Wildcatter's Woman

by Janet Dailey

  By the time she was able to steer him into her office, Vanessa was simmering with anger. He had come so close to embarrassing her in front of an important client. It was unforgivable for him to show up at her place of business half-stoned.

  Angrily she pushed his hand off her waist and moved rigidly away from him to shut the door. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed that Race swayed for an instant without her support while his dazed glance looked around, trying to find her. She pressed her lips together in disgust.

  “What’s the idea of barging into my shop like this?” Vanessa accused; her voice trembled with the effort to keep it low so it wouldn’t carry outside the private office. “Did you do it deliberately to try to hurt my business?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His frown had a blankness to it, but there was a keen narrowing of his gaze.

  “You’re drunk—that’s what I’m talking about,” she snapped.

  “I’ve been drinking,” Race conceded with a little shrug of his wide shoulders. “After I started celebrating on my own, I decided to come get you.” Again that lax smile curved his mouth.

  Vanessa felt the pull of its warmth even though she knew it was liquor-induced. It rankled. “Why don’t you go somewhere and sober up?” she bit out impatiently.

  “I can’t do that.” He shook his head slowly, and lifted the champagne bottle again. “You and I have to celebrate our anniversary!”

  “You’re so drunk that you don’t even know what day this is, let alone what month!” Vanessa declared in disgust. “Today isn’t our wedding anniversary, Race. That was in March.”

  He clicked his tongue at her in mock reproval. “Silly girl,” he chided. “How could you have forgotten such an important event? Today is the anniversary of our divorce.”

  Her shocked glance ran to the wall calendar, the date leaping off the month’s sheet. In the light of her recent doubt about the validity of her reasons for leaving him, it seemed impossible that she had forgotten.

  “Come on.” Race lurched slightly toward her and took her by the arm. “You and I are going to go out and celebrate the momentous occasion together—for old times’ sake.”

  He spoke slowly and concisely to avoid slurring his words. He had himself so well under control that it was difficult for Vanessa to tell how much he’d had to drink. Hanging back, she resisted his attempt to drag her to the door.

  “I can’t go with you now,” she protested. “I have a client outside, waiting for me. I can’t just walk out and leave her.”

  “What’s the difference?” Race challenged, swaying a little as he stopped to look at her. “You walked out and left me. I was your husband. She’s just a customer. I’ll get rid of her for you.”

  As he let go of her arm, Vanessa realized he intended to carry out his statement. She darted forward to get between Race and the door and prevent him from getting to Mrs. Perez. In his condition, she wasn’t sure what Race might tell the woman. She spread her hands across the front of his chest to stop him, and silently appealed to him to come to his senses.

  “Race, please don’t make a scene?” she asked.

  “Are you coming with me now?” he countered. “I’ve made dinner reservations at Antoine’s. I remember how long it takes you to get dressed up.”

  It was a subtle kind of blackmail, Vanessa realized. If she didn’t agree to go with him, he was going to cause trouble with Mrs. Perez. The taunting gleam in his dark eyes informed Vanessa that he wasn’t so inebriated that he didn’t know he was coercing an agreement from her. She ground her teeth together, stifling her irritation.

  “All right,” Vanessa gave in grudgingly. “Wait here while I make some excuse to Mrs. Perez.”

  “I’m coming with you—to make sure you don’t change your mind,” Race asserted with a narrowed look that showed a lack of trust.

  “It isn’t necessary.” But she saw the aggressively male thrust of his jaw and recognized that she couldn’t talk him out of accompanying her. “Mrs. Perez is my client, so let me handle it,” Vanessa insisted.

  He made a mocking little bow of acquiescence and let her precede him out of the private office. As Vanessa approached the sofa, she was conscious that Race had paused by Carla’s desk to sit unsteadily on the edge, the champagne bottle cradled in the crook of his arm. Mrs. Perez was standing and smoothing on a pair of silk gloves to hide the age spots on her hands.

  “I’m sorry I kept you waiting.” Vanessa started out with an apology, still searching for an adequate excuse.

