by Nora Roberts
She was still two blocks away when he saw her, the bright hair and deep blue jacket shining out of the gloom. He’d already chosen his mark and, as he walked to meet her, was in the best of moods.
“Hey, Rox, how was school?”
“It was okay.” She smiled up at him, just old enough, and certainly female enough, to be flattered by the attentions of a nineteen-year-old man. The heart inside her stubbornly undeveloped breast picked up its rhythm.
One of the shops along Royal was stocked with more junk than treasure. There were some interesting pieces, most of them inexpensive. The woman who ran the shop took merchandise on consignment, and supplemented her income by reading tarot cards and palms. Sam had chosen the shop because the proprietor usually worked alone, and because Roxanne often stopped in for a reading.
“Want to get your cards read?” He grinned at her. “Maybe you can find out how you did on that test?”
“I never ask dumb stuff like that.”
“You could ask her about a boyfriend.” He sent her a look that had her pulse jittering, and opened the door before she had a chance to move on. “Maybe she’ll tell you when you’re going to get married.”
Roxanne stared down at her shoes. “You don’t really believe in the cards.”
“Let’s see what she tells you. Maybe I will.”
Madame D’Amour sat behind the counter. She had an angular, heavily rouged face dominated by dark brown eyes. Today she wore one of her many turbans, a purple one that covered all but a few wisps of her mercilessly dyed ebony hair. She added heavy rhinestone earrings that fell nearly to the shoulders of her purple caftan. Around her neck were several silver chains. Bracelets jangled on both wrists.
She was somewhere in her sixties and claimed to be descended from Gypsies. It might have been true, but regardless of her heritage, Roxanne was fascinated by her.
As the bells on the door jingled, she glanced up and smiled. Colorfully illustrated tarot cards were on the counter before her, arranged in a Celtic cross.
“I thought my little friend would visit me today.”
Roxanne moved closer so that she could study the cards. It was overly warm in the shop, but she never minded. It always smelled wonderful from the incense Madame burned and the woman’s generous use of perfume.
“Did you come to shop,” Madame asked her, “or to seek?”
“Do you have time for a reading?”
“For you, my love, always. Perhaps we can share some hot chocolate, oui?” She glanced over at Sam, and her smile dimmed a bit. There was something about the boy she couldn’t like, despite his open, friendly smile and pretty eyes. “And you? You have a question for the cards?”
“That’s okay.” He made his smile sheepish. “I guess it spooks me a little. Go ahead, Rox, take your time. I’ve got to go pick up some stuff at the drugstore. I’ll meet you back home.”
“Okay.” As Madame scooped up the cards and rose, Roxanne moved toward the curtain that separated the shop from the back room. “Tell Daddy I’m coming.”
“Sure. See you.” He started toward the door, stopping when he heard the curtain whisk closed. His smile was no longer friendly as he deliberately opened the outside door, letting the bells jangle, then shut it again. Moving quickly, he skirted the tables loaded with trash and treasures and headed for the counter. Beneath it was a painted cigar box where Madame kept the day’s receipts. The haul wasn’t huge—business was slow on rainy winter days, but Sam scooped out everything, down to the last penny. He stuffed bills and change into his pocket, glanced quickly around to see if anything else was worth his time. He would have preferred smashing some of the glass and china. That made a statement. Instead, he filled his jacket pockets with some of the smaller knickknacks. Carefully holding the bells still, he eased the door open, slipped out and closed it slowly, quietly behind him.
Over the next week, Sam hit four more shops in the Quarter. When it was to his advantage, he enlisted Roxanne’s help, wandering into stores with her and waiting while she, a familiar face in the district, caught the clerk’s attention. He’d stuff whatever was handy into his pockets, whether it was a valuable Limoges box or a cheap souvenir ashtray. Once he was lucky enough to clean out another cash drawer when Roxanne was taken in the back to be shown a porcelain doll that had just been shipped in from Paris.
It didn’t matter to Sam how much his loot was worth. What he enjoyed most was knowing that the wide-eyed, trusting Roxanne was his unwitting partner. No one would accuse Maximillian Nouvelle’s little darling of lifting trinkets. As long as he was with her, he could line his pockets to his frigid heart’s content.
