Tristan on a Harley (Louisiana Knights Book 3) (18 page)

Trey knew where he was the instant he opened his eyes. The unmistakable smells of antiseptic wipes, cleaning compounds and human misery penetrated the darkness of his unconsciousness long before he opened his eyes and was “at himself,” as his granddad used to say. It was no surprise to see the dangling lines of fluids attached to him here and there, or the blinking lights of monitors.

What was unusual was the faint but persistent whiff of perfume that almost neutralized the hospital odors. That fragrance had been the stuff of his dreams for months; he would recognize it anywhere.

Turning his head on his pillow, he found the source. Zeni was sitting in a chair pulled up beside his bed. She’d leaned to rest her folded arms on the mattress, and was asleep with her head pillowed upon them. It was no wonder; night blackness peeped through the louvers of the window blinds behind her, along with the distant sheen of a streetlamp. His internal clock told him it was after three in the morning or perhaps a little later. She had a right to be tired.

It took more effort than he expected to lift and move his hand. Still, he managed it, was able to touch the silky brown hair that spilled across his sheets. He gathered the warm strands in his hand, holding them like a lifeline as his eyelids slowly closed again.

The next time he woke the room was bright with daylight, the blinds were open and a clattering breakfast cart was being pushed through the door. The nurse in scrubs behind it was short, pleasantly rounded and had nice eyes, but was entirely too cheerful. The main problem with her was she was not Zeni.

Trey frowned at her, his mood more than a little grouchy. “Where is—”

“Oh good,” Zeni exclaimed as she emerged from the bathroom that opened next to the entrance of his private room. “I was hoping coffee would get here before he woke up.”

“I’m awake,” he said as a reminder that no one needed to talk over him.

“So you are, and about time,” the nurse said with a smile. “You’ve no idea how glad we all are to see it.”

How could he stay cantankerous or uncooperative in the face of that attitude?

Trey lay supine, allowing his hands to be washed for him, his head to be raised, and the breakfast tray to be rolled across his lap. He was quiet while Zeni removed the plastic wrap from what appeared to be oatmeal, opened his carton of milk and put a little butter on his toast. He drew the line at having his coffee cup held for him or being fed, but was a model patient otherwise.

He had to be, because it was the best way to get rid of the nurse so he could talk to Zeni. The instant her pleasingly plump figure disappeared through the door, he demanded to know exactly what had happened.

She told him without mincing too many words, which was exactly the way he wanted it. He wasn’t hungry, though he sipped his coffee and pretended to eat while she talked. The nagging ache that started up in his chest when he woke the second time had become a raging pain, but he ignored it. The last thing he wanted was some high-powered, fast-acting painkiller to dull his senses, maybe even put him under again.

“You’re not eating,” she said, pausing in the middle of telling him how his cousins and half the people he knew had waited until all hours to find out whether he was going to live or die.

He took a bite of toast. “Yes I am.”

She reached to put a finger under his chin to bring his head up so he was forced to meet her eyes. “You’re hurting. You need something for pain.”

He didn’t know how she could be so sure, but he wasn’t having it. “Not yet. So all these folks went home and left you here to sit with me?”

“They seemed to think I had the right.”

“Of course you do. I gave it to you when I said we were engaged. But somebody could have kept you company.”

“You know that doesn’t mean anything,” she said with distress in her voice. “I feel like such a fraud. You really should tell Beau and Lance, at least.”

“It might mean something if you let it.”

She gave him a narrow look. “You don’t know what you’re saying, it must be the anesthesia. The last thing you want is a wife to interfere with your dirt bike races and football games.”

“You don’t know what I want.”

“I know now is not the time to decide.” She reached across him, aiming for the nurse call button. He caught her hand and turned it up so the facets on the ruby and diamond ring on her finger sparkled in the morning light. “You’re still wearing this. And I seem to remember a kiss last night while I was half out of it, and a whisper that had something to do with love.”

“Trey—”

“What? Tell me.”

“I thought you might die, and the middle of that kind of crisis was no time to explain to your friends that our engagement was a farce.”

“Is it? Is it really?”

