“I’d like Miss Louvel to take me on the tour.”
A look of sudden caution crossed Melodie’s face.
“She’s the owner of the house, isn’t she?” he explained. “I’d simply prefer she be the one to tell me about its history. I can wait till she’s available.”
“Yes, she owns the house, Mr. Dempsey.” Melodie gave him another long look, and for a second he thought—
Dempsey.
Did the name mean anything to her? Even at her age, she would have heard the stories.
“I’m sure Miss Louvel will be happy to show you around the mansion tomorrow,” Melodie said finally. “Shall we go up then?” She led the way upstairs.
The room was everything it was advertised to be. Spacious, clean, stripped of any reminder that the brutally murdered Aimee Louvel had once slept there.
“Please, make yourself at home at Bellefleur,” Melodie said, exiting the room. There was a pitcher of ice water along with a decanter of merlot, and a spread of crackers, sliced cheeses and fruit on the low table in the sitting area. He turned over a crystal glass and poured the merlot.
He took the wine with him when he went back down the stairs and through the lonely, low-lit parlor, to the dark dining room, then beyond, to the wide back porch that spanned the rear of the mansion. He leaned against the columned edge and gazed out toward the shadowed thickness that he knew was trees and river.
A slow sip of merlot later, he closed his eyes, let the unstoppable past roll over him. He wondered, not for the first time, what Bryn was like all these years later. She would be thirty-one years old and…beautiful. Surely she was beautiful. She and her twin Aimee had been fairy princesses in a tower. Rich, sheltered and spoiled. Two perfect golden-haired fairies with their purple hyacinth eyes. He remembered the last time he’d known hope, he’d stood in this spot, holding sweet-sixteen Bryn’s hand—
When he opened his eyes and turned back toward the house, she was there.
It couldn’t be him, but it was.
He leaned against the white pillar of the porch, wineglass in hand, and watched her with that steely will of his that she remembered all too well. He straightened, as casually as if this were his home and not hers. The shadows melted away and the ghost of the past was replaced by the reality of the present as he walked into the light.
She was struck first by how tall he’d grown; she found herself looking up to him. Cole Dempsey was a man now, dark-haired, strong-shouldered and lean. Unable to stop herself, she thought of the nights they’d shared together, exploring each other’s bodies. Experiencing the joy and passion of first love. Her breath caught as heat twisted through her blood. Dread pulsed in her throat.
Bryn Louvel hated herself for it, but she took a step back and struggled to control the havoc his reappearance had wrought in her emotions.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re doing here, Cole, what kind of trick you think you’re pulling,” she said, her voice strong even while her legs felt weak. “But you can go pack your things. You’re not welcome at Bellefleur.”
The tension hung thick in the air for a long beat before he spoke, and just looking at him made her feel suffocated and small and panicked. No matter what had changed, no matter how many years had passed, Cole Dempsey represented a moment in time she’d give anything to erase. Her first love had been destroyed as surely as her sister.
She couldn’t look at Cole without thinking of his father and everything that had happened the awful night that had changed everything.
“I’m not going anywhere, Bryn,” he said, breaking the stony silence. “And you can’t make me.” He took another step toward her, as if he meant to close in on her by slow degrees. He set his glass down on a nearby wrought-iron table.
“That sounds very mature, Cole. I can see you’ve grown up.”
“You certainly have,” he responded. His eyes took her in, boldly swept her from head to toe. “Bryn Louvel, all grown up.”
Though her traitorous body tingled from his thorough appraisal, she spoke stiffly. “That’s right. I’ve grown up. This is my home and I’d like you to leave.”
Still he came towards her. “Ah, this may be your home, Bryn, but it’s also your business. I’ve paid for the right to stay here. How things change. Once my father was paid to work at Bellefleur. Now I’m the one paying you. Ironic, don’t you think?”
She refused to answer his taunt. “Don’t mention your father in this house,” she said instead.
Cole stood in front of her now, his proximity overwhelming. “What about your father, Bryn?” he demanded softly, too close. “What if I mention him?”
“He’s dead. They’re all dead. Your father, mine, Aimee. It’s all over, Cole. So leave.” Her voice rose. “Get out of my house.”
“But it’s not over, not yet,” he countered calmly, as if they were discussing the news instead of the fifteen-year-old crime that had destroyed both their families. “Do you know that Aimee’s death is the oldest unsolved murder in St. Salome Parish?”
“It’s not an unsolved murder.”
“Oh yes, it is.” He came at her now with furious speed, and when she backed up again, she stumbled against a potted bougainvillea. He grabbed her shoulders, bare in her sleeveless blouse, and steadied her. “But I’m here to solve it. And you’re going to help me.”
She braced her hands against his chest and pushed him away. “Let go of me, Cole.” And he did, but the chilling heat of his touch on her skin remained, as did the haunting threat of his words. He scared her, and that thought was shocking. She had never been frightened of him before.
Fifteen years ago, she’d loved him. It was the first and only time in her life she’d ever given her heart away so completely. Even now, she knew there was a part of her that she held back from any man she’d become close to since.
Whether any future relationship could overcome what had happened fifteen years ago, she didn’t know yet. And Cole had been part of that horror. He belonged to another lifetime, and he had no place in her here and now. He was not that tender boy she had once loved any more than she was that naive sixteen-year-old girl. At thirty-two, his face had taken on a mature seasoning that was both handsome and cold. And his eyes, oh God, they were the worst. She would have known them anywhere, and yet it was as if she’d never looked into them before. Gold flecks like solar flares dotted in the brilliant green of them, compelling and yet bitter now, the gentleness all gone.
Cole Dempsey the man was hard as stone.
“If you’re here to dig up the past, the last thing I’ll ever do is help you,” she promised. “So if that’s what you’re here for, you’re wasting your time. There are several perfectly fine new motels closer to town—”
He shook his head. “You’re running a business here, Bryn. What kind of business turns away customers? Especially a business that’s in dire need of cash flow.”
She carefully schooled her features to reveal nothing of the clean shot he’d achieved. Yes, Bellefleur was in trouble. When the sugar mill had gone under, they’d nearly lost everything. Her father’s drinking and gambling had consumed the last years of his life. Maurice Louvel had drowned himself in alcohol and debts until he couldn’t see his way to the surface anymore, then he’d shot himself by the edge of the reflecting pond.
“Your father ruined us,” she bit out. “He got the revenge he’d sworn, didn’t he? He killed Aimee and destroyed my father—”