Night Moves: Dream Man/After the Night (22 page)

Hell, why should it be? On a steamy summer night, twelve years ago, he had ground her into the dirt. After that night, she probably thought of him as the devil incarnate.

Only an hour before, he had scared her by unceremoniously grabbing her from behind, though Little Red had seemed more furious than frightened; she had come out swinging, those green eyes narrowed and determined. Then he had all but mauled her on a public street, gripping her ass, lifting her up and grinding his cock against her mound. No wonder she had run from him, when he had finally turned her loose.

Except . . . she hadn’t protested. Instead she had been so hot and sweet that he felt dizzy remembering her in his arms, plastered against his body. She had been taut and trembling with desire, vibrating with it. Her response had
broadsided him, knocked him so crazy that he still hadn’t recovered. For a moment he had been blind with lust, insensible to everything else but the driving need to be inside her. If that clap of thunder hadn’t startled him, he might have tried to take her right there, standing in the doorway, with people walking past no more than two feet away. He couldn’t remember ever before being so wild for a woman that nothing else mattered, but Faith had reduced him to that level with only a kiss.

Just a kiss, sweet and spicy at the same time, so hot it had seared him. Her tongue, curling against his in love play. The unreserved sensuality in the way she had sucked on his tongue. The press of her body, eager and instinctive. She wanted him, as fiercely as he wanted her.

Memory re-created the resilient fullness of her buttocks in his hands, and he clenched them into fists to contain the tingling of his palms. It was worse than he had thought, this gnawing lust to have her. He wasn’t accustomed to denying himself any of his sexual appetites, but the barriers between them were both solid and maddening. There was his mother, who had so totally withdrawn when faced with the humiliation of her husband leaving her for the town whore. Monica, her wrists slashed and her blood pooling at her feet; her white face was another image that never left him. There were his own feelings, the rage and pain at being abandoned by his father. The barriers weren’t all on his side, either; the memory of that night lay between him and Faith, a mental Berlin Wall, stark and shattering. Too much pain, too many reasons.

Their bodies didn’t give a damn.

That was it in a nutshell. He wasn’t a Don Juan, but it was a fact that getting sex had always been easy for him. Nothing in his considerable experience, however, had prepared him for this . . . fever. They couldn’t look at each other without feeling its heat. And when they touched, it was like an inferno.

Restlessly he paced the floor, trying to find some way around the barriers. She couldn’t stay in Prescott; that was asking too much of his family. No, he couldn’t let up on making life as miserable as possible for her there, not that he
had been able, or willing, to do much anyway. He had inconvenienced her, period. He couldn’t bring himself to really persecute her. She didn’t deserve it; she had been a victim, too. She had worked hard to make something of her life, and had succeeded. If it weren’t for his family, hell, he’d welcome her with open arms. An open fly, too, he thought wryly, and felt the twinge of arousal in his groin.

But he couldn’t make his family go away, couldn’t change the way they felt, so Faith had to go. Maybe not far. Maybe he could convince her to move to Baton Rouge, or even any of the small towns around Prescott. Just somewhere out of the parish, but close enough that they could see each other. She had made a strategic mistake in letting him see how much she wanted him, because he could use that as a means of convincing her to move.
We can’t be together here. Move, and we’ll see each other as often as possible.
She wouldn’t like it; she’d probably tell him to go to hell, at first. But the fever was there, burning in her the same way it was burning in him. If he used every opportunity to fan the flames, she would eventually see things his way, assuming they didn’t both go up in smoke in the meantime.

She could keep the house in Prescott, if selling it made her feel as if she was giving up too much. He’d buy her another house, anywhere she wanted.

He was faced with two facts. She had to leave Prescott, and he had to have her. Whatever it took, he had to have her.

•  •  •

“I agree with you,” Mr. Pleasant said, sipping from the glass of iced tea Faith had given him. “I think Guy Rouillard is dead, and has been for twelve years.”

He was dressed today in a pale blue seersucker suit; it would have been tacky if it hadn’t fit so well, if his white shirt hadn’t been so pristine, his tie so impeccable. On Mr. Pleasant, a seersucker suit looked natty. Some of the sadness was gone from his dark eyes, replaced by the sparkle of interest.

