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At that point Althea had called Jules a disgusting ghoul; he had retaliated by pointedly questioning Althea’s lineage. Edna, having experienced a remarkable recovery from her previously inconsolable grief, had ignored the ruckus and solicitously dished a second helping of pot roast onto Quinn’s plate.
Such unpleasant arguments between tenants were unfortunately all too common, although Janine silently conceded that the presence of her newest boarder had probably prevented the discussion from becoming even more volatile. Not that Quinn had said anything particularly soothing. In fact, he’d spoken very little, evading personal questions with nondescript replies and inspecting his tablemates with his trademark intensity.
The other tenants had nonetheless responded to the newcomer by displaying a restraint that for them was significant. Except for an occasional lapse, Althea’s vocabulary had been uncharacteristically civil, and although Jules had basically ignored Quinn, Edna’s nurturing frenzy had barely fallen short of actually tucking a napkin under the poor man’s chin.
It had been an interesting evening, to say the least.
Dabbing her moist forehead, Janine considered another sip of punch, then discarded the notion, stepped behind the jacaranda and discreetly poured the nauseating beverage at the base of the tree. She patted the bumpy trunk, then glanced up and noticed a couple standing apart from the crowd, apparently engaged in an intense conversation.
Although the woman was facing away from Janine, that brittle, red-gold bouffant was unmistakable. Besides, only Althea Miller would be crass enough to wear a leather miniskirt and cropped midriff top to a funeral.
The inappropriate attire wasn’t particularly surprising but the fact that Althea was attending services for a woman she’d professed to despise was a bit of a jolt, and the man to whom she was speaking seemed inordinately uncomfortable. He was a distinguished gentleman, perhaps in his mid-fifties, and would have been quite attractive but for his pained expression. Althea’s spine was as stiff as a broomstick, a desperate rigidity that was quite uncharacteristic.
Janine watched intently as Althea fumbled in her bag then dabbed at her face with a tissue. The man glanced around as if assuring himself that he couldn’t be overheard before bending forward to issue a terse statement. Instantly Althea’s head drooped and her shoulders quivered. The man said something else, then spun on his heel and strode away.
Extending her hand, Althea called after him—it sounded like “please wait”—but he didn’t respond. In a moment he’d disappeared and Althea stood alone, trembling.
Janine was both stunned and alarmed by the emotional exchange, never having seen Althea so obviously upset. Before she could react, however, Edna hurried over and hustled her distressed neighbor away. After a moment’s hesitation Janine followed and found the two woman conversing softly behind a screen of oleander.
“I hate the bitch,” Althea murmured, ineffectually wiping at the wet mascara smudges under her eyes. “I’m glad she’s dead.”
Clucking softly, Edna took the woman’s hands. “Satan covets the righteous and leads them astray with temptations of the flesh. ‘Every tree which bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire.”’ Rolling her eyes upward, Edna added a heartfelt amen.
Althea lifted her chin defiantly and uttered a succinct oath.
The older woman paled three shades. “God forgives your blasphemy, child, as you must forgive Marjorie. She is with her Lord now and has been absolved of sin.”
Janine frowned, completely perplexed by the odd exchange. Barely two days had passed since Edna had become apoplectic at the mere suggestion that Marjorie Barker might have been less than saintly, so this unexpected discussion of sin, temptation and rotten fruit was startling to say the least.
The conversation’s content, however, was none of Janine’s business. Even when motivated by concern, eavesdropping was unacceptable, so she quietly backed away from the peculiar scene, turned around and rammed into a male chest.
Gasping, she whirled around and laid a hand over her racing heart. “You startled me.”
“So sorry,” Jules replied uncontritely. “It was a lovely service, wasn’t it?”
“Uh…yes, lovely,” Janine murmured, still distracted by what she’d just overheard.
“And, I might add, so are you.”
“Hmm?”
“You look lovely this morning.”
“Oh.” She self-consciously smoothed the skirt of her teal print sundress. “Thank you.”
