She was still there.
What Lara was going to do with her aunt or for her, she had no idea. She only knew that it was going to take a miracle to keep her safe, free of prison, and out of Adam Benedict’s clutches.
Three
Lara Kincaid wanted something from him, Adam was sure of it. He had an uncomfortable feeling that it might be to pick his brain. Not that he believed she could do that with her so-called psychic powers, but there was always the conventional method. It was the one he was using, after all.
Did she really believe in that ESP nonsense or was it part of some attempt to distract him? He had no idea, but it wasn’t exactly a hardship to play along. She was more than easy on the eyes with her silver-blond hair, skin so clear it appeared luminous, and intelligence shining from the crystalline green of her eyes. He wished, suddenly, that he was at the house under simpler circumstances and also less pushed for time.
Most of what she’d said seemed reasonable. He knew from his computer check of telephone records that Kim Belzoni had called Lara from her home shortly after her husband was shot. He’d discovered also that she’d used her credit card to buy discount store purchases that included hair dye and makeup. It looked as if she intended to go into hiding, though he’d got nothing from Lara when he made the suggestion. Did that mean she had no idea where Kim Belzoni was headed, or only that she’d been fully prepared for the question? Was it possible that the lady was even now on the premises? He listened carefully but could hear nothing from the other rooms of the big house except the distant ticking of a clock and an occasional creak as if the old structure was shifting in its sleep.
He sipped his coffee, a movement that Lara copied almost exactly. His intrusion weighed on him. Forcing himself into people’s homes wasn’t something he did every day. The fact that Lara Kincaid had allowed it without calling the police was the main reason he didn’t get up and leave. If she was nervous of their intervention, there must be a reason. Added to that was the fact he’d agreed to do a job, and his personal code required that he deliver if at all possible. In any case, his absence wasn’t going to help Kim Belzoni or the woman across from him.
Adam reached for one of the small, rolled cakes Lara had set out, though more for something to occupy his hands than because he was hungry. It was light and flaky, and as he bit into it, the rich tastes of apricots, almonds, raisins and something more that he couldn’t quite identify bloomed on his tongue. “Wow,” he said when he’d swallowed. “Where did you find these?”
“I baked them.”
“What’s the spice?”
“Cardamom. You’ve probably run across it before in Danish pastries.”
“I’ve never had anything quite like them.” He reached for another small roll. “You could make a fortune in the prepared food market.”
“Everything can’t be reduced to dollars and cents,” she said shortly.
“You’re against commercial enterprise?”
“I bake for relaxation and the love of turning flour and yeast into delicious things. Doing it for money would take the joy out of it.”
His smile was crooked and his gaze hooded, as he said, “No doubt.”
“I know what you’re thinking, and yes, my attitude is a lot like the quote about prostitution,” she said in cool disdain. “First you do it for love, then for a few friends, and finally for money.”
He stared at her a long moment during which he could feel heat gathering under his collar. “Sorry. I didn’t intend to be that obvious.”
“You weren’t, and there’s no need to apologize. Your thoughts are your own. You’re only responsible for what you actually say out loud.”
That was a comfort. Or might have been if he could be sure of keeping his more aberrant fancies to himself. In an effort to change the subject, he asked, “You really make a living with your quilt shop?”
“Of a sort. I teach classes and do machine quilting as well as selling fabric and notions.”
“I’d have thought you were too far out of town to have much traffic.”
“Quilters don’t mind driving to get what they want,” she said with humor lighting the green of her eyes like the sun shining through new leaves. “But another project I have in hand is a book using a special design I created called ‘Heaven on Earth.’”
An odd look crossed her face as she finished speaking, possibly from surprise that she’d revealed so much. Since he didn’t want her having second thoughts about opening up to him, Adam asked immediately, “What? No potions peddled out the back door like your granny?”
“Not much call for potions. I suppose nobody is quite that desperate these days.”
“Or they have too many other sources willing to take their money in exchange for a placebo and a promise?”
She tipped her head as she studied him. “You don’t think potions work?”
“Sure they work, and always have,” he said easily. “Witch doctors used to heal patients, faith healers made the lame walk, and snake oil salesmen cured everything from gout to kidney stones. Positive affirmations and five-year plans are effective, too. The human mind can perform miracles with the right encouragement.”
“In other words, it’s all in our heads.”
“Isn’t it?” He waited with more interest than he’d have expected for her answer.
She lowered her lashes. “Maybe, maybe not. Alternative medicine is a viable therapy these days, and many of the compounds used are natural forms of the artificial ingredients found in prescription drugs. But even if they were placebos, what does it matter if the results are the same?”
“Depends on the price,” he answered. “Sometimes it’s more than people can afford to pay, especially when their lives are at stake.”
“There you have it, the real reason I don’t sell potions.” Her smile was brittle. “It then becomes a question of which does more harm—refraining because the cost is too high or allowing people to go unaided because I refrain.”
