Josette (9 page)

Josette laughed, low and silky. “See you this evening, then.”

Cameron watched the sway of her hips until she disappeared around a corner, his mind in a muddle. This was a dangerous sport he'd fallen into. He needed to figure out what to do with Alexia, stop the rum thieving, then get the bloody hell out of New Orleans.

 

 

Once out of Cameron's sight, Josette nearly burst into laughter. Oh, but that was delightful fun. And didn't she look forward to tonight?

Her thoughts turned to her shop and her good mood dimmed. Damn that Émile Vennard. He'd likely be waiting in her office, sitting on the edge of a chair in front of her desk, straight-backed and leaning on his gold-handled cane, one hand crossed over the other. Whenever she saw him on the streets of the Vieux Carré, twirling his walking stick, she wondered if there might be a weapon hidden inside. Perhaps a sword. Or a sharp blade.

Tall and wiry, the French Creole seemed agile enough without benefit of a cane, even for a man of his indeterminate age. Perhaps he was in his sixties. But then, perhaps not. Many dark-haired men went gray early. He had the kind of face that would never wrinkle, even if he lived to be a hundred.

And she knew this because she assessed everyone's skin, a habit she'd acquired at a young age when her grandmother had taught her how to gather and mix herbs. Even though Grandmere had been nearly as aloof as Maman toward Josette, she'd vehemently opposed Maman's relentless practice of voodoo. In retaliation, Grandmere had taught an eager Josette all she knew. Josette had long since gone beyond those teachings, constantly creating new and better formulas for the wealthy.

Cameron had good, clear skin. A bit of olive to his complexion. Age had not diminished his fine looks. Instead, the years only served to enhance them. What would it be like to run her fingers along his finely sculpted face? Over his body? To taste him? Something elemental and fierce shot through her. A small, breathless noise escaped her lips. She picked up her pace as if doing so would purge the erotic energy running rampant through her.
Good Lord!
Deliberating on such fanciful notions would only bring trouble.

She halted. Not a hundred yards in front of her, Vennard crossed the street, swinging his cane in a blithe manner, his top hat perched at an arrogant angle. Here was the very reason she'd refused Cameron's offer of escort. What difference would it make if Vennard had happened upon them? She did not know—she only knew her instincts loathed the idea.

He headed straight for her shop.

Keeping her head down, she faced the store window and pretended to study the displayed goods. Why was the man so intent on making her life miserable? She understood how buying up her husband's lucrative holdings had been beneficial to him, but this? Unless she misunderstood his signals, she doubted he was seeking her out as a mistress, as others had been inclined to do, so that couldn't be the reason. And from what she'd heard, he was faithful to his wife—a formidable woman who frequented Josette's business on a regular basis. So why would he want to buy her out and shutter the place? Nothing made sense.

Anger welled up and tears pinched the backs of her eyes. She waited a good ten minutes—at least she could control that much of her life at the moment—and then, head high, she marched into Belle Femme.

She greeted each of her workers by name. They were dressed alike in blue and white pinstriped gowns, the fronts covered by crisp white aprons complete with ruffles gathered along the outer edges of the shoulder straps. Beneath each of their starched white collars hung a cameo pendant on a golden chain, the carved ivory a flawless profile of a beautiful woman.

Josette took great pride in offering her clients the finest quality in every regard. The floor was of white Carrera marble veined in gray and had been shipped in from Italy; the ceiling, painted a sky blue with billowy clouds and lovely little birds flitting about, gave one the feeling of being out of doors. Solid oak shelves and counters, lacquered white and trimmed in gold, held apothecary jars filled with all manner of creams and herbs, the name on each jar etched in the same gold. The light, airy fragrance filling the shop gave the impression of a spring breeze floating about. Three round tables draped in Belgian lace stood in one corner, a small vase of flowers topping each, the chair cushions a plush, rose-colored velvet. Sweet and delicate mignons and China's finest teas were served to her clients in that elegant but cozy corner.

Belle Femme was Josette's inspiration alone, born three years earlier out of a feverish desire to have something to call her own, something that came from no one but her. It was the child she would never bear, the husband she would never curl up next to at night. Here was the one place where she garnered respect in this town, despite the fact that her clients only acknowledged her within these walls and ignored her on the street.

After all, she was daughter to a Cajun witch who'd learned her sinful ways at the knee of the voodoo queen, Marie Leveau, then stepped across the line into a very dark world. And Josette's sister was a dead whore who'd left an illegitimate daughter behind. Then there was Josette herself—a seventeen-year-old low-life married to a fifty-two-year-old man who, the gossips said, died under mysterious circumstances within a year of the wedding. Very suspect, they whispered, what with all the herbs at her command. And then there were her two brothers and a no-good cousin to consider. They could turn New Orleans on its ear in a trice.

Josette knew her place. And it was here, in Belle Femme. The only place where she'd ever felt comfortable, the only place she dared to call her own, heart and soul.

And the man who'd entered the shop wanted to take it from her.

