"There’s been no trace of him since the night he vanished," he said. "No credit card purchases, no bank withdrawals, no Social Security taxes paid in or tax return filed. Mr. Rouillard wasn’t a criminal, so there was no need for him to change his name or disappear so completely. Logically, then, he’s dead."
Faith drew a deep breath. "That’s what I thought. I wanted to make certain, though, before I begin asking questions."
"You do realize that, if he was murdered, your questions could make someone very anxious." He took another sip of his tea. "The situation could be dangerous for you, my dear. Perhaps it would be better to let sleeping dogs lie."
"I’ve thought of the possibility of danger," she admitted. "But considering my mother’s involvement with him and the fact that everyone thinks they ran away together, no one would be surprised at my interest. My gall, maybe, but not my interest."
He chuckled. "It depends on the nature of the questions, I suppose. If you came right out and said you thought Mr. Rouillard had been killed, that would attract a lot of attention." He sobered, and his tone softened. "My advice is to forget about it. The murder, if there was one, is twelve years old. Time covers a lot of tracks, and you have no evidence to tell you where to begin looking. You aren’t likely to find anything, but you may put yourself in danger."
"Not even try to find out what happened?" she asked softly. "Let a murderer go unpunished?"
"Ah. You’re thinking about justice. It’s a wonderful concept, if you have the means to accomplish it. Sometimes, though, justice has to be weighed against other considerations, and reality gets in the way. Probably Mr. Rouillard was murdered. Probably your mother is involved, in knowledge if not in deed. Could you handle that? What if his death was an accident, but she was brought up on murder charges? Gray Rouillard is a powerful man; do you think he’d let his father’s death go unpunished? The worst scenario, of course, is if his death wasn’t an accident. In that case, my dear, you would definitely be in danger yourself." She sighed. "My reasons for wanting to find out what
happened to him aren’t entirely altruistic. In fact, they’re mostly selfish. I want to live here; this is home, this is where I grew up. But I won’t be accepted here as long as everyone thinks Guy ran away with my mother. The Rouillards don’t want me here; Gray is making things difficult for me. I can’t buy my groceries in Prescott, I can’t fill up my car. Unless I can prove Mama didn’t have anything to do with Guy’s disappearance, I’ll never have a friend here."
"And what if you prove she killed him?" Mr. Pleasant softly asked.
Faith bit her lip, and rolled the cold, damp glass between her hands. "That’s a chance I’ll have to take." The words were low, almost inaudible. "I know that, if she’s guilty, I won’t be able to live here. But knowing what really happened, no matter how bad, won’t be as bad as
not
knowing. Maybe I won’t find out anything, but I’m going to try."
He sighed. "I thought you’d say that. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask a few questions around town, just out of curiosity. Folks might tell me things that they wouldn’t tell you."
That was true. Now that her identity was known, most people would clam up around her rather than defy Gray. Still, Mr. Pleasant had already completed the job for which she’d hired him. "I can’t afford any further investigation," she said honestly.
He waved his hand in dismissal. "This is for my own curiosity. I’ve always loved a good mystery."
She eyed him doubtfully. "Has that ever kept you from charging your regular fees?"
"Well, no," he admitted, and laughed. "But I don’t need the money, and I’d like to know what happened to Mr. Rouillard. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to work with my heart the way it is. Probably not long, so I’m only going to spend my time on cases that interest me. As for money… well, let’s just say I don’t have much need for it now."
With his wife dead, he meant. He suddenly busied himself with flipping through his notes, and she knew he was once again fighting tears. She allowed him the dignity of pretense and asked if he would like more iced tea.
"No, thank you. It was delicious, just the thing on a hot day." He stood, smoothing the crisp seersucker into place. "I’ll let you know if I get any interesting answers. Is there a motel in town?"
She gave him the directions to the motel as she walked out on the porch with him. "Have supper with me tonight," she invited on impulse, disliking the thought of him eating alone, making do with a fast-food sandwich.
