House of Strangers (Harlequin Super Romance) (5 page)

A
T LUNCH
Paul couldn’t steer the conversation back to Paul Delaney, Sr., without seeming too nosy even for these people. He contented himself with listening to Sarah banter with Buddy and her granddaughter.

He had never been around a family whose generations kidded and laughed together. His
tante
had been a strict disciplinarian who spoke formally always. He’d never seen her smile.

For a man who had done very little since morning, he felt awfully tired. Not physical exhaustion, but the wea
riness that came from always being on the alert for some tidbit of information about this family of his, about his father.

And from being on guard against revealing that he knew or cared more than he should about the Delaneys. One of his friends from the Air Force Academy, Jack Sabrinski, who had grown up speaking Serbo-Croat and Bulgarian with equal facility in English, had done some spy missions. He told Paul that the two months he spent spying in Bosnia took more out of him than five years of a bad marriage and a nasty divorce.

Paul could believe him. Since meeting Ann last night, another element had been added to the mix. Until yesterday these people had been strangers without faces, without personalities. Faceless entities he felt justified in using.

Now they were real to him. Ann especially. She seemed to be completely vulnerable and open. The perfect mark for a con man, which was what he was.

As he and Buddy stood by the counter waiting to pay their bills—they’d refused to allow Mrs. Pulliam to pick up the check—he heard Sarah’s voice behind him.

“Hey, come meet the new owner.”

Paul turned as Sarah slipped her arm under that of a man close to Paul’s size and weight, but with hazel eyes and a shock of blond hair already bleached nearly white by the sun. He wore immaculate chinos that hadn’t come from a discount store, an equally immaculate and expensive plaid shirt, and work boots that were polished to a high shine. Paul glanced at the man’s hand as he took it.

Manicured fingernails.

“Trey, honey, this is Mr. Paul Bouvet who is redoing
your grandmother’s house. Paul, say hello to Trey Delaney.”

“Thought I’d see you when you closed on the house, but I had to be out of town,” Trey said. “Glad to meet you at last.”

Paul expected to feel a shock of electricity between them when he touched the man’s hand. “Nice to meet you.” He smiled, but his eyes searched for features he could recognize from the only picture he had of his father. A second later he wondered whether anyone looking at him and Trey could see any resemblance.

“My real name is Paul Edward Delaney, but nobody ever calls me anything but Trey.”

The picture of Paul’s father had been taken with his mother in Paris when his father was no more than twenty-five. It wasn’t a very good one, either, and had begun to fade. Paul was now thirty-five, which made Trey thirty-three.

Trey had their father’s eyes and light hair and skin, already roughened by days in the sun.

Paul had inherited his mother’s dark eyes and hair, but for anyone who looked closely, the resemblance was noticeable. Paul decided that it would be better if he kept his meetings with Trey as private as possible and away from the knowledgeable eyes of someone like Ann, who must be used to analyzing faces for her restoration work.

Only Paul knew that they were half brothers, one raised as a wealthy planter’s son in west Tennessee, one raised by a plumber uncle and a French aunt who baked bread in Queens, New York. He intended to keep it that way for as long as possible.

To everyone around them, it was a casual introduction in a small-town café. Nothing special.

“Glad you’re bringing the old place to life,” Trey said, “though Lord knows why you’d want to. Sue-sue—she’s my wife—and I thought we’d never unload that monstrosity. Oops. Better keep my mouth shut.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t want to live there yourself.”

Sarah laughed. Trey laughed. Ann snickered.

“Aunt Sarah,” Trey said, “can’t you just see Sue-sue living in a house with itty-bitty closets and no whirlpool? No, Mr. Bouvet. You’re welcome to it. Too much ancestor worship around this town, anyway, and a damn sight too much in my family. Doesn’t matter who you came from, just what you do on your own, am I right, Annie?”

“It helps if you start by inheriting a bunch of land, a few million dollars and a couple of thousand head of cattle.”

“Can’t make a dime farming, isn’t that right, Aunt Sarah?” Trey turned to Paul. “You ever hear the one about the farmer who won the ten-million-dollar lottery? When they asked him what he was going to do with it, he said, ‘I guess I’ll just keep farming till it’s gone.’” He laughed. A little too loud, a little too long.

Paul smiled back.

“Well, y’all, I got to get my nose back to the grindstone.” Trey waved over his shoulder and walked past them out the restaurant toward the square.

Bills paid, the three others went out to where Dante waited patiently with his leash looped around the rail. Paul realized he hadn’t asked about the bear in front of Trey’s office. He’d make it a point to find out when he spoke to
Trey about the people who’d bought the antiques at Miss Addy’s house sale.

“Gotta get back to work,” Buddy said. “Ann, you coming?”

“In a minute. Dante needs a walk.”

“Okay.”

She unhooked Dante’s leash and walked off toward the little park beside the railroad track. Dante glanced over his immense shoulder as if to say to Paul, “You coming?”

Paul ambled after the pair.

“I promise I’m not sloughing off,” Ann said. “You’ll get your money’s worth out of me, Mr. Bouvet. I’m planning to work late tonight—unless my being in the house will bother you, assuming you decide to stay there.”

“I’m going to give it my best shot. I’m off to stock up on things like an inflatable mattress and some kind of chest of drawers to stow my stuff in. Never did get used to sleeping on a cot even in flight school.”

“Flight school? You were in the military?”

“Air Force. Went to the academy, then served out my time before I left to fly transports for a private company.”

“So you flew F-15s or whatever number they’re up to now?”

“I usually flew C-150s—low and slow. The perfect training to fly civilian package transport.”

