Josette

Book 1: Bayou Bad Boys

by Kathleen Bittner Roth

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

"An exciting new voice in historical romance." --Anna Campbell, award?winning author of What a Duke Dares "Monsieur Andrews, welcome to my home." At the smoky, velvet sound, Cameron swung around. Every function in his body--heart, breath, blood ceased to function. She was lovely. More than lovely. Tendrils of raven hair framed a face so exquisite, it disarmed him. Her mouth, a soft, dewy pink, parted. And those eyes, as dark as Creole coffee, intelligent and assessing, roamed over him and then back to take hold of his. He needed to step closer, to stroke her skin. To possess her. But would his wealth and worldly experience be a match for the free-spirited Cajun-born widow? Across the oceans, between worlds old and new--two lost souls find themselves at a crossroads.

Release date: October 1, 2015

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 448

Sample

San Francisco, 1857

Once he reached China, Cameron Andrews didn’t give a bloody damn where he ended up.

He stood on the dock in front of the Andrews Shipping Company offices, one booted foot perched atop a stubby mooring, eyes fixed on the Serenity. The sleek clipper tacked back and forth, gracefully working her way into the harbor on the first leg of her journey since departing New Orleans. She’d tie down long enough to drop off mail and cargo, then refill her stores and head to the Orient for another load of goods. He’d be aboard her when she set sail.

Born in New Orleans’s Vieux Carré to a French mother, and educated at Cambridge like his English father, he was used to the very best. He and his cousin had inherited the family business, had worked their arses off to turn the shipping line into an empire that maintained the largest fleet in the world. He was a wealthy man who could afford just about anything.

A soft snort escaped him. Anything, that is, except a modicum of peace. No amount of money could buy his way out of the misery that threatened to suffocate him.

Somewhere behind him a church bell pealed the noon hour, and like clockwork, his stomach growled. A glance down the street at the Morgan Hotel, and any desire for food left him. He’d taken his noon meal there every day without fail since his arrival four years ago—that is, until recently. Even though it had been two years since his wife’s passing, facing her parents, the owners of the hotel, was growing more tedious by the day. Lately, he’d been skipping luncheon altogether.

The sun escaped the cover of a billowy cloud and turned the gray waters of San Francisco Bay into a hard sparkle of blue. The air lost a bit of its briskness. He shielded his eyes from the glare and watched the Serenity glide silently through the water. Good Lord, she was magnificent. The fastest ship on the seas. Merde, but it would feel good to gain his sea legs again.

The Felicité and the Celine, two more of the company’s elegant clippers, rode low in the water harbor-side, both laden with goods from China and India. In a few days, one would head to New Orleans, the other to Boston.

As the Serenity tacked eastward one last time before coming into port, Yerba Buena Island appeared behind her like a backdrop, an emerald oasis in the middle of the bay. A familiar hollowness ate at him. His wife and stillborn son lay buried on the western slope of that island. His chest grew taut. Would Dianah forgive him if he left? Lord knew how many times he’d stood beside her grave begging permission to leave without guilt.

“Ho, there, Mister Andrews,” Davey, his dockhand, shouted. “Serenity heavin’ to. The wind’s shifted, so she’ll be coming ’round port-side. Best ye step back, sir.”

Seagulls swooped and squawked, wheeling and diving into the choppy waters like pirates after buried treasure. The sleek clipper, her sails drawing in, glided silently to the dock. Sailors tossed a couple of ratlines. Davey grabbed one, while Cameron slipped the other over the mooring post he’d just vacated. The vessel came to a complete stop in the water.

The gangplank lowered. First off the ship was a scowling, red-cheeked captain, the ship’s log tucked under one arm, as he dragged a scruffy boy by the neck.

Cameron stepped forward. “Looks like you got yourself a stowaway, Hallowell.”

“The little bastard is all yours now, by God.” The captain gave the boy a hard shove.

The lad, his face smeared with dirt, stumbled to a halt in front of Cameron, shoulders scrunched in an exaggerated wince as he rubbed at the back of his neck. “Why you be draggin’ me like dat? I was damn glad to be off dat boat, don’cha know. Merde! I would’ve come down on my own without you trying to rip my head off.”

Bloody hell if it wasn’t a no-account Cajun straight out of the bayou. “Ship,” Cameron drawled. “Never refer to my fine line of vessels as boats.”

The breeze kicked up and swirled around the boy, shooting an acrid scent up Cameron’s nostrils—sweat, dirt, and frayed clothing that likely hadn’t seen a washing the entire trip. If ever. “Christ, you smell like Napoleon’s army after a forty-day march.”

