Midnight Bayou

by Nora Roberts

  “I’m not going to discuss that with you.”

  “Why not?” Lilibeth ran the chilly glass between her breasts, then, laughing, rose. “You shy, honey? Don’t you be shy with Lilibeth. We could be friends, you and me.” She skirted the table, leaned in behind him. “Very good friends,” she added as her arms twined down and her teeth nipped at his ear.

  “Miss Simone, you’re putting me in the awkward position of asking you to get your hands off me.”

  “You are shy.” With a chuckle that blew warm breath and beer over his cheek, she trailed her hands down toward his lap.

  He clamped a hand over her wrists, jerked them up again. “You’re embarrassing yourself.” He twisted so he could lever out of the chair and onto his feet to face her. “That’s your business. But you’re using me to take a shot at Lena, and that’s mine.”

  Angry color spotted her cheeks. “Maybe you think you’re too good for me.”

  “There’s no maybe about it. Get out and we’ll forget this happened.”

  She wanted to scream at him, to strike out. But she still had her wits about her. She hadn’t had enough beer to dull them, and the hit of coke she’d had before walking over had been miserly. Playing it out, she sank into a chair, dropped her head on her folded arms and sobbed.

  “I don’t know what to do. I’m just so alone. I’m just so scared. I need help. I thought—I thought if I let you have me, you’d help me. I just don’t know what to do!”

  She lifted her head, and the two tears she’d managed to squeeze out tracked through her makeup. “I’m in such awful trouble.”

  He went to the sink, ran the water cold, then got a glass. “What kind of trouble?”

  “I owe some money. That’s why I left Houston, and I’m afraid they’ll find me. Hurt me. Maybe Lena, too. I don’t want them to hurt my baby.”

  He set the water in front of her. “How much money?”

  He saw it, the quick glint of satisfaction in her eyes before she lowered them. “Five thousand dollars. It wasn’t my fault. Really, it wasn’t my fault. I trusted the wrong people. A man,” she said wearily. “And he ran off with the money and left me owing. If I don’t find a way to pay it back, they’re going to track me down and do something to me. Something to Mama and Lena.”

  He sat back down, looked at her intently. “You’re a liar. You want to try to soak me for a quick five K so you can score some drugs and get out of town. You figure me for an easy mark, but you figure wrong. If it wasn’t for Lena, I’d give you a couple hundred to send you along. But you see, Lilibeth, there is Lena. She wouldn’t like it.”

  She hurled the water in his face. He barely blinked. “Fuck you.”

  “I thought we already established that wasn’t an option.”

  “Think you’re so smart, don’t you? So important because you come from money.” She pushed to her feet. “Big, fancy, highfalutin family. I found out all about you, Declan Fitzgerald. Let me ask you just what that big, fancy, highfalutin family’s going to think when they hear you’re heating the sheets with a Cajun swamp whore?”

  The phrase had something clutching in his gut, in the back of his throat, in his head. Her face changed in front of his eyes, became fuller, older. Colder.

  Josephine.

  “Get out.” He wasn’t sure, not entirely, if he spoke to the flesh-and-blood woman or to the ghost. His hands shook as he gripped the edge of the table.

  “All those fine doctors and lawyers and Indian chiefs up there in Boston, how are they gonna like the idea of their golden boy hooking up with some bastard child from the bayou? No money, no pedigree. Runs a second-rate bar and has a grandmama who sews for other people to earn extra pennies. Gonna cut you right out of the will, sugar. Leave you high and dry with this big white elephant of a house on your hands. Especially when I tell them you slept with her mama, too.”

  His legs were weak as water, but he stood on them. “Get out of my house before I hurt you.”

  “Your type doesn’t lay hands on a woman. Don’t think I don’t know the difference.” Riding on coke and confidence, she tossed back her hair. “You wanna keep plugging your wick into my girl, and you wanna keep your family out of it, you’ll write me a check, cher. You’ll write it quick, fast and in a hurry. And we’re going to make it ten thousand now, because you hurt my feelings.”

  “Your feelings aren’t worth a buck and a half to me, Lilibeth.”

  “They will be, after I have a little chat with your mama.”

  “My mother will chew you up and spit you out.” He walked to the counter, yanked open a drawer and took out a pad. Scrawled a number on it. “Here, that’s her number. Call her. You can use my phone, as long as I can listen in. It’ll be a real pleasure to hear her slice you to bloodless pieces.”

  “I need money!”

  “You won’t get it here.” Out of patience, he grabbed her arm and pulled her to the door. “I can make a lot more trouble for you than you can for me. Believe it,” he said, and shut the door in her face.

  He had to sit down until he had his legs under him again. He felt ill, physically ill. Something had happened when she’d raged at him over Lena. The face that had become her face was one he’d seen in his dreams.

