Luke (3 page)

“Then we'll have to hope April doesn't get to feeling provocative, won't we?” The corners of Luke's mouth tilted upward as he leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs out in front of him.

“So, where do I volunteer?”

“I'm not joking,” Roan warned.

“Neither am I,” Luke said, his black gaze level as he stared across the desk.

“As long as we have an understanding. If that's settled, what about New Orleans?”

Luke tried to make the connection, but there was none as far as he could see. “New Orleans?”

Roan reached to lift a piece of cream-colored stationery from the top of a two-drawer file cabinet. With a flip of his wrist, he spun the open page across his desk.

Luke caught it by reflex action, then held Roan's serious gray gaze an instant before he looked down. The letter in his hand was from April. A photo of her in an oval frame stared up at him from the page. For a second, his whole attention centered on the secretive depths of her eyes, the intriguing shadows under her cheekbones, the sensuous yet sensitive curves of her mouth and her neat tip-tilted nose. He swallowed hard before he looked up again.

“What's this?”

“April's newsletter. She sends one out every quarter. Don't tell me you didn't know.”

“How come you get one when I don't?”

“Not me, my secretary. Glenda's a big fan.” Roan twitched a shoulder. “I glance over it when I have the time. This is the summer version, came last week. It says April will be down in New Orleans this weekend to speak at some conference.”

Luke frowned. “Is that good or bad?”

“Hard to say. If her problem is local, it's good. If not—”

“Then there's no telling how many people know about it, if not from her newsletter then from the
literature sent out about the conference. If she's really in any kind of danger, she'll be an easy target.”

“Exactly.” Roan paused, then said deliberately, “Her ex, Martin Tinsley, still lives in New Orleans.”

Luke cursed in a quiet monotone. After a moment, he asked, “What kind of security do they have at these conferences?”

“Not much, I'd imagine. She's an author, not a rock star. The people she'll be talking to are writers and would-be writers, most of them women. In the normal course of things, problems should be nil.”

“But are things normal or not?” Luke asked, speaking almost to himself as he stared down at the details of the New Orleans meeting. The thing started early Saturday morning. April would probably be driving down this evening.

“Who knows?” Roan answered in grim tones. “The only thing you have to go by is gut instinct. So, what does yours say?”

“That I'd better pack a duffel bag and gas up the Jeep.” Luke stood up, put his coffee cup on Roan's desk, and started toward the door.

“Cuz?”

He turned back, though something in Roan's voice told him he might be better off if he kept going.

Roan got up, dug a file out of the beat-up cabinet behind him, then handed it across his desk. As Luke took the folder marked Halstead, Roan held on to it. With his brows almost meeting in a frown, he asked finally, “Why?”

“Why what?” Luke had to ask, though he thought he knew.

“Why this sudden interest in April?”

“What's sudden about it? I've always been interested in April—I've known her all my life. We both have.”

“You know what I'm getting at, so don't play dumb. Are you going down to New Orleans because you care about what happens to her, or because it could be a way, at long last, to get to her?”

“That's a hell of a thing to say!” He let his anger come through loud and strong.

“It's a hell of a thing to do, if it's a fact. But you and April have been at loggerheads for years, have hardly spoken two civil words to each other since she came back here. Why am I suddenly supposed to believe you're going out of your way to look out for her from no more than the goodness of your heart?”

Luke narrowed his eyes. “You don't believe I'm serious about keeping her safe?”

“Oh, I believe that. But is it because something inside you says this world wouldn't be worth two cents without her in it? Or is she just the one who got away, the one woman in Turn-Coupe who has no trouble resisting Luke-de-la-Nuit?”

Luke gave a short, hard laugh and shook his head as he lifted his gaze to the yellowed ceiling tiles above Roan's desk. “You, of all people, ought to know what a load of manure that is—since not much goes on in Turn-Coupe you don't hear about one way or another. Anyway, if I'd slept with half
the women everybody likes to think I have, I'd be too bandy-legged to walk.”

“No doubt. But I also know that there's some fire to go with all the smoke. You've had a few more than a fair share.”

He returned his gaze to the sheriff. His voice bleak, he said, “And vice versa. It wasn't exactly one-sided.”

Roan tipped his head in brief acknowledgment. “That still doesn't answer the question.”

Luke thought his cousin might have been willing to allow that women had chased him because he'd been pursued a few times himself. The idea led to an unwelcome thought. “Just why are you so all-fired interested in my motives? It wouldn't be because you've got an eye for April?”

