Blood Ties in Chef Voleur (4 page)

The gentle bite startled him and he jumped, which made her laugh harder. He flipped over on top of her hands, then held them in one of his while he tickled her sides.

“Jack, don’t!” she cried breathlessly, amid giggling laughter. “I thought you were too—tired.”

“Don’t what?” he said, slowing down the tickles and allowing them to become caresses. “Don’t do this?” he whispered as he slid his hand down her flat belly to caress her. “Or this?” he whispered, pushing into her with a gentle finger.

“Oh—” She wrapped her hand around his wrist, but not to stop him; she pressed his hand down and arched against it.

Jack felt her readiness and entered her, doing his best to stay disconnected, to keep the coupling casual, but that was never easy with Cara Lynn. She lifted her head to kiss him. As soon as her lips touched his, as soon as he felt her tongue along the seam of his mouth, he reciprocated, cursing himself for being so weak he couldn’t resist the person he’d targeted to pay for destroying his grandfather’s life.

* * *

P
AUL
G
UILLAME
LAY
awake and watched the purple glow grow lighter in the sky. He felt as though he hadn’t slept a wink all night. After seeing Betty Delancey’s bestowal of the Guillame fortune on the sweet princess of the Delancey clan, Paul had felt an urge to break one of the expensive bottles of champagne and use its sharp, rough edges to rip all their throats out.

His frustration was that the people whose throats he most wanted to cut were already dead. His Aunt Lilibelle, for one.

She’d yanked him free of the harsh ruling of juvenile court when he was seventeen and raised him as her own, and he’d worshiped her as much as he’d hated her husband, Con. She’d always promised him that he would have her journals. Promised that even after she died, her best friend, Con’s sister, Claire, would keep them safe for him.

But years later, when Cara Lynn graduated from high school, she’d been presented with the journals by her mother, who told her that Grandmother Lilibelle had wanted her to have them. Paul protested, but when he saw the first journal, the inscription inside the cover read
To Cara Lynn
, in his beloved Aunt Lili’s flowing, decorative hand.

He’d never dreamed that Lili would betray him, not after taking him in to rear along with her own two sons. Not after all the times he’d comforted her when Con was photographed in the company of other women. Not after everything Paul had done for her and everything she’d done for him. They’d always protected each other, and they’d sworn that they always would.

And now, once again he felt the sting of Lili’s betrayal. Her last journal, the one that could destroy the Delancey family, had also gone to Cara Lynn along with the Guillame tiara, worth so much it was generally referred to as priceless.

As fascinated as he had always been with the tiara, he wasn’t concerned about it. There was an unreal quality about jewels that large. Plus, what good would having the tiara do if he couldn’t sell it?

Still, although he was terrified at what someone might find in Lili’s last journal, it was some comfort that none of the Delanceys had gotten their hands on it, either. He’d felt a thrill almost as satisfying as a climax when the lights had gone off and people had started shouting and panicking. The seemingly superhuman Delanceys had been as helpless as ordinary people in the face of the sudden, temporary blackout that lasted for only a few minutes until the emergency generator had kicked on.

But the idea that nobody in the room could see, or know what was happening or who was causing it, had given him a particular thrill. Then when the emergency lights came on and the table was empty—the journal and the tiara gone, he nearly went over the edge.

It had taken every ounce of self-control he had to keep from literally rubbing his palms together with glee. The thief had walked into the Delancey mansion and walked out—or run out—with the journal and the tiara right under the noses of the Delanceys.

But the most exciting thing of all, precisely because he’d been watching Cara Lynn like a hawk all evening, and had made sure his eyes were on
her
and no one else when the lights came on, was that she had covered something with her hand just before the lights went out. Something white and flat, like a sheet of paper or an envelope.

Once the lights were back on, whatever the bit of white had been, it had disappeared as if it had never been there. Three Delancey men were hovering over her, and her husband was standing on a chair, apparently trying to get a good look at the thief.

Paul had kept his eyes on Cara Lynn, but whatever she had found in the journal, she must have secreted it in her purse.