  “That’s quite all right,” the woman replied. “I hadn’t realized how late it was. My daughter and her husband are coming for dinner, so perhaps we can continue this tomorrow—say, around two?”

  It seemed incredible that after being so difficult to please all afternoon, Mrs. Perez was suddenly being so amenable. Vanessa couldn’t believe her luck.

  “Two o’clock will be fine.” She nodded a slightly dazed agreement and automatically accompanied the woman to the shop door.

  “Happy anniversary!” Mrs. Perez offered the salutation with a brief smile as she walked out the door.

  When Vanessa turned back into the room, Race slid off the corner of the desk and clutched at it for support. Clearly Carla didn’t know what to make of him or what his relationship was to Vanessa. She kept darting sideways glances at him.

  “Thank you for the use of your desk.” Race winked at the girl, aware that she was too flustered to reply. “Has anyone told you lately that you’re an attractive girl?”

  Carla actually turned red at his implied compliment and the sensually lazy smile that accompanied it. Then Race aimed himself at Vanessa and crossed the room, putting one foot in front of the other as if walking some invisible line. He paused barely long enough to slip a hand under her arm and propel her to the door Mrs. Perez had just exited through.

  “We’ll go to your apartment first so you can change,” he stated. “Then we’ll open this bottle of champagne and start celebrating.”

  Vanessa twisted in his grasp to look over her shoulder at her wide-eyed secretary. “Will you lock up for me, Carla?” she asked, and received a mute nod of affirmation.

  Walking out of the air-conditioned shop into the oppressive heat and humidity of the Louisiana summer climate was like walking from a freezer into a steam room. Race reeled against her, affected by the moist blast of heat, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders to give him balance.

  “Hold this.” He thrust the champagne bottle at her. “I gotta find my keys.”

  Vanessa staggered as Race leaned more of his weight on her. “Where are you parked?” she asked.

  A deep frown furrowed his brow as he tried to recall. “It can’t be hard to find,” Race assured her. “It was the only truck in the lot. I remember that.”

  “We’ll take my car,” she stated. “You’re in no condition to be driving anyway.”

  With an arm around his waist to guide him, she directed him toward the stall where her car was parked. His coordination was deteriorating in the hot and humid air. He bumped his head twice as he tried to bend his tall frame into her low sports car. As soon as Vanessa had him safely installed in the passenger seat and the champagne bottle on his lap, she hurried around to the driver’s side and slipped behind the wheel.

  “Do you still have that blue dress?” Race turned his head to watch her as she started the car and reversed out of the parking stall. “The one with the silver belt?”

  Vanessa knew precisely which dress he meant. It was a powder-blue chiffon, soft and flowing as whipped cream. It had been his favorite dress; now it was hidden in the back of her closet.

  “No,” she lied. It was slowly sinking in that if he wasn’t drunk, he wouldn’t have come to see her. It became a matter of pride. If he didn’t want to be with her when he was sober, she didn’t want to wear something to please him when he was drunk.

  “That’s too bad.” He wore a sad frown of regret. “I wanted you to wear that ton
ight.”

  “For old times’ sake,” she murmured caustically, but Race didn’t catch the bitter note of sarcasm.

  Vanessa had no intention of going anywhere with him that evening, but this wasn’t the time or place to argue with him. Race was already two sheets to the wind, and it was the first time she’d ever seen him when he’d had too much to drink.

  It was a short drive from her shop to the apartment, although the traffic in the French Quarter added time to it. She helped Race out of the car, despite his attempt to shrug aside her offer of assistance. She was irritated and impatient with him for being in this intoxicated condition, but it accomplished nothing to let him see.

  Once she had maneuvered him inside her apartment, she sat him down in one of the chairs and closed the door. Race started to get up when she moved toward the kitchen.

  “You just stay there,” Vanessa ordered. “I’m going to put on some coffee and see if I can’t sober you up.”