“She's special, and not just because she's a writer. She sees things others miss, feels what others don't. I don't want to see her get hurt.”

Roan didn't pass out many accolades, Luke knew. He wondered what was behind this tribute to April. He also wondered how long his cousin had been noticing things about her. He said shortly, “You really think I'd hurt her?”

“I don't know, that's why I'm asking.” There was no compromise in Roan's gray eyes.

Luke drew air deep into his lungs and let it out again in a long sigh as he stared at the worn marble floor underfoot. At last he looked up. “I don't know what to tell you. Watching out for her right now is just something I have to do because I'd never be able to live with myself if anything happened to her. Okay?”

Roan watched him a long moment before he gave a slow nod. Luke returned it with one of his own, then he spun around and went out the door. He strode through the marble-lined walls of the old courthouse with a scowl on his face. At the exit, he hit the swinging glass door with his hand and walked out into the heat and bright sunshine. There he stopped. He liked open air and space around him; he could just think better in natural surroundings.

Almost immediately, he knew what was bothering him. Neither he nor his cousin had really answered the question about each other's interest in April. He wondered if Roan knew that.

When he reached Chemin-a-Haut a short while later, Granny May was busy in the kitchen. She didn't live with him, but had a small place of her own down the road that she'd inherited from her parents. She'd moved back there after Luke's grandfather had died, making way, so she said, for Luke's future wife. Still, she liked to come in and check on him a couple of days a week, and usually cooked a big pot of red beans and rice or something similar for him.

She didn't like being disturbed in her kitchen, so he left her alone while he climbed the stairs to his bedroom, dug out a duffel bag from his closet, and began to stuff things into it. He'd almost finished packing when he heard a scuffling step outside in the hall. As his grandmother appeared in the doorway, he gave her an automatic smile but kept on with what he was doing.

“Going somewhere in particular?” she asked.

He told her in a few brief sentences. Walking to
his sock drawer, he pulled out a couple of pairs and threw them into his bag.

“Don't sound too smart to me,” she said in querulous displeasure. “That girl like to have killed you last time.”

He turned back to the drawer, staring at a pair of argyle socks that were the last thing he'd dream of taking with him. “It wasn't that bad.”

“Humph. Could've fooled me.” The old woman hunched her shoulders.

“You're just mad at her because she's writing about the family.” It was no hardship to move into the connecting bathroom away from his grandmother's sharp eyes while he gathered his shaving supplies.

“So, what if I am? She's got no right.”

“Not much way we can keep her from it,” he answered as he returned.

“We could sue.”

He tossed the things he carried into the bag and zipped it up before he turned to her. “I thought you were against nuisance suits.”

“This goes beyond that, way beyond.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “We ought to be able to charge her with slander or something.”

“Libel, maybe, since it would be written instead of spoken. But why does it matter so much? What's got you so stirred up?”

She stared at him a moment, her fine old eyes unfathomable. Then she looked away. “That's my business. You just take my word—you don't want her messing around in our family background any more than I do. You're the Benedict, after all. I only
married into the family—though it's been so long that I feel more a Benedict than I do a Seton like I was born.”

“Granny—”

“Anyway, you don't wash your dirty linen in public.”

“What dirty linen?”

She folded her lips, staring at him.

“If you can't supply a good reason,” he warned, “then I'm out of here and on my way to New Orleans.”

It was a war of wills as they stared at each other. She hunched a shoulder. He stood perfectly still, watching her. She turned her head.

“Fine. I guess you want me to leave then.”

“Oh, all right!” she exclaimed in waspish tones as she shifted to face him again. “It goes way back, way back, to when the four Benedict brothers first came here. There was a woman with them, you know, one they all hankered after. Some say she led the way, but others used to whisper that it was on account of her that they came at all, that otherwise she'd have been taken from them.”

“So, she was a Native American. What's so bad about that?”

“Nothing. If that's what's behind the story.”

Luke stared at her, noting the doubt in her face. Abruptly, something clicked in his mind. “You don't think it is. You think—”

“I don't know, but I don't aim to have anybody poking around trying to find out exactly how it all went.”

“That's crazy. There's no reason to believe such
a thing, especially since nobody ever bothered to check out the story.”

“They won't, either, not if I can help it. The only time it will happen is after I'm dead and gone.”

“I could pay somebody to check the records. We could find out once and for all. Wouldn't that be better than living in fear that somebody's going to stumble across it when you least expect it?”

