by Janet Dailey
With leaden steps that matched her mood, she unlocked the door and crossed the threshold to enter the living room. She leaned against the closed door and slipped off her white summer heels.
“Do you always work this late?” Race spoke from the kitchen archway, startling Vanessa, her blood suddenly shooting through her veins.
She tried to cool the hot rush of pleasure as her gaze swept warmly over him. He was leaning casually against the archway, wearing the dark suit pants and the white shirt, without the jacket and tie, and looked for all the world like he belonged in the apartment.
“I thought you’d be gone.” Vanessa voiced her first thought, forgetting that he’d asked a question.
“Do you want me to leave?” A dark brow was lifted in faint challenge.
The hint of antagonism in the air irritated Vanessa. She hadn’t been expressing a wish, only voicing her thoughts, but Race had twisted the other meaning into it.
“I didn’t say that,” she retorted, and moved away from the door with her shoes dangling from her fingers by the heel straps.
“Do you want me to stay?” Race turned the question around.
That question was just as difficult to field as the first, because it meant expressing a desire for his company. Vanessa wasn’t sure she wanted to expose herself to potential hurt. Avoiding his steady gaze, she walked to the sofa and dropped her shoes and purse on its cushions.
“Go or stay.” She faked a shrug of indifference. “I’m sure you’ll do as you like anyway.” She nervously smoothed a hand over her hair, checking to make sure it was still neatly in place. “How’s your hangover?” A sixth sense informed her the instant Race pushed away from the arch to come into the living room.
“A few dull throbs here and there. Outside of that, I’ve recovered,” he murmured, and stopped near the end of the sofa. “I’m surprised you didn’t throw me out last night. You could have,” he reminded her. “I wasn’t in any condition to put up much of a struggle.”
“Letting you sleep it off seemed the humane thing to do,” Vanessa answered, because it seemed best not to let him know how much she had enjoyed looking after him—being needed by him. No doubt he would have scoffed and insisted he could have managed very well without her help.
“Have you eaten?” Race changed the subject.
“No,” she admitted.
“Neither have I. We never did get to Antoine’s for dinner last night. Shall I check to see if we can get reservations tonight?” he asked.
Vanessa thought he was making a joke until she looked at him and noticed his solemn expression. Last night, she had believed his choice of one of the most expensive and renowned restaurants in town had been prompted by a display of bravado. Last night, he’d been drunk. Right now, he looked sober.
“Have you been drinking again?” she accused. “You know you can’t afford to go there.”
“Can’t I?” Race countered smoothly, then added as a bland afterthought, “No, I haven’t been drinking.”
Vanessa let the latter slide by, frowning at his curious response to her remark. “How could you afford it—unless…” She paused, her eyes widening on a sudden thought. “Did your well test out as a producer?”
There was a slight narrowing of his gaze as he considered her for a long second before answering. Then he deliberately avoided her eyes. “No, my well didn’t test out.” His reply sounded almost guarded.
“I…” Vanessa started to tell him how sorry she was, but she could just imagine his reaction to any offer of sympathy from her. So she wiped away the disappointment she’d felt for him and tried to be offhand about the news. “That’s too bad. But, like you said to Phillip, there’s always another well to be drilled, and the next one, near Baton Rouge, might be a moneymaker.”
“Would you like it if I hit it big?” Race murmured, appearing to measure her reaction with his glance.
“What kind of a question is that?” Vanessa hid her puzzled frown behind a confused laugh. “Of course I’d be happy for you.”
“Of course.” His mouth twitched in a humourless line as he repeated her phrase with a trace of cynicism.
Vanessa bristled at his tone. “We may not have separated on the best of terms, but I still wish you every success in the world. I am not the selfish bitch that you make me out to be.”
There was an amused lift of one eyebrow. “You never used to swear without blushing.”
His remark didn’t improve her temper. “You surely didn’t expect that I would remain innocent and naive forever?” she retorted.
“I guess not,” Race said with a kind of invisible shrug. “Since Antoine’s is out, how does an oyster poor boy sound? I think my finances could stretch to that.”
Vanessa blinked at the quantum leaps he was making: one minute practically insulting her, and the next, inviting her out to eat. It wasn’t easy keeping up with his lightning changes of attitude and subject.
“It sounds good,” she managed finally.
“Are your feet up to walking?” He glanced down at her bare toes curling into the carpeting in little-girl fashion. “Or should we drive?”
“We’re just going right here in the French Quarter, aren’t we?” At his affirmative nod, Vanessa reasoned, “It would take longer to find a place to park than it would to walk there. Even then, we’d probably end up walking a ways, so we might as well start out on foot.”
“If you’re game, so am I,” Race agreed.
“Just give me a minute to get my shoes on.” She retrieved them from the sofa cushion and leaned against the armrest to balance herself while she put them on.
Her feet were always a little swollen by the end of the day, so the sandaled heels didn’t go on as easily as they had slipped off. Vanessa struggled to inch the strap over her heel, and nearly snapped a nail.
“You’d better let me do it,” Race stated, and crouched down at her feet to take over the task.
