Читать книгу Blood Ties in Chef Voleur - Mallory Kane - Страница 7
ОглавлениеJack Bush looked at his wife of one month as she lifted her arms above her head to slip on the exquisite pink dress. It slid down over her breasts, past her waist and hips, draping over her slender curves and porcelain skin, and flowed like a thick gleaming river past her ankles to puddle just slightly on the floor.
He tried to swallow but his throat was dry. He felt himself becoming aroused as her palms smoothed the satin. He stepped behind her and rested his hands on top of hers at the curve of her hips.
“Jack, I have to finish dressing.”
“I know,” he murmured as he kissed the little bump at the curve of her shoulder. He pushed the dainty strap away and slid his lips and tongue across to the curve of her neck, feeling triumphant when she took a long breath and angled her head to give him access.
“Isn’t it fashionable to be late?” he asked.
“Not when the party’s for us and it’s at my mother’s house.”
“Ouch,” he said. “Way to deflate the, um...enthusiasm.”
Cara Lynn Delancey laughed and turned to him. She slid the strap back up onto her shoulder, pushed her fingers through her hair and shook it out, then she pulled her dress up and hooked her thumbs over the elastic band of her silk bikini panties, pushed them down and kicked them off. “I’m ready,” she said.
Jack stared at her open-mouthed. “You’re not really... Really? At your mother’s house?”
Her face was still creased with laughter, but two bright red spots stood out in her cheeks, revealing her embarrassment. “Haven’t you been telling me I need to be less inhibited?”
He did his best to tamp down his desire by picturing her in baggy jeans and a stretched-out T-shirt, bent over her loom in her studio. That didn’t help. She was sexy as hell in an oversize T-shirt, too.
He shook his head. “Okay. Let’s go. But God help you if somebody steps on your dress, because those little straps will never hold up.”
She shot him a worried look, then started toward the panties. Jack grabbed her hand. “We’re late,” he said with a meaningful look.
“Right,” she said, sending a regretful glance back at the panties.
* * *
JACK COULDN’T BELIEVE his plan had worked. He was here, standing in the gigantic front hall of the Delancey family home, as an invited guest. No, he amended. Not as a guest—as family.
He’d done it. He’d married Cara Lynn Delancey, and now he was about to meet the majority of the Delancey family for the first time, all in one place. So far, he’d only met her parents, one of her brothers and a cousin since he’d eloped with Cara Lynn a month before.
Tonight, all the names in his grandfather’s letters were about to be attached to real people, and one of those people held the answers he needed. Someone in this room knew what really happened the night Con Delancey was murdered twenty-eight years ago at his fishing cabin on Lake Pontchartrain.
Jack looked around, trying to appear worldly and unimpressed, while inside he felt like a kid at Christmas. He was here, finally, surrounded by the infamous politician’s children and grandchildren. This was better than his wildest dream.
Cara Lynn appeared beside him, slipping her hand into his and squeezing. Gritting his teeth, he tried to keep his expression pleasant as he did his best to ignore the soft warmth of her fingers tightening around his in nervous anticipation.
That was the hardest part of being around Cara Lynn—maintaining the delicate balance between appearing to be the loving bridegroom, totally in love with his beautiful wife, and his true mission.
“Jack, remember I told you about my great-aunt Claire?”
Jack did remember. Claire Delancey was Con’s sister. According to Jack’s grandfather, Claire could be holding the single most important piece of information he needed—Lilibelle Guillame Delancey’s last journal. “Your aunt that lives in France? Sure.”
“Well,” she paused and Jack saw her lips tremble. “She had a stroke sometime yesterday, and during the night she died. Mama just told me.”
Claire Delancey dead? Jack’s brain whirled. How was that going to affect his plan? Had vital information about Con Delancey’s death died with his sister?
Cara Lynn lifted a shaky hand to her mouth. He looked at her. Her eyes were dry, but the glow was gone from their blue depths. “Are you okay?” he asked. “I know you loved her a lot.”
She smiled sadly. “I’m going to miss her horribly. She lived in France for my entire life, but I’ve spent summers over there since I was ten.”
“She was your grandfather’s sister?” he asked.
Cara Lynn nodded. “And my grandmother’s best friend.”
“Oh, yeah?” He remembered. That was why his grandfather was sure Claire had important information about Con’s death.
Cara Lynn sighed and Jack put his arm around her and kissed her temple. “I’m sorry,” he said. For more than one reason.
“There’s Mama. She’s waving at us. Come on. Maybe the press is here and we can get that part of the reception over with.”
