It was hard to make her mind work coherently, and she was still trying to figure out what she was going to say when the car stopped at the gate across the access road. Once the house had sat in the middle of cotton fields. Now it was a fortified compound, guarded by men and a fence that circled the area around the house.
The barrier slid open, letting the car through, then slid closed behind her—like a prison gate clanging shut. The long drive was lined with live oak trees, making a majestic approach to the restored plantation house that had been newly painted white. It had a portico across the front that reminded Stephanie of Tara inGone with the Wind, except that the entrance was on the second floor, as in most Louisiana plantation houses.
When the vehicle pulled up beside the wide front steps, Stephanie dragged in a breath and let it out, preparing for what was coming next.
Unable to move, she simply sat in the passenger seat.
“Get out,” the man in the back said, climbing out and opening her door.
There was no point in trying to stay in the car. It wouldn’t do her any kind of good. She climbed out and stood on shaky legs, looking up at the steps.
When a figure appeared, she blinked. It was Claire Dupree, the woman who had been helping her in the dress shop for the past few months. Once the shop had been her life, but she hadn’t thought about her business or her assistant in days. Now she tipped her head as she stared at Claire.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“John thought you’d appreciate having some female companionship.”
“John asked you here?”
“Yes.”
As Stephanie tried to work her way through the implications, a light bulb suddenly went off in her head. Claire had come to the shop looking for a job not long after Stephanie had met John Reynard. She’d offered to work for almost no salary.
Now it was clear why. Stephanie had been paying her a small salary, but she’d really been working for John Reynard. He’d sent her to Stephanie so that he could keep tabs on his fiancée.
All those calls Claire had made to her mother. They were probably really to John. All that flashed through Stephanie’s mind in a few seconds.
“We’ve been waiting for you. Why don’t you come in?” Claire said as if she were the owner of the house, inviting in a guest.
With no other choice, Stephanie followed the other woman up the stairs and into the house, which had many antebellum antiques as well as some comfortable modern chairs and couches. The wide front hall boasted a sideboard imported from England with a gilt mirror hanging on the wall above. Like her father’s house, but in much better condition. On the polished floorboards was a rich Oriental rug.
“Where’s John?” she asked.
“He’s in the lounge. There’s some very interesting news on television.”
The edge in Claire’s voice made her wary, but she followed the other woman down the hall to the sitting room that John had set up like a room in a turn-of-the-century men’s club, furnished with comfortable leather chairs and couches.
The walls were wood-paneled, and the only piece of furniture that looked out of character in the room was the flat-screen TV on the wall across from the sofa.
John, who had been sitting in one of the leather chairs, stood up.
He looked from her to the television, where an announcer was breathlessly reporting some catastrophe, and it tookStephanie a few moments to orient herself. First, she realized it was in Houma. Then she saw it was at a bed and breakfast. The reporter was pointing to what must have been a house—or a cottage, but nothing was left but a blackened hole in the ground.
“Police say there are no survivors from the explosion that destroyed one of the cottages at the Morning Glory B and B about an hour ago. At the time, Mr. and Mrs. Craig Brady were registered at the cottage.”
Stephanie tried to take that in. In the background, she could see the main building, and it looked like the blackened ruin was the cottage where she and Craig had been staying.
“Sorry to report that your friend Craig Brady, whose real name is Craig Branson, was blown up in an explosion while you were en route here,” John said, the tone of his voice making it clear that he wasn’t sorry at all.
Unable to catch her breath, Stephanie swayed on her feet. Claire caught her arm and eased her onto the couch, where she sat gasping for air.
John tipped his head to the side as he stared at her. “It isn’t confirmed that your friend was in the cottage, but I presume that he rushed back home to you, opened the door, and triggered an unfortunate incident.”
“No,” Stephanie whispered.
John glanced at Claire. “Go get Stephanie a glass of brandy. I believe she could use a drink.”
Stephanie watched the other woman leave the room. Then swung back to John when he said, “You’re in a delicate position now.”
