by Laura Parker
“Allez-vous-en! Chien mechant! Merde!” The strange inflection of French veered off into an unintelligible garble.
Who was being shooed away and by whom? Quickly, she slipped her feet into satin slippers and pulled her peignoir over her thin cotton nightgown as she crossed the highly polished hardwood floor. Opening the floor-to-ceiling doors of her bedroom, she stepped out onto the rear gallery and into a world she had never before known.
Below her she saw a brick patio with a tiered cast-iron fountain at its center. The strong morning sunshine poured into the open space. Even in the shadows where she stood, she felt the warm moist breath of the Mississippi upon her skin and the prickling promise of the heavy heat of midday. Along the edges of the patio, deep green shades of tropical foliage cast long leafy shadows onto the pavement and climbed the high brick walls that sheltered the yard. Thick turgid vines snaked up and around the trunks of slender flowering trees. Other plants dipped low under their burdens of scarlet and golden-yellow blossoms. Still others lifted fanwork fronds, like sentinels set about the grounds to fan the breeze. Through the tangle of shrubs and vines and leaves at the back of the garden she could dimly make out the angular walls of other buildings. The sounds of distant chatter and the unmistakable aromas of a kitchen came wafting back across the brilliantly lit patio toward her.
“Allez-vous-en!”
Startled by the cry at her back, she swung about to face the intruder only to be startled into laughter.
A large green and yellow parrot in a cage stared out at her from one corner of the gallery. As she approached, he eyed her suspiciously, screwing his head around at an impossible human angle. Gazing at her with one glossy eye he said, “Grosse bete, va-t’en!”
She smiled but said quite censoriously, “Who are you calling a great fool, you overgrown sparrow?” She peered in at him, cocking her head to one side and closing one eye to mimic him. “I’ve a nice straw bonnet that your tail feathers would complement admirably.”
The parrot seemed to understand that he had been threatened, for he backed up three steps on the perch and gave an ungodly screech.
“Welcome to the heart of the Vieux Carre, Miss Hunt. I trust you slept well.”
Startled yet again, at least this time Philadelphia recognized the voice and knew who she would face. She made herself turn around slowly. Tyrone stood at the other end of the gallery. She glanced at her doors and then behind him to realize that he had entered the gallery from a set of matching doors farther along. Had he been there all along, unnoticed by her, or had her voice drawn him to the gallery?
“Good morning,” she said in a carefully neutral tone.
He lounged against the railing, a cigarette held between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. He wore black trousers and boots but he was in his shirtsleeves. When he turned to face her she saw that the shirt was unbuttoned. Before she could stop herself, she glanced at the hard sun-baked planes of his chest and the mat of red-brown hair curving across his upper chest, and found herself automatically comparing it to Eduardo’s darker smooth heavy-silk skin.
She knew the exact moment when she had looked too long, for he reached up to stop a small sweat bead from continuing its passage down his chest and rubbed it into his skin with a slow massage that made her lower her eyes in embarrassment.
He made a sound halfway between a grunt and a hum, a short masculine sound of amusement for something not worth laughter, and stood up. “You’ll become accustomed to our unconventional ways, Miss Hunt. New Orleans is an old city.” The sound of his footsteps accompanied the rise in volume of his voice as he neared her. “Things happen here that the rest of the country wouldn’t even dare dream of. There’s the soul of an ancient city here, for those who value pleasure in all its forms.”
He stood before her now, and he reached out with the hand that held the cigarette and lifted her chin with his free fingers. “We believe in saints and sinners with equal fervor.”
She backed away from his touch but she kept her expression deliberately cool. “I prefer saints, myself, Mr. Tyrone. Now if you will excuse me …”
He did not touch her, he simply braced a hand against the wall, effectively blocking her path. “You wouldn’t be afraid of me?”
“I might, given sufficient cause,” she answered promptly.
