by Francis Ray
Finally, Claudette laid the sterling brush aside and turned off the crystal lamps on either side of the vanity. Maurice sent her a welcoming smile, but she was buttoning the sleeve of her silk pajamas and didn’t see it.
She won’t have those on for long.
By the king-sized, antique bed, she dropped to her knees and bowed her head. His mouth tightened even more. He’d never been a religious person. A man made his own luck, not some all-seeing, all-powerful god. Maurice could only depend on Maurice.
Rising gracefully, she turned off the brass lamp on her side of the bed and slid beneath the down covers. “Good night, Maurice.” She turned her back to him.
Undaunted, he began sliding toward her. Claudette wasn’t the aggressive type. He’d surreptitiously removed his pajama bottoms after climbing into bed. He was hard and ready. His Jimmy never let him down when it was time to perform.
He touched her on the curve of her shoulder, the back of her neck, the hollow of her throat, finally stopping to close his hand over her breast. She might be old, but her breasts remained firm. “I love you, Claudette.”
“I have a headache.”
His hand, his entire body went still. She couldn’t have surprised him more if she had gone down on him. “W-what?”
Her weary sigh drifted between them in the darkness. “Too much wine.” She yawned. “Good night. I’m glad your trip was successful.”
He quickly withdrew his hand, wondering if she had felt the slight jerk when she mentioned his trip. “Yes. So am I.” He scooted back to his side of the bed, belatedly remembering to say, “I hope you feel better.”
“I’m sure I will. Thank you.”
There it was again, the polite, cool voice. He wanted to shake her reserve. He didn’t have to think long to figure out how. “Jacques wants you for more than just a friend, you know,” he told her, then waited for her denial and defense.
None came.
“Didn’t you hear me?” he snapped out.
“What?” she said and yawned again. “I must have drifted off. Did you say something?”
She couldn’t have fallen asleep that quickly. Could she? “Nothing. Good night.” Maybe it was for the best that she hadn’t heard. He didn’t want to give her any ideas. She was his ticket out of a butt-load of trouble, and no one was getting in his way.
twenty-two
Kristen had known she’d be right. People had glowed with as much pride as Rafe did on seeing the furniture he’d made for them. It was obvious from his pleased expression that he appreciated their praise, but even so, he never wanted to linger and chat. Each time it happened, Kristen’s heart ached a little more for him. She’d never met a man who needed love so much and was so afraid of reaching out for it.
Their third and last stop was in Lafayette, two hours west of New Orleans, to deliver a cedar chest to a young couple. By the time Rafe had finished removing the heavy packing quilt from the cedar chest in the nursery, seven-months-pregnant Gloria Sanders and her husband, John, were on their knees on the other side of Rafe. The happy woman kept running her hand over the gleaming wood.
“It’s beautiful. Just the way I envisioned it,” she choked. “You got every detail just the way I remember. Even the hand-carved tulips my grandmother loved on the front panel.”
John hugged his wife to his lanky frame and kissed her dark hair. “If you cry, you’ll warp the wood.”
Gloria brushed tears away from her dark eyes and glanced up at Kristen. “You must think I’m silly for crying, but the chest my mother gave me before she died was destroyed in a fire last year. I grieved over that chest. It was like losing my mother all over again.”
She glanced back at the chest, her eyes misting again. She put one hand on top and the other on her rounded stomach. “I wanted this before I had my first child. It’s a girl. My daughter, then her daughter, will fill this with their hopes and dreams, just as I did. The tradition my grandmother started will continue. The loving legacy will continue.”
Rafe’s hand clenched on the padded blanket. The couple was looking at each other and didn’t notice. Kristen did, and her heart went out to him.
John helped his wife to her feet. “Thank you, Rafe. I heard you were the best.”
“I want to build the best and I want it to last,” Rafe said quietly. He stood and folded the blanket. “I don’t guess there’s any reason to ask, if you decide to sell it, to contact me first.”
Gloria glanced at the chest again, then around the room with the animal-print wallpaper, before facing Rafe. “No. Not in the least.”
“We’ll be going, then.” Rafe tucked the blanket under his arm and reached for Kristen.
“Won’t you stay?” Gloria asked, following them to the front of the house. “Some of our friends and relatives are coming over a little later to see it. I’d like them to meet you.”
Rafe’s eyes went wide. “Eh, thanks, but we have to be going. It’s a long drive back.”
John pulled a check from the pocket of his shirt and handed it to Rafe. “I understand. Thank you for delivering it so late.”
“I knew she wanted it and I wanted her to have it.” Rafe exchanged the check for a receipt he’d already prepared. “Good night.”
“Wait!” Kristen cried as they started off the porch. She dug in her purse and gave the man a few of Rafe’s new business cards. “For your friends and family.”
Rafe’s mouth twisted wryly. “My PR person,” he explained and continued with Kristen down the steps to his truck. Opening the door for her, he helped her inside, then stored the packing blanket and climbed into the driver’s seat. “You hungry or thirsty?”
“No. I’m fine.” She twisted in the seat toward him, enjoying his strong, handsome profile. “Surprise.”