  He subsided into the chair, his muscled body loose and unnaturally relaxed by his alcoholic consumption. Vanessa smothered a sigh of irritation and entered the kitchen. She added two extra scoops of coffee grounds to the pot to make it doubly strong. As she reached to take a cup from the shelf, a prickly sensation ran across the back of her neck, warning her that she was being watched. She turned to find Race in the doorway, still holding the magnum of champagne.

  “You’d better start getting ready,” he insisted.

  “After the coffee’s made.” She pretended to go along with his plans. Race looked so compellingly attractive in the dark suit that she wished she was going out for the evening with him. There was a deep, tearing longing to be with him. Maybe after he had sobered up—if he still wanted to take her—she’d go out with him.

  Pain flickered in his dark eyes as he studied her. “Why can’t you love me the way I am, Vanessa?” Race questioned thickly, and her lips parted on a painful breath. “Why did you try to change me?”

  “I didn’t,” Vanessa denied, but she realized his accusation was true.

  “No.” He shook his head slowly. “You wanted me to be different. You kept trying to turn me into a replica of my father.”

  “Not really,” she protested weakly, because she had been guilty of that, in a sense. “It was just that…your company was going under and—”

  “But it didn’t go under,” Race interrupted. “It was pretty rough going there for a while. I practically had to start from scratch, but…” He left that sentence unfinished, returning to his original subject. “You knew what I was like before you married me. I explained about my work. You said you understood.”

  Vanessa avoided his accusing eyes. “I know,” she admitted. “I thought I could handle it, but the uncertainty…” Her voice trailed off, leaving her inability to cope with it unsaid.

  “So you left me.” The corners of his mouth were pulled down by a grim smile, which abruptly slanted. “And now, we have a divorce to celebrate.”

  His sudden change of mood, switching from solemn to lightheartedly indifferent to their breakup, forced Vanessa to remember it was pointless to attempt a serious conversation, when Race was unlikely to remember what was said. A raw frustration raged through her. It wasn’t fair. This was the first time they had discussed their differences without shouting at each other and resorting to bitter insults. Why did it have to happen when he was drunk?

  “Yes, and now we’re divorced,” she snapped at him in agitation, and stared at the coffee cup in her hand.

  Behind her, the coffeemaker gurgled its last time. She turned to fill the cup, catching Race’s movement into the kitchen out of the corner of her eyes. He stopped at the counter beside her and leaned a hip against it, seeking the support of something solid to hide his weaving unsteadiness.

  “It’s getting late,” Race warned her. “If you’re going to be ready in time to make our dinner reservations at Antoine’s, you’d better get a move on.”

  “I know.” Vanessa played along with him as she filled the cup with steaming black coffee from the pot. Turning, she took the champagne bottle from him and put the coffeecup in his hand. “Drink that.”

  Obediently he raised it to his mouth and brought it sharply down at the first scalding taste. “It’s too hot.” He set the cup on the counter, then let his gaze travel over her figure in a stripping study. “Want me to draw your bathwater?”

  “No thanks. I’ll do it myself,” she refused, conscious of the uneven rush of blood through her veins at the knowing intimacy of his look. “You just drink your coffee and let me worry about getting ready in time.”

  “Nope.” Race shook his head. “If I let you dawdle, we’ll never make it there by seven. I learned that the hard way.”

  Once it had been true that she had taken an unconscionably long time getting ready to go out for an evening, but that had changed since Vanessa had started her own business and was forced to utilize her time more efficiently.

  “That isn’t true anymore,” Vanessa replied. “If necessary, I can bathe and change in twenty minutes flat.”

  Race eyed her with a skeptical tilt of his head. “I don’t want to take any chances, just the same. I’ll help you undress.”

  Trapped by the cabinet and the wall, Vanessa wasn’t able to elude his hands when they reached for the front of her lavender-mint blouse. She managed to push his fingers away from the buttons and found herself in the middle of a grappling contest.

