by Metsy Hingle
She didn’t have to imagine, Liza thought at the sound of the deep voice, heavily accented by his native French. Memories came rushing back to her of those nights she’d spent wrapped in his arms, listening to his stories about the vineyard in France where he’d lived as a boy. She had envisioned him easily, a handsome boy with a devilish twinkle in his eyes, racing through the vineyard, laughing as he swiped grapes from the vines and popped them into his mouth. For a short time during their brief affair, she had even been foolish enough to fantasize that the two of them would travel there together one day. She had so wanted to see the valleys he had described to her, the place he had painted for her so vividly with his words.
But that had been before she had realized that Jacques didn’t love her. That he would never permit himself to love her or any woman. And even worse that there was no place in his life or his heart for her love.
“I wonder if it’s true what they say about Frenchmen,” Jane murmured. “You know, about them being better lovers.”
Unbidden, Liza’s gaze followed her friend’s to where Jacques stood flanked by three of the female board members. One of the trio murmured something to him and Jacques tossed back his head and laughed. A swift pang shot through Liza and she jerked her gaze away. “If I were you, I wouldn’t be too anxious to find out—not if you still want marriage, motherhood and that white picket fence.”
“Why not?”
“Because unless he’s changed a great deal, you’ll never have any of those things with Jacques. He’s allergic to even the thought of marriage or commitment.” After all, she should know, Liza added silently.
Jane wrinkled her nose. “Don’t you know that no man ever wants to settle down? They fight it tooth and nail until the right woman comes along and changes their mind for them.”
“You make marriage sound like ... like taming a pet. Trust me, Jane. Jacques Gaston is no domestic house cat. And I wouldn’t count on changing his mind on the subject, either. There certainly have been enough women who’ve tried.” Not that she had been one of them. She had only wanted to love him and be loved by him. But even that had proved too much for Jacques.
“I didn’t realize you knew him so well,” Jane said, a curious gleam in her dark eyes.
“I don’t.” Despite the fact that they had been lovers, she had never really known Jacques. She had been too caught up in their passion to discover the sad, lonely man that had lain beneath the happy-go-lucky facade he presented to the world. Until it had been too late. “We met a few years ago in New Orleans while I was working for Aimee Gallagher. Jacques was one of her tenants.”
“So, then you two are old friends?”
“More like adversaries. We didn’t get along very well.” Except for that short time when they had been lovers. But even then, their relationship had remained volatile. And despite the fact that she had fallen in love with him, she and Jacques had never quite managed to become friends. If they had, perhaps things would not have ended as they did. “We still don’t.”
“Adversaries, huh? I guess that explains why he’s looking at you like a hungry cat eyeing a tasty little mouse.”
Liza looked up. Her eyes tangled with the tawny-colored ones staring back at her. For a moment she forgot to breathe. When Jacques winked, she jerked her gaze away. “Don’t read anything into it. Jacques takes his role as a Frenchman seriously. He thinks it’s his duty to flirt with any female from eight to eighty.”
Her friend gave her a speculative look, then went back to sorting papers. She handed Liza a pile of the agendas that had been scattered on the table. “Still, it sure would be interesting to find out if what they say about Frenchmen is true.”
“And just what is it they say about Frenchmen?” Jacques asked.
Liza whipped around. Her heart thundered in her chest.
Jane’s face split into a welcoming smile. “Why that they’re—”
“That they’re very...French,” Liza offered quickly, while struggling to keep the color from crawling up her cheeks. Noting the amused look in his eyes, Liza tipped up her chin. “Jacques, I’d like you to meet Jane Burke. Jane, Jacques Gaston.”
“Mademoiselle Burke.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. The other woman practically swooned.
“Jane is the person responsible for organizing the committee’s volunteers,” Liza continued, unsure which irritated her more, the dazzled expression on her friend’s face or Jacques’s easy charm. “I was explaining to Jacques earlier that it really wasn’t necessary for him to take Peter’s place on the board and suggested he might want to work with your group of volunteers.”
