‘Your father?’
‘Yes. But I don’t any more. Not since he.. .since he…’ Her voice broke. To her stunned surprise, she felt the sudden bum of tears in her eyes. And that was impossible; she hadn’t cried, not even at the funeral. She had been too filled with bitterness.
‘Gabrielle.’
She heard James’s footsteps behind her. ‘I’m all right,’ she said stiffly.
Tears began to stream down her cheeks. James cursed softly and gathered her into his arms, turning her unyielding body until she faced him.
‘Gabrielle,’ he whispered, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ she said. ‘It’s… it’s…’
His hand slid beneath her hair and cupped the nape of her neck. She stood rigid within his embrace, her spine like a steel rod, while his hand moved gently against her skin. It had been months since anyone had offered even the simplest show of warmth and kindness to her; the touch of his hand seemed almost a miracle.
She put her hand to her mouth, muffling the first sob, but they came too quickly after that, until finally she gave up fighting and let James draw her into the sheltering curve of his arms.
‘I miss him,’ she said brokenly. ‘He was—he was never sick a day in his life, he was always so strong and healthy, and then one day he just didn’t feel well and—and…’
‘It’s all right,’ James murmured. ‘It’s all right, Gabrielle.’
She closed her eyes, pressing her face against his soft wool jacket. ‘Sometimes, I still don’t believe he’s gone. I just—I just…’ Her tears, so long repressed, seemed unstoppable. ‘He was all I had.’
His arms tightened around her. ‘Was he?’
Later, it would seem a strange question. Now, it made perfect sense. Gabrielle nodded and sniffed damply.
‘And they said such terrible things about him, James. None of it was true. None of it. I…’
She fell silent. What was the matter with her? She was talking too much, saying things she couldn’t afford to say, not if she was to maintain her new identity. This morning, she’d been filled with doubts about James Forrester. Now she was babbling to him, on the verge of spilling secrets that had to remain locked within her forever if she was to have any peace.
She was Gabrielle Shelton, not Gabrielle Chiari. She could never be Gabrielle Chiari again.
She wiped her hand across her nose and stepped back in James’s arms. Her tears had left dark spots on his jacket.
‘I seem to make a specialty out of ruining your clothing,’ she said, forcing a smile to her lips. ‘Let me get a tissue before I do any more damage.’
He kept one arm around her while he reached in his pocket and drew out a handkerchief. ‘Here you go,’ he
said, holding it out to her. ‘Use this.’
‘I couldn’t.’ She laughed through the tears that still trickled down her face. ‘My mascara’s running. I’ll ruin your handkerchief.’
James smiled at her. ‘What’s a handkerchief, compared to two wool jackets and a pair of trousers? Go on, I’ll risk it.’
She laughed again, wiped the tears from her eyes, then blew her nose loudly. ‘Thank you.’
He nodded solemnly. ‘You’re welcome. I think you needed that cry.’
Gabrielle sighed. ‘I think you’re right.’ She dabbed at her eyes again. ‘You know what else I need?’
Their eyes met. ‘Yes,’ he said softly, and, before she could move, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.
The kiss was gentle, but the feel of his mouth against hers was electric. James made a sound deep in his throat, and gathered her to him, his lips parting hers so he could taste her. For a second, she swayed against him, and then she put her hands against his chest and drew away.
‘That’s not quite what I had in mind,’ she said. She’d been trying for a light tone, but her voice sounded hoarse and uncertain.
‘Gabrielle…’
‘If you don’t feed me soon, I swear I’m going to swoon.’
A smile touched his lips, but she could feel the racing beat of his heart beneath her palms.
‘Is that what happens when you live in the south? Do you learn to swoon?’
She laughed softly. ‘Alma says that went out with Scarlett O’Hara. If I faint, you’ll have nothing but low blood-sugar to blame.’
He touched the tip of her nose with his finger. ‘Can I trust you to make the salad?’
Gabrielle nodded. ‘Of course. Can I trust you to grill the steaks?’
James laughed. ‘You’ll eat those words, young lady.’
