"Paris," Scott said.
"Paris?" Jacquelyn gasped. Paris! An interior decorator's dream for refurbishing a place like Cypress Halls. The treasures she could find there made her heart race with excitement. She might find authentic pieces from the Louis XVI period, or perhaps even the Regency era. Chairs, beds and other kinds of furniture that could be found only in museums in the United States might still be available for purchase in Europe.
"Interested?" Scott teased.
"I might be." Jacquelyn shrugged, making a supreme effort to disguise her excitement.
"I thought so," Scott murmured, turning to stroll down the sidewalk and leaving Jacquelyn in the disadvantaged position of having to hurry to catch up with him.
It was a psychological ploy she detested. He was determined to make her run after him. How he must love the superior air it gave him to have Jacquelyn at his heels! It was a trick to manipulate her.
Suddenly, Jacquelyn stopped. Her high heels no longer clicked brittlely along the pavement behind Scott. He took a few more steps, hesitated and then turned. "Coming?" he asked, his blue eyes raking her mockingly.
"No," she answered emphatically.
"You mean you're turning down a trip to Paris?"
"That's not what I meant and you know it!" She fumed, tapping her right toe angrily on the sidewalk. She was determined not to let him get the best of her. "I mean I'm not going to trail behind you like a puppy dog."
"Then come on," Scott ordered and turned his back on her, striding briskly past the shops and cafés toward his car.
"Ooh!" Jacquelyn exclaimed in disgust. How she would love to yank off a high heel and hurl it at the back of Scott McCrann's arrogant head. She imagined it hitting its mark and sending pain shooting through him. That would be nothing compared to the anguish he had caused her, and it would serve him right. But she suppressed her impulse.
Instead, she hurried after Scott, determined to catch up with him. Her eyes were narrow with hostility. He had won this round, and they both knew it. He must be feeling rightly smug, she thought bitterly.
But it wasn't this round that really had her worried. It was the next one, the one that really mattered, when they were in Paris together.
Paris was the city of lovers. It symbolized romance the world over. Was Scott truly interested in the antique treasures she might find in France? Or was he planning to carry out the scheme Natalie had warned her about?
In Paris, Jacquelyn would be dependent on Scott. She spoke no French, really. She knew only a few phrases she had picked up along with her Louisiana heritage. She was not widely traveled or sophisticated. Would she succumb to the magic of Paris and to the phony charms of Scott McCrann? She knew from personal experience how disarming Scott could be when he chose to sweep a girl off her feet.
Paris was the perfect spot for Scott to complete his plan to use Jacquelyn, to satisfy his physical craving for her left over from their shattered romance and then to toss her aside.
Would she be able to resist him in that kind of romantically charged atmosphere?
Jacquelyn hated herself for her weakness where Scott was concerned. But she could never let him know about it. So she would go to Paris and pray for the strength to rebuff him. She must keep in the forefront of her mind what kind of man he really was.
Yes, she would go. But she was afraid.
Chapter Six
"Don't go, Jacquelyn," Aunt Perforce had warned in ominous tones. "There will be nothing but trouble for you if you make that trip to Paris."
They had been sitting at the table in her aunt's kitchen, where Aunt Perforce had spread out her horoscope charts.
"It's going to be all right," Jacquelyn had reassured her aunt. "Natalie and Austin are going on the trip, too, so Scott and I will not be thrown together alone. I'm not worried." It was only a small fib. When Natalie had heard about the trip she had insisted on going. Next, she engineered a vacation for Austin. Jacquelyn felt sure Natalie wanted her brother along for less than altruistic reasons. With Austin to keep Jacquelyn company, Natalie would have Scott all to herself.
Now, on the plane headed for Paris, Jacquelyn recalled her aunt's prediction and wondered if the woman had been right. Shadowy doubts plagued her heart.
Everything had gone too smoothly. Something was bound to go wrong. She felt it. And the sensation left her uneasy.
