Pillow Talk (2 page)

Should she remain in New Orleans and do what she could for him? Meg was too stunned by the news of his death to process her decision. For the ten thousand dollars Jules had already paid her, did she owe him loyalty? He'd been kind to her, too, and kept his word about not jumping her body.

For that alone, Meg would carry out her end of the bargain. She held out her hand, every inch the grand lady Jules had wanted her to play. "Forgive me," she said, letting her words catch in her throat, "my distress over the news of Jules's death has kept me from remembering my manners. I'm Margaret Cooper—er, Ponthier. But call me Meg, please."

"Well, I'll be damned." The drawl had disappeared. Parker towered over her, his hands on the hips of his expensive wool suit pants. "I do believe you're serious."

Meg gave him what she hoped was an imperious stare. Hard to do garbed in a bathrobe, but determination helped. A lot.

Ever so slowly, he extended his right hand.

"Parker Ponthier,"
he said, staring at her hand as she accepted his overture.

She nodded. "The—er, younger—brother." Darn, but she'd almost said the words "evil." She flushed and observed that he seemed to notice. He retained her hand in his.

Without saying anything, he just kept holding her hand, his dark eyes studying, assessing, then he released his hold.

For a second, she wished he hadn't let go. She'd sensed in his touch a gentleness his words and his body language hadn't even hinted at. She'd felt, too, a connection with another person—face it, Meg—a man, she hadn't experienced in a long, long time.

"I see you were already busy spending his money," he said, jarring her with a scathing glance at the Saks boxes scattered across the bed. "At least you won't need to shop for the funeral."

Funeral. That word rang in Meg's mind. She still found it impossible to conceive of Jules as dead. She also didn't know how he'd met his end. As the grieving widow, she'd certainly be expected to ask. And as a caring human being who'd known the man only for a short time, she sincerely wanted to know. "How did Jules—die?"

Parker's response was a strangled sound that ended in a harsh laugh. He shook his head, then studied her with his head tilted to one
side. "Just how well did you know your late husband,
Miz
Ponthier?"

He drew out the Miz so that it sounded about eight syllables long. Meg tried not to squirm and said, "Well enough. Why?"

"Then you should know he didn't go out fighting the worst demon of his life."

She licked her lips and wondered what in the world he meant. Having known Jules for less than three days, she was definitely at a disadvantage in this conversational parrying. So she waited, fingering the lapels on the bathrobe as she observed Parker warily, waiting for him to reveal enough information for her to form a response.

As she watched, Meg noticed the curve of his lips, the restrained power of his broad shoulders. She followed the line of his arm, admiring the graceful strength that Jules had lacked. Her eyes rested on his hand that had touched her own and she felt again the warmth of his skin.

Meg, Meg, you're in enough trouble! She hastily tucked her hand into the pocket of her robe. After what she'd done, she had no business responding to Parker Ponthier as a woman to a man, no matter how compelling she might find him.

Even though she'd sent Jules Ponthier packing when he'd first pr
oposed what he termed a cut-and-
dried business proposition, Meg had acquiesced when he persisted. It seemed to her to be an answer to her prayers on salvaging her
family from financial ruin and she'd never been one to turn away from an opportunity.

But now, with Jules dead, this masquerade had reached a whole different level of complications than she'd imagined when she'd leapt feet first into the role of Miz Jules Ponthier the Third.

"Since you're obviously going to pretend you don't know what I'm talking about, I'll get to the point." He slammed one fist against the palm of the other hand. "He died trying to buy a few lousy grains of cocaine. But you wouldn't know anything about that demon or any other one, for that matter, would you?" He was practically shouting and Meg kept from flinching by telling herself he was understandably upset. He'd just lost his brother.

She licked her lips and let him rave on.

"He'd been clean for almost a year. Then—" he pointed to her "—off to Las Vegas for the weekend and he's hooked again."