It was the problem faced by every person with power to wield. Adam just hadn’t expected to come across it in connection with the potions of a backcountry psychic. “You’d like to help?”
“Who wouldn’t?” she asked as she looked away from him.
He could relate to that, since a large part of what he did was for the sake of others rather than for a return. “Just what’s in these old brews? Do you really know?”
“Oh, the usual eye of newt, frog wart juice and fingernail parings collected from a graveyard at midnight.”
“Funny,” he said without amusement. A second later, he had to ask, “You can make these concoctions?”
Her lips twisted, perhaps for his obvious skepticism. “I have a recipe book.”
“Ever whipped up something for your own use?”
“Would I tell you if I had?” she countered.
He couldn’t help glancing at his cup, though he’d seen her make the coffee and knew very well that she’d added nothing to it. On the other hand, she could have known he was coming and slipped something into the cup ahead of time if she was truly psychic.
“Don’t worry,” she said with a low laugh. “You’re safe from me.”
“That’s nice to know.” Even as he made that dry comment, he realized that his concern, however brief, was like a crack in the wall of his disbelief. At the same time, he had to wonder just why he was so safe. Was it because she didn’t consider him a threat, or that he simply held no appeal for her?
“But come on now,” he insisted. “Just what are these magic ingredients?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“What you’re interested in, of course. Do you have gout, kidney stones, or the need for a love potion?”
“The potion,” he said at once.
“Why are you so interested?” she mused, her gaze steady on his face. “Is it academic, or simply that you’d like to be the stud of New Orleans?”
“You mean I have that choice?”
&nbs
p; There was no answering smile for his grin. “It helps if you specify.”
What he’d had in mind was finding out what Esther Goodman had fed him all those years ago, but that suddenly didn’t seem important. “Let’s say I want a special woman to fall so madly in love with me that she worships the ground I walk on and refuses to leave my side, ever.”
“You know what they say.”
“Be careful what you wish for because you might get it? I’d say the risk is minimal.” He watched her while doing his best to ignore the strange trip of excitement in his blood.
“That could be affected by whether you’re really serious.”
“Now you’re saying it’s all in my head?” His question carried more than its share of irony.
“Maybe, maybe not,” she said, smiling a little to herself. “Let’s see, what can I tell you? Chocolate is sometimes added because it’s supposed to stimulate love and desire. That’s also the reason it’s so popular for Valentine’s Day.”
He gave her a straight look. “I don’t think your granny’s customers were traipsing out here for chocolate fudge.”
“Probably not.” She considered a moment, and then an impish glint appeared in the mysterious depths of her eyes. “Olives are said to revive lust and ensure fertility in men, and the same with avocados and bananas, though I’d think that feeding your lady-love a nice, big banana might be more about imagery than…”
“Never mind, there’s no problem in that department.”
“Yes, well, current wisdom says the results from fruit and veggies have more to do with improved nutrition than any magic effect. However, there’s always saw palmetto that was used by Native Americans in this part of the country for prostate and urinary tract problems. It’s supposed to have been the Viagra of the eighteenth and nineteenth century.”
“Let’s skip that part,” he suggested in dry reproof, “and get back to the desperate love.”
“If you insist. Orrisroot powder is a centuries old attractant. It comes from a type of iris and is used even now as a fixative for potpourri and especially for the sachets that women use to scent their lingerie. While they’re enjoying the fragrance, they’re turning their men on without realizing it.”
“Intriguing,” he said dryly, “but still not quite what I had in mind.”
“You’re left with a choice of sachet or tea. For the sachet, you’ll need rose petals and jasmine blossoms. Oh yes, and henbane leaves. Only you have to collect all these yourself, running outside for them just after sunrise and picking them while naked and standing on one foot.”
“You’re joking.”
She sat back in her chair. “Sorry. That’s what it takes.”
“And after I’ve caught pneumonia picking this stuff, I slip it into her underwear, right?”
She gave him a repressive stare. “You grind them to a powder along with patchouli leaves and cinnamon bark, then put three tablespoons of the mixture in a little bag that you wear on a leather thong.”
“That’ll turn her on, seeing some grubby sack hanging around my neck. Not to mention sniffing the manly scent of pumpkin pie spice.”
“If you’re going to take that attitude, then it certainly won’t work.”
“Forget the sachet. I suppose the tea tastes like castor oil and I have to force it down her throat?”
“It tastes like mint and licorice with a hint of ginger, actually. And if you can’t get her to drink it, then you’re hopeless anyway.”
“If I could persuade a woman to drink an aphrodisiac, I shouldn’t need one,” he pointed out with humor curling the corners of his mouth. “Talking her into whatever I want ought to be easy.”
Her expression turned jaundiced. “And probably is, too. This won’t get it, you know.”
“Won’t get what? Mad, passionate love?” He kept his gaze as innocent as possible.
“It isn’t going to lull me into a nice, comfy state of intimacy so I’ll tell you where I think Aunt Kim might have gone.”