He let his eyes roam down the front of her open peignoir to where her breasts were prominently silhouetted by her sheer gown. “You might have cause at that.”
She resisted the urge to jerk her robe closed or to try to push past him though she thought he must be able to hear her frantic heart. “You told me the morning we left Saratoga that you would keep your distance. I believed you and you have. If that’s changed, then I must leave here now.”
He did not lift his eyes from her breasts, more intrigued than he had been in some time by the outline of puckered nipples. Perhaps it was fear, but perhaps it wasn’t. He flicked his cigarette over the rail.
She did not expect him to reach for her when he did. For the rest of her life, she would wonder why she did not simply scream. She told herself that it would be foolish, embarrassing, unnecessary. But when his hands closed over her shoulders, forcing her up against the stuccoed wall, she did not even resist.
“Querida,” he said in a guttural whisper. He touched her hair softly. There was no softening in the passion that came into the harsh lean face hovering above hers. His savage-bright crystal eyes demanded surrender.
He ran a finger down her cheek to the corner of her mouth where a muscle had begun to tremble. “Soft,” he said, watching the color flow into her cheeks. He had not seen a woman blush in her passion in a long time. Whores and married women dissembled but they seldom blushed. He moved the hand on her shoulder down to her waist, and splaying his fingers palm-flat down across the top of her buttocks, he drew her hard against his loins.
“No! Don’t!” She began to struggle, but he cut it short by moving his hand from her cheek to her throat and squeezing ever so gently.
“I only want a kiss. Only a kiss.”
Too frightened to resist now, Philadelphia stood still as he bent his head to her. Yet a whimper of fear escaped her as he brushed his mouth over hers, and the trembling moved down inside her into her bones. And then his mouth was on hers, hard and demanding, his breath forcing the heat of his kiss inside her mouth.
She kept her teeth clenched against the assault of his tongue but he would not be denied. He caught her chin tightly in his grip, lifted her head back, and sank his teeth into her lower lip. The sharp nip made her gasp and then his tongue snaked inside, filled her mouth, plunging in again and again as he held her tightly against his arousal.
Her hands moved frantically over his chest, pressing, pushing, begging release, but he did not seem to notice. He lifted her up in his arms, bracing her back against the wall as he nuzzled her breasts through the thin fabric of her gown. He found one nipple and drew it into his mouth, moaning in pleasure.
She fought against the torment of his assault, afraid of him and of her own sense of helplessness. Finally, he lowered her and she slipped down his body as his open mouth left a wet trail of passion on her skin until he once more found her lips.
This time his kiss did not demand or punish, it coaxed and praised, persuasively sought to erase the earlier pain and offer only pleasure. He felt her surrender to the moment in the sigh she offered into his mouth and then he simply held her and kissed her until he, not she, needed to be free.
Tyrone raised his head and stared at her as though she were a stranger. Her face was blotched with feverish emotion, her eyes struck wide with fear. There were tear-tracks on her cheeks and a single bead of blood on the full curve of her lower lip. He bent his head and licked it away. Then almost angrily, he levered himself away from her, the weight of his body rising off of hers so that cooling air once more flowed between them.
Merde! He had not meant to get caught up in the passion. He was t
he seducer, she the prey. He never let his emotions rule him, especially not lust. Yet she had kissed him with more honest curiosity than was wise for either of them. Oh, but she was soft, and warm, and tasted of springtime. It had been a long time since he had tasted innocence. He wanted more.
Philadelphia had been too afraid to speak but when he raised a hand to her cheek she flinched away. “Please don’t!”
Tyrone jerked as if she had struck him. She seemed terrified, as if she expected him to beat her. Or was she thinking, as he was, of how Tavares would react if he learned of this moment? He reminded himself that she was the reason he and Eduardo were at odds. She was the interfering little whore who threatened their partnership. Seducing her might cost him more than an hour between her thighs was worth. She was here because he had a use for her, but once MacCloud was found, he would cast her off as Tavares should have.
