His Brown-Eyed Girl Page 3

  “Here. I’ll start your bath then I’ll get Michael to help you while I clean up the mess Kermit made.”

  Charlotte balanced on one foot, holding aloft a tiny foot with chipped pink polish on her little toenails. “’Kay.”

  Lucas banged on Michael’s door.

  No answer. Of course.

  “Michael!” Lucas raised his fist to pound on the door once more but it jerked open.

  Music battered him and an angry thirteen-year-old with sullen brown eyes met him. “What?”

  Lucas lowered his fist because the kid’s eyes darted to it and there was a hunted look in them. “I need you to bathe your sister.”

  “That’s not my job. I did my homework and took out the trash. Plus, I already wiped her and put her pants on.”

  “Fine. I’ll bathe her. You clean up your dog’s pee. Use the steam cleaner.” Lucas turned toward the bathroom.

  “Fine. Whatever. I’ll bathe the flea.” There were equal parts disgust and resignation in Michael’s voice.

  Good. Lucas didn’t want to bathe Charlotte again. The first night she’d sung songs about spaghetti at the top of her lungs and insisted on using something called Dora the Explorer shampoo…which he could not find. He’d also thought she’d bathe herself, but that didn’t seem to be the case. Seems he was supposed to bathe her. And it felt weird because he’d never washed a little girl before. Big girls and a bottle of bath gel? Sign him up. Little girls with Strawberry Shortcake soap and a Mardi Gras party cup to rinse her hair? Not so much.

  He’d take dog pee any day of the week.

  Chris quickly changed the channel when Lucas entered the room so he tossed him another Father Knows Best stern look and went in search of the paper towels stored in the half bath under the stairs.

  Fifteen minutes later he stood in the kitchen looking at the retriever who sat innocently at the back door, tongue lolled out, happiness pouring out of sweet brown eyes. He sort of wanted to kick it…and he sort of wanted to take it for a walk. Or maybe fishing. He’d always wanted a dog to take fishing.

  “Out, Kermit. And don’t piss in the house again.”

  The dog lumbered out into the fenced yard. And the Wicked Cat of the West darted in.

  Mittens. Meaner than a two-headed snake.

  Lucas sighed and leaned his head against the smooth painted wood of the door.

  He needed help.

  He didn’t know what in the hell he was doing as evidenced by being yelled at in the carpool line while picking up Charlotte from school. Sister Regina Maria had actually scared him…and she was barely five feet tall.

  Why did he tell Courtney he would come to New Orleans and watch the kids?

  Of course, he knew the answer. But it was complicated…and tied around the fact the brother he’d once loved and now hated was teetering on the precipice of death. Nutshell.

  But all the other shit he felt cluttered around that reason made it harder than he’d ever thought to be here in the world he’d left behind.

  Long ago.

  Courtney’s voice. Please, Lucas. I know you hate me, but please. I don’t know what else to do. I have to be with Ben. Have to. Please, he’s your brother. This is me begging you.

  Words he’d longed to hear, but never in such regard. He’d wanted to punish Courtney. Wanted her to grovel. To regret. To know what she’d given up.

  But her words hadn’t been filled with regret.

  They had been for her children, the ones she’d had with his brother. The family she loved more than her pride. So she’d begged him to help her. Begged the man she’d betrayed so she could go to the man she’d cheated on him with—his own brother.

  Lucas banged his forehead against the door.

  “Uncle Wucas?”

  Charlotte stood in the doorway clad in a nightgown with ponies on it. Her wet hair hung nearly to her waist, but he knew now from experience it would curl up to her shoulders when it dried. Her blue eyes looked so much like Courtney’s—big and ready to be filled by life. She still looked frightened of him, but he couldn’t do anything about it.

  He tried to smile but it probably looked as if he were in pain. She took a step back.

  “Do you want some cereal?” He walked to the fridge. “Uh, I think your brother must have drank the last of the milk.” He looked at her. Would she pitch a fit? He’d seen kids her age in the grocery store lying on the floor, screaming and kicking. Lucas wasn’t up for handling that at the moment, not after the dirt bike crash and the dog piss.

  Chris hobbled in. “What’s for dinner?”

  Good question. “How about pizza?”

