Lancelot of the Pines (Louisiana Knights Book 1)

by Jennifer Blake

  “Tough to get rid of, so I’ve heard.”

  “Most meds didn’t touch them, nor did alcohol or designer drugs, though she gave them all a try. I was only eight or nine when I started trying to help her—though she may have been trying to make me feel useful when she claimed it did.”

  “You said before that she died of an overdose. Was that the cause?”

  “I always thought it contributed to it, at least. She started with prescription type drugs, but ended using whatever she could get her hands on. She was surrounded by bottles when they found her.”

  “Who told you?”

  “The police.” The words were calm, even; she was proud of that.

  “And you were—where at the time?”

  “Family Services.”

  “So that’s where you stayed.”

  “I guess.” She didn’t really want to go into details.

  “You must have been pretty young when you met Caret.”

  “Fourteen when we first met, before I went to the correction center, but eighteen when I went to live with him, nineteen when we were married.”

  “And he was old enough to be your father, as I remember from your file. Did you ever go with him to business dinners, cocktail parties, other social events?”

  “Sometimes. He preferred having me with him over leaving me alone.”

  He tilted his head, as if listening to the sound of her voice as well as the words. “Nice of him.”

  “It might have been, except—”

  “Except what?”

  She lifted a shoulder though she knew he couldn’t see her. “It was really more about showing me off on his arm. Well, and keeping an eye on me. At least that’s the way it seemed.”

  “He didn’t trust you.”

  “I never gave him any reason not to, if that’s what you’re thinking.” She pressed harder with her thumbs.

  “Ouch,” he protested. “I didn’t say you did.”

  “You thought it.”

  He gave her an unyielding look over his shoulder. “If I’d thought it, I’d have made it clear.”

  She was silent, unwilling to concede the point. Maybe he would; maybe he wouldn’t; she didn’t know. Nor could she think about it, because the movement as he turned away again brought the small of his back in contact with her pubic bone. Heated awareness took her breath, while under her fingers, she felt another rash of goose bump bead his skin.

  He eased forward again, breaking the contact. It was a second or two before he went on, and the words had a strained sound. “So you met Caret’s friends and colleagues. Did any of them strike you as different? Something other than average lawyer types?”

  “You mean did any of them look like drug runners or mafia bosses?” She directed a jaundiced look at the side of his head, and the line of sutures along his injury that he was allowing to air dry without bandaging today.

  “What makes you say that?” he asked.

  “Some of the questions asked by the police when Bruce went missing, I guess. But other than lawyers, the men were mainly local bankers and professors, with maybe the occasional congressman.”

  “Which you knew because?”

  “How they were introduced, of course, then what they talked about and the way they were dressed, in nice suits and silk ties with LSU tigers, crawfish or French Quarter street signs on them for a bit of New Orleans color.”

  “Observant,” he said without favor.

  “Hard to miss,” she returned in the same tone, but went on after a pause. “An odd thing, though, is that three or four of them showed up where we were staying in the Islands.”

  “The Caymans, you mean?”

  “Right. Bruce seemed to be expecting them for lunch. He told me I’d be bored by their dry business discussion and should go get some sun, maybe have lunch by the pool. But I noticed them walking into the hotel as I was leaving out the back.”

  “You’re sure it was the same men?”

  “I noticed because they’d gone so native, were decked out in swim shorts, guayabera-style shirts and leather flip-flops.”

  He gave her another backward glance. “You remember the kind of shirts they had on, but not what they looked like?”

  “You didn’t ask that.”

  “I’m asking now.”

  She gave him a quick rundown of ages, features, heights and hair colors that he seemed to like, given the nod of his head. Still, his next question wasn’t long in coming.

  “This lunch was a long one?”

  “They were still sitting around the table in the suite with their rum punches, when I came back to the room three hours later.”

  “I don’t suppose you overheard anything that was said.”

  “They stopped talking when I opened the door. Then one of them copped a feel as I walked passed him. Bruce nearly came unglued.”

  “There was a fight?”

  The muscles in Lance’s shoulders tensed under her fingers again as he asked that question. She wanted to think it was at the idea of some sweaty rich guy putting a hand on her, but didn’t quite dare. “Bruce told him in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t a call girl, and the man apologized. But the lunch, or meeting, or whatever you might call it broke up after that.”

  “Possessive, was he?”

  “What was his, was his.” She gave a short laugh. “What was mine was his, too, if it comes to that.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, he gave me a new BMW for Christmas the first year we were married, all wrapped up with a huge red ribbon on top. But the title was in his name—at least at the time. He often bought jewelry for me, but insisted on keeping it in the safe in his office. If I wanted to wear it, I had to ask him, and then return it to him when I took it off.”

  Lance stirred under her hands. “Must have been valuable jewelry.”

  “I guess.”

  “You think it was something else?”

  “It felt more about him being in control.” She went on to describe her chronic lack of cash, the credit cards in Bruce’s name with statements sent to his office for payment, the questions about anything of value on them.

  “What did he think you were going to do?”

  “Save the money or sell anything valuable for cash so I could leave him,” she said simply.