She looked away from him, her chocolate-colored eyes incredibly dark. “It has to be. There are things you don’t know.”

“So tell me.” Trey wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to hear it, but figured this was his best chance, while he had sympathy on his side.

“I don’t think so, not right now. You were shot, for heaven sakes. You shouldn’t be upset. Besides, you may not even remember next time you wake up.”

“If not now, when, Zeni?”

She pulled her hand free of his grasp. Rising, she moved away to the window where she stood with her back to him. She adjusted the blinds to decrease the light, and then stood winding the cords around her fingers.

As the minutes stretched, impatience moved over him, lending strength to his voice. “You’ve been putting this off for days. I don’t know what’s so bad, but it can’t be any worse than what I might lay here imagining.”

“Your doctor won’t like it, and I don’t know if—”

“I’ll be the judge of what I can stand and want to hear.”

“Yes, but—are you sure?”

He let his silence answer for him.

“All right, fine.” She didn’t begin right away but looked out the window with a bleak expression, as if organizing her thoughts. When she finally spoke her manner was distant, a deliberate disassociation from what she was saying.

“I’ve told you a little about my mother. She was bright, well read, formed her own opinions, and did her best to leave her conservative upbringing behind when she left home. After I was born, she discovered she’d given birth to a math and science freak, a kid who understood long division before she could crawl and had an IQ of 150 before hitting her teens. Given my nerd tendencies and her artistic and liberal bent, the two of us never quite fit in—though it mattered less in the Quarter than it might have anywhere else. After she was gone, I went off the deep end for a while.”

“Understandable,” Trey said, even as he frowned at the bleak yet oddly recognizable picture she’d painted. He’d always known she was smart, but not that smart.

“Anyway, there was a man who lived with us when I was small, too small to remember much about him. All I know is that he was gentle, quiet spoken and had a musical lilt to his voice. I think he was a composer who wrote both lyrics and music, and sometimes played at one of the clubs on Bourbon Street—I can almost see his long fingers on the keys of an old piano. There was a song my mother used to sing—but that’s not the point.”

“He was your father?” Trey asked with some idea of helping her along.

“I think he may have been, though I’m not sure. My mother wasn’t exactly forthcoming. She had men friends, but they never lived with us, and that made Jaze special.”

“That was his name? And it’s maybe on your birth certificate?”

“The space for the father’s name was left blank.”

Trey frowned at that, but let it go. “It sounds as if he didn’t stick around long.”

“Not by choice. He was killed coming home one night, stabbed during some kind of argument or robbery.”

“That must have been tough.”

“I suppose, though I was too little to know much about it. My mother never talked about it, not even when I was old enough to be curious.” She gave a small shrug. “I asked one of the Quarter policemen if it would be possible to look into it. He told me to let it lie, that there might be something I’d prefer not to know, maybe a drug connection or worse.”

“But why—”

“Jaze was from Jamaica. He was also what’s known as a quadroon.”

That explained it. A quadroon, in New Orleans parlance, was a person with one quarter African American heritage and the remainder Caucasian. Regardless of the proportions, he’d have been identified as African American with all the racial profiling that implied.

“At least, that’s what my mother told me, and I have a vague memory of playing with his dreadlocks.”

The quiet in the room as she finished speaking was absolute. From the corridor outside came low voices and the click of high heels, along with the squeak of a passing medical cart and distant chimes signaling announcements. She was watching him, Trey knew, waiting to see his reaction. The best he could do was a shrug, though the movement brought such a burst of pain in his chest that it took his breath for a second.

“That’s it?” he asked finally. “That’s the big secret?”

Her smile had a twist to it. “Isn’t it enough?”

“But you don’t know if this Jaze guy was your father or a friend of your mother’s, a hardened criminal or just a man who met bad luck one night.”

“Exactly,” she answered on a winded laugh. “Fatherless, motherless, penniless, that’s me. My mother used to say the answer to it all was blowin’ in the wind, but she couldn’t chase it down, and I doubt I will, either.”

“You haven’t even tried. You mentioned grandparents before. Surely they can be located. They must know who your mother was involved with when she got pregnant.”

