That had been fifteen long years ago, but she could still call up his image in her mind as if it had been yesterday. She could hear his deep, smoky voice murmuring French love words and husky reassurances, see his powerful young body moving between Lindsey’s spread legs.
Damn him. Why had he kissed her, that day in New Orleans? It was one thing to dream of his kisses, and another to know exactly how he tasted, how soft his lips were, how it felt to be in his arms and feel his erection thrusting insistently against her stomach. It was unfair of him to feed her hunger, and then try to use it against her. But then, everything about Gray was unfair. Why couldn’t his hair have thinned over the years, rather than remaining that thick, vibrant mane? Why couldn’t he have put on weight, developed a beer belly and worn his pants slung low under it, rather than honing down to such lean muscularity, even more finely tuned than during his football days? And even if he hadn’t changed, why couldn’t she have, altering enough so that he no longer affected her so violently, or her heart would beat normally in his presence?
Instead, in that respect, she was still the adoring girl who had spent hours, weeks, months of her childhood lying on her belly in the woods, her eyes straining for a glimpse of her hero. Not even finding out that her hero could be a ruthless bastard when he wanted had been able to shake that painful fixation.
She didn’t want to go back to the summerhouse, to the scene of her youthful foolishness. What could she possibly find there, after twelve years? Nothing.
But no one else had looked at it with her eyes. No one had suspected that Guy Rouillard might have spent the last hours of his life there.
Faith growled at herself. She was tired and hungry, after the long drive to New Orleans and back, as well as exhausted by worry over Mr. Pleasant. She didn’t want to go to the summerhouse, but she had just given herself a convincing argument on why it was necessary. And if she was going, she should do it now, while the afternoon sun was still strong.
She grabbed her keys and stalked out of the house.
The best way to get there, she supposed, was the way she had gone when she’d been eleven. There was a road from the Rouillard house to the lake, but she could hardly take that route. From her younger days of roaming and spying, however, she knew the Rouillard land as well as she knew her own face. She drove to a secluded spot close to the old shack where she had grown up, but when she reached the last curve before the shack would come into view, she stopped the car and sat for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel. She couldn’t bring herself to drive around the curve. The shack had probably fallen in by now, but that wouldn’t ease her memories. She didn’t want to see it, didn’t want to relive the memories of that night.
Pain was a lump in the middle of her chest, obstructing her breathing, making her eyes burn. She didn’t cry. She had cried for Mr. Pleasant, for Scottie, for Kyle. She hadn’t cried for herself since the night Renee had left.
Well, delaying wouldn’t accomplish anything except putting off dinner, and she was already starving. She got out of the car and locked the doors, and dropped the keys into her skirt pocket. Brush grew thickly along the sides of the road, now little more than a track as the vegetation gradually reclaimed the land. She had to pick her way around some briar bushes, but once into the woods, it was fairly easy to walk. She picked up a stick, in case she came across a snake, but she wasn’t at all afraid. She had grown up in these woods, played in them, hidden in them when Amos had been drunk and slinging his fists at anyone who got in his way.
The familiar scents washed over her, fresh and powerful with spring, and she stopped for a moment to absorb them. Her eyes closed so she could concentrate. There was the rich brown scent of the earth, the fresh verdant of leaves, the spicy golden scent of pine sap. She inhaled that last with a little shiver of recognition. Gray’s scent contained a hint of that golden spice. She would love to have him naked and at her disposal, so she could explore all the shadings of his scent. She would absolutely wallow on him, drunk with delight—
Her eyes popped open. The telltale warming of her body told her where that particular fantasy had been going. It was coming back here that had done it; in her mind, the smells of the forest were inextricably linked with Gray: the hope of seeing him, the fizzing joy of seeing him.
Resolutely she walked on. If she didn’t get him out of her mind, she’d find herself lying on her stomach in the pine needles at the edge of the woods, completely reverted to childhood.
