Scandal in Copper Lake (18 page)

Mama Odette had assumed wrong.

“Yeah, if I were conducting criminal activity, I’d rather think of it as a business arrangement, too,” he said snidely.

Her color drained, leaving her unusually pale. “Criminal activity?”

“Charging for sex is illegal, Anamaria. It’s called prostitution.”

“My mother wasn’t a prostitute.” The color flared back, as obvious in her voice as her cheeks. “She was mistress to a number of men—I admit that. But that’s different. I bet someone in every generation of your family has had a mistress, right up to your father.”

He couldn’t deny that. Sex and support—that was exactly
the relationship Gerald had had with Mitch’s mother, and she wasn’t the only other woman. Just the only one to get pregnant.

What about
him?
Was he supposed to offer her a few hundred bucks, a few grand? Were the first couple of times free, and then she expected him to pay up? It wasn’t going to happen. He’d never paid for sex, and he wasn’t starting now. “What about you?”

Her head came up regally, and her gaze turned icy. He recalled the African Greek goddess image, soft and approachable—and only a memory. This was African warrior woman. If he tried to touch her now, he was liable to draw back a bloody stump. “You call me a prostitute, Robbie Calloway, and I’ll carve out your heart with a dull knife. You offer me money to be your mistress, I’ll put a curse on you that not even Mama Odette can remove. Do you understand?”

He tried to lighten her anger. “I thought you were just into the psychic-readings-cards stuff. Curses seem to be more heavy-voodoo stuff.”

She pointed one finger at him, the buffed nail inches from the tip of his nose, and borrowed Mama Odette’s accent. “You be surprised what we can do, chile.”

She stared at him, and he stared back before deliberately capturing that warning finger, and her hand, in his. “I’m not one of your gentlemen.”

With little effort, she managed to twist her fingers so her nails pinched into his skin. “I’ve never
had
any gentlemen. I take care of myself, and when I have my daughters, I’ll take care of them, too. I won’t be any man’s mistress.”

Or wife. And that was a shame—for her, for those daughters and for the men who fathered them.

An unwelcome thought, sad and disquieting, settled over him.

It might be a shame for him, as well.

Chapter 8

A
namaria ate doughnut holes while watching Robbie skim through the Copper Lake journal. She knew what he was looking for; it could have been a category on a game show: Last Names Beginning with the Letter
C
. How badly would he react if he found any of his relatives in there, particularly with a dollar sign after them?

He wouldn’t call her mother a prostitute again, she thought stiffly, especially if it turned out that his relatives were among her clients.

Could they discover anything else that would make her even more unsuitable in his eyes? Good thing she’d come into this affair knowing there was no hope for the long-term, or her heart would be hurting right now. Even knowing what to expect, she felt a faint twinge.

He paused on a page about halfway through the notebook. “Here’s where she started seeing Lydia. And two
weeks later, here…” His voice trailed away, his finger tapping a place on the page.

Anamaria walked around the table to look over his shoulder.
C. Calloway, 9 a.m.
Uh-oh. Aiming for breeziness, she bumped her hip against his shoulder. “Making love in the morning. Imagine that.”

He snorted, then moved his finger to reveal the phone number jotted below the name. “That’s my uncle Cyrus. If he hadn’t had a son who looked just like him, I’d have thought he’d never had sex. He was a cold old bastard who had little time or regard for anyone, especially his wife and son. If he had an affair with your mother, she was a miracle worker in disguise.”

“Doesn’t sound as if he’s the psychic-reading type. Why else would she have met with him?”

Robbie looked up at her, a grim smile on his lips. “He was Harrison Kennedy’s lawyer at the time.”

That was where she’d heard the name: when she’d told Lydia that her husband had his attorney investigating her, Lydia said he’d done the same thing with Glory. “Déjà vu.”

He slid his arm around her waist and pressed his face briefly to the swell of her breast. “Except that the first thing I noticed about you was how damned beautiful you are and how damned much I wanted you. I doubt Uncle Cyrus even noticed your mother was a woman.”

“Oh, men noticed Glory,” she disagreed. “Even dead ones.”

She saw his rueful smile as he turned back to the notebook. He didn’t believe, but he was showing it less. Amazing what a taste of Duquesne passion could do for a man’s tolerance.

