Chapter 1

You always fall for the rascal or the guy who's got a little bit of the devil in him. You can't help it.

- Debbie Harry -

Dallas in February is like any other big Southern city in winter—wet, windy, and cold—but not as cold as Montreal, a place Luc Deveraux was now glad to abandon for the relative warmth of that bustling Texas metropolis. He’d only been in town one day, however, when he received the emergency call from his grandfather.

“Luc, mon petit-fils cher…” My dear grandson.

He knew it was trouble the moment he heard those words.

Gran’père never called him that unless he wanted something and what he wanted this time was nothing short of disastrous. The old man had suffered another heart attack and with that sudden reminder of his mortality, wanted his errant grandson back home for an extended visit, along with his wife and child. Therein lay the problem, because Luc Deveraux had no wife and as far as he knew—merci, le Bon Dieu—no children either.

Gran’père thought he had both, however, because Luc had told him so.

Oui, he’d lied. Lord, how he’d lied to the old man. It still astounded him that Gran’père believed him. He was shocked even more that he’d been able to carry the deception for so long. Even knowing one day he’d have to face up to the falsehoods he was weaving, he hadn’t hesitated.

Not once since the day he learned of the stipulations in his father’s will, and made the decision to dupe his grandfather, had he felt the least twinge of conscience that he’d let the old man believe, just as Papa wanted, his eldest son was now a settled family man. Nor did he allow himself to consider the eventual consequences. With supreme confidence, he put off thinking about it at all, believing when the time came, a plausible explanation would present itself.

After all, he always managed to tell the most incredible lies and come up smelling like a rose.

Always.

Except this time.

Now Fate was calling his bluff, and so far, an answer eluded him. No light bulb switched on above his head with a solution printed around it.

His usual self-assurance bolted in fright and Luc was in a panic…which was why, on this particular February morning, after an exhaustingly sleepless night, he found himself driving aimlessly through a section of town where he ordinarily wouldn’t think of being.

Reaching past the open overcoat into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, he pulled out a cigarette pack, found it empty, and crumpled it into a wad of cellophane and paper, tossing it out the Jag’s window.

Okay, I’m a litterbug, as well as a liar. So sue me.

Gran’père would do more than sue him when he found out how he’d been hoodwinked. He’d be disinherited.

It was over. The End. Fin. Au’voir, Charlie—or rather, Luc.

There was a 7/11 on the corner and a parking spot in front. He guided the Jag into the space, pulled the keys out of the ignition, and wondered if the car would be there when he came out or perhaps he’d find it stripped. That thought was followed by a typical Luc response.

So what? It’s insured.

He got out and went inside.

The little store was no different from any other convenience shop, maybe a little more run down, but that was in keeping with the neighborhood. The only thing unusual was a small area near the cashier’s counter. Two ice cream parlor-type tables with chairs sat next to a small bakery case in which slices of pie and pastries, all looking remarkably appetizing, were displayed.

On top of the case was a sign on which was written in large black letters: Mom’s Apple Pie! Best Ever! The little counter had an electric coffeemaker housing a pot of the blackest liquid he’d ever seen, alongside another sign printed by the same hand: Best Coffee in Town!

Apparently the writer believed in exclamation marks.

As he paid the cashier for the cigarettes, he gestured to the bakery case. “Is that sign for real?”

“You bet.”

“Know Mom personally, do you?” He put the pack into his overcoat pocket.

He was aware he was flirting a little, if harmlessly, with someone obviously too young for him.

He couldn’t help it. After all, he was Étienne Deveraux’s son. Even after his father met the woman he stayed with for the rest of his short life, he’d continued dazzling the femmes, though he never followed through.

Luc merely strolled in Étienne’s fatherly footsteps.

“Mister, I am Mom.” She smiled, revealing a mouthful of braces in no way detracting from the prettiness of her button nose and blue eyes. “I get here every mornin’ at four o’clock and bake those li’l darlin’s and all the other goodies, too.”

