Masquerade (40 page)

She sighed and lifted her gaze to the rosy afterglow the setting sun had painted on the sky, remembering Cole's warmth, his smile, his gentleness—and trying to forget the coldness that could come into his eyes, the almost obsessive dislike of her family, her friends, and the damning things that had been said.

It could have been just a coincidence that he was in Marseilles at the same time as that Kim Charles. Or he could have been trying to find him—to question him about the
Dragon,
as she would have done if she'd known the man was there. Remy sighed again, aware that she was attempting to justify his presence there.

And again she wondered why he was so adamantly opposed to settling with the insurance company. Was it greed, as Lance had suggested? Cole had said himself that returning any portion of the insurance money would jeopardize the company's profit potential for the next several years —and therefore his bonus of 10 percent ownership in the company as well. Was he trying to hold out for that? Wasn't the money he'd made from selling the crude oil on the black market enough?

Why would he have done it at all? Lance had said it was because he'd seen that he wouldn't be able to turn the company around without it. Was that it? To save his pride? His ego? Or was it solely for the money? Why, when he had nothing but contempt for her family and its wealth? Or . . . had he done it for her? Had he felt so insecure that he thought she couldn't love him unless he had a lot of money? Didn't he realize how much she loved him?

Yes, that was the problem—she loved him. Even knowing that he might have committed fraud, she still loved him. That was why the thought hurt so much. Right or wrong, guilty or innocent, she loved him. It was staggering to discover that she cared that deeply, that strongly for him.

She felt a tear on her cheek and hastily wiped it away, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed. But the few tourists strolling up the relatively quiet side street weren't paying any attention.

She heard footsteps quicken behind her. Automatically she tightened her grip on her purse and started to look back, angling closer to a stuccoed building.

Suddenly she was grabbed from behind, both arms seized by a pair of hands that jerked her to a stop. As she tried to cry out, a sweaty palm clamped itself over her mouth, smothering the sound. She felt the painful wrenching of her shoulders as her arms were pulled together behing her back, pinned by a hooking arm, and trapped by the solidness of a man's body.

There was a man in front of her, too, in a blue plaid shirt and faded jeans, a Halloween mask covering his face—a mask of a pig, with mean dark eyes and tusks protruding from the sides of its ugly snout. Remy had only a heartbeat's time to wonder why she'd never noticed how frightening a pig's face could be.

Then a voice growled in her ears, "This is the only warning you're going to get, little gal. Stop asking questions, and keep your mouth shut."

That voice. She'd heard it before. That night on the dock. This was the same man who'd grabbed her then, hurting her arm and calling her "little gal."

As she tried to see the face that was pressed so close to her ear, something slammed into her stomach. The pain—she couldn't breathe. The other man had hit her. She realized that as his fist slammed into her again. She tried to twist sideways and elude the third blow, but it struck her, causing knife-sharp agony.

There are people on the street, her mind screamed. Why don't they see? Why aren't they coming to help me? The hand was no longer covering her mouth, but she couldn't make any sound come out—she couldn't draw a breath. It was like a nightmare—trying to scream, wanting to scream, but having only silent screams come out.

She had a hazy glimpse of a blurred hand coming toward her face, then there was just the roaring in her head when it struck her jaw—again and again. Suddenly the ground seemed to drop out from beneath her. She felt herself sinking onto the sidewalk and tried to catch herself.

The man from the dock had let her go. They were both gone. Dizzily she looked up and saw them hurrying down the street. And she saw the other people, too, staring at her in frozen shock. She couldn't know that her eternity of terror had lasted no more than twenty seconds. She tried to stand up . . . but God, it hurt so much.

 

 

 

 

25

 

 

With each careful breath she drew, Remy smelled the sharp, antiseptic odors of the hospital. The pain had subsided to a throbbing ache in her face and stomach—as long as she didn't move too much or breathe too deeply. She focused her eyes on the cubicle's hospital-green curtains, which partitioned her bed from the rest of the emergency room.

"Is there anything else you can tell me about these two men? The color of their hair? Their eyes?"

