“Gorgeous,” he breathed, bending to kiss one breast.
Her hands tangled in his hair as he drew her nipple into the heat of his mouth. She squirmed beneath him, her breathing going shallow.
He moaned her name. Then he kissed his way toward her mouth while his hand closed over her damp breast. His tongue tangled with hers, and his fingertips continued an erotic exploration of her body. He tried to take it slow and gentle, but passion surged through him, desperate and impatient.
He trailed his fingers through her silky down, finding his way to her center. His fingers teased her, making her arch toward him.
She groaned his name, fueling his fire, while her fingers fumbled with the waistband of his boxers. Then her hot mouth came down on his flat nipple, and his arousal jacked up to critical.
“Joan,” he moaned, grabbing at his boxers.
There was a sharp clatter in the hall.
Anthony swore. He barely had time to flip one end of the quilt over Joan’s naked body, when the door burst open, whacking against the far wall.
“Anthony?” Heather cried.
Anthony turned and stared at her, expecting a quick apology, followed by an even quicker retreat.
But Heather just stood there. “Anthony,” she repeated, dragging air in and out of her lungs.
Joan sat up, clutching the quilt to her chest. “What’s wrong?”
Heather gripped the doorjamb, her knuckles going white under the pressure. “Samuel’s been shot.”
T
HE FIRST PERSON
Anthony saw in the hallway of the Indigo clinic was Alain Boudreaux.
He headed straight for the police chief, looking for information. “Is he going to be okay?”
Alain nodded. “Doc says he’ll be fine.”
Anthony raked a hand through his hair and breathed a sigh of relief. Joan gave Heather a tight hug.
“Do we know what happened?” asked Anthony.
“Burglary,” said Alain. “Somebody ransacked the house, and Samuel walked in on it.”
“Does this happen often?” asked Anthony. Somebody had broken into Samuel’s two days ago. He claimed they took nothing. So was this someone new, or were they back?
“We don’t know what’s going on,” said Alain. “But we’re starting an investigation.”
“Good.”
Joan moved forward, pale as a ghost. “Is it connected to me?”
“We don’t know that, ma’am,” said Alain.
“But it probably is. Why else—”
Anthony took her hand. “They don’t know anything yet.”
She closed her mouth and nodded.
Anthony turned back to Alain. “Do we know anything about the shooter?”
“Samuel could only say it was a male Caucasian with graying hair. And Heather didn’t get a look at him.”
Heather shook her head to confirm Alain’s statement. She looked small in the clinic foyer, still dressed in her shorts and a thin tank top. “I was in the truck. All I saw was a flash, and then Anthony fell. The ambulance came, but I lost the phone…” Her voice broke on the last words, and Joan rubbed her shoulder.
Heather sniffed back a tear, rubbing her arms as she started to shiver. “Can I see Samuel yet?”
“Soon, I think,” said Alain. “He’s in surgery.”
Anthony glanced around and scooped a blanket from a housekeeping rack, draping it over Heather’s shoulders.
“You’re not going to take him to St. Martinville?” Joan asked.
The Indigo facility was just a clinic. The surgical capabilities had to be rudimentary.
“The bullet’s lodged in his shoulder,” Alain answered. “They considered it safer to take it out here than risk the trip.”
“He
can’t
die,” Heather all but wailed, and Anthony realized how traumatic it must have been for her to witness a shooting.
Looking at Joan’s stricken face, Anthony pulled both women against his chest, cradling each in one of his arms. He took in Alain’s grim expression and wondered just how far this insanity was going to go.
A doctor appeared through a swinging door at the end of the hall, wearing a blue gown, a paper cap and shoe covers.
Heather tore herself from Anthony’s arms and rushed forward. “Is he okay?”
The doctor nodded his head. “He’s fine. As gunshots go, it was a minor wound. He’ll be groggy for a while, but you can go see him.”
Heather nodded, her shoulders sagging in relief as she headed for the swinging doors.
Anthony’s arm tightened on Joan. “This is getting out of hand.”
She nodded as Alain and the doctor bowed their heads in conversation.
Anthony pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and punched in Luc’s number. He kept his arm around Joan, having no intention of letting her out of his sight. This situation had officially stopped making sense two hours ago. Fan or random burglar, Anthony wasn’t taking a chance that the shooter might come after Joan.
