Fiona made a soft clucking noise—tongue against teeth—and shook her head sadly. “Vic, poor Vic. Will you never learn?”
“I did learn, Fiona!” He scowled at her most unpleasantly and his black eyes lost their fire, turning hard and cold. “Don’t you think I learned my lesson when that bastard cheated me out of Golden Oaks in that game ten years ago… when Madelaine went away and took our son, Pierre… when everyone turned from me? I learned then that nothing matters, nothing lasts, and that no one can be trusted. What more do I have to learn?”
“You trust no one, Victoine? Not even me?”
Hearing her injured tone, Vic answered quickly, “Of course I trust you, Fiona, but no one else.” His head drooped and his voice became quiet. “You tell me, Fiona. Is there anyone else in the world I can trust or love ever again? My love of the gaming table is all I have left. I’ve always been a passionate man. You can’t ask me to give up the one passion left to me.” He scowled at his injured hand and shook his head. “I won’t, Fiona. I can’t!”
She touched his dark, tousled hair with her fingertips—not the touch of a lover, but the caress of a mother for a child in pain. “There are still other passions worth pursuing, mon cher.”
His head jerked up and he gave her a piercing stare. “If you’re talking about love, forget it. If I did find a woman I cared for, what then? I have nothing to offer. I’m not even sure I’m free to marry again. As far as I know, Madelaine is still out there somewhere—hiding, keeping my son from me, refusing to be my wife, yet denying me any other.”
Fiona ached for her friend. For so many years he had suffered. Other Creole men had entered loveless matches. Her own Edouard was a prime example. But none she had ever known had been so battered and hurt by the old custom of arranged marriages as Victoine Navar.
As the only son of the great war hero and plantation owner, Philipe Navar, Vic had accepted his rightful place in the world when he was barely twenty. Ordered by his family to do so, he had married a noble Creole daughter, who had soon given him every man’s dream—a son to carry on his name. At the age of twenty-three, Victoine had already become a leader in plantation society. He was admired by many, envied by some, tricked by one villain who remained unpunished to this day. The scar on Vic’s face and the deeper one on his heart were the only things Domingo Cadella had left him after their duel at the gaming table.
Navar’s mind was still on his one passion. “Yes, if I could only get a stake for that game tomorrow night, then I could…”
Vic’s muttering interrupted Fiona’s troubled thoughts, and suddenly she remembered some gossip she’d heard at the market. “Have you been away from the city for long, Victoine?”
“Almost a month,” he replied. “I was on a river-boat that put in late yesterday. That’s where I won the invitation to Pinard’s fancy ball. I left the city immediately to ride out to Mulgrove, figuring I had as much right as anyone to woo his rich little cousin. But then—now that I think of it—I suppose I was wrong. Madelaine’s been gone so long that sometimes I forget she ever existed or that I’m still a married man.”
Fiona reached out and touched his arm. “Victoine, there’s something you obviously haven’t heard since you got back. A stranger is in town looking for you. He claims to have come to New Orleans seeking revenge.”
Vic’s eyes went steely. “If I had a centime for every man who comes looking for me to make trouble, I wouldn’t have to gamble any longer. I’d be rich, Fiona. Forget this idle gossip.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think this man can be dismissed so easily. He claims you killed his brother. It seems it happened some time back. A card game, as usual, but this one ended in violence.”
Vic frowned. So many years, so many card games. Which one was she talking about? Then he remembered. “The bastard who accused me of cheating,” he said. “Yes, I remember that night. Your Edouard sat in on the game with two brothers named Lazano from up Natchez way. One of them marked the deck. Edouard caught on to their cheating and called them on it. The older chap said it was my doing—probably trying to protect his guilty brother. Then he pulled a pistol on me and fired… missed, though, by a country mile. I wasn’t going to let him get off a second shot.”
“You killed this man, Lazano?” Fiona asked softly.
“What’d you expect me to do? Sit there and let him kill me and Edouard like he threatened? For Chrissakes, Fiona, it was self-defense!”
