by Rebecca York
She picked up a slender book on Fermat’s Last Theorem and flipped it open. It was full of math equations. “You understand this?”
He laughed. “Barely.”
“But you find it interesting?”
“Yes.”
She examined other books, amazed by the diversity. Everything from alternate energy sources to auto repair to something called The Myth of the Werewolf.
“Why are you reading this?” she asked.
He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “It sounded interesting, so I bought it.” Picking up another volume, The Great Sailing Ships, he flipped it open. “About the same level of interest as this.”
“You’ve never seen a werewolf, have you?”
He stiffened. “That’s an odd question.”
“Your swamp would be the perfect place for one,” she heard herself saying.
“I’ve never encountered one there—or a sailing ship, either.”
She laughed, trying to get a handle on the man. He was a mystery. For all she knew, he had caused the problems with the town, and she had stepped into the middle of the mess he’d made. Now he was counting on her to bail him out.
She didn’t want to believe that. She wanted to be on his side. Because she was attracted to him?
“What are you thinking?” he asked suddenly.
She felt her face heat. “Why do you ask?”
“You looked like you were working on an important problem.”
“Just thinking about the case,” she managed, then scrambled for another subject. “So you love books and gardening. How do you make a living?” It was a pretty personal question, but not out of bounds considering that she was working as a private detective for him.
It seemed he didn’t mind answering. “I inherited a substantial investment portfolio. I studied the market carefully, made some good buys, diversified. I have a pretty good feel for what’s going to do well and what will tank. Sometimes I make mistakes, but my picks are above average. Before the market went down a couple of years ago, I had pulled some of my money out of stocks and shifted them to bonds.”
She nodded, impressed. Her own family was middle class. Her father had been a mail carrier, his government retirement his only investment. Her mom had been a grocery clerk. If Morgan hadn’t won a scholarship, she probably wouldn’t have gone to college. What she knew about finances would fit into a teacup, but she did have some guesses about the upkeep of a large estate.
She looked around. “Doesn’t it take a considerable amount of capital to keep Belle Vista in such beautiful shape?”
“Yes, even when I do most of the work myself. I’ve been tempted to sell off some of my land, but I’ve always been able to keep going without turning to that.”
“The land is important to you?”
“It’s my heritage,” he said simply. He was shifting the books on the table, but his eyes were focused on the scene outside. When he drew in a strangled breath, she followed his gaze. “What?”
Without answering, he strode to the door, unlocked it and leaped outside, then hurried to a spot about halfway across the patio.
She followed him, stopping short when he squatted down to examine something.
Resting on the bricks was an object that made her breath catch. The thing looked evil—a sticky mass of tar, with stuff studding the surface. She saw orange animal hairs, seeds, blades of grass and a glass ball that looked like a marble. The whole mass was elongated, and if she squinted when she looked at it, she could see the shape of an animal. A cat?
“Did you leave this here?” she asked.
His gaze shot to her face. “You think this is mine? Why would I put something disgusting on my own patio?”
“I don’t know…. To scare me?” she heard herself suggest.
“Scaring you was never my intention,” he said in a strained voice. “I’m sorry you think so.”
She struggled to rein in emotions that were rapidly getting out of control. “Okay, maybe somebody left it to make me wonder about your motives.”
“That’s a theory,” he muttered. “Why would they leave it out here? This is my daily view, not yours.”
“But I’m supposed to be working in the library,” she said as she gestured toward the wicked-looking thing. “What is it?”
“Gris-gris,” he answered evenly, obviously making an effort to get control of himself as he took out a pocket handkerchief, picked up the blob and laid it on a table.
She stood up, too. “What exactly is gris-gris?”
“A voodoo charm.”
She peered at the blob in the handkerchief. “Not a love charm, I take it,” she whispered.
“Hardly.”
When she reached out to touch it, his hand pulled hers back. “Leave it alone.”
“Why?”
“For all I know, she could have dipped it in the toilet—or worse—before putting it here.”
She snatched her hand away. “She? You think the voodoo priestess left this here?”
“Who else?”
“Somebody who wants you to think it was her. Someone else in town. A relative of the murder victims. Or one of the merchants who thinks the murders have affected business.”
He sighed. “I suppose that could be an explanation.”
“But you don’t think so.”
Anger flashed in his eyes. “I told you, people in town are afraid of me. I thought that nobody in St. Germaine except Yvonne would be brave enough to come near my house at night. Maybe that’s the wrong assumption.”
“Yvonne. She’s the priestess?”
“Yes.”
“Why is she different?”
“She’s protected herself with a spell.”
Morgan swiveled to face him, studying his features to see if he was putting her on. “You believe that? I mean, you believe in voodoo? And that this woman can give herself special protections?” she added.
He waited several seconds, and she watched anger and, surprisingly, vulnerability chase themselves across his face. “I guess I have to.”
