Angel at Risk

by Leann Harris

  But the strangest thing about this spot was that, at some subconscious level, it called to Angie. It was as if some part of her inner self had come to life in the heat and humidity.

  “So, chère, you are a teacher. What do you teach?”

  Angie welcomed Jean-Paul’s question because it drew her attention from her disturbing thoughts. “I teach English composition and literature.”

  Jean-Paul lifted his right hand from the steering wheel and shook it. “I yi yee! Un prof d’Anglais.”

  He was acting as if she’d just declared she was a carrier of the plague. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  The grin he flashed her throbbed with wickedness. “Non, sugar, I have no problem with you.”

  Heat pooled low in her abdomen, and for a brief moment Angie surrendered to the wonder of the feeling. But sanity quickly returned, and with it the realization that Jean-Paul had not answered her question. “Don’t you like English teachers?”

  His body tensed and an odd darkness seemed to descend on him. “Anglais teachers are the scourge of all Cajun children. In the seventies, the public-school system in Louisiana decided all children would speak proper Anglais. No more backwater Cajun would be spoken. And to their credit, they almost wiped out the language. But that’s not the worst part. They’ve taught the children to be ashamed of their parents.”

  “No, you’re wrong. Teaching children to speak correctly will help them when they go out and try to find a job.”

  Jean-Paul’s eyes turned cold. “There is a difference between teaching a child English and teaching a child shame because his parents cannot speak proper upper-crust English.”

  Angie winced at his harsh but correct pronunciation of the word English. When he said English using the French enunciation, the word was lyrical, soft and seductive. But the way he’d just said it told her that there was a wealth of bitterness and hurt in Jean-Paul. Had he been one of those small boys in elementary school who’d been belittled because of his heritage?

  She fought the urge to reach out to him and offer some sort of comfort, shocked that she would feel anything so tender for Jean-Paul.

  He turned his truck onto a single-lane crushed-shell road. The lush foliage dropped away and the flat land was covered with knee-high grass. Occasionally, Angie could see a clump of bushes dotting the landscape. But what caught her attention was the half dozen oil pumps, their spindle arms moving up and down.

  “I didn’t know Aunt—” Angie bit off the word, fighting the tears that filled her eyes.

  Jean-Paul reached over and laid his hand on hers. “It’s okay, Angel.”

  She gulped. “I don’t know what to call Marianna now.” She felt foolish admitting her confusion.

  “Don’t worry. Things have a way of working out.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Mais yeah.”

  They both knew his assurance rang hollow, but she grasped the thin thread of hope he held out.

  “Now, you wanted to ask something about Marianna?”

  “Yes. I’m surprised to see all these oil derricks. Marianna never mentioned having oil on her land.”

  “They are not derricks, Angeline. Derricks are the tall, steel structures they use to drill for oil. What you see are pumps, or what we call grasshoppers. They keep the oil flowing once it’s been discovered.”

  A grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. “They do kind of look like grasshoppers.”

  Jean-Paul stopped the truck in front of a small, dilapidated frame house that could have been built in the last century. Angie glanced around, thinking that maybe she’d missed the lovely house that Marianna lived in. But there were no other buildings anywhere in sight.

  She looked at Jean-Paul, expecting him to see his error and start the truck again. Instead, he pulled the keys out of the ignition.

  “This is Marianna’s house?” she asked in disbelief.

  “Oui, this is it.”

  “B-but, I don’t understand. With all the money from the oil, surely Marianna could afford something more modern.”

  “The oil wasn’t Marianna’s.”

  “What?”

  “The oil wasn’t Marianna’s.”

  “How can that be?”

  He turned, resting his arm along the top of the seat. “Marianna’s papa, along with every other landholder in the parish, sold his oil-and-gas rights to Roger Boudreaux for a pittance days before oil was discovered in the parish. Only one man got rich from the oil and gas.” There was a harshness in Jean-Paul’s voice that made her shiver. “Come, chère, let’s get you settled.”

