Masquerade

by Janet Dailey

  "I do," he replied, deliberately uncommunicative.

  "Any brothers or sisters?"

  "None."

  "What about your parents? Where are they?"

  "My father died when I was eight. My mother lives here in New Orleans."

  "She does? Do you see her very often, or—are you too busy?" she taunted lightly, a small smile taking much of the sting out of her words.

  Maybe that was why he answered her instead of telling her it was none of her business. He wasn't sure. "I usually call or stop by her shop once a week or so—and occasionally I go over to her place for dinner in the evening."

  "What kind of shop does she have?"

  "A small antique store."

  "Really? On Royal?"

  He smiled wryly, faintly, at that. "No, on Magazine. Her shop draws the blue-jean-and-sneakers trade, not the hat-and-white-gloves one."

  The waiter Joseph returned to the table with their appetizers. When he retreated, Remy speared a bite of oyster with her fork. "What types of antiques does your mother sell?"

  "They're not antiques as much as they are collectibles—period toys, lace curtains, bric-a-brac, wicker pieces, things like that."

  "What's the name of her shop?"

  "The Lemon Tree. Why?"

  "Just curious," she said with a graceful lift of her shoulders, an action that briefly drew the thin material of her dress more tightly over her breasts, momentarily delineating their roundness—something he didn't want to notice. Yet as much as he wanted to deny it, a sexual awareness of her existed in him. It had ever since their slow stroll to the restaurant, ever since she'd walked into his office—ever since he'd met her that first time, six months before.

  He stabbed a piece of shrimp with the tines of his seafood fork and tried to ignore the thought. "I thought this lunch was to talk about business."

  "I never said that," she replied, quickly and smoothly. "I said I wanted to get to know you better." She paused in the act of forking another bite of oyster to her mouth. "By the way, where did you manage to find that print?"

  Cole hesitated an instant, then said, "When I was in London last month I had some time between appointments, so I stopped in at Christie's, and there it was."

  "Christie's—really? That's where I took my training in eighteenth-century French porcelain." She smiled absently, as if some thought had just occurred to her. "I wonder if Jacques the jackal is still there."

  "Who?" Cole frowned.

  "This absolutely insufferable man—French, of course—who was an authority on everything. Nobody could stand him. But he had this laugh that sounded like a hyena." She paused and arched an eyebrow in his direction, her eyes glinting with amusement. "You wouldn't believe the lengths we used to go to to get him to laugh—especially if there was an important client around."

  "I think I can." He nodded, imagining the conspiracies among the trainees to make the man break up with laughter.

  "I thought you'd be able to." She showed him an unsettling smile of shared humor, then turned her attention back to her appetizer. "Are you a collector of sporting prints?"

  Cole remembered the quiet appreciation in her expression when she'd seen the print. It would have been easy for him to talk to her about his interest—which was precisely why he didn't.

  "I doubt that five—six"—he corrected himself—"prints would be considered a collection by your standards."

  "Really? And what are my standards?" She sounded amused.

  "I'm sure you and your friends generally collect original art, not prints. But that's all I can afford."

  She picked up her wineglass and raised it to her lips, holding his gaze and murmuring over the rim, "You don't have a very high opinion of me, my family, or my friends, do you?"

  He hesitated, then chose to be blunt. "Frankly, no.

  "Why?" She studied him thoughtfully, curiously.

  Finished with his shrimp rémoulade, he laid his fork aside and coolly met the silent challenge of her gaze. "Look at the pathetic shape the Crescent Line's in now, and you'll find the answer to that. You and your family bled the life out of it, paying stock dividends to yourselves when the company couldn't afford it, when that money needed to be reinvested. You were solely concerned with yourselves and maintaining your style of living. You didn't give a damn about what might be best for the company—until it appeared that the company might go broke."

  "Guilty as charged, I'm afraid," she confessed. "Although in our defense I would have to say that initially none of us realized the situation was quite so serious."

