Get in the damn car and go back to town. Whoever is crying has nothing to do with you. This is none of your business
.
Instead of following his own good judgment, he walked back up the steps and around to the side veranda, searching for the source of the pitiful crying. Huddled against one of the one-story columns that supported the veranda, R. J. saw the shadow of a woman. Her black hair shimmered in the moonlight, which outlined her slender curves. He knew he was asking for trouble if he spoke to her, but damn if he could just walk away and leave her.
“Hey, there. Are you okay?”
She jumped and gasped simultaneously, jerking her hand to her mouth. “Who are you?”
“R. J. Sutton,” he replied. “I work at the Sumarville Inn. Miss Eartha asked me to drive Mr. Clifton home.”
“Is Uncle Parry all right?”
Uncle Parry? That meant this woman was Clifton’s niece, sister to Max Devereaux no doubt. “He had a little too much to drink, but he’s all right.”
When she took a tentative step in his direction, he saw that she was young, just a teenager. But she was beautiful. Breathtakingly beautiful. “I heard you crying,” he said.
“My father died tonight.”
“Mr. Royale. Yeah, I heard. I’m sorry.”
“Did you know my daddy?”
“Never had the pleasure.”
“He was a very special man.”
“I’m sure he was.”
When she moved closer to him, only a couple of feet separating them, he caught a whiff of her perfume. Something subtle and probably very expensive. One good look at her told him that she was not only too young for him, but way out of his league. Miss Royale lived in this big fancy house and belonged to whatever upper-crust society that existed in Mississippi.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked, all the while his common sense warning him to back away, to leave this damsel in distress to be taken care of by a real knight in shining armor.
“That’s very kind of you, Mr.—?”
“R. J. Sutton.”
“Oh, yes, you told me already. Well, hi there, R. J.” She offered him a fragile smile. “I’m Mallory. Mallory Royale.”
Heaven help him! He wanted to put his arms around this sweet thing and comfort her.
Big mistake
.
She looked up at him with a pair of dark blue eyes, so rich and deep a blue that they appeared almost black. Totally disregarding the warning bells going off inside his head, he reached out and wiped a tear from her cheek.
“Mallory!” A rough baritone voice called from behind them.
Every muscle in R. J.’s body tensed. Damn! Max Devereaux had just seen him touch his baby sister. R. J. swallowed hard. The last thing he wanted to do was to be forced to confront the big man himself.
“I’m here, Max,” she replied, “talking to Mr. Sutton.”
“You shouldn’t be out here alone. Come back inside.”
R. J. sensed rather than saw Max. Actually, he kept his back to the man, just the least bit uncertain what would happen if he turned to face him.
“I had to get out of there for a while,” she told her brother. “I can’t bear to look at Mama, to see her in such pain.”
R. J. felt Max’s powerful presence as he moved past him, then saw his long lean shadow hovering over Mallory. “It was nice meeting you, Miss Royale. Again, I’m sure sorry about your daddy.” R. J. didn’t make eye contact with Max as he backed away.
“Mr. Sutton?” Max called.
Damn! Another couple of minutes and he’d have been in the car. He forced himself to turn and face the new master of Belle Rose. “Yes, sir?”
“Wait up a minute.” Max turned to Mallory.
“Go inside and force yourself, if you have to, to stay at Mother’s side. She needs both of us now.”
Groaning softly, Mallory nodded, then headed toward the back of the house. Max strolled leisurely toward R. J., his movements a slow, steady stalking.
“I don’t want to see you anywhere near my sister again,” Max said. “Is that clear?”
“Perfectly clear.”
R. J. didn’t wait for Max to say more. He wasn’t a fool. He knew a warning when he heard one.
Mallory Royale might be the prettiest thing he’d ever seen and she might bring out the male animal in him, but no woman was worth getting the hell beat out of him. And he was one-hundred-percent sure that Max Devereaux didn’t make idle threats.
“I want to telephone Jolie.” Clarice nervously twisted the lace handkerchief she held in her hand.
“Max has already called her,” Yvonne said.
“But she didn’t agree to come home and she must. She simply must.”
“If you haven’t heard from her by tomorrow, we’ll phone her.” Yvonne put her arm around Clarice’s small shoulders in a comforting gesture. “Calm down and don’t fret. You can’t make that girl come home if she doesn’t want to.”
Yvonne worried continuously about Clarice’s mental health. Her dear friend had been high-strung and emotional as a girl—a trait of all the Desmond females—then overly sentimental and a bit melancholy after her young fiancé’s death in Vietnam years ago. But ever since discovering the bodies here at Belle Rose twenty years ago, Clarice had been slightly unbalanced. Everyone pitied the poor woman, believing her to be crazy. But Clarice wasn’t crazy. She had simply dealt with a horrific tragedy in her own way—by withdrawing from reality.
