Cooking Up Trouble Page 30

  She shoved the door open and allowed Yvonne to enter first. Gazing over the shorter woman’s shoulder, Heather didn’t see Philippe anywhere. He’d probably gone to his library. Heather had begun to think of the library as Philippe’s throne room. He was probably sitting at his desk, looking regal and imperious. He always looked regal and imperious. When he was angry, as he was now, he also looked quite intimidating, but Heather was up to it.

  Glancing at Yvonne, she changed her mind about what to do next. She’d been going to lead Philippe’s mother directly into a confrontation with Philippe. But poor Yvonne was looking mighty bedraggled. Heather sensed that she’d feel more comfortable if she cleaned up first.

  When she suggested it, however, Yvonne vetoed the notion. “No, thank you, Heather. We should get this over with.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Heather wasn’t looking forward to the confrontation.

  She led the way down the hall to the office, Yvonne trailing behind, reluctant but determined. It seemed a shame to Heather that a mother should learn about her own son’s life through the agency of the devil. She tried to clear her mind of the notion.

  “After we get this mess taken care of, I’ll give you a grand tour of the house and the ranch. It’s really something. You should be proud of your son.”

  “I am. I’m sure he won’t want me staying, though, and you mustn’t try to force him to acknowledge any sort of relationship.” Yvonne’s voice carried a world of affliction.

  The older woman’s sorrow stabbed Heather’s heart painfully. “Nonsense. Of course you’ll stay. It’s a beautiful place, and Philippe earned every scrap of it himself.”

  Yvonne mumbled almost inaudibly, “I’m sure of it. I certainly never helped him. He wouldn’t have let me.”

  There was no winning this battle. Heather decided she wasn’t going to tackle it at the moment. One battle at a time; that was the way to win a war. If they got through their encounter with D.A. Bologh unscathed—or at least unslain—then she’d contemplate how best to reconcile Philippe with his mother.

  She knocked at the door of the office and jerked when Philippe’s voice came hard and loud, “Enter.”

  Enter? Oh, dear. He was still mad. She smiled encouragingly at Yvonne, who wasn’t fooled.

  “I’m sure it will be fine,” Heather said bracingly.

  “No it won’t. But we might be able to save his life and his life’s work.”

  With a sigh, Heather gave up trying to instill optimism in Yvonne. Shoot, she couldn’t even make herself be optimistic. She did, however, enter the office first, in case Philippe had a gun aimed at the door or something.

  He didn’t. Rather, he was sitting, as Heather knew he’d be, in his big leather chair, behind what looked like a sea of gleaming mahogany. He was also glaring with intense ferocity at the doorway.

  Heather bridled. “You can stop frowning, Philippe. This is important.”

  Philippe ignored her, having caught sight of his mother. “What in the name of all that’s holy are you doing here, at my home?”

  “That’s no way to talk to your mother, Philippe St. Pierre. I think you should—”

  “Silence!”

  His roar actually did silence Heather, something that had never happened to her before. She’d always been up to anything or anybody. This was different. She’d never been faced with anyone as enraged as Philippe. She swallowed.

  Yvonne put a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you, Heather, but I don’t want you to suffer for my sake.” She turned and faced her son. “Philippe, I know you never wanted to see me again.”

  He snorted derisively.

  Yvonne sucked in air. “But something has happened that requires you to listen very carefully to what I am going to tell you. You must believe me, son—”

  “Son?”

  Heather recoiled at the bitterness in his voice. She wanted to say something, to make him stop, but again Yvonne restrained her.

  “I know you don’t want to acknowledge the relationship, Philippe.”

  “I?” Philippe’s dark eyebrows rose over his dangerously flashing eyes. “I think you have that backwards. Mother.”

  Heather had never heard the word mother sound like a curse word before this evening. She wished she’d been spared the privilege now.

  Yvonne took another deep breath. “Yes, of course. You would believe that.”

  “Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

  “No.” Yvonne shook her head sadly. “You have every reason to hate me.”

  Philippe acknowledged her statement with a nod. Heather wanted to cry.

