A Haunting Desire

by Julie Mulhern

  It was three o’clock in the morning. The few gentlemen who remained downstairs were all paired off with girls. No one would notice if she disappeared for a while.

  With a last glance over her shoulder, Trula tiptoed down the dimly lit hallway to her suite. Her favorite chair greeted her with a welcoming embrace. She sank into its comforting arms, lifted her aching feet to a tufted ottoman, and sighed with contentment. Five hours of sleep in the past few days simply wouldn’t do. The quiet of her rooms settled over her like a blanket.

  Her troubles would be waiting for her in the morning. For a few hours she could ignore her concerns about Cora James, Granny’s ridiculous reading, and the murders. Trula yawned and set her mind to more pleasant things. Her new dresses would be ready in a few days, and the new hat. It would set all of New Orleans talking and send every woman in the city hurrying to her milliner. She snuggled more deeply into the comfort of her chair and let visions of silk cabbage roses dance on her closed lids.

  The creak of the door rifled through her. No one in the house, not even Hattie, opened her door without knocking. Her muscles tensed, tighter than before.

  She opened her eyes to Andrew Farchmin’s florid face and breathed a small sigh of relief. A troublesome, demanding customer, who fancied himself a dandy; he was more of a buffoon than a murderer.

  His eyes widened as he took stock of her sitting room. His bleary gaze scanned the wall of bulging bookshelves, stumbled across the delicate French antiques, then came to rest on a nude painted by Renoir.

  “Are you lost, Mr. Farchmin?”

  He shifted his gaze to her. “No.”

  “Oh? Is there a problem?” She knew the answer. The boneheaded man didn’t want to take no for an answer. She’d told him time and again that she was unavailable. Apparently he thought if he found her alone, he could have her. She should fetch her gun. She didn’t move, she simply didn’t have the energy. “When I stepped away, you were with Ginger. If she displeased you, we’ll find you another girl.”

  He leered at her, his face flushed with too much drink. She smelled rye from where she sat.

  “I found the girl I want.”

  If she had a dollar for every time she’d heard those words from a man’s mouth, she’d retire. Men like Andrew Farchmin never considered she might not want them. Her feelings, wants, or desires played no part in their plans. That she welcomed no one into her bed meant nothing to them.

  Trula pinched the bridge of her nose. “Mr. Farchmin, we’ve had this conversation before. What’s more, it was tiresome every time we had it. You may leave my rooms now and continue to be welcome in my house, or you can push your luck.” Trula lowered her feet, hauled herself out of the comfortable chair, and groaned when her stiff muscles objected. She ought to shoot him just for making her stand.

  “My luck is excellent, and I bet you change your mind about welcoming me back.” The leer on his mottled face belonged on a statue of a drunken Dionysus.

  “Highly unlikely.” She took the few short steps to her desk and her gun. “Have you asked yourself why, in a house full of available women, you want the only one you can’t have?”

  “Who says I can’t have her?” His voice was blurred with liquor and lust.

  Trula stretched her shoulders. “I do.”

  “How can you stop me?” He stepped toward her, stumbled over a stack of books, and sent a signed copy of Oscar Wilde’s only novel skittering across the carpet.

  Lands! What a prized buffoon. Trula slipped her hand into the desk drawer and closed her fingers around a loaded gun. Should she shoot him in the thigh or higher?

  A too familiar voice interrupted her musings. “The lady said no.”

  Her head swiveled away from Farchmin to the man in the doorway. When had Zeke Barnes arrived? When she quit the parlors, they’d been free of his oozing charm. He leaned against the frame with the assured nonchalance of a man who owned the place. His insouciance annoyed her almost as much as Farchmin’s invasion.

  Farchmin pulled at his chin—one of them, anyway—and puffed his chest until his diamond stick pin glittered in the light. “This is none of your business, friend.”

  “I disagree.” An inconvenient shadow hid Zeke’s expression, but every muscle in his body looked taut and ready to spring. His voice had a cold, precise quality to it.

  Trula yawned, barely remembering to let go of the gun before she lifted her fingers to cover her mouth.

  “Are we keeping you up?” Now he directed his anger toward her.

