by Tami Hoag
Annick shot her brother a glance and spoke softly through her teeth so only he could hear. “Giselle will skin us alive if she finds out about this.”
He gave her a look brimming with menace. “Then she’d better not find out, ’tite soeur.”
Butler took one look at the startling mam’selle and blanched. Annick rushed up to the side of the bed, gave him a wild-eyed stare, and shook her rattles at him. The old butler snatched up his putter and warded her off as if with the sword of righteousness. “Ye’ll not lay one heathen hand on me, witch!”
Danielle watched with growing suspicion as Annick danced around in a circle chanting the words to “Iko, Iko,” the old Dixie Cups song, shaking her rattles. Then she tossed some brown powder at him that smelled suspiciously like instant hot cocoa. At the foot of the bed Remy stood with his arms crossed over his chest, fighting a furious battle with laughter, his mustache twitching.
His face red with an oncoming attack of apoplexy, Butler took a poke at the priestess with the golf club. “Be off with ye, heathen wench! I’ll have none of your dark ways practiced in this house!” He stole a glance at Danielle and suddenly fell back against his pillows with a pained expression. “Ooooh! I’ve taxed it again! Tis all his fault!” he wailed, pointing an accusatory putter at Remy.
Remy started to protest but was cut off by a dark look from Danielle.
“Okay, folks, the floor show’s over,” she said dryly, catching hold of the dancing priestess by one of her bead belts, nearly toppling her. She escorted the woman to the door and shooed her out, scattering wide-eyed Beauvaises in every direction. “Send your bill in care of Mr. Doucet,” Danielle said with a smile. “And if he doesn’t pay promptly, feel free to create a likeness of him and stick it full of pins.”
Closing the door in the priestess’s face, Danielle turned and regarded Remy with a dire look. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, perpetrating such a hoax.”
“Me?” Remy itched to denounce his adversary. He scowled at Butler, who was looking altogether too smug, and ground his teeth. He couldn’t expose the Scot or the Scot would expose him. He couldn’t tell Danielle her precious old butler was playing her for a sucker without having her find out that he himself had duped her as well.
“I think you have some apologizing to do, Mr. Doucet,” Danielle said primly. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Remy seethed as Danielle let herself out of the room. He whirled around to shake a finger at Butler. “You’re a fraud, old man.”
“So are you,” Butler volleyed, a truculent gleam in his eye and his putter at the ready.
“Your back isn’t any worse than mine.”
“And you’re no more a nanny than my big toe.”
“Seems to me what we’ve got us here is a good old-fashioned Mexican standoff, Scottie,” Remy said, deftly plucking away Butler’s putter. He nudged a couple of golf balls out from under the bed skirt with his toe, took a practiced stance, and methodically tapped each across the rug. The first missed its mark by a fraction of an inch. The second rolled precisely into the overturned water glass tucked beneath the armoire. Holding his position, he glanced over at Butler and raised a brow. “What are we gonna do about this, mon ami?”
Butler narrowed his shrewd blue eyes, taking in both Remy’s face and his grip on the golf club. He seemed to consider for a moment. “You’re a golfing man, Mr. Do-sit?”
“Had a nine handicap back in my oil company days.”
He nodded and his expression softened a bit, as if Remy’s impressive handicap automatically qualified him as a decent sort of person. Finally he tugged close the belt of his plaid robe and said, “I’ll no have ye hurt the lass.”
“I don’t plan on hurting her. Seems to me she’s been hurting herself enough, yes?”
“Oh, aye, laddie,” Butler murmured. He compressed his mouth briefly, as if warding off an inner pain that had nothing to do with his back. “She has that. She has indeed.”
Remy pulled a chair up alongside the bed and settled himself in it, propping his feet up on the mattress. Still playing absently with the putter, he gave Butler a long level look and said, “Why don’t you tell ol’ Remy all about it?”
Butler stared back at him, outwardly impassive, inwardly pleased.
