by Francis Ray
“So you can swim like an eel and you cheat,” he stated bluntly.
She wished she could tell from his bland expression if he were angry. “Some of my brothers and the other guys were stronger swimmers so we girls had to even the odds some way.”
“Winning is the bottom line then?” he asked, continuing to watch her closely.
Angelique grew more nervous by the second. No one had to tell her that Damien was the straight-and-narrow type. “It was a joke.”
“Damaging a man’s pride is no joke,” he said. “I’m trying my best to impress you and you beat me. How is that supposed to win me points?”
Seeing the teasing glint in his dark eyes and hearing the laughter just beneath the surface of his words, Angelique relaxed and swam away, doing backstrokes. “You’ll think of something.”
“Count on it.” Damien sank below the surface and emerged directly behind her. He stretched out his body so that her back was against his chest, her legs resting lightly on his. The water gave their bodies an erotic buoyance as they brushed teasingly against each other as Damien propelled them across the pool.
He turned her into his arms. “Wrap your legs around me.”
She did as he asked without hesitation. She felt the rigid hardness of his manhood pressed against the junction of her thighs, felt her own body quicken in response. Then his mouth, hot and avid, was on hers. The kiss boldly stated his desire and mirrored her own. She clung to him.
Damien lifted his head, his eyes fierce with passion. There was no need to say a word. Each knew the outcome when his mouth slammed down on hers. She moaned deep in her throat.
Reaching the edge, he untied her swim top in the back and shoved the material over her shoulders. Damien sucked in a ragged breath. Her breasts were glorious. Lush and golden, they’d tempt a saint and he had never been known to be one. Wanting to take a pouting nipple in his mouth, but not sure if he’d want to stop even in the next century, he turned and vaulted out of the pool. If he didn’t get inside her soon he’d explode.
In a matter of seconds he had pulled Angelique out as well and into his arms. He hurried toward the terrace. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed the curve of his jaw beneath his ear. He groaned and increased his pace as she nibbled on him, driving him crazy.
He was practically running when he passed the living room. Vaguely he heard the phone ring. Two desperate steps away from the stairs, a hundred steps—shorter, if he ran—from his old bedroom, he heard his father’s frantic voice.
“Damien. Damien, are you there? This is my third call. I need you.”
He almost stumbled as he jerked around in mid-stride. His always calm, unflappable father sounded frantic. Fear punched Damien in the gut. Quickly placing Angelique on her feet, he grabbed the extension on the hall table by the stairs.
“Dad, I’m here. What’s the matter? Dad, what is it?”
“Thank goodness. The woman I hired got sick and had to go home. The gallery is swamped. I hate to ask, but could you come down? Kristen isn’t due back until three.”
Damien took several deep breaths, then several more, trying to control the desire that still raced through him. He looked at Angelique, who was retying her top, and accepted his fate. “I’ll be down as soon as I can shower and change.”
“Thank you—please apologize to Angelique for me.”
“I will.” He hung up. “Dad needs me to work at the gallery,” he told Angelique. “The woman he hired got sick. I have to go. I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for. If Jacques needs you, then you have to go. You go on. I’ll change and call a cab.”
Her wet bikini clung to all the places he’d like to. He could still recall the exotic taste of her, her incredible heat and responsiveness. His body hardened. She wasn’t getting away from him. “You’re going with me.”
Her eyes widened. “I don’t know anything about art.”
“Dad and I will handle the serious customers while you keep the others charmed.” Catching her hand, he went up the stairs to take a very cold shower … unfortunately, alone.
* * *
Claudette spent the morning and early afternoon shopping for clothes she didn’t want, considering furniture she didn’t need, and it was still only a little after two. Strolling down Royal Street, stopping occasionally to peer into one of the shops, she wondered how she would fill the rest of the hours.
Thank goodness the day was clear and the streets crowded with tourists. Locals didn’t venture out to the French Quarter on a Saturday unless they had to because of the congestion. Therefore, she was reasonably sure she wouldn’t see anyone she knew. But just in case, she wore her shades and a light blue scarf, the same color as her pants suit, draped over her hair and looped around her throat. She wasn’t as concerned with fashion as she was with obscuring her identity.
She’d give it another hour or so and then she’d go to a movie or something. It would be better than aimlessly wandering the streets.
Crossing the street with a group of laughing pedestrians, she didn’t pay much attention to where she was going until she saw Jacques Broussard’s sign for his art gallery two doors down. She stopped, almost causing the couple behind her to bump into her. Mumbling her apology, she stepped closer to the glass front of Sutton Antiques and pretended to be interested in the collection of Lladro porcelain displayed in the window.
She didn’t want Jacques to see her. Something about the intense way he looked at her, the tender way he held her hand the other night at her home made her wonder if he suspected, as others of her friends did, that her marriage was in trouble. Her lips pressed into a tight seam. He probably did.
He’d had a beautiful marriage. He and Jeanne had the kind of marriage that Claudette had wanted, the kind she thought she had.
Claudette snuck a peek in the direction of St. Clair’s just as the door to the gallery opened. Out came a woman and behind her was a man carrying a painting. All Claudette could see were his hands and his body from the waist down. He turned and looked directly at her.
