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Synopsis
A Sultry Summer Nights Novel
The moment Tilly Floret sees the sleek Bentley driving down Main Street, she knows trouble has arrived in her sleepy little town. A mysterious job posting keeps appearing at the diner where she works, and she can't resist applying. No matter that the entire town of Bayou Vert is whispering about the wealthy, powerful man behind it all and his scandalous return home. The moment his ice-blue eyes meet hers, he ignites an all-consuming desire she never imagined possible, one she can't deny.
Ex-navy SEAL Boone Benoit never thought he'd set foot in Louisiana again. As soon as Tilly starts her new job in his pleasure club, he senses a kindred soul. One who has carefully guarded secrets of her own – and a simmering hunger for the taboo rites of mastery and submission. The only difference is she doesn't yet know it. Now as Boone tutors Tilly in the tantalizing world of leather and lace, she will shed her every inhibition and surrender to him, body and soul.
A Hachette Audio production.
Release date: May 6, 2014
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Print pages: 384
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
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Her Only Desire
Delilah Devlin
The sound was faint and haunting, entering his dreams like a distant echo. A metallic tinkling drifting closer, coming and going, like tiny golden bells worn on a waving arm.
Boone Benoit awoke in a sweat. He lay still for a moment, searching the darkness around him, remembering the layout of the furniture in his bedroom, but finding no new shadows to cause alarm.
But he heard the tinkling in the distance and slipped out of bed. Opening the French doors that led onto the balcony, he stepped out into the humid night air and listened.
Nothing. He must have imagined the sound. Or maybe the gardeners had installed wind chimes, and they’d stirred in a breeze. Although, right this moment, the thick bayou air was perfectly still.
Another door opened farther down the balcony. From the corner of his eye, Boone saw his right-hand man, Sergei Gun, step outside.
“You okay, boss?”
“I’m fine, Serge. Just thought I heard something.”
“Want me to have the guards take a look around the grounds?”
He began to shake his head. His unease at being back was clearly playing with his head, and he wasn’t happy about it. He’d only been back a day, but in Bayou Vert, news traveled faster than CNN across backyard fences. For all he knew, someone might be there in the dark, staring down the barrel of a rifle. “Yeah, have them make a round. And find out if someone put up wind chimes.”
Serge’s head canted.
He probably wanted to ask why, but knew Boone well enough to refrain. Boone and those closest to him had secrets they all kept close to the chest. For good reason.
“What do you want them to do if they find chimes?”
“Shoot ’em,” Boone said with a grim smile.
Serge’s teeth gleamed in the shadows. “Get some sleep, boss.”
“You too.”
Boone stepped back inside and lay down on the bed, closing his eyes and trying to relax, but he strained to hear the telltale sound—golden bells on a bracelet, tinkling at the end of a pale arm.
Dragging in a deep breath, he wondered if he was ready for this. Ready to return to his childhood home. Ready to face his past and the terrible thing that had happened here.
Likely, the sound had been only a dream, dredged up by his own feelings of guilt. A blood-soaked memory. Boone acknowledged the guilt. Accepted it. But now was the time to face the part he’d played. Dead calm settled around him and he drifted off into an uneasy sleep.
* * *
Clotille Floret waved a lazy hand at a fly buzzing, although even that felt like too much effort in the stifling heat. She went back to washing down small bistro tables and chairs outside the restaurant, not that anyone in their right mind would want to sit outside on a day like today.
Still, Mae insisted. Didn’t matter what the season was, things had to be done in a certain order. And since she was the one signing Tilly’s paychecks, Tilly didn’t bother arguing. It wasn’t like Tilly had anything better to do. Life in the bayou was unchanging—summers even more so. There was no Walmart, no movie theater, no entertainments to speak of other than the restaurant and Tater Cribb’s tiny bar, which boasted four concrete-block walls, AC that worked most of the time, and a jukebox that played hits from the eighties since he’d never bothered updating the selection. Tilly knew every tune by heart.
Like a Southern-fried Brigadoon, this seedy little bayou town had been stuck on a single track. Unmoving and morose. After her mother had died and her aunt and uncle had moved away, Tilly had been marooned here, trying to make ends meet to set things right for her brother. Only her efforts were too little and too late.
Sweat trickled from her brow into her eye, and she swiped it away with the back of her hand. She’d dawdled outside long enough. A string of chores awaited her inside.
The sound of an automobile approaching drew her attention, and she watched a dark limo slide down Main Street, dark windows hiding the passenger, the engine a low, contained rumble. Unease shivered through her, tightening her belly. The day everyone in town had sworn would never come had arrived.
As the vehicle drew near, she couldn’t help but pull down the edges of her Daisy Dukes. Somehow, the thought of flashing her ass cheeks to the man who rode by in that impossibly luxurious black Bentley seemed a little too stereotypically trashy. Never mind that was how she earned her best tips.
The car’s appearance in Bayou Vert was noteworthy enough that LeRoy Duhon stepped out of his bait shop. And Cletus Guidry wiped a greasy rag as he strode from the bay of his auto repair shop to watch. He was likely drooling. Fat chance he’d even get to change the oil on the sleek beauty. Up and down the short block, townsfolk gathered on the sidewalk. A presidential candidate on a baby-kissing campaign tour couldn’t have gotten more attention.
