"I'll go by myself," Jacquelyn said flatly. "I like to be alone when I work."
"You can be alone all you want when you work," Scott replied. His tone indicated he was setting a trap. Jacquelyn had heard that vocal quality of his before.
"But… ?" Jacquelyn asked, calling his hand.
"But I will be there when you select the wallpaper. Remember, I have final approval of everything."
Jacquelyn's first impulse was to dump the entire project back in Scott's lap, to quit on the spot. She could not work with Scott looking over her shoulder. She was the interior decorator. She knew what she was doing. What right did he have to take charge like that?
But she stopped short of giving in to her anger when Uncle Luther interrupted. "Scott, Jacquelyn is quite skilled at her work. I'm sure whatever she selects will be perfect. Remember, she grew up in this old house; she has a special feeling for it. I will not have her inhibited. She must feel free to restore it as she sees fit."
The tension seemed to melt in Scott, and he leaned back in his chair and sat quietly for a moment.
Jacquelyn realized this was to be just the first in a long series of conflicts. Each round would be a source of irritation, with her at Scott's throat and Uncle Luther forced into the role of arbitrator. Was it really to the old man's benefit to have her redecorate the mansion under these trying circumstances?
"Of course," Scott agreed. "That was understood from the beginning. But it was also understood that I held final approval of her selections."
A stony silence settled on the group. Jacquelyn realized a silent duel was taking place between Scott and Uncle Luther. Both were strong-willed, determined men. Neither wanted to come out the loser. Each possessed an ego of enormous strength. But where Scott was hard and ruthless, Uncle Luther was kind and warmhearted.
Suddenly, Jacquelyn realized she was the key to the solution of this round of the battle. If she sat silent, Uncle Luther might well lose to Scott by default. If she let Uncle Luther defend her position so strongly that he and Scott came to a parting of the ways, her uncle would never see his dream come true. Scott was just hardhearted enough to use her as leverage to force Uncle Luther's hand. Scott was not beyond insisting that either Jacquelyn do the remodeling or he would renege on the deal.
Why was Scott behaving in such a savage manner? She had to believe that vengeance was his motive. Her rejection of his offer of marriage must have wounded his pride so deeply he could not forget or forgive. Where he had once loved her ardently, now anger and bitterness burned with the same degree of passion. Weren't hate and love closely related? Apparently, running her brother out of business hadn't been enough; he had to strike at her directly.
He had engineered this situation so that no matter what she did she was bound to be hurt. If she stayed and let Scott walk all over her, she was going to suffer emotionally. But if she refused to restore the mansion, she would be overwhelmed with guilt for disappointing Uncle Luther.
"I know you have final approval," Jacquelyn conceded at last, shooting Scott a murderous stare. "But I don't need your help in making my selections. After I have decided on suitable wallpaper, then you can give your approval." She demanded at least that much of a concession.
"Of course," Scott said. "That's what I had in mind."
"Of course," Uncle Luther agreed, as if the solution had been clear from the first. The old man looked relieved.
"But," Scott added, obviously determined to have the final word, "I'm going to New Orleans next week, and you might as well come along and begin looking. I insist on it."
"If you say so," Jacquelyn agreed stiffly.
She was spared any further contact with Scott or Natalie until the day of the trip to New Orleans.
That morning, she dressed with a feeling of apprehension. No matter what she wore, Natalie would be sure to think she was trying to capture Scott's attention.
She determined to look as businesslike as possible. She knotted her straight dark hair in a bun on top of her head, touched her lashes with mascara and smoothed her linen dress down over her shapely hips. The ecru-colored garment met just above her breasts in a wide V that gave just a hint of sophistication. She strapped a thin brown belt around her waist and stepped into tan heels which matched her purse.
Austin met her at the foot of the stairs and escorted her out to Scott's gold-colored Lincoln. Jacquelyn braced herself for the tension that would mount when the four of them began their drive into New Orleans. Scott was behind the wheel. Natalie sat close beside him. Jacquelyn and Austin settled into the plush gold crushed velvet seats in the back. Soft music played through rear deck speakers. A draft of cool air enveloped them, softly protecting them from the warm humidity outside.
As she suspected, the conversation during the ride was strained. She felt a sense of relief when Scott dropped her and Austin off at his branch office. Natalie planned to do some shopping while Scott went off to take care of several business matters. But before driving off, he insisted on settling on a time to meet Jacquelyn later on Royal Street, where she would be embarking on her plans to renovate the mansion.
The brittle wire of tension broke as soon as she saw his gold Lincoln merge with the downtown traffic and disappear.
She spent a little time with Austin at his office. Then she took a taxi to the French Quarter to begin browsing for pieces she planned to use in refurbishing the Cordoway mansion.
Most of the antique shops were located on Royal Street. She wandered in and out of several smaller stores, keeping her eyes open for accent pieces such as vases, mirrors, rugs and chandeliers. These were the objects that would be the hardest to find. The larger furniture, such as beds, sideboards, an armoire and tables, she could probably find at Morton's, where auctions were held on a regular basis.
