a woman. You should have given up that sort of behavior years ago.”
“I thought we had,” Peter said, turning over an extremely unpleasant thought in his mind, like turning over a rock and finding it covered with maggots. “I know as well as you do that I can’t go back to Maison Delacroix for a few days, and I really don’t need you hovering over me like a mother hen. I’ve got a few bumps and bruises, but nothing that won’t heal. Give me a little space, and I promise to lay low.”
Doc was looking undecided, and Peter pressed his advantage. Doc had always had an especial fondness for Peter above the other grandchildren. He’d been close friends with Peter’s father, the real Andrew Delacroix, and it was for Andrew’s sake that he’d been instrumental in helping Peter escape Louisiana’s electric chair. “Where are you going?”
“Just to the cottage. It’s perfectly safe—no one ever goes there. It might as well be in Outer Mongolia. It’s too far for teenagers to go necking and too close for drug dealers. It’s just a well-locked, abandoned house, and no one’s going to come snooping around for the next couple of days while I try to get my head together.”
Doc considered for a moment, then nodded. “I think you’re going to have to make a few decisions, boy. Such as whether you have any right to be making up to Margaret Jaffrey when your cousin wants her. What the hell can you offer? Wendell’s got a profession, standing in the community, and he’d even have a house if you’d let go of that cottage.”
“I’ll burn it down first.” He laughed bitterly. “That would really set tongues wagging, wouldn’t it? Crazy Peter burns down his house with himself inside. No, Doc. Wendell’s already got my car and he’s after everything else I’ve ever cared about. He’s not going to get my house.”
“What about Margaret Jaffrey?”
“That’s not up to me.”
“Isn’t it?” Doc pulled off his white coat and dumped it on the examining table. “You think about that this weekend. You think about what’s fair to ask of a woman. A woman with a child. And you think about whether we ought to see about getting you committed to a nice, nonexistent sanitarium up north. Or maybe out in California somewhere. It’s warm in California.”
“It’s warm in hell. I’m not going.”
“Think about it, Peter. It may no longer be your choice.” He shook his head. “All right, I won’t argue with you any longer. First things first. You’re going to need some supplies if you’re spending the weekend at that place.”
“Just some food. There’s plenty of firewood, and there’s some bedding. Just a couple of mattresses and a sleeping bag, but I’m not expecting luxury. And I’ll need a car.”
“No, you won’t. I’m dropping you off.”
“Doc, it’s late.”
“It’s only eight-thirty. I’m not so old that I can’t drive you out there, drop you off and get back in time for milk and cookies and an early bedtime. Take it or leave it, Peter.”
Peter sighed. Getting Doc into this mess was just one more bit of added guilt to his already overburdened conscience. “Got any milk and cookies to send along?”
“YOU REALLY WANT to go tonight, dear?” Gertrude said. “Perhaps you should wait till daylight.”
“I’ve been out there several times, Gertrude,” Margaret said, pulling the thick cotton sweater over her head. “I’ve got an excellent sense of direction. Besides, I love that cottage. I remember how to get there very well.”
“But surely you don’t want to get settled in the dark . . .”
“I don’t need to get settled. I’ll just toss the sleeping bag on the floor and go to sleep. It’s just what I need, Gertrude, and I can’t thank you enough for thinking of it.”
“We all need a break every now and then. Though I still think visiting Francene would be a great deal more fun and a lot more comfortable.”
“I need peace and quiet and solitude, Gertrude. I have a lot of things to think through. Peter’s empty cottage will be the perfect place for me.”
Gertrude sighed. “All right, Margaret. Be careful with the car, though. She’s a very temperamental old lady, just like her owner, but if you treat her with respect you should have no trouble at all.”
Margaret leaned over and kissed the old woman on her withered cheek. It was the first time she’d ever willingly touched Gertrude, and she half expected to be whacked with Gertrude’s cane. Instead the old lady looked surprisingly pleased.
