“You’ve never been here before?” Clay asked.
Dominique turned back to him. She was too sure of herself— and too accustomed to places like “21”—to lie. “No, but I’ve heard about it,” she said, thinking once more how handsome he looked in evening clothes.
“Hmmm. I would have thought that a girl like you would have been everywhere in New York,” he teased.
Dominique tilted her head. “A girl like me?”
Clay took a sip of champagne and looked at Dominique over the rim of his glass. “Sophisticated, talented, beautiful, amusing.” He paused. “The men up here must be fighting over you.” He smiled and put down his glass. “If not, they’re crazy.”
Dominique raised her eyebrows and gave him an enigmatic smile. Then she changed the subject. “How long will you be in town?” she asked.
Clay gave her his wicked grin. “As long as it takes.”
Dominique’s heart fluttered. Oh, he was altogether too appealing. Dangerous. “Takes to do what?” she ventured, knowing the answer pertained to her.
“Get you to come to New Orleans.”
Dominique laughed. She looked squarely at him, her eyes twinkling. “How long does it usually take?”
Clay blushed, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but he laughed, too. “No comment,” he said. “That’s my safest course.” As his laughter died away, he cocked his head and studied Dominique. He looked at once puzzled and respectful.
“Maybe we should change the subject.” Dominique glossed over the moment with good humor. “Does your family live in New Orleans, too?”
Clay leaned back in his chair and rested his arms on the snowy tablecloth. “Since the 1850s. None of us have ever lived anywhere else.”
Dominique sighed. “That’s nice. That’s the way it was for us in Egypt.” She had told him a little about her background in the ride from her apartment—a ride that took place in a shining, black Cadillac limousine.
“How’d you end up in the United States?” he asked.
Dominique stiffened. She knew she was in treacherous waters. She didn’t want to lie, but she had no intention of divulging her history to someone she barely knew. Not even her friends at work knew about Anton. “The French are no longer welcome in Egypt,” she said carefully, “and my sister was here.”
Eager to turn the conversation back to Clay, Dominique asked, “Do you have brothers or sisters?”
Clay shook his head. “I’m an only child.”
Dominique wondered how old he was. He seemed young to be the head of his own company. Perhaps it was his father’s. She tried to think of a subtle way to find out. “And how long has Parker Shipping existed?”
Clay chuckled. “As long as there have been Parkers in Louisiana.”
“Oh, so your father must still be active in the firm.” Clay didn’t look older than thirty, so the father probably wasn’t more than sixty.
A shadow passed over Clay’s features, then just as quickly disappeared. He forced a smile. “He’s president of the company. They’ll probably have to carry him out on a stretcher.” He raised his hand and a waiter instantly appeared with long, leather-bound menus. A wine list, also thickly bound, was placed at Clay’s elbow.
Dominique sensed she had probed a touchy subject. Tactfully, she opened the menu. “Well,” she said, “what do you recommend?”
“The Dover sole is good. So’s the rack of lamb. Or we could split the Chateaubriand for two.”
“Is medium rare all right?” Dominique asked.
“Just the way I like it,” Clay said cheerfully.
After dinner, they entered the limousine for the short ride to the Copacabana. In the nightclub, Latin music pulsed, vibrating through the floor. Dominique’s eyes were immediately drawn to the orchestra—handsome men in flowing shirts with ruffled sleeves. At the microphone, the lead singer was belting out a lively tune in Spanish. Dominique was dying to join the sleek couples on the dance floor—it had been so long!
Clay seemed to sense her mood, for no sooner were they seated at their table for two overlooking the dance floor—another bottle of champagne at their side—than he invited her to dance. As Clay led Dominique around the semicircular tier to the red-carpeted main stairs, she gazed at the other colorful patrons. The crowd was more diverse than any Dominique had seen in Egypt. There, Parisian chic had been the standard for women, no matter what their nationality. But in New York, there was more glitz. Many of the women wore long white gloves with diamond bracelets over them. One exotic brunette held a red lacquered cigarette holder which her escort, a much younger man, lit with a gold lighter. The women wore more makeup and jewels than their European counterparts, and their dresses were adorned with more frills, sequins, and feathers. It made for a lively, interesting scene, Dominique decided, though she would never have dressed that way herself.