The walk to the lake wasn’t a long one, about twenty minutes. The forest had changed, of course; time didn’t stand still with trees any more than it did with people. She had to pick her way around obstacles that hadn’t been there before, and old landmarks were missing, but still she knew her way with the accuracy of a homing pigeon.
She approached the summerhouse from the angle she always had, from the back and right side. From there she could see the dock, and a corner of the boathouse. Once she had prayed to see a Corvette parked in front, but now she was just as glad not to see a Jaguar there. It would have been too ironic for Gray to appear. Thank God he had business concerns now, and didn’t have the luxury of spending long, lazy days swimming and fishing.
Time had laid its hand on the summerhouse, too. It wasn’t dilapidated, Gray had kept it up, but an air of disuse had fallen over it. Things that had regular human use wore a certain sheen of accomplishment, a sheen that the summerhouse no longer possessed. There was a subtle reverse of order. Before, the grass had always been neatly manicured, and though the yard wasn’t overgrown with weeds now, it still showed a certain roughness that said it had been over a week since the grass had been cut. On the other hand, the summerhouse had always been littered with the flotsam of human habitation, and now it was too neat, without the activity that had kept it cluttered and alive.
She went up the back steps, the same steps where she had crouched to listen to Gray making love to Lindsey Partain. The screen door to the porch wasn’t latched, and creaked a little as she opened it. The sound made her smile, so woven was it into the days of her childhood.
For all the difficulties, she hadn’t had a horrible childhood. Much of it had been downright enjoyable, rich with fantasy, especially the long hours spent exploring the woods. She had waded in creeks, caught crawdads with her bare hands, marveled at the delicate tracery of a leaf held up to the sun. She had never had a bicycle, but she’d had fresh air and blue skies, the anticipation of turning over a rotting log to see how many insects and worms it hid. She had eaten wild berries straight off the bush, found the occasional arrowhead, and painstakingly constructed her own bow and arrow from a green limb, old fishing line, and sharpened sticks. The joys of all those things had created a reserve of strength for her to draw on when times were bad.
The boards of the porch creaked beneath her feet as she crossed to the back door. In the old days, there had been several rocking chairs scattered about the porch, for the enjoyment of fine summer nights. All swimming and fishing paraphernalia was supposed to have been kept in the boathouse, but somehow bits of it had always been lying about on the porch: an inner tube that needed patching, a fishing rod, an assortment of lures, hooks, and floats. Now, however, the porch was empty, no longer a place for rowdy teenagers and rendezvousing adults.
She walked to the window where she had watched Gray and Lindsey making love; the room was empty now, the hardwood floors bare and coated with a light layer of dust. She stood for a moment, remembering that long-ago summer day, gilded with the magic of childhood.
Turning away, she tried the back door, and was surprised when the knob twisted easily in her hand. She had never been inside the summerhouse. The closest she had ever been was on the porch, that one time. She stepped into the kitchen, looking around with interest. Once there had been a refrigerator and stove, for empty spaces and the electrical connections marked where they had stood. She opened the cabinet doors and drawers, but they were all empty. Each sound echoed through the bare rooms.
br /> Everything was clean enough, without the smell of mice, though it had obviously been a couple of weeks since the last cleaning. As she wandered into the other rooms, she saw that none of the light fixtures sported so much as a single light bulb. There was a small closet in each of the two bedrooms, and she looked in both of them. Nothing, not even a single clothes hanger. The summerhouse was completely empty.
Which one of the bedrooms had Renee and Guy used? It didn’t matter; there was nothing to be found here, no interesting nooks or crannies where a body could have been hidden. There was absolutely nothing suspicious about the house. Any evidence had long since been swept away, mopped up, or painted over. She wondered that there wasn’t any sign of vagrants, considering the house was unlocked, but since it was in the middle of Rouillard land, she supposed there weren’t many passersby.
