What She Doesn't Know (9 page)

Gentle chimes resonated from inside, an incongruous prelude to the event of Christopher opening the door. He filled the opening, not looking nearly as out of place as she’d imagined. She tried awfully hard not to notice the expanse of bare chest and the way it tapered down to narrow hips encased in a pair of white sweatpants. Or the six-inch fine scar that ran from his shoulder to his nipple. He didn’t seem surprised to see her there, and that threw her off.
 

Instead, he merely stepped aside to let her pass.
Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.
The spicy scent she’d detected outside filled the house with a mouth-watering aroma. He closed the door behind her, but she avoided meeting those dark eyes for a moment. The walls were painted a cinnamon color, giving the room a cozy feel despite the tall ceilings. Not so cozy were the two gold swords with dragons’ heads for handles on the wall to the left of the staircase. Their blades were crossed at the middle. Toward the back a winding staircase led up to a balcony and hallway. Next to the stairs an arched doorway led to other rooms.
 

“Coffee?”

“Thank you.”

So he was going to play the polite host. It didn’t fit, but neither did the faint rumblings inside that had nothing to do with her stomach and everything to do with the way his eyes assessed her. Nothing, of course, to do with the sway of his gait as he walked through the arched doorway. She focused on the room instead, because she didn’t care for guys with bodies like that, or for guys who were so settled in their own skin, they didn’t even think about it.

The furniture was antique in style, upscale, and too dainty for a man’s abode. Too worn for museum quality, but beautiful nonetheless. Silver frames adorned a mantel, and she was about to inspect the photos when he returned with two mugs of coffee. He did have the decency to throw on a sweatshirt. Not that his bare flesh bothered her.

She accepted the large black mug with a polite smile and took his lead by sitting on the gold velvet couch. It didn’t take a lot of deep self-analysis to know why men like Christopher put her on edge. He had a moat around him, a NO TRESPASSING aura stamped across his sharp, clean features. Even his short hair, spiky from a recent shower, said
Do not touch.
Years ago she’d been too young, too desperate for affection to see those signs, too naïve to think her own father would exhibit them. Now she recognized them clearly.

He sat across from her in a dainty gilt-edged chair, one bare foot on the cushion, leg bent up by his chest where he rested his arm. “You have my attention.”

She could see that, thank you very much. If there was such a thing as lazy intensity, his eyes had it. He wasn’t even trying, dammit, but he still intimidated her.

“I wanted to thank you for saving me today. And apologize for being so annoyed with you. You only saw what you saw. As you said, you were too busy looking for a good place to land.” It was a subtle way of saying he’d just missed the obvious.

“And you were too busy seeing something that wasn’t there. Still, it was scary, so I can understand how you’d be confused.”

Her fingers tightened on her mug as she tried to hold back her temper. “Regardless, I owe you a thank you.”

“Instead of that, why don’t you tell me your story, Rita Brooks?”

Her story. What she’d come here for. She was so focused on what she was going to say, she didn’t realize she’d slipped off her shoes and tucked her feet beneath her. “Brian and I have never physically met. I buy and sell things on eBay. I bought an unusual knife at a flea market and found out it was quite valuable. It was a Gil Hibben knife. Silent Shadow, a signed first production. I put it up for auction, and Brian asked me some questions about it. We kinda clicked. I suppose you’ve read the emails.”

“There were no emails other than the one you just sent him.”
 

“They were erased?”

“Maybe he isn’t a sentimental kind of guy.”

She lifted the weight of her hair from her damp neck. “Oddly enough, all of Brian’s emails to me are gone from my computer, too. When I got home from the hospital, my hard drive had crashed.” She took a sip of coffee, moistening her throat, blinking at the strong, bitter flavor. He obviously wasn’t used to being a host; he hadn’t even offered her cream or sugar. She decided to make do, beginning with her accident and ending with, “I believe Brian found me to tell me someone tried to kill him. And that same person tried to kill me, too. For all I know, he or she will keep trying until they get it right. I’m not sure what Brian was involved in, but now
I’m
involved. I figure I’d better damn well find out what it is.”
 

He chewed his thumb and contemplated it the way Fox Mulder of the
X-Files
mulled over an unlikely clue. She should know; she’d worn out her DVDs. “And you thought I pushed him.”