  “Were you?”

  “The idea was ridiculous at first. I was too grateful to have a roof over my head and someone to stand up for me. To be able to buy nice clothes and everything that goes with them was such a luxury.”

  “But later?”

  “Later, I dreamed of running away.” That seemed a sad admission, given his death. Would things have been different, would she have felt different, if she’d known how little time Bruce had left?

  “What kept you from it?”

  “Clare, and his promise to get her released. That was until she—she was no longer with us.”

  “And afterward.”

  “Being free was all I thought about. But this is why I was so surprised when you said Bruce had put everything he owned in my name. It was so unlike him. It makes it seem he—”

  “What?”

  “Had something to hide, whether it was from the IRS or somebody else.”

  He moved under her hands, turning to face her. He was so close she could see the individual lashes surrounding his eyes, the dark gray ring around the outer edge of his brown irises, the intelligent width of his forehead and square jut of his chin. Her hand still rested on top of his shoulder, and he put up his to hold it there.

  “Caret doesn’t sound like much of a husband.”

  Her mouth tightened an instant, and then relaxed. “He was kind, in his way.”

  “But lacking in the romance department, I suspect.”

  “He didn’t consider it necessary.”

  “Is that why you wanted to leave him? There was someone who could supply what was missing?”

  Her laugh was hollow. “Not a chance, even if I’d been inclined, whi
ch I wasn’t. Bruce always demanded to know everywhere I’d been, how long I was there and who I saw.”

  “You’re right, a real control freak.”

  “He was worse in the past few months. If I was the least bit late, he frothed at the mouth until he knew exactly why. He often had me followed, though I don’t think he much trusted the man hired for it.”

  “I begin to see why you weren’t thrilled to have someone else watching you around the clock.” Lance transferred his hand to her waist.

  A small shiver ran over her. “I wasn’t, no. It was different, of course, you were different, but—no.”

  “It’s over,” he said, the words firm and sure. “You don’t have to worry about that again.”

  “Don’t I?”

  “If you mean because I’m still looking out for you, you’re right. But as far as I can tell, we’ve both been watched, or the next thing to it, up to this point. We’re in this together.”

  Together. He didn’t mean anything special by that, she knew; he was trying to make her feel better. And yet, there was magic in the idea of no longer being alone.

  He was so different from Bruce. It wasn’t simply that he was younger and far more attractive; there was a quiet self-confidence about Lance. He was sufficient unto himself, without the need to impose his will on others in order to feel the Big Man. He might disagree with what she said, but he never made her feel stupid for saying it.

  She was becoming too involved with Lancelot Benedict, and she knew it. One day soon, the reasons behind Bruce’s death would be explained and his killer caught. The two of them would go their separate ways.

  That was the way it had to be. There was no use thinking otherwise, no use fighting it.

  Meanwhile, they were alone, trapped in their semi-seclusion, and night was closing in. It would be a shame to waste what might be their last evening together.

  Her hand shook a bit as she traced his brows with her fingertips and trailed them through his hair, carefully skirting his line of sutures. “Your hair is a little ragged where your cousin cut it to make the bandage stay in place. I could trim it for you, blend the different lengths.”

  “You know how to do that?” His eyes, earth brown and just as firm, held hers.

  “I don’t have any training, if that’s what you mean, but I did it for friends when I was living on the street. Your hair is short and has a natural wave that should make it easy to camouflage the gap.”

  It was a long moment before he answered. “I’d appreciate that, but in the morning, maybe. When we can take it outside for easier cleanup.”

  “Good—good idea.”

  She hardly knew what she was saying, didn’t know if it made sense. Caught in the moment, she couldn’t look away, couldn’t move. Her lips tingled, parting as her breathing quickened. She saw him glance at them, felt his hold tighten at her waist.

  She inclined her head a fraction, hesitated, and then bent lower. He smoothed one large hand up her back, clasped her neck, and then drew her mouth down to his. In the same movement, he pulled her closer and turned her with dizzying strength until she lay in his arms, there on the bench.

  It was so precisely where Mandy wanted to be that she made a low sound of pleasure deep in her throat. His hold tightened, the kiss deepened. His mouth was so intoxicatingly sweet that she hungered for it, felt herself drifting, losing touch with what was real and what was not. Her pulse began to throb in her ears. She grasped the top of his shoulder, wanting to be nearer, turning more fully against him. The firmness of his chest against her breasts gratified some need she’d not known existed. She could feel the deep thudding of his heart, the heat and power of him. And she wanted to feel more, much more.

  He brushed his lips over her cheek to the turn of her neck, teased her earlobe, tested the turnings of her ear with wet heat. With a moan, she caught his jaw, bringing his mouth back to hers. He laughed, a sound that vibrated against her breastbone until it felt as if butterflies were swarming there.

  “Take it easy,” he said against her lips. “There’s no hurry.”

  “There might be,” she whispered, and was startled a moment later to discover he had lifted her T-shirt, brushing the material aside as he closed his hand on her breast. His hot breath singed her through the plain white cotton of her bra, then that barrier was gone. He closed his mouth on her nipple, suckling with gentle care.

