Night Fires

by Sandra Marton

  She filled the kettle, then set out the Chemex. In the morning, early, she could pop out to that little shop around the corner. They baked their own breads and sweet rolls—what was it James had said he wanted? Beignets, that was it. She’d buy fresh-made beignets and a pound of New Orleans coffee, aromatic with chicory, and when he awoke he’d find breakfast waiting.

  For dinner—she smiled as she whipped the eggs and added a splash of cold water in lieu of milk—dinner could be a little more exotic. There was that old cookbook she’d found in the cupboard, the one with all those Creole and Cajun specialties in it—things like shrimp jambalaya and crawfish gumbo. She could get all the ingredients at the farmers market, where the air was redolent of spices and court bouillon. And the next day, if he felt up to it, they could drive out to one of the plantations Alma had told her about and…

  Gabrielle stopped in the centre of the room. What was she doing? She was trembling with excitement over plans for tomorrow and the next day with a man she knew nothing about.

  What had happened to all her questions? What had become of caution? -

  ‘Ah, that coffee smells wonderful.’

  Her heart turned over and she whirled towards the doorway, her hand pressed to her breast. ‘I didn’t hear you,* she said with a nervous laugh.

  James had managed to change his torn trousers and soiled shirt. But the repairs only emphasised the toll the accident had taken. His face was drawn with fatigue, the skin a mask beneath which the bones showed in harsh relief. Shadows lay dark beneath his eyes; the bruise on his jaw had turned as black as the tiny silk stitches that angled across his cheek.

  Gabrielle hurried to the table and pulled out a chair. ‘Sit down, James,’ she said. ‘You look exhausted.’

  He nodded as he crossed the room, the rubber-tipped crutches squeaking against the tiled floor.

  ‘To tell the truth, I feel pretty rocky.’ He eased the crutches from beneath his arms and sank into a chair. ‘But a cup of that coffee will fix me up in no time.’

  ‘Aspirin first,’ she said, holding out her hand. James looked at the three tablets and then at Gabrielle, whose eyebrows rose dramatically. ‘You don’t get coffee unless you down those first.’

  He grinned. ‘Nurse Ramrod would be proud of you.’ The aspirin went down with a swallow of water. ‘Satisfied, Doctor?’

  Gabrielle smiled. ‘Yes. For that, you not only get coffee, you get soup. And crackers,’ she added, setting a plate of them down before him, ‘although I’m afraid they’re pretty stale.’

  He bit into a cracker and smiled. ‘They taste like ambrosia. And for God’s sake, don’t apologise. It’s not as if you expected a house guest, is it?’

  ‘I’m just sorry I kept you riding around in my little car for so many hours. I should have known we’d never find a room anywhere, not with mardi gras only days away.’

  ‘Mmm, that smells wonderful. What is it?’

  She laughed as she slipped into the seat opposite him. ‘Campbell’s Chicken Gumbo, straight from the tin. I figured that, now that I was a southerner, I ought to make some concessions to local custom.’

  James spooned up some soup and swallowed it. ‘It must take some doing,’ he said, ‘making the adjustment from being a New Yorker to being a—what do they say, an Orleanian?’

  Gabrielle smiled. ‘Alma’s trying to help me manage. I don’t think she’s very satisfied with my progress, though.’

  He grinned at her. ‘This morning, when I called the shop, I asked her what it would take to get you to the phone, and she sighed and said she’d didn’t know, that you were a damn Yankee and sometimes you just didn’t have the sense God gave mules.’

  She laughed. ‘If she weren’t so nice, and I didn’t need her so badly, I think I’d resent that.’

  James swallowed another mouthful of soup. ‘She says that you keep to yourself too much.’

  Gabrielle’s back stiffened. ‘I love Alma dearly,’ she said, ‘but she talks too much.’ She pushed back her chair, collected the empty soup bowls, and carried them to the sink.

  ‘Hey,’ his voice was soft, ‘she meant well. The lady’s very fond of you.’

  Some of the tension eased from her shoulders. ‘I know she is,’ she said finally. ‘It’s just that she—she has a different view of life. She has this—this southern attitude, a kind of trusting way of dealing with people and things.’

