Midnight Bayou by Nora Roberts
does,” she murmured and continued to stroke Lena’s hair. “It surely does.”
18
As host of Remy’s bachelor party, Declan felt socially obligated to stay till the bitter end. The bitter end was some dingy, backstreet dive in the Quarter where the liquor burned holes in what was left of a man’s stomach lining and the strippers were woefully past their prime.
Nobody seemed to care.
In the spirit of good fellowship, Declan tucked a final dollar in the frayed garter on a flabby white thigh, then hauled a glassy-eyed Remy to his feet.
“Let’s go, pal of mine.”
“Huh? What? Is it morning?”
“Close enough.”
As they stumbled out, arm in arm as much for necessity as friendship, Remy looked around. His head bopped like a puppet’s on a jerked string. “Wherez everybody?”
“Passed out, in jail, dead in an alley.”
“Oh. Wimps.” Remy grinned his rubber grin. “You ’n me, Dec, we still got it.”
“I’m starting a course of antibiotics in the morning to get rid of it.” He tripped and had to wrap both arms around Remy to keep from falling on his face. “Too much gravity. There’s entirely too much gravity out here.”
“Let’s go find us another naked woman.”
“I think we found all of them already. Time to go home, old buddy, old pal.”
“I’m getting married in three days.” Remy held up four fingers to demonstrate. “No more carousing for Remy.” He looked around. The streets were nearly deserted and oily with the light drizzle. “Do we have to bail anybody out?”
“Screw ’em.”
“Damn right. Where’s my girl? Effie!” He shouted it, and the name echoed back, making Declan snort drunkenly.
“Stella!” Cracked up by his own wit, he sat down hard in a puddle. “Fuck it, Remy. Let’s just sleep here.”
“Gotta go find my girl, gonna make sweet, sweet love to my Effie.”
“You couldn’t get it up right now with a hydraulic pump.”
“Bet?” Remy fumbled for his zipper, and Declan had just enough brain cells left to stagger up and stop him.
“Put that thing away before you hurt yourself. Get us arrested for decent exposure.”
“ ’S okay. We’re lawyers.”
“Speak for yourself. Find cabs. We must find cabs.”
“Cab to Effie. Where’s my blushin’ bride?”
“Home in bed, like every other good woman is at . . .” He lifted Remy’s wrist, tried to focus on the watch. “Whatever o’clock in the morning. Lena, she’s in bed. She thinks I’m a woman.”
“You must not be fucking her right then.”
“No, you ass. And remind me to punch you for that later. She thinks I’m Abigail.”
“You haven’t been trying on her underwear or anything weird like that, have you, son?”
“I like the little black lace panties with the roses best. They slim down my hips.”
“Pretty sure you’re joking. Wait.” He stopped, leaned over the curb, hands braced on his knees. Then slowly straightened again. “False alarm. Not gonna puke.”
“There’s good news. Cab!” Declan waved desperately when he saw one cruising. “In the name of God. You first,” he said and all but shoved Remy inside before diving in after.
“Where do I live?” Remy demanded. “I used to know, but I forgot. Can I call Effie and ask her?”
Fortunately Declan remembered, and as Remy snoozed on his shoulder, he concentrated on remaining conscious until he fulfilled the last of his duties and got his friend home alive.
At the curb, he elbowed Remy and brought him up like an arrow from a bow. “What? Where? Sum bitch, I’m home. How ’bout that?”
“Can you make it from here?” Declan asked him.
“I can hold my liquor. All six gallons of it.” Shifting, Remy caught Declan’s face in his hand and kissed him hard on the mouth. “I love you, cher. But if you’d been Abigail, I’d’ve slipped you some tongue.”
“Ugh,” was the best Declan could manage as Remy climbed out.
“You’re the goddamnedest best friend I ever had, and that was the goddamnedest best bachelor’s party in the history of bachelor’s parties. I’m gonna go up, puke, and pass out now.”
“You do that. Wait till he gets in the door,” Declan told the driver, and watched Remy waver, split in two. Both of them stumbled inside the building.
“Okay, the rest is his business. You know where the old Manet Hall is?”
The driver eyed him in the rearview mirror. “I guess I do.”
“I live there. Take me home, okay?”
“That’s a long way out.” The driver shifted, turned, eyed Declan up and down. “You got enough for the fare?”