  “Yes!” Chris pumped his fist in the air. Oddly enough, he landed on his “injured” foot without a grimace telling Lucas all he needed to know about a trip to the doctor.

  Charlotte didn’t say anything, but several crystalline tears hung on her thick blond lashes.

  “You don’t like pizza?” Lucas asked, using the voice he used on his mares when they were foaling.

  Charlotte shook her head.

  “Shut up, Lottie. You like pizza,” Chris said, hopping to the pantry, grabbing a bag of potato chips and shoving a handful into his mouth. Pieces fell, sprinkling the floor and his T-shirt.

  Lucas grabbed the bag and rolled it shut. “If you want pizza, you need to lay off the chips.”

  “But—” Chris made a swipe for the bag, but when he realized he had no chance, he dropped his arms and glared at Lucas. “Why are you here anyway? We don’t even know you.”

  Good question. Lucas didn’t know the answer. On the drive from West Texas to Louisiana the same question had bounced around in his head. Why was he going to help out a family he knew nothing about?

  Well, he knew a little.

  His mother had forwarded him Christmas cards of this perfect family year after year. Lucas had watched his nephews and niece grow up in the happy, shiny photos, gummy grins shifting into painful half smiles. But other than a Christmas card and what he gleaned from his parents, Lucas knew nothing about his brother’s family. “Because your mother needed help.”

  “But you hate my dad.” Statement. Delivered with anger. From the affable Chris.

  Charlotte stopped swinging on the doorknob.

  Michael appeared, face dark as a thundercloud, arms crossed. Tension hung like wet flannel. “Yeah, you do. We’re not stupid. So why don’t you clue us all in on why we’ve never seen you before now?”

  Another good question.

  But the truth was too hard for children.

  “Where’s the number for a pizza place nearby?”

  Flickering within the dark depths of Michael’s eyes—so similar to Ben’s—was an unspoken line scratched between them. “Find it yourself, Uncle.”

  *

  ADDY STARED at the dregs in her chai tea. She should have had decaffeinated tea or a nice glass of wine. The past few hours had left her unsettled and sucking down caffeine hadn’t been a good idea. She lit the chamomile-and-honey-scented candles on the shelf above the ancient claw-foot tub and tossed some dried lavender in the water pouring from the arched faucet.

  Surely a bath would wash her cares away and later she’d get back to reading about the sensual Arabian sheikh and the woman who defied him…only out of bed of course.

  “Addy?”

  Addy set the empty teacup on the marble vanity and pulled on her worn terry-cloth robe as her aunt Flora burst into the bathroom.

  “Oh, there you are,” Aunt Flora said, readjusting a sombrero on her gray locks. “I hollered for you for a good five minutes. Thought you were out for a run.”

  “You know I don’t run at night. The faucet must have masked the sound of you calling. What the heck are you wearing?”

  “What does it look like?” Aunt Flora asked. “It’s one of those Mexican hats. Doris got it for me for the Zumba class. We’re doing a Latin routine that requires a sombrero.”

  “Mexican Hat Dance?” Addy cracked.

  Aunt Flora twist
ed her lips and sent her eyes toward the pressed-tin ceiling. “Well, I don’t know the song, but it’s very sexy. You should come to class with me.”

  “I’ll stick to yoga and running. I’m hopeless at sashaying.”

  Aunt Flora snorted and sat on the toilet lid. “We don’t sashay. We rumba, salsa and do kicks. But stick to your boring exercise. Zumba is for the young at heart.”

  “There’s an insult in there somewhere.”

  “Phooey. The insult was right out front.” Aunt Flora smiled, revealing the gold crowns in the back of her mouth. The woman had a Cheshire cat smile and a wicked sense of humor…when she could still find it. “I saw that tall drink of water next door. Who is he? And where can I get one?”

  “He’s Ben’s brother. I think. At any rate, he’s the kids’ uncle Lucas. And I don’t think he’s for sale.” Addy tamped down the odd feeling stirring inside at the thought of the man who had so recently invaded her world. She felt an attraction toward him, which seemed at odds with the perpetual fear she clung to whenever a large man lumbered into her periphery. That contradiction unsettled her.

  Not that she couldn’t use a man in her life.

