What She Doesn't Know

by Beverly Barton

  As she approached the house, she noticed that lights were still on downstairs, but the upstairs was dark. Did that mean someone—probably Aunt Clarice—had left the lights on for her?

  She parked her SUV in the drive. Tomorrow she’d have to inform Max that she expected a place in the garage to be vacated for her Escalade. It didn’t really matter to her whose car would have to be removed to make room for hers. Preferably Georgette’s Mercedes. But she suspected Max would leave his Porsche outside before he’d dream of upsetting his mother. After locking the Escalade, she kept the key chain in her hand as she headed up the steps to the front veranda.

  Just as she started to insert the key in the lock, a voice said, “Coming home kind of late, aren’t you?”

  After gasping and jumping simultaneously, Jolie jerked around, seeking the man who had spoken. Dropping her keys into the pocket of her linen jacket, she strolled across the veranda. With one leg crossed over the other, looking completely relaxed and right at home, Max sat in one of the big rocking chairs on the side porch. Light coming through a nearby window silhouetted the chair and its occupant. His blue shirt was completely unbuttoned and hung loosely around his hips. She scanned him from his damp hair—apparently he’d just showered—to his chest, lightly dusted with dark hair, over his faded jeans, then hurried past his crotch, and down over his legs to his bare feet.

  “Waiting up for me, stepbrother dear?”

  “Perhaps.”

  He glanced up at her. Because she couldn’t see his eyes clearly, she felt at a disadvantage. She’d found that the best chance of discerning Max’s reaction was to study his steel blue eyes.

  She removed her wrinkled linen jacket, hung it on the back of the rocker beside the one Max occupied, then sat down beside him. “Has everyone else gone to bed?”

  “Mother and Mallory are in their rooms,” he replied. “Uncle Parry stays in town several nights every week. And Aunt Clarice isn’t home yet. She’s still out on her date with Nowell Landers.”

  “You don’t like Mr. Landers, do you?”

  “I don’t trust the man.”

  “Why not?” Jolie began rocking back and forth.

  “He wants something from Aunt Clarice. I just haven’t figured out what it is. Money probably.”

  “Have you ever thought that the man is who and what he presents himself to be and all he wants is Aunt Clarice herself?”

  “I had no idea you were such a romantic.”

  She sensed rather than heard the humor in Max’s voice. “I’m not a romantic, not by any means. But I’m not totally pessimistic either. I don’t question everyone’s motives…unless they give me a reason.”

  He turned his head in her direction. The interior light hit his face just right so that she saw the hint of a smile. “Maybe I should turn Aunt Clarice over to you, let you be her keeper while you’re here at Belle Rose.”

  “I don’t believe Aunt Clarice needs a keeper. She’s a bit more high-strung than most, but she’s not crazy. Not the way people think.”

  “I didn’t say I thought she was crazy. But she is vulnerable and easy prey for a con man claiming to have been with her beloved Jonathan when he died.”

  If she didn’t know better, she’d swear that Max actually cared about Aunt Clarice. But that wasn’t possible, was it? Not Max Devereaux, the heartless bastard.

  “Maybe Nowell Landers really was with Jonathan when he was killed.”

  Max shook his head. “About a month ago Louis asked me to run a check on Nowell Landers. There was no one by that name in Jonathan’s outfit. No one named Nowell Landers was even in Vietnam the same year Jonathan was.”

  “Oh.” She allowed her gaze to meet his in the semidarkness. “Did you tell her? Does she know he lied to her?”

  “I told her. And she told me that I must be mistaken, that the information was incorrect.”

  “Have you confronted Mr. Landers with the truth?”

  “Not yet. I’ve been distracted by other things that required my immediate attention. Louis’s illness and death, to name two.”

  Ah, yes, Max was Louis Royale’s right-hand man, the son he’d always wanted and never had. The heir apparent to her father’s power and prestigious position in the realm of Southern business and politics.

  “I’m surprised, considering how close you two became that you didn’t call him Daddy or Father or Papa.”

