At Risk (7 page)

Chapter Six

Rafe used the bathroom, then walked slowly into the bedroom. Eugenia was already in bed, way over to the far side, and he wondered if he could really lie next to her and get any sleep.

Determined to keep things professional, he eased onto the mattress beside her.
He longed to reach for her, but he contented himself with slowly sliding his arm over until the backs of their hands touched.

Immediately he wanted more.
How far could he push this? Probably all the way. But then he’d be where he’d been when he’d broken off the kiss.

Still, as he drifted off, he let a little fantasy curl through his brain.
A fantasy in which she turned to him in her sleep, and they ended up a tangle of bodies in the morning.

oOo

Sometime before sunrise Eugenia slept—then woke to sensations she hadn’t experienced in a long time.

She was lying on her side, pressed against a very hard male body.
An aroused male body, she realized.

When she heard Rafe swallow hard, she knew he’d figured out she was awake.

Through a screen of lashes, she saw that he was looking at her, his eyes bright and his skin slightly flushed. He said nothing, but one of his hands slid down her body, tracing the indentation of her waist, then cupping her hips and pulling her more tightly against himself.

She made a small sound that might have started as a protest, although she wasn’t absolutely sure.
She should move away. Too bad her body didn’t seem to be in sync with good sense.

Closing her eyes again, she lowered her head to Rafe’s shoulder, pressing her face against the soft fabric of his tee shirt, feeling his hot skin beneath.

She had started doing intimate things with Rafe Gascon when she’d been sixteen. And the only reason they’d stopped was that he’d left town. They’d never been in a bedroom together. But they’d brought an old mattress up to the loft in the garage—where they’d spent a lot of quality hours together, always alert to someone’s discovering their clandestine meeting place. That was kid stuff. Now they were all grown up, and he was in her bed, his thoughts probably running along the same lines as hers.

She saw his hand move, felt it gently cup her breast, then stroke back and forth across the hardened tip.
His touch made her blood heat.

“Lord, that’s so good, chérie,” he murmured.

“Yes.” He’d never called her that until yesterday—when it had sounded like an insult. Now it was an endearment.

One of her arms was trapped between them.
With her free hand she stroked along the curve of his hip and down his leg, wishing she felt naked skin instead of twill fabric.

He gathered her closer, his arms circling her body, his hands working their way down to her bottom.
Rolling over, she pressed him to his back and heard him groan.

From pain, she realized, because she’d jammed his head against the pillow—which wasn’t exactly a hard surface.

Her immediate thought was that someone should slap her upside the head. He’d been hurt last night outside her apartment, and here she was acting like he was perfectly all right.

She sprang away from him, then pushed herself off the bed.

“I’m sorry,” she managed.

“Why?”

“Because it’s obvious your head hurts from getting hit last night.”

“You were always logical.”

She wanted to protest that she wouldn’t have gotten tangled up with him in the first place if she’d been logical, but she bit back the comment as unhelpful.

He sat up carefully, his movements slow and deliberate.

“You and I need to talk,” she murmured.

“About what?”

“About us.”

“There is no us,” he said in a voice that told her the conversation had ended.

She wasn’t going to let that slide by. “Then what were you doing a few minutes ago—amusing yourself with me?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“This isn’t the time for a personal discussion.”

“When is?”

“I wish I knew.”

Was that progress or not?

He’d stayed here last night to protect her—after getting hurt.
And she wasn’t in such good shape herself. She didn’t even know how she was supposed to behave with him. With her lips pressed together she turned her back on him and pulled clean underwear from her dresser, then found a tee shirt and jeans. Wadding the clothing into a ball, she headed for the bathroom, where she showered and dressed in record time.

When she came back, she thought Rafe had left, and she felt a terrible sense of loss.
But what had she been thinking? That everything would magically be fine between them now that he was back in town?

She was adjusting to his absence when he walked back in the front door.

“Where were you?” she heard herself say.

“Getting the bag I keep in the car and checking outside.”

“Did you find anything?”

“Just some of my blood.”

That got her attention. She was feeling wounded because he’d rejected her. But really she should be thinking that getting coldcocked might have put him in a bad mood. He was obviously still in pain—and working hard not to show it. And the incident hadn’t done his macho image any good.

“I’ll be in better shape after I shower and change,” he said.

Was that a roundabout way of apologizing?

Before she could decide, she was left standing in the living room staring after him.

While Rafe was in the bathroom, she made a pot of chicory-laced coffee, then called her staff and told them the restaurant would be closed for a few days and she’d let them know when she could reopen again. In some cases she left messages on answering machines.

Thankful that she kept her restaurant materials well organized, she opened the computer file with the menu and recipes from the night before and e-mailed them to Detective Cumberland.

By the time Rafe emerged from the bathroom, she was standing in front of the television set, watching the news. Which showed a picture of Chez Eugenia on the screen. The voice-over gave a breathless account of the voodoo ceremony and Martin Villars’ death. Just when she thought the segment was over, the report went on to give a rehashing of the mugging incidents.