She must’ve been about sixteen, he guessed, probably shouldn’t have been working at that time of morning and certainly didn’t look like anybody’s mother. More like an older sister or a misplaced babysitter. That cooled the flirting a tad.

“What about the coffee?” He nodded at the other sign.

“Truth in advertising. Good as it says.”

“Do you select the beans yourself, p’tite?”

“Say, where you from?” She stifled a giggle.

“Louisiana.” He slurred the word, making it come out Loo-sanna.

“Are you one of them Cajuns?”

He pretended to think about that a moment. “Oui, I suppose I am.”

Luc didn’t consider himself Cajun or Creole, as a Southerner of French antecedents was called. The French he spoke was different from the soft syllables of the bayous. He’d been born in France and hadn’t learned a word of English until he was nearly twelve, when he and his brother came to live with Gran’père.

“I’ll take one of each,” he told her.

“Sure enough. Billy?” She left the cash register and another employee took her place.

Luc stepped out of the way, letting the two customers behind him move up in line.

Slipping on a disposable plastic glove, the girl scooped a slice of pie out of the case, transferred it to a paper saucer, then set it, a plastic fork, and a paper napkin on the counter. As Luc picked it up, she poured coffee into a Styrofoam cup.

The crust broke into soft sugar-dusted flakes as soon as the fork touched it. Luc tasted…no, savored was a better word.

She told the truth. He hadn’t eaten pie this good since he left Gran’père’s. Mattie, his grandfather’s cook, made pastries that tasted like this.

Briefly, he was achingly homesick. He wondered if Gran’père would ever let him return once he learned exactly what a lying bâtard his grandson was.

Probably not, and then his brother Michel, good little Michel, would get everything.

There was a clamor behind him as the door opened. Luc glanced toward the entrance.

For a moment, he thought two children had entered the store. As they both stood, panting slightly, he realized the taller one, only a couple of inches over five feet, was an adult. He found himself staring. He couldn’t help it.

A man’s oversized sweatshirt, washed so many times its blue tint had faded to gray, hung past her hips hiding the body inside, and the legs of a pair of worn and faded jeans protruded below the knitted tail of the shirt. She was wearing tennis shoes. Not Reeboks or Adidas but real honest-to-God tennis shoes. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a pair of those. No socks…in this kind of weather, no socks. Her ankles looked very wind-chapped and cold, making Luc mentally shiver.

He couldn’t see her face. Her head was down as if she were trying to keep from being noticed. All that was visible was a mass of blonde hair pulled back and held by a rubber band, wisps and curls escaping as if blown by the wind. No coat, no scarf.

The little girl whose hand she held was just as blonde.

Stopping at one of the little tables where Luc stood, she bent and lifted the child into a chair.

“Okay, Merry.” Her voice was soft and Southern. “Sit here and wait for me.”

“Can I have a doughnut, Mama?” The child swiveled and looked at the bakery case.

Her voice held that teary whine Luc had heard before from children in public places. His teeth automatically gritted as he recognized it as the forerunner of a refusal by the parent and a resultant temper tantrum.

“Merry…” The soft voice raised itself in an echoing whine instantly replaced by irritation. “No, you can’t.”

“But I’m hungwy!”

Luc braced himself, waiting for the bawling to start.

As if forcing herself not to react, the woman took a deep breath before answering in a quieter tone, “I have to talk to Billy, sweetheart. Remember? Let me do that, a-and afterward…we’ll see.”

“Okay.” The child seemed surprisingly satisfied with that answer. She leaned back in the chair, watching as her mother went to the cashier.

Once there, she waited until the two customers paid and left the store, looking around so furtively that Luc wondered if he were about to witness a robbery.

“Hello, Mrs. Richmond.” The corn-rowed boy behind the cash register turned to her with a smile.

* * *

For a moment, Julie Richmond didn’t answer. In her mind, she was trying to decide what to say, how to ask without appearing to beg or showing how desperate she was. She thought she had it all planned and rehearsed but now…

Why didn’t I come to the store earlier, before anyone else showed up? It was bad enough there was another person present but even that customer was one too many.

