by Janet Dailey
"Are you coming or going?" he inquired, meeting her boldly inspecting stare and returning it with a mirthless quirk to his mouth.
In the glinting blackness of his eyes, Selena saw what he had left unsaid in his question. The very fact that they had met a second time in the hallway of the hotel indicated that she must have come from one of the rooms. And in that silently suggestive look of his, he was considering what had gone on in that room.
Her anger boiled near the surface, but Selena determinedly cooled it. She had no one to blame but herself for what he was thinking.
At some point in his approach, she had stopped. It was a mistake, she realized, and one not so easily rectified, since the breadth of his shoulders blocked her way.
"Going," she answered his question and made an attempt to pass him, hoping he would move out of her path.
He didn't budge an inch. "Where?"
Her father had often told her that the truth could never hurt. Selena hoped he was right as she answered frankly, "To dinner."
Unknowingly she was clutching her purse, knuckles white with the tenseness of her grip. His gaze slid to her hand, drawing her attention to her death hold on her evening bag. She guessed what construction he placed on that—that she was protecting her monetary payment for services rendered. She seethed with frustration.
"Did you work up an appetite?" The question was almost a taunt.
This time Selena didn't attempt to contain her anger, letting it blaze in her eyes. "I find that remark crude, sir. Excuse me." And started to push her way past him, all stiff and proud.
His large hand rested on the bareness of her arm to stop her. "That was crude," he acknowledged smoothly. "I had no business saying it to a lady of your caliber. I'm sorry."
"Of your caliber." The words taunted her. If he had just left it with the word "lady," Selena might have been more willing to accept his apology.
Instead all she could manage was a freezing, "That's quite all right," that made a lie of her acceptance,
His dark gaze scanned her features, his own expression inscrutable. "Will you be dining alone?"
He was making no attempt to hold her, but Selena found she couldn't move or pull her arm from the light touch of his sun-browned hand. Yet her muscles were rigidly resisting his nearness.
"Perhaps," she answered noncommittally.
He interpreted her reply to mean she was dining alone. "As luck would have it, I'm without a dinner companion myself tonight." His right hand was thrust in his trouser pocket, holding his jacket open with studied casualness. "Would you join me?"
Moments before leaving her room Selena had wished for a table companion to share her meal, but she knew instinctively that the company this man would supply would be dangerously stimulating. It was there in his shuttered dark eyes that glinted with mockery yet never revealed what he was thinking.
"No, thank you." Her rejection was coolly abrupt.
It piqued his interest even as it deepened the dimpling grooves next to his mouth. "Why not?"
"Because I choose who I dine with," Selena retorted, wishing she could bring an end to this ridiculous meeting. Why wouldn't he let her pass?
"Just as you choose who you go to bed with?" he countered in a low mocking taunt.
"Exactly!" The word burst from her in an explosion of temper.
In the back of her mind, she had been wondering how she could convince him that she had gone along with the elderly group for a harmless joke. But a red flash of anger made her feel that she owed him no explanation at all.
Something cynical flickered across his expressio as one corner of his mouth slanted without humor. "I'm well aware there's a price for your time, Red. I'm prepared to pay it."
His right hand was withdrawn from his trouser pocket. A freezing burn seemed to hold Selena motionless as he reached out to tuck folded bills into her cleavage. At the brush of his fingers against her bare skin as his hand withdrew, the spell of immobility was broken.
Bending her head, she looked down at the green bills, aware of a distant sensation of degradation. Slowly she removed the money and lifted her gaze to his. Still no words of denunciation left her lips.
"I'm surprised," she heard herself say evenly. "You didn't strike me as the type who would have to pay for his pleasure."
He cocked his head slightly, his dark gaze sweeping over her. "Maybe I'm curious what 'pleasure' you have to offer that would be worth so much," he countered.
Something in his tone or his look, or maybe it was the sheer magnetism of his presence, warned Selena of the dangerous game she was playing. Her pulse accelerated in alarm.
"I don't happen to be selling right now," she rushed, and tried to force the money into his hand while pushing her way by him.
His hand closed around the fingers holding his money at the same moment that he took hold of her elbow. "This isn't the place for a discussion."
He was propelling her stilted legs forward. Selena's initial reaction was that he was going to force his company on her at the dinner table by directing her down the hallway to the lobby and restaurant. Her mouth was open to protest, her widened and slightly angry gaze on his strong face when he paused to reach in front of her. Her gaze swung forward as he opened a hotel room door, obviously his.
"This will be more private," he announced with a lazy, mocking glint in his eye.
Panic screamed through her nerve ends. "No, listen, please!" But she was already through the door and it had closed behind her.
She pivoted, ready to bolt out the door, but he was there, blocking her escape and regarding her pale complexion with curious bemusement. She could feel her heart thumping against her ribs.
"I think we can make a satisfactory arrangement, don't you?" he questioned, his voice smooth and husky, his expression experienced.
"Look," Selena took a shaky breath and swallowed, "this is all a mistake—"
The folded bills were still in her hand. He took them from her clenched fingers, then removed her evening bag from her other hand. Fear strangled the protest in her throat as she watched him unsnap the purse and slip the money inside.