The only person who didn’t come outside was Tilly’s boss, Mae Baillio. Mae stood inside the restaurant, watching through the screened windows. Her dark hands folded over her middle, and her gaze followed the car like it was a hearse, leading the way to the graveyard.
Boone Benoit’s return might have felt like that to her. Tante Mae had known the young Boone, remembered the scandal all too well. She’d been working for Tilly’s aunt at the time.
Even for Tilly, the slow procession felt…ominous. She’d been a tween when the tragedy struck, and although she’d cried buckets of tears in the days after, she’d recovered, showing the resilience of a child. Not so, the rest of her family. They’d worn the pain like open wounds, never letting them heal. Something she hadn’t understood until she’d found the little treasure box.
She turned her back and walked into the restaurant, striding up beside Mae as the car slid out of sight.
“Man’s got brass balls,” Mae whispered, her voice hoarse.
Tilly shivered, wondering if everyone felt like she did. Like the ground would begin to shiver and shake before opening up a huge jagged gash to swallow the entire town.
Change was coming. Wasn’t something anyone in the bayou was likely to embrace. Hurricanes came and went, flattening buildings then sweeping them out on rising tides. The town took Nature’s violence all in stride. But this was different. Darker. A reminder of the scar left on their collective souls.
“Thought for sure he was only prettyin’ up his house to sell it,” Tilly said softly, placing a hand on Mae’s tense shoulder.
“Saw it in the cups. He be here to stir up trouble.”
Although Tilly didn’t believe in the portents the older woman read in her tea leaves, she couldn’t shake the thought Boone Benoit was back for justice. Not something she could voice aloud, because most folks thought he’d escaped a rightful lynching.
Mae shook off her hand and crossed stiff-legged to the corkboard, where yet another list of jobs opening at the plantation had been tacked just that morning. As often as Boone Benoit’s foreman put up the notice, Mae tore it down and wadded it in her fist. The crisp page crackled as her brown fingers balled it tight.
Not that Tilly had needed more than a quick glance when the large, muscled foreman sauntered inside day after day to post yet another notice. The position that made her uneasy was still there. Still open.
She didn’t dare apply. Not just because everyone she knew would be appalled. The secret she’d kept bottled inside was too near the surface of her emotions to risk being anywhere near Boone Benoit.
And yet, how could she not? The money from her cashed-in 401(k) was gone. Her house sold. The only way she could rescue Denny from the group home that so frightened him was a better-paying job. Shaking her ass for the male customers at Mae’s Cafe wouldn’t get her what she needed, and that left her with only one alternative.
“Saw you lookin’ at da board,” Mae said, her dark eyes cold and narrowed. “You know you’re only buyin’ trouble. You should go back to da city. Can’t take care of Denny if you don’ take care of yourself first.”
“Denny could never live in the city.” The thought saddened her. Denny wasn’t quite right. Moving him with her to the city simply wasn’t an option.
“Maybe you should just let him go.”
Tilly shook her head. It was something she had considered, although she was too ashamed to admit it.
The bell above the restaurant’s door tinkled.
Tilly gave Mae a quick, tight smile, and then pasted on a bigger one as she turned. Her lips froze. “Oh. Hey there, Leon.”
Sheriff Leon Fournier tilted his head, and his gaze skimmed quickly over her thin tank only to linger on her long, bare legs. “Nice to see you, Tilly.”
Tilly rolled her eyes. “Answer’s still no. Want your coffee with cream?”
“Ain’t everything better with cream?”
She ignored his amused drawl, skirting past him without touching. Once behind the counter, she breathed easier and busied herself pouring coffee into a Styrofoam cup, hoping he’d take the hint he should take the coffee with him as he left.
Leon leaned a hip against the counter and pointed toward the window. “You see Benoit skate through town like he owned it?”
Tilly arched a brow. “Doesn’t he? Half the men not out shrimpin’ are workin’ on his place.”
“Thought he was gonna sell it.”
“Maybe he’s gonna meet a Realtor there,” Tilly mused, hoping her statement was true.
Leon’s lips pursed. “Haven’t seen it go up on any of the real estate websites.”
She arched a taunting brow. “You know how to use the Internet?”
His eyes narrowed. “Girl, what you got against me?”
“Not a girl, Leon.” Her fingers wrapped around the edge of the counter. “And maybe I don’t like bein’ stripped every time you look at me.”
“Cain’t help it,” he said, smiling. “I’m a man. Somethin’ sweet as you comes back to town…Mmm-mm…” He shook his head and gave her another look.
A leering look that made her annoyed. There was no denying he was a handsome man with his thick chestnut hair, broad chest, and dark uniform. Too bad he knew it. “Here’s your coffee,” she said, plunking it down on the counter. “You have a nice day, Sheriff.”
But Leon didn’t take the hint and instead settled on a stool. He opened the lid and silently reached out his hand to Mae, who handed him two sugar packets with a stern look.
“Didn’t think you liked sweet. Just spicy,” Tilly said. “Isn’t that what you told me yesterday when you came by for a cup of Mae’s shrimp gumbo?”
“I can like both, sweetheart. ’Specially when it’s served just right.”
She leaned over the counter, moving into his space.
His eyelids dipped, and by the flare of his nostrils, he drew in her scent.
“When are you gonna give up?” she said, dropping her voice. “I’m not interested.”
