A Haunting Desire

by Julie Mulhern

  “No!” How could she think such a thing?

  “You wanted me until you caught me. Then you disappeared.” She shook her head and a tendril of hair brushed her face. “If I was a lady, pouring tea in a parlor on St. Charles Street, you would never have treated me this way.”

  “If you were a lady from St. Charles Street, I never would have—” He stopped, but it was too late. Her hand rose to her cheek as if he’d slapped her.

  “I’m just a whore.” Her voice was dead.

  “Trula, that’s not what I meant.” He meant that the ladies on St. Charles St. didn’t interest him. She did. He’d rather cut his heart out than cause the pain glazing her eyes. Knowing he was the source of that hurt twisted his gut.

  “No? By all means, enlighten me.”

  She didn’t understand. She needed to understand. “There was someone else? She died…” How could he explain the devastation of losing Bess to Trula?

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” Impersonal, meaningless words. She turned away.

  “Wait!”

  She tilted her head to one side but didn’t turn. “What is it you want, Zeke?”

  He swallowed. “I’m a man of some means, I can afford to keep you.”

  “Keep me?” She straightened her head, her shoulders, and her spine.

  Why did he feel as if he’d wandered onto a pond covered with very thin ice? “I’ll buy a house in Washington. You’ll like Washington.” She would. It was every bit as humid as New Orleans three seasons of the year. She’d love the politics and the intrigue. And when he wasn’t traveling, they’d be together.

  “And I’ll live in your house?”

  “Of course.”

  “As your mistress?”

  “Yes.”

  She turned to face him. She didn’t look pleased. Why didn’t she look pleased? Surely he would be a better protector than a man old enough to be her grandfather. He might not be as rich as John Dupree, but he could offer her nights of endless pleasure.

  “No.”

  “No?” Obviously she didn’t understand what he was offering. “Trula, I can take care of you. You won’t have to run a house. You can be a lady of leisure.”

  “A lady, you say?” Her slitted eyes told Zeke he’d made a serious error.

  “It’s just an expression.”

  “And I’m just a whore.”

  Damn it. He wasn’t explaining things well, but she seemed to deliberately misunderstand every word he said. Why wouldn’t she understand? He’d never planned on having another woman in his life. Even now his skin went clammy at the thought.

  She looked carved in stone. For a long moment, her eyes searched his face as if it held the answer to a riddle. Then her lids fluttered shut. “See yourself out.” She turned away from him, her steps carrying her to the light of the kitchen door.

  “Trula, wait. Please. What is it you want?”

  “More than you’re willing to offer.” A single perfect tear tracked down her cheek. With what looked like tremendous effort, she squared her shoulders.

  Marriage? She wanted marriage? If she knew what happened to Bess, she wouldn’t want his vow. She might not want him. He opened his mouth to explain but she didn’t give him the chance.

  “Good-bye, Zeke.” Her voice had the ring of finality.

  She disappeared into the kitchen. He followed her, but Hattie’s considerable bulk blocked his path. Her pose, arm outstretched, finger pointing to the back door, reminded him of the grim reaper. “That there is the way outta here.”

  “Hattie…” The raw sound of his voice shocked him.

  She was immovable, untouched by his plea. “That woman cares about you. I don’t know why. I do know she deserves more than you’re offering.” A corner of her lip lifted into a sneer. She looked ready to shoot him. “You want to make her your mistress. She’s already travelled that road. I don’t reckon she’d ever go down it again. It doesn’t matter how much she cares about you, she ain’t gonna sell herself. You ain’t gonna offer her what she deserves, you get on outta here. There’s the door.” Her finger still pointed to the alley. “Use it.”

  Hattie thought Trula was better off without him. Hell, she was probably right.

  Zeke stumbled into the deserted alley.

  The door slammed behind him with bone-jarring force.

  He raked his fingers through his hair. What had he done? He sank to the stoop and clasped his hands behind his bent neck.

  “You messed that up but good. How am I ever going to make it into the light if you keep messing things up?”

  Zeke narrowed his eyes. Romantic advice from a ten-year-old ghost wasn’t exactly welcome.

