CATCH ME IF YOU CAN Read online

  Her head was spinning with the contradictions she felt about the man. It stung like crazy that Beau wouldn't lay more personal claim to her. But then, wasn't that what she kept insisting on?

  Apparently she had finally convinced him. And here she'd gone to so much trouble to fulfill as much of his whispered fantasy as she dared—wearing just a shell-pink teddy beneath the lace dress and jacket. But had Beau even noticed?

  She pursed her lips in irritation. And if she'd thought dancing a few numbers with the charming and affable—not to mention killer-handsome—Hunter Chenier would get the attention of a certain black-haired chief of police, she'd made a major miscalculation. He was much too busy basking in the bounteous and solicitous fawning of every pretty young debutante at the party.

  Kit did her best to ignore him.

  When Hunter introduced at least the hundredth person that night, she tried to smile graciously. Her cheeks were actually starting to hurt.

  "This is Katherine Colfax. She's staying with Simon Beaulieux out at Terrebeau."

  For the hundredth time he stood back and watched while she squirmed under cross-examination. It was all very polite, but she sensed the whole thing was causing quite a stir of curiosity. Not the least of which was why Hunter was squiring her around and not Beau. Hunter seemed fiendishly delighted. More than one veiled comment was made referring to the men's lifelong rivalry.

  She steered the conversation away from herself and Beau, and chatted about the price of pecans and the new exhibit at the NOMA, doing her best to squelch the idea that there was any kind of competition going on between Beau and Hunter over her. After hearing stories of their personal feud, she didn't relish being one more episode in the ongoing struggle for dominance.

  When Robbie Thelan, the shy indigo planter, walked up and bashfully asked her to dance, she was so grateful that she accepted, thus opening the floodgates to even more rampant speculation. If she weren't so annoyed with Beau, it would be funny. As it was, all she could do was smile through gritted teeth and pray her precarious high heels would hold out.

  Finally, she knew she'd fall over if she didn't find somewhere quiet to escape and rest her aching feet. Excusing herself from Robbie, she slipped out to the huge gallery.

  Unlike the one outside her third-floor bedroom at Terrebeau, the gallery meandered around the entire second floor of the Wiltons' expansive plantation house. She ducked her head and eased through the crowd outside the ballroom and dining rooms, making her way around to the side, where she could be alone.

  To her surprise, she found Beau's dad peering out over the railing.

  "Hi, Gunny. Taking a break?"

  "What? Oh, hello, Katherine." He looked around as if seeing the gallery for the first time. "I, uh…"

  Music from the live band in the ballroom wafted through the glass, cocooning them in the singer's melodic refrains.

  She'd gotten used to Gunny's little lapses of place and time, adopting the strategy the family used—ignoring them and going on as if he were being perfectly lucid. "The Wiltons' home is magnificent, isn't it?"

  He blinked and glanced past her through the windows of the salon at a portrait of their hosts, painted with the plantation house behind them. Everything about the picture conveyed wealth and status, from the glittering facade of the mansion down to the pearl-and-diamond choker around Ellie Wilton's neck.

  "Wiltons," he mused, coming about. "Yes, a very nice place. Don't have a lot of land, but the plantation house is prime. Jeb came back and went to law school, you know. His dad—"

  Gunny stopped in midsentence, and she could see his Adam's apple bob in the shadowed light. "His dad took care of things while he was gone," he said, his voice cracking slightly.

  Jeb must also have been in Vietnam.

  "I should have taken better care of things."

  The music changed cadence, and the poignant strains of an old Righteous Brothers tune wound its way along the gallery, further snaring Gunny in memories. He gazed off in the distance, his eyes going soft and sad. "Taken care of things, for my son."

  Her throat strangely tight, Kit quietly slipped her arm through his and whispered, "Come on, Gunny. Dance with me."

  She led him through the crowd and onto the ballroom dance floor, never thinking about his limp until they faced each other and he murmured anxiously, "My leg."

  "I'll try not to stomp on your toes and make it worse," she whispered back.

