by Francis Ray
“His age is the factor here,” Damien pointed out.
“If your father heard you say that, he’d bean you over the head.”
Damien vividly recalled the last time his father had rapped him over the head—it had been about her—and though she was right, that was beside the point. “Leave him alone.”
Her arms came to her sides and she started toward him. She didn’t stop until they were toe-to-toe. “And who’s going to make me?”
Damien had never reacted well to threats, and he didn’t now. He leaned down until they were nose to nose. “I will.”
“Better men than you have tried.” She stepped back, her eyes challenging. “See you around, sonny boy.”
Damien watched her reenter the house. He heard the music, then silence closed around him when the terrace door shut. Slowly he unclenched his fists and clamped his hands around the balustrade. He wanted to feel animosity, but all he felt was the need to drag Angelique back out into the moonlight and down onto the grass beneath him. She wouldn’t bend easily to him, but she would bend.
Heaven help him. He wanted Angelique Fleming.
* * *
Angelique was shaking. She desperately wanted to claim it was because she was furious. She couldn’t. She never lied to herself or backed away from the truth.
Damn Damien Broussard for threatening her. She should have wanted to slug him, but when he put his face in hers all she had wanted to do was yank him by the tie, put her mouth on his, and go from there.
“Wine?”
She glanced up at the smiling young waiter and the tray of drinks he offered and shook her head. Another thing she never did was drink alcohol when she was deeply troubled. Too many of the clients she counseled at the rehab center had turned to drugs for solace and ended up spiraling out of control.
The same thing could happen to her if she were around Damien. Damn him most of all for making her want him.
* * *
Jacques never considered himself a masochist. He found no pleasure in pain. So why did he continue to torture himself by sneaking glances at Claudette every chance he got?
The answer was simple. He loved her. No matter how great the pain, the pain of not seeing her was far worse. Despite Angelique guessing his secret, he felt no fear that his other friends would. Since her sudden marriage, Claudette often drew polite and not-so-polite stares. Despite it all, she’d always held her head high.
She was a Thibodeaux. She could hold her own in an unenviable situation that would shatter a lesser woman. Never Claudette.
She could be near her breaking point, but the outside world would never know. Her father had accepted nothing less than perfection and a strict code of conduct from the daughter who adored him. Thibodeaux honor was more highly prized than their hefty bank account. To his credit, her father had loved her as well. If he were alive he would have seen through Maurice, just as so many of their friends had.
Love was truly blind.
Standing with a group of his associates, Jacques nodded at the appropriate times to the conversation around him and sipped his Chaute le Fette. Henri, the guest of honor, was having a wonderful time shredding the merits of a nationally known artist with his rapier tongue. He’d be just as vocal tomorrow afternoon in his appraisal of Disbelief. Since Jacques agreed with the art critic’s assessment, if not the way he ex pressed his opinion, he let his mind drift back to Claudette.
At his age, he should have had better sense than to fall in love. However, technically, this hadn’t been his fault. Nothing in his past had prepared him for this eventuality.
He’d always been a decisive man and acted accordingly. He’d seen his precious Jeanne strolling down Canal Street with her parents and immediately wanted her for his wife. It hadn’t mattered that they were wealthy, and he barely got by selling shoes. Not for one second had he doubted the eventual outcome.
Her family had eventually accepted him because they were married, and because he had discovered his true destiny lay in discovering hidden talent and being able to foresee trends in art. Too bad he hadn’t seen the disaster with Claudette coming.
With Claudette, his affection for her had snuck up on him. They had started out as friends with a common interest—art. She had been a guest in his home and he in hers. After Jeanne’s death, he attended social functions by himself. Since Claudette was often by herself, they seemed to gravitate to each other. He enjoyed her no-nonsense attitude, her sharp mind, her deep sense of purpose.
It wasn’t until after her father’s death and she was mourning that he began to realize how his feelings for her had grown into something deeper. For the first time in his life, he didn’t act. By the time he’d sorted through his new emotions, it was too late. She was married. Worse, married to a man who was without scruples.
Jacques’s fingers clenched dangerously on the wine stem when he saw Claudette and Maurice start toward him. They were probably coming to say good night, then they’d leave and go home.
To bed.
Afraid he’d snap the delicate stem, he handed the glass to a passing waiter and prepared to be a good host. He forced cheer into his voice. “I hope you aren’t calling it a night already.”
“I’m afraid so, I have an early appointment in the morning,” Claudette told him. “It was a wonderful party.” As she had been doing for the past twenty years, Claudette touched her smooth cheek to his.
Jacques’s heart thundered. He clasped her fragile hands in his and wished he could keep holding them, wished he had the right to hold her. “Good night. Thank you for coming.”
Maurice gave a brisk nod. “Good night.”
Good manners and courtesy dictated that Jacques return the gesture, but he did it in the same manner in which it was given. He and Maurice hated each other and they both knew it. “Good night.”