If—God forbid—he proved successful in turning her out, and Cameron would be willing to take full charge of his daughter, then there would be no reason to remain in a town where she was scorned. That familiar cinch tightened around her heart. She breathed deeply to try to break its hold. Wherever would she go?

“A Monsieur Vennard waits in your office, Madame LeBlanc. He said he had an appointment at ten and when you didn't show on the hour, I served him tea. I do hope it was the thing to do since he insisted on waiting.”

“Thank you,” Josette said to Elise, the head shop girl. “I'll see him at once.”

She stepped into her luxurious sanctuary at the rear of the building, and there he sat, on the edge of a gilt chair, hands on his cane, just as she'd predicted. The anger she'd managed to keep under wraps went off like a bomb exploding.

She marched around to her desk and, leaning her fists on it, narrowed her eyes at him. “Why in the world would you want a business such as mine, Monsieur Vennard? It cannot be of any use to you. The bulk of my work comes from personal consultations and how would you manage that without me?”

“Oh, the sales price would include your tutorials as well. For a period of, say, three months?”

“Impossible. I refuse to sell.” She sat and steepled her fingers, determined to win.

Vennard slowly rubbed his long fingers over the handle of his cane. “How are your brothers, Madame Leblanc?”

“They are fine and will remain fine, so don't start your veiled threats or I'll be forced to tell them what you are up to.” That was the wrong thing to say. He knew she wouldn't do such a thing and risk her brothers tangling with the law after they took care of Vennard.

He merely smiled. “And have your volatile brothers hanged for murder? How is your niece, by the way?”

Good God!
The hair on her nape stood on end, and it felt as though her heart had stopped. He wouldn't dare touch Alexia.

“She's turning into a lovely woman,” he said. “Is it safe for her on the streets at night? Or even during the day?”

Josette clasped her hands together on the desk to keep them from shaking. “Alexia's father has returned and intends to raise her. I wouldn't threaten her safety or you may find you have a very angry and lethal patriarch on your hands.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so Cameron Andrews has come forth to acknowledge his Cajun trash?”

It took everything Josette had in her to keep her voice calm. “I need to ask you to leave, Monsieur Vennard.”

He arched a brow. “Oh, but we've not yet gotten to my reason for paying you this little visit.”

She reached into the desk drawer and pulled out a pistol. “Leave, Monsieur Vennard. At once.”

“Well, when you put it that way.” He stared at the end of the pistol for a long moment, and then stood, his sharp blue eyes growing dark and dangerous. “But you and I are not finished, Josette.”

“You do not have permission to use my Christian name.”

He laughed. “Christian name? That's rich coming from someone like you.”

Grabbing his gold-tipped cane with a snappy flourish, he started for the door. “No need to see me out. I'd like an answer in two weeks or—”

“Or what? Bastièn and René begin having accidents again? I'm not the same grieving widow who gave in to you after my husband died.” She cocked the gun. “Leave.”

“Really, Madame. No need to go to extremes.” He paused at the door and turned toward her, an odd look about him. “Have you ever wondered why things never seem to quite go your way, Josette?”

She pulled in a ragged breath and exhaled, trying to release the raw and primitive energy building in her.

When she refused to respond to his bait, he said, “It's because a curse was placed on you when you were very young. Your life is a pitiful one and will remain so until you die.”

It was her turn to laugh derisively. “Poppycock. I don't believe in curses. Now leave.”

“You, raised by a wicked voodoo witch, do not believe in curses?” He stilled while a cold, lethal look washed over his countenance. “You should, Josette, because it was Odalie who placed the curse upon your soul.”

“Can I take a peek at the Gulf Stream flow charts one more time, Papa?”

Cameron closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is the fourth time, Alexia. Why again?”

“Because Cousin Michel gave me some paper, and Monsieur Abbott gave me a pencil so I can bring me home a copy, that be why.”

“As you wish.” Once again, he fished out the rolled charts and spread them across the table. What the hell, it might keep her busy for the remainder of the afternoon.

Until today, Cameron only thought he knew what exhaustion was. Not only did he yearn for a quiet corner to disappear in, but Abbott, who usually left work looking as fresh as the moment he walked in, appeared disheveled, as well. Michel on the other hand, took obvious pleasure in Alexia's shenanigans. But it wasn't just her getting into things that tired Cameron, it was her curiosity and thirst for knowledge that none of them seemed able to quench. Between architectural renderings, ships' logs, and copious questions, she'd drained him. An unbelievably bright girl, she'd likely be able to make sense of Abbott's ledgers if put to the test.

He'd even had to step in between her and Abbott over who laid claim to Midnight. Alexia finally agreed that the cat was to remain in the office, but then she was caught hiding the little beast in a drawer for later transport.

“Let's call it a day.” Cameron's brain felt like so much sludge. Why had he agreed to dinner when what he wanted to do was go home and crawl into bed?

“We've still a quarter of an hour until quitting time,” Abbott said.

Pushed to the limit, Cameron clenched his jaw. “Since none of our bloody ships are due in for the remainder of the day, and since I happen to be head of this bloody empire, if I want to shut down fifteen minutes early, I bloody well will.”

