"Don't do this," he said. "I don't want you to suffer for me. I don't want you to know what it feels like."
"Please trust me, Sam." She slipped her arms around his waist, holding tight when he started to withdraw from her. "You must know how much you mean to me. You're the one person in this world I most want to help."
His unrelenting guilt hit her with shattering force. She clung to Sam, resting her head on his back. Dear God, the pain inside him was unbearable. Dark, bitter rage simmered in his soul. Damned forever. Oh, her poor Sam. A lesser man would never know such guilt.
"Stop it!" He realized what had happened, what he had allowed to happen. Dammit, he wasn't going to let her absorb any more of the tormenting grief from which he could never escape. His grief and guilt were his punishment, not hers. She was innocent, so very innocent.
"Talk to me about what happened. Let it go. Give it to me and let me share your burden. Allow me to help you." While she held him with the fierceness of that abiding protective devotion, she gave those very feelings over to him, allowing him to experience the great depth of her emotions.
"I don't want your help!" Jerking out of her embrace, he stalked off the veranda and across the wide expanse of lush green lawn.
Jeannie stood on the veranda and watched him walk away. Tears filled her eyes, ran down her cheeks, trickled off her nose and over her lips. She couldn't force him to come to her, expose his heart's deepest emotions and bare his soul. But neither could she let him suffer alone, as he had done for the past six years. If he would not allow her to take away his guilt and grief for a few hours, she could still be at his side, supporting him while he grieved anew.
She took one step down from the veranda, then heard Manton call to her. Turning around, she saw him standing behind her.
Did you like the new composition I played for you and Sam today? he asked telepathically.
It was lovely, but—
It made Sam very sad, didn't it?
Yes. It made him think of something he would like to forget.
I wrote the song for your child, Jeannie. For your and Sam Dundee's child.
Jeannie stared directly into Manton's piercing green eyes. Several days ago, she had made the first connection with the new life growing inside her. If she had not been so overwhelmed with all the new feelings she'd experienced the first time she and Sam made love, she would have known immediately that she had conceived his child.
"I knew I couldn't keep the child a secret from you," she said her lips moving silently.
You should not keep her a secret from her father, either.
Jeannie laid her hand tenderly over her flat stomach. Sam's child. The most precious gift God could have given her. She had been given so much. Dare she ask for Sam's salvation from guilt and grief? Dare she ask that he be freed from the past so that he could open his heart and love her? Perhaps she had been blessed with more than enough. Perhaps what she and Sam had already been given was all heaven would allow.
I can't tell Sam now. It's too soon. He has to deal with his old grief first.
Then go to him, Manton said. He will never be able to come to terms with what is destroying him without your help.
Jeannie embraced Manton, her heart filled with love for him. He was the dearest of men, his soul so pure that it was on its final journey to completion.
She walked down the steps and into the yard. She knew where Sam had gone. Back to the beach where he had washed ashore six years ago.
She found him looking out at the ocean, his body statue-hard, the wind whipping his hair into his eyes, his face etched with tense lines of agony.
When she approached him, she didn't touch him, but he sensed her presence. Turning around, he looked at her with dead eyes, eyes of pure gray steel. She took a tentative step forward; he didn't move. Another step. And another.
He watched her, his gaze fixed to hers. She stood directly in front of him, one hand holding her walking stick, the other clutching the side of her peach gauze skirt. A muscle in his neck throbbed. His lips parted. He sucked in a deep breath.
Tearstains marred her face. The hand with which she held the cane trembled, the movement barely discernible. She looked at him with eyes of love and understanding and compassion. His big shoulders slumped ever so slightly. His eyes softened from steel to blue-gray.
He was losing this battle, and he knew it. He might be twice Jeannie's size, his body far more powerful, but inside that fragile body, within that enormous heart of hers, lived a strength for which Sam was no match.
