Chapter 16
"Jean-Luc, we need to talk."
He glanced up from one of Heather's sketches to see Alberto coming into the studio. "Is there a problem in Paris?"
"No. The problem is here." Alberto waved at Heather's work. "This - this is a disaster."
Jean-Luc laid the sketch down. "This was my decision, Alberto. I do not need to defend it."
He lowered his gaze. "I don't mean to upset you, Jean-Luc, but you taught me yourself that your designs are only for a privileged few."
Jean-Luc's anger was tempered by the desperation on Alberto's face. Clearly the man believed Heather's project was a mistake. "I know this idea is unorthodox, but I want to try it."
"It will make you a laughingstock in the fashion world. None of the Hollywood stars will wear your gowns if they're being worn by the common folk."
"You and I both come from common folk."
"Yes, but we rose above that." Alberto gestured at the dress form. "She's making fat lady clothes!"
A small gasp at the door heralded Heather's arrival. Jean-Luc groaned inwardly, knowing she'd heard Alberto's rude remark. He stepped close to his protégé and narrowed his eyes. "You are mistaken, and you will apologize."
Alberto's face flushed. He glanced over his shoulder at Heather. "I am sorry, signora."
"Is it true?" Heather walked toward them, her expression worried. "Will my designs damage your reputation?"
She must have heard more than Alberto's insult. Jean-Luc shrugged. "The media is fickle. I never know how they will react. They might laugh at this, or they might call us heroes and visionaries."
She tilted her head, considering. "Does it really matter what they think? I mean, if sales are good, how could it be called a failure?"
Alberto huffed with exasperation. "It is not about money. High fashion is an art."
"I think it's about making people feel good," Heather declared. "And if they're spending their money on something, then that means it's making them happy."
Jean-Luc smiled. Heather's confidence in herself was growing. "We're going to do it, Alberto. Thanks to Heather, fashion will be available to women of all shapes and sizes."
Alberto sputtered while Heather grinned. Jean-Luc wanted to pull her into his arms, but was broadsided with a sudden idea.
"We can use the charity show to gauge how people will react," he suggested. "Heather, can you have a few designs ready by the end of next week?"
"I think so." She nodded. "Sure."
Jean-Luc didn't want to bring in more professional models, since he didn't want the media to hear about the show or about his presence in Texas. "Do you know some local women who could model your clothes?
Alberto snorted. "The town is full of fat women."
Heather glared at him, then turned to Jean-Luc. "I have some friends who would love to model. And they're not fat." She shot another angry glance at Alberto.
"You can showcase some of your designs, too," Jean-Luc told Alberto. "Simone, Inga, and Sasha will model for you."
"Can we make it a competition?" Alberto asked, his eyes lighting up. "And invite celebrities to judge?"
"No." Jean-Luc gave him a warning look. "No celebrities, no media. You know why."
Alberto sighed.
Heather looked curious. "Why - "
"It'll be a small function just for the local people," Jean-Luc interrupted. "Because the proceeds are only for the local area." He hoped that would make enough sense to keep her from asking more questions.
She smiled. "I think it's wonderful that you're raising money for the school district. Thank you."
He shrugged. "Alberto's handling the matter." It was embarrassing to be considered charitable when he was actually bribing the builder and mayor to keep quiet about his store.
He was beginning to dread the show, for afterward his official exile would begin. The store would close for good. Alberto and the models would return to Paris. People would assume he'd left, too, but he would be hiding in the abandoned building with his two guards for twenty-five long years. How could he live next door to Heather and not be tempted to see her?
"Do you want any of your designs in the show?" Alberto asked.
Jean-Luc shrugged. "It doesn't matter." Nothing seemed to matter when faced with a twenty-five-year-long prison term without hope of seeing Heather. But how could he ask her and her family to share a prison with him? They didn't have the possibility that he had of living for centuries into the future. This was their life now, their only life. They needed to live it. Without him.
"Fine," Alberto continued. "Then Heather and I will each show our designs to the local...riffraff, and then we'll see which ones they prefer." He gave her a challenging look, then strode from the room.
