by Metsy Hingle
“Wait! Jacques, no. Wait!”
He struggled to slow his breathing at the panic in her voice. His gaze shot up to Liza’s face. Jacques went still at her stricken expression. “What is it? What is wrong, Liza?”
“This is a mistake,” she said, shoving down her skirt. She scrambled off the counter and covered her face with her hands. After taking several deep breaths, she dropped her hands and met his gaze. The eyes that looked at him were still glazed with passion. But there was also confusion, regret.
It was the regret that had him clenching his jaw, balling his hands into fists at his sides.
“I’m sorry, Jacques. This is my fault. I never should have let this happen. I never should have allowed things to go this far. I guess there’s no point in denying that I’m still attracted to you.”
“Attracted?” he repeated, the word an angry hiss. He saw no point in hiding his irritation.
Her lips tightened a fraction. “All right. I admit it. I want you. Satisfied?”
“No, Liza. I am definitely not satisfied.” Biting back his frustration and the painful ache in his groin, Jacques continued, “My only consolation is that I know you are not satisfied, either.”
“I’m sorry, Jacques. Truly I am. But I can’t let this happen.” Turning on her heel, she started toward the living room.
“Why? ” Jacques demanded as he followed her, his anger increasing with each step. When she retrieved her coat from the closet, his patience snapped. He caught her chin, forced her to look at him. “Why, Liza? And do not lie to me and tell me there is another man. I do not believe you—not when you go up like flames in my arms. In another five minutes, I could have had you on top of the kitchen counter. You and I both know it.”
When she didn’t argue the point, he continued, “You have said yourself that you want me. I have already told you that I want you. So why are you denying us the pleasure we can give one another?”
Liza jerked herself free. “Because it’s not enough,” she told him. “It’s just not enough.”
“What is it you want?”
“More than you’re willing to give.” She pulled on her coat.
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning that in another three weeks the gala will be over and then you’ll be gone. You’ll go back to your life and I’ll go back to mine. I was foolish to engage in a casual affair with you three years ago. I have no intention of doing so again.”
“I assure you, no affair between us was or will ever be casual.”
She tipped up her chin, gave him that haughty “duchess to peasant” look that she did so well. “And I assure you, it’s a moot point. Because there isn’t going to be any affair.”
“Ah, but you are wrong, chérie,” Jacques said to her retreating back. If anything, he was more determined than ever to make her his again.
Five
The man was driving her crazy.
Liza threw her pencil down on the desk and glared at the fragrant gardenias with their lush green leaves that had arrived that morning nestled in a gold-painted basket. Picking up the note that had accompanied them, she reread the ridiculous verse scrawled in Jacques’s bold hand.
On the eighth day of Christmas, your lover gives to you, eight white gardenias....
Do you remember, chérie? It can be that way again—
Jacques.
How could she not remember the afternoon he had made love to her on a bed strewn with gardenia petals? The scent had wrapped itself around her, around them, making their coming together even more erotic, more special.
Why was he doing this? she demanded in silent frustration. Why was he going to such pains to make sure she remembered every detail of their affair?
Liza sighed. Of course, she knew the answer to that one—he wanted her. And he obviously had every intention of keeping his promise to seduce her. Flustered, Liza crumpled the note in her hand. And after that disastrous evening of the party when she had come so close to giving into her desire for him, he had every reason to believe that he would succeed.
And you have no one to blame for that but yourself, Liza O’Malley.
It was true, she admitted, pressing her fingers to her burning cheeks as she recalled how dangerously close she had come to making love with him that night. She had brought Jacques’s relentless pursuit upon herself by allowing things to progress as far as they had that evening. There had been no question that she had welcomed his advances, had even wanted them. Pulling back when she did had been inexcusable, especially given her response to him. The extent of his anger had been proof of that. Liza’s throat went dry as she remembered the fury in his eyes, the muscle ticking in his cheek, the clipped note in his voice as he spoke to her.
When more than a week had passed without him calling her or showing up at any of the other gala meetings, she had assumed he had decided getting her into his bed wasn’t worth the effort. That he had washed his hands of her.
And then the gifts had started.
The first one had arrived eight days ago—twelve days before the gala patron party—a bottle of champagne from the Gaston vineyards in France. She had known without looking at the card that it had come from Jacques.
Two crystal champagne flutes had arrived the second day, followed by three silver bowls of strawberries. The four fortune cookies with their specially worded fortunes predicting old lovers would reunite had put her on full alert. Each gift had been carefully chosen to trigger memories of their affair in New Orleans—including today’s gardenias.
Pain ripped through her at the memory of the last time Jacques had given her gardenias, that last night they were together in New Orleans. Even after all this time, the memory was as fresh as if it had only been yesterday....
“I love you,” Liza had whispered as she’d snuggled in Jacques’s embrace. “I don’t think I’ve ever been happier in my entire life than I am right now... at this moment... being with you.”