“Probably worse,” Hallowell responded. “He refused a bath the entire journey. Can’t figure how a body not used to the sea could find so many places to hide. Whenever I mentioned even a little water around the ears, the guttersnipe vanished so fast I had to scratch my head and wonder if he wasn’t an apparition. I finally gave up and stuck to my duties. It was either that or toss him overboard and forget I ever saw him. Can’t tell you how many times I was sorely tempted to do that very thing.”

The boy shot a fiery glance at the captain and muttered a French profanity so foul, Cameron was glad Hallowell didn’t understand the language. “Take your leave, Hallowell. I’ll see to the scalawag. Is my replacement aboard?”

“Aye.” The captain jerked his thumb in the air behind him and headed for the company offices.

“Mr. Andrews!” Joshua Cooper, carpetbag in hand, stepped smartly off the ship, but when his feet hit the deck, he weaved from side to side like a drunken sailor.

Cameron chuckled. “Still got your sea legs, I see.”

Cooper managed to stick out his hand and, with a grin, grasped Cameron’s and pumped it up and down. “Much as I love the sea, and everything about the shipping business, sir, I still end up thinking I’m afloat for a good three or four days after we’ve docked.”

He glanced around at the gray clapboard buildings lining the bayside wharf and at others branching out behind and along narrow streets. “Isn’t this a sight different from New Orleans?” His eyes narrowed at the new clouds forming overhead. “Not to mention the cooler weather.”

“It takes time, but you’ll get used to it. Whatever the conditions are at the moment, they can change fast. You’ll soon learn to carry an umbrella with you as a matter of course.” Cameron gave a nod toward a large white building emblazoned with a green roof to his left. “That’s the Morgan Hotel. Go ahead and get yourself settled in. We’ll meet over dinner there and discuss permanent lodgings for you.”

“Thank you, sir. Until this evening, then.” Cooper trotted down the street.

Cameron folded his arms over his chest and turned to the boy standing beside him. He stared at the top of a cap-covered head. “What’s your name?”

“Alex.”

With the way he cast his eyes to his boots and scuffed a toe against the dock, Cameron would bet the scamp was lying. “Straighten up and look me in the eye, boy. How old are you?”

The lad lifted his head and, with a cocky attitude that nearly made Cameron laugh, folded his arms across his chest, arrogantly mirroring Cameron’s stance. “Old ’nuff.”

“Is that so?” What the devil was he supposed to do with this ne’er-do-well until the clipper destined for New Orleans set sail? He surveyed Alex, from his threadbare clothing, to his worn shoes, which appeared a few sizes too large. A shaft of compassion shot through him. “Were you looking for a little adventure? Is that what made you stow away? Or was the law after you?”

“Non.”

“Were you running away from someone who mistreated you?”

“Non.” Alex assessed Cameron in the exact same manner as he’d been surveyed, slow and easy. Completing his mock appraisal, his gaze settled back on Cameron’s, where it held steady. A smirk curled one corner of his mouth. “I had a fair good reason for hoppin’ aboard your fine vessel asides finding me a good time.”

He spoke in that lyrical Cajun French that made even the most evil of epithets roll off a tongue like a sweet lullaby. Unease spread through Cameron. Was he in charge or had the boy just taken over? Wily little thing.

“Since my stomach is playing fiddle with my backbone, the sooner you tell me why you stowed on one of my ships without a never-you-mind, the sooner I can get a meal. Are you hungry?”

“Oui. I could use me a bite.”

He’d have to take Alex to the public baths before they’d dare venture into the hotel. “Not until you wash away that stink and get into some clean clothes. There’s a mercantile down the street where we can pick up a change of clothing. And then you can bloody well have a bath before eating. Got any money?”

That smirk again. “Non, but you fair do.”

Cameron grunted. “Brilliant. After a free trip halfway around the world, you expect me to supply you with clothing as well?”

“Sumpin’ like dat.”

Bloody hell, he couldn’t just leave a lad this far from home to wander. “Is San Francisco where you intended to land?”

“Oui.”

“So what was your purpose in coming here?”

Alex grinned, flashing a set of fine white teeth, but the look in his eye turned flinty. “I came lookin’ for my papa.” The boy rocked back on his heels, his arms still crossed over his chest. “And it looks like I done found you.”

“Me?” A bark of laughter left Cameron’s throat. He peered into sharp, amber eyes fringed top and bottom with dark lashes. A chill snaked through him. If he looked in the mirror, he’d see the same damn thing. But that was impossible.