Jack looked across the room at Betty Delancey, who stood with one hand on the back of her husband Robert’s wheelchair. Next to her was a thin, dour man in a business suit who held a gray metal lockbox. Jack figured he ought to have a chain and a handcuff, or, given how tightly he was holding the box, maybe he didn’t. He started to ask Cara Lynn who the guy was and what was in the box, but she pointed toward the tall front doors.
“Look over there. Do you recognize the man and woman coming this way? They’re the co-anchors of a local news show. They’re here to interview us, take pictures and do a write-up of our romantic elopement and, of course, the large reception my family is giving us tonight.”
“News show? Really?” Jack stopped cold in his tracks.
“What’s wrong?” Cara Lynn asked teasingly. “Are you camera shy?”
The words camera shy didn’t even begin to describe what Jack was feeling. News show meant cameras, and cameras meant exposure. Jack was nobody in comparison to the Delanceys, but he knew that because of who they were, he would be in the spotlight for a few hours or days until the next society story came along.
His mother was in Florida, and he’d worked and lived in Biloxi for the past nine years. With any luck, none of his friends there would pay much attention to a two minute segment of society news from the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain.
“Jack?”
“It’s okay. I just don’t like being thrust into the spotlight by surprise,” he said. “I’ll manage.” He could tell his friends that he’d finally changed his name legally. They knew that he’d always wanted to get rid of the Francophied Jacques.
It took several minutes for the co-anchors to set the stage for the interview. Meanwhile, Jack saw the dour man with the box lean in a couple of times and whisper something to Cara Lynn’s mother, triggering a shake of her head and a hand gesture that obviously meant something like just hang in there. It won’t be long now.
“What’s that box?” he finally asked Cara Lynn.
“I’m not sure, but it could be—”
A man in a baseball cap with the TV station’s letters on it waved at them. The way he was throwing out orders and waving his arms, Jack figured he was probably the director. “Could you two get over here please,” he said, motioning them toward him. He proceeded to get them positioned just right for the video and still shots, then introduced Jack and Cara Lynn to the co-anchors.
Despite the fact that they appeared to be slavering at the idea of sinking their teeth into the youngest Delancey grandchild, Cara Lynn was gracious and polite. Jack had learned that about her as soon as he’d met her. She was probably the most compassionate person he’d ever known. Her condolences were never disingenuous, her delight never false, her disappointment never exaggerated or tempered. With Cara Lynn, if she said it she meant it.
The entire filming was over within about five minutes. The only thing either of the co-anchors had asked Jack was what it felt like to be thrust into such a large and famous family. Jack had given an innocuous answer and smiled for the camera. Then he was dismissed and the spotlight was on Cara Lynn and her parents.
“Okay, people,” the man in the baseball cap shouted. “That should do it.” He turned to Cara Lynn’s mother. “We’ve already taken long shots of the house, so we’re out of here. I’ll send you proofs and you can determine how many of each you might like to have for your personal remembrances.”
All the photographers and engineers and crew headed for the doors. Cara Lynn’s mother looked around. “Are we just family and friends now?” she asked the tall, good-looking man standing on the other side of Cara Lynn.
“I think so,” the man said. He took advantage of his height and looked around the large open hall. Then he walked over to Jack. “I think you’ve probably met just about everybody else by now. I’m Lucas Delancey, Cara Lynn’s oldest brother. I’ve been outside keeping an eye on the TV crew.” He held out his hand.
Jack shook it. “I’m Jack Bush, but I’m betting you already know that.”
Lucas smiled. “Well, I am a detective,” he said. “Excuse me.” Lucas walked over to the middle of the room and called out. “Hey, everybody. My mother has a presentation to make to our lovely little Cara Lynn. Everybody want to gather around?”
“Now what?” Jack whispered to Cara Lynn.
“I don’t know. Nobody ever tells me anything. They spend all their time ‘protecting’ me.” She emphasized the word with air quotes. “All I know is my mother was determined to have a reception for us since we, and I quote, ‘deprived her of the North Shore wedding of the season.’”
“Really?”
Cara Lynn took his arm. “Of course. Don’t you know how much havoc you created in the Delancey family by sweeping me away to a hurried justice of the peace wedding and no honeymoon and worst of all, no media coverage?”
“Then I guess I apologize.”
“Don’t apologize to me. Why do you think I agreed to elope? Save the apologies for my mother.”
Jack watched as she, like everyone else in the room, turned toward Betty Delancey.