“I got money. I got lotsa money.” Declan pawed through his pockets, came up with bills, littered the cab with them. “I’m loaded.”
“You’re telling me.” With a shake of his head, the driver pulled away from the curb. “Must’ve been some party, buddy.”
“Tell me,” Declan muttered, then slid face first on the backseat.
The next thing he knew, clearly, a Dixieland band was blasting in his head. He was still facedown, but the beach of Waikiki had ended up in his mouth and his tongue had grown a fine fur coat.
Some sadist was hammering spikes into his shoulder.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners.”
“No point falling back on that now. Just roll over nice and slow, cher. Don’t open your eyes yet.”
“I’m dying here. Call a priest.”
“Here now, Lena’s got you.” Gently and with great amusement, she eased him over, supported his head. “Just swallow this.”
He glugged, choked, felt something vile wash over the fur, through the sand and down his throat. In defense, he tried to push the glass away from his lips, and opened his eyes.
He’d go to his grave denying the sound that had come out of his mouth had in any way resembled a girlish scream.
Lena clucked her tongue. “I told you not to open your eyes.”
“What eyes? What eyes? They’ve been burned to cinders.”
“Drink the rest.”
“Go away, go very far away, and take your poison with you.”
“That’s no way to talk to someone who’s come to tend you on your deathbed.”
He slid back down, dragged a pillow over his face. “How’d you know I was dying?”
“Effie called.”
“When’s Remy’s funeral?”
“Fortunately, he’s marrying a woman with a great deal of tolerance, understanding and humor. How many titty bars did y’all hit last night?”
“All of them. All the titty bars in all the land.”
“I suppose that explains why you have a pasty on your cheek.”
“I do not.” But when he groped under the pillow, he felt the tassel. “Oh God. Have some mercy and just kill me.”
“Well, all right, honey.” She applied just enough pressure to the pillow to have him flapping his hands and shoving up.
His face was flushed, his bloodshot eyes just a little wild. “That wasn’t funny.”
“You had to see it from this side.” And she laughed. He still wore his clothes, the wrinkled, liquor-spotted shirt half in, half out of his jeans. Another pasty peeked out of the shirt pocket. This one was pink and silver. His eyes were narrowed to a pained squint.
“You’re going to feel better in a bit—not good but better. You get a shower and some food, on top of that potion I poured into you, you’ll get the feeling back in your extremities in two, maybe three hours.”
Someone had shaved the fur off his tongue, he discovered. He wasn’t sure it was an improvement. “What was in that stuff you gave me?”
“You don’t want to know, but I laced it with four aspirin, so don’t take any more for a while. I’m going to fix you a nice light omelette and some toast.”
“Why?”
“Who asked you?”
“And make that a long shower. You smell like the barroom floor.” She pushed to her feet. “How come nobody’s around here today?”
“In anticipation of a hangover, I let it be known that anyone who came around this house before three in the afternoon would be executed without trial.”
She checked her watch. “Looks like you got a few hours yet.”
“If I have to get out of this bed, I’m getting a gun. I’ll feel bad about killing you, but I’ll do it.”
“I’ll be in the kitchen.” She cocked a brow. “Bring your gun, cher, and we’ll see if you remember how to use it.”
“Is that a euphemism?” he called after her, then immediately regretted raising his voice. Holding his head to keep it in place, he eased creakily out of bed.
She chuckled all the way downstairs. Laughed harder when she heard a door slam. Bet he’s sorry he did that, she thought, then stopped, looked back when she heard another two slams.
Ah well . . . she supposed he couldn’t threaten ghosts with a gun.
“Make all the racket you want,” she said as she headed back toward the kitchen. “You don’t worry me any.”
The library doors shook as she passed them. She ignored them. If a surly, smelly man didn’t chase her off, a mean-tempered ghost wouldn’t.
He’d looked so damn cute, she thought as she hunted up the coffee beans. All pale and male and cross. And with that silly pasty plastered on his cheek.
Men just lost half their IQ when they had a look at a naked woman. Put a pack of them together with women willing to strip to music, and they had the common sense of a clump of broccoli.
She ground the beans, set coffee to brew. She was mixing eggs in a bowl when it occurred to her that it was the first time in her life she’d made breakfast for a man she hadn’t slept with the night before.
