by Francis Ray
“I’ll go make the cocoa.” He started toward the kitchen.
“Come back here,” Angelique called, then went after him when he kept going. She found him opening the bottom cabinets. “What are you looking for?”
“A kettle or a pot.”
She rolled her eyes, then moved him aside to get two mugs from the overhead cabinet. “Nuking is faster and less mess to clean up.”
He took the mugs from her. “What’s next?”
“Answers would be nice.”
“Maurice is the husband of a woman I admire and respect, a woman who is my boss, and therefore they’re both sacrosanct.” He put the mugs by the cocoa and milk and began opening drawers.
“Did you know your lips pucker when you say his name as if you have a bad taste in your mouth?” she said. She wondered if the reason was because he’d learned of his father’s affection for Claudette or if it was an entirely different matter.
He opened another drawer. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Angelique wrinkled her nose. He certainly could be close-mouthed. Guessing what he was searching for, she handed him a spoon.
“Thanks.” He opened the lid. “How much?”
“You ever cook for anyone?” she asked, almost sure of the answer, and just as sure that she wasn’t going to get an answer to her question about Maurice.
“I made my mother tea when she was ill,” he answered softly. “She liked to sit outside in her garden on clear days, and Dad and I would sit with her and read her poetry.”
Angelique’s heart ached for him and his loss. “You miss her.”
“I’ll always miss her. She was great. Five-feet-two and a hundred pounds of pure energy and love.” The smile that slowly blossomed was full of good memories. “But she had a temper. You remind me of her.”
“Me?”
“She didn’t take crap from anyone.” He screwed up his face. “Including me.”
Angelique grinned. “That’s my kind of woman.”
He grinned back. “Once Dad was out of town on a business trip and, feeling grown at sixteen, I didn’t call and tell her the guys and I were going for a burger after football practice. It was almost eleven when I got home. Two hours later than usual on a school night.”
Angelique leaned against the counter, imagining what her “parents” would have done to any of their “children” who didn’t obey their rules. “What happened?”
“She met me at the door with my tennis racket and a chair to stand on while she chewed me out about responsibility and worrying her. Since I was close to six feet, she said she needed to even the odds. Every time I tried to explain she plunked me on the head with the netting of the racket. It finally settled in my thick skull that she had been worried sick. When Dad got home the next day, he tore into me again.” Damien rubbed his head. “I should be brain-damaged, as many times as I’ve been hit over the head.”
“They did it because they loved you,” Angelique said, longing in her voice. “You don’t know how blessed and fortunate you are.”
“Yes, I do.” Damien set the cups aside. He’d give anything to have been there for her. “I’m sorry, Angelique.”
She had learned over the years to shrug off her parents’ abandonment. Tonight she couldn’t. “I don’t remember very much because I was so young. The social worker told me I didn’t talk for the first couple of months because I thought the reason my father left me was because I made too much noise.” She shuddered. “I remembered playing and my mother telling me to be quiet so I wouldn’t wake my father. I thought if I kept quiet they’d come for me. They never did.”
“Oh, baby,” he said, drawing her into his arms.
She squirmed and his hold tightened until she relaxed. His hand stroked her unbound hair, the curve of her back, trying to give comfort and reassurance.
“I don’t want your pity. I don’t want anyone’s pity.”
“You’re not getting any.” He lifted her chin. “Do you realize what you’ve accomplished despite the curve life threw at you? You’ve succeeded when others with so many opportunities failed. You refused to let life get you down. You survived.”
She stared straight into his eyes. “I only danced. Nothing more.”
His steady gaze never wavered. “I wish I could say it didn’t matter. I can’t because it does matter and it makes me feel petty and selfish, but I’m a possessive bastard. I like being first and I don’t share well.”
Angelique settled more comfortably against him. “And I’ve had to share all my life. There’s nothing much that I’ve been able to claim first.”
