Who could it be, except her aunt?
Joletta acquitted the older woman of doing the actual damage. She must have hired someone to come in the night while the shop was empty, professionals with special knowledge of where things could be hidden and no sentimentality about fine old furnishings. That Aunt Estelle could set such people loose on her own mother’s belongings was sickening.
Joletta, standing in the middle of the mess, looked down to see the miniature of Violet Fossier at her feet. She knelt slowly to pick it up. The frame was bent; the canvas had buckled and the oil paints were cracked and flaking. As she stared at the face of the woman in the small portrait, it seemed she could see gentle reproof in the painted gaze, and also a challenge.
Pain shifted under the anger that simmered inside Joletta, almost as if a real person had been injured. She felt such a kinship with Violet since reading her journal. She had devoured the closely written pages in a few short hours, and wished for more than the brief chronicle of desire and deception, love and loss.
As she stood there with the miniature in her hands, an idea began to form in her mind.
Violet had found the perfume she had named Le Jardin de Cour in Europe; the journal detailed how she had come to own it and even how she happened to begin making it. Was there a chance that by visiting some of the same countries and scenes that Violet had seen, Joletta might be better able to make sense of any formula that was hidden within the journal’s pages? Could it be possible that by following in Violet’s footsteps, using the journal as a guide, she might see a pattern, some arrangement of scented flowers and numbers that bore a resemblance to what she knew of the ingredients in the old perfume?
Violet had been religious about describing the particulars of her journey. She had set down the exact distance covered each day and the time spent moving from one destination to another, had recorded the heights of buildings and bridges and mountains and the lengths of rivers and streams. She had given the sizes of ships and carriages and trains, of rooms and pieces of furniture, and the number and descriptions of paintings and statuary viewed in famous churches and old houses. In addition, she seemed to have mentioned every flower she saw blooming in every garden in five different countries, and had made drawings of most of them.
Joletta had not been able to decide if Violet simply enjoyed minute detail, if she had been afraid she was going to forget everything if she didn’t write it down, or whether there was some significance to it all. However, the fact was that numbers were vital to the notation of perfume formulas. Most perfumers referred to separate essences, or their own special combinations of essences, by number rather than name, while the formulas themselves were set down in ratios or percentages.
The urge to travel, to get away, had been strong in Joletta since she had read the first few pages of the journal, pages where her great-great-great-great-grandmother spoke of her fervent joy at the prospect of leaving the numbing routine of her days behind and seeing new places and beautiful new things. The words had struck a response inside Joletta. As the pain and loss of Mimi’s death sank in, she felt a growing need to get away from all reminders of it. At the same time all the things she knew — her job, her apartment, the unvarying cycle of her days — seemed dull and without interest. She was desperate for a change. More than that, she had been cheated of her promised honeymoon trip.
There was also the fact that it was spring. Though Violet had been abroad two years, the events covered in her journal seemed to have taken place in a single year’s span, beginning in late spring of 1854 and concluding almost twelve months later, again in the spring. If Joletta acted at once, she could be in Europe at the same time of year that had been important to Violet, perhaps see some of the same flowers and trees blooming, the same greenery on the hillsides and crops on the farmlands.
Joletta noticed, suddenly, that her hands were trembling. It was no longer anger that gripped her, nor was it fear; it was excitement.
She would not let her aunt win. She wouldn’t. She was going to decipher the formula, no matter what she had to do or where she had to go to get it. With the formula and the journal in her possession, she would be in a position of strength when the time came to make up her mind about what to do with the perfume.
She would go to Europe. She would go for Mimi, in an attempt to keep faith with the trust her grandmother had placed in her when she spoke to her about the diary. She would go to escape her aunt’s maneuvering, at least for a short while. She would also go for herself. It would be a quest of sorts, a journey with a purpose. And if nothing came of it, at least she would have the memory of the trip.
It was raining when the plane landed in London, a fine gray drizzle that streaked back along the windows and spattered into the puddles on the tarmac as they rolled toward the gate. Inside Heathrow terminal, the cool, moist air smelled of damp wool, toasted tea buns, and a hint of saffron overlaid by the inevitable stench of jet fuel. Joletta, inhaling deeply, smiled.
England, she was in England. The sheer joy of it was a burgeoning pressure inside her. It was the first time she had felt the depression of Mimi’s death lift more than a fraction, and it felt good. Until this minute the trip had been a goal and a duty. She had spent the short few days since she had booked it making arrangements for leave from her job, assembling a wardrobe, packing, and all the dozens of other details it took to be gone from her apartment for several weeks. There had been so much to do, so much to think about, that she had not been able to rest at night. Once on the plane for the late-evening flight, she had fallen into an exhausted sleep. This was the first moment that the trip had seemed real.
She had settled on a package tour. She might have struck out on her own if she had had any experience in traveling; as it was, she preferred to have someone else handle the arrangements so she could concentrate on the problem that had brought her. She had managed to find an itinerary that closely followed the route taken by Violet Fossier and her husband, Gilbert, so long ago, one that began in England, covered France and Switzerland, and ended in Italy. The main difference was that Violet and Gilbert had spent two years in their travels, while she would have to make do with considerably less.