But the best part of that New Orleans winter was seducing Annabelle away from the lovesick Luke.
It was easy, as easy as his compulsive and mean-spirited shoplifting. All he had to do was watch, listen and take advantage of opportunities offered.
Like most young lovers, Luke and Annabelle had their share of spats. Most of them revolved around the limited amount of time Luke had to entertain her, and her increasing demand for every moment of his day. She nagged at him to skip rehearsals, to bow out of performances so that he could take her to a party, to a dance, for a ride. Maybe he was being led around by his hormones, but Luke was too professional an entertainer—and too dedicated a thief—to cancel a performance or a heist, even for Annabelle.
“Listen, I can’t.” Luke blew out an impatient breath and shifted the phone to his other ear. “Annabelle, I explained all this days ago.”
“You’re just being stubborn.” Through the receiver the tears in her voice came clearly. And made Luke feel like sludge. “You know Mr. Nouvelle would understand.”
“No, I don’t,” Luke responded—because he hadn’t asked Max to understand, and had no intention of doing so. “It’s not my weekend off, Annabelle. I have a commitment to the act.”
“I guess it means more to you than I do.”
Naturally it did, but Luke doubted it would be wise to say so. “It’s something I have to do.”
“Lucy’s party’s going to be the biggest one of the year. Everybody’s going to be there. Her dad even hired a live band. I’ll just die if I miss it.”
“Then go,” Luke said between his teeth. “I told you it was okay with me. I don’t expect you to sit home alone.”
“Oh, sure.” Derision, on the shrill side, joined the tears. “Go to the biggest party of the year without my boyfriend.” She sniffled, then put all the wheedling at her disposal into her voice. “Oh, please, honey, couldn’t you just get out of the first show? It wouldn’t be so bad if we went to it together, then you had to leave.”
It was tempting, as the Crack the Whip had once been tempting not so many years ago. It promised excitement, a fast, breathless ride. Luke hadn’t changed so much in the last years that he didn’t know when to resist the offer of pleasure.
“I’m sorry, Annabelle. I can’t.”
“Won’t.” The single word was ice.
“Listen,” he began, then winced as the crash of the receiver echoed in his ear. “Christ,” he muttered and dropped the phone on the hook.
“Women trouble?” It appeared as though Sam was just wandering in from the kitchen, an apple in one hand. In truth, he’d eavesdropped on the entire conversation, and was already formulating plans.
“They don’t understand anything.” It wasn’t usual for Luke to confide in Sam, but he was just angry and frustrated enough to dump on the first available ear. “How the hell am I supposed to screw around with everyone’s schedule just because Lucy Harbecker’s having some party?”
Sam nodded in sympathy and bit into his apple. “Hey, she’ll get over it.” He gave Luke a friendly punch in the arm. “And if she doesn’t, there are plenty of babes in the woods. Right?” He winked and started upstairs. It looked as though he needed to shake loose from tonight’s show. Sam had a party to go to.
A faked fever and sick headache were all he needed. While Luke was preparing to warm u
p the audience at the Magic Door, Sam knocked on Annabelle’s door. She answered it herself, her eyes puffy from weeping and bad temper.
“Oh, hi, Sam.” She sniffled and smoothed at her hair. “What’re you doing around here?”
“Luke sent me.” With an apologetic smile, he brought his hand from behind his back and offered a clutch of painted daisies.
“Oh.” She took the flowers and sniffed at them. They were nice, but they didn’t make up for missing the biggest night of the year. “I guess he’s trying to make up.”
“He’s really sorry, Annabelle. He felt bad about your missing the party.”
“Me too.” Her eyes hardened, then she sighed and shrugged. Her parents were out for the evening, her own night was ruined and all she had to show for it was a bunch of stupid flowers. “Well, thanks for bringing them by.”
“My pleasure. It’s not exactly a hardship to bring flowers to a beautiful woman.” Admiration, with a touch of lust, showed in his eyes before he looked hurriedly away. “I guess I should take off. You’ve got things to do.”
