Stop Me (20 page)

“Thanks for reminding me. But in case you can’t tell, the point is to forget.” Romain tossed another handful of peanuts into his mouth in a casual motion meant to disguise the fact that, thanks to Jasmine Stratford, this Christmas was even more difficult than the last.

It had to be Moreau who killed Adele. Romain had stared into the man’s flat, empty eyes, witnessed that taunting half smile and known on a bone-deep level.

Hadn’t he? Yes! So the rest didn’t matter. And yet, the questions Jasmine had raised continued to haunt him….

Croc wiped the counter again. “Why not create some new memories?”

“Why not mind your own business?”

The old man wrote something on a napkin and shoved it at him.

“What’s this?” Romain growled.

“A Web site where you’ll find lots of beautiful Russian women.”

“You’ve been online?” Romain would’ve been amused if he wasn’t so annoyed by the unwelcome interference. Croc wasn’t the type to familiarize himself with a computer.

The old man shrugged. “Casey and I checked out a few places.” Meddlesome Casey again. Romain needed to be more careful about what he said to her. “Sorry, I’m not interested.” He pushed the napkin back.

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“Why not?”

“It was a joke, okay? I don’t plan on ordering a bride.”

“You should. Think of what you’re missing.”

“A prostitute can take care of what I’m missing.” With a scowl, Croc leaned close. “You know it wouldn’t be the same, my friend.”

Romain held up a hand. He’d heard enough. “This is all pretty ironic coming from you.”

“Why’s that?” Croc asked.

“You lost Marie what…twenty years ago?”

“Twenty-two. But that’s exactly my point.”

Romain met his meaningful stare.

“I don’t want you to turn out a lonely old man like me,” Croc said.

“Everyone has problems, Croc. There’s nothing wrong with the life you’re living.”

“But you could have something better. You’re still young. Why not start another family?”

It wasn’t like they were talking about growing vegetables. Your tomatoes died? Maybe you should try a different variety…. He’d had the only family he ever wanted. He couldn’t love another woman or have more children because he couldn’t bear the possibility of losing them, too. “Enough already.” Croc lowered his voice. “Someone has to say it, T-Bone. It’s time to put the past behind you and move on. Let Pam and Adele go, let them rest in peace knowing you’ll be okay.”

Romain clenched his fists. Suddenly, he felt like fighting. He knew he was being rash even as he shoved away from the bar and faced the room, but the need for release goaded him on in spite of that. “A hundred bucks to anyone who can beat me in a freestyle boxing match,” he announced and pulled the bill from his wallet.

“Damn, T-Bone, you want to get busted up on Christmas Eve?” someone called out.

But the Gatlin boys exchanged a look of silent communication and smiled eagerly. They’d been angling for a match for months. “I’ll do it if you’ll let my brother help me out,” Terry said.

Romain weighed the odds. Two on one was a little more than he’d bargained for. The Gatlins were lean and mean and had a reputation for not fighting fair. But a fight was a fight. At least it would give him a chance to release the anger charging through him.

“Deal,” he said and threw the first punch.

The man’s hand closed over Jasmine’s ankle, dragging her back, scraping her cheek, hands and knees on the rough blacktop. She broke several fingernails clawing 119

at the ground, searching for purchase, but it was no use. He had a sure grip. The only thing she could do was wait for a better opportunity, which came when he released her ankle to reach for her arm or her hair. Then she rolled over and kicked him in the groin, just as Skye had taught her.

With a gasp of pain, he crumpled to his knees, giving her the split second she needed to get to her feet.

Only problem was—her mind screamed “Run!” but her legs wouldn’t fully cooperate. It felt like she was moving in slow motion. She could hear him following her, could make out the tap…tap…tap…tap…tap-tap-tap of his footsteps gaining on her from behind. He seemed a little unsteady at first but was soon running at full speed.

She couldn’t outdistance him for long. She had to get out of the alley, find someone who’d be able to help. But there wasn’t anyone around.

Her decision had to be a split-second one. Should she dart toward a major street and try to stop traffic? Or attempt to reach her own car?

Her car was closer, and she wouldn’t risk getting run over. But neither would she have much chance of being rescued if he caught her.