  Again she reminded herself she wasn’t unhappy without a man to stomp bugs and fix the hinge on the laundry room door. Still she wouldn’t mind a date or two…but this man had his hands full enough without worrying with her. And he’d be leaving eventually. Of course she didn’t know where he’d return to, just that he would. So not a good idea to open herself up to the idea of Lucas.

  “Pity. I’d take a dozen. I could use some help around here. And he’s a good-lookin’ tall drink of water, if you ask me,” Aunt Flora said, plucking at the tight Lycra covering her thin legs. Honestly, the tight leggings weren’t appropriate on a seventy-five-year-old woman, but when had something like propriety ever stopped her flamboyant aunt?

  “I didn’t ask you.” Addy shut off the water and cocked an eyebrow at her aunt.

  Flora didn’t budge. “You could use a drink of water.”

  “I could use a bath. I’m dirty and the middle Finlay kid destroyed my new greenhouse two hours ago.”

  “What?” Aunt Flora rose and jerked the blinds open, peering out in the inky darkness to where Addy’s greenhouse tilted like a drunk.

  “Hey! I’m naked under this robe,” Addy said, pulling the collar closed and moving out of line of sight in case anyone peeped out the upper window of the blue house next door. Which never happened. That she knew of.

  “Heh.” Flora shook her head and pulled the blinds closed. “Wouldn’t want anyone to see you nekkid, now would we? Might lead to dangerous things.”

  “Aunt Flora.” Addy shook her head.

  “Just saying.”

  “I’m not afraid of it leading to dangerous things. I just don’t want to scar those poor Finlay children for life,” Addy said, trying to deliver her aunt the message she wanted to get on with her bath so the woman needed to skedaddle.

  “You have a beautiful body and there’s a thirteen-year-old boy next door. If he should catch sight of a nekkid Addy Toussant, then he’d be set up for failure his entire life, for you, my dearest, are the loveliest of women. It’s a good thing he hasn’t caught sight yet. I don’t need boys with binoculars falling out of trees.”

  Addy snorted. “That’s so inappropriate. And you’re too good at flattery.”

  “I’m a pro. It’s what I do.” Aunt Flora grabbed Addy under her chin and gave a squeeze. “But I’m not a liar.”

  “I left you some soup on the stove. Should still be warm, but if you need it hotter, use the microwave.”

  Aunt Flora stilled. “I know very well how to light a fire on that stove. Been doing it since you were knee-high, and I didn’t cause that fire.”

  “I know,” Addy said, laying a soothing hand on her aunt’s forearm. “Put that out of your mind. I’m going to take a bath and then we’ll watch that cutie pie Mark Harmon in NCIS, okay?”

  Aunt Flora nodded, but the damper remained. Addy wanted to kick herself but knew her role as semicaretaker of her aunt meant she had to step on Flora’s toes at times. Her aunt had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease—still in its early stages—and though she functioned well enough to drive familiar distances and conduct her daily living, she had suffered some setbacks, most recently, a small fire when she’d left the oven mitt on the burner. “Yes, that sounds nice. Enjoy your bath, dear.”

  The door closed and Addy twisted the lock, craving the solitude of fragrant water and her own thoughts. She stepped into the water, settled in the claw-foot tub and allowed the warmth to embrace her. The scent of lavender soothed her and almost made her forget the intensity of Lucas’s dark eyes.

  Lucas.

  Why did the man intrigue her?

  Maybe because he looked like a man who needed help. Three kids, a bunch of pets and a chaotic household? She’d likely need a bottle of wine in hand to muddle through, and she’d been raised with four brothers and sisters, along with assorted pets.

  But Lucas had never asked outright for assistance.

  So maybe it wasn’t the fact he looked like a man who needed someone to toss him a lifesaver.

  Maybe she was intrigued by those broad shoulders, the jaw hewn from marble, the slightly full bottom lip that pressed into a stern line when he looked troubled…which was frequent in her limited experience. Besides, he’d looked pretty spectacular in those worn Wranglers.

  Yeah, she’d noticed the brand of jeans.

  Cowboy jeans.

  Boots.

  Callous hands and—

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “Yes?” she called out.

