Passion's Mistral (17 page)

“He left croissants but let’s have a cup of coffee first,” she replied as she placed the tray on a nearby

table.

Pushing himself up in the bed, Julian took the steaming cup of coffee she held out to him, inhaling its rich

aroma before cautiously taking a sip. He liked his brew dark, without sugar or cream, but he could smell

the rich scent of vanilla and knew Henri had provided Silkie with what she liked.

She climbed onto the bed with her cup and sat cross-legged, totally at ease with his and her nudity. She

closed her eyes to the heady taste of the strong coffee. “French vanilla,” she sighed. “I love it.”

“He knew.”

“There are huge strawberries, melon slices, too. Enough to feed five people.”

Julian laughed. “Henri believes you should be nourished after a long night of love.”

“He’s right,” Silkie said. “I’m famished.”

He took a long sip of his coffee, burning his mouth a bit in the process, but held her gaze. There were

things that had to be said.

“Can I see it?” she asked.

He blinked. “See what?”

Silkie giggled like a teenage girl. “The birthmark, silly!”

Julian rolled his eyes, kicked aside the sheet covering his lower legs then spread them. “Be my guest.”

She set her cup on the bedside table and came to kneel between his legs. Like a shy, virginal wife, she

bent forward, lifted his penis and found what she had been sent to the Cay to find. She looked up at him.

“It more resembles a crossbow than an anchor,” she told him.

He hooted with laughter. “A crossbow?”

“Well, both are attached to a long shaft,” she laughed.

“Brazen hussy,” he pronounced. “Come here.”

She retrieved her cup and settled against him, his strong arm loosely draped over her shoulder. “She

really wants to hear from you.”

He knew whom she meant. “I spoke to her yesterday but I’m not so sure that was a wise thing to have

done.”

“Why not?”

“She has blood pressure problems and I think I scared her.”

“Well, we’ll call back today and you two can set up a place to meet and—”

“I can’t leave here,” he reminded her.

“No, but she could come to the Cay.”

“Hell, no!” he snapped, one leg jerking with annoyance. “Would you invite your mother here?”

Silkie made a rude sound. “Might be just what she needs,” she responded.

“It isn’t what my mother needs,” he told her, relaxing a bit.

“Then where?” she asked and then turned to him. “How ‘bout aboard your yacht?”

He thought about it for a moment. It wasn’t such a bad idea. He could send a jet for his mother, bring her

to Kingston where she could board the yacht that brought clients to the Cay. He could then rendezvous

with her on his own yacht.

“As long as we stay inside the three-mile limit,” he said slowly, remembering his last conversation with

Henri.

“Then call her,” Silkie insisted. “Don’t waste any time.”

For a moment he considered doing as she suggested but the matter of Celeste and her machinations

needed to be dealt with first. He did not need to have his mother meet the infamous madam in Kingston.

“I’d like to talk with her a few times before we actually meet,” he said.

She could sense his nervousness, could feel his embarrassment. “She killed a man, too,” she said and

watched as he turned to stare at her, his lips open. She nodded. “Your father.”

The tale took nearly an hour to tell for Silkie wanted to make sure she related all the details she had read

from Fay O’Reilly’s file. From the day the high school freshman had met Jason Faulkner to the day she

found out she was carrying his child—a child Jason did not want.

“She was sixteen years old when he seduced her,” Silkie explained. “She was camping at the Iowa State

Fair with her brothers and father while they were showing their sheep for judging. Faulkner was a carnie

worker, hawking tickets for one of the rides. He was eighteen and according to what she told Bennis, he

was as handsome as a movie star.”

She let her gaze roam over his crop of rumpled dark hair.

“He had black hair and blue eyes,” she said, “and he told her he was Black Irish. Born and raised in

Dublin, he had a thick brogue she found exciting. Being from a family where her grandparents had come

over on the boat and who still spoke Irish Gaelic, she felt a kinship to Faulkner.”