In one small shop jammed with antiques, rare books, old magazines and Persian rugs, Jacquelyn found a perfect mahogany tripod table with a piecrust top. The table, with a pedestal supported by three outturned legs, was in mint condition. The price was a steal, and Jacquelyn had struck a deal before she had even given a second thought to Scott. It was only after she had left the shop and was proceeding down Royal Street that she remembered the black cloud hanging over this entire project. Scott McCrann and his wretched final approval!
She knew him. If she admitted to having already taken the table, he would turn thumbs down just to humiliate her. So she would have to pretend she had not already told the shopkeeper to tag it as sold. When they went to pick it up, she'd have to stand back and let Scott have his little inspection, as if she were waiting for his go-ahead. What a rotten game she was going to have to play. And she could see it was going to be like this through the entire project.
Could she really work under these circumstances?
The enthusiasm with which Jacquelyn had begun her trip was dampened by the specter of Scott constantly looking over her shoulder.
When she located a rare Georgian knife box from the 1700s, again Jacquelyn's ire grew as she realized how easily she could lose this unique piece. Once again she struck a bargain with the shopkeeper, determined that she would find a way to pay for this ancient treasure, even if Scott disapproved. How she hated the deception.
It was late in the afternoon when Jacquelyn and Scott met as agreed. She stood at the corner of Jackson Square, near the high wrought-iron fence that surrounded the park. Artists displaying their works lined the wide sidewalk that bordered the park. Tourists strolled by the paintings, making comments. Occasionally, someone paid for a canvas and carried it away, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string.
One portrait painter drew a young girl in pastels as she sat on a wooden chair in the weary light of the dying sun. Deftly, the artist's hands zipped across the canvas, streaking shades of muted crimson and lavender in the background. The girl sat silently in the chair as if posing for a time exposure photograph.
Suddenly, Jacquelyn felt a hand on her elbow. She had the impression that the rainbow of color
s on the painting in front of her had jumped off the canvas and shot into her. She jerked around, knowing it was Scott before looking at him.
A breathless feeling gripped her. She had known he was coming, but she hadn't expected him to intrude on her concentration so brazenly. Couldn't he have said her name before he touched her? It was just like him, she thought sourly. He was always determined to take charge in his own way with no thought for how he affected others.
"Have any luck?" he asked, leading her toward a little café across the street. "You can tell me what you found over a cup of coffee."
"You know some antiques are in great demand, don't you?" she retorted sharply. "They are quickly snatched up. I don't have time to dawdle over coffee. I want to go back and let you give your royal approval now."
Her angry words had spilled out of their own volition.
"My! Caustic, aren't we?" Scott murmured.
Jacquelyn bit her tongue. Losing her temper might give Scott the upper hand. If she allowed her hostility to show, Scott might retaliate by becoming stubborn and refusing to accept the pieces she had picked out today.
"Just trying to be businesslike," she said, making an effort to hide her resentment under softer tones.
"All right," he said. "We'll go look at your selections."
Jacquelyn was surprised at his agreeability. She had expected a tougher fight. Maybe he was waiting until they reached the shops to refuse to pay for what she had chosen.
As they headed back to Royal Street, Jacquelyn couldn't resist a sideways glance at Scott. She had to admit a grudging admiration for his physique—the broad, straight shoulders, the erect carriage of his lanky frame. She observed his long, agile fingers and recalled how they had skillfully and tenderly massaged suntan lotion on her back when they had still been in love.
The waning sun drifting behind the buildings cast a soft purple glow over Scott's unruly brown hair, lending him an aura of mystery and intrigue. For an instant, Jacquelyn saw him as a stranger, as a man strolling beside her whom she had never known.
Was he really the heartless villain she had painted him? Could a man with muted shadows playing across his face in such a tantalizing fashion harbor deep in his heart such a hatred for her that he would purposely run her brother out of business?
Scott ambled along quietly, his arms swinging back and forth rhythmically. There was an almost musical quality to the way he moved, like a chorus from one of the melodious Dixieland tunes that floated from the open doors of the clubs on Bourbon Street. He marched in cadence, smoothly, lithely, like a well-trained jungle animal exercising itself for the pure pleasure of the stretching of muscle tissue. Never before had Jacquelyn noticed this earthy quality in Scott, and it sent a shiver tickling down her spine. Goose bumps popped out all over her, and she shuddered involuntarily.
At the two shops, Scott very agreeably paid for Jacquelyn's selections, which they would pick up later.
Maybe working with him wasn't going to be so awful after all, Jacquelyn mused as they headed for a small coffee shop. She had certainly expected more opposition from him, if for no other reason than just to antagonize her. But he seemed genuinely pleased with her choices.
They stepped past a couple standing on the side-walk leaning against a wooden post and listening to the Dixieland band warm up. Many of the clubs, cafés and bars provided almost continuous entertainment for their customers, and the open doors allowed would-be patrons to sample the style of music before entering.
Scott led Jacquelyn into a tiny coffeehouse next door to a café with a lively band. He escorted her to a booth and directed her to sit down.
A waitress placed two glasses of water in front of them and gave them a quizzical glance. "Menus?" she asked.
"No, just coffee," Scott replied. "Is that all right?" he asked almost as an afterthought, glancing at Jacquelyn.