When she rounded the corner, she glanced off a Dumpster that seemed to materialize out of nowhere. Hoping her pursuer would do the same, only hit it squarely, she managed to keep running. But he must’ve made a wider arc because he missed it entirely. She could hear him catching up with her. She could also feel his absolute determination.

I’ll kill you for this, bitch! echoed through her brain as if he screamed it at her.

By the time she made it to the parking lot, Jasmine’s throat burned and her lungs felt like bursting. She had only a few yards to go, but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to unlock the car before he was upon her. If he caught her while she was trying to get in, it’d be all too easy to drag her out and—

She couldn’t let herself think of what came after “and.” It weakened her, allowed fear to confuse her judgment.

Block out the impressions. Think! She had to do something to slow him down, to buy the few seconds she needed to get away. But what? She was out of options, out of energy, out of breath—

And then she saw it. A sharp stick, lying in the dim yellow circle provided by the floodlight that illuminated the Parking $2.75/hour or $35/day sign. Bending to grab it, she whirled and threw it in his face.

She wouldn’t have hurt him very badly if he’d been farther away. But he was close, and he hadn’t expected the blow.

He cried out when she hit him, and staggered back as she pressed the button on her key ring that unlocked the driver’s side door. She thought she might’ve blinded him because he shook his head as if he couldn’t clear his vision. But she didn’t wait 120

around to find out. She got in her car and nearly slammed his hand in the door when he tried to stop her.

“Oh, God.” She was shaking so badly she could barely insert the key in the ignition.

He pounded on the window—hard enough to break it. He was trying to break it. But she managed to start the engine. Then she popped the transmission into Reverse and squealed out of the parking space, leaving him in a cloud of exhaust.

Jasmine sped west on I-10. She told herself she was getting out of town where she could regroup and decide what to do next, but she didn’t have enough gas to drive anywhere without a specific purpose. She was going to the bayou, to Romain Fornier. Her father was another option, but he lived in the opposite direction, and she wasn’t about to show up at his place battered and bruised on Christmas Eve.

Especially since she’d been investigating Kimberly’s disappearance….

Strange, perhaps, but Romain’s felt safer. And yet going to him was a gamble, as well. She had only enough fuel to get to Portsville and no way to fill her tank for the return trip. If he refused to help her, she didn’t know what she’d do.

He’d help her, she told herself. Or someone else would. Forty dollars for gas would do it. That wasn’t a lot. She’d deal with returning to New Orleans tomorrow.

Right now she couldn’t concentrate on anything except finding somewhere safe, taking a bath, closing her eyes.

But Romain’s house was dark when Jasmine reached it—at barely nine o’clock. Had he gone to Mamou to spend Christmas with his folks? She hadn’t seen his motorcycle as she came through town, but she knew he had another car or truck.

She sat in his drive, chewing her lip as she let her engine idle. She supposed she could go back to town and try to find him, but if he wasn’t there it wouldn’t do her any good to have invested the time—and the gas. And she was already so tired.

She had to go in the house—to get in somehow, even if the door was locked.

She couldn’t stay out in the car without so much as a blanket. She’d freeze to death.

But going inside meant braving the bayou, and she was still leery of the creatures that inhabited the swamp. She was accustomed to wide-open spaces, dry land, domesticated animals….

Leaving her headlights on to discourage anything from eating her before she could clamber onto the porch, she scoured the ground for signs of movement while she ran to the door.

“Romain?” she called as she knocked. “Romain? Are you home?” A cacophony of noise surrounded her—chirping, clicking, splashing and rustling—but there was no answer from the house. Please come to the door. Let me in. I need food, sleep, money, reassurance….

“Romain?”

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Again, no response. But the door was unlocked, and a flashlight sat on a ledge to her right.

With a final frightened glance at the dark trees that seemed to hold the swamp at bay, she crossed the threshold and locked the door behind her. Then she breathed deeply, taking in the reassuring scent of the man whose voice had created such desire on the phone last night, a scent she found oddly comforting. He didn’t have electric lights and she didn’t know how to deal with any other kind, so she used the flashlight to locate his bedroom, which was as neat as she’d expected and not completely devoid of personal mementos. On his dresser, she saw a framed photograph of him, his wife and his daughter. They were at the beach, running from a large wave.