Wasn’t that an odd thing?
Odder still that she was humming in the kitchen of an annoyed, smelly, hungover man who’d snapped at her.
Out of character, Lena. Just what’s going on here?
She’d been so intrigued by Effie’s cheerful amusement over Remy’s condition. And here she was, feeling the same thing over Declan’s.
She peered out the window at the garden that had been wild and abandoned only months before. It bloomed now, beautifully, with new sprigs, fresh green spearing out.
She’d gone and done it after all. Gone and let him sneak into her, right through the locks and bolts.
She was in love with him. And oh God, she didn’t want to be—as much for his sake as for her own.
He’d blown the dust off those young dreams she’d so rigidly put away. The ones colored with love and hope and trust. They were so shiny now that they were staring her in the face. So shiny they blinded her.
And terrified her.
Marriage. The man wanted marriage, and she didn’t believe in making promises unless you’d shed blood to keep them.
Would she? Could she?
“I think I’d want to,” she said quietly. “I think I’d want to, for him.”
As she spoke, a cupboard door flew open. A thick blue mug shot out and smashed at her feet.
She leaped back, heart hammering as shards rained over her ankles. Grimly, she stared down at the blood seeping out of tiny nicks.
“Seems I already have. You don’t want that, do you?” Bowl still clutched in her hand, she spun a circle. “You want anything but our being together. We’ll see who wins in the end, won’t we? We’ll just see.”
Deliberately she reached down for one of the shards, then ran it over her thumb. As the blood welled, she held her hand up, let it drip. “I’m not weak, as he was. If I take love, if I promise love, I’ll keep it.”
The sound of chimes had her bolting straight up. It was Declan’s tune. The first ringing notes of it. Fear and wonder closed her throat, had her bobbling the bowl.
“Goddamn it, answer the door, will you?” His voice blasted downstairs, full of bitter annoyance. “Then murder whoever rang that idiot doorbell.”
Doorbell? She pushed her free hand through her hair. He’d installed a doorbell that played “After the Ball.” Wasn’t that just like him?
“You keep shouting at me,” she called as she marched down the hall, “you’re going to have worse than a hangover to deal with.”
“If you’d go away and let me die in peace, I wouldn’t have to shout.”
“In about two shakes, I’m coming up there and wringing your neck. And after I wring your neck, I’m going to kick your ass.”
She wrenched open the door on the final threat, and found herself glaring at a very handsome couple. It took only one blink to clear the temper for her to see Declan’s eyes looking curiously back at her out of the woman’s face.
“I’m Colleen Fitzgerald.” The woman, tidy, blond and lovely, held out an elegant hand. “And who are you? If that’s my son’s ass you’re intending to kick, I’d like to know your name.”
“Mom?” Dripping from the shower, wearing nothing but ripped sweatpants, Declan rushed to the top of the stairs. “Hey! Mom, Dad.” Despite the ravages of the hangover, he bolted down, threw one arm around each of them and squeezed. “I thought you were flying down tomorrow.”
“Change of plans. Are you just getting up?” Colleen demanded. “It’s after one in the afternoon.”
“Bachelor party last night. Hard liquor, loose women.”
“Really?” Colleen said and eyed Lena.
“Oh, not this one. She came over to play Florence Nightingale. Colleen and Patrick Fitzgerald, Angelina Simone.”
“Good to meet you.” Patrick, long, lanky, with his dark hair gorgeously silvered at the temples, sent Lena a generous smile. His blue eyes were bright and bold as he held out a hand.
Then they narrowed in concern as he saw her thumb. “You’ve hurt yourself.”
“It’s nothing.”
“What’d you do? You’re bleeding. Jesus, Lena.” Panicked, Declan grabbed her wrist, all but plucked her off her feet and rushed her toward the kitchen.
“It’s just a scratch. Stop it, Declan. Your parents. You’re embarrassing me,” she hissed.
“Shut up. Let me see how deep it is.”
Still in the doorway, Patrick turned to his wife. “She’s the one?”
“He certainly thinks so.” Colleen pursed her lips, stepped into the house. “Let’s just see about all this.”
“Hell of a looker.”
“I’ve got eyes, Patrick.” And she used them to take in the house as they followed Declan’s hurried path.
It was more, a great deal more than she’d expected. Not that