Josette (8 page)

Alexia lay sprawled on her back, covers in a tangle, one foot hanging over the edge of the bed, her pillow on the floor. She breathed in a steady rhythm through parted lips, her pristine white night rail a beacon in the dim light.

“She seems so innocent,” he whispered. “Looking at her now, one could hardly guess she could send a person to Bedlam with her chatter alone.”

“If she babbles, it means she likes you, Monsieur Andrews. And in her own way, she is quite innocent. I hope to keep her that way.”

He turned his head toward Josette, so close she could feel the heat emanating from his body in waves—hot waves that washed right through her. “You may as well call me Cameron.”

Even in the near dark, his mesmerizing gaze raised the hairs on the back of her neck and left her feeling as though she'd fallen under some dizzying spell. Control. She needed to take command of unruly emotions that seemed to be flying around in every direction. “Then you may call me Josette since we're going to have to spend a bit of time figuring things out.”

He shoved a hand through his hair. “She's thirteen, nearly grown. I don't know what the devil I can work out. And according to you, she has a fondness for your mother's ways. In all likelihood, it's too late.”

“On the contrary. You may be just in time to save her from the kind of life I so despise.”

His gaze swept the room. He regarded the crystal chandelier hanging overhead, the soft blues and creams covering the windows and walls, the pastel-colored Aubusson on the wooden floor. “I wouldn't have guessed she'd have a room like this. Why in the world would she prefer a shanty in the swamp?”

He shifted his weight, shoved his hands in his pockets, and took in a deep breath. “Look . . . I need to tell you right out that I'm sorry for what happened to your sister. I had no idea—”

Alexia flopped over and gave out with a little moan.

“Shush.” Josette hadn't intended to touch him; she'd only meant to raise her hand to stop him from speaking. But in the dim light, she hadn't realized how close they were standing and her hand landed on his chest—his hard, muscled chest, hot beneath the thin layer of his shirt. She dropped her hand as if burned. “We need to leave or we'll wake her,” she whispered.

He nodded and stepped aside for her to exit before him. Side by side, they descended the staircase. “What brought you here so late?” Josette asked, though she knew darn well what had brought him. “Would you like something to drink? My bro . . . I have a cool drink in the parlor if you'd care for anything before leaving.”

“Thank you, I will.” He followed her into the parlor. “I moved into my town house in the Vieux Carré today. When I returned from dinner at Antoine's about an hour ago, I found my fob watch on my pillow. How the devil did the little thief know I'd moved from the hotel to there?” He shoved his hand through his hair again. “But that's not the point. What set me off was that she'd been out after dark, wandering the streets.”

Josette bit her bottom lip to keep from grinning and indicated a chair as she moved toward the armoire opposite him. “Please, sit.”

Instead, Cameron seated himself on the sofa, too near the pillow where she'd hidden René's empty glass. Her heart skipped a beat. Now why had she gone and done that in the first place?

Cameron leaned forward, his hands draped over his knees. “Is that ice I see in that decanter?”

“I have it shipped down from up north. There's a shed out back covered in hay that holds it for the better part of the summer. There's not much left by now, but it gets me through the worst of the heat.”

“Interesting. My uncle Justin keeps it on his plantation upriver, but since we only have courtyards in the Vieux Carré, there's no place to hold ice.”

His voice, smooth and deep, ran along her spine like warm honey. But when she closed the armoire doors and turned to face him, she was startled to see he had in hand the cut-crystal decanter holding what was left of the rum, an odd look on his face.

“You drank this all yourself?”

Her heart would give out before the night was over. She just knew it. “There's not much left, but you're welcome to it.”

He gave a nod and reached for the glass she held. He poured what remained, and took a sip. “This is Gosling Brothers rum, isn't it? A shipment just came in on one of our clippers, and either the count is off or some has gone missing. How did you come by it?”

Oh, dear God. She was going to shoot René. “It was a gift delivered to my door.”

If a look could lay one bare to the bone, his did. “And you drank this all alone, or do you entertain men with my daughter in the house?”

“It's not like that.”

“One of your brothers then?”

She didn't know what else to say. “I think it's time for you to leave. You've seen your daughter is soundly asleep in her bed, and I need my rest. Now please don't give me cause to be rude.”

He stood to pass her, but then paused and turned. With one slow step and another, he backed her up against the wall, caging her with an arm on either side of her head. “Don't toy with me, Josette.”

His breath fell on her mouth and she swallowed it. Her knees went weak.

He leaned closer and the look in his eyes shifted.

“What do you want?” she whispered. “You've seen your daughter.”

“Where's your cousin Vivienne?”

Josette turned her head aside, giving him her cheek. “She is seeing her brother for the night, just as she does once a week. Now let me go.”

