The Reunion. Jana DeLeon

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      “William Duhon.”

      “Oh,” she said, momentarily taken aback that the pleasant gentleman she’d spoken to on the phone had produced such a surly son. “Your father was supposed to meet me here. Is he on his way?”

      “He’s not coming.”

      “What do you mean? He’s supposed to provide me a key to the house and go over any of my questions concerning the estate requirements.”

      “Well, you got me instead.” He pulled a giant iron key from his pocket and handed it to her. “That’s the front door key. I’m having keys to the patio and back door duplicated and will pick them up this afternoon.”

      “Am I supposed to meet your father at his office?”

      If possible, he looked even more aggrieved.

      “No. I’m supposed to take you to meet him for an early supper at the café, after I get you settled in.”

      She stared. Was he joking? The last thing she intended to do was get in a car with Mr. Personality.

      “I’m sure I can find my way back to the café, the same way I found the house,” she said. “I don’t need an escort.”

      “My father says you do, and unfortunately for me and you, so does the estate. During your two-week stay in Calais, I will go wherever you go.”

      “That’s outrageous! Neither the estate nor your father can mandate who I spend my time with.”

      “No, but they can insist you maintain personal security at all times, and they have.”

      “What in the world for? To protect me from the clutter and dust I saw in there? The only risk to my safety so far has been you, and I’m supposed to believe you were assigned to protect me?”

      He clenched his jaw and she could tell she’d insulted him, just as she’d intended.

      “Well,” he said, “I managed to sneak up on you in broad daylight wearing construction boots, right? I’m guessing that makes my observation skills a sight better than your own.”

      He whirled around and strode away from her.

      “I’ll get your things out of your car,” he mumbled as he left.

      Joelle stared behind him wondering if the entire world had gone crazy.

      I will go wherever you go.

      She stiffened. Surely that didn’t mean he was staying in the house with her. Granted, she had her apprehensions about staying in the spooky, rambling mansion alone, but if the choice were Mr. Personality or the ghosts, she’d definitely take the ghosts.

      * * *

      TYLER STALKED AROUND the side of the house to the front where Joelle’s car was parked. She’d left it unlocked, which surprised him at first given that his father said she was some sort of social worker, but then she probably figured no one was roaming this far out in the swamp looking to lift items from a car.

      If only she were right. Then he’d be sitting on his dad’s couch watching television instead of fending off insults.

      Likely, no one would lift items from her car, but if his father’s instincts were correct, someone was still roaming around the estate. At least this time, a full-time security detail was on-site and prepared for battle. Tyler wasn’t about to let someone get the better of him in his own neck of the woods.

      He grabbed two suitcases from the backseat of the car and carried them inside, still trying to figure out how he was supposed to manage two full weeks around Joelle LeBeau. When his father told him Joelle was a social worker, Tyler had formed a mental picture of some motherly-type woman—probably heavyset—and with a kind smile.

      The tall, curvy Creole beauty he’d pulled out of the bushes was the last thing he’d ever expected and, certainly, the last thing he wanted. Gorgeous, endangered women were part of a past he intended to put far behind him, which was precisely the reason he wanted to sit at a desk until he passed out from boredom. During his eight years in the Middle East, he’d had enough excitement to last a lifetime.

      During the last twelve months, he’d had enough beautiful women to last ten lifetimes.

      Chapter Four

      Joelle looked across the table at William Duhon, as charmed by the aging attorney as she was frustrated by his son. Clearly, Tyler hadn’t inherited any of his father’s charisma. Her private security detail hadn’t spoken a word during the entire drive into Calais, and after arriving at the café, had opened his mouth only long enough to tell his father that he needed to pick up some supplies at the general store and would meet them back at the café in an hour or so. William appeared a bit embarrassed by his son’s behavior, but just nodded and directed her to a booth in the far corner.

      “I apologize for the rather unconventional meeting location,” William said, “but I recall you saying when you called from New Orleans that you hadn’t stopped to eat. I figured we could accomplish two things at once.”

      Joelle took another bite of sirloin steak, smothered in gravy and onions, and said a silent prayer of thanks that she hadn’t stopped for fast food on the way to Calais.

      “It was worth the wait,” she said.

      William smiled. “Johnny’s mother was the best cook in Calais. When he opened this place, it was with the intention to use only her recipes, and he’s kept it that way for thirty years.”

      “If it’s not broken...”

      “Quite so. Johnny’s made a good business here. Most everyone has at least a couple meals a week at the café. Make sure you save some room for banana pudding. That’s the dessert special today.”

      “Banana pudding?” She looked down at her plate. “Maybe I’ll take half of this home for supper. I may have to start jogging while I’m here.”

      William pointed out the plate-glass window to a building across the street. “I’m convinced that this café is the reason the seamstress shop stays in business—letting out waistbands and such.”

      “It probably won’t come to that. My brief glance at the downstairs of the house provided a mental list of things to do that is as long as the Mississippi. I won’t have any problem getting my exercise in.”

      Quite frankly, the state of the house had surprised her more than anything else she’d heard so far. She never expected that her stepfather would keep it up, but he’d been dead for months. Surely, the estate could afford to hire a cleaning service.

      “Can I ask a question?” she asked.

      “Of course. That’s what I’m here for.”

      “Can the estate hire someone to help with the cleaning? Even if I worked on it full-time for two weeks, I couldn’t put a dent in it.”

      William sighed. “The big services in New Orleans won’t travel this far out for the job, especially with no hotel to place the crew in. I’ve hired several СКАЧАТЬ