Be My Baby (22 page)

“No!” He took a huge step toward her, then checked himself. “You know better than that—you know it’s been the best.”

“Then why didn’t you simply wait until I went back to Boston? You could have spared both of us this.”

“Dammit, Rosebud, you said you loved me last night!”

That stopped her dead. “What?” She’d been biting back the words for several days now—she certainly didn’t remember uttering them last night. “I didn’t.”

“Yes. You did—when we were making love. You said you loved me.”

“Ah. Well.” She faced him coolly. “Sex talk.”

He took another step toward her. “Bullshit.”

“It was a stressful night.”

“Yeah, it was. But you meant it.”

“Did I? Well, you’d be the expert, wouldn’t you? But you might want to consider that it was you who introduced me to the kind of sex that has me saying just about
anything
—and certainly things I’d
never say under ordinary circumstances.”

God, she was tired. It seemed that all her life she’d been seeking someone’s approval: Father’s, Grandmother’s…hell, all of society’s. Well, she was through. She hadn’t asked for anything this time—not a blessed thing—but even that wasn’t good enough.

“I tell you what, Beau. I don’t want to be a rock around anyone’s neck, so why don’t you consider yourself free as a bird.” She grasped his arm and guided him toward the door. “Really. It’s been fun, and I thank you for the experience.” She opened the door and shoved him over the threshold. “Have a good life.” She closed the door in his face. And then she was alone again, just as she’d been most of her life.

She turned until her back pressed against the solid panels of the door. Sliding slowly down its surface, she sank to the floor and buried her face in her knees. And tears like acid rolled silently down her cheeks.

F
or the third day in a row, Beau sat planted in front of a microfiche in the HQ records room, examining films of old police reports. It was painstaking, frustrating, and thus far unrewarding work, and his mind had a tendency to drift from the business at hand. Unfortunately, where it drifted, more often than not, was to Juliet.

He should be pleased—hell, relieved, even—that she’d made it so easy for him to walk away. She’d done him a favor. Well, maybe
walk away
wasn’t precisely the way it had happened—not with the door hitting him in the butt as she shoved him over the threshold. And hadn’t she given up on their relationship mighty damn fast? For someone who professed to love him?

Christ. He scrubbed his hands over his face before reaching for a new spool and threading it onto the machine. He had to quit thinking about her. It was making him nuts. She’d cut him loose, and that was exactly what he’d wanted.
Exactly
. End of story.

He nevertheless continued to chew on it endlessly, and had nearly scrolled through an entire report before it sank in that he’d skimmed past a reference to two antique guns. Going back to the beginning, he saw it was a stolen property report from several years ago. Among the items taken was a matched set of Colt 1849 Pocket Model revolvers—two .31-caliber, cap-and-ball percussion, five-shot pistols, which matched the forensics report on the lead ball removed from the tree at the garden party. He checked further for the name of the officer who had taken the report.

It wasn’t one he recognized, but the report had been filed in the Garden District. If he was lucky, the patrolman was still around and would remember something about the case. Odds were against that, but it was a place to start, at least.

Hell, an even better source would be the victim. An experience that was routine for the cop was much more likely to stand out in the victim’s mind. He quickly scrolled the report up the screen, searching for a name.

And cursed beneath his breath when he found it. For the theft had been reported by one Edward Haynes—at an address Beau recognized only too well.

The intercom on Juliet’s desk buzzed. Without looking up from her work, she reached for the button to open the line. “Yes?”

“Your father’s on line two, Juliet,” Roxanne said.

“Oh, perfect,” she whispered. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she blew it out again and
carefully placed her pen in perfect alignment with the invoices she’d been studying.

Roxanne’s voice was professional but sympathetic when she said, “Do you want me to put him off?”

“Thanks, Rox; I appreciate the offer. But…no. Go ahead and put him through.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” The concern in her assistant’s voice warmed her and she punched down the button that opened line two. “Hello, Father. To what I do owe this honor?”

“Is that flippancy I hear in your voice, Juliet Rose?” His voice was coldly displeased.

It never failed to amaze her how effortlessly he could reduce her to a little girl eager to please, and she caught herself correcting her posture as if he were right there in the room to notice that it had degenerated into something less than perfect. “No, Father.” Swallowing a sigh, she said levelly, “But I am up to my eyebrows in details for the opening, so perhaps we should get to the point.”

“I have a newspaper clipping here in front of me, Juliet. Would you like to know what it features?”

She bit back her impatience. “I haven’t had time to keep up with the
Boston Globe
, I’m afraid.”

“This isn’t the
Globe
, Juliet Rose, it’s the
New Orleans Times-Picayune
. With a very nice write-up of the Garden Crown’s pre-opener the other night.”