Luc picked up.
“Samuel’s going to be fine,” said Anthony without preamble.
“This is bloody strange,” said Luc.
“You got that right,” said Anthony. “I’m going to bring the girls home. You got any weapons in the house?”
“There’s a rifle and an old twelve-gauge.”
“That’ll do.”
“You need some help with this?”
“Appreciate it.”
“You got it.”
“Thanks.” Anthony snapped the phone shut.
“You’re joking,” said Joan, blinking up at him.
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
She swallowed. “So you
do
think this is my fault?”
“It’s not your fault.”
“But you do think it’s connected to my book.”
“I don’t know anything yet.”
Joan pulled back, squaring her shoulders. “Samuel got shot because of something I wrote.”
“We don’t know that.”
She trembled slightly. “It’s my fault.”
“It’s not your fault.”
Her voice went shrill. “Then whose fault is it?”
Anthony stared hard into her eyes. “The guy with the gun.”
Heather reappeared through the swinging doors.
Joan went to her sister, and Alain approached Anthony, handing him a business card.
“My cell number’s on the back. If Heather remembers any more details, call me right away.”
Anthony pocketed the card. “Heather’s leaving for Paris in the morning.”
“No, she’s not,” said Heather, wiping her cheeks with the backs of her hands.
“Be better if she stayed,” said Alain.
“Be safer if she left,” said Anthony.
“I don’t think she’s in any danger. My men are at Samuel’s house, and I don’t think the guy came looking to shoot him. It was a case of wrong place, wrong time.”
“It
is
his house.”
“That’s true. And Clem says it’s been trashed pretty thoroughly. I’m betting whatever they came for, they found.”
“Well, I’m getting the women out of town anyway,” said Anthony.
“I’m not leaving town,” said Joan.
“You’re going to Paris.”
She shook her head. “Not until we figure out who shot Samuel.”
“How is your staying going to help?” A small part of Anthony couldn’t believe he was arguing
for
Paris. But a bigger part of him was frightened for Joan.
“It’s my book. Maybe there’s something—”
“No, there’s not.”
“You can’t make me leave.”
“Yesterday I couldn’t make you stay.”
“I’m fickle.”
“That’s true,” said Heather.
They both turned to look at her.
“Well, it is,” she affirmed, breaking the tension.
Alain tucked his notebook into his breast pocket, turning his attention to Joan. “If you’re going to be in town, I do wish you’d reconsider endorsing the music festival, ma’am.”
Joan pointed a finger at Alain. “See? He doesn’t think I’m in any danger.”
Anthony glared at Alain. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“I’ve had fifteen years in law enforcement,” said Alain. “I’d take precautions, but there’s no need to panic.”
Joan poked Anthony in the chest. “Hear that?”
“Thanks a ton,” he said to Alain.
Alain shrugged.
“For that,” said Joan, “I will endorse the festival.”
Alain tipped his hat. “Thank you, ma’am. That’s very generous of you.”
“It’s my damn books that are ruining Indigo,” Joan muttered under her breath. “Not the music festival.”
“You’re going to Paris,” Anthony told her.
A
LL THE WAY
back to the B and B, Joan insisted she wasn’t going to Paris, obviously frustrating Anthony.
“Keep the blinds closed and the lights off,” he barked as he moved toward the door of the attic suite. “I’m taking the first shift, and Luc’s taking the second.”
Heather blinked beside her under the covers in the giant bed. “I feel like we’re seven.”
“That’s because you’re acting like you’re seven,” said Anthony.
Heather stuck her tongue out at him.
“Nice,” said Anthony, clicking the door shut as he left.
Joan couldn’t help but grin. She didn’t blame Anthony for being worried, but she’d given it a lot of thought. The only thing that made sense was a souvenir hunt gone wrong. Even if somebody was mad at her for writing
Bayou Betrayal,
there was no reason to shoot Samuel. And if they meant to harm Joan, they would have been at her place or the B and B, not his.
“Protective guy,” said Heather into the dim light.
“You know it,” Joan agreed. Usually she kind of liked his protective streak. But this time it was proving inconvenient.