There was still the boathouse to check, though she didn’t really expect to find anything. She had come only to satisfy herself that she had done everything possible to find out what had happened to Guy, and Mr. Pleasant. Leaving by the front door, she walked down to the dock. Both the dock and boathouse were set at an angle to the house, slightly to the left, positioned on the curve of a small slough. Since she had been here last, twelve years ago, vegetation had been allowed to grow over the banks. Young willow trees, growing in clumps along the lake’s edge, had matured to provide much more shade and cover than she remembered. Once there had been an almost unobstructed view of the lake, except for the boathouse, but now saplings and bushes had taken advantage of the subtle neglect to sink their roots into the rich soil.
The dock had been kept in good repair, though, and she walked out to the end. It was a calm day, with an almost imperceptible breeze making faint ripples in the water, which lapped against the dock pilings with wet, rhythmic slaps. It was one of those hot, lazy days that made her want to lie on her back on the dock, and stare up at the fat white clouds floating across a deep blue sky. Birds were calling in the trees, and somewhere a fish jumped, a quiet splash that didn’t disturb the peace. Over to the left, a red and white float bobbed happily on the little ripples—
She stiffened, her eyes widening with dread as she slowly turned. A fishing float meant someone was fishing, someone who had been hidden from her view by the angle of the boathouse. Like a felon approaching the gallows, her gaze followed the fishing line as it arced gracefully up from the float, across the water, to where it was threaded through the eyes of a fishing rod. A fishing rod that was held by Gray Rouillard, standing shirtless on the bank on the other side of the boathouse, watching her with narrowed dark eyes.
For an instant they stared at each other across the small expanse of water. Faith’s thoughts darted about in panic, trying to think of a good reason for her presence, but her normally nimble mind was blank with shock. She had thought herself totally alone, and then to turn and see Gray, of all people—a shirtless Gray, at that. It wasn’t fair. She needed all her wits about her when dealing with him; she couldn’t afford to be distracted by that bare expanse of chest, and his long hair hanging loose to his shoulders.
He began reeling in the float with quick, deliberate movements. Choosing caution over valor, Faith bolted up the dock, her feet thudding on the planks. He threw down the fishing rod and sprinted around the boathouse. Panting, she reached for more speed; if she could just get to the edge of the woods ahead of him, he wouldn’t be able to catch her. She was smaller, slimmer, and would be able to dodge between trees he would have to go around. But as fast as she was, he still had the speed of a linebacker. She saw him out of the corner of her eye, too close, and gaining ground with each long stride. He beat her by a split second, his big body suddenly blocking her way off the dock. She tried to stop, but she was already on him, and her shoes weren’t made for traction. She slammed into his chest, the impact knocking her breath out with a whoof! He grunted and staggered back a few steps, his arms coming up just in time to catch her against his chest and prevent her from falling on her face.
He caught his balance, and gave a muffled laugh as his arms tightened around her, holding her off the ground. “That’s a pretty good hit, for a lightweight. Nice speed, too. Where’re you going in such a hurry, Red? And what the hell are you doing here in the first place?”
She fought for her breath, sucking in desperate drafts to fill her aching lungs. God, he was as hard as a rock! She had probably bruised herself, barreling into him that way. After a short while she managed to say, “Reminiscing,” and pushed against his bare shoulders in a hint that he should set her on her feet.
He snorted, and ignored the hint. “You’re trespassing. You’ll have to think of a better reason than that.”
“Nosy,” she offered breathlessly, still finding oxygen in somewhat short supply. The tightness of his arms was interfering with her efforts to take deep breaths. She squirmed against him, then immediately stopped. The friction of his bare skin against her was too distracting, too dangerous.
“That I can believe,” he muttered. “What are you up to now?” He decided to let her down, loosening his grip so that she slid against his body. Faith’s cheeks flushed as she stepped away from him, and the color wasn’t just from the deep breaths she was taking. He was wearing only a pair of glove-soft jeans and scuffed boots, and she stared in helpless fascination at his naked torso. His shoulders were a good two feet wide, and heavy with muscle, a powerful layering that continued in plates across his chest. Curly black hair grew there, almost completely hiding his tiny, flat nipples, and arrowing down the middle of his abdomen to where it grew straight and downy around his shallow navel, which was exposed by sinfully low-riding jeans. A light sheen of sweat gleamed on his skin, making him glisten like a warm-toned statue with carved muscle and sinew.