She swung her gaze toward the uniformed policeman standing next to the bed and gave a very small shake of her head. "All I can remember . . . is the pig's face," she said slowly, her face stiff from the swelling along her jaw and cheek, "and how mean it looked with those big tusks sticking out—like a wild boar's, but the mask was painted pink . . . like Porky Pig." She made a weak attempt at humor. "Somehow I have a feeling I'll never think of Porky Pig as cute or funny again."

The officer nodded absently and went back to his questions. "What about the man who grabbed you from behind? You said he put his hand over your mouth. Was he wearing a ring?"

Remy closed her eyes, trying to remember if there'd been any sensation of metal. "I don't think so." She started to sigh, then winced at the sudden stab of pain that stole her breath. "His palm was sweaty, I remember that, and his fingers were rough—calloused."

"What about the second man, the one in the pig mask? Was he wearing rings, watches?"

She pictured that blurred image of his right hand coming at her face. "I'm almost sure there wasn't anything on his right hand, but... I don't know about the left."

He made a note of that, then flipped his notebook shut. "If you think of anything else, Miss Jardin, just call the station."

Again Remy gave a barely perceptible nod of her head in agreement, saying nothing about the warning that had preceded the beating. She couldn't—not without telling him about everything, including the insurance company's allegations of fraud. The first people to come to her aid afterward had been from out of state. They'd automatically assumed they'd witnessed a mugging —after all, this was big, bad New Orleans, and things like that happened here. By the time Remy had recovered enough to speak for herself, she'd realized it would be better to let everyone believe it
was
a mugging. And everyone had . . . without question.

As the green curtian fell back in place behind the departing policeman, Remy heard her mother's anxious voice demanding, "Is she all right? Where is she? I want to see her?"

A second later the curtain was swept aside and Sibylle Jardin stepped quickly into the cubicle. If she'd been the hand-wringing type, her fingers would have been twisted in a knot, but she wasn't. She faltered briefly when she saw Remy lying there, one cheekbone red and swollen, a purpling under one eye, a bruise coloring the skin above her jaw. But her hesitation lasted only a fraction of an instant, and then she moved to Remy's side and lightly ran smoothing fingers over the top of her hair.

"Remy, my poor darling," she murmured, biting at her lower lip.

"I'm all right, just sore." Remy reached for her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

Then Gabe was there, hovering on the other side of the bed, his look intense, angry, his face white under its tan. "Who did this, Remy? What'd they look like?"

She heard the tremble of rage in his voice, a brother's rage. "I don't know. They wore masks."

He half turned from the bed, then swung back. "What the hell were you doing in the Quarter, anyway? You said you were going to stay home and lie around the pool. Why didn't you? Dammit, why'd you have to go out?"

"Gabe." Sibylle silenced him with a look, giving her a reprieve from his questions, but Remy knew it was only a temporary one. Sooner or later she'd have to answer them.

"I'm sorry. It's just—" He raked a hand through his tobacco-brown hair, something helpless in gesture.

"I know," her mother murmured.

"Is she going to be all right. Dr. John?" Her father stood at the foot of the bed, looking pale and shaken.

Remy glanced at the white-haired man standing beside him. She'd expected someone old, short, and irascible, but Dr. John was tall and proud, exuding competence—a Southern version of Marcus Welby, right down to the vacuous smile.

"I've consulted the resident who examined her when she was brought in. Her injuries, for the most part, are minor. The bruises on her face you can see, and we do have a cracked rib."

Remy heard that and observed dryly, "If
we
had a cracked rib, Dr. John,
you
wouldn't be smiling." He chuckled, and she added, "Or laughing."

"Listen to her. I think that proves my diagnosis, Frazier," he declared. "By Mardi Gras the bruises will have faded enough for makeup to cover them, and she'll be dancing at the ball—at least to the slow songs."

"Does that mean we can take her home?" Sibylle asked.

The doctor hesitated a full second before answering. "I'd like to keep her here overnight— strictly for observation. There is her recent ordeal in France to consider."