  “But you still need to know the things I’m going to tell you.”

  “Then get on with it.” He pushed himself back in his chair, until he was sitting in an insolently casual manner.

  There still remained that huge chunk of mahogany between him and his mother. And Heather. She wanted to run to him and throw her arms around him and tell him everything would be all right if only he’d believe. But that was foolish, and she didn’t.

  Yvonne told Philippe her story, beginning when she herself was sixteen years old, pregnant, and having been abandoned by the man who had sworn his love for her. “That’s when a person named D.A. Bologh showed up to ruin my life.”

  Philippe turned to Heather when Yvonne said D.A.’s name. Heather only nodded. Her throat was thick and aching, and she wasn’t sure she could talk even if Philippe wanted her to, which she suspected he didn’t.

  After swallowing and clearing her throat, Yvonne continued. She told Philippe how she had bargained her soul away for the sake of youth and beauty. She threw out her hands in a gesture of despair. “It’s the only way I knew, Philippe. I’m an Octoroon. There’s no other line of work open to people like me. You know it as well as I do.”

  Philippe didn’t want to buy it. He still frowned. “In New Orleans. There are other places in the world to live.”

  Heather finally found her voice. “For a sixteen-year-old girl?” she asked indignantly. “And an Octoroon?” Whatever that was. She still hadn’t quite figured out the degrees of separation and which made a person what. As far as she was concerned, a person should be judged by what he did in the world, not how he looked in it.

  “It’s all right, Heather,” Yvonne told her softly. “I have to do this.”

  Heather didn’t like it, but she knew Yvonne was right. Because she was mad at him, she gave Philippe a good hot scowl, which he didn’t acknowledge by so much as a lift of his eyebrow.

  By the time Yvonne finished her story, she was in tears. Heather wasn’t, but it was a struggle. Towards the end, she took Yvonne’s hand to give her courage, and was rewarded by a grateful glance.

  Silence loomed in the room when Yvonne’s voice died out. The two women clutched each other’s hands tightly.

  After what seemed like several centuries, Philippe rose from his big leather chair. He pressed his palms flat on the gleaming mahogany of his desk and leaned over it until he looked like some avenging god out of mythology going to blast the earth to smithereens. Heather stood her ground with difficulty. Yvonne shrank back.

  “That,” said Philippe in a voice Heather had never heard from him before, “is the most asinine story I’ve ever heard. It’s a pathetic attempt to make me take you into my life. And it won’t work.” He pointed at Heather. “This woman, who is worth at least a million of you, and I are going to be married as soon as may be.” His eyebrows dipped suddenly. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow, we’re going to town, and we’re going to be united in holy matrimony. And you,” he said, glowering ferociously at Yvonne, “are catching the stage. I don’t care where you go. As long as you never darken my vision again. I’ll give you money. That’s probably why you came anyway.”

  Heather had been trying not to cower beneath the fury of Philippe’s terrible edict. It was only when silence again reigned in the library that the full impact of his words hit her. Hard.

  “Tomorrow?” Her voice squeaked.


  “Mon Dieu,” whispered Yvonne.

  “But that means—”

  Heather’s explanation was cut off by a sudden intense howling of wind outside. The windows crashed open. Lightning rent the sky. Thunder boomed, shaking the house on its foundation. Yvonne screamed. Heather covered her ears. Philippe raced out from behind the desk and grabbed Heather close to his chest.

  And D.A. Bologh appeared in the middle of the library floor, dressed all in red, from his head to his toes. He’d even donned his forked tail and pointy ears to make his statement more dramatic.

  He took in the astonished faces of those gathered there, threw back his head, and laughed.

  Chapter Twenty

  “This is insane,” Philippe declared after he’d caught his breath. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?”

  “Ah, I do so love family reunions,” D.A. said in his most sardonic voice. “They’re always so touching.”

  Heather winced. “I haven’t had time to explain it all to him, D.A. This isn’t fair.”

  “Tut, tut, sweetie pie. I told you I’d give you until the eve of your wedding day. I reckon this is it.” He shook his head in a mock show of sympathy. “It’s a shame, but there it is.”