The carpentry work on the mansion had begun, with contractors swarming all over the place. The sounds of power saws, the aroma of saw dust and little trails of paint splattered over drop sheets characterized the activity at Cypress Halls for the weeks following Scott's announcement of the trip to Paris.
In New Orleans, Jacquelyn had found a beautiful birch and fruitwood secretary, an oak and mahogany bureau with a delicately shaded billet-chain banding and bird and stellate inlays, and a gilded and decorated black lacquer center table with ball-and-claw legs. Scott had approved all her selections and the pieces had been moved into one room of the mansion, where all the newly purchased items were being stored until the appropriate room was ready for them.
Jacquelyn had become so caught up in the restoration she forgot about her animosity for Scott. When he announced the date of their departure for France, Jacquelyn had packed eagerly. Only after the four of them had boarded the plane did Jacquelyn realize how close they would have to stay to each other for the duration of the trip. They would be strangers in a foreign land, seeking each other out for companionship and security. She was determined to lean on Austin for help, not Scott.
Scott had booked them into a first-class hotel. The room Jacquelyn and Natalie shared had two double beds, a TV set hung on the wall and a spectacular view of the city.
They spent the first couple of days simply being tourists. They went up the Eiffel Tower, toured Notre Dame and took the obligatory boat trip down the River Seine. They visited Montmartre, the onetime farming hamlet that had been swallowed up by the city over one hundred years ago. They walked its cobbled streets and ate in one of its quaint restaurants.
At breakfast on the third day they were seated in the hotel restaurant, surrounded by hungry tourists. Jacquelyn heard conversations in French, German, Chinese, and English with a British accent.
A uniformed waiter hovered near their table, his head cocked in anticipation of their order. His broken English brought a smile to Jacquelyn's lips.
Scott gave the order in almost perfect French. He had spent quite a bit of time traveling abroad on business trips the last few years and had a natural affinity for languages.
Jacquelyn had placed a map of Paris on the table. "I think it's time I made an excursion here," she said, tapping the map with her finger. "I've studied the tourist guides, and they list rue Bonaparte and the la Boétie as the two main streets for antique shops."
"I want to stroll down the Champs-Elysées," Natalie interjected. "It's supposed to be the most famous thoroughfare in Paris. It runs right into the Arc de Triomphe." She shot Scott a pleading look.
"All right," he said. "Natalie, you and Austin take in some more tourist attractions. I have some business to tend to. I'll drop Jacquelyn off in the antique district. That way you can both see what appeals to you most. There's no reason for the four of us to stick together all the time."
Right after breakfast, the four of them parted company.
It was only when Jacquelyn finally got away from the traditional views of Paris seen by visitors that she began to feel a part of this marvelous city.
Paris had a heartbeat all its own. It was a throbbing, vibrant city full of many types of people. Jacquelyn was eager to get to know it from a more intimate perspective.
Scott stood on the sidewalk and hailed a taxi. A small, boxy cab pulled up to the curb and Scott opened the door. Jacquelyn hopped in, settled down on the vinyl seat and then did a double take. A dark brown fuzzy head popped up on the passenger side of the front seat. It was a large dog who peered at her suspiciously over the seat. His brown eyes shifted to Scott as he set
tled in beside her.
Scott slammed the door, gave directions to the driver and leaned back. The cab pulled away from the sidewalk and ground into the heavy stream of cars whizzing past in the eight lanes of traffic of the wide boulevard.
Jacquelyn poked Scott in the ribs with her elbow and silently pointed to the dog.
Scott tentatively reached his hand toward the canine. It growled and bared its teeth. Scott withdrew his hand and spoke in French to the driver.
"The cabbie says the dog's name is Pierre," Scott explained. "He rides in the cab as protection. Also as company. The driver warned me that Pierre has a very short temper. He's old, like Paris, and unchanging."
"Is he dangerous?"
"I don't think so," Scott replied. "Pierre is like most Parisians—he likes to appear gruff. Keep that in mind today and don't take it personally when you deal with shopkeepers. You'll be on your own in the antique district. Expect some of the store owners to be a bit abrasive. Some take pride in being the most irritable proprietors on the block. It's a little hard to grow accustomed to at first, but once you do, you'll find it a rather endearing trait. Sort of like little children trying to play a stern parent and not doing a very good job of it."