  “As a matter of fact, you are. If you’ll both excuse me, I believe it’s time for bed.”

  “You heard her,” Zeke said. “She needs her beauty rest. Get out.”

  Trula caught sight of herself in a mirror. Her skin had a gray cast, her lids drooped like wilted flowers, and dark smudges beneath her eyes gave her a passing resemblance to a raccoon. She did need a beauty rest. She looked so awful, it was a wonder Farchmin had bothered her. Then again, he didn’t really want her. He wanted the woman he couldn’t have. She scowled at Zeke on principle. “No woman enjoys being told she looks tired.”

  He raised a brow. “Perhaps if the woman didn’t go riding at four in the morning she wouldn’t look so tired.”

  “Perhaps if the police and their special investigator did their jobs, the woman wouldn’t need to go riding.”

  Farchmin held up his hand, cutting off their exchange. He glared at Zeke. “Who the hell are you?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I told you to get out.” Zeke shifted his stance and the hall light caught the glint of menace in his dark eyes.

  “You get out. Trula and I have business.” Moving faster than she thought him capable, Farchmin lunged and shoved Zeke into the hallway. He slammed the door and turned the key in the lock. Then the sot bounded across the room in a few unsteady steps and one of his meaty hands closed on her left shoulder.

  Bother. She couldn’t very well shoot him with a government agent standing just outside her room. Trula drew back her right arm, fisted her hand, and punched the numskull in the nose. The crunch of breaking cartilage was almost musical.

  Then came the blood.

  Crimson flowed everywhere, marring the whiteness of Farchmin’s boiled shirt, subduing the loud plaid of his suit, dripping onto the muted colors of her rug.

  “Damn,” she swore. “Hold onto your nose. You’re bleeding on my carpet.” Trula rushed past him to the bathroom to fetch a towel.

  “You broke my nose! You bitch! You broke my nose.” Hurt children caterwauled less. Sweet, delicate Laurelie, waking to terrible pain, hadn’t carried on so. But the grown man in her sitting room clutched his hands to his beak as if it might fall off if he let it go. “Bitch!”

  Blood dribbled from between his fat fingers onto the rug.

  She shoved the towel into his hands. “You had it coming. Now get off the rug.”

  Zeke beat on the door. “What the hell is going on in there?” Not satisfied with making raucous noise, he threw his body against the obstruction. The door shuddered in protest.

  Trula hissed through her teeth. Farchmin’s blood destroyed her carpet while Zeke Barnes attempted to break her house. She crossed the room and yanked open the door.

  Zeke sailed over the threshold, tripped over her ottoman, and landed in a seething heap.

  She stifled an exhaustion-induced, hysterical giggle. The man sprawled at her feet wouldn’t appreciate it. “Are you hurt?” she asked.

  “You broke my nose!”

  “Not you! For the love of all that’s holy, would you get off the rug?” The stupid man stared at her through swelling eyes. She strode toward him, her finger pointed as if she intended to poke him in the eye. Her reward was a girlish scream. “Use the damn towel and get off my carpet.”

  He raised the cloth to his nose and staunched the flow of blood onto her Aubusson.

  She wheeled. Zeke had yet to get off the floor. He sat there like a large well-muscled lump, a bemused expression on his face.
“Are you hurt?” she asked.

  “I’m fine.” Zeke didn’t sound fine. He sounded stunned as if she’d bopped his nose instead of Farchmin’s. “You broke his nose.”

  “Yes, I know. Did you hit your head?”

  “No. Why?”

  If he wasn’t injured he could help. “Make yourself useful. Get him off the Aubusson.”

  “What?”

  Were they both deaf? Trula enunciated carefully. Slowly. “That no-count oaf is dripping blood on my rug.”

  Barnes stood, grabbed Farchmin’s arm, and pulled the bleeding dolt onto the cypress planks. Finally.

  Already Farchmin’s skin purpled. Ha! Let him explain to all his friends that a woman caused the damage.

  Red spotted the muted golds and blues of her carpet. Just looking at the stains made her wish Farchmin had a second nose to break. She settled for shaking her finger in his face. “If you ever come back here, I won’t break your nose, I’ll shoot you. Now, as Mr. Barnes suggested before you destroyed my carpet, get out!”

