Savage Nature (48 page)

Saria caught Charisse’s arm and drew her inside. “What is it,
cher
?”

Her voice was motherly, soothing, but she did exactly what Drake had told her, positioning herself so he had a clear shot at Charisse even as she took her into the living room and indicated a chair.

“We haven’t made any coffee,
cher
, but I’ll do that right away. What happened?”

“I made such a fool of myself with Mahieu last night. He was so angry with me.” Charisse put her hands over her face and began to sob.

That, at least, was genuine. Drake could always hear the echo of a lie, and there was a distinct odor to lies, but Charisse was telling the truth. He sighed and went to get tissue from the bathroom while Saria hastily put on the coffee. All the while he kept a careful line of fire to the woman—just in case.

Drake perched on the arm of a chair opposite Charisse where he knew he couldss no matter where Saria was if he was forced to shoot Charisse. He handed the sobbing woman a tissue, and shot Saria an exasperated look. She glared at him, clearly on Charisse’s side no matter what.

“Exactly what happened?” Saria said.

“I told him I didn’t want to see him anymore,” Charisse admitted. “I was lyin’ of course. Who wouldn’t want to go out with Mahieu? He’s . . . he’s . . .
perfect.
” She wept hysterically.

Saria sank down beside Charisse and patted her soothingly. “We can straighten this out, Charisse, don’t cry anymore and let’s figure it out.”

“You don’t understand. There’s no way to fix it. I told him to go away. He tried to talk to me and he said if he went, he wouldn’t come back. You know Mahieu, he means what he says.” Her voice rose in another hysterical wail. “I told him to go.”

“I’ll never understand women in a million years,” Drake groused. “If you didn’t want him to go, why would you insist he leave?” When both women looked at him, he sighed. “And don’t you own a pair of jeans? You’re out in the swamp and you’re some kind of fashion model.” Come to think of it, each time he’d seen Charisse, the woman was in some kind of fashionable suit. Even on the edge of the swamp, when he’d been on a picnic with Saria. “It isn’t practical, Charisse.”

“As a matter of fact, no, I do not own a pair of jeans. I’m a woman and I wear dresses or skirts,” Charisse said, batting tear-tipped lashes at him, clearly offended.

Drake would have thrown his hands up in exasperation, but he had a gun hidden by his side and didn’t have the luxury of expressing his complete frustration with the woman.

Saria gave him one emotion-laden look from under her long lashes, quelling any desire to continue the conversation with Charisse. Saria switched from her, you-speak-again-and-you’re-dead look to a sweet smile directed at Charisse.

“
Cher
, why did you decide to pick a fight with Mahieu? You drove him off on purpose. Why did you do that?”

Drake couldn’t tell the difference between what he’d asked and what Saria had asked, but Charisse responded with another sniff and more fresh tears. “My mother had her talk with me again. And she’s always right. I’m not good enough. Or pretty enough. Your brother is so handsome and smart and could have any woman he wanted. Why would he ever stick with me? He’s just using me. The first real woman to come along, he’d leave me and go off with her.”

Saria frowned. “That’s just not true, Charisse. A man would be lucky to have you.”

Drake wasn’t so certain. Not with the sure belief the woman was a serial killer and she cried like a child at the drop of a hat. More tears flooded her large eyes and she covered her face, rocking back and forth.

“I’ll never have a man. My mother says I don’t have what it takes to hold a man . . .”

“Oh for God’s sake, Charisse,” Drake burst out, driven beyond endurance. “How old are you anyway? Has it ever occurred to you that you’re a grown-up and maybe, just maybe, your mother is full of shit?”

Saria gasped. Charisse startled, staring at him with wide, tear-drenched eyes.

“Drake,” Saria cautioned.

“Someone has to tell the truth here, Saria. Charisse, everyone tells me you’re a brilliant woman,” Drake was more exasperated than ever. “You know you are as well, yet you let everyone treat you as if you’re a small child that’s not quite bright. So your mother says you’re not beautiful enough to hold a man like Mahieu Boudreaux. Why in the hell would you ever believe her? Mahieu is a man of principle. Do you think he’s after you for your money?”

Two spots of color flamed into Charisse’s pale face. “Every man I’ve ever gone out with has dumped me for my mother. She sends them on their way and crows about it for months.”

