"That's not what we're talking about, either—and by the way, several of my aunts have lived long, independent, adventurous and very fulfilling lives without ever marrying."
Her features settled into a scowl. "Then what are we talking about?"
"Chances. You're afraid to take them. And I'd like to know what mine are."
For a long, still moment, she simply looked at him. The scowl was gone, and so was the annoyance. There was wariness in her eyes, though, and a soft residue of surprise around the edges.
Then the moment passed, and she left the table and descended the half-dozen steps to the living room. He remained where he was, using chopsticks to pick shrimp out of the remaining rice while he watched her. She stopped in front of a large sculpture that dominated one wall and stood there, hands in her pockets, studying it.
A minute crawled by, then another and another, and yet he waited patiently. At last she spoke, her voice too cheery to be genuine. "I have no class when it comes to art. I like to know what I'm looking at without having to ask someone to explain it to me. I like the pretty paintings of the French Quarter that Michael does and portraits of people with all the parts in their proper places. I like pictures of big-eyed kids and sad-eyed clowns." Her tone shifted, and even though her back was to him, he knew she was smiling at least a little. "I'm sure this piece was obscenely expensive and the sculptor is universally admired, but to me it still looks like just a few glass rods, some pieces of steel and some rocks, So … what is it supposed to be?"
Smith pushed his chair away from the table and leisurely walked over to stand behind her. "A few glass rods, some pieces of steel and some rocks," he teased. "Do you like it?"
"I'm sure I'm supposed to, but no. Not particularly."
"I'm sure I'm also supposed to like it—especially since I signed the check that paid for it—and you're right. It was expensive. But I don't care much for it, either."
She glanced over her shoulder at him, then moved a step or two away. "Then why did you buy it? And why do you have it displayed so prominently in your home?"
"I bought it because Lily Andrews told me to buy it, and it's displayed here because that's where Lily had the men put it when it was delivered. Since it weighs about five hundred pounds, it'll probably stay there forever."
"Lily Andrews did all this, huh? That explains a lot."
"Such as?"
"Her work is very contemporary, very avantgarde. I would have guessed that your tastes were more refined. More traditional. Antiques and rich colors, lots of wood and very little metal."
"You would be right." Because she kept edging away from him, he moved a step closer. "I do have one painting that you might like. It's in the hall. Want to see it?"
She responded with an open shrug, and he led the way to the hall. Down past the kitchen to the right were two guest bedrooms and baths. To the left was his room. The painting he had referred to hung over a table only a few feet from his door.
Jolie backed up to the opposite wall and turned her attention to the framed painting. The subject was the St. Louis Cathedral in Jackson Square
, and the artist, although the work was unsigned, was undoubtedly Michael. It wasn't one of his pretty Quarter paintings that she had referred to earlier. This one was dark, despairing, filled with sorrow. The cathedral rose, distorted and unwelcoming, from ghostly mists that drifted through the square. Instead of comforting, it threatened. Instead of sanctuary, it offered menace.
It was a strong piece. An unsettling one. A powerful one.
"Michael in his post-Evan period," she murmured; then abruptly she turned to meet Smith's gaze. Evan had been his friend, too; although he had handled Evan's death far better than Michael had, it had to have been difficult for Smith, too. "I'm sorry. I wasn't being flippant."
"You're right. He painted it about four months after Evan died. Valery won't have it in the house, and Michael wasn't interested in keeping it anyway, so I asked if I could have it."
"Why?" She couldn't stop herself from asking. "Do you like it?"
"'Like' isn't the right word for it. I have a gut-level reaction to it every time I see it." He glanced down at her. "That's what art is—not trying to please everyone, or confuse or confound them. It's having the power to touch them, to make them feel. That piece in the living room doesn't succeed at that. This one does."
There was no doubt about that, Jolie thought, looking at the painting once again. She could easily understand why Valery didn't want it around, why Michael had been willing to get rid of it after all the work, all the anguish, he'd put into it.
She could also understand why Smith had asked for it, why he had hung it here where he would see it every time he walked down the hall. It wasn't a pretty picture or, like the sculpture, something a person could remain indifferent to. It wasn't an easy painting to look at, particularly for Smith, she imagined—knowing the artist as he did and sharing the grief that had inspired it.
But easy, they both seemed to agree, wasn't the way they wanted to live.
Except, of course, for this condo. It was probably the first, and the only, easy choice Smith had ever made.
After a moment, aware that she was being nosy and not caring, she took the last few steps that brought her to the open doorway beyond the painting. It was a bedroom, the master bedroom judging from the size of it.
Smith's bedroom.
Like the rest of the condo, the furnishings were contemporary and lacking in color and warmth. The headboard on the king-size bed looked like a rising sun in a world that had been leached of all color but the softer, thinner shades of gray. The walls were textured gray, the floor covered with thick gray carpet, the ceiling a slick, gleaming version of the same color. The dresser and night tables, the chairs in one corner, the armoire against one wall, the vertical blinds gathered at the corner of the windowed wall—all were bland, lifeless, colorless gray. From her place in the doorway, she saw only three touches of real color: the black telephone on one night table, a gold watch left on top of the dresser and the quilted burgundy comforter that covered the bed.
