His eyes glinted with laughter. ‘That’s a bad business practice, Gabrielle. How can I buy them if you throw them away? Unless...’ He leaned back against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. ‘You don’t think I was buying them for you, do you?’
She stared at him. ‘Don’t play games, please. You’ve telephoned a dozen times in two days’
‘Three,’ he said.
‘—and then you walk in here and buy up all my roses...’
‘Why didn’t you take my calls, Gabrielle?’
Could her cheeks get any redder? She fought against the desire to touch them with her hands. ‘I’ve been busy. I...’
He smiled suddenly, the kind of smile that suggested they shared a very private joke. ‘I thought you might have been trying to avoid me,’ he said softly.
Why had she let Alma vanish into the back room? She wasn’t good at these games, she never had been, even before she’d learned to question everything a man said or did.
‘And that would have distressed me deeply.’ The smile came again, flickering across his lips like a shadow. ‘You see, you have something I want, Gabrielle.’
His voice was husky and intimate. Gabrielle looked at him, the sudden leap of her pulse reminding her of the feel of the feel of his mouth on hers. He laughed softly, as if he knew what she was thinking, and then he leaned away from the wall and began moving towards her.
Her heart lurched wildly. She took a step back; the marble edge of the work-table pressed into her spine.
‘No, I don’t,’ she said throatily, her eyes on his. ‘Please, stop this right now. I’ll call Alma...’
He reached out slowly and put his hand to her cheek. Gabrielle swallowed as he smoothed an errant strand of dark hair behind her ear.
‘What do you mean?’ Her voice was scratchy. ‘I don’t...’
His lips drew back from his teeth. ‘You have my jacket.’.
His jacket! She had his jacket! Gabrielle’s face registered disbelief, then shock. Of course, how could she have forgotten? But she had: the incident in the alley, his kiss, his knowledge of the name of her shop had all boiled together into a witch’s brew of anxiety. She’d stumbled into the shop, gasped out her story to Alma, and tossed his jacket unceremoniously into the supply cupboard in the back room where it still lay, the dirt and grime of the New Orleans street probably now embedded in the soft tweed for eternity.
No wonder the man had phoned so often. He wanted his jacket returned, that was all.
‘That jacket’s been with me a long time.’ He was unsmiling, but he was laughing at her—she could hear it in his voice. ‘I’d hate to lose it now.’ His eyebrows rose politely. ‘Unless, of course, you’ve developed an attachment to it.’
Gabrielle cleared her throat. ‘I’m terribly sorry about this, Mr. Forrester. I’m afraid I forgot all about your jacket. I haven’t even had it cleaned.’
James Forrester clucked his tongue. ‘Terrible way to treat a man’s favorite Harris tweed,’ he said solemnly.
‘Look, I’ll take care of it today. I’ll send it to the cleaners and...’ She turned and snatched up a pad and pencil. ‘Just tell me the name of your hotel and I’ll have it delivered first thing tomorrow.’
He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid that’s not good enough, Miss Shelton.’
Gabrielle nodded. He was probably right. After so many days, the jacket was most likely ruined. ‘I’ll replace it, of course, if the cleaners can’t do anything with it.’
Forrester frowned. ‘You can’t replace it. I told you, that jacket’s been with me a long time.’
Gabrielle ran her tongue across her lips. ‘I don’t know what else I can do.’
A boyish grin spread across his face. ‘I do,’ he said, and suddenly she knew he’d been leading up to this moment all along. ‘You can agree to have lunch with me.’
She drew in her breath. ‘What?’
‘Lunch, Gabrielle.’ She couldn’t see his eyes behind the mirrored glasses, but she knew they were moving over her just the same, lingering first on the thrust of her breasts and then on the curve of her hip. ‘I suspect you may not have a first-hand acquaintance with the meal, but most people take it at just about this time of day.’
Gabrielle shook her head. ‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘I can’t.’"
‘Can’t or won’t?’
‘Would you mind telling me what this has to do with my returning your jacket?’
