Sweetly Contemporary Collection - Part 2 (Sweetly Contemporary Boxed Sets)

by Jennifer Blake

  She shot him a quick look from under her lashes. Choosing her words carefully, she said, “If you won’t tell me who you are, can you at least tell me where you come from?”

  “There’s nothing mysterious about that,” he said after a moment. “I’m from south Louisiana, just above New Orleans to be exact.”

  She had thought as much. “Your accent, then, is —”

  “French Creole, which means —”

  “I know. Of French descent born in a foreign country, foreign to France, that is.”

  “Good for you. Most people seem to think it has something to do with mixed heritage, mixed blood. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

  His praise was oddly satisfying. “I’ve never traveled much in south Louisiana, never met many true French-speaking people from that region, but I’ve read a great deal about it.” Before the words had left her mouth, she recalled one important fact. New Orleans was the center for one of the best-organized, best-known Mafia families in the nation. A cold feeling moved over her, and she suppressed a shiver that left gooseflesh along her arms.

  “I thought you said you were from this state,” he said, his voice sharpening, “a friend of the judge’s daughter?”

  “I am, but I’ve never had the money to travel. As for Mary, she lives above here, in north Louisiana. There’s a world of difference.”

  “You’re right, of course,” he said smoothly. “You are Scotch-Irish, I imagine, staunchly Baptist, and sternly disapproving of the hard-playing, hard-drinking, but deeply religious Catholics in my part of the state.”

  “Not at all. I wouldn’t be so stupidly prejudiced.”

  “Then why do you look at me with so much dislike in your eyes?”

  “I — surely I don’t have to tell you that?”

  He leaned back, his long brown fingers toying with his coffee cup. “If your feelings are for me personally, perhaps they can be changed.”

  “I doubt it,” she told him, her voice flat.

  “Is that a challenge?”

  Her head came up and she stared at him. She did not like the way he was watching her, nor the lazy smile that lurked in the depths of his dark eyes. “Certainly not!”

  “Too bad. I might have enjoyed making you reconsider.”

  “It would have been a waste of time.”

  “But what else is there to spend it on?”

  She crumpled the paper towel she was using as a napkin and dropped it into her plate. Gathering her silverware and empty coffee cup, she set these on top of the napkin, pushing plate and all away from her. When she glanced up again, the gaze of the man across the table was still upon her. She looked out the window, then clasped her fingers together, staring down at them. When she lifted her lashes once more, his attention was fastened on her wrists, traveling slowly along her arms to her shoulders, brushing her mouth and small straight nose, finally clashing with the expression in her gray eyes.

  “I wish,” she said distinctly, “that you wouldn’t do that.”

  “Do what?” he asked innocently.

  “Watch me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  She would give anything now if she had never spoken. “You know very well what I mean! As if you meant to make me self-conscious.”

  “Do I?”

  “Why not,” she cried, “since I don’t know what you’re thinking, what you mean to do next!”

  He leaned forward, catching her hands in his warm grasp, speaking her name with a soft, musical inflection it had never had before. “Don’t do this, don’t tear yourself apart in this way. If you would just accept —”

  He stopped abruptly, turning her wrists upward on the table, his gaze fastening on the purple bruises that marred the blue-veined fragility of her skin. Kelly tried to pull her hands away, but he would not allow it.

  “Did I do that?” he asked, his voice low.

  “Who else?” Kelly let her breath out slowly as she gave up the uneven struggle. “I suppose you are going to say that’s something else I brought on myself?”

  He shook his head. With his thumbs, he massaged her bruised flesh with a movement curiously gentle and soothing. “I’m sorry that it had to be this way.”

  “If you were really sorry, you would let me go,” she said tentatively.

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Can’t, or won’t?” Her voice was bitter as she read the finality of his tone.

  He released her, coming to his feet, kicking back his chair. The shadow of irony overlaying the grimness in his dark eyes, he said, “Both.”

