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It couldn’t be him, but it was.
She was first struck by how tall he’d grown, that she found herself looking up to him.
Cole was a man now, strong shouldered and lean. Her breath caught as heat twisted through her blood. Dread pulsed in her throat.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re doing here, Cole,” she said, her voice strong even while her legs felt weak. “But you can go pack your things. You’re not welcome.”
The tension hung thick in the air, and just looking at him made her feel small and panicked. No matter what had changed, no matter how many years had passed, Cole Dempsey represented a moment in time she’d give anything to erase.
“I’m not going anywhere, Bryn,” he said, breaking the stony silence. “And you can’t make me.”
Cole Dempsey’s Back in Town
Suzanne McMinn
SUZANNE MCMINN
lives by a lake in North Carolina with her husband and three kids, plus a bunch of dogs, cats and ducks. Visit her Web site at www.SuzanneMcMinn.com to learn more about her books, newsletter and contests. Check out www.paxleague.com for news, info and fun bonus features connected to her “PAX League” series about paranormal superagents!
With much love to my husband,
Gerald, who is always there for me.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Chapter 1
The house looked the same.
Minus the dead body, of course.
Cole Dempsey stared up the oak-canopied drive to the classic columns fronting the antebellum Bellefleur Plantation. The Greek revival-style monstrosity had filled his waking fantasies and sleeping nightmares for fifteen long and bitter years. Someone owed. He was here to collect.
Look out, Azalea Bend, Louisiana. Cole Dempsey had returned. And this time, he had something to back up his claims.
He left his black Cobra at the head of the drive, preferring to walk to the door, overnight case in hand. He needed the time and space to take it in, to comprehend that the house was no haunted vision; it was real. The mansion rose before him as timeless as the Mississippi that flowed behind it, holding its secrets, its lies, its fears, its ghosts. And sweet, false Bryn Louvel.
Now that he was here, the emotions that came with the magnolia-laden air, the river-swept breeze, the memory-churned past hit harder than he’d expected. Amidst the buzzes, hums and whispers of the late-spring evening came the sounds of the past—the mental audio reel of another May night. The scream that no one in the whole of St. Salome Parish would forget, the thundering footsteps, the shouts in the thick night, the wailing of a mother…and the terrible accusation that had ended in a ringing shot.
The lights of the columned portico drew him.
He had been promised the corner bedroom on the second floor, overlooking the river. The Oleander Room, as he had been told it was now called, boasted a rosewood half-tester double bed and a private verandah. All the rooms included decanters of refreshment beverages, a guided mansion tour and a wake-up call with hot coffee, juice and sweet potato muffins as well as a full plantation breakfast.
As if he gave a damn about any of that.
Cole took the massive steps of the columned portico in athletic strides. Lifting the ornate brass knocker, he pounded it forcefully against the heavy door in the center of the portico. Up close, he noticed the peeling paint on the sides of the building. The surrounding gardens, what he could see of them in the spill of the porch light, were overgrown. The eighteenth-century-era mansion had survived colonial and civil wars and the perils of time, but it appeared that murder had brought it to its knees.
Open to the public for tours weekdays from 9:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. announced the small lettered plaque in the center of the door. How that would have galled Bryn’s father.
The sound of footsteps near the door elicited an answering jerk in his pulse. He needed Bryn. He couldn’t get to the truth without her help.
But instead of Bryn, the woman who greeted him was young, maybe twenty, with a pixie-fresh face, curly strawberry-blond hair and bright eyes that held no shadows.
“Welcome to Bellefleur!” The young woman made a gesture inviting Cole into the majestic chandelier-lit foyer. Her voice was bubbly, her movements energetic.
A sweeping, free-standing staircase carved from walnut rose at the back of the large entry area, flanked by floor-to-ceiling oil paintings of a long-ago master and mistress of Bellefleur. Wide-arched openings led to huge rooms. Cole knew one was the parlor, the other a library, all furnished in period style.
“I’m Melodie Ladd. You must be Mr. Granville.” Shutting the door, the young woman moved past him to station herself behind a rococo table in the center of the foyer.
A guest book lay open and she held out a fountain pen. Cole set down his case.
“Actually, it’s Dempsey, Cole Dempsey,” he said, and watched her face. There was no reaction. “I’m with the Granville, Piers and Rousseau. There must have been a misunderstanding when my secretary made the reservation.” He smiled his charming smile.
There was, of course, no misunderstanding. Never forewarn the enemy. He had learned that and more in law school.
“Oh! Well, Mr. Dempsey, then.” The young woman waited as he signed the book, then launched into a perky speech. “We’re so glad you’ve chosen the Bellefleur Bed and Breakfast for your stay in Plantation Country. We specialize in escape from the three T’s—telephones,