Jules dusted his immaculate suit jacket, palmed his slick hair and flashed a Continental smile. “The bonnet is quite fetching, although it seems a shame to conceal those beautiful mahogany tresses.”
Janine managed to stifle a moan. The quaintly described “bonnet” was a straw sun hat with a ribboned crown, and the “beautiful mahogany tresses” consisted of nothing more than a weedy thatch of dirt brown hair cut into a blunt, Buster Brown bob.
Although she really tried to be tolerant of Jules’s penchant for testing out new personalities, the peculiarity grated on her nerves. Last week, for example, the impressionable young man had watched three John Wayne movies on television, then swaggered through the boardinghouse calling everyone “pilgrim.” Today, however, his exaggerated formality and jauntily tilted chin appeared to be a pitiful parody of David Niven.
Of course, lots of people enjoyed performing impersonations, but with Jules the practice seemed more an eerie transformation than a quirky party trick.
At any rate, she was considering the most expedient way to extract herself from the unwanted conversation when she glanced toward the refreshment table and saw the man to whom Althea had been speaking. Leaning to her right, she peered around Jules’ slender frame, hoping for a better view.
He followed her gaze and frowned. “Who are you looking at?”
“That gray-haired gentleman standing beside the punch bowl.”
“Gregore Pawlovski?”
Janine straightened. “Do you know him?”
“Vaguely.” Disdainfully arching a brow, Jules brushed invisible lint from his lapel. “Althea said that he was once a European diplomat but apparently he retired last year.”
“So he’s a friend of Althea’s?”
“Ah, much more than a friend.” Jules leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “They were doing it.”
Blinking, Janine stepped back. “Doing what?”
“You know.” Jules smirked and offered a sly wink.
Janine frantically fanned herself and stared at the ground. “I see,” she murmured, regretting that she’d ever brought the subject up and quite ready to drop the entire matter.
Jules wasn’t. “Althea was quite mad for Gregore and had actually deluded herself into thinking that he would marry her. Can you believe that?”
Curiosity overcame social propriety, and she couldn’t keep herself from asking what had happened. Leaning forward, Jules spoke in a conspiratorial whisper that gave her the shivers. “Pawlovski and Marjorie Barker were having an affair. It was really quite sordid, and Althea was livid, simply livid.”
Janine was appalled by the lurid accusation. “How on earth could you possibly know that?”
“I have my sources.”
“Well, I don’t believe it. Marjorie Barker was a lovely woman.”
He shrugged. “She was a whore.”
“Jules!”
“Marjorie had sex with lots of men. She wanted to have sex with me, too, but I refused because she was unclean.” His dark eyes glittered strangely, as though pleased to have shocked her, yet when she showed her displeasure by turning away, he seemed genuinely grieved. “Have I offended you?”
She didn’t bother to deny it. “Yes, you have.”
“Naturally, a true lady would be distressed by the discussion of such indelicate matters.” He wrung his slender hands. “You have my word that it will never happen again. Please forgive me.”
Sighing, Janine massaged her throbbing temple. “It’s all right, Jules. Let’s just forget about it.”
“Of course.” He tugged his collar. “Perhaps it would be best not to mention this, uh, unfortunate incident to Grandmère. We wouldn’t want to upset her.”
Without further response, Janine walked away, trying to ignore the sinking sickness in the pit of her stomach. She’d always been aware that Jules was different; now she wondered if he was mentally unstable, because only a very sick person would make up such disgusting lies.
It never occurred to her that he could have been telling the truth.
Althea slammed furiously into her room. She flung her purse into the wall, threw herself across the unmade bed and beat the rumpled pillows with her fists. “Damn him!”
Clutching the bedclothes, she sobbed until the pillow slips were stained with runny mascara and soggy blotches of orange Pan-Cake makeup. Marjorie Barker had gotten just what she deserved, and someday Gregore—the two-timing bastard—would burn in hell along with his cheap whore.
