A Dangerous Dance (6 page)

When Darius learned Emma was dying, he'd thought of going to see her. He was glad he hadn't, that his memory of her was untainted by cancer's ravages or the march of time, though it was still hard to imagine the Emma he knew waiting tables and taking care of a baby. Motherhood must have changed her. Perhaps, he thought wryly, it blind-sided her. It was obviously the reason she left Magus. According to the detective he hired to find her, she had Dorothy six months after leaving Magus. Maternity had muted her essence, if the pictures the detective took were any indication. A pity. If she'd come to him, as he asked, would she still be alive? Or was the cancer an inevitable part of her future? And if she had come, would he have taken her? Shrines weren't meant to be inhabited, just visited occasionally.

He shifted restlessly, turning from the view and pacing back to his desk. It wasn't usually this hard to rebury the past. Why was it resisting him today? He'd had her. That was enough, particularly when he knew he wasn't the only one who wanted her. Both Bozo and Bubba had wanted her, too, but she chose him.

And Emma? Who knew what she felt or who it was she wanted? In the end, she'd slipped away from them all, and apparently never looked back.

It was the only time in his life he felt real hate for someone. Magus appeared to be little affected by her leaving, almost seemed not to have noticed she was gone. Interesting that the only two strong emotions Darius had ever felt were centered on the same family. Love and hate, he'd heard, were two sides of the same coin. Had he come to hate Emma? He didn't think so, but he'd never achieved clarity where she was concerned.

That's why he'd never acted. He could never decide what was the expedient thing to do with Emma. And now her daughter was back. Stirring up the past, digging into old and buried secrets. Reminding him of what he'd never had, stealing his clarity, just like her parents. Though Emma had been the biggest thief. She'd stolen his heart. And here he hadn't thought he had one. Unless it was just his pride she'd taken?

He started pacing again, trying to get ahead of the unsettled feelings Emma's memory always brought in its train. With an inner shake of the head, he cleared back the memories of what had been, homing in on the now. And Dorothy. Emma's daughter.

Odd he couldn't remember much about her from ten years ago. He did recall wondering how she could be Emma's offspring, she was so unlike her mother. He'd lost interest at that point, all his attention on stopping Magus's drive for the governor's mansion.

He walked back to his computer, sat down and pulled up the company website where Dorothy's picture was posted. Now he could see that Dorothy had the look of her mother, though distilled and thinned by her Wizard blood. They both had titian hair and violet eyes, but he thought Emma had had the purer profile. And the fuller figure. How had he missed the similarities ten years ago?

He grabbed the file of newspaper clippings about Magus and flipped through them until he found one with Dorothy standing just behind him. Even in the flatness of black and white, Magus overshadowed her, rendering her almost invisible.

He shut the file. Well, she'd been young then, very young. Decidedly a fish out of water in Magus's hectic and very public life. She appeared to have overcome that past. She'd managed Magus's companies well, earned her place on the various boards. Did that make her Magus's daughter or Emma's?

He needed to see her in the flesh to answer the question. Only then would he know how to deal with the threat she posed to the protege he hoped to place in the mansion in Baton Rouge.

But was that his only interest? Was it possible that he'd find the mother in the daughter? It was an intriguing thought. Could the past live again? Emma had desired him. They'd only had the one night, but what a night it had been. Was it possible that satisfaction could be achieved again? If daughter were like mother, perhaps his long wait was over?

Unless...

Emma left Magus around three months from their affair. What if Dorothy were
his
daughter? Was it possible? He'd never wanted a child but, if he and Emma had made a child together, she might be interesting to him. If he saw her could he tell?

In any case, his sources told him that Bubba Joe and Bozo were both going to see her in Oz. Did they fear her or the past, he wondered? Or both?

He frowned. Obviously he hadn't looked into the past thoroughly enough ten years ago when Dorothy made her first appearance on the scene. It wasn't like him to be so inattentive when secrets were his preferred currency. Who, he wondered, had the most to hide from that time?

* * * *

Number two on Dorothy's list of suspects was waiting for her when her hour on Remy's three-hour show ended.