  “I don’t need any help, Race,” she protested with a trace of anger, but he was unfazed by it as he managed to pull one side of her blouse free from the waistband of her skirt. Her attempts to thwart his efforts were only succeeding in goading Race to continue, amused by her struggles. In a fit of exasperation, Vanessa sought a compromise. “Look,” she reasoned, throwing up her hands in defeat. “If you promise to drink that coffee, I’ll get undressed and take my bath right now. Is that a deal?”

  Like a sulking child who has discovered it isn’t fun to taunt his sibling anymore, Race brought his hands back to his sides. “I’ll drink the coffee if that’s what it’s going to take for you to get ready for dinner,” he agreed, and picked up the cup, waiting for her to move before he sipped at it.

  Vanessa made an absent attempt to smooth her partially disarranged clothes as she walked past him toward the living room and ultimately to the bedroom with its private bath. She paused in the archway.

  “I want you to drink more than just that one cup,” she ordered curtly. “It’s going to take the whole pot before you are even close to being sober.”

  Race inclined his head with exaggerated formality, mocking her while apparently bowing to her wishes. Vanessa didn’t like the way he was grinning.

  In the quiet of her bedroom, frissons of relief trembled through her. She hadn’t realized how tense she had been in Race’s company until she was alone. A hot, relaxing bath became infinitely appealing. Besides, as single-minded as Race was on the subject, he was likely to come into the room and dump her in the bathtub if she didn’t voluntarily take one.

  Before undressing, Vanessa went into the bathroom and stoppered the tub. When she had the tap water adjusted to a comfortably hot temperature, she left the water to run and returned to the bedroom. No sound was coming from the living room or kitchen. Vanessa wasn’t sure whether that was a good sign or not. She hesitated a second longer before walking to the closet for her rose-pink flowered caftan.

  By the time she had undressed and hung up her clothes, the tub was filled with water. She hooked the caftan on the brass peg behind the bathroom door and stepped gingerly into the tub, slowly submersing her body in the water.

  As she was soaping the large natural sponge, Vanessa heard a sudden noise somewhere in the apartment. With a puzzled frown she held herself motionless to listen, unable to identify the single short sound. When nothing followed it, she decided that there was no need for alarm.

  She began rubbing the sponge over her neck and shoulders, but her enjoyment of the se
nsuous feeling was broken by the sound of footsteps in her bedroom, approaching the bathroom door. Her widened gaze flew to the door. She hadn’t locked it. There had never been any reason to in the past, since she’d always been alone in the apartment.

  “Hey, Vanessa?” Race seemed to pound awkwardly on the door. “Open up, will ya?”

  “What do you want?” She sat motionlessly, the sponge resting on the water’s surface.

  “Let me in.” A second later, the doorknob rattled, not quite making a full turn to release the latch.

  Vanessa stood up, mindless of the bath water that sloshed over the side of the tub at the suddenness of her movement. She was reaching for the large towel on the brass rack when the door opened and Race lurched into the bathroom. In one hand he was carrying two wineglasses from her cupboard, and the other held the champagne bottle with frothy bubbles foaming from the neck opening to drip on the floor.

  His gaze roamed the length of her naked body, taking in the firm roundness of her breasts with their rosebrown nipples and the slender curve of her hips. His look heated her flesh more than the bathwater had.

  “You’ve filled out some,” Race observed with a pleased look.

  Damn him for saying that when he was drunk, Vanessa thought in annoyed anger. She finished her grab for the towel and stepped out of the tub to hold it lengthwise in front of her, hiding her nudity. Her action produced a low nasty laugh from Race.

  “Such outdated modesty,” he taunted. “We were married. There isn’t an inch of your body that I don’t know intimately.”

  “We aren’t married now,” Vanessa reminded him tersely. “I prefer to bathe in private, if you don’t mind.”

  “Oh, but I do,” Race countered. “I decided we might as well get our celebration started.”

  He tipped the champagne bottle to fill the two glasses held between his fingers by the stems, but his pouring aim was none too good. Most of the bubbling wine spilled onto the floor. The glasses were only half-full when he set the bottle on the washstand.