Jacques watched them leave. It disturbed him that he wanted another man’s wife, but what distressed him more was the eventual pain Claudette would have to endure when she finally accepted the truth about the kind of man Maurice really was.
nine
Angelique was madder than a wet hen when they left Jacques’s house, and Kristen was determined to find out why. After Rafe had seen them both to their doors, she’d gone inside her apartment, changed into sweats, and gone next door. Angelique answered the chime, still wearing the Dior gown she’d gotten for fifty dollars at a resale shop, the anger just as vivid in her hazel eyes.
“What happened?” Kristen asked, closing the door behind her.
Angelique stalked to the living room done in the eclectic mix of garage and resale finds that suited her volatile personality. “I want to throw something. Preferably Damien Broussard! But with all the hot air in his big head, he’d float instead of smashing against a wall!”
Understanding dawned. Kristen shoved the stack of medical journals and textbooks aside on the cushions of the overstuffed sofa covered with the fringed paisley shawl Angelique had discovered in a trunk she’d purchased at a garage sale, and then sat down. The trunk was a catchall at the other end of the sofa. Papers were stacked on the floor beside it. Angelique never seemed to remember to put things away. Since she’d started working on her dissertation, her place was more cluttered than usual. “You spoke with Damien at the party?”
“That’s putting it mildly.” Angelique pulled the pins out of her hair. Glossy auburn curls tumbled past her shoulders. “He warned me to stay away from his father.”
“Why don’t you just tell him the truth?” Kristen asked softly.
Angelique stopped pacing. “He has no right to pass judgment on me or anyone else! He’s so sanctimonious!”
“Damien thinks he’s protecting his father,” Kristen pointed out. “If I didn’t know you, I might be concerned for Jacques as well.”
Angelique flung her hand up in disagreement. “You’d never act that way.”
“I might have,” Kristen admitted honestly. “But by the time you told me about The Inferno, I had come to
know you. Just tell him.”
“No!”
“Why, for goodness sake?”
Angelique started to repeat what she had said about his being so self-righteous, but couldn’t. She pushed the stack further aside on the sofa and plopped down beside Kristen. “He gets to me.”
“I already know…” Kristen’s voice trailed off. Rearing up, she stared at Angelique as her meaning sank in. “Oh!”
Angelique let out a disgusted breath. She thought she had more sense. “How can I be attracted to a man I despise?”
“I can’t answer your question any more than I can answer the one I’ve been asking myself most of the evening.” Kristen pulled the blue silk pillow from behind her back and hugged it to her chest. “How could I have been around Rafe these past seven years and never really looked at him, never noticed how gentle and caring he was?”
“Uh-oh.” Angelique’s eyes rounded. “You, too?”
Kristen bit her lip. “I’m not sure what I’m feeling. I had to threaten him to get him to take me to his workshop tomorrow.”
Angelique’s head plopped against the back of the sofa. “We can certainly pick ’em.”
“Maybe it’ll wear off,” Kristen offered, her brow puckered. “When I used to dream about falling in love, it was with a man who would sweep me off my feet. I don’t think that’s Rafe’s style.”
“So get him so hot and bothered it becomes his style,” Angelique suggested.
Kristen flushed and drew the pillow closer. “Is that how you plan to win Damien over after you tell him the truth?”
Without answering, Angelique got up and went to the bar and poured two glasses of white wine. She gave one to Kristen as she reclaimed her seat. “All my life I’ve been trying to get people to accept me as I am, to like me in spite of.” She sipped her wine. “A TV psychiatrist would tell you I’m seeking approval because my parents abandoned me when I was three and I haven’t gotten over their rejection. That’s why I acted out so badly in all the foster homes I was placed in, why I continue to try and shock people.”
“What would Dr. Angelique Fleming, soon to be known far and wide on the talk show circuit, say?” Kristen asked softly.
Angelique’s glass clinked on the round coffee table in front of her. “That he’s right.”
“Wouldn’t that same TV psychiatrist and Dr. Fleming agree that the first step toward healing is admitting the problem?”
Angelique looked at Kristen with such a strange expression that Kristen laughed in spite of the serious situation. “You have been my best friend for the past two years. It’s understandable that I should have picked up some of your wisdom by now.”
“Wish I felt wise now.” Angelique picked up her glass, more to have something in her hand than wanting the drink. “I’m attracted to a man who thinks I’m for sale to the highest bidder.”
“I’m attracted to one who is a confirmed loner.”
“Like I said. We sure can pick ’em.”
“What do you think we should do?” Kristen asked, tucking her lower lip between her teeth.
Angelique twirled the delicate stem in her hand. “We’ve both been hurt badly in the past, and, the way things look, we might be on that same road again.”
“Personally, once was more than enough.” Kristen stared down into her glass.
“So, it comes down to a basic psychological principle, fight or flight.”
Kristen’s head came up. “Which?”
Angelique considered. “We’ll skip the physical attributes because that would make us shallow. I mean just because they’re both six-feet plus of mouth-watering muscles, washboard abs, and wide shoulders is no reason to forgo common sense.”
“Don’t forget great hands. Rafe’s are wide-palmed and calloused, but when he touches me…” Kristen shivered and took a quick sip of wine.
“Damien’s mouth was created for sin, and I bet he knows just how to use it.” Angelique took two sips.
“Rafe’s chest is broad and hard, yet comforting.”