She stared at him gravely, tears gathering at the corners of her golden eyes. “You saved Edouard’s life, mon cher? I never knew.”
“Aw, hell! I was saving my own skin, Fiona.” Vic’s cheeks went ruddy with embarrassment as he protested his valor.
Fiona gripped his hand. “You will be careful, won’t you, Victoine? The man could be dangerous.”
He laughed and held up his injured hand. “I’m always careful except when I get around women. Looks like I’d learn, doesn’t it?” He shook his head and sighed. “Well, I guess that slave wench is long gone by now. Just as well. I figure the poor girl was being forced by old Pinard to perform more than her fair share of duties.”
“You are generous to let her go, Victoine. Perhaps she might even escape to the North, to freedom.”
“Not likely, but I wish her luck.” Vic rose and started for the door, then turned. “Thanks, Fiona.”
“For what, my friend?”
He smiled. “For just being here. For just being you, sweet lady.”
“You should smile like that more often, Victoine.” Out of habit, Fiona batted her long lashes. “It makes you such a handsome rogue.”
Vic bellowed a laugh. “Handsome, you say? Ah, Fiona, you’re such a cunning liar and such a woman! Were it not for my respect for your lingering feelings for Edouard, I would take you up in my arms this minute and haul you back to the bedroom for a long, lazy day of infinite pleasure. I would make you my placée.”
A smile curved her soft lips. “Ah, no, m’sieur. You would not. You cannot afford me, remember?”
He shook his finger at her and winked. “Someday, mark my words! I will have enough money to win the finest lady in this town. She will be the envy of every other man’s woman.”
“Not if this Lazano has his way. Be gone with you now and take care.”
Dawn was creeping down the narrow rue d’Amour when Fiona opened the door for Black Vic. She stood on the porch until he waved, mounted his horse, and rode off down the street. His fate lay heavy on Fiona’s heart as she watched him go. Having Victoine around always made Edouard’s memory seem more alive. The two men, although they had never known each other while Vic was still the respected owner of Golden Oaks, had become close through their common passion for wagering. Now that her lover was gone, she could not bear it if anything happened to his friend.
Suddenly, she remembered her other early visitor. Gathering the silk folds of her dressing gown about her, she retied the sash with a sharp jerk of conviction. She would find out the truth about this young woman—slave or free, black or white.
With determination in her every stride, the woman who still loved Eduoard Mazaret with all her heart headed toward the back bedroom to confront the girl who claimed to be his daughter.
Cami cried out when the door flew open, fully expecting to be confronted by her dark pursuer. Instead, the most delicate of beauties stood before her, her ecru silk dressing gown caressing the soft curves of her slender body. Cami now understood how her father could fall in love with such a woman. Fiona seemed the very essence of softness and femininity. Cami had been horrified when she first learned that her father kept a placée. It had seemed a scandalous thing, the way her bitter mother had explained it. But now she knew more, now she understood this yearning to love and be loved in return.
Smiling at Fiona, Cami held out her hand. Her father’s mistress stared at her coldly, ignoring the offer of friendship.
“Now, young woman, you will tell me the truth. Obviously, you are not Eduoard Mazare
t’s daughter. Camille’s beauty is legendary throughout this city and all surrounding parishes. Also, I happen to know for a fact that the young lady in question is at this very moment with her cousins at Mulgrove Plantation some miles from New Orleans. So who, pray tell, are you? And what do you mean, invading the sanctity of my home?”
Taken aback by Fiona’s brusqueness, Camille could not think of an answer.
Fiona’s eyes flashed a darker, more ominous hue. “Tell me at once or I shall send Prospere for the authorities.”
Camille swallowed several times, trying to find her voice. A new fear swept through her. Fiona might not be the gentle, understanding woman she had envisioned. It seemed Cami had escaped the slave-catcher, but would Fiona send her back to Mulgrove, to her slave-trader of a cousin, with his panting boys all waiting in a row?
“Go, Prospere!” Fiona ordered. “Summon a gendarme.”