  “Bitch. You’ll pay for this.”

  Zeke’s expression tightened—his lips, his cheeks, his eyes. He looked mad enough to kill. “Don’t talk to the lady that way.”

  “She’s a whore.”

  Zeke’s hand on Farchmin’s upper arm whitened at the knuckles. His other hand closed to a fist. “The lady is worth ten of you. Now get out before I break something more important than your nose.” Zeke shoved the bleeding man toward the door.

  Clutching the towel, Farchmin staggered into hallway. Trula brushed past Zeke, stepped into the corridor, and watched him leave.

  The vile man stumbled down the hallway and out the front door.

  Then she rounded on the man standing behind her. “This”—she swept her hand toward her stained carpet—“is your fault. You can’t leave well enough alone.”

  “My fault?” The look he gave her was black as night. “He planned on raping you.”

  “Your fault. I’m a madam in the most notorious red-light district in America. What makes you think I can’t take care of myself? If you hadn’t blundered in, I’d have talked him out of it or shot him on the planks and not my favorite rug.” She poked his chest. “I’m not a damsel in distress. What’s more, I don’t want or need you to kiss me.” Why had she said that? She frowned and poked him again. “Now, go find Hattie and tell her to send someone in here to scrub my carpet.”

  …

  Zeke, for once, appeared to be at a loss. His mouth opened but no words came out. She waved a finger at him. “I don’t want or need you to save me.

  As if he, too, had received a punch in the nose, one that affected his brain, Zeke stood in the hallway and stared at Trula’s closed door. He studied the grain of the wood and its cut glass knob until the rage that had taken control of him when he saw the drunk slip into Trula’s room abated. He’d come to her rescue. Hadn’t he? If she’d just let him handle things, he could have broken the man’s nose outside and not on her precious rug. How dare she blame him? An unnamed, unwelcome emotion swirled in his gut. It insisted she was his to protect, to hold, to guard. It was all he could do not to pound on her door, demand entry, and tell her just that.

  He spotted Diddy in the foyer. “Miss Trula needs help.”

  The boy came running, slowing when he saw drops of Farchmin’s blood on the floor. “What’s wrong, Mr. Barnes? Did something happen to Miz Trula?”

  “Miss Boudreaux had an unexpected caller. She broke his nose and he had the poor manners to bleed on her carpet. She wants someone to come and clean it.”

  A feminine voice called out from behind the closed door, “Bring baking soda and hurry!”

  Diddy’s grin was all teeth. “Miz Trula’s sure partial to that rug.” He turned and ran for the kitchen.

  Zeke showed himself out. On the banquette, well-heeled gentlemen rubbed shoulders with men in rough pants and shirtsleeves. They paused beneath streetlights with Blue Books open to pages of interest. An occasional ghost peered over their shoulders. Drunks lurched down the street and music poured from open windows. The wee hours of the morning and the streets bustled more than they did during daylight hours. When did things finally quiet down in Storyville? When did the murderer find men alone?

  It had to be near dawn.

  He’d been going at things all wrong. The men policing the district shouldn’t be staying up late. They should be getting up early.

  He’d done everything wrong with Trula, too. He’d mistaken her for a lady then treated her like a whore. Zeke rubbed his forehead. He wanted her. Badly. But neither beating Carter Wayne nor attempting to save her from Farchmin had made much of an impression. No matter. He’d find a way. He wasn’t leaving New Orleans until he did.

  Chapter Ten

  Zeke paced the banquette. Last night—or rather, this morning—everything had seemed so clear. He’d devised a new strategy to win Trula. A strategy that involved apologizing for interfering in the way she handled Farchmin. He’d even scripted a speech of sorts. It seemed brilliant at five o’clock in the morning. William appeared and Zeke had made him listen. The ghost’s eye rolls had not been encouraging. Still, Zeke remained convinced of his genius. Now, in the humid light of day, it was all too evident that fatigue had sent him on a fool’s errand.

