He hadn’t asked her for her address, she thought suddenly.
Not that it mattered. She had no doubt James Forrester would find her with no difficulty at all.
CHAPTER THREE
Gabrielle held a pale pink dress against herself and looked into the mirror. The colour was good, it was the perfect foil for her glossy black hair and light olive skin. But perhaps it was too dressy, with its low neckline and pearl-studded belt.
She tossed the dress on the bed and snatched another from the open wardrobe. Too drab, she thought, eyeing her reflection critically. This one was a grey twill, bought when she’d finished business college. The perfect interview dress, her father had called it with a teasing smile when she’d modeled it for him.
‘It’s important to set the right image,’ Gabrielle had said, repeating with earnest conviction the words Miss Mullins had spoken to the school’s graduates.
‘You do not need to worry about image, Gabriella,’ her father had said with a smile. ‘I told you, Uncle Tony will give you a job right in his office. He wants you to go see him tomorrow.’
Gabrielle had turned away from her father’s smile. ‘No,’ she’d said sharply, and then she’d swallowed hard. ‘I mean, tell him I said thank you very much, but I’d rather find a job for myself.’
Her father had sighed. ‘I don’t understand you lately, Gabriella. You would not go out on his boat when he invited us last week, you turned him down when he was nice enough to offer to take you to the theatre…’
‘I was busy, Papa. I told you that.’
Her father had put his arm around her shoulder. ‘I know you’re all grown up now, but you will always be a little girl to your Uncle Tony and me.’
‘He’s not my uncle,’ Gabrielle had said, and her father’s face had registered surprise.
‘He might as well be. He loves you as if you were his own flesh and blood. Why, he’s all the family you have, except for me.’
It was true. Gabrielle’s mother had died soon after she was born, and there were no other blood relatives. Her earliest memories were of the man she called Uncle Tony. He was always there: she and her father lived in a little house behind his, and she’d grown up as much in his home as in her own.
When she was little, she’d loved to climb on Uncle Tony’s knee, laughing as he pretended to pull coins and sweets from her ears and pockets. It was Uncle Tony who had bought her expensive Christmas and birthday gifts, who had paid for her private schooling and the clothes that went with such exclusivity.
‘My favourite little niece,’ he’d say, and open his heavy arms to her.
It was hard to remember when she had first begun to suspect that Uncle Tony thought of her as something other than his niece, but, during her late teens, his kisses sometimes slipped from her cheek to her mouth, his hands seemed to linger on her a little too long when he greeted her.
She’d told herself it was her imagination. Anything else was insane even to contemplate. Once she’d tried discussing it with her father. But he’d misunderstood her completely. He’d laughed and assured her that she’d never be too old to be hugged and kissed by people who loved her.
People like Uncle Tony.
She tried to tell herself her father was right, that Tony Vitale was just a big man with an equally large exuberance for life. Still, she avoided being alone with him. But she took the job in his office because it pleased her father, and because otherwise there was no way to avoid saying things he didn’t want to hear. There was no difficulty: she began in the stenography pool and saw little of Vitale and the other union bosses.
Away from the office, Gabrielle made sure they were never done. After a while, she began to think that either she’d been wrong about Vitale’s interest in her or it had been a passing thing. He went back to treating her with familial cordiality, although there were still moments when she felt his eyes on her.
The charges against Vitale had stunned her. All his employees, not only her father, treated him with respect. And, as leader of a powerful union, he was friend to both politicians and public figures. The walls of his office were hung with photos of himself in the company of mayors, judges, and religious leaders. Never mind what the papers always hinted; surely a man who was a crook wouldn’t enjoy such powerful friendships?
His ‘friends’ fled his side when the charges were brought. Gabrielle had a thousand questions to ask, but of whom? Her father, already showing signs of the illness that would kill him, muttered only that the federal prosecutor was creating a case against Vitale so he could make a name for himself, and then he was too sick to say anything more and she was too worried about him to care. Anyway, Vitale couldn’t be a criminal. If he were, what did that make of her father? She’d even said as much to the chief prosecutor, but he’d only laughed.
