The Seducer. Jule McBride
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she admitted with a proprietal frown.
“Your company need look no further than its owner.”
“Now that’s sweet.”
A five-year-old boy, not a grown man, could have paid the compliment, and every unseeing sweep of her gaze was starting to rankle. Yes, innocuous Ned Nelson, with his shaggy blond bangs that concealed a high, scholarly forehead and thick glasses that perched midway down his nose wasn’t commanding much attention. Rex was sure she’d been disappointed when she saw him. Had she, too, fantasized about their meeting based on the easy telephone conversations they’d shared? Would she feel differently if baggy khaki pants weren’t hiding Rex’s hard muscles and sculpted contours? Or if the fastened top button of Rex’s loose Hawaiian shirt wasn’t covering a pelt of swirling jet hair?
He cursed his father and Judith Hunt for putting him in this position. If his father hadn’t disappeared, Rex could have taken time off from policing, time he’d definitely like to spend getting to know Pansy. His gut instincts said Augustus had taken it upon himself to solve a crime. And if the Internal Affairs officer was more reasonable, she’d have shared information with Rex. He wouldn’t have been forced to lower himself to subterfuge. Sighing, he sidled closer to Pansy, drawn by the soft parting of her lips and a whispery catch of breath that accelerated his heartbeat.
“You can see it from here,” she murmured.
His eyes were studying the tilt of her nose and her wide, deep-set, sea-green eyes. “See what?”
“Castle O’Lannaise.”
He looked to the distance where hot sun glanced off a dazzling white adobe compound. He couldn’t make out all the structures, but a square, crenelated watchtower was visible, its arched cloisters leading onto iron-railed balconies.
“You can’t tell from here, Ned,” she explained, looking away from the estate long enough to capture Rex’s gaze, “but Castle O’Lannaise was inspired by colonial Argentinian architecture. A square, columned walkway surrounds the main house, and the roofs are of red tile.”
“Impressive.”
She nodded. “Near the main house, there’s an equestrian breeding lodge with a red brick floor and domed ceiling.”
It was a long shot, but it took big money to buy such a place, so Rex started thinking of his father’s ties to gangsters in Hell’s Kitchen and Chinatown. Maybe the owner was someone Augustus had arrested in the past. Or maybe Castle O’Lannaise was otherwise connected to Augustus’s disappearance. But how? “Who owns it?”
Pansy shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
“Who’s the Realtor?”
“Me. But the property’s handled by a law firm, and it’s been listed awhile. Various people have owned it over the years. Celebrities. Even a past president. An oil sheikh.” Pansy sighed before pragmatically announcing, “It’s haunted. That’s why no one stays.”
Despite her seriousness, Rex laughed. “Haunted?”
Tilting her chin and gazing at him from under lowered eyelids, she sent him what, in the old West, used to be called a thousand-yard stare. “You won’t be laughing when you run into my ghost in the dunes,” she warned archly.
He smiled playfully. “You really believe in ghosts?”
“This particular one? Absolutely.”
He released another soft chuckle. “Why am I beginning to think there’s a story in here somewhere?”
“Because there is.” She paused a beat, building anticipatory tension. “The house was built by a Frenchman,” she began. “Named Jacques O’Lannaise.” When she chuckled, the sound was as delicate to Rex’s ears as glass bells. “If that was his real name.”
“The man happened to be in disguise, huh?” At least Rex had that much in common with the ghost of whom Pansy was so fond.
“It was rumored he was running from the law.”
“A runner? I guess he was a jock as well as a Jacques.”
Pansy giggled in spite of herself, then flatly said, “Mr. Nelson, that is the worst play on words I’ve ever heard.”
He offered a look of mock concern. “You seem very attached to your ghost,” he teased. “You seemed like such a nice woman, Pansy, but now I can see you’re drawn to the criminal element.”
A barely suppressed peal of laughter shook her shoulders. “Only in the case of Jacques O’Lannaise,” she vowed solemnly.
“He must have been—” flicking his eyes over a face growing flushed with excitement, Rex had a sneaking suspicion that a few of Pansy’s erotic fantasies had been inspired by Jacques “—quite something with the ladies.”
“So they said,” she murmured, her voice lapsing into dreamy cadences that lulled Rex like a ship on a rolling sea. “Right before the war of eighteen twelve a great-grandmother of ours—”
“Ours?” Rex interjected curiously.
“I was thinking of my two sisters, Lily and Violet.”
Hanley sisters? This was getting more interesting by the minute. Apparently whimsy ran in the family. “You’re all named after flowers?”
She nodded. “As was the ancestor I was about to mention.”
Despite all the worry of the past few days, Rex was starting to enjoy himself. “Peony? Daisy? Poppy?”
“Iris,” Pansy clarified. “In eighteen ten, Iris sailed from Seduction Island—then called Storm Island, by the way—to the city of New Orleans, where wealthy cousins waited to introduce her to Southern gentleman suitors.”
“Because only crusty sailors inhabited Storm Island?” guessed Rex. “Ones with salty tongues who’d make better mates for serving wenches slinging ale in the local taverns?”
“Exactly.” Pansy squinted playfully. “Are you sure you haven’t taken one of the Hanley sisters’ famous tours before?”
She’d mentioned she offered tours on Saturdays. “Never,” he vowed.
He barely registered what she said next, only reacted to the magical, tinkling lilt of her voice. “The Destiny—that was Iris’s ship—”
“Funny,” he murmured. “That’s the same name as the boat you saw explode.”
Unfortunately, Pansy didn’t want to explore the connection at the moment. “Yes,” she continued. “It’s an odd coincidence. Anyway, they’d almost reached New Orleans when pirates came aboard.” Her voice lowered with a sense of impending threat. “They were after sugar cargo in the lower holds, of course, but they robbed the passengers, too.”
Her lovely sea-green eyes had fixed once more in the distance, on Castle O’Lannaise, and Rex could tell history was coming alive in her imagination. He could taste salt on the air and feel the sea breeze on his cheeks and hear the rustle of the ladies’ long skirts and lace petticoats. “And?” he prompted.
“Well—” Pansy’s voice sharpened, taking on a strangely rehearsed quality that, despite the dreamy tone, told Rex she’d honed this story over many retellings. “One pirate, in particular, took a liking to Iris. Now,” she paused, “you have to imagine this fellow.”
“Do I?” murmured Rex.
“Yes. He was tall, over six feet, and wearing tight black breeches, black boots and a loose white shirt with ruffled cuffs that was laced by crisscrossed leather. A belt circled his waist, and a long, weathered leather sheath hung from it. Sunlight glinted on the sharp silver blade of his sword, temporarily blinding Iris as he thrust it into the sheath.”
“Very dramatic,” Rex assured.
Turning her head slightly, Pansy