“You’re coming with me.” He dug his fingers into the boy’s dirty jacket and headed him toward the mercantile. “Davey, I’m off to lunch. Tell the captain I’ll see him and Cooper at eight, over dinner at the Morgan.”

“Aye,” Davey called back.

In less than ten minutes, Cameron and Alex were in and out of the mercantile and in front of the public baths.

Alex twisted away. “I ain’t goin’ in there to get buggered by some lusty sailor who can’t wait to be slidin’ his wiggle worm into some doxy.”

Cameron halted, his neck hairs bristling. “Is that why you refused a bath aboard ship?”

A slow turn of Alex’s head away from Cameron’s eyes, and he let go a soft, “Oui.”

By now, Cameron had moved beyond hunger and frustration, and was fast working his way into full-blown anger. “Then it’s to my home we’ll go, but if you so much as slip a candlestick inside one of your pockets, I’ll have your head on a platter.”

“Oui, Papa.”

“Don’t call me that!” Hell, the boy could belong to his cousin, Trevor. No, those were definitely Cameron’s eyes. But still, the idea was preposterous. “How old did you say you were?”

Alex shrugged. “Didn’t.”

“Well, do so, now,” he roared.

Alex only grinned. “I’ll be needin’ dat bath first, don’cha know.”

Bates, a miner-turned-butler, met Cameron at the door to his California Hill mansion. Cameron shoved the paper-wrapped clothing at him. “See to it Alex here gets a decent bath, and have Cook fix a couple of plates.”

“Jambalaya would suit,” Alex piped in. “But I ain’t takin’ no bath with your man here tinkin’ to scrub me clean an’ bugger me at the same time.”

The butler’s cheeks flushed, but he made no comment. Cameron fought a grin. That must have curled the old boy’s toes. “There’s no jambalaya to be had in San Francisco, and you can bloody well take a bath alone, but I’ll be checking your pockets when you come down, you hear?”

“Oui,” Alex said, and jauntily climbed the stairs behind Bates. “You got yerself a peculiar accent, Papa. Sometimes you sound like a right good Frenchman out of Nawlins oughta, but other times you sound like a proper Englishman. Just saying so you know I pays attention.”

“Christ.” Cameron turned on his heel and made his way into the library, where he dropped onto the sofa with an exaggerated exhale. How the devil could a predicament like this have popped up out of nowhere? And now of all times, when he was about to embark on an endless journey to nowhere.

A Cajun bastard? Not likely. Cameron had been just seventeen when he left New Orleans. He and Trevor had been hell-raisers, which was why Cameron had ended up in a private school in England and later at Cambridge, but the last thing he could’ve done was leave a child behind.

An hour later, when Alex failed to appear, Cameron went looking for him in the guest quarters. He gave a quick rap on the door.

“Entre, Papa. I be all cleaned up and dressed in my new clothes, now.”

“Haughty little fool,” Cameron mumbled, and helped himself inside.

And nearly fell over.

Gone was the dirty, disheveled boy with a worn cap pulled over his head. Long, black hair, as shiny as a crow’s wing hung about the face of a beautiful young girl heading straight into womanhood. They stood staring at each other while Cameron collected his thoughts.

And she smirked.

“What did you say your name was?”

Soft laughter rolled out of her. “Alexia, dear Papa. Alexia Thibodeaux. From Bayou St. Laurent.”

Her sweet, silken voice sounded too old, too wise for a young girl. She stepped forward, bold as you please. “You remember my maman, don’t you? Solange?”

“I . . . I can’t say as I do. How old are you?”

“Near thirteen, Papa.” She tilted her head. “My maman was Solange Thibodeaux. Oh, wait. She was Sally to you.”

Well, he had her there. Even in his misdirected youth, he had known better than to have anything to do with a woman out of the bayou. The idea that they could be even remotely connected was absurd.

“Non? Then you must remember my uncles, René and Bastièn? They near beat you to death for lovin’ my maman in Madame Olympée’s whorehouse.”

Dear God! The young woman who’d squired him into manhood was this girl’s mother? He’d forgotten about her, hadn’t a clue at the time that she might be a French Cajun. She’d told him she was an orphan from the Quarter. “It can’t be . . . you can’t be. You’re lying. I wouldn’t trust anyone related to René or Bastièn to give me the correct time of day. Who put you up to this, your mother?”

“I never knew my maman, Papa. She died when I was born.” She sauntered forward. “Do you like my eyes, Papa? Family been tellin’ me all my life dat I look just like my papa. I wanted to believe I was more like Maman, but now I see dey was right.”

