A MAN LIKE SMITH

by Marilyn Pappano

  She gave in only because there was a long line of passengers waiting behind them. Only because it was easier to stand there with Smith beside her, holding on to her hand, than to argue. Only because it was less embarrassing to take off her sunglasses and put on a silly little smile than to cause a scene.

  Only when the photographer snapped the picture, Smith wasn't beside her anymore; he was behind her. And he wasn't holding her hand; he had his arms around her. And if she was smiling, she couldn't tell because suddenly, for reasons she didn't dare examine closely, she felt like crying.

  Fumbling, she replaced her glasses, then accompanied Smith to the main deck. Once they reached it, she realized that he was still holding her hand, and she pulled free. Before he could react, she had pushed both hands into her pockets and started off in search of a place to sit, leaving him to follow.

  She found what she wanted on a lower deck: two chairs in a rather private corner, close to the rail, warmed by sunshine but with a bit of shade, too. She sat down, settled back and fixed her gaze on Jackson Brewery across the parking lot.

  "Are you okay?"

  She looked only far enough to her right to see Smith's legs, stretched out long and lean, and his shoes. "I'm fine," she replied; then, hearing the stiffness in her voice, she gave him a slow, lazy smile. "I've done this at least once a year for the last thirteen years, and I usually come alone. Remind me if I forget you're here." Not usually. Always. But telling him that might allow him to read more into the invitation than she had intended. It might make him think that he could, indeed, change her mind.

  And if he believed it, he might make it so.

  No matter how desperately she didn't want it.

  "A Wade tradition, huh? I'm honored to be included." He narrowed his gaze against the sun until only a thin line of blue showed through his lashes. "What other traditions do you have?"

  "Besides taking this cruise alone?" She emphasized the last word. "Beignets and café au lait at the Café du Monde on Sunday mornings. Watching the fireworks that close the French Quarter Festival from the promenade at Riverwalk. Running in the Crescent City Classic. Mardi Gras."

  "Except for the cruise, those are all pretty general. What do you do for your birthday?"

  "Dinner at Mama's with the entire family. Fried chicken, potato salad, baked beans and deviled eggs for a horde. Carrot cake with cream cheese frosting, thirty-some candles and always one extra to grow on."

  Slouched lazily in his chair, he tilted his head to one side to look at her. "Honey, if you're thirty-some years old, I think your growing days are through." Before she could come up with a retort, he went on. "What about Christmas?"

  "The usual. Christmas Eve bonfires, Papa Noel, gifts Christmas morning and a traditional dinner that afternoon."

  A blast from the boat's calliope signaled that they were ready to pull away from the dock. Jolie looked down, watching as a narrow strip of brown water appeared, then grew ever wider. Soon they were in the channel and headed at a slow, leisurely pace downriver. There was a bit of a breeze off the river—warm, only mildly refreshing, smelling of pollution, industry and muddy water.

  How different would it be on a sailboat in the Caribbean? she wondered as the brewery gave way to the Moon Walk, a pedestrian trail built atop the levee. Soon that view was traded, too, for warehouses along the wharves. In the Caribbean, the water was undoubtedly clearer and cleaner, and wind power undoubtedly quieter than the huge engines that drove the Natchez. The quarters would definitely be more intimate—room for two instead of two hundred. She could splurge on a skimpy bikini—thanks to all the thousands of miles she'd run, she had the body for one, if not the daring to wear it—and bake in the sun for hours. They could sail from island to island, and she could really play tourist for the first time in her life.

  They could find a deserted island and make love on the beach.

  Damn, it was hot, and her thoughts were just making her hotter.

  Unable to sit still a moment longer, she abruptly got to her feet. "The invitation includes a Bloody Mary. Is that okay, or would you prefer something else?"

  "That's fine. But I can go—"

  She was already walking away when she turned him down. "You save our seats. I'll be right back."

  Smith watched until she was out of sight, then he settled his gaze on the shore again and slowly, smugly smiled.