The red uniform of her tour-group leader was a welcome sight. Joining a number of other American tourists, she allowed herself to be directed toward passport control and customs.
The lines were long. Joletta set her brown tweed carry-on bag at her feet while she searched in her shoulder bag for her passport. She looked up with it in her hand as a buzz of commotion began around her. Just beyond where she stood, there was a large group from some African country being ushered through the area by uniformed guards, the men solemn and the women intriguing in turbans and floor-length dresses of draped silk. A murmur of speculation began about refugees from yet another coup d’état.
There came the soft thud of quick footsteps on carpet just behind Joletta. As she swung her head a wiry young man in jeans and a ponytail slid past her. He bent without stopping and snatched up her carry-on bag.
“Hey!” she yelled, and launched herself after him. Stretching out her hand, she grabbed the strap of the bag and gave it a hard yank.
The young man jerked to a halt and swung around. His face twisted with malice and desperation as he drove his fist at Joletta’s face. She saw the punch coming. She ducked away, but the blow caught the side of her head. It slid across her ear and the gold hoop earring that dangled from her lobe. She staggered back as her bag was ripped from her grasp.
Strong arms caught her from behind, arresting her fall. At the same moment the narrow-spaced eyes of the young man widened in alarm. He skipped backward and spun around. Fighting his way through the stream of refugees with the heavy bag dangling from his fist, he disappeared around a corner.
“Stop him,” Joletta cried, pushing at the man who held her. “He’s got my bag!”
The hold upon her remained firm, unbreakable. “Just let it go, ma’am,” came the quiet advice from above her hea
d. “Whatever’s in it can’t be as valuable as your safety.”
She went still. Sandalwood. So clean and fresh yet so faint that it drew a person closer to inhale it. A shiver of awareness, acute and not quite comfortable, ran over Joletta. She straightened slowly, turning while the voice of the man echoed and reechoed in her ears. Her eyes widened as she saw his face.
“I don’t believe it,” she said, almost to herself.
“Try harder.” Tyrone Kingsley Stuart Adamson IV made the recommendation with smiling irony before he went on. “I did a double take myself when I saw you get on the plane back in the States, but I never expected to be called on to do my gallant bit again. You all right?”
“Fine — I’m fine.” Her answer was given automatically.
“Sorry I couldn’t save your bag for you.”
She gave a brief shake of her head. “It’s all right, really. At least it will be until it comes time to brush my teeth.”
It was a feeble attempt at nonchalance, but he accorded it the recognition of a nod. “I see you hung on to your passport; that’s worth something. Let’s get through customs, then I’ll see you to your hotel.”
She told him where she was staying, but pointed out that her tour group was providing transportation. He waved that away, saying that the buses would be long gone before she got through the headache of reporting the theft of her carry-on.
He was right. By the time Joletta had dealt with the endless explanations and the effort to remember every item in the bag for the paperwork, she wished she had written the whole thing off, not reported it stolen at all. There was nothing of any real value in it anyway. She had started to put the photocopy of the journal in, but decided against it since she wanted it closer at hand in her shoulder bag. The original she had left back in New Orleans, she hoped well hidden.
The rain had stopped and the sun was shining by the time she and Rone finally reached the city. To accept an offer for a combination breakfast and lunch seemed both practical and natural; it was difficult to stand on ceremony with a man who had heard a description of the extra nightgown and underwear she had packed in her carryon. Besides, he had been so helpful and understanding, and extended the invitation with such charm, that she couldn’t think of any reason to refuse.
They dropped Joletta’s luggage off at the hotel and picked up her key, then went on into the center of town. In a small restaurant with stained-glass windows, smoke-darkened wood paneling, and banquettes of green leather under florid Victorian wallpaper, they ordered rashers of bacon with scrambled eggs and a grill of sausages, mushrooms, and tomatoes, plus an unusual goat-cheese pizza.
“So,” Rone said when the waiter had walked away, “are you just having a run of bad luck, or are you in trouble?”
It was a question that had occurred to Joletta. That her aunt might have set someone on her both in New Orleans and here was an idea so disturbing, however, that she didn’t want to think about it.
“Bad luck, I suppose,” she said with a wry smile. “I feel like the original green tourist after this morning.”
He watched her for a long, considering moment, the light in his dark blue eyes assessing. Finally he said, “It happens. If anything else does, I hope you’ll let me help you.”
“I’ll keep your rescue agency on file.”
“I mean it,” he insisted.
There had been a time when she had entertained the usual teenage dreams of a protective knight. The man who sat across from her might well qualify; he radiated warmth and concern, and was even better looking than she had thought from their first brief meeting. The smile lines in his face were more pronounced and his hair an even darker and richer shade of brown. His suit was expensively cut and his shirt was of white silk. Regardless, he was a stranger, someone with his own problems. And Charles had cured her of foolish dreams.
She shook her head. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m on vacation, that’s all. Everything’s going to be fine.”