  “You’re supposed to be with her.”

  “I asked her. She sent me away.”

  The ghost planted his hands on his hips, a gesture that reminded Zeke of Hattie. “You asked her to be your mistress. What did you expect?”

  Zeke rubbed his eyes with his hand.

  “You’ve been messing this up since the first day.” William’s lanky framed shimmered. His scowl was a fearsome thing.

  “The first day?” Zeke looked up from his perch on the stoop. William was still scowling.

  “I sent you to the cemetery to meet her and you didn’t even ask for her name.” The ghost shook his head in disgust.

  “You sent me to the cemetery to find answers…for the case.” William playing matchmaker?

  “I sent you to the cemetery to find answers for yourself. She’s the woman who can make you happy.” William spoke with absolute certainty. As if Zeke and Trula equaled happiness like two and two equaled four.

  “What about Bess?”

  “That wasn’t your fault.”

  “Of course it was. She was there with me. It was my job to protect her.”

  William snorted. “You’re using Bess as an excuse.”

  “What?”

  “You’re scared and rather than admit it, you use Bess as an excuse.”

  “Do you remember what happened?”

  William’s expression softened. “It wasn’t your fault. She went off on her own.”

  Exhaustion seemed to rise from the cobbles up through Zeke’s legs, all the way to his brain. “It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t want me.”

  William—ghost, meddling ten-year-old boy, failed matchmaker—lifted his freckled nose in the air. “You love her and you treated her like a whore. If that’s your best offer, can you blame her?”

  …

  Trula stumbled toward laughter. It sounded foreign, a language she didn’t understand. Her feet carried her to the foyer.

  Near the bottom of the stairs, Alexander Rimbaud had Adele pushed against a wall. His hands roved her body. Trula tapped him on the shoulder. “I’m sure you’d be much more comfortable in a room. Adele, why don’t you take Mr. Rimbaud upstairs, please?”

  The girl removed his hand from her breast and used it to lead him up the sweeping staircase. In the moment it took them to disappear, Hattie caught up with her.

  Trula held up her hand to halt the tirade of recriminations. Hattie was right. As usual. Zeke Barnes was nothing but trouble and heartache. She’d say anything her housekeeper wanted to hear. If only Hattie wouldn’t say I told you so.

  Hattie didn’t speak. Instead her arm snaked its way around Trula’s shoulders. “Come on, now. Let’s get you to bed. Gilcie and me can handle this crowd.”

  Trula let herself be led to her rooms. She should argue. It was Saturday night. The house was full. She couldn’t disappear at eleven. But all the fight had leached out of her. Her heart and soul were as empty as a bourbon bottle on Sunday morning.

  Hattie undressed her, tucked her in between cool cotton sheets, and asked, “You want to talk about it?”

  No. She didn’t. Ever. What passed between them had meant something to her. It was precious. Priceless. And, with one question, he’d reshaped it into a transaction.

  His mistress?

  Hattie put a handkerchief in her ha
nd. She ran the lace-edged bit of linen through her fingers until Hattie took it from her and patted at her face. Tears ran down her cheeks and the pressure in her throat nearly choked her. She wasn’t crying. She never cried. Not when her father left. Not when her mother left. Not when her grandmother sold her for a diamond tiara rumored to have belonged to a Hapsburg princess. She wasn’t crying. If she cried, she might never stop.

  Hattie’s rough hand smoothed her forehead, her hair. Hattie scolded or threatened, she didn’t pet. Why was she being so kind?

  “What can I get you?”

  Trula opened her mouth but the lump in her throat threatened to escape as an endless agonized scream. She snapped her lips shut, pulled the sheets up to her chin, then turned her face toward the wall.

  Willa Rae tapped on the door. “Earleen told me to bring you some warm milk.”

  Warm milk? She hated warm milk.

  Hattie helped her sit and bullied her into drinking the milk. She sipped meekly, pretending she didn’t know Hattie and Earleen had snuck laudanum into the drink. She didn’t care. She welcomed escape from the clawing pain, even if only for a few hours.

  When Trula woke, rays of sunshine slashed across her linens. If the sun had any sense of decorum, it would find a cloud and cover its brilliance. Rain should be slashing at her windows.