  ‘And you don’t.’

  It was a statement, not a question. Gabrielle shook her head. ‘No, I don’t. I’ve had to learn the hard way that things aren’t always what they seem…’ Her voice faded and died. ‘Besides, Alma doesn’t really know anything about me.’

  James watched her as she placed a platter of bacon and eggs before him. ‘I’m not sure I do either,’ he said after a moment.

  Her eyes met his. ‘Aren’t you? You seem to know a lot, James,’ she said, watching him. ‘The things I like to eat and drink, where I’m from…’

  His face gave nothing away. ‘Good guesses, that’s all. But I’m not sure I know the real you.’

  Her pulse tripped. ‘The real me?’

  James nodded. His pale eyes held hers. ‘ I realised last night, I know very little about Gabrielle Shelton.’

  ‘There’s not much to know. My father died a few months ago and I decided to start my life over. So I came here, to New Orleans…’

  ‘You make it sound simple.’

  The tone of his voice made her head come up. He was watching her narrowly, a smile on his face, but the smile looked as if it had been pasted on.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He shrugged. ‘It must be hard to leave everyone you care about.’

  She shook her head. ‘I told you, my father died. He was all I had.’

  James’s eyes were fixed on hers. ‘Surely there was someone else?’

  ‘No. No one.’

  ‘No one?’ His voice was soft, almost a whisper. ‘No one at all?’

  She thought of Tony Vitale—Uncle Tony—and she hesitated.

  ‘There was—there was someone,’ she said finally. ‘But it wasn’t—it didn’t…’

  ‘A man.’ His voice was flat.

  Their eyes met. His expression was dark and unreadable; she had the sudden feeling that he knew she carried a burden within her, a secret that had become too heavy to bear. Suddenly, crazily, the desire to tell him the truth almost overwhelmed her.

  She looked down at the table. Bacon fat had congealed on her plate; the sight of it made her feel nauseated and her stomach rose involuntarily. Finally she nodded her head.

  ‘Yes.’ The admission made her dizzy. ‘A man. My…’ she hesitated, then swallowed hard. ‘My uncle.’

  James leaned across the table. ‘Tell me about him, Gabrielle.’

  She looked up at him. She was tired of carrying her old identity hidden inside herself. And yet, how could she unburden herself to a stranger? Even if she did, where would she begin? There was her father’s illness and the trial she’d walked away from; there was the man she called ‘Uncle’ whom others called a criminal; there were the cruel lies the tabloids had woven about her.

  ‘Did you leave New York because of him?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. Not exactly.’

  ‘Not exactly.’ James’s voice was soft. ‘What does that mean?’

  Gabrielle ran her tongue across her lips. ‘I can’t—I can’t explain. I told you, it’s complicated.’

  James drew a deep breath. ‘This uncle of yours—did you love him?’

  The question seemed a strange one to ask. His voice was dispassionate, almost removed. Gabrielle lifted her eyes to his; her breath caught at the fierce sharpness of his stare.

  ‘No,’ she said, surprise triggering her unplanned response. ‘I didn’t.’ An overpowering memory of the way Vitale had taken to touching her made her shiver. ‘I thought I did once, but…’

  ‘But?’ James’s tone was edged.

  Gabrielle drew a shuddering breath. ‘I
t isn’t easy to explain,’ she said softly. ‘He was very good to me, James. He—he gave me everything. He paid for everything…’ She fell silent. James must think she was crazy. He was watching her with such a strange look on his. face, his eyes narrowed until she could only see the palest glint of blue behind his dark lashes. Half of what she’d said made no sense, and half sounded like a bad soap opera, murky and heavy with tragedy.

  She felt as if she’d been teetering on the edge of a precipice. She’d come far too close to saying things she shouldn’t. It was impossible to tell this story to anyone without its sounding like a hackneyed catastrophe. That was one of the reasons she’d decided never to talk about that part of her life again. The other reason was even more important. She had had enough of raised eyebrows and sly looks when people learned she was Gabrielle Chiari.

  She knew beyond certainty that the only way to forget the past was to bury it.

