"Sounds like a little sibling rivalry."
"Rivalry, maybe. Sibling, no. Not at all."
Before he could consider that, before he could wonder at the implications of it, she smiled, really smiled, the sort of smile that could make a man stop dead still. "Enough about my cousin and me," she said. "Tell me about your siblings. Sisters, you said?"
* * *
Bedtime came too quickly to suit Valery. She should have welcomed it—God knew she was tired, and for the first night in a week she had a safe place to sleep—but she felt funny taking Michael's bed, having all that comfort and room to snuggle while he was making do with a blanket, a pillow and the sofa.
She felt even funnier thinking of him in the bed.
They'd had a quiet dinner—a spicy stew that he'd taken from the freezer and thawed in the microwave—and then she had watched TV while he had just sort of watched—her, the apartment, the square. It wasn't as if he were expecting trouble, but he would be prepared if it came. Now he was in the shower and she was in his room, preparing to get into his bed.
Alone.
When he'd packed her clothing at the apartment, he hadn't bothered with her robe, hanging on the back of the bathroom door. She wondered if he had seen it and decided it was too bulky, if he had intended to bring a nightgown instead. He wouldn't have found any nightclothes if he had looked; she didn't own any. Since she'd been seventeen or so, she had always found naked the best way to sleep—in her own bed. Until tonight she'd never tried it in a man's bed. Not when he wasn't sleeping with her.
She peeled off her socks and sweatpants, then turned back the covers. The sheets were hunter green, and the comforter was a matching green, navy and crimson, with strong stripes on one side and an intricate paisley design on the other. They were soft, top quality. Her cop had good taste.
Only he wasn't hers, she admonished herself as she stripped off the rest of her clothing. Not by any stretch of the imagination.
Leaving the bedside lamp burning, she slid between the sheets, tucking them around her, and rested her head on her pillow. It was interesting, this mix of old and new, of strange and familiar—his bed, her pillow. His bold, masculine linens and her feminine embroidered and lace-edged pillowcase. His scent on his bedclothes, her scent on hers.
She wished she knew him better, wished she had answers to questions she hadn't yet asked. After today's conversations he'd learned more about her—more, she suspected, than he'd wanted to know—and she had learned plenty about his home, his art and his family. But she knew practically nothing about him.
She didn't know why he was troubled. Why his eyes were so often bleak. What had driven him to create those troubling paintings of churches. She didn't know what sorrow haunted him.
She didn't really know anything at all—except that he was helping her. He was giving her the secure place she needed, the time she needed. He was making room for her—temporarily—in his life. He was prepared to do whatever it took to keep her safe.
She knew a few other things, too. That he was handsome. That in spite of the bleakness and the sorrow, she was attracted to him. That the attraction was stronger than with any other man she'd ever known. That there probably wasn't much that could come of it, because she couldn't trust him fully and he, she suspected, didn't trust himself at all.
Down the hall, even though two doors were closed between them, she heard the shower shut off. He would dry off now, get dressed and return to the living room, where he would spend most of the night not sleeping. She wondered whether he would watch television or read one of the novels that filled the corner bookcase. Or would he ignore the chill and stand out on the balcony again and stare at God knew what. The empty square? The occasional passerby? The Mississippi River bridge?
Or maybe the cathedral. The church that, judging from his painting of it, could offer him no peace. Did he want peace? Had he tried and failed to find it there? Was that why those two paintings had been filled with such hopelessness?
Her shiver made her burrow deeper beneath the covers until she was properly cocooned. Even though she had a million more thoughts to think, her eyes were growing heavy, her breathing slowing and evening out. She had survived another day. With Michael in the other room she was safe. Tonight she could sleep, and he would worry for her.
Just before she drifted off, she mouthed a silent prayer—for her own safety, as she had done for the last five nights, and now for Michael's. She prayed that the men who had killed Nate Simmons would be caught and that this nightmare would end. She prayed for the guidance she needed to make the proper decision regarding Remy.
And she prayed for assurance. With all the problems Michael already had in his life, she asked God not to let her be one more than he could bear.
* * *
The apartment was quiet. Occasionally the refrigerator motor switched on for a moment or two, and less often the heat came on, sending a blast of warm air into the room, but for the most part it was quiet.
Michael was well accustomed to silence. Unlike most of his friends who lived alone, he didn't use the television or the radio to disturb his solitude, didn't need the distractions, didn't need to pretend that he wasn't alone. Most of his life he'd been comfortable with silence, maybe because he'd found so little of it. Growing up back in Arkansas, his sisters had ensured that there was always noise of some sort. In college, the dorm where he'd lived his first year and the apartment he'd shared with Evan, Remy and Smith the remaining three years had been busy places, with someone always coming or going, stereos blaring, arguments waging.
He'd taken his silence where he could find it—in the woods surrounding the fields he had helped his father farm. In a library alcove with built-in desks for serious studying. On long middle-of-the-night walks along the river when there was nothing but the lapping of water against the levee and the occasional passing car.