As Clay took her in his arms, he remarked, “You have the tiniest waist I’ve ever seen. My hand almost spans it.”
Dominique smiled up at him. She knew his admiration wasn’t feigned. The way he treated her, the things he said, made her feel genuinely beautiful. She had so long shied away from romantic attachments that the feelings he aroused made her light-headed—like smoking a cigarette or taking a drink after a long abstinence. She melted into his arms, matching her steps perfectly to his.
As it turned out, Clay was an expert dancer. “My mother tortured me with four years of cotillion,” he laughed. “Every afternoon, from the time I was ten till I was fourteen. Of course, just about the time it ended, I really started getting interested in girls.” He rolled his eyes. “If only she’d waited, I would have been a willing victim.”
“I have no complaints,” Dominique bantered. “I think your mother did just the right thing.”
They danced five tunes, then Clay pled exhaustion and they went back to their table. Dominique noted that, once again, they occupied the club’s prime spot. “You must spend a lot of time in New York,” she remarked.
“My father likes to keep me busy,” Clay said lightly. “Sends me from one branch to another.” Before he even completed the sentence, he turned to summon the waiter.
Dominique’s earlier intuition seemed confirmed. There was definite strain between father and son. Well, she could sympathize, given her relationship with Solange. She made sure to avoid the subject for the rest of the evening.
At three-thirty in the morning, Clay and Dominique left the Copa. Dominique’s feet were sore from dancing, but she was wide awake. When Clay suggested that they stop for breakfast on the way home, Dominique saw no reason to say no.
There were many other people in evening clothes in the coffee shop across from the St. Regis Hotel. Early breakfast, Clay told her, was a tradition among New York revelers. They had an authentic American meal of bacon, scrambled eggs, hashed browns, toast, and coffee. And they talked about everything from classical music to the Louisiana bayou.
It was dawn when the limousine finally drew up in front of Dominique’s apartment. Clay walked her to her door, admiring the rural silence of her street. “You don’t find that very often in New York,” he commented.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Dominique sighed. “It won’t stay that way. Things get noisier after the sun comes up.”
As they reached her door. Clay turned Dominique toward him. “I’m not going to ask permission,” he murmured as he drew close.
“I wouldn’t expect that from you,” Dominique smiled. Then she went into his arms, willingly succumbing to his kiss.
What finally convinced Dominique to go to New Orleans with Clay wasn’t the dinner at the Stork Club, nor the helicopter tour of Manhattan. Not the roses he sent each week, nor the giant bottle of Chanel No. 5 he bought to celebrate their two-week anniversary. None of his extravagant gestures charmed her as much as the luncheon date at the relatively modest Taft Hotel. For it was that flight of fancy that made her fall in love with him.
“You have to take two hours for lun
ch today,” he insisted good-naturedly when he phoned her on the Monday a little more than three weeks after their first meeting.
“I can’t.” Dominique laughed indulgently. She was constantly surprised—and flattered—at how often he arranged to be in New York. They had gone out ten days out of the last fourteen. On the days they didn’t see each other, he took quick trips home or to branch offices. Whenever he was in town, though, he picked her up after work in the limousine. Sometimes he would drop her at her apartment so she could change for one of their elegant dinners, but other times they would simply take a walk, then stop at a neighborhood restaurant for a light meal. Dominique never offered to cook for him, however. She only knew how to make a few basic things, none of them particularly well, and she had noticed that Clay was exacting about cuisine.
But of all the times they’d been together, he’d never proposed lunch until now. “You have to come,” he said. “I’m begging you. If you don’t say yes, I’ll go directly to Bruce Fisher. And you’re much too discreet to want me to do that. So say yes.”