  Kelly sat where she was for some time after he strode from the room, heading down the hall. She spread her hands flat on the wood-grain surface of the round oak table, pressing them down to still their shaking. Her thought processes were anything but concise. She went over the same ground again and again, trying to make sense of a smile, a word, a gesture. What was the purpose behind his offer of a truce? Had it been meant to lull her into a sense of security? He was a persuasive man, was Charles. It had not been easy holding out against his soft phrases and the look of concern in his eyes. But should she have held out, that was the question. What was there to be gained by keeping to her animosity? Her straight-forward defiance kept him on his guard, whereas, if she should abide by his truce, he might become so complacent that he would cease to keep such careful watch.

  There was another possibility that had occurred to her. Why couldn’t she make some use of this physical attraction he seemed to feel for her? If he thought she was falling victim to his charms, he might be even less likely to keep her under his eyes every minute of the day and night.

  She would have to be careful. It would not do to capitulate too quickly. After her uncompromising stand, nothing would be more likely to arouse his suspicions. She would have to be subtle in her role as smitten female. He was not the kind of man to take lightly being used in such a way. More than that, if she should proceed too quickly and convincingly, she might well find herself with a more positive physical reaction from him than she was prepared to handle. It was not part of her plans to share his bed voluntarily, sacrificing self-respect and honor for the sake of her neck. If it should come to that, she would have the satisfaction of fighting him tooth and nail, of leaving him more to remember her by than a split lip and a nail burn down his neck.

  Because she had nothing else to do, Kelly cleared away the dishes, returning the gold-and-brown kitchen to its former state of shining cleanliness. While she was at the sink, she heard Charles go out. A short time later, she heard the rumble of a motor as it was kicked into life. Moving out onto the veranda, she was in time to see a man in a boat leaving the clump of trees further along the shoreline, the sleek white craft making a wide are as it headed out across the lake. It must have been the burly guard from the guest cottage, for Charles could be seen coming along the shore, making his way from the spot from which the boat had left.

  The boathouse was just there, Kelly remembered. The judge had built it nearer to the guest cottage than the main house since he did not want it blocking his view of the lake. But though the low-lying wooden structure protected an ancient aluminum fishing boat that she and the Kavanaugh brood had paddled everywhere, and also a fiberglass bass boat fitted up with high-powered outboard motor, trolling motor, depth finder, and every other gadget for ferreting out sport fish, the judge had never owned such a fast and expensive rig as was disappearing in the distance.

  Where was the guard going in such a hurry? How long would he be away? And while he was gone who was going to guard the elderly man Charles had called “the senator”? Did Charles expect to be able to handle both him and herself, or was the older man lying bound and gagged, or perhaps drugged, alone in the guest cottage?

  Kelly swung away from the door, a sick sensation in the pit of her stomach. She did not feel like facing Charles just now. With such thoughts preying on her mind, she was afraid she could not be civil to him, much less conciliatory.

 
In her room, Kelly busied herself making up the bed, straightening and putting things away. It was only as she had her suitcase half unpacked and its contents put away in the closet and dresser drawers that she realized how far she had come toward accepting the situation, rather than just pretending. She hesitated a moment, then decided with a shrug to finish the job. She might as well be thorough since she would not put it past Charles to inspect her room at any time.

  She could not stop thinking about the senator. Though she combed her memory, she could not put a name to his face. He was definitely not one of the congressmen currently representing the state in Washington. The year before had been an election year, and the names and faces of the men who had achieved such high office had been plastered all over billboards, advertising posters, fliers, and calling cards, to say nothing of television. Nor did she think that the old gentleman was one of those defeated in the hard-fought campaign. The men elected to conduct business in the senate chambers at the state capital in Baton Rouge were just as well known. Politics had never been of much interest to her, but she felt that even she could recognize anyone as widely known as that.

  Where did that leave her? Could he possibly be from out of state, a congressman from Texas or Mississippi, or even farther afield? She had no idea, but it seemed as good a guess as any.