“No, no, no,” she said, her voice rising with every repeat of the word. “Didn't I raise you, boy? Haven't I always known what was best? Didn't I show you how to go on in the swamps, what plants to pick, how to fish and trap and take your boat where nobody else can go? You mind me, now. Stay away from that girl.”

“She's not a girl any more, Granny May. She's a woman.”

“All the more reason. She knows what she wants, or will as soon as she figures it out. She'll wring everything you ever heard about the family from you, turn you inside out, and hang you up to dry. When she's through, she'll know all there is to know about you and me and the whole lot of us. Then you'll see it plastered all over the country.”

That was inarguable, since he had reason to suspect she was right. “I'm not a boy anymore, either. Our sweet April may not find it quite that easy.”

Granny May cocked her head as if listening to what he hadn't said instead of the words he'd spoken. “What are you up to now?”

“Could be,” he mocked her gently, “that she'll have more to think about than writing stories.”

“You think you can keep her from doing it?”

“I can try.”

She stared at him as if assessing him for something more than normal ability. “Maybe so, maybe so. But you'll have to be careful.”

“I will be.”

“You don't want to get caught again.”

“No. That's the last thing I want.”

“You got something else up your sleeve, don't you? There's something you want from her that's got nothing to do with me. I wonder now…”

He picked up his bag and walked to the door, so she had to step back to let him out of the room. In the hall, he said, “We have some unfinished business, April and I.”

“That's so,” she said with a slow nod. “But you be sure, this time, that it don't finish you.”

“It won't,” he said with more confidence than he felt. As he passed her, he gave her a quick hug, then moved on down the hall.

“Knock on wood,” she called after him, and reached to tap the wall in the superstitious gesture meant to ward off danger.

He didn't answer. Still, as he went quickly down the wide staircase of the old house, he rapped twice with his knuckles on the thick wooden railing.

A
pril checked into her suite at the Windsor Court Hotel in mid-afternoon. She'd tried to work after the phone call, but not much came of it. Her present state of mind, added to the distraction of the weekend conference, was too much to combat. Besides, she was anxious to reach New Orleans. She enjoyed the city, and felt so comfortable in it that she often wondered if she might have lived there in another life. Only the fact that she loved Turn-Coupe more had kept her from remaining in the city after her divorce.

The Windsor Court, with its sheltered courtyard entrance centered by a rose granite fountain, and trademark enormous bouquet of fresh pink roses in the lobby, was one of her favorite hotels. She appreciated the quiet elegance and river view of her usual corner suite, and always settled into it as if coming home. Afternoon tea in the salon off the lobby was a tradition for her. Because she'd skipped lunch, she headed in that direction at once.

She leaned back in her tapestry-covered chair, feeling herself relax under the influence of discreet service, fine linen, delicate china, and the soft strains of Mozart played by a harpist near the front win
dows. With her favorite Earl Grey tea in front of her, along with a silver server holding crisp cucumber sandwiches, warm scones with clotted cream and jam, chocolate-dipped strawberries and truffles, she began to think that the weekend might not turn out half bad.

Afterward, April placed a call to a friend whom she always visited when she came to the city. Julianne Cazenave was home and longing to have a good gossip, or so she said. She'd have the mint juleps ready on the patio by the time April reached her apartment.

The sound of a jazz band could be heard as April crossed Canal Street and entered the French Quarter. It seemed to be coming from the dark, alcohol-scented depths of a bar with its antique French doors flung open to the street. The song, a catchy rendition of a tune she associated with Satchmo Armstrong, followed her as she walked. April matched her pace to its rhythm. She felt anonymous there among the tourist crowd and the locals who were so used to being invaded by strangers that they paid no attention to one more. Few people knew where she was and what she was doing at the moment, including her radio caller with the overactive hormones. The knowledge lifted her spirits a notch higher.

There was one person who might have a good idea of her location. Luke had called just before she left and told her, in his usual high-handed way, that she should stay at home where he could keep an eye on her. Naturally, she'd refused. Living her life to suit his convenience was not high on her list of priorities. She'd informed him that security at the
Windsor Court was second to none. They were accustomed to keeping heads of state safe, so she was sure they would do the same for her. She couldn't live her life in fear. And if she was all the more determined to keep to her schedule because Luke Benedict thought she shouldn't, that was her secret.