He laughed. “Sugar, I’m the best you’re gonna get in this town.”
Fingers tense, she rubbed her rag near his cup, pushing it toward the edge of the counter.
But he caught the cup before it toppled into his lap. “If you’d burned me, I might have had to arrest you for assaultin’ an officer of the law.” His eyebrows waggled up and down and a grin stretched. “You want a little time in lockup? That make things easier for you?”
This time, she laughed and shook her head. “Leon, were you always such a lech?”
He chuckled and slid off the stool.
The bell tinkled again.
The large-muscled construction foreman from Maison Plaisir strode in, his glance going to the sheriff, to whom he gave a nod. Then his gaze casually slid to Tilly.
“The best I’m gonna get, huh?” she murmured, straightening from the counter. To the foreman, she said, “Can I get you somethin’, Mr. Jones?”
The foreman drew a paper from his back pocket, folded once.
Without glancing down, she knew the paper was another notice. “When are you gonna give up?” she chided in a friendly tone. “Mae’s just gonna put it in the trash again.”
His mouth twitched. “Position’s still open, Miss Floret.” He handed the paper directly to Tilly, gave a nod to Leon, then left.
Her mind went blank. He wanted her to apply?
“What’s he talkin’ about, Tilly?” Leon stared.
Ignoring the suspicion in his voice, she looked down at the sheet and the job highlighted in yellow at the top.
Hospitality Executive.
The salary listed right below was higher than the amount had been yesterday. Too high to ignore. With that much extra cash, she could afford to rent a place for her and Denny in no time.
“You’re not thinkin’ about workin’ out there,” Leon whispered. “It’s different with the men. No female in her right mind would go there. Especially not someone like you.”
“Someone like me?” she said, her back stiffening.
“Well, pretty. Young. Especially if he’s back for a while.”
“Doesn’t appear there’s been any more trouble around Boone Benoit. He’s more than redeemed himself.”
The sheriff’s lips turned into a sneer. “Spendin’ time in the navy as a SEAL only means he’s learned more efficient ways to kill.”
“He was never prosecuted,” she said, feeling stubbornness tighten her grip on the paper.
“Only ’cause his daddy made everything disappear and my daddy was willin’ to help.”
Tilly jutted her chin. “Both your daddies should have let the law run its course. He might have been acquitted.” Her gaze met his and held.
Leon’s doubtful expression only echoed the prevailing sentiment. Boone Benoit had beaten a murder rap.
“Don’t do it, Tilly.”
“You’re not the boss of me. Think I want to work here forever?”
“You’re a smart girl. Got yourself an education.” His hand waved at the folded paper. “You can do more than this.”
Her pulse pounded. “Think I haven’t tried? I can’t work on a boat. This town doesn’t have any other jobs I can get hired for besides waitin’ tables. Who around here runnin’ a family business wants to hire me? No one’s wife or mother would stand for it.”
“Mae’s gettin’ on in age. Maybe you could take over someday.”
“And in the meantime…” She glanced down at her frayed shorts, and a pang shot through her gut. “I used to wear Donna Karan and Jimmy Choos.”
“No need to get snooty.”
“I’m not. Just makin’ a point. If this,” she said, waving the sheet, “is my only opportunity, I have to take it.”
A muscle flexed alongside his jaw. “Don’t say you weren’t warned.”
Tilly sighed. “I appreciate your concern. I do.”
His eyelids dropped a fraction. “Might help if he knew you were datin’ the sheriff…”
She laughed, and then punched his shoulder. “Not even if you were the last man on earth.”
“You’re a hard woman.” He shook his head.
“I’ve had to be.” And she’d have to stiffen her spine one more time. Boone Benoit’s posting was just too tempting to ignore, especially for a woman who couldn’t help but flirt with disaster.
The next morning, Tilly let herself out of her car in a wide gravel parking area and walked slowly toward the imposing iron gates. She ignored the deputy in the squad car parked in the shade of a sycamore, knowing he’d probably radioed Leon the moment she’d arrived. Through the wrought iron she noted the gravel drive framed by tall oaks—a view she hadn’t seen since she was a child. The last time she’d been there, she’d held tight to her mama’s and Denny’s hands as they’d brought a picnic basket to join the Fourth of July festivities going on at the plantation that had been a long-standing tradition in Bayou Vert.
She’d been excited, wanting to skip ahead, but her mother had held her back. If she’d gone skipping, so would her brother, and her mama hadn’t wanted Denny to draw any more attention than he already did. Although nearly a grown man in body, he’d been her best friend and cohort in many of her adventures. He didn’t mind baiting her fishing hooks with worms, didn’t mind climbing to the roof of the schoolhouse to see the stars. As wonderful as she’d believed he was, she’d been aware from a very young age that most people didn’t look at him the same way she did.
That day, even their cousin Celeste had turned up her nose at the sight of him, pretending she didn’t know him. However, Celeste’s boyfriend, Boone, had been kind, offering to let them sit near the fireworks platform. Denny had sworn it was the best day ever. But it had been the last time either one of them had set foot inside the estate.
And here she was today. Her stomach clenching so tight she felt a little nauseous. Trying not to think about the thing that screamed inside her mind, aching to be released.
A secret so profound it could alter the path of one man’s life and destroy what was left of her family forever. That secret was one she could never tell.