  But if it were true, what could the Louisiana Mafia possibly want with him? Was he a wealthy man, the head of a corporation? Was he, that genial, quiet-looking little man, the head of another Mafia family?

  It was wild, incredible. The Mafia was something you read about in the paper, something that was spoken of in grim voices on the evening news. It had nothing to do with people like her, ordinary, everyday people. Kidnapping was a crime of terrorists, something that happened in Europe or South America, not in a quiet, backwater fishing camp in the heart of central Louisiana. She was wrong, she must be. And yet, what other explanation was there?

  Her shoulder bag still lay on the bedside table. Picking it up, she carried it to the dresser where she began to unload her lip gloss and mascara, her sunscreen and tanning lotion and moisturizing lotion, the few items she felt were necessary for a few days of simple living. With those things removed, placed in a neat line on me dresser, the bag felt oddly light.

  Kelly opened the bag wide, then in disbelief, turned the contents out onto the surface of the dresser. Sunglasses, breath mints, a mirrored compact, a packet of tissue, a few receipts, a notepad and pencil, a small hairbrush, and a handful of coins clattered into a pile, but there was no sign of her billfold.

  She had been robbed. With the exception of a few cents in change, all the money she had was gone, and all her identification taken.

  Flinging down the empty bag, Kelly stormed from the room, limping down the hall. She found Charles in the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of ice water from the pitcher kept in the refrigerator. She came to a stop, slivers of ice glinting in her gray eyes and her breath coming quickly with her agitation.

  “Where,” she demanded, “is my money?”

  He turned to look at her, one eyebrow lifted. Before he answered, he replaced the pitcher, shut the refrigerator door, drank his water, and put the glass in the sink. Turning back he said, “Are you accusing me of stealing?”

  The steely displeasure in his voice did not deter her. “My money is gone, and you are the only other person in this house.”

  “Very true, but do you actually think I would want your money?”

  His meaning penetrated the haze of anger that gripped her. Her lips compressed. “You may not have wanted or needed the little I had, but it’s gone, and no one except you could have taken it.”

  “Now why would I do that?”

  “I expect it was to keep me from using it to get away from here!”

  “Then you concede that I may not be a thief. That’s progress of a sort.”

  She distrusted his smile and the easy manner that he had assumed. “That may be, but it doesn’t tell me what you did with my billfold.”

  “It doesn’t, does it?” he agreed, unperturbed. “Don’t be alarmed; you’ll get it back — eventually.”

  Here it was, her first opportunity to carry through with her plan. She forced herself to meet his dark gaze. “I — I suppose it is, progress, I mean.”

  “Truce?” he queried softly, his head tilted to one side.

  She lowered her lashes. “Truce.”

  “I think I’ll hold you to it, even if the word did nearly choke you.”

  She flashed him a look of purest dislike.

  “That’s better,” he murmured. “If you get too meek and quiet on me, I may have to start wondering if you are up to something.”

  “You make it sound as if you don’t really want a truce at all,” she said in frustrated resentment.

  A smile moved over his face, lighting his eyes. “You may be right. Sparring with you hasn’t been all bad.”

  “Or all one-sided,” she answered with a meaningful nod from the bruises on her wrists to the scratch left by her nail on his neck and the cut on his lip.

  He touched his mouth with one knuckle, a rueful look in his eyes. “You’re right about that.”

  It was ridiculous, but his admission had the effect of soothing her ruffled dignity and sense of injury. “Now that is settled,” she said, “what are we going to do?”

  “That’s up to you.” His dark gaze was fastened on her with a narrow look of interest.

  “If you have been here several days, you must have some idea of what the choices are.”

  He gave a thoughtful nod. “Swimming is out, at least until your foot heals a little more; incidentally, I’m still going to have a look at that.”

  “If you must,” she said, schooling her voice to indifference.

  He gave her a dark glance before he went on. “We could take a walk, but there again, you have a handicap.”

  “Not if it’s a short walk.”