“You are trying to tell me you drank that entire bottle alone?”

“So what if I did?”

“Then you should not be taking care of my daughter in your condition.”

Not only did he surround her, he had her backed into a mental corner. “Fine, I'll send her to you tomorrow, since that's where she belongs anyway.”

He leaned closer and his mouth brushed across her cheek until he reached her ear. She sucked in a hard breath that caught in her throat while a knot of confusion twisted her insides.

“I warned you not to toy with me, Josette, but since you insist on doing so, I intend to return tomorrow evening with another bottle of rum. Can you prove to me you can drink that much on your own?”

His words, husky and raw, touched the side of her neck and sent a quivering through her. She swallowed a moan. “I could and then some.”

What was wrong with her? Instead of gaining control, she was losing herself in him, and she'd just accepted a challenge she had no way of fulfilling.

He drew back in one fluid movement, and in doing so, his mouth seared her flesh, sending a hot pulse pounding low in her belly. She glanced down. Just long enough to catch sight of proof that he was as aroused as she was. He didn't miss her glance. “You feel it too, don't you?”

“Feel what?”

He leaned closer. “That kind of undeniable tingling running through you. Clear to your toes. Do you know what it is?”

She could feel his heat, smell the scent of soap, skin, and a hint of rum. “What?”

“That's common sense draining from our bodies. I need to leave.” He pushed away from the wall and walked off. “I'll see myself out. But I'll be back with another bottle of rum tomorrow night, Josette. I want to see what you can do with it.”

 

 

Cameron's feet pounded a steady rhythm on the wooden banquette, loud in the dead of night. What in blazes had he gone and done? This was insanity. One look at Josette when she'd opened the door and something stirred deep inside him that he'd thought long dead.

This couldn't be happening.

He couldn't want her.

Not Josette Thibodeaux LeBlanc.

But he did, and his groin still ached.

There was no denying how the sight of her hit him like a fever dream, all wrapped up in red silk, hair flowing in wild disarray, and smelling sweet and feminine. That mouth. He wanted a taste of it, but he'd dared not, and so he'd brushed his cheek across hers, alongside her neck. She was like an opiate—one slight taste, and he was addicted.

He had enough problems without getting involved with Alexia's aunt. And those goddamn brothers of hers. The rum-stealing bastards. The last thing he needed was to get near Josette Thibodeaux LeBlanc again.

Cameron stood before the table in the center of the shipping offices, scanning architectural renderings of the warehouse where the rum was stored. Michel sat in front of a desk piled high with papers, while Midnight, the cat, sat hunched in a corner cleaning body parts Cameron didn't care to dwell on.

“Why only another two barrels missing and not more?” he asked. “It's the thieves sending a message that they can come and go at will.”

Michel swung around in his chair and leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head. “You're certain it's the Thibodeaux brothers?”

Cameron grunted. “René, at least. But with those heavy barrels, he can't be acting alone. Something tells me if we simply wait, we'll soon be privy to whatever cat-and-mouse game he's decided to play.”

“Is he that clever? Or just taking whatever he can handle at the moment?”

“He's cunning. We'd be fools to underestimate him.”

Cameron swiped at the back of his neck. Barely ten o'clock and already the heat and humidity chipped away at his mood and drained his energy. Removing his jacket, he draped it over the back of a chair and set his fingers to the buttons on his gold embroidered vest. Changing his mind, he left it and his cravat in place. At least he could show some measure of decency. He rolled his white shirtsleeves to his elbows to prevent ink from rubbing onto the fabric, and went back to perusing the drawings.

A breeze blew in through the open windows and door just then, offering a modicum of relief. He rubbed at his nape again, thankful he'd managed to get his hair trimmed so it didn't cling in wet clumps to his skin and collar.

“Feeling the heat?” Michel asked.

“I hope that blasted tailor manages to deliver the lighter-weight clothing today as promised. Between this wool, and the heat and humidity, I'm about done in. Why I didn't think of the difference in weather before I left San Fran . . . well, I had enough on my mind at the time, what with that little . . . with my daughter.” He shot a glance at his cousin.

Michel's mouth took on a comical twist. “You were saying?”

Cameron gave a shake of his head. “Can you believe this bloody turn of events? How the hell am I going to manage all this? I ought to board the next ship out of here and pretend I bypassed New Orleans completely.”

He returned to scanning the drawings. “Thibodeaux must have a key. There's no other way he could've entered without some kind of damage to windows or locks. And where were the guards that they heard nothing? Sleeping? Damn it to hell!”

Abbott winced and his pen skittered sideways across the ledger. He muttered something unintelligible.