Now, as he picked up the tumbler of bourbon and water he’d left on the nightstand the night before, and drained it, he let his imagination play with what it could be. The most obvious answer was a letter from Lilibelle Guillame to Cara Lynn. But what would Aunt Lili have said to a child who was barely a teenager when she’d died?
Congratulations. Hope you enjoy the nice presents?
Paul didn’t know, but he was damned sure going to find out.

He swallowed the last of the watery bourbon and felt its warmth spread through his insides. The evening had ended better than he could have hoped, for the most part.

He picked up his phone and paged through his contacts until he found the number he was looking for and pressed the Call button. “What the hell happened with your guy?” he asked when the fence, who a buddy of his had put him in touch with, answered.

“Hey, dumbass. Do you know what time it is?” the gruff-voiced man asked.

“To the second. How’d your guy drop the tiara with his fingerprints all over it? Did you have to send the stupidest guy you had?”

The man sighed. “Settle down, will you? You told me yourself there could be five cops there. He was a little nervous.”

“Well, he’s lucky he dropped the tiara and not the journal.”

“How do you figure? That piece was worth a million, easy,” the fence said.

“A million, if you count the six recognizable stones that are insured with Lloyd’s.”

“Yeah. I was just trying to figure out what to do about that. I’ve got a customer in Japan who might want it just to set it on a shelf—”

“Forget that. We don’t have it, remember? Now what about the journal? I haven’t heard from your two-bit grab-and-go man.”

“Right, right. I know. He was supposed to bring it to me, but he hurt his foot getting out of there.”

“So where is it?”

“At his house I guess.”

Paul gripped the cell phone so hard his hand cramped. “Well,
get it for me!
Now! That’s my journal and I don’t want your stupid SOB putting his hands on it. And by the way, when they run the prints from the tiara, you going to try to tell me that he’s not going to show up in the system?”

“Yeah. Okay, fine. I’ll call him again. I’ll get your damn book and bring it to you.”

“Don’t you dare come near my home. You call me and we’ll meet. And then I don’t want to ever hear from you again. Got that?”

“Hey. You going to bring me what you owe me?”

Paul laughed. “Maybe half of it, since you haven’t even delivered half the goods yet. Call me when you’ve got the journal.”

“No problem, but right now I’m going back to sleep.”

Paul hung up.

Shaking his head and thinking he’d have been better off picking up a homeless man to do the job for him, he figured he’d just give up on sleep and get up. He pulled on his sweatpants and sweatshirt and tied his running shoes. At forty-six, he was in good health. He’d been an outstanding long-distance runner in high school, and although he was beginning to feel the effects of his drinking, he’d kept up his routine of running every day, for the most part.

As he jogged along the neutral ground on St. Charles Street, he decided that it was time—actually past time—for him to make good on his offer to help Cara Lynn with the genealogy she was compiling on the Delancey and Guillame families. That would give him a chance to find the letter she’d hidden in her clutch and keep up with what progress was being made of tracking down the thief.

The papers and documents stored in the attic of Claire Delancey’s house would give him an excellent excuse to visit Cara Lynn at her apartment.

His next thought rattled him so much that he lost his jogging rhythm and almost stumbled. Not
her
apartment any longer.
Their
apartment. She’d shocked her entire family by eloping with that yokel, Jack Bush. A fake name if Paul had ever heard one. He couldn’t believe the entire Delancey clan had accepted Bush without a peep. But of course, as the baby, Cara Lynn had always been the favorite. Her brothers and cousins probably thought when she spoke that flowers and fairies spilled from her mouth.

Paul slowed his pace. Suddenly his heart was racing and his breath was short. He needed to stop his habit of keeping a glass on his nightstand. It was possible that a couple of fingers of bourbon first thing in the morning was bad for his stamina. He made a mental note to stop doing that.

Meanwhile, he needed to go digging in that box in the attic for birth records, marriage licenses and photos so he could make a fabulous first impression on Cara Lynn. Then, once he’d established himself as a regular visitor, he could search for the letter. He had to get his hands on it. He’d never have expected Claire to die so suddenly. She had never seemed old. Even in her seventies, she’d seemed enduring, immortal.

Now, he was desperate to get his hands on every bit of information Lili had given her about that dreadful day. Con’s death had haunted him for almost thirty years, and he knew he would never be at ease until he was certain there was
nothing
in writing from Lilibelle that could reveal what really happened.

