Angel at Risk Read online

  He waited, watching, anticipating. She gnawed her bottom lip, then her tongue darted out to soothe the self-inflicted hurt. His physical reaction to her movement was like a gut punch. He nearly moaned with the hot desire gripping him.

  Steady, Jean-Paul, he sternly told himself. Remember who this woman claims to be.

  He thought she was going to turn tail and run. Instead, she stepped closer. The lady had courage, he’d give her that. Resting his elbows on the car, he pointed to the small hole near the bottom of the radiator.

  “See that hole?”

  She squinted. “No.”

  He sighed. She wouldn’t see a thing that far back from the engine. Slipping his arm around her shoulders, he pulled her down so she could see where he was pointing. She stiffened.

  Her reaction fired his already simmering temper. She was acting as if he was going to throw her down on the ground and ravish her. Well, tough—let her think what she wanted. He wasn’t out to seduce her, only to show her the problem.

  Liar, a voice in his head whispered.

  “Do you see where the water is running out?” With his index finger he touched the spot.

  She leaned closer. “Yes.”

  Jean-Paul swallowed hard as he felt every inch of her pressing against him. “Because the hole is there, any water I put into the radiator would leak out and the engine, she would be ruined. You want to do that, hein?”

  She turned her head, and her lips were mere inches from his. Immediately, she straightened and backed away. “The rental company wouldn’t appreciate that. I guess you’ll have to tow it.”

  He bowed his head in gracious acceptance of her surrender to his diagnosis. “Bien.” He slammed down the hood and strode to his pickup.

  “My suitcases,” she called out, stopping him. When he turned to her, she gave him an apologetic smile. “I think it would be wise if I took them. I don’t know how long it will take you to fix the car and I might need something in them.”

  He shrugged and followed her to the trunk. She opened it and reached for the two cases. He brushed aside her hands and grabbed the luggage.

  “I can do that,” she protested.

  “Non. My maman raised me with manners.”

  She grumbled something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like Could’ve fooled me.

  He stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Did you say somethin’, sugar?”

  “No,” she replied innocently. She didn’t wait on him but hurried to the truck and slipped inside.

  He hid his grin. The lady was sassy and smart. A deadly combination.

  Chapter 2

  “So, you think I’m a liar.”

  Jean-Paul threw her a startled glance but said nothing.

  The first wave of shock and grief had passed and she was beginning to think coherently again. The bombshell Mr. Delahaye had dropped before they left the gas station, that Marianna was an only child, came to mind. How could that be?

  “Why would I want to masquerade as Marianna’s niece?”

  He lifted his shoulder in a careless shrug.

  “What would I have to gain from such a charade?”

  “You tell me that, chère.”

  The man was determined to be difficult. All she wanted was to find out what had happened to her aunt. What purpose would it serve to lie about Marianna? “How do I know you’re not the one telling the lies?”

  His head jerked around and the deadly look in his eyes made her recoil. “Ask anyone in the parish. Better yet, I’ll take you to visit Eleanor Flanders. She’s been clerk of the court for the last thirty years. You can ask her yourself if Ben and Julia Courville had any other children besides Marianna.”

  “My grandparents’ names weren’t...” A light went off in her brain. Of course, in the chaos of her initial meeting with Jean-Paul, Pierre and Martin, she had forgotten to explain about her grandparents’ divorce. “There’s a simple explanation for this confusion.”

  Jean-Paul raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

  “Mother told me that when she and Marianna were very young, their parents divorced. My grandfather, Edward, took Mother and stayed in Vermont. Grandmother took Marianna and moved back to Louisiana to be with her family. Later, both remarried.”

  He shook his head. “Non. Marianna’s parents can trace their families back to when they came to Louisiana from Nova Scotia. No one ever left. No one ever divorced.”

  His words were clear, distinct, his diction perfect. “My, what has happened to your accent?”

  The muscles of his jaw flexed and Angeline knew her jibe had hit home. She’d been floored when he put on that thick accent to explain that he’d have to tow her car. He was getting back at her, but why?