The part of her that appreciated the absence of clutter and the gleam of sunlight on vast dust-free surfaces thought it was beautiful.
The part of her that imagined Smith sleeping in this empty, cool, colorless room found it almost as unwelcoming as Michael's church in the hallway.
Turning, she gave him a long, steady look. "Lily Andrews?"
He nodded.
"Before you handed her a check that would make most people's eyes pop out, didn't you bother to discuss your tastes?"
"No. I told her that I didn't want to be bothered with the details." He looked past her, his gaze sweeping around the room, then shrugged. "It's not what I would have chosen, but it's not so bad once you get used to it. Besides, it's temporary. Except for Michael's painting, I'll leave it all behind when I eventually move into a house."
No, she silently agreed, it really wasn't bad. She appreciated the clean lines, the starkness, the texture, and there was a certain soothing quality to the absence of colors. She imagined that when he was tired from a tough day in court, these sleek, sophisticated rooms were very easy to relax in.
Still, she would take her battered and scarred wood, unevenly stuffed couch and crayon drawings over this any day.
With a glance at her watch, she started down the hall, sliding past Smith without coming too close. "I'd better get back to work."
"You still owe me an answer."
His tone was conversational, his expression benign, but she knew immediately what he was referring to. Then what are we talking about?
Chances. You're afraid to take them. And I'd like to know what mine are.
She waited until they were back in the living room to respond. Even then she postponed the discussion with a gesture toward the patio. "Can we go out?"
He unlocked the door and slid it open, then followed her outside. To the east the clouds were fat and puffy, but all that remained ov
erhead were the thin, stretched-out tails that allowed wisps of pale blue sky to show through. Back to the west another bank of clouds was building, these darker, more ominous. Summer in New Orleans with its relentless heat and enervating humidity was a marvelous place for thunderstorms. When she was a kid, she had loved the drama of them—the great claps of thunder that made the old house reverberate, the lightning that forked across the sky and the rain that came in sheets to wash Serenity Street
clean. She had weathered countless storms huddled on the porch, getting wetter with every gust of wind and anticipating every rumble of thunder.
This condo would be a great place to witness a really powerful storm.
Smith's bed would be even better.
She walked to the railing, big fat posts painted dark gray to better blend with the architecture of the building, and rested her hands on it. It was hot, and the air was impossibly still. She swore she could feel the coolness draining right out of her body, pushed on its way by the perspiration being drawn to the surface, just like condensation forming on a glass.
Down below, the river was busy with tugboats and cargo ships, with the ferry full of cars and riverboats loaded with tourists. Years ago, she, Nick and Jamey had spent many summer hours by the river, concocting stories about distant ports, envying tourists with the time for vacations and the money for a two-hour trip to nowhere and throwing rocks at the occasional rats.
To this day she never let a summer pass without at least once staking out an empty spot along the rail on the Natchez, propping her feet up and enjoying a Bloody Mary as they sailed an hour to nowhere and an hour back again. And she felt a little more kindly toward rats than any sensible person should.
Aware that Smith was waiting—he was so damned patient—she finally turned to face him, hooking her arms around the top rail, leaning back against it. "I'm not afraid to take chances," she said evenly. "Remember me? The one making nasty accusations about Jimmy Falcone in the newspaper? The one slipping off to middle-of-the-night clandestine meetings with New Orleans's finest crooks? The one facing the daily threat of jail?"
He brushed all that off. "That's business. When is the last time you did something risky in your personal life?"
When she agreed to come here for lunch, she wanted to say. When she invited him to come down from Michael's balcony and join her and Cassie at the festival Saturday, knowing full well that Cassie would wander off and leave them alone. When she had accepted his dinner invitation the night before that. She had already risked more to be with him than any man had gotten from her since Nick.
"Pardon me if I don't agree that risk taking is such a great thing," she said airily. "I happen to like being secure and happy and not giving anyone a chance to change that."
"Not even if the change is for the better? Being more secure? Happier?"
"And what if it's not for the better?" She smiled brashly. "Have you ever been in love, Smith?"
He shook his head.
"Well, I have."
"Was it such a bad experience?"
"Oh, no. Being in love was great. It was exhilarating. It was wonderful." Her tone went flat. "While it lasted."
"So you got hurt. And that's it? No more chances?"
She held back an exasperated sigh. She couldn't make him understand unless she told him everything, and she couldn't tell him everything. She couldn't. "No," she replied, searching for the right words. "It's not that simple. It's not about getting hurt again. I don't need to get married. I don't need a man in my life. My job—"
"Career," he interrupted, his tone softly mocking. "You have a career, remember? Not a job and not just work."
She changed the word but ignored his taunt. "My career is more important to me than a husband or children." The claim felt as phony, as untruthful, today as it had Saturday when she'd made it to Cassie. But it was the truth. She'd made it the truth—with a little help from Nick Carlucci—half a lifetime ago. "Feeling as I do, it would be wrong of me to begin any sort of relationship with any man. It would be a waste of time. It would be unfair."