“That’s just what I need,” she muttered as she sensed Rafe standing in back of her. “I guess I don’t have to worry about Cumberland closing me,” she added.
“Nobody will be coming, anyway.”

Rafe moved up behind her and slid a comforting arm around her waist.
“They’ll come. First because they’re curious. You’ll get the same kind of tourists who attended the voodoo ceremony—looking for zombies.

She snorted.

“And you’ll get the people who have liked your food all along. And then everybody will end up talking about your fabulous cuisine and forget about last night.”

“You aren’t just saying that?”

“It’s the truth.”

“Let’s hope so.”

She sighed, going back to the previous thought. “It looks like the dumbest thing I ever did was to let Calista talk me into using the restaurant.”

“We don’t always know the consequences of our choices.”

Was there some hidden message in the words? Or should she simply stop second-guessing every exchange they had.

“I want to ask her some questions this morning,” he said, his voice hard-edged.
She flicked her gaze toward him. It sounded like he cared about helping her—not just because she’d hired Decorah Security to investigate the muggings. But there was no way to know for sure—not unless he was willing to open up about why he’d failed to keep his promise to her eight years ago.

When the phone rang, she snatched up the instrument.

“Eugenia, are you all right?”

She tightened her hand on the receiver.
It was her mother, pretending to be worried about her.

“I’m fine.”

“I just saw on TV that you were holding a voodoo ceremony at your restaurant last night, and someone died.”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know about anything like that. How long has this been going on?”

“This is the first death,” she answered.

“Don’t be smart with me, how long have you been exposing yourself to a dangerous element?”

“Nine months.”

Her mother made a clucking sound. “Why didn’t you call me last night so I wouldn’t have to find out about it from the television?”

“It was late when I got back from the police station, and I didn’t want to disturb you,” she lied.
Really, she hadn’t even thought about her mother. She’d gotten herself out of the habit because a conversation with Mom was likely to end up being unpleasant—like now. Her mother hadn’t understood why she hadn’t wanted to get a normal college degree like all her friends and then settle down as the wife of a man who would make the rules for her. The way Richard Delaney had done, as it turned out. He’d seemed like he loved her. Then he’d put obstacles in the way of her having a career. Looking back, she should have known that would happen.

“I’m disturbed now,” her mother was saying. She huffed out an exasperated breath. “You knew you were doing something very foolish by letting that voodoo woman use your premises.”

Right. And she hadn’t had the courtesy to run the idea by Mom and get a vote of no confidence. All she said was, “I’m sorry you think so.”

“You shouldn’t let that element anywhere near your place of business.”

“Right, Mom,” she answered, because she’d learned long ago that the best way to deal with her mother was to go along with what she was saying—at least while she was saying it. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Eugenia . . .”

“Yes?”

“I’m only trying to help.
You know I always have your best interests in mind.”

“Of course,” she answered remembering all the times when Mom thought her best interests and her own ideas about that were in strong conflict.

“Have the police found out what killed that poor man?”

“If they have, they haven’t shared it with me.”

When she finally hung up, she found Rafe watching her.

“Your mom?”

“Yes.”

“She always was . . .” he raised one shoulder.

“Difficult,” Eugenia finished for him. “And very sure she knows what’s best. I hate it that in this case, she was right.”

“Will you be okay while I go talk to Pete?”

“Did you forget I want to go with you?”

She saw him start to object, then must have thought better of trying to set the rules, particularly in light of the conversation he’d just heard her half of.
Still, he did say, “It’s probably going to be a more productive meeting if I go alone.”

“You may think so, but I don’t agree.
I hired Decorah Security to investigate the muggings. I don’t want to be shut out of information.”

He waited a beat, obviously weighing alternatives.
“Okay.”

“Thanks,” she answered, relieved that they weren’t going to have an argument, because she wasn’t up for any more drama this morning.

As they finished their preparations, he asked, “Something I’m curious about. How did you pick Decorah Security?”

She shrugged.
“I looked online and I saw some of the cases the agency had handled. I guess I liked the way you all came across.”

He answered with a nod.

“Did the owner—Frank Decorah—know about your . . . I don’t know what to call it. “Your special ability when he hired you?”

“Yes.”

“And he liked that?”

“Yes.
He’s got other agents who have something extra.”

“Like what?”

“Probably we shouldn’t talk about the other guys.”

“Right.”

oOo

By six forty-five, they were out of the apartment.
As she put a notice on the front door of the restaurant saying she’d be open again soon, she tried to ignore the curious stares of some of the people who’d seen the police commotion and the news reports. When she spotted the tall, willowy figure of Mrs. Houston from the beauty shop, pushing her way toward the front of the crowd, she sucked in a breath. The woman’s blond hair was beautifully arranged, but her black dress did nothing to enliven her dour face.

Rafe followed her gaze. “That’s the woman who doesn’t like it that you moved in?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Houston stepped into Eugenia’s path, blocking her escape route as she said, “I warned you that voodoo stuff was bad news.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” she answered pleasantly, thinking that Mrs. Houston and her mom were on the same wavelength. Had they cooked up something together to turn people away from the restaurant? And it had gotten out of hand?

Even as the thought formed, she dismissed it.