Jules hadn't seemed high to her, not that she knew much about drugs. Mulling over the question, she let the implied accusation slide. Naturally she hadn't had anything to do with Jules's decision to purchase cocaine. Meg hardly even drank alcohol, had never smoked marijuana, and certainly had no knowledge of cocaine. Jules had been jittery, she admitted, and he hadn't eaten much of anything. "Where did it happen?"

"Three blocks behind the hotel."

"How—how do you know for sure he was buying drugs?"

He threw her a look that said she would be a fool to think he ever spoke from less than a position of knowledge. "He bought it from an undercover cop and when she tried to arrest him they fought over her gun."

"The police killed him?" Meg heard the shock in her voice. Poor Jules. What a way to die. And with all he'd said about how his family had such social position and cared so much about what society thought of them!

Parker shook his head, then dropped to the sofa. From behind his hands, he said, "He shot himself with the officer's gun."

"Oh, no. Why would he do that?"

Parker lowered his hands to his knees. Speaking almost to himself, he said, "Perhaps he couldn't take the disgrace."

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard." Meg paced to the sofa then back towards the door. "Being arrested isn't the end of the world. You're innocent until proven guilty, even—" She stopped. She'd heard from visitors to Las Vegas that in many ways New Orleans was like a third-world country.

"Even in New Orleans? Even when you tussle with the NOPD?" Parker shook his head. "He couldn't have taken people knowing he was back on drugs again." He clenched his fists and beat on his thighs. "He could have been so much more. His entire life he fucked
up in the stupidest, most senseless ways, but he didn't have to end that way."

He stared across the sitting area towards the fireplace as if seeing images of his brother playing there. Quietly, Meg crossed back to the sofa and sat gingerly on the edge. A rush of sympathy guided her hand. She touched his arm but did not speak. She knew only too well how little words helped with the loss of a loved one.

She stroked the sleeve of his wool suit, soothing him the way she caressed Samantha's soft curls when she awoke frightened from a bad dream.

Slowly he pulled his focus from across the room, shifting to stare down at her hand. His jaw worked, then he flung her hand off. "Don't try to get sweet with me. For whatever reason, he was using again and you're the only new factor in the equation."

Meg cradled her hand as if it had been burned. "Any idiot knows no one but an addict is responsible for his behavior. Or didn't you take Psychology 101?"

He gestured toward the boxes overflowing with expensive clothing. "It doesn't take a psychologist to figure out your interest in my brother was monetary, so don't try to sound so sweet and caring."

"I hope you don't think—"

He threw her a look of mock horror. "Oh, no, marry for money? Not little Miss Innocence. Come on baby, what were you? A Vegas
call girl who trapped my brother in a moment of weakness?"

Meg opened her mouth to protest then snapped her lips shut. His words rankled, but he'd gotten a little too close to the truth.

"Hit home, did I?" He rose and hands on his hips, looked down at her. "Everyone in town knew he had a steady girlfriend. So why would he fly off for the weekend and come back married?"

"He what?" Meg couldn't believe what Parker had just said. Why had Jules needed a wife if that was true? Then she narrowed her eyes, remembering Jules's words of warning about his brother.
Parker will do anything to win.

"You heard me. If you don't have any legal proof you were married, you're going to be in quite an awkward spot."

Any thoughts Meg had of turning tail and hitchhiking
home to Vegas, leaving the Pon
thiers to their own mess, disappeared as her temper flared. "You are one arrogant son of a—" Meg caught herself just in time. Swearing like a sailor was just what Jules would not have wanted her to do. He'd been most particular about the type of woman she had to portray and after hearing what a snob his brother was, she could understand why.

His right brow quirked.

She leapt up, then gathering her dignity, pulled the lapels of her robe tightly against her neck. She took her time strolling to the armoire
where Jules had stored his buttery soft leather portfolio, an item she guessed cost more than all the pairs of shoes she owned combined. Reaching inside, she pulled out the marriage license bearing her and Jules's names.

She turned around.

He'd followed her.