“Clarice, honey.” Nowell Landers took Clarice’s small hands into his large ones. “Yvonne is right. You’re getting yourself all worked up. I can’t bear to see you this way.”
Clarice pulled away from Yvonne and went directly into Nowell’s arms. That man had woven a spell over Clarice these past six months, and Yvonne wasn’t sure she liked the power he held over her. He’d shown up in town on a Harley, rented a room at the Sumarville Inn, and came calling on Clarice. The man claimed to have known Jonathan Lenz, Clarice’s long-dead fiancé.
“We were buddies in Nam,” Nowell had told them. “I was with Jon when he died.”
That was all he’d needed to say to entice Clarice, to have her open her heart to him. Yvonne wasn’t as opposed to Nowell’s devotion to Clarice as Max was, but like Max, she didn’t quite trust Nowell. But the man seemed to make Clarice happy; happier than she’d been since her fiancé died thirty-six years ago. But what did a rugged, rough-around-the-edges, former military man see in a frail, mentally unstable, albeit lovely, sixty-year-old woman? Clarice had a little money of her own, but surely not enough that a man would marry her for it.
“Why don’t you let me take you upstairs and put you to bed?” Yvonne suggested.
“But I’m needed down here.” Clarice lifted her head from Nowell’s shoulder and scanned the room, her gaze traveling from a weeping Georgette to a forlorn Mallory to a quiet, withdrawn Max.
“Everyone will be going to bed soon,” Yvonne said. “There’s nothing more that can be done tonight. Besides, Max will take care of everything.”
“Yes, of course he will. Max is such a good man.” Clarice patted Nowell’s cheek. “I do wish you and Max liked each other.”
“Don’t worry about Max and me,” Nowell said. “He’ll eventually come around, once he realizes I’d never do anything to hurt you.”
“Mr. Landers, I really think I should get Clarice to bed.” Yvonne looked at him pleadingly.
“Certainly. You go on with Yvonne.” Nowell turned Clarice around and placed her hand in Yvonne’s. “I’ll come by tomorrow morning. But if you were to need me, have Yvonne call the inn any time of the day or night.”
“You’re so dear and sweet, so much like…” Clarice’s thoughts seemed to trail off into nothingness, as if she’d suddenly forgotten what she intended to say.
Nowell kissed her cheek, then turned and walked out of the front parlor and into the foyer. Clarice watched him leave, her gaze soft with tenderness. If that man broke Clarice’s heart, Max would have to stand in line to beat Nowell Landers to an unidentifiable pulp. Yvonne wouldn’t tolerate anyone hurting Clarice.
No one, least of all her own son, understood her devotion to Clarice Desmond. But then, no one knew the secrets they shared. Secrets that bound them together forever.
Chapter 3
While balancing the breakfast tray with one hand, Max eased open the door to his mother’s bedroom. Yvonne had fixed only toast and coffee. Georgette was a picky eater. He supposed that was why at fifty-six, she maintained her youthful figure. The early-morning sunshine filtered through the sheer panels covering the windows that faced east. After entering the room, he set the tray on the seat of one of the two Louis XV-style chairs flanking the fireplace. The room had been redecorated three years ago by a Memphis interior designer, a project his mother had greatly enjoyed.
“Good morning,” Georgette said, as she lifted herself into a sitting position in the middle of the massive iron bed, which was draped in red-and-gold-print toile and dressed in antique Desmond linens.
“Did you get any sleep?” Max asked.
Georgette pushed the long strands of her black hair away from her face. A face that had aged well and still retained the great beauty on which she prided herself. And hair that a skillful beautician colored to subtle perfection. “On and off. Did you?”
“A couple of hours. Maybe.”
She glanced at the tray resting in the velvet-upholstered chair. “Did you bring my coffee?”
“Yes.” He lifted the tray and brought it to the bed. “And some toast, too. You should try to eat something.”
He placed the tray on her lap, then removed the decoratively embroidered white cloth covering the meal. Four slices of lightly buttered cinnamon toast on a china plate. He lifted the small silver coffeepot and poured the hot black liquid into a china cup. The china and silver had been in the Desmond family for six generations.
“Do you mind if we talk while you eat?” he asked. “We have a great many decisions to make.”
Georgette brought the cup to her lips and sipped the gourmet coffee that she had sent in from New Orleans every month. “I suppose there are things that can’t wait. But I do so dread having to face the reality of Louis’s death.”
“Do you want to go with me to Trendall’s this morning?”
Shaking her head, Georgette responded quite adamantly. “Mercy, no! I couldn’t bear it. Please, darling, you handle all the details.”
He had assumed this would be her reply. He loved his mother dearly but knew her shortcomings better than anyone. She was not an emotionally strong woman and depended on others to handle life’s mundane chores. She had relied on her husbands, first Philip and then Louis, to make her decisions and take care of her. Now that Louis was gone, Max understood that it was his place to assume those responsibilities.