Sniffing, Althea sat on the edge of the mattress and grabbed a handful of tissues from a box on the nightstand. She blew her nose and wiped melted makeup from her face, then miserably dropped the wadded tissues on the floor. She stared at her bare knees, riddled by guilt and feeling worthless.
In spite of her crude bravado, she’d been sickened by the fire’s fatal aftermath. The worst part was that the Barker woman had died for nothing. It was a shame, a lousy stinking shame. A wasted tragedy. But there was no sense blubbering about something that was over and done with.
With a final wipe of her wet eyes, Althea went to the closet-door mirror and critically examined her full-length reflection. Sucking in her tummy, she turned sideways and inspected her curvaceous profile. Not bad, she decided. Her boobs didn’t droop, her butt was nice and tight, she could still crack walnuts with her thighs and her legs were to die for. Of course, her waist wasn’t quite as sleek as it used to be, but what the hell. All in all, she wasn’t too damned shabby for a broad pushing the big four-five.
So why didn’t Gregore want her any more?
Biting her lower lip, she tangled her fingers in her brassy hair and fought a renewed surge of tears. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Now that his precious mistress was dead, Gregore should have returned to Althea for comfort. Instead he’d called her filthy names and said that he never wanted to see her again.
The rotten son of a bitch. God, she loved him.
Janine propped the basket of soiled towels against her hip and descended the narrow stairs into the damp cinder-block basement.
The cavernous space served as the manor’s main storage and service area, housing tools, hardware and miscellaneous supplies along with the boiler, water heater and circuit boxes. A raft of fluorescents suspended from ceiling joists slid into the dungeonous blackness but Janine didn’t bother to turn them on. The laundry corner was situated close to the stairway and cheerful shafts of sunlight from two high windows provided adequate illumination for the task at hand.
After dumping the soiled bedclothes, she absently massaged the small of her back and mentally calculated the number of loads represented by the mountainous pile. With any luck, she’d be finished by midnight. Depending, of course, on how long she chose to stand there feeling sorry for herself instead of loading the stupid washer.
After all, the first residents of this magnificent manor scrubbed sheets on a washboard, lugged wet laundry to a sagging clothesline, then crossed their fingers and prayed that a few minutes of sunshine would break through the dreary clime. From that perspective, stuffing linens into a modern machine and pushing a button didn’t seem a particularly daunting task.
Smiling to herself, she dragged a length of rumpled percale from the pile and daydreamed about how life must have been at the turn of the century. There would have been hardships, of course. Still, she liked to imagine the lazy pace of those times and picture a gentle life-style unaffected by the pressures of a modern culture that espoused expectations so unrealistic that disappointment—and failure—was inevitable.
As Janine poured a dollop of detergent into the loaded machine, she considered how she’d have enjoying living in that era. She even liked the fashions, flowing and feminine, with yards of shining fabric swirling over mounds of ruffled petticoats and…
Her hand hovered over the controls. Suddenly uneasy, she glanced toward the unlighted portion of the basement and had the eerie sense that she was being watched. Something didn’t feel quite right. Beyond the bright laundry area, the thickening darkness exuded an aura of charged danger, like the heavy air preceding a summer storm. Her scalp tingled. A fine mesh of gooseflesh tickled her arms.
As she moistened her lips, her nervous gaze landed on the light-switch at the base of the stairs. She flexed her fingers, eyes darting from the switch to the abysmal darkness.
A figure stepped from the shadows.
Gasping, Janine backed into the washer and froze until the silhouette emerged into sunlight. She exhaled all at once and relaxed slightly.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Quinn said quietly. His right arm was sharply angled behind him, half-hidden by the drape of a hip-length khaki vest that seemed an odd complement to faded blue jeans and a white T-shirt.
She waited until her heart had resumed a quasi-normal rhythm. “I didn’t realize there was anyone else here.”