  He still looked worried, but began to move with her, awkwardly at first, then gaining confidence. Before too long, they found a relaxed rhythm together and spun slowly around the darkened dance floor, lost in the song about a lonely river.

  Father and son had the same long, sensitive hands and broad shoulders. If it weren't for the hesitation in Gunny's gait, she might have been able to close her eyes and imagine it was Beau she was dancing with. She hummed along to the music as it asked if she was still his. Oh, yes. Only his.

  She shook off a sudden stab of melancholy and smiled at Gunny as the song ended. He smiled back. "Thank you," he said, squeezing her hand. "My son's a very lucky man."

  The sound of applause jerked her back to the Wiltons' party and a ballroom full of people watching them. Shock paralyzed her momentarily as she realized the applause was for Gunny—and her. The circle of faces surrounding them beamed with approval and affection for the man who still held her hand.

  "What's going on?" she asked under her breath.

  "I haven't danced in a while," he answered, his face growing ruddy in the muted light of a giant crystal chandelier. "Like about forty years or so."

  "You haven't—but why?" she blurted out, afraid she had unknowingly managed to commit a terrible faux pas.

  "Nobody asked. And I…" He shuffled a bit on his game leg and shrugged, looking so much like an embarrassed young man.

  "Oh, Gunny." She leaned up and kissed his cheek.

  The music started again and he offered his arm, walking her to the bar. "If you're going to be a Louisiana lady, you'll have to learn to drink bourbon," he said, handing her a double.

  "Gunny, I—" She looked into his clear, happy eyes and couldn't make herself tell him she had no intention of being the kind of Louisiana lady he seemed to be hinting at. "Thank you for letting me stay at Terrebeau. I've had a wonderful time."

  He clicked her glass and drank. "Our pleasure. I hope you aren't thinking of leaving us. Please stay as long as you like."

  Over the rim of her glass she spotted Beau propped against the door frame, staring at her with an expression somewhere between awe and fury.

  He looked gorgeous in a stark black suit and white shirt, with one of Jolene's hand-painted silk ties knotted skillfully around his neck. His short hair was wild from finger-combing, the unruly forelock hanging rakishly down his forehead.

  The harsh planes of his features stood out in the shadows of the dimly lit room. She sucked in a breath at the emotion rolling across his face. Had he found out something about Remi? Or was it she who had somehow caused the cool facade to crack?

  She dragged her attention back to Gunny and answered, "I wish I could stay, but I'm afraid I really must get back to New Orleans very soon."

  She hardly even noticed that she hadn't said "back home." Across the room, Beau took a step toward her, but halted when his gaze landed on something over her shoulder.

  A slow drawl sounded from behind. "There you are, Katherine. What's this about leaving for New Orleans?"

  She turned and found Hunter standing close enough to kiss. Not that she had any desire to kiss him. There was something about him that was just a little too perfect. She shivered, suddenly chilled.

  "Hello, Hunter. Yes, I have to get back to my job."

  "That's a pity. Excuse us, would you, Gunny? Another dance, my dear?" Before she could protest, he had set her drink on the bar and herded her toward the dance floor. "I hope I'll have time to show you my still before you leave," he said into her ear.

  She almost choked, but swal
lowed her retort. "I'd heard you were a bootlegger."

  "I prefer the term 'microdistiller.'"

  She laughed. "You must have some interesting stories," she said, striving to keep her distance as he pulled her into his arms.

  "Oh, you'd be surprised."

  They had a discreet tug-of-war over how close he would he allowed to hold her, and she ended up closer than she'd like but a good bit farther away than he'd angled for.

  "For instance, I could tell you things about your friend Simon Beaulieux that might shock you."

  Very subtle. She almost smiled. "Is that a fact? And what about his cousin, Remi? What could you tell me about him?"

  Hunter nearly stumbled in the middle of a complicated twirl, eyeing her suspiciously. "Remi?"

  Apparently the rivalry extended to both Beaulieux cousins. She decided to exploit it. "Don't you love his earring? And that scar on his lip … mmm, very sexy."