Briefly, she glanced in Luc’s direction.

Wonder what he’s doing here? He’s definitely out of place. Probably got lost and stopped to ask directions.

With that thought, he was dismissed, as she got back to the reason she’d come to the store.

Stepping up to the counter, she rested her fingers lightly against its edge. “I need to get some groceries, Billy.”

His smile faded, as if she’d said something unpleasant. “I’m sorry Mrs. Richmond.” He shook his head. “I can’t…”

“Just a few things,” she interrupted, making an effort not to raise her voice. Her fingers gripped the counter’s edge. “For breakfast. For Merry.”

“I’m sorry.” He obviously didn’t like what he was saying any more than she did hearing it. “Mr. Johnson says no more credit.”

“But, Billy…”

* * *

Behind her, Luc realized he was staring, obviously listening, the pie unfinished in his hand. Shifting his gaze, he focused intently on the wedge, cutting into it again. A movement from the little girl diverted his attention. Damn, the kid was looking straight at him.

She was dressed almost like her mother. A sweatshirt with Miss Piggy on it, washed so many times the celebrated porker was nearly minus one eye and the wild ringlets were beginning to disappear. Her jeans had inexpertly-mended patches on both knees. Faded blue socks stuffed into tennis shoes with badly worn toes peeped from under the edge of the jean hems.

At least she’s wearing socks. The relief he felt surprised him. What does it matter to me if the kid’s feet get cold?

He met her eyes. For a moment, they engaged in a staring contest. When he was beginning to wonder who was going to blink first, she spoke.

“That pie sure wooks good.”

“It is,” he agreed.

He took another bite and immediately felt self-conscious with those big eyes watching him so steadily. Gran’père’s old southern etiquette about never eating in front of someone unless you intended to offer them a bite wriggled at the back of his mind. Luc was never comfortable with children and hadn’t been around very many in his life. The women he usually socialized with didn’t have kids. Besides, they were too unpredictable. You never could tell what they’d say or do.

Like now.

This one decided she wanted to talk to him, but what she said next wasn’t to him or anyone, really, and it was spoken very low as if she didn’t want to be heard. She looked back at the bakery case, specifically at the top shelf where the pies rested.

“Wish I had a piece of pie.”

A single tear rolled out of the corner of her eye and down her cheek. A pudgy hand quickly wiped it away. She blinked and bit her lip.

Oh, she’s good, he thought, cynically. Wonder how long it took to perfect that? It was truly an Academy Award performance, Shirley Temple-style. Luc placed his empty saucer and plastic fork on the counter, picked up the last morsel of crust and ate it.

She sniffed, very audibly.

Real or faked, he couldn’t stand it. He took a step toward the child. “Do you want a piece of pie?”

Turning reluctantly from the pastries, she looked up at him. Her eyes were the clearest blue he’d ever seen. He wondered if her mother’s eyes were that color, too.

She nodded, and sniffled again.

“How about I buy you a slice?”

The happiness on the little face made him quiver inside. Nothing he’d ever said to anyone had earned him such a look of gratitude. Nevertheless, she shook her head.

Okay, so she’s not pretending.

“I’m sorry, suh, but I can’t accept gifts from stwangers.” She said that as if repeating something she’d been taught.

“Did your Maman tell you to say that, chérie?” He was surprised how clear her pronunciation was.

She nodded and solemnly informed him, “Most strangers are nice but some can be very naughty.”

While he approved that sentiment, he resented being lumped in with predators and kidnappers, but he didn’t argue. The kid’s mother was right, of course.

The blue gaze strayed back to the pastries.

“That’s right, Merry, and so is Maman, but you see, she asked me to get you a piece of pie.”

Her little face turned toward him again, brightening, though she began a protest. “But, she said—”

“She forgot she asked me,” he lied. He couldn’t seem to stop that, even harmless ones.

“She’s real wowwied,” Merry nodded as if she understood.

