Somebody's Knocking at My Door

by Francis Ray

  She’d never felt intimidated by the massive furniture or her father’s sharp mind. On rare occasions they’d sit and read for pleasure while a fire roared in the hearth or rain beat steadily against the lead glass windows, as it did today. It was fitting, she thought, that she be here when she talked to the man who held the key to her future and that of Thibodeaux International.

  She listened closely to everything he said, each word indelibly seared into her mind. She had been right to take this course of action. It was bold and would cost heavily, both professionally and personally, but the alternative was too dire to even think about.

  Honor above all else.

  * * *

  Jacques glanced up when the door opened. They hadn’t seen a real customer in two hours. The people who came in were trying to get out of the rain. He didn’t mind. There was always the possibility that they’d see an item they liked and decide to buy.

  “Damien.”

  Damien closed the umbrella and stuck it in the antique brass umbrella stand his mother had gotten for the gallery years ago. It came in handy on rainy days like this. “Hi, Dad. Is Kristen here?”

  Jacques studied his son’s tight jaw, the glint in his eyes. It looked like Damien and Angelique had taken another wrong turn. “She’s in the back, but I don’t think you should bother her.”

  “Why?” Damien snapped out.

  Since his son was usually well-mannered and respectful, Jacques overlooked his brusque tone. Unrequited affection tended to put a man in a bad mood. “I think she and Rafe are having problems. She doesn’t need you harassing her about Angelique.”

  Damien stuck his hands in his pockets. “Angelique won’t see me.”

  Jacques’s eyebrow rose. “What did you do?”

  His hands whipped out. “I—” He shoved his hand over his head. “I may have become a bit concerned when she started talking about the meaning of love or something.…”

  “Something? You weren’t listening to her?” Jacques asked in disbelief.

  Damien almost rolled his eyes. “Come on, Dad. I wasn’t expecting it and I might have gotten a little gun-shy—then Judge Randolph showed up and things went downhill fast.” Damien told his father what had happened at the restaurant. “I thought things were fine until the next day when she began avoiding me.”

  “Randolph gives new meaning to the words dirty old man,” Jacques said with disgust.

  Damien’s eyes were like chips of black ice. “He came to see me the next day with a lot of bull about wanting to save me. I set the self-righteous bastard straight. If he ever sees Angelique again, he’d better be on his best behavior or he’ll answer to me. But the way she’s avoiding me, I may not see her, either.”

  “You think Kristen will tell you what’s going on?” Jacques asked.

  “I’m hoping,” Damien said.

  “Go on back—just be sensitive,” Jacques said, taking a seat behind Kristen’s desk. “There’s no sense in all of us being miserable.”

  Damien planted his hands on the desk. “Claudette told us in an executive meeting that he’s out of town on a fact-finding mission. I can’t put my finger on it, but she’s been different all week.”

  Jacques stopped stacking papers. “You don’t usually discuss company business.”

  “Like you said, there’s no sense in all of us being miserable.”

  “It could mean nothing,” Jacques said, hoping in spite of himself, in spite of it being wrong to want another man’s wife.

  “Or it could mean she’s finally taking a hard look at the situation.” Damien straightened.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Jacques nodded his head toward the back of the shop. “Go.”

  Knowing that his father didn’t want to discuss it anymore, Damien walked to the back. Seeing Kristen with her forehead in her palms, he knew his father was right. “Kristen.”

  She looked up. Her facial muscles flexed as if she were trying to smile and couldn’t quite get them to cooperate.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  She bit her lip, then shook her head once.

  Damien would be the worst kind of bastard if he tried to get information from her when she was so upset and barely holding it together. “I just dropped in to see Dad and I thought I’d say hello. I didn’t mean to disturb you. ’Bye.”

  “Damien.”

  He turned back. “Yes?”

  “Do you really care about Angelique or is it just sex?”

  He started, then jerked his head toward the front of the shop. He’d never had his sexuality discussed so openly in his life. His father had been bad enough. Damien stared back at her. Kristen had always impressed him as the shy, naïve type.

  She stared right back, red, puffy eyes and all. “Well?”

  “I’m not sure how I feel, but I do know it’s not just about sex,” he said. If she asked anything else, he was out of there.

  Kristen seemed to consider his words as she clutched a crumpled tissue in her hand. “Angelique didn’t ask me not to tell you, but I can’t betray a confidence.”

  Damien eased closer to the desk. He’d known something was going on. “Can you give me a hint?”

  “You already know the answer. All you have to do is figure out what you’re going to do about it.”

  “What?” He frowned. “This isn’t some Oriental mysticism we’re discussing.”

  “I can’t say more.”

  He reached for her. “Kris—”

  “Leave her alone!”

  His hand still reaching for Kristen, Damien turned toward the harsh-sounding voice and saw the broad-shouldered man who had been with her at his father’s house the night of the party. Damien looked into the other man’s cold, black eyes and saw his life pass before him. He didn’t need Kristen’s soft exclamation to know that this man was the cause of her tears. Slowly he lowered his hand.

