Page 10 of Cursed (Decorah Security 2.0, #14)

Still, the reality of Trevor’s loss had always been a given in her life. Even when the grief had dulled, it was a part of her soul.

Tonight, she felt more alive than she had since his death. She should welcome that feeling, she told herself. Instead, she resented it. She had gotten used to living a certain way—and a dream lover had brought her to a new level of reality.

A dream lover. She hated that part of it as much as anything else. He wasn’t even real.

Or was he? Did he have something to do with the present Andre Gascon? She wanted to put that notion out of her head. Maybe she did, because sometime before dawn, she fell asleep.

When she woke, bright sunlight was streaming in the window—sunlight that helped banish all the strange and disturbing notions that had been churning around in her head.

She sat up and looked toward the door, then gave a startled exclamation.

Her suitcase and her carry-on, which had been locked in the trunk of the car, were sitting just inside the door. Obviously, while she’d slept, someone had put it there. Janet had said Andre would get them in the morning. So, had he been in her bedroom without her knowing it?

Another thought occurred to her, and she climbed quickly out of bed.

The car keys had been in the ignition. Which meant that the trunk might as well have been unlocked.

Anyone could have looked through her belongings before they arrived in her room.

And the most valuable thing she’d brought along was her computer.

Quickly, she opened the zipper of the carry-on, then breathed out a sigh when she found the laptop still sitting on top of the change of clothing she always brought along on a plane in case her checked luggage was delayed.

Sitting next to the carry-on was her purse, and she realized with a start that she’d forgotten all about what might be in there!

First, she thumbed through her wallet. As far as she could tell, no money or credit cards were missing. Her cell phone was also in an inside pocket along with the silver honey bear charm Trevor had given her to tease her about her sweet tooth.

Satisfied that she hadn’t been robbed, she got out toilet articles, clean underwear, and casual top and slacks, then locked the bedroom door before changing her clothing.

Andre stretched out his long legs under the kitchen table, trying to appear relaxed. When Janet turned from the stove, she gave him a sympathetic look.

“It’s good you got her suitcases.”

“I knew she’d want her things.”

“Yes.”

The conversation ground to a halt. Andre fiddled with the cutlery in front of him on the table, then put down the spoon he was turning in his hand.

“You’re nervous,” Janet said.

“Why not? I wouldn’t say we had a very calm night.”

Janet nodded. “I’d like to choke Yvonne. Too bad you can’t do something to shoo her away.”

He sighed. “Yes, too bad she’s put a protective charm around her skinny body and her blighted soul.”

“She thinks her reasons for being here are valid,” Janet reminded him.

“Yes,” he admitted, then fell silent again. After several moments he cleared his throat. “What did you think of Morgan Kirkland?”

“She’s pretty. And strong. She’s not easily spooked, I think.”

“Let’s hope not.”

He was about to say something more when the sound of footsteps in the doorway made his head jerk up, and the woman he had been waiting for stepped into the room.

Her gaze swung from him to Janet and back again. “Don’t let me interrupt your conversation.”

“You’re not interrupting anything. Not really,” he said.

Morgan stifled the urge to fold her arms across her chest. They had been talking about her. She’d heard that much. But they’d stopped as soon as they’d become aware of her.

Well, it wasn’t exactly surprising that she’d cut off the conversation. Talking about your houseguests wasn’t polite. At least in front of the guest.

But really, nerves had made her voice come out more sharply than she’d intended.

It wasn’t just from the conversation she’d interrupted.

It was seeing Andre sitting there at the kitchen table looking so much like the Andre in the dream that she couldn’t tell them apart, except for his modern clothing.

She’d been kissing the man in the dream. A lot more than kissing. He’d stroked her breasts, pulled her on top of his body, made her ....

She cut off that thought. But she couldn’t prevent the feelings that went with the dream. Linette had been in love with Andre, so in love that she was willing to jeopardize her future for the pleasure of making love with him.

Those weren’t her feelings, she told herself. They belonged to another woman. She pulled herself up short. Linette wasn’t real. Morgan couldn’t blame Linette. The dream had come from somewhere in her subconscious. From when Andre had rescued her from the flood and held her close?

