Cole Dempsey’s Back in Town

  It couldn’t be him, but it was.

  She was first struck by how tall he’d grown, that she found herself looking up to him.

  Cole was a man now, strong shouldered and lean. Her breath caught as heat twisted through her blood. Dread pulsed in her throat.

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re doing here, Cole,” she said, her voice strong even while her legs felt weak. “But you can go pack your things. You’re not welcome.”

  The tension hung thick in the air, and just looking at him made her feel 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.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Bryn,” he said, breaking the stony silence. “And you can’t make me.”

  Cole Dempsey’s Back in Town

  SUZANNE MCMINN

  Books by Suzanne McMinn

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  Her Man To Remember #1324

  Cole Dempsey’s Back in Town #1360

  Silhouette Romance

  Make Room for Mommy #220

  The Bride, the Trucker and the Great Escape #1274

  The Billionaire and the Bassinet #1384

  SUZANNE MCMINN

  lives by a lake in North Carolina with her husband and three kids, plus a bunch of dogs, cats and ducks. Visit her Web site at www.SuzanneMcMinn.com to learn more about her books, newsletter and contests. Check out www.paxleague.com for news, info and fun bonus features connected to her “PAX League” series about paranormal superagents!

  With much love to my husband,

  Gerald, who is always there for me.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  The house looked the same.

  Minus the dead body, of course.

  Cole Dempsey stared up the oak-canopied drive to the classic columns fronting the antebellum Bellefleur Plantation. The Greek revival-style monstrosity had filled his waking fantasies and sleeping nightmares for fifteen long and bitter years. Someone owed. He was here to collect.

  Look out, Azalea Bend, Louisiana. Cole Dempsey had returned. And this time, he had something to back up his claims.

  He left his black Cobra at the head of the drive, preferring to walk to the door, overnight case in hand. He needed the time and space to take it in, to comprehend that the house was no haunted vision; it was real. The mansion rose before him as timeless as the Mississippi that flowed behind it, holding its secrets, its lies, its fears, its ghosts. And sweet, false Bryn Louvel.

  Now that he was here, the emotions that came with the magnolia-laden air, the river-swept breeze, the memory-churned past hit harder than he’d expected. Amidst the buzzes, hums and whispers of the late-spring evening came the sounds of the past—the mental audio reel of another May night. The scream that no one in the whole of St. Salome Parish would forget, the thundering footsteps, the shouts in the thick night, the wailing of a mother…and the terrible accusation that had ended in a ringing shot.

  The lights of the columned portico drew him.

  He had been promised the corner bedroom on the second floor, overlooking the river. The Oleander Room, as he had been told it was now called, boasted a rosewood half-tester double bed and a private verandah. All the rooms included decanters of refreshment beverages, a guided mansion tour and a wake-up call with hot coffee, juice and sweet potato muffins as well as a full plantation breakfast.

  As if he gave a damn about any of that.

  Cole took the massive steps of the columned portico in athletic strides. Lifting the ornate brass knocker, he pounded it forcefully against the heavy door in the center of the portico. Up close, he noticed the peeling paint on the sides of the building. The surrounding gardens, what he could see of them in the spill of the porch light, were overgrown. The eighteenth-century-era mansion had survived colonial and civil wars and the perils of time, but it appeared that murder had brought it to its knees.

  Open to the public for tours weekdays from 9:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. announced the small lettered plaque in the center of the door. How that would have galled Bryn’s father.

  The sound of footsteps near the door elicited an answering jerk in his pulse. He needed Bryn. He couldn’t get to the truth without her help.

  But instead of Bryn, the woman who greeted him was young, maybe twenty, with a pixie-fresh face, curly strawberry-blond hair and bright eyes that held no shadows.

  “Welcome to Bellefleur!” The young woman made a gesture inviting Cole into the majestic chandelier-lit foyer. Her voice was bubbly, her movements energetic.

  A sweeping, free-standing staircase carved from walnut rose at the back of the large entry area, flanked by floor-to-ceiling oil paintings of a long-ago master and mistress of Bellefleur. Wide-arched openings led to huge rooms. Cole knew one was the parlor, the other a library, all furnished in period style.

  “I’m Melodie Ladd. You must be Mr. Granville.” Shutting the door, the young woman moved past him to station herself behind a rococo table in the center of the foyer.