  “What—what are you doing?” A direct connection seemed to stretch between that marvelous suction and the most sensitive portion of her body.

  “Don’t you like it?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You’re not going to tell me no one has ever done this before.”

  “Not—not like that.” Disappointment that he’d stopped to speak was a surprising ache inside her.

  “The men you’ve known must have been selfish idiots, or else in an all mighty hurry.”

  “Bruce had to be or—or it would be over before it started.”

  He didn’t say a word for long seconds. “Are you telling me he was the only one?”

  “Is that so hard to believe?” She was losing that lovely current of desire, and the lack of it sounded in her voice. “My mom’s life was a disaster because she got pregnant when she didn’t want to be. I refused to make the same mistake.”

  He whispered something she didn’t quite catch.

  “What?”

  He shook his head so the smooth surfaces of his lips brushed back and forth across her nipple until it was a tight knot. “I said, I’m an idiot, too, just of a different kind.”

  Lance meant his words in more ways than one. He should never have put his hands on Mandy, never kissed or touched her. He ached with his need for her, yet part of his brain was trying to warn him that, administrative leave or not, he was still a cop and she was still a suspect. It made no difference what he did or didn’t believe about that; duty and his service oath said what was happening was all wrong.

  How could that be when it felt so right? And how could he leave her like this, so flushed and warm, infinitely soft and yielding in his arms?

  He couldn’t.

  He didn’t.

  Instead, he used his mouth and hands to show her what she’d missed during her disastrous marriage to an aging husband. He tasted and suckled, touched and explored all her lovely curves and hollows and secret places while silently groaning at what he was doing to himself. He tended her need, ignoring his own, taking her ever higher.

  Until she pressed against him with a small cry, shuddering into his grasp with the force of her pleasure, holding him with aching tightness. He soothed her, stole forbidden kisses, inhaled her heady fragrance, and prayed that, regardless of the pain, he would be allowed to see her like this over and over again.

  Chapter 15

  “It’s beautiful, Zeni, really beautiful, and I appreciate you bringing it out, but I’m not sure I should accept it.”

  Mandy stared down at the comb in her hand, at the exquisitely carved floral motif done in tortoiseshell above the curved teeth. It was delicate but strong, from a different era yet timeless.

  “I was coming out here to the storeroom anyway, looking for salt and pepper packets to restock the grill before taking off for the day. As for the comb, Granny Chauvin would have brought it herself, but was afraid of calling attention to the garage. The sweet old dear was planning on staying up till midnight, bringing it in the dark of the moon or some such thing. I think she was a little disappointed when I offered to do the honors. But since I’m constantly resupplying the coffee shop kitchen, no one will think a thing about me leaving out the back door, heading across to here.”

  “You’ve been so good, feeding us, getting rid of our trash, even laundering our clothes. I do appreciate it.”

  “Don’t be silly. I love being a part of the action.” Zeni paused, her gaze on the comb. “I’m dying to see how that thing looks. Don’t you want to put up your hair up with it?”

  “I’d need a mirror. Besides
, I’m not too sure how to go about it.” It was also true that she didn’t really want to go back inside just now. Lance wasn’t there, and she was enjoying Zeni’s company as they relaxed in the lounge chairs outside.

  “I can do it for you.”

  “Would you?”

  “Love to. Messing around with hair is my thing.”

  Mandy gave her a grateful smile while holding out the comb. “Awesome.”

  For answer, Zeni stood and moved behind where she sat. With nimble fingers, she removed Mandy’s usual tortoiseshell clasp. As there was no place to put it down, she slipped it into the pocket of the apron she wore over her jeans skirt. Deftly, then, she began to comb her fingers through Mandy’s long, thick curls, working out tangles, aligning the strands in one hand.

  “Granny Chauvin sure is a card,” she said as she worked. “She’s been poking around that house where you were staying before, next to hers. She said the back door was unlocked, everything just as it was when you took off with Lance.”

  “Really?” Mandy didn’t turn to face Zeni, but only because she didn’t want to disturb what she was doing. “You’d think someone would have shut up the house by now, maybe moved my things into storage.”

  “Apparently not. Granny was threatening to gather up your belongings and bring them to you.”

  Mandy spared a thought for her things, her favorite brand of toothpaste, scented soap and underwear, not to mention her own shirts, slacks and shoes. A second later, she dismissed it.

  “Goodness, I hope not! Someone should make sure she stays away from that place. It’s doesn’t seem likely whoever shot at me and Lance is still hanging around, but you never know.”

  “Right.” The Watering Hole’s manger removed the comb from between her teeth so she could talk. “Anyway, I don’t think having your makeup case and sexy nighty is going to change much. Lance eats you up with his eyes, as it is.”

  “He does not!”

  “Doth.” The comb was back in her mouth again.

  “No, I swear he’s been avoiding me since—well, in the past couple of days. He’s stopped trying to help in the kitchen, and he stays outside talking to Trey until he thinks I’ve gone to bed.”