Windswept (25 page)

Yeah, right. Like she believed him. Barrett rolled her eyes, happy she didn’t have to guard her expression. He was, however, a full professor, so she’d respect the position--but she’d ignore his comments and unsubtle hints. “Thanks, Horace, I appreciate it, but I’m very busy and lunch is just out of the question. I also have commitments for all my evenings.”

“Well . . .” he started.

She wasn’t about to let him ask her what she was doing with her busy-ness or commitments, so she interrupted. “Thanks for asking. I hope your research is going well. I need to get back to work. Nice talking to you. Good-bye.”

She hung up before he could reply. “Mmmmmmmgh!” She allowed herself a small angry squeal and shook her fists at the phone. A visit from Horace was the last thing she needed. Especially over dinner, invitations to which she had always managed to evade. She wondered idly where he would have taken her. The word around the history department was, if Horace wanted to come on to a woman, he took her to a really nice restaurant, a dark and “romantic” one. If he wanted what was in the woman’s mind, not her body, they went to a cheap joint--once, according to rumor, even to a Denny’s--and it was Dutch treat.

Chuckling, she returned to her stack of correspondence, but not without a small prayer Horace would stay away.

***

Monday and Tuesday seemed to set the pattern. She worked, she swam, Davis came home, they ate and talked about their days, current events, and sports, and they worked in their respective offices. They said good night with searing kisses that left her with melted bones.

He didn’t move a hand toward her breasts again, but seemed to content himself with playing with her curls and holding her as tightly as he could against him. She knew he was affected. If the hard evidence against her abdomen wasn’t enough, he was breathing as roughly as she was and she could feel his heart beating as strongly and rapidly as hers. Where her body wanted to melt into a puddle of desire, his felt like a pillar of granite, scorching hot granite.

It was almost enough to make her scream. Her attraction to him grew with each encounter. She wanted him to go farther, take the next step, increase the intimacy. She ached in several places, and she knew only his touch would alleviate her “condition.”

As seductions went, this one was certainly taking a long time, she complained to herself as she dressed for the dinner with his investors. But maybe . . . he was proceeding exactly according to plan.

Anticipation was a marvelous mechanism for ratcheting up the tension between them. Did he think he only had to arouse her and she’d fall into his arms, begging him to take her or she’d explode? No, damn it.

If he wanted a game, she’d give him one. Anticipation worked two ways. So did seduction.

***

The dinner with the investors went well—better than Davis had hoped for. Barrett had done some homework and, when it was clear she wouldn’t rehash battles, both wives instantly perked up and began asking questions about women’s lives in the war and telling tales from family history. By the time they finished eating, even the battle enthusiast had been won over, especially when Barrett mentioned some of his family and their travails by name. Davis sat back, feeling extremely smug about having included Barrett in the first place. Once more she had effortlessly wrapped people around her little finger. He had no doubt these investors were hooked.

Dancing later, he smiled down at her. “I should hire you, you know, to handle my investor relations. And my Hispanic relations. And me.”

She seemed to consider the offer seriously for a moment. “Thank you, but no, Davis. I’m too happy doing what I do to follow the siren call of business.” Then she grinned. “And I doubt anyone could handle you.”

He couldn’t resist that one. “Lady, you can handle me all you want.” He pulled her closer and twirled her around as she gave him one of her teacher looks. She couldn’t quell his enthusiasm, however. “Nothing to say?” he whispered in her ear.

She didn’t say anything. Instead she raised up on tiptoe and flicked his earlobe with her tongue. It was the last thing Davis had expected her to do, and he jerked, his body tightening as desire roared through him. When he heard her whisper back, “I’ll take it under advisement,” he could only wince. He’d asked for it. Then he smiled to himself. He needed to step up his campaign of persuasion. He did not doubt victory now; the lady was obviously willing.

As they were walking toward his car after saying good night to the investors, Davis’s cell phone rang. He frowned at the caller ID displaying his home number and punched the button to answer. “What is it, Gonzales?” he asked.

“There’s been a break-in here, sir.”

