Josette (2 page)

“
Non?
Then you must remember my uncles, René and Bastièn? They near beat you to death for lovin' my
maman
in Madame Olympée's whorehouse.”

Dear God! The young woman who'd squired him into manhood was this girl's mother? He'd forgotten about her, hadn't a clue at the time that she might be a French Cajun. She'd told him she was an orphan from the Quarter. “It can't be . . . you can't be. You're lying. I wouldn't trust anyone related to René or Bastièn to give me the correct time of day. Who put you up to this, your mother?”

“I never knew my
maman,
Papa. She died when I was born.” She sauntered forward. “Do you like my eyes, Papa? Family been tellin' me all my life dat I look just like my papa. I wanted to believe I was more like Maman, but now I see dey was right.”

What the hell was he supposed to do now? “I was only seventeen when that fight took place at Madame Olympée's. I was shipped off to England immediately afterward. There's obviously some mistake.”

“There be no mistake.” Her eyes hardened. “Maybe you only be seventeen at the time, but you done slid dat big snake of yours right up inside my
maman
and let loose a powerful poison.”

She took another step closer and shoved her chin in the air, her eyes flashing crude determination. “And dat poison you let loose turned out to be me, Papa. Now, wach'ya tink?”

 

Cameron marched Alexia past the clipped lawns of the mansions in the new, ostentatious section of New Orleans, wondering if she wasn't leading him on a wild goose chase. He'd challenged the unruly child, had told her to go ahead and run off to her family in the bayou. But if she was serious about proving she was his daughter, then there were to be no games or he'd board the next company ship and not give her another thought for the rest of his days.

Lord, she'd been a handful aboard ship. Hallowell had been right. How could she disappear for days at a time only to wander into his cabin sporting a mischievous grin?

More like the devil's spawn than his.

The rapscallion could think up more mischief than any ten monkeys, then laugh as though everyone should laugh with her. She carried the ship's cat around wherever she went—even slept with the little mouser. Like Hallowell, Cameron finally gave up and left her to her own devices.

As if on cue, Alexia hopped off the banquette, the raised boardwalk that prevented shoes and hems from collecting dirt or mud, and strutted through a pristine lawn. Cameron scowled at her. “Get back here before you ruin your new dress.”

“It be the color of grass, so no matter.”

“You heard me, get over here. I ought to put a bit in your mouth and lead you by the reins. I've never seen a wilder filly.”

Alexia's gay laughter filled the air. She hopped on one foot, removed a shoe, and then did the same with the other. “Betcha wish you could make me mind with a mere snap of yer fingers.”

“Get off the grass, and put your shoes back on.”

“They pinch.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“Ya didn't ask.”

He snatched one from her, but before he could flex it to test its suppleness, she already had her stockings off and was traipsing barefoot through the wide grassy lawn again.

“You, Alexia Thibodeaux, are a fibber. These are the best shoes money can buy. Now put them back on.”

She giggled and tossed him a stocking. “What's the matter, Papa? You ain't never walked barefoot in grass before? Once you wiggle your toes in the coolness, ain't no goin' back to shoes.” She pointed her finger. “There, dat be
ma tante's
house.”

Cameron practically stumbled to a halt in front of a white-columned mansion. Like the grand lady she was, the house sat in pristine splendor, taking up half the city block, surrounded by an ornate wrought-iron fence and bedecked with flowers looking like so many jewels scattered around. “Liar. That's Louis Leblanc's residence.”

“
Oui
. She be his widow, don'cha know.”

“No, I didn't know. Now put your shoes and stockings back on.”

She giggled. “In dat exact order?”

“Do as I say. And try acting like a girl for once.”

“Whatever dat be meaning.”

“Do you always have to get the last word in?”

“Do you?”

 

 

Josette Thibodeaux LeBlanc, widow of one of the wealthiest merchants in the history of New Orleans, stood in the shadows of the open doors leading to the second-floor balcony, her heart pounding a wild rhythm. She watched her niece struggle into her stockings and shoes and then face her father, both of them with their arms folded across their chests, engaged in animated conversation.

So, here he was, after all these years. And even more handsome than she remembered. He was taller now, broader in the shoulders. But where his midnight locks had once been clipped short, they now reached his collar. They looked soft to the touch, those curls.

