[Bayou Gavotte 03.0] Heart of Constantine (10 page)

Lep hooted. “You
do
want to screw her! There’s hope for you yet.” He relented. “She’s not home yet, but something went down last night. Jabez says you need to get over there right now.”

With a vague hope that he might recognize something, Marguerite led Al to her car to see the paraphernalia in her trunk.

“Quite an impressive mask,” he said. “The photos on the Internet don’t do it justice. Now, where have I seen one like it?”

“There’s a drawing of something similar in the mound museum,” Marguerite said.

“That must be why it seems familiar. For what it’s worth, the beads look homemade. The cup and bowl don’t ring a bell.”

She thanked him and had just shut the trunk again, when Janie, one of Lavonia’s witch friends, waltzed up with Roy Lutsky, whose aura was churning even more than usual today. Marguerite groaned. Usually, bumping into acquaintances was one of the pleasures of small-town life. Not today.

She’d forgotten about Roy. Lutsky had been a pain in the butt when he was errand boy for her father in his
college days, and he hadn’t improved with time or a PhD in psychology. Unfortunately, thanks to her father, Lutsky knew she could see auras. He’d also gotten her the interview that had landed her the job at Hellebore University, so she owed him.

Damn.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re going out with Constantine Dufray?” Lutsky demanded. “You were supposed to call me if you so much as met him!”

Marguerite cursed under her breath. Ages ago, Lutsky had asked her to read Constantine’s aura if she got the chance—and she’d reluctantly agreed. Trust Lutsky to bring it up in public. The man had no tact or sense of time and place. Next he’d be blurting out questions about what she’d seen in the rock star’s aura. “I’m not going out with him,” she said in a hurry. “I only met him a few hours ago. Give me a break!”

“You’ve definitely been kissing him,” Janie said. “Did you know your picture is all over the Internet?” Her eyes slid flirtatiously to Al. “Hi, Bon-Bon.”

“Don’t call me that,” Al snapped, and Janie giggled. Marguerite didn’t blame him. He was a distinguished-looking man in his late forties, and Bon-Bon was a juvenile sort of name. On the other hand, as long as he handed out candies, the nickname wouldn’t go away.

“Finally, someone who is seeing him socially,” Lutsky said. “The fan club people, except for Janie here, won’t give me the time of day.” His gaze bored into Marguerite. “What’s he like up close?”

Fortunately, neither of the others knew what he was getting at. Janie said, “Yummy,” and Al rolled his eyes.

“The same as at a distance,” Marguerite said repressively. “Gorgeous and scary.”

“You can get me an interview.” That was Lutsky: a statement, not a request.

“No,” Marguerite said. “I can’t.”

“Don’t harass her,” Al said. “She got caught in a publicity stunt, but she’s not the sort of woman to date a rock star.”

That rankled, but before Marguerite could retort, Janie said, “Oh, come on, Bon-Bon. What woman wouldn’t want to date him?”

“A woman of discernment,” Al said. “Which you clearly aren’t.”

She chuckled. “Marguerite didn’t look all that discerning in the pic we saw.” She grinned. “Is he a good kisser?”

“Yes,” Marguerite said irritably.

“I bet,” said Janie, dreamy-eyed.

Lutsky paced up and down behind the car. “According to the tabloids, his wife, Jonetta, said sex with him gave her nightmares.”

“Such edifying reading material,” Al murmured.

“Tabloids provide a useful societal function.” Lutsky’s brows drew together. “The sexual aspect of Dufray’s abilities is not what I wanted to tackle, but it’ll do for a start.”

“Not by way of me, it won’t,” Marguerite snapped.

“Testy, aren’t we?” Al gave her a wry smile. “Go home. Bathe. Put on some clean clothes. Then you’ll feel better.”

“No, she won’t,” Janie said. “There’s only one cure for sexual frustration. She wants that hunk to finish what he started.”

“You’ll be making a significant contribution to academic knowledge every time you sleep with Dufray,” Lutsky said eagerly. “If you tell me all about it, that is.”

“Don’t be an idiot. She’s not really taking up with that freak,” Al said.