  Trula scowled at the bands of light brightening her bed and considered burrowing beneath her linens. She could hide, nurse her broken heart. Maybe forever.

  With a sigh, she jerked the covers off the bed. Her feet hit the cool plank boards and she yanked on the bell pull to call for Ada. No hiding. No nursing. She’d made her choices. She’d live with them. She had responsibilities. Tears were an indulgence she couldn’t afford.

  “It’s a fine morning, Ada. The sage green gown, please.”

  “You feelin’ okay, Miz Trula?”

  Trula straightened her shoulders. “Never better. The green if you please.”

  “Earleen made bacon and there’s grits on the stove,” Ada said. “You want me to bring a tray?”

  Trula lifted her chin. “I’ll eat in the dining room.”

  Her body was stiff, the pain inside her manifesting itself physically. Each step ached and she was sorely tempted to return to the quiet haven of her rooms and hide.

  She ignored the pain, straightened her slumped shoulders, and took a step forward. Zeke Barnes wouldn’t break her. She didn’t stop until she’d reached her goal, a chair in the dining room.

  She sipped her coffee in silence. The few girls who’d meandered downstairs for breakfast regarded her with lopsided, apologetic grins, then disappeared to the kitchen. Diddy approached her as if she were an angry snake that might strike at any moment. The boy’s fingers circled the loose collar of his shirt as if it choked him. “I found Eulie Echo for you, Miz Trula.”

  She’d all but forgotten she’d asked the boy to find Eulie. Trula pushed her chair away from the table and stood. “Is she in the kitchen?”

  Diddy gulped. “No, ma’am. She told me she has business with the queen tomorrow. If you want to see her, you’re gonna have to meet her there.”

  Eulie wanted to meet her at Marie Leveau’s grave? “You’re sure?”

  “Yes’m.” Diddy nodded hard.

  “What time?”

  “She said she’d be there tomorrow mornin’.”

  Trula narrowed her eyes. “Diddy?”

  “Yes’m?” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  “I want you to go over to the house in the Quarter this morning and work on your schooling. Last time I was there, the teacher told me she missed you.”

  His mouth opened and closed and opened again. He wanted to argue. Instead, he mumbled, “Yes’m.”

  Having everyone walk on egg shells around her wasn’t entirely awful.

  She resumed her seat and stared into her coffee. She had to wait a full day to talk to Eulie. Somehow, Trula knew in her bones the blind woman had answers. She’d convince Eulie to tell her who had murdered those men, send a note to the police, and Zeke would leave New Orleans. She never had to see him again. Her Zeke-less future yawned like an empty chasm. A gaping hole similar to the one in her chest where her heart once rested.

  She loved him. She could admit that—at least to herself. And it hurt. Wasn’t love supposed to be wonderful? It wasn’t. It was agony, like the torments of hell.

  She’d had one night with the man she loved. One glorious, magnificent, magical night in his arms then a lifetime to straighten her shoulders and pretend her heart hadn’t left New Orleans when he did.

  The crumbs of his affection didn’t tempt her any more than a discreet house he visited only when the mood struck him. She refused to be his mistress.

  She’d have to make do with the memories of their only night together. What she wouldn’t give for another night. Just one. A second chance to build a store of memories.

  She pushed away from the table, her stomach too upset to eat a bite.

  If she could have another… She froze. Why couldn’t she have one more night? She could go to him. Seduce him. Take one last chance to revel in the texture of his skin, the taste of his tongue, and the sensations their bodies made together.

  Why not? He couldn’t hurt her any worse than he already had.

  She could claim one last night of passion. Then tomorrow morning, she’d talk to Eulie and solve the murders. He’d be gone and she’d be alone with her memories.

  One night of his kisses and his hands and his body. One night of pleasure. One night to last her the rest of her life. She just had to find the courage to claim it.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Trula stood in front of Zeke’s hotel room door. All she had to do was lift her hand and knock. Her fingers closed, her elbow bent, her fist hovered. She took a step backward.