They sat in the air conditioned coolness of her living room. Faith had been surprised when he’d called her; it had been only two days since she had hired him. But here he was, with a notepad balanced on his knee.

“There’s been no trace of him since the night he vanished,” he said. “No credit card purchases, no bank withdrawals, no Social Security taxes paid in or tax return filed. Mr. Rouillard wasn’t a criminal, so there was no need for him to change his name or disappear so completely. Logically, then, he’s dead.”

Faith drew a deep breath. “That’s what I thought. I wanted to make certain, though, before I begin asking questions.”

“You do realize that, if he was murdered, your questions could make someone very anxious.” He took another sip of his tea. “The situation could be dangerous for you, my dear. Perhaps it would be better to let sleeping dogs lie.”

“I’ve thought of the possibility of danger,” she admitted. “But considering my mother’s involvement with him and the fact that everyone thinks they ran away together, no one would be surprised at my interest. My gall, maybe, but not my interest.”

He chuckled. “It depends on the nature of the questions, I suppose. If you came right out and said you thought Mr. Rouillard had been killed, that would attract a lot of attention.” He sobered, and his tone softened. “My advice is to forget about it. The murder, if there was one, is twelve years old. Time covers a lot of tracks, and you have no evidence to tell you where to begin looking. You aren’t likely to find anything, but you may put yourself in danger.”

“Not even try to find out what happened?” she asked softly. “Let a murderer go unpunished?”

“Ah. You’re thinking about justice. It’s a wonderful concept, if you have the means to accomplish it. Sometimes, though, justice has to be weighed against other considerations, and reality gets in the way. Probably Mr. Rouillard was murdered. Probably your mother is involved, in knowledge if not in deed. Could you handle that? What if his death was an accident, but she was brought up on murder charges? Gray Rouillard is a powerful man; do you think he’d let his father’s death go unpunished? The worst scenario, of course, is if his death wasn’t an accident. In that case, my dear, you would definitely be in danger yourself.”

She sighed. “My reasons for wanting to find out what
happened to him aren’t entirely altruistic. In fact, they’re mostly selfish. I want to live here; this is home, this is where I grew up. But I won’t be accepted here as long as everyone thinks Guy ran away with my mother. The Rouillards don’t want me here; Gray is making things difficult for me. I can’t buy my groceries in Prescott, I can’t fill up my car. Unless I can prove Mama didn’t have anything to do with Guy’s disappearance, I’ll never have a friend here.”

“And what if you prove she killed him?” Mr. Pleasant softly asked.

Faith bit her lip, and rolled the cold, damp glass between her hands. “That’s a chance I’ll have to take.” The words were low, almost inaudible. “I know that, if she’s guilty, I won’t be able to live here. But knowing what really happened, no matter how bad, won’t be as bad as
not
knowing. Maybe I won’t find out anything, but I’m going to try.”

He sighed. “I thought you’d say that. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask a few questions around town, just out of curiosity. Folks might tell me things that they wouldn’t tell you.”

That was true. Now that her identity was known, most people would clam up around her rather than defy Gray. Still, Mr. Pleasant had already completed the job for which she’d hired him. “I can’t afford any further investigation,” she said honestly.

He waved his hand in dismissal. “This is for my own curiosity. I’ve always loved a good mystery.”

She eyed him doubtfully. “Has that ever kept you from charging your regular fees?”

“Well, no,” he admitted, and laughed. “But I don’t need the money, and I’d like to know what happened to Mr. Rouillard. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to work with my heart the way it is. Probably not long, so I’m only going to spend my time on cases that interest me. As for money . . . well, let’s just say I don’t have much need for it now.”

With his wife dead, he meant. He suddenly busied himself with flipping through his notes, and she knew he was once again fighting tears. She allowed him the dignity of pretense and asked if he would like more iced tea.

“No, thank you. It was delicious, just the thing on a hot day.” He stood, smoothing the crisp seersucker into place. “I’ll let you know if I get any interesting answers. Is there a motel in town?”

She gave him the directions to the motel as she walked out on the porch with him. “Have supper with me tonight,” she invited on impulse, disliking the thought of him eating alone, making do with a fast-food sandwich.