Scott chuckled. Jacquelyn realized how truly cosmopolitan he was.
Jacquelyn looked out the cab window and admired the beautiful chestnut trees lining the street and the colorful canopies over the many sidewalk cafés along the way.
She recalled Scott's assessment of Paris when they had first arrived. "In France," he had said, "everything is permitted, even what is forbidden. The French love to indulge themselves. They refuse to be bound by inflexible rules. They find discipline deadening."
"They love to enjoy life, to eat, drink, make love and wring the most out of each moment. They are incurable talkers. Most of all, they are charming and unforgettable. Once you've been to Paris, you can never get this city out of your heart."
Scott's voice had taken on a sentimental quality. Jacquelyn had not heard him speak in such tones since he had whispered endearments to her when they were dating. Little rivulets of nostalgia began cascading in her, washing away some of the resentment she felt for him.
To guard against further softening of her feelings, she directed her attention out the window. The traffic was thick with bicycles, scooters and mopeds weaving in and out between the cars. At an intersection controlled by a jaunty-looking policeman, the cab stopped. Jacquelyn was fascinated by the peaked cap angled over one eye and the snappy white gloves and white baton of the officer. His hands waved in rhythm to an imagined symphony as he twirled, directing the other lanes of traffic to move on.
Just then a motorcycle edged its way to the front of the line of cars and stopped. Behind the driver sat a helmeted girl, her long dark hair streaming out from under the head protection. She suddenly removed her helmet, took off the driver's with her other hand and leaned around him, planting a hard kiss on his lips. Then she replaced their helmets just before the policeman twirled to wave them through the intersection, and the couple sped off, swallowed up in the rush of automobiles.
Jacquelyn smiled, self-consciously wondering if Scott had witnessed the scene. She turned her gaze to the sidewalk. There, couples strolled hand in hand. In doorways and under the chestnut trees, lovers hugged and kissed openly. It was a scene Jacquelyn had come to expect after only two days in Paris. Yet today, alone with Scott in the taxi, she felt more keenly aware of the casually displayed intimacy than she had when Austin and Natalie had been with them.
At last the cab came to a stop. Scott opened the door for her. She stepped out onto the sidewalk, breathing the Parisian air with its acrid hint of Gauloises, the popular French cigarette.
Jacquelyn saw a robust woman standing at the entrance to an apartment house. She leaned heavily against the railing, her sharp-eyed inquisitiveness daring an intruder to pass. One arm was akimbo, fist ground pugnaciously into her waist. Her burgundy sweater, buttoned down the front, gaped open between the closures. She must be a concierge, thought Jacquelyn. A Parisian institution, these human security systems had been around since the Napoleonic era.
At last, she thought, she was going to get to see the real Paris.
She wanted to scour the antique district, to wander alone by herself. She enjoyed the challenge of seeing if she could cope in a strange country on her own. She had her maps, her little books of translated phrases that she could point to if necessary and plenty of francs.
"Sure you'll be okay?" Scott asked, stepping from the cab.
His look of genuine concern made her heart skip a beat. Momentarily, the feeling worried her. Was she falling under the spell of the city of love?
It was only natural that here in Paris, where romance was supreme, any nostalgic memories of her relationship with Scott would feel more poignant.
"I better go," she said, breaking the spell that threatened to engulf her. "I have a lot of looking to do."
"Good luck," Scott said, his eyes lingering on hers a moment too long.
Jacquelyn looked away. She had acknowledged that his gaze had disturbed her and she hated herself for letting Scott know she could still feel anything but contempt for him.
"I'll meet you for lunch," he offered.
"Where?" Jacquelyn asked.
She really didn't want to eat alone. It would be nice to have company, even if it meant subjecting herself to Scott.
"There."
Scott pointed to a green-and-white striped canopy across the street. The sidewalk café was half full of early morning patrons sipping coffee and chatting amiably. "Think you can find it?"
