What She Doesn't Know by Beverly Barton

either attempt on her life. Either the truth was buried forever within her subconscious or she truly didn’t remember anything. If coming home could help her once and for all to free herself from guilt and stop blaming herself for what she didn’t know, then this trip back to hell would be worth the price she would pay for the round-trip fare.
    The man turned and walked out of the water, then sat on the damp ground. His wet black hair glimmered in the sunlight. Tilting back his head, he stared up at the crystal-clear azure sky and stretched his long lean body, reminding her of a big jungle cat spreading himself out in the sun. Jolie’s breath caught in her throat. She recognized the man. He was no longer the beautiful, lanky eighteen-year-old he had remained in her memories; he was now larger, more muscular and the beauty of youth had matured into the rugged yet devastatingly handsome features of a man only two years shy of his fortieth birthday.
    Maximillian Devereaux .
    And God help her, the sight of him still created an untamed fluttering in her belly, a purely physical reaction unlike anything she’d ever felt with any other man. It was as if she were fourteen all over again and her teenage hormones had gone into overdrive.
    Suddenly Max let out a loud howling groan that jarred Jolie’s nerves. She watched in morbid fascination as he wept, his big body trembling with the force of his grief. And it was grief, she realized, that tortured Max so terribly. He was mourning her father. Odd how she envied him his ability to mourn, when there were no tears left inside her for Louis Royale.
    Obviously Max had sought solitude by the pond, knowing he would be alone, knowing he could vent his frustration, his anger, and his pain without anyone seeing him. She felt an odd pang of sympathy. He seemed so alone, so totally, sadly alone.
    She couldn’t let him catch her spying on him. He wouldn’t take kindly to her having witnessed him in a weak moment. Her smartest move would be to get the hell off Belle Rose property immediately. She’d have to face Max and the others soon enough. And when she came face-to-face with the new master of Belle Rose, she would meet him not as a member of the family but as an enemy. Max could never be anything else to her. In the battle to come, he would align himself with his mother and sister. If as she suspected, her father had deeded Belle Rose either to Georgette or Mallory, Jolie intended to protest. She’d hire a good lawyer, an expert in the field of breaking wills, and tie them up in court forever, if that’s what it took to keep her mother’s ancestral home out of the hands of that whore.
    Jolie took one last look at Max and hated her body’s unbidden reaction. With an iron will she had cultivated to protect herself from hurt, she turned and walked away, careful to move quickly and quietly. When meeting Max again, she would have to make certain that he never became aware of her physical attraction to him—now or in the past. He might try to use it against her, thinking she was the type of woman weak enough to allow a man to dominate her.
    And she should never forget that there was always the possibility, however remote, that Max was the Belle Rose killer.

    The First Methodist Church in Sumarville was filled to capacity, with the overflow spilling into the vestibule and outside, down the steps, and onto the sidewalk. Afternoon sunshine hit the stained glass windows like huge spotlights, flooding the interior with rainbows, and the melancholy moan of the church’s organ resonated over the clatter of the packed house. The sweet overpowering scent of flowers permeated the warm air. Floral arrangements surrounded Louis’s coffin, filled the pulpit behind the altar, and lined the sanctuary’s walls from altar to vestibule. Max felt safe to surmise that there had never been a funeral in Desmond County to rival the one being held here today. Some of the most important people in the South