Regarding Remy, page 1
Contents:
Prologue
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
Prologue
^ »
In his twelve years as an FBI agent, Remy Sinclair had lived a charmed life, but on a chilly New Orleans Saturday night, it almost came to an end. Lying facedown on the ground, he felt his clothing grow damp. From the puddles that dotted the ground? he wondered. Or from blood?
He knew he'd been hit, had been hit bad. He'd heard Michael's shout and Valery's scream… Funny. Michael was part of his backup, but his cousin wasn't supposed to be here. She was supposed to be safe and under armed guard back at Michael's apartment. She wasn't supposed to see this, wasn't supposed…
Oh, God, the pain was so intense, burning and tearing, that it was hard to sort out exactly where it was coming from. His arm, he thought, and his leg and chest. The Kevlar fibers of his bulletproof vest had protected his chest … unless the bullet had been armor-piercing. But wouldn't he be hurting a hell of a lot worse if it had pierced the vest? Or was it even possible to hurt much worse?
He didn't want to find out.
He shifted, just a slight tensing of his muscles, and gritted his teeth on a curse. Oh, hell, yeah, his leg had been hit. It was useless. The only way he was going anywhere was on a stretcher. Please let it be an ambulance stretcher, he silently prayed, and not the coroner's. There were arteries in the leg, weren't there? A man could bleed to death getting shot there, couldn't he? Oh, God, he didn't want to die here. He didn't want to get Falcone badly enough to die for him. He didn't want to leave Michael … Smith … Valery … his parents…
The sounds around him—a few last gunshots, shouted commands, the clatter of metal against concrete—faded, came back, faded again. He hurt so badly that his throat clogged with tears. Every breath was painful, every sensation agony, every nerve raw. Maybe Falcone's men had been using armor-piercing ammo. Maybe that was why he couldn't breathe.
Maybe he was dying.
No, damn it. He wouldn't die. He couldn't. There was too much left to do. He had to see Falcone in prison. To make up the last fifteen years with Valery. To resolve the problems between him and his parents. God, there were so many things he'd never done. He had never fallen in love, had never gotten married, had never settled down and had kids. He had always thought there would be plenty of time for that later.
But maybe there wouldn't be.
Maybe not now.
"Remy!"
The voice sounded distant, although he sensed it came from somewhere nearby. Forcing his eyes open, he saw that he was right. Michael was kneeling beside him, bent low to see his face in the dim light—and damn it, yes, that was Valery right behind him.
Michael reached out and touched him, Remy knew, but he couldn't feel it. There was too much pain.
"The ambulance is on its way. You're going to be all right."
Now Michael had his hand. Remy could see it, could feel the tremors—his own? Or his friend's? This had to be bad for Michael—a replay of the night nearly a year ago when his partner had been killed—and he tried to reassure him. "I'm okay," he whispered, the effort to speak making his chest hurt even more. He even managed a faint grin. "I guess I'm slowing down a bit."
"Don't worry about it. Just be quiet until the ambulance gets here."
"Val… Tell Mom—" He broke off and squeezed his eyes shut on a new wave of pain.
Valery was crying. It was Michael who answered. "You'll have plenty of time to talk to her yourself. I'll call your folks as soon as we get to the hospital." He gripped his hand tighter. "You're going to be all right, Remy. Damn it, you're going to be all right."
The fierceness of his tone brought Remy another faint smile. Who was he trying to convince? Remy … or himself?
Far off in the distance he heard sirens. He wished he could roll over, wished he could ask Michael to check his vest, to make sure that the slug was embedded in the Kevlar and not in his chest, but he couldn't find the breath to give voice to the request. He couldn't find the strength to withstand the pain of movement.
All he could do was hold on tight to Michael's hand and pray.
Oh, God, yes, he could pray.
Chapter 1
« ^ »
It was funny how quickly things could change.