A fine glaze of moisture covered his eyes. He blinked away the evidence of emotion, but he could not turn away from Jeannie. He pulled her into his arms. She went willingly, gladly, dropping her cane onto the sandy beach. She wrapped him in the warmth of her embrace, petting his back with gentle up-and-down strokes. After six long years of running away from a truth that tormented him, Sam knew the time had come to exorcise the demon.
But, dear God, how could he endure watching her hurt for him? How could he, once again, be the recipient of her tender mercy?
"I knew better." He spoke softly, the words a mere whisper on the wind. "If I hadn't been so damned stupid!"
"You made a mistake, Sam. Everyone makes mistakes." She hugged him, absorbing his feelings.
"But not everyone's mistakes cost two people their lives." Clinging to her, he allowed her inside his mind and heart and body. He held back nothing.
Releasing her hold around his waist, she reached up and took his face in her hands. Every muscle in his body tensed. Jeannie held his face, forcing him to look directly into her eyes. "Say it. You blame yourself for Brock Holmes's death. He was a rookie agent, and you felt responsible for him. You blame yourself for the death of Connie Bell, the woman you were having an affair with, the woman who was a nightclub singer in Louie Herriot's employ. You knew better than to become personally involved with someone while you were on an assignment. If you hadn't been sleeping with her, she wouldn't have shown up at the wrong place and the wrong time and gotten shot.
"But it isn't Brock's death, or even Connie's, that you can never forgive yourself for causing. Tell me, Sam. Say it aloud. You've never done that, have you? You keep the truth hidden so deep inside you that it's festered into a rotting sore."
He glared at her, his big body shaking, his eyes dry, his face crumpling before her very eyes. "Dammit, she was pregnant!"
"I know." Jeannie slid her hands down Sam's neck and out to his shoulders, gripping them firmly. "Say it. Just this once, and you'll never have to say it again."
The pain inside him carried him to his knees, Jeannie with him. She could feel the guilt, the anguish, the gut-wrenching pain, as it began to leave him and make its way into her.
"Don't you see, the child could have been mine? I didn't have any idea she was pregnant. After I woke up in the Biloxi hospital, I found out about her being pregnant from another agent who'd been sent in to wrap up the case. Connie was two months pregnant. That baby—" he clutched Jeannie's hands, holding them between their bodies "—was probably mine."
"Say it!" Jeannie cried the tears Sam could not shed. The pain eased from him; she took it upon herself.
"It's my fault that child was never born. I'm responsible for the death of my own child!"
A heavy weight of guilt lifted from Sam. Pain and grief cleared from his heart and soul. He breathed deeply, drawing fresh air into his lungs, cleaning out the dark, dank recesses of his heart, allowing, his soul a brief hint of reprieve.
At sunset, Jeannie sat in Sam's lap on the beach, cocooned in the security of his strong arms. Sam held her, never wanting to let her go.
"The grief and the guilt will always be there," she said. "You know that, don't you? But now that you've faced them, you can learn to deal with them."
"I can't change the past."
"No, but you must learn to live with it."
"I wasn't in love with Connie, and she wasn't in love with me. She'd just broken off with an
other guy, and I knew he was still around."
"The child could have been his or yours, and you'll never know." Jeannie took Sam's hand and laid it on her stomach, covering his hand with hers. "But the guilt is the same, because there's a good chance the child was yours."
"If I hadn't let my… I knew better. I screwed up and it cost two … three people's lives."
"The only way to atone for that mistake is to make the most of your life. Give all that's good and strong within you to others. Forgive yourself, and find the love buried deep inside you."
"I don't know if there's any love in me," he said.
"You love Elizabeth and her child." Jeannie leaned back, letting her head rest on his shoulder. "I know there's more love inside you, if you'll only release it. But no one else can do that for you, Sam. Not even me."
No, not even Jeannie, sweet, angelic Jeannie, could save him. Hell, he wasn't sure he wanted to be saved. He had become accustomed to his guilt and remorse. To the pain. And the price of salvation was too high. If a man didn't care too much, he didn't put his emotions on the line. If caring for others to the extent Jeannie cared, and being willing to open himself up to his deepest emotions, was the only recourse, Sam knew he was damned. Jeannie Alverson was expecting too much from him. He could never be the man she wanted or needed.