While he looked so off balance, she pressed, “What does that mean?”
“It means things have happened around here that I can’t explain any other way.”
“Like what?”
“Like my not being able to get near her!”
“Okay,” she answered, then wedged her hands on her hips, coming back to a point she’d made earlier. “You should have included that information in your report to me.”
“It’s not relevant. I asked you to find out who is killing people in the bayou and trying to pin it on a mysterious jaguar.”
“You’re sure it’s not her?” she asked again.
“Yes!”
She stared out at the grounds of the estate but kept him in the edge of her vision. Apparently the subject of the voodoo priestess was an emotionally charged one for him.
“Do you think this charm can cause you harm?” she asked in a quiet voice.
He had been looking down at the gris-gris. Lifting his eyes to her, he said, “It could be meant to cause you harm.”
His words stabbed into her, mimicking the pain that had throbbed in her head in response to the beating drum.
“Me? Why?”
“Because you’re here,” he said. “Because if you’re living in my house, she doesn’t wish you well.”
She watched him carefully as she asked, “Did you do something to her? Something to make her mad?”
“Not me personally, at least as far as I know. I’ve stayed strictly away from her—as much as I can, anyway. But she still comes out here. It’s all wound up with the grudge she holds against my family.”
Morgan wanted to bombard him with more questions. But he asked quietly, “Could we drop the subject?”
“Okay,” she agreed, even as she silently added, For now. Part of her job was judging when and how to get information. She could see it would be better to come back to the priestess when he was a little more emotion
ally detached.
“I’m going to get rid of this thing,” he said, pointing to the charm.
“You don’t mean throw it away, do you?” she asked quickly, concerned that he might be planning to destroy evidence.
“No.” He laid it on the table, then said, “I’ll put it in a plastic bag and save it.”
She wanted to ask if he’d give it to her, but was sure he wouldn’t agree, and she didn’t want to make it a contest of wills. So she took a deep breath and let it out slowly before changing the subject. “I haven’t checked in with my office. I should send them an e-mail and tell them I’m okay.”
He seemed to visibly relax. “Do you need to use my computer?”
“I can use my laptop. But do you have two phone lines?”
“No. Just one.”
“Then we’ll have to figure out when I can tie up the line without getting in your way.” She thought for a moment. “You don’t e-mail at night, do you? I always had to wait until morning to get an answer from you.”
“Right.”
“So I can get online in the evening hours.”
“Fine.”
She stayed where she was on the patio, thinking about the question that had been hovering in her mind during the whole conversation. Are you sorry you asked me to come here?
That was too much of a challenge, she thought as she turned quickly back to the house.
She was too preoccupied to be watching where she was going, and when her foot caught on the edge of a brick, she started to pitch forward.
Andre moved quickly, catching her to keep her from hitting the edge of the doorway.
Neither of them spoke. He should let her go, or she should pull away. But the only move either of them made was for his arms to tighten around her and pull her closer.
She stayed where she was, lowering her head against his shoulder. “I wasn’t watching where I was going,” she whispered.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she murmured. Secretly, she had wondered how she would react to being held by the real man again after the intensity of her experience with the dream lover. The depth of her feelings shocked her.
As he cradled her in his arms, it seemed she had lost the will to act sensibly, at least for the moment. When she raised her head, he looked down at her, the question in his eyes as clear as if he had spoken to her in words.
And she answered with her eyes, because words were beyond her at the moment.
Slowly, giving her time to change her mind, he lowered his mouth to hers. Maybe he intended the kiss to be gentle. It did start out sweet, even tender. But it took only seconds for it to change from sweet to sweltering.
Something happened. Something she couldn’t explain. She was back in the dream, yet not the dream. They were Andre and Linette.
No, Andre and Morgan. Andre and Linette. Andre and Morgan. She didn’t know who she was anymore.
The only thing she understood for sure was that she was engulfed by the sensation of his lips moving urgently against hers, his hands gliding up and down her back, the rich scent of his body.
The kiss melted her bones, made her cling to him to stay erect. Whoever she was—whoever they were—this man spoke to her in a primitive language well below any verbal level. But they both understood it.
When his tongue stroked along the seam of her lips, she opened for him, welcoming the more intimate contact that brought with it the essence of man and a hint of the maple syrup he’d eaten at breakfast. The taste of him was familiar to her. As his tongue explored the inside of her lips, her teeth, she was sure that she had done this with him before.
No, not with him. In the dream.
She was still coping with confusion, but as he deepened the kiss, she felt the erotic sensation travel down ward through her body, making her nipples tighten and her sex turn liquid.
How many months had it been before Linette had dared to let Andre kiss her this way?
How long before Linette had realized that she would make love with Andre, whether a priest had blessed their union or not?