‘Just give your testimony when the time comes, Miss Chiari, and your father won’t have to be involved in this at all.’
Her ‘testimony’ struck her as meaningless. All she’d done was overhear Tony Vitale make a phone call to someone named Frank.
‘Riley refuses to come around, Frank,’ Vitale had whispered into the receiver. ‘I want him taken care of tonight.’ His broad face had blanched when he’d
looked up and seen her in the doorway. ‘What are you doing? How long have you been spying on me?’ Gabrielle had stared at him in amazement. It was the first time he’d ever spoken harshly to her.
‘I’m not spying on you! I’m looking for my father.’ Vitale’s dark eyes had burned into hers, and then he’d let out his breath and smiled. ‘Sure. He’s out back, getting the car ready.’ His smile had twisted just a little. ‘Come give Uncle Tony a big kiss, Gabriella.’
She’d stammered something about being in a hurry and fled his office. Only weeks later, her life had changed forever. The charges against Vitale had made headlines everywhere, her father had fallen ill, and the tabloids, always eager for dirt, had discovered her, the coolly beautiful young woman living in the little house behind Tony Vitale’s. And nothing had ever been the same again.
The musical peal of the clock on the bedside table brought Gabrielle back to the present. Her eyes flew to it. Eight o’clock! It was so late. How was that possible?
She stared at the dresses tossed across the bed. It looked as if she’d tried on everything she owned, as if it really mattered how she looked tonight when she and James Forrester went out to dinner.
This wasn’t a date. It was a way of saying ‘thank you’ for what he’d done and ‘I’m sorry’ for her own foolishness.
Besides, he’d tricked her into this. She’d never intended to go to lunch with him, much less dinner.
Gabrielle looked at the bed again. And yet, she’d spent the afternoon thinking about the evening ahead; she’d been so caught up in her own musings that she’d even managed to be polite to Mrs Delacroix when she’d telephoned for the fifth time.
The doorbell rang and Gabrielle tossed her head impatiently.
‘Such nonsense,’ she whispered to her reflection. ‘Just pick a dress and put it on. An hour of polite conversation in a brightly lit restaurant and it will all be over.’ She reached for the closest dress to hand and slipped it over her head. The doorbell chimed for a second time as she slipped on her high heels. She staggered out of the bedroom, one foot half out of its shoe. ‘I’m coming,’ she called, and she clattered down the stairs.
She reached the door just as a heavy fist pounded against it. ‘For goodness’ sake,’ she said, flinging the door open, ‘don’t be so…’
The words died in her throat. James Forrester stood on the narrow porch, bathed in the faint pool of light from the lamp that lit the courtyard. His face was a stone mask.
Gabrielle swallowed. ‘I—I’m sorry I kept you waiting. I didn’t realise it was so…’
His hands closed on her arms and he half lifted her from her feet as he pushed her back into the house. ‘What the hell took you so long?’
His voice was grim and angry.
Gabrielle’s pulse raced as she felt the bite of his fingers into her flesh.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ she said. ‘You’re hurting me.’
He glared at her through eyes as hard as ice. ‘And what kind of way is that to open the door? Don’t you even ask who it is?’ Her shoulders hit the wall as he pressed her into the hall. ‘This is New Orleans, not some little town painted by Norman Rockwell.’
She looked at him in bewilderment. ‘But I knew it was
you. It’s eight o’clock. And you said ’
‘It damned well could have been anybody.’ He nodded towards the still-open door as if it were an enemy. ‘Why didn’t you look through the grille?’
‘I suppose I should have. I ’
‘Start doing it.’
Gabrielle stared at him. Her heart was still galloping, but anger was replacing fear. Who did James Forrester think he was, anyway?
‘I appreciate your concern,’ she said coolly. ‘But this is my house, not yours. And I do not take orders from you.’
