Cursed (Decorah Security #21) - Rebecca York Page 0,21

and also the voice of the other man from long ago.

There was no way to explain last night’s experience—to him or to herself. So, she crossed the room and pulled out a chair, being careful not to brush his knee when she sat.

“Did you sleep well, child?” Janet asked.

“Mostly,” she allowed.

“Coffee?” the housekeeper asked.

“Yes, please,” she answered politely.

The woman brought her a cup of thick black brew, rich with the smell of something she didn’t usually associate with coffee.

“What kind is it?”

“A Cajun brand. With chicory. The best you’ll ever taste.”

Morgan took a cautious sip. It was good—but strong. And she decided that despite her usual custom, cream would make a good addition. It did.

A plate of eggs and French toast sat on the table. Andre had already taken several triangles of toast. He pushed the plate toward her—a very ordinary gesture. A host offering his guest some breakfast. But sharing food had taken on an unintended intimacy as his strong hand brushed against hers, and a current of energy seemed to spark between them.

His voice turned deeper as he said, “Janet’s eggs and pain perdu are excellent,” he said.

“That’s the . . . Cajun . . . name for French toast?”

“Yes. But it’s better than any you’ve ever tasted.”

She put his bragging statement to the test and found he was right. The toast was rich and crusty, and sweet with the addition of real maple syrup.

Janet sat down at the table with them and helped herself to the toast and scrambled eggs flecked with onion and sweet red pepper. She might work for Andre, but they apparently didn’t stand on ceremony.

Morgan took several bites of toast, watching the other two people at the table from under lowered lashes. The questions circling in her head were making it difficult to swallow. Finally, she asked, “Who was it that I heard outside last night?”

Janet’s cup clattered in the saucer.

Andre finished the bite of eggs in his mouth, then asked, “Chanting and beating a drum?”

“Yes.”

His lips quirked. [RG2]Would you believe LaToya Jackson?”

“No”

“More like the voodoo priestess,” he said.

“The one who lives at the edge of town?”

“Yes.”

She raised her chin. “Why didn’t you tell me about her before I came here?”

He had the grace to look uncomfortable. “Is this breakfast or a business discussion?”

“Both.”

“It’s better for the digestion if we separate the two. We can talk about business in the office later.”

Morgan wanted to press the issue. But this was his house, and she had come here to work for him. Which meant she couldn’t turn everything upside down—not without a good reason.

So, she took some more bites of the toast and eggs while he poured himself another cup of coffee.

“Where are you from?” Janet asked.

“Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.”

“How did you get into the investigative business.”

“I . . . uh . . .worked in covert operations until my husband died.”

“You were married?” Janet asked in surprise.

“Yes,” she answered.

Andre’s expression didn’t change, and she suspected he had already known that fact—and probably a lot more.

When he told Janet that the meal had been excellent, Morgan added her praise—along with a sigh of relief that they were going to get to work.

Andre led her down the hall to a small room outfitted with a desktop computer sitting on a broad antique desk, shelves full of books and French doors that looked out to a carefully cultivated swath of garden.

The chair faced the window, so that when Andre was seated, he could see the garden.

As she watched, he walked around the desk and stood for a moment gazing out the doors.

Morgan watched him making an effort to relax the tension in his shoulders. Her eyes flicked from him to the view, and a sudden insight hit her.

Stepping up behind him, she said, “You designed this garden—for your own pleasure.”

“Yes,” he answered without turning.

“A lot of men wouldn’t care about the view.”

“This is my home. It’s in my soul,” he said.

The emotion in his voice made her chest tighten.

He sat down at the desk, putting the wide surface and the computer between them like a barrier.

Morgan sat in the wingback chair in the corner. “You sent me a lot of material before I arrived. But you didn’t give me a report on any voodoo priestess.”

He sighed. “I wasn’t sure the Decorah Security Agency would take the job if I started talking about her.”

“Explain that,” she demanded.

Chapter Five

Andre shifted in his seat. Damn the priestess. She could have given him a couple of days grace. But she’d been right there