“It’s causing me a little bit of trouble, though. Mama, if I can get Gray Rouillard to call you, would you talk to him and tell him that you didn’t run away with his father?”
Renee gave an uneasy laugh. “Gray wouldn’t believe a word I said. Guy was easy to get along with, but Gray . . . No, I don’t want to talk to him.”
“Please, Mama. If he doesn’t believe you, that’s up to him, but—”
“I said no,” Renee interrupted sharply. “I’m not going to talk to him, and you’re just wastin’ your breath. I don’t give a shit what those bastards in Prescott think.” She slammed down the receiver, and Faith winced at the crash in her ear.
She hung up the phone, frowning in thought. For whatever reason, Renee was nervous about talking to Gray, and that meant Faith didn’t have much chance of changing her mind. Renee had never been one to go out of her way for anyone, even in a matter as simple as a telephone call.
Well, if Renee wouldn’t talk to Gray, then Faith had to find some other way to convince him, and the best way to do that was find out what had really happened to Guy.
How did you go about finding out if someone who had disappeared twelve years ago was alive or dead? Faith wondered. She wasn’t a detective, didn’t know the procedures to follow to gain access to the records that would normally be examined if you were looking for someone. The thing to do, she supposed, was to hire a real private detective, one who would know those things. It would be expensive, though, and she didn’t have much extra money after spending her ready cash on the house.
Where to find a detective? There wasn’t any such animal in Prescott, but she supposed they could be found in any moderate-sized town; Baton Rouge was a city of almost a quarter million people, but it was also a little too close to Gray’s sphere of influence. New Orleans would probably be safer. Maybe she was being paranoid about Gray’s power, but she would rather be paranoid than caught unawares. A man who would try to stop a woman from buying groceries was diabolical! Her mouth quirked at the thought, and she allowed herself a tiny smile. On a more serious note, she had a healthy respect for the lengths to which he would go to follow through on his promises, and his warnings.
She would find a good detective and hire him to search credit card and bank records, things like that. If Guy was alive, surely he would have used some of his vast financial assets to support himself; she couldn’t see him washing dishes at minimum wage. Perhaps it would be possible to find out if he had filed an income tax return. Surely any decent detective would be able to do that in a short amount of time, maybe a week, so the cost should be manageable.
What if the detective did find a paper trail? If Guy had used a credit card, Gray would have known about it, seen the charge on the monthly statement. Had Gray known where his father was all these years, and not said anything? The possibility was intriguing . . . and infuriating. If Gray had found Guy, wouldn’t he have contacted him? And if he had done that, then he would know that Guy hadn’t left with Renee. It followed, then, that for whatever reason, Gray had never tried to find his father, otherwise he would know there was no reason for this vendetta against her.
She couldn’t forget what she considered the most likely scenario: Guy was dead. She could see him leaving, though divorce would have been a more logical step, but she couldn’t see him never contacting his kids again, or walking away from the Rouillard money. That just wasn’t human nature. She had to give the private detective a chance to find Guy, but she didn’t think he’d succeed. After that, she would start asking questions around town; she didn’t know what she could discover, but the answer to the puzzle was there, if she could just figure out how to put the pieces together. Someone had to know what had happened that night. The truth was there, waiting for someone to find it.
She pulled out a sheet of paper, paused for a moment, and unwillingly wrote her mother’s name at the top. It was asking too much of coincidence for Renee to have left the same night Guy had disappeared and not know anything about it. Maybe they really had run away together, and something had happened to Guy afterward, something that Renee didn’t want known. Though the only circumstances under which Faith could imagine Renee stirring herself to violence would be to protect herself, she had to put Renee’s name at the top of the list.
Beside Renee’s name, because he had the motive, she wrote “Gray” in block letters. She looked at the two names. One of them, possibly both of them, knew what had happened to Guy. She would bet her socks on it. Nausea roiled in her stomach. Between murder suspects, which did she choose as the most likely: her mother, or the man she had always loved?