  ‘I told you,’ she said finally, ‘it’s hard to explain.’ Their eyes met and Gabrielle managed a quick smile. ‘Let’s talk about something else. Tell me about yourself.

  I don’t know a thing about you, James. I ’

  His hand closed over hers. ‘Have you finished with this man or is he still in your life?’

  ‘James, please. I told you ’

  ‘Just answer the question.’ His fingers tightened on hers. ‘How do you feel about him now?’

  She sighed deeply. It was as if his eyes were drawing the answers to his questions from her.

  ‘I don’t know. Sometimes I think—sometimes I think I’m done with him. But then I remember—I remember the way it was, the way it used to be…’

  ‘You mean, you remember the things he used to give you. The gifts.’

  She looked at him, surprise etched into her face. ‘No,

  I didn’t mean ’

  ‘This is an expensive house. Did you buy it with his money?’

  His voice was as hard as forged steel and just as cold.

  Her head came up sharply and she looked at him, cheeks flushed. ‘My father’s insurance policy was the down payment. And I don’t think I like the way you said that, James.’

  His lips drew back from his teeth. ‘I was only repeating your words, Gabrielle. You said he gave you things.’

  ‘Yes. But you—you gave it a different meaning. He was my uncle, but you made it sound…’ Her breath caught; suddenly, all her suspicions about him were reawakened. ‘Who are you?’ she whispered, pulling her hand from his. ‘What do you want from me?’

  He stared at her while the kitchen clock ticked away the seconds, and then a crooked smile twisted across his face.

  ‘I wish to hell I knew,’ he said.

  ‘I—I don’t understand.’

  ‘Gabrielle.’ His hand tightened on hers and he leaned towards her. ‘Let me help you. You can’t run forever.’

  Her face paled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m not a fool, Gabrielle. Let me help you. I know you’re running from something.’

  ‘I’m not,’ she said quickly. ‘I told you, my father’s death was hard for me.’ She pulled her hand from his;

  her chair squeaked as she pushed it back and got to her feet. ‘It only hurts to talk about the past.’

  ‘You can’t ignore the past, dammit!’ James’s tone was harsh. ‘You have to make peace with it. If you don’t, sooner or later it’ll catch up with you.’

  ‘Don’t say that!’ Gabrielle turned away and wrapped her arms around herself. ‘If I let myself believe that, I’d never be able to face tomorrow. The past is over,’ she said in a voice that trembled. ‘It has to be.’

  She heard the rasp of James’s chair as he shoved back from the table, then the drag of a crutch as he moved towards her.

  ‘It can’t be over if you’re still running from it.’

  ‘I told you, I’m not. You don’t even know what I’m

  talking about, James. You ’

  ‘Face whatever you’re afraid of. Face it squarely and then you can put it behind you.’ He put his free hand on her shoulder and clasped her tightly. ‘If you don’t, you’ll never be able to get on with your life.’

  She shook her head. ‘You don’t understand,’ she whispered.

  . ‘I want to,’ he said softly. ‘Tell me what you’re afraid of, Gabrielle. Trust me. Let me help you.’

  She felt herself tremble beneath his touch. She thought of last night and how he’d held her and comforted her, how he’d kissed away her tears—and how she’d spent the night wondering what it was he wanted from her. ‘Trust me,’ he’d said.

  She did. Didn’t she? Hadn’t she made peace with her fears? She must have; she’d taken James Forrester into her home, hadn’t she? Surely that meant something?

  She turned towards him. Maybe it was time to believe in someone. Maybe that someone was James. Maybe…

  Gabrielle’s hand flew to her mouth. How could she have been so selfish? Caught up in her own misery, she’d all but forgotten how ill he was. The aspirin hadn’t done any good at all: his colour was ashen, his eyes dark slits in his taut face. Her eyes moved over the gash on his cheek, where the stitches rose darkly against the swollen and reddened skin.

  ‘James,’ she said, ‘you look terrible.’

  His expression remained implacable. Then, slowly, a smile curved over his mouth. ‘Flattery will get you nowhere,’ he said. ‘But that’s one hell of a way to change the subject.’

