by Francis Ray
Angelique laughed. “You heard right and if you let on to him that you know, I’ll never cook for you again. Have fun the rest of your day off. Since Damien is coming over later, I certainly plan to.” She hung up.
“Kristen, what’s the matter? Is everyone all right?” Rafe asked, his hand still on her arm.
“Yes.” Deactivating the phone, she put it into her purse, then turned toward him, her own plans growing. “It seems I have the rest of the day off. If you don’t mind, I’d like to spend it with you. I could go with you on your deliveries and keep you company. Afterwards, we could see a movie if you aren’t too tired.”
Uneasiness crossed his face. His took his hand from her arm.
“Or maybe not.” She got out of the truck and closed the door, her appetite suddenly gone.
He caught up with her as she crossed the parking lot. “The deliveries will take the rest of the day and well into the night. You’d be bored.”
“I enjoy being with you and I’d get to see the reaction of your customers when they see your work,” she told him, stepping onto the sidewalk, which curved to the back of the steak restaurant. “That has to be a proud moment for both of you.”
“It is,” he said in amazement. “How did you know that?”
She stopped and turned to face him. “You put your heart and soul into every piece you make. I saw the way you waited for my reaction when you gave me the writing box. Your work is as much a part of you as your arms and legs.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked away.
She wanted to touch him, hold him, but he had to make the next move. She started to turn away.
“What kind of movie?”
Kristen’s voice was breathless when she answered. “We’ll get a newspaper and decide.”
“I haven’t been to a movie in years.” His hand closed gently around her upper forearm and they continued toward the front door. “I might go to sleep on you.”
He was trying.
She smiled softly. “Just so you don’t snore.”
twenty
“I don’t know how you got Claudette to stay, but I’m thankful to both of you,” Jacques said two hours after Claudette’s arrival, when things were beginning to settle down. There were only about ten people in the gallery. Most were browsing.
Claudette was in a deep discussion with two elderly women on the work of a native of Orleans, Archibald J. Motley Jr., whose controversial 1927 painting of Stomp depicted the joy of African-Americans dancing at a cabaret. Many African-Americans at the time thought the painting was too stereotypical, that it would lessen their chances of entering mainstream white society. “You were both invaluable.”
“Don’t thank me,” Damien said, leaning casually against the desk. “It was Angelique who kept her from leaving—then the woman asking for help on a painting by Ruley cinched it.”
Jacques looked up from finishing writing an order. “Why didn’t you answer? You have a couple of his pieces. As I remember, you liked the fact that he was a non-conformist.”
Damien straightened and flicked nonexistent lint from his wheat-colored sports jacket. “I thought Claudette could do a better job. Since the woman bought the painting, I guess I was right.”
“Times like this, you make me extra proud,” Jacques said, coming to his feet. “Now get out of here, and thank Angelique for me.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice. I asked Sarah to put the wine and food in the refrigerator. Angelique is cooking for us, so help yourself.” Damien started for the door, then turned back, a pained expression on his face. “Dad, are you sure you’re going to be all right?”
“Don’t worry. I won’t interrupt you at a crucial moment again.”
“Dad!” Damien flushed and quickly glanced around.
“Go!”
This time Damien didn’t stop.
Jacques adjusted his conservative blue silk tie, brushed his hand over his navy, one-button suit jacket, and started toward Claudette, his concern for her increasing with each step. Free time was a commodity that was probably unheard of for Claudette. Besides running a thriving business, she was on enough boards and committees for three women, yet she had spent the past two hours helping in his gallery. Although he was extremely grateful, he couldn’t help being anxious about the implication.
One thing he knew for certain—Claudette needed a friend and he planned on showing her that he’d be there for her no matter what. “Good afternoon, ladies. Mind if I join you?”
One of the older women pinned him with a shrewd look. “Only if you agree with us that Motley’s paintings showed black culture as it was.” She jabbed a white-gloved finger in Claudette’s direction. “Like this intelligent young woman said, sometimes it’s uncomfortable to be confronted with the truth, but the truth is the truth and denial won’t change it.”
Jacques’s attention immediately switched to Claudette. He wondered if she could use the same clear-headed judgment when it came to Maurice. He couldn’t discern anything from her slightly amused expression. Only time would tell.
* * *
The only reason Damien didn’t speed was because he didn’t want to end up in a hospital bed instead of Angelique’s. He’d wanted a woman before, but never this badly.
He careened into a visitor’s parking space, hopped out of his car, and sprinted toward the glass doors of her apartment building. The doorman held the door open for him. Damien made a mental note to tip him on the way out. He wasn’t stopping to do it now.
He punched the elevator button and breathed a sigh of relief when it opened immediately. Inside the chrome-and-glass enclosure, he paced. As soon as the doors opened on the second floor, he was out like a shot.
His long-legged strides quickly carried him down the hall to Angelique’s door. He rang the doorbell. When she didn’t answer immediately, he knocked. Seconds ticked by and no answer.
Damien stared at the door in disbelief. She couldn’t do this to him. Closing his eyes, he braced his hands against the door. Why wasn’t she home, waiting for him? She knew he was coming. The thought had no sooner formed in his mind, then another took its place.