Stricken, Faith stared bitterly at the paper. Self-knowledge was seldom sweet. She must be the biggest fool alive, for no matter how Gray had wrecked her life or tried to make things impossible for her, no matter that she thought he might be involved in his father’s death, she couldn’t run from, destroy, or even ignore that bone-deep, compelling attraction to him, like metal shavings to a magnet. Just the sight of him made her go weak inside, and when he touched her she felt the electricity of it in every cell of her body. He had never touched her except in anger; what would it be like if he came to her as a lover, with pleasure his intention? She couldn’t imagine it. Her blood would boil, her heart stop.
What would she do if she found that Gray had indeed killed his father, or had him killed? The thought caused a sharp pain in her chest, and she barely stifled a moan. She would have to do the same thing she would do if it were anyone else. She couldn’t live with herself otherwise. And she would grieve for the rest of her life.
There were other suspects, though less likely. She listed them under the two top names. Noelle. Amos. Perhaps Monica. Thinking laterally, the list widened to the other men Renee had slipped around and slept with, as well as Guy’s other women. For two people infatuated with each other, they had been remarkably unfaithful. Ed Morgan had to go on that list, and Faith wrote his name down with pleasure. She racked her brain, trying to think of more names, but twelve years was a long time and most of the men had been eminently forgettable. Maybe town gossip could supply them, as well as some of Guy’s conquests. From his reputation, he had cut quite a swath through southeastern Louisiana. Probably she could list quite a few of Prescott’s society ladies, which would also make their husbands legitimate candidates for the list. Wryly she tossed down the pen. The way this list was going, she might as well take a phone book and start at the A’s.
• • •
“You don’t look like a private detective.”
Francis P. Pleasant looked like a prosperous, conservative businessman. There were no ashtrays in his office; it was neat, and his light gray suit fit well. He had sad, dark eyes, but the expression in them lightened and warmed as he smiled at her. “Did you think I would have a bottle of bourbon on my desktop, and a cigarette with an inch-long ash dangling from my mouth?”
“Something like that.” She returned his smile. “Or that you’d be wearing a Hawaiian shirt.”
He laughed aloud at that. “Not my style. My wife always picked out my clothes—” He stopped, and the sadness returned to his eyes as he glanced at a photograph on his desk.
Faith followed his gaze. The frame was set at an angle to her, but she could still see that it was a picture of a pretty middle-aged woman, her expression so cheerful that it invited smiles. She must have died, for that sadness to be in his eyes. “Is that your wife?” she asked gently.
He managed another smile, but it was strained. “Yes, it is. I lost her a few months ago.”
“I’m so sorry.” She had just met him, but her sympathy was genuine.
“It was a sudden illness,” he said, his voice a little jerky. “I have a bad heart; we both thought I would be the first to go. We were prepared for that. We were saving as much money as we could, for the time when I wouldn’t be able to work. Then she got sick, just a cold, we thought, but forty-eight hours later she was dead from viral pneumonia. By the time she realized she was really sick, that it
wasn’t just a cold, it was too late.”
Tears swam in his eyes, and Faith reached across the desk to put her hand on his. He turned his hand to squeeze her fingers, then blinked in bewilderment.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, blushing. He took out his handkerchief and blotted his eyes. “I don’t know what came over me. You’re a client, we’ve just met, and here I am crying on your shoulder.”
“I’ve lost people I loved, too,” she said, thinking of Scottie and Kyle. “Sometimes it helps to talk about it.”
“Yes, it does, but that was still inappropriate of me. My only excuse is that there’s something very warm about you, my dear.” He realized that he had added an endearment, and blushed again. “Well! Perhaps I’d better ask what has brought you here.”
“A man disappeared twelve years ago,” she said. “I’d like you to find out if he’s still alive.”
He picked up a pen and rapidly scrawled something on a legal pad. “Your father? An old boyfriend?”
“Nothing like that. He was my mother’s lover.”
Mr. Pleasant glanced up at her, but didn’t appear startled. Probably in his business he had received requests far more bizarre than hers. Thinking that he would have a better chance of finding something if he knew all the details and circumstances, rather than just the bare facts of Guy’s name, age, and description, she related everything that had happened twelve years ago, and why she wanted to find out if Guy was still alive.