  The face belonged to the house, or to the part of it that slammed doors, that wished him away.

  That wished him harm.

  No doubt now, he told himself, that Lena’s mother now wished him harm as well.

  He rose, went to the phone. One positive result of the ugly incident was it had made him appreciate his own mother.

  He dialed, and felt cleaner at the familiar sound of her voice.

  “Hi, Ma.”

  “Declan? What are you doing calling in the middle of the day? What’s wrong? You had an accident.”

  “No, I—”

  “All those horrible tools. You’ve cut off a hand.”

  “I still have two, and all other assigned parts. I just called to tell you I love you.”

  There was a long, pregnant pause. “You’ve just learned you have a terminal disease and have six months to live.”

  Now he laughed. “Got me. I’m a dead man and want to make contact with my family so I get a really cool wake.”

  “Do you want Uncle Jimmy to sing ‘Danny Boy’?”

  “I really don’t. I’d as soon rest in peace.”

  “So noted. What is it, really, Declan?”

  “I want to tell you about the woman I’m in love with and want to marry.”

  This pause was even longer. “Is this a joke?”

  “No. Got a couple minutes?”

  “I think I can rearrange my schedule for this.”

  “Okay.” He walked over, picked up his iced tea. The ice had melted, but he glugged it down anyway. “Her name’s Angelina Simone, and she’s beautiful, fascinating, frustrating, hardheaded and perfect. She’s just perfect, Ma.”

  “When do I meet her?”

  “Remy’s wedding. There’s this one minor glitch—other than the one where she isn’t ready to say yes.”

  “I’m sure you can overcome that minor detail. What’s the glitch?”

  He sat down again and told her about Lilibeth.

  By the time he got off the phone, he felt lighter. Going with impulse, he went upstairs to clean up and change. He was going to confront Lena a bit ahead of schedule.

  16

  Declan detoured by Remy’s office on the way to Et Trois. The wedding was approaching quickly, and his duties as best man included coordinating the bachelor party. Though he figured the big picture was clear enough—enough booze to float a battleship, and a strip club—there were some finer details to work out.

  When reception buzzed through to Remy’s office, he heard his friend’s almost frantic “Send him right in.”

  The minute he opened the office door, he saw why.

  Effie, tears streaking down her cheeks, sat in one of the visitor chairs with Remy crouched at her feet. Though Remy kept mopping at the
tears, kept trying to comfort, he shot Declan a look of sheer male panic.

  In a testament to friendship, Declan resisted the urge to back out and run. Instead he closed the door, crossed over and rubbed Effie’s shoulder.

  “Sweetheart, I told you I’d tell him you were dumping him for me.”

  Effie merely looked up, then covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

  “Okay, bad joke.” Declan scrubbed now-sweaty palms over his jeans. “What’s wrong?”

  “Problem with the wedding venue,” Remy began, and Effie let out a wail.

  “There is no wedding venue.” She snatched Remy’s handkerchief, buried her face in it. “They had . . . they had a kitchen fire, and the fire department came, and they . . . they . . . Oh what’re we going to do!”

  “Smoke and water damage,” Remy explained to Declan. “Over and above the fire damage. They’re not going to be able to put it back together in time.”

  “It’s my fault.”

  Mirroring Remy, Declan crouched. “Okay, honey, why’d you start the fire?”

  It made her laugh—for a split second. “I wanted to use that old plantation house. It’s romantic and so lovely. Remy said it’ll all be easier booking a hotel ballroom, but no, I just had to have my way. And now look. We’ve got less than three weeks, and we’re . . . We’re just sunk, that’s all.”

  “No, we’re not, honey. We’ll find another place. Pleure pas, chère.” Remy kissed the tip of her nose. “Worse comes to worst, we’ll have the wedding, then we’ll have our party later. We’ll have us a real fais do-do, after the honeymoon.”

  “Where are we going to get married? City Hall?”

  “I don’t care where we get married.” Now he kissed her fingers. “Long as we do.”

  She sniffled, sighed, leaned into him. “I’m sorry. I’m being silly and selfish. You’re right. It doesn’t matter where or how.”

  “Sure it does.” Declan’s statement had them both staring at him, Effie with tears still swirling, Remy with baffled frustration. “You can’t let a little fire screw up your plans. Use my place.”

  “What do you mean, your place?” Remy demanded.

  “The Hall. Sure as hell big enough. Ballroom needs some work, but there’s time. I have to strong-arm some painters, but I finished the entrance this morning. Gardens are in really good shape, kitchen’s done, parlors, library. Lots of rough spots yet, but people won’t care about that. They’ll get the house, the grounds, the ghosts. They’ll talk about it for years.”