“Please, no,” Camille begged. But they were the only words she could speak as she stared into Fiona’s cold, golden eyes, her own flooding with tears.
Only a moment later, or so it seemed, Carol found herself alone and weeping on the deserted wharf at the foot of Barracks Street. Although she could see nothing through the thick morning fog, she could hear Choctaw’s oars as he pulled away into the river.
“Wait!” she called. “I can’t leave Cami like that!” But she knew it was useless even before she cried out.
With tears as desperate as Cami’s streaming down her cheeks, Carol turned and headed slowly back toward the hotel, her mind whirling with all that she had seen and heard and done during the night. She wandered the French Quarter for a long time, thinking. The sun came up; the streets came alive.
She looked at her watch suddenly. “Eight-thirty!” she gasped. “Frank’s going to be pissed!”
Chapter Seven
“Dammit! Where the hell could she be?”
Frank was long past frantic. He checked his wrist-watch for the umpteenth time in the past half-hour, swore under his breath, then paced across the courtyard again. A sharp blade of pure, cold fear stabbed through his gut. He knew he was being unreasonable. Carol was late for a business appointment, that was all. It could happen to anyone, he tried to tell himself. But he was beginning to realize that Carol Marlowe wasn’t just anyone. Add to that growing awareness his painful memories of Eileen’s disappearance and you had the makings of a man teetering on the edge.
What if she’d wandered out alone again early this morning and run into some kind of trouble? The thought kept nagging him: It’s happening all over again—just like with Eileen. Carol’s gone—gone for good!
He couldn’t decide which way to turn, what to do next. At eight-ten, he’d knocked gently on Carol’s door. At eight-fifteen he’d pounded. No response in either case. Five minutes after that, he’d ordered the hotel manager to use his pass key to open her suite. What they’d found had been anything but reassuring. Carol hadn’t slept in her bed. Her purse was there. Nothing looked out of place or suspicious, yet the entire situation seemed powerfully suspicious to Frank.
He had to find Carol. But where could he look?
Impulse told him to call headquarters and have an immediate All Points Bulletin put out for her. That was crazy and he knew it. He certainly couldn’t declare her a missing person when she was only a half-hour late for an appointment.
“Eileen was just a little late, too,” he reminded himself grimly. He tried not to think of that, tried even harder not to make any connection. Still, there it was. The painful comparison kept gnawing at him. “Maybe if I’d shown more concern for Eileen sooner… yeah, maybe, maybe, maybe!”
White-hot rage mixed with his frustration. Frank spent both on a discarded beer can lying in the courtyard. Giving the dead soldier a mighty kick, he sent it tumbling out onto the banquette. He followed its trajectory until he stood outside the hotel entrance. Hopelessly, helplessly, he scanned the street up and down.
“Not a sign of her. Damn!”
He was about to turn around, his mind made up to call the station and spread some kind of alarm, when he spotted Carol ambling toward the hotel at a lazy, haphazard pace, seemingly oblivious to how late she was or how badly she’d scared him.
When she got close enough for him to see her plainly, Frank cursed again—louder this time. “What the hell…?”
Carol had blood on her face.
Carol spotted Frank ahead and quickened her step. Even from half a block away she could see that he looked drawn and pale. Maybe something had happened while she was away. Perhaps he’d heard some news—a real break in the case. He headed toward her almost at a trot.
“You’re hurt!” They were Frank’s first words.
“No, I’m fine,” Carol insisted, wondering what made him think she wasn’t.
“You’re bleeding! Don’t tell me you’re fine!”
Carol licked her lips. She did taste blood. “I don’t know. Maybe I bit my lip or something. Really, it’s nothing, Frank.”
Before she realized what he meant to do, Frank enveloped her in a smothering bear-hug—right there on the busy banquette with all the tourists watching. The embrace was so unexpected that Carol almost went faint in his arms. She forgot the gaping onlookers, the early hour, even the predicament in which she’d left Camille Mazaret. Frank’s urgency seemed her only reality at the moment.