Perhaps the directness of that thought was what brought her back to reality. Her hands shifted from this Andre’s neck to his shoulders, pushing him away instead of clinging, and somehow she managed to get out one coherent syllable, “No.”
Chapter Six
Andre’s response was instantaneous. He let go of the woman in his arms, then took a step back, suddenly embarrassed on several different levels—starting with the erection that must certainly be standing out like a shovel handle against the fly of his slacks. Somehow he resisted the urge to look down at his front as he thought about the slew of mistakes he had made in the past few minutes. He should never have gathered Morgan into his arms in the first place. And he should never have let her response to him unleash his own greed.
He was a disciplined man—as disciplined as he could be, given the hand that fate had dealt him. But once he’d folded her against himself, everything he’d known about discipline had fled his mind.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She took a step back, and he saw she was doing the same thing he was—struggling to compose herself.
When she spoke, her voice was high and shaky. “There’s no point in assigning blame to either one of us.” She stopped and cleared her throat. “The point is, we have to work together. I have to live here. We need to keep things on a professional level.”
“Yes,” he agreed, relieved that she wasn’t telling him she was going to call a cab and bail out.
She was speaking again, and he tried to focus on the words through the humming in his brain. “Then I’ll go off and e-mail my office and let them know that I’m on the job.”
“Okay,” he agreed quickly, because now that she had broken the hot, desperate kiss, he needed to be alone.
He waited for her to turn and leave. Instead she said, “And I need to think about why you’re having trouble giving me complete answers to my questions.”
Probably she’d thrown that at him to cover her embarrassment before she made her hasty exit.
With a jerky motion, he took several steps toward the serenity of the garden. The landscape he’d created always soothed him. Not today. He had cooked up a reason for asking her to come here and work for him. Well, not exactly cooked up. What he’d told her was true, as far as it went. Unfortunately, she wasn’t taking his explanations at face value. She kept digging for more information. Information he wasn’t willing to spit out.
With a muttered curse, he closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about answering her pointed questions. He wanted to think about the kiss. To relive every tantalizing detail.
Yes. The kiss. That was easier.
Morgan might have ended it, but while it had lasted, it had been glorious.
He’d felt an instant connection to her. It must have been the same for her, judging from the heat they’d generated.
He sighed, leaning more firmly against the French door because his legs felt unsteady.
He thought about how her lips had felt against his. Her tongue. Her breasts pressed to his chest.
When he started getting hard again, he made a rough noise, then struggled to cut off the sensations assaulting his body. The intimate contact had made his head spin. It had been a mistake, and he’d better keep his hands off her until they got to know each other better. Then maybe he’d have the guts to tell her the real reason why he’d hired her.
He stifled a sharp laugh. Or maybe not. It had seemed like a great idea at the time. Now he couldn’t help thinking he’d been kidding himself all along when he’d asked her here.
Pushing away from the door, he headed down the hall to his office and closed the door. The computer was already on, and all he had to do was touch the mouse to make the screen spring to life. He might have gone onto the Web, but he remembered that Morgan needed the phone line.
So he decided to spend a few hours checking his credit card records that he’d downloaded earli
er. That should cool him off pretty well.
He had every intention of checking his bank statement. Instead he opened the Morgan Kirkland file and began reading over all the information he’d collected on her.
Morgan Kirkland, age thirty. Marital status: widow. He didn’t like that part. He would have preferred her to have been unmarried. But he wasn’t old-fashioned enough to think she needed to be a virgin. Besides, he didn’t have his choice about that or anything else.
He’d started looking up information on private investigators seven months ago then rejected each one. But the moment he’d found the Light Street Detective Agency, something had felt different. Eagerly, he’d accessed their staff of agents. As soon as he’d read the name Morgan Kirkland, he’d known she was the right one.
She wasn’t pictured, of course. None of the agents had been, since they often worked undercover. But he had excellent Web skills, and he’d traced her back to her yearbook photo at Penn State. Seeing her picture had made his chest go suddenly tight. When he’d gotten his breath back, he’d booted up his special photographic program and added twelve years to her face.
He stared at that picture now, thinking that the real woman was more complicated than the manufactured image.
Quirking his lips, he went back to her résumé. It fudged her background, but he’d put several sources of information together and come to the conclusion that she’d worked for a super-secret government organization called the Peregrine Connection. There was no direct information on Peregrine, beyond speculation as to whether it actually existed. But he gathered that both she and her dead husband, Trevor Kirkland, had been covert agents for them. They’d met in college where he’d studied international relations and she’d majored in law enforcement. Without going into detail, her résumé said she’d worked undercover both in and out of the U.S.
Then the husband had been killed, and Light Street had scooped her up. Probably because she had friends who already worked for them or the staff of their sister organization, Randolph Security.
Since coming onboard, she’d demonstrated extraor dinary bravery and excellent investigative skills. But that wasn’t why he had hired her.