“Oui. I could see that.” He tapped the case with his forefinger. “Now, about that pie?”

“Could I have a doughnut instead? One with chewwy jeddy in it?”

“Of course.” Her mispronunciation of those two words made him smile, as if that little imperfection made her more genuine and not the little manipulator he suspected her of being.

Telling the girl what he wanted, he accepted a jelly doughnut wrapped in a napkin. “And…some milk?” He glanced back at Merry.

She nodded eagerly.

The clerk handed him a small carton of milk.

Solemnly, Merry accepted the doughnut. He had to open the milk for her, as well as unpeel the straw, placing it in the mouth of the little container. It was plastic. The shop wasn’t eco-friendly yet.

Odd, how awkward he felt. He was more adept at opening a champagne bottle for a female than a carton of milk.

She bit into the doughnut and immediately deposited a glob of red jelly on Miss Piggy’s face, then crumpled the napkin and wiped it away. Miss Piggy’s snout disappeared in a crimson smear. Luc had a feeling Maman wasn’t going to be very happy about that.

Merry licked the jelly off the napkin before taking another bite.

Luc turned his attention back to the drama at the counter.

The boy at the cash register had been joined by an older man. It appeared the least of her mother’s problems was a cherry smear on her daughter’s shirt.

* * *

“What’s the problem, Billy?” the manager asked brusquely. Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Julie and went on, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Richmond. We can’t give you any more credit.”

“But, I . . . my little girl needs some food.” Her voice broke. She stopped as if she didn’t dare speak again.

“This isn’t a department store, Mrs. Richmond.” Considerately, the manager lowered his voice as if he didn’t want to embarrass her. “Do you know what would happen if I gave all our customers credit? We’d go bankrupt within a month.”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she bit her lip and shook her head.

“The regional manager found out about me letting you charge those groceries,” he went on. “My job’s on the line now, Mrs. Richmond. You’ve got to get your bill here paid before—”

“I don’t have the money.” The words were so strained it seemed they were being dragged out of her.

“What about your husband’s insurance money?”

“It went to William’s funeral expenses.”

Her voice was even lower now, becoming a little ragged. “Unemployment?” the manager suggested.

Julie took another deep breath. The manager and Billy waited. They both looked as embarrassed as she felt.

“My unemployment check paid the rent.”

It was the last one. Her employee benefits had run out. Now she was officially welfare-bound. Mentally, she corrected herself…Aid to Families with Dependent Children.

As if the proper term mattered. It was still shameful.

“In a few weeks, I’ll be getting emergency food stamps. A hundred and twenty dollars’ worth.” She looked up at him as if this solved everything. “Give me a few groceries and when I get the stamps, I’ll turn them over to you. You can apply them to my bill.”

“You owe us five hundred dollars. A hundred and twenty’ll be a drop in the bucket.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

He actually sounded as if he meant it.

“Yeah. Sure.” Julie couldn’t look at him. In a moment, she was certain she’d burst into tears.

Shoulders slumping, she started back to where her daughter sat. When she saw the half-eaten doughnut, she went rigid.

“Merry? Where’d you get that?”

* * *

Merry froze mid-bite, looking from her mother to Luc. You said it was okay and now she’s mad at me, her eyes accused.

“Did you give her that?” She turned a furious gaze on the counter girl.

Before the girl could answer, Luc spoke up. “I bought it for her.”

“You?” She spun back to face him.

Sapristi, she’s beautiful. He was aware the look on his face probably appeared as a leer when in reality, he was briefly dumbstruck.

“She was hungry.” It came out defensively.

He didn’t want her angry with Merry, and didn’t want her mad at him, either. In fact, he didn’t want to see that beautiful face shadowed with the unhappiness presently on it…not at all.

“A doughnut and milk…that should be about a dollar ninety-seven.” One hand went to her back pocket and pulled out a very small, very worn change purse.

As she opened it, Luc expected to see moths flutter out. Digging inside, she extracted something crumpled into a minute square. She unfolded two one-dollar bills.