  “I’m calling your bluff, Angeline.”

  Liquid heat raced along her nerves. Her name on his lips was a delicate caress, invoking images of scented breezes, moonlit nights and lovers sharing secrets.

  “You want to see which one of us is lying, hein?”

  The soft glow shattered.

  “Yes, Mr. Delahaye, I want to know which one of us is the liar.”

  “Jean-Paul, chère. You must call me Jean-Paul. M’sieu Delahaye is much too formal. Such respect is not due a liar.”

  She wanted to hit him with the crowbar lying on the floorboard. If he thought he could intimidate her, he was in for a big surprise. She’d let one man push her around, but she vowed it would never happen again. “John-Paul.”

  He shook his head. “Non, non. It is Jean, not John. You must place your tongue in the bottom of your mouth to make the proper sound. J—Jean.”

  They rounded the bend in the road and Pierre’s place came into view. Jean-Paul pulled onto the shoulder of the road. He rested his wrists on the steering wheel and looked at her.

  “What will it be, Angeline, Pierre’s or Eleanor’s? Which is it?”

  Nothing had made sense since she’d landed in Louisiana, but at least she could clear up one thing in the next few minutes. “Eleanor’s, John-Paul.” She deliberately said his name with the English pronunciation, wanting to see his reaction.

  He sighed, then shrugged. “Maybe it’s for the best. I think hearing you say my name as my maman meant it to be said would bring us both trouble, non?”

  Relief swept over her in waves. He wasn’t a bully. Unfortunately, what he was—a virile man who made her want to whisper his name with sweet abandon—was worse for her mental health than any bully.

  He gripped the wheel and guided the truck back onto the road. “We must stop at Pierre’s and call M’dame Eleanor. It would be impolite to visit without telling her we are comin’.”

  Angeline watched in amazement as he parked the truck and jumped out. Why would a man with the sensitivity of a goat think of a woman’s feelings...unless he was up to something? She shoved open the truck door and followed him inside.

  * * *

  “Ah, hell,” Jean-Paul muttered, coming to a halt just inside the door of Pierre’s.

  Sheriff Dennis Mathers placed his beer on the table and pushed back his hat. “Is that any way to greet an old friend, mon ami?” The bloated features, red eyes and spare tire around Dennis’s middle were testimony to his years of heavy drinking and hard living. Yet, in spite of that, there were traces of the handsome youth he’d once been.

  “Non, but then you and me were never really friends, were we? You were more like a snake to my breast.”

  “Tut, tut, Jean-Paul. Do you hear that, Pierre? He calls me a snake. Do you think that’s right?” The sheriff’s gaze never wavered from Jean-Paul.

  Jean-Paul glanced at his employer, whose fear shone bright in his eyes. “This is between you and me, Dennis. Don’t involve anyone else.”

  With a calculated move, the sheriff stood and turned to Pierre hovering by the cash register and studied him. As if considering the old man not worth his effort, Dennis shrugged. “He doesn’t matter, anyway.”

  “That’s right. He is only a peon, hein? No one with m
oney or power.”

  “You got that right, Jean-Paul. The real reason I’m here is because Martin called his brother and told him he saw a ghost. I came to investigate.”

  Before Jean-Paul could respond, he heard the screen door slam and a small body barreled into his back. He whirled and snagged Angeline’s wrist so she wouldn’t fall.

  “I’ll be damned,” Dennis said, staring at her.

  “Why do I get that reaction from everyone in this town?” she asked, brushing back a lock of hair from her face.

  “If I didn’t see it myself, I wouldn’t have believed it.” Dennis shook his head. “Kinda spooky, ain’t it, Martin?”

  Martin stepped out from behind the counter. “You got that right, sheriff.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he nodded his head.

  Jean-Paul wanted to strangle the youth. Martin wasn’t a bad kid, but he was the biggest tale-teller in south Louisiana. Usually, Martin’s penchant for gossip didn’t bother him. Today, it did.