  “D.A., please,” Yvonne pleaded. “No, don’t do this. Please. Take me instead. Please!”

  “I’ve already had you.” Derision dripped from the words. “I want this fresh bit of goods for a while.”

  “No,” whimpered Yvonne. “Not that. Please.”

  “Wait a damned minute,” Philippe broke in, dominating the women into silence. “What in blazes is going on. Who are you?”

  D.A. turned to Philippe and cast an appraising eye over him. “The name’s D.A. Bologh, Mr. St. Pierre. My, you’re a fine looking man.” He glanced at Yvonne. “Your son does you proud, Yvonne. You must be extremely pleased with him.” He laughed again, a terrible laugh that reverberated through a room that seemed too small to contain it.

  “Stop it!” Heather, still in Philippe’s arms, clapped her hands over her ears.

  “Get out of here,” Philippe demanded. “Get out of here now, or I’ll throw you out.”

  “My, my, aren’t we fierce.” D.A. smirked at Philippe. “Try it, why don’t you?”

  Philippe thrust Heather aside. “Gladly.”

  She screamed, “Philippe! No!”

  Yvonne tried to stop him, but he shoved her to the floor. He reached out to grab D.A. Bologh, who didn’t resist. As soon as Philippe’s fingers touched D.A.’s arm, Heather saw what looked like an electrical current arc over him. He staggered backward as if he’d been struck by lightning. She caught him before he could go down, and was horrified to feel his skin jump under her fingers.

  “Stop it,” she shrieked at D.A. “Stop it! We made our bargain, and this wasn’t part of it. Don’t hurt him. Please don’t hurt him.”

  “D.A.,” begged Yvonne. “Please don’t hurt the children. They don’t deserve it. I’m the one who deserves to be punished, not them.”

  “Honestly, you two.” D.A. sneered. To Heather, he said, “We made a bargain, my pet, and it’s time to pay up. Unless, of course, you’ve managed to convince Prince Charming here who I am.”

  “I haven’t even had a chance to talk to him about it!” Heather cried.

  “What a shame.” D.A. sounded bored.

  “I’ll do it now. Please wait just another little minute, D.A.” She was desperate by this time.

  D.A. rolled his eyes. “I swear, my generosity will be the end of me. All right, sweetie pie—”

  “Don’t call her that!” Yvonne had managed to get to her feet. “You hateful wretch! Stop this!”

  “Honestly, Yvonne, how you do carry on. You know better than that.”

  “Oh, God, please help us all,” Yvonne moaned.

  Philippe, stunned by the electrical charge D.A. had zapped him with, shook himself like a wet dog. When he spoke, his voice was ragged. “What in blazes is he talking about, Heather? Who is he?”

  “That’s the whole point, Philippe.” Heather turned and grabbed him by the arms. In a voice tight with terror, she told him exactly who D.A. Bologh was. “He’s a devil, Philippe. I bargained with him. He agreed to cook for me since I can’t cook, and in return, I agreed to give him something. He didn’t specify what, though, and when it came time to pay up, he said he was going to take me.”

  “What?” Philippe managed a fairly creditable roar, considering the state of his health. He tried to take a lunge at D.A., but Heather held him back. He was still weak, or she’d never have been able to do it.

  She shook him as hard as she could. “Wait! Stay away from him. Don’t you understand, Philippe? He’s the devil! Your mother bargained with the devil when she was young and scared and poor. I bargained with him when I was—I don’t know. Crazy, I guess.”

  D.A. snickered. “No insanity pleas in this court, sweetie. That rationalization is a hundred years away.”

  “What’s he talking about?”

  Philippe gazed down at Heather, and she was horrified to see the doubt and anger in his eyes. Lord, Lord, he wasn’t going to believe her. She knew it in her heart. “Please, Philippe.” She started to cry, in spite of the fact that she never, ever cried unless a family member was in peril. She loved him so much, and she’d die if she lost him. “Please, Philippe. Please pay attention to me. He’s the devil. Can’t you understand that? He’s going to take me away unless you understand what’s going on and believe me.”