Zeni dismissed that idea with a tired smile. “What does it matter? It’s obvious I’m different. You said so yourself.”

“Seems it matters to you.” He paused, his eyes narrowed on her features, so lovely and yes, exotic. “Or does it? Maybe it’s just an excuse to move on, let the wind blow you some place new. That’s easier than staying and dealing with the truth.”

“What do you know about it? You’ve always been sure of exactly who you are and where you belong. But I don’t. Never have and never will.”

The door swung open then on its hydraulic hinges. Derek Peabody strolled in as if there was no possible doubt of his welcome.

“Better listen to her Benedict. We can get a blood test to be sure about this interesting relationship you’re discussing, but there’s no doubt she’s one of a kind, maybe another Halle Berry success story in the making. Or that she deserves better than a wasted life in this godforsaken spot on the map, if it comes to that. I’m here to see that she gets it.”

Alarm coursed through Zeni’s veins. Derek appeared to be unarmed and therefore nonthreatening, but how could she tell? All she knew was that she didn’t trust him. Nor was she happy to see Bettina clack her way into the room behind him with her expensive clipboard under her arm.

“What do you want?”

Moving to Trey’s bedside at once, Zeni gripped its railing, making certain her fingers were poised over the integrated nurse call button.

“You, of course,” Derek said on a laugh. “What else?”

Bettina laughed in mirthless sycophancy. “Direct, isn’t he? But you might as well give in gracefully. Derek always gets what he wants.”

“Zeni may have something to say about that,” Trey said.

Glancing down at him, Zeni saw that he had put a hand to his chest, while perspiration lay across his upper lip. Hesitating no longer, she pressed the call button. To the pair near the door she said, “Trey has talked enough for now. He’s too weak for further discussion, but especially about something as unimportant as the movie. You need to leave.”

“Unimportant?”

Bettina looked scandalized as she repeated that pertinent word. A pained expression crossed Derek’s face, but that was all.

“In the present scheme of things, yes. Trey was nearly killed, as if you don’t know. He doesn’t need this.”

At that moment, the voice of the duty nurse came over the intercom. “May I help you?”

“Yes,” Zeni said clearly. “My fiancé needs something for pain as soon as possible.”

The nurse said she would check his chart, and Zeni thanked her. Derek didn’t speak until the intercom clicked off.

“Oh, really now, isn’t that a bit obvious as a way to get someone in here, as well as being unnecessary?”

“You are a suspect, and as such—”

“Zeni,” Trey said, a hint of warning in his voice. “I think—it’s possible the shooter was targeting you. It seemed for a second there last night that you were in the line of fire.”

She barely glanced at him. “If I was, it was an accident. I saw where the shots struck. I also saw that Derek and Bettina were not in the booth.”

The actor straightened from his world-weary pose. “Wait a minute—”

“That being the case,” she went on, meeting his gaze with determination since it seemed her job to protect Trey for a change, “I think the pair of you should leave before I call Sheriff Benedict.”

“Charming. It’s quite the cushy family enclave you’ve landed in here at Chamelot, isn’t it?”

“Something it would be dangerous for you to forget.”

“Ridiculous,” Derek said with every sign of exasperation.

The nurse should be along with the pain medication at any moment, Zeni knew. At least Derek and Bettina were aware she would be arriving, so unlikely to try anything. “Trey should rest. You may come back later, if you must, but I’ll walk you out now.”

“Zeni,” Trey said again, his voice hoarse.

She gave him a strained smile. “I’ll be right back.” She might or might not be, but he didn’t need to worry either way.

She walked to the door and reached to hold it open. When Derek and his assistant passed out ahead of her, she closed it behind her. They had barely gone three steps when Derek touched her arm.

“You don’t really think I had anything to do with this shooting?”

“I don’t know, but someone did.” She continued down the hall with determined strides, so he was forced to move beside her.

He actually looked puzzled and more than a little disturbed. “But why? Why would I take such a chance?”

“How should I know? Maybe you thought having your way was more important than a man’s life. Maybe you expected to get away with murder in such a small town.”