  “I was nearly nineteen when he married my mother,” Max said, his tone even and without emotion. “Besides, I’ll always think of Philip Devereaux as my father.”

  “Hm—mm. I remember Philip. A quiet shy man. Very sweet.” She leaned over the arm of her chair and gazed straight into Max’s eyes. “What happened to all that hatred you felt for my father? You made no secret of the fact that you believed if Daddy hadn’t informed the police that Philip had embezzled money from their jointly owned businesses, the insurance company and the stove foundry, that Philip would never have killed himself.”

  Max remained silent for several minutes. The cicadas’ stridulous buzz surrounded them, reminding Jolie of childhood summer nights spent on the porch with her family or in the yard chasing lightning bugs. A hoot owl’s cry blended with the other nocturnal sounds. But above the familiar summertime chorus, she could hear Max breathing. A peculiar sensation deep inside her made her shiver. She felt an overpowering urge to reach out and touch him, to lay her hand over his chest and feel the steady pumping of his heart.

  “I did something for Louis that you refused to do for my mother,” Max said, his deep voice low and oddly soft.

  “And what was that?” She sensed sorrow and pain radiating from him, but it was such a subtle realization that she knew she could be imagining it.

  “I gave myself the chance to get to know my stepparent, to find out just what sort of man he was. When our parents married and my mother begged me to come to Belle Rose with her, I came. I did it for her. And with each passing year, the hatred I’d once felt for Louis changed to begrudging respect and then to liking and finally…. The only dishonorable thing your father ever did was have an affair with my mother, while your mother was still alive.”

  “And while Philip Devereaux was still alive.”

  “No, the affair began after Philip died.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Mother and Louis told me that their affair began after Philip’s death.”

  “And you believed them?”

  “Yes. Louis never lied to me. Not ever.”

  “He lied to my mother, every time he betrayed her with Georgette.”

  Jolie rose from her chair, leaving it rocking. She walked to the edge of the porch and leaned against one of the white columns bracing the upstairs balcony. All the anger and pain and the terrible sense of betrayal she had felt that day when she’d watched through the dirty windowpanes of the cottage in the woods overwhelmed her. It was as fresh and raw as the moment it happened, as vivid in her memory—the sight of her father’s naked butt moving up and down as he pumped into Georgette Devereaux.

  “I saw them,” she said, her voice whispery with emotion.

  “Who?” Max asked.

  “Your mother and my father. In the old cottage, deep in the woods. You know, where you used to take Felicia. Sandy said Felicia told her about the cottage.”

  Max rose from his chair and came up behind Jolie. She felt his heat, his overpowering masculine presence.

  “You saw Louis and my mother making love?” he asked.

  “Yes. I saw them. I saw them fucking…the day of the Belle Rose massacre. And when I regained consciousness at the hospital, I told Daddy that I’d seen them.”

  His big hands clamped over her shoulders, but his touch was unbelievably gentle. “And you were how old—fourteen? And had never even been kissed. You must have been shocked senseless by what you saw.” His grip tightened ever so slightly as he drew her backward toward his body. “And you went straight home to…to do what? Tell your mother? And that’s when you found
the bodies. That’s when you were shot and left for dead.”

  His warm breath grazed her neck, making her unbearably aware of his presence. So near. So very near.

  Tears lodged in her throat, threatening to choke her. She sucked in air between her clenched teeth.

  “It was a Saturday,” she said. “He should have been home—home with my mother, not hiding away in some shack screwing your mother!” Jolie whirled around, her actions releasing her from his tentative hold. She glared at him. “If my father had been home with his wife that day, home where he belonged, he could have stopped the murderer. He could have saved Mama and Aunt Lisette and—”

  Max grabbed her upper arms with brutal force, his fingers biting into her flesh. “You’ve blamed them all these years, blamed them for what happened that day here at Belle Rose.”