"My purse!" she squeaked when he gave it a toss to some point behind her.
She started to turn but managed only a glance over her shoulder, enough to see her evening bag slide to a stop on top of a low dresser. The strong hands closing around the bare flesh of her upper arms kept her from turning around completely to retrieve it.
"It will be perfectly safe there," he assured her.
But she wasn't perfectly safe. The fact was driven sharply home to her as she felt his hands slide to the shawl, freeing the ends from the loose knot with the simplest of tugs. She clutched at the trailing ends, but they escaped her grasp as he let the shawl fall to the floor.
Selena would have stooped to pick it up, but his hands were on her arms, drawing her to his chest. Hunching her shoulders, she used her forearms to wedge a small space between them. His chest was like a solid wall, immovable.
"Don't!" she struggled.
His cheek and jaw were near her temple, the clean, spice-scented fragrance of his after-shave lotion assailing her nose. His fingers were spread across the bareness of her spine, pressing her ever closer.
"Stop acting." His breath stirred the hair near her ear as he spoke.
"I'm not acting!" Selena flared, breathing in sharply when he began nuzzling the sensitive area of her neck below her earlobe. "Did it ever occur to you that the lady might not be willing?" she gasped, twisting her head toward her shoulder to stop his exploring mouth.
He merely laughed. "It's your profession to be willing."
"Well, I'm—" Her indignant protest was lost as she made the mistake of lifting her head to deliver the protest to his face. Immediately his mouth muffled the rest of her words.
Startled, for several seconds Selena was passive under the mobile pressure of his male lips. There was a quality of arrogant mastery to his kiss, commanding rather than bruising. It was this as
sertion of rights that she rebelled against rather than feeling repulsed by his kiss. That, coupled with fear. She wrenched her head away from his mouth, drawing back, the storm of anger flashing green in her eyes.
A dark brow was raised in cynical mockery of her action. She was conscious of the large hand at the base of her spine, pressing her hips and legs to his taut-muscled and long-bodied frame. Fiery lights glittered behind the thick screen of his lashes, amused and passionate and confident.
"Will you let me go?" she blazed in a temper born of desperation.
She pressed her hands against his shoulder bones and strained with all her might to break out of the steel trap of his embrace. All she succeeded in accomplishing was to arch the lower half of her body more fully against his.
Impatience hardened the firm set of his mouth. "Look, this game of hard-to-get might work with your older clients, but it doesn't impress me," he stated.
Her chin and jaw were captured by long fingers to hold her mouth still for his possession. Selena was helpless to prevent it, unable to move her head, and her hand and arms were pinned between the crush of their bodies.
Soon the long, drugging kiss began to make its effects known to Selena. Like a narcotic, it weakened and relaxed her rigid muscles, and for a moment she allowed his roaming hands to mold her pliant flesh to his male form. The sensation of the kiss was threatening to become addictive.
When the fingers on her chin relaxed their hold, it took all of her willpower to slide her lips free of his kiss. He permitted it, tipping her head back in order to explore the smooth column of her neck and the hollow of her throat.
The nibbling caresses aided the drugging, and molten warmth spread through her limbs. But Selena's senses were not totally numbed. She heard the zipper of her dress being released and felt the coolness of air against her skin. At the tug on the fragile straps of her dress, she knew she was lost unless she did something quickly.
She had tested his strength and knew she was no match for it. As long as he remained the aggressor she had no hope. Her only chance was to turn the tables.
Taking a deep breath for courage, she was filled with a strange combination of fear and exhilaration. His hand was on her shoulder now, pushing away one of the offending straps, her dress hanging loosely about her.
"If you tear the dress, it will be extra," she warned on a bold and breathless note.
For a split second, he didn't move, his mouth pressed against the curve of her neck. Selena was so scared she was afraid to breathe. Thick jet-black hair brushed her jaw as he lifted his head, a complacent curve to his mouth.
There was space between them now, but his hands were still resting on her shoulders. Selena attempted an alluring, if tremulous, smile and raised sweeping eyelashes to look at him. Gently and carefully, he slipped the spaghetti straps from her shoulder and the flame-orange dress fell around her ankles.
Her lashes fluttered once, but it was the only outward sign she gave of embarrassment. Inwardly she knew her knees were threatening to buckle, and it took all her nerve not to cover the scanty lace of her strapless bra with her hands. Luckily a matching half-slip of lace kept the rest of her well covered.
Keeping the smile painted on her lips, she reached out for his hand. The smallness of her hand was soon lost in the largeness of his.
She stepped out of the dress, which lay around her ankles and unfortunately stepped out of one of her shoes, too.
She kicked the other one off as she led him farther into the room and away from the door. She stopped short of the bed, a fact the fathomless black eyes made note of while continuing to watch her with burning brightness.
Releasing his hand, she reached for his jacket, sliding a hand along the lapel. "Shall I help you off with your clothes?" The huskiness of her voice was due mainly to the fear of the moment.
A dark brow briefly flickered upward. "I think I can manage," he assured her.
