House of Strangers (Harlequin Super Romance) (10 page)

“You were right about the money,” Paul said. “This place reeks of it.”

They barely got out of the car before the front door opened. “Ann Corrigan, come in this house! I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age.”

A moment later Karen Bingham Delaney Lowrance turned the full wattage of her smile on Paul. “You, too, Mr. Bouvet. Welcome.” She extended a long, fine and beautifully manicured hand. As Paul moved to take it,
Karen blinked hard and seemed to tighten every muscle, but a moment later she relaxed once more into the gracious hostess.

Had Paul imagined that moment of unease? He couldn’t be certain.

Karen led them into a small library with comfortable leather chairs and hunting prints on the walls. “I’ve always loved this rug,” Ann said. “Makes me want to sit on the floor and stroke it.”

“That’s what the Bedouins must have done with it originally,” Karen said.

This library looked the way a real room for books should. No yards of fancy leather-bound editions here. Paul observed that the books all looked as though they had been read. Their covers were modern and bright and seemed to be shoved into the shelves in no particular order.

He waited for Karen to seat herself on the sofa across a heavily laden tea table, then for Ann to sit, and he finally took the wing chair opposite her.

“Now I know I told Ann tea, but if you’d rather have a real drink, I can certainly manage that.”

“Nothing for me, thanks,” Paul said.

“Really? Nothing at all?”

“I’m afraid I’ve overdosed on tea since I got down here.”

“Then how about a soft drink? Or some wine?”

“I’m really fine. I just wanted to meet you and bring you this.”

“Well, all right. Ann?”

“I can’t overdose on tea, thank you, Aunt Karen.”

“Well,
I’d
much rather have a drink.” Karen stood, and Paul started to rise, but she stopped him. “Stay where you are. Bar’s right over here.” When she came back she
held a glass full of ice and what looked like straight bourbon all the way to the brim. “There. It’s too early for gin and tonic. Sure you won’t have one?”

He smiled and shook his head.

“Ann?”

“Not for me, thanks.”

“Well, if you’re sure.” She went about the business of filling a crystal glass with ice and tea from the heavy crystal pitcher and handed around fancy square tea cakes which Paul also refused.

“Now. Let me see what you’ve brought.” She wiggled her fingers for the package Paul held. She reached for it and opened it.

For a few moments she said nothing, then laid it on the sofa beside her. “It
is
Trey.” Her fingers caressed the young face gently. When she looked up at Paul her eyes were swimming with tears that had begun to spill over. She ran her fingers expertly along the skin beneath her eyes and sniffed. “There. Can’t have my mascara running down my face. Where on earth did you find this?”

“It was…put away in Uncle David’s studio,” Ann answered.

“I had no idea he’d ever used Trey as a model. Was there anything else?” She turned quickly to Paul. “Not that I’m laying claim to any of it. If David had a Rembrandt hidden in that studio, it belongs to you. I’m just curious.”

“A few other sketches,” Paul said. “Some landscapes.” He ignored Ann’s raised eyebrows.

“Any of his famous caricatures? He occasionally showed me some that were too scandalous to circulate. I’d hate to have the people he drew see them. They’d be mortified.”

“Nothing like that,” Ann said, obviously picking up that Paul didn’t want Karen to know about the paintings.

“Since seeing his sketches, Mrs. Lowrance, I must admit I’m becoming really interested in your husband as an artist. Why didn’t he ever show? Ever sell anything?”

She brushed away the thought. “Van Gogh never sold anything.”

“He certainly tried.”

“Well, David didn’t.” Her voice had developed an edge. “His family would have disliked the idea of having his work hanging out there for the world to see and critique. They put up with the caricatures because people loved them and they made money for charity. He could hardly have set himself up as a portrait painter. He had enough to do running the farm and the cattle operation. Besides,” she added, “most of the time he was too drunk to pick up a brush.”

Paul was stunned at the baldness of her statement and the depth of anger and pain revealed by the words.

Ann started to respond, but Karen held up a hand. “It’s true. Everybody knows it. If Buddy hadn’t made him promise not to drive drunk, he’d probably have been killed sooner and taken a few other people with him.”