“Why, of course, we would love to have you work with our group, Mr. Gaston.”
“Jacques,” he corrected.
“Jacques,” she repeated, her face beaming. “And please, you must call me Jane.”
“A lovely name for a lovely lady,” Jacques said smoothly. “And I am sure you will understand, Jane, that as much as I would enjoy working with you, I believe my time would be better served working with Liza to ensure the success of the fund-raiser.”
“Why, of course I understand,” Jane agreed, her cheeks flushed. “And you’re right. Despite what Liza says, I know she can use your help—especially with Peter and Aimee both out of the picture.”
“Is that right?” Jacques shifted his gaze to Liza.
“Oh, yes,” Jane assured him and then launched into a list of the many details for which Liza was responsible all of which would certainly benefit from any help that Jacques would offer.
Resisting the urge to strangle both her friend and Jacques, Liza crammed the remaining meeting paraphernalia into her briefcase. She snapped it shut and removed it from the table. “If you’ll both excuse me, need to speak with Robert about the patron party before I leave.”
Ten minutes later, after declining Robert’s offer to see her to her car, Liza slipped out of the meeting room. At least she had managed to avoid another encounter with Jacques, she told herself as she walked down the hallway toward the exit. Judging by the way Ashley Hartmann had been clinging to his arm when she had seen him last, he would be fully occupied for the rest of the evening.
Not that it made any difference to her, Liza decided. After all, she and Jacques were history. What he did and who he did it with were of no concern to her.
Then why did the image of the redheaded divorcée laughing up at him and clutching at his sleeve leave such a foul taste in her mouth and an achy feeling in her chest?
Because you’re an idiot, Liza O’Malley. You always were, where Jacques was concerned. Frowning, Liza turned the corner and headed toward the elevators.
“Such a long face. Problem, ma chérie?”
Liza stopped. Her gaze shot over to where Jacques stood lounging against the wall next to the elevators. “Not at all,” she finally managed to say despite the rush of nerves that tightened like a knot in her stomach. Shifting her briefcase from one hand to the other, she continued over to the bank of elevators and pushed the button for the lobby. “I’m just surprised to see you leaving so early.” Or alone, she added silently.
“Why is that?”
“Well, since you’re so eager to serve on the committee’s board, I thought you would take advantage of this opportunity to become better acquainted with the other board members.” And Ashley Hartmann in particular.
“I would much prefer reacquainting myself with the committee’s fund-raising coordinator.”
The elevator arrived, saving her from the need to respond. Liza stepped inside the half-filled car, and Jacques followed. The doors slid shut, enclosing them in the small space. The short ride to the lobby suddenly seemed to stretch endlessly. Even with a half dozen other people inside the car, Liza couldn’t help being keenly aware of Jacques standing beside her. She could smell the scents of summer sunshine and damp clay, of pine woods and man—a unique mingling of scents that she had always associated with Jacques. And with the scents came back the memories—the f
eel of his hands shaping her, his mouth tasting and teasing.
Liza’s breath snagged in her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut against the memory.
“Liza?”
At the sound of his voice, Liza opened her eyes immediately. Her body tense, she tightened her fingers around the handle of her briefcase.
“Is something wrong?”
“No,” she said quickly.
Moments later when the elevator doors opened, she raced through them and out into the lobby.
“Liza, wait.”
She kept moving down the polished corridor, eager to reach the parking garage elevator and escape Jacques and the rush of memories plaguing her.
He gripped her arm, bringing her to a halt. Gently, too gently, he caught her chin and forced her to look at him. “What is wrong? Why do you run from me?”
“I’m not running from you,” she lied. “I have a headache, and I’m just anxious to get home.”
He hesitated, and Liza grew uncomfortable under his probing gaze. “Then I will take you home.” Still holding on to her arm, he took her briefcase from her and continued toward the parking garage elevators.