She stepped closer to Jean-Luc. "Are you all right?"
"Yes."
She studied him, frowning. "You look like you've lost your best friend."
He was going to, he realized. He was in a no-win situation. In the worst-case scenario, he could lose Heather to Lui's murderous revenge. But he wouldn't let that happen. He'd kill Lui first. Unfortunately, then he would lose Heather because it was the only honorable thing to do. He couldn't ask her to give up twenty-five years of her short life to share his exile.
He would have to send her away. He'd hire her to do her designs in New York or Paris. Then she could have her dream life. And he'd make sure that she and her daughter never wanted for anything. A strong wave of emotion washed over him, and he realized he wasn't planning this simply out of duty or a sense of honor.
He was doing it for love. Somehow, somewhere during the last few days, he'd begun to fall in love.
"I'm all right," he assured her. "I'm just concerned that we haven't found Lui yet."
"I wanted to talk to you about that." She dug a piece of paper from her jeans pocket and handed it to him. "Fidelia had a dream about an oil painting, and it's located at this museum on the outskirts of town. The curator is keeping it open for us."
"Then we should go." He escorted her toward the door as he glanced at the paper. "Chicken Ranch?"
"Yep. The most famous one in Texas, so they made it into a museum."
He led her down the hall. "They made a museum about chickens?"
She laughed. "It was a house of prostitution."
"Ah. I should have realized."
"Yeah." Heather winced. "I'm just wondering how come Fidelia knows so much about it."
The second they entered the showroom, Jean-Luc noticed Robby installing a camera near the two-story-high ceiling. Unfortunately, he wasn't using a ladder.
He grabbed Heather and turned her away from the levitating Robby. "How...was your day?"
"Fine." She smiled slowly. "It started off with a wonderful massage."
He smiled back, then glanced up at Robby. The Scotsman had heard them and was descending to the floor. "I liked your sketches."
Heather's smile widened. "Thank you."
Robby was now on the floor.
"Grab the keys, Robby. And bring our swords. We're going hunting."
"I'm coming, too." Heather dashed toward the kitchen, calling back. "I'll borrow a gun from Fidelia. Don't leave without me!"
Robby frowned, shaking his head. "No' a good idea."
"She's coming," Jean-Luc announced, then went out the front door before Robby could argue.
The front door was bracketed by two outdoor lights that dimly lit the porch. Jean-Luc let his gaze wander over the land that separated his lair from the highway. He saw no hint of movement. Cedar trees and clumps of palmetto dotted the area enclosed by the long circular driveway. His BMW and Heather's truck were parked nearby. He'd had a gardener plant oak trees along the drive, but they were small now. By the time his exile of twenty-five years was up, they would be large and impressive.
"There you are!" Heather rushed out onto the porch. "I was afraid you'd leave without me."
"I really should, but I've discovered a recent problem where you're concerned."
"What's that?" She hitched her purse onto her shoulder.
"I'm unable to tell you no."
She laughed. "That's not a problem."
"It is if it puts you in danger."
"I can take care of myself. I'm at war with fear, remember?"
"I am impressed by your willingness to confront the villain." He placed a hand on the small of her back and ushered her toward the darker end of the porch. "How do you feel about confronting this attraction between us?"
Her eyes widened. "I...suppose we can admit it's there."
"And it's growing stronger. At least for me."
She leaned against a column and gazed toward the highway. "It's happening very fast."
"Do you doubt it's real?"
She glanced at him. "No. It's real. Real enough that I could get hurt."
"I would never hurt you. Not intentionally."
"I know that." She placed a hand on his chest. "I'm...very attracted to you, Jean-Luc, but I'm trying not to make any mistakes I'll regret."
"I understand." He planted a hand on either side of the column, pinning her in. "I know I should resist you. But whenever you're close, I can only think about how much I want you."
He kissed her brow. "I keep remembering how good you feel in my arms and how sweet you taste." He kissed her cheek. "Remember our first kiss, chérie? The one in the park?"
The corner of her mouth quirked. "What kiss? Did we kiss?"
