Page 12 of Cursed (Decorah Security 2.0, #14)

He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “It sounded interesting, so I bought it.” Picking up another volume, called The Great Sailing Ships , he flipped it open. “About the same level of interest as this.”

“You’ve never seen a werewolf, have you?”

He stiffened. “That’s an odd question.”

“Your swamp would be the perfect place for one,” she heard herself saying.

“I’ve never encountered one there—or a sailing ship, either.”

She laughed, trying to get a handle on the man. He was a mystery. For all she knew, he had caused the problems with the town, and she had stepped into the middle of the mess he’d made. Now he was counting on her to bail him out

She didn’t want to believe that. She wanted to be on his side. Because she was living at his estate? Because she was attracted to him?

“What are you thinking?” he asked suddenly.

She felt her face heat. “Why do you ask?”

“You looked like you were working on an important problem.”

“Just thinking about the case,” she managed, then scrambled for another subject. “So, you love books and gardening. How do you make a living?” It was a pretty personal question, but not out of bounds—considering that she was working as an investigator for him.

It seemed he didn’t mind answering. “I inherited a substantial investment portfolio. I studied the market carefully, made some good buys, diversified. I have a pretty good feel for what’s going to do well and what will tank.

Sometimes I make a mistake. But my picks are above average.

And before the market went down a couple of years ago, I had pulled some of my money out of stocks and shifted them to bonds. ”

She nodded, impressed. Her own family was middle class.

Her father had been a mail carrier with his government retirement his only investment.

Her mom had been a grocery clerk. If she hadn’t won a scholarship, she probably wouldn’t have gone to college.

What she knew about finances would fit into a teacup, but she did have some guesses about the upkeep on a large estate.

She looked around. “Doesn’t it take a considerable amount of capital to keep Belle Vista in such beautiful shape?”

“Yes, even when I do most of the work myself. I’ve been tempted to sell off some of my land, but I’ve always been able to keep going without turning to that alternative.”

“The land is important to you?”

“It’s my heritage,” he said simply. He was shifting the books on the table, but his eyes were focused on the scene outside. When he drew in a strangled breath, she followed his gaze. “What?”

Without answering, he strode to the door, unlocked it and leaped outside—then hurried to a spot about halfway across the patio.

She followed him, stopping short when he squatted down to examine something.

Resting on the bricks was an object that made her breath catch.

The thing looked like evil personified—a sticky mass of tar, with stuff studding the surface.

She saw orange animal hairs, seeds, strands of grass, and a glass ball that looked like a marble.

The whole mass was elongated, and if she squinted when she looked at it, she could see the shape of an animal. A cat?

“Did you leave this here?” she asked.

His gaze shot to her face. “You think this is mine? Why would I put something disgusting on my own patio?”

“I don’t know … to scare me,” she heard herself saying.

“Scaring you was never my intention,” he said in a strained voice. “I’m sorry you think so.”

She struggled to rein in emotions that were rapidly getting out of control. “Okay, maybe somebody left it to make me wonder about your motives.”

“That’s a theory,” he muttered. “Why would they leave it out here? This is my daily view—not yours.”

“But I’m supposed to be working in the library,” she pointed out as she gestured toward the wicked looking thing. “What is it?”

“Gris-gris,” he answered evenly, obviously making an effort to get control of himself as he took out a pocket handkerchief, picked up the blob and laid it on the table.

She stood up, too. “What exactly is gris-gris?”

“A voodoo charm.”

She peered at the blob in the handkerchief. “Not a love charm, I take it,” she whispered.

“Hardly.”

When she reached out to touch the thing, his hand whipped out to pull hers back. “Leave it alone.”

“Why?”

“For all I know, she could have dipped it in the toilet—or worse— before putting it here.”

She snatched her hand away. “Her? You think the voodoo priestess left this here?”

“Who else?”

“Somebody who wants you to think it was her. Someone else in town. A relative of the murder victims. Or one of the merchants who thinks the murders have affected business.

He sighed. “I suppose that could be an explanation.”

“But you don’t think so.”

Anger flashed in his eyes. “I told you, people in town are afraid of me. I thought that nobody in St. Germaine would be brave enough to come near my house at night—except Yvonne. I guess it was the wrong assumption!”

“Yvonne. That’s the priestess?

“Yes.”

“Why is she different?”

“She’s protected herself with a spell.”

Morgan swiveled to face him, studying his features to see if he was putting her on. “You believe that? I mean, you believe in voodoo? And that this woman can give herself special protections,” she added.

He waited several seconds, and she watched anger and—surprisingly—vulnerability chase themselves across his face. “I guess I have to.”

While he looked so off balance, she pressed, “What does that mean?”

“It means that things have happened around here that I can’t explain any other way.”

“Like what?”

“Like my not being able to get near her!”

