Josette (12 page)

“So, Monsieur Andrews, how many women have you bedded?”

He poured another shot of rum, tossed it down his throat, and removed his vest. He stood and moved to the low table between them, and after refilling his three shot glasses, reseated himself in that languid fashion of his.

“I take it the number is so large you cannot calculate, or you refuse to answer because it may be humiliating?”

Unmistakable amusement flashed over his countenance. “You asked a question out of turn, so remove another article of clothing and have a drink. You're down two.”

“Nonetheless, I'm still ahead.” She removed the other shoe.

“Madame LeBlanc.” He paused.

She almost took the bait and mentioned he was now using her formal name. She closed her mouth and waited.

“Did you desire your husband in the most intimate of ways?”

She nearly choked on the question. Her cheeks heated. She slipped her hands beneath her gown and removed a pink ruffled garter. She tossed it on the table between them, and emptied the third glass.

His gaze flicked from the garter to her face and back. She knew hunger in a man's eyes when she saw it. Lord, but the rum was potent. Add that to the wine she'd drunk at dinner and she was beyond light-headed. How long did they dare go on with this sinful repartee? She'd never felt so much intimacy with another human being with just her shoes and a garter gone and him in his shirtsleeves. The space between them seemed to narrow, the spark in his eyes deepening. These questions ran along a very dangerous track, indeed.

Without saying a word, he moved to where she sat and retrieved the glasses beside her, hovering so close as to take her breath. God help her, she wanted to say something clever, but his very closeness deprived her of her voice. He refilled the glasses and set them back in place, then returned to his seat. “Do you wish to continue our game, or are you going to give me the name?”

Oh no, not after having retrieved a garter and sending it his way. “You just asked a question out of turn, Cameron. Please empty a glass and remove an article of clothing.”

He tossed her a wicked grin, downed the rum, and kicked off a shoe.

She nearly laughed out loud at the scamp. Now it was her turn. “Since your wife, were you ever in love with anyone else?”

“No. What about you, Josette. Have you ever desired another man besides your husband?”

Oh Lord, yes, you! And right now, but she would go to her death before admitting it to him. Reaching beneath her skirts, she slowly worked the other garter down her leg and tossed it to him.

He was sitting back again with his elbow resting on the arm of the sofa and rubbing a finger across his full lower lip. “Do you ever get lonely?”

“That was two questions, one of which is out of turn, sir.” Was that right? She'd lost count.

He emptied his glass, and kicked off his other shoe. “What of you, sir? Do you ever get lonely?”

He studied her for a long moment, and then he stood. In one swift movement, he whipped off his shirt and tossed it on the sofa behind him. Slowly, he downed the rum, his eyes glued to hers over the rim of the glass.

Her breathing stopped along with her heart.

He raked a hand through his tousled hair and a sultry grin touched his mouth. Oh Lord, he could have just crawled out of bed, the way he looked. Instead of sitting down, he shoved his hands in his pockets and just stood there, his gaze heavy-lidded but steady. He tilted his head and a stray lock fell over his forehead. Why, the man was inebriated!

It was her turn to stare. After all, he was offering, wasn't he? She perused him in the same manner as he'd done to her, but if he'd found her lacking, she found him glorious. In the low light, shadows glanced across his cheekbones and lush mouth. His arms were strong and corded, his skin golden. Bands of taut muscle strapped across his smooth stomach and she wondered what he did to look like that. On his left shoulder, a thick, round scar bespoke a battle of some kind. Was that where his cousin had shot him over a woman? Everyone had heard of that scandal.

She let her gaze roam downward to a thin line of hair that circled his navel and disappeared beneath his trousers. Her cheeks heated at what lay beneath the fabric stretched tight across his pelvis by his hands in his pockets. She swallowed hard and glanced back to his face.

His mouth twitched. “Since I forfeited, and if you are through judging me, I believe it's my question, Madame.” His voice, husky in his throat, set her heart pounding a double beat. “Have you ever . . . ?” He paused.

She focused on him and held her breath steady. “Are you trying to decide which question to ask or whether or not you dare ask what's on your mind?”

He picked up the crystal decanter and refilled the glasses. “I count that as two questions out of turn, so that's two shots and two articles of clothing.” He handed her the filled glass and held his hand out for whatever she was about to remove.

“That was clearly a single question I asked out of turn, you cheater.” She sacrificed a silk stocking.

“Ah,” he said. “I need to even this out a bit. Can't leave you with just one stocking on. “Have you ever made love and reached a climax, Josette?”

She jolted. “Dear heavens, stop it!”

“Have you?”

“Why would that interest you?”

