Josette (7 page)

“What the bloody hell was that about?”

The dark-haired stranger separated the panels of his finely tailored jacket and rested his hands on lean hips. “There may be little I can do about you being Alexia's father, but there is something I can do should you ever think to engage yourself with my only surviving sister.”

So this was Bastièn all grown up. Madame was right about the Adonis part. He also cut as fine a figure as any London dandy. “What the deuce makes you think I'd have any interest in your sister?”

Bastièn slid his hands into his trouser pockets and took a casual stance. Apparently there'd be no attempt at physical altercation—at least not tonight. “Just thought I'd let you know we Thibodeaux watch out for our own.” He lifted a brow. “You understand,
oui
?”

Cameron stepped forward, the frustration boiling in him all evening threatening to blow into white-hot fury. “Beware, Bastièn. I'm not the skinny seventeen-year-old you and your brother once pounded into the ground. You wouldn't want to risk having that pretty face of yours spoiled, would you? I don't think the wealthy ladies you service would appreciate it if I battered it into the shape of a pie tin.”

Bastièn grinned, slow and easy, then turned on his heel and disappeared into the night. Cameron headed in the opposite direction, to Antoine's, where he was about to give Michel the shocking news that Cameron had sired a daughter—a Cajun bastard from Bayou St. Laurent.

 

 

It was late when Cameron exited Antoine's and turned onto Royal Street. Midway down the block, he reached the family town house where he'd been born and grown up. He slid the key into the lock of the wrought-iron gate leading through the porte cochère and into the darkened courtyard. The scent of roses filled his nostrils.

The grating turn of the lock, the chink of the gate closing, the lock turning again echoed in the silent enclosure. Such a hollow sound. It left an equally hollow feeling inside him. How his life had changed. With only Michel around and his uncle Justin squirreled away on his plantation upriver, Cameron's solitude burned like acid in his stomach. That two women had died because of him caused the burn to chew its way up his throat.

Once inside, he made his way through the darkness and into the parlor. Removing his jacket, vest, and cravat, he plopped onto the divan, and with a heavy sigh, leaned his head against the sofa's back. He shoved his legs out in front of him and rubbed at his shoulder where Trevor had put a bullet through him when last they were in town. It still ached whenever the weather took a turn, or if he was bone weary, like tonight.

Merde,
Cameron had asked for what he got, but thankfully, not even the duel had broken the bond the cousins forged as youngsters. What foolishness, instigating a battle over the woman who was now Trevor's wife. Damn. It took getting shot to realize that as an only child, Cameron hadn't known the difference between a form of sibling love and the love for a woman he wished to be bound to. It wasn't until Dianah came along that he'd finally understood.

He groaned, and the sound echoed back to him in the utter silence. God, he missed her. Theirs had been a robust blending of two strong-willed people who thought nothing of disagreeing one minute and settling their differences in bed the next. Or on the floor. Or at the seashore. It made no difference where they landed if the moment was right. Life had been good back then. Better than good.

With another heavy sigh, Cameron rose from the divan and mounted the stairs to his chambers. He was growing damn tired of climbing into bed alone every night. And what did he have to look forward to when he got there? More tossing and turning? Only now he'd be burdened with a new problem to mull over—a daughter he didn't know what the hell to do with.

Odd, but the door to the master suite stood partially open. He distinctly remembered hearing the soft click when he'd closed it earlier. He mentally shrugged. The housemaid had probably turned down his bed. He made his way into the room and to the fireplace, where a spill and candle always stood on the mantel. Setting the candle aflame, he took it in hand, turned, and nearly stumbled. There on his pillow, candlelight glinting off its golden chain, lay his pocket watch.

“Damn you, Alexia!” He crossed the room and swept it up. Still ticking.

How the hell did she know he'd moved from the hotel? She had to have broken in sometime after dark, when he'd left for Madame Olympée's. It was one thing to have her steal the blasted thing, but now that he'd acknowledged her, the idea of her being out so late at night did more than rankle him. He burst into a litany of curses. Candle and watch in hand, he dashed down the stairs and back to the parlor. Moving the table in front of the sofa aside, he rolled back the rug, lifted a loose board, and opened the hidden safe, where he deposited the timepiece.

