Night Mist

She drew a deep, controlling breath. “No, of course not. I suppose I assumed it was you. I thought maybe you were feeling worse and might need help.”

“Help.” His gaze slid downward and he curled his lips, but there was nothing amused or congenial about the smile. “Exactly what did you have in mind?”

A scorching fever swept through her, growing less ignorable with each second he continued to stare. Unable to resist, she glanced downward herself and groaned inwardly.

No wonder he was treating her as though she’d propositioned him. During her brief, restless sleep, two buttons on her shirt had opened, leaving a gaping slash that couldn’t look more suggestive if she’d tried.

Well, there was no sense in pretending it hadn’t happened. Forcing herself to match him stare for stare, she buttoned up, drawling, “If you’ve seen enough?”

“Do you really want an answer?”

“No,” she replied coolly, fighting to ignore the sensations churning within her. It was because he looked so much like Joe Becket, she told herself. What she felt for Jay Barnes, however, was sheer, unadulterated dislike. “About your hand, does it hurt?”

“I feel it.”

“And that’s your remedy?” she asked, nodding to the can he lifted to his mouth.

“It beats the stuff coming out of our water taps. You look a little warm yourself—want a swallow?”

She eyed the can, thought about placing her lips where his had been, and her temperature rose another few degrees. “No, thank you.”

“What’s the matter? Afraid? I don’t have anything you have to worry about catching.”

She was afraid, period…of him, of herself, of what was happening every second their gazes held. “I simply don’t care for any, that’s all.”

Jay Barnes gave a brief shake of his head. “Where did they find you?”

Lost, she frowned. “Pardon?”

“Forget it. Let’s just say, I’m game if you are, Doctor.”

She didn’t understand a thing he was saying, but she understood an intimated insult when she heard one. “Mr. Barnes, I’m beginning to believe that if there’s a game being played, so far only you know the rules.”

“And that’s how I intend to keep it. All you need to understand is that if you want to save that gorgeous neck of yours, you’d better beat it while you still have a chance.”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I work here!”

His gaze swept over her one more time and lingered on her mouth. “Fine,” he growled, finally pushing away from the door. “Have it your own way.”

CHAPTER SIX

He filled her dreams, so vivid a presence that when Rachel awoke from hearing the door closing, she again bolted upright in bed, expecting to see him standing before her. Once she realized it was daylight and the sound was Jay Barnes leaving for work, she fell back against her sweat-dampened pillows and stared up at the fine cobweb design of the ceiling’s cracking plaster.

Exhaustion left her feeling drained, numb. Maybe with him out of the house she could finally get a few hours of decent rest. But some rebellious part of her mind began to rapidly churn out thoughts and images; she remembered disturbing snatches of dreams, such as the way she’d called him “Joe”…how she’d let him undo the last button on her nightshirt…let him slip his hands inside…touch her…make love to her.

Her conscious, conservative side didn’t like that at all. He wasn’t Joe, she reminded herself with brutal censure. He couldn’t be. And as for Joe…Oh, God, what about him? What was he? Why was he?

With that mystery plaguing her again, she abandoned any hope of going back to sleep and dragged her sluggish body to the bathroom for a tepid shower. She reasoned it would at least cool her feverish body, if not her steamy thoughts.

Minutes later, refreshed, but nursing a headache, she returned to her room. Blow-drying her shoulder-length pageboy took another block of time, thanks to the humidity’s stubborn effect on her hair. Stretching exercises to ease knots of tension took a bit more.

Finally, she pulled on her usual uniform of jeans and a shirt—white cotton as usual, in hopes of making herself feel cooler—and made her way downstairs. But for all her efforts, she still felt as though she’d never been to bed.

Not much time had passed, either. The ornate grandfather clock in the foyer confirmed what her wristwatch indicated: it was barely past nine. Late enough for Adorabella to have roused herself, though, which was why she’d come down. Hopefully Jewel was serving coffee. But upon reaching the formal dining room, Rachel found it vacant. The elegant table, resplendent with an antique-lace tablecloth, bore the crystal bowl Adorabella liked to use as a vase. Today it was filled with red roses. The victims, plucked from the lush bushes out back, looked only slightly better than she felt.

She groaned inwardly, aware of what it all meant. If she wanted coffee, she would have to try the kitchen.

No one wandered into Jewel’s domain without an invitation; Adorabella had warned her of that during the grand tour. Rachel had taken the old woman at her word and had avoided the place ever since, although more out of respect for Jewel’s privacy than from any real concern for her own well-being. Everyone deserved privacy, she’d told herself, especially housekeepers with a penchant for black magic. Even rude neighbors, she added, her thoughts inevitably straying toward Jay Barnes.