He chuckled. “An out-of-turn question. Since you have yet to answer my question, and you tossed in one of your own, that's either two drinks and two pieces of clothing—and I do believe that would put you somewhere in the vicinity of petticoats or your gown—or you are relieved of one article of clothing while you down another shot of rum, and then give me an honest response to my question.”

Lord, not only had she lost count of whose turn it was, she'd lost count of how many shot glasses she'd emptied.

He took a step closer. “What will it be, Josette?”

She removed the other stocking, slapped it in his hand, and replied, “No, I have not.”

She forced herself to look up at him, trying to appear bold as ever. “Do you entertain fanciful notions about giving me one?”

Another step forward and he leaned over her, a hand on either armrest, caging her in, his breath hot against her mouth. “Oh, Josette. Even though you are a widow, you know nothing, do you? While I cannot give you an orgasm, what I can do is assist you in getting there.”

“Merciful heavens,” was all she could manage.

A soft chuckle left his throat. He leaned closer and brushed his lips ever so lightly over hers. “In the best ways I know how.”

His strong arms pulled her to her feet and he held her in front of him while he studied her, his lips parted, his breathing erratic and heavy. “You could cause me to do things I might regret, do you know that?”

Her pulsed tripped. “Then let me go.”

“I should, shouldn't I?” His gaze slid to her lips, and while he spoke, his head dipped lower. “A taste,” he murmured. “Just one.”

His mouth, warm, supple, and flavored with rum, covered hers. Her knees turned to jelly and folded. One hand slid around her waist, fingers spread over the curve of her hip. Holding her upright, he pulled her closer until an unmistakable hard length pressed against her belly. With his other hand, he nudged her chin. “Open up for me, Josette.”

The kiss deepened and she moaned. His tongue touched hers. Tentatively, she touched his back and this time the moan came from him, deep and guttural. Lord, she'd never been kissed like this. Never knew a mouth on hers could light a fire in her soul.

She had to stop this.

Had to push him away.

Her hands found the hard planes of his bare chest. His skin, so smooth against iron-clad muscle, rippled beneath her fingers. Glorious didn't begin to describe his body after all. God help her.

His gentle kiss turned hot and greedy, and his arms tightened around her. One hand cupped her buttocks and pulled her into him. These weren't the hands of a bumbling old man; these were practiced hands belonging to a man who knew where and how to touch.

“This is insanity,” she whispered against his mouth and gave him a push. “We have a young girl to see to and I don't even think I like you.”

“You're right.” But he didn't let her go. Instead, his mouth traced her earlobe and she shivered. He groaned. “Why can't I keep my hands off you?”

“You're drunk.”

He stepped back. Humor traced fine lines at the corners of his eyes. “Indeed, and jolly well glad of it. But I'm clearheaded enough to know that you're right. Not only is my daughter asleep upstairs, but you've relatives there as well. So unfortunately, the game needs to end here, and I will bid you good night.”

He moved to the sofa with a bit of a weave in his step and slipped into his shoes, then dressed as though he might have risen from her bed after a round of lovemaking. He tucked his cravat into his pocket and left the top of his shirt open. A dusting of dark hair peeked over the top of the fabric. “I apologize.”

She tore her gaze from his shirt and gave him her back. “No need, I agreed to the game.”

“That's not what I'm apologizing for.”

Puzzled, she turned back to face him. “What then?”

He walked over to where she stood, studied her for what felt an eternity. Then his hand slid behind her neck and, leaning down, he brushed his lips lightly across hers. “You'll find out soon enough.”

 

 

Cameron practically stumbled down the slick stairs leading to the wooden banquette beyond the house. When had it rained? The full moon lit a watery path to the tree-lined street, which he had a little trouble navigating in a straight line.

God in heaven, what had he been up to tonight? Josette would probably come looking for him when she found out he'd already known her brother had stolen the rum. Still, he chuckled to himself at getting caught in his own game. He rubbed at the back of his neck. What had he been thinking? He hadn't been thinking, only reacting. If it hadn't been for his daughter in a bedroom above stairs, who knew how far he'd have gone? Soul shattering, that's how Josette had felt in his arms.

His body ached and had yet to relieve itself of an erection that actually pained him. He weaved into a tree and cursed, as though it were the tree that'd gotten in the way and owed him an apology. He kicked at it, only to stagger back a few feet. Now more than his cock hurt. What the devil was he going to do? It had been over two years since he'd lost his wife and since he'd made love. He'd been dead inside for so long, he'd not given thought to anything sexual.

Until Josette.