She smiled at Paul as though they’d been talking about the weather. “You’ve heard of the unhappy artist? Well, my husband must certainly have been an artist because he was definitely unhappy.” She looked down at the portrait of her son. “And he made everyone around him miserable, as well.” She looked up and laughed. “Not what you expected to hear, is it? If you want to keep any illusions about my husband’s talent, I suggest you stop poking into his life.”

“Ann says he studied in Paris.”

Karen sighed. “Yes. His father couldn’t keep him from
being drafted into the army the minute he got out of college, but Conrad had sufficient political clout to keep him out of Vietnam. He was assigned to a small post outside Paris. He refused to come home after he finished his service. He took his pay and moved to Paris to become an artist.” Karen rolled her eyes. “An
artist.
He knew he had responsibilities at home. Conrad was furious. Refused to send him a dime, but of course Maribelle sent him money every chance she got. He was her precious boy, after all.”

“If he planned to stay in France, why did he get discouraged and come home?”

Karen laughed. “Get discouraged? Not David. He’d already had a couple of portrait commissions. He wasn’t part of the Paris avant-garde movement that made paintings out of garbage and sculpture out of empty soup cans. He liked painting people who were recognizable.”

“I saw that in the sketch of Ann’s father. It was funny, but I never had any doubt who it was. Why did he come home, then?”

“When his daddy had his heart attack and we all thought he was going to die, Maribelle sent David a first-class ticket. So of course he came. Once he was here, he was trapped. He couldn’t just walk out while his father was sick. There’s only one Delaney heir per generation and he was it.”

“He didn’t try to go back?”

“Of course he did. He fought like a tiger, but he knew from the start it was a losing battle. So he gave up, married me and settled down to the job he was bred for.”

“Maybe you should have let him go,” Ann said quietly.

Karen took a deep breath. “Maybe we should have. He’d have come home on his own after a while, I’m cer
tain of it. He really wore his life here like a comfortable shoe, even if he tried to pretend he didn’t. I think when Conrad finally persuaded him to stay, David was actually grateful to have the decision taken out of his hands. Ann, you go back and forth to Europe all the time. You know how exhausting living in a foreign country and speaking a foreign language gets to be.” She shrugged. “Or maybe you don’t, but David was never any good at languages in school. Barely passed his two years of Spanish in high school.” She turned to Paul and laughed. “Maribelle couldn’t get him to eat anything except cheeseburgers and chocolate milk shakes at the café for a whole week after he came home.”

“But Conrad Delaney didn’t die until later, did he?”

“No, he didn’t. But he was never right afterward. His mind started to fail quickly. They doctors said it was from lack of oxygen during his attack. He lost his short-term memory. He could remember what happened in 1939, but not five minutes ago. Between them, Maribelle and my David ran the business. And, of course, I got pregnant with Trey almost at once. That really nailed David’s traveling foot to the floor.”

The conversation became more general. Karen expressed a desire to come look at Paul’s house when it was finished. “I never wanted to live there,” Karen said. “The house isn’t that large, and I hated being under my mother-in-law’s watchful eye.”

Eventually they said their goodbyes and drove away while Karen stood on the porch of her elegant mansion and waved.

T
HE MOMENT
Paul Bouvet’s car disappeared up the street, Karen Lowrance ran to the library and phoned her son. “Sue-sue, I need to speak to Trey.”

“Trey’s out on the terrace with the kids,” Sue-sue said. “He’s trying to get the cover off the pool. Can I give him a message?”

“Now, Sue-sue. Right now.”

“Well, all right. Just a minute.”

A moment later Trey drawled, “Hey, Mama, what’s up? How come you snapped at Sue-sue?”

“The hell with Sue-sue. Get your tail over here this minute.”

“Are you all right? You haven’t fallen or anything?”

“For heaven’s sake, Trey, I am not a decrepit old crone. Now do as I say. We’ll talk when you get there. And not a word to Sue-sue.” She hung up before he could refuse.

By the time her son skidded into the library, Karen was on her third bourbon-and-bourbon, but she was cold sober.

“Mama?” Trey said, and started to kiss her. She shoved him away.

“Sit down.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She couldn’t sit. She prowled the room with her drink in her hand. “What do you know about that Bouvet person?”