He’d never harbored a lot of love for the baby of the Delancey family, Cara Lynn. But he didn’t want to hurt her if he didn’t have to. For that matter, he didn’t want to hurt anyone. But he would if he had to, to protect himself.

Chapter Four

On Sunday morning, Jack slept late. He was just getting up when Cara Lynn came in to tell him she was on her way to her studio. “It’ll probably be after dark when I get back,” she said. “I’ve got one piece that’s not finished and another that I need to stretch and hang. If I don’t get them done, I’ll have two gigantic empty spaces on the wall when the show opens tomorrow night.”

“Sit down here,” he murmured sleepily, pushing himself up against the headboard and reaching for her hand.

“Jack, I don’t have time,” she said with a smile.

“Were you able to finish the cat?”

“The cat?” Her eyes widened. She hadn’t told him about the mixed-media wall hanging because it wasn’t finished yet. “How do you know about the cat?”

“I saw your sketch in the office. I like it a lot.”

“Really? You do?” Cara Lynn wasn’t sure why she’d started that piece. Most of her fiber-art pieces were more abstract. But she’d sketched out the long, sleek body of the cat in her mind one night after she and Jack had made love. To her, the cat was a representation of Jack. The beauty of his body, his careless, unconscious grace and, most of all, the regal, arrogant tilt to his head.

“Sure. There’s something about it. I like the strong lines.”

Just as he finished speaking, his cell phone rang. She glanced toward where it lay on the bedside table, but he grabbed it and looked at the display kind of furtively, she thought. But once he saw who it was, he relaxed and answered it. “Sure, Ryker. We can do that.”

Her cousin Ryker was a detective for the St. Tammany Parish Sheriff’s Office, which served Chef Voleur. If he was calling Jack, maybe that meant they’d found the thief.

“What about the journal, and—I see. Sure. Hang on.” He looked up. “We need to go by the sheriff’s office. They want us to sign our statements and take a look at some mug shots to see if we can identify the thief. When can you go?”

“Now,” she said. “Before I go to the studio.”

Jack told Ryker that and said that he’d be there a little later, then hung up.

“Did they find the journal?” she asked eagerly.

“He didn’t say anything about having recovered the journal, but he did say they’re following up on a lead on a suspect. They apparently got fingerprints off the tiara.”

“That’s good. I hope they have the journal. I can’t wait to see it.” She looked at her watch and blew out a frustrated breath. “I’ve got to hurry, though, because once I finish with the pieces, I should take them on down to the gallery.”

He patted the bed beside him. “Sit down here for a minute. I want to look at your head.”

She sat and leaned forward until her forehead was less than an inch from his eye. “See?”

He chuckled. “I see what looks like a strip bandage, but it’s too blurry to tell for sure.” He pushed up to a seated position in the bed. “Now.”

She sat beside him and he quickly peeled the bandage off and checked the cut on her forehead.

“It looks good. How does your shoulder feel?”

She flexed it and winced. “It’s fine.”

“Take something,” he admonished her. “Some ibuprofen or something. Don’t just suffer.”

She kissed him quickly, managing to land the kiss before he could move to get up and avoid it. One of these days she was going to have to ask him why he didn’t want to kiss her. Because she was sure it wasn’t just missed timing. She’d seen him recoil the night before. And even if she weren’t sure about the other times—which she was—she was definitely sure of that one. He’d deliberately dodged her.

Jack slipped out of bed and headed to the bathroom.

She watched him, thinking how much she loved looking at his perfect body and how much she loved being held and kissed and loved by him.

No. Maybe she shouldn’t ask him why he didn’t want to kiss her. She might be crushed by his answer.

Jack stepped into the bathroom, which was still steamy and fragrant from Cara Lynn’s shower. As he opened the shower door and turned on the hot water, she came up behind him and slid her arms around his waist and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “Mmm, you smell warm, like my husband. Are you going with me?”

Jack frowned. “To the sheriff’s office? No. You heard me tell Ryker I’d be there a little later.”

“No,” she said, moving her lips against his shoulder. “To the gallery.”