A chill whipped though him. What if she wasn’t all right? He was reaching inside his pocket for his cell phone when the door opened.
“Damien. Sorry, I was on the phone with—”
That was as far as she got. He hauled her into his arms, crushing her to him. His mouth took hers in a kiss filled with desire and long-suppressed hunger.
After a long time, he lifted his head, his breathing ragged, his hands braced on her slim hips. “You are going to turn me into an old man, worrying about you.”
She tightened her arms around his neck and brushed her lips across his chin. She smiled seductively up at him. “Not too old, I hope.”
His eyes blazed. With her still in his arms, he took the couple of steps to bring them inside her apartment, and then slammed the door behind him. “I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind.”
“Same here. I wrote exactly two pages.”
His mouth took hers again in a soul-searing kiss. Then he feasted on her enticing lips, the sweet curve of her cheek, and the delicate rim of her ear. Each kiss fueled the hunger that grew steadily within him.
His head lifted. His breathing was ragged. “I think we have a problem.”
Her mouth was doing its own feasting. “Not from where I’m standing.” Her tongue grazed across his lower lip, causing him to shudder.
“I don’t think I’m going to be able to wait much longer.”
She lifted her head. “In a bit of a hurry, are you?”
“Yes.” He was barely able to speak. She took his breath away and made him rock hard. Her sensuality and beauty called to him as no woman’s ever had.
“Then it’s a good thing I am, too.” She jerked his shirt out of his pants.
“Thank goodness,” he groaned before he took her mouth again. His hands tried to blindly unbutton and unzip without t
aking his mouth from hers, and at the same time guide them to the bedroom—or at least what he hoped was the right direction.
They bumped into the sofa, a chair. Angelique giggled until Damien nipped her on the neck. She moaned and worked faster to get his shirt off. The best she could do with his tie was slide the knot down. She wasn’t letting go of him until it was absolutely necessary. Kissing him was like taking a bite of chocolate. One taste was never enough; you had to taste it again and again.
Somehow they worked their way down the hall. Damien wanted to weep when the first room turned out to be her office. It looked as if a hurricane had swept through it. He came up for breath. “Please tell me it’s not much farther.”
Off came his tie. “I’ll make it worth the wait.”
Damien snatched her up in his arms and practically ran to the last room down the hallway, where he came to an abrupt halt. The room had been set for love and seduction. The ecru comforter on the king-sized bed was turned back invitingly; the mini-blinds beneath the tailored blue casement were closed so that only splinters of light reached inside. Candles glowed around the room. The intoxicating scent of hyacinth filled his nostrils.
“Do we still have a problem?” She unbuckled his belt.
“Not at all.” He continued to the bed and sat down, pulling her down beside him. He took her face in his hands and tenderly kissed her lips. “In case I get carried away later.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but his mouth on hers silenced her in a kiss that made her body hum. Her tongue sought his greedily, tangling with his, dancing with his, dueling with his.
He eased her back on the bed and she went, her eyes closing as his hands splayed on her bare abdomen as he lowered her panties. Anticipation and heat swept through her. She arched against him, moaning his name as he found her damp and hot. She wanted to tell him to slow down and let her savor each new emotion he wrung from her.
Then she was beneath him. Their eyes met as he prepared himself. Her breath caught at the naked desire in his eyes. Moments later she felt herself being filled by his hard length, aroused by the incredible heat of him. Pleasure swept though her as he stroked her, rocked inside her again and again. The pace he set was relentless and thrilling. Her long legs locked around his waist, drawing him closer, deeper still.
The edges of reality blurred. Angelique clung to Damien as desperately and as passionately as he clung to her. They shattered together.
* * *
Claudette told herself that she would leave St. Clair’s as soon as Jacques returned from carrying a purchase to a customer’s car. It was almost five. She should have left hours ago. Yet, she’d stayed.
Staying busy had helped keep her mind off her problems, plus she’d had the twin joys of helping Jacques and talking about art. But now that she was alone in the gallery, her worries crept back. Try as she might, like wisps of fog, there was nothing she could do to push them away again.
In the past, art and music had always soothed and calmed her. Since she was a child they had been her companions, her solace. Her parents had loved her, but they hadn’t been demonstrative. Casual touches and praise weren’t in them, but they never missed an event she participated in. Each school year they obtained a schedule and planned their business and social obligations around it. They’d expected her to be self-reliant and self-possessed. Decorum was always maintained, no matter what.
She had been so afraid of disappointing them that she never dared risk voicing any of her insecurities about living up to their expectations. Perhaps that was why James appealed to her. She didn’t have to pretend with a rebel like him. She could relax and not always be on guard against saying the wrong word, doing the wrong thing.
Claudette wrapped her arms around herself and admitted there was another reason for her attraction to James. He made her body tingle with desire. She’d grown up starving for affection and he was a master at knowing just the right place to touch with just the right amount of pressure. The second time she’d snuck out of the house to meet him, she would have gladly given her virginity to him in the back seat of his car. It was James who had stopped.