Trey shrugged. “Not a whole lot. He paid cash for the house. No need to check up on him. And he’s spending money like water fixing it up.”

“Why?”

“I guess he likes it.”

“Guesses won’t do. Who is he?”

“Some sort of pilot, from what Bernice at the café said. Had an accident and can’t fly big planes any longer, so he’s looking for a project to keep himself busy. What’s all this about?”

“Don’t ask questions. Do as I say. I mean that. I want you to find out everything you can about this Paul Bouvet.
Who he is, who his people are—his whole family history. Then I want you to bring me his iced-tea glass from the café.”

“Mama, have you gone crazy?”

“He may be dangerous.”

“Some sort of serial killer?”

“Dangerous to this
family,
Trey. I don’t give a damn about the rest of the world. Let the serial killers have them, for all I care. But nothing is going to happen to this family. Not to me, not to you and certainly not to Paul Frederick and little Maribelle.”

“How could this guy possibly be dangerous to us?”

“I said don’t ask questions. If I’m right, and God knows I pray I’m not, then we will have to do something to make certain Mr. Paul Bouvet leaves Rossiter with his tail between his legs. And soon.”

“Bernice’ll kill me if I walk out with a mason jar from the café.”

The whine in Trey’s voice infuriated his mother. “Cultivate the man. Let him ask his damn questions. Take him to lunch somewhere other than the café.”

“Mama, I’m starting to think you may have had a teensy little stroke or something.”

“My brain is functioning perfectly, thank you.” She sat up and grabbed at Trey’s hand. “It would be natural for you to want to see the progress on the restoration. Stands to reason you’d be interested in your grandmother’s house.” She set her glass down on the side table so hard it splashed. “Go through his things if you can. His toothbrush! Steal his toothbrush. And some hairs from his comb. That’ll be perfect.”

“How many of those glasses of bourbon you had this afternoon?”

“That’s none of your business. Unlike your father, I
am not an alcoholic. I can quit any time I choose. In this case, however, a little alcohol is good to clear the brain.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh, get out.”

“I can’t go through this guy’s stuff, Mama. What if I get caught?”

Karen gave an exasperated sigh. “Then hire a private detective. A good one.”

“Great. I’ll ask Marshall who he uses.”

“No!” Karen shouted, then continued more quietly, “Someone with no connections to us. Someone good who keeps his clients’ secrets.”

“How do I find him?”

She shoved him toward the door. “For God’s sake, Trey, look in the Yellow Pages.” As he started down the hall, she said, “And bring that detective’s report straight to me without opening it. You hear?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Trey walked out, shaking his head.

After Trey left in his fancy pickup truck, Karen went back into the library. Marshall probably wouldn’t be home for a couple of hours yet. Suddenly every bit of adrenaline that had kept the liquor in her system at bay drained out. She sank onto the sofa, leaned back and closed her eyes against the throb in her temples. She loved Trey dearly, but knew that her son was no genius. He’d always need supervision and guidance. She only hoped that Sue-sue would be up to the task when Karen was no longer around.

W
HEN
D
AVID
had stopped writing her from France, when he’d stopped asking about her in his calls to his mother, Karen Bingham knew he’d found someone else. She came close to saying the hell with it and marrying one of her
other suitors. There were plenty of them. Marshall Lowrance had been among them.

But there had never been anyone for her but Paul David Delaney. Not since he’d knocked her down and broken her elbow in the first grade. He’d been so sorry and so sweet. They’d grown up together, learned to ride together, hunted their first ponies together, taken their first communion together, played their first game of Doctor, Doctor together, gone to the movies and the dances and the junior and senior prom together. Attended Ole Miss together, pledged sister and brother sorority and fraternity. Lost their virginity together.

At college they broke up a time or two, dated other people, but they always made up. How could they not? They were different halves of the same soul.

Or at least Karen had always thought they were.

David asked her to wait for him the two years he’d be away with the army, and he gave her an engagement ring that same night.

Both the Delaneys and Karen’s mother wanted them to go ahead and get married when David came home on his first leave after basic training and before he went off to Europe. Unfortunately they’d agreed to wait.