  "It was—and is. Perhaps if you had studied the balance sheets and asked some questions at the directors' meetings instead of rubber-stamping whatever your father or uncle put in front of you, you would have found out."

  "You're right, of course," she admitted again, untroubled by his criticism of her. "Although I felt that since I knew nothing about the business, they were better qualified than I to make decisions."

  "As one of the owners, Miss Jardin, you should have made it your business to know instead of donating all your time to the museum, playing at being a docent and dabbling in acquisitions."

  The dimples appeared in her cheeks again. "That sounds remarkably like a suggestion that I should be working in and for the company. Obviously you didn't intend for me to take you literally, since I can't imagine you being an advocate of nepotism."

  The waiter came back to the table to remove the dishes with the remains of their appetizers and serve them their main course, his presence eliminating the need for Cole to respond to her remark and creating a lull in the conversation.

  "I am curious about something else," she said when Joseph left. "Considering the company's financial problems and your opinion of us, why did you take the job?"

  "Simple. You—the company—met my terms."

  "Yes." She paused reflectively. "And your terms were: full and complete authority over all facets of the company; any decision you made was final; no approval required from the board of directors. If you succeed financially in turning the company around within three years, you are to receive ten-percent ownership in the company, plus some very favorable stock options."

  "Then you did read my contract."

  "Honestly? I read it for the first time the other day after Father told me what you said he could do with the nomination to his krewe."

  "You admit that?" He was surprised by her candor.

  "The truth hurts, but—yes, I do. Of course, I console myself with the knowledge that despite past mistakes, we at least had the good sense to bring you on board."

  "First interest, now flattery, Miss Jardin?" he mocked.

  "I don't suppose I could persuade you to call me Remy."

  "What would be the point?"

  "Why not say ... in the interest of establishing friendlier relations between owners and management."

  "I repeat, what would be the point?"

  She laid her knife and fork down and rested her elbows on the table, folding her hands together and thoughtfully propping up the point of her chin on top of them. "You resent who I am, my background, don't you? You do realize there's nothing I can do about it. And I'm certainly not going to apologize or feel guilty because I happened to be born into the Jardin family. I had no control over it. Or—is that my problem?" She raised her chin long enough to flick a finger in the direction of his hand.

  "Is what your problem?" Cole frowned.

  "You prefer brunettes with short hair." She reached over, plucked a dark hair from the sleeve of his suit jacket, and held it up as evidence.

  "Sherlock Holmes you're not, Miss Jardin." He took it from her and let it drop to the floor. "That happens to be cat hair."

  "You own a cat?" She picked up her knife and fork and cut another bite of lamb chop.

  "You've obviously had little experience with cats or you'd know that nobody ever owns one. You may occasionally share the same living quarters, but that's about all."

  "And this cat you occ
asionally share your quarters with, what kind is it?"

  "The alley variety. Its pedigree is the street."

  "Does your cat have a name?"

  He hesitated. "Tom."

  "You're kidding." She stared at him incredulously, then burst into a laugh.

  In spite of himself, he laughed with her. "Not very original, I admit, but the name suits him."

  "I wouldn't do that very often if I were you."

  "What?" Suddenly he found himself captivated by her gaze, unsettled and disturbed by the warmly interested glow in her eyes.

  "Laugh," she said simply. "It makes you seem human."

  He caught himself wanting to respond to her as a man, and immediately steeled himself against that impulse. "I'll remember that," he said, wiping the smile from his face.

  "Other than occasionally sharing your digs with Tom, collecting sporting prints, and dining with your mother now and then, what else do you do? Are you interested in sports? Football? Soccer? Tennis?"

  "I don't have time."

  "You must do something to stay in such great shape," she said, running her gaze over the width of his shoulders and chest. "And somehow I can't imagine you working out in a gym with weights."

  "Actually I do try to make it to the gym a couple-three times a week to spar a few rounds."

  "You mean—you box?" She seemed uncertain that she had understood him correctly.