A shaft of humor sliced through Cameron. He couldn't hold his tongue. “Aren't you happy as a duck in water to have me back in your life, Abbott?”

“Is it time for our noon meal?” Abbott responded in a monotone. “I prefer taking mine outdoors today. In the hot sun.”

Michel chuckled. “Admit it, Abbott, life was rather boring until a couple of days ago. Everything around here runs as efficiently as a greased wheel—your entire day is timed to the minute. How long could you expect that to go on without falling asleep on the job?”

With the teasing, some of the pressure in Cameron's chest eased. The droll accountant was a master of his profession, but his sheer blandness and severe work ethic screamed for disruption every now and then. How anyone could work day in and day out with nary a change in routine or a word uttered was beyond Cameron. The man had operated no differently in San Francisco. Somebody had to do him a favor and shake things up a bit now and then. “Come, Abbott, you've been here barely six months and already you're in the same rut as in San Francisco. And you know what they say about ruts.”

Abbott set down his pen and slowly stroked his graying mutton chops with stubby, ink-stained fingers, his eyes devoid of emotion. “I had no idea I was in a rut, sir, much less knowing what
they
have to say about them.”

Ha! Cameron finally had the round little man's attention. “A rut eventually turns into a shallow grave, Abbott. Then all you end up doing is waiting around to be buried. So there you have it, my man. Live a little. Spice things up. Try showing up for work once in a while at nine minutes to the hour instead of ten. But God forbid you should arrive a minute late.”

The little man scratched his jowls again. “The way you two carry on, perhaps living in a rut is more comfortable and far safer.”

“Touché.” Cameron hiked a brow. “So how does Michel carry on? I thought he was a paragon of virtue.”

Michel laughed. “I might not set the town on fire like my brother and you once did, but I do manage to get around.”

A carriage rattled up to the office. Michel craned his neck. “What's this? Or rather
who
is this? Uh-oh, I'm afraid I already have the answer.”

A high-pitched chattering caught Cameron's attention. “Good God, tell me it isn't so.”

Michel grinned. “I'm afraid Miss Alexia Thibodeaux Andrews has arrived. Or am I premature in calling her such?”

Cameron raked his fingers through his hair. “Her aunt threatened to send her over. As if—”

“
Bonjour
, Papa!” Alexia eased through the entry, gingerly balancing a large oval tray filled with what looked like . . . could it be?

“Beignets?” The sweet, warm scent of the powdered-sugar-coated confection wafted through the room, filling Cameron's mind with a jumble of childhood memories. His empty stomach growled.

“
Oui
, Papa. And café au lait.
Ma tante
Josette, she be bringing along the coffee.”

Michel, closest to the door, lifted the tray from her small hands, a quirky smile working his mouth. “You must be Miss Alexia.”

She beamed and bounced inside. “
Oui
, dat be me.”

Abbott, who usually remained in the background, wasted no time coming forth and setting his sights on the heaping platter. “Beignets, you say?”

Michel set the tray on a corner of the table next to where Cameron stood. “Did you make these yourself?”

Alexia giggled. “Cousin Régine cooked up the batch just for y'all.
Ma tante
calls her our chef, but she's really just a cook in sheep's clothing.”

Michel shot a glance at Cameron and spoke through his teeth. “Didn't your day just take on a new glow? No rut for you.”

“Clever.” Cameron automatically patted his vest pocket to check the time, then remembered his fob watch was hidden away in the town house floor safe. Damn. Collecting his lighter-weight clothing from the tailor wasn't an option now that Miss Sticky Fingers had descended upon them. He'd send word to have the order delivered to his residence.

Except for a blotch of the powdery sugar smudging one corner of Alexia's mouth—the scamp must have sampled from the tray—she could easily have passed for an angel. Her dark hair hung thick and shiny to her waist, swept back from her face by a ribbon that matched the pale blue frock she wore. Hard to believe this was the same ragamuffin who could out-curse a sailor.

She slipped her slender hand into Cameron's and offered up a dazzling smile that outshone the sun. “You like, Papa?”

For some odd reason, Cameron's heart gave a little lurch. “Indeed.”

Without thinking, he reached out with his other hand and wiped off the dusting of sugar at the corner of her mouth. When it didn't come entirely clean, he licked his thumb and swiped again.

Alexia's eyes widened. She rubbed her fingers where he'd touched her. “You put your spit on me, Papa.”

Christ, that's what his mother used to do when he was a lad—the very thing he'd detested with a passion. “Your pardon. I wasn't thinking.”

She grinned and rubbed again. “It be good, though. I never had me a papa around to wipe spit on me before, don'cha know.” With that, she spied the cat in the corner and rushed over.

Michel, arms crossed over his chest, chuckled. “Doesn't life have a way of offering up the most interesting of surprises?”