When she heard his announcement, Remy felt oddly relieved. She didn't want to go home and face a barrage of questions—not tonight, when she ached all over and just breathing was an effort. Tomorrow. She'd tell them about the warning tomorrow. She knew there'd be an argument, and she simply wasn't up to it.

"Yes, I think it's best for Remy to stay here tonight," her father agreed.

"I'll arrange for a private room," Dr. John said, then winked at Remy. "And one of our gowns— a Charity exclusive, guaranteed to repel muggers."

"Just what I need," Remy murmured, not at all amused.

An hour later she was in a private room, far removed from the hustle and bustle of the emergency room with its dinging bells and rattling gurneys, its urgent voices and moaning injured. She lay in the regulation hospital bed with eyes closed, not sleeping or resting, just aching, but aching undisturbed, without her mother offering to fluff her pillows to make her more comfortable or Gabe asking if she wanted something to drink. As long as she kept her eyes closed, they left her alone.

Her mother sat in a chair beside her bed. Remy could hear her idly flipping through the pages of a magazine. Gabe was at the window, alternately pacing and stopping, pacing and stopping. Her father had stepped out of the room several minutes before, maybe longer. She was losing track of time, and silently wondered how much longer it would be before visiting hours were over. They'd have to leave then.

What a contrast this was from Nice, when she'd been so desperate to have her family around her. Now they were here and she wanted to be alone so she could rest. . . no, that wasn't true—so she could think.

"Stop asking questions, and keep your mouth shut," the man had growled. Asking questions of whom? Who'd sent those men to beat her up? Not Cole. He wouldn't do that. She was sure of it. Did that mean she'd been wrong to think he was behind this fraud?

She heard footsteps in the corridor, approaching her room. Not the quiet, rubber-soled squelch of a nurse's shoes, but the firm sound of hard leather soles. They entered her room and paused.

"How is she?" The low question came from her father.

"Sleeping, I think." Gabe moved away from the window. Remy heard his footsteps stop somewhere near the door.

"Good. I spoke with Dr. John just now." His hushed voice was barely above a whisper, and Remy had to strain to catch his words. "He's making all the arrangements to have Remy flown by air ambulance to the clinic tomorrow morning."

She stiffened in instant protest, then breathed a little easier when she heard Gabe reply, "She isn't going to like that."

"She isn't in any condition to argue. She's lying to us, Gabe, I don't like it. Something's wrong. We can't watch her every minute. She needs to be in a place where she can be monitored at all times."

"I agree," came Gabe's soft, hope-killing reply. She wouldn't go. She
couldn't
go—not now. But how could she stop them? They'd override any protest she made. If she told them about the warning and the few things she could remember about the tanker and that night on the dock, they'd be more determined than ever to protect her and get her out of harm's way. And if she became too vocal in her objections, they might persuade Dr. John to give her something—and then when she came to, she'd find herself in the clinic, with the doctors there convinced that she'd lost her mind as well as her memory.

Dear God, what was she going to do? She had to think of something. She couldn't let them send her away.

She remembered the pig mask with its small, mean eyes and vicious-looking tusks. The man had said this was the only warning she'd get. If she stayed, if she asked more questions, if they found out. . . . Remy shuddered and immediately felt a stab of pain from the fractured rib.

"Remy." Her mother's voice reached softly out to her an instant before she felt the touch of a hand on her arm. Slowly she let her eyes open. "We're leaving now, dear. We'll see you in the morning."

She made a faint sound of understanding, then pretended to drift back to sleep.

 

Silence. Remy unconsciously held her breath and listened for the faintest whisper of sound in the hospital corridor outside the darkened room. Nothing. She could hear nothing. She hadn't heard any movement in a long time.

She folded back the thin blanket and the bed sheet, then used her hands and elbows, propping them under her, to carefully and gingerly ease herself into a sitting position. She wondered if she dared turn on the small wall-light above the hospital bed's metal headboard, then decided against it. She groped for and found the telephone on the stand next to the bed, picked it up, and set it on her lap.