  Dennis Mathers possessed the meanness of a rabid hound and the deadliness of a cottonmouth snake. Jean-Paul knew from bitter experience that Dennis had no morals and was in Roger Boudreaux’s back pocket. Dennis had set up Jean-Paul. The idea of letting this slime anywhere near Angeline made him sick.

  Dennis sauntered across the floor and stopped in front of her. He gave Angeline what Jean-Paul considered an oily smile, then swept his hat from his head. “I’m Dennis Mathers, the sheriff of this parish.”

  “Angeline Fitzgerald.” She held out her hand.

  “A pleasure, mamselle.” Dennis grasped her hand and brought it to his lips.

  “What brings such a lovely lady like you to Mirabeau?”

  Jean-Paul could just imagine Dennis pumping Angeline for information, then running straight to Roger with the entire story. And of course Roger wouldn’t like the idea of Angeline turning up, spoiling his plans. She didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of surviving against the evil duo.

  Yet, what could Jean-Paul do? If he tried to prevent her from talking to Dennis, it would only cause more suspicion among the different parties. And for all he knew, Angeline was lying, her purpose yet to be exposed.

  “I’ve come to check on my aunt, Marianna Courville, sheriff. These gentlemen have told me that she’s dead. Is that true? Is my aunt dead?”

  Dennis scratched his chin. “It’s true that Marianna is dead. But...”

  Angeline’s expression turned grim. “But you don’t know how she could’ve had a niece, isn’t that right, sheriff?” Anger laced her words.

  “That’s right. Marianna dinna have any brothers or sisters.”

  “I can see how you would arrive at that assumption, but as I told Mr. Delahaye, my grandparents divorced when the girls were quite young and each took one of the daughters. Then both grandparents remarried.”

  Dennis shook his head. “Hah. You are wrong. Marianna’s parents were Catholic, and Catholics don’t divorce, at least not in this part of Louisiana. Besides, Marianna was born, lived and died in this parish.”

  She threw her hands up in disgust. “Is this entire town involved in a conspiracy? I feel like I’ve landed in the twilight zone. Next you’ll be telling me that up is down.”

  Jean-Paul leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Have you considered that maybe you’re the one who’s wrong?”

  Her gaze locked with his and he read her confusion, doubt and fear. “That can’t be,” she whispered back, her voice shaky.

  Illogically, he wanted to reach out and soothe the worry from her brow and tell her everything was fine. But it wasn’t. No matter how they sliced it, Marianna didn’t have any siblings.

  “There’s no conspiracy, here, sugar,” Dennis replied. “But there might be another explanation. Marianna’s daddy was gone a lot of the time, working on offshore rigs and other things. Mebbe he had himself a bastard and didn’t tell no one.”

  She shook with rage. “How dare you!”

  Dennis’s eyes narrowed, taking on that ruthless look that signaled trouble for all.

  “How dare you imply my mother was illegitimate. Why—”

  Jean-Paul couldn’t leave her to her fate. He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the door. She reminded him of an enraged hummingbird, sputtering and waving her free hand.

  “Martin, take the tow truck and get Miz Fitzgerald’s car. I’ll be back later to fix it.” He nodded to the sheriff. “Excuse us. I need to take the lady to see a friend.”

  Before anyone could respond, Jean-Paul pushed open the screen and thrust Angeline out.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded as he hauled her to his truck.

  “Keep your voice down.” He jerked open the driver’s door, scooped her up and deposited her on the bench seat. He hopped in beside her. “Scoot over.”

  He shoved her with his hip. The old engine roared to life and Jean-Paul floored the accelerator.

  “Have you lost your mind?” she yelled over the noise.

  What was he doing trying to protect a woman who was spouting an impossible story? “I might have, chère. I just might have.”

  “What was all that back there with the sheriff? I wanted to ask him some questions about my aunt’s death.”

  “Let me clue you in, Angel. Sheriff Dennis Mathers is as crooked and dishonest as they come. He is the paid bully of this town’s wealthiest resident, Roger Boudreaux. You showing up spells only trouble for them. Beware. Under no circumstances should you trust either one.”

  “Why should I trust you over them? You called me a liar and believe me a cheat. What proof do I have you’re one of the good guys?”