In any other frame of mind, Jacquelyn would have ordered something else just to assert herself. But Scott seemed so easy to be around now, she hadn't the motivation for any type of rebellion.
"Coffee's fine," she murmured.
The waitress moved away from the table. Jacquelyn felt a sense of their aloneness engulf them and she frowned at the vulnerable sensation rippling through her.
Scott settled down on the padded bench seat of the booth, sending little shock waves of warmth her way. He twisted slightly to get a better look at her, and as he did so, his hand brushed hers. She jerked it back instinctively and then regretted her action.
Scott's eyes played over her face. The intensity of the blue of his irises was magnified by a little lamp behind them.
Little snatches of anxiety zipped through Jacquelyn. It was dangerous to let herself feel this way around Scott. Was he purposely trying to reawaken in her the old feelings she had once cherished and mooned over? Surely it was no accident that he had touched her hand with his. He was too calculating a man for that.
The coffee arrived. Silent for a time, they sipped the potent Louisiana brew with its heavy chicory flavor. Jacquelyn stole a moment of sheer pleasure in reverie as she allowed her once vital love for Scott to replay briefly in her mind. Was Scott remembering, too?
"Well," Scott said at last. "The renovation is starting out better than I expected."
His words dispelled her moment of sentimental reflection, replacing the mood with a more realistic suspicion of everything Scott said. "What do you mean?"
"I mean you found two suitable items for the mansion today."
"Of course. That's what I'm trained to do. I'd say the things I found are more than suitable—they're perfect."
"Yes, I agree. They're perfect."
Why was he being so agreeable? she wondered. It was almost as if he had reverted for the moment to the man she had remembered… before she had found out about the ruthless side of his nature.
"I'm glad matters are starting out well," Scott said, "because I have arranged for several contractors who can begin work almost immediately. I thought I'd have them begin with the old ballroom."
"The old ballroom?" Jacquelyn echoed, suddenly feeling an agitation that caused her fingers to restlessly fold and unfold the corner of her napkin.
"Yes, it needs a great deal of repair before you can even begin your part of the job."
"I thought every element of the restoration was part of my job," Jacquelyn protested.
"Nothing was said about letting you oversee the heavy repairs," Scott said.
"But I just assumed…" Jacquelyn began, her anger beginning to rise.
"That's not a job for a woman," Scott cut in.
"Mr. McCrann," Jacquelyn said evenly, trying to control the hostility bubbling up in her, "I have worked with several contractors on every phase of remodeling you can imagine. I know rebuilding from the inside out. While I'm not very good at wielding a hammer myself, I can instruct a workman where to pound every nail. I know who's competent in this business and who's not. I have people I like to work with, and I will select my own contractors." Jacquelyn angrily crushed her napkin and threw it down beside her empty coffee cup as she rose.
Scott smiled condescendingly. He took a swig of coffee before replying, as if considering his answer.
When he spoke, his voice was soft but authoritative. "I am in charge, Jacquelyn. Don't forget. In essence, you are working for me."
Scott slid out of the booth and offered Jacquelyn his hand, which she ignored. She marched ahead of him out of the café, not pausing by the cashier's desk as Scott paid the bill.
Out on the sidewalk in the warmth of the late afternoon, Jacquelyn's ire grew. It was bad enough that Scott had put her in an untenable position. But his superior attitude was like pouring salt in a raw wound. He didn't have to be so unbearably arrogant about the entire matter.
When he joined her, Jacquelyn turned her face away from Scott and refused to look in his direction.
For a few moments, as they walked side by side, Scott remained silent. Then he spoke. "You're just making this m
ore difficult for yourself."
"What does that matter to you?" she said crossly.
"I just thought you might want to enjoy the trip a little more," he said casually.
"This trip would have been perfect if I had come alone," Jacquelyn replied bitingly.
"Oh, this is not the trip I'm talking about," Scott said mysteriously.
"Then just what trip do you mean?" Jacquelyn hated herself for jumping at Scott's bait. But curiosity overshadowed pride.
"The one you and I are going to take," he said, obviously enjoying his little game.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Of course you don't," Scott replied with a low chuckle. "But you're just dying to know, aren't you?"
"Not in the least!"
"That's funny," Scott said slowly. "I seem to recall an innate curiosity in your nature. That's not a trait that can be turned off like a sprinkler."
Suddenly, Jacquelyn turned on Scott and stared straight into his face. The light glinted on a wisp of his unruly brown hair. A couple brushed past them on the sidewalk, casting them a cursory glance.
"Will you get to the point?" she demanded.
Scott rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. The long, tapered fingers slid past each other smoothly.
"It's very simple," Scott said, his lips curling into a knowing smile. "I have to make an extended business trip. You will come along and look for furnishings for the mansion."
"Why should I?" Jacquelyn asked defiantly. "I can find most everything I need here in New Orleans."
"Because I'm going to a very special place," Scott replied, his smile widening.
"Where?" Jacquelyn challenged him. There was no spot in the entire United States where she would go with him. It had been enough of an ordeal to drive into New Orleans in his company. An overnight trip was out of the question.
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