  Jolie was nervous, which he interpreted as a very good sign. She wasn't sure she could stick to her declarations—that she didn't need a man, that she wasn't interested in having a relationship, that whatever was between them couldn't go anywhere—which meant that those chances she had described to him as nonexistent a few days ago were increasing in his favor. He intended to keep them increasing, until they overwhelmed every deterrent she might throw in their way.

  He intended to win.

  He hadn't been teasing, while they waited in line, about sailing away with her. It wasn't likely they could do it this winter; a trip like that needed more than the few weeks' vacation time he had coming. Someday, though, he would teach Jolie to swim and to sail. He would show her how beautiful a sunset at sea could be. He would show her the islands. He would take her miles from land, from civilization, from the world. He would make love to her under the hot tropic sun.

  When he had made his suggestion last Monday, she had responded in a tight, emotionless voice. You mean have an affair. Of course that wasn't all he was asking of her, but yes, hell, yes, he wanted to have an affair with her. What man in his right mind wouldn't? She was beautiful, intriguing, passionate, strong. She would be a generous lover, but greedy as well. She would give but would also take. She would satisfy but would also demand her own satisfaction.

  And he could give it to her, he knew, utterly certain, utterly immodest. More than any other man, more than the man she had once loved, he could give her exactly what she needed. He was exactly what she needed.

  Someday she would see that.

  He assumed from her uneasiness this afternoon that she was already beginning to suspect it.

  She returned with their drinks, moving with a runner's grace, dodging other passengers and weaving around chairs and small children. He watched her appreciatively, accepting one of the cups with a murmured thanks. "What prompted the annual Jolie Wade riverboat cruise?" he asked as she settled in beside him again.

  "What's prompting all the questions?"

  "It was part of our agreement, remember? Getting to know each other?"

  "Don't you know of any better way to do that than by interrogating me?"

  He took a sip of the spicy vodka and tomato juice before replying in a mild tone. "Well, we could go back to your place or mine, take our clothes off and spend the rest of the weekend making mad, passionate love. I would know you better by Monday morning, but I'd still want to ask all the questions. I just assumed you would feel more comfortable if I asked the questions first and ravished you later."

  That almost—not quite, but almost—earned a smile from her. It did earn him an answer to his original question. "When I was a kid, I used to play along the river sometimes. The steamboats and paddle wheelers fascinated me or, at least, their passengers did. All those tourists, all those people, who could afford to leave their homes and travel to another state, to stay in hotels and eat in restaurants and spend their mornings and afternoons cruising up and down the river. I decided then that if I could ever afford it, this was something I would do."

  Part of him felt sorry, not for Jolie—never for her—but for the child she had once been. There was something shameful about the disparity in the way they had each grown up—about her sharing a four-bedroom apartment with fourteen other family members while he had grown up in a mansion. About a girl whose idea of extravagance was a two-hour trip on the river, when he had thought nothing of flying halfway across the world for a weekend.

  In an effort to lighten the subject, he asked, "What's your favorite food?"

  "Steak."

  "Music?"


  "Classic rock. The Doors. Jimi Hendrix." She grinned. "Eric Clapton."

  "Color?"

  She tugged the ribbed knit of her shirt. "Yellow. Your turn. Food?"

  "Lobster."

  "Music?"

  "I like practically everything."

  "Color?"

  "Your eyes."

  When he looked at her, her cheeks were pink underneath the dark shades. "You probably don't even know what color my eyes are," she mumbled.

  Smiling, he closed his eyes and tilted his face to the sun. "They're the color of the richest, deepest, finest-quality emeralds from the best mines in Brazil."

  She needed a moment to absorb that before she went on. "What's your most favorite place in the entire world?"

  "Here. New Orleans."

  "You like it better than home?"

  "This is home. Why wouldn't I like it better? My job's here. Michael and Remy are here." He looked at her. "You're here."

  This time she grinned outrageously. "Oh, please, Smith, you're laying it on a little thick."