What the hell was he supposed to do now? “I was only seventeen when that fight took place at Madame Olympée’s. I was shipped off to England immediately afterward. There’s obviously some mistake.”

“There be no mistake.” Her eyes hardened. “Maybe you only be seventeen at the time, but you done slid dat big snake of yours right up inside my maman and let loose a powerful poison.”

She took another step closer and shoved her chin in the air, her eyes flashing crude determination. “And dat poison you let loose turned out to be me, Papa. Now, wach’ya tink?”

New Orleans

Cameron marched Alexia past the clipped lawns of the mansions in the new, ostentatious section of New Orleans, wondering if she wasn’t leading him on a wild goose chase. He’d challenged the unruly child, had told her to go ahead and run off to her family in the bayou. But if she was serious about proving she was his daughter, then there were to be no games or he’d board the next company ship and not give her another thought for the rest of his days.

Lord, she’d been a handful aboard ship. Hallowell had been right. How could she disappear for days at a time only to wander into his cabin sporting a mischievous grin?

More like the devil’s spawn than his.

The rapscallion could think up more mischief than any ten monkeys, then laugh as though everyone should laugh with her. She carried the ship’s cat around wherever she went—even slept with the little mouser. Like Hallowell, Cameron finally gave up and left her to her own devices.

As if on cue, Alexia hopped off the banquette, the raised boardwalk that prevented shoes and hems from collecting dirt or mud, and strutted through a pristine lawn. Cameron scowled at her. “Get back here before you ruin your new dress.”

“It be the color of grass, so no matter.”

“You heard me, get over here. I ought to put a bit in your mouth and lead you by the reins. I’ve never seen a wilder filly.”

Alexia’s gay laughter filled the air. She hopped on one foot, removed a shoe, and then did the same with the other. “Betcha wish you could make me mind with a mere snap of yer fingers.”

“Get off the grass, and put your shoes back on.”

“They pinch.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Ya didn’t ask.”

He snatched one from her, but before he could flex it to test its suppleness, she already had her stockings off and was traipsing barefoot through the wide grassy lawn again.

“You, Alexia Thibodeaux, are a fibber. These are the best shoes money can buy. Now put them back on.”

She giggled and tossed him a stocking. “What’s the matter, Papa? You ain’t never walked barefoot in grass before? Once you wiggle your toes in the coolness, ain’t no goin’ back to shoes.” She pointed her finger. “There, dat be ma tante’s house.”

Cameron practically stumbled to a halt in front of a white-columned mansion. Like the grand lady she was, the house sat in pristine splendor, taking up half the city block, surrounded by an ornate wrought-iron fence and bedecked with flowers looking like so many jewels scattered around. “Liar. That’s Louis Leblanc’s residence.”

“Oui. She be his widow, don’cha know.”

“No, I didn’t know. Now put your shoes and stockings back on.”

She giggled. “In dat exact order?”

“Do as I say. And try acting like a girl for once.”

“Whatever dat be meaning.”

“Do you always have to get the last word in?”

“Do you?”

Josette Thibodeaux LeBlanc, widow of one of the wealthiest merchants in the history of New Orleans, stood in the shadows of the open doors leading to the second-floor balcony, her heart pounding a wild rhythm. She watched her niece struggle into her stockings and shoes and then face her father, both of them with their arms folded across their chests, engaged in animated conversation.

So, here he was, after all these years. And even more handsome than she remembered. He was taller now, broader in the shoulders. But where his midnight locks had once been clipped short, they now reached his collar. They looked soft to the touch, those curls.

Seeing him in need of a trim after weeks at sea, wondering what it might feel like to run her fingers through his hair, felt like an act of intimacy. She shouldn’t indulge in such nonsense, but sweet heaven, he was a sight to behold, even more so than when she’d secretly followed him around in her youth. While he’d obviously inherited his size and breadth from his English father, he’d clearly taken on the looks of his late mother, a French beauty who’d never failed to turn heads whenever she strolled through the streets of the Vieux Carré.

A faint smile—anything but affable—touched Josette’s lips. While her memories of Cameron Andrews remained crystal clear, he hadn’t even known she existed. Oh, as a young girl, she’d fallen desperately in love with him from afar, but by the time she’d turned thirteen, she’d hated him with a passion. That was when Solange, her older sister, had decided Cameron was her ticket out of life in the swamps.