“Hello,” Betty said from the front of the room. “I want to thank all of you for coming.”
Jack tuned out most of what Betty said. Instead, he paid attention to the man with the lockbox, wondering when he was going to open the mysterious container, and of course, what was inside it. His grandfather had always talked about Lilibelle Guillame Delancey’s last journal, the one she’d written in compulsively for hours and hours during the days following Con Delancey’s death.
He heard Lilibelle’s name and turned his attention back to what Betty was saying as she began to explain why Cara Lynn had been left a special inheritance from her grandmother, Lilibelle Guillame.
“She was the youngest child and the only granddaughter,” Betty said, “since at the time we all thought her dear cousin Rosemary was dead.”
There were murmurs and whispers all around Jack. He couldn’t, by any means, remember all the people he’d met tonight. After all, he knew that in addition to the eleven grandchildren and their spouses, there were other relatives and some close friends present.
Then her mother called Cara Lynn up to the front and gave a short, sweet speech about what a joy it was to have her as a daughter, while at the same time managing to sneak in a small admonishment about her having eloped.
“Your grandmother died when you were twelve. She always said that part of the legacy of the Delanceys was that there were very few girls born to the family. She wanted to leave something very special to her granddaughters. Rosemary, of course, received the monogrammed Delancey silver service for twenty-four when she graduated from high school. And for you, Cara Lynn, she left you her journals. She wrote in them daily, starting when she was twelve years old. She also left you the contents of this box.” Betty indicated the box.
The man holding the box set it carefully on the table near him and unlocked it.
“Come Cara, see what you have and show everyone.”
Cara Lynn walked up and kissed her mother on the cheek. Then she stepped over to the metal box and lifted the lid—and gasped aloud.
The murmurs and whispers started up again as some of the crowd pushed closer, hoping to get a first glimpse of the contents. She reached inside and pulled out a beautiful, pale beige leather-bound journal. The cacophony of voices increased when she held it up.
Beside Jack, a tall thin man gasped and muttered something under his breath. Jack glanced at him, but his attention was glued to Cara Lynn, or more specifically, to the journal in her hand.
“What is it?” a voice chimed in.
“Is that one of Grandmother’s journals?” another voice called.
Cara Lynn opened the book and looked at the first page. Her face brightened with delight. “It is. I have the full set, so this one must be the last journal she kept, from the year my grandfather died.”
Jack’s heart leapt into his throat and he remembered his grandfather’s words. On the day Con died, all she did was write in that book. The police were investigating the scene and questioning us and she just sat there and scribbled. She had to be writing down what happened. If I could just get my hands on that book, I know it contains the truth.
Jack looked around him, but he garnered no information from the peoples’ reactions. Everybody seemed mesmerized by the sight of the journal.
Betty walked over and stood beside her daughter. “But that’s not all, dear, is it?”
Cara Lynn held the journal tucked under one arm and reached back into the box with her other hand. She pulled out something that was wrapped in what looked like an ancient, frayed piece of linen or cotton.
“Unwrap it, darling,” her mother said, clasping her hands together in front of her, a look of unabashed anticipation and excitement on her face.
Jack held his breath just like a lot of other people in the room. He knew what Cara Lynn was holding.
“Mom, I’ll hold it if you’ll unwrap it,” Cara Lynn said, apparently unwilling to let go of the journal. Betty carefully lifted each corner of the delicate-looking cloth and let it fall over Cara Lynn’s hand. The slow reveal allowed the diamonds and rubies and sapphires and emeralds in the tiara to sparkle and shine to maximum effect.
Cara Lynn gasped, as did the entire room. Whether by accident or design, Betty had chosen the perfect place to reveal the tiara for the first time. They were standing under a huge crystal chandelier, which caught the reflections from the gems and turned them into thousands of multicolored sparks of light that danced across the walls and floor.
Cara Lynn turned the tiara so she could look at the large diamond in its center. The whispers and murmurs grew louder and louder until within a few seconds, the sound was deafening.
Jack himself was mesmerized, but not by the sparkly tiara, nor the journal under Cara Lynn’s arm. He was caught by the open, unfettered joy on his wife’s face.
“Oh,” she said, clutching the journal more tightly and looking from the tiara out over the crowd of people, 80 percent of whom were related to her. “I...can barely speak,” she said breathlessly, her gaze sweeping across the faces until she met Jack’s. The smile that shone on her face made him want to cry. “I’ve never been so happy as I am right now.”