Hoping he wouldn’t recognize her, Claudette didn’t move. She thought she had succeeded until he placed the painting in the back seat of the car parked in front of the shop, then walked directly to her.
“Hello, Claudette.”
“Hello, Damien. I didn’t know you moonlighted,” she said, trying to keep her voice amused rather than guilty.
He smiled, but he watched her closely. There was a pinched look around her mouth that he saw more and more these days. “Dad needed me. The woman he hired became ill and had to leave.”
“Kristen isn’t here either?” Claudette asked.
At the sharp tone in her voice, he looked at her strangely. “She’s off until three. I meant the woman he hired to fill in for her.”
“Oh,” she said, not sure how to cover up her reaction. “I’d better be going.”
“If you can spare a little time, Dad could use your help. I’m kind of rusty.”
She tugged nervously at the silk scarf at her throat. “I don’t know.”
He took the decision out of her hands. “Come on. You can’t do any worse than I’m doing.”
Inside the shop, people were everywhere, meandering through the gallery, clustered in front of various art pieces. “Take your pick. Just keep them entertained until Dad can get to them. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go find him and tell him you’re here.”
Leaving Claudette, he found his father and a rotund gentleman in front of a still life by Roesen. “Could you please excuse us for a moment?” Damien asked, then drew his father aside when the man nodded. “Claudette is here. I’m trying to get her to stay and help—then perhaps you two can talk later.”
Jacques immediately looked around and tried to peer through the milling crowd. “Where?”
“I left her up front.”
“Where’s Angelique?” Jacques took a step toward the front. He saw Claudette glancing around nervously. Angelique was se
veral feet away. “If she sees Angelique, she’ll leave.”
Damien’s eyes went hard. “Why? What aren’t you telling me?”
“I don’t have time to explain. Just see that they don’t meet.”
Damien started toward them, but even as he did, Angelique moved toward Claudette. It was too late.
* * *
Angelique had seen Damien come in with Claudette. The reluctance on her face had been obvious. The determination on his face was just as clear. Since her husband wasn’t with her, Angelique could only assume that perhaps Damien knew how his father felt about her and he was trying to do a little matchmaking.
Angelique liked Jacques, and she was relatively sure that if Claudette saw her she would remember her. A second later she’d head right back out the door. Not wanting that to happen, Angelique had moved into a circle of people discussing a painting, her attention ricocheting between Damien and Claudette.
Claudette kept fidgeting with the scarf at her throat and biting her lower lip, gestures Angelique would not have expected from the poised woman she’d seen the night of Jacques’s party. The reason could be business-related, but according to Damien, her firm was doing fantastically well. That left a lot of other reasons but since she was married to a user like Maurice and Kristen thought Claudette was too sharp to stay blind to his duplicity for long, maybe she had finally begun to see her husband for the loser he was.
Just then, Claudette turned toward the door and Angelique saw Jacques’s chance slipping away. She left the crowd without thinking and hurried to catch up with Claudette. “I hope you aren’t leaving, Ms. Thibodeaux.”
Claudette froze and then turned. Angelique knew the exact second the other woman recognized her. Her lips tightened, her body stiffened. But if Kristen was also right about the other woman being a class act, her breeding would show and, no matter how distasteful, she wouldn’t walk off or create a scene.
Keeping her friendly smile in place, Angelique extended her hand. “I’m Angelique Fleming.”
The hand that lifted to Angelique’s was as cool as the smile.
Angelique was undaunted. She’d played to a hostile audience before. “I have to tell you I was delighted to see you come inside with Damien. Jacques desperately needs someone’s help. I’ve spent most of my time in academic circles, and know nothing about art.”
Claudette glanced around, as if looking for someone to rescue her.
“Kristen tells me you’re the best. She admires you greatly.”
Claudette’s attention snapped back to her. In her black eyes, Angelique saw confusion and suspicion.
“Kristen has moved on since leaving the museum and loves her job here. Jacques thinks the world of her. I’m told sales have doubled since she’s been here.” She glanced around the bustling gallery. “Although she may have to go some to beat his sales today. He’s such a wonderful man, don’t you think?”
For the first time, Claudette looked at Angelique more closely. “Are you a friend of his?”
Angelique thought it was a good thing it was summer or Claudette’s tone would have frozen her on the spot. “I wish I could say yes, but I’m more of an acquaintance through Kristen. We live next door to each other. Today she went antique hunting to find a sleigh bed for her nephew. She’s very close to her family.”
Claudette’s brow arched as if she couldn’t tell if Angelique was making a statement or a threat.
“I see you two have met,” Damien said, walking up to them and sliding a possessive hand around Angelique’s waist.
Claudette noted the gesture. Her cool gaze went to Damien. “I forgot I have an appointment.”
“Please don’t go,” Angelique said before Damien could speak. “You’re the perfect solution. Especially since I have some bad news for Jacques.”
“What bad news?” Damien demanded, dropping his arm to angle his body toward Angelique and stare down at her.
Claudette didn’t say anything, but her alertness sharpened.