"You melted in my arms. You moaned into my mouth. You tasted me with your tongue."
"Oh. That kiss."
"And you did it again this morning."
"Well, some things you just have to keep doing till you get it right."
He smiled. "Chérie, you have it right." He skimmed his fingers up her neck. "All I can think about is kissing you. I can hardly work. My mind has become utterly useless."
"Poor baby." She tilted her head when he rubbed his nose against her neck. "We can't have you being useless."
"I'm sure we'll find something I can do." He touched his tongue against the pulsing artery in her neck. The scent of her blood sizzled through him.
"Like trying to seduce me?" She sounded breathless.
He kissed a trail to her ear. "There's no trying. I am seducing you."
He drew her earlobe into his mouth and groaned when she responded with a shudder. He suckled as he enveloped her in his arms.
Her hands slipped around his neck. "Yes," she whispered.
He brushed his lips across her cheek. "I want you so."
"I know," she breathed the words against his mouth. "Why does this feel so right?"
"Because we...fit." He molded his mouth against hers and pulled her tight against him. They did fit. Her lips were perfect against his. Her breasts moved against his chest in just the right way.
He smoothed his hands down her back. The small of her back arched perfectly against his lower belly, her hips nestled sweetly against his groin, and her belly cushioned his hard erection. She was perfect in every way.
How could he let her go? Maybe she could learn to accept him as a vampire. Maybe he could have the sort of love Roman and Angus had found. Maybe he could even have a family.
A flash of light hit them as a car zoomed up the driveway. He immediately pulled her around the column into the shadow.
"Do you think it's Louie?" she whispered.
"No. He wouldn't be this obvious." Jean-Luc watched the car as it passed Heather's truck and his BMW. It screeched to a halt just past the front door. "It's probably one of your admirers from town."
"I have no admirers," she muttered.
"Then who was that noisy little man I had to dunk in the water?"
"Coach Gunter. He's more of a pest than an admirer." Heather twisted to peek around the column, but Jean-Luc pulled her back into the shadow.
"Careful." He narrowed his eyes as a man exited the car. "Yes. This one is definitely in love with you."
"What?" She scoffed.
"Heather!" the man yelled from the driveway. "I know you're there!"
"Cody?" she whispered with a grimace. "My ex doesn't love me. He hates me."
"He hates that you rejected him," Jean-Luc whispered. "But he still loves you. Believe me, I know the signs."
"You do?" She gave him a dubious look.
"Come on out, Heather!" Cody shouted. "I saw you on the porch, kissing that man."
"Jealousy," Jean-Luc whispered.
"The news is all over town," Cody bellowed. "Everyone knows you're living here. They know you're shacking up with that rich foreigner."
"Shall I skewer him?" Robby asked quietly as he shut the front door.
"No." Jean-Luc stepped from the shadows into the light by the front door. "You are trespassing on private property. I suggest you leave."
"I have a right to be here! You've got my daughter in there. What are you doing to her?"
"Bethany is perfectly fine." Heather moved into the light. "You can pick her up at the appointed time next Friday. Now go home, Cody."
"Why? So you can screw your new boyfriend? I didn't know you were a damned slut, Heather."
"Enough!" Jean-Luc zeroed all his psychic power onto Cody's forehead. The bastard stumbled back a few feet. Every time you curse Heather, you will become a cockroach.
Cody crumpled onto the brick pavement.
Heather stepped forward. "What - "
"Leave him be." Jean-Luc touched her arm.
Cody wriggled on the driveway, then rose into a squat. "I am a cockroach," he squeaked.
Heather gasped. "Not again."
Cody crawled toward the BMW, then leaped on top and scrambled across the hood.
Jean-Luc winced at the abuse his car was taking. You cannot pick up your daughter this weekend.
Cody lumbered toward his car. "I cannot pick up my daughter this weekend." He dove through the open window of his car and thrashed about.
"Is he drunk?" Heather grimaced when the engine roared to life. "He shouldn't drive like that."