“I appreciate the offer, but it’s not necessary.”
“You are ill.”
“I have a headache,” she said, and tugged her arm free. “I promise you I can manage. Besides, I don’t live in the city. ‘Home’ is more than an hour’s drive outside of Chicago.”
“I do not mind the drive.”
“But I do.”
“I will see you to your car,” he insisted, following her into the garage elevator despite her protests.
“That really isn’t necessary.”
“I said I will see you to your car. Which floor?”
Under the harsh lighting of the elevator, his roughly hewed features and dark gold hair reminded her of a Viking warrior. The fact that he towered over her own considerable height only added to the image. But it was the determination in his leonine gaze that made her decide it was pointless to argue further. She punched the number three for her parking level.
Moments later when the doors opened, Liza stepped out into the cold, shadowed garage. Jacques walked beside her, his silence making her even more anxious. Finally she reached the dark blue sedan. “Well, this is it,” she said with more cheerfulness than she was feeling. After unlocking her car and allowing him to store her briefcase on the back seat, she turned to him. “Well, thanks again.”
“Aren’t you at least going to offer me a ride?”
“But I thought... What about your car?”
His mouth kicked up at the corners in what she had always considered his lady-killer grin. “I do not have one. Peter had someone meet me at the airport when I arrived this morning, and I took a taxi to the meeting. I have not yet called the rental agency.”
Liza narrowed her eyes. “And I suppose there’s a reason you can’t take another taxi now?”
“Perhaps I am still the struggling artist with big dreams and little money.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
The smile in his eyes died. So did the one on his lips. “No. It is not. I have done well since our time together in New Orleans. Perhaps if my fortunes had come sooner, you would not have chosen to leave me as you did.”
The words hurt, as did the bitterness she detected behind them, but Liza didn’t bother to deny his accusations. It was better he thought she had deserted him because of his lack of money than for him to know the truth.
“Now it seems fate has brought us together again. I am looking forward to working with you on this fund-raiser.”
Panic shot through her at his words. Liza’s gaze shot up to meet his. “Why are you doing this, Jacques? What are you up to?”
“Ah. I see you are still a suspicious soul.” Instead of the underlying bitterness she had detected moments earlier, she glimpsed an intensity in him that she found far more disturbing. “Surely two old friends such as you and I can work together.”
“We were lovers, Jacques. Not friends.”
“Yes. And you were a spectacular lover, ma chérie.” He moved a step closer, caging her between the car door and his body. He skimmed his thumb along the line of her cheek, across her bottom lip. “So responsive.”
Liza shivered, unable to quell her reaction to his touch, unable to look away.
“Did you think I had forgotten?” he asked, his voice rough with some emotion she couldn’t decipher. “I wanted to. God knows I tried to forget you. But I could not. Just as I cannot stop myself from wanting you now.” Heat flared in his eyes, turning them to molten gold.
And then he was lowering his head, his mouth was brushing hers, testing, tasting, tempting. His tongue traced the lines of her lips. “Open for me, Liza.”
She obeyed his command, parting her lips.
Jacques groaned. The deep husky sound sent a shudder through her. When his tongue slid inside her mouth and began an erotic mating ritual with her own, Liza heard the moan of pleasure escape from her own lips.
And then she was beyond hearing, beyond thinking. All she could do was feel. She clung to his shoulders, her head spinning as wave after wave of need lapped at her greedily, demanding more.
“Ah, Liza,” he murmured as his mouth forged its way to her ear and then retraced the path back to reclaim her lips. Despite the cold temperature and threat of new snow, she was burning up inside, her body suffused with heat.
Jacques captured her face between his hands, forcing her to look at him. She could see the desire burning in his eyes and feared he would see it in hers as well.
“It is still there. The fire between us. Nothing has changed, Liza. Nothing.”