  Hunter sniffed in derision. "I have a scar," he said, his mouth curving into a salacious smile. "Shall I tell you where?"

  She chuckled because it was either that or smack him. "I don't think so. Why don't you tell me instead where Remi would stay if he came to Verdigris."

  His eyes narrowed. "He hasn't been around for quite some time. You think he's planning a visit?"

  She casually lifted a shoulder. "He might."

  There was more than a touch of satisfaction in Hunter's voice when he said, "Why would he? His high-and-mighty family disowned him years ago."

  She quickly covered her surprise. Beau hadn't mentioned that little tidbit of information. No wonder Remi didn't feel like returning Grandmère's jewels. He probably figured they were his rightful share. "I've heard there's some unsettled family business. Maybe the Beaulieux are planning to take him back into the fold."

  Hunter faltered again, and she was about to suggest they sit out the rest of the dance when the song ended. "Can you think of any old friends he might stay with?" she asked.

  "I'd have to give it some thought," he said, steering her quickly out onto the landing. "Listen, sweetheart." He slid an arm around her. "How about if you and me—"

  Beau's rumbling voice cut across the marble foyer. "Katherine, we have to leave. I got a call on a disturbance at LeRoy's."

  * * *

  Chapter 13

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  Beau looked pointedly at Hunter's arm around Kit's shoulder, but Hunter just pulled her tighter against his side. "Don't you worry," the smarmy bastard said. "I'll see to her, Beaulieux. You mosey on along now and do your little chief-of-police number."

  The disturbance story was an out-and-out lie, but Beau would never tell. He took a step closer, narrowing his eyes until Hunter finally let Kit slip out of his grasp. Cool, boy. Just keep it nice and civilized. "Kind of you to offer, Chenier, but I brought her. I'll take her home."

  Hunter also took a step closer. "Maybe the lady doesn't want to go home."

  Reining in an impulse to wipe the smug smirk off the creep's pretty face, Beau reluctantly realized that Hunter might be right. The thought made him want to roar in protest, but he had to know. He turned to her, not quite able to quell the thunderous scowl that had taken hold of his face. "Well?"

  Kit looked from him to Hunter and back again, and her chin lifted mutinously. Beau's heart dropped to his churning stomach. Great. He was about to be rejected by his woman in front of his entire social circle. Already the three of them were attracting curious stares from the other guests. He might as well just arrest himself and get it over with. If she chose to go with Hunter, he didn't think he could leave without killing the man.

  Kit crossed her arms. "As a matter of fact, I don't want to go home."

  After taking a split second to still the fury whirling in his chest, he gave an abrupt nod and forced himself to turn away. He felt her hand on his arm.

  "You promised to take me to LeRoy's. I'm going with you." He halted in his tracks and heard her say, "Thanks for a lovely evening, Hunter. Maybe I'll see you around before I leave town."

  She swept past him and down the stairs. Without looking back, Beau followed. He'd call Ellie Wilton tomorrow and apologize for their precipitous departure. Right now he wanted to get the hell out of there before his temper hit an all-time high.

  A maid miraculously appeared with Kit's purse and quickly opened the front door. The valet took one look at the two of them and tore off at a run for the Eldo.

  "Just what did you think you were doing in there?" Beau demanded.

  She glared at him and he glared right back.

  The car lurched to a stop in front and he hurried her inside, then peeled out of the circular driveway like a maniac. He drove a mile or so, then careened off onto a dirt track between two cornfields, headlights bouncing a serpentine swath in the black night. He came to a gravel-spraying halt.

  She looked over nervously. "What are you doing? What about the disturbance call?"

  "There was no call," he clipped out. "I just had to get you away from there."

  He couldn't stand it. Not another damn minute. He jumped out and jerked open her door. "Get out," he ordered, reaching in to undo her seat belt when she didn't work it fast enough.

  She sprang to her feet. "You can't tell me what to do, Simon Beaulieux."

  "Oh, no? Watch me." Ignoring her indignant gasp, he pointed at her chest and commanded, "Take it off."