He heard Saria inhale sharply and he glanced at her. She pressed a hand to her stomach as if sick and he felt an answering lurch in his gut. “Are you telling me your mother
really
seduced your boyfriends?”

Charisse stiffened. Shame crept into her expression. She nodded. “Even in high school. They
always
slept with her. I was never pretty enough, or smart enough . . .”

“That’s sick, Charisse. And abusive. If you’re so damned bright, how the hell did you not figure that out? Your mother has something wrong with her and she took it out on you. Did you really think Mahieu would sleep with her?”

“
Mon dieu, cher,
tell me you didn’t accuse Mahieu of sleeping with your mother,” Saria pleaded. “
Please
tell me you didn’t do that.”

A whisper of unease slipped into Drake’s mind and lodged there.

“I did though,” Charisse sobbed. “I did and he left. You should have seen the look on his face. He’ll never talk to me again. I tried callin’ him over and over. I texted him. He didn’t answer. And I went by your house before dawn and Remy said Mahieu never came home.” Her sobs went up another notch, reaching a crescendo. “My mother wasn’t home either last night.”

Drake stiffened, his mind racing, fingers of fear creeping down his spine. “I need you to calm down for me, Charisse. Stop crying. You won’t be of any help if you keep crying.” That terrible thought continued to drift unchecked through his mind. Impossible. Totally impossible. Yet that little tendril of suspicion refused to go away. “Is there a phone in this cabin, Saria?”

“Yes. Cell phones don’t work here.”

“Call Remy and tell him to get over here now,” Drake said. “Tell him to send the team to Fenton’s Marsh. I want them to spread out and look for any signs that someone has been there. And tell him to bring the photos you took out there.”

Saria’s eyes met his. “Mahieu’s all right?” She couldn’t hide the question in her voice, or the sudden fear streaking across her transparent face, nor did she ask why he wanted the photographs of dead bodies.

Charisse gulped, her eyes widening until they looked like two drenched pansies pressed into her face. “Of course he’s all right. Why wouldn’t he be all right?” He saw her intelligence then, the quick mind fitting pieces of a puzzle together. “What’s goin’ on? Tell me right now if it has somethin’ to do with Mahieu.”

The crybaby was gone. In her place was a thinking, sharp woman. She bruI did away the tears and looked him right in the eye. “Tell me.”

“What do you know about opium?” Drake asked, his voice quiet.

Saria had leapt to her feet, but she paused, turning back toward them. Charisse blinked. Frowned. Her gaze never left Drake’s. She leaned toward him. “Quite a lot, actually. I study plants, but what would that have to do with Mahieu?”

Her voice was quite steady. Almost a challenge. As if he dared accuse Mahieu of anything and she might leap forward and claw out his eyes.

“Where are the soaps made for your company?”

Charisse frowned. “In New Orleans. We have a factory right there.”

“Do you ever go there?”

“No. I have nothing to do with production. I work in my own laboratory developin’ scents. What does this have to do with Mahieu—or opium?”

“Do you, personally, grow your plants?”

“In the greenhouse only. I experiment with developin’ different hybrids for scents there.”

“And the gardens in the swamp?”

“We have workers for that.”

“Who? Specifically?”

Charisse frowned. “I don’t know. We have a foreman. I don’t talk to him myself. Armande or my mother handles that. I have enough to do in the laboratory. In any case, I never go out in the swamp. Sometimes I meet Saria at the picnic area and . . .” Her gaze darted to Saria. “And Evangeline meets me there.”

“But never men.”

“In the swamp?” Charisse’s horror was genuine. She looked down at her clothes and gave a delicate shudder. “Never.”

“What about when you allow your leopard out?”

She flushed a deep red. “She’s never come out. That’s why my mother said I was useless. Armande has a leopard, but mine has never emerged. I tried to tell my mother she was there inside of me, but my mother is embarrassed and humiliated that I can’t shift. She says I’m a disgrace.” Charisse gave a little sniff.

“Charisse! Focus on what’s important here,” Drake commanded. If she was telling the truth, and her voice held a ring of truth, then she couldn’t possibly be the killer. The serial killer delivered death with the suffocating bite of a leopard. “I can assure you that your mother’s opinion of you isn’t worth shit. Saria, call your brother and get that team out into the Marsh.”