Now his chest hurt. He rubbed at it. Damn it to hell. He wanted back the man he'd once been—filled with a lust for life and feasting on happiness. If it took sailing the seas until he found joy once again, that's what he'd do. And he couldn't set out too soon.

He had no idea how far he'd walked or where, but suddenly, there he stood, before Madame Olympée's front entrance, staring at the gaslights flanking the double doors. He heard his own snort. He'd been here so many times in his youth, all it took was too much alcohol and a hard cock and it pointed to his true north . . . a whorehouse. He couldn't do it. Sauced as he was, he couldn't bring himself to set foot inside.

A figure emerged from the shadows. “I used to stand in front of LaFleur's Sweet Shoppe in my youth, just like you be doin' now, lookin' for something I couldn't have because I had me no money. But you, Monsieur Andrews, you can have whatever's inside this fine establishment. All it takes is the coin in your pocket. And I hear you have plenty of that.”

Cameron didn't bother looking the man's way. “Well, if it isn't Bastièn goddamn Thibodeaux.”

Bastièn snorted. “You had yourself a real good time tonight,
oui
? Maybe too good, since you don't seem to be holdin' yourself any too steady.”

Cameron tilted his head and tried to focus on Thibodeaux. “If I wasn't so bloody foxed, I'd beat the living hell out of you, just to top off my evening.”

Bastièn laughed. “Oh, we'll be comin' to that sooner or later if you cross a particular line I mentioned regarding my sister.”

“Bugger off.” Cameron turned and headed for Royal Street and his town house.

Once inside, he climbed the stairs in the dark. He tripped once and nearly fell, muttering to himself that he'd not drink so much again. After stumbling into his room, he lit the candle on the mantel and kicked off his shoes. He managed to remove his jacket, but that was as far as he got. To hell with it, he'd sleep in his clothes.

He headed for the bed and halted. On his pillow lay a voodoo doll. A chill ran the length of him and he sobered. Who the hell had been in his house? He picked the thing up and another chill skittered through him. A red heart had been patched onto the doll's chest with a needle run through it and red strings hanging from it like dripping blood. He gave a shudder at the sight of a circle of five needles protruding from the doll's crotch.

“Bloody hell.”

The old backyard rooster crowed, and from habit, Josette rolled out of bed. When her feet hit the cream and pale blue Chinese carpet, the room swayed.

“Oh, dear.”

Head in a whirl, she flopped back onto the mattress and stared at the trompe l'oeil ceiling meant to mimic a morning sky filled with saintly beings. Now, however, the pink-tinged clouds seemed to waver while the angels fanned their wings. And were the little cherubs peeking down at her doing so with a measure of disgust?

She covered her eyes with her hand. Good heavens, how much had she imbibed to end up in such a pitiful state? Wasn't downing a good amount of water before retiring supposed to prevent this? After all, her hedonistic brothers swore by the practice after a night of carousing.

Sitting up, she reached for the water pitcher on her nightstand, poured a glassful, and drank it dry. She kicked back the blue counterpane, pulled a matching oversized pillow to her side, and curled up against the down-filled bolster as if it were a comforting body.

Her fingers splayed against the fabric, only to have the action remind her of how she'd pressed her hand against Cameron's bare, muscled chest. Memories of the night before slammed into her with a force that made her moan—the hard planes of his body, so intimate against hers, his mouth covering hers, his tongue delving . . .

And—her breath caught—that sinful game.

What had possessed her to allow such a dangerous activity? Oh, but it had been a heady sport, one that could easily have become a prelude to greater immoralities had she not had the wherewithal to stop him.

What would it be like to lie night after night beside a man such as Cameron Andrews? To be held in his strong, sure arms while he made love to her in ways that would surely set her on fire? The man knew things, dangerous things that had likely stolen more than one woman's will. And he was bound to steal a few more before he left this earth.

She'd been nearly undone by the way he'd kissed her, the way he'd held her, the way his throaty words had simmered with a kind of potency that filled her with a desperate want from heart to womb. Knots of confusion tangled with the heat in her belly and the loneliness in her heart.

It had been one kiss.

Nothing more.

But oh, to the girl who'd loved him in her youth, then despised him after he'd taken up with Solange, the kiss had been an oasis to a parched soul. The young lad she'd once imagined as a prince rescuing her from life in the bayou had returned, a stunning, virile man who'd held her in his arms and kissed her senseless mere hours ago. While the taste of him was likely imprinted on her soul forevermore, he'd probably not give the incident a second thought. What memory had she given him in return? Inexperience so pitiful she didn't even know how to press her lips to a man's.