  "If you don't like my answers," he said softly, "we can go back to talking about taking our clothes off."

  "Not likely," she retorted dryly.

  "Then let's talk about what we're going to do this evening."

  "Another Wade tradition. I generally stay in and either watch TV or rent a movie."

  "Fine. Your house or mine?" he asked. Then he added, "But let me warn you. My only television is in my bedroom, and the only place to sit while watching it is in my bed."

  "Another of Lily Andrews's ideas? She probably hoped to be in bed with you."

  "Maybe," he agreed. "There are a few women out there who think I might be worth catching."

  Jolie paused in the act of removing her glasses, and for a moment her unprotected gaze locked with his. She looked so serious. "I'm sure you are," she said quietly. "I've just never been much of a catcher."

  "No. But you're one hell of a runner."

  Still looking at him, she cleaned her glasses, replaced them and left her chair to lean against the railing. After a moment, he followed her. "Your house is fine then," he went on as if they hadn't gotten sidetracked from the plans they were making. "You provide the movie, and I'll bring dinner. Let me warn you, though, that I don't like any of those sappy, tear-jerking love stories."

  She gave him a look of pure surprise before realizing that he was teasing. "As if I would?" she asked disdainfully. "Watch it, or I'll borrow one of Cassie's terribly pretentious French movies with subtitles."

  "I speak decent French. I don't need the subtitles."

  "You would," she muttered. "And I suppose you've been to Paris."

  "A time or two." Maybe that was what they should do this winter, he thought, watching as a sea gull dipped low over the water. A trip to Paris was much easier to arrange than a cruise to the Caribbean and needed far less time. He wouldn't mind visiting a few of his favorite places, renewing old memories and making new ones that included Jolie.

  But, while he might well sweet-talk her onto a sailboat for a trip at his expense, he doubted he could persuade her to be so generous about flying off to Paris at his expense. Even if he offered her the trip as a Christmas gift, he had no doubt she would refuse.

  But could she refuse such a gift to celebrate their engagement?

  Could she refuse such a wedding gift?

  As she'd done nearly a week earlier, she turned to lean back against the rail, almost but not quite facing him. "Where else have you been?"

  "Most of Europe. England and Ireland. Egypt." He smiled faintly at the memories. "Once I spent a week in Moscow. My uncle was attached to the embassy there."

  "All that sounds wonderful. I haven't done any travel at all—at least, none that counts."

  "Then what do you do with your vacations? Surely the paper makes you take them from time to time, if for no other reason than to give the rest of the staff a break."

  "I generally take a week before Christmas to help Mama get ready. The rest I take a day or two at a time."

  "If you want to travel, why don't you? You're single. You don't have the responsibilities of a family. You don't have to match schedules with anyone or worry about kids. All you have to do is go and have a good time."

  "Being single doesn't automatically translate into no family responsibilities. I help Mama and Daddy with Scott's college expenses—he's the youngest of the four boys—and Cassie will be starting school this fall."

  Smith kept his tone perfectly neutral. "Why don't Scott and Cassie work to put themselves through school the way you did?"

  "Scott has a job, and Cassie will get one. Besides…" She smiled faintly. "I remember how hard it was to work and keep my grades up and still manage to graduate in four years. College was a wonderful experience for me, but it wasn't fun. It was very hard work. I want them to enjoy it a little more than I did."

  "You're a good sister. A good daughter." He paused. "If you'd give yourself the chance, one day you would make some sweet little baby a good mother."

  "Been there, done that," she replied flippantly. "I told you I helped raise all my brothers and sisters. I've done enough mothering for one lifetime."

  "You can't tell me that taking care of your own baby wouldn't be different—and just possibly more satisfying—than taking care of your little sisters."

  She sighed exaggeratedly. "No, I can't. But I can tell you that I was born with a preset tolerance for mothering helpless little creatures, and I used mine up long ago. You notice I don't even have a pet—not even a fish in a tank." Finishing her drink, she looked around for a trash container. "Let's take a walk. As long as you're playing tourist, you might as well see what there is to see."