“Why’d you quit? Uh…retire?”

He grimaced. “Couldn’t pass the transport-flight physical any longer. I got hurt in a work-related accident. Left me with a bum shoulder.” Technically, the near-crash had been work-related, which was why the payoff had been so large. He was embarrassed that he hadn’t prevented the
whole incident. His wound and scars embarrassed him further. He talked about the details as seldom as possible.

She must have heard something in his voice, because she dropped the subject. “I think Dante’s ready to go back to work. See you tonight, Mr. Bouvet.”

“Isn’t it about time you dropped the Mr. Bouvet stuff? I’ve been calling you Ann all morning.”

“Sure. Paul. Do
you
have a middle name?”

“I have one, but unlike the Delaneys, no one ever uses it. Actually, my middle name is Antoine. My mother was French.”

“You don’t look like an Antoine. You need a nickname. How about Top Gun?”

“I was never that. How about One Wing? More appropriate.”

They had reached the sidewalk in front of the mansion. She waved goodbye and ran up the walk and the stairs. Her ponytail bounced as the bright red scarf she’d tied around it flew in the breeze. Those jean-clad hips had a great sway to them when she ran.

No way. It wasn’t that he was some kind of saint when it came to romancing women, but even he drew the line at seducing a woman merely to gain information. Besides, she was some sort of cousin.

He’d thought he would do anything to find out what happened to his mother. Since meeting Ann and Sarah and Buddy, he knew he had limits. As far as Trey Delaney was concerned, the jury was still out. He seemed pleasant enough, if a little arrogant. No, actually, a lot arrogant. Even Ann picked up on that self-made man crap. Big frog, small pond.

Wonder how Trey would feel if suddenly he was faced with losing it all?

Wills were a matter of record. All he had to do was go to the local county seat and request a copy of Paul Delaney’s will from probate court files. He knew that his parents had been married at the time of his birth so no matter how the will was written, he, as the oldest legitimate son, would be entitled to a portion of it. He hoped, however, that he’d find that the oldest son was heir to everything. He could cut Trey out of everything he owned. Not that Paul intended to keep it, of course. What the hell did he know about farming or cows or cotton or soybeans?

But to be able to take it all, if even for a moment, then graciously give it back would be sweet.

Of course, the people in Rossiter would not take kindly to him if he did that. He’d have to sell the house and move away whether he wanted to or not.

But wasn’t that what he’d intended from the first? Why should he suddenly feel conflicted?

He looked up at the house from the sidewalk. Not so much an old harridan as a sad, gracious lady fallen on hard times. His gracious lady. She needed him.

The only thing on earth who did. He felt the stab of loneliness that always came when he thought of how isolated he’d allowed himself to become since Tracy had left him. She’d kept the friends they’d made together. He hadn’t bothered to make new ones.

After he made his run to the discount store and shoved his air mattress and pump into the back of his car, he decided to drive the thirty-five miles to the county seat.
He arrived at three twenty-five, only to find that the clerk’s office closed at three.

On his way out of Somerville, he passed by a rose-brick building with a small sign that said Library in front of it.

Might be as good a time as any to get started on his research.

The man Paul now felt certain had fathered him had died in 1977. He’d discovered that much on an Internet search. Should be some sort of obituary in the country newspaper.

Actually, there were two weeklies. The librarian told him proudly that both had been in operation since Reconstruction. He asked for the microfiche for the time around when his father died and began to reel through.

Maybe he remembered the date incorrectly. There seemed to be nothing in the obituaries about his father. He scrolled back through to rewind the microfiche when suddenly a banner headline on the front page caught his eye.

His father’s death had been reported not on the obituary page, but on the front page.

Killed? Nobody said he’d been killed. Paul had assumed his father’s liver or heart had given out.

Paul sat back in the hard wooden chair and ran his hand over his face. A charming caricaturist? Philanthropist? Sorely missed? He didn’t know what he’d expected to find. How could such a man have deserted and then killed a wife who loved him?

Paul stared down at the grainy black-and-white newspaper photograph that someone had dredged up from the files. In what could only be a pink hunting coat, his father
stood with his gloved hand on the reins of a big bay horse. A woman sat on the horse and smiled down. Too old to be this Karen Bingham, his wife. Paul’s grandmother Maribelle?

He looked closer. Neither he nor Trey had inherited that aquiline nose, but Paul could certainly see where Trey got his arrogance. This was no knitting, sit-by-the-fire granny. From the casual ease with which she sat on her horse, she was used to command.

“Sorry, sir, we’re closing the library,” the librarian whispered.

“Oh, sure.” He smiled up at her and received a timid smile in return. “I’d like to come back and look some more.”

“Certainly. We open at ten o’clock every morning and close at five.”

He started to rewind the microfiche.

“I’ll be happy to do that, sir.”

Paul nodded and walked out, vowing to return as soon as possible to look up obituaries on everyone he could think of in the direct line of Delaneys.

And then there were social events. Didn’t hunts have balls and things? Sure the county weeklies would report on them. And graduations. Weddings. There would be names of others who had known his father. He had to discover as much as he could.

He climbed into his car and turned on the air conditioner. It might be March with chilly nights, but the afternoon sun had heated the car beyond his comfort zone. He pulled out and started the drive back to Rossiter.

Weddings. Birth announcements. When had his father married Karen Bingham? Or rather, when had his father
committed bigamy with Karen Bingham? He had been, whether he acknowledged it or not, legally married to Paul’s mother, Michelle, until she died.

Even longer. He had been legally married to Michelle until seven years after her disappearance when Uncle Charlie had finally convinced Aunt Giselle to declare her sister dead.