by Doreen Alsen
Taking them from her, he stood, slipped on his jeans without putting on his underwear, and only did a few buttons of his fly then sat on the bed.
Ahem. Angelique found it very distracting.
God. He looked terrible, like he’d fought thirty devils and barely made it out alive. She’d never seen a more ravaged and tortured face in her life. She sat on the bed next to him, being very careful not to touch him, even though she longed to.
“So you found out I’m a photojournalist.” He glanced at her then turned his head to stare into the space in front of him. “What I do is nothing like what the paparazzi does. There are very important stories to tell. Things Americans need to know. Not just America. The whole western world.” He swallowed. “My job took me to the worst places in the world. Honestly? Hell would be a vacation to these people. So much violence in the name of whatever religion you claim is right.” He gave a mirthless little laugh. “Death to the infidel, in this case, me. The epitome of the God damn infidel.
“I’d been charmed, good enough to get the money shot, talented enough to catch the emotion in the event. Then my luck turned.”
He faced her. “I got kidnapped by one of those insane groups. I spent months in captivity, often with a hood over my head. I didn’t know if it was day or night. The only thing I knew was that there were times when one of us were taken out of the concrete cell they kept us in and never came back.”
“Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m one of the lucky ones. Right before I was set for execution, some SEALs raided the compound and I was rescued.
Angelique watched as tears gathered in his eyes. He blinked them away.
“I didn’t deserve it. So, yeah, I have bad dreams from time to time. It’s a small price to pay, since I’m alive and Josef’s not. You’re going to want to say you’re sorry. Don’t. Sorry’s just a word. It doesn’t make it better.”
She took a chance and ran her hand down his bare back, still moist with the cold sweat of despair. “I will say I’m sorry, but not for what you think. I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions about T. L. Baldwin. I meant it when I said I was so moved by your work.”
He snorted. “And there’s the rub. Since I’ve come back to Lobster Cove to heal, I haven’t been able to take a single photo.” His eyes darted left as he said that. “Who am I if I can’t be T. L. Baldwin, wonder boy genius with a camera, anymore?”
“I don’t know. How can I answer that question when I don’t know how to be Angelique Durand anymore?”
“What?”
She took a deep breath. “My name isn’t Angie Doucette. It’s Angelique Durand.”
“I don’t understand.” His hands shook and he clenched them together.
“I’m Angelique Durand. You know. The model?” How did he not know who she was?
“Sorry. I’ve been in the Middle East for a long time.”
Now this she hadn’t expected. She was going to have to spell it out for him.
“I was a model. I got arrested in Paris for something I didn’t do and spent some time in jail.” She swallowed. “My brother pulled some strings and got the charges dropped but on the way out of the police station I nearly got trampled over by a crowd of reporters and photographers and I got struck hard in the face with a camera.” She touched the scar. “That’s how I got this. No more modeling for me. And no more pictures of me. Ever.”
He looked at the floor for what seemed like a million years. “What did you get arrested for?”
“Something I didn’t do. Someone planted a fortune in diamond jewelry in my bag after a runway show for Chanel. When security checked my things while I was trying to leave, they found the jewelry and called the police.” She shuddered, remembering. “It was the worst night of my life.”
He looked at her then and touched the scar on her cheek. “I hate the thought of anyone hurting you. I’d go through everything all over again if it’d keep you from getting hurt.”
Angelique did one thing she rarely did. She thought before she spoke.
His world was so far away from anything she’d known. He’d done important work. He would go on to do more. She’d put on clothes and looked good in them.
She had a scar on the outside. He had so many more on the inside, so many more that no amount of makeup would cover.
Angelique flushed hot while she compared the two of them. How trivial and less than nothing she felt when he’d faced death, serious death, like deader than dead, dead.
She had absolutely no experience helping someone else through his feelings. Her whole life had been about Angelique and only that.
The time for that was way over. This wasn’t about her. It was about him.
She went for broke and put her hands, one on each side of his face. “There was nothing you could have done.” She kissed his stiff, rigid mouth.
They stared at each other and she hoped she could in some way take the pain away. She did what she knew.
She kissed him. She poured all she was into that kiss, trying to say all the things she wanted to say to him. To give him…what?
What did she really have to give?
She had no clue, not even an inkling.
So she went, for the first time in her life, for the truth. “I don’t know what to say,” she repeated.
He tipped his head and rested it against her forehead. “There’s nothing you can say. But damn it, I need you to be here with me.”
Tears did spring to her eyes. “I’m right here, and this is where I want to be.”
“It’s going to be a rough road. You have to know that. I never know what’s going to trigger a flashback or a nightmare.”
She smiled. “I guess having sex with me pushed you over the edge.”
He pulled away and braced his hands against her arms. “You did no such thing. It might have been the storm or…or…shit, I don’t know. It’s random. I never know when it’s going to hit.”
“I don’t care. If nothing else, I’m your friend. I’m here for you.” And that surprised the hell out of her. She had never been for anyone else. Just herself. Only herself.
She tried on this new unselfish Angelique and she liked the way it fit. “I’m not very good at this, but I want to help you through this, as much as I can. I want to be there for you.”