  Angie scrambled out of the truck cab and followed Jean-Paul up the steps to the porch.

  “Do you have a key?” she asked.

  “Non, but Marianna kept one under the flowerpot on the porch.” He retrieved the key and opened the door.

  Angie stepped into the living room and stopped, frozen by the chaos before her. The room looked as if a whirlwind had ripped through it. The cushions from the chairs and sofa were ripped up and tossed on the floor. The desk drawers were pulled out and their contents scattered about the room. Angie could see into the room beyond—a bedroom—which looked in much the same condition.

  Angie heard Jean-Paul curse in both French and English and tried to ignore the coarse language.

  “I knew it. I just knew it wasn’t an accident.”

  Angie whirled to face Jean-Paul. “What wasn’t an accident? What are you talking about?”

  Her question seemed to snap him out of his angry tirade. He studied her for a moment, then shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Before she could question him further, he moved to the bedroom, then disappeared through a door at the rear of the room. A moment later he appeared in the kitchen, which opened onto the living room.

  As Jean-Paul walked through the destruction, his suspicions that Marianna had been killed grew. It made no sense for anyone to trash Marianna’s house, since she didn’t own anything of great value. That is, unless the culprit was looking for something specific. But what?

  The day Marianna died, she had driven to New Orleans to talk to Edward Dias, an old friend of his and fellow member of the task force investigating corruption in state government. Maybe someone had discovered why Marianna wanted to talk to Edward and had killed her to keep her quiet, then searched her house to dispose of any incriminating evidence she might have had. It was a wild theory, but it was all he had.

  Angie sagged down into a wooden chair by the door. “Who would do something like this?”

  “Someone without a conscience.” Jean-Paul could list a number of candidates in the parish, but Roger Boudreaux would be his first choice and Dennis Mathers, the sheriff, his second.

  She peered up at him. “And do you know anyone like that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s this about, Jean-Paul?”

  He wished he trusted her enough to tell her, but at this point he didn’t know spit about her. Hell, he wished he knew enough to be able to understand what this was all about. “I don’t know.”

  The look in her eyes challenged him, telling him she didn’t believe him. He boldly met her steady gaze, as though he had nothing to hide. She glanced away.

  Standing, she walked into the bedroom. He followed. Together they surveyed the disarray. The dresser drawers were piled on the bed, Marianna’s underthings tossed on the floor. Her dresses, skirts and blouses had been pulled out of the closet and thrown about. Boxes, which must have been on the closet shelves, were lying next to the clothes.

  “Whoever ransacked this place did a thorough job,” Jean-Paul said.

  Angeline bent and reached for a flowing print dress on the floor. Jean-Paul squatted beside her and his hands covered hers. Her head came up and moisture shone bright in her eyes.

  He cupped her cheek in his palm. He told himself he was simply comforting her. But his conscience called him a liar. His action sprang from a need to touch her and feel her satin-smooth skin beneat
h the calluses of his hand. His thumb ran along the edge of her lower lip. He felt her tremble and wanted to lean closer and cover her sweet mouth with his. He started to lower his head, but she pulled away and scrambled to her feet. Idiot, he silently scolded himself. She didn’t need him to make a pass. He sighed.

  “I’ll hang these up,” he told her. He motioned with his head toward the bed. “Why don’t you put Marianna’s things back in the bureau drawers?”

  She glanced over her shoulder and nodded.

  They worked quietly for several minutes. He’d replaced most of the clothes when he noticed the shoe box full of letters and pictures. Bending down to pick it up, he froze when he saw the postmark on one of the envelopes. Vermont.

  The sound of a car engine penetrated his brain. Since Marianna’s house was the only one on this road, he knew someone was coming to meet Angeline. He hurried to the front windows and saw the sheriff’s car rumbling down the crushed-shell drive.

  They were in for trouble.

  He rushed back into the bedroom, spotted a suitcase under some of the dresses and pulled it out.