Again, Marguerite had to suppress a retort. She could take up with Constantine if she damned well pleased.

“You didn’t call him a freak when you asked me to get free tickets,” Janie said.

“Those were for Zeb,” Al retorted, “and a major tactical error on my part. If anything, attending those concerts increased Zeb’s tendency to violence. I’m lucky he wasn’t trampled to death. It’s hardly a suitable environment for a scholar like Marguerite.”

“Even scholars have sex drives,” Janie said. Now it was her turn to roll her eyes. “Oh, come on, guys. Jonetta was on drugs. She was hallucinating. According to what I’ve heard from quite a few adoring fans, he can give a woman an orgasm with just one touch.”

“Now that does sound like a hallucination,” Al said dryly.

“Or even without touching her at all,” Janie added.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Al huffed. “What a bunch of baloney.” As a chemistry prof—a garden-variety scientist—he tended to pooh-pooh anything the least bit woo-woo.

Lutsky stopped pacing and frowned at Marguerite. “There may be some risks. His wife also said being in the same room with him was sometimes so painful that she’d pass out—but those hardly matter in the pursuit of scientific knowledge.”

Marguerite got ahold of herself. “I’m tired and dying for a shower. Nice to see you all, but I really must get going.”

“I need to interview you first,” Lutsky said, motioning toward the bookstore. “I’ll buy you another coffee.”

Marguerite gritted her teeth. “Thanks for your generous offer, but I have to go.”

Janie said, “Come on, Marguerite. Dish.”

Marguerite managed not to snap again. “No.”

“No what?” grinned Janie. “The one-touch orgasm? The tantric sex?”

“The hysteria-induced pain and the fainting spells?” murmured Al. “The tabloids probably paid his wife for that one.”

“Even if you’re not sleeping with him,” Lutsky said, “you damned well
will
tell me your impressions from this morning.”

“Later,” she said to the lot of them and drove home. She would have to tell Lutsky something, but she needed to plan exactly what to say. Sure, she owed him, but she probably owed Constantine far, far more. Not that she was ever likely to tell him so, because she had no idea how to go about it, given the chance.
Did you really induce my scumbag uncle to kill himself? Because, if so, thanks very much!

Not the sort of thing one said aloud, even if one had good reason to mean it.

If he hurt Zeb, she might not feel so grateful anymore. But maybe Zeb would tell Constantine why he’d taken the knife, and everything would work out all right. With luck, in a day or two, she would thankfully crawl back out of the limelight to her calm, peaceful, private life, and Lutsky would have no reason to pump her for more information. Sighing, she turned the corner into the quiet cul-de-sac, where until
a few weeks ago she had shared a house with Pauline and shared it now only with Pauline’s dog.

Two vehicles were parked in front of her house: a big blue pickup truck and a familiar white BMW. People gawked from behind windows. A few kids hovered by the curb. And on her front porch, sitting in the wicker chairs and chatting like the best of friends, were Nathan the reporter and Constantine Dufray.

CHAPTER FIVE

S
he’d done this before; she could do it again. This was no phalanx of reporters, merely one slimy pseudo-Brit, and if he had a camera, it was small and not in your face like that horde of photographers with their flashes when she was a terrified child.

Regardless, she intended to go right past these two publicity freaks into the house, lock the door, and take that much-needed shower.

She got out of the car. On the porch, Lawless thumped his tail in greeting but didn’t move from where he was lying next to Constantine on the side away from Nathan. This was surprising and yet not. If she had a choice, she would sit as far away from Nathan as possible, too; on the other hand, Lawless didn’t like strangers. Even if he’d escaped the backyard and been wandering—which he did all too often—he wouldn’t treat someone he didn’t know as a friend.

She smiled politely at the hovering kids. She opened the trunk to remove the dog food and other purchases, and suddenly Constantine was right there. Lawless stayed put, shaggy head on his paws, watching.

She glared at the rock star. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you, sweetheart.” She couldn’t read the expression in his cold eyes, nor could she stop him from
dropping a swift kiss on her lips. A dizzying kiss—he smelled dark and good. He’d taken a shower and changed into clean clothes, and his aura was almost peaceful, except for little wisps of desire.