Their eyes met and held. She thought she saw something in the depths of his that chilled her, but it was gone so quickly that later she was sure she’d imagined it.
Drawing in his breath, James lifted his hands from her with exaggerated care. ‘Sorry.’ He smiled tightly. ‘I guess that was a hell of a way to say hello.’
Gabrielle crossed her arms over her chest and rubbed her shoulders. The skin beneath her hands was tender, and she wondered if James’s hard grip had left her bruised.
‘Yes,’ she said warily, ‘it certainly was.’ She dropped her hands to her hips and tilted her head as she stared at him. ‘Do you always come through the door like that?’
His smile grew sheepish. ‘Not always.’
‘Good. Otherwise, your dates would be few and far between.’
The pale blue eyes darkened. ‘Is that what this is? A date?’
She felt a wash of colour rise to her cheeks. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘I was afraid you’d only agreed to see me this evening because you felt you owed me something—or because I didn’t give you much choice.’
Her eyes met his. ‘Well, that’s true, isn’t it? You ’
Laughter glinted in his eyes. ‘Still, you have to admit my technique’s unusual. First I badgered you into having dinner with me and then I made an entrance guaranteed to catch your attention. I mean, you probably expected me to say “You look lovely,” or something equally banal when you opened the door.’
She thought of how he’d come forcefully through the door and a faint smile twitched on her lips. He was right, of course. She’d half expected him to show up with the six dozen roses he’d ordered clutched in his arms.
‘Something like that,’ she admitted
‘Well, you were wrong. Even if I hadn’t launched into the big city cynic’s lecture on household safety, you’d have been disappointed.’ His smile was for her alone. ‘I could never simply say “you look lovely” to you.’
Gabrielle felt a soft warmth suffuse her skin. She knew what he was doing: he was flirting with her as he had that afternoon. She wanted to say something clever in return, but her tongue seemed stuck to the roof of her mouth.
He drew closer. ‘Don’t you want to hear what I’d have said instead?’
She hadn’t bargained for this. He was supposed to take her to dinner, that was all, and then they could shake hands and she’d wish him a happy vacation and…
He smiled into her eyes. ‘I’d have said I was going to have dinner with the most beautiful woman in New Orleans.’
She felt her heartbeat quicken. Say something, you fool, she thought, and finally she did.
‘You’re right,’ she said, striving for a lightness she didn’t feel, ‘that’s certainly not in the same category as the standard “you look lovely” opening.’
His teeth flashed in a smile. ‘We aim to please,’ he said. ‘I like that dress you’re wearing.’
Which dress was that? she thought in surprise, glancing down at herself. In the end, she had dressed so quickly that she had no idea what she was wearing.
It was the pink dress, after all. She smiled as she looked up and met James’s eyes.
‘Thank you. I wasn’t sure where we were going.’
‘I thought we’d dine chez Gabrielle.’ He turned away and stepped out the door. When he turned toward her again, he held an overflowing shopping bag in his arms. ‘My mother taught me to always bring a lady flowers or chocolates,’ he said, elbowing the door shut behind him. ‘Well, I tried the flowers, but I think I went overboard.’. Which way’s the kitchen?’ Gabrielle pointed, then hurried after him. ‘And I knew better than to bring chocolates to a woman who jogs.” He set the bag on the counter. ‘So I gave up trying and brought dinner instead.’
“Dinner,’ she said, watching as he began unloading groceries from the bag. ‘But I thought…’
‘You thought we were going out. Well, I thought so, too. And then I said to myself, come on, Forrester, don’t be so pedestrian. Making a reservation at a restaurant is no way to impress a woman.’ He slapped a thick package of steaks down beside a head of red-leafed lettuce. ‘Cooking her a meal is.’
He began taking things from the bag. Wine. Idaho potatoes. Two porterhouse steaks. A container of sour cream. Chives.