Unable to move forward, she stayed where she was in the doorway. She wanted to keep her distance from Andre. She didn’t want to feel anything for him or get him mixed up with the man in the dream.

“Come sit down,” he said in the deep voice that was his and also the voice of the other man from long ago.

There was no way to explain last night’s experience—to him or to herself. So, she crossed the room and pulled out a chair, being careful not to brush his knee when she sat.

“Did you sleep well, child?” Janet asked.

“Mostly,” she allowed.

“Coffee?” the housekeeper asked.

“Yes, please,” she answered politely.

The woman brought her a cup of thick black brew, rich with the smell of something she didn’t usually associate with coffee.

“What kind is it?”

“A Cajun brand. With chicory. The best you’ll ever taste.”

Morgan took a cautious sip. It was good—but strong. And she decided that despite her usual custom, cream would make a good addition. It did.

A plate of eggs and French toast sat on the table.

Andre had already taken several triangles of toast. He pushed the plate toward her—a very ordinary gesture.

A host offering his guest some breakfast. But sharing food had taken on an unintended intimacy as his strong hand brushed against hers, and a current of energy seemed to spark between them.

His voice turned deeper as he said, “Janet’s eggs and pain perdu are excellent,” he said.

“That’s the … Cajun … name for French toast?”

“Yes. But it’s better than any you’ve ever tasted.”

She put his bragging statement to the test and found he was right. The toast was rich and crusty, and sweet with the addition of real maple syrup.

Janet sat down at the table with them and helped herself to the toast and scrambled eggs flecked with onion and sweet red pepper. She might work for Andre, but they apparently didn’t stand on ceremony.

Morgan took several bites of toast, watching the other two people at the table from under lowered lashes. The questions circling in her head were making it difficult to swallow. Finally, she asked, “Who was it that I heard outside last night?”

Janet’s cup clattered in the saucer.

Andre finished the bite of eggs in his mouth, then asked, “Chanting and beating a drum?”

“Yes.”

His lips quirked. Would you believe LaToya Jackson?”

“No”

“More like the voodoo priestess,” he said.

“The one who lives at the edge of town?”

“Yes.”

She raised her chin. “Why didn’t you tell me about her before I came here?”

He had the grace to look uncomfortable. “Is this breakfast or a business discussion?”

“Both.”

“It’s better for the digestion if we separate the two. We can talk about business in the office later.”

Morgan wanted to press the issue. But this was his house, and she had come here to work for him. Which meant she couldn’t turn everything upside down—not without a good reason.

So, she took some more bites of the toast and eggs while he poured himself another cup of coffee.

“Where are you from?” Janet asked.

“Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.”

“How did you get into the investigative business.”

“I … uh …worked in covert operations until my husband died.”

“You were married?” Janet asked in surprise.

“Yes,” she answered.

Andre’s expression didn’t change, and she suspected he had already known that fact—and probably a lot more.

When he told Janet that the meal had been excellent, Morgan added her praise—along with a sigh of relief that they were going to get to work.

Andre led her down the hall to a small room outfitted with a desktop computer sitting on a broad antique desk, shelves full of books and French doors that looked out to a carefully cultivated swath of garden.

The chair faced the window, so that when Andre was seated, he could see the garden.

As she watched, he walked around the desk and stood for a moment gazing out the doors.

Morgan watched him making an effort to relax the tension in his shoulders. Her eyes flicked from him to the view, and a sudden insight hit her.

Stepping up behind him, she said, “You designed this garden—for your own pleasure.”

“Yes,” he answered without turning.

“A lot of men wouldn’t care about the view.”

“This is my home. It’s in my soul,” he said.

The emotion in his voice made her chest tighten.

He sat down at the desk, putting the wide surface and the computer between them like a barrier.

Morgan sat in the wingback chair in the corner. “You sent me a lot of material before I arrived. But you didn’t give me a report on any voodoo priestess.”

He sighed. “I wasn’t sure the Decorah Security Agency would take the job if I started talking about her.”

“Explain that,” she demanded.