“I didn’t know. I just asked the detective to check into it.”

“But today you don’t think I’m involved. Why?”

She decided not to mention how she had no one else to turn to. “Because you saved my life.” He obviously wasn’t the person trying to kill her, unless there were two of them, and that seemed unlikely. When he continued to study her, she added, “I need your help. I can’t leave New Orleans until I know what happened.”

His foot dropped to the wood floor with a thud as he repositioned himself, leaning toward her. “Okay, now tell me the real story.”
 

She let out an exasperated sigh, realizing she’d been on the edge of her seat. “What other motive could I possibly have to come here telling you what I just told you?”

He leaned back in the chair again, body lax, tapping his thumb against his lower lip. “I haven’t figured that out yet. Look, fess up. You and Brian had something going on, you broke it off. He got mad, maybe you fought. He was devastated. You may not even have known just how broken up he was.”

“Brian had no intention of taking his life. We had plans for the future.”

“Maybe you and he had different plans.”
 

“Fine.” She stood, grabbing for her purse and realizing she’d left it in the car. She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’ll continue looking on my own. You might have secrets you don’t want me to find.”

He came to his feet, his mouth set.

My, but her mouth was getting her into trouble, and with Christopher blocking the way to the front door, too. Her heart stumbled as the facts mounted. She hadn’t told anyone she was here. Joyce didn’t know why she’d come to New Orleans.

If she disappeared, no one would know.

Now he was advancing on her, his expression shadowed. She backed into the couch and then moved sideways knowing it didn’t matter because there was no escape. Her calves cleared the couch, and she took two awkward, unbalanced steps back until she bumped against a wall. He stood in front of her, probably two hundred pounds of testosterone all bent out of shape because she was a loose-lipped idiot.

“I didn’t—”

“Shut up.”

She hated this power play, and this meek person she thought she’d whipped out of herself long ago. But here she was, brought fully to life by this muscular man who wasn’t afraid to sit in a dainty chair and who was staring at her mouth as though ready to pounce on any word she dared speak.

“I don’t want you to say anything unless it makes sense. The truth. No more of this crazy coma connection nonsense.”

He wasn’t quite touching her, but if he inhaled deeply, his chest would press against hers. “Fine, I’ll leave then.” She pushed him back and tried to step around him.
 

“Uh uh.”
 

Her mouth dropped open at his response, but he hardly gave her time to ponder it. He led her by the arm through the arched doorway where he’d gone to get the coffee, past a formal dining room, and into the kitchen. He sat her down in a chair at a small wood table that overlooked a private courtyard. “You’re not leaving until you tell me the truth.”

“You can’t keep me here. That’s kidnapping.”

“You came here, remember?”

She watched lamely as he ladled a cupful of soup from a large pot on the old-fashioned stove and set it in front of her, along with a spoon and a chunk of bread. He lifted the lid on a pot of white rice and put a dollop on top of the soup. The scrape on the back of his hand still looked angry red.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Gumbo. If I’m going to keep you here, I figure I’d better feed you.”

She would have been more worried if he wasn’t offering to take care of her at the same time as kidnapping her. He handed her the spoon. “Eat and talk.”

This was crazy. She shifted her gaze to the autumn gold fridge, salmon walls, floor tiles the color of mushrooms. His bare feet. Nice feet for a guy.

He took the seat across from her and watched her. She looked down at the wide cup. Her stomach rumbled, not in the least concerned with her personal safety. Not bothered by the tiny red claw poking out of the thick, brown broth like a drowning…

“What is that?”

“Crawfish.”

She realized he was enjoying her discomfort. He wore a snarky grin, more insidious than a smirk, not as friendly as a smile. She dipped her spoon, capturing several unidentifiable lumps, and gathering her bravado, put it in her mouth. It seemed to be a test, and she felt a strange sense of victory.

Until the fire in her mouth ignited. Her eyes watered, and she started fanning her open mouth and sucking in air. He had poisoned the gumbo! He got up and walked over to the refrigerator, while she stuffed a piece of bread in her mouth and gasped, “Water! Tonic!”

He furrowed his brows. “What’s watah?” he asked, imitating her Boston accent. “And tonic? The stuff you put in your hair?”