A sardonic smile curved his famous mouth. “I like you, Zeni, and think you’d be great in the movie I’m making. I was looking forward to working—and playing—with you, and even thought it might be something special. But you are seriously mistaken if you think I care enough about getting into your pants to kill a man for it.”

“Excuse me,” Bettina said. “I just realized I put my clipboard down on the tray table back in the room. I’ll run and get it.”

Zeni barely glanced at the assistant as she clicked back down the hall in her stilettos. Her concentration was on Derek Peabody. She could almost swear he meant every word he’d said.

“I don’t think for a minute that you care about me,” she said. “You don’t know me, after all. But you do care about your movie, and care even more about your ego. Trey not only blocked your way to getting into my pants, as you so gallantly put it, but he embarrassed you in front of your crew. That’s something you’d find hard to forgive.”

“Oh, come on! Let’s not go overboard. Whoever shot Benedict probably didn’t mean to kill him. I expect it was some kid showing off, or a gun-happy redneck he beat in one of his bike races. I’ll forget you made these wild accusations, and we can get back to work. Filming on the dream sequence is scheduled for tomorrow. I’ll expect to see you there.”

“It isn’t happening,” Zeni said with precision. “Find yourself another Zenobia.”

He stared at her, his expression so stunned that he looked witless. “You can’t do this! I meant what I said back there. I can take you away from Chamelot. You could really go places, do great things.”

“I’m not going anywhere, and have no interest in doing great things if it means pretending the rest of my life. Chamelot is real, and that suits me better than any make-believe.” She turned away from him, but swung back again.

“You might try Gloria, the girl playing the handmaiden, as Zenobia. She’d probably enjoy being a Middle Eastern warrior queen if it helped to pay her college expenses.”

Derek Peabody stood there watching her as she walked away. Zeni didn’t look back.

She couldn’t return to Trey’s room fast enough. She hated that she’d had to leave him, especially when he was hurting, but walking Derek and Bettina out had seemed the fastest way to get rid of them.

The assistant should have been on her way back down the hall after retrieving her clipboard. She was nowhere in sight. What was she doing in Trey’s room? What was she saying to him?

A dull, clanging thud like metal hitting the floor came to Zeni as she neared the door. She recognized it almost at once, knew it had to be the rolling table with Trey’s breakfast that had been beside his bed. Following on it came the sharp sound of a woman’s voice.

Zeni hit the door with her shoulder. She catapulted inside.

Bettina was bent over Trey’s upper body with his pillow in her hands. She shrilled curses as she tried to hold it over his face while digging an elbow into his chest. He had her wrists clamped in his fists and was struggling to throw her aside. His breathing harsh, coming in labored gasps of pain. Coffee and milk spread across the floor, coming from his upended breakfast tray. The rolling table lay on its side beneath the window.

With a cry of rage, Zeni flung herself at the assistant. She grabbed her shoulder and a handful of bleached blonde hair, hauling her back.

Bettina grunted like a madwoman, kicking at her. Her stiletto caught Zeni in the knee. She stumbled back, slamming into the corner of the bathroom wall.

It was then the door whooshed open and the duty nurse appeared. In her hand was a tray with the syringe of powerful painkiller she’d ordered laid out upon it.

Zeni didn’t think, didn’t plan. She grabbed that syringe in her fist. With her thumb on the plunger, she whirled around and stabbed the needle into Bettina’s neck. She pressed her thumb down with all her might.

The assistant screeched and grabbed for the injection site, her face a mask of horror. Zeni whisked the syringe away and jumped back while sickness rose inside her.

Trey batted away the pillow that half covered his face, wincing as he flung it from the bed. Eyes wide, he stared at Bettina, but quickly shifted his gaze to Zeni’s face. His feature’s cleared.

“Thank God,” he whispered, and held out his hand.

She swallowed. He was okay. They were both okay.

Bettina was not. She crumpled, sliding down the side of the bed to land on her backside with a solid thud. Her eyes were wide with shock and her lips moved without sound.

Stepping around her with care, Zeni reached Trey’s bedside. She put her hand in his, holding to its warm strength.

It was then that the duty nurse began to yell at all of them.