Jack blinked and averted his gaze. It was like walking on hot coals to look into her eyes and hear her talking about her happiness. He turned away and found himself toe-to-toe with a tall, fit man in his late forties. Jack took a better look at him. His hair was dyed black, which made him look more like a cartoon than a real person, because nobody’s hair was that black naturally. His eyes were dark brown, and right now they were fixed on Jack.
“You’re Jack, Cara Lynn’s husband,” he said firmly, as if he was worried that Jack didn’t know. “And your last name is...?” He embellished his unfinished question with a flourishing gesture.
“Bush,” Jack responded, offering a small smile to counteract his flat response. Then with a wider smile he said, “Jack Bush.”
“Bush,” the man said thoughtfully.
“And you are?” Jack asked, resisting an almost overwhelming urge to run his finger along the inside of his collar. The way the man said his name made Jack second-guess his decision to take the name Bush. These people were as much—maybe more—old New Orleans as his family. Any one of them might know enough French to make the connection. Broussard was from a French word meaning brush man or bushman. At the time, he’d thought he was being clever. Now he wished he’d chosen Smith or Johnson.
He looked back at the man and waited for him to introduce himself. Finally, after shooting his cuffs and smoothing his school tie with a hand weighted down by a large Austrian crystal-studded ring, the black-haired man lifted his nose slightly. “Paul Guillame.”
The name sent a streak of adrenaline through Jack. Paul Guillame. A cheating, lying skunk who helped Con’s wife frame me for murder, Granddad had written about him. Watch your back. Jack kept his expression neutral and waited, but Guillame did not offer his hand, so Jack didn’t, either. “You’re related to the Delanceys?” he asked innocently.
Paul straightened and looked down his nose at him. “Senator Delancey’s wife was a Guillame,” he said. “The Guillames are a very old family here. But you, Jack Bush.” The man gestured around vaguely. “I hope you realize that you have committed a serious crime against the Delanceys and that they are even now preparing your punishment.”
Jack looked at him, stunned into silence. Crime? Punishment? What was the man talking about?
Guillame leaned forward. “Are you satisfied that the crime was worth whatever punishment will be meted out? Can your love for our pretty little youngest survive the wrath of the Delanceys?”
So that was it. His crime against the Delanceys was stealing their youngest. His paralyzed vocal chords loosened. “Sometimes something is so beautiful that it must be had, at any cost or any punishment.”
Again, as he’d hoped to do when they first came in, he tried to sound worldly, but he wasn’t sure if he’d pulled it off or if he’d just sounded silly.
Paul Guillame smiled. He reminded Jack of the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland. “Be aware, young Mr. Bush, our Cara Lynn has four brothers and four cousins. That’s eight descendants of Con Delancey. So anyone who hurts her faces death times eight.” Paul raised a hand with an impeccable manicure and pointed a finger at him. “Now, Monsieur Jacques, you add your sword to the pledge, which makes it death times nine.”
All the blood rushed from Jack’s head at Guillame’s use of the French pronunciation of his name. For a split second he felt as though he might pass out. But he kept himself composed and managed not to look around to see if anyone had noticed Paul calling him Jacques. He hoped his hand was not visibly shaking as he placed it over his heart. “I so pledge, Monsieur.” He sketched a little bow. When he raised his gaze to meet Guillame’s, the man’s black eyes were on the box again, but only for a brief instant, then he turned back to Jack.
“So, tell me Jack, where are you from anyway?”
As a Southerner, Jack understood the question. When asked where are you from, a Southerner knows the asker is not interested in where you live, or even where you grew up, He wants you to lay out your family’s history as far back as you know it.
Jack had prepared for this question and his brain was already queuing up the background he’d invented for himself. “My family originally came from—”
The room went dark. Pitch dark.
Startled, Jack took a second to orient himself. Screams and yells came from all around him. Someone tall bumped against him in the dark and almost knocked him off balance. He righted himself, reaching around him for something, anything, to grab in order to break his fall. His fingers brushed a sleeve. The sleeve was pulled away immediately, but Jack noticed that the person who’d bumped into him had been tall—at least as tall as he, and wearing a suit jacket or sports coat. The material that had brushed against his fingers was a thick, heavier fabric, the kind used to make men’s coats.
Then Jack heard a sound that penetrated all the other sounds around him. It was a shriek and a cry of pain. Cara Lynn.
At that instant the lights came back on. Jack, who was standing less than six feet from where Cara Lynn had been holding up the bejeweled tiara, saw her, crumpled on the floor in her satin gown, not moving.