“Get going, then. It’s almost eleven, and you won’t be in bed until midnight at this rate. Make sure you raid the kitchen on your way out.”
“Mizmac will have my skin.”
“I’ll take care of Mrs. McKinley. For once in your life, Margaret, just take care of yourself.”
Margaret reminded herself of that excellent advice as she backed Gertrude’s vintage Cadillac out of the garage. She’d driven it once or twice before, in broad daylight, and always felt as if she were piloting a barge. The thing was huge, soft and floaty on the road, and the headlights barely made it three feet into the murky darkness.
The thunderstorm had abated into a steady rainfall. The sides of the road were deeply puddled, with muddy water covering some of the lower stretches. Peter’s cottage was by the river; she had to accept the fact that the place might very well be flooded.
She didn’t care. She had the key in her pocket, compliments of Gertrude. She had the knowledge that everyone was safely out of the way, Carrie at the Fontaines, Peter locked up with Doc Pitcher, the others sound asleep. Even Wendell had departed in a huff, without a word to her other than a look of deep reproach, informing his mother he was going to New Orleans for the weekend and wouldn’t be back until Monday. There was no one to check up on her, no one to follow her.
She intended to lock herself in that beautiful, deserted house, eat until she felt like throwing up and then cry, scream, yell, beat her fists against the window, anything to rid herself of the misery that washed through her.
She’d finally accepted the fact. Peter was as crazy as everyone, Peter included, said he was. She could no longer make excuses, hope for some voodoo miracle from Marie Laveau or ignore common sense. The sound of the music had sent him into an insane, destructive fit. When he’d seen an open flame he’d tried to burn down Maison Delacroix, with everyone in it. It was time she stopped grasping at straws and started facing reality.
She didn’t know if he’d somehow managed to escape and become Andrew Delacroix, the phantom, for one night, and she no longer cared. It wasn’t that night that had made her fall in love with him, or the days that followed. It was everything, all tied up in a miserable, complicated bundle. She had to fight her way through it this weekend. She had every intention of returning to Maison Delacroix with her priorities firmly in place, and if those priorities included Wendell, then maybe for once she would show some common sense and not the stupid romantic idealism that had gotten her into such trouble in the first place.
She looked at the silver filigree ring on her finger. She ought to have left it behind. She didn’t know when Peter had put it back in her room; she didn’t know why she hadn’t let it be. By the end of the weekend she could give it to Gertrude, who was probably its rightful owner. By the end of the weekend all weakness would be exorcized, even if she had to spend the next two days crying her head off.
She flexed her forearm experimentally, wishing she’d remembered to bring some aspirin. When Gertrude had come up with her extraordinary offer Margaret had jumped at it, taking long enough to shower and change before throwing her clothes in a bag and taking off. The shower had yielded a surprise.
She could still feel the imprint of Peter’s hands on her arms, on her face, holding her still as he kissed her. But there’d been no mark, no trace of any force. The only bruises that marred her pale skin had come f
rom Wendell’s angry grip.
She didn’t want to think about Wendell. She didn’t want to think about Peter, either—she had a difficult enough time seeing the road through the heavy rain and mist without having tears cloud her vision. She’d make it to the house and then she’d think about Peter. Then she could cry.
At first she thought she’d made the wrong turn. The road twisted and turned and then stopped at a shallow pool of water. Beyond was only wet green darkness.
Grabbing her old canvas knapsack, she turned off the car and slid out into the pouring rain, berating herself. Of course everything was dark. The house was deserted—there’d be no candle in the window to greet the weary traveler. Just darkness, emptiness, peace and quiet.
She ran through the puddles, her sneakers getting soaked in the process. The beam from her flashlight bounced off the darkened windows of the old house, and she stumbled toward the cottage in relief, only vaguely aware of the unexpected scent of wood smoke in the night air.