He blushed, the color extending all the way into his thinning hair. "I’d be delighted." "Would you mind if we ate at six? I prefer eating early." "So do I, Mrs. Hardy. Six o’clock, then." He was smiling as he walked jauntily to his car. Faith watched him drive away, then returned to the paperwork she had abandoned at his arrival. She looked forward to supper; she had developed a definite soft spot for Mr. Pleasant.
He arrived promptly at six, as she had known he would, and they sat down to a light meal of tender grilled pork chops, saffron rice, and fresh green beans. He kept looking around, absorbing the little details – the starched linen napkins, the fragrant centerpiece of tiny wild roses, the aromas of home-cooked food – and she knew that he had missed this since his wife had died. They lingered over dessert, a lemon sorbet with just the right amount of tartness. Talking with him was easy; he was very old-fashioned, and she found that comforting. Consideration of any sort had been in such short supply during her formative years that she doubly appreciated it now.
It was almost eight when a single hard knock rattled her front door. Faith stiffened; she didn’t have to open the door to know who was standing on her porch.
"Is something wrong?" Mr. Pleasant asked, too astute to miss her change of expression.
"I think you’re about to meet Gray Rouillard," she said, getting to her feet and crossing to the door. As usual, her heart was beating too fast and too hard at the prospect of seeing him, talking to him. In over fifteen years, that hadn’t changed; she might as well be eleven again, big-eyed with hero worship. It was twilight, the long spring days reluctant to give up
their glow. He was silhouetted against the pale opal of the sky, a tall, broad-shouldered, faceless figure. "I hope Fm not interrupting you," he said, but there was a hard undertone to his rumbling voice that told her he didn’t give a damn if he was or not.
"If you were, I wouldn’t have answered the door," she replied as she let him in. She couldn’t erase the challenge of her own tone, though she tried to moderate it for Mr. Pleasant’s sake.
Gray’s smile was nothing more than a baring of teeth as he turned to Mr. Pleasant, who had politely risen from his seat at Gray’s entrance. The room suddenly seemed too small, filled and dominated by Gray’s vital masculine presence, all six feet four of it. He was wearing a white shirt, black jeans, and low-heeled boots, and looked more like a pirate than ever. His teeth flashed as white as the tiny diamond in his ear.
"We’ve already finished dinner," Faith said smoothly, recovering her control. "Mr. Pleasant, this is Gray Rouillard, a neighbor. Gray, Francis Pleasant, from New Orleans."
Gray held out his hand, and Mr. Pleasant’s smaller hand was swallowed by his grip. "A friend or a business associate?" he asked, as if he had a right to the information.
Mr. Pleasant’s eyes twinkled, and he thoughtfully pursed his mouth as he retrieved his hand. "Why, both, I believe. And you? A friend as well as a neighbor?"
"No," Faith said.
Gray shot her a hard, quick look. "Not exactly," he said.
Mr. Pleasant’s eyes twinkled even more. "I see." He took Faith’s hand in his and lifted it to his mouth for a courtly kiss, then bestowed another one on her cheek. "I must be going, my dear; my old bones want to rest. My hours resemble an infant’s these days. It was a lovely dinner. Thank you for inviting me."
"It was my pleasure," she said, patting his hand and kissing his cheek, too.
"I’ll call," he promised as he went out the door. As she had that morning, Faith waited in the doorway until he was in his car, and waved as he reversed out of the driveway.
Fighting down her dread, she closed the door and turned to face Gray, who had silently approached until he stood only a foot behind her. His eyes were black with temper. "Who the hell is he?" he growled. "Your sugar daddy? Did you mix business with pleasure in New Orleans, or is it all business to you?"
"None of your business," she said flatly, mocking him with her repetition of the word. She glared up at him, fighting the tiny red flare of rage and not completely succeeding. Mr. Pleasant was forty years older than she, but of course, Gray’s first thought was that she was sleeping with
him.
He moved one step closer, erasing the small distance between them. "By God, it is my business, and has been for the past two days."
