by Nora Roberts
gin in this place for that, Matthew.”
“We’ll see how you feel in a couple hours.” Leaning back, he lit another cigarette. “Why don’t you tell me about the Trulanes?”
“What about them?”
“Everything.”
She sighed, then, picking up the glass the waitress set in front of her, sipped. “This might just be the only thing in New Orleans completely lacking in humidity.”
Matt acknowledged this by tapping the rim of his glass against hers. “The Trulanes, Laurellie.”
“All right—and don’t call me that. Ancient history first,” she began. “Heritage Oak was built in the early nineteenth century. The plantation was vast and rich. The Trulanes still own more land than anyone else in this part of Louisiana. Besides cotton and cattle, they were shipbuilders. The profits from that kept the plantation alive after the war. As far back as anyone would remember, the Trulanes’ve been an important part of New Orleans, socially, financially and politically. I’m sure Grandma has a large repertoire of stories.”
“Undoubtedly,” Matt agreed. “Let’s just speed up the passage of time a bit. Something in this century.”
“Just laying the groundwork.” Laurel took a sip from her glass, then toyed with the stem. “Beauregard Trulane—”
“Come on.”
“There’s always a Beauregard,” she said loftily. “Inherited Heritage Oak right after his marriage. He had three children: Marion, Louis and Charles.” Her eyes smiled over the rim of her glass. “He was an enormous man, bellowing, dramatic. Grandma loved him. In fact, I’ve sometimes wondered . . . well.” She grinned and shrugged. “His wife was beautiful, a very quiet, serene sort of woman. Marion looks a great deal like her. Aunt Ellen—I called her that—died less than six months after my mother. I was around six . . . I’ve always mixed them a bit in my mind.”
With a shrug, she emptied her glass, not noticing that Matt signaled for another round. “In any case, after she died, old Beau went into a steady decline. Louis began to take over the business. Really, he was too young to face those kinds of pressures, but there wasn’t much choice. He would’ve been about eighteen or nineteen at the time, and I suppose I already worshiped him. To me, he was a cross between Prince Charming and Robin Hood. He was kind to me, always laughing and full of fun. That’s how I like to remember him,” she murmured, and stared into her fresh drink.
“Things change,” Matt said briefly. How did a man compete with a childhood memory? he asked himself, frustrated by the look on Laurel’s face. Damned if he would. “You’re not a child anymore, Laurel.”
She shifted her gaze to his and held it steady. “No, but a good deal of my perspective on Louis is that of a child.”
He inclined his head and told himself to relax. “Tell me about Marion.”
“She’s a couple years older than Louis, and as I said, has her mother’s looks. When I was young I thought of her as my personal fairy godmother. She was always so poised, and so beautiful.”
A picture of dark elegance and flawless skin ran through his mind. “Yes, I noticed.”
“She’s too old for you,” Laurel said without thinking, then looked over with a frown when Matt burst out laughing. “Shut up, Bates, and let me finish.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said with his tongue in his cheek.
“Marion used to have me over,” Laurel continued, rashly finishing off her second martini. “She’d give me tea and cakes in the parlor. She knew I adored Louis and used to tell me to hurry and grow up so Louis could marry me. I adored her, too.”
“She never married?”
“No. Grandma said she was too choosy, but I think she had a love affair that didn’t work out. Once I was there on a gray, gloomy day and she told me if a woman had one great love in her life, it was enough. Of course, at the time I thought she was talking about Louis and me, but when I got older and remembered how she’d looked . . .” On a sigh, Laurel reached for her glass. “Women like Marion are easily hurt.”
He looked at her, the soft skin, soft mouth, soft eyes. “Is that so?”
“Charles was different.” Shaking off the mood, Laurel leaned back with her drink. “I suppose he was a bit like Curt, and I thought of him as an extra brother. He was dreamy and abstracted. He was going to be an artist, and when he wasn’t sketching, he was studying or hanging around Jackson Square. They’d hung some of his paintings in the main hall—until he left.”
“With the first Mrs. Trulane,” Matt finished.
“Yes, twelve years ago. It was a nasty scandal, the sort that causes a lot of pain and fabulous headlines.” She shook her head over the opposing loyalties and sighed. The martinis were taking the edge off. “Grandma could tell you a great deal more, but from what I remember, Louis came back from a business trip to find Elise and Charles gone. The rumor that buzzed from servants’ wing to servants’ wing was that there was a note. Most of their clothes and all of Charles’s painting gear were gone.”
Laurel looked beyond him, unaware that the bar was filling up with people and noise. Someone was playing on the piano in the rear. “That’s when Louis changed. He closed himself off from everyone. The few times I did see him, all the laughter was gone. As far as I know, he’s never heard from Charles or Elise. About four years ago, he finally filed for divorce. Marion told me he’d done it strictly as a legality, that he was bitter, very bitter. She worried about him. His second marriage was a surprise to everyone.”