Some nights, she awoke drenched with sweat, sure she’d blurted aloud the words. But she only dreamed she revealed the truth that had left such an ugly scar upon her community.
How she wished she’d never found the bracelet. Never seen the photograph. But that photograph was part of her small town’s legacy. A dark chapter with murky underpinnings, coloring everything after it with dismal tones, dark suspicions, and angry frustration for a justice that would never be served. Her damnable curiosity had led her to the discovery.
Her secret had consequences. Karmic ones. She had proof. From the moment three years ago when she’d plucked the golden charm bracelet, so pretty and delicate, from among the odd assorted treasures she’d found, nothing but bad luck had followed. Her mother succumbed to cancer months later. The only home she’d ever known was lost to foreclosure. She’d been forced to live underneath her uncle’s roof for several months until she’d saved enough to rent a cheap apartment, eager to escape the Thibodaux house, where an atmosphere of desolation and endless sorrow smothered the inhabitants in their never-ending mourning. Arrangements were made for her brother, who needed specialized care. The day social services loaded him into a van and drove away, he’d been so confused, he’d cried big fat tears.
Dark days had followed. Even with the bracelet safely hidden, Tilly couldn’t brush off the lingering fear that somehow someone would find it. In this town, darkness was impossible to escape. Even on cloudless days, the thick canopy formed by interlocking oaks, dripping with Spanish moss, cast an eerie pall, smothering the light, muffling the sounds of the wind blowing across the marshes from Barataria Bay to Bayou Vert.
Darkness had always been a part of the town’s psyche. When you add the isolation of living in a bayou more accessible by boat than it is by the thin ribbon of state highway, especially when the seasonal rains hit, it was easy to understand. Folks believed themselves alone. Forgotten. Free to mete out their own justice, live by their own rules.
In one unforgettable instance, they’d been robbed. A bright light extinguished with no one to bear the blame. The helpless rage festered, then faded, covered by a thin skin. But when prodded, it erupted like an angry boil.
Boone Benoit’s return to the bayou was just the nasty jab the town needed to awaken from its slumber. Tilly felt the stirrings of a coming disaster. One she was helpless to avoid. She’d find herself at the center anyway. She might as well be close enough to make a difference if things went sideways.
She drew a deep breath, clearing the cobwebs of the past, and stiffened her backbone.
The panel for the automatic keypad controlling the massive gate in the estate’s stone wall was missing, wires hanging. Tilly unwrapped the fencing wire that held the gates closed and slipped through, heading down the long empty lane, catching glimpses of the big house through the foliage.
Maison Plaisir had been the grand dam of the bayou until ferocious hurricanes and the owner’s neglect decimated the old plantation house and gardens. No good could come of the current refurbishing. Everyone said so. Better to leave the old house to rot, they said.
She marched up the long drive, shaded by tall oaks. The branches were carefully pruned, forming a dark tunnel that led to the marble steps of the estate house.
As she approached, the sounds of chainsaws and hammers and shouts from workers in the garden and on the gabled roof became clearer, louder. Perspiration dotted her forehead and upper lip, and she quickly wiped them with her sweaty palms.
Damn. She’d wanted to appear cool, collected. The position she applied for was important enough that she’d overcome her fear of being in his house. She’d never been one to keep her emotions or her words inside. One careless misstep could spell disaster.
She felt as though fate was clearing her path to enter Boone Benoit’s world. A job tailor-made for her credentials. Who else possessed a degree in hospitality or had her experience? If fate wanted her here, then there must be a reason. She didn’t believe in coincidence.
Besides, how often would he be there? The CEO of Black Spear, Limited had offices on every continent, as well as a headquarters in New Orleans. His interest in his family’s ancestral home couldn’t be all that deep. He hadn’t set foot inside this section of Jefferson Parish in over fifteen years. More likely, the recent activities were in preparation for selling the estate, or a symbolic gesture—like shooting the bird at the folks who’d turned their backs on him.
No, Boone Benoit couldn’t be considering returning to Bayou Vert. Not with a murder charge still hanging over his head.
Her footsteps crunched on fine pea gravel. One heel twisted, sinking, but she quickly pulled it free. She’d decided to dress the part. Complete with a professionally tailored gray suit and pearl pumps. Her clothes may have been chosen off the rack, but she knew she looked good.
Her long blonde hair was pulled back from her face in a ponytail, after working long and hard with the straightener to remove every bump and curl. Not a lock out of place. Not a single thread hanging from her clothing. Due to the heat, she’d foregone panty hose, but her skin tone was an even creamy tan from waiting on the diner’s outdoor tables in shorts.
No one would find fault with her appearance. Competent, pretty, but not too sexy. All in the attitude. Or so she reminded herself.
She drew near the edge of the gardens, although calling them that seemed like a stretch. Leggy, overgrown rosebushes surrounded by creeping vines managed a few valiant blossoms. Azalea bushes, grown wild, smothered the annuals popping from bulbs in the ground. Hedgerows were in dire need of shaping.
The growling whine of a revving chainsaw pulled her glance to the side, where two workers, their chests bare and gleaming with sweat, worked with ropes and pulleys to cut the limbs from an oak tree that threatened a trellised gazebo.
In the distance the sound of barking and paws scattering gravel filled her ears. Tilly shot a glance around the yard and watched as a small pug rounded the corner of the big house.