“It’s me,” he whispered into the receiver after Remy had gone. “Not to worry. Everything is back on track. Better than ever. Oh, aye, we hit a wee bit of a snag there for a day or two, but it’s all coming around. It’ll all work out in the end, I’m sure of it.”
nine
SWITCHING OFF THE LIGHTS IN THE DARKROOM, Danielle let herself out into the hall. She had seen neither Remy nor Butler since the Mam’selle Annick freak-show incident earlier in the evening. She wondered if they had settled their differences. Butler had wasted no opportunity to defame Remy’s name to her every chance he’d had over the past few days. And Remy’s opinion of Butler was not by any means glowing. The whole thing smacked of jealousy. She smiled a little at the thought, but quickly forced the corners of her mouth back down.
The nursery door stood open and she walked toward it automatically, resigned to taking up her nightly vigil. Her own bed would bring nothing but nightmares.
Remy sat in the rocker, moving it slightly to and fro. His hair was tousled, gleaming faintly in the pale light. He wore the same unbuttoned white oxford shirt he had the first night. His unlit cigarette dangled from his lip. Snuggled into the crook of his brawny arm was the baby, sleeping peacefully as Remy sang to her in a whisper-soft voice.
Danielle knew she should turn and run. Her instincts were telling her to get far away as fast as she could. But she couldn’t move. She was rooted to the spot and the scene before her worked its magic with a swiftness that took her breath away.
What could have looked more precious, more loving, than the sight of a big tough macho guy like Remy Doucet holding a baby in fuzzy pajamas? He was the picture of raw virility, yet he held Eudora with such care, such tenderness. And his voice, so low and rough, was as soft as eiderdown as he sang to her in the language he knew first and best.
He looked up at her and she knew it was too late to back out.
“That was lovely,” she whispered, taking another hesitant step toward him. “What was it about?”
“A guy who gets steamed at his pal for raidin’ his trotlines. They beat each other senseless then go off together to drink and complain about the cruelty of women.”
“Charming.”
“It’s my brother’s favorite.”
“He must be quite a guy.”
Remy thought about it and decided to reserve comment. He loved his brother Etienne, nicknamed Lucky. Lucky’s reputation with women was notorious, however, and every girl in Partout Parish had been in love with him at one time or another. Lucky, of course, had never let any woman steal his heart or his freedom, but that had only spurred the feminine instinct to domesticate him. It was a strange phenomenon and not one Remy cared to test with Danielle. He planned to keep her all to himself.
His little heart-to-heart with Butler had been enlightening. He wondered now how much he should let Danielle know he knew. He certainly wouldn’t tell her about the little alliance he and the old man had formed. At best she’d have their hides if she found out about that. As for the rest, he decided he should play it by ear.
“I was heading for bed,” Danielle said. “Thought I’d take a peek in here first.”
“Mmm.”
She glanced at the baby. “I can see she’s fine, so…”
She looked even more hesitant about leaving the room than coming in. Remy’s heart twisted with sympathy for her. She would have denied it with her last breath, but she was afraid to leave the baby. Remy had sensed that the first night. He’d sensed it every time he had come to check on the baby and had found Danielle sitting in the very chair he sat in now, keeping a silent vigil over her niece. He hadn’t intruded those nights. He had simply watched her from the covering darkness of the hall. Now
he knew Danielle’s secret. Even if he hadn’t known, he had seen the fear in her eyes. He had sensed the conflict within her that tore at her soul every night.
Rising carefully out of the rocker, he leaned over the crib and settled Eudora in among her stuffed toys and teething rings, then covered her with a light blanket. When he turned Danielle’s gaze darted from the baby to him and back again.
“Maybe I’ll sit here for a while and unwind,” she said, her voice nowhere near as confident as she would have liked.
She took a step toward the rocking chair but Remy turned and caught her shoulders gently with his big hands. She looked at him sharply, unable to decide how she should interpret or reply to his actions.
“She’s fine, Danielle,” he murmured. “She’s just asleep.”
“I know that,” Danielle said defensively. Her gaze belied her words, though, darting to the child, intent upon seeing the baby’s chest rise and fall.