His mouth quirked. He started the motor and backed out onto the street. “Try to get some sleep. I’ll wake you when we get to your place.”
Kristen started to tell him it was barely ten and that she wasn’t sleepy: then she thought of the enticing possibilities. Placing her large bag on the other side of her, next to the door, she scooted closer to Rafe and placed her head on his broad shoulder.
He jumped and stared down at her.
She had expected as much, and patted back a yawn. “Hope you don’t mind. I have a fear of going to sleep on the door and falling out.”
His gaze snapped from her to the door. He punched the automatic door lock. “N-no.”
“Thanks.” She rubbed her chin on his shoulder, adjusting her body to his, and closed her eyes, her hands primly in her lap.
The heat from his body seeped into her: she felt the hard outline of his thigh next to hers, smelled his spicy cologne. Awareness hit her and so did the need to touch him, feel his mouth on hers. She clasped her hands together.
Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea after all. She was about to move away when she remembered Rafe’s tortured face when the young woman mentioned legacy and tradition. He fought one and didn’t think he would ever have the other. If she had any say in the matter, Rafe would know that he had his own legacy and tradition. Maybe, just maybe, she’d be there to share it with him.
* * *
Her warm breath bathed his neck, her soft breast pressed against his arm, her hand rested on his thigh. She was torturing him, and he welcomed each sweet, agonizing second. Wanting to steal each precious moment with her, he drove fifteen miles below the posted speed limit.
Kristen could never be his, could never be more than a friend. He knew that in his mind, tried to accept it, but some part of him refused to acknowledge it.
That rebellious part of him longed to take her home with him, to take her in his arms and to his bed. He’d awaken her with tender kisses; she’d smile up at him and welcome him into her arms, into her heart and body.
Rafe’s hand flexed on the steering wheel as he exited off the ramp in New Orleans. It was an impossible fantasy, one that could never come true. His course had been set long before he was born. He had
bad blood. No matter how he wished it were different, he couldn’t change what was.
He’d never see Kristen’s eyes light up with love for him, never share a life with her, never see her body grow round with their child. He couldn’t change fate.
Gripping the steering wheel, he pulled into a parking space in her apartment and shut his eyes, but was unable to shut off the thought of her eventually loving another man, having his child.
She twisted in the seat more fully toward him. Her slim hand slid perilously close to a part of him that he wanted to bury deep inside her silken heat. He caught her hand before she touched something that would embarrass her and send him over the edge. “Kristen, we’re here.”
“Ummm,” she said, turning her body more into his, her arms going around his neck, her mouth moving closer to the open collar of his shirt. “Rafe.”
Hearing her murmur his name sent a shaft of need and longing through him. His eyes shut. Slowly his arms crept up and around her, even as he told himself to stop.
She quieted immediately. Not so his heart. It thundered wildly.
She was so soft, so loving and giving. Why was it his fate to be the son of a cowardly bastard? This time he couldn’t help the rage that swept through him or the sudden tightening of his arms because of what had been taken from him, because of what would never be his.
“Rafe?”
He heard the sleep-drugged voice, but also the uncertainty. Immediately he loosened his hold and set her away. “We’re here.”
“Is everything all right?”
He refused to meet her eyes. “Sure.” He got out of the truck and opened her door. “Come on, let’s get you upstairs and to bed.”
“You’re the one who needs to be in bed. I slept.” She punched in the code to the lobby door. The doorman went off at midnight and came back on at six.
“I’m used to late nights,” Rafe said, his voice gritty. He followed her into the elevator.
“Thank you for taking me with you,” she said, smiling up at him.
He nodded, staring straight ahead, glad she lived on the second floor. When the chrome-encased doors slid open, he took her arm and stepped off. Silently he walked beside her to her apartment and then waited while she opened her door.
“Rafe, are you sure everything is all right?” she asked.
The uncertainty in her voice tore at him. He glanced at her, then quickly away. “Sure.”
“Do you want to come over tomorrow and watch a movie or something?”
“I’ll be busy.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked anywhere but at her. Just go inside. Please.
“I’ll bring you lunch, then.”
“No!” he said, then cursed under his breath when he saw the hurt on her face. She was tearing him apart, but better that than him ever hurting her. “I meant, I want you to rest. I dragged you all over the place today.”
“I enjoyed being with you,” she said, a half-smile on her tempting mouth. She looked up at him as if she’d never get enough.
Rafe’s fists clenched. “I’d better be going.”
Her smile faded. She swallowed. “Good night. I’ll see you Monday night.”
“Good night.”
Kristen finally went inside and closed the door softly behind her.
Rafe spun on his heels and strode down the hall, his thoughts on a man he couldn’t forget, couldn’t stop hating.
Old man, if I ever see you again, I’m keeping my promise. Only one of us will walk away. And for all the hell you’ve put me through, it won’t be you.
* * *
Maurice woke up in bed alone. Instantly uneasy, his head turned on the pillow, knowing as he did that he wouldn’t see Claudette. He sat up beneath the mound of luxurious bedding that cost as much as a month of his old salary.