‘Would you mind telling me why you’re so damned determined to avoid me?’
‘You haven’t answered my question.’
Forrester laughed. ‘And you haven’t answered mine.’ Suddenly, the smile faded from his face. ‘Are you afraid of me, Gabrielle?’
She looked at him in surprise. ‘ Why would I be afraid of you?’ she said quickly.
Too quickly. Even she heard the quaver in her voice.
He nodded. ‘That’s right, Gabrielle. Why would you be?’
‘You did come into my life rather unexpectedly, Mr. Forrester.’
She hadn’t expected to say that; the look on his face told her she’d caught him by surprise, as well. If only she could see his eyes, she thought; if only they weren’t hidden behind those damned glasses.
He smiled tightly. ‘And it’s lucky for you I did, wouldn’t you say?’
That was true enough. In her mind’s eye, she still saw the truck hurtling through the narrow alley, still felt his arms close around her as he threw her to safety.
‘And you knew the name of my shop,’ she said, watching him closely now. ‘La Vie en Rose, you told the cabby, but I’d never mentioned it to you.’
‘You must have forgotten. How else would I?’
‘I don’t know,’ Gabrielle said sharply. ‘That’s what I’m asking you.’ She drew in her breath, then expelled it. ‘And I’d appreciate it if you’d take those sunglasses off.’
His mouth narrowed. There was a silence, and then he reached his hand to the glasses and lifted them from his face.
‘Satisfied?’
His voice was silky, his expression taunting. Gabrielle’s eyes met his. Yes, she thought, yes, they were that same impossible pale blue she remembered.
They were also completely unreadable.
‘Not really.’ Gabrielle cleared her throat. ‘You still haven’t explained how you knew the name of my shop.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I suppose I noticed it when I walked around the Square my first evening in New Orleans. I watched the street performers for a while, and then I drifted down some of the side streets. Yours is the only flower shop around here.’ He smiled. ‘Clever name, La Vie en Rose. But then, I guess that’s why you chose it.’
Of course that was the reason she’d chosen it. The former owner had simply called the place Kastin’s Florist, and Gabrielle had known instinctively that you needed something catchier than that to make a go of it, a name people would recall.
James Forrester had proved her right. Could she really hold that against him?
‘And that alley—what were you doing there?’
He smiled. ‘What were you doing there, Gabrielle?’
‘That’s a ridiculous question. I was running. It’s a public thoroughfare. You don’t need a reason to use it.'
‘I was walking,' he said solemnly. 'It’s a public thoroughfare. You don’t need a reason to use it.’
She sighed. She’d been joking when she’d told Alma she was paranoid, but that was certainly the way she was beginning to sound. A hesitant smile formed on her lips.
‘All right. I suppose I do seem a bit suspicious. But I—
I’m new here, you see, and’
‘Don’t apologize for being cautious,’ he said. She looked at him, surprised at the sudden edge to his voice. ‘In today’s world, a little caution is a good idea.’ He paused. ‘But not with me.’
The sheer arrogance of the remark made her laugh. ‘And why not, Mr. Forrester?’
He put his hand under her chin and tilted her face to his. ‘Be
cause I’m the man who saved your life, Gabrielle. Surely that entitles me to a modicum of trust?’ A slow smile curved across his face. ‘Actually, I’m the one who should be wary of you. After all, you’re holding my favorite jacket hostage.’
This time the smile reached his eyes. And it transformed him, Gabrielle thought. His pale, cool irises darkened until they seemed deep enough to fall into; his mouth, so stem and unyielding moments before, softened and reminded her of how warm and gentle it had felt against hers.
She swallowed drily. ‘Mr. Forrester...’
‘James.’
‘James,’ she said with a little laugh. ‘All right, I admit, I was a little abrupt’
‘You were. And you were rude.’
‘But I didn’t mean to be. I’m very grateful for what you did..’
‘Then have lunch with me.’
Gabrielle felt the tension seeping from her bones.
‘You,’ she said, ‘are the most persistent man.’
