Carla Neggers - Betrayals

“Mai’s picture brought Gerard out of the woodwork,” she went on thoughtfully, “because he was in Saigon the night Tam was killed and knew Quentin was responsible for her death-and nearly yours, mine, and Mai’s, as well. His leverage with Annette-to get her to give him the stones-is what he knows about Quentin.”

“Why does he want the stones so much?”

“They’re incredibly valuable.”

“Are we talking millions?”

“I should say. I’m sure he’d also like to nail Annette for turning him in thirty years ago.”

The cat crawled out of Rebecca’s lap, did one of his ugly cat stretches, and jumped onto the couch. He warily eyed Jared, then pounced, claws bared.

“You’re in his spot,” Rebecca informed him.

“Uh-oh.”

Surrendering, Jared joined Rebecca on the floor. As it turned out, he liked it better that way. “So why does our Frenchman have a soft spot for you?”

She grinned. “You don’t think it’s just my big blue eyes?”

“Could be-”

“Oh, stop. I guess it’s just because he and my father were friends and he doesn’t want anything to happen to me. Who knows? He’s an ex-jewel thief and a blackmailer, not a murderer.”

“How much of this would you guess dear Aunt Annette knows?”

Rebecca sighed. “She’s not a particularly sympathetic victim, is she? I would say, though, she must be aware of what Quentin did. That’s why she hasn’t asked anyone’s help in dealing with Gerard. She’s covering for Quentin.”

“It makes sense,” Jared said. “I wish I knew whether or not to talk to her about it-and your grandfather. There’s no telling how much of this he’s figured out.”

On that, they both concurred. “We should get some sleep,” Rebecca suggested, “and go at this again with clear heads. You okay?”

He laughed, kissing her lightly. “I’m fine.”

“I’ll take Sweatshirt back upstairs with me.”

“No, let him have the couch. I’ll just lie here on the floor and go to sleep knowing I’m going to dream about you.”

“You’re such a romantic,” she said, but he could see he’d cut through her Yankee Blackburn reserve. My God, he thought, is there hope for us, after all?

After hours of nightmares and tossing and turning-of obsessing about one thing and another-Annette gave up any hope of sleeping. She could feel Jean-Paul out in the street, watching her house, waiting for some sign that she was distressed-reveling in her discomfort. He wouldn’t need anything so human as sleep. Climbing out of bed, she refused even to turn on the light and give him the satisfaction of knowing she couldn’t sleep.

He was out there. She knew that much.

She pulled on her robe and ran her fingers through her hair, annoyed at how dry and stiff it felt-nothing but straw. She hadn’t taken very good care of herself the past few days. There were still pins in her hair, and her digestion was miserable, and she hadn’t done any proper exercise since seeing The Score. Ordinarily she took daily walks in the Public Garden or along the river to keep in shape. She went into her bathroom and shut the door, turning on the light and splashing her face with cold water. There were bags under her eyes and a grayish cast to her skin, a look of exhaustion and defeat about her that she abhorred.

When she’d dozed, she’d dreamed of Jean-Paul and herself during those passion-filled, erotic weeks on the Riviera. He’d been so incredibly sexy. She’d never wanted a man as much. Thomas Blackburn she’d wanted to conquer; Jean-Paul she simply had wanted to bed…over and over again.

She dried her face and went downstairs, careful in the semidarkness. Her knees were trembling. She heard one crack as she came to the first floor. You’re getting old, m’ dear. Nonsense. She was only sixty. Look at Thomas at seventy-nine-

I won’t think about him or Jean-Paul!

Her mind was whirling with images and memories and possibilities…herself as the unfaithful wife, the manipulative mother, the corrupt businesswoman.

“Get hold of yourself, you fool,” she snarled aloud. Even if Jean-Paul blabbed all over town, he couldn’t prove any of what he’d have to say. Who’d believe that half-dead swine over her?

But what was Thomas up to?

Did he have the Jupiter Stones? How much did he know-how much had he guessed?

Dear God, I can’t stand this!

In just her bathrobe, she walked out into the street, quiet just before dawn. She felt cornered and uneasy…and yet she had the glimmer of a plan. Perhaps she should make one last attempt to get Jean-Paul Gerard out of her life for good-and, while she was at it, Thomas Blackburn.

And all she’d be doing was following his advice.

She whirled around, looking up and down the street for the pathetic, distinctive figure of Jean-Paul Gerard, but she saw nothing. Am I getting paranoid?

“Can’t sleep, ma belle?”

Startled, she flung around at him, and he was so close-so very close. Why hadn’t she heard him? His white hair glistened in the murky light, and his scars made him look frightening…monstrous.

The man was indestructible.

“It’s a lovely night,” she said, regaining her breath. “I thought you might be out here.”

He only smiled.

Their toes almost touched. She could feel his warm eyes on her, and her dream came to her…the memory of her arousal flooding over her. Even the current reality of him-his ravaged face, his ugly teeth, his thinness, his age-didn’t stop her from wanting him. If he so much as hinted he wouldn’t laugh, she’d have dropped her robe and made love to him there on the cold brick sidewalk.

“Jean-Paul.” Her voice was sultry; she felt raw and vulnerable, her nipples straining against the filmy robe. Did he still think her desirable? She swallowed, plunging ahead. “Jean-Paul, I couldn’t sleep because I’ve been wondering if I didn’t make a terrible mistake thirty years ago.”

He seemed amused. “It’s taken you a long time to consider this possibility, ma belle.”

She ignored his heavy sarcasm. I can’t go on like this-I have to do something. “You see,” she went on, “I lied to you. My God-Jean-Paul, I never had the Jupiter Stones. I just told you I did because I knew you wanted them and I needed to hurt you because I thought you’d betrayed me by stealing jewels from my friends, from people I knew-because I thought you’d betrayed me.”

“Annette…”

She grabbed his hand; it was surprisingly warm, and so callused-so hard. “No, hear me out. I’ve been upstairs lying awake wondering if I made a terrible mistake when I turned you in as Le Chat. I’ve been thinking…remembering…Jean-Paul, Thomas Blackburn needed money desperately then for his business venture-that absurd consulting company of his. He was in and out of France for several months.” Removing her hand from his, she found her throat tight, her breath coming in gasps, but she made herself go on. “Jean-Paul, you were innocent, weren’t you? You were never Le Chat.”

Jean-Paul’s expression didn’t soften. “You know what I want.”

“Yes, yes-the damn Jupiter Stones. Listen to me, will you?”

“Annette, do you think it makes any difference if I were Le Chat thirty years ago or not?”

“I’m telling you I made a mistake.”

“Congratulations.”

“Bastard-”

He shrugged, unaffected by anything she could say to him. “What do you want, Annette?”

“You think I have no feelings-you think I don’t care about what I’ve done to you.” She brushed tears from her eyes, but Jean-Paul was unmoved. “Thomas came to see me earlier. Were you out here then? Did you see him?”

“What if I did?”