“We’ll have to work on changing that.” Damien brushed her hair from her face. “Has a man ever made you cocoa?”
The corner of her mouth curved upward. “No, and certainly not one in a tailored sports jacket and silk tie.”
“Good, then have a seat.” Pulling out the chair, he gently urged her to sit down, then went to the counter. “How many spoons?”
Angelique laced her fingers together and propped her chin on top. “Two and just a little milk at first until you get it mixed, then add the rest.”
“Got it.” Damien did as instructed, then put it in the microwave and glanced over his broad shoulder.
“Twenty-five seconds.”
He punched the time in and watched until the timer went off. Retrieving the stoneware, he went to the small table and placed the blue mug in front of her, then waited expectantly until she sipped.
She smiled at him. “I couldn’t have made it better myself,” she said, meaning it.
He pulled a chair beside her and sipped his own drink. “This is good stuff.”
Angelique eyed him over the rim of her cup. He looked absolutely perfect, so what was he doing in her subleased apartment drinking cocoa instead of thirty-five-year-old Scotch? “But not what you’re used to?”
“No, but I’m a man always open to new experiences,” he told her, watching her as he drank.
Her heart thumped and she looked away. “I’m still not sure we shouldn’t call it quits tonight.”
“I am.” His hand closed over hers on the table. “I have a handle on it now.”
“My past or on being jealous?” she asked, still unable to believe it. “You could have your pick of women. You’re rich, successful, and relatively good-looking.”
He rubbed his chin. “Only relatively good-looking?”
She wrinkled her nose and took the top off the snowman cookie jar her foster mother had made in ceramics class for each of her six girls ten years ago. Unzipping a plastic bag inside, she dug out a piece of fudge and handed him one. “Do you ever answer a question the way the rest of us do?”
He studied the nut-stuffed candy before looking at her. His face grew serious. “When I first saw you, I couldn’t believe you were quite real. You were so beautiful. There was something about you that pulled at me. Still does. You’re courageous, intelligent, loving. Those qualities far outweigh anything I’ve done. So Angelique Fleming, what are you doing sitting here with me?”
She couldn’t speak. She didn’t want to admit how much his words meant to her. “I-I don’t know.”
He took her unsteady hand and kissed the inside of her wrist, feeling her pulse leap beneath his lips. “Then why don’t we find out together?”
She gazed at him and felt herself weakening. Since when had she been afraid to take a chance and tackle the unknown? “Just in case, I think I’ll shop for a tennis racket or see if your father has one I can borrow.”
He chuckled. “Dad would be only too happy.” He gestured toward her cup. “Drink up. I don’t want my first effort to go to waste,” he said, then bit into the fudge. “This is good. You make this?”
“Mama Howard, my foster mother,” she said. “I was stuck for a while on my dissertation last week and called her. I asked for fudge to get me going.”
“You’re doing all right on it, aren’t you? Your advisor is helping, isn’t he?”
The concern in Damien’s face warm
ed her heart. “I meet him on Monday and I’m doing fine.”
He reached for another piece of fudge. “When do you defend your dissertation?”
“Summer’s end.”
Damien paused with his hand in the jar. “This summer? Dissertations usually take a year to write.”
“I can do it,” she said, ready to defend her actions the same way she had to her advisor in the psychology department. “I’ve known what I wanted to write about since I wrote the thesis for my master’s two years ago, which I wrote in two weeks and received an A. I’ve finished all my course work. I work better under pressure.”
Damien closed the lid without taking any candy. “Why the rush?”
“I have an agenda. I’m twenty-seven. By the time I’m thirty I want to have established a thriving practice. I don’t have any time to waste.”
“If anyone can do it, you can,” he said.
She hadn’t realized she had been holding her breath waiting for his approval until he gave it. “Thanks.”
“Do you think you’ll have time for me and writing your dissertation?”
Pleased and surprised he’d been sensitive enough to ask, she said, “I think I can fit you into my schedule. I don’t want to miss the opportunity to use that tennis racket.”