“She'd only steal the blasted thing again,” he muttered. He'd keep it there until he left New Orleans for good. He replaced the board, the rug, and the table, then grabbed his jacket, cravat, and vest. On second thought, he tossed them back down. The hell with it. He didn't need them where he was headed.

Josette sat in a parlor chair opposite her brother, wishing he would call it a night. Using a long-handled spoon, she went about the mindless task of crushing mint leaves and slices of lime in the bottom of her glass, muddling the juices with the iced, dark liquid. She breathed in the heady scent, then took a sip. “This had better be my last one or I'll never make it up the stairs. I'm already a bit light-headed.”

A slow smile curled a corner of René's mouth. “I should like to witness you having to crawl up the steps as a result of enjoying yourself. You lead far too dull a life.”

She ignored his comment and took another sip. “There's something different about the taste from what you've made in the past.”

“Such as?”

“This has—oh, I don't know—there's a subtle elegance to it, if one can describe liquor in such a manner. In any case, it goes down far too easily.”

“It's Gosling Brothers rum making all the difference.” A cut-glass decanter sat nearly empty on a low table between them, along with a carafe of the iced concoction. Rivulets sweated down the outside of the latter, disappearing into a folded cloth beneath it. “A supply arrived from Bermuda just yesterday.”

“Bermuda? Why all that way when plenty of rum is brewed right here in America?”

He took a long swallow. “Ah, but this happens to be the finest in the world. Even you notice its superior quality. We couldn't get any here until now.”

Lifting his glass to the lit chandelier, he studied the rich, dark liquid. “And since you keep a nice supply of ice buried under a pile of straw in that hutch out back, I thought you might appreciate a sampling of the very best,
oui
?”

She barely managed a half-smile. “So you gifted me with this fine brew for your benefit as well as mine?”

René chuckled, but then he tilted his head and grew serious. “What be the matter,
chére
? You're off somewhere in your own world tonight.”

She fought a heavy sigh. “Nothing's wrong. I'm merely fatigued. I had a rather taxing day after I left Maman's. I was also concerned you wouldn't keep your word. Thank you for returning Alexia to me.”

“Have I ever not kept my word?” He made a clicking sound with his tongue. “You should know better.”

“Your pardon.” She didn't dare let on that Émile Vennard had paid her a visit. Why in the world would that louse want to purchase her shop and run her out of business? What would he want of her after that—her home? Ask her to leave town? She'd been through this before with him, knew what was coming next if she refused his offer. At first, there would be veiled threats indicating Bastièn and René might meet with a series of unfortunate accidents. If she still said no, then her brothers would eventually lose their lives altogether.

The man was a formidable presence in New Orleans, with more clout than any ten men. She'd sold her husband's holdings to him after Bastièn took a mysterious beating in an alley, and a runaway horse nearly trampled René to death. Both had taken weeks to heal. But what would she do without her business? It was the only thing she cared about in her sorry life besides Alexia—and one way or another, her niece would soon be gone—to Maman or with her father. Much as Josette would like to, there was no holding on to Alexia forever.

“You're biting your lip, Josette. What's the matter?” René's voice had grown cold and his words fell hard on her ears. “Are you concerned now that Alexia's father has returned to Nawlins?”

“Don't be silly.”

“Perhaps you're sorry you sent Alexia after him,
oui
?”

Shock waves ran through Josette. “What makes you think I had anything to do with her running off?”

A low grunt left René's throat. “Alexia takes to chattering when we float along the bayou. Have you forgotten I am closer to her than her flesh-and-blood papa?”

Josette pressed two fingers against her temple and rubbed in circles. “Please. I'm in no mood for a debate. Besides, I really do need to retire.”

