Sandra's Classics - The Bad Boys of Romance - Boxed Set

by Sandra Marton

  ‘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 realize 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 favorite 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 realization 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 than 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. I

  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 realized 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?

  Gabrielle had filled a pan with milk and put it on the stove.

  There wouldn’t have been any doubts a year ago.

  ‘My innocent Gabriella,’ her father had called her once, and she knew it was true.

  She’d led a sheltered life. The Vitale compound was quiet and secure, and insulated from the world.

  In the real world, people were not always what they seemed.

  The authorities who were sworn to uphold the law hadn’t hesitated to coerce her into co-operating. Re­porters had lied to get her story. And the man she called Uncle Tony was...

  Was what? A union boss, that was all he was.

  Suppose—just suppose there was more to it than that. Suppose there was substance to the ugly charges leveled against him. Suppose her testimony, simple as it was, might damage him.

  Vitale’s not going to let you just walk away, young lady...

  The milk had hissed as it boiled over the rim of the pan, and she’d snatched it from the stove, drawing in her breath as the pot handle burned her fingers.

  No. That was ridiculous. Uncle Tony wasn’t—he wouldn’t...

  Besides, if James had been sent to hurt her, he could have just let the truck run her down that first morning. And they’d been alone for hours last night.

  Unless he was toying with her. Or waiting for his orders. Or...

  Gabrielle drew in her breath. The past months had turned her brain to mush. She wasn’t in any danger, not from Tony Vitale. It was the authorities who’d turned her life upside-down, not he.

  The rain had lessened by morning.

  She’d put on a sweat-suit and her running shoes and started towards the shop. She’ been halfway there when thunder rolled across the sky and the rain turned into a downpour.

  Gabrielle had lifted her face to the drops and let them cool her flushed cheeks. Suddenly, what had happened with James had seemed very simple to understand.

  He didn’t really know anything about her. Steaks, baked potatoes and green salads were standard American fare, red wine was a charming romantic touch.

  Her cynical reaction to the evening was what didn’t fit the picture. She’d been riding an emotional roller­coaster for so long that it had twisted her view of life.

  Her past was still with her, and until she managed to put it aside, until she could look at life without seeing shadows where there were none, the best kind of re­lationship was no relationship at all, and never mind the way her body had seemed to turn to warm honey in James’s arms.

  ‘Gaby?’

  She turned, startled, as Alma stepped through the beaded curtain, her pretty face wreathed in frowns.

  Gabrielle sighed. ‘Don’t tell me. The cactus plants have decided to mount all-out war and...’ Her teasing words drifted to silence. ‘Alma? What’s happened?’

  The other woman swallowed. ‘It’s—it’s the hospital, Gaby. They asked for you.’

  Gabrielle’s mouth went dry. Wispy memories rose like smoke from a dying fire; she felt herself spinning back to a time when a call from the hospital could only be a h
arbinger of tragedy.

  She brushed past Alma and pushed through the curtain. Her hand shook as she snatched up the telephone.

  ‘This is Gabrielle Shelton,’ she said.

  The disembodied voice was the same as the ones she’d heard so many times before—cool, efficient, and deter­mined to give nothing away.

  ‘Ms. Shelton, this is St Francis Hospital. Do you know a James Forrester?’

  No. No!

  Gabrielle sank back against the door-jamb. ‘Yes, yes, I know him.’

  ‘There’s been an accident, Ms. Shelton.’

  ‘An accident?’'

  ‘An automobile accident. Mr. Forrester had your name and phone number on his person. We thought, if you were a friend or a relative... ?’

  There was a questioning silence. ‘No, I’m not. Not really. I...’ She drew a deep breath. ‘Is he... is he... ?’

  ‘The doctor is with him now. I’m afraid you’ll have to ask your questions of him.’

  ‘But I’m not...’

  Gabrielle closed her eyes. She remembered how lonely a place a hospital could be, how little human warmth there was amid all the life-saving machinery.

  More than that, she remembered the way she’d felt when James had held her, the slow heat that had pen­etrated the thorny exterior within which she hid. Sud­denly, the decisions of a moment ago were meaningless.

  She grabbed for her coat, then pulled a notepad to­wards her.

  ‘Tell me how to get there,’ she said.

  Seconds later, Gabrielle flew out of the door.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Why was traffic always at its worst when you were in a hurry?

  Rain drummed against the windscreen of Gabrielle’s little Toyota as she sat waiting for a traffic light to change.

  She glanced at the clock on the dash­board, then slapped her hand on the steering-wheel.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ she muttered.

  The light turned to green and Gabrielle stepped on the accelerator.

  The car raced through the intersection, skidding lightly as she turned down Bienville Road.

  She had to be close to the hospital by now—the woman on the phone had given clear directions. Of course, she hadn’t written them down half as clearly. Apprehension had made her handwriting suddenly cramped and spidery. But surely she’d followed all the rights and lefts and...?