“Considering all the people who have to be contacted, I think it best to have visitation tomorrow night and the funeral Sunday afternoon,” Max told her.
“Yes, of course, dear,” Georgette replied as she tore a half slice of toast in two. “Whatever you think best.” She nibbled on the toast, then suddenly looked directly at Max. “Will you call
her
again?”
Max didn’t have to ask his mother who
her
was. “I think Aunt Clarice is going to call her today. I see no reason I should contact her again.”
“Do you think she will come for the funeral?”
“I don’t know.”
“She broke his heart. Such a spiteful, unforgiving girl.”
“She’s not a girl any longer, Mother. She’s thirty-four.” Max would never defend Jolie to his mother or to anyone else, but he thought he understood Louis’s elder daughter. She hated Georgette the way he had once hated Louis. But where he had lived in Louis’s home and learned on a firsthand basis what sort of man his stepfather was, Jolie had never given his mother a chance. Louis had begged her numerous times to return to Belle Rose for a visit, but she had cruelly refused time and again.
“This house is hers, you know.” Georgette’s ring-adorned hand trembled ever so slightly. “I’m sure he bequeathed Belle Rose to her. She’ll probably kick us all out the minute she learns that she can.”
“What makes you think Louis left the house to Jolie?” Max pulled up one of the Louis XV-style chairs next to the bed and sat.
“He told me, years ago, that Belle Rose belonged to Jolie because it had been her mother’s home, because it had been in the Desmond family since the day the land was purchased and the house was built.”
“Louis could have changed his mind.” Max didn’t know the details of Louis’s will, which Louis had kept private, but he couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe that Louis had left Belle Rose to Jolie. Surely he had at least divided it equally between his two daughters.
“You mustn’t let her take everything away from us.” Georgette reached out for Max. “She hates me, Hates all of us. She’d like nothing better than to see us left penniless.”
Max rose, sat on the bed and took his mother’s hands. “Louis would never leave you penniless. You were the love of his life. I’m sure he left you well provided for. You and Mallory.”
“And you, too, dear. You became a son to Louis.”
He supposed she was right. In many ways he had become the son Louis never had. With each passing year, the two had grown closer. But there was no blood tie between them; he was not Louis’s biological child, as were Jolie and Mallory.
Max didn’t bother pointing out to his mother that even if Louis had left them penniless—something he never would have done—Max was now a wealthy man in his own right, perfectly capable of supporting Georgette and Mallory in the lifestyle to which they were both accustomed. Had she forgotten that he had inherited Philip Devereaux’s shares in companies in both Mississippi and Louisiana and by shrewd business dealings had turned those practically worthless shares into a sizable fortune? Probably not. Georgette never bothered her pretty little head with business. Besides, she’d made it clear that she preferred not to dwell on the past, and that included her first husband, the man who had killed himself and left her a widow. Poor Philip. Had he embezzled from the businesses he and Louis had co-owned in Desmond County in order to pay for Georgette’s elaborate spending? If so, he’d been a fool. No woman was worth such a risk.
Max kissed his mother’s cheek, squeezed her hands, then released her. “Stop worrying. I’ll handle all the arrangements for the funeral.” He rose to his feet. “And if Jolie returns to Sumarville and tries to cause trouble, I’ll handle her, too.”
Georgette sighed deeply. “You must speak to Garland today.”
“I’ll phone him and set up a time for a formal reading of the will after the funeral.”
Tears welled up in Georgette’s eyes. “Oh, Lord, if anyone could hear us talking this way, they’d think all that mattered to us was Louis’s money. But that’s not true. You know that’s not true. I loved Louis more than anyone…but—”
“Everything is going to be all right,” Max assured her. “Finish your breakfast. I’ll send Mallory up when I leave.”
“Yes, dear, you do that. I really don’t want to be alone. Not today.”
Just as Max entered the hallway, he saw Aunt Clarice emerging from her bedroom. As always she looked neat as a pin, with her gray-blond hair arranged in fluffy curls atop her head and small gold-framed glasses shielding her hazel eyes. Her reed-thin body displayed the white linen slacks and billowy white silk blouse to perfection.
“Max. I’m so glad I caught you before you left.”
He took a deep breath. He knew before she spoke what she would say. “Good morning, Aunt Clarice.”
“How’s Georgette this morning?”
“Coping,” Max replied.
“I’ll go in and sit with her for a while, later.”
“I’m sure she’d like that.”
“Max?”
“Yes?”
Clarice licked her bottom lip then bit down on it nervously. “If Jolie refuses to come home for the funeral, I want you to postpone it until we can persuade her. If necessary, you should go to Atlanta and bring her back here yourself.”
“What?” He shook his head. “You can’t mean you expect me to drag her back to Belle Rose kicking and screaming.”