Had his dead wife once felt like Marguerite did now? She didn’t want to deal with desire, his or hers.

He reached for the dog food, but she grabbed him by the T-shirt and pulled him toward her again. “What did you do to Zeb?” she hissed.

Annoyance fizzled in his vibes. “Nothing much.” Pause. “Yet.”

She got right in his face. “Where. Is. He?”

His mouth hovered just above hers. “How should I know? ‘Going home to face the music,’ I think he said.” His tongue flicked out to brush her lip, but he withdrew abruptly and hefted the bag of dog food.

So Zeb was okay, at least temporarily. “Get rid of that reporter,” she muttered, grabbing the grocery bags and slamming the trunk shut, the mound paraphernalia still inside. She shot a murderous look at Nathan as he ambled forward, grinning.

“Hello, hello, Marguerite McHugh,” the reporter said.

“Fuck off,” she said before she could stop herself, and then realized she didn’t have to. When the ten-year-old Marguerite had said the same to the reporters, it had only strengthened the case against her dad; now she could curse as much as she pleased. She stormed up the walk.

Don’t go inside the house
, Constantine said in her head.

She slowed, turning to stare at him, then away. “I’m busy today. I have to get my groceries in the fridge and leave again.” She hurried up the steps.

I said, don’t go inside.

He had such gall! She set the grocery bags on the porch, unwrapped the breakfast sandwich, and gave it to Lawless, who gulped it down and sank his head onto his paws again. “Constantine, I don’t know why you’re here,” she said, fumbling through her keys. “I told you I’m busy. Later, I may be free, but—”

Constantine plucked the keys from her grasp. “For our quickie, of course.”
Wait until Nathan’s gone.
“I promise you, darlin’, I’m so hot for you that we’ll both be exploding in a flash.” His aura simmered now, desire in its maroon, red, and gold hues flickering, arousing her in spite of herself.

Oh, no. Surely he didn’t really mean what he was saying. No way. Yes, he was a masterful kisser, but she hardly knew him, and only a few hours ago he’d been trying to drive her away. And yet this chemistry and the images that streaked through her head enticed her. She wasn’t used to finding sex alluring. Growing up in the shadow of a sex scandal had pretty much removed whatever luster sex might have had to start with.

Behind them, Nathan snickered, and she whirled. “Go away, Nathan. You’re not invited.” Neither was Constantine, but unfortunately she couldn’t telepath that right back at him.

“Aw, come on now, love,” Nathan said. “The daughter of Porno McHugh must have a comment to make.”

“I already made it,” she said. “If you read up, you’ll find it’s exactly what I said to the reporters all those years ago.” It had been a disastrous mistake, but bad language didn’t reflect on her father anymore. “Go away, or I will call the cops and have you removed.”

“But that scene up on the mound makes so much sense now,” Nathan whined. “It was a great promo move on Constantine’s part.”

She had to get into the house before she blew. “Give me my keys,” she growled at Constantine.

“Go away, Nathan.” Constantine’s aura flickered dangerously, but his demeanor remained completely calm.

Nathan gave a gusty, obnoxious sigh. “You’re so bloody cold. Poor Marguerite didn’t realize having sex with you meant her daddy’s sins would be dredged up all over again.”

“Why should I care? He’s dead, and it’s old news,” Marguerite said, proud that her voice didn’t tremble one bit, but her fingers shook as she stuck the key in the lock. She shouldn’t be this upset. This was exactly what she’d expected. Lawless crowded up next to her, getting in the way.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t even let this dude into your house,” Nathan said. “He’s not what he seems.”

“Since
you
are exactly what you seem,” Marguerite said, “I know better than to heed anything you say. Besides, I know precisely what Constantine is—he’s
fabulous
.” And if he touched her, she had no idea what she would do.

Nathan tsked. “Such a pretty girl you are, and so bright and well educated, and yet you’re completely under Constantine’s thumb. I quite like you, Marguerite. I’d much rather report your safe escape than your unfortunate demise at the hands of this murderer.”