  He wasn’t a fool, so what the hell was he doing on the banquette in front of her house? He never apologized. For anything. Trula Boudreaux might well be the most beautiful woman he’d ever met, but she was more trouble than she was worth. Zeke turned away but his feet betrayed him. They carried him up the front stoop instead. His hand joined the plot against his brain. It lifted the brass knocker and let it drop.

  Trula’s housekeeper opened the door. She gazed at him, a slow, considering look that measured his worth. Finally she grunted. “I reckon you’d better come on in.”

  He followed her into Trula’s foyer. The crystal chandelier hung below eye level and a maid wiped each prism. Another maid polished furniture. The clean scent of beeswax drifted toward him. It smelled like childhood.

  “This way.” Hattie led him to the parlor, stepped inside, then closed the pocket doors. She parked her bulk in front of the doors and regarded him with a gimlet eye. “Why are you here?”

  “To call on Miss Boudreaux.”

  “She’s still sleepin’. Poor woman is plum wore out. Callin’ on that no-count Lulu White because you got her worried sick about Cora James.” She snorted and shook her head. “It doesn’t matter that Cora ain’t her problem. Oh no, nothing will do except for Miz Trula to go riding out to Granny Amzie’s in the dead of night, staying out ‘til dawn. She works until she can hardly stand. When the poor woman takes a moment to rest, you bust down her door.”

  “A man meant to rape her.” Surely that was a good enough reason.

  “You think that ain’t happened before? If you weren’t there, she might could have put her gun in the small of his back and marched him straight down the hall and out the front door. It’s happened before. More than once. You” —she wagged her finger under his nose— “were interfering.”

  When was the last time he’d been scolded? His mother had lectured him when he was eight. Frankly, Hattie did it better. “I was trying to help.”

  Hattie snorted. “What makes you think Miz Trula needs your help? She can take care of herself.”

  She could. Hell, Trula had broken the man’s nose. She’d been angry enough to break his. She offered gratitude when he protected Laurelie and fury when he did the same for her. Why would his madam accept help for others but not for herself?

  His madam? When had he started thinking of her as his? He blew out a long, slow, frustrated breath.

  Hattie misconstrued his sigh. “You doubt it? She’s been taking care of herself and every other soul in this house long before you came along. I reckon she’ll be doin’ it long after you’re gone.” The look she gave him could freeze the infernos of hell.

  “Who says I’m going anywhere?”


  “You fixin’ to stay?” Her arms folded over her chest and her eyes narrowed. She doubted his intentions.

  Zeke clenched his jaw. The woman was insufferable. And right. He wouldn’t stay. He couldn’t. The job that gave meaning to the losses in his life would take him away from New Orleans and Trula.

  “Can’t answer? Cat got your tongue?” Her brows rose toward the colorful tignon wrapped around her head.

  “I’ll come back when she’s awake.” He brushed past Hattie and closed his hand on the door handle.

  “You walk outta here, you’re a bigger fool than I reckoned.”

  Zeke closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He ought to leave. He had no business staying. Yet, he wanted Trula the way a man dying of thirst wanted water. “What do you mean?”

  “Miz Trula’s been actin’ addled since the first moment she saw you. She’s never showed the slightest interest in a man before. You show up and she goes crazy as a June bug in May.”

  Zeke kept his face blank but hope ripped through him. Could it be Trula was as affected by his presence as he was by hers? An image of Trula, her lips parted, her eyes soft and her arms wrapped around his neck, seared his brain. He found a chair just inside the door, sank into it, and raked his fingers through his hair.

  Hattie stood in front of him, planted her hands on her wide hips, and regarded him with an expression hovering between exasperation and ire. “Question is, what are you fixin’ to do about it? Miz Trula’s been through enough. She sure as sugar doesn’t need a do-wrong man who’s gonna leave her. If you aren’t plannin’ on stayin’ then you’d best walk out that door and not come back.”

  His racing heart stuttered to a stop. She wanted him to make a commitment? Trula was an interesting woman—he’d never met anyone like her—and beautiful. Just the memory of her in her midnight blue gown was enough to keep him awake and aching every night for weeks. When he did sleep, visions of her haunted his dreams. But he couldn’t stay.