“What for? I’m going to be busy all day. Those plans I’m working on are a tricky design and it’s probably going to take me several more hours to finish it.”

She nuzzled his shoulder, then moved up and kissed the nape of his neck. “Not today. Tomorrow night. For the opening. There will be hors d’oeuvres and wine. It’s semi-formal.”

He stepped away from her kiss. “Sure. Give me the name of the gallery and the time and I’ll meet you there.”

“I want you to go
with
me.”

“Depends on what time you’re leaving. You’re probably wanting to get there early, but the reason I’ve got to finish that design today is because I’ve got a meeting in Biloxi tomorrow afternoon. I might be cutting it really close.”

She gave him an odd, almost hurt look. “Okay. I’ll go by myself and you can come when you get back. Mom said she’d be there, and I guarantee you she’ll invite us over for coffee afterward. She already tried to get me to come over for dinner before the show.”

“Why don’t you go? She just wants to have you around.”

“I can’t eat before a show, and besides, I’ll probably still be working on the finishing touches for the two pieces.”

“Okay, then,” he said, and moved to kiss her on the cheek, but she intercepted him with her mouth and gave him a kiss that promised everything he’d ever wanted and more. He responded with a sense of surrender. He was going to be in big trouble if he had no more defenses against her than to get caught by such a simple ploy. He should have anticipated her last-second feint. Sometimes he was afraid she was much smarter than he was. Very afraid. If she was as smart as he was beginning to think she was, he probably didn’t have a chance of fooling her for very long. He needed to get the proof that would exonerate his grandfather and get the heck out of there before she started putting things together. All these thoughts zipped through his mind the one-tenth of a second between her stopping the kiss and speaking. Because while she was kissing him he hadn’t been able to think anything except
More, more, more.

“Bye, handsome,” she said, flicking him on the nose.

“So long, beautiful,” he responded, not looking at her. He listened to her heels click on the hardwood as she walked up the hall. He heard her stop in the office, then turn around and come back to the bedroom.

“By the way, when you were in my office, did you take down one of my grandmother’s journals?” she asked him.

“No, why?”

She sat down on the bed. “One of Grandmother’s journals is on the table instead of on the shelf. And it’s under my sketch of the cat.”

“I saw it. I figured you’d left it there.”

“No.” She stared at him for a few seconds. “So if you didn’t leave it there, then I’m worried that someone really is coming in when we’re not here.”

“
If
I didn’t?” Jack repeated. “What the hell, Cara Lynn? Don’t you believe me?”

She seemed taken aback. “No, of course I believe you. Didn’t you mention it earlier? About that bottle of water being missing?” She glanced up briefly, then turned her head to look toward the office. “But, you’re sure you didn’t forget—while you were looking at the sketch maybe?”

“I didn’t move your stuff,” he snapped, a lot more irritated by her implication than he should have been.

“Okay,” she said, irritation sharpening her voice as well. She stood and left the bedroom again. As she walked out, he heard her mutter, “I
know
it wasn’t me,” then heard the front door open and close.

He’d thought he would need a cool shower after that kiss. But now he decided he’d better stick with hot and steamy so it would dissolve his anger at Cara Lynn. He was guilty of enough already. He didn’t need her suspicious of him for things he hadn’t even done.

He showered quickly, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and felt a hundred percent better. In the living room, he opened the blinds and checked the parking lot to be sure Cara Lynn’s car was gone. Then he headed for the kitchen, thinking about her certainty that one of her grandmother’s journals had been moved, and a little worried that
if
someone were coming into the apartment, they might have tried to open his briefcase.

With a sudden sense of apprehension, Jack checked its latch. It was locked. He breathed a sigh of relief. He realized with a sinking feeling that after staying up all night, he couldn’t have sworn in a court of law that he’d locked it.

He glanced around the kitchen as he thought about the night before. When he’d come in, Cara Lynn had been hurrying out of the pantry with an armful of water bottles that weren’t needed in the refrigerator. The fact that a bottle was missing seemed to surprise her as much as it surprised him. So why had she brought three more from the pantry? She’d looked a little frazzled and a little guilty, as if he’d interrupted something.

