Devious - Lisa Jackson [101]
Oh, Cammie, she thought. Was this a message, or just the idle musings of someone who was dreaming of phoning her lover; or had the lover called her? Who knew?
And finally, there was a note that only said Reverend Mother, with half a dozen little arrows pointing at the word, like angry arrows, as if Camille truly hated Sister Charity.
Without any concrete answers to the cryptic notes that really could be no more than idle doodles, Val flipped another couple of pages. “Uh-oh. Even you made mention in the hit parade.” She twirled the stem of her glass of Pinot between her fingers, and her smile slowly disappeared. “Looks like I owe you an apology.”
In the diary, Camille had admitted to trying and failing to seduce a “particularly stubborn rancher who took his vow of marriage as seriously as he did his long Texas heritage.”
“Unless there’s another cowboy out there.”
She leveled her gaze at him. “Like who? Trask? Zane? Last time I checked, they were both single. She definitely mentioned the marriage vows.” She took another sip, and he was caught again by her beauty, made more so by the simple fact that she didn’t realize how breathtaking she was. Never as flashy, flamboyant, or outwardly sexy as her younger sister, Valerie Renard had been and still was blessed with a more subdued and classic beauty and a sensual intelligence he’d always found fascinating.
“What if she’d lied in this diary?” he asked, leaning back in his kitchen chair, hearing the wood squeak as he reached for his beer. “What if she’d said that I’d gone after her, that she’d just not been able to say no to me? Would you have believed it? Or condemned me?”
Val didn’t answer.
“She’s still running the show, Valerie,” he said, the quiet fury that had been pushed aside rising again.
“What are you saying?”
“That you should have trusted me. Known that I was telling the truth, but you didn’t. You believed her, and now you’re believing her again. Her handwriting says it was a lie, and you believe her.”
“I’d think you would be happy that I understand. Thrilled, even.”
He held her gaze. Recognized the fire in her hazel eyes. Felt himself weakening, a crack slowly splintering his determination to work this thing out between them on his terms, not terms dictated by a dead woman.
“These pages,” he said, pointing to a particularly vivid sexual scene, “could be pure fantasy.”
“You’re saying she’s lying in the diary.”
“I’m saying she could be. That’s all. Don’t take anything at face value.”
“Including your innocence.”
“Yeah.” His chin clenched so hard it ached. “You need to trust me, Val. Just because I’m me. Because I’ve proved myself. I never lied to you. Never.”
Valerie’s throat worked. Her gaze wavered, then slid away, and it was all he could do not to cross the few feet of battered hardwood floors to take her into his arms.
“Okay . . . so you’re right. This diary could just be her imagination. Pure fantasy.” Val’s eyebrows drew together, and she bit at the corner of her lip. “But I don’t think so.” She was shaking her head as she thought aloud. “First of all, she talks about all her lovers. The first one?” She set down her wineglass in disgust. “In high school? Who do you think that is?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Don’t know.”
“Athletic. From a large Hispanic family.”
“Could have been anyone.”
“Reuben Montoya,” she said, and when she recognized doubt in Slade’s eyes, she pushed. “I know it.”
“You said they’d dated.”
“They damned well did more than that!” She tapped a finger on the copied pages. “According to this, he was her first, still in high school. Then a string of boyfriends, a one-night stand or two, all without names; then you’re so conveniently mentioned and finally a priest. And we know who he is.”
“Frank O’Toole.”
“Bastard,” she said, scooting out her chair and walking to the kitchen where she poured the rest of her wine down the sink in a quick, angry motion. Bo, ever the traitor, tail wagging slowly, followed. “Montoya shouldn’t be on the case. It’s too personal. And Frank O’Toole should be behind bars.”
“You’re sure