  “What are you doing?” Angeline asked.

  He didn’t reply, but opened the lid and emptied the shoe box into the case. He also snatched up the photo album lying on the floor and threw it in.

  “Jean-Paul, what’s going on?”

  He slammed the lid closed. “There’s gonna be trouble, sugar. You just let me handle things. You got that?”

  “No, I don’t got that.”

  Jean-Paul grinned, liking her sass. Cupping her chin, he said, “That’s a pretty temper you got there, chère. But now’s not the time to show it to me. Later.”

  She opened her mouth to argue with him, but the front door flew open and the sheriff strode inside.

  “Well, well, what we got here?” Dennis glanced around the room and shook his head. “Tut, tut, what have you done to this place?” He walked over to the couch and picked up a cushion. After examining the ripped fabric, he flung it back. “Well, in addition to breakin’ and enterin’, I could book y’all on vandalism.”

  “The house was in this condition when we came here, sheriff,” Angie hotly replied.

  He shrugged. “I have only your word on that.”

  Angie stepped toward Dennis. “We’ve been here less than five minutes, sheriff. How could we have done this much damage in that amount of time?” she demanded, hands on her hips.

  “Again, I have only your word for that, Miss Fitzgerald. The last time I saw you, you were at Pierre’s, and that was over an hour ago.”

  Jean-Paul stared at Angeline in amazement. His little northern wren looked madder than a wet hen. If challenging the sheriff wouldn’t bring such dire consequences, he’d let her have at the old boy. He stepped between the two. “All you have to do is check with Mattie at the library. Angeline and I were there less than ten minutes ago.”

  Dennis puffed up like an ugly toad. “I will. But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re trespassing. And it’s my job to enforce the laws of this parish. Leave.”

  “Oh, yes,” Jean-Paul answered in a voice deadly and still. “You enforce the law as made and twisted by your patron.”

  Dennis took a step toward Jean-Paul. “You callin’ me crooked?”

  Jean-Paul didn’t bat so much as an eyelash but met Dennis’s stare.

  Being the bully he was, Dennis backed down. He gave a nervous laugh and said, “Look who’s calling me crooked.”

  Everything inside Jean-Paul was screaming for him to knock Dennis’s crooked teeth down his lying throat, but he heard Angeline move.

  “Sheriff,” she said, “don’t I have a right to stay at my aunt’s house?” She sounded calm and in control of herself, but Jean-Paul suspected she wanted to defuse the tension between the two men.

  Dennis’s cold, fish-eyed stare moved from Jean-Paul to Angeline. “You got proof that you’re Marianna’s niece?” he asked in a tone so nasty that Jean-Paul almost gave in to the urge to punch the lout.

  With her cheeks turning pink, she admitted, “No.”

  “Then you’re outta here. Like I said before, I’m sworn to uphold the law. And you, missy, are where you don’t belong.”

  Jean-Paul turned and saw the light of battle flare in her eyes. He knew that Dennis had backed down once, but if Angel tried to challenge him, Dennis wouldn’t let the insult pass. Then he would have to step in, and from then on out Dennis would be looking for some way to even the score. It was better to avoid the confrontation in the first place.

  Grasping her hand in his, Jean-Paul gave it a gentle squeeze, drawing her attention to him. Silently he pleaded with her not to answer. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw her swallow whatever she was about to say.

  Jean-Paul retrieved the suitcase he’d packed from the bed.

  “What are you doing?” Dennis demanded.

  “I’m getting Angeline’s things. Do you have an objection?”

  Scratching his face, Dennis thought a moment. “Naw.”

  Jean-Paul gave a prayer of thanks that Angel didn’t set up a fuss about the bag and that she’d played along with him. Dennis watched them get into the truck and was still standing on the porch as they rounded the bend of the road.

  “All right. Are you going to tell me why you hustled me out of that house without a word in my defense?”