She could actually feel his body trembling against hers. Only then did she realize what hell she’d put him through. Ashamed and contrite, she tried to apologize, but her words came out a muffled whisper against his shoulder.
A moment later, Frank released her. Glaring at her with fierce, black eyes, he demanded, “Where the hell have you been?”
“I’m sorry I’m late, Frank.” Carol tried her apology again, but he didn’t let her finish.
“Sorry? Sorry won’t cut it, Miz Marlowe!” He seemed to tower over her, bearing down with all the wrath of an outraged lover. “I’ve been going crazy, wondering where you were, what might have happened to you. And all you have to say for yourself is that you’re sorry?”
Carol felt her cheeks flame. She hated scenes. She glanced about at the curious crowd that had gathered.
“Frank, please,” she whispered. “Can’t we go somewhere else? People are staring.”
Frank slowly and deliberately turned his glare on the ogling spectators. “I don’t give a damn who hears!” he growled.
The crowd scattered in the face of his anger, but Carol had no intention of continuing the heated discussion on the street.
“Come on, Frank.” She grabbed his arm and all but dragged him through the arched entry to the courtyard. “Your room or mine?” she demanded.
Silenced now by her quick actions, Frank stared at her and motioned toward his apartment. Without another word, they went up the stairs to the second floor. Not until Frank unlocked the door and they were both inside did he speak again. His tone was more civil now, but still taut with tension.
“I apologize, Carol.”
Trying to lighten the mood between them, she asked, “For what? Giving me hell or hugging me out there in front of God and all the old people?”
He didn’t laugh as she’d hoped he would. Instead, he reached for her hand and pulled her close once more. His embrace this time was much gentler than before. Not knowing what else to do, she let her arms glide around his neck. She closed her eyes and languished in his arms, sighing at the wonderful feeling of being this close to a man once more. For a time, she forgot how angry he had been only moments before.
While Frank cradled her to his broad chest, rubbing his cheek against hers, an odd collection of thoughts tripped lightly through Carol’s mind. Maybe Frank Longpre was the real reason she had come to New Orleans. She’d always figured that her psychic powers were useless as far as giving her any help romantically. Look at that last fiasco, for instance! But this time could prove the exception. What if all the business about Camille and the mummy was simply fate’s excuse for bringing
her here to meet Frank? Perhaps the reason none of her past relationships had worked out was that she and Frank were meant for each other all along.
He was still holding her, almost desperately, as if he were afraid she might disappear again the moment he let her go. She could feel his heart pounding rapidly against her breasts. From time to time, he drew in a deep, shuddering breath like a man who’d just run a race or reached an especially satisfying climax.
“Frank,” Carol whispered, touching his face with her fingertips, “I never meant to upset you so. I really am sorry.”
“So am I.” His voice was deeper, huskier than usual. “It’s just… when you didn’t show up… when I couldn’t find you, it was like I was reliving Eileen’s disappearance.”
A lump in Carol’s throat choked off words. She tried, but couldn’t speak. Tears welled in her eyes. What a dummy she was! She could have hurried back to the hotel and been nearly on time. Why hadn’t she realized earlier how upset Frank would be if she turned up missing? Had all her psychic powers fled along with her compassion and understanding?
“Oh, Frank,” she finally managed, “I feel terrible about this.”
Now it was Carol’s turn to hug him with every bit of the tenderness she could muster. When she sensed Frank’s passions rising in concert with her own, she quickly stepped away. She felt awkward suddenly, embarrassed for both their sakes. This simply wouldn’t do. After all, they were professionals. And here she was acting like a starry-eyed teenager with her first crush just because Frank—frantic with worry—had hugged her.
Suddenly, Frank caught her by the shoulders. Holding her in his solid, steel-like grip, he stared into her eyes. “Carol, do you realize what’s happening here?”
Her voice was as calm as she could make it under the circumstances. “Yes, Frank, I think I do. I’ve upset you again without meaning to. By being late, I made your past come back to life. I wasn’t the one you were worried about. I realize that now. It was Eileen all over again.”
Whispers in Time Page 12