With a sharp shake of her head, she decided she would be better off going to the café. It was too hot to think about food, but she had to get something into her system. Most appealing was that at the café the most stressful thing she would have to deal with was whether to have cereal or a bran muffin.

But before she could retreat, the door between the kitchen and dining room swung open, and a white-and-green-turbaned head appeared around the edge. Brown eyes, so dark they appeared black, drove into her like twin stakes. “You going to stand there the rest of the morning or you gonna come in?” Jewel demanded in a melodious alto.

Staring at the rounded, broad-planed face that looked more like forty than the sixty-something Adorabella claimed was Jewel’s true age, Rachel thought it might be fascinating to learn if Jewel really could see out the back of her head, as well as through walls. On the other hand, Rachel’s world was already overwhelmed with mystery and mayhem—did she need to be taking on any new challenges?

“Actually,” she began, taking a step backward, “I was about to—”

“I done poured your coffee. C’mon.”

As fast as it had appeared, the head withdrew, leaving the door to swing back and forth like a beckoning hand. Rachel wiped her palms on her jeans and advanced toward unknown territory.

From the moment Adorabella had introduced her to her tall, bone-thin housekeeper, Rachel had felt an undeniable awe. Because of the control in the older woman’s eyes, she’d told herself. She’d never known anyone with more confidence than Jewel Bonnard, reverentially called “Widow Jack” by almost everyone else in town. That nickname was a result of being the longtime widow of the unfortunate “Handsome Jack” Bonnard, as well as the parish’s most celebrated hoodoo woman.

Rachel had heard the first of many outlandish tales about Adorabella Levieux’s longtime companion and employee at the café. Because of Jack’s roving eye and philandering ways, Jewel had been influential in his early demise. The law never filed charges—fear of being hexed themselves, some insisted. That story proved to be the cornerstone of her theory that Nooton was hardly the innocuous hamlet it appeared to be.

Having no idea what she was walking into, she pushed open the kitchen door. On the other hand, she reasoned, could anyone truly prepare for a close encounter with a voodooeinne?

The kitchen was larger than some dance floors she’d seen, no doubt built to accommodate the lavish entertaining that was reputed to have gone on in the house decades ago. Jewel made it her own place by scent alone. Rachel tried not to react to the malodorous concoction simmering on the great stove on the opposite side of the room, certain she didn’t want to know whether it was a cure or a curse.

“Are you sure I’m not taking you away from anything?”

“Just washing the evilness out of these sheets.” Jewel stirred the contents of the black cauldron, her size-twelve feet planted solidly in a pair of men’s leather loafers. “Promised Miss Adorabella I’d make the she-cat see the error of her ways.”

“I…see.” Rachel guessed this had something to do with the divorcée on the second floor. Cecilie—no Celia something-or-other. Maybe the less she knew about that story the better. “I suppose Mrs. Levieux isn’t up yet?”

“Won’t be until noon. Sit.”

Rachel took a seat at the chrome-edged table where a cup of pitch-colored, steaming coffee indeed waited. “That’s late even for her. She didn’t overdo it with the pills?”

“Told you about them, did she?”

“The bottle fell from her pocket one day while we were chatting.” Rachel added a little sugar to her coffee before tasting it. She didn’t usually, but it was a potent-looking brew. Besides, she reasoned, extra energy wouldn’t hurt either. “You’re aware they’re sleeping pills, aren’t you, Jewel?”

“Who do you think went with her the first time the prescription needed filling?”

Rachel moistened her lips. “Aren’t you concerned about her mixing alcohol with drugs?”

“I’ve been taking care of her for years and years,” Jewel replied, without turning around. “Ain’t nothing gonna happen to her until the Lord calls her home.”

It took what little patience Rachel had left not to explode. But she’d seen too many deaths that were a result of exactly this to keep silent. “Faith is a wonderful thing. But, Jewel, we’re talking about a potentially lethal combination here.”

“Nothing lethal about baby aspirin. Not in the doses I give her.”

Rachel had been lifting the cup to her lips…and stopped it an inch away. “I beg your pardon?”

“She’s been taking baby aspirin for three years now and ain’t figured out the difference yet. Also been weakening her drink with peach juice. I know my business,” she added, shooting her a sidelong look. “Knew it long before you were sucking on your mama.”

It was on the tip of Rachel’s tongue to drolly inform the woman that her mother had never let anyone get that close to her, but she decided the technicality was insignificant to the lesson learned. Not knowing whether to be relieved or amused, she covered the awkward silence by finally tasting the coffee. It was as strong as she’d suspected, but welcome.

“It would seem I owe you an apology,” Rachel murmured at last.

“You’re just young, child. Ain’t nothing for me to take offense over.”

So much for backhanded compliments, Rachel mused, glancing out the window on her left and sighing at the fog. “Well, at least someone is getting some rest. I don’t know how she does it in this weather, though.”

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