  Kit's mouth flew open in shock and Beau knew a blessed moment of pure machismo before taming his baser impulses. No, he wouldn't make her strip. Not completely, anyway. He'd like to, but that would be taking their little power struggle way too far for comfort.

  "Take it off, I said. Now."

  Her eyes widened. "I beg your pardon?"

  "The jacket. It reeks of Chenier and I want it off you."

  Mouth agape, she glanced down at the garment, but didn't move. Impatiently, he reached out and popped the buttons, ripped it off her and fired it onto the back seat of the convertible.

  Wordlessly, he tore off his own coat and tie, tossed his cuff links onto the dashboard, then peeled off his shirt—the trappings of high society stripped away, filleted down to the bare, workingman's essentials in which he felt most at home.

  Trousers and undershirt were his power suit of choice.

  He bent over her and in a low, rough voice murmured into her ear, "The only man I want to smell on you is me."

  They were cheek to nose, and he could feel the delicate warmth of her through the lace of her dress. He could smell her hair and her skin and feel her desire. Her desire for him.

  Jerking back, she stared up at him. Her gaze wavered to his chest and biceps, his well-toned middle and the bulging evidence of his maleness. She swallowed and he felt a bone-deep gratification at the hunger in her eyes. She couldn't disguise the spark of wanton possessiveness in them.

  He whirled and stalked away into the darkness before he lost control and did what they'd both been wanting from the first second their eyes met over that poker table back in Vegas. The wild, uncivilized, primal claiming of each other that transcended laws and logic and social graces. The down-in-the-dirt animal mating that bound two bodies and two souls together so tightly, nothing could tear them asunder. Nothing. Not time or place, or even one's own willpower.

  He stalked away because she wasn't ready for this. But he was. He was hard and thick as a Georgia pine, and damn near as prickly. He wanted her. He'd always gotten what he wanted. Always. And it nearly killed him to think the first time he might not was the only time it had ever really mattered.

  Stopping in the middle of rows of knee-high corn, illuminated in the harsh glare of the headlights, he turned and faced her. He couldn't see a damn thing spotlighted like that, but he knew she was there, by the car, watching him. Waiting.

  "Kit, about this morning—"

  "I told you, it doesn't matter."

  Oh, but it did. The sting of hurt in her eyes when he'd walked into that dressing room would haunt him always.

  "I
want to explain."

  "There's no need."

  He had to get it out or it would follow him for the rest of his life. He paused, listening for an indication of what she was doing, thinking. He heard nothing except the fiddle choir of insects and the staccato call of bullfrogs in a nearby pond.

  "Please. Let me say this."

  He heard a sigh. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking on his part.

  He swept out his arms in an all-encompassing gesture. "This is me, Kit. What you see is what you get. When all is said and done, I'm nothing but a country planter. Never went to college. And I keep order in a town where not much seems to happen. The plantation and policing are all I know."

  "How can you say that?" She stepped into the white glow, backlit by the car's headlamps. His breath caught at the effect on her lace dress as she walked slowly toward him, one step at a time. She might as well have been naked under it. Maybe she was naked under it.

  "You are the most hardworking, intelligent man I know! You run Terrebeau single-handedly, and selflessly take care of everyone on it. And if that weren't enough, you take care of the whole damned town, too."

  "Yeah, but you don't need or want taking care of." Dragging his gaze up from her dress, he snorted. "Simon Beaulieux is everything you don't want in a man. I'm tied to my land, don't like to travel, can't give you the exciting life you crave. And you won't give up any part of that life to be with me." He shook his head. "And that's what I meant this morning. Not that I didn't want you. Because God knows, I do."

  She stopped, just within reach. He wanted to grab her, crush her to his chest. Make her change her mind about him. About everything. He jammed his hands in his pockets.

  "Hell, Kit," he said, fighting to maintain his equilibrium. "You are smart and beautiful and so sexy you've got me tied in knots for wanting you. Any man on earth would be proud to have you as his wife. Me included."

  "Oh, Beau." She lifted a hand and sifted her fingers through his hair. Her eyes glistened as she laughed softly. "Is that a proposal or a proposition, Beaulieux?"