Seeing him in need of a trim after weeks at sea, wondering what it might feel like to run her fingers through his hair, felt like an act of intimacy. She shouldn't indulge in such nonsense, but sweet heaven, he was a sight to behold, even more so than when she'd secretly followed him around in her youth. While he'd obviously inherited his size and breadth from his English father, he'd clearly taken on the looks of his late mother, a French beauty who'd never failed to turn heads whenever she strolled through the streets of the Vieux Carré.

A faint smile—anything but affable—touched Josette's lips. While her memories of Cameron Andrews remained crystal clear, he hadn't even known she existed. Oh, as a young girl, she'd fallen desperately in love with him from afar, but by the time she'd turned thirteen, she'd hated him with a passion. That was when Solange, her older sister, had decided Cameron was her ticket out of life in the swamps.

As if hearing her thoughts, Cameron glanced at the house. Josette moved away from the curtain a few inches. Vivienne, her cousin, slipped in beside her.

“No mistaking those two be cut from the same cloth.
Oui
, dat be her daddy, a'right.”

“
That is
her daddy, Vivienne. Do remember to drop the Cajun patois or we'll never get Alexia trained right.”

“
Pardon
. Seems I fall back into old habits whenever I get excited. What a lovely frock Alexia be . . . is wearing. Do you suppose it's one of Madame Charmontès's creations?” She squinted. “But of course. Look at the fabric. Same as one you have in your wardrobe. Do you think that crafty little woman did that on purpose?”

Josette noted the emerald-green dress draping Alexia's slender body as being of a design only that particular dressmaker could manage. “Would clothing such as that come from anyone else?”

“How did monsieur manage to get her into a dress, I wonder?”

“I would imagine he used a threat or two.”

Cameron grabbed Alexia's hand and, with a little yank, headed for the front steps. Josette and Vivienne moved deeper into the upstairs landing.

“What a foolish girl, running off like she did,” Vivienne said. “It's a wonder she managed to return at all, let alone with her papa in tow.”

Josette shuttered her mind against the dreadful worry she'd endured after Alexia had stowed away on one of Cameron's ships. “If only the little snoop hadn't run across the letter I'd written to her father before I had a chance to post it. Had I not penned the blasted thing, she wouldn't have known where to find him.”

“And we wouldn't have had to suffer so many sleepless nights.”

“What was I to do, Viv? I couldn't handle her any longer, and my brothers are the worst kind of father figures. I don't want to lose her to bayou life or worse, have her follow in Maman's footsteps
.
I felt I had no other choice but to try to contact her father.”

Vivienne bit her lip. “You worry about your
maman
, but I worry about my brother. I don't like the way Lucien looks at her now that she's beginning to show her loveliness.”

Which was one of the prime reasons Josette had written the note to Cameron. She hadn't mentioned anything to Vivienne, but if rumors were true, and Maman was training Lucien up to be her
Hougan
—her voodoo priest—then he was more dangerous than ever, because the path Maman walked seemed to be growing ever darker. Josette's stomach curdled at the idea that he might try to include Alexia in his lascivious initiation into the priesthood.

Vivienne's brother wasn't the only man who concerned Josette—all those unruly men up and down the bayou had their carnal sights on Alexia as well. The girl had no concept of her beauty, nor was she aware of the attention she garnered. Even dressed as a boy with her hair tucked under a cap, she attracted men's eyes. Her days of wandering around on her own, of slipping away in the middle of the night to play amongst the stars, were over.

“See Mister Andrews in, then send Alexia to me. I'll be down in a quarter hour.”

“
Oui
.” Vivienne limped toward the staircase, her day gown hiding her disfigured hip, but not the hitch in her step the condition produced.

 

 

One of the double doors set with beveled glass swung wide, and Cameron found himself staring into the face of a fairly handsome, dark-haired woman dressed in gray and white.

“
Tante
Vivienne!” Alexia tore loose from Cameron's grip and fell into the woman's arms.

The woman gave a slight bow of her head. “I am Mademoiselle Vivienne Thibodeaux, first cousin to Madame LeBlanc and once removed from Alexia. She only refers to me as her aunt because of my age.”

“I see.” But what of it? Who was to say they both weren't in this together, thick as thieves? They had a long way to go to convince Cameron that Alexia was his daughter. A twinge ran through his gut at the thought, as if his conscience took hold and shook him. If Vivienne truly was a cousin, that meant she could be related to that scourge of the earth, Lucien. God help her if she was his sister.