“I have to tell you,” she said, “I think he’s dead. Maybe my imagination is running away with me, but I think someone killed him.”
Mr. Pleasant carefully placed the pen on the legal pad, positioning it between the blue lines. “You do realize, Mrs. Hardy, that, considering what you’ve told me, your mother is likely involved. For her to have left the same night . . . well, you understand how that looks.”
“Yes, I understand. I can’t think, though, that she would have killed him herself. My mother,” Faith said with a faint smile, “would never kill the goose that laid the golden egg.”
“But you do think that she knows what happened.”
Faith nodded. “I’ve tried to get her to talk about it, but she won’t.”
“I assume there’s no evidence to bring to the attention of the sheriff?”
“None. I don’t want you to find out if Guy was murdered, Mr. Pleasant, I just want you to find out, if you can, whether or not he’s alive. There is a remote possibility that he simply walked away from everything.”
“Very remote,” he said dryly. “Though I have to admit that stranger things have happened. If there’s a paper trail, though, I’ll find it. If he had been running from the law, he would have changed his name, but there was no reason for him to disguise his identity. It should be fairly easy to find out if he’s ever surfaced.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pleasant.” She took out a business card and gave it to him. “Here’s my number. Call me when you know something.”
She left his office feeling pleased with her selection. She had contacted him first by phone, discussed his fee, and made an appointment. Then she had checked his references, and been well satisfied with the answers. Mr. Pleasant had been highly recommended by her business contacts, described as both honest and competent, the kind of person one instinctively trusted. If Guy was alive, Mr. Pleasant would find him.
She glanced at her watch. She had left Prescott early that morning and driven down to New Orleans for her appointment with Mr. Pleasant, which hadn’t taken as long as she had anticipated. Margot was in town, and Faith had made a lunch date with her at the Court of Two Sisters. She had plenty of time to get there, so she drove back to her hotel and left the car, then set out on foot to do some windowshopping along the way.
It was steaming hot as she walked along the narrow streets of the French Quarter, and she crossed over to the shady side. She visited New Orleans frequently, because of the agency office here, but she had never really taken the time to explore this old district. Horse-drawn carriages moved slowly through the streets, with the driver and guide pointing out attractions to the tourists in the carriage. Most people, though, depended on their own feet to take them through the Quarter. Later, the main attraction would be the bars and clubs; this early in the day, shopping was the goal, and the myriad of boutiques, antiques shops, and specialty stores gave plenty of choice and opportunity to people who wanted to spend their money.
She went into a lingerie shop and bought a peach silk nightgown that looked like something one of the Hollywood movie queens would have worn back in the forties and fifties. After wearing almost nothing but hand-me-downs for the first fourteen years of her life, she felt sinfully self-indulgent about new clothes now. She could never bring herself to go on shopping binges now that she had a bit of cash, but every so often she allowed herself a luxury purchase: lace underwear, a sumptuous nightgown, a really good pair of shoes. Those small indulgences made her feel as if the bad times were truly in the past.
When she reached the restaurant, Margot was waiting for her inside. The tall blonde jumped up and hugged her enthusiastically, though it had been only a little over a week since Faith had left Dallas. “It’s so good to see you! Well, are you settling down okay in your little burg? I don’t think I’ll ever settle down again! My first business trip, and it’s to New Orleans. Isn’t this a great place? I hope you don’t mind sitting in the courtyard rather than inside. I know it’s hot, but how often do you get to eat lunch in a courtyard in New Orleans?”
Faith smiled at the barrage of words. Yes, Margot was definitely excited by her new job. “Well, let’s see. I’m twenty-six, and this is the first time I’ve eaten lunch or anything else in a courtyard, so I’d say it doesn’t happen too often.”
“Honey, I can give you ten years, so it’s even rarer than you think, and I intend to enjoy every minute.” They took their seats at one of the tables in the courtyard. Actually, it wasn’t uncomfortably hot; there were umbrellas, and trees to give shade. Margot eyed the bag in Faith’s hand. “I see you’ve been shopping. What did you buy?”