She’d awakened before him lots of times, but always, always, she’d kissed him good-bye before she left to go downstairs or to the office. He knew because, despite her tiptoeing around, he was a light sleeper and woke up. This morning he hadn’t.
He got out of bed and checked her bathroom. The elegant bathroom in gold and creamy marble was empty. No steam coated the mirrors. Freshly used bath towels hung neatly on the rack behind the six-foot garden tub.
His first thought was to go downstairs and find her. Common sense made him go instead to the armoire she’d put in her room for his clothes. He couldn’t let her know that her actions last night concerned him.
He chose a new three-thousand-dollar, three-piece charcoal suit with a cream vest. The cufflinks in his French cuffs were 24K. He’d always had an eye for style. He just needed the means.
Thirty-five minutes later, freshly showered and dressed, he descended the stairs, expecting to find Claudette in the dining room or in the study. She was not in either place. He stood in the study with its dark-stained paneled wall and heavy furniture and stared at a picture of Claude Thibodeaux over the hand-carved mahogany mantel of the fireplace done by one of their ancestors. There was no give in the strong, austere features of Thibodeaux. Maurice hated and envied him.
“I’ll have it all.” Maurice strode to the bellpull by the damask draperies and jerked. Five minutes later, he pulled again. He was about to go find the maid when the door finally opened.
“Yes, sir?”
His irritation inched up a degree. It was Bridget, the cook. She disliked him, though she hid it from Claudette. “Where is Mia?”
“She’s busy. Can I help?”
It was just as obvious that the place she wished she could help him to was hell. Had Mia told her about their little encounter in here last week? No, she was too afraid of being fired. “Where is Mrs. Laurent?”
“Out,” came the succinct, and if he wasn’t mistaken, pleased reply.
“Where?”
She folded her arms across her nonexistent breasts. “The cemetery and then church.”
Claudette visited the mausoleum weekly. He thought it was morbid to be buried on top of another person and wasteful to spend hundreds of thousand of dollars on a crypt. He wouldn’t have to worry about that for a long, long time. He had a long, wealthy life ahead of him. “I want eggs Benedict and fresh fruit for breakfast. Bring me the paper.”
The smile on her homely face was slow and aggravating when it finally arrived. “Ms. Thibodeaux gave the staff the day off. I was just leaving.”
Shock snapped his head back. “She’s never done that before. You’re lying!”
Bridget put her hands on her narrow hips and gave him the once-over. “Now, if that isn’t calling the kettle black!”
“What!” he exclaimed, angered by her impertinence.
“My ride is waiting for me.” She turned on her spotless orthopedic shoes and closed the door behind her.
Maurice couldn’t believe it. He stalked across the room and jerked the door back open. “Come back here!”
She stopped in the wide hallway to face him. “Believe me, you do not want me to come back there.”
“You’re fired! You hear me? Don’t come back!” he yelled, but he was talking to himself. She had already turned a corner and disappeared. Just wait until Claudette arrived. He’d have them all fired. All except Mia. He had plans for her.
* * *
Instead of sleeping, Kristen had tossed and turned most of the night. She couldn’t get the nagging suspicion out of her mind that something important had happened between her and Rafe when he brought her home. But try as she might, she couldn’t remember what it was.
Sitting in the living room Sunday morning, she stared out the window at the bright day, a startling contrast to how she felt. Her gaze drifted to the phone on the end table beside her. During the course of the morning she had picked it up at least five times to call Rafe, and each time she had put the receiver back down.
He didn’t want to see her.
The thought wounded her deeply. But more than that was the unforgettable memory of the agony in Rafe’s face last night. If she could only remember. He
r fingers massaged her temples as if that would help. Perhaps when Angelique came over she could help trigger Kristen’s memory.
On Sunday mornings they usually had coffee together, then went to church, and afterwards, brunch. But it was 8:45 and she was already fifteen minutes late. Kristen wasn’t about to call and see if she was coming. Damien might have slept over.
Eyes closed, Kristen leaned her head against the cushioned back of the chair. At least one of them was happy.
The sound of the doorbell snapped her eyes open. Standing, she quickly crossed to the door. She didn’t relax until she saw the smile on Angelique’s face. It quickly faded.
“What happened?” Angelique asked, shutting the door behind her.
Kristen felt tears prick her eyes. “I wish I knew. Everything was going great until I woke up with him refusing to look at me.” Her hand speared through her hair as she sat down on the sofa. “Before then, I was having this wonderful dream of being in his arms.”
“Woke up where?” Frowning, Angelique sat down beside Kristen. “Back up and tell me everything from the start.”
Kristen did as she requested. “I don’t know what to do now. I don’t want to make him unhappy.”
Angelique crossed her long, shapely legs. Her short, white skirt slid up. “Maybe it wasn’t a dream.”
“What?”
“What if you were in Rafe’s arms? What if you’re the temptation he can’t resist?” Angelique asked, tapping her lower lip with her fingertip.
Kristen’s heart leaped with hope and excitement. “You think?”
Slowly, Angelique nodded. “The times I’ve seen him with you, he’s pretty protective. If there is something in his background that makes it difficult for him to reach out to another person, it also makes him feel as if he’s unworthy of happiness.”