  Where was her courage? This was what she wanted. All that remained was for her to knock on the door and take it. She straightened her shoulders and rapped sharply on the expanse of wood.

  Nothing happened. The door didn’t open. Zeke didn’t call out. Nothing. Zeke wasn’t home. Her stomach lurched as if she’d fallen from a great height. Now what?

  Now she went home to tend to her wounds without the balm of a last night with Zeke. She turned away from the door.

  The Yankee stood in front of her, one of his devilish brows raised.

  Trula’s heart leapt to her throat and she sealed her lips tight to keep it from escaping entirely.

  His warm hand closed around her elbow. Without a word he reached in front of her to insert the key in the lock, his body caging hers. She was trapped by his arms, his heat, his will. Time stood still.

  He pushed the door open and a firm hold on her waist propelled her forward. She glanced up into his face, ready to tell him she could walk through a door on her own, but his expression stilled her tongue. The corners of his eyes drooped with fatigue, and small lines radiated from his mouth. His tanned skin looked pale. She reached up to touch the traces of beard that darkened his cheeks. Even exhausted, Zeke was the most compelling man she’d ever seen.

  She stumbled, pausing inside the door. The lock snicked into place behind her. Her stomach fluttered, somersaulted. She didn’t dare turn, or he’d read her face and know every thought in her head. Instead she surveyed Zeke’s room. A table and two chairs sat in front of an open door leading to an ornate balcony. A crystal paperweight kept his papers in place. The rest of the table was covered in the bits and pieces men shed like molting birds. A cigar stub in a crystal ashtray, a glass ringed with forgotten whiskey, a handful of change. She shifted her gaze and it snagged on a four poster bed.

  “I didn’t think I’d see you again.” His voice tickled her ear.

  Her mouth was dry, her heart beat too fast. “I changed my mind.” For one night.

  The hand at her waist tightened. “Take off your hat. I don’t want to bend your feathers.” It wasn’t a request. It was a command. She waited for a flame of anno
yance. It didn’t come. This night was too precious to waste on emotions that kept them apart.

  She removed her hat pins. With shaking hands, she placed them, along with her hat, on the table. The wildly feminine, wide brimmed hat looked out of place, wrong amidst Zeke’s belongings. As wrong as a madam in love. As wrong as becoming his mistress. She straightened her shoulders. She had one last night. Neither sadness nor anger would mar it.

  She sensed him behind her and leaned into the strength and warmth of his chest. His breath whispered past her ear and she shivered. She wanted this. Needed this. How would she live without it? She’d find a way. But tonight she’d savor every second. Everything but pleasure could wait until morning.

  Zeke turned her in his arms and his lips, firm and gentle, brushed hers. She inhaled. His scent tantalized her. The pad of his thumb traced her jaw. Her skin ached for more. She turned her face into his hand, drawing his thumb into her mouth. He rewarded her with a groan.

  His fingers delved into her hair and hairpins rained down, glancing off her shoulders before landing on the carpet. As the last pin fell, he wrapped his hand in her hair. His expression was…tender.

  Tenderness might kill her, might worm its way into her heart and destroy what was left of the bothersome muscle. A gentle Zeke might tear her heart from her chest without ever realizing what he held in his hands.

  She needed deep, wild kisses that robbed her of her ability to think. Sensation. Raw passion. Trula’s mouth sought his. Her tongue tasted the seam of his lips, savoring his flavor. And then her tongue rasped against his, wet and rough, chicory and peppermint, intoxicating. The kiss deepened. She probed the depths of his mouth. She sucked his tongue and his shoulder muscles tightened beneath her fingers.

  Zeke pushed her against the wall with enough force to knock the breath from her lungs. His hands scalded her through the material of her shirtwaist. His desire fired hers. One night. Passion to last a lifetime. No regrets.

  “Trula.” He breathed her name. She tilted her head so his lips could travel her neck. Her fingers fumbled at his suit coat, clumsy in their eagerness to remove the clothes that separated them, desperate to feel his skin. Her teeth nipped at his lower lip as he shrugged out of the garment. It fell unheeded to the floor and she ripped at his tie, growling in frustration when the slippery silk refused to cooperate.