Her stomach lurched at the miserable idea that she'd been someone's wife but knew nothing about something as simple as a kiss. Her husband, a plump, shy man, had been her only lover, if one could even call him that. He'd showered her with all the finery money could buy, seen to her every comfort. But although he'd been desperate for an heir, no amount of herbs or voodoo spells her mother invoked could keep his flaccid organ stiff enough to do fathering justice.

Guilt flooded her chest. She would cast no aspersions upon a good man's soul by entertaining such thoughts. He'd been a kindly person, and she'd done all she could to see he'd not been humiliated, but the day had come when he'd quietly moved his things to a room down the hall. He'd told her the master chamber was hers to arrange as she pleased, and so, to try to alleviate her sense of being an orphan once again, she'd redecorated the room in shades of pale blue fluff—curtains, walls, chairs—as it remained to this day.

Even though their friendship had endured, and he'd continued to pamper her, she'd gone to bed each night feeling wretchedly alone. Then came that terrible morning when she'd awoken to the rooster's crow and made her way to his room for their usual shared breakfast, only to find he'd passed away during the night. Her loneliness had plunged to new depths after the funeral, when his friends shunned her.

Vivienne had come to live with her then, as had Régine. Her brothers had stopped by as well, bringing adorable Alexia along. But not Maman. Never Maman. Why she openly resented Josette was still something no one had figured out. Perhaps it was because Josette, being the youngest, was the final burden as Vivienne and Lucien joined the household, as well. All without a man around. Josette had somehow gleaned from a very young age that one did not question the whereabouts of their father. All she knew was that she, Solange, and her brothers belonged to one man only.

Old heartache mingled with the new. She punched the pillow, wiped away a tear that threatened to spill, and, feeling less dizzy, removed herself from the bed. She wandered to the balcony overlooking her beloved gardens. She'd remain at home today and labor in her backyard—that's what she'd do. Pulling roots and digging in the dirt until she dropped into bed exhausted could work miracles when it came to fixing a low mood. After that, she'd think about redecorating her chamber, getting rid of all this blue. Yellow, that would be a good color. Like the roses in her garden. She'd leave the ceiling looking like the sky, though. It made her room feel less like a suffocating coffin.

Turning with a heavy sigh, she made her way to the wardrobe, where she donned a simple sprigged cotton gardening dress with a skirt that rose above the ankles in order to keep her hem dry. Vivienne could take Alexia to Cameron's office. Josette would send a note along to be delivered to Belle Femme informing the girls she wouldn't be in today. Or the next, as a matter of fact. Why not take Vivienne, Régine, and Alexia into the bayou tomorrow to gather the roots Josette couldn't manage to grow out back? That should keep her well away from Cameron.

Leaving her room, she paused midway down the stairs. There was no mistaking Alexia's cheery laughter, but it mixed with a deep male voice. Pray don't let it be Cameron. But who else could it be since her brothers never rose so early? Her heart jumped into her throat. Alexia's father was the last man she wanted to face this morning.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, Vivienne met her, hands wringing and brow creased. “What's wrong?”

“I told him no, Josette. He knows he's not allowed in your home.”

“Dear God. Don't tell me it's your brother's voice I hear?”

“Believe me, I tried—”

Josette waved a hand in dismissal. “It's not your fault. Please, stay with Régine while I set Lucien straight.”

Another round of light laughter mixed with a low chuckle, and fury burned in Josette's veins. She marched down the hall, but when she spied the parlor doors closed, she took off at a run. How dare the monster!

Flinging the doors wide, she spied Alexia leaning over the back of the sofa where Lucien sat. Josette descended upon him like a madwoman. “You . . . you leave here at once. Alexia, go to the kitchen for your breakfast.”

“I done ate.”

“Then see if Vivienne needs anything.” She couldn't bring herself to mention Régine's name in front of the man. Régine still refused to speak of what had occurred that long ago day when she'd gone crawdad hunting with Lucien. He'd shown up hours later, alone, and with scratches on his smug face. From then on, Régine had refused further visits to her cousins in the bayou, and had withdrawn into her own world, distrusting all men. Lucien was pure evil. Even his sister was certain he was dangerous.

A lazy grin spread over Lucien's face. “Alexia and me, we be going to the bayou for a bit,
oui
?” He gave Alexia a wink. “I got newborn pups she be beggin' to see.”

The blood that had heated in Josette's veins only moments ago turned to ice. Had he actually thought to entice Alexia away? Steal her out of the house right under their noses? Did Alexia not have a lick of sense?

“Alexia,” Josette said through her teeth. “You'll be off to your father's workplace this morning, but if you don't take yourself to the kitchen this minute and stay there until I collect you, then you shall spend the next two days locked in your room.”