He chuckled. ‘I prefer to think of it as “determined”.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Is this an example of southern hospitality?’ he said. ‘What would the Chamber of Commerce think?’
She smiled. ‘They’d think you and Alma were working hand in hand. Did she put you up to this?’
James grinned. ‘Come on, say you’ll come to lunch with me. Take pity on a lonely tourist.’
‘I can’t. Really, I have work to do.’
‘Surely it can wait an hour? My guidebook says you can find the best Creole cooking in town just a couple of blocks from here.’
Lunch, she thought, glancing at him from under her lashes. What would be so terrible about lunch? Somewhere in the background, she heard the phone ring, heard Alma’s soft voice answering it.
Alma was right, she had been living a self-contained existence since coming to New Orleans, bruised and battered by her father’s death and all that had accompanied it.
But what did any of that have to do with James Forrester? He’d saved her neck, and look how she’d repaid him.
Gabrielle glanced at him again. He was waiting for her answer, watching her with a half-smile on his face. Lunch. Only lunch. That would be harmless enough, wouldn’t it?
And yet... And yet...
Was it her imagination, or was there some darker side to him, something ready to jump out at her the minute she was off guard?
‘Come with me,’ he said again.
Gabrielle looked at him helplessly. Suddenly, the beaded curtain clattered and Alma poked her head into the shop.
‘Sorry,’ she said brightly, ‘but Mrs. Delacroix just called. She says the white roses are out, she wants bird of paradise instead.’
Gabrielle threw up her hands. ‘Bird of paradise? What does the woman think I am, a miracle worker?’
‘I told her it was impossible, but she insists.’ The beads whispered again as Alma drew her head back. Her disembodied voice floated towards Gabrielle and James. ‘She says everybody’s been usin’ roses and she wants something special.’
Gabrielle sighed. ‘Poison ivy might be nice.’ James chuckled and she turned to him and smiled. ‘Well,’ she said briskly, ‘so much for lunch.’
His eyebrows rose. ‘You mean you’d decided to accept my invitation?’
Her eyes slid away from his. ‘Yes,’ she lied, ‘of course. How could I have turned you down?’ She raised her head and held her hand out to him. ‘Bad luck, I’m afraid.’
His hand closed around hers. ‘That all depends on how you look at it.’
She stared at him. ‘I don’t understand.’
He smiled into her eyes. ‘I’d much rather take you to dinner than lunch.’
‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘No, that’s impossible.’
‘Are you busy this evening?’
‘Yes, I mean, no, no, I’m not. But I’ll be exhausted after doing the Delacroix job. It’ll take all afternoon, and’
‘I promise you a quiet evening, Gabrielle.’
She looked at him helplessly. ‘James, really, I can’t.’ Her heart tumbled as he lifted her hand to his lips.
‘I like the way you say my name,’ he whispered, and he pressed his mouth to her palm. ‘I’ll pick you up at eight.’
‘James...’
‘Eight o’clock, Gabrielle.’ He smiled and folded her fingers over her palm, sealing his kiss inside. ‘I’ll see you then.
She watched in silence as he walked to the door and opened it. At the last minute, he turned. ‘The roses,’ he said. She looked at him blankly and he smiled. ‘The ones I bought...’
Gabrielle blushed. ‘That’s OK,’ she said quickly, ‘forget about them.’
‘I’m staying at Maison Lillian.’ He dug in his pocket, pulled out a stack of notes, and tossed them on the counter beside the cash register. ‘That should cover it, I think. Deliver the roses to me there, please.’
‘Six dozen red roses? For you?’
But the door had already closed behind him.
Gabrielle watched as he vanished into the crowded street. She’d have sworn he’d only bought the roses as a ploy. But then, she’d also have sworn she’d never have agreed to go out with this stranger who’d entered her life so abruptly.
The heat of his kiss seemed to burn in her palm.
Slowly, Gabrielle opened her hand and stared at it.
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 color 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 favorite 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.’
Sandra's Classics - The Bad Boys of Romance - Boxed Set Page 19