She reached for her sister’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “You’re okay, right?”
“Now that I know Samuel is okay, yes.”
Joan considered Heather’s profile, trying to make sense of her relationship with Samuel. Last she’d checked, they didn’t like each other.
“So, uh, what
were
you doing at his cottage?” she asked.
Heather gave her lacy pillow a couple of whacks, then propped it against the white wicker headboard. “He was going to give me a tour.”
“Why?”
“Because it was in your book.”
“So?” Samuel’s exact cottage wasn’t in her book. It was an amalgamation of his, her own and several other Creole cottages in the area.
“So, I read your book today.”
Joan stilled.
Heather grinned. “It was terrific.”
Emotion built in Joan’s chest until it was hard to breathe. She sat straight up, dragging a fluffy, white pillow into her lap. “Are you just saying that?”
“Does ‘just saying that’ sound like me?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m not just saying that. I liked it. It was…” Heather gazed at the ceiling. “I don’t know. It was exciting and sexy and enthralling.”
“Enthralling?” That was definitely more validation than Joan had ever hoped for from a member of her family.
“You’re a good writer, Joanie.”
Joan blinked against a sudden burning in her eyes. “You think Mom and Dad will like it?”
Heather choked out a laugh. “Mom and Dad will hate it.”
Joan tried to hide her disappointment.
“Face it,” said Heather. “The better you write these things, the more popular you’ll become, and the more they’ll hate it.”
“Aarrgghh!” Joan pulled the pillow over her face.
“You can’t win on this.”
“I know.” Joan’s voice was muffled. “I know.”
Heather patted her shoulder. “You really should have taken up poetry.”
“And write about ‘the green grass kissing the morning dew’ for the rest of my natural life? I don’t think so.”
“Don’t talk heresy,” said Heather.
Joan looked up. “So you really liked my book?”
“I really liked your book.”
Joan sighed in satisfaction. Until this
very
moment, she hadn’t realized how much Heather’s opinion meant to her.
“But we have to talk about the other thing now,” said Heather.
“What other thing?”
Heather tilted her head sideways and leaned in close. “I walked in on you and Anthony.”
Oh.
That
other thing. “Well…” Joan started slowly. “I guess, under the circumstances, we forgive you.”
Heather gave her a shove on the shoulder.
Joan tried really hard not to think about what Heather must have seen.
“I thought you said you weren’t sleeping with him.”
“I wasn’t. I’m
not.
”
“What do you mean, you’re not.”
“I mean…” Joan stopped herself short, realizing she was about to make the situation worse.
Heather blinked at her for a second. “Oh my God.” Her shriek of laughter rang out, and Joan buried her face in the pillow.
Footsteps clattered on the stairs.
Before Joan could get her mind around what was happening, the bedroom door crashed open. Anthony and Luc burst into the room, rifles drawn.
“What?” Joan cried.
“You screamed,” Anthony roared, his gaze darting to every corner of the room.
Luc turned his back to Anthony’s, pointing his weapon at the French doors.
“That was me,” said Heather.
“It’s nothing,
nothing,
” Joan hastily assured them with a frantic shake of her head.
Both men stopped and stared at them.
“You screamed for nothing?” asked Anthony.
Heather swallowed. “I was…uh…laughing.”
They lowered their weapons. Luc shook his head in disgust and left the room.
“Laughing?” asked Anthony, his voice incredulous.
Heather swallowed. “At something Joan said.”
If Heather went into details, Joan was absolutely going to die.
“I’m glad you find this all so amusing.” Anthony raised his weapon and clicked the safety back on.
“It was Joan’s book that was funny,” Heather snapped. “Not Samuel getting shot.”
“Joan’s book isn’t funny,” said Anthony.
“It’s funny that I liked it.”
His expression changed, and he glanced at Heather with renewed interest. “You liked it?”
“It’s brilliant.”
He gave a grunt of satisfaction. “See?” he said to Joan.
“Doesn’t mean anyone else is going to change their mind,” she retorted.
“You thought Heather would hate it.”
“My parents will definitely hate it.”
“Gotta go with Joan on this one,” said Heather.
Anthony shook his head and set his rifle on the table. “I give up.”