"Of course," Jacquelyn answered, smiling. She patted her tourist guides. "With all this, how can I miss it?"
The smiles they exchanged were warm. To a passerby, they would have appeared like any ordinary couple parting for the morning. But to Jacquelyn, they were two adversaries who had temporarily sheathed their weapons. Why she should be willing to call a truce this morning, she didn't know.
Scott climbed back in the cab, waved good-bye, and the taxi whisked him away from the curb.
For a moment, Jacquelyn felt a small wave of panic. She was alone in a foreign country where she could not speak the language. For all her bravado, it occurred to her that she could become lost. Of course, she could always phone the hotel, where there were English-speaking clerks.
The uneasiness subsided and she was soon lost in the grips of the intrigue of high adventure.
She strolled down the sidewalk, jostled from time to time by a passing shopper. The roar of automobiles, the honking of their horns, the strains of music from a violinist at a sidewalk café and the contrast of modern buildings juxtaposed to ancient gothic architecture transported Jacquelyn to a new, heady level of consciousness.
She walked slowly, almost hypnotized. The sun shone brightly, but the air was crisp and cool. She felt comfortable in her red and black suit of houndstooth-checked boucle. The wraparound skirt was topped with a loose-fitting jacket, which she could remove if she felt too warm. But right now she was feeling just right, elated at the sense of freedom to explore Paris alone and go where she chose.
The street was lined with shops, most of which sported some sort of animal effigy as a symbol. There was a large bronze snail perched atop a black wrought-iron base that hung over a restaurant specializing in escargots. A butcher shop sported a large pig's head mounted over the door. Over one entrance, a monkey hung by his tail. Jacquelyn was surprised to look in the window and discover an antique shop.
When she opened the door, a little bell rang. It was dim inside. The shop was small and cluttered. Clocks, mirrors, dishes, knickknacks, silverware, vases and odd pieces of furniture were stacked around the room.
From the back of the store emerged a small, squinty-eyed man with a shock of sparce but wiry gray hair. He sported a thin, jaunty white moustache.
The man shuffled up to Jacquelyn, cast her a haughty stare and said something in French.
"Do you speak English?" Jacquelyn asked tentatively.
"English," the little man muttered with a thick accent. "Everybody wants English. You American?"
Jacquelyn nodded.
The little man dismissed her with a wave of his hand, as if she were beneath contempt.
"I'm looking for antiques," Jacquelyn said, hoping the prospect of a sale might capture the old man's interest.
"Then look," he said as if bored.
"I'm not sure I want to, if that's your attitude," Jacquelyn retorted, her ire rising.
"Suit yourself," the man said, picking up a small rag and flicking it across a set of cups and saucers on a low shelf.
He stirred up a dusty smell. Jacquelyn almost sneezed.
Scott had certainly been right, Jacquelyn mused. If this shopkeeper was typical, she was in for an interesting day. He was an old grouch. If he was vying for most abrasive dealer on the block, he'd definitely get her vote.
"You might get a few more customers if you were a little friendlier," Jacquelyn pointed out, noticing the lack of shoppers.
"Young lady," the little man said sharply, his eyes hard and piercing, "I run my business my way." Jacquelyn had to listen closed to understand his fractured English. "I sell at good prices, and all my antiques are genuine. I never try to pass off fakes. You may not like me, but you cannot dislike my wares. Look and you will see they are the finest in Paris. If you think you find better somewhere else, you go buy there. You will be the fool."
The little man's difficulty with English did not interfere with his ability to get his point across, Jacquelyn thought. Her first impulse had been to stalk out of the shop, insulted. But the more she talked to the little man, the more she realized his superior air covered up a certain kind of self-mockery. He obviously did not take himself all that seriously, and he must have expected her to make light of his retorts.
Once she understood that, Jacquelyn relaxed and began to enjoy the verbal jousting.
She picked up a clock that looked like a Louis XV doré cartel. It was ornately carved with a scantily clad figure on top.
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