Awash (The Forgotten Coast Florida Suspense Series Book 6) (24 page)

“Oh, Maggie,” he said, smiling. “It hurts me when you question my integrity.”

“I believe you have integrity,” she said, laughing. “I just don’t believe you listen to disco.”

“Oh,
cher
,” he said. “Cajuns love three things. We love to eat, we love to laugh, and we love to dance.”

“I know you love to dance,” she said. “I danced with you at the Cajun festival.”

“We danced indeed,” he said. “But there was a time, way back when, that I stayed at the clubs all night, so that I could dance to disco. Terrible music, really, but so much fun to dance to.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said teasingly.

He grinned at her. “Cajuns also love a dare.”

He got up and walked over to a mahogany bookcase. There was an expensive and complicated-looking stereo system on the top shelf, and he opened a small case next to it and started fingering through a row of CDs.

“Let’s see here,” he said to himself. “Ah. This will do nicely.”

He opened the case, slid the CD into the player, then turned and smiled as he walked back toward her. “I’ll expect an apology.”

He held out a hand as the music began. Maggie recognized the melody, but couldn’t place the song. “What is that?” she asked.

“‘I Love the Nightlife’ by Alicia Bridges,’” he said. He snapped his fingers. “Let’s go.”

Maggie smiled and stood up. “I don’t know anything about disco,” she said.

“Can you samba?” he asked, as he led her to the middle of the room.

“Yes.”

“Then we’re good,” he said.

Maggie had been surprised, those months ago, to find that Boudreaux was a fine dancer, but she was surprised yet again. He was too much of a gentleman to out-dance her so badly that she couldn’t keep up, but he was clearly in his element.

They danced, they twirled, and they laughed, and Maggie found herself forgetting about anything that wasn’t in that room. They ended up dancing to three songs, none of which Maggie knew, and finally collapsed back onto the loveseat. Once they’d stopped laughing and caught their breath, he looked over at her.

“My apology,” he said.

“I apologize, Mr. Boudreaux,” she said formally.

“And we will never speak of this outside this room,” he said. “It’ll weaken my reputation.”

She smiled at him, then dropped her head onto the back of the loveseat and let out a huge breath. “Disco is rough,” she said.

“What kind of music do you listen to?” he asked her.

“Gosh. A lot of different stuff,” she said. “It depends on my mood. I like The Civil Wars a lot.”

“I listen to a lot of different music, but I’ve never heard of The Civil Wars,” he said.

“They’re beautiful,” she said, then arched her back so she could get her phone out of her pocket. Boudreaux watched her curiously as she flicked through her playlists.

“What’s your favorite song?” he asked her.

“Uh….that’s hard,” she said. “But ‘Poison & Wine’ is right up there.”

“Play it for me,” he said.

She looked at him. “If I do, will you slow dance with me?”

“A gentleman would never say no,” he answered quietly.

Maggie smiled, tried to ignore a sudden, small but noticeable creeping of regret seeping past her buzz. “Okay.”

She clicked on the song, then turned the volume all the way up as Boudreaux stood and held out his hand.

He walked her back to the middle of the room as the music began, then drew her to him, close to himself, but respectfully so. She put her free hand around his shoulder, let the phone rest against his back as they began to dance.

They were quiet for a moment as the music played, sweet and haunting. Maggie felt his warmth, smelled his quietly elegant cologne, and realized that she felt the sadness creeping back, but also comfort. She wanted the physical contact. She was a naturally affectionate person, prone to hugging and holding people she cared about. She realized, not really surprised, that she cared deeply for this man. She had known it for some time, known it because of her desire to spend time with him, known it because of her reluctance to stay away, even for Wyatt. But she hadn’t necessarily recognized that it was genuine caring, more so than any fascination.

She swallowed, as she felt her pleasant numbness slip away.

“This is lovely,” Boudreaux said, very close to her ear. “The song.”

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“Sad, but haunting,” he said after a moment.

“Yes,” she said again.

His hand pressed gently against the small of her back, and she rested her good cheek against his shoulder. She felt their evening slipping away, and she thought about leaving without doing what had brought her here. She just wanted this. Safety, comfort, familiarity.

She blinked a few times as her eyes warmed and moistened, then closed them altogether and let herself rest against him. She listened to his quiet, steady breathing more than she did the song, and was almost surprised when it ended.

“Thank you,” he said, stepping back a bit as the room went quiet.

“Thank you,” she said, and had to look away, out through the French doors.

“Do you mind if we step outside?” he asked her. “I’m ready for a cigarette.”

She followed him outside, momentarily distracted from herself as she watched him take a pack of cigarettes from a small drawer in a side table.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” she said.

“I don’t,” he answered. “I quit almost twenty years ago. But every night, I have just one. Will it bother you?”

“No.”

He leaned back against the porch rail, bent his head as he lit the cigarette and gently blew out the first plume. Maggie wondered at the control it took for a smoker to smoke just one cigarette a day, but she wasn’t all that taken aback that Boudreaux could manage it. He was ever in control.

“This was the only way I could quit,” he said. “Every night, once everyone else is in bed, I come out here and have one cigarette. It’s when I’m at my most relaxed.”

“You usually seem pretty relaxed,” Maggie said, leaning beside him.

“I generally am, when I’m with you.” He smiled. “The calming influence is mutual.”

