cut her off. “I’m here to work.”
“I see.” She carried on, “There is a coffeemaker, microwave and small refrigerator in each room. Check-out is 11:00 a.m. on your day of departure—let’s see, I have you down for two weeks, is that right?” She consulted a ledger.
“I may need to stay longer, if the room is available.”
She looked surprised, but quickly nodded. “That would be wonderful! I’ll let Miss Louvel know. We’ve only recently opened, so we aren’t booked up. In fact, you’re our only guest tonight.”
That was what Cole’s research had led him to believe. Turning the plantation into a bed and breakfast was a last-ditch effort to prevent seizure. Property taxes were a bitch, especially when you got behind. Even as Cole’s star had risen, the Louvels’ had fallen on hard times.
But there would be no sympathy in Cole’s dead, ruined heart for anyone in Azalea Bend, much less a Louvel. After all, they had shown none to him or his family.
“I’ll show you to your room,” Melodie offered, gesturing toward the grand staircase that wound up three stories from the foyer. “If you’d like, you may take advantage of the refreshments waiting there or take a stroll down to the river. Tomorrow, if you like, I can escort you on a guided tour of the mansion.”
“I’d like Miss Louvel to take me on the tour.”
A look of sudden caution crossed Melodie’s face.
“She’s the owner of the house, isn’t she?” he explained. “I’d simply prefer she be the one to tell me about its history. I can wait till she’s available.”
“Yes, she owns the house, Mr. Dempsey.” Melodie gave him another long look, and for a second he thought—
Dempsey.
Did the name mean anything to her? Even at her age, she would have heard the stories.
“I’m sure Miss Louvel will be happy to show you around the mansion tomorrow,” Melodie said finally. “Shall we go up then?” She led the way upstairs.
The room was everything it was advertised to be. Spacious, clean, stripped of any reminder that the brutally murdered Aimee Louvel had once slept there.
“Please, make yourself at home at Bellefleur,” Melodie said, exiting the room. There was a pitcher of ice water along with a decanter of merlot, and a spread of crackers, sliced cheeses and fruit on the low table in the sitting area. He turned over a crystal glass and poured the merlot.
He took the wine with him when he went back down the stairs and through the lonely, low-lit parlor, to the dark dining room, then beyond, to the wide back porch that spanned the rear of the mansion. He leaned against the columned edge and gazed out toward the shadowed thickness that he knew was trees and river.
A slow sip of merlot later, he closed his eyes, let the unstoppable past roll over him. He wondered, not for the first time, what Bryn was like all these years later. She would be thirty-one years old and…beautiful. Surely she was beautiful. She and her twin Aimee had been fairy princesses in a tower. Rich, sheltered and spoiled. Two perfect golden-haired fairies with their purple hyacinth eyes. He remembered the last time he’d known hope, he’d stood in this spot, holding sweet-sixteen Bryn’s hand—
When he opened his eyes and turned back toward the house, she was there.
It couldn’t be him, but it was.
He leaned against the white pillar of the porch, wineglass in hand, and watched her with that steely will of his that she remembered all too well. He straightened, as casually as if this were his home and not hers. The shadows melted away and the ghost of the past was replaced by the reality of the present as he walked into the light.
She was struck first by how tall he’d grown; she found herself looking up to him. Cole Dempsey was a man now, dark-haired, strong-shouldered and lean. Unable to stop herself, she thought of the nights they’d shared together, exploring each other’s bodies. Experiencing the joy and passion of first love. Her breath caught as heat twisted through her blood. Dread pulsed in her throat.
Bryn Louvel hated herself for it, but she took a step back and struggled to control the havoc his reappearance had wrought in her emotions.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re doing here, Cole, what kind of trick you think you’re pulling,” she said, her voice strong even while her legs felt weak. “But you can go pack your things. You’re not welcome at Bellefleur.”
The tension hung thick in the air for a long beat before he spoke, and just looking at him made her feel suffocated and 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. Her first love had been destroyed as surely as her sister.
She couldn’t look at Cole without thinking of his father and everything that had happened the awful night that had changed everything.
“I’m not going anywhere, Bryn,” he said, breaking the stony silence. “And you can’t make me.” He took another step toward her, as if he meant to close in on her by slow degrees. He set his glass down on a nearby wrought-iron table.
“That sounds very mature, Cole. I can see you’ve grown up.”
“You certainly have,” he responded. His eyes took her in, boldly swept her from head to toe. “Bryn Louvel, all grown up.”
Though her traitorous body tingled from his thorough appraisal, she spoke stiffly. “That’s right. I’ve grown up. This is my home and I’d like you to leave.”
Still he came towards her. “Ah, this may be your home, Bryn, but it’s also your business. I’ve paid for the right to stay here. How things change. Once my father was paid to work at Bellefleur. Now I’m the one paying you. Ironic, don’t you think?”
She refused to answer his taunt. “Don’t mention your father in this house,” she said instead.
Cole stood in front of her now, his proximity overwhelming. “What about your father, Bryn?” he demanded softly, too close. “What if I mention him?”
“He’s dead. They’re all dead. Your father, mine, Aimee. It’s all over, Cole. So leave.” Her voice rose. “Get out of my house.”
“But it’s not over, not yet,” he countered calmly, as if they were discussing the news instead of the fifteen-year-old crime that had destroyed both their families. “Do you know that Aimee’s death is the oldest unsolved murder in St. Salome Parish?”
“It’s not an unsolved murder.”
“Oh yes, it is.” He came at her now with furious speed, and when she backed up again, she stumbled against a potted bougainvillea. He grabbed her shoulders, bare in her sleeveless blouse, and steadied her. “But I’m here to solve it. And you’re going to help me.”
She braced her hands against his chest and pushed him away. “Let go of me, Cole.” And he did, but the chilling heat of his touch on her skin remained, as did the haunting threat of his words. He scared her, and that thought was shocking. She had never been frightened of him before.
Fifteen