She recognized the way he was looking at her, a studying sort of look that she'd seen him subject witnesses to in court. It made her uncomfortable. "So you're saying that my chances of changing your mind are slim."
"Nonexistent." A twinge of shame rippled through her. Other things she'd said had felt like lies. That answer was a lie, not so pure and simple.
He came closer, still studying her, still searching her face for something, but, judging from the slow shake of his head, not finding it. "I don't believe you, Jolie," he said at last, his voice gentle enough to almost make her overlook the fact that he was calling her a liar. "Call it my prosecutor's instinct, but I don't believe you."
She inched away. "I'm not one of your suspects, Smith. I don't have to prove myself to you."
"Do you think you're the only person afraid of getting hurt?" He shook his head again. "Frankly, you scare the hell out of me. You're not like any other woman I've ever known."
There was a world of truth in his last statement. Most, if not all, of the women he'd been involved with were just like him. They shared the same upbringing, the same social status; they had more money than they knew what to do with, and if you cut them, they bled blue. She, on the other hand, was common, average, church-mouse poor most of her life and just finally, after years of hard work, approaching middle-class comfortable.
Feigning another bold smile, she said, "I'll take that as a compliment."
"I meant it as one." After a moment's silence, he offered her a tentative smile. "Want to make a deal with me?"
"What kind of deal?"
"You don't want to fall in love, don't want to get married and have kids. That doesn't mean you can't have a relationship."
"But why bother—"
He cut her off with a gesture. "Since you're utterly convinced that there's nothing I can do to change your mind, since you've clearly warned me of that and we both understand the limitations that imposes, there's really no reason why we can't proceed from there."
"You mean have an affair," she said flatly.
"That's one way of putting it." He moved to lean against the rail a few feet away, gazing out over the river while she studied their reflections in the glass doors. "You do enjoy sex. You do indulge from time to time, don't you?"
"From time to time," she agreed, her mouth barely moving from its tightly compressed grimace. As it happened, so much time had passed since the last time that she'd quit counting, had almost quit remembering. She had almost convinced herself that physical intimacy was something else she didn't need in her life.
But not quite.
"Exactly what is it that you're proposing?" she asked stiffly. "That we sneak off twice a week for an hour of wild, passionate sex in an anonymous hotel room somewhere?"
"Not at all." He turned to face her, but she didn't look at him. What she could see in her peripheral vision was enough. "I'm proposing that you have a relationship with me. That we talk. Spend time together. Go out to dinner. Get to know each other better. I'm proposing that we date, Jolie. You don't have to worry about getting hurt, because you don't need a man in your life and you're not interested in ever getting married and there's nothing I can do to change your mind. And I won't have to worry about getting hurt, because I know going in that there's no future…" He smiled just a little. "Unless, of course, you've underestimated both yourself and me and I do manage to change your mind."
"And if that does happen? Then what?"
"Who knows?" He shrugged. "Maybe—horror of horrors—we'll live happily ever after."
Down on the river a boat whistle sounded, filtering up through the heavy air. She automatically glanced down, then looked at him. "I've got to get back to work," she said quietly. "I imagine Shawna's just itching to get my ten little fingers in her ink. Thanks for the lunch."
He let her get as far as the glass door before he spoke. "So what do you say, Wade? Do we have a deal?"
<
br /> She looked back and smiled a troubled smile. "I'll let you know."
* * *
"Well, that was a wasted afternoon," Shawna Warren announced, disgust evident in her voice. "I knew the moment I saw that smug little smile of Jolie's that we weren't going to find anyone else's fingerprints on the evidence. The lab confirmed it. That means what she gave us is likely copies, not originals at all."
"Or," Remy broke in, "whoever put it together was smart enough not to leave his fingerprints, which would mean that he really planned ahead. He never actually touched any of it—from the time he tore the wrapper off the printer paper, opened the package the cassette tapes came in or removed the photographs from the processing envelope."
Smith sat behind his desk, the chair swiveled to one side, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He'd been about to leave the office when Remy and Shawna had shown up. He wasn't even annoyed that they were keeping him late. He had nowhere to go. No one to see. Nothing to do.
Except think about Jolie.
He wondered what her answer to his suggestion would be. He wasn't being rude this afternoon when he'd told her that he didn't believe her about not wanting a relationship; he was simply telling the truth as he saw it. He didn't believe she was really as sure of herself, as sure of what she wanted, as she claimed. He didn't believe she was so sure of him.
He didn't believe for a moment that, given time, opportunity and the right incentive, he couldn't change her mind. Arguing was what he did for a living, arguing passionately, logically and rationally to sway a judge or to win a juror to his side. Any prosecutor worth a damn was persuasive as hell.
And Jolie just needed a little persuading.
The first thing he had to do was persuade her to give him the time and opportunity.
She provided the incentive by merely existing.
Slowly he became aware of the stillness in the room. Shifting his gaze from the bookcases he'd been staring at, he slowly looked at Remy and Shawna. They were sitting in silence, watching him, Remy's expression vaguely amused, Shawna's annoyed. What part of their conversation had he missed out on, he wondered, and how important had it been?
A MAN LIKE SMITH Page 11