He blushed, the color extending all the way into his thinning hair. “I’d be delighted.”

“Would you mind if we ate at six? I prefer eating early.”

“So do I, Mrs. Hardy. Six o’clock, then.”

He was smiling as he walked jauntily to his car. Faith watched him drive away, then returned to the paperwork she had abandoned at his arrival. She looked forward to supper; she had developed a definite soft spot for Mr. Pleasant.

He arrived promptly at six, as she had known he would, and they sat down to a light meal of tender grilled pork chops, saffron rice, and fresh green beans. He kept looking around, absorbing the little details—the starched linen napkins, the fragrant centerpiece of tiny wild roses, the aromas of home-cooked food—and she knew that he had missed this since his wife had died. They lingered over dessert, a lemon sorbet with just the right amount of tartness. Talking with him was easy; he was very old-fashioned, and she found that comforting. Consideration of any sort had been in such short supply during her formative years that she doubly appreciated it now.

It was almost eight when a single hard knock rattled her front door. Faith stiffened; she didn’t have to open the door to know who was standing on her porch.

“Is something wrong?” Mr. Pleasant asked, too astute to miss her change of expression.

“I think you’re about to meet Gray Rouillard,” she said, getting to her feet and crossing to the door. As usual, her heart was beating too fast and too hard at the prospect of seeing him, talking to him. In over fifteen years, that hadn’t changed; she might as well be eleven again, big-eyed with hero worship.

It was twilight, the long spring days reluctant to give up
their glow. He was silhouetted against the pale opal of the sky, a tall, broad-shouldered, faceless figure. “I hope I’m not interrupting you,” he said, but there was a hard undertone to his rumbling voice that told her he didn’t give a damn if he was or not.

“If you were, I wouldn’t have answered the door,” she replied as she let him in. She couldn’t erase the challenge of her own tone, though she tried to moderate it for Mr. Pleasant’s sake.

Gray’s smile was nothing more than a baring of teeth as he turned to Mr. Pleasant, who had politely risen from his seat at Gray’s entrance. The room suddenly seemed too small, filled and dominated by Gray’s vital masculine presence, all six feet four of it. He was wearing a white shirt, black jeans, and low-heeled boots, and looked more like a pirate than ever. His teeth flashed as white as the tiny diamond in his ear.

“We’ve already finished dinner,” Faith said smoothly, recovering her control. “Mr. Pleasant, this is Gray Rouillard, a neighbor. Gray, Francis Pleasant, from New Orleans.”

Gray held out his hand, and Mr. Pleasant’s smaller hand was swallowed by his grip. “A friend or a business associate?” he asked, as if he had a right to the information.

Mr. Pleasant’s eyes twinkled, and he thoughtfully pursed his mouth as he retrieved his hand. “Why, both, I believe. And you? A friend as well as a neighbor?”

“No,” Faith said.

Gray shot her a hard, quick look. “Not exactly,” he said.

Mr. Pleasant’s eyes twinkled even more. “I see.” He took Faith’s hand in his and lifted it to his mouth for a courtly kiss, then bestowed another one on her cheek. “I must be going, my dear; my old bones want to rest. My hours resemble an infant’s these days. It was a lovely dinner. Thank you for inviting me.”

“It was my pleasure,” she said, patting his hand and kissing his cheek, too.

“I’ll call,” he promised as he went out the door. As she had that morning, Faith waited in the doorway until he was in his car, and waved as he reversed out of the driveway.

Fighting down her dread, she closed the door and turned to face Gray, who had silently approached until he stood only a foot behind her. His eyes were black with temper. “Who the hell is he?” he growled. “Your sugar daddy? Did you mix business with pleasure in New Orleans, or is it all business to you?”

“None of your business,” she said flatly, mocking him with her repetition of the word. She glared up at him, fighting the tiny red flare of rage and not completely succeeding. Mr. Pleasant was forty years older than she, but of course, Gray’s first thought was that she was sleeping with him.

He moved one step closer, erasing the small distance between them. “By God, it is my business, and has been for the past two days.”

Hot color ran into Faith’s cheeks at the reference to what had happened between them in New Orleans. “That didn’t mean anything,” she began, her voice gruff with embarrassment, but he gripped her shoulders and gave her a single shake.