“Max, here, boy! Max!” someone yelled.
But the dog made a beeline for her, yipping and barking.
An animal lover, Tilly stepped back and bent down to greet the dog. “Here, Max,” she said, reaching out a hand as the dog came nearer.
“I wouldn’t do that,” came a warning from a large man dressed in coveralls, who jogged behind the dog.
The dog halted two feet away, growling and spinning in circles.
At the sight, Tilly didn’t know whether to laugh or curse. She took another step backward and her heel sank into the ground. She tried to take another step, sure she’d pull free, but the mud beneath the gravel held firm and her. . .
Boone Benoit awoke in a sweat. He lay still for a moment, searching the darkness around him, remembering the layout of the furniture in his bedroom, but finding no new shadows to cause alarm.
But he heard the tinkling in the distance and slipped out of bed. Opening the French doors that led onto the balcony, he stepped out into the humid night air and listened.
Nothing. He must have imagined the sound. Or maybe the gardeners had installed wind chimes, and they’d stirred in a breeze. Although, right this moment, the thick bayou air was perfectly still.
Another door opened farther down the balcony. From the corner of his eye, Boone saw his right-hand man, Sergei Gun, step outside.
“You okay, boss?”
“I’m fine, Serge. Just thought I heard something.”
“Want me to have the guards take a look around the grounds?”
He began to shake his head. His unease at being back was clearly playing with his head, and he wasn’t happy about it. He’d only been back a day, but in Bayou Vert, news traveled faster than CNN across backyard fences. For all he knew, someone might be there in the dark, staring down the barrel of a rifle. “Yeah, have them make a round. And find out if someone put up wind chimes.”
Serge’s head canted.
He probably wanted to ask why, but knew Boone well enough to refrain. Boone and those closest to him had secrets they all kept close to the chest. For good reason.
“What do you want them to do if they find chimes?”
“Shoot ’em,” Boone said with a grim smile.
Serge’s teeth gleamed in the shadows. “Get some sleep, boss.”
“You too.”
Boone stepped back inside and lay down on the bed, closing his eyes and trying to relax, but he strained to hear the telltale sound—golden bells on a bracelet, tinkling at the end of a pale arm.
Dragging in a deep breath, he wondered if he was ready for this. Ready to return to his childhood home. Ready to face his past and the terrible thing that had happened here.
Likely, the sound had been only a dream, dredged up by his own feelings of guilt. A blood-soaked memory. Boone acknowledged the guilt. Accepted it. But now was the time to face the part he’d played. Dead calm settled around him and he drifted off into an uneasy sleep.
* * *
Clotille Floret waved a lazy hand at a fly buzzing, although even that felt like too much effort in the stifling heat. She went back to washing down small bistro tables and chairs outside the restaurant, not that anyone in their right mind would want to sit outside on a day like today.
Still, Mae insisted. Didn’t matter what the season was, things had to be done in a certain order. And since she was the one signing Tilly’s paychecks, Tilly didn’t bother arguing. It wasn’t like Tilly had anything better to do. Life in the bayou was unchanging—summers even more so. There was no Walmart, no movie theater, no entertainments to speak of other than the restaurant and Tater Cribb’s tiny bar, which boasted four concrete-block walls, AC that worked most of the time, and a jukebox that played hits from the eighties since he’d never bothered updating the selection. Tilly knew every tune by heart.
Like a Southern-fried Brigadoon, this seedy little bayou town had been stuck on a single track. Unmoving and morose. After her mother had died and her aunt and uncle had moved away, Tilly had been marooned here, trying to make ends meet to set things right for her brother. Only her efforts were too little and too late.
Sweat trickled from her brow into her eye, and she swiped it away with the back of her hand. She’d dawdled outside long enough. A string of chores awaited her inside.
The sound of an automobile approaching drew her attention, and she watched a dark limo slide down Main Street, dark windows hiding the passenger, the engine a low, contained rumble. Unease shivered through her, tightening her belly. The day everyone in town had sworn would never come had arrived.
As the vehicle drew near, she couldn’t help but pull down the edges of her Daisy Dukes. Somehow, the thought of flashing her ass cheeks to the man who rode by in that impossibly luxurious black Bentley seemed a little too stereotypically trashy. Never mind that was how she earned her best tips.
The car’s appearance in Bayou Vert was noteworthy enough that LeRoy Duhon stepped out of his bait shop. And Cletus Guidry wiped a greasy rag as he strode from the bay of his auto repair shop to watch. He was likely drooling. Fat chance he’d even get to change the oil on the sleek beauty. Up and down the short block, townsfolk gathered on the sidewalk. A presidential candidate on a baby-kissing campaign tour couldn’t have gotten more attention.
The only person who didn’t come outside was Tilly’s boss, Mae Baillio. Mae stood inside the restaurant, watching through the screened windows. Her dark hands folded over her middle, and her gaze followed the car like it was a hearse, leading the way to the graveyard.
Boone Benoit’s return might have felt like that to her. Tante Mae had known the young Boone, remembered the scandal all too well. She’d been working for Tilly’s aunt at the time.
Even for Tilly, the slow procession felt…ominous. She’d been a tween when the tragedy struck, and although she’d cried buckets of tears in the days after, she’d recovered, showing the resilience of a child. Not so, the rest of her family. They’d worn the pain like open wounds, never letting them heal. Something she hadn’t understood until she’d found the little treasure box.