  “I’m sorry, Kristen,” Damien said, not because he was afraid but because he had been wrong to become upset when she had tried to help him. “I hope you’ll both accept my apology.”

  “It’s all right, Rafe.” Kristen came unsteadily to her feet. “Rafe Crawford, Damien Broussard, Jacques’s son. He’s a friend of Angelique’s.”

  Damien was the first to extend his hand. Rafe slowly lifted his. “Again, I’m sorry. Angelique won’t see me, and I was trying to find out why.”

  “I told you. You have the answer,” Kristen said, but her gaze kept straying to Rafe. “You’ll figure it out.”

  “Hope so.” He nodded. “Rafe. Kristen.”

  Rafe didn’t pay any attention to Damien leaving. Kristen held his complete attention. He’d seen the good-looking man talking to her and jealousy had shot through him: then the man had shouted at her. Rafe had wanted to hit him. The only reason he didn’t was fear of causing her to lose another job. Considering he was Jacques’s son, that’s exactly what would have happened.

  “What brings you here?”

  You, he wanted to say. He hadn’t been able to work all day and when the rain started a little after two, he’d given up and driven to the gallery. He couldn’t give her what she wanted, but at least he could show her he valued the precious gift she’d given him. He just wished he’d come sooner. She looked miserable and she hadn’t stopped crying.

  “I thought I’d walk around the Quarter for inspiration.”

  “Oh,” she said, biting her lower lip. “Then you won’t be staying?”

  “I might. You mind if I stick around for a while?”

  “No,” she quickly said. “There’s some mahogany and teak statues that you may find interesting. Let me show you.” She took him to the glass-encased collection. “Take your time. They’re really beautiful—quite spectacular.”

  “But they can’t match you,” he said, then clamped his mouth shut.

  She blinked rapidly as if she were fighting tears. “Thank you.”

  Embarrassed by his outburst, he turned back to the carvings.

  * * *

 
Damien returned to the front of the gallery, deep in thought. It appeared that Kristen and Rafe might work out whatever problems they were having. At least they were talking. He wished he could say the same about him and Angelique.

  “She tell you?” Jacques asked.

  “Not unless you consider her cryptic message that I already had the answer, telling me.” He picked up the umbrella. “All I have to do is figure it out.”

  “You will.”

  “Yeah. Good-bye, Dad.” Stepping outside. Damien unfolded the umbrella and started down the street, his mind going over his last conversation with Angelique. He turned on St. Peter’s and headed toward the Mississippi River.

  He dismissed the first thought that came to him because they had talked that through. Yet, somehow his mind always circled back to the same thing.

  Letting down the umbrella, he went inside Jackson Brewery and up to Pat O’Brien’s on the third floor. The combination of rain and Saturday had the famous restaurant and bar crowded, so he was pleased to be shown a small table near the window looking out over the Mississippi.

  The sky was a dull gray. The kind of day he’d like to be in bed curled up with Angelique or pulling sweet cries from her body. His fingers drummed on the table. Until he figured out why she was avoiding him, he wasn’t going to be able to do either.

  Ordering a glass of mineral water with a twist of lime, he folded his arms and continued to stare out the window. You have the answer. That could mean he had already discussed it with Angelique.

  He jerked upright in his chair, startling the waitress, who was about to place his drink on the table. Once again, if he had listened to his mother it would have saved him a lot of time and misery. She’d always tried to instill in his hard head that he should follow his first mind when he had tough choices in life or on an exam. “That’s it.”

  He tossed a ten on the table and strode from the restaurant. He was going to wring Angelique’s beautiful neck.

  twenty-eight

  Damien had calmed down considerably by the time he rang Angelique’s doorbell twenty minutes later. Both his parents had preached that if he went looking for trouble, it would find him. Attacking Angelique would solve nothing. He was a lawyer. Words and reason were his forte … if he got the chance to use them.

  He rang the doorbell again. “Angelique. I know you’re in there. The doorman said he hadn’t seen you come out of the building today.”

  Silence.

  Tired of this, Damien went for the kill. “What kind of psychologist runs from her problems?”

  The lock clicked almost immediately. A fuming Angelique jerked open the door. She had circles beneath her eyes and she wore her grubby clothes, which meant no bra. Damien congratulated himself on keeping his gaze locked on her very angry face.

  “How dare you question my professionalism,” she hissed.

  “You had no difficulty questioning mine,” he retorted.

  Her head jerked back as if he had hit her. He used that unguarded moment to push his way inside.

  She swung the door shut and turned to face him. “I’m busy, Damien.”

  “Hiding from me.”

  She crossed her arms over her unbound breasts. “You certainly think highly of yourself. You think I have nothing better to do than hide from you?”

  His eyes narrowed. “That’s right. I do think highly of myself and apparently you don’t. You either thought I was too stupid or so weak that you had to save my career for me or that I was so self-serving and shallow that I’d be ashamed of you. Either way, that’s not saying very much.”

  Angelique let her arms fall. “I never thought you were any of those things!”

  “Yes, you did. When you decided it was over. How do you think that made me feel?”

  Uncertainty crossed her face. “We were just dating.”