As if hearing her thoughts, Cameron glanced at the house. Josette moved away from the curtain a few inches. Vivienne, her cousin, slipped in beside her.

“No mistaking those two be cut from the same cloth. Oui, dat be her daddy, a’right.”

“That is her daddy, Vivienne. Do remember to drop the Cajun patois or we’ll never get Alexia trained right.”

“Pardon. Seems I fall back into old habits whenever I get excited. What a lovely frock Alexia be . . . is wearing. Do you suppose it’s one of Madame Charmontès’s creations?” She squinted. “But of course. Look at the fabric. Same as one you have in your wardrobe. Do you think that crafty little woman did that on purpose?”

Josette noted the emerald-green dress draping Alexia’s slender body as being of a design only that particular dressmaker could manage. “Would clothing such as that come from anyone else?”

“How did monsieur manage to get her into a dress, I wonder?”

“I would imagine he used a threat or two.”

Cameron grabbed Alexia’s hand and, with a little yank, headed for the front steps. Josette and Vivienne moved deeper into the upstairs landing.

“What a foolish girl, running off like she did,” Vivienne said. “It’s a wonder she managed to return at all, let alone with her papa in tow.”

Josette shuttered her mind against the dreadful worry she’d endured after Alexia had stowed away on one of Cameron’s ships. “If only the little snoop hadn’t run across the letter I’d written to her father before I had a chance to post it. Had I not penned the blasted thing, she wouldn’t have known where to find him.”

“And we wouldn’t have had to suffer so many sleepless nights.”

“What was I to do, Viv? I couldn’t handle her any longer, and my brothers are the worst kind of father figures. I don’t want to lose her to bayou life or worse, have her follow in Maman’s footsteps. I felt I had no other choice but to try to contact her father.”

Vivienne bit her lip. “You worry about your maman, but I worry about my brother. I don’t like the way Lucien looks at her now that she’s beginning to show her loveliness.”

Which was one of the prime reasons Josette had written the note to Cameron. She hadn’t mentioned anything to Vivienne, but if rumors were true, and Maman was training Lucien up to be her Hougan—her voodoo priest—then he was more dangerous than ever, because the path Maman walked seemed to be growing ever darker. Josette’s stomach curdled at the idea that he might try to include Alexia in his lascivious initiation into the priesthood.

Vivienne’s brother wasn’t the only man who concerned Josette—all those unruly men up and down the bayou had their carnal sights on Alexia as well. The girl had no concept of her beauty, nor was she aware of the attention she garnered. Even dressed as a boy with her hair tucked under a cap, she attracted men’s eyes. Her days of wandering around on her own, of slipping away in the middle of the night to play amongst the stars, were over.

“See Mister Andrews in, then send Alexia to me. I’ll be down in a quarter hour.”

“Oui.” Vivienne limped toward the staircase, her day gown hiding her disfigured hip, but not the hitch in her step the condition produced.

One of the double doors set with beveled glass swung wide, and Cameron found himself staring into the face of a fairly handsome, dark-haired woman dressed in gray and white.

“Tante Vivienne!” Alexia tore loose from Cameron’s grip and fell into the woman’s arms.

The woman gave a slight bow of her head. “I am Mademoiselle Vivienne Thibodeaux, first cousin to Madame LeBlanc and once removed from Alexia. She only refers to me as her aunt because of my age.”

“I see.” But what of it? Who was to say they both weren’t in this together, thick as thieves? They had a long way to go to convince Cameron that Alexia was his daughter. A twinge ran through his gut at the thought, as if his conscience took hold and shook him. If Vivienne truly was a cousin, that meant she could be related to that scourge of the earth, Lucien. God help her if she was his sister.

Vivienne gave Alexia a quick hug, and then a little shove. “Tante Josette awaits you upstairs, pouchette.”

Alexia took off at a run up the wide staircase. Cameron watched her go. At times, she seemed far too old and wise for her years, while at others, she seemed much younger. But whatever the case, that joie de vivre she carried with her at all times was infectious—he couldn’t seem to remain angry with her for long.

Vivienne turned to Cameron. “Come in, Monsieur Andrews. Madame LeBlanc received Alexia’s note and is expecting you.”

Cameron stepped inside the graceful mansion. Vivienne walked ahead of him down the wide hallway and directed him into a large room he guessed to be the formal parlor meant for receiving guests. He recognized goods from around the world—an expensive étagère from France, exquisite Chinese carpets, a small Greek statue in one corner of the well-appointed room. Whether it was the widow’s good taste or LeBlanc’s, he didn’t give a bloody damn. He just needed to get this matter resolved and be on his way.