Shrugging, she turned away, relief washing through her with the force of a tidal wave. But he was still watching her as he peeled off his jacket and began unbuttoning his vest. Selena wandered to the mirror, patting the escaping tendrils of copper hair back into place and keeping him in view via the mirror.
After the vest came the white shirt. Selena quivered at the sight of all that naked muscle. Without an ounce of spare flesh on his torso, sunbrowned to a teak shade. All that male virility oozing from him was not a sensation to settle her already taut nerves.
When he unfastened his trousers and stepped out of one leg, she bolted. There wasn't time to worry about shoes or her red dress lying on the floor. She made a sweeping grab to retrieve her purse and darted to the door, ignoring his muffled curse.
For the first time in this misadventure, Selena felt luck was on her side. There was no one in the hallway, no one to see her racing to her hotel room in her lacy underwear. She wasted a precious second fumbling for the room key in her purse, inserted it quickly in the lock and turned it.
Opening the door and slipping into her room, she darted one last glance down the hall just as he appeared, bare chested and fastening his trousers. He looked toward the lobby instead of in Selena's direction and she quickly and silently closed the door.
Her knees buckled and she leaned weakly against the door, taking deep, quaking breaths. Sounds that were somewhere between laughter and sobs came from her throat. She sobered quickly into silence when she heard footsteps in the hall, but they gradually receded.
Gathering strength, she walked into the room to take the cotton robe from the foot of the bed and wrapped it around her. The red orange dress had been one of her favorites. It was gone for good now. Selena doubted that she would have worn it again even if she could have managed to bring it with her out of the room.
Her stomach growled, reminding her that she still hadn't had dinner. She shook her head, knowing there was no way she was going to risk bumping into that man again. Selena walked to the telephone and dialed room service.
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Chapter Two
DETERMINED NOT TO BE a prisoner in her room, Selena slipped out of the hotel early the next morning. She took precautions to keep from being readily recognized, by donning dark, owl-shaped sunglasses and wearing a floppy-brimmed straw sunhat to cover her auburn hair piled beneath it.
Her fear of meeting the man a third time vanished when she stepped outside the hotel into the sunlight of a spring Sunday. Indeed, she felt like both—spring and Sunday—in her pristine white skirt and silk blouse of lime green with large white polka dots, a matching scarf and the same material tied around the hatband.
There was no hesitation in her footsteps as she left the hotel entrance. She knew exactly where she was going—to the French market to breakfast on beignets and chickory coffee. The route she chose was not the most direct, but Selena decided it would be picturesque, although she doubted that there was any place in the French Quarter that was not picturesque.
The French Quarter—wandering down a narrow street, Selena wondered again at the misnomer because all the architecture was decidedly Spanish. But of course, she conceded that the name was really derived because of the French who lived in this section of New Orleans, especially when the Americans took over and attempted to anglicize the city. Selena doubted if they had ever succeeded completely.
Emerging from the shaded coolness of Pirates' Alley, she paused near the entrance of St. Louis Cathedral and marveled again at the fairy-tale turrets and steeples of its building, the oldest cathedral in the United States.
As she crossed the street, she noticed the artists setting up their wares outside the iron fences surrounding Jackson Square and promised herself she would browse through them after she had breakfast.
She took the shortcut through the square to the French market and quickly discovered that she wasn't the only one who had decided to breakfast early. The café was filled with the aroma of fresh doughnuts and beignets, and hungry customers, and Selena felt her appetite incre
asing as she sought and found an empty table and chair.
The square-shaped doughnuts, minus the hole and covered in powdered sugar, were still warm when they were served. She took a wake-up sip of the black coffee and immediately added a liberal amount of cream to weaken its potency. Chickory coffee was an acquired taste, she decided.
Later, wiping the floury sugar from her lips and hands, she hoped she had rid herself of all the powdery sweet. The coffee, she had discovered after finishing the cup, was really more palatable than she had first believed, and she accepted the refill the waiter offered. ·
A young boy at a nearby table grabbed his mother's arm and exclaimed excitedly, "I just heard a man say the Delta Queen is in! Can we go look at her?"
The mother's reply was too low for Selena to understand, but the nod of her head and the boy's hoot of joy convinced her that it had been in the affirmative. As she watched the family leave the café, the name Delta Queen kept running through her mind, but she couldn't remember why it should be so familiar.
The question nagged her until she finally stopped the waiter to ask him, "I heard someone say the Delta Queen was in. Is that a ship?"
"It's a riverboat, ma'am," he answered. "An old-time paddle wheeler, one of the last on the river that carries overnight passengers."
The pieces began to fall into place. "It's the boat that was almost forced out of service a few years ago because it was made of wood, isn't it?"
"Her superstructure is made of wood, but she has a steel hull," he corrected, "Congress has granted her a temporary exemption to keep her on the river." One corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. "A stay of execution, you might call it."
Selena remembered the publicity that had surrounded it and her lips echoed his faint smile. "Where is she docked?"
The waiter hestitated, then answered, "At the Poydras Street wharf, I imagine. Do you know where that is?" Selena shook her head in regretful acknowledgment that she didn't. "It's on the other side of Canal Street, near where the International Trade Mart is."