With a snort, she rejected that theory. International espionage was not interested in Schnitzelberg, Texas. She climbed onto the chair, located the shotgun on the top shelf of her closet, then took it to her bed. Didn't Jean-Luc say something about Louie's other names? Cadillac? No, something else. She inserted two shells.
Maybe if she relaxed a bit, she could remember. She'd always had a great memory. She'd given her ex-husband, Cody, the shock of his life when she'd recalled his every insult and threatening remark in court.
She undressed and put on her favorite green silk pajamas. She adored the feel of silk against bare skin, and the sensation always calmed her. She sat on her fuzzy chenille bedspread, snuggled against the pillows, and closed her eyes. An assassin who had taken many names. Not Cadillac, but Ravaillac. Jean-Luc had admitted to stopping Louie, and that was why the assassin wanted revenge.
What kind of fashion designer stopped an assassin from carrying out his evil plan?
James Bond music started playing in her head. No, it couldn't be. She was letting her imagination go crazy.
She turned on her computer, then dragged her chair back to the desk while it booted up. She Googled «Ravaillac» and sat there, stunned. This was even crazier than her James Bond theory.
Francois Ravaillac had been executed in 1610 after assassinating King Henri IV. Four horses had ripped him into four parts. Sheesh, did they do his death certificate in quadruplicate? One thing was for sure, the man was definitely dead. Even if Louie managed to live four hundred years, he couldn't be Ravaillac. And the French government had ordered the infamous name never be used again.
At the bottom of the web page, there was a link to another assassin named Damiens. That was another name Jean-Luc had mentioned. She clicked on the link.
Robert-Francois Damiens had tried to kill King Louis XV in 1757. He'd failed, but had still won the grand prize—death by drawing and quartering. Once again, the French had ordered the name never to be used again.
A search for Jacques Clement yielded similar results. He'd killed King Henri III in 1589. He'd been quartered and burned. As a history teacher, Heather found it all fascinating, but confusing. It just didn't make sense. Either Jean-Luc was mistaken or purposely lying or…something very strange was going on.
That brought Jean-Luc's list of flaws up to number five: ambiguity. How could she trust him if his story didn't make sense?
There was a soft knock on her door, and Heather quickly minimized her screen. "Yes?"
The door cracked, and Emma peered inside. "I just wanted you to know everything is safe. You can relax for the night. I'll be leaving shortly before dawn."
"Thank you."
"Fidelia woke up, so I told her what was going on. She insists on reading my future."
"Oh, right." Heather nodded. "She does her tarot cards for anyone who comes to the house. It's her way of protecting us."
"Along with her guns? This should be interesting." Emma glanced at Heather's computer.
"Catching up on e-mail?"
"Yes. I'll be down in just a minute."
"All right. Please keep the door open a bit, so I can check on you during the night."
"Okay." Heather waited for Emma to leave, then turned back to her computer. She Googled "Jean-Luc Echarpe" and found a few sites that sold his clothing. She ignored those and looked for personal information. She found a picture taken a year ago at his annual show in Paris. Dark curls, blue eyes, a hint of a dimple with his debonair smile. Sheesh, could the guy get any more gorgeous? Back to flaw number four: too handsome for his own good.
She found a recent article, translated from the Parisian newspaper Le Monde. Everyone was wondering why Jean-Luc Echarpe hadn't aged in thirty years. Hmm, they had to be referring to Jean-Luc's father. The Jean-Luc she had met looked only about thirty years old. Apparently the elder Jean-Luc had not been seen for several months. The media suspected he was undergoing another facelift.
Heather found another article dating back thirteen years. This one had a photo. Sheesh, he looked exactly the same as he had tonight. This wasn't making any sense. She searched for Jean-Luc's date of birth, but found no personal information at all.
Back to flaw number five: ambiguity. Some women might call an aura of mystery a plus, but Heather didn't like surprises when it came to men. Though it was intriguing…
Why would he call Louie a bunch of names that had disappeared centuries ago? And why did he look exactly the same after thirteen years? Cosmetic surgery or…A thought flashed through her mind. A totally bizarre thought, no doubt triggered by the late hour and her overactive imagination.
It had always been one of her favorite TV shows—the immortal Highlanders who lived for centuries, fighting their old enemies with swords. It would explain why Jean-Luc and his friends fought with swords. And why he talked of assassins who lived centuries ago. He even had the kilted Highlander friends. The way they had huddled across the room, whispering to one another, had definitely looked like a bunch of guys with a secret.
Could Jean-Luc be immortal?
With a snort, Heather turned off her computer. Her theories were becoming more and more ridiculous. Immortal men? She might as well believe in elves and fairies, too. Unfortunately, she'd learned the hard way that trolls existed. She'd lived with one of those for six years.
As she descended the stairs to fetch a glass of water, she noticed the television was off. She could hear Fidelia's slightly accented voice. "The reversed Hermit card could mean you are suffering from a deep loneliness."
That didn't sound like Emma. Heather stopped at the entrance of the living room. Her mouth fell open. It wasn't Emma.
Jean-Luc stood. His slender foil was propped against the wingback chair. His blue eyes glimmered as he checked out her pajamas. "I stopped by to see you. Emma let me in."
She'd been tricked. Heather gritted her teeth. She should have known Emma was in league with this guy. "Where is Emma?"
"She's upstairs, guarding Bethany." Fidelia winked at Heather. "This young man says it is his sworn duty to guard you. He's muy macho, no?"
Jean-Luc bowed. "I am at your service."
Heather bit back an angry retort. The man refused to take no for an answer. Back to flaw number one: stubborn as a mule. And the way Jean-Luc Echarpe bowed—it seemed old-fashioned.
Extremely old-fashioned.
She had to wonder just how old a mule could get.
CHAPTER 5
She was beautiful even when she was angry. Jean-Luc admired the glittering green fire in Heather's eyes. And the way that silk top clung to her breasts wasn't bad, either. She glared at him as she planted her hands on her hips. The movement caused her breasts to jiggle ever so slightly.
No bra. He'd always had a good eye for detail.
"Jean-Luc," she muttered. "I wasn't expecting you."
"Please call me Jean." It would be so easy to slip his hands underneath her top and fill his palms with the sweet, soft heaviness of her breasts. He lifted his gaze to her face and noticed her reddening cheeks. He caught the scent of her blood as it rushed to her face, engorging the delicate veins beneath her skin. Type AB.
Hunger coiled in his belly and sent flickers of desire throughout his body. Luckily he had some bottles of synthetic blood stashed in a cooler outside in his car. That would take care of his physical need, but he was slowly becoming aware of a different hunger, a hunger brought on by years of abstinence. He missed making love, but it went deeper than that. He missed the satisfaction, the peaceful contentment of feeling emotionally connected to a loving woman.