Patricia Rosemoor - In Dreams

“The one about the alligators,” she said, trying not to snort.

He smiled, then gazed intently at her.

Suddenly breathless, Lucy said, “So you got my car out and it’s okay, right?”

“Drove it with no problems,” he said.

“So I should probably go.”

Not that the idea thrilled her. It made her feel as if she were tied up in knots inside.

Going to the police with a slew of half truths wasn’t her idea of something to look forward to. And if they tracked down the murderer and his accomplices and brought them in on charges, she would be expected to testify. Then she would have to lie and say she witnessed something she’d only seen in a dream, not in reality, because who would believe her otherwise?

How did she get around that?

Justin eyed his mama and aunt and then indicated Lucy should follow him to the living room.

Once there, he spoke in a lowered voice. “I think you should give it a day. Between the wound and those thugs looking for you—”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m okay, really.”

The longer she waited, the colder her feet would get about reporting the crime. And the closer she would come to psychic dreams she had no intention of fulfilling despite the fact that the man central to those dreams was so tempting.

“At least come back to the fishing camp so I can change the dressing.”

“Why not just do it here?”

“I don’t want to alarm Mama and Tante Jeanette.”

“They already saw the bandage and asked me about it.”

“What did you say?”

“I didn’t tell them I’d been shot if that’s what you’re worried about. But I didn’t exactly lie, either. I just said that it happened when my car went off the road and you patched me up.”

“Quick thinking, chère.”

Without warning, Justin palmed her bare flesh between the crop top and pants and cupped the area around the bandage with his hand.

Her body immediately responding, Lucy sucked in her breath. “What are you doing?”

“Feeling for heat that would indicate the wound is infected.”

His touch was making her flesh curl with anticipation that had nothing to do with the wound. Her mouth went dry and her pulse raced.

She whispered, “I barely know the wound is there.”

But touching her like that, Justin was making her hot, reminding her of the dreams. Every detail. She ought to step back, away from him, but somehow she couldn’t. The heat spread randomly from where he still touched her to every other part of her body.

And he was feeling it, too. She could see it in his expression that went from relaxed to taut in a matter of seconds. And in the way he was looking at her….

Justin’s face seemed to draw closer and closer. Unless she was mistaken, he was thinking of kissing her. And then he seemed to think better, caught himself and pulled away.

Lucy felt her body sag with the relief of tension. She wrapped her arms around herself as if by doing so, she could protect herself against a renewal of sensation.

He was saying, “I don’t think you ought to head back to New Orleans, just yet,” when Stephen appeared in the doorway.

“Out front,” he said.

Justin rushed to the front window, but held out a hand indicating Lucy should stay where she was. “Two strangers on foot casing the area. It might be them.”

“The men who tried to kill me last night?”

He nodded. “What did they look like?”

“Stocky. Expensively dressed. One had thinning light hair, the other salt-and-pepper.”

“That’s them. Stephen, take Lucy upstairs and away from the windows.”

As if someone had to tell her to stay out of sight! Lucy bit back a retort and told herself to be grateful that Justin was trying to help her. Obviously, his brothers, too. She guessed he’d gotten them up to speed when they went to fetch her car.

“What’s going on?” Marie asked from the kitchen as Stephen guided her to the stairs.

“We’re taking care of it, Mama,” Stephen told her. “Just remember you don’t know anything about any Lucy Ryan.”

Marie’s expression darkened and she murmured, “Oh, dear,” as she shooed them up the stairs.

STEPHEN OPENED a door to a room that faced the street and said, “Justin’s room, when he visits.”

In spite of the danger lurking outside, Lucy felt a distinct tingle when she stepped into the room filled with memorabilia of Justin’s youth. She shook the feeling away, and wondering what was going on outside, trying not to let her imagination get the best of her.

In a lowered voice so no one outside could hear, she said, “I thought the boat was simply the family fishing camp.”

“It is. We all use it.”

“So Justin lives…?”

“In New Orleans,” Stephen said.

Which came as a knee-weakening surprise. The idea that Justin lived in the city—her city—where she could run into him at any time shot a thrill of anticipation through Lucy.

“What about you, Stephen?” she asked. “Do you live here? In this house, I mean.”

He was standing in the doorway. Filling it actually. The Guidry boys were not small men.

“Across the hall,” he said. “Well, most of the time. I make a lot of trips to New Orleans for work. I hate hotels, so I keep a small apartment there, too.”

“You never wanted to live in New Orleans full-time?”

“I never took to it, but that might be my fault for taking responsibility so seriously. It makes change difficult.”

Lucy wondered what he meant by that. Did he mean taking care of his mother? Somehow she didn’t think Marie needed anyone to take of her, and she certainly didn’t seem to be the type to ask even if she did. Besides, Marie Guidry was probably only in her early fifties—the prime of life according to women’s magazines.

It must be a Stephen thing, she decided.

“So does Marcus live here, too?”

Stephen laughed. “Nope. Too confining. In case you didn’t guess, Marcus is the free-wheeling type. He has a shack down the road a piece, though he’s here visiting often enough. At least a couple of times a week, actually. Nothing like home cooking, and Marcus takes advantage.”

The small talk kept Lucy’s nerves from stretching taut. What was going on downstairs? Though she heard muffled male voices, she couldn’t make out what was being said.

She drifted closer to the window.

“Hey, stop,” Stephen ordered.

She put a finger to her lips, pressed against the wall so that she wouldn’t be seen through the glass. Then she managed to curl a finger under the sash and lift it slowly but surely until the voices drifted into the room.

“I told you, we haven’t seen her.”

“And if you had, you probably wouldn’t say, right?”

Lucy recognized the voice as belonging to the guy who’d lost a shoe in the swamp.

“What is it you want with this…Lucy is it?” Marcus asked.

“That ain’t none of your business.”

Then Justin said, “You boys don’t have any business here in LeBaux, so I suggest you take yourself back to New Orleans where you belong.”

“We never said we were from New Orleans.”

Lucy’s stomach knotted at the mistake. Now they were going to know…

“You didn’t have to say,” Justin went on. “No one from bayou country wears shoes like those.”

“They’re Italian!”

“And useless. City shoes.”

“He’s criticizing my shoes!” the guy obsessed with his footwear complained.

“Forget the damn shoes!” his companion groused.

Justin mildly added, “I was merely making an observation.”

Marcus didn’t say anything to that. No one did.

Lucy drifted closer to the window and chanced a peek out. The four men below were squared off as if gearing up for a fight. Heart hammering, Lucy prayed there wouldn’t be trouble. Dear Lord, she hadn’t meant to bring trouble to anyone. These men were killers!