Angel at Risk

by Leann Harris

  Angel at Risk

  Leann Harris

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank the following people for their generous help:

  My agent, Evan Fogelman,

  for his input and knowledge of Louisiana law and customs.

  Debbie Hancock and Donna Caubarreaux,

  for telling me how to cook crawfish.

  Becky Edwards,

  deputy clerk of the court for the parish of Lafourche,

  who helped with the parish records.

  Judy, Karen M., Anne, Karen L. and Dora,

  who constantly keep me on track.

  Chapter 1

  Angie Fitzgerald glared at the closed hood of her white rental car. The steam escaping from it told the grim story. She wasn’t going to drive another mile in that torturous vehicle. The compact had been nothing but trouble since she’d picked it up from the small rental company at the airport in New Orleans.

  On this deserted stretch of state road, she doubted help would appear any time soon. So that left only one option—she’d have to walk the rest of the way to Mirabeau. From the sign she had passed on the road a while back, she guessed that the town was another five miles ahead.

  Angie retrieved her purse from the front seat and began walking. Within minutes, the stifling heat of the Louisiana day plastered her cotton blouse to her body.

  Lush plants crowded the edge of the pavement, giving her the impression that they were trying to obliterate the road and reclaim what man had taken. The intense green of the leaves was so dark it gave the landscape a sinister air. A chill ran up her spine. This place was untamed and unconquered, ready to eat novices like her.

  The sun beat down, making her light-headed. Rivulets of sweat ran down her neck, further dampening her blouse. No wonder her aunt always insisted on coming to Vermont on her vacation. Louisiana in July was a miserable place. How could anyone breathe, let alone function, in this sauna bath?

  Angie swatted at the gigantic mosquito that landed on her bare forearm. Of course, what wasn’t beneficial for humans certainly seemed to be favored by the vegetation and bugs.

  Her knees were turning to mush and the edge of her vision beginning to blur, when she thought she heard the strains of a waltz played on an accordion. Angie stopped and cocked her head. Sure enough, the upbeat rhythm filled the air. If there was music, then there had to be people nearby. Relief flooded her. Since rescue seemed imminent, Angie tried to repair the damage to her appearance. She tucked her blouse back into her skirt and stuffed stray tendrils of hair hanging down her neck and face into the braid at the back of her head.

  She resumed walking, and just as she suspected around the sharp bend in the road was a collection of buildings strung out on either side of the blacktop.

  Angie stopped before the first building. This was the source of the music she’d heard. The old wooden structure was a combination gas station, garage and grocery. The clapboard was gray with age and a few chips of what was once white paint clung to the wood. A faded, round metal sign hanging by the torn screen door proclaimed something about a cola.

  “You old cheat. Put those pieces back.” The rich masculine voice came from inside.

  A laugh punctuated the air. “You are just a poor loser, Jean-Paul. That move, it was legal. Now crown me.”

  Angie pulled open the door and stepped inside. The building wasn’t air-conditioned, but an overhead fan moved the thick air. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimness. To her left, a high counter ran the length of the room. Behind it were shelves filled with dozens of cans and cartons. On the countertop was an odd collection of items. At one end was a forty-cup electric coffeepot, a big crockpot, foam bowls, plastic spoons in a cup, and a handwritten sign proclaiming gumbo a dollar a bowl. At the other end was an ancient cash register and a beat-up radio, the source of the music she’d heard. On the back wall, auto supplies, belts and tools hung from hooks. Cans of oil and transmission fluid and car batteries were stacked in front of the wall display.

  In the center of the room three men were gathered around a lopsided card table, a checkerboard in front of them. Two of the men were seated, the third standing, observing the game.

  They glanced up and all conversation in the room died, leaving only the scratchy sound of the radio filling the air with exotic music.

  Angie was tempted to look down and make sure she was properly dressed, that no buttons were undone and her blouse hadn’t ridden up. “Uh.” She swallowed her nervousness. “My car overheated a few miles back. I was wondering if I could get someone to go back with me and fix it.”

  No one moved. They stared at her as if she were some alien from another world. Or an apparition.

  “Is there someone here who can help me?”

  The men looked gravely at each other, then back at her. They were quite a collection of characters. The man standing was in his late teens and dressed in a faded T-shirt and jeans. One of the men at the table was easily in his sixties, with a full head of white hair and a bushy beard.

  It was the other man who drew Angie’s attention. Though he was seated, she could tell he was tall, his shoulders massive, straining against the seams of his workshirt. A lock of black hair fell over his broad forehead. High cheekbones, aquiline nose and full lips added to his incredible good looks. His green eyes locked with hers, and she felt a charge of pure sexual awareness race along her nerves. Oddly enough, she thought she saw a flicker of recognition in his penetrating gaze. But that couldn’t be. She’d never seen the man until this moment.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” the older man mumbled.

  “Of that we have no doubt,” the handsome one replied.

  The older man chuckled. “And you will keep me company, yes?”

  A wicked grin that made Angie’s heart skip a beat flashed across Green Eyes’ face. “But of course.”