Tim’s head bowed as his chest heaved once, twice, three times as he sucked in air. “I don’t think you can fix me, but I want to have you around.”
“Tim.” Somehow, she didn’t think keeping quiet was in his best interest. “Shouldn’t you be like going to a therapist or something?”
“I can beat it on my own. Please, do this for me. I’m doing it for you.”
“It’s not quite the same thing.”
“It is.” He kissed her. “It is,” he repeated.
Something inside her let go. “Okay. I won’t say anything for now. But if you get worse, I can’t promise that I’ll stay quiet.”
He nodded. “Fair enough.” He lifted her hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles. “Fair enough. Now tell me all about Angelique Durand.”
She felt her face flush. “Not much to tell. She grew up like I told you, on the Bayou, living with Grand-mère and my brother.” She sighed. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Who is Lucien Durand?”
“Lucien Durand. You mean the Chef King, owner of the L’Enfer restaurants.”
“Oui.”
“Well, hell. I told you I ate in his restaurant in New Orleans.”
She nodded. “You did. I couldn’t tell you I was his sister then.”
“Why not? You could have trusted me with that.”
“I didn’t know that then. I’m here hiding and figuring out what I want to do with my life. It’s obvious I can never model again. Not just because of the scar but because of the arrest.”
“Jesus.”
“Here’s the thing. You’ve done something with your life. Your book is just beautiful. Me?” She hitched up one shoulder. “I’v
e been the most selfish person on the planet. I did a lot of things I’m not proud of. I was a true wild child. I went through men like they were Pez candies. There’s even a sex tape out there, of me and Brock Nelson, the football player. But worst of all, I tried to sabotage Lucien and Hope’s relationship, just so I could become a famous model. If karma is real, I really earned what happened to me.” She cupped his cheek with one hand. “But not you. Never you.”
He shook his head. “You made a sex tape with Brock Nelson?”
Of course, he’d focus on that. “I didn’t know we were being filmed. His brother Buck somehow managed the whole business. Can we talk about something else?”
“How about we don’t talk about anything at all?” He held open his arms. “Come here and let me hold you.”
She nestled herself against him and he closed his arms around her. “I like this.”
Angelique smiled. “Me, too.”
They lay there wrapped around each other in silence for a time.
Angelique counted Tim’s heartbeats until he heaved a huge sigh. “I guess I should warn you,” he finally said.
“About what?”
“Brock Nelson. Both he and Buck are coming up to do a football clinic for the high school team in August.”
“What?” She blinked. “Why would two professional football players come to Maine to give a high school football clinic?”
“They’re friends of Jeff’s from Addington. Hey.” He shifted underneath her. “Didn’t your brother just open a branch of his restaurant in Addington?”
She forced herself to smile. The idea of Buck and Brock Nelson in Lobster Cove just didn’t bear thinking about. “Yes. Suffice it to say, I’m not very popular in Addington, Massachusetts.”
He frowned. “Because of the sex tape?”
“No.” She disentangled herself and sat up, holding the sheet over her breasts. “Because I wasn’t a very nice person.”
He pulled her back down against him. “Let’s forget about Addington for right now. We’re here, we’re safe, we’re together. Let that be enough.”
She flung an arm over his chest and a leg over his thighs and kissed his warm neck. “I can do that.”
****
Tim knew he had to go home. The worst of the panic had dissipated and he had to take care of Chester. His little pup was afraid of thunder and lightning.
He should have thought of that earlier but he’d had other things on his mind. Okay. One thing.
Angelique.
“I need to leave.”
“Are you sure?” She had such a hopeful look on her face. He hated to disappoint her.
“I’ve got to go check on the dog, or else I would happily stay right here.”
“Well, of course. I’d forgotten all about the poor baby.” She handed him his shirt as disappointment showed in her face.
Yeah, the poor baby was 110 pounds if he was an ounce. “I’m sorry. I’d stay if I could. You are amazing.”
She smiled. “Mais yeah, shoog.”
He shrugged into his shirt. “Do you want to get together tomorrow night? Go get dinner or something?” Please say yes.
She smoothed down the silky little robe she wore. “I’m working dinner tomorrow at the inn, so I can’t.”
“Dinner, huh?”
“Yes sir. I got a promotion, me.” Her smile grew into a pride-filled grin.
“Good for you. Maybe the next night, then.”
“Maybe. Is that Chester I hear barking?”
Tim heard it now, the distinct Roo-Roo-Roo call of the desperate Doberman. “I do think so. I’ve got to go before I have a big mess over there to clean up.” He kissed her. “I’ll see you later.”
He bounded down her stairs and out of her house. He’d let her inside him and showed her his demons. He hoped that after she had time to think about it she’d call the whole thing off.
Not that he’d blame her.
She’d let him see her demons as well. He still couldn’t wrap his head around what she told him. There were gaps, things she chose to leave out, and he couldn’t blame her.
He should be mad at her for not telling her who she was, but he lied too and that leveled the playing field. He’d get the whole story out of her. She seemed eager to tell it once they made love.
No. Not true. If he hadn’t had the nightmare, she wouldn’t have told him who she was.