“Go to the devil,” Cameron grunted.

Abbott licked clean the two fingers he'd used to shove a beignet into his mouth. “Where might I find the café au lait, Miss Alexia?”

“Right here,” came a throaty, feminine voice.

Josette.
Cameron's stomach did a flip. He turned. She stood in the doorway holding another tray, filled with two silver carafes, a small bowl, spoons, and several china cups. Dressed in the same soft blue as Alexia, her dark hair tucked beneath a matching bonnet bearing a wide rim, she looked a vision.

For several stunned seconds, Cameron let the sight of her pour through him. Then he moved forward in a rush and took the tray from her. “Please, come in.”

His cousin and Abbott openly stared, and then Michel introduced himself and the accountant. Frustration welled in Cameron. How had he so crudely missed being the one to make introductions when he'd been raised with impeccable manners? He set the tray beside the other, holding the beignets.

“May I pour?” she asked, as if entering a business and doing so were an everyday occurrence. “Mr. Abbott, you look in need. One lump or two?”

“Two,” he said, his cheeks taking on a slight blush.

So she gave little heed to hierarchy, did she? Cameron was beginning to see that it wasn't only Alexia with a bit of rebellion in her. Josette poured from both carafes at the same time, one filled with the rich black coffee blended with chicory, the second with milk. Her smooth-as-silk motions, her clean, fresh-as-a-breeze scent, her small waist . . . he stopped his thoughts before his body reacted in a way that could prove embarrassing. He focused on the tray in front of her, but his peripheral vision insisted on fixating on her . . . especially her lips, petal pink and dewy. Wouldn't he like a taste of such a kissable-looking mouth?

“Mr. Andrews?”

He glanced up, but she'd addressed Michel, who looked as smitten as a schoolboy.
The fool.
But why should Cameron care?

She turned to him. “And for you?”

“One lump,” he said and took a bite out of a beignet. And nearly moaned with pleasure. “Delicious. These are impossible to come by in San Francisco.”

A small smile played about her lips. “It was your daughter's idea. She begged Régine to fry up her famous beignets for you.”

Abbott emptied his cup, swiped another sweet confection off the tray, and scurried back to his work area while Michel took his coffee and fritter and moved to his desk, that smirk still plastered on his face.

Josette finished her task and backed away. “I'll leave you now, since I have a shop to run. Alexia, be a good girl and mind your papa. And please, be home by seven.”

“
Oui
,
ma tante
,” Alexia said without looking up from the cat.

Cameron nearly choked on his coffee. “You intend to leave her here?”

Josette gave him a knowing look and smiled as sweetly as Alexia had when filled with the devil. “Didn't I say as much last night? I always keep my word.”

She started to walk away and then paused. “Perhaps you'd care to join your daughter for dinner? Régine is making jambalaya.”

“The brown kind,” Alexia called out, her attention still on the cat, who now curled in her lap, bumping its head against her hand. “And shrimp gumbo.”

Cameron waved a hand about the room. “You cannot leave her here. I . . . I have things to do.”

“And your daughter can either help you or not interrupt you. She knows her place.” Josette turned to Michel and Abbott. “It was a pleasure meeting you, gentlemen. Good day.”

Cameron caught up with her at the door. “It appears your driver has gone off with your carriage.”

“I intend to walk since it's good for my disposition. My driver will come for me at an appointed hour. He'll also drop by and pick up the trays beforehand.” She stepped outside.

Cameron followed her. “Then I'll see you to your shop.”

It was as though a cloud passed overhead, dampening her spirits and setting a faint line between her brows. Just as quickly, she recovered and the crease disappeared. “Thank you, but I much prefer my time alone. I have so little of it with a young girl around and having so many obligations.”

What was that all about? He tilted his head and studied her. “Why is it I don't believe you?”

“All right, then. I don't care to have you walking with me because I don't like you so much. I'm only here to help Alexia make a strong connection with you.”

Something hot and sultry shone in the depths of her dark eyes that made his pulse twitch. He took a step forward until they were standing so close he caught her lovely scent again. “Liar. I think you don't want me walking with you because you like me too much and you don't know what to do about it.”

She looked him over with a half-smile. “Aren't you the arrogant one?”

She gave him her cheek and snapped open her umbrella, the same blue as her dress. “You didn't say whether or not you would join us for dinner. After all, you threatened me with a late-night visit and a bottle of rum, so you may as well arrive early and get to know more of your daughter over a bowl of the best jambalaya in town.”

He stood there, staring at Josette, a riot of emotions he couldn't name battering his insides. God, she was beautiful. “The brown kind, is it? I haven't had good Creole cooking since I was here four years ago, and brown jambalaya happens to be my favorite.”