  The old one looked back at Angie. He shook his head. “Who would’ve believed such a thing?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Angie cut in, becoming frustrated with their aimless dialogue.

  Rising, the old man came toward Angie. “Forgive our lack of manners, mamselle. I’m Pierre McKay.” He offered his hand.

  Reluctantly, Angie shook it, but before she could pull back, Pierre brought her hand up to his mouth and placed a kiss on the back. Angie wanted to jerk free, but the good manners her mother had so painstakingly taught her kicked in and she smiled stiffly and endured his gesture.

  He pulled her toward the table. “The cheat playing checkers with me is Jean-Paul Delahaye.”

  She watched Jean-Paul carefully place the checker he’d been holding on the board. He had beautiful hands, large palms and long, slender fingers. The picture of those hands on her body popped into her head. Stunned, she shook off the thought.

  He stood and came toward her. Her own five-foot-four frame only came up to his shoulders, and she had to look up to meet his bold appraisal. He followed Pierre’s example, took her hand and kissed it. The deep heat curling in her stomach set off more shock waves.

  “A pleasure,” Jean-Paul murmured.

  His soft, sensual reply rumbled through her. He released her hand and the odd tension gripping her body eased.

  “And this�
��” Pierre pulled the youth forward “—boy with his mouth hangin’ open is Martin Andrew.”

  Angie offered the youth only a smile, keeping her hands wrapped around her purse.

  Martin nodded, then whispered something in Pierre’s ear. The older man shook his head. “Non.”

  “Pierre, your lack of upbringing is showing again, mon ami,” Jean-Paul said, a thoughtful look on his face as he studied her. “The lady looks like she is about to collapse. Offer her a seat and something to refresh her.”

  Pierre slapped his forehead. “Of course, how stupid of me.” Giving a wide, graceful gesture, he offered her his place at the table.

  With a sigh of relief, Angie sank down.

  Jean-Paul resumed his seat. He leaned back in the chair, assuming an indolent pose, much like a panther watching its prey.

  “Would you like some coffee?” Pierre asked.

  Angie’s head jerked around and she stared at the older man. Surely he was teasing her. No one in his right mind would want hot coffee on a day like this. Her horror must’ve shown on her face, because a deep laugh vibrated through Jean-Paul’s chest.

  “I think your guest would prefer somethin’ cold, non?” The end of his question was directed at her.

  “Something cool would be heavenly,” she replied, her lips dry. And indeed, the thought was so appealing that she closed her eyes and gave herself over to the feeling of cold liquid sliding down her parched throat. When she opened her eyes, she found Jean-Paul staring at her, his green gaze like a laser cutting deep into her soul.

  “Such abandon, chère,” Jean-Paul whispered, the musical syllables washing over her. “I would like to know the name of the woman who knows how to appreciate the simple things of life.”

  Before she could answer, Pierre boomed, “Martin, get one of those expensive French waters from the ice chest.”

  The youth went to an old-time refrigerated chest that was meant to hold soft drinks, opened the lid and brought Angie the water. Without waiting, she unscrewed the cap and took a deep swallow. She knew Jean-Paul was watching her, but thirst overrode manners. Placing the bottle on the table, she smiled shyly at the men. “Thank you.”

  “Bien sûr,” Pierre replied. He pulled up another chair to the table and sat down. He did not say anything, but after glancing at the three men, Angie knew they were waiting for her to introduce herself.

  “I’m Angeline Fitzgerald.”

  “And what is such a lovely lady doin’ in this outta-the-way place?” Pierre asked.

  The men seemed to lean in, eagerly awaiting her answer. “My aunt lives in Mirabeau. When I called a couple of days ago to wish her a happy birthday, I got a recording that the number had been disconnected. I called the operator, but she couldn’t tell me anything more. So I came down here to see what happened to her.”

  The men looked at one another again.

  “What is your tante’s name?” Jean-Paul asked.

  This time the men avoided looking at one another, but Angie picked up the strange tension in Jean-Paul’s voice. “Marianna Courville. Do you know her? Do you know what has happened to her?”

  Silence.

  The song on the radio ended and another began. Still, no one spoke.

  “Are you sure of your tante’s name and where she lived?” Pierre asked.

  “Of course I am. What’s going on here?”

  “Marianna died in March.”

  Angie stared at Pierre. “That can’t be true,” she murmured, trying to convince herself that the men had made a dreadful mistake. “If my aunt died, someone would’ve notified me, since I’m her next of kin. Perhaps you’re thinking of someone else.”

  “Non,” Pierre answered slowly, shaking his head. “There is no mistake. Marianna is dead.”

  “Then why didn’t her lawyer notify me?”

  “No one knew she had any living relatives.”

  Angie stood so quickly her chair tumbled backward to the floor. “How can that be? I’ve called her. Written her. She visited my family every summer. Are you telling me she never told a soul in this town that she had a married sister and a niece?”

  Jean-Paul leaned back and pinned her with his gaze. “Marianna was an only child.”

  Outrage raced through her. “That’s a lie. Aunt Marianna and my mother were sisters.”

  Jean-Paul didn’t waver. “Ask anyone in the parish and they’ll tell you Marianna was the only child born to the Courvilles.”