“A kinship he took advantage of,” Julian said.

Silkie nodded. “She would go over to the carnie and talk with him, flirt with him, I imagine. One thing led

to another and… Well, you get the picture.”

“He got her pregnant.”

“She had no way of knowing that until long after the carnie had moved on. She didn’t even know his

name. He’d told her to call him Irish. It wasn’t until the show came back the next year that she saw him

again, bringing their son along for him to see.”

Julian snorted. “That must have pleased him.”

“She also brought along her father, grandfather and three brothers,” she said.

There had been a hasty marriage, performed by a priest in Des Moines who was willing to overlook the

circumstances of the joining. Nor did the priest inquire as to whether or not Jason Faulkner wished to do

the right thing. From the two black eyes and the arm in a sling the carnie sported, the question hadn’t

been necessary.

“Fay’s father brought her and her new family back to Riverside and bought them a used trailer to live in.

There wasn’t much money in the family but there was a lot of love. They didn’t look down on Fay and

apparently the town didn’t, either. Faulkner was given a job—which he hated—and more or less made

to tow the line.”

“Miserable the entire time, no doubt.”

“He wasn’t given much money but that didn’t seem to hamper him. He slipped over to Iowa City quite a

bit,” Silkie told him. “Fay’s father and brothers went after him and brought him back every time. Most

times he was drunk and they found him with other women.”

“How did he die?” Julian asked. He had a picture of his real father that wasn’t all that much better than

the adopted one he had grown to loathe.

“Life must have been hell for your mother. He beat her whenever he felt like it and took his anger out on

you too, it seems. The first year of your life, you were in and out of the ER with broken bones.”

Julian rubbed his left arm. “I knew there were old breaks but I always thought Albert did it.”

“He came home one night drunker than she had ever seen him, according to Fay. Apparently you were

sitting in the middle of the floor, in his way, and he kicked you. He kicked you hard enough to put you in

the hospital for nearly a week. They thought you were going to die.”

Julian had a fleeting memory of being rocked, tears falling on his cheeks. He could hear the lullaby

interspersed with sobs that shook the breast of the woman holding him.

“While you were still hospitalized, your grandfather went looking for Faulkner. He found him in the

bedroom, lying face down on the floor. He’d been dead three days, shot between the eyes. Your mother

was charged, pleaded temporary insanity and given twenty-five years to life. She served thirty and got off

on good behavior. From what Bennis learned, she was a model prisoner.”

“That she served as long as she did is outrageous,” he said through clenched teeth.

“In her file she states she got her G.E.D. as well as graduated college with a degree in accounting while

she was in. She graduated with honors, at that.”

“Must be where I get my math skills,” he chuckled.

“So those years weren’t entirely wasted even though she has never had to use her degree. Her husband

never wanted her to work.”

“Is she happy with Lynden?”

“According to her, she is. He is a well-respected city councilman from a rather wealthy Quad Cities

family.” At his inquiring look, she explained the meaning. “Davenport, Bettendorf, Moline and Rock

Island.”

He shrugged, not familiar with the geography in that part of the country.

“He was willing to spend as much money as needed to help her find you,” she said quietly. “That should

give you some indication of how he feels about her.”

“He sounded very protective,” Julian said.

“I imagine he is.”

Later in the morning when they had finished the flaky croissants and fresh fruit, Julian drank the last of the

rich coffee in the silver pot and sat contemplating Silkie as she went about getting dressed for the day. He

admired her shapely legs and silken hair, the way she moved, her mannerisms. He knew himself well

enough to know he had fallen in love with this woman—and had fallen hard. When the phone rang, he

motioned her away from it and took the call himself.

“She’s not pleased, but then we knew she wouldn’t be,” Henri reported.

“Keep a watch on the situation,” Julian suggested.

“Of course. She hasn’t canceled the trip to Kingston and Bellington is scheduled to arrive in Miami late

tomorrow morning.”