“Okay,” she answered, then wedged her hands on her hips, coming back to a point she’d made earlier. “You should have included that information in your report to me.”

“It’s not relevant. I asked you to find out who is killing people in the bayou and trying to pin it on a mysterious jaguar.”

“You’re sure it’s not her?” she asked again.

“Yes!”

She stared out at the grounds of the estate but kept him in the edge of her vision. Apparently, the subject of the voodoo priestess was an emotionally charged one for him.

“Do you think this charm can cause you harm?” she asked in a quiet voice.

He had been looking down at the thing. Lifting his eyes to her, he said, “It could be meant to cause you harm.”

His words stabbed into her, mimicking the pain that had throbbed in her head in response to the beating drum.

“Me? Why?”

“Because you’re here,” he clipped out. “Because if you’re living in my house, she doesn’t wish you well.”

She watched him carefully as she asked, “Did you do something to her? Something to make her mad?”

“Not me personally, at least as far as I know. I’ve stayed strictly away from her. I mean as much as I can. But she still comes out here. It’s all wound up with the grudge she holds against my family.”

She wanted to bombard him with more questions. But he asked quietly, “Could we drop the subject?”

“Okay,” she agreed, even as she silently added— For now. Part of her job was judging when and how to get information. She could see it would be better to come back to the subject when he was a little more emotionally detached.

“I’m going to get rid of this thing,” he said, pointing to the charm.

“You don’t mean—throw it away, do you?” she asked quickly, concerned that he might be planning to destroy evidence.

“No.” He laid it on the table, then said, “I’ll put it in a plastic bag and save it.”

She wanted to ask if he’d give it to her so she could send it back to Decorah for an evaluation, but she was pretty sure he wouldn’t agree.

And she didn’t want to make it a contest. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly before changing the subject.

“I haven’t checked in with my office. I should send them an e-mail and tell them I’m okay. ”

He seemed to visibly relax. “Do you need to use my computer?”

“I can use my laptop. Do I need a network code?”

“I’ll give it to you.”

She stayed where she was on the patio, thinking about the question that had been hovering in her mind during the whole conversation. Are you sorry you asked me to come here?

That was too much of a challenge, she thought as she turned quickly back to the house. Just because she’d felt weird ever since she’d gotten here didn’t mean he felt the same.

She was too preoccupied to be watching where she was going, and when her foot caught on the edge of a brick, she started to pitch forward.

Andre moved quickly, catching her to keep her from hitting the edge of the doorway.

Neither of them spoke. He should turn her loose, or she should pull away. But the only move either of them made was for his arms to tighten around her and pull her closer.

She stayed where she was, lowering her head against his shoulder. “I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going,” she whispered.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she murmured. Secretly, she had wondered how she would react to being held by the real man again—after the intensity of her experience with the dream lover.

The depth of her feelings shocked her. The dreams had thrown her off balance.

But it wasn’t just that. She was feeling things with this man that she hadn’t felt for anyone in years.

As he cradled her in his arms, it seemed she had lost the will to act sensibly, at least for the moment. When she raised her head, he looked down at her, the question in his eyes as clear as if he had spoken to her in words.

And she answered with her eyes, because words were beyond her at the moment. They had known each other less than a day, yet a power beyond her comprehension drew them together.

Slowly, giving her time to change her mind, he lowered his mouth to hers. Maybe he intended the kiss to be gentle. It did start out sweet—even tender. But it took only seconds for it to change from sweet to sweltering.

Something happened. Something she couldn’t explain. She was back in the dream—yet not the dream. They were Andre and Linette.

No, Andre and Morgan. Andre and Linette. Andre and Morgan. She didn’t know who she was anymore.

The only thing she understood for sure was that she was engulfed by the sensation of his lips moving urgently against hers, his hands gliding up and down her back, the rich scent of his body.

The kiss melted her bones, made her cling to him to stay erect. Whoever she was—whoever they were—this man spoke to her in a primitive language well below any verbal level. But they both understood it.

When his tongue stroked along the seam of her lips, she opened for him, welcoming the more intimate contact that brought with it the essence of man and the hint of the maple syrup he’d eaten at breakfast. The taste of him was familiar to her.

As his tongue explored the inside of her lips, her teeth, she was sure that she had done this with him before.

No not with him. In the dream.

She was still coping with confusion. But as he deepened the kiss, she felt the erotic sensation travel downward through her body, making her nipples tighten and her sex turn liquid.

How many months had it been before Linette had dared to let Andre kiss her this way?

How long before Linette had realized that she would make love with Andre, whether a priest had blessed their union or not?

Perhaps the directness of that thought was what brought her back to reality. Her hands shifted from this Andre’s neck to his shoulders—pushing him away instead of clinging. And somehow, she managed to get out one coherent syllable, “No.”