The car shot forward and bounced over a curb where the driveway curved back to the state highway.
You will drive well, Jean-Luc delivered the psychic message, though he wasn't sure Cody could drive at all in his current condition.
The car stopped weaving and zoomed down the driveway in a straight line.
Heather exhaled a long breath. "He's gone crazy. Thank God he doesn't want Bethany this weekend."
"That was different," Robby spoke behind them.
Jean-Luc glanced back to find the Scotsman giving him an amused look. "Are you ready to go?"
"Aye." Robby strode down the steps to the driveway, carrying two swords. "Let me check the car first."
"This is it." Heather studied the Queen Anne house lit by the headlights of Jean-Luc's car as he parked. Between the scraggly azalea bushes in the front flower bed, she spotted a stone cellar.
The two-story wooden frame house was out in the middle of nowhere, but fifty years ago it had drawn customers from all over the state. A large sign by the front steps read Chicken Ranch, est. 1863. Heather noted an old Chevy Impala in the parking lot, probably Mrs. Bolton's car.
Heather gathered her purse, containing Fidelia's Glock and a flashlight, and met Jean-Luc on the sidewalk. Robby handed him his foil, and Jean-Luc slid it into a sheath hidden beneath his long black coat. Robby didn't bother to conceal the claymore strapped on his back.
Heather shook her head as they climbed the front steps to the porch. "The curator's not going to let you in with those swords."
"That is the least of my worries." Jean-Luc knocked on the door.
As they waited, Heather admired the elaborate gingerbread work around the covered porch and the wicker furniture. "They've maintained the place well."
Jean-Luc knocked again.
Heather frowned. "She said she would keep it open."
Jean-Luc turned the doorknob, and the door swung open slowly. "She has kept it open." He entered the dimly lit foyer, followed by Robby.
"Hello?" Heather called out as she stepped into the house. No answer. She gazed about, taking in the flocked wallpaper and Oriental rug on the wooden floor. "Maybe she's in the bathroom."
Robby obviously didn't believe in such convenient reasoning, for he drew his claymore. He entered the dark parlor on the right, his sword clenched tight in his fist.
He halted abruptly. "Lord Almighty," he whispered.
"What is it?" Jean-Luc rushed in, then stopped.
Heather couldn't see what they were looking at, so she fumbled along the wall and flipped the light switch. "Good Lord."
The light was aimed at the far wall, where a giant oil painting spread five feet across. Heather swallowed. No wonder Fidelia recognized this painting. Who could forget it? A curvaceous blonde reclined on a velvet chaise, completely nude while she pleasured herself, one hand on a plump breast and the other between her spread legs. Judging from the look on her face, her hands could work miracles.
"Sheesh. That doesn't leave much to the imagination." Heather turned away to look at the rest of the room. Red velvet chaises like the one in the painting lined the walls. She wondered if the prostitutes had reenacted the scene for paying customers.
Robby's head tilted as he studied the painting. "I suppose its purpose is to help a man be prepared."
Jean-Luc stood beside him, his gaze also glued to the painting. "That makes sense from a business point of view. If the men are ready to perform, then they can move the customers through more quickly."
"And make more money," Robby concluded.
"Hello?" Heather waved a hand in front of their faces to get their attention. "We're looking for a homicidal maniac, remember?"
Robby jerked as if coming out of a trance. "I'll take a look around." He returned to the foyer and clambered up the stairs.
Heather glanced at the painting, then frowned at Jean-Luc. "Are you done?"
His mouth twitched. "I feel a bit sorry for her. All the men who came through here, and still, she needs to find pleasure by her own hand."
Heather shrugged. "If you want a job done right, you gotta do it yourself."
He arched a brow. "Has it been that way for you?"
She scoffed. "I wasn't talking about myself."
"Are you sure? Didn't your ex have only three steps?"
Heather felt her cheeks grow warm. "I wonder what happened to Mrs. Bolton." She headed toward a closed door and knocked before cracking it open. "Hello?"
"Allow me." Jean-Luc withdrew his foil, then entered the room first.