The document slapped against his chest. Watching her expression a little too closely for Meg's comfort, he lifted it from her hands and read it without stepping back. Her breath came too quickly and she fought the urge to push him away.

He scowled as he scanned it, then fingered the raised seal. "Yesterday?"

Meg nodded, still trying to breathe properly. Her chin was level with the knot of his tie.

His brows rose. She was so close she could see the front of his shirt rustling slightly from the rise and fall of his lungs and the pounding of his heart.
She inched backwards to the ar
moire.

He said again, "Yesterday." This time the question had left his voice.

"Yes."

He handed the certificate back to her. Eyes dark and unreadable, he said the words that stopped her breath completely.

"The family will expect you at the house within the hour."

Two

"
T
he
house?"

Parker looked at her as if she'd said something extraordinarily stupid. "Even though Jules preferred hiding away in this suite, he did have rooms both at Sugar Bridge and Ponthier Place."

Meg furr
owed her forehead at the lofty-
sounding names. What kind of life had she stumbled into? Then she caught herself. Forcing a smile, she said, "Of c
ourse I knew that. I was just…
" She trailed off, then glanced over at the bed, anywhere other than at this man who seemed to be able to see through her and certainly stood far too close to her.

"Wondering what to wear?" Parker, at last, stepped back and Meg inched away from the armoire. When he stood there staring at her, she wished she'd backed into the safety of the clothes closet and slammed the doors shut. "You look better in a bathrobe than any other
woman I've ever seen, so I think you'll be able to pass muster."

"Oh." Meg digested that statement, figuring he must not have seen too many females in bathrobes, then said, "Thank you."

Parker laughed, that dry, not-funny sound again. "Don't thank me and don't think I'm going to accept that marriage license you waved in front of my face without verifying it myself."

He'd closed the space between them as he spoke, and Meg found herself having that problem breathing again as he reached with one hand and tipped her chin upwards. For the wildest moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. And God help her, she knew she'd like it.

Instead he said slowly, as if weighing his observation, "Jules did have a soft spot for a pretty face, and you are one gorgeous woman." He dropped his hand and said, "Welcome to New Orleans, Mrs. Ponthier. I'll be back for you in an hour."

Then, before she could figure out just what he'd been trying to prove, he was gone.

The man was not only arrogant, he was ridiculing her and his brother too. Because she most definitely was not a gorgeous woman. Meg hugged her arms to her chest and did the most comforting thing she could think to do.

She called home.

Seated crosslegged on the sprawling bed, she
dialed Mrs. Fenniston's number. The cost for calling from the hotel had to be exorbitant, but Meg squeezed her eyes shut tight as she waited for someone to answer on the other end.

Jules was dead, but Meg knew the bill would be paid.

She'd already called twice, and each time gotten only Mrs. Fenniston's dignified voice on the answering machine, with the message that the children were fine and keeping busy. But Meg wanted to talk to them, to hear their voices and hug them long-distance.

Or maybe she was the one who needed the hugs. Here she was alone in a strange city, the man she'd traveled with shot to death in a sordid and unnecessary encounter. The crusader in her bristled as she thought of the policewoman involved in Jules's death; but the mother in her couldn't blame the authorities. Drugs were a scourge and if Jules had been trying to buy, well, he shouldn't have been.

Still
…
to die for such a senseless reason.

Meg sighed and wondered why no one answered the phone. Then she checked her watch. Almost noon in New Orleans was ten in Las Vegas. Perhaps they'd gone to breakfast. Or church. Mrs. Fenniston was very big on church. She could've turned on the answering machine, though.

An electronic voice broke into her call and reminded her none-too-gently that her party
wasn't answering and that she should try the call again later.

Meg slammed the receiver down, then lifted it and returned it much more nicely to its resting place. She wouldn't have let Teddy or Ellen get away with such behavior and there was no reason for her to display such temper.

No reason at all.

Hah!