Davis relayed the information to Barrett and said into the phone, “Are you and Eva all right?”

“Oh, yes, sir. When you gave us the night off, we went to visit my sister. When we came home, we found the police here and the alarms going off.”

“We’ll be there in twenty minutes.” He hung up.

When they drove up to the house, the driveway was full of police cars. Davis identified himself, and an officer escorted him and Barrett into the house. They found Gonzales and two other officers, one in plain clothes, in the living room.

“What’s happened?” Davis asked of all three.

The tired-looking man in the rumpled beige suit spoke. “I’m Lieutenant Leonard Gilroy of the Hunter’s Creek Police, Mr. Jamison. Your alarms went off at 10:08. Officers responded and reached the house at 10:22. We found the kitchen door broken open, but no sign of the intruders. Mr. Gonzales arrived just as the officers were exiting the house. From the tracks on the walkways, it appears the burglars backed up a good-sized truck to the back door. This implies they were planning to steal something more than jewelry or a television set.”

“I’ve checked the house, sir,” Gonzales interjected. “They did take the TV set from the family room, but nothing upstairs is disturbed.”

“What about the office?” Davis asked. He glanced over at Barrett; she looked pale, but composed. He could feel anger rising in himself and clamped down on it.

“Some boxes are rearranged in the conference room and stacked in the hall, but I don’t know if any are missing,” Gonzales answered.

“Oh, no,” Barrett said and headed for the office wing. Davis followed.

Several boxes were in the hallway, a couple even on a dolly. One lay sideways on the floor, as if it had been dropped in haste.

“Did they take any?” Davis asked as Barrett started counting out loud, pointing to the boxes as she did so.

“Eighteen-thirty A, B, eighteen-thirty-one A, B, C . . . and all the other years and letters are in sequence. I don’t think so.” She turned and walked into the office. “Edgar’s journal is still on the desk, and the computer is still here.”

Davis came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. She slumped back against him. He could feel her trembling.

“What is all this?” Gilroy asked from the hall as he surveyed the boxes there and in the conference room.

Davis gave Barrett’s shoulders a squeeze, and they returned to the hall. “The records from my family’s plantation in Louisiana. My grandfather died recently and left them to me. Dr. Browning has been inventorying them for me,” Davis replied. He introduced Barrett.

“Well, it certainly looks like the perpetrators were going to load these up. Why would anyone want these old records? Are they worth anything?” Gilroy opened a box, looked in, and then closed the lid again. His watery blue eyes had a puzzled look.

“Not in monetary terms.” Davis debated with himself, then decided to tell the whole story. If Lloyd would go to such lengths as burglary, Davis wasn’t going to protect him, family member or not. “The only person interested in them is my cousin, Lloyd Walker. He’s been badgering me to let him have access to them. Lloyd lives in Louisiana.”

“Would he go to such trouble to get them?” The detective was plainly skeptical.

“I don’t know, lieutenant. He’s been threatening a lawsuit, even though as a lawyer, he ought to recognize an ironclad bequest when he sees one. But I can’t see him driving a truck and loading the boxes himself.”

“This was no one-man job, Mr. Jamison. Not only would you need muscle to move all these boxes, but one of the responding officers said he thought they saw a truck’s taillights down the road just before they turned into your driveway. The burglars probably had a lookout. It would be too easy to get trapped back in these dead-end roads by the bayou.” Gilroy looked around and waved his hand at the situation.

“Also, they hit while no one was at home. This implies someone has been watching the place. Is the house frequently vacant?”

“No, and especially not during the week,” Davis answered. “What else can I tell you, Lieutenant?”

“Your cousin’s address and phone number. At the moment, he’s the likeliest suspect, but if he’s in Louisiana, I doubt we’ll be able to prove anything against him unless we catch one of the crew who broke in.”

Davis supplied the information, and the police left. He and Gonzales shored up the kitchen door as best they could. The task completed, he looked around the kitchen and said, “I don’t think we can do any more with this tonight. Let’s get some sleep and tackle the mess in the morning.”