“Mahieu?” Saria’s voice was steady.

“The team may just save his life. Get moving.”

Saria nodded and picked up the phone.

“Are you goin’ to tell me what all these questions are for? This sounds like an interrogation.”

“Believe me, Charisse. If I have to interrogate you, I won’t be so fucking gentle,” Drake snapped. “Someone is using your soaps to ship opium out of the country. They also have at least one local connection they supply, but more likely there are more.”

Charisse sat up straight, her face going pale. “That’s impossible. You’re crazy. Our business is family owned and completely legitimate. I can’t believe you would make such an accusation. Saria! Did you hear him?”

Saria put down the phone after talking to her brother and turned back to Charisse, leaning one hip against the table. “I heard him. I led his men through the swamp the other night, running to catch up with a boat. The Mercier boat, and they docked at
your
dock, Charisse. The Tregre brothers had delivered a shipment of soap in the middle of the night.”

“No. No way.” Charisse shook her head. “The Tregres have worked for our family for a long time. They work out of New Orleans and take the shipment to the docks, where they are inspected carefully. If there were drugs, the dogs would pick up the sce . . .” She trailed off, her face going dead white.

There was no way she could fake the color of her skin. Her brain was working things out, seeing possibilities and putting the pieces together, but Drake might have to concede he was way off-base looking at Charisse and that would mean that niggling suspicion was growing into a major scare. Because if he was right, Mahieu Boudreaux might already be dead.

“That’s right, Charisse. You’re the genius with scent, aren’t you,” Drake pressed her. He leaned close and looked her right in the eye, forcing her to lock gazes with him. “Tell us about the scent that inhibits others, even leopards, from tracking by scent.”

Charisse shook her head, her fingers twisting tightly together until her knuckles were white. “You have it all wrong, Drake. Saria . . .”

She tried to turn her head, tried to escape the evertightening noose, but Drake refused to let her off the hook. “Damn you, don’t look at Saria. She can’t help you. Did you or did you not, develop something that inhibits the ability to smell, or perhaps deadens every scent gland?” he snapped.

Charisse drew herself up abruptly, her childlike expression going cool. “I don’t have to stay here and listen to these accusations. I think the next time you talk to me, I’ll have a lawyer present.” She started to rise.

His low growl of pure menace rumbled through the cabin, stopping her. “Sit down,” he snapped, his eyes going pure gold. “You’re leopard, Charisse. You belong to a lair. I am the leader of that lair and as such, I am the only judge and jury and executioner that you or your family will ever have. There is a death sentence hanging over your head and as much as it would pain Saria, I will destroy your entire family for the preservation and good of the lair.”

He raised his voice. “
Look
at
me
, not Saria. She can’t save you. You need to convince
me
you have nothing to do with this mess, and right now, honey, it isn’t looking all that good for you.”

Charisse’s hand went defensively to her throat. There was no getting around the ring of truth in Drake’s voice. He heard Saria make a small, protesting sound, but he didn’t look at her. She was going to be his wife. She needed to see the reality of what their life was like. Amos Jeanmard should have been cleaning up his lair years earlier. Regardless, it was all there in this dying lair, the depravity, the sickness and the greed for power and money. If he had to kill this woman, he would do so and without hesitation.

“It’s not what you think. Yes. I experiment all the time with scents and the by-product of this very new scent I was workin’ on turned out to have an unusual, very unique aspect to it.”

Her voice changed completely again, Drake noted, suddenly animated, her eyes bright with eagerness. For the first time he felt he was looking at the real Charisse Mercier.

“I’d never seen anything like it. Not only was there no scent, but it consumed every other scent around it. Can you imagine the uses? I haven’t perfected it yet, but I think it will be amazin’. Think of all the people with allergies to scents and that’s just one use. I’ve been experimentin’ with ingestin’ it. That seems to yield the best results, but I have to study side effects.”

“Charisse.” Drake needed to bring her back to the reality of what was going on. Her brain had flipped a switch to pure scientist and she was no longer talking to him, rather talking aloud to herself to find a solution for some problem she’d obviously encountered. “Who else knows about this scent-masking product you’ve discovered?”