She turned her back and walked into the restaurant, striding up beside Mae as the car slid out of sight.
“Man’s got brass balls,” Mae whispered, her voice hoarse.
Tilly shivered, wondering if everyone felt like she did. Like the ground would begin to shiver and shake before opening up a huge jagged gash to swallow the entire town.
Change was coming. Wasn’t something anyone in the bayou was likely to embrace. Hurricanes came and went, flattening buildings then sweeping them out on rising tides. The town took Nature’s violence all in stride. But this was different. Darker. A reminder of the scar left on their collective souls.
“Thought for sure he was only prettyin’ up his house to sell it,” Tilly said softly, placing a hand on Mae’s tense shoulder.
“Saw it in the cups. He be here to stir up trouble.”
Although Tilly didn’t believe in the portents the older woman read in her tea leaves, she couldn’t shake the thought Boone Benoit was back for justice. Not something she could voice aloud, because most folks thought he’d escaped a rightful lynching.
Mae shook off her hand and crossed stiff-legged to the corkboard, where yet another list of jobs opening at the plantation had been tacked just that morning. As often as Boone Benoit’s foreman put up the notice, Mae tore it down and wadded it in her fist. The crisp page crackled as her brown fingers balled it tight.
Not that Tilly had needed more than a quick glance when the large, muscled foreman sauntered inside day after day to post yet another notice. The position that made her uneasy was still there. Still open.
She didn’t dare apply. Not just because everyone she knew would be appalled. The secret she’d kept bottled inside was too near the surface of her emotions to risk being anywhere near Boone Benoit.
And yet, how could she not? The money from her cashed-in 401(k) was gone. Her house sold. The only way she could rescue Denny from the group home that so frightened him was a better-paying job. Shaking her ass for the male customers at Mae’s Cafe wouldn’t get her what she needed, and that left her with only one alternative.
“Saw you lookin’ at da board,” Mae said, her dark eyes cold and narrowed. “You know you’re only buyin’ trouble. You should go back to da city. Can’t take care of Denny if you don’ take care of yourself first.”
“Denny could never live in the city.” The thought saddened her. Denny wasn’t quite right. Moving him with her to the city simply wasn’t an option.
“Maybe you should just let him go.”
Tilly shook her head. It was something she had considered, although she was too ashamed to admit it.
The bell above the restaurant’s door tinkled.
Tilly gave Mae a quick, tight smile, and then pasted on a bigger one as she turned. Her lips froze. “Oh. Hey there, Leon.”
Sheriff Leon Fournier tilted his head, and his gaze skimmed quickly over her thin tank only to linger on her long, bare legs. “Nice to see you, Tilly.”
Tilly rolled her eyes. “Answer’s still no. Want your coffee with cream?”
“Ain’t everything better with cream?”
She ignored his amused drawl, skirting past him without touching. Once behind the counter, she breathed easier and busied herself pouring coffee into a Styrofoam cup, hoping he’d take the hint he should take the coffee with him as he left.
Leon leaned a hip against the counter and pointed toward the window. “You see Benoit skate through town like he owned it?”
Tilly arched a brow. “Doesn’t he? Half the men not out shrimpin’ are workin’ on his place.”
“Thought he was gonna sell it.”
“Maybe he’s gonna meet a Realtor there,” Tilly mused, hoping her statement was true.
Leon’s lips pursed. “Haven’t seen it go up on any of the real estate websites.”
She arched a taunting brow. “You know how to use the Internet?”
His eyes narrowed. “Girl, what you got against me?”
“Not a girl, Leon.” Her fingers wrapped around the edge of the counter. “And maybe I don’t like bein’ stripped every time you look at me.”
“Cain’t help it,” he said, smiling. “I’m a man. Somethin’ sweet as you comes back to town…Mmm-mm…” He shook his head and gave her another look.
A leering look that made her annoyed. There was no denying he was a handsome man with his thick chestnut hair, broad chest, and dark uniform. Too bad he knew it. “Here’s your coffee,” she said, plunking it down on the counter. “You have a nice day, Sheriff.”
But Leon didn’t take the hint and instead settled on a stool. He opened the lid and silently reached out his hand to Mae, who handed him two sugar packets with a stern look.
“Didn’t think you liked sweet. Just spicy,” Tilly said. “Isn’t that what you told me yesterday when you came by for a cup of Mae’s shrimp gumbo?”
“I can like both, sweetheart. ’Specially when it’s served just right.”
She leaned over the counter, moving into his space.
His eyelids dipped, and by the flare of his nostrils, he drew in her scent.
“When are you gonna give up?” she said, dropping her voice. “I’m not interested.”
He laughed. “Sugar, I’m the best you’re gonna get in this town.”
Fingers tense, she rubbed her rag near his cup, pushing it toward the edge of the counter.
But he caught the cup before it toppled into his lap. “If you’d burned me, I might have had to arrest you for assaultin’ an officer of the law.” His eyebrows waggled up and down and a grin stretched. “You want a little time in lockup? That make things easier for you?”
This time, she laughed and shook her head. “Leon, were you always such a lech?”
He chuckled and slid off the stool.
The bell tinkled again.
