A Crying Shame (59 page)

There was an unexpected twinkle in Linda's eyes.
Did you enjoy it?”

The worst I ever had was wonderful.”

You're awful! Jon? What businessman and his family did you rescue in South America last year? I don't recall reading about that.”

Badon smiled.
None. I haven't been in South America in years.”

That phone number you gave Jeansonne?”

He laughed.
I hope he dials it. That's a whorehouse in Washington.”

 

Jon had prepared dinner for the two of them, and Linda was not surprised to find the mercenary was an excellent chef, very careful with his culinary preparations. They had talked long over the food and good wine, then enjoyed a glass of brandy in the den. She had gone to bed shortly after a light rain gently drummed on the roof. It did not last long, soon fading as it trekked eastward.

Yes, she thought, as she lay in her bed—guest bed, actually—it had been a rather enjoyable past few hours. Then she experienced a hard wave of guilt as she realized it had been just over twenty-four hours since her brother had died so hideously.

She shook away those feelings of blame.

I never really knew or understood my brother, she thought. We did try, but we just could not get along. And I still don't know why he was so adamant in his desire for me to come up here.

She allowed her feelings once more to flood her, let them wash over her banks of control. She waited for the hot tide of tears, and was not surprised when her eyes remained dry. She really did not have to force her smile in the darkness. Too much of Mother in me, she thought. Too much Fortier.

But damn it! She pounded her pillow, suddenly angry. I'm not snooty; I'm not stuck-up; I'm not haughty.... I'm not any of those things. But I am just like Mother: I don't like to meet strangers; I'm uncomfortable around them. I know what I like, and what I don't like, and I will not pretend to enjoy something I detest. I don't care for frivolous chitchat; I hate hen parties; and I would rather have the company of a man than a woman.

Suddenly, without any warning, she was afraid. The bed was large, and she felt very much alone. She looked at the clock on the bedstand. 11:30. 11:31. The digital dial had silently shifted.

And she sensed that all was most certainly not well.

Something moved against the house with a light brushing sound; a sound that was somehow familiar to her. She recalled it; after the storm, when that dreadful silence had surrounded the estate, that's when she had heard that brushing sound. Not a limb. Not the wind.

Them.

Her hands were trembling and a light sheen of sweat broke out on her body.
Oh, God!” she breathed.

Relax,” Jon's voice whispered from the door to their adjoining bedrooms.
I'm here. Be calm. Let them prowl. Let them test us. Let them get careless, bold. I will not be careless.”

Her breathing evened with his presence. He was so calm and sure of himself.
Really going to get just a few of them and then leave, Jon?” she whispered.

His teeth flashed in the gloom of the bedroom, a silent laugh.
I lied, Miss Breaux. I enjoy combat. The high of it. I want them all.”