Julianne's apartment was on Saint Louis just down from one of the Quarter's more famous restaurants. The scents of brewing coffee, baking bread, browning onions and caramelizing sugar drifted to April as she pressed the buzzer beside the door then stood waiting. With these smells came the sweet, lemony fragrance of butterfly lilies from some nearby courtyard. An appreciative smile curved her lips. If she were led blindfolded to this spot, she would still know she was in New Orleans.

The door lock clicked and she entered, stepping into the long, stone-lined corridor that stretched under the building. Once part of a porte cochere, it led toward the mellow light and tropical greenery of an interior courtyard.

“Up here,
chère!
”

The call came from overhead. April turned to search the balcony that rose on the front wall of the building above her. Catching the bright splash of color that was Julianne's usual caftan, she waved to her friend then turned to climb the stairs that led to the upper level apartment.

“It's just too hot to sit in the courtyard. I hope you don't mind,” Julianne said as she let her inside.

“Not at all.” April took the mint julep that Julianne thrust into her hand and drank deep. The heat on the streets had really been ferocious; she only
realized how hot as she felt the air-conditioned cool of the apartment.

“It's so fantastic to see you,” Julianne continued. “Come into the parlor and tell me why you're in town.”

“It's the conference, of course, as you should know. Don't you belong to the local romance writers' chapter?”

“Oh, I never go to meetings. They always want me to run for office, and I'm not organized enough to know what to do for me, much less for other people.”

April's smile was sympathetic but skeptical. “Is this the same woman who always has three writing projects going at one time? Your problem is that you have no sense of obligation to your fellow writers.”

“I was publishing books before RWA was a gleam in the eyes of the ladies in Texas who started it. Besides, I don't notice you on anybody's board of directors.”

“Touché—though there's the small matter of deadlines to be considered.”

“The whole world has deadlines,” Julianne returned. “You're just as selfish as I am. So, what have you been up to lately?”

“Are you sure you want to know?” April asked in dry warning.

Her friend laughed, a rich contralto sound laced with delight. “That bad, huh? In that case, I'm positive that I do! Details, give me details.”

April followed her hostess into a dim room furnished with an antique parlor set covered in a wildly
unlikely tropical print. The room was scattered with tables, most of which were extremely valuable except for one that looked like a miniature butler in a tailcoat. The setting was just like Julianne, she thought, half traditional, half quirkily artistic. How old her friend was, April had never thought to ask. With her long, narrow face crinkled in a constant smile, clear sea blue eyes, silver-streaked black hair in a braid down her back, and gently padded shape, she could have been any age from forty to seventy. She was warm and genuine, a woman of some experience who had learned her lessons well. That she was also one of the most revered of romance authors, with many
New York Times
bestsellers to her credit, was only incidental.

Julianne didn't rest until she had every crumb of information from April about what had happened with the radio caller. Afterward, she sat without speaking while she stared into her julep glass as if fascinated by the sight of ice melting.

“So, what do you think?” April asked finally. “Have you ever run into anything like this before?”

“Not personally, though I heard about an author who was attacked in her hotel room. It's possible she was singled out because she was attractive and traveling alone rather than because of who she was or what she wrote. No one can say that about what happened to you.”

April nodded. “I think the worst thing about it was that he called me by name. He also seemed to have a pretty good grasp of my work since he mentioned a couple of book titles when he first came on the line.”

“You think he reads your books?”

“Maybe. I suppose he could also be married to a fan.”

Julianne made a sound of agreement. “So, tell me about this Galahad of yours who came riding up to protect you. Where does he fit into the picture?”

“He doesn't,” April answered shortly. “He's just an interfering busybody.”

“I seem to have heard his name before. Isn't he the same guy—”

“Yes, he is,” April said in hasty acknowledgment as she remembered one night some years back, before she'd learned not to stay too late in the lounge at writers' conferences. She'd had too many champagne cocktails and wound up telling Julianne everything there was to know about her teenage affair with Luke Benedict.

“Sounds as if he's still interested.”

“He feels responsible, a different thing altogether.”

“And not a bad trait under the circumstances. Couldn't you let him hang around a while?”

“I don't think so.”

“Why not? I mean, if he means nothing to you, what's wrong with using his macho muscles for protective cover?”

“You don't know Luke. Give him an inch and he'll take a mile—or more likely, have his boots parked under a woman's bed in record time.”

“My kind of guy,” Julianne declared as a grin tilted her mouth. “If you're sure you don't want him, could you send him my way?”