The large-muscled construction foreman from Maison Plaisir strode in, his glance going to the sheriff, to whom he gave a nod. Then his gaze casually slid to Tilly.
“The best I’m gonna get, huh?” she murmured, straightening from the counter. To the foreman, she said, “Can I get you somethin’, Mr. Jones?”
The foreman drew a paper from his back pocket, folded once.
Without glancing down, she knew the paper was another notice. “When are you gonna give up?” she chided in a friendly tone. “Mae’s just gonna put it in the trash again.”
His mouth twitched. “Position’s still open, Miss Floret.” He handed the paper directly to Tilly, gave a nod to Leon, then left.
Her mind went blank. He wanted her to apply?
“What’s he talkin’ about, Tilly?” Leon stared.
Ignoring the suspicion in his voice, she looked down at the sheet and the job highlighted in yellow at the top.
Hospitality Executive.
The salary listed right below was higher than the amount had been yesterday. Too high to ignore. With that much extra cash, she could afford to rent a place for her and Denny in no time.
“You’re not thinkin’ about workin’ out there,” Leon whispered. “It’s different with the men. No female in her right mind would go there. Especially not someone like you.”
“Someone like me?” she said, her back stiffening.
“Well, pretty. Young. Especially if he’s back for a while.”
“Doesn’t appear there’s been any more trouble around Boone Benoit. He’s more than redeemed himself.”
The sheriff’s lips turned into a sneer. “Spendin’ time in the navy as a SEAL only means he’s learned more efficient ways to kill.”
“He was never prosecuted,” she said, feeling stubbornness tighten her grip on the paper.
“Only ’cause his daddy made everything disappear and my daddy was willin’ to help.”
Tilly jutted her chin. “Both your daddies should have let the law run its course. He might have been acquitted.” Her gaze met his and held.
Leon’s doubtful expression only echoed the prevailing sentiment. Boone Benoit had beaten a murder rap.
“Don’t do it, Tilly.”
“You’re not the boss of me. Think I want to work here forever?”
“You’re a smart girl. Got yourself an education.” His hand waved at the folded paper. “You can do more than this.”
Her pulse pounded. “Think I haven’t tried? I can’t work on a boat. This town doesn’t have any other jobs I can get hired for besides waitin’ tables. Who around here runnin’ a family business wants to hire me? No one’s wife or mother would stand for it.”
“Mae’s gettin’ on in age. Maybe you could take over someday.”
“And in the meantime…” She glanced down at her frayed shorts, and a pang shot through her gut. “I used to wear Donna Karan and Jimmy Choos.”
“No need to get snooty.”
“I’m not. Just makin’ a point. If this,” she said, waving the sheet, “is my only opportunity, I have to take it.”
A muscle flexed alongside his jaw. “Don’t say you weren’t warned.”
Tilly sighed. “I appreciate your concern. I do.”
His eyelids dropped a fraction. “Might help if he knew you were datin’ the sheriff…”
She laughed, and then punched his shoulder. “Not even if you were the last man on earth.”
“You’re a hard woman.” He shook his head.
“I’ve had to be.” And she’d have to stiffen her spine one more time. Boone Benoit’s posting was just too tempting to ignore, especially for a woman who couldn’t help but flirt with disaster.
The next morning, Tilly let herself out of her car in a wide gravel parking area and walked slowly toward the imposing iron gates. She ignored the deputy in the squad car parked in the shade of a sycamore, knowing he’d probably radioed Leon the moment she’d arrived. Through the wrought iron she noted the gravel drive framed by tall oaks—a view she hadn’t seen since she was a child. The last time she’d been there, she’d held tight to her mama’s and Denny’s hands as they’d brought a picnic basket to join the Fourth of July festivities going on at the plantation that had been a long-standing tradition in Bayou Vert.
She’d been excited, wanting to skip ahead, but her mother had held her back. If she’d gone skipping, so would her brother, and her mama hadn’t wanted Denny to draw any more attention than he already did. Although nearly a grown man in body, he’d been her best friend and cohort in many of her adventures. He didn’t mind baiting her fishing hooks with worms, didn’t mind climbing to the roof of the schoolhouse to see the stars. As wonderful as she’d believed he was, she’d been aware from a very young age that most people didn’t look at him the same way she did.
That day, even their cousin Celeste had turned up her nose at the sight of him, pretending she didn’t know him. However, Celeste’s boyfriend, Boone, had been kind, offering to let them sit near the fireworks platform. Denny had sworn it was the best day ever. But it had been the last time either one of them had set foot inside the estate.
And here she was today. Her stomach clenching so tight she felt a little nauseous. Trying not to think about the thing that screamed inside her mind, aching to be released.
A secret so profound it could alter the path of one man’s life and destroy what was left of her family forever. That secret was one she could never tell.
Some nights, she awoke drenched with sweat, sure she’d blurted aloud the words. But she only dreamed she revealed the truth that had left such an ugly scar upon her community.
How she wished she’d never found the bracelet. Never seen the photograph. But that photograph was part of her small town’s legacy. A dark chapter with murky underpinnings, coloring everything after it with dismal tones, dark suspicions, and angry frustration for a justice that would never be served. Her damnable curiosity had led her to the discovery.
