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Authors: Beverly Barton

Tags: #Suspense, #Contemporary romance, #Fiction

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BOOK: What She Doesn't Know
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“Is there anything going on that I can help you with?” Danny Lee asked. “I’ve been your financial consultant for years now and if you’re going to invest—”
“It’s a personal investment,” Max said.
“Say no more. Just rest assured that the money will be there when you need it.”
“Thanks again.” Max ended their conversation, then dialed the manager’s office.
“Watson Fritz. How may I help you?”
“Yes, Mr. Fritz, this is Max Devereaux. I’d like you to find a reason to close the pool area for the next two hours, except to Ms. Royale and myself. And please have a pair of swim trunks brought up to my room as soon as possible. Just bill them to my suite.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Devereaux. I believe the pool should be closed immediately for some minor repair work in the area. It will take approximately two hours before the pool can be reopened to our guests. And I’ll personally choose the swim trunks for you and have them sent up immediately.”
“One other thing.”
“Yes?”
“I’d like dinner served here in my suite, at around seven-thirty. I’ll leave the selections up to you.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Max hung up the phone, then went back onto the balcony to watch Jolie. She lifted herself out of the pool, squeezed the water from her hair, and dried off with a white hotel towel. With the pool secluded by a U-shaped hedge and with no chance of anyone interrupting them, what better time than the present to manipulate the situation to his advantage, to lay the groundwork for his seduction. He intended to have Jolie Royale. In his bed. Tonight.
Nowell Landers held Clarice in his arms, soothing her with soft tender words and gentle caresses. She kept mumbling incoherently and shaking her head.
“Theron, how could you have upset her this way?” Yvonne demanded as she stood over him, a reproachful expression on her face. “You know how emotionally fragile she is.”
“I’m sorry that Clarice…
Aunt
Clarice is so upset and confused. I swear that I had no idea she’d go all weird like that.” Theron tried to defend himself, but he could tell by his mother’s tight mouth and narrowed gaze that he wasn’t going to be able to easily redeem himself. Often the best defense was offense. “But if you’d answered my questions about Roscoe Wells, then I wouldn’t have been forced to ask Aunt Clarice about the big secret you two share.”
“What did she tell you before she got so upset?”
“Nothing really.”
“But you kept pressing her to remember things, to tell you things, and she lost control and went off into her own little world.” Yvonne glanced at Clarice. “She is so fragile that it doesn’t take much to upset her, and bringing up the topic of Roscoe Wells and what happened that day over forty years ago sent her off the deep end.”
“Should you call a doctor for her?” Theron asked. Hell, he hadn’t meant any harm to Clarice. He’d known she was a little off and had been since the Belle Rose massacre, but he’d had no idea how mentally unstable she really was.
“All the doctors in the world can’t help her,” Yvonne said. “I’m just glad you called when you did. Thank goodness Nowell had just arrived at Belle Rose and came straight over here with me. He seems to be able to do more with her than anyone else.”
Nowell held Clarice in his arms and spoke to her quietly. “Do you want to go home, honey? I can fix you a nice cup of tea and we can sit in the gazebo and relax?”
“Yes, Jonathan, that would be so nice,” Clarice replied. “I want you to meet my sisters, Audrey and Lisette…and Yvonne. They’ll be my bridesmaids at our wedding.” Clarice giggled. “People will be so shocked when they realize Yvonne is part of the wedding party. But I don’t care. She’s my sister, you know…and my very best friend.”
Nowell’s gaze met Yvonne’s and they exchanged sympathetic looks. Theron hung his head.
“We’ll go on up to Belle Rose now.” Nowell led Clarice off the cottage porch, then glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll call later and let you know how she is.”
“Yes, thank you.” Yvonne watched Clarice and Nowell as they headed up the road. As soon as they were out of earshot, she turned on Theron. “The secret that Clarice and I share is nobody’s business but ours. Do you hear me, son? And if we choose to use that secret to protect you, then that, too, is our business. I don’t want you to ever question Clarice about it again.”