“Let me know when he arrives. I think your suggestion is our best course of action.”

“You want his ticket cancelled?” Henri asked after a moment of silence.

“Yes, I believe so. I don’t think he needs to do any more traveling.”

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t,” Henri said then hung up.

“Who was that?” Silkie asked as she came into the living area of the suite. She was screwing a diamond

stud into her earlobe.

“Henri. We’re having problems with one of the men,” Julian said. “I’ve decided to retire him.”

“Too old to pleasure the ladies, huh?” she laughed.

“‘To everything there is a season’,” he quoted.

She came over and sat in his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. “What shall we do today?”

He wagged his brows at her. “I think I can come up with something,” he said, lifting her in his arms and

carrying her to the bed.

Celeste buckled her seat belt tightly as the Lear began its decent to the Kingston airfield. Her expensive

nails drummed an irritated rhythm on the padded arm cushion of her seat and her right foot waggled in a

quick, round and round motion.

“How dare he order me not to come to Kingston!” she groused. “How dare he?”

Pierce Umsted would have taken her hand but he was across the aisle. He knew there was nothing he

could say to calm her, to tamp down the fury sparking in her black eyes. What she needed was a long,

hard fuck that would leave her too breathless to think about Julian St. John.

“How did he find out I know about that tramp he’s screwing?”

Pierce shook his head. “I don’t know, ma’am. He has his spies just as we do.”

Celeste glowered at him. “You find out who told him and when you do, cut his throat!”

A heartfelt sigh rippled out of Pierce’s throat. He nodded but he had no intention of either ordering or

participating in murdering anyone. Lying with women for money was one thing—murder was something

else.

It bothered Pierce that he couldn’t get Celeste to love him as he loved her. He did almost everything she

asked him to—outside something that would get him a lethal injection—but it seemed the more he did,

the less inclined she was to see his real feelings for her. He had warmed her bed for ten years now and

other than those times she journeyed to the Cay and the despicable arms of St. John, he warmed her

body as well. As far as he knew, he and St. John were the only ones to know the treasures of Celeste’s

exquisite body and he wanted to keep it that way. Truth be told, the only man he felt he could murder

and not regret it was Julian St. John. The more that hated name crossed his mind, the bleaker his situation

seemed to be until it reached a red-hot point that prodded his male pride one time too many.

His anger, his hurt got the best of him and he blurted out, “Why do you want someone who doesn’t want

you?”

Celeste’s finely shaped brows lifted. She was too surprised by his outburst to respond. For the first time,

she saw true fury on the face of her lover and not the make-believe rage she had scripted for their

lovemaking sessions. Before now, he had always been careful to school his emotions, keep them tightly

reined in. Even when he was the most savage during their lovemaking, he had never shown the backbone

she glimpsed now.

“He doesn’t love you,” Pierce said, emboldened by her silence. “I doubt he feels anything for you except

gratitude. Why hold onto him?”

Despite her admiration for Pierce’s newfound ability to stand up to her, she viewed his words with less

than acceptance. In her heart of hearts she knew how Julian felt—just as she knew how Pierce felt—but

she wasn’t ready to allow Julian to leave her.

“I suggest,” she said, her chin lifted, “you remember who it is that buys those designer shirts and slacks

you love so well. I also suggest you remember that cocks are a dime a dozen in New Orleans and yours

can be replaced at the drop of a hat.”

Pierce narrowed his eyes. “And I suggest you remember that cunts get older quicker than cocks in New

Orleans,” he sneered.

She blinked, her red lips parting in utter surprise. No one had talked to her like that in decades—if ever.

Had she not been buckled in, she would have attacked the handsome young man…

Young man, she thought as she stared at him. Much younger than her fifty-odd years, Pierce was in his

late twenties, a prime specimen. Handsomer than Julian had ever been even though not nearly as pliant,

Pierce was readily available whereas Julian no longer was. Perhaps she needed to rethink the situation.