Juice’s number. No answer.
Rafe. Draco. No answer.
He barked an excuse to the men waiting for him and took off at a dead run. Why was it that his future wife always had him running? Even worse, why was it always in terror that something horrible had happened to her?
Gianna knocked on the front door of the Mereaux residence. It opened a moment later and a woman of mixed race, slightly younger than herself, greeted her. She eyed Gianna nervously.
“How long are we supposed to stand here?” she asked, a strong hint of Louisiana Cajun clear in her voice. “I’m sort of new at all this.”
Gianna smiled. “Me, too. I think we just need to talk for a minute or two. I’m Gianna, by the way.”
“Mia.” They shook hands.
“I’m surprised Juice allowed you to do this, Mia. He tends to be very protective about innocents, as he calls us. He was forced to enlist my help or David wouldn’t have taken the bait. But you…”
Mia grimaced. “No choice. They had some other woman all set to pretend to be me, but Mr. d’Angelo got the jump on ‘em. Nearly caught Mr. Juice standing right over yonder in my front parlor.”
“David was here already?” Gianna asked, shocked.
“Surely was.” Mia stepped back as planned and allowed Gianna to enter. “Fortunately Mr. Juice had time to hide in the kitchen. And my neighbor was here to take my daughter, Bebelle, for the day. She had her children with her—all five. That d’Angelo man couldn’t do much with all them witnesses, now could he? So, he made up some fine excuse about a wrong address and left. Since he’d seen me, I insisted on staying put until they could arrest him.”
Gianna closed the door behind her. “I’m so sorry, Mia. We all thought David would follow me. He must have gotten the address from the concierge, instead, and come straight over. So much for careful planning.”
“That’s what Mr. Juice said.” A hint of warmth touched her cheekbones. “He wanted to pull the plug, but I wouldn’t let him. Can’t risk that man coming back thinking the doll is still here, now can I? That wouldn’t be safe for my Bebelle.”
“Well, this won’t take long. We’ll just let David take the doll and our part will be over.” Gianna threw an arm around Mia’s shoulders and gave her a swift hug. “Are you nervous?”
“A little,” Mia admitted. “My main concern is Bebelle. Mr. Juice has assured me any number of times that she’s safe with my neighbor.”
Gianna grinned, sensing Mia felt more than a passing interest in Mr. Juice. “Well, if Juice said it, you can believe it.”
“Would you like something to drink?”
“No, thanks.” She wandered over to the couch where the Nancy doll perched and glanced over her shoulder at Mia. “May I?”
“Oh, sure. Help yourself.”
“How did you end up with her, anyway?”
Mia shrugged. “It was shortly after my husband died. Bebelle just cried and cried she missed her daddy so bad. One day this strange child came up to her and just put that Nancy doll right in my little girl’s arms. Said Bebelle needed it more than she did. Said it was a magical doll and would bring her happiness. And once it did, she should give it away to someone else in need.” Mia turned her great, dark eyes on Gianna. “You think she’s right? You think it’ll bring my Bebelle happiness?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I think it will.”
Gianna picked up the doll just as a heavy knock sounded on the front door. She stiffened, knowing full well who they’d find there.
Constantine tried Gianna’s cell phone for the umpteenth time since flagging down the taxi. The cabbie drove as fast as he dared, the sizable tip thrown his way aiding in breaking a few speeding laws. That didn’t change the fact that when he got his hands on his future wife—not to mention his future brothers-in-law—there would be hell to pay. He tried Luc’s number again. Juice. Nothing from any of them.
He allowed fury to triumph over panic. It was the only way he could keep from going insane. Hadn’t they discussed her impulsiveness at the lake? Hadn’t he explained in no uncertain terms that it wasn’t a quality he appreciated? Now he understood where it came from. It must be a genetic anomaly that ran down the entire Dante line. Though how that explained Juice, he couldn’t say. Maybe it rubbed off with prolonged association.
“This is the street,” the cabdriver said, pointing. “But the cops have it blocked. Are we too late, do you think?”
Constantine must have replied in Italian because the driver frowned in confusion. He fought to find the appropriate words in English, couldn’t come up with them. Instead he peeled off a number of notes and tossed them in the driver’s direction. He was out of the car in a flash.