He laughed. “You certainly know how to keep a guy on his toes.”
She smiled. “Since I haven’t dated much since my undergrad days, it’s nice to know I haven’t lost my touch.”
His laughter died and he simply stared at her, his expression hardened. “Who was he and what did he do?”
Angelique considered not telling him the truth, then recalled her promise to be honest. When she’d finished telling him about the affair with her history professor, she said lightly, “I don’t suppose you have a story about some old girlfriend who did you dirty?”
“Sissy Myerson dumped me the day before the prom for another guy. Melody Scarsdale married on me. There were too many to count who wanted my bank account and not me.” His hand stroked her cheek. “I’d say we’re better off without them.”
“Much.”
His hand curved around her neck and drew her toward him. Their breaths mingled. Her eyes closed just before his lips touched hers. Each tasted the rich, dark chocolate and the taste that was uniquely theirs, intoxicating and boldly enticing.
Each took their time savoring the other as their tongues mated and learned the alluring taste of the other. The heat built slowly until both were straining to get closer. His hands closed around her waist, drawing her to him. With a little moan, she went. Finally, he lifted his head, his breathing off-kilter.
“If I chew nails and stay away from you for a couple of days, can we spend Saturday afternoon together? We can go swimming in the pool at Dad’s house, have a late lunch, then wander around the French Quarter like tourists.”
“I’d like that.”
“Good. I’ll pick you up around one. And so you won’t forget me.” His mouth closed over hers again, warm and insistent. Reluctantly, he pulled away and stood. “I better say good night while I can.”
Once Angelique was sure her legs would support her, she followed him to the door. “Good night, Damien.”
“Good night.” His hand curved around her neck, threading his fingers through her hair. “You won’t be sorry.” The kiss was quick and potent. Releasing her, he was gone.
seventeen
Kristen arrived at work with a smile Thursday morning. Angelique had been ecstatic when she’d come over for breakfast that morning. It looked as if she and Damien were going to be able to work out their problems. Kristen couldn’t be happier for her friend.
The bell jingled as she opened the front door. Jacques glanced up from dusting a mounted panel painting by Benson, a twentieth-century artist. “Good morning.”
Straightening, he returned her smile and greeting. “Thanks for your call last night. Damien called a little after I’d hung up from talking to you.”
Kristen put her purse away and crossed to him. “I thought he might, but I didn’t know how long it would take him to get out of the doghouse with Angelique. In the meantime, you’d worry.”
“You’re right. No matter how old, they’re still your children.”
She nodded. “So my mother and stepfather tell me all the time. You want me to finish that?”
“I can manage. You have enough to do.” He moved to a still life by Pippin, a gifted, self-taught artist who’d worked independent of the academy of art.
“I don’t mind.” She glanced around the gallery. “I love working here. Besides, I’d like to take off early tonight.”
“No problem. I can handle it.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me the reason?”
Jacques carefully ran the soft cloth around the original frame of the nineteen-by-nineteen-inch, oil-on-canvas painting, a still life of a bouquet of flowers. “My best guess would be that you’re seeing Rafe.”
“Right, and guess who I’m taking with me?”
“I don’t—” Jacques stopped finally and looked up, his eyes widening. “He’s going to work with the boys?”
Kristen smiled broadly. “Last night we picked up their safety equipment. If you can get permission from their parents, Rafe is expecting them tonight around seven.”
“That’s wonderful!” Jacques said and went to the phone. “I don’t think I’ll have any problems getting their parents’ consent. I’ll give you a check for their equipment.”
“Tell them that Rafe said they can’t wear loose-fitting clothes in the work area because it’s too dangerous, and no playing. The first infraction and they’re out. No second chance,” she said.
“I agree. Sometimes you get only one chance in life and it’s up to you to take advantage of it,” he said with meaning as he picked up the phone. “I’ll make sure they understand that. But I can take them to Rafe’s warehouse tonight.”