Turning in his arms quickly, Jeannie kissed him. A tender, loving kiss. "It's all right. I'm not asking for more than you can give." She caressed his cheek, knowing in her heart that her words were a lie. She wanted Sam Dundee. All of him. His body. His heart. His mind. His very soul. And she wanted him forever. But he hadn't promised her forever. All they had was today.
* * *
The ringing telephone awoke them before dawn. Within minutes, Manton knocked softly on Jeannie's bedroom door.
"Something's wrong." Jeannie sat upright, the pastel floral sheet sliding off her naked breasts to rest at her waist. "We've received a fax from the mainland."
Sam slipped into his shorts and stepped out into the hallway. Manton handed him the faxed communication. Scanning the message quickly, Sam groaned. His stomach muscles tightened. Hell! He wished he didn't have to tell Jeannie. There would be no way to keep her on the island once she knew what had happened.
"I'll tell her." Sam looked directly at Manton so that the big man could read his lips.
Manton nodded, then signed to Sam. In the three weeks they'd been on the island, Sam had tried to learn a few basic words in sign. The best he could make out, Manton was saying he'd prepare some coffee and would bring it to them.
Jeannie pulled her pastel yellow gown over her head, lifting her body to ease the silky material down her hips. Swinging her legs off the side of the bed, she looked up at Sam when he returned with the fax message in his hand.
"It's Julian. What's happened? Did Maynard Reeves—? Oh, no, it's Julian's heart."
Sitting on the edge of the bed beside her, Sam took her hands in his. "Julian's had a heart attack. He's in intensive care. The fax is from Marta. She's with him."
"I've got to get to Biloxi." She squeezed Sam's hands. "Julian needs me. No one else can help him the way I can."
"Maynard Reeves still poses as much of a threat to you as he ever did. If you return to Biloxi, you'll be in danger."
"I know that." She bowed her head, praying silently.
"The doctors will take care of Julian. If they can't save his life, then there's nothing you can do."
She snapped her head up, glaring at Sam. "I'm going back to Biloxi. If Julian dies, I want to be there with him. And if he lives, I can help."
Sam wondered why he had even tried to reason with Jeannie. Why couldn't he just accept the fact that her compassionate heart would always win any battle against logic? For there was no logic to Jeannie's powers, no reasonable explanation. Somehow she had been blessed, or perhaps she'd been cursed, with the ability to truly bestow loving kindness on others. He, of all people, knew what it meant to be the recipient of her tender mercy.
Sam nodded. Jeannie's glare softened to a gentle stare. "I'll take care of Julian," she said. "And you will take care of me."
He kissed her on the forehead. "I'll take good care of you." Standing, he helped her to her feet and into her silk robe, then handed her a cane. "Manton's fixing coffee."
"I'm sorry our days in paradise have to come to an end," Jeannie said, looking at him lovingly.
"Anywhere I am with you is paradise. Don't you know that?"
Manton knocked on the door, then came in carrying a tray, which he placed on Jeannie's desk, an antique of white-painted wood, with a sailing ship surrounded by a circle of roses stenciled on the back. He poured Jeannie a cup, placing cream and sugar in the coffee, then handed it to her. He poured another cup and handed the black liquid to Sam.
Immediately he signed to Sam, looking to Jeannie to translate whatever wasn't immediately understood.
"He wants you to keep me safe," Jeannie said. "He senses danger for both of us. He doesn't want us to leave the island, but he understands that we must."
Jeannie patted Manton's enormous hand, then lifted it to her lips and kissed it. "We'll come back to Le Bijou Bleu as soon as Julian is well." She glanced over at Sam. "Won't we?"
Sam nodded agreement, but he wasn't sure he'd ever return to this island. Once they were back in Biloxi, he would have to deal with Maynard Reeves. After three weeks of searching for any type of evidence that would warrant Reeves's arrest, the local and federal authorities still had nothing concrete. Reeves was still a free man, waiting for Jeannie Alverson to come out of hiding.