Whatever. He could forgive her since she could forgive him. They both had secrets that needed to stay buried. He’d trust her if she’d trust him.
No. He’d trust her no matter what. He didn’t really know her, but he trusted his gut.
He could trust Angelique Durand.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Angie! Pick Up!” Behind the line in the Sea Crest Inn’s kitchen Alma rang the bell on the shelf above the heat lamps.
“Coming!” Angelique hurried into the kitchen and pulled down the four orders of steamed lobster, corn on the cob, and salt potatoes. Now to find the finger bowls, lobster bibs, nutcrackers, lobster picks to get out the hidden meat, plus a shrimp fork, and a special bowl for the shells.
She filled the finger bowls with water, slipped them onto an under-liner plate covered by a doily, and garnished the whole thing with a lemon wedge and stabbed four more lemon wedges on the shrimp forks. Hopefully she had all the things she needed to give the four-top in her section.
She had the smallest section, with only four tables. It felt like a million tables.
She got there without dropping the extra heavy tray only to find that she hadn’t cleared their salad plates yet. Heavy sigh. “I have your lobsters, but let me pick up your salad plates.”
“Miss, we’d like to order a second bottle of the Rising Tide Riesling,” said diner number one.
“I’ll order it right away.” Salad plates cleared, she put the whole lobster shebang on the table.
“Can we have some more lemon, please? And more water.” This from diner number two.
“Sure thing. Coming right up.”
“Where’s the drawn butter?” Diner number three scowled.
“I’ll be right back with it.”
“Bring one extra. I like a lot of butter.”
“Absolutely.”
She remembered to go to the bar to order the wine.
“We’re out of the 2012. We’ve still got some 2013 left,” the wine sommelier told her.
“Go for it.” She just didn’t care.
Racing back to the kitchen, she muttered “Butter, butter, butter.” Once there, she scrambled to fill four ramekins with it. No, wait. She needed five.
“Angie! Your oysters are up!”
“Be right there!” After traying the butter, she hoped over to the raw bar section of the kitchen.
The two platters each held half a dozen oysters on the half shell. She grabbed two seafood forks and did the lemon routine again. She remembered the cocktail sauce, though she thought it an abomination. Lucien always said that if the oysters were fresh they didn’t need any adornment.
Except maybe an injection of vodka.
And wouldn’t Lucien laugh if he saw her right now. He’d guffaw like he was a boss. Which he was.
Never mind.
She dropped the butter off then moved to the party of two who ordered the oysters. “Here are your oysters.”
“We didn’t order any oysters. We’re waiting for our chowder,” the gentleman informed her.
Dear God. “I’ll be right along with your soup.”
She delivered the oysters to the correct table and zoomed back to the kitchen to grab the clam chowders. And wasn’t it her luck that she spilled hot soup on her left hand as she battled with the ladle.
She did remember the doilies on the under-liners and the packages of oyster crackers to go along with the chowders.
As she went to her section, she noticed another duo had been seated. Oh freakin’ no.
She could also hear the four-top giving the sommelier a hard time because t
he Riesling wasn’t the 2012 vintage and that the 2013 was simply unacceptable.
She guessed she could kiss the tip on her biggest check of the night good-bye. Clad in stoic resignation, she went to greet her new table.
And what to her wondering eyes did appear?
Her brother Lucien and his wife Hope. Holy crap.
How the hell did The Great One know she was working her first dinner shift ever?
Never mind. He was Lucien Damn Durand. The world ran on his timetable.
Of course, he would show up on her first night in the major leagues. She pulled her big girl panties on and pasted a smile on her face. “Hello. I’m Angie,” she widened her eyes to punctuate her point, “and I’m your server for the night.”
The devil danced in Lucien’s eyes. “Hello Angie. Nice glasses. It’s a good look for you. What’s good tonight?”
If she could have set him on fire, she would have. “Everything. But tonight we’re featuring Chef Alma’s very delicious Lobster Bisque. The fish of the day is monkfish, and, of course, the whole menu is available. May I bring you something to drink?”
“Is the monkfish locally caught?”
Lucien grinned at his wife. If he’d been sitting next to her, he’d have slapped her on the back, congratulating her.
Angelique had no idea. She went with her usual Plan B. She lied. “The monkfish? Of course.”
Hope smiled as if she was Mother Theresa without the mustache. “That’s great.”
Lucien grinned. “I’ll have a Sazerac cocktail.” He looked at Hope. “Do you want something, chère?”
“Hmmmm.” Hope studied the wine list. “Ooo. Can we get a bottle of the Bar Harbor Cellars’ Rising Tide Riesling? The 2012 vintage.”
Angelique ground her teeth. “We’ve sold our last bottle of the 2012. The 2013 vintage is lovely.”
Hope’s eyes sparkled. “Is it comparable?”
“What?”
“Have you tasted it?”
“I’ll get the sommelier for you and he can answer your questions. In the meantime,” she ground out, “may I get you something else to drink?”
“Just water for now,” Hope said with a cheerful smile
“Great. I’ll let the sommelier know you want to talk to him and be right back,” she tilted her head at her butthole of a brother, “with your Sazerac and Hope’s water.”