  "Yes." Dammit, why was he telling her this? Had it been deliberate, to remind him how he'd met . . . ? But Remy Jardin's reaction was different. There was no look of fascination for what many regarded as a violent sport, nothing that even remotely resembled an attraction to blood and gore.

  "An art collector who boxes. What perfect therapy it must be," she marveled. "Personally, I can't think of a better way to get rid of frustration and repressed anger than to unleash it on a punching bag. How long have you been doing it?"

  "I started boxing when I was a kid. My mother figured I'd be getting into fights anyway, so she decided it would be better if I did it in a ring under supervision, instead of with a gang in the streets."

  "Obviously it worked."

  "For the most part."

  "I'm almost afraid to ask what kind of music you like?"

  "A little jazz, a lot of blues." Too late, he caught himself and wondered why in hell he was answering these questions of hers. He knew better. She wasn't his kind. Nothing would come of it.

  "Then you must like Lou Rawls. Have you seen his show at the Blue Room? From what I've heard it's drawing rave reviews."

  "The tickets are sold out."

  "Really." She gave him a knowing smile and a bold glance. "It so happens I have two tickets for tonight's show. Gabe was supposed to go with me, but he has a heavy date tonight—with a weighty legal brief, he claims. I can't think of a single reason why I shouldn't take you instead."

  "I suppose next you'll try to convince me this invitation is all in aid of friendlier relations between ownership and management," Cole replied cynically. He signaled for the waiter to take away his plate, then ordered coffee.

  "Are you suggesting that that's wrong?" The coffee arrived, the matchless New Orleans-style coffee, a blend of dark roasted coffee beans and chicory, brewed strong and black, with the option always provided to dilute it with hot milk.

  Cole drank his straight, and he noticed that Remy Jardin did too. "I'm suggesting . . . that you find yourself another escort—one suitable for a Newcomb girl."

  She looked at him in surprise. "How did you know I went to Newcomb College?"

  "Considering it's a tradition in the Uptown set, it was an educated guess. No doubt your mother went there, and your mother's mother—right on down the line."

  "Where did you go to college?"

  "I can assure you it wasn't Tulane," he replied, trying not to think about the scholarship he'd almost gotten to that university, a scholarship that was ultimately given to someone else whose family had the "right" background and a depleted bank account. "Your brother went there, didn't he? And obtained the mandatory law degree to go with the rest of his impeccable family credentials."

  She propped an elbow on the table and rested her chin on the heel of her hand. "Your logic escapes me completely. What does all this have to do with refusing to go see Lou Rawls with me?"

  "Some relationships between certain people are deadends from the start. This is one of them, Miss Jardin. And I don't see any reason to start something that will never go anywhere."

  "How can you be sure of that?"

  "It's simple, Miss Jardin. People—like water —seek their own level." It was a truth he'd learned the hard way, on more than one occasion.

  She arched an eyebrow at that. "And you accept that?"

  "It isn't a question of accepting it. It's reality."

  "If women had that attitude, we'd still be in the kitchen."

  "Somehow I doubt you have ever seen the inside of a kitchen—except maybe to complain to the cook."

  "I think you'd be surprised at how well I know my way around a kitchen, but that's not the point." She shrugged idly, her eyes never leaving him. "You disappoint me, Mr. Buchanan. I thought you were more of a gambler."

  "I don't play longshots, if that's what you mean."

  She laughed, and the throaty sound of it worked on his senses. "I've been called many things, but never a longshot." She reached into her lap for her purse. He heard the snapping click of the clasp opening. She took something out of it, then presented it to him in a flourish, with a twist of her wrist. "Here's a sure thing, Mr. Buchanan. One ticket to this evening's show . . . and look." She wiggled it. "No strings attached."

  He took it from her, then hesitated warily. "What's the catch, Miss Jardin? What's behind this?"

  "No catch. And if it was prompted by anything, then it's probably something Nattie once told me."