Dominique was secretly delighted. Whereas she had resented Anton’s imperious tone from the first, she found Clay’s use of it endearing, since he tempered it with charming zeal. “Well… all right.” Dominique feigned reluctance, though she knew she wasn’t really fooling Clay.
At noon, when the limousine passed through the raffish neighborhood of Times Square and stopped in front of the Taft Hotel, Dominique thought it must be a mistake. The place was pleasant, but it didn’t strike her as the sort of exclusive spot that Clay normally frequented. But when they entered the Grill Room, she discovered the reason for his insistence.
Couples were whirling about a large, colorfully lit dance floor to the live music of the Victor Lopez Orchestra.
Dominique clapped her hands together in astonishment. “Dancing? At lunch?”
Clay gave her such a gleeful look that Dominique’s heart swelled with love. As the feeling hit her, she was momentarily hypnotized. Lost in a trance, she followed Clay through the restaurant to their table. How in the world had she allowed this to happen?
When they were seated, he leaned close to her and said, “Now then, isn’t this romantic? Aren’t you glad you came?”
Dominique looked at his beaming face. “Yes,” she admitted, her face lighting with a smile, “yes, I am!”
Clay gave her a look of comic smugness. “And isn’t it fun?” His delight was contagious.
“Very,” she said merrily.
“Well,” he said, taking her hand. “If you came to New Orleans with me, we’d have even more fun. Come on, Dominique.” He fixed her with an exaggeratedly pleading stare. “I want to show you off to my friends and I want to show off my home city to you.”
Dominique’s pulse raced. Under his comic pleading, Clay sounded serious. For the first time, it occurred to Dominique that his intentions might be more than simply hedonistic. He was the kind of man girls were warned about—who gave every appearance of being a playboy. The kind of man who could never be caught. He would show you the time of your life, then he would break your heart. But now, suddenly, Clay seemed sincere. How Dominique wanted it to be so! She had loved only one man in her life, a man she could never have. Here, though, was a man she could have. And everything she had seen so far made her want him.
Nevertheless, she had to be wary, she reminded herself. She had suffered two devastating experiences in the short space of a year. She had to keep a steady hold on her emotions. He mustn’t know his effect on her. How many other women had he captivated? And did they ultimately make him feel trapped? Bored?
Dominique looked at Clay thoughtfully. But if she went to New Orleans just for the day, what harm could it do? “How long would we be gone?” she asked.
Clay looked like he would jump for joy. “The plane’s fast, one of the new jets. If we leave early Saturday morning, I’ll have you back by Sunday morning. I don’t usually get you home until dawn anyhow.”
Dominique couldn’t help noticing his use of the word “usually.” It made her feel they were a couple. But an instinct of caution made her say, “Usually? We’ve only been out a handful of times.”
“Hmmm.” Clay pretended to reflect. “You’re right. Then let’s say I’d like it to become usual.”
Dominique’s heart did a cartwheel, but she smiled calmly. “I can’t go next Saturday, I’ve invited my family to dinner.”
“Why don’t you invite me, too, so I can meet them?” Clay asked breezily.
Dominique inwardly cringed. All it would take was one of Solange’s critical remarks to taint the rosy glow of Dominique’s relationship with Clay. “Not this time,” she said, avoiding his eyes. “But we can go the Saturday after next,” she said hastily.
Clay frowned. “That’s the week after July fourth. We always have a big family reunion then. And I’ll be expected to do my duty.” He didn’t sound too happy, but then his voice brightened. “What about the week after?”
“Wonderful,” Dominique said. She couldn’t wait!
“I have to find a project to keep me busy in New York until then… I can’t stay apart from you that long,” Clay said huskily.
Things were moving too fast, Dominique thought. He was saying all the right things and her resistance was slipping. He was handsome and eligible and probably had a hundred women after him. Maybe she was just one of many.
But Dominique’s logic didn’t stand a chance against Clay’s allure.