  “True,” he agreed. “That might be arranged then.”

  “I’ll get my shoes.”

  She allowed herself a sign of irritated impatience as she correctly interpreted the gaze he directed toward her bare feet. Moving with a halting step to the dining table, she held to it with one hand while she lifted her foot and peeled aside the tape. She refused to look at him as he approached. It was a complete surprise when his hands closed about her waist, and she was lifted to sit upon the table.

  Her hands came up automatically to rest on his arms as she steadied herself. For a long instant, their eyes met, then he released her and stepped back. Bending, he inspected his handiwork.

  His nearness, the impersonal touch of his hands, affected Kelly with a feeling of unwilling agitation. Sternly she resisted the wayward impulse to touch the dark, crisp waves of his hair. It was strictly a physical reaction to his strength and the power he exercised over her at this moment in time; she knew that. There had been a great deal written in the last few years of the strange relationships that could spring up between captor and captive. Still, it was frightening, not the least reason being that it made it necessary for her to be wary of herself, and her own emotions.

  When she had fetched her sandals and slipped into them, they left the house. They turned in the direction of the open stretch of the lake by mutual accord, Charles matching his pace to her progress.

  As the morning advanced, it was growing hotter; it was already past the stage that could be called warm. The dew had already evaporated from the grass, and where the long, uncut lawn had been crushed underfoot, the warm sun brought out a smell like the scent of a hay meadow. Their footsteps flushed crickets and grasshoppers from their path that scattered with tiny, clicking noises in the silence. Everything was still; not a leaf or a strand of gray moss moved. The lake glittered with a dazzling brilliance, reflecting the blue of the sky overhead in its brown-green waters. At its verge was a crisp green edging of tender marsh plants covered with tiny white blooms. In the sun-struck shallows, clear enough to see the s
and on the bottom, minnows darted. A black water bug skated away over the surface. In the shadows of the nearby cypress trees was the mossy snag of a downed tree trunk, barely rising above the water. Upon it sat a row of turtles that slipped off one by one with gentle plopping sounds as Charles and Kelly drew near. Their approach also disturbed a white crane from its perch in the top of a dead tree, and it lifted off with a great flapping of wings. From somewhere close, hidden among the leaves of a moss-hung white oak, came the monotonous croaking of a tree frog, a sound the judge had always insisted told of coming rain.

  Kelly knelt at the water’s edge. From the debris washed up by the waves — the dried grass, strings of blackened water-weeds, and bits of rotted leaves and wood — she plucked a cypress ball, straightening with it in her hand. Small, not much larger than a marble, colored a pale celadon green, it had the look of carved jade.

  To break the silence between her companion and herself Kelly said, “Mary and I used to string these things for necklaces.”

  “Mary Kavanaugh?”

  She bit back a sharp retort, settling instead for a nod. “We had a lot of fun in those days, Mary, Peter, Mark, and I. The boys built a diving platform out there in the trees, beyond the swimming raft in the deeper water on the other side of the catwalk. You had to be careful how you jumped off it, though, because of the stumps underwater. The first time Peter dived, he had to have seven stitches in the top of his head. I was so scared I was nearly sick when he came up covered with blood, mainly because I had a crush on him at the time.”

  “One of the judges’ sons?” he said, a rough note in his voice.

  “I thought you knew the judge,” she said, unable to keep the suspicion from her tone.

  “I never said so. I only said he lent me the house.”

  “Isn’t that a little odd?”

  His face was expressionless as he said, “We — have mutual friends.”

  What possible connection could there between Judge Kavanaugh and this man? By no stretch of the imagination could Kelly conceive of so fine and upstanding a man as the judge having anything to do with criminals or the families that made up the Mafia. It was an angle she had not stopped to consider before. Perhaps the explanation was that the mutual friend was the man they called the senator. Could he have accepted the loan of the lake house only to find himself a prisoner there? How conveniently that would have worked out for Charles and his friend the guard.