Hot color ran into Faith’s cheeks at the reference to what had happened between them in New Orleans. "That didn’t mean anything," she began, her voice gruff with embarrassment, but he gripped her shoulders and gave her a single
shake.
"The hell it didn’t. Maybe you need to refresh your memory." He bent his head and, too late, she put up her hands to try to hold him away. Her palms flattened against his chest as his mouth covered hers, and immediately she was engulfed in heat. His heat. Her own. Dizziness roared in her ears. She swayed against him, her lips parting to mold more precisely to the demanding pressure of his, to admit the hot probe of his tongue. All the rich blues and golds and burgundies of his scent swirled around her, inside her, possessing her. His heartbeat thudded, strong and heavy, beneath her right palm. She felt the hard, immediate swell of his erection against her belly, and her hips moved automatically, seeking.
He lifted his head and moved back, putting a few inches between them. He was breathing hard, his eyes fierce with arousal, his lips red and moist and a little swollen from that hard kiss. His fingers moved on her shoulders, massaging, caressing. "Don’t deny what happened."
"Nothing happened." She uttered the lie with a defiance that hid her desperation. He knew it was a lie, she saw the
anger in his face, but she said it anyway. She knew what he was doing. In New Orleans she had made the mistake of giving him an inch, and now he was trying to take full advantage of it and gain a mile. Perhaps he had come here tonight thinking she would be easy for him; he could take her to bed, then cajole her into leaving town. For him, he would say. So they could be together without upsetting his mother. Her blatant lie served notice that she didn’t intend to let him have his way. She wrenched away from him, sliding sideways to prevent him from pinning her against the door. "It was just a kiss – "
"Yeah, and King Kong was just a monkey. Goddammit, stand still," he said irritably, reaching out to grab her, this time holding her arms. "You make me dizzy with that damn two-step. I’m not going to throw you down and crawl on top of you – not just yet, anyway."
Her eyes flared with panic. "You can bet your sweet bottom dollar, you’re not!" she shouted, once again trying to jerk away. "Tonight, or any other time!"
"Would you stop that?" he snapped. "You’re going to bruise yourself." With a quick movement he whirled her around and folded his arms about her, crossing them under her breasts and holding her wrists manacled. Just that quickly, that easily, she was subdued and surrounded, his muscled body hard and warm against her back. Temptation rose, strong and immediate, urging her to relax her neck and let her head fall backward onto his chest, let her body soften and mold itself against his, let herself inhale the rich, musky scent of his skin and grow intoxicated on it. She shuddered as hunger surged within her, and knew that if she gave him the smallest response now, she would be lost. It wouldn’t take five minutes for him to have her flat on the bed.
"You see?" he asked, his voice softening to a velvety punas he felt her tremble. His warm breath stirred her hair. "All I have to do is touch you. It’s the same for me, Faith. I don’t like this worth a damn, but by God, I want you, and we’re going to do something about it."
She closed her eyes, still shaking with the effort of resisting him, and gave a sharp little shake of her head. "No."
"No, what?" He nuzzled his cheek against the top of her head. "No, you don’t want me, or no, we aren’t going to do something about it? Which one are you lying about now?"
"I won’t let you," she said, not letting him distract her. She opened her eyes and stared straight ahead, focusing on one of the lamps in an effort to ignore the feel of his arms around her. "I won’t let you treat me like dirt again."
He stilled, even his breath halting for a moment. Then he let it out with a quiet sigh. "It’s always between us, isn’t it?" There was no need to be more specific; the memory of that night was almost tangible. He paused. "Baby, I know about Holladay Travel, that you’ve worked for everything you have. I know you’re not like your mother."
Oh, God. He knew about her agency. She fought a lurch of panic, and instead concentrated on his last statement. "Sure you do," she said bitterly. "You think so highly of my character that you just accused me of having a sugar daddy. My God, I invited a lonely old man to have dinner with me, so of course I’m crawling into bed with him!" Infuriated, she tried once again to wrench free.