  ‘Here, lean on me and let me get you back to the chair.’ She put her arm around his waist and led him to the table. ‘There. Sit down. That’s it. Do you want to put your leg on this footstool? I should have thought of it

  before; I ’

  He caught her hand as she knelt beside him. ‘Gabrielle. Tell me what you were going to say a minute ago.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to say anything.’

  ‘You were. I know you were.’

  She shook her head. ‘It wasn’t important. Anyway, it’s something I have to work out alone.’

  James brought her hand to his lips. ‘You’re not alone,’ he said softly. ‘Not anymore.’

  Inexplicably, tears rose in her eyes. She blinked them back, but not before dampness welled on her lashes.

  He drew her to him, one arm curving about her.

  ‘Gabrielle,’ he said thickly, ‘don’t cry.’

  ‘Your knee. James, you’ll hurt yourself.’

  His eyes darkened. ‘It’s you I’m afraid of hurting,’ he muttered, and he pulled her into the hardness of his body. His mouth took hers with a hot, open abandon that sent the blood pulsing wildly through her veins, his lips parting hers quickly, hungrily, as if he were dying of thirst for her.

  Gabrielle moaned as his tongue thrust between her lips. The sweet taste of him filled her mouth; her head fell back and her hands rose between them, moving against his chest. Her fingers twisted in his shirt, then flattened against him. The strong, swift beat of his heart pounded beneath her palms.

  James groaned against her mouth and drew her closer. His hand moved along the flare of her hip and to her buttocks, cupping the curve and bringing her tightly against him. She felt his body stir and quicken against hers, the hard power of his erection more erotic than anything she’d ever imagined. She moved against him in unconscious need and he groaned again.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘do that. Do that…’

  His mouth fell to her throat, his kisses hot, his teeth sharp as he followed the long, curving arch. He whispered her name as he cupped the back of her head and brought her face to his, whispered it again as he kissed her.

  Gabrielle was dazed with desire; she was aware of her body in ways she’d never been before. Everywhere James touched her, tendrils of flame seemed to ignite beneath her skin. Her blood felt thick and sluggish. There was a strange sensation low in her belly, as if something were spreading its wings within her.

  She moaned as James ran his hand along her back and traced the outline of her ribs through her thin cotto
n sweater, moaned again when his fingertips grazed the under-swell of her breast. When finally he cupped her breast, she cried out and James bent to her, caught her cry in his mouth, returned it to her as a groan of his own impassioned need. She shuddered as she felt the fierce hardening of her nipple in his seeking hand.

  James whispered something to her, her name, perhaps something more intimate—she was beyond the ability to understand anything but her desperate need to be close to him. Still kneeling between his legs, she pressed herself to him so that her breasts flattened against his chest while he feasted on the sweetness of her mouth.

  ‘James,’ she whispered, her voice soft and urgent. ‘James…’

  Her hands lifted and she caught his face between her palms. His unshaved skin rasped against her flesh; it sent a savage passion spiraling deep within her, and she thought of how that roughened skin would feel against the softness of her breasts or the tender, secret flesh between her thighs.

  Her body fell limp against his and he caught her to him, moulding the length of her to him while he kissed her. She moaned softly; her hands cupped his face more tightly while she raised herself to him, offered herself to him.

  His breath hissed sharply. ‘Gabrielle,’ he whispered, and he caught her hand and lifted it from his sutured cheek.

  Her eyes opened and focused on his face. The realisation that she’d touched his wound came slowly; when finally it did, she recoiled in horror.

  ‘James,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  His smile was quick and taut. ‘It wasn’t your fault, love. Don’t apologise.’

  ‘Have I hurt you?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m fine.’

  She knew he was telling her what he wanted her to hear. But his eyes told another story, as did the play of muscle beside his mouth.

  Gabrielle took her hand from his and lay it against his chest. His heart was still racing, as was hers.

  ‘I—I wasn’t thinking, James. I…’

  James cupped her face and lifted it to his. ‘I’d have been insulted if you had.’

  Gabrielle smiled. ‘Just imagine what Nurse Ramrod would do if she found out.’

  ‘Throttle you,’ he said solemnly. ‘And banish me to the orthopedics floor.’ His eyes were warm on hers and his thumbs moved lightly over her cheeks. ‘A fate worse than death.’