Bozo Luc.
Bozo was not his given name. That was Gaspar. It was also not an insult. In the bayou country it meant “nice guy.” It was the Yankees who turned the original meaning into a clown or buffoon. Bozo was charming, but not nice, nor was he a buffoon, though he wasn't above playing one when it suited him. He was a small, dark man, with intense eyes and a thick smile that both repelled and attracted. He'd wed, bed and buried three wives. Rumor had it he was looking for number four. Unlike Bubba Joe, he'd inherited his power base from his daddy. The Lucs had been milling around the bayou practically since it was settled, or so the story went. Though they'd begun as fishermen, they'd inevitably diversified into oil and gas. According to Magus's file, Bozo wasn't so much into the accumulation of power as he was a believer in his divine right to rule. The end result might be the same as Bubba Joe's if he managed to get into the governor's mansion, but his motivation was different. Magus always focused on motivation, when dealing with people.

When Bozo grabbed her hands, he first held them tightly, and then pulled her close, not touching, just studying her face with an intensity that was unsettling.

He could be looking at her as a possible new wife, she supposed, but surely she was a bit old for his taste, which seemed to trend younger with each marriage. She'd have thought she was too much of an outsider for the Lucs? Of course, he wouldn't be the first old family suitor to overlook the mongrel background of a potential spouse, but he didn't really need her money or Magus's name. He probably owned the votes in the lower parishes.

“
Chere'
, you look...” Words apparently failed him, so he threw his arms wide, while still managing to hold onto her hands, before shrugging elegantly. He had enough French in him to get away with both the grand gestures and the affectations. There was, however, an odd discontinuity between his actions and the look in his eyes as he continued to study her. A slight, very slight frown between his eyes seemed to indicate he was either displeased or puzzled.

What he concluded, he kept to himself. Did he have some other motive for approaching her and what could it be? Dorothy gently reclaimed her hands and used them to direct him toward seating. Like Bubba Joe, he chose the throne.

“What brings you to Oz?” Dorothy couldn't quite bring herself to call him Bozo. In her head, she knew it wasn't an insult, but it was hard to go against her upbringing. Her mother had been inflexible on the subject of good manners in the presence of friend or foe.

“You surely aren't going to back that blow hard, Mistral, are you
chere'
? Your papa must be rolling over in his crypt.” His Cajun diction was perfect for sounding mournful and disappointed and he looked like a father facing a child who had disillusioned him. Or maybe a priest trying to call a lost soul to repentance? The priest analogy would have worked better without the hint of decadence in his dark eyes. “Come out with me tonight and we'll talk about it. For your papa's sake.”

“She's going to the Zoo-to-Do with me,” Remy said dryly from the doorway. Over Bozo's head, his amused gaze met hers. By the time Bozo turned to face him, Remy's face was coolly respectful, however.

“Indeed.” Bozo's dark brows arched in inoffensive astonishment. He was clearly wondering what on earth Dorothy saw in Remy. His dark, mournful gaze turned her direction again. “As Magus's oldest, and closest friend,
chere'
, I stand by to offer you counsel during this difficult time.”

His tone implied that she desperately needed it. And that he was the only one who could give it.

And where were you during that “difficult time” after Magus was shot, she wondered, but didn't ask. Bozo would only consider it bad manners. And so would her mother, for that matter. She could almost hear Bozo telling her that the past was the past. Are you unable to forgive,
chere'
? She didn't need another huge helping of reproach from his dark gaze.

Remy pulled her hand through his arm, facing Bozo firmly and pointedly by her side. “And what would you advise her to do, sir?”

Bozo didn't seem happy at being addressed as a sir. Magus had noted in the file that Bozo thought he was young at heart and that made him young in appearance. Yeah, right.

Their gazes clashed, bringing something dangerous into the room. It was a reminder to her of the power Bozo wielded because of his birth and by choice. Dorothy had kept him on the list, because of the file, but now he'd earned his right to be there.

As if he sensed her sudden discomfort, he smiled amiably, charmingly. “So you think to take us all on, do you Mistral?”

Remy shrugged. “I've been taking you on since I got my first job.”