Angelique sighed dramatically and hoped Kristen didn’t decide to return early. “Kristen called a short while ago. It doesn’t look like she’ll be able to get back today, after all. I hadn’t the heart to tell Jacques yet. Especially since I have an unexpected appointment with my advisor for my dissertation in thirty minutes and I have to leave.”
“Damien will be here,” Claudette pointed out.
“I’m practically worthless,” Damien said, disgust in his voice. “I’m familiar with some of the artists, but not all. I realize you have a busy schedule, Claudette, but Dad really needs you. At least you’ve been in sales—I never have.”
Trying to think of a gracious out, Claudette glanced around the gallery, then fidgeted with her scarf again. “Perhaps we could call someone else.”
“In the meantime, what do we do about the customers here now?” Damien asked.
As if to punctuate his statement, a middle-aged woman in a black Chanel suit approached him. “Excuse me, but I noticed you helping a woman earlier,” she said. “My mother is getting tired of waiting and frankly, so am I. There was a painting that I was interested in for her birthday.”
“Certainly. I apologize for the wait,” Damien said. “The salesperson became ill and I’ve just learned the person scheduled to come in has been delayed, but I’ll be happy to assist you in any way I can.”
She frowned. “Who are you?”
He bowed his head. “Damien Broussard, the owner’s son.”
The woman’s frown didn’t clear. “Mama wants to know about Ellis Ruley’s painting. She said it looks like it was painted on discarded containers. Is she right?”
Damien looked at Claudette. The woman looked at her as well.
Claudette moistened her lips. Swallowed. Damien continued to look at her expectantly.
“I don’t know about that particular painting,” Claudette slowly answered, her breeding kicking in. “I’d have to look at it, but he did use cast-off materials in his work. He’s noted for his peaceful and pastoral scenes. People who enjoy nature are drawn to his work.”
The woman’s eyes lit up. “Mama loves her garden. She’d spend all her time in it if she could.”
With an elegant movement of her hand, Claudette swept the scarf from her head. “Then she is looking at the right artist, although another unschooled artist of his period was Minnie Evans. Her work abounds with images of flowers, although I’m not sure Jacques has any of her work.” As the woman’s frown returned, Claudette added, “I’m a friend helping.”
“And doing a beautiful job. Thank you,” Damien said, then explained further to the prospective client. “This is Mrs. Thibodeaux Laurent. She’s on every major art board in the city and three or four around the state.”
The woman’s eyes rounded. “Me and Mama certainly picked the right gallery to buy her painting.”
“Merci,” Claudette said with a graceful nod. “If you’ll lead me to your mother, I’ll be happy to assist.”
The two women walked away, chatting. As soon as they did, Angelique started toward Kristen’s desk to get her purse, but Damien stopped her. “Not so fast. What’s this about an appointment?”
“Shouldn’t you be working?”
“Answer my question so I can,” he told her, still unsure exactly what was going on, but certain he wasn’t going to like it. “I went along with your story because Dad needs Claudette’s help. You were to meet with your advisor Monday.”
She glared at him. “Stubbornness is not an endearing trait.”
“Angelique, people are waiting.” His response was immediate and expected.
“Let’s just say that if I stayed Claudette wouldn’t and, as we both just found out, she’s more helpful than I am so I’m the one who should leave,” she said. “And before you start asking more questions, that’s all I’m going to say on the subject.”
He’d press her for the truth if he thought it would do any good, but somehow he knew it wouldn’t. He didn’t think he’d get any answe
rs from his father, either. “We’re going to have a talk when I see you again.”
Her eyebrows lifted regally. “Are we?”
His hands fell away from her arms. “Count on it.”
“Then I guess I’d better go home and work on my dissertation.” She went around the desk and took her purse from the seat of the chair.
“If it’s all right, I’ll have Sarah bring over what was to be our lunch to your place.” He planned for them to take up where they had left off. The pulse in her throat fluttered and he wished he could kiss her there.
Her nostrils flared delicately. She licked her lips, swallowed. “That’s too much trouble. I’ll fix something.”
“All right.” With what he thought was admirable control, he walked her to the door without gritting his teeth. “Kristen didn’t call, did she?”
She didn’t even hesitate. “No.”
“Thanks.” He kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll see you later.”
* * *
Rafe had just pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant outside New Orleans’ city limits when Kristen’s cell phone rang. It didn’t take her long to get the gist of the call. In Angelique’s opinion, a wealthy, influential woman like Claudette didn’t wander around on a Saturday afternoon looking nervous and lost if all were well.
“Do you think she’s having problems with Maurice?” Kristen wanted to know, very much aware that Rafe had tensed beside her.
“That’s my take on it,” Angelique replied. “She’d probably deny it with her last breath, though.”
“I still don’t understand why you wanted her to work in my place.”
“Can Rafe hear me?”
Kristen threw a quick glance at Rafe. He watched her intently, but she doubted if he could hear what Angelique said. “No.”
“I was trying to help Jacques. He’s in love with Claudette.”
“What?” Kristen exclaimed. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“What is it?” Rafe asked, turning fully toward her and touching her arm.
“It’s fine. I must have a bad connection,” she told him, then to Angelique, “Please repeat what you just said.”