He stopped and closed his eyes, trying to remember just exactly what had happened right before the lights went out. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been looking in her direction when the room went dark. He’d been talking to Paul Guillame. So no, he hadn’t seen a thing.

However, Paul had been looking that way. Then when the lights came back on and the journal and the tiara were missing, Jack had immediately jumped up onto the chair to see if he could spot the thief running away. It had only been when he’d heard Cara Lynn calling for him that he’d turned to her.

Damn it. If he’d been more careful about staying in his role as loving husband, he might have seen her hide the letter.

He understood that he was basing the existence of a letter on a tiny scrap of brittle paper and he knew that could be sheer folly. For all he knew, the scrap might have nothing to do with the journal. Cara Lynn could have been paging through ancient recipe books and come across one written on the back of an envelope. She loved reading her grandmother and mother’s handwritten recipes. Or it could easily be an old document she’d acquired for her genealogy. Actually, that was the most likely source, but for some reason, Jack couldn’t let go of the idea that the scrap had come from the same box that had held the journal and tiara.

It seemed natural that Cara Lynn’s grandmother would have written her a note about the items she was leaving her. Even if it was nothing more than
Best wishes.
I love you
.

But if that’s what it was, then why hide it? What could be so secretive about a letter from a grandmother to her youngest granddaughter? Was Cara Lynn just a naturally suspicious person? The kind of person who would hide anything until she’d had a chance to read it? No. Cara was definitely
not
that kind of person. He’d known her intimately for two months. Granted that wasn’t long, but his impression was that she was as honest and open as the day was long. She seemed to him like the last person on the planet who would just decide to hide something on a whim. He didn’t think she’d had time to glance at it, not without a lot of people noticing and asking about it.

Maybe where her family was concerned, she
was
secretive. If he were in a family filled with cops and lawyers and special forces operatives, he’d be damned careful about what he did and did not share with them.

His first thought was that the letter had something to do with Con Delancey’s murder. But that was
his
obsession. Even if the letter was from Lilibelle Guillame and stated outright that Armand Broussard was not the murderer, there would be no reason for Cara Lynn to hide it or keep the information a secret from him or from her family. It would have been a topic of lively conversation and possibly heated arguments, at least for a short while until something else caught their imagination.

But he could not think of another thing that could be in the letter. Unless it was just a
Dear Cara Lynn, I wanted you to have this...
note. Or possibly a letter Lili had written to her best friend Claire.
Claire, please keep these safe for me. One day, perhaps when she marries, I’d love for the journals and the tiara to go to the youngest, Cara Lynn. She reminds me so much of myself when I was that age. Maybe she’ll read my journals and decide she wants to write. Maybe she’ll use the tiara to give herself a nest egg, so she won’t be trapped in a loveless marriage....

Jack stopped his thoughts. He was drifting off into daydreams—or daymares. Why in the world would he think that Cara Lynn’s grandmother had feared—or prophesized—that her youngest granddaughter might be trapped in a marriage without love? That was just his own guilt coming out.

Having interrupted his train of thought, Jack forced himself to continue thinking rationally instead of fantasizing. He had no business trying to find the letter. There was probably less than a one percent chance that it had anything at all to do with his grandfather.

He sat down at the kitchen table and unlocked his briefcase. He wanted to review the police report from the first officer on the scene after Con Delancey was shot.

He’d hired a private investigator a few weeks ago, hoping to get his hands on any unreleased police records regarding Armand Broussard. Jack was certain that there were forms or reports he hadn’t thought or known to ask for. It had been over a week since he’d talked to the P.I. and he was anxious to hear from him.

He dug through the letters and found the stack he was looking for. As he pulled the letters out, his eye was caught by the baggie that held the yellowed scrap of envelope. He studied it for a moment, then glanced toward the pantry door. Cara Lynn had acted downright guilty when she’d come out of the pantry with the bottles in her hands.

She had hidden the letter somewhere in there. Suddenly, it didn’t matter to him that there was a 99 percent chance that the letter was of no interest to him—or to anyone except Cara Lynn. There was always that 1 percent. What if there was something—even if it was one sentence or one phrase—that might give him a clue to help clear his grandfather’s name?