She leapt from the bed and began to pace the room, the skirt of her bathrobe billowing behind her as she worked herself into a frenzied tempo. From the bed to the fireplace over to the armoire, where Parker Ponthier had practically held her captive. From the armoire to the couch, where he'd sat, staring at her, his gaze measuring, judging, condemning.

How dare he.

Meg walked faster. She shrugged out of the robe, changed from the satin camisole that she'd found in the Saks packages back into her UNLV t-shirt she'd slept in, one of the few pieces of her meager traveling wardrobe. Not exactly what your traditional bride packed for her honeymoon, but then, she wasn't your typical bride.

That thought sent her to the sofa. She dropped her head in her hands, much the same gesture Parker had made earlier.

What was she supposed to do now? Show up at the family home playing the grieving widow?

What else could she do?

Confess. Hand back the ten thousand dollars minus plane fare back to Las Vegas and resume her job at the Pinnacle. Return the wardrobe. Give Mr. Parker Ponthier the satisfaction of proving her a phony. Hard as it all would be— this last would be the worst.

Meg dropped back on the bed and hugged one of the pillows to her chest. Laying her cheek against the fine cotton cover, she closed her eyes and asked herself what she'd want one of her children to do. She tried so hard to teach them to make choices that added up to the right decision.

She'd done the wrong thing by letting herself be tempted into Jules's plan. Even though she'd done it to pull her family out of turmoil, she'd closed her eyes to the consequences. And now she was paying the price.

But she'd been tired of watching her children pay the price for their father's shocking financial mismanagement. Since his death, Meg had been confronted by the ruin of his company, the loss of their home, and the realization that he'd cashed in his life insurance policy without ever telling her.

Three days work for thirty thousand dollars had seemed like manna from heaven. She could finish college, get a better job, and pay off the nastiest of the creditors.

Now Jules was dead.

As embarrassing as it was, she really should tell the Ponthier family the truth.

She stroked the pillowcase, opened her eyes and reached for the phone to call home again. As she touched the receiver, the bell rang.

She jumped and clutched the pillow.

"Silly," she said aloud, "it's either for Jules or Mrs. Fenniston's finally home."

The phone pealed again.

Yet she hesitated. If it were for Jules, she'd have to make some explanation; she couldn't chicken out by just taking a message. Truth had to be faced. But if it was Mrs. Fenniston, why then she could talk to Ellen and Teddy, and Samantha.

The ringing continued, and to Meg's agitated imagination, the volume seemed to increase.

"Okay, okay!" She snatched it up. "Hello!"

"Mrs. Ponthier, please," an authoritative baritone voice ordered.

"Mrs. P
onthier?"

"Yes, this is Dr. Prejean calling."

"Y-yes?"

"Am I speaking with Mrs. Jules Ponthier?" A note of impatience sounded clearly on the line.

"May I ask why you're calling?"

"Only if you're Mrs. Jules Ponthier." The voice was dryer this time, but still impatient.

"Well, when you put it like that, then, yes I am." Like it or not, the statement was true.

"Mrs. Ponthier," he said, stretching the three
syllables of the name out longer than Meg really cared to hear it, "I have just left Teensy's bedside. She is taking this tragic loss as hard as you might expect, and by the way, may I offer my condolences also"—he kept right on, not even pausing and Meg just knew he disapproved of her very existence and more specifically of her hasty marriage to the deceased—"but it is my considered opinion that your presence may be the only comfort Teensy will have to support her through this grievous loss."

Ever mindful of her manners, Meg mumbled a thank you over the caller's barrage of words. But who in the world was Teensy? Better yet— "Excuse me," Meg finally managed, "but how did you get my number?"

"It's Jules's suite," he said, as if that explained everything.

"But how did you know
I
was here?"

"Am I or am I not speaking to Mrs. Jules Ponthier?" The impatience had bloomed far beyond a tinge.

"Yes, but how did you know about me?"

Silence ruled the line.

Finally, the man said, "You're not from here, are you?"