“I’ll take care of the cars, sir,” Gonzales said. “And I’ll arrange for the door repair tomorrow.”

“Good. Thank you. We have to put in an insurance claim, too. Peggy has all the information at the office, and she’ll call you. No need for a new television for the family room. I never watched it anyway.” Gonzales left and Davis put his arm around Barrett’s shoulders and turned her toward the hall. “Come on, Barrett. It’s late.”

When they came to her bedroom door, Davis took her in his arms and gave her a hug. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, especially since they didn’t take any of the papers,” she said, leaning back against his embrace. “Do you really think Lloyd instigated this?”

“I honestly don’t know. Can you think of anybody else? A crazed historian, for example?”

She shook her head. “No, not even . . . well, nobody. A historian would have to cite his sources. What’s he going to put in the footnotes, ‘Letter from Edgar Jamison to John C. Calhoun, stolen from the Windswept Collection?’”

“You have a point.” He sighed, more in disgust than anger. “If it was Lloyd, something else besides fear of a scandal must be driving him to go to such an extreme as a house break-in. I’ll call a cousin or two back in Louisiana and see if they know what’s going on.”

He pulled her a little closer. “This wasn’t the ending I had planned for this evening, Barrett.”

She put her hands on his shirtfront and glanced up at him from under her lashes. “I haven’t said yes yet, Davis.”

“You will.” He kissed her long and deep and when he had her--and his--heart racing and breath coming fast, he drew back and put a little devilment into his smile. “You will, Barrett.”

He kissed her again quickly before sauntering nonchalantly off to his own room with a cheery, “Sleep tight.” And thinking he needed another cold shower--badly. The damn things were becoming a habit.

The next day everybody was moving sluggishly. When he came home, Davis reported that Lieutenant Gilroy had found Lloyd in Mississippi when he called, so there was no proof of any wrongdoing on his part. The kitchen door had been fixed, the insurance people had been called, and all the other tasks connected with the break-in underway or completed.

After dinner, Barrett and Davis went back to the office. Barrett yawned mightily before saying, “I finished another box.”

“Why don’t you call it a day, and just go to bed,” Davis suggested.

“Good idea,” she answered.

“Want some company?” he asked hopefully.

“No.” It was a flat statement, and he was clearly disappointed. Then she plastered herself to him and pulled him into a scorching, demanding, tantalizing kiss he felt in every molecule of his body. His arms went around her automatically, and, although he tried, she didn’t let him take control. Instead she drew back, stepped out of his arms, turned him around, and gave him a push toward his office. “Good night, Davis,” and she sauntered out the door.

Taut and aching in every fiber, he watched her go, those hips swinging just a little more than usual, and a great grin spread over his face. Turn-about was unfair play, he guessed. For the second time in two days she had surprised him. Now what could he do in return?

Chapter Eighteen

The Journal of Mary Maude Davis Jamison

Windswept Plantation

June 22, 1846

A warm summer day

Something is wrong, but I don’t know what. The children and Edgar are all healthy and seem happy. The tutor we employ to teach the children is doing a wonderful job, even convincing the boys to stay with their studies when they would rather be outdoors. The crops are growing well, and there are rumors of good prices for cotton this year. My garden is bountiful, and the roses we imported from England are splendid, a riot of color. I have fully recovered my health, although last year at this time, I wasn’t sure I ever would. My husband loves me and we enjoy each other’s company as much as we ever did--although Edgar chafes at times over the precautions we take to avoid another child.

So, what is nagging at me, teasing me, making me restless?

Edgar has been going to a number of meetings lately, as he takes more interest in the political situation, what with Texas having been admitted to the Union as a state and the Mexican government complaining. If he’s home and not in Baton Rouge, he’s been staying up late, long after I have gone to bed, corresponding with our Congressmen and state legislators.

Maybe that’s it, I wish he were home more often. But no, loneliness is not the right feeling. It’s something else, but just beyond my reach.

Oh, well, time to go to bed myself. Whatever is bothering me will come to me or come to nothing, I’m sure.