“We can’t. For once in my life I’m going to do the right thing.” He’d held her tightly and they had planned for their future. She had been scared but happy as she slipped out of the house a week later, knowing she’d return as Mrs. James Cassell. But there was no future for them—only lies and deceit.
Two days later James had dumped her at her parents’ house, saying he wasn’t cut out for marriage after all. Despite her tears and begging, he had driven away without a backward glance. She’d never seen him alive again.
Her eyes shut tightly for a moment. She had raced headlong into doing the very thing she had fought against. She had disgraced herself and the Thibodeaux name. Afterwards she had pulled into herself even more, determined to mold herself into the daughter her parents could be proud of. Music and art had influenced her even more. They’d become her passion and her unshakable solace. Until now.
Neither the haunting violin strings of Madama Butterfly nor the graceful serenity of a mahogany statue, Woman Resting, by one of her favorite artists, Elizabeth Cattlett, helped ease the disquiet that had nipped at her heels since she had awakened alone in bed this morning. She had always identified with Cattlett’s strong sense of purpose, her unshakable belief in herself. Until now.
After only four short months, she had to admit her marriage was in trouble. Denial was no longer possible, and with that came more questions. Had the problems developed because of something missing in her, or had she let another man’s charm fool her? Turning away, Claudette moved toward the front of the empty gallery. Feeling adrift, her restlessness increased and so did her loneliness.
There was no one to share her troubles with. No one she could show her weakness, her doubts to. To the outside world she was invincible and in total control. And no matter what, she had to make sure that image remained. Her father had entrusted more than a business to her: he had entrusted the Thibodeaux name.
Failure was unthinkable. She just had to figure out her next move.
If she went home, she’d have to deal with the sympathy of her staff and her own unwanted thoughts. She’d swallowed her pride and called her home when Jacques had left to help the customer. Maurice wasn’t there, nor had he called. Pretending she expected as much, she’d given them the gallery’s phone number. She’d heard the pity in the housekeeper’s voice when she said she’d give it to him as soon as he came in.
But how long would that be? Where was he and what was he doing?
Uncomfortable with the answers she kept getting, she was thankful when Jacques reentered the gallery. With an effort she plastered a bright smile on her face. “You get everything taken care of?”
“Yes,” he said, flipping the “open” sign to “closed.”
“Jacques, you don’t have to close early,” she said. “I’ll stay and help.” No one is waited for me at home.
He smiled warmly at her, crossed, and took her hands in his. “We’ve worked hard and I’m tired. You must be, too.”
“A little,” she admitted, but she was more concerned about going home to an empty house and the doubts troubling her.
“I thought so, although you look as lovely as ever,” he said with his usual gallantry.
Unexpectedly, Claudette felt her cheeks grow warm. She pulled her hands free. “Thank you.”
“Now, where would you like to go for dinner?” he asked, determined that she end the afternoon pleasantly. “And I won’t take no for an answer. After taking your entire Saturday afternoon, the least I can do is feed you. If I remember, the last time the art council met at The Palm for a planning session, you ordered redfish with crabmeat jaime.”
She couldn’t keep the surprise or the pleasure from her face. “The Palm doesn’t open until seven.”
Jacques nodded and started toward the back of the gallery. “I don’t think either of us can wait that long. We can eat at my
house, compliments of Damien.”
She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Let me set the alarm and I’ll explain on the way to my place.” He disappeared into the back room.
Claudette bit her lip, then decided dinner with an old friend was better than dealing with her absent husband and her own insecurities. Much better.
* * *
When Jacques and Claudette arrived at his home in the Garden District, he’d shown her to the powder room, then went to the patio to see that everything was ready for their meal. He’d called Sarah, his full-time housekeeper, from the gallery when he was in the back setting the alarm. She’d been with him since Damien was born. He hadn’t a doubt she’d follow his instructions implicitly.
His steps had a certain spring to them that had been missing lately as he crossed the flagstone terrace and went down the three stone steps. Thirty feet ahead of him was the cool, beckoning water of the rectangular swimming pool. To his immediate right, beneath a canopy of evergreens with a backdrop of flowering shrubbery and plants in hues of red and burgundy, was a serving cart. Next to it was a table covered with Irish linen. On top was a small bouquet of flowers, bone china place settings, delicate crystal stems, and the sterling his wife brought out for special occasions.
Jacques recognized the label of the wine in the standing ice bucket. Damien had certainly wanted to make the afternoon special. Jacques wondered if his son usually went to this much trouble, or was Angelique that special to him.
“He must really like her.”
Jacques turned to see Claudette at the top of the terrace steps. In her face he saw something he’d seen too much of lately. Uncertainty. “I think he does.”
Slowly, she came down the steps. “How do you feel about that?”
“I like her.” Jacques took Claudette’s trim arm and led her to the table.
She looked over her shoulder at Jacques as she sat in the white wrought iron cushioned chair. “How long has he known her?”
“A couple of weeks,” Jacques answered, serving them shrimp salad with tropical fruit. After he filled their gold-trimmed flutes with champagne, he took his seat. “They met at the gallery when she came by to see Kristen. They’re neighbors and best friends.”