Maggie smiled. She wanted to go back to ten minutes ago, half an hour. “You weren’t very calm when I was pointing a shotgun at you.”

He laughed softly. “You didn’t feel very safe with me then, either.”

She looked into those eyes, and wished she could let herself leave. “A lot of things changed during that hurricane,” she said.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

He held her gaze, and she thought about shutting up. She thought about running. His hand was just a few inches from hers on the porch rail. They were standing almost close enough to dance, and she wished they could.

“You know, Wyatt worries about me, being with you,” she said slowly.

“I know,” he said. “Of course he does, but he doesn’t need to.” He took another draw on his cigarette, blew it away from her.

“I think Daddy worries that you’re my latest injured turtle or lost cat.”

He watched her as he took another drag. “I don’t understand what that means,” he said, then exhaled.

“It’s a nurturing, rescuing thing,” she said, shaking her head.

“Do you want to rescue me, Maggie?” he asked softly.

“Yes. Of course,” she said. “I have. And you’ve rescued me.”

He nodded. “Yes.”

Maggie swallowed. “My mother just worries that I’m falling in love with you,” she said, and instantly wanted to suck the words back in, but this was what she’d come here for. She watched something flicker in his eyes for a moment, just for an instant. Then he looked away and took a long drag of his cigarette. After a moment, he exhaled, then looked back at her.

“No, she doesn’t,” he said finally, sounding only slightly defensive.

“Why shouldn’t she, Mr. Boudreaux?” Maggie asked. “You’re extremely handsome and charismatic. You’ve done things…on my behalf. And you almost died saving my life. That’s quite a heady combination.”

He took one last, quick draw from his cigarette, then walked over to the side table, ground it out in the glass ashtray there. Maggie held her breath. She expected him to put distance between them, to sit down in the chair there, but he surprised her by turning around and walking back.

Boudreaux took a deep breath and walked back to the porch rail. He was unaccustomed to needing a moment to think, but this conversation was taking an unexpected turn. He’d like nothing more than to put her mind at ease about her family’s concerns, but he wasn’t prepared, at that moment, to do that honestly. Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of a dishonest way to do it, either.

He leaned his hand back against the rail and looked at Maggie, waited.

“Haven’t you ever considered it, Mr., Boudreaux?” she asked quietly.

“Considered what, Maggie? That your parents would think you were having an affair with me?”

“No,” she said, and he thought she looked almost scared. “That I would want to.”

Boudreaux stopped breathing for a moment, and he felt a chill move through his gut, like someone had opened up the scar that went across his midsection, and poured a glass of ice water into it.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look surprised, Mr. Boudreaux,” she said softly. “When you first started this…relationship, did you really never think that might happen?”

“You’re in love with Wyatt,” he said after a moment, unable to think of something less impotent off the top of his head. No, he had not at any time considered that possibility.

“I wouldn’t be the first woman to love one man and fall for another,” she said. “I’m sure I wouldn’t be the first one to fall for you.”

Boudreaux’s eyes narrowed just a bit, involuntarily. He stared at her, seeking out pretense or deceit, but all he saw was vulnerability, and maybe a little bit of fear.

“Maggie…” he started, then didn’t know what he wanted to say.

“Would that be unwelcome, Mr. Boudreaux?” she asked, and he saw her lower lip tremble just slightly.

He swallowed. “It would be impossible,” he said.

“Are you gay?” she asked him, and he heard hope in her voice.

“No,” he answered quietly.

Her eyes instantly teared up, and she looked out at the dark yard. “The alcohol has worn off,” she said quietly. “Enough for me to feel embarrassed.”

“Maggie,” he said, and she looked back at him. A tear streaked slowly down her bruised cheek, and he wondered how God could be so cruelly ironic, that He would put Boudreaux in the position of having to reassure his daughter that he didn’t find her unattractive.

Then he thought that this was probably exactly the situation that his lies had earned him, exactly the penance he should face for having inserted himself into her life as he had.

“Maggie,” he said softly. He reached out and touched a thumb to her cheek, gently wiped away the tear that slid alongside her nose. “Let me make something very clear. If we weren’t who we are, if circumstances were different, I have no doubt that you would have been the one great love of my life.”

Her eyes pooled again, and a tear slid down the other cheek. He dropped his hand, let it go.

“Which circumstances are those, Mr. Boudreaux?” she asked.

He let out a slow breath to keep himself from telling the truth. He had long since decided that that truth shouldn’t come from him.

“All of them,” he said finally.

She stared back at him for a moment, then nodded. “I need to go.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” he said, though he couldn’t imagine where their night could go from here.

“I need to,” she said, then shoved away from the railing.

“I’ll walk you back to Wyatt’s,” he said, straightening up.

“No. It’s okay,” she said. “I’d really prefer you didn’t.”

They looked at each other a moment, and Boudreaux stopped himself from telling her to sit down and listen.

“Goodnight, Mr. Boudreaux,” she said quietly.

“Goodnight, Maggie,” he answered, and watched her walk down the steps, along the path, and around the corner of the house.

Maggie’s boots crunched through the driveway and onto the sidewalk. It was only once she’d reached the concrete that Maggie allowed herself to breathe again.

She wished she had never come here. She wished she hadn’t needed to know what she didn’t want to know. She had known it was a risk. She had known that there were several bad ways that it could go tonight. She had known that she was going to lose someone she loved tonight, and it had been her friend and comforter, Bennett Boudreaux.