“No, not really.” She was flattered by the look, touched by the fact that he’d tried to conceal it. With the long, dull night stretched in front of her, it seemed foolish to shut the door on an attractive male. “Maybe you’d like to come in for a Coke or something. Unless you’ve got plans.”
“That’d be nice, if you’re sure it’s okay with your folks.”
“Oh, they’re out, won’t be back for hours.” She batted her eyes at him. “I’d really like some company.”
“Me too.” He closed the door behind him.
He played shy at first, keeping plenty of distance between them on the couch while they drank Cokes and listened to records. Gradually, he moved to sympathetic confidant. He was careful to stop just short of criticizing Luke, aware of how easily Annabelle could turn on him. Under the guise of making up to her the missed party, he invited her—with just a touch of awkwardness—to dance.
She found his shy admiration sweet and snuggled her head against his shoulder as she swayed over the rug. When his hand began to move rhythmically up and down her spine, she only sighed.
“I’m so glad you came by,” she murmured. “I feel so much better.”
“I hated to think about you being alone and upset. Luke’s so lucky to have a girl like you.” He swallowed, making sure it was audible. When he spoke again, his voice was unsteady. “I, ah, I think about you all the time, Annabelle. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it.”
“Really?” Her eyes were shining as she tilted back her head to look at his face. “What do you think about me?”
“About how beautiful you are.” He brought his mouth close to hers, felt her shudder. It amused him how easy women were. Tell them they were beautiful, and they believed anything you said. “When you come over to the house, or to the club, I can’t keep my eyes off you.” He touched his lips to hers, just a whisper, then, as if coming to his senses, jerked back. “I’m sorry.” He dragged a trembling hand through his hair. “I should go.”
But he didn’t move, only stood, staring at her. In a moment it was she, as he had hoped, as he had planned, who stepped to him, who wrapped her arms around his neck. “Don’t go, Sam.”
He was cute, he was nice to her and he was a good kisser. Annabelle’s requirements had just been met.
When he had lowered her to the couch and had her, his body shuddered from the climax. But it shuddered more from the pleasure of knowing he had taken something that had been Luke’s.
While Sam was making Annabelle moan on the faded cabbage roses of her mother’s couch, Madame walked backstage of the Magic Door. It disturbed her to be the bearer of bad tidings. It was something she did not so much for the other merchants in the Quarter, not so much even for herself, but for Roxanne.
“Monsieur Nouvelle.”
Max glanced up from the sketches he was making and saw Madame in his dressing room door. Real pleasure brightened his eyes as he rose, taking her hand to kiss. “Ah, Madame, bonsoir, bienvenu. It’s a delight to see you again.”
“I wish I could say I had come to watch the performance, mon ami, but I have not.” She saw the smile in his eyes fade to concern.
“There’s a problem.”
“Oui, one I must pass to you, with regret. We may speak?”
“Of course.” He closed the door, ushered her to a chair.
“Early this week, my store was robbed.”
Perhaps it was ironic that anger should fill him at the idea, when he himself was a thief. Max didn’t consider it so. Madame was a friend, and a friend who could ill afford a robbery. “What did you lose?”
“A hundred dollars, more or less, and several trinkets. It is an inconvenience, monsieur, not quite a tragedy. I reported it, of course, and of course, there was little to be done. When one is in business, one learns to accept losses. I would have thought little more about it, but a day or two later, I heard that two more shops—the New Orleans Boutique on Bourbon and Rendezvous on Conti—had also been robbed, of small amounts to be sure. One day later, the shop next to mine took a loss—not quite so small. Several valuable porcelain pieces were taken, as well as several hundred in cash.”
Max brushed a finger over his moustache. “Did anyone see the robber?”
“Perhaps.” Madame toyed with the amulet that rested on the red silk bodice of her flowing caftan. “Perhaps not. As we merchants conferred to complain about our troubles, it came out that someone we knew had been in the shop each time the losses occurred. Coincidence, perhaps.”
“Coincidence?” Max arched a brow. “An unlikely one to be sure. Why do you come to me with this, Madame?”