While he read, she stroked his hair, dark, silky, never unruly. His arm around her felt so right. His bringing coffee and doughnuts. Waking up with him. Going to bed with him. Having sex with him. Talking with him. All of it felt so damn right.

And why not? It was destiny.

But losing it all, giving it up, not fighting for him…as he’d insisted earlier, that was merely tradition. Assuming this was all she could have—a few days, sex, a baby—was cowardly. Expecting nothing more was just plain wrong.

“This is interesting.” He gestured to another entry. “
LK 2:15.
That’s Lydia Kennedy. Then in the margin, with a different pen, she wrote
K & S Calloway
.”

“Sounds like another law firm.”

He shifted his chair back to make room for her, then settled her on his lap. “Actually, I’m guessing that’s my mother, Sara, and my cousin, Kent. Mom and Lydia have been best friends all my life, and Kent’s Lydia’s nephew. She’s been more of a mother to him than his own mother ever was.” He shook his head in disbelief. “My mother seeing a psychic. Jeez. I didn’t see that one coming.”

The second message Anamaria had delivered to Lydia had involved Kent: Mr. John was concerned about him. He was an only child born to selfish parents and, in Lydia’s opinion, had suffered sorely for it. But he hadn’t gone hungry; he hadn’t been beaten; as a boy, he hadn’t stood by and watched strangers lower either parent into the ground for eternity. Things could have been worse.

Though wasn’t it easier for her to know that her mother had died loving her than for him to know his mother was alive and well and just didn’t care?

Seeking distraction, she nuzzled Robbie’s neck. He smelled of expensive soap, shampoo and cologne, and the fine fabric of his shirt and trousers was expertly tailored, but the extravagances were just extras. She would be just as attracted to him if he washed with dish soap and wore nothing at all. Maybe even more so.

He swatted her butt as if he knew her mind was wander
ing. “Concentrate. We’ve got a meeting with Marguerite before too long, so there’s not time for that.”

“You be amazed what I can do in ten minutes, chile,” she murmured.

His features formed a frown. “Imitating your seventy-year-old grandmother is
not
the way to turn me on.”

She snorted. “Something as simple as breathing turns you on.” Then, because they did have an appointment, she slid from his lap and returned to her chair. “Glory did most of her readings here at the house, out on the front porch if the day was nice. But some of her clients weren’t comfortable coming to Easy Street. Lydia’s lived her entire life in Copper Lake and has probably never set foot in this neighborhood.” The same could likely be said of Sara Calloway.

“So Glory went to Lydia’s house.”

Anamaria nodded. “I imagine that day your mother just happened to drop in while Glory was there. And Lydia said, ‘Sit down, Sara Sue, and let Glory tell your fortune.’ Same with Kent. It becomes like a parlor game, like doing magic tricks. No one takes it seriously, not even the reader. In that moment, it’s nothing but entertainment.”

Robbie’s dark gaze fixed on her, level and measuring. She thought over what she’d just said, realized it was the name that had given him pause, then shrugged. “I probably heard it somewhere.”

He smiled thinly. “Her name is really Sara Ann. No one calls her Sara Sue except Lydia.”

“Then that’s probably where I heard it.”

“Except she doesn’t do it around anyone but family.”

So she’d
known
it. No big deal. All her life she’d known things, a lot of them far more important than someone’s nickname for her best friend. But it was a big deal to Robbie. He didn’t question her further, but he was wondering, and
that was a good thing. An open mind was…well, open to change, new experiences and different ideas. A closed mind was hopeless.

“I picked this up from the office,” he said at last, handing her a manila folder.

She accepted the folder and got comfortable on the padded chair. The folder was unmarked, the pages inside a decades-old portion of Harrison Kennedy’s file. She didn’t wonder about the legalities of sharing a client’s record with her but read Cyrus’s notes from the initial meeting with Harrison. Sounded familiar, she thought drily: find out what he could about Glory, keep an eye on her and don’t be discreet. Like Robbie, Cyrus had done a thorough investigation—on Glory, her background, her family and her men. He’d met with her on multiple occasions and had found nothing obvious to force her from Copper Lake or Lydia’s life.