“How did you get here?” she blurted, not answering his question. “I didn’t see a car.”
“Horseback.” He jerked his head toward the field on the other side of the slough. “He’s over there, eating his head off.”
“Maximillian?” she asked, remembering the name of the prize stallion Guy had owned.
“One of his sons.” Gray frowned down at her. “How do you know about Maximillian? And how did you get here?”
“I imagine most of the people in the parish know you have horses.” As she spoke, she edged sideways.
He reached out and clamped one hand on her arm. “Hold it. Yeah, a lot of people know we have horses, but not many would know the name of our breeding stallion. You’ve been asking questions about us again, haven’t you?” His hand tightened. “Who have you been talking to now? Tell me, damn it!” He emphasized the demand with a slight shake.
“No one,” she flared. “I remembered the name from before.”
“How would you have known it back then? Renee didn’t balk at much, but I doubt she went home and regaled her family with details of her lover’s life.”
Faith closed her lips tightly together. She had known the stallion’s name because she had been like a sponge, absorbing every little snippet of conversation she overhead, if it pertained to Gray. She wasn’t about to admit such a thing to him, though. “I remembered it from before,” she finally repeated.
He didn’t believe her, and his face darkened.
“I haven’t been talking to anyone!” she cried, trying to tug away from him. “I remembered the horse’s name, that’s all.” Why did every encounter with him seem to involve playing tug-of-war with one or both of her arms?
He surveyed her upturned face with narrowed eyes. “All right, I’ll give you that one. Now tell me why you’re poking around my summerhouse, and how you got here. I know damn good and well you don’t have a horse.”
That, at least, seemed safe enough to tell him. “I walked,” she said. “Through the woods.”
Pointedly he looked down at her feet. “You’re not dressed for hiking through the woods.”
That was true enough. She hadn’t taken the time to change clothes, so she was still wearing the midcalf s
kirt, hosiery, and dress flats that she’d worn to New Orleans. She had grown up roaming barefoot through those woods, so she certainly hadn’t worried about wearing flats. Shrugging to show her indifference, she said, “I didn’t think about it.” Quickly she added, “I’m sorry I trespassed. I’ll leave—”
“Whoa.” He drew her to a standstill again. “You’ll leave when I say you can leave, and not before. I’m still waiting for an answer to my other question.”
Thankfully her brain was working again. “I was just curious,” she said. “They used to meet here, so . . . I wanted to see it.” There was no need to elaborate on who “they” were.
To her dismay, his eyes grew cold. “Don’t give me that. You’ve been here before, because I’ve seen you.”
Shocked, she stared at him. “When?”
“When you were a kid. You slipped around through the woods like a little ghost, but you forgot to cover your head.” He tugged on a strand of hair, then smoothed it behind her ear. “It was like watching a flame bob through the trees.”
He had known she was there. For an appalled, heart-stopping moment she wondered if he had guessed he was the attraction that had drawn her like a moth. Bitterly she remembered all her childish fantasies, that one day he would look up and see her, and ask her to join their fun. He’d seen her, all right, but no invitation had been issued. The surprise would have been if he had asked her to join them. The eight-year age difference between twenty-six and thirty-four was almost nonexistent, but an enormous gulf between eleven and nineteen. Even if she hadn’t been too young, she was a Devlin, forever locked outside his circle.
“I’m going to ask you one more time,” he said softly, when she remained silent. A chill ran down her spine at the steel in his tone. “What are you doing here?”
“I told you.” She lifted her chin and met his gaze. “Nosing around.”
“The next question is: Why? You’ve been doing a lot of nosing around since you moved back here. What are you up to, Faith? I warned you about stirring up old gossip and upsetting my family, and I meant every word of it.”