René sat back and studied her beneath heavy lids. “Do not forget that it was I who practically raised you, not Maman. I changed your drawers and combed the knots from your hair. I know you better than anyone,
oui
? Enough to know you are not being honest with me.”

He was right. He knew her better than anyone, and that idea tugged at her heartstrings. Only four years her senior, and a child himself, he'd acted the part of the father she'd never had. He'd seen to dressing her until she was old enough to do so herself. He'd made certain she got enough to eat before he took a bite off his own plate. It was he, barely ten years old, who'd pushed a pirogue through thunderstorms to see she went to school.

“In due time, René. In due time.”

Josette jumped at the loud pounding on the front door.

René stood. “Who be that at such a late hour?”

Oh God, she prayed it wasn't Vennard. How could she explain?

The pounding increased.

“I'll see to it.” René made to step past her.

She sprang to her feet and grabbed his arm, her heart in her throat. “This is my home, and since Vivienne is not present, I will see to answering my own door.”

René scowled. “
Non.
You are dressed in a flimsy robe and your hair is down.”

“Do you think I give a damn about propriety when society shuns me for being bayou trash trying to better myself? Did you know they still whisper ugly rumors that Louis died either by my hand or Maman's?” She released his wrist and walked away.

“Then I will wait right here, you stubborn woman. But at the first sign—”

“Oh, hush with your nonsense.” She reached the foyer and paused when she saw movement through the door's beveled glass side panels. Vennard was not as tall as that. She squinted. My God! Instinctively, she tugged at the panels of her red silk robe, as if they'd somehow separated.

He pounded again.

She turned on her slippered heel and fairly sailed back to the parlor. “It's Cameron Andrews. You need to leave.”

“
Merde
, what is that cur doing here at such an hour? Even more reason to stay.”

“Probably wanting to check on Alexia—how should I know? In any case, he's about to break down the door, so go.”

“
Non
. I will remain for your safekeeping.”

“Oh, for God's sake.” She planted her hands on his chest and pushed. “Do you think he is here to do me harm? He might be finally acknowledging his daughter and I will not have you mucking things up by making a scene. Leave.”

René stepped back and, amid the pounding, studied her for what seemed an eternity. “
Oui,
I shall leave then.” He headed down the corridor toward the rear of the house as the pounding increased. “The door, she is about to be split in two.”

“And don't merely pretend to leave. I'll not have you slinking about.”

He spun around, hand on heart. “You do not trust me?” He advanced toward her, mischief outlining his features. “Then I shall see myself out another way.”

Oh Lord, no! “Not the front door, you mindless fool. You'll only take a punch at him, if he doesn't manage to lambaste you first.”

René strode into the parlor, guzzled the remainder of his drink, set the empty glass on the table, then hiked open the window and slid through it as effortlessly as though he'd done it a thousand times. “
Au revoir
,
ma petite soeur
.”

Josette swept a mass of curls off her cheek and grabbed René's glass still full of ice, limes, and mint leaves. It wouldn't do if Cameron happened in and saw another person had been here this late. Especially his alleged enemy. After the way he'd reacted to the news that Alexia had been raised around René and Bastièn, let him think her brothers didn't visit much. The last thing Josette needed was to have Cameron decide his daughter wasn't worth the trouble and sail off again. By all the saints, if this wasn't bad timing!

She turned in a circle. Where to hide the blasted thing?

“I'm coming.” She shoved the glass behind a pillow propped in one corner of the sofa, made her way through the corridor and opened the door.

One look at Cameron Andrews standing there in shirtsleeves, leaning one hand against the door's frame, his hair mussed as though he'd run his fingers through it a thousand times, and everything around her melted into the night. It was only him floating before her, his angry amber eyes burning into hers.

He took in a deep breath and exhaled.

Was it her imagination or did something just shift in him? His gaze slowly traveled down the length of her, then up again, pausing briefly at the pulse pounding wildly at her throat. Then his scrutiny took in her face, her hair, before settling once again on her eyes. Was it surprise or puzzlement washing through him that caused his cheeks to color, the anger in his gaze to dissipate?