“What if I ask Roscoe Wells about it?”
Yvonne’s eyes widened in horror. “Don’t you go near that man!”
“Will you tell me one thing, something that is my business?”
His mother stared at him.
“Is Roscoe Wells my father?”
Yvonne gasped; a fine mist of tears glazed her eyes. “No, he’s not, thank God. And if you want me to, I can swear to that on a mile-high stack of Bibles.”
Chapter 24
 
In less than twenty-four hours, they would have the Belle Rose massacre files. The truth about the murders had to be there in the files, somewhere. Otherwise, why would they be worth a million dollars? As much as she wanted to get a look at those files, Jolie dreaded the thought of what she would find. Crime scene photographs. Shots of her mother, her aunt, and Lemar. A forensic report, a ballistics report, a preliminary report by the deputies first on the scene and the medical examiner’s report. And God only knew what else. Clues that might lead them to the real killer or hard evidence in black and white?
Jolie lathered her arms and legs with sunscreen, then stretched out on the chaise longue by the pool. Waiting until eleven tomorrow wouldn’t be easy; already the two hours since Max and she had met with Aaron Bendall seemed more like two days. She lifted her sunglasses off the dry towel beside the chaise, put them on, and closed her eyes.
Relax, Jolie
, she told herself.
Worrying about tomorrow won’t make the time pass any faster. And escaping from Max for a few hours will not save you from him, either. Face it, you’ve simply given yourself a brief reprieve
. She had come to realize that Max Devereaux was a force to be reckoned with when he wanted something. And it was obvious that he wanted her.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid I must ask you to vacate the pool area,” Mr. Fritz said. “There is some minor repair work that we need to do. I apologize for any inconvenience and appreciate your cooperation. The pool should reopen in a couple of hours.”
Jolie sighed. Just when she’d settled in, was halfway relaxed and knew she was temporarily safe from Max’s presence, the hotel manager decides to close the pool. Great. Just great. She rose from the chaise, picked up her towels and bottle of sunscreen, then started to follow the other hotel guests.
Mr. Fritz approached her. “Ms. Royale, please don’t leave. The pool area is not closed to you.”
“I don’t understand. I—”
“Thank you, Mr. Fritz.” Max appeared at the open gate, which was the entrance from the narrow, greenery shrouded, brick walkway that led from the hotel to the secluded pool area.
“Oh.” Jolie understood immediately. Max Devereaux wanted complete privacy at the pool, so he’d snapped his fingers and the hotel manager had closed the area to the rest of the guests.
Mr. Fritz disappeared hurriedly, latching the decorative wooden gate behind him. With two tall glasses in each hand, Max walked toward her.
Be still my heart
, she thought, then mentally laughed at her own silliness.
Be still my heart, indeed
. No big deal that Max resembled a half-naked Greek god in his royal blue swim trunks. So the man was drop-dead gorgeous. It didn’t matter that her body was already gearing up for some hanky-panky, her nipples peaked and her femininity moistening with each throb; nothing was going to happen between Max and her. She’d be a fool to fall into his arms. There was no way they could have a meaningless affair and then walk away from each other when this was all over.
Max held out one of the drinks to her. She dropped her towels and sunscreen to the patio floor, then reached over and took the glass, careful to avoid touching Max’s hand. He sat in the chaise next to the one she’d just vacated and spread out his long lean body. He took a sip of the slushy orange-pink drink.
“Mmmm.” Max placed the glass beside his chaise on the patio. “The bartender told me that this drink is called a Coral Blizzard.”
Standing over Max, Jolie glared at him. “Did it ever occur to you that I came down here to get away from you?”
“Never entered my mind.” He stretched his arms, twined his fingers together and placed his open palms behind his head. “Mind putting some sunscreen on me?”
Jolie slumped down onto the edge of her chaise, glared at her drink, then sipped the concoction through the straw. Fruity, sweet, and pleasantly refreshing. She took several more sips, then set the glass down and glowered at Max. “If you think I’m going to touch you, you’re out of your mind.”