Had Cyrus been attracted to Glory, as Robbie was attracted to her? Even coldhearted bastards had blood flowing through their veins that burned hot from time to time.

Had Cyrus begun an affair with Glory, like Robbie had with her?

Just the thought sent shivers of distaste down her spine.
Déjà vu
, she’d said earlier. Too much so.

She learned nothing from the file except that Cyrus was a compulsive note taker.
Ms. Duquesne arrived six minutes past the appointed time. Ms. Duquesne rescheduled less than an hour before the appointed time. Eighteen minutes into the meeting, Ms. Duquesne refused to supply references and walked out. Glory twenty-eight minutes late due to client “emergency.” Rescheduled for 7 p.m. tonight.

That meeting was the last one documented. Anamaria looked at the date. “Check the month of May after the meetings with Lydia started. Does Cyrus Calloway appear?”

Robbie flipped ahead a few pages. “C.C. That’s probably him.”

“With a dollar sign after it?”

“Two of them. Jeez, the old man was one of her clients.” He shuddered. “Thinking of him having sex is like picturing my grandparents doing it.”

Déjà vu all over again. What had happened between Glory and Cyrus? Had their business arrangement run its course? Had she felt anything for him besides the affection she’d felt for all of her clients? Had he felt anything for her? Or had he just used her to scratch an itch, as Mama Odette put it?

Did Robbie feel anything for
her?
He was jealous, but that had little to do with feelings and more with entitlement. He kissed her and made love to her as if she mattered, but that was passion. The women in her family had turned stirring men’s passion into an art form.

He liked her. If she weren’t a reader, he’d like her more. If her family were more respectable, if she weren’t solidly lower-class, if there weren’t black and Latina blood mixed with her white heritage…

If she were a different person, he might even love her.

Jaw tightening, she forced her attention back to the subject. “How often are Cyrus’s initials in there?”

“Twice the first week, then once a week for three months. Man, I never would have believed the old man was capable of it.” He flipped through the rest of the pages, then looked up. “Did she ever have sex with men she didn’t charge?”

What did it say about her family that the question struck her as totally reasonable? “If she was like the rest of the family, yes. Auntie Charise and Auntie Lueena had gentlemen and boyfriends. One paid, and one didn’t. One was business, and the other was personal.”

Like the two of them. Robbie’s reasons for coming around
had to do with business; Harrison Kennedy was paying him to keep an eye on her. Her reasons for letting him continue to come around were very personal.

“There are some notations in here—first names or initials, times always in the evening and no mention of money,” he went on. “Just a pretty young woman going out on dates?”

“Probably.”

His gaze locked on hers, dark and intense. “Do you date?”

Jealousy, such a primal instinct. It took so little for a man to think he had the right to be jealous, so little to stir him once he’d convinced himself of the right. Any other men in Anamaria’s life were two hours away, out of sight and obviously, considering the time she’d spent with him, out of mind. But he still wondered. It still stung him a bit.

And she still found a small bit of pleasure in that.

“I do date,” she said, rising from the table to rinse her coffee cup and leave it in the sink. “For a woman who’s cursed not to marry, I date a lot. In fact, I’d guess the curse is one of the reasons I’m popular. Everyone in the neighborhood knows about the Duquesne women. We’re available and destined to stay that way. A good time, with no expectations.”

He brought his own cup over, reaching past her to set it in the sink. “You sell yourself short.”

Smiling, she shook one finger at him. “At least you didn’t say cheap.”

“I like my heart where it is, thank you.” He moved closer, blocking her in so she couldn’t move without effort, then nuzzled her ear. “The men in Savannah are fools.”

She shivered as his tongue traced the outer rim of her ear, but still she disagreed with him. “They want a diversion, and when they’re done, they move on. Duquesne women are fun, sexy and perfect for a fling. But for a serious relationship, a marriage, a family, the men look somewhere else. For
someone more suitable. Someone more conventional.” She paused before softly adding, “Just like you.”

His muscles went stiff, and emotion radiated off him as his startled gaze met hers. He didn’t deny anything she’d said, though. In fact, his stricken look confirmed what she’d understood from the beginning: she could never be more than an affair to him. She was all wrong for a Calloway. In her family, differences were embraced. In his family, they caused embarrassment.