He glared at her, wanting now to hurt her, force her back outside the dangerous emotional zone which she had entered unwittingly. He reached down and shoved a hand between the junction of her thighs and smiled as she gasped at the insult. “The next time you tease me, querida, you will pay the full price!” He removed his hand slowly, more reluctant than he wanted to admit.
He moved away, then looked back. “I sleep just there, only six steps from your door.” He pointed to his room. “Don’t be too proud to come and get what you want.” He smiled, the sharp edges of it like ice. And then he walked into his room and closed the shutters.
Both hands shielding her face, Philadelphia stumbled back into the cool room in which she had awakened. The world was suddenly a nightmare. The man she had entrusted herself to was not to be trusted. She had known that. Eduardo had tried to tell her that in his own way, and yet she had chosen Tyrone over him because he suited her purpose better than Eduardo.
She went over to her basin and poured water which she splashed over her face and neck, hoping to wash away the taste and feel of Tyrone. She took a towel and began rubbing her skin, wanting the impression to be erased yet unable to think of anything else. Finally, when her skin was stinging from the rubbing, she sat down on the bed and stared unseeingly at the slats of sunlight measured out on the floor before her.
She had wanted him! For a moment, when her reasoning powers had been overwhelmed in some secret, dark, betraying corner of her soul, she had felt an avid curiosity to know what it would be like to lie with Tyrone. And he knew it. She had seen it in his eyes, and he had rubbed her face in her own weakness. He had said that he was a very dangerous man. Now she believed him.
She raised her hands to her face again, hiding her eyes. She told herself that it was only that she missed Eduardo. Her body cried out in bitterness and loneliness for him. Tyrone had known how to tap into the emotions she held in check for Eduardo, and had used her need to his advantage. Yet the desire was slow to recede. It had taken on a life of its own and it was quite beyond her power to completely control it.
She was learning something new about herself as a woman. There was a willful reckless nature inside her that could sometimes get the better of her. It had encouraged her to leave Saratoga in Tyrone’s company when what she really wanted to do was wait for Eduardo to return so she could apologize to him. She would not have willingly bedded Tyrone, he would have had to make it rape, and she knew that. But the disquieting thought was there, inescapable, that she had wanted to experience his kiss. Never again would she look on passion with the wholesome eyes of total innocence.
She loved Eduardo. That was the difference. She knew that now. That was why she had said yes to him and would have said no to Tyrone. She loved Eduardo Tavares, and she did not know where he was or even if she would ever see him again.
“You’re a fool, Philadelphia Hunt! A damned fool!”
The late-summer sun had set on the bayou city but its heavy, fetid breath hung low and stiflingly on the back streets of the Vieux Carre. Men stood in clusters around open doorways, talking of old times and new days, but mostly waiting for the heat to leave so that they might once again enter their own homes. A few of them smiled and waved at the coterie of musicians walking up the street, their instruments in hand or under their arms. It was Friday night and there was not a single weekend evening in the city when music did not flow from the dance halls of the poor as well as the rich.
“Where’s the shivoo?” one of the men called to the passing musicians.
“Up on Canal Street,” one of them called in answer.
“It’s an American shivoo!” muttered the man who had questioned them, and spat in the dirt by his foot. Since the war, all the big money and houses belonged to the Americans.
Five of the musicians had been formally hired. The sixth had offered his services for free. Because he was new, down the river from Baton Rouge, the others decided to allow him to join them. In the decade following the war, jobs had been hard to come by but things were beginning to prosper again, and common wisdom held that one always shared his luck to make it grow. The American whose home they would play in this night would allow them to fill their bellies at the kitchen table, as well as pay them fifty cents each for six hours of indoor work in a clean shirt.