“I’d like to, if you don’t mind,” she said, lacing her fingers together.
Jacques stopped dialing and replaced the receiver. “They’re my responsibility. They can meet you here, but I don’t like the idea of you having to drop all three of them home.”
“Please. It’s important to me.”
He studied her closely. “Don’t tell me Rafe is as dense as Damien?”
She sighed. “Damien has at least shown an interest in Angelique. Rafe is still fighting.”
“You aren’t going to let that stop you, are you?”
“No,” she answered without the least hesitation.
“Good. You call me when you leave Rafe’s place and I’ll meet you at your apartment and take the boys home. That way I won’t worry, and he won’t worry or think I’m uncaring for letting you be on the streets alone at night.”
“He was a bit concerned,” she admitted.
“He had a right to be.” Jacques picked up the phone. “Despite New Orleans’ good-time image, crime happens here. I’m going to do my best to see that the boys don’t go that way.”
“You will, Jacques.”
“I’m going to try. It’s about time I won one.”
Frowning, Kristen wondered what he meant, then he was talking on the phone to Pierre’s mother. The bell rang and she went to answer the door, happy that she was going to see Rafe tonight.
* * *
Rafe was nervous. He hadn’t been able to concentrate on the ten-drawer walnut chest he was making. Why had he let Kristen talk him into this? He knew nothing about teaching, especially teenage boys. He didn’t have the patience. He’d lose his temper and then Kristen would see the type of man he was.
His hand gripped the wood. Then why? The answer wasn’t comforting. He wanted her approval, wanted her near although he lived in fear that she might see the real person instead of the one she thought he was. He never wanted to see again the shock and fear he’d seen on her face that Sunday afternoon when she’d asked about his father.
Just as he never wanted to see his father, a
man who hated his son and never passed up an opportunity to belittle or strike him. Rafe had wasted too much time trying to figure out why, from his earliest memory, he was treated with such abhorrence and his younger sister, Shayla, was always loved and pampered.
In the eleventh grade he’d cut classes because he was too ashamed of his ragged clothes and worn-out tennis shoes. Lilly found him hiding out back and told his grandmother.
He hadn’t wanted her to know her son could be so mean. She’d taken Rafe to the store and bought him a new pair of tennis shoes and clothes with part of her social security check. He hated that just as much, hated taking money she’d needed.
He hadn’t seen or heard from his father or sister since he’d testified. Lilly had talked him into writing Shayla; his letter had come back unopened. His father hadn’t been able to stay in their rural town of Little Elm after he was exposed. An abusive husband and father certainly hadn’t been able to remain on the deacon’s board. Rafe didn’t know where he’d gone and couldn’t care less as long as he never had to see him again.
The sting of the wood biting into his hand jerked him back to the present. He stared down at his trembling hand and tried to control the rage swirling through him. He was an outsider, always was and always would be.
He was his father’s son. No matter what he did, he couldn’t change his genetic make-up or his disposition to cruelty; fighting it would only lead to false hopes and unfulfilled dreams. Statistically, he was a walking time bomb. There wasn’t a question if he would blow, only when. His solitary life was as much to protect others as it was for him to find what peace he could.
Now he’d let Kristen change that.
He heard a car motor and placed the wood aside, then flexed his hands and stood. He could do this. He didn’t have a choice. He was trapped by the undeniable need to be with and please Kristen … and by the bad blood of his father.
* * *
Kristen hadn’t expected Rafe to meet them with open arms, but she hadn’t expected him to look like he was ready to toss them all out on their ear, either. The boys sensed it because their excited chatter abruptly stopped.
“Hello, Rafe. I hope this is a good time,” Kristen said. She opened her purse and deliberately handed him the umbrella to hold while she dug around inside, giving him and the boys time to relax. “Here is the check for their equipment. Jacques said if they need anything else, just give me a list and he’ll get it.”