  “I can’t give you any. I left my white hat at home. You’ll just have to take my word for it.”

  “That’s a weak reason, at best.”

  Didn’t he know that?

  * * *

  The sheriff’s ugly suggestion caught hold in her mind and she couldn’t banish it. Not with all these people telling her the same thing.

  A dozen different feelings slashed her. Sorrow, pain, doubt, fear. And on top of it all, remorse that Marianna was dead.

  What was going on here?

  Little, niggling doubts that had cropped up during her childhood came roaring back. Questions like why she didn’t have pictures of her mother and aunt when they were growing up. And why her mother’s accent was so different from her aunt’s. The explanation of her grandparents’ divorce seemed reasonable, but there was always something not quite right about the story. Every time she had asked her aunt about growing up in Louisiana, she would always manage to steer the conversation off her personal history.

  And there was the little question of where she had been born. Her mother could never identify the state she’d been born in since her birth had occurred on a flight from their home in Vermont to Florida where her dad had been transferred. The odd story had satisfied her when she was sixteen. Now, it fell short.

  But the incident that stuck in her mind was the Christmas they had spent with her maternal grandparents. She’d been close to ten. After Christmas dinner, she had asked her grandfather if he didn’t miss his first wife and other daughter. Her mother had yanked her from the room and told her never, never to ask that question again. She was told that Grandma Newberry had been extremely hurt at the mention of Grandpa’s first wife. Angie had been forced to apologize to her grandparents, then sent to bed. Thinking about it now, she remembered hearing her mother and grandparents arguing.

  The child needs to know the truth. Suddenly, that phrase took on new and ominous meaning.

  “Chère, pay no attention to that snake,” Jean-Paul said, snapping her back to the present. “He likes to think he’s important. He is nothin’. Less than the dirt under your feet.”

  Angeline looked at Jean-Paul in disbelief. “He only said what everyone else did.”

  “True, but he delighted in saying what he did. It pleases him to hurt others.”

  The distinction wasn’t lost on her. She looked out the wi
ndow at the passing scenery and tried to ignore the handsome man next to her. His effort to comfort her disturbed her. She would rather he remained hostile. It was better for her if he kept his distance.

  When she’d stumbled into Pierre’s earlier today, she’d immediately been drawn to Jean-Paul. What woman wouldn’t be, unless she was six feet under?

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked, trying to focus on something else besides him.

  A mischievous glint flashed in his eyes. “To M’dame Eleanor’s, of course. Where else would you like me to take you?”

  “You didn’t call her.”

  “I couldn’t, not with you runnin’ off at the mouth like you were.”

  “Running off at the mouth?” she squealed, offended he would say such a thing.

  “Mais, yeah.” He shook his head. “There’s gonna be trouble, no matter what.”

  “What do you mean?”

  When he didn’t answer, she laid her hand on his forearm. The muscles were like iron. He glanced down at her hand, then up into her eyes.

  “I’m afraid you’ll find out soon enough. Too soon, I’m thinking.”

  He turned onto a quiet side street. Old-style Acadian houses, constructed in timber frame and set up on cypress blocks, lined both sides of the street. The last home was painted a pale yellow with an extensive flower garden running along the side of the house. Jean-Paul parked the truck and jumped out.

  “M’dame Eleanor,” he called in a loud voice. “You here?”

  Angeline followed.

  “M’dame Eleanor, are you here?”

  A tiny woman with white hair and sparkling black eyes came around the side of the house. “Quit your bellowing, Jean-Paul. You will scare my darlings to death.”

  He waved aside her concern. “You, m’dame, are much too crazy about your roses. Loud noise won’t cause them not to bloom.”

  She shook a gnarled finger at him. “You are wrong. My bébés, they will no’ show their beauty if they are shouted at. And you know that.” The old woman turned to Angeline. “Oh, my,” she murmured, her eyes wide. “Have you brought me a ghost, Jean-Paul?”

  He smiled. “Non, but I have brought you a young lady who thinks Marianna Courville is her aunt.”