Angel at Risk

by Leann Harris

  “Mais sho’. Crawfish gumbo. It will satisfy your hunger. But if you have other hungers in mind—”

  “Gumbo...gumbo sounds fine to me.”

  As he turned away, she thought she heard him say, “What a shame.”

  Chapter 6

  Angie swallowed the last spoonful of gumbo, enjoying the richness of the flavors. At first the mixture had burned her tongue. But she’d been so hungry, she’d ignored the sensation and continued to eat.

  Leaning back in her chair, she said, “You were right. The gumbo certainly helped my outlook. Did you make it?”

  Jean-Paul, who was standing at the counter, glanced over his shoulder. “Non. Maria Theresa down at the diner fixed it. When she makes crawfish gumbo, she saves a big pot for me.”

  “I bet that Maria Theresa isn’t the only female in this town who looks out for you.”

  Angie was expecting some sort of laughing response. Instead, Jean-Paul’s movements stopped. “There are no others.”

  Angie wanted to ask why, but the harsh tone of his voice discouraged any further questions. She gathered up her bowl and spoon and set them in the sink. Leaning back against the counter, Angie marveled there wasn’t a legion of women banging down Jean-Paul’s door. He certainly was handsome enough. And he possessed that air of untamed male that drew women like flies.

  So what was the reason the women of this town stayed away from him?

  “You’re staring, chère.” His voice held a teasing note.

  She was, and there was no sense in denying it. “What are you making?” she asked, nodding to the silver bowl in front of him.

  “A treat. Café brûlot.”

  Angie eyed the brandy bottle sitting beside the stove.

  “Watch.” He poured the brandy into the bowl, then added sugar, cinnamon sticks, allspice seeds, cloves, pieces of lemon peel and orange peel. He ignited the mixture and let it burn until the sugar had dissolved, then added the fresh dark-roast coffee he’d made.

  “If I was doing this right I would put this in brûlot cups, but if you don’t tell anyone, I’ll just use regular coffee cups.”

  She raised her hand. “I swear your secret is safe with me.”

  He stopped stirring the mixture and his gaze locked with hers. An odd tension crept into the room. It occurred to Angie that she knew next to nothing about this man. And she sensed he had his share of secrets.

  Jean-Paul nodded toward the side door. “Why don’t you wait for me on the back porch? It’s much cooler out there.”

  Grateful for an excuse to escape the stuffy room, Angie hurried outside. She settled on the top step, tucking her skirt around her legs. The tall grass and trees were bending with the light wind blowing through the field.

  In spite of the lingering heat and humidity, the breeze felt heavenly. She closed her eyes and threw her head back to get the full impact of the wind cooling her skin.

  What was it about this place that made her experience things on a deeper level? The day had been hellish with its draining heat, and yet here she was reveling in a light breeze, savoring the feel as if it were a precious commodity. She was not a sensuous person. She ate only to sustain life; she appreciated the beauty of nature, but didn’t go out of her way to celebrate it. There never had been time.

  Practical is what everyone agreed she was. There was nothing frivolous about Angeline Fitzgerald.

  Until now.

  The sight that greeted Jean-Paul as he pushed open the screen door nearly caused him to drop the cups of café brûlot. Angeline’s head was thrown back, and the look of complete abandon on her beautiful face nearly brought him to his knees. This woman possessed a sensuality that he’d rarely seen. But the odd thing about Angeline was, he suspected that this side of her nature was something she had suppressed. Why she would fight against such a gift, he didn’t know, but he vowed to find out.

  “Here we are,” he said, purposely announcing his presence.

  Just as he expected, her eyes flew open and she sat up straight. A blush stained her cheeks, as if she were embarrassed about being caught enjoying herself.

  Jean-Paul hid his smile at her telling actions. He handed her the cup, then settled next to her. Instead of commenting on her behavior, which he knew would further embarrass her, he sipped his coffee. Only he didn’t hide the deep pleasure he had experienced. Maybe if he showed his little northern wren that enjoying the pleasures of life was not a sin, she would give in to her natural inclinations.