“A nightgown. I would show it to you, but I don’t want to drag it out here in the middle of the restaurant.”
Margot’s eyes twinkled. “That kind of nightgown, huh?”
“Let’s just say it isn’t a Mother Hubbard,” Faith replied delicately, and they laughed. A smiling waiter poured water for them, the light tinkle of the ice cubes making her suddenly aware of her thirst, and how hot she had become on the walk to the restaurant. She glanced around at the other diners as she sipped the cold water, and looked straight at Gray Rouillard.
Her heart gave that immediate, betraying little jump. He was sitting, with another man whose back was to her, two tables over from her and Margot. His dark eyes gleamed as he lifted his glass of wine to her in a silent toast. She lifted the water glass in a return salute, inclining her head in a mock gracious nod.
“Do you know someone here?” Margot asked, turning in her seat. Gray smiled at her. Margot smiled in return, a rather weak effort, then turned back to Faith with a poleaxed expression on her face. “Holy cow,” she said in a dazed voice.
Faith understood perfectly. The flamboyance of New Orleans suited Gray. He was wearing a lightweight, Italiancut suit, and a pale blue shirt that flattered the olive tones of his skin. His thick black hair was brushed back from his face and secured with a bronze clasp at the nape of his neck. The tiny diamond stud glittered in his left earlobe. With the breadth of his linebacker’s shoulders and the feline grace with which he lounged at the small table, he drew the eye of every woman in the courtyard. He wasn’t pretty-boy handsome; his French ancestors had bequeathed him a thin, high-bridged Gallic nose, slightly too long, and a heavy beard that left him with a five-o’clock shadow even at lunchtime. His jaw looked as solid as a rock. No, there was nothing pretty about Gray. What he was, was striking, and dangerously exciting, with his bold, dark eyes and the lazy, sensual curve of his mouth. He looked like a ma
n who was adventurous and confident, both in bed and out.
“Who is he?” Margot breathed. “And do you know him, or are you flirting with a stranger?”
“I’m not flirting,” Faith said, startled, and deliberately turned her gaze to the other side of the courtyard, away from Gray.
Margot laughed. “Honey, that little toast you gave him said, ‘Come and get me, big boy, if you think you’re man enough.’ Do you think a pirate like that is going to ignore the challenge?”
Faith’s eyes widened. “It did not! He raised his wineglass to me, so I did the same with my water glass. Why would he think anything about it when he started it?”
“Have you looked in the mirror lately?” Margot asked, sneaking another look over her shoulder at Gray, and a smile spread across her face.
Faith made a dismissive gesture. “That has nothing to do with it. He wouldn’t—”
“He is,” Margot said with satisfaction, and Faith couldn’t control a little jump as she looked around and saw Gray almost upon them.
“Ladies,” he drawled, lifting Faith’s hand from the table and bowing over it with an Old World gesture that seemed entirely natural to him. Her startled eyes met his, and she saw deviltry, as well as something hot and dangerous, in those dark depths before he shielded them as he touched his lips to her fingers. His lips were soft and warm, very warm. Her heart banged painfully against her ribs and she tried to withdraw her hand, but his grip tightened and she felt the tip of his tongue probe delicately into the sensitive hollow between her last two fingers. Startled, she jumped again, and his awareness of that betraying little movement was in his eyes as he straightened and finally released her hand.
He turned to Margot, bending low over the hand she had extended with a dazed expression, but Faith noticed that he didn’t kiss Margot’s fingers. It didn’t matter. Margot couldn’t have looked more bedazzled if he had presented her with diamonds. Wondering if that same weak, yielding expression was on her face, Faith quickly looked down to disguise it, though of course it was too late. Gray was too experienced to miss any of the nuances. Her fingers tingled, and the skin between her fingers throbbed where his tongue had touched. The tiny damp spot felt both hot and cold, and she clenched her hand to dispel the sensation. Her face was burning. His action had been a subtle parody of sex, a mock penetration that her body recognized, and responded to with a pooling of heat in her lower body, a growing moistness. She could feel her nipples tighten and thrust against the lace of her bra. Damn him!