“Ah, and you are not the only one who is happy.” He kissed her again, deeply, soundly. “You are so beautiful, so responsive, ma chérie,” Jacques murmured against her lips. He slid one leg between hers, and she could feel his hardness nudging against her.
“Sometimes I think you are a witch who has cast a spell over me,” he continued, his eyes darkening to amber as he looked down at her. “No matter how often I make love to you, it is not enough. Sometimes I fear I will never be able to get enough of you.” As though to prove his point, he shoved aside the sheet. His fingers glided over her bare hip to tangle in the curls between her thighs.
Liza’s breath snagged in her throat as he stroked the mouth of her sex with his finger. Already she could feel the heat pooling deep inside her, making her want him again. She looked into the face of the golden Adonis she had given her heart and her body to. Cupping his face between her hands, she pulled him to her and kissed him with all the love in her soul. “Would it be so bad?” she asked, when he ended the kiss. “I mean, if things didn’t end between us? If we continued to want each other...decided to stay together?”
Jacques narrowed his eyes, and though he didn’t move, Liza sensed his withdrawal. “It would be a disaster—for both of us.”
“Why?”
“Because I have told you, I do not want any roots. Besides, I cannot stay in New Orleans forever. I have already stayed much longer than I had planned to, probably longer than it was wise to. But I have not wished to leave you.”
“Then don’t. Stay with me. I want you to stay.”
He caught her fingers, brought them to his lips. “For a little longer, but then I must go. We both must get on with our lives.”
“I want a life with you, Jacques.”
“There is no place in my life for anyone, Liza. Not even you. Besides, what of your plans to travel? What of your plans to open your own business?”
“I could still do those things.”
“But would you? Would you be willing to take a job in say, California, if my work kept me here? Or
would you close down your business to fly with me to Milan or expect me to pass on Milan and stay with you?”
“We could compromise.”
Jacques shook his head. “And then our passion for one another would turn to hate for being forced to give up our dreams.” He kissed her. There was a sadness in his eyes, a longing that went deeper than physical desire. If only he would trust her, trust her love for him. “No. my Liza. You and I are alike in that respect. We are selfish in that we both know what we want and are not afraid to go after it. And right now what I want is you.”
Tell him, a voice inside her whispered. Tell him. “Jacques, I...” She hesitated, suddenly unsure. When he reached for her again, Liza held him at bay.
“What is it, ma chérie?”
“I...I’ve been thinking a lot about the future. Have you ever thought about the future?”
“Of course I think of the future. What artist does not? Someday I will be famous, Liza. My art will be carried only in the top galleries. I will stay only in the finest hotels, eat at the best restaurants, drink the finest champagnes—even those produced in my father’s vineyard,” he finished, a touch of bitterness lacing his voice. His eyes grew stormy for a moment as he dragged his fingers through his hair.
“What is it, Jacques?”
He shook his head and seemed to shake off whatever had bothered him. Because when he looked at her again, he was the Jacques she knew. The man with big dreams and ambitions. He painted the scene for her as he had done often in the past. “Someday when I am famous and wealthy, I will make love to you in a grand suite of a luxury hotel. There will be fresh flowers everywhere in genuine crystal vases, carpets so lush your feet will sink to the ankle. There will be a big bed with silk sheets that glide across your skin. And when I lay you on that bed to make love to you, instead of a scattering of petals from a few stolen gardenias, the bed will be lined with the petals from a hundred gardenias from the best florist in town.”
Liza’s heart leapt in her chest—more at his reference to a future that included her than the erotic images his words created. “Those are just things, Jacques. They’re not important to me.”
“But they are important to me.”
His answer was like an arrow to her heart. Still she refused to give up. Swallowing her pride, she asked, “After the fame, after the money, then what? What happens after?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what will you do when you attain your dream? Do you...do you think you’ll want to settle down? You know, get married. Have a family.”
The smile in his eyes withered, and despite the warm temperatures, a chill chased down Liza’s spine at the coldness that took its place. “I will never marry, Liza. And I will most definitely never have children.”
Her throat suddenly dry, Liza swallowed. “But what if...what if you fell in love with someone? Maybe even found out you were going to be a father?”
“It will not happen. I am always very careful of that.”
“I know. But what if, despite your precautions, it happened anyway? What would you do?”
His eyes searched hers for long moments. Just when she was sure he wasn’t going to answer, he said, “I would insist we get rid of it.”
Liza flinched, unable to hide her shock. “You don’t mean that.”
“But I do,” he insisted. His expression grew bitter, cold. “I will never be responsible for bringing a child into this world. The blood that runs through my veins is tainted. There is a darkness in me, a darkness that was in my father and his father before him. A darkness that has been passed on to me, but will end with me.”
“Jacques, that’s ridiculous,” she told him, but she could see that he believed every word he said. She stroked his jaw. “There is no darkness in you. You’re one of the kindest, most generous people I know. I love you.”
He caught her fingers, kissed them. “You love the part of me that I have allowed you to see.”
“I love you,” she countered.