“Cara!” he cried, just as someone, maybe Cara’s mother, screamed. “Oh, my God, Cara Lynn!” From another part of the room someone cried out, “The tiara! It’s gone!”
People were milling around everywhere. Jack saw the Delancey men moving in concert, as if they were all part of one company or battalion. In sync, they divided up. Some headed toward Cara Lynn and her mother. Some headed for the front doors. One of them—it looked like one of the twins—pulled out his cell phone, calling the St. Tammany Parish Sheriff’s Office, no doubt.
When Jack got to Cara Lynn, two of her brothers were already there, bending over her, and a third Delancey was running toward them. He heard someone shout, “There he goes. Out the side door!” Jack leapt up onto a chair and spotted a man dressed in black, hurrying toward a pair of French doors on the side of the large hall. The man glanced backward, then threw open the doors and bolted. He was cradling something close to his chest like a football. Jack couldn’t tell what it was.
Around the doors, people were crying out and pointing, and Jack saw Delancey men pushing their way through the crowd, but the man in black obviously had a huge head start.
Jack’s muscles tensed and his tendons tightened, although intellectually, he knew that if the Delanceys—cops, military men and investigators—couldn’t catch the thief, he had no chance. But just at the instant when he was about to spring down off the chair and try to lend his help, he heard Cara Lynn’s voice.
“Jack?”
It was raspy and choked, but it was her. He turned back toward her. She had three of her big, capable Delancey protectors hovering over her, but she wasn’t paying any attention to them. She was looking straight at him. Horrified, he saw blood streaming down the side of her face and her expression was twisted in pain.
“Cara?” he whispered. Then his gaze rose to the table where the journal and the tiara had sat. All that remained was the square of old cloth. The bejeweled crown and the book were gone. Jack cared nothing—less than nothing—for the tiara. But that journal, if it really was Lilibelle Guillame’s last journal, could exonerate his grandfather from any wrongdoing, if his grandfather’s theory was true and Lilibelle was the one who’d killed Con Delancey.
Jack glanced in the direction of the French doors. Then he looked at his wife, whom he’d duped into marrying him so he could find that journal.
He took a deep breath. The journal! his brain screamed. Get the journal. But his head didn’t stand a chance against his stupid heart. Berating himself, he rushed to his bride’s side, bent down and used his thumb to wipe blood away from the small ridge just above her brow. Instantly, the three men turned on him.
“Don’t touch her,” one said.
Before Jack could react, the second one, who’d been talking on the phone, said, “We’ve got cars coming from everywhere. That guy won’t get far.”
“Right. Lucas took off after him. He’ll have him in handcuffs before the cruisers even get here,” the third one said.
Before he finished speaking, someone in the direction of the French doors shouted. “Look! He dropped the tiara! See it—”
“Nobody move!” a voice boomed. “Hey! Pipe down! Barton, get that crown! Everybody—Shut! Up!”
“Did you see anything?” one of the brothers asked Cara Lynn as another pressed a handkerchief to the cut on her forehead.
“Has anybody got any water?” the third man shouted.
To Jack, their voices sounded like a swarm of bees around his head. It occurred to him that this was what Cara Lynn had been talking about when she’d described how she’d spent her life being suffocated by her brothers. He wanted to swat them away and take care of her himself. She might be their sister, but she was his wife.
Then he noticed that one of the straps of her gown was broken. And sure enough, just as he’d predicted, without the strap, the entire left side of the dress was quickly headed south, toward a serious wardrobe malfunction. Jack shrugged out of his jacket and placed it around her shoulders. She looked up at him gratefully and pulled the lapels of the coat closed and stuck her arms into the sleeves.
Her brothers glared at him but didn’t say anything, so Jack stayed there with his arm around her.
By the time everybody was convinced that Cara Lynn was fine mentally, emotionally and physically, and no ambulance needed to be called, Lucas was back.
Everybody turned to look at him. Even Jack could read his expression like a children’s book. No luck.
“He disappeared,” Lucas said, a disgusted frown on his face.
“Oh, my God,” Paul said from behind Jack. “Did he really drop the tiara?”
Lucas leveled a grim glare at Paul. “We recovered the tiara, but he got the journal. Did any of you get a look at his face? Cara Lynn?”
Beside Jack, Cara Lynn shook her head.
Lucas pushed the fingers of one hand through his hair, then shouted at no one in particular. “How in hell did he get in and grab that stuff in the middle of a room full of cops?”