“Because the visitor to each of the shops was Roxanne.”
Madame pressed her lips tight as she saw Max’s face change. Gone, vanished was the concern, the interest, the obvious desire to help. In its place was a dangerous rage that burned out of his eyes. “Madame,” he said in a voice no louder than a whisper and as frightening as a sword. “You dare?”
“I dare, monsieur, because I love the child.”
“Yet you accuse her of sneaking into your shop, stealing from those who love and trust her?”
“No.” Madame’s shoulders lifted. “I do not accuse her. She would not take what was mine when in her heart she knows she had only to ask to be given. She was not alone on these visits, monsieur.”
Battling rage, Max shifted to pour brandies for both of them. He waited to speak until he had offered a snifter to Madame and had taken his own first sip. “And who was she with?”
“Samuel Wyatt.”
Max digested the information and nodded. He only wished he could say he was surprised. Only wished he didn’t feel the inevitability of it. He had taken the boy in, done his best by him, but he had known, somehow he had known that it would not be repaid in kind.
“You will give me a moment?” He moved to the door and called for Roxanne. Still in costume, she came to her father’s dressing room. Her smile blossomed when she spotted Madame.
“You came!” She scooted over to kiss the woman’s cheek. “I’m so glad you did. You can see the new illusion. Luke and I did it for the first time to an audience in the early show. We did it well, didn’t we, Daddy?”
“Yes.” He shut the door, then crouched down to lay his hand on her shoulders. “I have something to ask you, Roxanne. Something important. You must tell me the truth, no matter what.”
The smile died out of her eyes, turning them solemn and a little frightened. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Daddy. Not ever.”
“You were in Madame’s shop early this week?”
“On Monday after school. Madame read the cards for me.”
“You were alone?”
“Yes—when she read the cards, I mean. Sam went with me, but he left.”
“Did you take anything from Madame’s shop?”
“No. I think I might buy the little blue bottle, the one with the peacock on it?” She
looked at Madame for confirmation. “For Lily’s birthday, but I didn’t have my money with me.”
“Not buy, Roxanne. Take.”
“I . . .” Her mouth quivered open as she understood. “I wouldn’t take from Madame, Daddy. How could I? She’s my friend.”
“Did you see Sam take anything, from Madame, or any of the other shops he visited with you this week?”
“Oh, Daddy, no.” The idea had tears swimming in her eyes. “He couldn’t.”
“We’ll see.” He kissed her cheek. “I’m sorry, Roxanne. You have to put it out of your mind until after the show, and be prepared to accept the truth, whatever it is.”
“He’s my friend.”
“I hope so.”
It was after one when Max opened the door of Sam’s room. He saw the figure under the covers and moved quietly to the side of the bed. Wide awake, Sam shifted, blinked his eyes sleepily open. Moonlight slanted over his face.
“Feeling better?” Max asked.
“I think so.” Sam offered a weak smile. “I’m sorry I let you down tonight.”
“That’s a small thing.” Max switched on the light, ignoring Sam’s grunt of surprise. “I’ll apologize in advance for this intrusion. It’s quite necessary.” He walked to the closet.
“What’s going on?”
“There are two ways to look at it.” Max pushed aside hanging clothes. “Either I’m defending my home, or I’m doing you a grave disservice. I sincerely hope it’s the latter.”
“You’ve no right to pry into my personal things.” Sam leaped out of bed in his underwear and grabbed at Max’s arm.
“By doing so I may save your reputation.”
“Come on, Sam.” Embarrassment evident by the redness in his cheeks, Mouse stepped into the room to pull Sam aside.
“You fucking creep, take your hands off me.” Sam jerked and bucked, and Mouse held firm. The fury that always bubbled beneath the surface burst out of Sam when he saw Max reach for a box on the closet shelf. “You goddamn bastard, I’ll kill you for this.”
Calmly, Max took the lid off the box and studied the contents. Cash was neatly stacked and bound with rubber bands. Some of the trinkets on the list Madame had given him were there as well. Others had probably been sold, Max assumed. There was a heaviness around his heart as he looked over at Sam.