  “A little boy hobbled over here with a paper and said he wants a list. What am I to do with it?” Aunt Flora’s tinny voice asked. “Oh, and…well, dearest, another letter from Angola.”

  Addy’s heart plunged as she shot upright, sloshing water onto the tile floor. Fear’s fingers squeezed hard. She sucked in air, closing her eyes and counting slowly as the alarm sounded inside her.

  Windows locked? Yes.

  Door bolted. Always.

  Or maybe not. Aunt Flora had answered the front door, allowing Chris to hand off something. What if she hadn’t relocked it? Her fading memory allowed for such gaps in the house’s security.

  Addy stood, water sluicing down her body, and jerked her robe from the hook.

  “Addy?” Aunt Flora called. “You’re not answering me, and that little boy is waiting down in the foyer.”

  The front door was definitely unlocked.

  “Just a minute, Aunt Flora,” Addy called, scooping up a towel and rubbing at her legs.

  Breathe, Addy. Robbie Guidry still sits in a prison cell a hundred miles away. Breathe.

  Addy hurried across the bathroom, twisted the bolt and jerked open the door. Aunt Flora chirped a surprised oh and stepped back, holding a yellow legal-size paper that said List at the top. She also held a letter that stuck out to the side. A stamp declared it sent from a prisoner at Angola State Penitentiary. Not Robbie. He wouldn’t risk jeopardizing his parole. He used a friend, no doubt.

  Addy’s heart stopped.

  “Sorry,” she said, by way of apology when Aunt Flora clasped her free hand to her chest. “Did you lock the front door?”

  Aunt Flora blinked. “The front door? Well, I think I did. Chris is standing there, and—”

  “You have to always lock the front door, Aunt Flora. You know that,” Addy said, sliding past her aunt while tightening the sash of her bathrobe. Normally, she wouldn’t venture out in front of anyone in such a state, but desperate times and desperate measures called for showing the legs she hadn’t had time to shave.

  She jogged down the stairs so fast Chris jumped when she hit the landing.

  “Hey, uh, Addy,” the boy said, nervously shifting his eyes around the foyer she’d painted Wedgewood blue last spring. He’d never been in her aunt’s house before. Not many people had. “Uncle Lucas sent me ov
er to get your list. I have to get my homework done and everything, uh, soon.”

  Addy reached over to twist the dead bolt, but just as her hand touched the handle the door opened.

  She screamed and stumbled back.

  Chris frowned and pulled the door open to reveal Charlotte standing on the porch in a pink nightgown and bare feet. “It’s just Charlotte.”

  Addy’s racing heart didn’t slow. She clasped her chest and closed her eyes. “Oh, God, you scared me to death, Charlotte.”

  “You wearing a wobe,” Charlotte said, sidling in, damp curls bouncing. “I have one. It’s purple.”

  “Go home.” Chris flung out an arm and pointed toward their house. “You’re not supposed to go outside without permission. And never out the front door, Lottie.”

  “I came with you,” Charlotte said, looking at her brother with eyes pure as snowbanks at midnight. “I love you. You’re my best brother.”

  Chris hesitated, brown eyes flickering down at his little sister. “Well, I don’t care. You still can’t leave without telling—”

  “Charlotte!” Lucas shouted, taking the porch steps two at a time. “What the hell do you think you’re doing running off like that? Do you know what could have happened?”

  The man’s eyes blazed and even Chris stepped back, bumping into an antique table holding figurines her aunt had bought in Italy.

  Charlotte screeched and scampered behind Addy, where she proceeded to crank up a good wail.

  Addy curved a hand around the child’s shoulder and held her to the back of her thigh. Charlotte wrapped her chubby arms around Addy’s leg, causing the terry cloth to part. Addy felt the cool night air on her bare thighs and tried to tug the robe closed. As she jerked the bottom closed, she felt the bodice part. She let go of the child, pulling both parts closed and clutching them as she faced the huge man filling up her doorway. “Stop yelling at her. Please.”

  Lucas stilled, shifting in his boots, eyeing the exact spot where she held tight to the fabric. His gaze lowered slightly before rising to her face. “I’m sorry, but she scared me. I sent Chris over for your list, and after I paid the pizza guy, I couldn’t find Charlotte.”