Without responding, he tucked something behind his back, then emerged into the fully lit laundry area, crossed his sculpted arms, propped a slim hip against the clothes dryer and stared in a manner that she would have considered rude had she not been rendered momentarily senseless by his mesmerizing gaze. He had the pale eyes of a snow leopard, cunning and wise, glowing with predatory intent.
Suddenly feeling like a trapped hare, Janine rubbed her upper arms. “Why are you here? In the basement, I mean.”
A vague wariness clouded his eyes while he considered a response. Since Janine had already noted the enigmatic stranger’s tendency to weigh words carefully, the hesitation was expected.
“My van needs washing,” he said finally. “I was looking for a bucket.”
“There’s a stack of five-gallon buckets in the storage area across from the boiler. They’re difficult to find in the dark.” She took two steps and flipped the switch. A half-dozen fluorescents fluttered to life, illuminating the entire basement.
His expression remained impassive. “Thank you.”
Acknowledging him with a jerky nod, Janine was unduly irritated by a nagging feeling that she was the intruder.
That peculiar sensation wasn’t her only source of discomfort. In Quinn Coulliard’s presence, she felt a heightened sense of awareness, an exquisite sensitivity that bordered on pain, as though every nerve in her body was burrowing to the surface.
There was something about him, a renegade quality that was both unnerving and strangely compelling. The wild mane of espresso-colored hair, so tightly bound yet never quite controlled, seemed a silent metaphor for the man himself.
Averting her gaze, Janine turned on the washing machine and feigned interest in sorting the remaining laundry. “There’s liquid detergent in the overhead cupboard and a box of rags if you need them.” She slanted a glance over her shoulder. “I imagine your van gathered a pretty thick layer of road dust during that long trip from California.”
After a long moment, he responded, “Actually, I drove down from Washington.”
“Really?” She straightened, still clutching the hem of a rumpled sheet. “Since your van has a California license plate, I naturally assumed—”
“Assumptions are dangerous.” The softness with which he spoke belied the warning glint in his eye. Then he smiled, a vague tilt at the corner of his mouth that did little to warm his guarded gaze. “I once lived in California.”
“So did I.” Dropping the linens, Janine leaned against the agitating washer and regarded him curiously. “San Diego. And you?”
He stared into her eyes without blinking yet she perceived that his mind was working quickly, analyzing the ramifications of every conceivable response. Finally he slid his hand beneath his vest and hooked a thumb in the waist-band of his jeans. “I’ve spent time in that area.”
The man’s evasiveness was beginning to irritate her. If he was this secretive about something as mundane as mentioning where he was from, he’d probably endure torture rather than reveal the really important stuff, like whether he preferred his coffee black or with cream.
Normally Janine would have respected such an obvious desire for privacy, but for some unfathomable reason, his deliberate attempt to embellish an air of mystery just brought out the devil in her. “So, Mr. Coulliard, may I assume that you and I might once have been neighbors?”
This time he answered with barely a pause. “It’s possible.”
“San Diego is a beautiful city.”
“Yes.”
“Most people fall in love with the place and wouldn’t dream of living anywhere else.” She hesitated, hoping he’d elaborate. He didn’t. She posed a blunt question. “Why did you leave?”
A disturbing gleam warmed his eyes. “For the same reason you did.”
She felt the blood drain from her face. God, how could he know? Her breath backed up in her lungs as she fought to maintain her composure. She told herself that he was just fishing and prayed it was true. There was no way on earth this man could know a secret that had been too shameful to share with her own family.
Clasping her hands together, she faced him squarely. “I doubt we left for the same reason.”
To her surprise, his eyes warmed and he regarded her with something akin to respect. “Not specifically, perhaps, but in spirit.”
She exhaled slowly. “Forgive me, but deciphering ecumenical vagaries has never been my strong suit.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, as though he was faintly amused by her response. “Life is a journey, Miss Taylor, one each of us must travel, physically and spiritually. In that context, we’d be soul mates, wouldn’t we?”
Caught by his penetrating gaze, Janine heard a whispered voice that sounded very much like her own. “Yes, I suppose so.”