Vanessa straightened, conscious of the nervous flutter in her stomach. His hand cupped the back of her ankle to support her foot while he pushed the shoe more firmly into it. She couldn’t help staring at the dark head bent over her foot, the thickness of his hair almost inviting the touch of her fingers. She curled them into the armrest, a disturbing heat spreading over her skin.
Race looked up as he tried to work the strap over her heel. A wickedly mocking light danced in his eyes as he met Vanessa’s uneasy glance.
“Are you sure you aren’t one of Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters, and this slipper really doesn’t belong to you?” he joked.
“It’s mine,” she said, and felt silly for responding seriously to a question he had issued in jest.
“That’s what she said,” Race mocked. A second later the strap slipped into position around her heel. “One down and one to go.” He picked up the other shoe.
The heady fragrance of male after-shave lotion rose to stimulate her senses. Idly Vanessa let her gaze wander over the clean, strong line of his jaw before the significance of his smooth cheeks registered.
“You’ve shaved,” she declared on a startled note.
“Yes.” He sent her a mild glance.
“But how?” Even if he had used her razor, she certainly didn’t have any men’s after-shave lotion in her medicine cabinet.
“The usual way.” The corners of his mouth deepened—he knew full well that wasn’t what she meant. “No, I didn’t dull your razor with my beard.” Evidently discovering a trick to it, Race slipped the second shoe on her foot without much difficulty. “I used my own,” he said, straightening to tower above her and looking down at her with a lazily intent study. “My shaving kit and a few other things were in my truck,” he explained.
“Oh.” Vanessa slid off the armrest to move a couple of steps away from him. “Did you have any trouble finding where you’d left your truck parked? You were a little uncertain about it yesterday.”
“I didn’t have any trouble, but then, I wasn’t drunk today, either,” he replied
. “I started to stop in to see you, but I remembered you had an appointment this afternoon, so I decided against it.”
“I wondered if you might,” Vanessa admitted.
“Now that you’ve got your shoes on, shall we go eat?” He raised a hand, palm upward, in a gesture that invited Vanessa to take the lead.
An uneasy truce seemed to exist between them, but Vanessa was conscious of the strong undercurrents in the air around them and wondered how long it would last.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS a sultry evening, a lowering sun laying a golden glow over the French Quarter of New Orleans. A lazy stroll was the accepted pace in the lingering summer-afternoon heat. Leaving the four-story apartment building with its block-long balcony decorated with ornate cast iron, they crossed the street to Jackson Square.
They wandered leisurely past the varied display of artworks, ranging from Quarter scenes to portraits, and paused for a couple of minutes to watch a caricaturist at work. The light touch of Race’s hand on her waist directed Vanessa across the street again into the cool shadows of Pirate’s Alley, so named because pirates were taken down this narrow corridor to the Cabildo Jail.
There didn’t seem to be any need to talk as they wandered down the narrow passageway with St. Louis Cathedral rising on one side and the Cabildo on the other, once the meeting place of the Spanish legislature, now a historical museum. Vanessa had always felt a special attachment to the French Quarter. It was an area like no other, rich in history and steeped in romantic ambience.
The alley opened onto Royal Street. The guiding touch of Race’s hand turned her onto it. This occasional contact, never constant or lasting for long, kept her awareness of him at high level. The strong, carved lines of his profile were always in her side vision, the tapered strength of his body always within inches of her. While her eyes enjoyed the Creole architecture of the Quarter, a unique blend of French and Spanish, the rest of the senses were attuned to Race.
Street musicians were giving an impromptu jazz performance on an adjacent corner, filling the air with the wailing upbeat music that had become synonymous with New Orleans. The quaint, picturesque buildings lining the straight, narrow streets were adorned with wrought-iron or cast-iron railings that relieved the otherwise severe architecture. Occasionally Vanessa caught a glimpse of a flagstoned courtyard beyond a building gate, an oasis of subtropical shrubbery and flowering plants amid all the brick and concrete.
They approached one of the many cafés in the Quarter that had both inside seating and sidewalk tables.
Race glanced at her, lifting a querying brow. “I thought we’d eat here. Do you want to sit outside or would you rather go in?” he asked.
“Let’s sit outside,” Vanessa said. “I like to watch the people.”
With a nod of acceptance at her choice, Race guided her to an empty table. They were barely seated before the waiter appeared to offer them menus.
“I think we know what we want.” Race refused the menu card and glanced at Vanessa to be certain they were in agreement about the meal. She nodded. “We’ll both have your oyster poor boy.”
“And to drink, sir?”
“I’ll have a beer,” Race ordered, and looked at her. “What would you like, Vanessa?” “Iced tea, please.”
With the departure of the waiter, there was an uneasy silence that Vanessa didn’t know how to fill. She laced her fingers together atop the table and studied them, searching for something safe to say.
“How—?”
“Have—?”
They both spoke at the same time, and stopped to let the other finish. It seemed to break the tension. A low chuckle came from Race, while her lips relaxed into a slightly self-conscious smile.
“You first,” Race said.
“I was just going to ask if you’d seen Phillip lately,” she explained.