  “Ah, what a joy.” He glanced at her and found her study- ing him. “Go ahead. Try it.”

  She brought the cup to her lips and took a small sip. The look of surprise on her face made him smile.

  “This is wonderful.” She took another taste.

  “You see, chère, I wouldn’t steer you wrong.”

  She smiled in response.

  “I’m sorry there is no air-conditioning in the house except for the window unit in the bedroom. Several times I offered to have it put in, but maman refused. After she died, there wasn’t any need.”

  They drank their coffee in a comfortable silence. The night creatures began their serenades. Crickets and cicadas filled the air with a comfortable rhythm. The breeze rustled the grasses, adding to the symphony of sounds, with an occasional ribbit from a frog punctuating the air.

  Life throbbed around them.

  He drained the last of his coffee, then set the cup beside him on the step. There was a subject of immediate urgency he needed to discuss with Angeline. Resting his elbows on his knees, he clasped his hands.

  “Angel, do you remember me telling you that on Monday there’s going to be a hearing on Marianna’s estate?”

  “Yes. I also remember you thought my timing was a little too perfect to be accidental.”

  He shrugged. He had his reasons not to trust, but she didn’t need to know about them. “The reason I mention it is, now that we have proof that you’re Marianna’s daughter, you are her legal heir. Monday morning the court will decide the disposition of her estate. You’ll need to be there to claim what’s yours, and what I’m sure Marianna wanted you to have. And for that, you’ll need a lawyer.”

  She rubbed her hands up and down her thighs as she considered his words. Jean-Paul’s eyes were drawn to her slender legs, outlined by the flowered fabric covering them. Such lovely legs. He wondered if her skin was as silky and white as the patch revealed by the neckline of her blouse.

  The sound of her voice finally penetrated through the images crowding his brain. “Forgive me, chère. My mind wandered. What did you say?”

  “Do you know any good lawyers who would take a case on such short notice?”

  “Mais sho’, I know plenty of lawyers.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “But you said you wanted a good one. That narrows down the field. Does he have to be honest?”

  “Of course.”

  “But there’s a difference. I know many good lawyers, tops in their speciality, but honesty has nothing to do with their skill.” He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “As a matter of fact, I know several who are sharing cells with their bankers.”

  She shook her head and laughed. “I want a good, honest lawyer.”

  She thought he’d been teasing her. He hadn’t. He’d been set up by someone, most likely a lawyer in the pay of Roger Boudreaux, and framed for a crime he hadn’t committed.

  Jean-Paul made a show of racking his brain for a proper candidate. “Hmm, I have a friend in New Orleans. Let me call him and see if he might represent you.”

  Peering down into her face, the face of innocence, Jean-Paul felt a longing for a time when he’d been untouched by the evil of this world, of this place. Maybe he’d never been innocent. But something told him that Angeline could teach him how to see the world through eyes unclouded by corruption.

  “Thank you, Jean-Paul.”

  The brilliant smile she gave him only confirmed what he had thought. Angeline was a force that would forever change his life.
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  * * *

  Through the screen door, Angie could hear the deep rumble of Jean-Paul’s voice. Although she couldn’t make out any of the words, just the sound of his voice brought her comfort.

  Who was this complex man who worked as a mechanic at the local gas station? Although Jean-Paul’s speech was colored with Cajun endearments and phrases, it had an educated ring to it. If she were a gambling woman, she’d bet money he’d gone to college. So why was he working in a garage in this tiny town?

  And why did she get the feeling that Jean-Paul had very few friends here? What had happened to set most of the residents against him?

  She heard his footsteps crossing the kitchen, then he rejoined her.

  “You’re in luck. My friend Ted Peters has agreed to meet with you tomorrow and discuss the case.”

  “That’s nice of him to drive here to talk to me.”