Only this morning Susannah Duncan had awakened in her own slightly lumpy bed in the slightly shabby apartment she shared with her brother, and tonight she was going to sleep in an elegantly beautiful, straight out of Gone with the Wind Southern mansion.
Only last week she had been a perfectly average, perfectly unremarkable woman, a nurse whose life was noticeably lacking in many things but not decency, pride or honor. Today there was nothing average or unremarkable about her. Nothing decent or proud. Nothing honorable.
Funny.
But she felt no urge to laugh.
She might never laugh again.
She stood underneath a live oak so massive that a number of its limbs required man-made support where their sheer weight pulled them back toward the ground. She knew how that must feel to the tree. Sometimes she thought she would bend and break under the weight of her own burdens. Her guilt. Her shame.
Resting her arms on one thick branch that dipped low, she cushioned her chin on her hands and studied the house before her. Belle Ste. Claire. The name was beautiful, the house even more so. It was Greek Revival in style, white, with eight square columns on each side and across the front, with forest green doors and shutters, a herringbone-patterned brick gallery encircling the first floor and a matching balcony upstairs painted pale gray on the floor and paler blue on the ceiling.
It had been in the Sinclair family for nearly two hundred years, had been built by the first Sinclair to come to Louisiana from France. It faced the Mississippi River, where that Sinclair and those who followed had built their fortunes in shipping and sugarcane. They weren't in the shipping industry any longer—or sugar, either, for that matter—and hadn't been in this century, but they still held their fortunes. Generations of prudent investments had seen to that.
She had driven up to Belle Ste. Claire this morning with Valery Navarre. Although a native of New Orleans, Valery had spent much of her life at this gracious old home halfway between New Orleans and Baton Rouge—had lived nine years of it here. She loved the place and had been more than willing to share her memories and knowledge of it. It had taken only a few questions from Susannah to keep the conversation flowing for miles. By the time Valery had realized that they'd talked about nothing but Belle Ste. Claire and Belclaire, the tiny nearby town named for it, they were only a few miles from their destination. She had sheepishly apologized, had lamented the loss of an opportunity to get to know Susannah better.
Which was exactly what Susannah had wanted. She had enough to do in her four weeks here. Making friends wasn't part of her job description. It was a complication she couldn't afford.
With a sudden shiver, she realized that the sun was setting on the far side of the river. It was time to go inside. Time to start dinner. Time to return to work.
It was time to face Remy Sinclair again.
Straightening, she ducked under the branch and started toward the gallery. The grounds spread for acres in all directions—yellowing grass, flower and shrub beds, plantings of fragrant vines, and all of it shadowed by hundred-foot-tall pines, magnolias and giant live oaks. The house sat square in the center, strong for all its grace, built to last an eternity. It had provided shelter and comfort for two hundred years and, with a little care, would continue to do so for the next two hundred.
And right now it was providing shelter to Remy Sinclair, the man who had hired her as his nurse, cook and driver for the next month. The man who was her only reason for being there. The man who was the key to her, and her brother's, future.
Thoughts of her brother—named Lewis for their father, but called Skip since he was a baby—and his future, if he even had one, brought her another chill, one that settled way down inside her, one that she feared she would never be completely free of. She hadn't seen him in nearly a week, not since she'd gotten a call from some lawyer who'd told her about a job she was going to apply for—who had told her in chilling detail what would happen to Skip if she didn't get it. Three months ago, fresh from Nebraska and naive as hell, she would have found the call totally unbelievable, would have shrugged it off as some prank in terribly bad taste.
But three months ago she hadn't known the extent of the trouble Skip had gotten himself into.
Now she knew, and the lawyer had made it perfectly clear exactly what she had to do to get him out of it. It wouldn't be such a hardship, he had told her. Belclaire was a lovely little town, Belle Ste. Claire a beautiful house. The salary was generous for only four weeks' work. It would be a nice break from the stress of her job as an emergency room nurse, a nice break from the city and from worrying over her brother. He would take responsibility for her brother for the next few weeks, he had ominously promised.