‘Incredible,’ she said, and then she laughed. ‘It’s almost as if you know all about me.’
There was a silence, and then James laughed, too.
‘Yes,’ he said finally, ‘it is, isn’t it?’
She shook her head as she stared at the small mountain of groceries. ‘There’s enough there to feed an army.’
James looked at her. ‘You don’t mind, then?’
Gabrielle hesitated. She should mind, she thought. This man she barely knew had tricked her into this dinner engagement; she’d only moments before been assuring herself it would be a quick, impersonal evening, and now here they were, about to have a cozy dinner for two in her own home.
But his smile was engaging. And the feast spread before her was enough to make her mouth water. In this city with its worldwide reputation for world-famous chefs and exotic food, she’d been existing on frozen dinners supplemented by the occasional hamburger.
Somehow, the thought of cooking a whole meal just for herself only made her remember all the more clearly how much she missed her father and the quiet life they’d shared together.
And the one time she’d gone out to dinner alone, she’d grudgingly decided that women who felt comfortable dining alone were far braver and more liberated than she,
There was nothing to do but shake her head and give the devil his due.
‘No, I don’t mind. But if you wanted a home-cooked meal, you should have said so. I’d have been happy to oblige.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought women like you would even know how to cook.’
The sudden harshness in his voice startled her. She frowned as she looked at him. ‘Women like me? What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘From what I know of you, I wouldn’t think you’d have spent much time in the kitchen.’
Gabrielle shook her head. ‘Because I run a business, you mean?’
James drew in his breath. ‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘Because of that. I hope you have a corkscrew—it’s the one thing I forgot to buy.’
‘There’s one here somewhere,’ she said, opening a
drawer and poking through it. ‘Ah, here it is.’ She handed it over and then took two wine goblets from the cabinet. ‘I’ve been looking for an excuse to use these.’
James extracted the cork and tossed it aside. ‘Let the wine breathe a while,’ he said. ‘Hand me that skillet, will you?’
Gabrielle did as he’d asked. She watched as he unwrapped the steaks and seasoned them. ‘Are you a good cook?’ she said after a few minutes.
He looked up at her and smiled. ‘The best. Are you a good assistant?’ ^
She nodded. ‘I know my wa
y around a kitchen.’ A shadow flitted across her face. ‘Of course, I’m out of practice. I—I don’t like cooking for myself. And there’s no one to make meals for now…’
‘What a pity.’ His voice was suddenly callous and she looked up, surprised, but his back was to her. ‘What happened?’
Gabrielle pushed aside the spectre of her father’s ghost. Tonight was not a night for remembering the bad times, she thought, it was a night for happier things.
‘My life changed,’ she said with a little shrug.
‘I’ll bet.’ James turned towards her. He was smiling, but there was an unexpected coolness in his eyes. ‘It must by very different for you now. Working all day…’
Gabrielle turned on the water and began rinsing lettuce leaves. ‘I worked then, too,’ she said. ‘I’ve always worked, ever since I finished school.’ She glanced at him and smiled. ‘Guess what I did?’
His eyes met hers. ‘I’d rather not,’ he said flatly. ‘Suppose you tell me, Gabrielle.’
There was that harsh tone again. Did he think she’d led a pampered life or something?
‘I was a PA,’ she said.
‘A Personal Assistant..’
‘
‘Yes. Is there something wrong with that?’
James shrugged. ‘Nothing, if that’s what you wanted.’ He stabbed a knife into a tomato and slashed through the red flesh. ‘So,’ he said finally, ‘you worked for this guy by day and cooked for him by night. Sounds like a pretty good deal.’
She looked up sharply. ‘I never said that. Where’d you get that idea?’
He looked at her, his face unreadable. ‘I just put two and two together,’ he said. ‘You told me you used to cook for someone and I thought…’
Gabrielle slid from the stool and walked across the kitchen. ‘Well, you thought wrong. The man I cooked for was my father.’
Night Fires Page 4