She smiled. ‘I’d rather eat the steaks.’
James was a quick and efficient cook. He worked with his jacket off and his shirt-sleeves rolled up, and there was something very masculine in the way he moved around her small kitchen. They dined before the fireplace by candle-light, talking about a lot of things, none of them terribly important.
What was important, Gabrielle thought, as she watched him from beneath her lashes, was that she was happy. It was a feeling she’d almost forgotten.
And when the evening ended, when he took her in his arms and whispered goodnight, she trembled, eyes closed, awaiting his kiss. His mouth moved against hers as lightly as the touch of spring rain against a petal, and then he drew back and looked at her.
‘Gabrielle,’ he whispered.
Her lashes lifted and her eyes met his. He was watching her with an intensity that made her breath catch.
‘Gabrielle,’ he said again, and the single word seemed to hold a complexity of meaning.
‘What is it, James? Is something wrong?’
His eyes grew dark, his hands spread along her shoulders, and suddenly he drew her to him and kissed her with a passion that sent heat spiraling through her blood.
Time slowed, then stopped. She stood motionless while James’s mouth moved on hers, and then she whimpered and rose on tiptoe, her body straining to press against his. Her arms lifted and wound tightly around his neck.
With a soft groan, he caught her wrists, drew her hands to her sides and then thrust her from him.
‘Lock the door after me,’ he said in a rough voice, and before she could answer he was gone.
Gabrielle awoke abruptly in the middle of the night, her heart pounding, her skin clammy with sweat. She had been dreaming of James—already, the dream images were fragmented and illusory. One thing, however, was all too clear.
She had lived carefully, almost reclusively, for months, and now, in little more than a day, a stranger had entered her life, a man who seemed to know all kinds of little things about her, whose embrace breached all her defenses.
Alma would say it was wonderful, a sure sign of romance in an otherwise humdrum world.
But was it?
CHAPTER FOUR
‘Why would anybody in his right mind give house-room to one of these things?’
Alma made a face as she plucked a tiny cactus spine from the tip of her finger. ‘I declare, these thorny devils bite the hand that feeds them!’
Gabrielle, seated opposite her assistant at the small work-table in the rear room of the La Vie en Rose, looked up and smiled.
‘You have to learn to appreciate succulents,’ she said.
‘After all, they have a lot going for them.’
Alma’s eyebrows rose. ‘Besides their propensity for blood-lettin’ you mean?’
Gabrielle laughed. ‘Give credit where credit’s due, Alma. Cacti are tough, they don’t need much care or looking after…’
‘Everythin’ needs some care, Gaby.’ The other woman’s eyes narrowed in speculation. ‘And even the thorniest exterior can mask a tender heart.’
The two women looked at each other for a silent moment, and then Gabrielle’s cheeks turned pink and she pulled a box of ribbons and bows towards her.
‘Red or white?’ she asked. Alma said nothing, and Gabrielle looked up. ‘What do you think—shall I use red or white ribbon for these carnation corsages?’
‘Red,’ Alma said, ‘and don’t try to change the subject.’
Gabrielle bent forward again. Her hair, held back at the temples with tortoiseshell combs, swung forward and hid her face behind a glossy black curtain.
‘Did you want to talk about cacti?’ she said in tones of absolute innocence. ‘I didn’t realise that. Actually, I
don’t know much about them, except that they’re hardy
and self-sufficient ’
‘Darn it!’ Alma tossed down the miniature trowel she was holding and stuffed her finger into her mouth. ‘There’s also not a thing about them anyone can admire, except for the fact that they don’t need much water.’ Her dark brown eyes glittered. ‘But then, neither do camels— although I suppose even a camel admires another camel some time, or there wouldn’t be any more camels, would there?’
Gabrielle raised her head and the two women stared at each other, until finally she sighed wearily. ‘All right,’ she said, pushing aside the bows and ribbons she’d scattered on the table, ‘let’s get to it, shall we?’