Max chuckled softly. “What are you so afraid of,
chère?
”
“Dammit, Max, why do you call me
chère?
It’s unnerving to hear that sort of endearment coming from you. You probably call every woman who appeals to you
chère
, don’t you? Do you honestly believe women find it irresistibly romantic?”
Max eased away his sunglasses, held them in his hand, and looked directly at her. “I’ve never called anyone else
chère
. Not ever.”
This was not the confession she wanted to hear. She didn’t want to be special to Max in any way. It would be so much easier to reject him if she believed she was only one in a long line of lovesick fools who’d succumbed to his dangerous earthy charm.
“Then why me?” she asked.
“Because it suits you. And it suits the way I feel about you.”
Don’t let him sweet-talk his way into your heart—and into your bed. What makes you think Max is any different from his mother? For all you know, he could be a user, a taker, a manipulator, just like Georgette. Ah, but are you still so sure about Georgette? Aren’t you beginning to believe that she truly loved your father?
“Did you hear some guy using the endearment when you were in New Orleans? Or since he’s originally from New Orleans, maybe your uncle Parry says it to all his lady friends.”
“You seem very concerned about a simple little word.”
Jolie scooted back in the chaise and crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re the one making a big deal out of it.”
“Would you really like to know who used that word for the special woman in his life?”
Jolie shook her head. “No, I’m not sure I want to know.” A sudden sinking feeling hit her square in the gut and a niggling suspicion formed in her mind.
“I imagine you’ve already guessed, haven’t you?” Max reached over the six inches separating their chaises and ran the tips of his fingers over her arm, from shoulder to wrist. “Louis called my mother
chère
. Somehow that one word said so much about how he felt, about the depth of his emotions.”
“Damn, I should have known.”
When Jolie started to get up, Max manacled her wrist. She rose from the chair and struggled to free herself. But he held tight, then jerked unexpectedly and toppled her off her feet and into his lap. She sat perfectly still, her breath caught in her throat.
“Please, Max, let me go.”
“I can’t do that.”
When he circled her waist and manipulated her body until she lay stretched out on top of him, she didn’t protest. They were eye-to-eye, her face only inches above his. Max reached up and removed her sunglasses. His hand at the base of her spine moved lower to cup one buttock. Jolie sucked in a deep breath.
“I don’t want this,” she told him.
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t. This thing between us, whatever the hell it is, can only cause us pain. Look what reckless passion did to my father and your mother? They harmed so many people with their affair. And undoubtedly your uncle Parry has never gotten over Aunt Lisette. He’s never married, has he? And just think what loving someone did to Aunt Clarice. She’s still in love with her Jonathan.”
“She seems to have fallen in love with Nowell Landers, so perhaps it’s possible to fall passionately in love more than once.”
“Not in that same mindless, all-consuming way,” Jolie said, wishing Max would stop caressing her butt, stop staring at her as if he wanted to take her here and now. “Besides, half the time Aunt Clarice thinks Nowell is Jonathan.”
“Nowell Landers is a fraud,” Max said, his breath fanning Jolie’s neck as he nuzzled her earlobe. “I know you disagree, but—”
“Oh, I agree with you. I think Nowell is most definitely a fraud.” Melting into Max’s body, her breasts pressed against his chest. And his erection throbbed against her mound.
Clutching the back of her head, Max forked his fingers through her damp hair. She gasped as wild fluttering currents zinged through her body. She couldn’t let him kiss her. If he kissed her, she’d be lost. Not only now, but forever.
She lifted her hand and pushed on his shoulder. “Max, do you still have that private detective on retainer?”
“What?” He stared at her, his eyes glazed with passion.
“Would do you me a favor?”
“I’ll do anything for you, Jolie, if you’ll shut up and let me kiss you.”