Sultry was the only word for New Orleans. One either fought the tropical atmosphere or surrendered to it. New Orleanians had long ago decided that surrender was sweeter. Lulled by the pervasive warmth, they moved slowly, strolled, lingered, lazed. Sweating was for outsiders.
Dominique emerged from the plane and was engulfed in a weighty cloak of humidity. She hadn’t experienced such implacable heat since she’d left Egypt, and she suddenly realized how much she’d missed it. She felt herself being seduced by it, and she, too, surrendered.
A white Lincoln convertible waited for them near the plane. The top was down and Dominique knew that riding in it would destroy her hairdo, but she didn’t care. The hard-driving tension of New York slipped away, to be replaced by southern laissez-faire.
Dominique and Clay walked slowly to the car and got in. They pulled away and the breeze, still hot, caressed her face. She closed her eyes, reveling in the feeling, then rested her right elbow on the door and gathered her hair at the base of her neck so it wouldn’t blow in her face. She was glad Clay had warned her to dress lightly. The simple pink sundress with matching jacket was perfect for this weather.
“Let’s get some lunch, then I’ll show you the town,” Clay said.
Dominique smiled and nodded in agreement, not bothering to open her eyes.
It took about twenty minutes to reach downtown.
“This is Canal Street,” Clay said. “One of the main arteries.”
Dominique opened her eyes and saw a wide avenue lined with palm trees, just like in Egypt. She sat up and looked around, recharged by excitement.
Clay made a left turn and they entered a narrow cobbled street flanked by townhouses. “The French Quarter,” he said, slowing the car to a crawl so that Dominique could look around. “It’s the oldest part of town. And”—he turned and gave her a wink—“most of the good restaurants are here!”
The buildings were the most romantic she had ever seen—of dusky, faded brick or deep, earthy stucco. They gracefully wore the patina of age, like proud grandes dames with intriguing histories. Many were adorned with exquisite iron balconies cast in intricate patterns of winding vines, more Spanish than French in style. And there was greenery everywhere. Plants cascaded over balconies, flowers tumbled out of urns and window boxes, potted trees furnished shade and privacy. There was an impression of overwhelming, almost suffocating, fecundity. Dominique could practically smell the plants growing, as if in a greenhouse.
In contrast, the street was hushed, almost lifele
ss. Long wooden shutters, crooked on their hinges, were pulled shut. Only a few people were on the street, and their footsteps echoed through the narrow passageways.
Most of the buildings, Dominique noticed, housed little shops on the ground floor—dark, secret-looking places, half hidden in the shade. Many had dusty front windows crammed full of exotic wares that Dominique couldn’t quite identify. Occasionally, a shop door would be propped open and Dominique would try to see inside. But she could spy only a vague glitter in the dim light and the shadow of ceiling fans moving in a languorous rhythm.
A sign affixed to one building caught Dominique’s eye. Gold lettering on black metal announced, “Voodoo, Charms, Black and White Magic.”
“What in the world?” Dominique asked.
Clay followed her gaze and laughed. “Shops like that are mostly for tourists now, but voodoo is still practiced here. It’s a religion. The New Orleans version is sort of a mixture of Catholicism and magic, but it originated in the Caribbean. They use all kinds of charms and dolls and symbols.”
Dominique shivered. There was something mysteriously fascinating about that. About the whole place.
Clay turned onto Bourbon Street and pulled the car into a spot along the curb. “You’re in for an authentic New Orleans experience,” he said. “Galatoire’s. It’s an institution.”
They got out and began to walk. As they rounded a corner, the quiet street sprang to life. A line of well-dressed people, perhaps thirty of them, stood laughing and talking outside the door of a restaurant. The women wore dramatic hats, white gloves, and pearls, and the men sported cream, tan, or seersucker business suits. None of them seemed bothered by the heat; they looked as though they were enjoying themselves.
“What are all these people doing?” Dominique asked.
“Waiting for a table,” Clay said casually.
Dominique expected him, as usual, to lead her past the queue into the building, but instead, he went to the end of the line.
No More Lonely Nights Page 21