“I haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks, but I talked to him on the telephone yesterday—before I started celebrating,” Race added, mockingly assuring her that he hadn’t been drinking at the time. “He mentioned the two of you had dinner together last week sometime.”
“Yes.” Vanessa lowered her gaze, remembering the discussion she’d had with his father concerning their divorce and the uncertainties hindsight had given her. “He seemed like his old self.”
“When I talked to him, he indicated he was concerned about you,” Race informed her.
“About me?” she repeated nervously, and tried to appear as if she couldn’t imagine what he was talking about.
“He was under the impression that you had some misgivings about your reasons for leaving me four year ago.” He wouldn’t release her from the keenness of his gaze.
Vanessa pressed her lips tightly together, feeling that his father had betrayed a confidence. “I didn’t realize Phillip was going to carry tales.”
“Do you have regrets?” Race pushed for an answer.
“Some,” was all she was willing to admit. “I’m not sure anymore that I tried hard enough to make our marriage work. But when you’re young, you have the tendency to put the emphasis on the wrong things.”
“Such as?” he prompted.
Vanessa hesitated before answering, trying to gauge his mood, but Race appeared to be acutely interested in her response, rather than ready to treat it with his customary derisive mockery.
“Such as…losing our house. I don’t think you ever understood the need I had for security.” Because he was actually listening to her, Vanessa tempered her words with calm reason, not attacking him as she was guilty of doing at times. “I lost my parents at a critical age. One minute I was surrounded by everything that was dear and familiar to me… and in the next, it was gone. I was uprooted—without a home or family. I was forced to live with an older cousin, but I never felt that I belonged there. More than anything else, I wanted a home of my own, a place where I belonged—something solid where I could put down roots. It was a blow when I realized it obviously didn’t mean anything to you, or you wouldn’t have gambled it away.”
“It was just a house,” Race countered.
“But it was more than walls and a roof to me,” Vanessa insisted. “It was our home. I didn’t think there could ever be another. Now my apartment is home. Maybe we could have found another place. I know you tried to convince me of that at the time.”
“We could have.”
“Probably,” she conceded. “I guess I just didn’t want to risk losing that one, too.” She unlaced her fingers to rub them together. “Being in business for myself has taught me there are certain risks you have to take if you want to get ahead. But you don’t have to risk everything.”
“That’s where you and I differ,” he stated. “If you really believe in something, you should be willing to risk it all. And as for walls and a roof, they don’t make a home. Love is the ingredient that makes a place into a home. Anywhere we lived would have been home to me.”
But love had been a missing ingredient. He had not needed her or loved her. Vanessa would have pointed that out to him, but the waiter came with their sandwiches. After they were served, the opportunity was gone, and she was reluctant to bring up the subject again. Conversation waned while they consumed their sandwiches of succulent fried oysters mounded between halves of New Orleans-style French bread.
After they’d eaten the last crumb, they lingered over their cold drinks, too full to talk. Twilight was settling over the Vieux Carré and the old-fashioned streetlamps were flickering on when Race pushed his chair away from the table, taking the initiative to leave.
“Shall we start back?” he suggested.
“Sure.” Vanessa scooted her chair back and stood up.
They wound their way through the tables to the outer edge of the sidewalk. The clop-clop of calked hooves sounded in the street behind them as a horse and carriage, empty of passengers, came alongside. Race pursed his lower lip, whistling shrilly and signaling the driver to stop.
“We’ll ride back,” he announced
to Vanessa, and helped her into the carriage seat, telling the driver, “Jackson Square.”
“The long way or the short way?” The driver drawled the question.
“The long way.” Race settled back in the seat and casually draped an arm around her shoulders.
The carriage lurched forward as the harnessed horse pulled against the traces. His hand tightened its hold just below her shoulder bone to steady her until the carriage was rolling smoothly, then it relaxed a little while retaining firm possession. There was a sense of almost forbidden pleasure at sitting so close to him, able to feel the length of his thigh pressed against her leg and the warmth of his body flowing through to her and heating her flesh. Her pulse beat with an edge of excitement, stirred by his nearness.
The air was perfumed by the flowers bedecking the carriage and heightening the romance of the ride. Affected by the pervading mood, Vanessa stole a glance at Race. As if sensing her look, he turned his head, his gaze flicking to her lips for a disturbing second before traveling upward to meet her look. There was a slow movement of his mouth into a faint smile that seemed to warm her all the way to her toes. There was a very loverlike quality to the moment.
The long way to Jackson Square was all too short. After helping her out of the carriage, Race paid the driver and followed her into the apartment building. Vanessa wanted to ask him in, but she was hesitant, not wanting a beautiful evening spoiled by bitter words. And the unspoken truce they’d been observing seemed too good to last.
Her indecision was ended when Race took it for granted she was inviting him in. “Shall we have coffee on the balcony?” he suggested while she was unlocking the apartment door.
“That’s a good idea,” Vanessa agreed.
While she was in the kitchen making the coffee, she felt the same nervous excitement that she’d known when they were first dating—that wondrous uncertainty and anticipation of what was to come. It was difficult to tell her heart to be still, that it wasn’t that way between them anymore.