“I didn’t get a chance to scope it out, but I bet Damien has a tight butt.”
“Rafe probably does, too.”
Morosely, Angelique lifted her glass and said, “I don’t think we have any choice.”
Resigned, Kristen raised hers. “I don’t, either.”
“Flight—and pray it’s not too late.”
The glasses clinked, the women drank, both lost in their own thoughts. When they went to bed that night it was a long time before either went to sleep.
* * *
Claudette stood on the balcony of her bedroom later that same night and stared blindly at the city lights in the distance. The summer breeze was soft and fragrant from the many flower gardens surrounding her home.
In her lifetime she’d stood in this very spot, daydreaming, despite the pragmatism that had been taught to her as a child, that somewhere out there was a man who would love her, make her laugh, and hold her when she cried.
Such a simple dream. For a moment, the city lights in the distance blurred. She blinked and they reappeared.
Perhaps that was why she had believed James Cassell so readily. Just looking at his strikingly handsome face had caused her sixteen-year-old heart to ache. What did it matter that he was twenty-one, with a reputation for drinking and drugs that his wealthy family unsuccessfully tried to keep quiet?
From the moment they’d met at Regina Brown’s eighteenth birthday party, they were drawn to each other. Her parents had seen them dancing too close and forbade her from seeing or talking with him again. She’d moped and cried for two weeks until James called her one night when her parents were at the theater. Overjoyed that he still thought of her, she quickly put on her prettiest dress and slipped out of the house to meet him at the gazebo.
Her heart pounded when she glimpsed him in the moonlight. He had stepped from the iron structure and pulled her into his arms to kiss her. His tongue in her mouth had frightened her at first, then excited her. She thought she’d melt in a little puddle at his feet. Her legs shook so badly she could hardly stand.
“You’re too young and innocent for me, but I won’t let you go,” he said fiercely, his gaze burning hotly into hers. “You’re the best thing that has ever happened in my crummy life. I won’t lose you. I can’t.”
So many emotions swirled through her mind, but the one that was uppermost was that she loved him. Her parents and everyone who thought him beyond redemption were wrong. He just needed love. Her love.
He kissed her again. She put the full measure of her love into returning the hungry kiss. She would have done anything for him. She was so sure things would work out for them. James only had to show her parents what a wonderful man he was—then they wouldn’t object to their seeing each other. In the meantime, they’d continue to meet secretly.
She was so sure—and so dead wrong. She shivered, her hands rubbing the chill away from her arms.
Less than three weeks later, James was dead and he had taken her secret shame with him. It had taken months for her to show her parents that she was truly repentant before they had finally forgiven her. There had been no more dreams.
Until she’d met Maurice. The lights blurred again. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but there were no arms to hold her, no lips to kiss the tears away.
After they arrived home from the party, they’d gone directly to bed. Their lovemaking had been rushed and unsatisfying. Almost immediately, Maurice had left their bed.
“I’m too restless to sleep. I’ll take one of the guest bedrooms tonight.” Then he was gone.
An hour ago she’d heard him pass her door. A call to the chauffeur confirmed her suspicion. He’d taken the Porsche she’d given him as a wedding present and left.
Was she wrong again about the man she loved?
The door behind her opened. She whirled around.
Maurice stood there with a bouquet of flowers in his hand. “I went for a drive and couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
With love shining in her eyes, she flew across the room. She didn’t reach for the flowers, she reached for him. Roses, carnations, and daisies scattered at their feet.
Maurice roughly pulled her down on the Persian rug that had been in the Thibodeaux family for a hundred years. Claudette went willingly. He needed her. Just her. Her dream had come true.
Maurice needed release and at least his wife was good for that. Besides, it was her fault that Beverly wouldn’t let him into her apartment. If Claudette hadn’t interrupted them at Jacques’s party, he would be in her bed now, driving into her. The thought excited him and made him harder.
He’d even thought to take her flowers. They might not have gotten him what he wanted from her, but they sure worked now.
What did they say about all cats in the dark? With a snide grin, he pushed up Claudette’s nightgown.
* * *
Angelique came to the St. Clair Gallery Sunday afternoon to prove a point. She’d decided after a restless night that sooner would be better when it came to confronting Damien. Sipping her mineral water, she moved around the crowd of artists deep in discussion about their work or that of their contemporaries, and kept her eye on the door. Kristen had left thirty minutes ago for her date with Rafe, but Angelique wasn’t ready to give up.
If she had read Damien correctly, he thought she was a party girl. He’d be at the gallery to see if his threats had worked. He might be opinionated, but he loved his father.
“Excuse me. Have we met?”
She glanced at the thin, gray-haired man in a red sports jacket and snowy white ascot. “No. Excuse me.”
“But I’m sure of it,” he said, stepping around in front of her. “I’d never forget so beautiful a face.”
Something about the lurid grin on his face had her studying him more closely. She’d run into men she’d met while working at The Inferno before, but not in a long time. When she had, they usually looked the other way. “And where, exactly, would we have met?” she asked, not even trying to hide the impatience in her voice.
His hand closed around her arm. “Perhaps we could discuss it someplace more private.”