“Trust me, chérie. You would not love me—not the real Jacques Gaston, not the whole Jacques Gaston. How could you when even I despise who and what I am?”
When she started to argue, he silenced her with a look. “There is an ugliness, a darkness inside me that you have not seen, Liza, that you will never see if I can help it. But it is there just the same. I have seen it, felt it clawing inside me like a hungry beast demanding to be fed. It is there every time I get angry, every time I find myself growing jealous of the way other men look at you.”
“I never knew you were jealous.”
“Jealous is a mild term for what I feel when I see you near another man. When I heard that man ask you for your phone number at the party last night, I wanted to kill him with my bare hands. I would have, too, if you had given it to him.” She could see the fire in his eyes and realized he meant every word. He trailed his fingers down her cheek, circled her throat. He pressed his thumb across her windpipe, causing her pulse to scatter. He looked at her, menace in his eyes. “Still, for a moment, I wanted to strangle you for smiling at him even though you refused.”
Liza trembled despite her effort not to do so. She swallowed. “I suppose being jealous is only natural when you love someone,” she offered.
Jacques laughed, but the sound held no mirth, no joy. “A man like me does not love, Liza. I am incapable of such a noble emotion. What I feel for you is passion.”
Pressing Liza back onto the mattress, he captured the tip of her breast in his mouth, greedily taking the nipple between his teeth while covering her other breast with his hand. For the first time ever, Jacques’s touch brought her no pleasure.
When he spread her legs apart and moved himself between them, Liza cried out, “Jacques, no.”
Something dark and dangerous glittered in his eyes a moment, and she thought he was going to ignore her. Then he turned away from her. “I am sorry,” he said, disgust in his voice. He placed an arm over his eyes. For endless minutes silence stretched between them. The only sound was the ticking of the clock and her own rapidly beating heart.
“Jacques, it’s all right,” she told him as she went to him and touched his shoulder.
But when he turned to face her again, his expression still held a trace of the anger and darkness she’d seen moments before. “Do not confuse lust with love, Liza. And be grateful that it is passion you inspire in me and not love. Because were I to let myself love you, I would cause you nothing but pain.”
Caressing her face, Jacques cuddled her to him. But despite his nearness, Liza felt cold inside. Closing her eyes, she feigned sleep as he continued to stroke her hair gently. He murmured something in French to her, then said, “Rest now, ma chérie. Tomorrow will be a busy day for both of us with Peter’s new exhibit opening.” He kissed the top of her head. “And you and I will have much to celebrate after my first showing at Gallagher’s.”
But she hadn’t been there to celebrate his success that next evening. Or any of the other successes that had followed. Because while Jacques had slept, she had returned to her own apartment, packed her bags and left.
And when she had boarded the flight out of New Orleans early the next morning, she had abandoned any hope she had of ever being a part of Jacques’s life and any thoughts of ever telling him the truth.
Staring at the basket of gardenias, Liza pulled herself back from the fog of memories. She ran her fingertip over one delicate petal. Gardenias in December, she thought, shaking her head in wonder as she glanced from the spring blossoms to the snow falling outside. Only Jacques could present a gift that was a miracle unto itself.
But this offering in no way compared to the other precious gift, the other miracle he had given her. She had realized, the last night they’d been together, that he would never welcome the miracle he had helped to create.
But she had.
Liza hugged her arms to herself and thought of all those years of disappointment—the loss of her ovary, the temperature charts and
fertility shots, the recurrence of the endometriosis and the doctor’s recommendation that she consider a hysterectomy. She thought of the strain infertility had taken on her marriage, the discovery of her husband’s affair, the pain and humiliation of the divorce so he could marry his pregnant girlfriend. Then after resigning herself to being little more than an empty shell of a woman, incapable of performing that most elemental function of the female body, she had become pregnant.
But in realizing one dream she had forsaken another—the dream that she and Jacques might share a life together. She had accepted that fact three years ago when she had made her decision to leave and not tell him he was going to be a father. And the one thing she had discovered in these past few weeks was that while Jacques might still want her physically, his heart remained closed, trapped by his fears of the past. If anything he was harder, more determined than ever not to allow himself to love. While she might risk his rejection of her, she would not risk his rejection of their child.
Picking up the basket of gardenias, she inhaled their sweet fragrance one last time, then dumped them into the trash bin beside her desk. Her chest tightened as she looked down at the crushed blooms. Curling her hands into fists at her side, she turned away to prevent herself from reaching down to save the broken flowers. For her son’s sake, she had to be strong. She had to continue to resist Jacques despite her feelings for him. Only one more week, she told herself, and then he would be gone from her life for good.
“Liza?”
Liza swallowed, whipping back the sudden lump in her throat before turning around. “Yes, Mary. What is it?” she asked her assistant who stood at the door.
“The catering manager from the Knickerbocker, that Mr. Newberry, he’s on the phone for you. He says it’s important. Some sort of problem with the wine order for the benefit next weekend.”