  “Yes, I blamed them. If they hadn’t been together, if Daddy had been here…If Georgette had stayed away from him, if she’d left him alone, Daddy would never…He loved my mama.”

  Max’s gaze collided with Jolie’s. She found that she could not break eye contact, could not look away. His hot gaze held her spellbound, trapped with no means of escape.

  “I’m sure he loved your mother when he married her,” Max said, his voice taking on an oddly sensual quality. “But things happen in a marriage. People change. Feelings change.”

  “They’re not supposed to. If you truly love someone—”

  “Louis didn’t love Audrey Desmond the way he loved my mother. I’ve never seen two people more passionately in love than Louis and Mother. She once told me that they were as essential to each other as the very air they breathed. Do you have any idea how that feels? Do you know what a man and woman with that type of hunger would do to be together?”

  “No.” Every nerve in Jolie’s body shrilled a warning. “Do you know? Was that the way it was with you and Felicia?”

  “God, no! That bitch never loved anyone except herself.” Max ran his hands up and down Jolie’s naked arms.

  Heat exploded inside her as she swayed toward Max, her body just barely touching his. Her hand lifted of its own volition and came down in the center of Max’s chest, directly over his thundering heart. A low growl escaped his lips. They glared at each other. He lowered his head.

  A telephone rang. Max froze. Jolie held her breath. The phone kept ringing.

  “It’s the phone in the house,” Max said. “I’d better get it.”

  She managed to nod her head. He released her, turned, and hurried into the house through the open French doors leading into the front parlor. Jolie gasped huge mouthfuls of air the minute he was out of sight. Dear God, what just happened? she asked herself. Had Max been about to kiss her? And more important, had she wanted him to kiss her?

  “Jolie!” Max called from the doorway.

  She forced herself to face him. “Yes?”

  “That was Yvonne. She was nearly hysterical. It seems Theron has been in an accident. The police just notified her.”

  “Oh, dear God, no!”

  “I told Yvonne that she was in no condition to drive herself, that you and I would be right over to get her and take her to the hospital.”

  “Yes, of course.” Jolie lifted her jacket off the chair, then moved toward Max as if she were in a trance. Indeed she felt as if she were.

  She stood just inside the front parlor, watching him hurriedly slip on the socks and shoes he must have discarded there earlier before he went outside on the porch. He buttoned his shirt and stuck the ends inside his jeans, then grabbed Jolie’s arm, pulling her farther into the room before he closed and locked the French doors. She staggered slightly when he released her.

  “We’ll take your SUV,” he told her, while he opened the mahogany secretary, removed pen and paper, and began writing furiously.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Writing a note for Mother and Mallory and Aunt Clarice, to let them know where we’ve gone.”

  She nodded. Leaving the note lying on the open secretary, Max manacled Jolie’s wrist and pulled her with him, through the parlor and out into the foyer.

  “Give me your keys,” he demanded.

  “Why?”

  “Don’t argue, just give me the damn keys. We’re wasting time.”

  She pulled the keys out of her jacket pocket and handed them to him. “Was it a car wreck?”

  “What?” Max punched in the security code on the pad by the front door, then shoved Jolie out onto the porch. He closed and, using her keys, locked the double doors behind them.

  “Theron’s accident—was he in a car wreck?”

  “No.” Max paused long enough to look directly at her. “Yvonne said the police told her that it appears Theron was beaten…beaten almost to death.”

  Chapter 15

  Jolie hated hospitals and had religiously avoided them since she’d spent over a month here at Desmond County General twenty years ago. Hospitals had their own unique scents and sounds, and a special atmosphere, except on the maternity floor, that projected visions of suffering and death. She would rather be just about anywhere else on earth. Although the facility had been modernized, enough of the original remained to give Jolie an eerie feeling of familiarity.

  While Max parked the Escalade, Jolie and Yvonne rushed into the ER, only to be told that Theron had been taken to surgery moments after arrival. By the time they absorbed the information, Max was there, taking charge, leading them into the hospital corridor and straight to the nearest elevator.