  Reaching in her purse, Angie pulled out her wallet and flipped it open to the picture of her mother, Marianna, and herself. “Here’s a snapshot of the three of us taken two years ago.” She threw it on the table.

  Looking away, Angie fought the tears and confusion while the men studied the photo.

  “I don’ know what to say, chûre,” Pierre said as he ran his fingers through his hair. “We thought Marianna was the last Courville. That’s why the court is holding a hearing on Monday to decide what to do with Marianna’s house and land. It’s a good thing you showed up when you did.”

  “Maybe it’s too good,” Jean-Paul said, rising to his feet.

  Even though she was standing, she still had to look up into Jean-Paul’s eyes. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, sugar, that I don’t believe in coincidences. And you showing up the Saturday before the hearing on Marianna’s estate, claiming to be her niece, makes me wonder what you’re up to.” He ran his finger along her chin, then shrugged. “Personally, I don’t give a damn what your motives are, because your appearance will tie a knot in Roger Boudreaux’s tail. Me, I’m going to be in that courtroom to watch.” He turned and walked to the side door. “I hope you have a good lawyer,” he called over his shoulder. “You’ll need one.”

  She heard the roar of an engine, then a horn sounded. What was going on here? Nothing seemed to make sense. The horn blared again.

  Pierre stood and took her hand, leading her outside. “Your car is sick, non?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jean-Paul is my mechanic. You go with him. He will fix the car.”

  The last thing on earth she wanted to do was accompany Jean-Paul Obnoxious Delahaye anywhere, but fate had given her no choice. Pierre pulled open the truck door for her and she slipped in without saying a word to Jean-Paul or glancing his way. As they pulled away from the gas station, the grief she’d held at bay caught up with her. Silent tears coursed down her cheeks.

  * * *

  He didn’t need this. He didn’t need this exquisite impostor tugging at his heartstrings. Picture or not, anyone who showed up claiming to be Marianna’s niece was as dishonest as that old rascal Roger Boudreaux. He wanted to laugh out loud. Roger was legendary in Louisiana. No one could name a more corrupt, slimier or smarter man than Roger. What irony. Roger’s grand scheme for getting legal control of Marianna’s estate would be blown to hell by a lady who looked exactly like Roger’s sister, Jacqueline.

  And once word of Angeline’s appearance got around, it would rock Mirabeau to its foundation. Why, when he’d first seen her standing in the doorway of Pierre’s store, he’d thought her a ghost.

  Angeline. The name was French. Cajun, maybe? She had pronounced her name in such a cold, clipped manner that it in no way resembled the sweet sensuality with which her name was meant to be murmured.

  He stole another look at her and caught her wiping away the moisture from her cheeks. The afternoon light poured through the side window, outlining her in gold. She had the serene beauty reserved for angels; milky white skin, sky blue eyes, pale rose lips and hair the color of sunset.

  “How did my aunt die?”

  Her question startled him out of his thoughts. “Her car was found in the bayou. She was inside.”

  The little color she had in her cheeks fled, making him feel like a first-class heel for giving her the news so harshly. He kept his eyes on the road, but he heard her choking back her tears. Damn. He would not feel pity for her. And yet her reaction to Marianna’s death see
med to be genuine, touching the raw spot in his own heart.

  Despite the overwhelming evidence against him, Marianna Courville was the only person in all of the parish who had believed him innocent of the charges brought against him, and she had spoken out for him. When he’d been caged in that hellhole they called a prison, Marianna had written and visited him. Over the past few years she had never wavered in her support, and they had become close friends.

  “H-how did the accident happen?”

  He wanted to ask Angeline why she thought it was an accident, but refrained from voicing his personal suspicions. “Can’t say. No one saw. When she didn’t show up for work at the library, the sheriff started looking for her.”

  “But—”

  He didn’t want to dwell on the ugly memories of pulling Marianna’s car from the bayou. “That yours?” He pointed to the white two-door sitting on the side of the road.

  “Yes.”

  He stopped beside the compact and jumped out. It didn’t take long for him to spot the hole in the radiator.

  He was aware of her pacing behind him. “Can you fix it?” she asked, stopping to peer over his shoulder.

  He pulled a rag from his back pocket and wiped off his hands, then turned to her. She looked so regal standing in front of him, arms crossed, looking down her aristocratic nose at him. She thought him some backwater Cajun, who could neither read nor write. Probably thought he couldn’t fix her damn car, either. He’d run into that attitude often enough in the past, first from his public-school teachers, then from the well-bred teachers at the East Coast boarding school he’d attended. Well, why not give her the peasant she expected?

  He leaned one hip on the car. “Mais sho’, I can fix it, but not here, chère. The car, she will have to be towed back to the garage. I’ll drive you to Pierre’s, then come back with the tow truck.”

  She frowned and he read skepticism in her eyes.

  “You doubt me, hein?” He motioned to her. “Come, I show you.”

  She hesitated, her body vibrating with tension, like an animal cornered by a hunter. Suddenly the air seemed heavy and expectant, reminding him of the moments before a violent thunderstorm.