  Jean-Paul shook his head. “Non. You weren’t listening to me. I said Ted was willing to go over the case with you. I said nothing of him driving here.”

  “Then how—you mean he wants me to go to New Orleans?”

  “I said Ted was honest. I didn’t say he was a saint. He has an appointment tomorrow morning. He said he could see you at two.”

  “How am I supposed to get there? As you so intimately know, my car is not well.” She purposely used the term Pierre had used to describe the problem.

  His black brow arched and wicked laughter danced in his green eyes. Angie reviewed what she’d just said and realized her blunder. As you so intimately know. She’d been so intent on making the point that he knew her car wasn’t in any condition to drive and tried to be cute. Her “cute” had backfired on her—big time.

  “Mais sho’, chère. I know you’re without transportation. That’s why I planned to drive you to New Orleans tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s not necessary, Jean-Paul.”

  Her stiff reply amused him. His little northern wren was showing her independence. “Oh, how you gonna get to New Orleans?”

  “Isn’t there a car in town I can rent?”

  He shook his head.

  “Could I borrow your truck?”

  “What?” He gaped at her.

  “You heard me. You could lend me your truck. I’m a very safe driver and have never had a wreck.”

  “Ah, Angel, you don’t understand men, do you?”

  Her chin went up. “How does understanding men have anything to do with your truck?”

  “No man worth his salt would let a woman borrow his car. I’d let you borrow my toothbrush before I’d let you have my truck.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  He shrugged. “That may be, but it’s the truth.”

  She fell silent, but he could see her trying to come up with an alternative.

  He took her hand. “Let me do this, chère. I’d worry about you the entire time you were gone. You could get lost in New Orleans, have a blowout on the road, or any other number of things could happen.”

  “I assure you, I can change a tire.”

  He wasn’t going to convince her unless he revealed more than he wanted to. “Angeline, it could be dangerous.”

  “What do you mean?”

  There was a look in her eye that told him he needed to confide his fears about Marianna’s death to her. Nothing else would convince her of the need to be careful. “I don’t think Marianna’s death was an accident. I think she was murdered.”

  She went deadly pale. “Why do you say that?” she asked, her voice unsteady.

  He wanted to reach out and comfort her, but she needed to be aware of the danger surrounding them. “There is something not right about the events surrounding your maman’s death.”

  “Do you have any proof?”

  “If I did, I would’ve gone to the state police. All I have is this feeling that something isn’t right. I don’t want to risk you, too.”

  She wavered for what seemed like endless seconds, then her shoulders slumped. “All right, Jean-Paul. You can drive me.”

  He tenderly cupped her chin. “Thank you.”

  Angie had the foolish urge to throw herself into his arms and let him take care of all the problems swirling around her. The notion startled her. Never had she run from her problems or fobbed them off on someone else. Why would she start now? What was it about this man that drew her so? She pulled back out of his grasp and looked out over the field.

  “It’s getting dark. Maybe you should drive me to the local motel so I can get settled for the night.”

  His gaze flew to hers. “You’re here. This is where you’re staying the night.”

  “What would lead you to believe I’d spend the night here?”

  “Because there are no motels in Mirabeau, and the only boardinghouse in town is full. Now, I couldn’t leave such a lovely lady out in the middle of the road, could I?”

  “What about Miss Eleanor? Couldn’t I stay with her?”

  He waved aside the notion. “Non. Sheriff Mathers is not happy with you, ma petite, and for you to stay with M’dame Eleanor would put both of you in jeopardy. Would you want that, hein?”

  “You’re kidding me, aren’t you?” But even as she spoke, Angie knew Jean-Paul was sincere.

  “Non. I kid not. The only difference between Dennis Mathers and the inmates at the state pen is that Dennis pins a badge to his chest and has Boudreaux money behind him. The sheriff has committed as many crimes as any three prisoners in the joint.”

  Angie still couldn’t believe her ears.