Aching for her, Remy pulled her into his embrace. He wrapped his arms around her and rubbed his cheek against her mane of silvery waves. “It wasn’t your fault, darlin’,” he whispered.
He knew. Danielle didn’t bother to pretend ignorance. Remy knew about London, about Ann Fielding’s baby. Apparently he and Butler had more than buried the hatchet, she thought wryly, feeling betrayed and vulnerable.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he said again.
Danielle disconnected herself from his embrace, shrugging off the comfort he offered because she didn’t believe she deserved it. “Tell that to the woman whose baby died while I was supposed to be watching.”
“It wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference if you’d been standing right there.”
“Well, I wasn’t standing right there,” she said bitterly, the old recrimination coming easily to the surface. “I was in my darkroom engrossed in the only thing I do very well or care about at all. I was working instead of watching my friend’s baby the way I had promised I would. I was so engrossed in printing my latest masterpiece that I completely forgot Ann’s daughter was asleep in the next room. By the time Ann came back her baby was dead.”
“Sudden infant death,” Remy said, nodding. Butler had explained. Remy had some knowledge about the syndrome from reading Giselle’s child-rearing periodicals while he’d been tending the phone at the agency. He knew enough not to condemn the woman before him. “You couldn’t have prevented it, Danielle. No one could have.”
“I could have been there,” she whispered, her voice choked with remembered pain and regret.
She would have given anything, anything in the world, to relive that night. She would have given her talent if she could have. Tears spilled down her cheeks now as she realized, not for the first time, that nothing she could do now would make amends. No amount of pain, no amount of self-sacrifice, would bring Ann’s baby back.
She brought a fist to her mouth and bit down hard on one knuckle as she thought of the tiny life that had slipped away that night, all alone in the darkness of a strange room, with no familiar voice or touch to say good-bye. And the pain sliced her heart in two as if a year hadn’t passed, as if enough years could never pass to dull it.
Her shoulders shook convulsively as the sobs wracked her—silent because she didn’t want to share them. Still, when Remy turned her and put his arms around her, she didn’t fight him. She didn’t have the strength. The pain was hers alone to bear, but God help her, she didn’t have the strength to turn away his second offer of comfort. It was just another weakness in her. What was one more?
She let her head fall to the broad width of his shoulder. She let him hold her close and kiss her hair. She let herself cry. In her mind she made herself listen again to Ann’s bitter accusations. Danielle was not fit to be around children, she had screamed. Danielle was disgustingly selfish and consumed by her work. Danielle was a woman who never deserved to be a mother. And Danielle cried harder because she knew it was all true.
“Don’t cry so, darlin’,” Remy whispered around the lump in his throat. “Don’t cry so, chère, you’re breakin’ my heart.”
He hurt so for her, he nearly couldn’t stand it. Strong, independent Danielle. Danielle, who professed to need no ties. She was trembling in his arms as if the very last ounce of her inner strength was being wrung from her.
“Now you see why I don’t belong here,” she murmured. “She never should have asked.”
“No,” Remy said, holding her tighter. “Now I see exactly why she asked.” He could also see how deeply Suzannah Beauvais cared for her half sister and how that love was returned. That Danielle would put herself through such emotional hell just because Suzannah had asked her told him a lot. “She asked because she trusts you.”
“Trusted me to hire you, maybe,” Danielle conceded. “More likely I was the only person in the western hemisphere who hadn’t heard the legend of the Big Bad Beauvais clan. She probably thinks these kids are tough enough to survive anything—even me.”
Her voice tightened painfully on those last two words and Remy winced a bit. The lady was hard on herself; not the mark of someone who was habitually selfish. She was unsure of herself; not the sign of a woman so self-possessed that she needed no one else in her life.
“How long are you gonna go on blamin’ yourself for some-thin’ you didn’t do?” he asked quietly. “You’re only human, Danielle, not God. That baby dyin’ was a sad, sad thing, but you didn’t cause it. It’s somethin’ that happens. We don’t know why. We can do our grieving, then get on with our lives.”