“Oh.” She should get the hell off him as fast as possible. He was primed and ready, and she was fast losing control of the situation. “Would you… would you call that detective and ask him to run a check on Jonathan Lenz?”
“Why? The man’s been dead for over thirty-five years.”
“Just call it a hunch. Please, do this for me.”
“I’ll call Hugh later this evening. Now, is that all?”
“That’s all.”
Max forced her head down to his.
Don’t let this happen
, she warned herself. Max’s lips touched hers. Softly. A faint brush of flesh against flesh. Then a delicate nibbling, followed by his caressing tongue outlining her lips. She could feel herself dissolving into him, deeper and deeper with each passing second, as she fell more and more under his spell. Nothing in her life had ever felt this right, as if she had been waiting thirty-four years for this moment, for this one particular man.
“Please, Max, I can’t,” she whispered against his lips.
He closed his eyes. Every muscle in his body tensed. He tightened his hold on the back of her head and for a split second she thought he was going to force her into a more intimate kiss. But suddenly he withdrew, his movements stiff, as it took a great deal of strength to force himself to release her.
“Get up. Now.” The words grated from between his clenched teeth.
“Max, I’m sorry. I just can’t handle this. I’m afraid of—”
He shoved her up and off him. She bolted upright, shaky on her feet and breathing roughly. She stood there, shivering, her arms crisscrossing as she hugged herself. He shot up from the chaise, grabbed her chin and forced her head to lift and meet his gaze.
“You can postpone the inevitable, but you can’t escape it.” Releasing her, he turned and walked away.
Jolie released a pent-up breath.
This isn’t love
, she told herself.
This is some sort of sickness. A passion that overrules common sense, that erases the past and the present, that seduces more surely than any narcotic
.
And if Max was right, she was powerless against her own desire.
Roscoe closed and locked the door to his study. Mattie was still in the house somewhere and Garland could come home at any time. This phone call needed to be completely private.
After unlocking the bottom left drawer of his desk, he removed a small brown leather book, then flipped through the pages until he found what he needed. A phone number he hadn’t used in years. Another old friend who had been useful in the past. Roscoe silently repeated the numbers several times until he’d memorized them, then replaced the book in its safe hiding place and locked the drawer. He returned his key chain to his pants pocket, picked up the phone, and dialed. As the phone rang, he thought about what should be done first. He needed to deal with Max and Jolie. Then Yvonne was next. She and Clarice had kept quiet for forty-two years. He’d felt safe, even smug, knowing that they’d never tell anyone about what had happened. They’d been young and stupid and afraid of him. And they’d believed what he told them. Thank God for that, because if Mr. Sam had ever found out about what he’d done, the old man would have killed Roscoe with his bare hands.
Yvonne needed to be eliminated because she had threatened him, but who posed the most immediate danger? Yvonne or Max and Jolie?
Parry Clifton sat alone in his room. The cicadas hummed outside as evening turned to night. He should have gone into town, paid for a woman, and gotten rip-roaring drunk. These days about the only time he got any peace was when he was so drunk he couldn’t remember anything. Not his childhood, when he and Georgie had been slapped around by their abusive father. Not his teen years when Jules Trouissant had sold the use of his body to rich old men with a penchant for boys and had turned Georgie from a thirteen-year-old virgin into a seasoned whore. And not those dreadful years when Georgie had been married to Philip Devereaux and both she and he had tried so desperately to fit in with the damn blue bloods in Sumarville. And not those wild, reckless, and fun days when he’d fallen in love with Lisette Desmond. Just thinking about her hurt him deep inside, an unbearable pain that ripped at his guts. She’d been so beautiful, so exciting. And she’d been his. But damn her unfaithful little soul, she had betrayed him. And with that sniveling boy. He could have forgiven her for having an affair with Garland Wells, but he couldn’t forgive her lies.
Tears streamed down Parry’s face.
Lisette. Lisette. Have you come back to haunt me? Do you want my forgiveness? Is that it? What if I say I forgive you? Would you forgive me?
BOOK: What She Doesn't Know
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