Romain had Adele on his shoulders and was laughing as he held Pam’s hand and pulled her along.

“God, they look happy.” Jasmine moved the flashlight closer. The tiny inset photograph she’d seen of Pam in the papers didn’t do the woman justice. Romain’s wife had been beautiful, tall with long blond hair and the same golden skin he possessed.

Envying the relationship they seemed to have had, she lowered the light. At least he’d once loved someone with his whole heart. Jasmine had never met anyone who’d stirred that kind of passion or commitment in her. “So what’s the truth? Is it better to have loved and lost or never to have loved at all?” she murmured to herself.

She wondered what Romain would say about that as she stripped off her filthy clothes and did the best she could to wash up. The only water was freezing and came out of a big metal can in the bathroom, but she felt calmer when she’d wiped away the dirt and mud and cleaned her cuts and abrasions.

She’d made it. She’d gotten out of the cellar and out of the alley. She was fine; she was safe.

Now all she had to do was appropriate something to wear and get warm.

After a quick search of Romain’s drawers, she came up with a thick cotton Tshirt and a pair of boxers, both of which smelled as fresh as any laundry she’d ever done. Teeth chattering, she pulled them on, then piled her own clothes in a sack and put them by the back door. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to get them clean and doubted she’d want to wear them again even if she could. They’d always remind her of the cellar and what she’d found there.

Putting on a heavy coat of Romain’s that’d been hanging on a hook by the front door and a pair of his boots, she clomped out to turn off her headlights and decided to move her car. His house was about as remote as a house could get, but people might come by to wish him a merry Christmas and she didn’t want her car to be spotted. She’d rather go unnoticed until she felt strong enough to venture out again.

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After she returned to the house, she put Romain’s coat and boots where they belonged and nearly climbed into his bed. Lord knew she was tempted. That was where she’d feel safest. But even if he was out of town for Christmas, moving into his private space felt a little forward—like Goldilocks in The Three Bears.

After dragging some bedding from a closet at the end of the hall, she curled up on the couch instead and, as soon as she grew warm, fell asleep.

The Gatlin boys had done a damn fine job. They’d bloodied his right cheek, probably bruised a few ribs, and caused him to bust up his knuckles worse than he’d wanted to. But the patrons of the Flying Squirrel had taken a vote and called it a draw so he still had his money.

Groaning as he got out of Croc’s truck, Romain squinted through a skull-splitting headache as he looked back at the old man. “Thanks for the ride.” At least he’d get a good night’s sleep. According to his watch, it was barely ten-thirty.

“What the hell were you trying to do, kill yourself?” he snapped.

“Maybe,” Romain muttered, and shuffled toward the porch.

Croc waited, giving Romain the benefit of his headlights, and Romain managed to cross the uneven ground without falling. It wasn’t until he reached the front steps that he realized something was different. Someone had been at the house.

The flashlight he left out for after-dark returns was gone.

He tried the door. Locked.

But he rarely bothered to lock the door….

Straightening, he gazed back at Croc, wondering if all the booze he’d consumed was playing tricks on him. But then he spotted something else. A car sat off to the side of his drive, parked back in the trees.

Croc rolled down his window and stuck out his head. “Everything okay?” Romain held up a hand. “Fine,” he said. But things weren’t fine at all. He was pretty sure that car was the rental Jasmine had been driving—and she was the one who’d ruined his Christmas to begin with.

Reluctant to let Croc know he had company, especially female company, he waited until the bar owner had gone before taking his hide-a-key from under the porch and opening the door. He didn’t want to see Jasmine, and he didn’t want her to see him. At least, not like this. His behavior didn’t always make sense, even when a therapist tried to explain it. He knew because the judge at his trial had ordered him to have weekly sessions with a psychologist to “help him deal with his anger.” She said he suppressed his feelings until they couldn’t be suppressed anymore, and then he acted on them in counterproductive ways. But, as far as Romain was concerned, all that talk had been a waste of time. He already knew he wasn’t coping with his feelings well, didn’t need anyone to tell him that. And he still felt better after five minutes with his fists than hours of trying to explain why he wanted to use them.