“Here.” She held them out to him. They looked as threadbare as the purse and as old.

“There’s no need for that.” He held up a hand as if to push them away.

“We don’t accept gifts from strangers.” She caught his hand and slapped the money into it.

He reacted with a shudder. Her hands were cold, and his palm stung from that violent contact.

Taking the little girl’s hand, she pulled her out of the chair and started to the door. Merry looked back and waved to him with the hand holding the doughnut, sending sugar flakes flying.

Her mother got the door open and they were gone.

Merry’s half-finished carton of milk still sat on the table. The counter girl hurried to remove it and the napkin, wiping away the crumbs.

“Sorry ’bout that,” the girl apologized.

“Don’t be,” he said. “It wasn’t your fault.” Realizing that sounded a little short, he tried to soften it by asking, “She live around here?”

“Yeah,” the girl replied. She looked back at the door. “Real nice lady. Husband died coupla months back.”

She dropped the carton and napkin into a nearby trash bin and hurried over to the register where Billy was waiting impatiently.

Luc finished the rest of his coffee. Through the window, he saw two little kids loitering beside the Jag. Dropping the cup into the trash container, he hurried out.

“Hey, Mister! This your car?” the first kid asked as he approached.

“That’s right.” He hovered near it protectively.

The urchin squinted up at him. “Kinda old, ain’t it?”

The Jag was, indeed, old. A 1937 model, in fact. It had cost Luc a great deal of money to have it restored, plus fitting it with seat and shoulder-harnesses and installing a radio and CD player. Michel had asked him why he didn’t simply buy the latest model since he was spending enough money to do exactly that.

“It’s a classic,” he informed the child, the same answer he gave Michel, but he’d said it a lot snottier to his brother. “Cost me eighty thousand dollars on e-Bay.”

Another lie, the e-Bay part, but the kid didn’t know that.

“Whoa!” A grubby hand touched the fender, leaving a greasy smear of a palm-print. Luc wanted to take out his handkerchief and polish it away. He forced himself not to. “That’s cool.”

They moved on and Luc looked past them down the street.

The young woman and the child were almost at the corner. They were moving very slowly and he could see how, beneath the heavy sweatshirt, her slight shoulders drooped. Her head was down, wind whipping the blond hair wildly. He thought he saw her shiver as she put one hand to her face.

Is she brushing away tears? He wondered if the entire scene in the store had been an act. Was she a deadbeat trying to get something for nothing, working on the manager’s sympathy, with the kid as back-up? If so, it certainly hadn’t worked. Not this time, anyway.

She turned and looked back, and he was certain she stared straight at him. Luc turned away, bending over the car. When he straightened, they were going into a building on the corner, an old, brick apartment house.

He got into the Jag and sat there for a long time. He could still see the way she looked— angry, desperate, and at the same time very proud. Why did that image stick with him? For some odd reason, he wanted to believe every word he’d heard.

It must be hard trying to take care of a kid when there’s no money. Why wasn’t there any? What had happened? The clerk said her husband was dead. Didn’t the man arrange to provide for his family?

He wondered how his mother would’ve fared after his father died if Gran’père hadn’t been so kind. Jean-Luc Deveraux could’ve made it very unpleasant for her since legally she wasn’t entitled to a cent of Papa’s money. After all, a maîtresse and her two bâtards could’ve been an embarrassment.

An adult can always fend for himself. There are always methods of survival but what could she do? A young widow like that, with a child?

A young widow with a child…

The long-awaited light bulb flamed into brilliance, illuminating everything. As quickly, he doused the light.

Oh no…no, no…That’s about the most idiotic scheme you’ve ever thought up, Luc Deveraux. Quelle idée! You really are crazy.

Inserting the key into the ignition, he started the engine and swung the Jag away from the curb, made a U-turn and headed back to the hotel.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, he was back, parking the car in front of the apartments. He switched off the engine and sat there, staring up at the front of the building.