They believed it was a good omen, having a sixth man, especially one who played the Spanish guitar. Not many gens de couleur had been to Europe to learn from the masters, as these five had. Because of that fact, they jealously guarded their professional status in the city; but this man, this Manuel, he had proved by audition that he was fit to play with them. It was too bad about his bad eye, the one he wore the patch over. Still, he was handsome enough not to offend the ladies.
They caught the trolley at the edge of the French Quarter and rode uptown. There was laughter and many jokes swapped back and forth. Only the new man, Manuel, seemed preoccupied by thoughts, but they forgave him that. He was not yet one of them. They agreed among themselves to give him time to adjust.
Only when they reached their destination did they grow unusually somber, their bright smiles dimming and their flashing eyes suddenly dulled. They went straight up the drive and around the back, to enter by the servants’ door.
Philadelphia touched one of the gold ringlets by her ear as she stared at herself in the mirror. She frowned, unable to remember exactly what she looked like in her own natural coloring. Brunette, blond, would she ever again be herself?
“M’sieu’ gon’ like,” Poulette said with a broad smile. “He say blond woman make fire in ’Nawlins genmen’s trousers.”
Philadelphia ignored the comment. She wondered fleetingly when she had become accustomed to being thought a whore. It must be Tyrone’s influence, she decided with a bitter smile. The only reason she had decided to answer his note left by her luncheon plate, inviting her to accompany him to the soiree, was because it would give her a chance to meet people and ask questions about MacCloud. “Please get my black evening dress for me. Monsieur Tyrone says it’s to be a formal affair.”
Poulette shook her head. “M’sieu’ done picked de dress, mam’zelle.” She went over to the tiny cabinet room and opened it and withdrew a gown of robin’s egg blue trimmed in rows and rows of blue silk cabbage roses. It was beautiful but Philadelphia shook her head. “I will wear only my own clothes.”
Poulette said nothing, only shrugged and continued to hold the dress.
“Very well,” Philadelphia said, “I will inform him myself.” She stepped out onto the gallery, crossed to Tyrone’s bedroom before she had time to change her mind, and knocked firmly on the shutters.
He came to the shutters at once and opened them. “What do you want?” His eyes were like disks of silver in the twilight but she saw that he was dressed for the evening in a swallowtail coat and white cravat with pearl studs. His eyes raked her once. “Why aren’t you ready? We leave in ten minutes.”
“The dress,” she said as coldly as she knew how. “I prefer to wear my own.”
He smirked. “Wear the blue, damn you!” and he slamme
d the shutters in her face.
Philadelphia stood a moment in the dark, anger vying with the common sense of using caution where this man was concerned. “I refuse to go.”
She waited for the explosion, wondering if he would simply tip her backward over the gallery railing or would seize and rape her where she stood. Two seconds passed. Four. Six. Ten. “Did you hear me?”
She took a backward step as the shutters opened a second time, deciding that she might prefer to throw herself over the railing rather than suffer his violence.
He stood backlit by the lamp in his room, tall, spare, every masculine line rigid. “You asked me to find a man for you. I’m trying to do that. Even you have guessed that MacCloud has assumed an alias. The party tonight is given by wealthy Americans. He may be among the guests. I thought you might want a chance to talk to him before I kill him.”
“You found MacCloud!” Philadelphia burst out, regaining her step. “But I don’t—I mean, I don’t want you to kill him.”
He was silent a moment but the air about him vibrated. “I won’t kill him for you. I’m going to kill him for my own reasons.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know. Now get dressed or I’ll leave you behind.”
Philadelphia hurried back to the room and motioned to Poulette. “Hurry! Help me dress! He mustn’t leave me!”
Twenty minutes later Tyrone’s carriage turned off Canal Street onto a private lane lined with carriages waiting their turn to deliver their occupants before a large two-story brick home from which lights blazed in every window.
“See if you can remember two things, Miss Hunt,” Tyrone said as he sat in the dark beside her. “I am known to these people as Monsieur Telfour. It is my business name.”
“What is your business?”