* * *
Marta McCorkle kissed Julian's pale cheek, then thanked the young nurse who stood by his bedside. She walked out of the ICU unit and right past the man who stood with his back to her. Maynard Reeves had been told of Julian's heart attack by a Righteous Light disciple, a hospital janitor who'd been working when the medics rushed Julian into the emergency room.
Maynard had been waiting patiently for Marta McCorkle to leave the ICU. All he needed was a few moments alone with Julian Howell. For twenty days, he had tried by every method possible to discover Jeannie Alverson's whereabouts. Dundee had taken her away, was hiding her, keeping her safe. Maynard knew his only hope of finding Jeannie was to get the information from the one person who would know where she was. Julian Howell. But he hadn't been able to get anywhere near Dr. Howell, and making a psychic link with someone he couldn't touch was beyond his capabilities.
No one, except Jeannie and his old friend Wayland Krenshaw, knew he was psychic. Wayland was his right-hand man, a trusted deacon in the church they had founded together. But Jeannie was his enemy. She had refused to join his great cause, to use her talent, as he used his, in the service of the Lord.
He deeply regretted that his psychic abilities were so limited. He knew God had meant for his powers to be greater, but his stupid parents had stifled the natural growth of his powers. If only Jeannie Alverson had joined him, there would have been no limit to the heights he could have reached. Together, they could have been the most powerful force for good in the world.
But Jeannie had shown her true colors. She dared not use her powers in the Lord's service, when her real master was the devil. The woman was a witch, not a saint, as he had hoped. She and her guardian, Dundee, would annihilate him if they could. Satan had given her enormous power, power far greater than those Maynard himself had been blessed with. He had no choice but to destroy her, before she destroyed him.
"May I help you, Father?" the nurse asked.
"Yes, my child. I've come to see Julian Howell." Reeves stood tall and straight in his priest's disguise, one he knew might gain him an audience with Dr. Howell.
"Are you his priest?"
"My parish is near New Orleans," Reeves lied. "I'm a family friend who has been called in for special prayers."
"Dr. Howell's daughter hasn't arrived yet," the nurse said. "And Ms. McCorkle has gone to make a few phone calls. I really need the family
's permission before I allow you to visit Dr. Howell."
"My dear child, I am here at the family's request." He lifted the white Bible he held in his hand. "They know I will be a comfort to Julian."
"Well, I don't suppose there would be anything wrong with letting you come in for a few minutes."
Maynard flashed her his most charming smile, the smile he had used often to persuade ladies to donate large sums of money to the Righteous Light Church. "I need only a few minutes."
Maynard found Julian Howell resting comfortably, his every bodily function monitored. The young nurse stayed with him, still a bit uneasy about allowing someone other than immediate family to visit an ICU patient.
Placing his hand over Julian's, Maynard closed his eyes and began mumbling something he hoped would sound like a prayer. He lowered his voice, allowing it to drift off into silence. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on Julian. Hazy, sleepy, surreal thoughts and images clouded Julian's mind. Maynard probed deeper.
Jeannie is safe, Maynard said telepathically. Far away from Biloxi and any danger. Think about where she is and how safe she is.
Visions of blue sky and water formed in Maynard's mind, then an island, lush and green, a big raised French cottage resting high on a hill.
Dundee had taken her to an island. But where?
When Maynard tried to delve deeper into Julian's subconscious mind, he realized Jeannie's foster father was fighting him, trying to keep him out before he acquired the much-needed information.
Julian thrashed about in the bed. The nurse rushed to his side. "I'm afraid you'll have to leave. Something's wrong. Dr. Howell is becoming quite agitated."
Maynard forced his way past the barrier in Julian's mind. Le Bijou Bleu. The distance from Biloxi and the location of the island flashed through Julian's thoughts, and then his mind closed.
"Father, please leave," the nurse repeated her request.
Opening his eyes, Maynard smiled. "Yes, of course. I'll return later, when he's awake and calm."
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