“How can Ann get on with her life? She lost her child.”
“And I can’t even imagine her pain. But what good will it be for her to let it go on forever? Then two lives are lost, not one, you see. Where is the sense in that? Don’t throw your life away, too, Danielle. It won’t bring that baby back. You let the guilt drive you away from your family, away from your art, maybe even from me, yes?”
“No!” she said, realizing too late that she was neatly trapped. If she was denying only the last of the statement, then she was admitting that the first part was true. If she thought she was denying the whole charge, then he would know that she was lying. She had banished herself to Tibet to take pictures of bleakness. She had cut people out of her life, thinking to save them from her selfishness. And nothing she had done had made any difference.
He had her dead to rights. The man was too blasted insightful. Since when had men become insightful? Wasn’t that against the rules of machismo? Glancing up at Remy, she almost laughed. There hadn’t been a rule made this rogue wouldn’t go over, under, or around.
“You’re a weasel,” she said.
“I’m your friend.”
That was true, she thought, a little amazed.
Remy smiled gently. “So you gonna stop taking pictures of closed doors and start livin’ again, chère? Let some of those doors open?”
“Where did you get to be so smart?” she asked dryly, trying to keep herself from bursting into tears of gratitude. “Nanny school?”
Remy bit back his grimace of guilt. This didn’t seem the time for a confession that would brand him a fraud. “Just runs in the family, I guess.”
“Well, wherever it comes from,” she whispered hoarsely, “thanks.”
Remy lowered his head and nuzzled her cheek, coaxing her to turn her lips to meet his. She kissed him, her arms sliding up around his neck, her body still pressed limply to his. He had been her anchor as the storm of her emotions had battered her. Now she clung to him still, too spent to let go of his strength. She allowed him to kiss her deeply and thoroughly, but when the kiss was finished she peeled herself away from him and stepped back.
“We shouldn’t.”
There wasn’t much conviction in her voice, Remy noted. His conscience pointed out to him that only a scoundrel would take advantage of her vulnerability. The little devil on his shoulder rationalized that what Danielle needed was a diversion from her emotional self-flagellation. She needed some fun
, some renowned Doucet-brand T.L.C. She needed to get involved again with life and with people. She might as well start by getting involved with him.
“Why shouldn’t we?” he said, his gaze full of challenge. “We’re both adults. We know what we want. Hell, sugar, let’s be honest. We’ve both wanted it since the minute you opened that front door and found me on the other side.”
Danielle felt the undeniable tingle of temptation as she looked at him. He was impossibly sexy. His shirt hung open, draping down from massive shoulders to frame a thick chest. A carpet of black curls over sculptured muscle thinned at his washboard belly and disappeared into the low-riding waistband of his jeans. But more than this breathtaking masculine vision, she was attracted most by his expression—teasing and tender, sweet and mischievous. The look in his dark eyes invited her to run wild with him, to give in to temptation, to indulge the desires she had been trying for days to repress. She felt more alive just looking at him. The sexual energy rolled off him in waves and heightened her awareness both of him and of her own long-neglected needs.
“There are a million reasons we shouldn’t,” she said, praying he wouldn’t ask her to name them.
With a sexy swagger he closed the distance she had put between them. That devilish light was dancing in his eyes. His mustache twitched up at the corners in a smile reminiscent of a cat closing in on a cornered canary. “All of them together don’t add up to a flea.”
He put his hands on her shoulders then slid them deliberately down her sides and around to the small of her back, his thumbs brushing the sides of her breasts as they went. He drew her lower body close to his and began swaying as if in time to some sensuous music only he could hear. “Come on, chère, admit it, this attraction is bigger than both of us. Why fight it? This is N’Awlins, bébé, let the good times roll.”
Danielle’s hips had begun to move in time with Remy’s. She couldn’t seem to stop them. Did she really want to? With him so close, so sexy, inciting her senses to riot, her reasons for not getting involved with him drifted away like smoke. It was remarkable, really, how swiftly and effortlessly he had altered her mood.