  "What's that?"

  "A little sugar never hurt a lemon."

  He smiled in spite of himself and slipped the ticket inside the breast pocket of his suit coat.

  A half-dozen times that afternoon, back in his office, he took it out and looked at it. Each time, the sight of it gave him pause. And a hundred times he debated with himself whether or not he should go.

  In the end, he showered and changed at his apartment, then went to the Fairmont Hotel, which, like most New Orleans natives, he continued to think of as the Roosevelt. He was shown to a table for two in the hotel's supper club, the Blue Room. The emptiness of the chair opposite him stared accusingly back. One word from him at lunch, and Remy Jardin would have been sitting there. He wondered if he could stand to stare at it all night. Finally he decided he couldn't, and he started to get up.

  That was when she walked in, dramatically feminine in a high-necked two-piece dress of silk jacquard, inset with embroidered lace at the throat and with another wide swathe accenting the hem. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a crown of soft curls, a style that was both sophisticated and sexy.

  "Sorry I'm late. I hope I haven't kept you waiting long," she said, as if he'd been expecting her to come all along. Had he?

  "Remy." It was out. He'd said her name.

  "Yes, Cole," she replied softly.

  "Nothing," Ripping his gaze from her, he moved briskly to pull out the other chair at the table.

  "Nothing," she mocked playfully, following after him to take her seat. Her dress was a pale shade of ivory, but the effect of it was anything but virginal, as Cole discovered when he saw the back of it. It plunged all the way down, giving him a glimpse of the tantalizing hollow at the base of her spine. "Your longshot comes in, and all you can say is 'nothing.'"

  "I see you changed for the occasion." He took his own seat, rigid, tense, every instinct telling him to walk out now.

  "You like my dress?"

  "That isn't a dress. It's a weapon."

  "Mmmm, a lethal one, I hope." She smiled, deliberately provocative.

  "Just why have you set your sights on me?" He leane
d back in his chair, trying to put more distance between them and negate the effect she was having on him. But he heard the whisper of silk over silk as she crossed her legs under the table.

  "Frankly?" Unexpectedly, her expression turned serious, her look soberly contemplative. "Initially—as I told you before—I came to see you out of sheer curiosity. I wanted to meet the man who wanted no part of one of the most elite krewes in New Orleans. When I did, you were— at least at first—almost exactly what I expected. Then I saw the way you looked at that print. You weren't calculating its worth, as I've seen many collectors do, or even imagining how much it would impress others, as some do. No, it was the print itself that appealed to you—the style, the technique, the use of colors, the feelings it evoked. I suppose I recognized that look because so often that's the way I feel when I come across a Sevres figurine I've never seen before." Pausing, she continued to look at him, seeing him, studying him. Then she seemed to realize how serious she'd become, and she quickly smiled, picking up the water glass in front of her, a faintly mocking gleam in her eyes. "Something tells me you aren't as hard, as cold, or as cynical as you may seem—not a man who's sensitive enough to understand cats."

  Cole leaned forward, uncomfortable with the things she was saying. "Is the analysis over, or should I see if the management can provide us with a couch?"

  "Now there's an intriguing thought."

  "What? Analyzing me?"

  "No—having you all to myself on a couch for an hour."

  He didn't remember much of the show. He was more conscious of the play of light and shadow across her face with the changing of the stage lighting, and of the absence of any rings on her fingers when she clapped enthusiastically at the conclusion of each song. Her vitality, her zest—her passion—that was what he recalled when the show was over.

  In the lobby of the lavishly decorated turn-of-the-century hotel, Cole guided her through the milling throng of show-goers, slow to disperse. "I wonder how lucky I'll be getting a taxi," Remy remarked.

  "You didn't drive your car tonight?" He'd taken it for granted that she had.

  "No. I had Gabe drop me off on his way back to the office to tussle with his weighty legal brief," she replied, then sent him a challenging sidelong glance. "You wouldn't happen to be going my way, would you?"