Vivienne gave Alexia a quick hug, and then a little shove. “
Tante
Josette awaits you upstairs,
pouchette
.”

Alexia took off at a run up the wide staircase. Cameron watched her go. At times, she seemed far too old and wise for her years, while at others, she seemed much younger. But whatever the case, that joie de vivre she carried with her at all times was infectious—he couldn't seem to remain angry with her for long.

Vivienne turned to Cameron. “Come in, Monsieur Andrews. Madame LeBlanc received Alexia's note and is expecting you.”

Cameron stepped inside the graceful mansion. Vivienne walked ahead of him down the wide hallway and directed him into a large room he guessed to be the formal parlor meant for receiving guests. He recognized goods from around the world—an expensive étagère from France, exquisite Chinese carpets, a small Greek statue in one corner of the well-appointed room. Whether it was the widow's good taste or LeBlanc's, he didn't give a bloody damn. He just needed to get this matter resolved and be on his way.

As he moved to the window facing a lush rose garden, a bead of perspiration ran down the back of his neck. He swiped at it. Barely noon, and already the heat and humidity were stifling. Too many years in England and San Francisco had changed his blood. All he could think of right now was getting back to the hotel, stripping down to his underwear, and lying about in his room sipping minted lemonade until the sun went down and he could venture outside. Surely this aunt of hers would take the girl—at least until there was proof of her parentage.

Truth be told, the longer he was around Alexia, the harder it became to deny his fatherhood. As often as she deliberately mimicked him, there were other times her mannerisms were unconscious and natural—and just like his. Even the turn of her hand when she set about explaining something mirrored his movements. Bloody hell, if this wouldn't undermine his plans to disappear into oblivion for a few years.

“Monsieur Andrews, welcome to my home.”

At the smoky, velvet sound, Cameron swung around. Every function in his body—heart, breath, blood—ceased to function.

She was lovely.

More than lovely.

Tendrils of raven hair framed a face so exquisite, it disarmed him. Her mouth, a soft, dewy pink, as though she'd pressed rose petals to her lips, parted. And those eyes, as dark as Creole coffee, intelligent and assessing, roamed over him and then back to take hold of his. But it was her complexion, as flawless as a newborn's, and with a soft glow to it that mesmerized him, that made him want to step closer and stroke her skin.

He turned back to looking out the window while his scrambled thoughts found some semblance of order. He cleared his throat. “It seems I am being accused of begetting a child some thirteen years ago. An incorrigible, uneducated, and as-wild-as-the-bayous-are-thick-with-mosquitoes child.”

A soft chuckle sounded behind him. “You mean to describe a Thibodeaux, don't you, monsieur?”

God, yes!
He clasped his hands behind his back, and turned to face her again.
Merde
, but she was lovely. He'd guess her age to be three or four years younger than his thirty-two. And she was Louis LeBlanc's widow? Egads. LeBlanc had been middle-aged even before Cameron had left for England. “And you are a Thibodeaux as well, Madame LeBlanc?”

“
Oui
.” She glided into the room, the hem of her pale blue gown whispering across the floor. “Removed from the bayou to a lovely home in what people are referring to as the exclusive Garden District, yet no one in New Orleans has forgotten where I came from, or worse, that I am Odalie Thibodeaux's daughter. Thus, I am considered even lower than Cajun bayou trash. I want something different for my niece.”

At her frank honesty, Cameron caught a glimpse of fleeting pain, replaced by a calm demeanor and benevolent smile. Oh, there was anger in this woman. And he'd not get within ten feet of it.

She moved to a table holding a rather large box. She lifted the lid and withdrew a folded garment. “Do you remember this, Monsieur Andrews?”

She shook out a diaphanous peignoir the color of the moon and held it up. “Even though you were but a youth, you had fanciful dreams more befitting the man you are now. You gave this to my sister. Do you remember? She loved it.”

His chest constricted. “I do recall, Madame LeBlanc.” He swiped a hand over his damp brow.
Blast the humidity.
“I was a foolish young man who never questioned if a woman might get with child while in Madame Olympée's strict employ. I suppose it does happen. But that piece of fabric still does not prove the child is mine.”

She studied him for a long moment with eyes that seemed to see right inside him. A flush of heat settled low in his belly. Had she felt it, too, that indefinable
something
that had passed between them just then?