‘Get to what? I was simply talkin’ about ’
‘Cacti and camels,’ Gabrielle said drily, ‘yes, I know.’ Her green eyes fixed on her assistant. ‘Is that what you think I am, Alma? A cactus?’
Alma’s cheeks flushed. ‘I think it’s what you pretend to be—you know, all thorns and toughness on the outside.’ She took a breath. ‘But what I said before is true, too. Even a cactus needs care if it’s goin’ to flower.’
Gabrielle sighed and wiped her hands on her smock. ‘OK, cacti need care and…’
Alma put her elbows on the table and propped her face in her hands. ‘And for starters, you look awful.’
‘Thank you. That’s always nice to hear.’
‘You have dark circles under your eyes,’ Alma said with dogged determination.
Gabrielle looked away. ‘I didn’t sleep well last night.’
‘And each time that phone rings, you look at it as if you’re afraid it’s going to bite you.’
‘That’s not so. I’m just hoping we don’t get many more orders. I’m pleased we’ve had so many, but with mardi gras coming on and all these private balls…’
‘It’s the calls from James you’re worried about. Each time I tell you it’s him, you get this panicked look on your face and you shake your head.’
‘I haven’t time for private calls. These orders…’
‘Gaby, I wasn’t born yesterday. How can you refuse to take his calls when you care for him?’
‘Care for him?’ Gabrielle gave a forced laugh. ‘I barely know him.’
‘Well, you could remedy that easily enough.’
‘Alma.’ Gabrielle’s voice was caustic. ‘You’re making more out of this than it deserves. James Forrester is in New Orleans on a visit—he’ll be gone in a few days, but I’ll still be here and so will this shop. I suggest we put our efforts into it and not into daydreams about romance with a stranger.’
‘How many days?’
Gabrielle looked at her friend blankly. ‘How many days what?’
Alma sighed. ‘You said he’d be gone in a few days and I just wondered how many? Did he say last night?’
Gabrielle shook her head. ‘What does it matter? Soon he’ll go back to wherever he came from.’’
‘Where’s that?’ Alma shook her head and sighed at the puzzled expression on her employer’s face. ‘Where does he come from? Did he say?’
‘No. Actually, we didn’t talk about him at all.’
‘What did you talk about, then?’
Gabrielle looked at her. ‘Nothing very special. Just— just things. Music. Politics. This and that.’
‘Dull stuff, hmm? Well, no wonder you don’t want to see the man again.’
‘It wasn’t dull at all,’ Gabrielle said quickly. ‘I really enjoyed it. We…’ The sly grin on Alma’s face brought her to a stumbling halt. ‘I don’t know what that’s supposed to prove. I never claimed we didn’t have a pleasant evening. But…’
‘But what?’ Alma made a face. ‘Don’t tell me. He eats with his hands.’
‘No, of course he doesn’t.’
‘You got all dressed up and he took you to McDonald’s.’
Gabrielle smiled. ‘Stop being silly.’
‘Where did he take you, then? Some place romantic, I hope.’
‘Actually, we ate in. James brought dinner with him.’
Alma’s eyebrows rose. ‘I didn’t know Antoine’s catered.’
Gabrielle shook her head. ‘He brought steak and all the trimmings. Even wine. And he did all the cooking.’ Her eyes darkened as she remembered. ‘We ate in front of the fireplace. It was—it was…’
‘What? Awful? Did he burn the steak?’
Gabrielle laughed. ‘No.’
‘Then what’s the problem? I know—you’re a closet health nut. The foolish man brought beef and the evil fermented grape, and you’d have preferred tofu and goat’s milk.’
Again, laughter bubbled in Gabrielle’s throat. ‘In fact, he chose all my favourite things. It was all…’ Her laughter faded and she looked at Alma. ‘You didn’t tell him anything, did you? I mean, did he ask you what I liked?’
The expression on Alma’s face was answer enough. ‘Me? I never had two minutes alone with the man.’ She smiled. ‘Sounds like a perfect date so far. What did you do after dinner? Did you go out to a film or somethin’?’