No, living here and working for a recuperating FBI agent wouldn't be such a hardship, she agreed silently, bleakly, as she climbed the seven steps to the gallery.
It only meant selling her soul.
And that wasn't such a high price, was it? Not when she would be getting her brother's life in return.
And so she had applied for the position, and she had gotten it. If only Remy had refused to hire her. If only he had looked at her the way her ex-husband had, the way other men often had, and found her lacking. Then she could have called the lawyer, could have said, "I did my best, but it wasn't enough." Surely, if he knew anything at all about her, he would have believed her. Never being enough—pretty enough, smart enough, ambitious enough, talented enough—had been the story of her life. Surely he wouldn't have allowed any harm to come to Skip when she had tried to comply with his orders. Surely he wouldn't have punished her brother for her failure.
But Remy had hired her. After interviewing a half dozen other nurses, he had asked her a few questions, then offered her the job, just like that. She had never gotten any job so easily.
She had never needed any job so desperately.
She had never wanted to be rejected so desperately.
The steps she had climbed led straight to ornate double doors, and she stood there a moment. Generations of Sinclairs had greeted their guests at this formal entrance. Standing there now in the quiet dusk, she could easily imagine herself into the past, watching carriages turn in the gate down by the river, passing between brick columns and along the shell driveway to discharge their passengers at the foot of these steps. It all would have been very genteel, very gracious, very Southern.
But she no more would have belonged here at any time in the past than she did today … except possibly during the Civil War, she mused, when traitors and betrayers had insinuated themselves into all sorts of places where they had no rights.
The guilt she'd been living with the past week settled heavier on her shoulders. Betraying the trust placed in her and endangering the life of a patient under her care—that was what Skip and his problems had brought her to. God help her.
God forgive her.
Turning abruptly, she started around the house to the side entrance near where her car was parked. More than an hour had passed since Remy had fallen asleep on the sofa; if he wasn't awake yet, he likely would be soon. She should have stayed inside, close at hand, but she'd felt the need to be up and about. She had needed a moment's fresh air. A moment's escape.
She had needed a moment away from him.
She opened the screen door, then the door, and closed them both quietly behind her. With any luck she could slip past the open door of the parlor where she'd left Remy. With any luck she could delay further contact with him until it was absolutely necessary. She could—
"Susannah."
She started guiltily, her muscles tightening, her face flushing. Forcing in a deep breath, she turned toward the voice, toward the softly lit parlor.
He was standing beside the sofa, leaning on his crutches in exactly the way he'd been shown not to. He hadn't been awake long—he still had a childlike, drowsy air about him. She wondered if he had called her, if he had been annoyed that she hadn't been available to cater to his needs. She regretted spending the last hour outside, regretted that she hadn't started dinner sooner, that she hadn't taken advantage of his nap to unpack his bags. She should be better at this servant role, she silently chastised herself. After all, she'd played it often enough for her father and Skip, especially after her mother's death, and she had lived it through her entire four-year marriage to Guy Duncan.
And she couldn't afford to lose this job. Whatever it took to please her employer was exactly what she had to do, including being at his beck and call.
Clasping her hands together, she moved into the doorway. "Tell me what you need and I'll get it for you," she offered, keeping her voice even and smooth, hiding her nervousness.
He gave her a crooked grin that was faintly abashed. "I believe I can handle this on my own."
Responding with a fading smile, she took a step back as he started toward her. It took him a few moments to navigate the parlor and the half dozen feet of hallway to the small bathroom. He wasn't particularly adept with the crutches yet. Yesterday was the first time he'd been allowed to use them and, according to Valery, after sixteen days of bed rest, he'd been so delighted to be mobile again that he had overdone it. His wince with each step supported his cousin's conclusion.