And in church. Every service he'd ever attended had included moments of quiet for reflection, for silent prayer, for communion. It had been easy back then, sitting on a padded wooden pew, touched by the multicolored light that came through the stained-glass windows, surrounded by belief, by faith, by reverence. Easy to believe in God. Easy to believe in prayer. Easy to believe in eternity and final rewards for lives well lived.
Good and evil. Salvation, damnation. Heaven and hell. Evan's death had taken more from Michael than his friend and partner, far more than the man he'd respected most and loved best. It had stolen the balance from his life, from his faith. Good no longer triumphed over evil. Salvation was an empty promise. And he'd found his own hell right here on earth.
Now he tolerated the quiet. It didn't comfort him, as it once had. It had become merely a respite from the noise of the world. It was no longer a time to reflect. To pray. To renew. It was simply silence. The same silence that had met his prayers for Evan. The same empty, unforgiving silence that had met his curses when his prayers had gone unanswered.
God had deserted him that night last spring, and he had repaid the favor in kind.
With a sigh, Michael rolled onto his side so he could see the kitchen clock: 3:21. He'd read for the five hours since Valery had gone to bed, but now, though he was no closer to sleep than he had been, his eyes were gritty and tired. He knew the routine. Now it was time to simply lie there, eyes closed, and relax. If he was lucky, soon he would drift off and sleep enough to take the edge off his weariness.
But there were things he had to do first. Throwing back the blanket, he got to his feet. He checked the French doors, even though he knew they were locked, and the front door, which was still as secure—lock, dead bolt and chain—as it had been the last two times he'd checked.
It was on his way back that he noticed the bedroom light was still on. He headed in that direction, hesitating a moment before tapping lightly at the door. When there was no answer, he twisted the knob and the door swung noiselessly in.
Valery was lying on his side of the bed, facing him, her black hair a dramatic s
lash across the snowy-white pillowcase. She was sleeping deeply, the kind of heavy, restorative sleep that he rarely got, the kind that she badly needed.
He wondered if he could find that sort of rest with her at his side.
For a time he considered staying, drawing a chair close and simply watching her as he'd done most of last night. If she happened to awaken and find him there, she wouldn't mind, not if he told her it was for her safety.
But then she shifted onto her stomach, sliding both arms free of the covers to pillow her head, and he realized that she was naked, and he knew he couldn't stay. Not with the arousal that simple glimpse—bare arms, bare shoulders—had awakened inside him. Not with the desire to see more of her. Not with the need to touch her that was as strong as his desire. Not with the hunger for intimacy that had gone too long unsatisfied.
Even knowing he had to leave, he delayed. It had been a long time since he'd experienced these particular emotions. Lately he'd just been too empty. Before that there had been the drinking, the grief, the sorrow. He had almost died when Evan had, had tried to finish the job with booze. Thanks to Remy, in particular, and to Smith, he had survived physically, but not emotionally. Not spiritually.
He had forgotten how it felt to be aroused. Pain and pleasure. Sweet and bitter. Full of promise. Anticipation. Connection. If he could make love to Valery Navarre, he could feel alive again. He could want. For a time, at least, he could give, receive and satisfy. He could prove that all the good hadn't gone out of his life, that not only the negative remained. Through intimacy with her he could once again become intimate with himself.
He could find hope—hope that, if his emotions weren't dead, maybe his spirit had also survived. That maybe someday he could find it again. Maybe someday he would be whole again.
If he could make love to Valery Navarre. To the stranger who had invaded his mind days before intruding into his life. To Remy's cousin. To the woman he had promised against all his better judgment to protect.
If he could make love to Valery.
Which, of course, in all fairness—to her, to Remy, to himself—he couldn't.
He shouldn't.
He wouldn't.
* * *
Chapter 5
« ^ »
"Tell me about the murder."
Meeting Michael's gaze, Valery slowly licked powder sugar from her fingertips, then wiped her hands on a paper napkin. She hadn't realized until this morning one of the tremendous advantage of living exactly where he did: fresh beignets and coffee from the Café du Monde any time of the day or night. Once a week she stopped by on her way to work and picked up a bag to share with her part-time help, but by the time she reached the shop, the beignets had cooled enough to become greasy, and the powdered sugar had collected in clumps. These, though, had been perfectly done when Michael returned with them.
"You've read the papers," she remarked.
"Yes, and I've seen the TV stories, but the reporters weren't there. You were. I want to know what you saw."
What she'd seen wasn't the problem, she thought grimly. What she'd heard was.
"You were leaving work."
She nodded.
"Why so early?"
"I work nine to three through the week and all day Saturday."
"So you always leave at that time."
"Always." It was her habit, and she had always been a creature of habit. The past week had made her value those habits even more. There was something reassuring about knowing that she would be home in time to see her favorite daytime talk show, that her house would be clean on Monday and her laundry done on Wednesday. There was a certain comfort in having beignets for breakfast on Thursdays, in knowing her route home so well that she could drive it with her eyes shut, in reading in bed to the accompaniment of David Letterman on weeknights. Routine was so familiar, so … well, routine.
"And you always walk the same route to your car?"
She nodded.
He shook his head, his expression faintly dismayed. "You're a single woman who lives alone in the nineties. Don't you know the world is dangerous? That you should vary your routine?"