  “Max, please, find out what happened.” Yvonne clutched Jolie’s hand. “The person who called—I can’t remember his name—said that Theron had been badly beaten.” With her facial features pinched in a mother’s agony, Yvonne moaned, an obvious effort to keep herself from becoming hysterical.

  “I’ll handle everything,” Max assured her. “As soon as we get to the surgery waiting room, I’ll speak to the nurse in charge and find out how extensive Theron’s injuries are.” He reached out and curled his big hand over Yvonne’s shoulder, patting her comfortingly. “And I’ll contact Chief Harper and get a report on exactly what happened to Theron.”

  “Thank you.” Yvonne whispered, her voice racked with emotion.

  The elevator doors swung open. Jolie moved swiftly to keep up with Yvonne’s urgent pace as she followed Max’s lead down the hall and into the small dark waiting area. He flipped the wall switch and overhead lighting illuminated the room. A pair of twin sofas flanked the walls to the right and left of the entrance and a couple of chairs, with a table positioned between them, occupied the back wall, directly beneath a wide window covered with aluminum blinds.

  “Y’all stay here,” Max said. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  No sooner had Max spoken than a policeman appeared in the doorway. “Mrs. Carter?” the young black officer asked.

  Yvonne jerked around to face him. “Yes, I’m Mrs. Carter.”

  “I’m sorry about your son,” he said.

  Jolie read the officer’s name tag: T. CURRY. “Could you tell us what happened? Was Theron really beaten? Where did it happen? Who would have done something so—”

  “Let Officer Curry speak.” Max placed his hand in the small of Jolie’s back.

  His casual touch should have set off alarm bells inside her, but it didn’t. For some peculiar reason his hand resting gently on her back seemed quite natural, as if they were old friends. Or old lovers.

  Curry shook his head, avoiding eye contact with Yvonne, then he looked directly at Max. “We received a call from Dr. Jardien at eleven-twenty-five—”

  “Amy Jardien?” Yvonne asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Officer Curry replied. “Mr. Carter had called her on his cell phone and they were still connected when it happened. He told her to call the police immediately but didn’t tell her what was wrong. Then she heard a scuffle, heard some rather explicit language, a few racial slurs…she’s pretty sure there were several voices. At least two, maybe three, other than M
r. Carter’s.”

  “Oh, dear Lord.” Yvonne entwined her hands in front of her face in a prayer-like gesture.

  Max inclined his head toward the door. “Why don’t we step outside, officer.”

  “No!” Yvonne grabbed Max’s arm. “I want to hear the rest. I want to know what happened.”

  “Are you sure?” Max asked. “I could—”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” she replied.

  Curry swiped his hand across his mouth and down over his chin. “When we arrived, we found Mr. Carter lying on the ground in front of his apartment. At first we thought he was de”—Curry cleared his throat—“but he was only unconscious. We saw right away that he’d been beaten. He was bloody and…The ambulance arrived a few minutes after we did and they rushed him here to Desmond County.”

  “What about the men who attacked him?” Max asked. “Did you apprehend them?”

  Curry shook his head. “No, sir. There was no sign of anybody when we arrived, just the woman who lives in the other duplex. She’d heard a racket and looked out her window. She said she saw three white men running to a car parked by the curb. She couldn’t give us a description of the men or of the car. The streetlight is across the street on the corner, so her vision was limited. And Mrs. Fredericks wears glasses and didn’t have them on. She’d just gotten out of bed to check on the noise.”

  “I was afraid something like this would happen,” Yvonne said. “I told him”—she glared at Jolie—“I told both of you the risk you’d be taking.”

  “What were you afraid would happen?” Max asked. “What did Theron and Jolie do to put themselves at risk?”

  “Yvonne, you can’t be sure there’s any connection,” Jolie said.

  “Of course there is!” Yvonne told her. “I just didn’t think it would happen this soon.”

  “Would you mind telling me what you’re talking about?” Officer Curry asked. “It might help us in our investigation.”