As he moved to the window facing a lush rose garden, a bead of perspiration ran down the back of his neck. He swiped at it. Barely noon, and already the heat and humidity were stifling. Too many years in England and San Francisco had changed his blood. All he could think of right now was getting back to the hotel, stripping down to his underwear, and lying about in his room sipping minted lemonade until the sun went down and he could venture outside. Surely this aunt of hers would take the girl—at least until there was proof of her parentage.

Truth be told, the longer he was around Alexia, the harder it became to deny his fatherhood. As often as she deliberately mimicked him, there were other times her mannerisms were unconscious and natural—and just like his. Even the turn of her hand when she set about explaining something mirrored his movements. Bloody hell, if this wouldn’t undermine his plans to disappear into oblivion for a few years.

“Monsieur Andrews, welcome to my home.”

At the smoky, velvet sound, Cameron swung around. Every function in his body—heart, breath, blood—ceased to function.

She was lovely.

More than lovely.

Tendrils of raven hair framed a face so exquisite, it disarmed him. Her mouth, a soft, dewy pink, as though she’d pressed rose petals to her lips, parted. And those eyes, as dark as Creole coffee, intelligent and assessing, roamed over him and then back to take hold of his. But it was her complexion, as flawless as a newborn’s, and with a soft glow to it that mesmerized him, that made him want to step closer and stroke her skin.

He turned back to looking out the window while his scrambled thoughts found some semblance of order. He cleared his throat. “It seems I am being accused of begetting a child some thirteen years ago. An incorrigible, uneducated, and as-wild-as-the-bayous-are-thick-with-mosquitoes child.”

A soft chuckle sounded behind him. “You mean to describe a Thibodeaux, don’t you, monsieur?”

God, yes! He clasped his hands behind his back, and turned to face her again. Merde, but she was lovely. He’d guess her age to be three or four years younger than his thirty-two. And she was Louis LeBlanc’s widow? Egads. LeBlanc had been middle-aged even before Cameron had left for England. “And you are a Thibodeaux as well, Madame LeBlanc?”

“Oui.” She glided into the room, the hem of her pale blue gown whispering across the floor. “Removed from the bayou to a lovely home in what people are referring to as the exclusive Garden District, yet no one in New Orleans has forgotten where I came from, or worse, that I am Odalie Thibodeaux’s daughter. Thus, I am considered even lower than Cajun bayou trash. I want something different for my niece.”

At her frank honesty, Cameron caught a glimpse of fleeting pain, replaced by a calm demeanor and benevolent smile. Oh, there was anger in this woman. And he’d not get within ten feet of it.

She moved to a table holding a rather large box. She lifted the lid and withdrew a folded garment. “Do you remember this, Monsieur Andrews?”

She shook out a diaphanous peignoir the color of the moon and held it up. “Even though you were but a youth, you had fanciful dreams more befitting the man you are now. You gave this to my sister. Do you remember? She loved it.”

His chest constricted. “I do recall, Madame LeBlanc.” He swiped a hand over his damp brow. Blast the humidity. “I was a foolish young man who never questioned if a woman might get with child while in Madame Olympée’s strict employ. I suppose it does happen. But that piece of fabric still does not prove the child is mine.”

She studied him for a long moment with eyes that seemed to see right inside him. A flush of heat settled low in his belly. Had she felt it, too, that indefinable something that had passed between them just then?

For a telltale second, she cast her eyes downward and a slight flush washed over her cheeks. “Please, call me Josette.” She took in a visible breath, and when she glanced back up, the façade she’d let slip was back in place. Elegantly so. “Madame LeBlanc is far too formal for what and whom we are discussing. I’ll be most honest with you, sir. My sister tricked you.”

A jolt ran through him. “Tricked me?”

“Oui.” Her incredible fathomless eyes seemed to peer into him once again. “She intended for a babe fathered by you to be her escape from the low life she lived along the bayou. In her frivolous youth, she thought to wipe out the social rejection she’d endured by bearing your child. Your family does have a reputation for being honorable.”

“How do I know Alexia is mine and this isn’t just another trick?” As if some magnetic force pulled him to her, he took a step closer. A buzz ran through him. His gaze fell to her luscious mouth, and for a brief moment, his only thought was what those lips might taste like. He stepped back, confused at his strong physical reaction to her. What the devil had gotten into him? She’d been speaking of her sister, for God’s sake.

Josette gave a soft laugh and extended her hand toward the dark blue velvet sofa. “Be seat