‘I told you, we sat and talked. James built a fire and we had coffee…’
Her voice drifted away. Alma cleared her throat in the silence.
‘Well,’ she said carefully, ‘that certainly explains why you don’t want to see him again. After all, there’s just so much a woman can take. Who’d want to spend an evenin’ like that too often? You might begin to like it, and then what would you do?’
Gabrielle sighed deeply. ‘All right, I admit it—I had a good time.’
Alma’s eyes sought hers. ‘Which is why you don’t want to talk to him today,’ she said with dry understatement.
Gabrielle looked at her.. She knew what was behind Alma’s taunt. Her assistant had once gently described her as a shy violet, hiding from the real world in the safety of a dark wood.
If only it were that simple, she thought.
The shrill ring of the telephone made her start. Both women looked at the instrument and then at each other.
‘Well?’ Alma’s voice was soft. ‘Will you answer it, or are we back to playin’ games?’
Gabrielle stared at the phone again and then she turned away. ‘You get it,’ she said briskly. ‘I’m going to see if we have any more bud vases in the front cupboard.’
‘Gaby ’
‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
‘Gaby—if it’s James callin’…’
Gabrielle paused in the doorway. ‘Tell him—tell him…’ She swallowed. ‘Tell him I’m out.’
The beaded curtain clattered as she moved through it into the shop’s showroom. Alma’s voice droned softly behind her, and she found herself straining to hear what her assistant was saying. The realisation that she was doing that was disquieting.
What did it matter if it was James or not? He’d called half a dozen times this morning, and he’d probably call that many times this afternoon, and she still wasn’t about to change her mind.
She wasn’t going to take his calls, and she certainly wasn’t going to see him again. Last night had been the first and last date she and James Forrester would ever have.
Gabrielle walked to the front window and looked out. It had rained all through the night and it was still raining, although Alma kept promising that the sun would break through the clouds soon.
‘It’s always nice for mardi gras,’ she’d said with conviction as Gabrielle stood dripping just inside the door that morning.
Not that it would matter much. Rain or no, the elaborate balls that preceded Shrove Tuesday would go on, and the little shop had already taken more orders th
an she’d dreamed possible. Business would be fine, no matter what the weather.
As for her own state of mind—she sighed and turned away from the window. The weather couldn’t affect that at all. Her melancholy mood hadn’t come from grey skies. It was a mood of the heart, not of the barometer.
A flash of red in the refrigerated case caught her eye. Red roses, and the memory of yesterday morning when James had bought all six dozen in the shop, brought a bittersweet smile to her mouth. Bringing her that little bouquet instead of the roses had only been one of an endless series of surprises.
During the sleepless night, she’d remembered another man who’d surprised her once. She’d been coming out of her father’s hospital room, swaying with exhaustion, and a man in a white coat had asked, compassionately, if she’d like to have a cup of tea. It had been months since anyone had offered her anything without wanting something in exchange, and she’d stopped and stared at him.
‘It will do you good, Miss Chiari,’ he’d said, and she’d let him lead her halfway to the cafeteria before she’d spotted the tape recorder in his pocket and realised he was a reporter whose concept of compassion only involved himself.
The thought that James was a reporter had occurred to her during the long night. But she’d dismissed it quickly. There was a hardness about him, a sense of self that told her he could never spend his time scurrying after meaningless stories. Besides, he hadn’t tried to steer the conversation to New York or Tony Vitale, or anything remotely connected with the life she’d left behind.
She’d stared into the darkness of her bedroom, trying to make sense of the past few days. Finally, she’d pushed aside the tangle of sweaty blankets, slipped on her robe and padded down to the kitchen, thinking that perhaps a glass of warm milk would help.
Had James’s entry into her life really been accidental? Her tired brain replayed the incident in the alley over and over again. And he seemed to know so much about her—was that coincidence, too, or was there some darker reason?
She knew those were questions no woman in her right mind would ask. Who wouldn’t want to meet a handsome, exciting man who first saved your life and then seemed to anticipate your every desire?
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