  “Do you mean it?” Effie snagged Declan’s hands before Remy could speak.

  “Sure I do. We can pull it off.”

  “Dec,” Remy began, but Effie rolled right over him.

  “Oh God. Oh, I love you.” She threw her arms around Declan’s neck. “You’re the most wonderful man in the world. An angel,” she said and kissed him. “A saint.”

  “Do you mind?” Declan said to Remy. “We’d like to be alone.”

  Laughing, Effie spun to her feet. “Oh, I shouldn’t let you do this. You’ll have all those strangers roaming around your house, trooping all over your lawn. But I’m going to let you because I’m desperate, and it’s so perfect. I swear, I swear you won’t have to do any of the work. I’ll take care of everything. I’m going to owe you till my dying day.”

  “Giving me your firstborn son will be payment enough.”

  Remy sat on the edge of the desk and shook his head. “I say I’ll marry you anywhere, anytime, all he does is give you a broken-down house and he’s the one gets kissed.”

  “I already got you.” But she turned, wrapped her arms around Remy and, with a sigh, rested her head on his shoulder. “I want it to be beautiful, Remy. I want it to be special. It means a lot to me.”

  “I know it does. So it means a lot to me, too. We’ll have us some party, won’t we?”

  “We will.” She gave him one last squeeze, then whirled away. The sad, sobbing woman was replaced by a dervish. “Can I go out now?” she asked Declan. “I need to get my mother and my sister, and we’ll go out right now and start figuring it all out.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Thank you.” She kissed his cheek. “Thank you.” Then the other. “Thank you.” Then his mouth with a long, drawn-out smack. “Remy, you come on out soon as you can. Oh, Dec?” She was pulling out her cell phone as she headed for the door. “My bride colors are rose and blue. You don’t mind if we have the house painted those colors, do you?”

  His mouth dropped open as she shut the door behind her. “She was kidding, right?”

  “Probably.” Knowing his girl, and the pack she ran with, Remy blew out a breath. “Cher, you don’t know what you just got yourself into. You made my girl happy, and I’m grateful, but I gotta tell you, you’re in for a couple weeks of pure insanity.”

  “I couldn’t stand seeing her crying like that. Besides, it makes sense.” Rose and blue, he thought. How much trouble could they get into with nice, harmless colors like rose and blue? “Anyway,” he added, rubbing a hand over his sinking heart, “I’ve been through wedding plans before.”

  “You haven’t met her mother before.”

  Declan shifted his feet. “Is she scary?”

  “Pretty scary.”

  “Hold me.”

  Good deeds put him in a good mood. When he walked into Et Trois, he was ready for a cold one, a self-congratulatory pat on the back. And Lena.

  She was behind the bar, pulling a draft and chatting up one of her regulars. He watched her gaze wash over, then land on him. Stay on him as he walked up, flipped up the pass-through.

  She had time to slide the foaming mug across the bar to waiting hands, start to turn before he lifted her off her feet and planted his lips on hers.

  The scattering of applause and hoots had him grinning as he held her an inch off the floor. “Missed you.”

  She rubbed her tingling lips together. “Your aim seemed good to me.” She patted his cheek, gave him that quick, wicked gleam. “Now down, boy. I’m working here.”

  “You’re going to need someone to cover for you.”

  “I’m busy, cher. Go on and sit down, I’ll get you a beer.”

  He just hitched her up, giving her legs a little swing so he could get his arm under them. He elbowed the door to the bar kitchen. “Lena needs you to cover for her,” he called back, then nodded toward the pass-through. “Mind?” he asked the man sipping the draft.

  “Sure thing.”

  “Declan.” She didn’t struggle, bad for the image. “I’m running a business here.”

  “And you do a damn good job of it. Thanks,” he added when the man flipped up the pass-through. “It ought to run fine without you for a half hour.” He nodded as his new friend hustled over and opened the door for him.

  He carried her outside. They got a few glances as he walked down the sidewalk and turned into her courtyard.

  “I don’t like being pushed around, cher.”

  “I’m not pushing you, I’m carrying you. Where’s your spare key?” he asked as he climbed the stairs. When she said nothing, he shrugged. “Fine. We’re going to get arrested for doing what I plan on doing out here on your gallery, but I’m game.”

  “Under the pot, second from the left.”

  “Good.”

  To her shock, he shifted her, slinging her over his shoulder as he crouched down to retrieve the key. She continually underestimated his strength and, she admitted, her reaction to it.

  “You’ve dropped a couple of pounds,” he commented and unlocked her door. “Good.”

  “I beg your pardon?” she said in her best frigid, southern-belle tone.

  “I figure it’s because you’ve been pining for me.”