She had nailed him, Adam thought, even if he’d had friendliness in mind more than intimacy. His main objective was to gain her confidence. Not that he’d mind getting closer. Something about her mesmerized him, so all he wanted to do was watch her and listen to the lilting cadences of her voice. It wasn’t a phenomenon he’d run into before, nor was he sure he liked it.
In dry answer, he said, “You underestimate yourself.”
“Sure I do,” she said in obvious disbelief. “So why is it again that you’re so set on finding her?”
“I was asked to do a job, and I agreed. Detective Whitaker and I shook hands on it, which makes it a binding contract in my book. I’m honor bound to fulfill my part of it.”
“Honor bound. How quaint.”
He made no reply, though his lips tightened at the arch sound of her voice.
“So you said you’d find my aunt and you intend to do it, regardless of right or wrong, what she may or may not have done, or even why?”
“I don’t make the laws. I only do my best to abide by them and, now and then, help carry them out.”
“What if it’s dangerous for her to be found?”
“She’ll be better off in police custody.”
“That thought might soothe your conscience, but it wouldn’t do a thing for mine. Anyway, you’re wrong. She’s not the kind of woman who can take that in stride.”
“Meaning?”
Lara’s brows drew together above her eyes in an expression that mirrored his own. “She’s used to ease, comfort, a certain standard of living, but it’s not just that. She’s one of those people who never quite get the hang of living a normal life. She doesn’t cope very well, so something is always rising up and slapping her in the face.”
It sounded like more mysticism to Adam. “She seems to have coped enough to find a gun and shoot a man dead.”
“She had to do it, or he’d have killed her.”
“She could have called the police.”
“You think she hadn’t tried that?” Lara asked with scorn lacing her tone.
The lack of response to domestic disputes was too complicated a question for him to argue just now. Shifting ground, he pointed out, “She can’t have been too afraid of Belzoni or she wouldn’t have kept going back to him.”
“When a man keeps a gun handy at all times and tells you he’ll murder you if you leave, you tend to stick around. She did everything any reasonable person could expect, but was in constant terror of her husband. What was she supposed to do when it came down to killing or being killed?”
“Alternatives exist, always.”
“Such as?”
“What she’s doing now, maybe? Running? Hiding?”
Her smile was wry. “You think that’s any way to live?”
It was a neat trap that she’d closed on him. He had to admire that even as he was irritated by it. “I think she’s lucky to have you on her side.”
Her features smoothed, becoming expressionless at that return to the personal. “Thank you, I suppose.”
He held her gaze, aware at the same time of his fascination in matching wits with her. The urgency of his mission nipped at his heels, but his most basic impulse was to settle more firmly in his seat and refuse to budge until he had learned every single thing there was to know about her. The strength of that need startled him, especially since he wasn’t easily distracted under normal circumstances. His ability to close out extraneous thoughts or physical needs like hunger or thirst was legendary among the people who worked with him. He could function with machine-like precision in the middle of a storm, and had once or twice when the outer edges of hurricanes had blown through New Orleans. He wasn’t sure what allowed the woman across from him to sneak under his defenses, but he intended to find out.
It was then that a dull thump sounded from somewhere above them. Adam glanced up, then looked at his hostess with a raised brow.
“A squirrel on the roof, maybe,” she suggested with a trace of color bloom
ing across her cheekbones.
“At night?”
“It’s been known to happen. Or maybe the wind brought down a rotted limb from one of the oaks.”
It was just plausible enough that he decided not to push it for the moment. If he was wrong, it would give her too good an opportunity to ask him to leave, and he wasn’t ready to do that just yet. Listening for any repeat of the noise, he drank a long sip of his cooling coffee and considered his options.
Lara Kincaid wasn’t going to tell him what he needed to know, not of her own free will. He couldn’t force her to cooperate, and it was doubtful that he had the time it would take to really win her trust. What was left then except a physical search of the premises? Yet if he tried that and turned up nothing, he’d be worse off than before.
He should let Roan take care of this thing after all. Admitting failure went against the grain however, now that he was here. The best thing he could do, then, was to continue with their cat-and-mouse game and hope for the best. The main problem with that was keeping it clear in his mind just who was the cat and who was the mouse.
“You’ve met my brother’s wife?” he asked, almost at random. “Since she designs quilting fabrics, you should have something in common.”
“She’s been in a couple of times with her daughter. I keep her commercial fabrics in stock, as well as some of her special hand-dyes.”
Adam wanted to ask if Janna had ever mentioned him but didn’t quite dare. “She’s a creative wonder.”
“Her work is beautiful,” Lara agreed with a nod. “How is Lainey?”
It was obvious the two women had hit it off if she knew about the kidney transplant of his young niece by marriage. “She’s fine. You’d never know she’d had a problem.”
“I’m glad,” she said simply.
“She and Janna have had more than their share of troubles.”
“Some people do”
“Clay intends to see that nothing ever touches them again. He’s made it his life’s mission.”
With a Southern Touch: AdamA Night in ParadiseGarden Cop Page 3