Heather smoothed a hand over the wall and found the light switch. A small crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, circled by a mirror edged in a gold, ornate frame. The mirror reflected the lights, making that part of the ceiling sparkle, but Heather suspected the mirror had other purposes as well, seeing that it was situated over a large bed.
The bed and windows were lined with red satin and lace. Red wallpaper, flocked with black cupids, covered the walls. A large desk with pigeonholes sat in the corner.
"The madam's room, I believe." Jean-Luc looked inside a closet. "Though it looks like she did some entertaining herself."
"Yep." Heather motioned to a pair of handcuffs linked through the bed's wrought-iron headboard. "Looks like she needed to be in charge all the time."
Jean-Luc frowned. "I could never submit to that. I don't like to feel powerless."
Heather snorted. "You would have to trust me not to hurt you." She winced. "I mean whoever was with you." Her face grew hot.
He smiled slowly as he approached. "Are you inviting me to your bed, chérie?"
"No. I was speaking theoretically." She crossed her arms. "Though I doubt I would need to chain you to the bed."
"No, you would not." His eyes twinkled. "Would I need to chain you? Theoretically speaking."
She shoved her hair back from her damp forehead. This theory was getting too hot to handle. "I need to feel that I'm in control."
"Ah, now you have given me a challenge." He stepped closer. "To make you lose control."
She swallowed hard. "I think we're getting off course. We need to find Mrs. Bolton." She strode toward another door.
Jean-Luc went through first, and she followed. It appeared to be a less formal parlor, a place for the ladies to relax when off duty. It opened onto the foyer and the next room, which was the kitchen. There they found the door leading into the cellar.
Robby joined them and insisted on going down first. He flipped the light switch. Nothing happened.
"Could be a blown fuse," Jean-Luc said.
Heather retrieved her flashlight from her purse and lit the stairs. Robby went first, followed by Jean-Luc and Heather. At the bottom she shone the flashlight around, illuminating a small storeroom with shelves. The cellar was obviously divided into more than one room.
"Do you smell that?" Robby asked quietly.
"Yes." Jean-Luc grabbed Heather's arm. "I'm taking you back to the car."
"What? Why?" She saw Robby going into the next room. She sniffed the air but could smell nothing but dust.
"Lui's not here," Robby called from the next room. "But I need the torch."
"Merde." Jean-Luc wrapped his left arm around Heather. "Stay with me."
She shivered, and the light wavered as they entered the next room.
"The wall to your left," Robby's voice came out of the darkness. "That's where I smell it."
She pointed her flashlight at the wall and gasped when letters in red appeared. It was a message, but not in English.
"It's French." Jean-Luc took her flashlight and panned across the words. "It says, 'We will meet at the time of my choosing.' Signed with an L."
"Louie," Heather whispered and stepped back. "He was here."
Robby stepped close to the wall and examined the red letters. "'Tis fresh."
With a gasp, Heather realized it wasn't paint on the wall. It was blood. Fresh blood. She stepped back, her skin crawling with gooseflesh. "He left the message for us. He knew we were coming."
"Yes." Jean-Luc continued to study the message.
Bile rose in her throat. Where did all that blood come from? She stepped back and tripped.
"Aagh!" She fell back and landed on something bulky. She screamed again.
Jean-Luc quickly turned the beam of the flashlight on her. And the dead body.
"Oh my God!" She scrambled away.
A woman's body lay on the cellar floor, her throat slit. Jean-Luc and Robby rushed forward.
Heather slapped a hand over her mouth. Jean-Luc grabbed her. Everything went black for a second, and she blinked, nauseated and dizzy.
A breeze wafted over her face, and she realized she was in the parking lot next to Jean-Luc's BMW. She must have fainted for a minute because she couldn't recall getting there.
"Let's get you home," Jean-Luc bundled her into the car.
With shaking hands, she dropped her purse onto the floorboard. Poor Mrs. Bolton. She'd become Louie's first victim in Texas. With a shudder, Heather realized she'd thought the word first.
They couldn't let Louie kill again. Especially when she and her daughter were on his list.