  Would she believe him if he told her the danger she’d been in? “Remember I told you that the sheriff is as mean as a rabid hound? Well, I didn’t want you to find out firsthand how nasty he can be.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Besides, chère, you didn’t have a legal leg to stand on. You have no proof you are who you say you are.”

  Her head dropped forward and he could feel the pain radiating from her. You’re crazy, a voice inside his head whispered. And as much as it didn’t make sense, he knew he was feeling her agony.

  “What’s in the suitcase that you hid from the sheriff?” Angie asked, pointing to the bag.

  He glanced at her, then down at the case on the floor. “Why, I think, chère, that I may have found the answer to who you are.”

  Chapter 5

  Angie stared in shock at Jean-Paul. She couldn’t say what her feelings were. She should have welcomed any clue to her real identity. But for some unknown and frightening reason, she didn’t want to know. Not at this moment.

  “Aren’t you curious, Angel?”

  His question was like a whip across her soul. He laid his hand on her forearm, and she jerked away in response.

  “What is it, chère? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she murmured, wincing at the lie. Everything was wrong, nothing was right, and they both knew it. Her world had been turned inside out, and she didn’t know if she could take another revelation without completely falling apart. She wished she could just close her eyes and lose herself in the lyrical rumbling of his deep voice and the warm strength radiating from his big body. But it would be foolish to depend on this gorgeous stranger, no matter how much she was tempted.

  He turned onto the blacktop and headed the opposite direction from town. He drove for about a mile, then took another dirt road.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  When he didn’t answer, she glanced at him. He’d been waiting for her to look at him, and he gave her a mocking grin.

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  How could he ask for her trust? He was a virtual stranger who had openly expressed his skepticism about her. Granted, his attitude had changed; still, she knew he had doubts about her. Besides, after the revelations of the morning, Angie didn’t know if she’d ever trust anyone again. “Trust’s not the issue here. I simply wanted to know where we’re going. Obviously, this is not the way to Mirabeau.”

  He shook his head. “Non, you are wrong. Trust is the entire issue. Do you think I’m like that snake back there at Marianna’s?” he asked, his voice filled with outrage.

  She didn’t understand his r
eaction. What had she done but ask a logical question? When she remembered the solace he’d offered her at Marianna’s, she realized her conscious choice not to trust him with her feelings must have angered him.

  “You haven’t answered my question, Angel. Do you think I’m like the sheriff?” There was a tension in him that spoke of something more than his query.

  “No, I don’t think you’re anything like him.” And heaven knew his gaze evoked a different range of emotion in her than the sheriff’s insolent looks.

  He nodded. “Bien. Now, as to where we are going, I’m taking you to my house.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but he raised his hand to stop her.

  “Wait—let me explain.”

  Angie leaned back and folded her arms.

  “The safest place for you to look through the evidence in that suitcase is at my house. There might be something that will set this town on its ear, and you don’t want to do that with an audience.”

  He had a point. She was tired of being stared at like a bug under glass. Whatever that suitcase contained, she wanted to review it in private. And Jean-Paul was offering her that very opportunity.

  “Thank you for your thoughtfulness.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  The truck rumbled down the pitted road, throwing Angie against the passenger-side door. Again, oil pumps dotted the field before her, but this time, because of what Jean-Paul had told her earlier, she knew oil didn’t mean wealth for his family.

  The road curved around a group of trees and then widened into a driveway. The house beyond was set up on blocks and at an angle to the road. The structure was slightly larger than Marianna’s and lovingly cared for. The clapboards had been recently painted white and the shutters a deep green.

  He stopped the truck and turned off the motor. Angie didn’t wait for Jean-Paul but scrambled out of the truck. She leaned into the cab and grasped the handle of the suitcase. Jean-Paul’s hand covered hers.

  “I’ll take that.”

  His warm breath fanned her neck, causing shivers to race up her spine. Angie stepped back, overwhelmed by his heat and bulk. He hefted the case and started for the house, seemingly unaware of his effect on her. After a moment of hesitation, she followed him.