Her hands were shaking with cold and nervousness, and it took her long moments to unlock the front door. Slamming it behind her, she leaned back, taking deep breaths, trying to shake the water from her. It was cold and dark and silent in the house. She slipped off her yellow slicker and dumped it on the floor, then kicked off her waterlogged sneakers and left them. She was half tempted to shuck her pants, then thought better of it. Until she got a fire going, or at least got her sleeping bag set out on the old mattress, she’d be better off with clothes on, even damp ones.
She was halfway up the front stairs, when she heard it. The faintest sounds drifting through the heavy beat of rain on the old roof and the intermittent call of renewed thunder. It sounded like music, and she wondered if she’d accidently turned the car radio on and left it blaring into the rain-swept night.
Impossible. She didn’t think the old Caddy even had a radio, much less one that worked when the key was out of the ignition. It must be her imagination, the result of an overwrought day. Hell, it even sounded like the Neville Brothers drifting down the staircase.
By the time she reached the landing she was in no doubt at all. “Tell It Like It Is” was embedded in her brain forever, both from her dance in New Orleans and that horror scene that had just happened. It wasn’t her imagination at all. Someone was in the house, playing music.
If she had any sense at all she’d turn around and run straight back out into the night, but she was tired of running. Besides, if she ran, she would never know who had had the same brilliant idea of hiding out in Peter’s abandoned house. It could only be Wendell, and while she didn’t want to face him, maybe now was as good a time as any to get a few things clear. To find out why he’d kicked Peter when he was down.
She moved along the hallway, her bare feet silent, and headed for the master bedroom. A faint glow of light was coming from there, and she stepped inside, taking a deep breath. But no one was there. Music was playing softly, coming from an older smartphone propped on a table. Not Wendell’s—he had the newest and biggest. This one was several years older. A fire was struggling to send out warmth from the small fireplace and a red down sleeping bag was stretched over the mattress. The mattress where she’d intended to sleep.
She heard the footsteps, and without thinking she stepped back into the shadows, not moving. Not saying a word as Peter Delacroix walked into the room, carrying a load of logs, humming beneath his breath. Singing along with the music, getting the words wrong but the tune right, as he knelt in front of the fire and coaxed it into blazing light, basking in the warm, comforting glow.
She must have said something. It was probably no more than a muffled gasp, but he heard it and whirled around, still in the crouching position, to face her, and they stared at each other for a long, combative moment. “You’re not crazy at all, are you?” she said, her voice raw with pain. “You’re a liar, you’re a cheat, you’re violent and rotten and probably a wife murderer, but you’re not in the slightest bit crazy. Are you?” She stepped forward into the pool of light from the fire, and realized that she was trembling all over. “Are you?”
“No,” he said, unmoved and unmoving. “I’m not crazy. I’m not a murderer either. I’m just an ordinary man who’s had to go to extraordinary lengths to keep alive in a world that exploded.” He rose, and he seemed very tall and menacing in the shadowy room. “What are you doing here?”
Margaret was a wash of conflicting emotions, but fear was far down on the list. He sounded calm and matter-of-fact. She could be the same way. “Gertrude sent me. She thought I needed some time alone. Her mistake.” But her voice sounded half-wild and choked with tears, but there was no way she could fake any kind of calm.
“She knew I was here. She called Doc right after dinner to see what was going on,” Peter said flatly.
“And I’m supposed to believe you? Gertrude wouldn’t have sent me here if she’d known you were here.”
“Yes, she would have. You forget that Grandmère has an irrational devotion to her family, you and me included. She would have known that I wanted you. Needed you. So she sent you to me.”
“I’m not listening to this,” she said, starting for the door, but his hand caught her arm, tightening over the bruise Wendell had inflicted. She moaned, and if he’d had any decency at all he would have released her. Instead he grabbed her hand and yanked her closer to the firelight so he could look at her arm.
“Did I do this to you?”