“Wat
er
, for heaven’s sake!”

He returned, dropping into the chair and pushing a bottle of Dixie Jazz Beer across the table toward her. “Don’t have any cold watah.”

“What did you put in here? Arsenic? Cyanide?”

 
“Cayenne.”

As she gulped down the beer, her mind frantically went down the list of known poisons looking for a match to—”As in…pepper?”

“It’s the lesser known of the popular methods of poisonin’.”

He was so calm, so cocky, so damned sexy—she caught that thought before it could develop into anything more damaging. “You are an evil man.”

He tilted his head. “That’s what they say.”

She reached for a napkin in the silver holder and blew her nose. Okay, she was fine. In control.

“It’s not really that hot,” he said with a shrug.

“No, not at all.” Her voice sounded scratchy, thick.

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “So, Rita Brooks, tell me why you’re here.”

She took another sip of beer and tried to downplay the scorching heat in her throat. “I told you. You don’t believe me. We’ve come to an impasse.” She started to cross her arms in front of her but stopped when her elbow protested. “Why do you think Brian jumped from the roof?” Just as she’d tried to ask Tammy.

“That’s what I’d come to you to find out.” He got up and retrieved a Dixie Jazz for himself, returning to the chair across from her. He popped the cap and ran his thumb along the top edge. Finally he looked up at her. “I lost touch with my older brother a long time ago. When I left, he was a man stuck on himself. He’d just turned twenty-one, had taken over the accounting department at the LaPorte, our family’s hotel, drove a fancy sports car, dressed like a swinger, dated all the right girls, and lots of them. He played the society game, schmoozed the prominent families. His biggest ambition at the time was to get invited into Xanadu, the krewe my father had founded.”

She didn’t want to hear this about Brian but held her contradiction.

“Anyway, that’s the Brian I knew. He was as see-through as chicken broth.”

“I suppose you’re gumbo, then,” she found herself saying.
 

His voice grew as thick and southern as that spicy broth. “I’d rather be dark as a swamp and spicy as cayenne pepper than be chicken broth any old time.”

“Okay, so Brian was chicken broth. There’s nothing really wrong with chicken broth, is there?”

He took on that snarky grin again. “If tha’s what you like,
cherie
.” She hated that grin. Even if it was kind of sexy. She didn’t like the way he was assessing her with those dark blue eyes, so casually, yet so thoroughly.

She averted her gaze, finding herself studying the gumbo in her mug. “Let’s go back to the chicken broth.” What she really wanted to do was explore the gumbo, find out why the gumbo left New Orleans behind, why he was the troublemaker, what he did to Brian thirteen years ago.

“Brian’s assistant Tammy called me in Atlanta and told me what happened. The last time I was the dutiful son, I got stepped on. Guess I must be a glutton for punishment, ‘cause here I am again. When I arrived and started asking around, I was baffled. You want to know why?” She nodded, too eagerly perhaps. “Because mister chicken broth had turned into the murkiest gumbo I ever did see. Now, on the surface, he was still the broth. He dressed nice, went to work every day, was polite, everything you’d expect a proper southern gentleman to be. But he stopped going to society functions. Stopped dating, or at least other than Tammy and the mysterious Rita Brooks, not a one woman came out of the woodwork to visit or inquire about him. Nor did any man.”

For a moment, she got caught up in the mysterious Rita Brooks comment. She took another sip of beer and refocused on Christopher’s words.

“In fact,” he said in a deliberate way that sounded like a TV-show detective, “Brian didn’t have any friends at all. He didn’t lunch with anyone, didn’t call and chat. Didn’t dine out, didn’t dine at anyone’s home, and didn’t have anyone in here. Then one day out of the clear chicken broth, he threw himself off that deck up there.”

Rita followed his nod, seeing a balcony along the upper floor, and above that, something like a large widow’s walk on the roof.
 

“Not a high distance, to be sure, but combined with the deck below….” He shook his head. “He seemed to have no enemies. There was no sign of a break in, and the doors were locked. Because of his change in behavior, the police deemed it an attempted suicide. Faced with this puzzle that my brother’s life had become, I had only one clue.” He pointed. “You.”