Page 60 of New Orleans Rush

Her eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yes, really. What did he threaten?”

Instead of replying, she shrunk smaller, like his anger was compressing her. He couldn’t control the rage rushing through him, the barking timbre of his voice. All he could picture was Beatrice hurt. “I don’t mean to get mad,” he said more evenly, “but this is important. What did the man threaten?”

She tucked her knees to her chest. “He said he’d remove one of my fingers for every day my payment was late. That was a month ago.”

“A month? Why didn’t you say anything? Did you even call the cops?” So much for controlling his temper.

“Calling the cops would get my father in trouble. I know he deserves it, but it goes back to that whole love-hate thing. I can’t be the one to do that to him. And I did tell you about the threat.”

“I think I’d remember learning your life was in danger.”

“At our first lunch—at the breakfast café. You asked about my lack of mug shot and if any dodgy sorts would follow me to New Orleans. I told you there was a man who wanted to sever my fingers. There’s been other stuff since, but this is my problem—my father’s problem—and I didn’t want to involve you.”

Now he wanted to punch the wall. She had told him. He’d shrugged it off, assuming she’d been playing around, acting like her fun, silly self. Was there no end to the ways he’d failed her? “I thought you were joking at lunch, and what other stuff has happened?”

“Nothing but empty threats, and it doesn’t matter. I don’t think he’s a high-tech loan shark. If he could track my phone, he’d have shown up here by now. And I’ve been sleeping with scissors in my bed.”

He wanted her sleeping in his bed. Tucked into his side, safe and protected. He also wasn’t so sure her location was secret. He scrolled through the messages again. “You texted your father a picture of crocodile heads.”

She scrunched her face. “The Caught in the Wild one? From the market?”

He checked the phone. “I think so. The photo’s not here, but one of his messages thanked you for sending it. He said you should pose with the crocodile heads next time.”

“But I sent that to my mom.”

He double-checked the text. “You must have sent it to your father accidentally. If he tells someone, or someone has his old phone and puts two and two together, they’ll realize it was taken in New Orleans.” Someone could be here now, stalking her. Planning to do her harm. He could barely think over the loud pound of his heart. “I need specifics. Debt details. Anything else you know.”

He wasn’t sure how he’d broken off their kiss earlier, how he’d kept from pinning her to his couch and exploring her every dip and curve. It could have been Edna’s warning not to get attached to his assistant, or his need to retain Beatrice’s trust. She fit into his family with ease and slotted into his life seamlessly. Her body had molded to his just now like an extension of his own. If something happened to Beatrice Baker, it would unhinge him.

She told him the little she knew, each bit of information twisting his insides. “I’ll discuss it all with Fox and Axel,” he said. “We’ll figure things out together. But I don’t want you walking around alone at night anymore. No handing out pamphlets to drunk women.”

She worried her lip. “Do you really think that’s necessary? It’s been a month, and nothing’s happened.”

“This is serious, Beatrice. Men like this don’t mess around.” He didn’t tell her Big Eddie was likely working for someone even scarier. The last thing he wanted was to worry her more.

She finally nodded. “I guess that makes sense. What else do the texts say?”

He scanned them again but was too agitated to think clearly. He slowed his thumb and started over. “Some are more of the same you wanted to avoid, but two of them warn you a man named Big Eddie is looking for you. That he’s tossing around threats.”

She stared blankly a moment. “Has he hurt my dad?”

Franklyn Baker’s texts ranged from moaning about unpaid bills and how much he missed his “Pumpkin” to claiming he’d be sleeping on the streets without a loan. He wrote that Beatrice was the only good thing in his life. The man wielded his parental guilt expertly. “He doesn’t mention being hurt, and I’d guess he’s capable of looking out for himself. The messages are yours to read, if you want.”

She studied her knees a moment. “I think I’ll head to bed.” She stood and looked up at Huxley. Her brow was puckered, hinting at worry, but the edges of her lips tugged upward. “Thanks for a great night.”

In the face of a degenerate’s threats, she still focused on the positive part of the evening, ignoring the bad, seeing the silver lining. He didn’t buy it. “If you’re having a rough night, my door will be open. Use it.”

She curled her bare toes and glanced at their bedroom doors. She swallowed visibly. “I appreciate your concern, but I’ll be fine.”

That made one of them.

21

Saturdays at the market were crazy. Bea and Della alternated who stole bathroom breaks, barely finding time to eat. Della bedazzled customers with her cute jean shorts and stunning jewelry, while Bea packed purchases and made change. Customers even smiled and pointed at Bea’s paintings.

It was the third day her art had been showcased on their dividing wall. The first day, after Huxley had helped hang the pieces over red batik fabric, he’d whispered, “You have the nicest apples I’ve ever seen.”