  They were climbing the stairs to the next deck when she turned to look at him. Several steps higher, she was just about on eye level with him. "We didn't set any rules Monday, and maybe we should have. There's one point I want to be perfectly clear on. If you're looking for someone to spend time with, to go out with, to maybe even have an affair with, fine. I have no problem with that. But if you're looking for anything more serious…" She broke off, swallowed hard and looked away, then back again. "If you're looking for someone to have children with, the answer is no. I don't want that. I can't even consider it. Maybe you should give that some thought before this goes any further."

  He didn't blink. He didn't flinch away from the directness of her gaze. He didn't let slip with a barrage of questions pertaining to the one part of her statement that hit him hardest: I can't even consider it. He simply looked at her for a long time, then nodded. "All right. You've warned me, and I understand. I'll think about it."

  Was that disappointment that momentarily flashed across her face? If her glasses were off, he could see her eyes, he would have known for sure, but even without that clue, he was almost certain of what he'd seen. Even though she claimed to want nothing serious between them, was there some part of her that would have been pleased if he'd said he was more interested in her than in having a family? Did she have some small feminine vanity that wanted to know that, if forced to choose between having her and ever having children, he would take her?

  There was definitely a part of him that wanted to say it. He just wasn't sure it would be true. His life had been pretty basically planned for him since he was a child: he would go to college, then on to Harvard Law; he would establish himself in his career, get married and have a family. It was a pretty standard version of the American dream, he supposed. All parents wanted their children to fall in love, get married and have kids. Practically every unmarried person—male or female—he knew had those plans for themselves. It was what he wanted for himself. Over the last thirty-plus years, he had become so accustomed to the idea that, frankly, he just couldn't imagine a future for himself that, somewhere down the line, didn't include a wife and children.

  He had never imagined a wife who wouldn't—or couldn't—have kids.

  I can't even consider it.

/>   Which was it for her? he wondered. Wouldn't?

  Or couldn't?

  "What do you do to stay in shape?" Jolie asked as they reached the upper deck.

  He gave her a blank look, then remembered that part of their goal in spending time together was supposed to be getting to know each other better. "I play tennis and racquetball."

  "Who's your favorite author?"

  "I haven't had time to read for pleasure in a long time."

  "Then you're too busy. What's your favorite way to spend a day off?"

  "With friends." What he did didn't matter. Who he did it with did.

  "What's your favorite season?"

  "Summer. I like it when it's hot."

  "What's your worst character flaw?"

  He stopped walking, caught her hand when she would have gone on, and pulled her around to face him. She let him do so, let him continue to hold her hand. "No fair. I asked you easy questions."

  "Answers to easy questions are merely interesting. Answers to tough questions tell who you are. Worst flaw. What is it?"

  He gave it a moment's consideration. "Don't have one," he replied at last, grinning. "At least, nothing bad enough to qualify for 'worst.' What's yours?"

  Jolie didn't need even a second or two to think about it. She'd known for a long time what her worst trait was. "Ambition."

  "But ambition is what got you where you are today."

  "Yeah. But I've had to make some sacrifices along the way." Starting when she was eighteen and brokenhearted. She had made mistakes, sacrifices and bad choices, and she had paid for them. She would pay for some of them for very long time.

  Please, God, she silently prayed, don't let Smith be one of them.

  "What's your best?"

  This time she did need a few moments to think it over, to search for whatever was best in her. When she finally replied, it was with a shrug and a grin. "Ambition. It got me where I am today, and it's going to take me a whole lot further."

  They walked in silence for a time before finally claiming a place that overlooked the giant paddle wheel. She was watching the wheel turn, water splashing in muddy rivulets over the white paddles, thinking how nice it was to waste a sultry hot and sinfully lazy afternoon doing nothing with someone she liked, when Smith's voice, so quiet and cautious, broke the silence.