“You don't send Luke anywhere. He's a law unto
himself, goes exactly where he pleases.” As she realized the truth of that statement, April felt a small disquiet shift through her. She banished it firmly as she took another sip of her julep.

“And there's no one else you're in love with just now?”

“Love,” April said on a laconic laugh. “I'm not certain I know what that is any more.”

Julianne reached out to lay her fingers on her arm. “Oh,
chère.
”

“Truth to tell, I'm not sure I ever did know. Do you ever feel that way?”

“Not really. I was married for thirty years to a wonderful man, so I guess you'd say I write from memory. How are you managing it?”

“Who knows? Maybe out of my fantasies of what love should be. I try not to analyze the process too much for fear it will go away. Anyhow, my current book isn't going that well. My deadline is just two months off, and I don't think I'm going to make it.”

“There's a lot of deadline angst going around. Some of us are just plain tired after years of deadlines. Some have other problems. What is it with you, I mean really? The divorce? Trouble with your ex? Or just this business with the caller?”

“All of the above,” April answered with a wry smile. “I've been thinking about the past a lot as well, since moving back to Turn-Coupe.”

“The past meaning Luke?”

“He's a large part of it,” she admitted with a sigh. “That girl should never have been in his car that night. We were all but engaged, Luke and I.
We'd been to the movies and he'd taken me home. Why did he pick up another girl? He never said, not then or later. Of course, I don't suppose he had to have a reason. It's just a man thing, like my dad and his women.”

“Not all men are womanizing heels like your father,
chère.
”

“No, some of them are controlling heels who like to manipulate—Never mind.” She shook back her hair as she looked away.

“Like your ex? You've been unlucky with the men in your life, haven't you? But that doesn't mean there aren't good ones out there. You just have to sift through them.”

“I think I've lost my taste for it. Just like I've lost all real idea of what romance is about. It's affecting my writing—and my reviews.”

“I saw the review you got in the local paper. I was livid, I can tell you, just couldn't imagine who would write such drivel about your work. I called up and asked for the name of the reviewer, and I couldn't believe it when they told me. Muriel Potts, of all people.”

April met Julianne's gaze a long moment. They both knew why Muriel might have written a less than positive review. “It was nice of you to bother,” April said, trying to smile, “but it doesn't matter. I know myself that the book wasn't as strong as some of my others.”

“It was a wonderful book! Never believe your press, April. That's always fatal whether what they're saying is good or bad, biased or unbiased.”

“I don't know, Julianne. I just feel so numb. I
think I've lost it, lost all ability to make a reader believe in anything, much less mad, passionate sexual attraction to a noble hero. How can I, when I don't believe it myself?”

“Oh, right,” Julianne said dryly. “Tell me you felt nothing for this Adonis of the swamp who came pounding on your door. Tell me he didn't bring your blood to a simmer, if not to a boil.”

April gave her a scathing look. “That's different. I was furious with him.”

“Yes, but you felt
something.
And you might feel more, given half the chance.”

“I don't think so,” she said with finality.

“Now why not? What's wrong with a nice affair with a willing man, especially one with a moniker like Luke-de-la-Nuit? Might do you a world of good.”

“And it might be a disaster!”

“How? If you fall in love with him, you'll know what love is about again. Heartbreak is an emotion you need to have felt in order to write convincingly about it. At least you won't be numb any more.”

“No, I'll be devastated.”

“Will you now?” Julianne said with speculation in her dark blue eyes.

April's lips tightened before she said, “I don't mean that way. If I have an affair and still feel nothing, it will just prove that I've lost it. Sex as the glue for an affair or a marriage doesn't last long. I found that out with Martin.”

“He was a clod with all the sensitivity of mud. Forget Martin.”

“I'd like to, but I think he wants to come back.”

“You don't intend to let him!” Incredulity strained Julianne's voice.

“Not a chance. Not if he got down on his knees and begged.”

“Good. Is he begging?”

“The same thing as. Also promising he'll be faithful forever and that we'll be good together, whatever that means.” April gave a short laugh. “Actually, I think he's running short of cash and wants to dip into my royalties again.”

“You didn't have to pay him alimony?”

“No, though he got half my pension plan. He did like being able to write checks on my bank account, though—almost as much as he likes his toys such as boats and cars. What's more, he always had the odd idea that the advances I got for the books were my payment while royalties were lagniappe, something I got for doing nothing. He convinced himself without too much trouble that he deserved that money as much as I did.”