A great frown settled upon Alexia. Nonetheless, she headed for the door. “
Au revoir
, Uncle Lucien.”

Josette clenched her teeth together so tight, her jaw twitched. “He's your cousin twice removed, Alexia, not your uncle. Good uncles respect their nieces, recalcitrant distant cousins do not. Remember that.”

With Alexia out of sight, Josette bore down on Lucien again. “So help me God, if you ever set foot in this house again, or if you ever come near Alexia, I will shoot you.”

Lucien pulled the faceted stopper out of the crystal decanter and held it up to the light streaming through the open window. He shoved his dark hair aside and, closing one eye and squinting with the other, twisted the stopper about, sending rainbows dancing around the room. “You mean to frighten me,
ma chère
?”

What possessed him to actually enter her home when she'd managed to avoid him for years? He knew full well he was to stay far away from her and Régine. But now he had his eye on Alexia, and the danger was even greater.

Lucien stretched a long, lanky leg out in front of him and tossed the decanter top from one hand to the other. “Alexia told you she be learning to make the moonshine,
oui
? That was to be our little secret.”

So, Alexia had opened her big mouth, which was likely his reason for drawing so close, to tell her to keep it shut. “And that activity ceases as well, Lucien.” Purchasing bullets for the pistol in her desk drawer no longer seemed a fantasy. She'd see to getting them tomorrow. “Leave my home now.”

“Or what, Josette? You toss me out?” He laughed and took a swig of what was left of the rum. “This be some fine libation, cousin. Where you be gettin' it?”

“Where my sister obtains anything is of no concern to you,” came a low, almost casual-sounding response. “Now do as she says and get out, or I will break every bone in your body.”

Josette whirled and found René leaning casually against the doorjamb, as was his usual habit, but she knew him well. His body was as tight as a bayou cat ready to pounce. His dark eyes flashed an ominous warning at Lucien.

Her mouth dropped open. René was dressed in a proper suit of clothing. Custom-made, by the looks of it, and just as fine a fit as the suits Cameron wore. “What are you doing here?”

He gave a nod Lucien's way. “Rescuing you and my niece from
him
.”

Lucien gave René a sneer and rose from the sofa with the air of someone who had all day. “I do believe the door is blocked, cousin, unless you would like me to climb out the same window I crawled through.”

René stepped into the room, and Lucien strolled past, to the front door Vivienne held open.

Once he'd gone, Josette slammed shut the parlor door and gave her brother a shove. “You . . . you . . . you scalawag. You . . . you devil's servant.”

René spread his arms wide in a defenseless gesture. “Why was I expecting a thank-you and not name calling? What's the matter,
ma soeur
?”

“You made an utter fool out of me with your thieving, that's what's wrong. Why didn't you tell me that rum was stolen? Why did you put me in a position—”

“You never asked me where it came from.” He strolled over to the sofa, picked up the crystal stopper Lucien had left there, and replaced it on the decanter.

She looked him up and down. He'd always had a certain masculine assuredness about him, but now, in that fine suit of clothing, he appeared sleek and refined. And even more handsome. Which somehow made him all the more dangerous. “I suppose you stole those clothes as well.”

He laughed. “
Non
. I had them made.”

“When and what for?”

“Did I not tell you when you visited Maman that I was about to become employed?”

“Yes, but you always have something or other up your sleeve that never pans out, so what is going on that has you purchasing tailored clothing of the finest cut?” She ran a hand over her brow, as if the action would soothe her temper. “What are you up to, René?”

“I have permanent employment. Of the best kind. And I intend to keep it.”

“Doing what?”

A grin slid from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Working for Alexia's papa, don'cha know.”

It took a moment for his words to sink in. “You . . . you are employed by Cameron Andrews?”

“
Oui
.”

She stared at him while his bizarre words dizzied her. “Since when?”

“Beginning today, so I can't stay long, but I could use some breakfast. Is Régine up and about?”

The ramifications of his words sank in. “When did you have those clothes made?”

“When I heard the shipping company was bringing Gosling Brothers rum to New Orleans. That's when I decided there'd soon be some thieving going on. But should Michel Andrews employ me, the thieving would cease.”

“So you had the whole thing planned before the ship ever landed in port?”

He shrugged. “Something like that. Didn't expect Alexia's papa would be doing the hiring, though.”

“When did he do so?”

“Yesterday.”

Rage poured through every inch of her, even her bones. “Did he hire you in the morning or in the middle of the night?”

René studied her through narrowed eyes. “Why would you think it would take place in the middle of the night?”