Susannah sympathized with him as she continued down the hall to the kitchen. Depending on the injury, using crutches could be more painful than the injury itself. The strain on the hands, arms, shoulders and back was tremendous, and only a few weeks ago, Remy's left arm had been subjected to a gunshot wound. The bullet had left a relatively clean trail with nothing more than soft tissue damage that was healing nicely, but the wound was still tender.
His other injuries had been both less and more serious: a fist-size contusion on his chest, where his bulletproof vest had saved his life, and a through-and-through gunshot wound of the right thigh. There had been no internal damage from the contusion, but the bullet in his leg had torn through the femur. The resulting compound comminuted fracture had required open reduction with internal fixation—opening his leg in surgery and putting the bone back together with a titanium plate and screws. Now he wore a hip-to-toe cast and was under strict orders for absolutely no weight-bearing on that leg for at least two weeks. If he wanted a full recovery, the strict use of crutches was mandatory.
Which was why she was here. He could have managed his convalescence with the other two injuries. They probably wouldn't even have slowed him down. But the severity of the leg wound, the cast and the crutches made him less than agile. They made her services necessary.
After washing her hands, she turned her attention to the contents of the refrigerator. Remy's parents, the current owners and residents of Belle Ste. Claire, had left only three days ago on a long-awaited trip to Europe. They were celebrating their fortieth anniversary, Valery had told her, and would be gone for a month. They, too, had made Susannah's services necessary. They had wanted to cancel the trip, again according to Valery—had wanted to stay here and look after their son themselves, but Remy had refused. They had been planning this trip for a long time; rescheduling, especially on such short notice, would have been a travel agent's nightmare.
Marie Sinclair had been a busy woman in the past week, Susannah thought as she began removing items from the refrigerator. Not only had she packed and gotten ready for a month abroad, but she had also prepared the house for Remy and Susannah's arrival—had seen to it that the unused servants' quarters were cleaned and aired out and the refrigerator well stocked. She had left Susannah notes explaining where any given item she might need in the next month was located, along with names and phone numbers for their housekeeper, local repairmen and neighbors and a detailed copy of their itinerary. And that was all in addition to spending the majority of her time at her son's side in the hospital.
Down the hall the sound of the bathroom door opening was followed by the slow shuffle and squeak of rubber-tipped crutches on the highly polished wood floor. Still hidden behind the refrigerator door, Susannah hoped Remy was going in the opposite direction, back toward the parlor, but it was a futile hope. The steps were definitely coming closer. Her fingers tightening into a fist, she waited until he stopped before she finally straightened and closed the refrigerator door.
"What's for dinner?"
She glanced at what she'd gathered on the counter: lettuce, cucumbers, carrots and an onion, along with a neatly labeled foil packet of chicken from the freezer and a handful of the potatoes piled nearby in a metal colander. "Fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy and salad … unless you don't eat fried food."
"Of course I eat fried food. Don't you know the first rule of Southern cooking? If it ain't fried, it ain't done."
Smiling faintly, she placed the chicken in a sink of cold water to thaw, then started opening drawers, looking for a knife and a vegetable peeler. With a backward glance over her shoulder, she made a suggestion for her own good as well as his. "Why don't you go back into the parlor where you'll be comfortable? I'll bring you some tea, and you can watch television, and when dinner's ready—"
"I've seen more television in the last two weeks than in the last two months combined. I'll be comfortable here." Balancing on his crutches, Remy pulled a chair from the table. Once he was seated, he used his good foot to maneuver a second chair into place in front of him, then raised his right leg to the seat. That done, he closed his eyes for just a moment, letting weariness wash over him, soaking into his muscles, claiming his entire body. All those days lying on his back in the hospital, he had anticipated the time he could be up and about whenever the mood struck him. Well, the time had arrived and, frankly, he couldn't think of anything more appealing than lying on his back in bed. He moved so clumsily that his thigh throbbed, and the cast chafed around his toes. His left upper arm twinged from time to time around both the entrance and the exit wounds, and the crutches hurt his shoulders, arms and hands.