  “And sleeping together, or didn’t that mean anything to you?” he snapped out.

  Her face flushed with anger. “I don’t sleep around.”

  “When your character is being attacked unjustly it’s not a very good feeling, is it?” His mouth flattened into a narrow line.

  She shoved her hand through her hair impatiently. She was losing this battle and knew it. “I apologize if I offended you. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to get back to work on my dissertation.”

  “Mind if I read it?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “No one has read it yet, not even my advisor.”

  “Seems to me that you should have another pair of eyes look at it.” He walked over to her work area, then released the single button on his dark gray jacket and hunkered down by the papers scattered around the sofa. “I’ll leave after I read it, and I won’t bother you again.”

  That was what she wanted, for him to leave her alone, so why did her chest hurt? She walked over and gave him the thirty sheets that she had sweated bullets and spent hundreds of hours in research to write. “I was about to fix a sandwich. Yell when you finish. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  Damien took the papers, then sat cross-legged on the floor and began to read.

  Realizing she was standing there trying to gauge his reaction, Angelique forced herself to leave and fix that sandwich she no longer wanted. Damien was out of her life, so his opinion didn’t matter.

  About to open the refrigerator, she closed her eyes and leaned her head against the door. She was doing it again, lying to herself when she’d made a vow long ago that she’d never do that again. She wanted Damien, and knowing she’d never be with him was killing her.

  * * *

  “I’m finished.”

  Angelique sprang up from the table and rushed back into the den. It had taken him exactly twenty-seven minutes.

  One hand negligently slipped into the front pocket of his gray slacks as he stood by her sofa. “Thank you for letting me read it.” He started for the door.

  Angelique stared at him in disbelief, then crossed her arms stubbornly across her chest. She wasn’t going to ask. She wasn’t.

  He reached for the doorknob. “What did you think?” she blurted, unable to help herself.

  He gazed at her, his expression unreadable. “You really want my honest opinion?”

  She hated it when people asked that question. She’d always been tempted to say, No, I want a jackass’s opinion, but since one’s not around, you’ll do.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s biased and weighed heavily by your obvious mistrust and dislike of men.”

  “What!” she sputtered.

  “You paint men as users and women as long-suffering weaklings who have little backbone, but somehow manage to keep home and hearth together.”

  “That’s not—”

  He talked over her. “Who do you think man, since the beginning of time, went into battle for? Why they fought vicious animals with only their bare hands or clubs? Why our forefathers suffered inhumanities and injustices that could have broken them? I’ll tell you why. They did it for the families they had waiting at home, depending on them. They still do.

  “Nowhere in those pages did I see men like my father who put in ten-hour days and went to school at night to make a better life for me and my mother, to make us proud of him although we already were.” He walked over to her until he was towering over her. “I didn’t even see your foster father, and for that you should be ashamed.”

  That hurt and cut to the quick. “The paper is not about good men.”

  “How can you be a clinical psychologist and not weigh all sides equally?” he asked. “If you look at a patient you’re counseling with prejudices and preconceived notions, you’ll do more harm than good. You know that.”

  She did. “I wouldn’t do that to my patients.”

  “Then write your dissertation the same way … without prejudices or biases and not to get back at anyone.” He moved in closer. “Give me the same fair consideration.” His tone became low and intimate. “Don’t judge me. Don’t make my decisions for me. Don’t lump me with the father who abandon
ed you, the lover who hurt you, or all the men like Randolph who made you feel less than the intelligent, beautiful woman you are.” He pointed to his chest. “This is me. Look at me and see me, not them.”

  He turned, walked over to the door, and wrenched it open. “If I were you, I’d take another long, hard look at your dissertation and at me. You’ll only have one chance.” The door closed behind him.

  Angelique stood there, vibrating with anger. How dare he attack her professionalism. She was good at what she did! The recovery rate in her case file was the highest at the center. She’d even heard talk that she was being considered as the director of a new satellite facility they planned to open next year. What did he know?

  She went to her dissertation, picked it up, and began to read. Halfway through, she sank back into the sofa. Her mouth was tight with anger and it was directed at herself.

  He was right.

  She had taken out her anger and frustration on the men in her life who had abandoned or mistreated her. She was scheduled for her oral defense of her dissertation in four weeks and what she’d written wouldn’t cut it. She could plow ahead or work her tail off to correct it.

  She picked up the phone. “Hello. Dr. Jones. I hate to call you on a Saturday, but there’s a problem with my dissertation. Do you think we could meet this afternoon or tomorrow and discuss it?” She said a little prayer and waited for his answer.

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll be right over.”

  Heading for her bedroom, she pulled off her sweatshirt. If she went down, she’d go down fighting.

  * * *

  “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?” Jacques asked Kristen. “It’s been slow all day. Take Rafe with you. I admire anyone who enjoys art, but he’s been with those statues for over an hour.”

  Kristen had thought the same thing. He had to be bored, but he showed no sign of leaving. Rafe, who liked his solitude and who probably had twenty things to do, was sticking around to see that she was all right. “Jacques, I can’t. I got in late and I took off last Saturday.”