“But now the mosquito aspires to become the bug spray. Change isn't as easy as you think it will be. The old ways work for Louisiana.”

“But not that well for her people. And they are...expensive.”

“The best things always are.”

“We'll have to agree to disagree on that, Luc.”

“Interesting election in New Orleans,” Dorothy said, “Makes one think change can happen.”

“Funny things happen when real people vote,” Remy added, his tone lightly mocking. “It's almost a revolution.”

“A cold, fresh wind of change,” Dorothy added, even knowing it wasn't wise.

Bozo's dark eyes flashed a warning...and amusement. It was an odd combo and only he could have pulled it off.

“You are still very young,
chere'
,” he said, with an almost gentle smile, before his gaze shifted back to Remy. Amusement faded, leaving only warning. “If you aspire to the Wizard's shoes, you'd best be careful, Mistral. Louisiana isn't known for its cold winds, just its hot passions.”

Dorothy had read somewhere that politics were the business of Louisiana. She'd thought it absurd then, but she didn't anymore. Like Mardi Gras, it was considered great fun, but still a very, very serious business.

Not unlike the governor's race, where it seemed two of the three top suspects were jockeying for first place on her suspect list. The level of aggression in the room bumped up another notch as the two men squared off, like two dogs with only one bone. It was time to diffuse it. She'd found out what she needed to know. Bozo deserved her suspicions.

“You've come a long way. Can I get you something, sir?” she asked.

Bozo shook his head, stepping toward them, to once again capture the hand not held by Remy. “I had no idea you were so like your father,
chere'
. You're much too charming to suffer Magus's fate. Please, be careful.”

He sounded like he actually cared.

“If you know something about that, I'd be most grateful if you'd tell me.”

“Let the past alone,
chere'
.” His tone was deadly serious. He kissed her hand, then lowered it to rest on Remy's bent arm and stepped back. He glanced around, as if remembering something about the room. If must have been a good memory, because it softened his gaze again.

A most unwelcome thought pushed its way into her mind. Had Bozo and her mother... She tried to bury the crazy thought, but it was hard to do while looking into Bozo's eyes. This room had never been her father's domain.

“Do you remember my mother?”

His brows arched. “But of course. You are somewhat like her, but not enough,
chere'
. She knew when she was in over her head and strategically withdrew from the game.”

With a last warning smile, he turned and padded out of the room, leaving Dorothy with the wry feeling that any frightening had been one way. She gave an involuntary shiver.

Remy looked at her sharply. She gave him an over bright smile. “What's a Zoo-to-Do?”

* * * *

Vonda Vance was an innocuous woman, in look and in deed. She'd never aspired to notorious. It had been thrust on her, beginning that day Verrol walked into her library. She still wondered what he'd seen in her. Criminals and killers chose bimbos, not librarians, didn't they?

She was, she thought, the anti-bimbo. Flat-chested and no-hipped, with coloring so bland she was a virtual chameleon—able to blend into any wall with ease. There was something, an almost mystical quality about her lack of color. Occasionally she'd seek out shading in a makeover, but within minutes of application, her make-up would fade away. Bright colored clothes didn't fade, but they did make her look more pale and insipid. She made up for her lack of exterior adornment by having a lush interior life. Until Verrol came along, it was the most interesting part of her life.

Verrol's eyes seemed to have been gifted with the ability to see the unseen. Perhaps that is what had made him so good at killing. Well, that and his own ability to disappear into the background. Of course, she'd had no idea of his side line as a killer when she married him. She'd been easy to fool, so trusting and willing to be blind to any irregularities that would help her maintain the illusion theirs was a normal life. He went to work like any other husband. She'd thought he was a researcher for a lobbyist. He always seemed to know a lot about what was going on, the insider stuff that didn't make it into the newspapers. It was exciting, enticing, and in the end, an alternate way to escape the dull reality of her existence.

When he was arrested at the rally after shooting Magus Merlinn, with a gun in his hand, it had been much easier to look back and see the clues that what she'd believed about Verrol had never tracked with reality. Until that point, she'd considered herself a competent observer of the passing scene and rather a hand with a mystery. It was still hard to realize that her imaginative life had been more real than her outer life.