  “She’s telling the truth, Philippe,” Yvonne put in hopelessly. “He ruined my life and yours, and now he’s working on Heather. Then my ruin will be complete, don’t you see? It isn’t enough for him to destroy me. In order to exact perfect revenge, he needs to hurt the only person in the world I care about.”

  Philippe shook himself again, as if he were having trouble understanding anything anyone said. “And who’s that.”

  “You!”

  “Don’t make me laugh.”

  “Oh, Philippe, don’t, please,” begged Heather. “It’s the truth.”

  “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard, Heather. I don’t even believe in God. I’m sure as hell not going to believe this trickster is the devil.”

  “No!” shrieked Yvonne.

  But it was too late. D.A. let out an ear-splitting bellow of evil laughter and snatched Heather away from Philippe. Philippe reached out to her, and D.A. shocked him with another bolt of electricity. He shouted, “Heather!” as he fell to the floor. He was crawling toward D.A. and reaching frantically to grab hold of a leg—or even that damned tail—with which to hold him back, when D.A., Heather in his arms, vanished from the room.

  Philippe heard Heather scream before he fell back, driven away by another jolt of devilish electricity.

  Yvonne, sobbing as if her heart were breaking, raced to the window. At the top of her lungs, she screamed into the night sky, “Heather!”

  Heather had never experienced anything like her ride through the air with D.A. Bologh. He held her tightly, but she struggled her arms free and battered at him with her fists. She was too furious to cry any more. And she was too frightened to give up. She shrieked in his ear, “This isn’t fair, D.A. Bologh!”

  “You’re just a sore loser.” D.A. sounded smug. “You’re only going to hurt yourself if you keep carrying on like that.”

  “Damn you!”

  “Ha. Too late.”

  “But you’re wrong! You aren’t supposed to take me yet. It’s not midnight. It’s still the evening of my wedding day, and you’re taking your reward too soon.” Her heart almost stopped when she didn’t hear an immediate sneering rejoinder. She’d grabbed that last bit out of thin air; she hadn’t said it because she believed it.

  When D.A. spoke at last, he didn’t sound quite as smug. “It’s midnight somewhere.”

  She thumped him hard. Not that anything she could do would ever hurt him. “It’s not midnight here. And here is where I live. You’re no
t being fair. You’re cheating! Just like you did before.”

  “You’re quibbling again.”

  “It’s not quibbling! I haven’t given up yet. You said I’d have until the day before my wedding, and the day hasn’t ended yet.”

  “Balderdash.”

  “It isn’t balderdash. I know who you are! And I haven’t had a chance to persuade Philippe yet. You took me away before I could do it.”

  “Nonsense. The fellow will never believe in me. He said so. He doesn’t even believe in God.” D.A. laughed evilly. “A fellow who claims not to believe in God can’t very well believe in me, can he?”

  “He only said that because he—” She had been going to say that Philippe hated his mother, but she couldn’t make herself do it. “Because he’s mad at his mother.”

  “He hates her guts, is what he does, my dear sweet thing. You don’t have to act coy with me.”

  “If he does hate her, it’s your fault,” Heather grumbled.

  D.A. chuckled. “This has been one of my best jobs so far. It’s turning out exactly right.”

  “You’re sick.”

  “Not sick, sweetie pie. Evil. There’s a big difference, although it will become blurred in years to come.”

  “You’re still cheating.” She couldn’t figure out where they were. She knew they were above the ground somewhere because she’d seen the roofs of the ranch house, bunkhouse, and out houses as they’d sped by them. Now when she looked down she could detect the outline of a whole lot of cows. And there was one of Philippe’s hands, riding the fence, probably singing softly to the cattle. Anguish rose up in her when she contemplated never seeing this again. And never seeing Philippe. Sweet heaven, she had to get out of this!

  “Cheating, ha.” It wasn’t very forceful, Heather was interested to note.

  “You are cheating. It’s not a new day yet. There must be hours left of today, and I should have this time to try to convince Philippe of who you are.”

  “Fudge.”