His voice was soft and unemotional, but Margaret wasn’t fooled. If she lied and said yes, he would release her, and she could run, as far and as fast as she wanted. She could stop by the Fontaines and grab Carrie, taking off toward Florida in Gertrude’s ancient Cadillac, and Gertrude wouldn’t do anything to stop her, for fear she’d expose their whole devious scheme.
“No,” she said. “Wendell did.” She looked up at him, at the purple welt above his eyebrow, at the rough scrape on his high cheekbone. “You don’t look so hot yourself.” She tugged at her hand, but he didn’t release her. “Let go, Peter. Let me leave, drive away from here, out of your life. Please, Peter. Let me go.” And they both knew she wasn’t talking about anything as simple as his hand on her arm.
“Marguerite,” he said, his voice low and sorrowful. “Chère. I’m not that crazy.” And he pulled her slowly, carefully, into his arms, giving her plenty of time to pull back, to fight, to resist.
“Oh, Peter,” she whispered. “I am.” Rising up on her toes, she kissed him, pressing her mouth against his, opening it slightly, touching her tongue against his lips.
His response was a muffled growl of longing as he threaded his long, beautiful fingers through her hair and kissed her back. She’d never been kissed with such thoroughness, such slow, tantalizing, completeness. The other times they’d kissed had been hurried, stolen moments. He was taking his time now, kissing her with his tongue, his lips, his soul, kissing her into a state of frenzied oblivion.
She closed her eyes, and he kissed her neck, her collarbone, as he lowered her to the mattress. This was going to happen, she wanted it so badly, wanted him so badly. He’d let her go if she asked. She would rather cut out her tongue.
Pulling the cotton sweater over her head, he kissed the soft swell of flesh above her lace bra, he kissed her flat stomach and her navel. She threaded her hands through his hair as he unfastened her bra and pulled it from her, and then he paused, kneeling over her, watching her out of hooded eyes, the glow from the firelight flickering over his golden skin.
“You are so damned beautiful,” he whispered.
She was conscious of a sudden flash of disappointment. “You don’t have to say that,” she said. “I don’t need pretty words and lies.” She reached over to cover her breasts, but his hands caught hers, pulling them away and holding them down against the mattress.
“I don’t use pretty words,” he said. “I don’t lie.”<
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“Tell me about it,” she taunted.
“I don’t lie in bed,” he amended. “What makes you think you’re not beautiful?”
“I don’t want to discuss this,” she said, struggling against his imprisoning hands. “Either we’re going to do it or you can let me get my clothes on.”
“We’re not going to ‘do it,’” he said, levering his body forward and covering her half-nude form with his totally clothed one.
He was still wearing the torn chambray shirt, and she could feel the warmth and hardness of his chest through it, against her bare breasts, and she closed her eyes and tried to fight her response. “We’re going to lie here until you tell me why you don’t think you’re beautiful.”
“Then we can lie here all night long.”
“That’s what you think.” He bumped against her, lightly, and new heat rushed through her. “Answer me, ma belle. What makes you think you’re not beautiful?”
He was inexorable. She knew him well enough to know he could be just as stubborn as she was, and if she had to spend even another moment lying beneath him she’d go crazy and rip his clothes off him. “My mirror,” she said.
“And?” he prompted.
“My husband. Are you satisfied?”
“Far from it. I thought I detected Dexter’s nasty touch there. Were you fool enough to believe such a sorry excuse for a human being?”
“No.”
“Then what are you crabbing about?” He kissed her, full and deep on the mouth. “I think you’re beautiful and that’s all that matters. At least for now.”
“Oh, really?”
“Really,” he said moving down his hand and gently cupping one small breast. “By tomorrow you’ll realize it, and that’ll be much more important.”
“Pretty smug, aren’t you?” Her voice caught in a little strangled sob as his mouth followed his hand, his tongue gently teasing her sensitive nipple. Her breast seemed to throb and swell against him, and she felt that too familiar ache deep inside.