She shook her head, then said, "No." What a silly question. Why would she be in a hotel if she were from New Orleans? Then again, Jules had lived in a hotel. Meg shook
her head, wondering if the ring-
a-ding-buzzing in her
head was what a boxer who'd spent too many rounds in the ring experienced.

“You'll come to learn what a small town this is, my dear," he said, a trifle more kindly, and in almost a paternal way. "The point of my call is to warn you that only your presence makes Teensy's grief bearable. She is greatly comforted by the knowledge that her son found love in the last days of his—uh—" He hesitated, then continued with "—somewhat troubled life. With you here to stand beside Teensy she may just make it."

Meg swallowed and stared at the telephone.
Jules's mother!
Oh, what had she done? She pictured an older woman prostrate with grief from her son's death reeling from Meg's revelation that her son had hired a wife to undo his brother. "What would happen to Teensy if I for some reason weren't able to stay by her side?"

"Where else would you be? She's your mother-in-law."

"It's only a hypothetical question."

"Leave those to the lawyers." He cleared his throat. "I shouldn't be discussing her case with you, but you are family now. My prognosis would be complete breakdown. As it is she's fragile, extremely fragile. Like an impatiens planted in full sun." He sighed. "But I'll be at the house around the clock, just in case."

Meg almost would have guessed the doctor had a severe crush on Jules's mom. Jules's frail and dotty mom. Meg shook her head. She'd
only read the Cliff Notes of the Tennessee Williams books she'd been assigned in freshman English, but somehow she recognized some pretty stock southern characters on stage here.

She also recognized a cry for help when she heard it.

"Complete
breakdown?" she asked.

"She was sobbing her heart out before I gave her a sedative. But she kept saying, at least he found love."

Meg gripped the phone, wondering if her guilt came through in her voice. Ever-so-slowly, she said, "I'll be at the house within the hour. Will she be able to see me then?"

P
arker Ponthier thrust his Porsche into fourth gear and glared at the cell phone he'd tossed onto the passenger seat soon after roaring away from the Hotel Maurepas. What had possessed him to tell that meddling quack Prejean that Jules had a wife stashed at the hotel?

If her existence remained his secret, he might have reasoned with her. Even though he'd promised to return for her in an hour's time, he might have thought of some way to worm the truth of her marriage from her. He could have paid her off, if necessary, to save the family any further embarrassment.

His business instincts, naturally savvy and sharpened over the years he'd run Ponthier Enterprises, told him she was up to no good. Or maybe it was the combination of this unknown
woman thrust upon them by Jules, who had always been up to no good in one way or another.

His survival instincts shouted the same thing.

What a woman, though.

When he'd entered Jules's suite, he'd stopped short at the sight of her. She'd looked almost childlike, sitting crosslegged on that massive bed. Her hair tumbled down over her shoulders, dark and slightly curly and tousled in the way beautiful women looked after making love for hour after passionate hour.

His gut had tightened at that thought.

This beauty in a bathrobe had to be up to no good.

"So you tossed her a couple of hundreds, insulted her thoroughly, and only then paused to get the facts." He heard the derision in his voice as he spoke aloud. But how was he to know? Jules used to brag that he kept his suite year-round for entertaining whores and mistresses.

Great way to get to know his sister-in-law.

Sister-in-law.

Parker had to repeat that title to himself. Here he was thinking of the woman in Jules's suite as room service for a starving man's appetites.

What if she turned out to be Jules's legitimate wife? Parker sensed something awry, but out of respect for his dead brother, he reined
in his hungry thoughts. It wasn't that woman's fault Parker hadn't been with a female for more than a month.

With Jules dead, there'd be pressure on Parker to settle down. In the flash of the gun that had killed Jules, Parker had become the elder son.

Parker tightened his mouth. A harsh heat tugged at the corners of his eyes. Jules had been the first bo
rn
but Parker had always played the role of the elder brother. Perhaps if he hadn't, perhaps if he'd abdicated the responsibility, or refused to cover for Jules time after time the way he had, Jules wouldn't be lying in the morgue.