Idly, she watched the smoke from Matt’s cigarette curl toward the ceiling. The fans spun gently, slicing at the smoke, stirring the air. He hadn’t spoken in some time, but she didn’t realize it was the quality of his listening that made it so easy to speak. “I called him, first because I really hoped he was happy, and second, because Louis Trulane’s remarriage meant a good story. He sounded almost like his old self—older, certainly, but some of the spark was back. He wouldn’t give me an interview, he said . . .” She frowned as she searched back for his words. “He said he’d married a child and he needed to keep spring to himself for a little while.”
God, did she know what she did to him when her eyes took on that vulnerable, young look? He wanted to take her away somewhere, anywhere, so that nothing could hurt her. And if he tried, she’d think he was out of his mind. Matt crushed out his cigarette with deliberate care. “What do you know about the first Mrs. Trulane?”
“Nothing really.” Looking up again, she smiled wryly. “Except I was horribly jealous of her. She was lovely in that soft, kind of misty style that no one can emulate. I do remember the wedding—pink and white magnolias, a huge, frothy wedding cake and beautiful dresses. Elise wore silk and lace with miles of train. She looked like a porcelain doll—gold and white and tiny. She looked like . . .” She trailed off, eyes wide, with her glass halfway to her lips. “Oh God, she looked like—”
“Like the second Mrs. Trulane,” Matt finished. Leaning back, he signaled the waitress again. “Well, well.”
“It doesn’t mean anything,” she began in a rush. “Only that Louis was attracted to a certain type of woman. The resemblance to his first wife doesn’t add up to a motive for murder.”
“It’s the closest we’ve got. And we’re still a long way from being certain Anne Trulane was murdered.” Matt lifted a brow as he studied Laurel’s face. “You’re quick to rush to his defense, Laurellie. It’s going to be difficult for you to think clearly if you don’t let go of your childhood infatuation.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” His lips curved without humor.
“Listen, Bates, I always think clearly, and whatever my feelings for Louis, they won’t interfere with my work.” She looked down at her empty glass. “I finished my drink.”
“So I see.” This time the amusement leaked through. Indignation was one of her most appealing expressions. She’d had enough of the Trulanes for the day, Matt decided. So had he. Unobtrusively, the waitress replaced empty glasses with fresh ones.
“Well, that’s for tomorrow. Why don’t you bring me up to date on our favorite city councilman? I’m keeping a scrapbook.”
“Why don’t you leave Jerry alone?” Laurel demanded, starting on the next drink.
“Everyone’s entitled to a hobby.”
“Don’t be so smug and superior,” she mumbled into her glass. “Jerry’s a very—very . . .”
“Pompous ass?” Matt suggested blandly, then grinned when she burst into a fit of giggles.
“Damn you, Matthew, if my brain weren’t numb, I’d have thought of something.” Blowing the hair out of her eyes, she set down her drink and folded her hands. “I find your continually rude comments on Jerry’s personality annoying.”
“Because I’m right?”
“Yes. I really hate it when you’re right.”
He grinned, then, tossing a few bills on the table, rose. “I’ll walk you home, Laurel. Let’s hope the fresh air doesn’t clear your brain—you might just be receptive to a few of my baser instincts.”
“It’d take more than three martinis to do that.” She stood, letting out a long breath when the floor tilted gently under her feet.
“Four,” he murmured as he took her arm. “But who’s counting?”
“I’m only holding on to you because I have to,” Laurel told him as they stepped outside. “After a couple blocks, I’ll get my rhythm back.”
“Just let me know when you want to go solo.”
“How many did you have?”
“The same as you.”
Laurel tilted her head back to study him and found the martinis spun not too unpleasantly in her head. “Well, you’re taller, and heavier,” she added with a smirk. “I have a very delicate build.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
She lifted a brow as they passed a sidewalk trumpeter. The sound of jazz was mellow and sad. “Have you really?”
“You could say I’ve made a study of it—journalistically speaking.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He paused long enough to touch his lips to hers. “Don’t press your luck.”
“You have a funny way of kissing,” she muttered as her head tilted onto his shoulder. “I don’t know if I like it.”
To his credit, Matt didn’t slip a hand around her throat and squeeze. “We can have a debate on that subject later.”
“I really thought you’d have a different technique,” she went on. “You know, more . . . aggressive.”
“Been spending time thinking about my technique?” he countered.
“I’ve given it some thought—journalistically speaking.”
“It’d be safer to table this discussion until you can walk a straight line.” He turned into the courtyard of the building they shared.
“You know, Matthew . . .” Laurel gripped the banister as they climbed the stairs. The steps weren’t as steady as they’d been that morning. “You’re not really so bad after three martinis.”
“Four,” he mumbled.
“Don’t nitpick now that I’ve decided to tolerate you.” Unzipping her purse, she began to fish for her keys. “Here, hold this.”
Matt found himself holding a wallet, compact, notebook, broken earrings and several ticket stubs. “Anything else?” he said dryly.
“No, here they are—they always sink to the bottom.”
Unceremoniously, he dumped the contents back in her purse and took the keys from her. “Are you going to let me in?” A pot of coffee, he mused as she leaned back against the door. A couple of aspirins and a dark room. He wasn’t at all certain she could manage any of the three by herself. “We’ve been neighbors for nearly a year and I haven’t had an invitation.”