“Knock wood,” he said, then his lips twitched in amusement, “or maybe not. Your bad luck seems to turn out well for me.”
“I don’t think I want any more just on the off chance that you’ll be around,” she said, and rapped the table.
He sobered, then reached out to lift her hair away from her face slightly. “Do you know you’re losing an earring?”
She reached up to touch the wide, eighteen-carat-gold hoop in the ear he indicated, then winced as she felt the soreness of the pierced hole in her earlobe. “It must have got in the way of that guy’s fist. It’s a good thing it did come loose.”
“Let me fasten it for you.” He didn’t wait for an answer, but leaned close to take the hoop in his fingers and hook its gold wire closure into its catch.
He was so near that Joletta could see the way his lashes grew in thick, dark rows and the shadow of dark beard stubble under his skin. She was aware of an odd vulnerability. What he was doing was, in its way, an intimate thing; most of the men she knew would have run a mile to avoid it, or else have instantly become all thumbs at the mere idea.
The brush of his fingers against her cheek brought a small shiver of reaction and the memory of the touch of his lips upon hers. The deftness of his movements made her wonder, briefly, what other intimate tasks he might also be good at performing.
Heat rose in her face at such an unaccustomed mental detour. In an effort to combat it, she said, “You haven’t told me why you’re in England.”
He gave her a direct look. “If I said you brought me, would you believe me?”
“Frankly, no,” she answered.
“I thought not,” he said on a sigh, though his gaze on the high color in her face was intent before he went on. “All right, the answer is business and pleasure; I decided to mix a little of one with a lot of the other.”
“What is it, exactly, that you do?” She propped her elbow on the table edge and rested her chin on her palm as she waited for his reply.
“There are people,” he said lightly, “who would tell you I do nothing at all, and do it very well.”
“A playboy?” she commented doubtfully.
“Not quite.”
“I thought not. I seemed to remember that you were in New Orleans on business.”
“Ah, yes, I wasn’t sure you would.”
“That night stayed with me,” she said with asperity. “It’s not often I nearly get mugged.”
“I thought, just for a second, that there might have been something else to make it memorable.”
She gave him an inquiring look that was spoiled by the return of color to her face.
“I think you know what I mean,” he said, propping an elbow on the table in his turn as he smiled into her eyes.
She was saved from answering by the arrival of their food. Rone sat back in his chair to allow his plate to be placed in front of him; still, she was conscious of his gaze upon her. When they had been left alone again, she was ready. Picking up her fork and attacking a mushroom, she said, “You were going to tell me about your job.”
“Was I? Maybe I was at that. Actually, I deal in illusions.”
“A magician?”
“I should have said filmed illusions.”
“Right. A movie mogul then.”
“Not exactly,” he said with a wry grimace. “I produce commercials.”
She wasn’t sure whether she believed him; there was a mocking undertone to his voice that might have been directed at himself instead of her. Regardless, it was all too apparent that he was getting a kick out of teasing her. She said slowly, “Now, do you really?”
“It’s a perfectly legitimate occupation.”
“I’m sure it is, but I just expected you to be some kind of high-powered executive.”
“Boring and restrictive. I prefer to be a free agent. Tell me again the places you mentioned to the police as being on your itinerary. I’ve just decided that I may need to visit them myself, maybe scout locations for a new European layout.”
“Instead of a British layout, you mean?” she queried.
There was warm amusement and something more in his smile. “No, I don’t mean that at all. The business that brought me here won’t take long. But since I’m here, and so are you, I have this sudden urge to join forces, to traipse around behind you in your travels. Would you mind?”
She stared at him with her fork holding a bit of egg suspended in the air. His irresponsible attitude didn’t sit right, somehow, with the forcefulness of his personality.
“Don’t look so surprised,” he said. “Have you never done anything on impulse?”
“I’m here with you at this moment. That’s as close as I’ve come so far.” She managed to keep the words light, though it wasn’t easy.
“And even this is against your better judgment, isn’t it?”
“Can you blame me? I don’t know you any better now than I did the night we first met.”
“At least I know your name now, even if I did have to get it off your luggage tags.”
“That hardly counts.”
“No, ma’am. I guess not, ma’am.”
“Don’t do that! I don’t mind if you call me Joletta, really I don’t. It’s just that—”
“Right,” he said with a shake of his head. “You’re a conventional woman and you can’t help it. So forget I said anything—”
“Surely you didn’t expect me to agree?” She should leave it alone, she knew, but something in his manner gave her the feeling that she had been too abrupt.
“There’s always hope. But I’ll say in my defense that I wasn’t suggesting that I share your bed, or even your room.”
The muscles in her abdomen tightened in pure reflex. Her voice tight, she said, “I didn’t think you were.”
“Good,” he said, “I’m glad we settled that.”
Was his voice a shade too affable? The thought that he might be laughing at her was an uncomfortable one. In an effort to retrieve the situation, she went on, “Anyway, you don’t look to me like the kind of man who would be satisfied with a package tour.”
Wildest Dreams (The Contemporary Collection) Page 5