Reality came back to her in a rush as the impact of his words registered. When he started to kiss her again, Liza turned her head away. “You’re wrong, Jacques. Everything has changed.”
“Has it?”
“Yes.”
“I do not think so, ma chérie. Let me prove it to you.”
“No!”
Something dark and dangerous flashed in his eyes. For a moment she thought he would ignore her. Then he dropped his arms and stepped back.
Still shaky, Liza turned her back to him and opened the car door. “If you still want a ride to your hotel, get in.” She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. Once he was strapped in the seat beside her, she asked, “Where are you staying?”
“At Peter and Aimee’s apartment. It is on—”
“I know where it is,” Liza told him. After all, she had often used the place herself during the past three years. In fact, she had already accepted Aimee’s offer to use the guest room on the evening of the patron party and the black-tie gala next month. Of course that would no longer be an option, Liza realized as she maneuvered her car along the snow-lined streets. She would just have to make other arrangements. But having a convenient place to stay while she was in Chicago was the least of her worries now.
Jacques glanced over at Liza, noting how tightly her gloved fingers gripped the steering wheel. She still wanted him, he told himself as he fought the dark storm of emotion her denial had set whirling inside him. Regardless of her protests, the fire between them burned just as hot, just as fiercely as it had three years ago.
He intended for it to burn again.
It had to. Otherwise he would spend the rest of his life haunted by her and the foolish notion that they could have had a future together. They couldn’t. It was impossible. He had to prove it to himself or he would never know peace again.
She had been right when she had accused him of wanting revenge. He did. But more than revenge he wanted to be free of hoping, of wanting more. And he wanted to be free of her. Liza could give him that freedom, and he would give her hers by sating their need for each other until the white-hot flame burned itself out.
Then there would be no more sleepless nights spent yearning for her. No more foolishly wanting to hear her words of love. No more cursing the darkness in his soul that preve
nted him from ever saying those same words to her or to any woman. And when it was over, he would be the one to walk away without looking back.
“This is it,” Liza said, pulling up in front of the apartment building that housed the elegant penthouse suite the Gallaghers had insisted he use.
“Would you like to come upstairs for a drink?”
“No, thanks. I need to get home.”
“Perhaps dinner tomorrow night, then? We can discuss the fund-raiser and old times.”
She looked away from him and stared out of the window. “I’m busy.”
“What about the day after tomorrow?”
“I already have plans.”
Jealousy reached out, gripped him by the throat and refused to let go as he considered the possibility of those plans including Robert Carstairs. No, he told himself. She couldn’t be involved with Carstairs or anyone else—not if she responded to his kiss as she did. “Then I guess I will just have to be satisfied with seeing you again on Tuesday.”
Her head whipped around at his remark. Her green eyes stared at him warily. “What do you mean?”
“According to the schedule you passed out at the meeting, Tuesday is when you will be doing a tasting at the restaurant where the gala is being held and selecting items for the dinner menu.” He pulled the sheet from his coat pocket on which he had circled each item on her checklist from the food tasting down to the balloon delivery the night of the big event. He handed it to Liza to inspect.
“You can’t possibly plan to go to all of these meetings.”
“Why not? You said anyone on the board was welcome to participate.”
“I was being polite. You’re not expected to attend detail meetings like these. No one on the board ever goes to those things. Only me.”
“And now me,” he said, smiling. Leaning across the seat, he kissed her protesting lips. “I will see you on Tuesday.”
Three
Jacques looked up from the glass of Bordeaux he had ordered, sensing Liza’s arrival even before she entered the room. Mon Dieu, but she was beautiful, he thought as she came into sight. Her pale hair gleamed like spun gold, swinging loosely about her shoulders. Dressed in a red sweater dress and matching high heels, she made him think of sweetness and sin. As the hostess directed her to the table, Jacques watched her start toward him on those long slender legs. Suddenly images flashed before him—of those legs wrapped around him, of her silken hair brushing against his bare skin.