  A guest book lay open and she held out a fountain pen. Cole set down his case.

  “Actually, it’s Dempsey, Cole Dempsey,” he said, and watched her face. There was no reaction. “I’m with the Granville, Piers and Rousseau. There must have been a misunderstanding when my secretary made the reservation.” He smiled his charming smile.

  There was, of course, no misunderstanding. Never forewarn the enemy. He had learned that and more in law school.

  “Oh! Well, Mr. Dempsey, then.” The young woman waited as he signed the book, then launched into a perky speech. “We’re so glad you’ve chosen the Bellefleur Bed and Breakfast for your stay in Plantation Country. We specialize in escape from the three T’s—telephones, television and traffic. If you have a need to use a telephone, there is one available in the plantation office. Also, we’ll be happy to assist in arrangements to take advantage of any of the area attractions—”

  Cole cut her off. “I’m here to work.”

  “I see.” She carried on, “There is a coffeemaker, microwave and small refrigerator in each room. Check-out is 11:00 a.m. on your day of departure—let’s see, I have you down for two weeks, is that right?” She consulted a ledger.

  “I may need to stay longer, if the room is available.”

  She looked surprised, but quickly nodded. “That would be wonderful! I’ll let Miss Louvel know. We’ve only recently opened, so we aren’t booked up. In fact, you’re our only guest tonight.”

  That was what Cole’s research had led him to believe. Turning the plantation into a bed and breakfast was a last-ditch effort to prevent seizure. Property taxes were a bitch, especially when you got behind. Even as Cole’s star had risen, the Louvels’ had fallen on hard times.

  But there would be no sympathy in Cole’s dead, ruined heart for anyone in Azalea Bend, much less a Louvel. After all, they had shown none to him or his family.

  “I’ll show you to your room,” Melodie offered, gesturing toward the grand staircase that wound up three stories from the foyer. “If you’d like, you may take advantage of the refreshments waiting there or take a stroll down to the river. Tomorrow, if you like, I can escort you on a gu
ided tour of the mansion.”

  “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—”

  “And your father did nothing?”

  His gaze bored into her.

  “Your father deserved everything that happened to him,” Bryn hissed back. “For what he did to Aimee. How dare you ask me to care what happened to him after that? Do you think it was easy for my family?”

  Her nightmares about that night were both surreal and vivid. Over and over, she had to hear her sister’s scream, her mother’s cries in the darkness, her father’s frantic running, lights flashing over the grounds, and the angry shouts, a
popping gunshot and the silence. The silence was the most horrible part.

  In the silence, she always saw Aimee, face up at the edge of the reflecting pool, bloody, battered, her life gone. And Wade Dempsey beside her at the pond’s bank, one bullet clean through his heart, gazing lifelessly up at the death-dark sky. A bullet Maurice Louvel had fired.

  Ten years later, Bryn’s father had placed himself in that same spot, only this time he’d shot himself. He’d won his freedom in a courtroom, but he could never forgive himself for inspiring the revenge that had made Wade Dempsey kill Aimee. To the end, her father had blamed himself for his daughter’s murder.

  Cole’s voice was as bitter as the look in his eyes. “Oh, I hope it was hard, Bryn. I hope it was very hard. Your father was judge, jury and executioner that night.”

  “He was out of his mind that night. Who wouldn’t be after finding their daughter dead in their own backyard?”

  “Oh, I know all about it. Temporary insanity. He got off, didn’t he? No court in St. Salome Parish would convict a war hero and the town’s biggest employer, would they? Even if it was all lies. That’s right.” He kept his agonizing gaze on her. “Lies. Do you know I’ve read every document I could get my hands on connected to your sister’s murder, Bryn? Have you?”

  “No,” she said finally. She couldn’t bear it. She didn’t want to know more about that night than she already did. The bitter strife between her parents, the near-violent altercation when her father had fired Wade Dempsey, and the horror of everything that followed. It was enough. Too much.

  Bryn would never forget the betrayed fire in Cole’s eyes when she’d sat across a courtroom from him months later when the verdict was read and Maurice Louvel was acquitted for taking a father’s justice. But she had lost Cole even before that last day of the trial, and there was no going back. She’d had to start over, just as he and his mother had had to do when they had left Azalea Bend. Her father hadn’t been able to start over, though.