“No, of course not, but we have to do something. If she doesn’t come to Louis’s funeral, she’ll regret it for the rest of her life.”
Max gently grasped Clarice’s shoulders. She lifted her face and smiled at him. “Call her and tell her that you need her,” Max said. “If she’ll come home for anyone, she’ll do it for you. But just remember, that if she comes home, there’ll be trouble.”
“You’re quite good at handling trouble,” Clarice said. “You’re a very strong, very commanding man, Max. I think you could handle just about anything, including Jolie.”
Max groaned. “I’ve got to run.”
“Yes, yes. Go on, dear boy.”
Max released Clarice and headed toward the spiral staircase, then paused momentarily. “When you speak to Jolie, tell her that there will be a formal reading of Louis’s will after the funeral.”
“Oh. Yes. I’ll tell her. But I don’t think she’ll be interested in any money Louis might have left her. You know she’s quite a wealthy young woman.”
“Tell her anyway.”
Clarice had kept in touch with her niece during the past twenty years and had visited her often, especially after she moved to Atlanta. He knew only what Clarice had told them—that Jolie was a big-time fashion designer. Would it matter that Jolie didn’t need Louis’s money? If as Georgette suspected, he’d left Belle Rose to his elder daughter, was there even the slightest chance that she wouldn’t throw everyone out, everyone except Aunt Clarice? Max didn’t really know the woman Jolie had become, but if her thirst for revenge was as strong as her hatred, then they all had a great deal to worry about.
Jolie had been avoiding Aunt Clarice’s calls the entire morning. Four calls in four hours. Damn, the woman was persistent. She could avoid her for only so long, then she’d have to speak to her and tell her that she wasn’t coming back to Mississippi for Louis’s funeral. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know exactly what tactic her aunt would use; she did. Aunt Clarice would try some version of her guilt trip persuasion that she’d tried in the past.
“If you don’t come home, you’ll regret it. I’m not getting any younger and neither is your father,” Clarice had said numerous times. “You should forgive and make peace before it’s too late. Please come home. I need you.”
Now it was too late to forgive her father and make peace with him. She supposed a part of her regretted that fact; the little girl and teenager still alive within her, the daughter who had once adored her father. Before the events of that ungodly day! Before she’d seen him making love to Georgette Devereaux. Before her mother had been murdered and Jolie had begun wondering if Georgette had been somehow involved in the massacre at Belle Rose. Had the woman hired someone to kill Audrey Royale? Had she sent her son to do the horrific deed? Even now, after all these years, she couldn’t bear the thought that Max might have committed the triple murders. At fourteen, she had thought herself madly in love with the brooding Max, so why had it been easier for her to believe him capable of the killings than to believe Lemar Fuqua was the gunman? Because she’d known Lemar all her life. The man had been practically family. Lemar had been kind, soft-spoken, gentle, and friendly. Just about everyone in Sumarville, both black and white, had liked Lemar.
To this day she couldn’t understand how the local authorities had so easily ruled the three murders a double-murder and suicide.
Jolie pushed aside her sketch pad and pen, leaned backward in the cushioned swivel stool behind her drawing board and closed her eyes. The sleeping pill she’d taken last night had left her with a hangover that was only now, at one thirty in the afternoon, beginning to subside. And despite the medication she’d taken before going to bed, she had suffered with nightmares. Cruel jumbled memories. Half-formed thoughts. Terror and pain. Caught in the dark trap of yesterday’s tragedy.
“Coffee. Black and strong,” the feminine voice said.
Jolie’s eyelids flew open as she jerked in reaction to the unexpected sound. “God, Cheryl, you scared the bejesus out of me.”
“Sorry. I knocked before I came barging in.” Tall, model thin, with a mane of strawberry blond hair worn in a loose ponytail, Cheryl Randall extended her hand holding the bright purple mug. “You haven’t stopped for lunch, so I thought maybe you needed a jolt of caffeine.”
Jolie accepted the coffee. “Thanks.”
“Your aunt called again,” Cheryl said. “She’s beginning to doubt that I’m telling her the truth about your being out of the office. She told me to tell you that if you don’t take her next call, she’s going to have someone named Max come to Atlanta and fetch you home.” Cheryl chuckled. “I had no idea people still said things like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like ‘fetch you home.’”
Jolie sipped the coffee, then smiled at Cheryl. “That’s because you’re a Yankee.”
Cheryl laughed. “Want to tell me what’s going on? Why are you avoiding talking to your aunt? I know you adore the woman.”
She and Cheryl had been friends for the past two years, ever since she hired the New York native to come to Atlanta and work as her assistant. But she hadn’t shared all the gory details of her youth with Cheryl; only the highlights. They were more buddies, who swapped stories about men and enjoyed an occasional spa-day together, than best friends, who shared intimate secrets.