Her secret had consequences. Karmic ones. She had proof. From the moment three years ago when she’d plucked the golden charm bracelet, so pretty and delicate, from among the odd assorted treasures she’d found, nothing but bad luck had followed. Her mother succumbed to cancer months later. The only home she’d ever known was lost to foreclosure. She’d been forced to live underneath her uncle’s roof for several months until she’d saved enough to rent a cheap apartment, eager to escape the Thibodaux house, where an atmosphere of desolation and endless sorrow smothered the inhabitants in their never-ending mourning. Arrangements were made for her brother, who needed specialized care. The day social services loaded him into a van and drove away, he’d been so confused, he’d cried big fat tears.
Dark days had followed. Even with the bracelet safely hidden, Tilly couldn’t brush off the lingering fear that somehow someone would find it. In this town, darkness was impossible to escape. Even on cloudless days, the thick canopy formed by interlocking oaks, dripping with Spanish moss, cast an eerie pall, smothering the light, muffling the sounds of the wind blowing across the marshes from Barataria Bay to Bayou Vert.
Darkness had always been a part of the town’s psyche. When you add the isolation of living in a bayou more accessible by boat than it is by the thin ribbon of state highway, especially when the seasonal rains hit, it was easy to understand. Folks believed themselves alone. Forgotten. Free to mete out their own justice, live by their own rules.
In one unforgettable instance, they’d been robbed. A bright light extinguished with no one to bear the blame. The helpless rage festered, then faded, covered by a thin skin. But when prodded, it erupted like an angry boil.
Boone Benoit’s return to the bayou was just the nasty jab the town needed to awaken from its slumber. Tilly felt the stirrings of a coming disaster. One she was helpless to avoid. She’d find herself at the center anyway. She might as well be close enough to make a difference if things went sideways.
She drew a deep breath, clearing the cobwebs of the past, and stiffened her backbone.
The panel for the automatic keypad controlling the massive gate in the estate’s stone wall was missing, wires hanging. Tilly unwrapped the fencing wire that held the gates closed and slipped through, heading down the long empty lane, catching glimpses of the big house through the foliage.
Maison Plaisir had been the grand dam of the bayou until ferocious hurricanes and the owner’s neglect decimated the old plantation house and gardens. No good could come of the current refurbishing. Everyone said so. Better to leave the old house to rot, they said.
She marched up the long drive, shaded by tall oaks. The branches were carefully pruned, forming a dark tunnel that led to the marble steps of the estate house.
As she approached, the sounds of chainsaws and hammers and shouts from workers in the garden and on the gabled roof became clearer, louder. Perspiration dotted her forehead and upper lip, and she quickly wiped them with her sweaty palms.
Damn. She’d wanted to appear cool, collected. The position she applied for was important enough that she’d overcome her fear of being in his house. She’d never been one to keep her emotions or her words inside. One careless misstep could spell disaster.
She felt as though fate was clearing her path to enter Boone Benoit’s world. A job tailor-made for her credentials. Who else possessed a degree in hospitality or had her experience? If fate wanted her here, then there must be a reason. She didn’t believe in coincidence.
Besides, how often would he be there? The CEO of Black Spear, Limited had offices on every continent, as well as a headquarters in New Orleans. His interest in his family’s ancestral home couldn’t be all that deep. He hadn’t set foot inside this section of Jefferson Parish in over fifteen years. More likely, the recent activities were in preparation for selling the estate, or a symbolic gesture—like shooting the bird at the folks who’d turned their backs on him.
No, Boone Benoit couldn’t be considering returning to Bayou Vert. Not with a murder charge still hanging over his head.
Her footsteps crunched on fine pea gravel. One heel twisted, sinking, but she quickly pulled it free. She’d decided to dress the part. Complete with a professionally tailored gray suit and pearl pumps. Her clothes may have been chosen off the rack, but she knew she looked good.
Her long blonde hair was pulled back from her face in a ponytail, after working long and hard with the straightener to remove every bump and curl. Not a lock out of place. Not a single thread hanging from her clothing. Due to the heat, she’d foregone panty hose, but her skin tone was an even creamy tan from waiting on the diner’s outdoor tables in shorts.
No one would find fault with her appearance. Competent, pretty, but not too sexy. All in the attitude. Or so she reminded herself.
She drew near the edge of the gardens, although calling them that seemed like a stretch. Leggy, overgrown rosebushes surrounded by creeping vines managed a few valiant blossoms. Azalea bushes, grown wild, smothered the annuals popping from bulbs in the ground. Hedgerows were in dire need of shaping.
The growling whine of a revving chainsaw pulled her glance to the side, where two workers, their chests bare and gleaming with sweat, worked with ropes and pulleys to cut the limbs from an oak tree that threatened a trellised gazebo.
In the distance the sound of barking and paws scattering gravel filled her ears. Tilly shot a glance around the yard and watched as a small pug rounded the corner of the big house.
“Max, here, boy! Max!” someone yelled.
But the dog made a beeline for her, yipping and barking.
An animal lover, Tilly stepped back and bent down to greet the dog. “Here, Max,” she said, reaching out a hand as the dog came nearer.
“I wouldn’t do that,” came a warning from a large man dressed in coveralls, who jogged behind the dog.
The dog halted two feet away, growling and spinning in circles.
At the sight, Tilly didn’t know whether to laugh or curse. She took another step backward and her heel sank into the ground. She tried to take another step, sure she’d pull free, but the mud beneath the gravel held firm and her. . .
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