Alexia giggled. “Then we can bloody well go home?”

Merde.
Cameron pointed a finger at her. “You are not to use that word. It is an Englishman's derogatory term, it's not ladylike, and I should not have used it in front of you. Forget you heard it.”

A shadow fell over the table. Cameron glanced up and stood in stunned silence.

René Thibodeaux leaned against the door's frame, hands in his trouser pockets, a lazy grin on his face. “Your daughter,
oui
?”

“Uncle René!” Alexia rushed to him and threw her arms around his waist, hugging him tight.

He stroked the top of her head and bent to her ear. “Why don't you wait outside for me,
pouchette
?”

Without a word, Alexia turned to make her exit.

Cameron bristled and the floor rocked beneath him.
What the hell?
“Alexia, get back in here.”

She paused with her foot on the threshold and looked to her uncle, question in her eyes.

Cameron clenched his jaw. “No, you look at me, Alexia. I'm the one giving orders.”

René kept his eyes fixed on Cameron. “She should wait outside while we men talk. You understand,
oui
?”

“She's my daughter, and if I tell her to get back in here, she does. Alexia, do as I say, and come to your father.”

Michel slowly rose from his chair, as did Abbott. The two men worked their way around to where Cameron stood with his fists clenched.

Alexia stepped back inside, looked to her uncle and then to Cameron, confusion rampant in her eyes. She whispered something low to René. When he shook his head, she slowly eased away from him and made her way to her father. Cameron set an arm around her shoulder.

“What are you doing here, Thibodeaux?”

He shrugged. “Since you have a new business, I thought I should come to work for you,
non
?”

Cameron shot Michel a knowing glance. So this was René's game. “Or not, and more of the rum goes missing?”

René continued to lean a shoulder against the door frame as though they were merely chatting about the weather. “You have rum missing?”

With a snort, Michel walked back to his desk and began locking drawers. “I'm going home. You can deal with this on your own, Cam.”

“Not just yet, cousin.” Cameron's anger clamored for a hotter conclusion, but instead, he forced calm. “Hire him.”

“What?” Michel whipped around, shifting his gaze back and forth between René and Cameron.

In full control of his faculties now, Cameron's head was clear for the first time all day. “You heard me. Hire him or we'll only keep losing rum. Isn't that right, Thibodeaux?”

Michel turned and gave René a desultory once-over. “That's outright blackmail.”

René grinned. “What be that old saying? ‘Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer'? I'll be back in the morning. What time do you start work?”

“Oh, but wait.” Cameron turned to René. “You are hired on the condition that you tell us how the hell you got in and out of the warehouse.”

“
Très facile
, Monsieur Andrews.”

“How easy?” Cameron asked.

René shrugged. “There was no need to break into your warehouse when all we needed was a key to the building next door. You see, there is a door connecting the two, hidden on each side by stacks of old goods. One can go back and forth with great and silent ease.”

Cameron laughed. This was rich, so very rich. “Don't tell me—the door to that warehouse is located on the other side of the building, where even our guards won't hear you.”

“
Oui
.” René touched two fingers to his forehead as if tipping an imaginary hat and rolling his shoulder off the door frame, walked away.

Michel shut the door behind René and stomped over to where Cameron stood. “What were you thinking?” He covered Alexia's ears with his hands and spoke in a harsh whisper. “That man is nothing but trouble, and he's bound to bring even more trouble with him in the form of his thieving relatives.”

He dropped his hands.

Alexia rubbed at her ears.

“Perhaps,” Cameron said. “But not as much misfortune as if we refuse to hire him. Come, Alexia, I need a change of clothing before we go to dinner. And by the looks of you, you'll likely need to freshen up as well.”

He tugged the drooping ribbon from her hair and shoved it in his pocket. “You've been inside this clean establishment the entire day, so how did you manage a tear in your dress, and dirt from head to toe?”

“And a rapidly expanding ink stain on the side of her dress, I might add,” Abbott called out. “My India ink has gone missing.”

“Alexia?” Cameron held out a hand.

Without so much as batting an eye, Alexia dug into her pocket and fished out the small bottle of turquoise ink. She marched over to Abbott and set it on his desk. “I'd have brung it back tomorrow.”

“You aren't coming here tomorrow,” Cameron snapped.

She stiffened. And then she turned to him, looking as though she'd been slapped. But then the pain in her eyes vanished, and Cameron was left staring at a blank face. “If you say so, Papa.”

He flinched. He'd had no notion how thin her defenses could be when struck just right. “I didn't mean how that sounded.” For the hundredth time today, he drew in a long breath and shoved his hand through his hair. “What I meant was—”

What did he mean? Hell, he was only making things worse. And he'd hurt her. His own daughter. What had he done? She'd obviously enjoyed herself today. “I . . . I may not be here myself tomorrow, but if I am, you are welcome—”

She shrugged and headed for the door, any sign of being upset having vanished. “What do I care? I'll be off to Maman's tomorrow, seeing as how it's boring as bloody hell here.”