Those eyes.

At once, she was back in the Vieux Carré, a young, besotted girl following him around, stealthy in her escapades so he wouldn't take notice of her. But then there was the one time when they'd encountered each other. She'd knocked over a merchant's barrel she'd hidden behind, and there they were, face-to-face, this close. Instead of running her out of the French Quarter as others had done, he'd bought her a
cala
, that sugary sweet cake only the rich enjoyed—unless one managed to steal one, that is. He'd handed her the
cala
, tilted his head for a moment while he studied her with those incredible whiskey-colored eyes, then sauntered off alongside his cousin.

Oh, how she had loved that sweet cake—and him more than ever. But that was back then, she reminded herself. She'd learned to despise him soon after.

Josette's head cleared until she had sense enough to collect herself. Did he intend to stand there all night? Say nothing? Bitterness crept in once more. “Oh no, you're not bothering me at all, Monsieur Andrews. I am always prepared for company in the middle of the night. Do come in.”

“Where's Alexia?” he growled.

His voice rumbled through her, making her feel tipsier than the rum she'd imbibed. Lord, she wanted to fold her arms around herself and disappear into the woodwork. But no, he'd only see the unsettling effect he had on her. Instead, she flipped her head and swept her hair off one shoulder. “In bed. Where she belongs.”

The fire was back in his eyes as his gaze swept the length of her and back up again. “Show me.”

She stepped aside and bid him enter. A bit of wickedness bubbled into her strange mix of emotions. Boldly, she returned his overt perusal of her. “Far be it from me to deny her papa
any
privileges.”

Cameron let loose a soft snort, then strode through the door, a good head and shoulders above Josette. She caught his scent, and something else coalesced with the amalgam of emotions stampeding through her like a herd of wild horses.

Heaven help her.

He stood in the corridor, hands on hips and looking up the staircase. But oh, she'd caught him taking another glance at her as he passed by.

“If you'll follow me, I'll take you to your daughter. But please, don't wake her. I took her to her grandmother's today and she is worn out.”

He turned, a look of disgust setting his mouth into a thin line. “You took her to Odalie? To your brothers?”

She sighed. “Monsieur Andrews, Alexia would have run off on her own had I not taken her there. Your daughter was far safer with me.” Josette wasn't about to tell him she'd left Alexia at Maman's and René had brought her home barely three hours ago, dirty and exhausted.

She indicated the stairs. “It's late, and if I know Alexia, she'll be up before the rooster crows, while I will not have had a bit of rest. See her, then leave,
s'il vous plaît
.”

Lifting the skirts of her dressing gown, Josette climbed the stairs ahead of him. His eyes were on her; she could feel the heat as surely as if a fire had been lit. Despite the static in the air between them, sinful amusement settled in. She nearly laughed. Let him ogle, for all she cared. Hadn't she done enough staring at him in her youth to make things even?

She turned right at the top of the landing and led Cameron to Alexia's room. Opening the double doors, she stepped aside and bid him enter first. Despite his size, he moved silently across the Aubusson carpet and halted at Alexia's bedside. The light from the gas lamps in the corridor sent a pale stream of light in his wake.

He folded his arms over his chest and stood beside his daughter's bed for a long while.

Once Josette's eyes adjusted to the dim light, she took her time studying Cameron from behind. He wore no jacket or vest, and when he stood with his arms crossed in front of him, the fine fabric of his shirt stretched tight across broad shoulders and a well-muscled back. His trousers fit snug around his hips and for a moment, she had the terrible urge to step forward and touch his bottom. Only to see if it was as taut as it appeared. Curiosity. That's what had caused the whim. But of course, mere curiosity.

She stepped into the room and moved to stand beside him. How odd it felt being this close, yet at the same time, a kind of comfort settled in. It had to be because Alexia's father had come at last. For Alexia. What else? A slight breeze found its way through the open window, lifted the curtains, and filled the room with a floral scent, not unlike the handmade soap she'd used to scrub Alexia clean.