“What appalling manners.” Giving him a misty smile, Laurel gestured him inside.
The room, like the woman, had soft edges, elegance and wit. There was the scent of potpourri with a touch of lavender. The colors were creams and roses. Lace at the curtains, velvet on the sofa. On the wall above a gleaming tea cart was a framed burlesque poster from the 1890s.
“It suits you.”
“Really?” Laurel glanced around, unaccountably pleased with herself. “’S funny, even if I’d seen your place I wouldn’t know if it suited you.” Laurel dragged a hand through her hair as she tried to focus on him. She held it there as she swayed, only a little. “I don’t really understand you at all. Framed newsprints or Picassos. In an odd sort of way, you’re a fascinating man.”
She was smiling at him, only an arm’s length away. At the moment, Matt wasn’t certain if she was being deliberately provocative or if the martinis were doing it for her. Either way, it wasn’t any easier on him. He didn’t have many rules, but one of them dealt strictly with making a move on a woman who might not remember it the next morning.
“Coffee,” he said briefly and took her arm.
“Oh, did you want some?”
“You do,” he said between clenched teeth. “Black.”
“Okay.” In the kitchen, she stared at the automatic coffeemaker, brows knit. She’d have sworn she knew what to do with it.
“I’ll make it,” Matt told her, grinning again. “Can you handle the cups?”
“Certainly.” Laurel rummaged in a cupboard, and though she rattled them dangerously, managed to set violet-trimmed china cups in their saucers on the counter. “I don’t have any beignets.”
“Coffee’s fine.”
“Guess if you really wanted some I could make ’em.”
“I’ll take a rain check.”
“You’re a good sport, Matthew.” Laughing, she turned and tumbled into his arms. With a smile, she curled her arms around his neck. “You’ve got fabulous eyes,” she said on a sigh. “I bet just everyone tells you that.”
“Constantly.” He put his hands on her waist, intending to draw her away. Somehow, she was pressed against him with his fingers spread over the thin material of her blouse. Desire curled inside him like a fist. “Laurel . . .”
“Maybe you should kiss me again, so I can figure out why I always think I don’t want you to.”
“Tomorrow,” he murmured as he lowered his mouth toward hers, “if you remember, you’re going to hate yourself for saying that.”
“Mmmm, I know.” Her lashes lowered as his lips brushed over hers. “That’s not a kiss.” She drew a long sigh as her nerve ends began to tingle. “It’s fabulous.” Her fingers crept into his hair to tangle and explore. “More . . .”
The hell with rules, Matt thought savagely. If he had to pay for what he took now, then he’d pay. And by God, it would be worth it. On an oath, he dragged her against him and crushed her mouth with his.
Instant fire. It flared from her into him—or him into her. The source didn’t matter, only the results. She moaned. The sound had nothing to do with pain or with wonder, and everything to do with raw desire. Her body strained into his with a certainty. This is right, this had always been right. She found his tongue with hers and let passion and intimacy merge blindingly, then struggled for more.
At that moment, with her head spinning and her body humming, it no longer mattered that it should be he who touched off all the sparks, all the secrets raging in her. No one else ever had. No one else ever could. Again, above all the whirling thoughts in her mind was one simple demand: more.
He was losing. Perhaps he’d been losing since he’d first seen that face. Bits and pieces of himself were being absorbed and he no longer cared. She could have whatever she wanted as long as he could have her like this. Heated, melting, hungry.
Her taste wasn’t delicate like her looks, but wild and daring. Her scent was airy, romantic, her mouth ripe with passion. Though he could feel her breasts yield against him, her hands demanded and took. Muttering threats, promises, pleas, he pressed his mouth to her throat and began to please himself.
Her pulse hammered. He could feel it beneath his lips, strong, fast. With a nip of his teeth it scrambled and raced to war with the low sound she made. Then his hands we
re on her, hard, rushing, urgent until the sound became his name. There was nothing casual about him now, not a trace of the easygoing, faintly amused man who sat across from her day after day. There was the aggression he’d carefully glossed over. The ruthlessness. The excitement.
He wanted her—too much for comfort. Too much for sanity. Perhaps she was all he’d ever wanted, the silkiness, the fire. When she was pressed against him like this, there was no past, no future, only now. Now was enough for a lifetime.
How could her mind be so clouded and her body so alive? Laurel thought she could feel her own blood racing through her veins. Is this what she’d been waiting for? This mindless freedom? It was enough—it was more than she’d ever dreamed of, more than she’d ever understood. She was far from understanding now, but her body was so busy controlling her mind, she didn’t care. With a sound of possession and the strength of greed, she dragged Matt’s mouth back to hers. It seemed as though her legs dissolved from the knees down.
She heard him swear against her mouth before he clutched her closer. Then he drew her away while she gripped his shoulders in protest, and for support. “Matthew . . .”
“The door.” His voice wasn’t any more steady than the rest of him. No, he wasn’t steady, Matt realized as he held Laurel away from him. And maybe not quite sane. “Someone’s at the door, Laurel. You’d better answer it.”
“The door? Whose door?” She stared up at him, aroused, dazed.
“Your door.” A faint smile touched his lips.