"If you vary it, then it's not a routine anymore," she replied dryly; then, with a sigh, she answered seriously. "Come on, Michael, I'm a shopkeeper. I earn a living wage, I work six days a week, and I deal with antique clothing. It's not as if I'm important enough for anyone to care. There's not enough of a market for antique clothes for my job to be a danger, no one's going to kidnap me and hold me for ransom, and I certainly don't look prosperous enough to rob. How could my routine possibly matter to anyone?"
"There are a lot of motives for kidnapping besides ransom," he pointed out mildly, "and I've seen people killed for a few dollars and change." He emptied the last of the coffee into his cup and stirred a scant bit of sugar into it. "If you took a different route to your car every day, chances are five out of six that you wouldn't have been on that particular block at that particular time."
She couldn't even argue the point with him. Hadn't she berated herself only a few days ago for being so predictable? "All right," she said, giving in. "If I ever get to go back to my job—if I even have a job to go back to—I won't walk to the car the same way every day."
"So … tell me about that day. Tell me about Nate Simmons."
"I had turned onto Chartres. I was right in the middle of the block when a man—when Simmons came out of a store. He bumped into me, knocked my purse to the ground and picked it up."
"Did he palm anything?"
She smiled faintly, but it felt wrong—profane—when she was talking about a dead man. The smile faded as quickly as it had come. "That was my first thought, too, but no. He picked up my bag, handed it back to me and started walking with me. He was very talkative, very friendly."
"What did he say?"
"He told me I was pretty, asked if I was alone, if I was in New Orleans on vacation. He asked if I minded a little company." Again she smiled. He had been too brash, too confident—not her type at all. But she had found his obvious flattery charming, and she had been pretty confident that she could get rid of him when it became necessary. "I didn't see any harm in letting him walk with me. We were on a busy street in the middle of the French Quarter in the middle of the afternoon. What could possibly happen?"
Michael's voice was soft, his tone gentle, when he gave the obvious answer. "A man could get killed."
"Yes," she agreed in a whisper. Wetting her fingertip, she pressed it into the powdered sugar remaining on the plate between them, then licked it clean. She didn't want to continue this conversation any further, didn't want to get to the part where the man did get killed. She didn't want to remember her terror, so strong that she couldn't give voice to the scream rising inside her. She didn't want to feel again the nausea that had overwhelmed her when she'd recognized the stains on her clothing as the stranger's blood.
She didn't want to go through the whole story, to present it as the truth, the whole truth, while leaving out the worst part, the part suggesting that, while the dead man had been a stranger to her, the man who had ordered his death wasn't.
"What happened next, Valery?"
"We reached the end of the block." She spoke mechanically, forcing herself to recite facts without remembering emotion. "There was a car there, and these two men got out. The man—Simmons—he knew them. He wasn't surprised to see them. He grinned, called one of them by name—Vince—and started to say something to the other. I thought it was my chance to ditch him. I could leave him with his friends and go on to the lot and get my car. But before I could, he stopped in the middle of a sentence, and he swore, and that was when I saw the guns. That was when they shot him. He looked so … surprised." Not frightened. Not angry. Not disappointed. Just surprised.
Had Nate Simmons known, Michael wondered, why Falcone was turning on him? Had he been aware of whatever sin he had committed against his boss, or had he been caught totally in the dark?
"The two men," Val
ery continued. "Vince and the other guy—they were so calm. They didn't care that I'd seen them. They didn't care that there were other people down the street. They acted like nothing was wrong—just put their guns away, strolled back to the car and drove away. They never hurried. They were cool."
"When you kill people for a living, you learn to be cool about it," he said idly, his mind still on why Simmons had been killed. "If you panic, you make mistakes, and if you make mistakes in that business, you don't stay healthy long."
A shiver rippled through her, and she rubbed her arms to dispel it. "Why was he killed? And why like that—in public, with witnesses? Why not do it in private and dump his body someplace where it wouldn't be found for a while?"
"I don't know why. As for the method, maybe they wanted him to be found. Maybe they wanted someone to know how easily they could get rid of a problem."
"Maybe it was a message?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Or a warning. Or maybe it was just arrogance. Falcone thinks he's above the law. He thinks he can get away with anything."
She responded to his words more seriously than he'd expected. "So far he has. No one's been arrested yet. And even though the men work for Falcone, no one's been able to tie him to it, have they? All the crimes he's committed, no one's ever been able to tie him to any of them." She left the table, carrying dishes into the kitchen and rinsing them before returning. She didn't sit down this time, though; instead, she paced the length of the room and back again. "I wish we could go somewhere."
He didn't remind her that they couldn't—that she couldn't. Her tone made it clear that she was all too well aware of that, that it was merely a fruitless wish. She knew she had to stay inside, off the streets and out of danger.
"Those first few days, until I came here, all I wanted was to hide in a tiny, dark room where no one could find me. Now I'd like to take a walk, even if it's to nowhere. I'd like to join the tourists and window-shop, listen to some music and watch the river."
"Being safe gets boring, doesn't it?"
MICHAEL'S GIFT Page 8