“Well…good.”

“Yes, it is, for the most part. But there’s a picture in the spread that disturbs me greatly.”

“Oh, Lord, don’t tell me they got a shot of Rox
anne dangling from the gallery.” She sighed. “Well, it’s not the sort of publicity I would have hoped for, Father, but it was hardly her fault.”

“This has nothing to do with your ill-bred little assistant, Juliet. This is a photograph—a rather prominent photograph—of you looking entirely too chummy with the man purported to be your bodyguard.”

“Sergeant Dupree?” It was like having a barely healed-over scab ripped free. She’d been trying to think of Beau as little as possible for the past two days. For all she was worth, she had been attempting that.

“Yes, Dupree. Captured on film, making a vulgar display of you for all the world to see. I don’t think I need tell you I don’t approve of this, Juliet. Captain Pfeffer has told me something of this man, and Dupree is clearly not our kind.”

“You’ve discussed Sergeant Dupree with
Pfeffer
? That ineffectual toady? Have the two of you also discussed me?” Resentment stirred, but she did her best not to let it color her voice. “Did Pfeffer send the article to you, Father, or do you have other spies checking up on me?”

“Who sent it isn’t important. And I don’t like your tone, young lady.”

“
I
don’t like having my life reported back to you. I’m not a child to be yanked back in line when she does something of which her parent disapproves.”

“Perhaps not. But you’re a fool if you believe anything will ever come of a relationship with a blue-collar, debt-ridden policeman. He’s probably after your money.”

She could have set his mind at ease and told him the relationship with Beau was yesterday’s news.

“Thank you, Father; that’s a very flattering assessment of my desirability. Considering you’ve never even met the man and are taking Pfeffer’s word as gospel, however, you’ll have to excuse me if I’m not overwhelmed by your acumen. But here’s a bit of information for you, straight from the source: I’m thirty-two years old, and my love life is none of your affair. Stay out of it.” Leaning forward, she reseated the receiver in its cradle and then depressed the intercom button. “If Father should call back,” she said crisply the moment Roxanne answered, “I’m not in.”

“Gotcha. He gave you a hard time over something, I take it.”

“Let me put it this way: I’ll probably get my period next—and then I’ll just have it all.”

“I can’t believe I never once checked the obvious,” Beau said as he slapped a copy of the stolen property report down on Luke’s desk.

Looking up from his own report, Luke growled, “I realize this is bound to come as a surprise, buddy, but I happen to be hip-deep in work of my own—and
I’ve
got more than one case.” When Beau just looked at him, he picked up the copy and read it. “Want to give me a clue as to what I’m lookin’ for?”

“Edward-friggin’-Haynes.”

“Who is…?”

“Yeah, that would be the sixty-thousand-dollar question, all right.” Beau’s laugh was short and
sharp. “I did some digging and found out that Haynes and his wife the grande dame have called the Garden Crown their home for the past thirty years or so. Seems it was part of Miz Haynes’s heritage, only the women in her family aren’t allowed to inherit. So the Hayneses were appointed caretakers and lived there rent-free instead—until Crown Corporation bought the estate out from under them to turn it into a hotel.” He planted his knuckles on Luke’s desk and leaned his weight on them. “You beginnin’ to see glimmers of a motive here, pal?”

“Yeah. The original letter finally begins to make sense, doesn’t it?”

“Not to mention that Haynes has been present every single time one of those horseshit ‘accidents’ happened or an attempt on Juliet’s life was made.”

“And the antique guns?”

Beau threw himself into a chair and propped his ankle on his knee. He bounced his leg. “What do you wanna bet they were never stolen at all? It’s my guess Haynes padded the report for insurance purposes.”

“I’m sure you’re right, but supposition’s not enough for a warrant.”

“I know, but it will be, after I do more digging. It only took me a couple of hours to unearth this inheritance info.”

Luke gave him a curious look. “Why didn’t you just ask Juliet? She must have known.”

Beau lost a little of the juice that had him jazzed. He shifted in his seat. “She’s, uh, not exactly talkin’ to me at the moment.”

“No shit?” Luke straightened. “What did you do?”

“Why the hell would you assume it was something I did? I didn’t do anything,” Beau said flatly. When his ex-partner simply looked at him, he gave his shoulders an uneasy hitch. “I don’t wanna talk about it, okay?”

“Well, sonuvabitch, Dupree, that hardly seems fair. You know everything there is to know about my love life.”

Beau looked at him from beneath lowered brows. “Don’t remind me,” he said glumly. “I’m still struggling to come to terms with that one.”