  “If you need more reassurance, call Pierre. Ask him how much money he gives the sheriff each month to protect his garage from vandals. Or call Mattie, the librarian, and ask her what happened to her husband when he tried to run against Dennis in the last election. Henry ended up with broken kneecaps.”

  The ugly picture he painted only confirmed the feelings she had about the sheriff.

  “You can sleep in the bed. I’ll take the couch.”

  His gallant gesture made her smile. “That’s not necessary. I don’t mind sleeping on the couch.”

  The expression of mock horror that crossed his face made her laugh. “You can’t do that. If I let you sleep there, my maman would come back from the grave and haunt me.” He shook his finger at her. “Positively not. I wish to let that sainted lady rest in peace. Therefore, allow me to be the gentleman she wished me to be.”

  How could she refuse? “You win. You can take the couch.”

  He took her hand and kissed the back of it. “Thank you, for myself and my maman.”

  He was such a handsome, charming man. What more could a woman want? But the last time she had trusted a handsome, charming man, she had suffered a broken heart and an empty bank account.

  “Why are you doing this, Jean-Paul?”

  “Sleeping on the couch? Because I haven’t had an invitation to join you in the bed.”

  His teasing comeback held an appeal that shocked her. Ruthlessly, she shook off the extraordinary image it brought to mind. “No, that’s not what I’m talking about. What I want to know is, why are you helping me?”

  “Do you mean what purpose does it serve? What will I get out of it?” The edge in his voice let her know she’d offended him.

  “I’ve come to learn, the hard way, that people have specific reasons for doing the things they do. If you don’t ask and understand them, then you’re likely to get burned.”

  He studied her, a speculative gleam in his eye. “You’ve been burned, huh, chère? Some man took your trust and abused it, yes?”

  She looked away, ashamed her folly could be so easily deduced.

  With his fingers, he turned her face to him again. “It’s not your shame, Angeline. It is another’s.”

  “There’s a saying, ‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.’”

  “And you will not be shamed again, hein?”

  “I learned my lesson, Jean-Paul.”

  “Non, you learned distrust. Not of o
thers, but of your own heart.”

  His observation found its mark.

  He leaned over and lightly brushed his lips across hers. “Trust your heart, Angel. Yours is a good one.”

  Startled at his kiss, she leapt to her feet and wrapped her arms around her waist. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  He sighed. The sound carried out into the night. “I have a debt to repay to Marianna. She believed in me even when I didn’t. By helping you, I can return her generosity.”

  He spoke with such honest conviction and sincerity that there was no room for doubt.

  He looked over his shoulder at her. “Does that satisfy your Yankee practicality?”

  The fact that he had failed to mention why he didn’t believe in himself could have been a sticking point, but she felt he was entitled to his privacy. “Honesty is honesty, whether in Vermont or Louisiana. But, yes, it satisfies me.”

  Laughter rumbled through his chest. “Ah, Angel, you are such an innocent. But I’ll let you keep your fantasies.” He stood. “Come. It’s time we went to bed, if we’re to drive to New Orleans in the morning.”

  She watched him walk into the house. The man unnerved her. He saw too much of her soul that she didn’t want to reveal. If there was a place she could have stayed instead of here in his house, she would have snatched up the offer. But unless she wanted to sleep in his truck or out in the field somewhere, she had no choice.

  As she followed him into the house, she wondered just how uncomfortable his truck would be.

  Chapter 7

  As Angie searched through her cosmetic bag, she discovered that she’d forgotten to pack toothpaste. She could search the drawers in the bathroom, but the idea of snooping through Jean-Paul’s personal things seemed too intimate to her.

  Tying the belt of her robe securely around her waist, she opened the door.

  “Jean-Paul?”

  “Oui.” He walked into the hall, his head cocked. He was shirtless and barefoot. At the sight her mouth went dry. A light sprinkling of hair covered his well-sculpted chest, disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. She should have looked for the tube of toothpaste herself.

  “I forgot my toothpaste. I was wondering...”