“And gettin’ closer to it every minute. Just look at how good you were with Josie Lee yesterday. I was proud of ya, bud.”

“I guess I can sleep easy now.” Beau eyed his ex-partner sourly. “It would never occur to you, I suppose, that I was lying through my teeth so Jose wouldn’t be mad at me anymore.”

“Nah, the idea of me and her is growing on you. Admit it.”

“I admit I’m not gagging quite as often.”

“See? You’re coming right along. Why, before you know it, you’ll probably be walking her down the aisle, and I’ll be callin’ you Dad.”

“Do that, Gardner, and I’ll make her a widow.”

Luke’s teeth flashed white against his dark goatee. “You’re such a card.”

“A freakin’ barrel of laughs—that’s me.” He tapped his finger against the report on Luke’s desk. “You going to sit around all day crackin’ wise, or are you gonna give me a hand?”

Luke threaded his fingers together at the back of his head and leaned back in his chair. “Just tell me what you need, oh impatient one. I’m your boy.”

For the past two days, Juliet had done everything in her power to avoid Beau. So she was less than thrilled to find him waiting for her after her discussion with the restaurant manager and the chef about Saturday night’s Grand Opening menu.

He pushed away from the marble pillar he’d been leaning against. “We need to consult.”

She would have loved to find an excuse to avoid talking to him, but she stifled the longing in true Astor-Lowell fashion. In any event, he’d said consult, not talk, so chances were he wasn’t looking for an intimate tête-à-tête any more than she was. She could handle this. She could handle anything as long as it wasn’t personal.

“I was on my way to check the preparations in the Blue Room. We can talk there if you’d like.”

“Sure.” Hands in his pockets, he ambled along at her side.

He was wearing his noncommittal cop face. Otherwise, he seemed so perfectly at ease that he could have been out for a stroll with one of his sisters. And it hurt. He looked the same, moved the same, and it brought to mind everything they had ever done together. Things they’d never do together again. Which apparently didn’t matter to him a whit.

Well, fine. She would lick a cockroach before she’d let him see it was tearing her into a trillion little pieces.

It might have helped her if she knew that Beau wasn’t nearly as insouciant as he appeared. Juliet was close enough that hints of her elusive scent made his palms itch. He knew full well the information he needed would be in her office, yet he didn’t insist they go there. God only knew why.

He stole a sidelong glance at her face as they made their way to the Blue Room. She was so damn cool, with her ramrod-erect spine, and it irritated the hell out of him—even though he had no legitimate right to feel that way. But she wore her breeding like some high-class impenetrable body suit, and it made him want to shake her up, to elicit the sort of reaction her grandma wouldn’t sanction in a million years. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and compressed his lips to prevent himself from doing or saying something irrevocably stupid.

But his nerves stretched thinner with every silent stride they took.

He peeled away from her the minute they entered the Blue Room, relieved to put some distance between him and her scent. Stopping in front of the wall of Mardi Gras masks, he rocked back on his heels to study them.

The collection could be a good lead-in to Haynes, since he couldn’t compromise the case by warning Juliet about him. If her manner around Haynes were to suddenly change, it might alert the man that his anonymity had been blown. Beau looked over at her. “This is one hell of a collection.”

“Yes,” she agreed distantly as she moved around the room making notes on the clipboard she carried. “Right now we’re renting the use of it, and
we’re looking into replacing it when the Hayneses leave. Obviously whatever we come up with at first won’t include pieces as rare as many of these, but the overall effect is so evocative of New Orleans that I hate to give up the display entirely.”

“Why would the Hayneses leave? I thought they worked for you.”

“Only temporarily.” With aloof politeness, but not so much as a glance in his direction, she briefly explained the Hayneses’ connection to the Crown Corporation—information that might have saved them all some heartache had he known about it earlier. “They’ll be moving out on the first,” she concluded, and when she finally deigned to glance up, it was to look right through him. “Was this the matter you wanted to discuss, Sergeant?”

Sergeant?
Her frozen good manners ate at something he didn’t care to examine too closely, and he took a giant step in her direction. “No. I need to know who the photographer was at the cocktail party.”

“That information is in my office. If you’d care to check with Roxanne…?” She continued to make notes.

“Dammit, Rosebud!”

“
Don’t
”—visibly reining in her composure, she modulated her sharp tone of voice and finished mildly—“call me that.” She stooped to examine the soil in a potted plant.

He took another step nearer, blood racing hot through his veins. “What
do
I call you, then, dawlin’? Miz Astor Lowell?”

“Yes. That will do nicely.”

“The hell you say!” He took the step that brought him towering over her. “Don’t you think that’s just the tiniest bit formal for someone who’s seen you naked as often as I have?”