by Lynda Trent
“Here’s my name and address,” she said, writing it on a piece of paper. “I’d be much obliged to you if you let me know when you’re almost sold out so I can get more to you.”
“Sure enough, Clare,” he said jovially, as if he’d known her half his life.
The next shop was not so receptive, nor was the next, but by four o’clock Clare had placed all her paintings before the public and had returned to her car, tired but happy.
For a few minutes, Clare allowed herself the luxury of merely sitting still, her eyes dosed, her head tilted back on the glove-leather upholstery. Then she began to coil her hair back into a bun as she stepped back into her high heels.
Chapter Nine
At the nearest pay phone, Clare dialed the number of Huntly Oil Company and, with a flutter of nerves, asked for Ryan Hastings.
“Mr. Hastings has gone for the day,” the secretary replied. “May I leave a message for him to call you on Monday?”
“No,” Clare said, trying to hide the disappointment in her voice. “I won’t be in town that long. It’s very important for me to reach him. I have business to discuss with him. Do you have another number I might call?”
“Yes,” the woman said in surprisingly fast response. “His home telephone is -555-8966. But he’s probably not there. You might check the Blue Crystal Lounge in the Quarter.”
“Oh. Perhaps you misunderstood me. I’m looking for Ryan Hastings,” Clare said dubiously. The Blue Crystal Lounge sounded too much like the hangout of the Huntly landman she had encountered in Kilgore.
“Yes, ma’am, that’s right. His father has retired, and Ryan is , I mean, Mr. Ryan Hastings is the only Hastings in the company.” Her voice had faltered with the breach in formality and Clare could hear another line ringing in the background.
”Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
Both Ryan and his father had worked for the same oil company? Interesting, Clare thought, as she dialed his home number.
After the fifteenth ring, she hung up. Obviously, the secretary knew a good bit about Ryan. She even had his home number on the tip of her tongue. Clare vanquished the blush of jealousy and sent it back to wherever it had come from, almost without conscious thought. She did, however, retain a vaguely uneasy feeling. Clare thumbed through the Yellow s looking under lounges, bars and finally taverns, before she found the Blue Crystal. But she decided not to call. The idea of having him d in a bar seemed wrong. It might look too much as though she was on a manhunt. Instead, she jotted down the lounge’s address.
The Blue Crystal sat in the middle of the eight hundred block of Royale. Clare walked by it twice before she saw its small, weather-beaten sign. Carefully avoiding a sleeping wino who lay propped against the wall, Clare pushed open the faded turquoise door and stepped hesitantly into the dim interior.
Somewhere in the dark recesses someone was playing the blues on a trumpet, but from the babble of the crowd she assumed nobody was listening. She squinted through the haze of tobacco smoke and tried to get her eyes to adjust to the dimness after the sunlight outside.
To her left, she saw a bar backed by a mirror, glasses and a large variety of liquor bottles. All around the room were tables and chairs, some of them occupied by rather rough-looking men. On a small stage in the back corner, an old black man made his trumpet wail to the tune of his soul. He looked as if he’d grown old in that same spot, playing that same tune. Mingled in with the smell of alcohol and cigarettes was the odor of greasy hamburgers.
Clare was uncomfortably aware of the fact that she was the only woman in the place.
“Well, now,” a burly man rumbled as he staggered toward her. ” Une petit besse, bebe” He screwed his mouth into a hideous pucker.
“What… did you say?” Clare asked as she took one step back.
“Just a little kiss, ‘ey?” he repeated as he grabbed her arm and thrust his sweaty, smelly face into hers.
“Let go of me!” she snapped, twisting around but not loose. Clare thrust the point of her elbow as hard as she could beneath his ribcage. With a whoosh of air, the surprised let go and doubled over. Mistaking this move for an attack, Clare clenched her fist and hit him in the nose with all her strength. The man fell to the floor and, with an outraged bellow, leaped to his feet, hands ready to grasp her. But to her amazement, he cowered and backed away. Mumbling obscenities in an odd mixture of ungrammatical Cajun French and English, he turned and left the bar, holding a dirty handkerchief to his bloodied nose.
“It seems rather useless to offer you any assistance,” an amused voice said just behind her. “But I’m not sure you can take on the entire bar singlehandedly.”
Clare whirled around, expecting another attacker, her purse poised as a weapon, but found herself staring up into the laughing eyes that had haunted her dreams for weeks.
“Ryan,” she said more softly than she had intended.
Clare?” he asked incredulously. “What in the world are you doing here?” He realized suddenly they were the center of attention in the bar. “Come out to the courtyard where we can talk.” Protectively, he guided her across the dusky room.
Clare’s heart pounded as he tried to slip his arm about her waist. She forced herself to walk briskly ahead of him. She had far too much at stake to be swept off her feet. “I called your office and your secretary told me I could find you here. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I’m glad you came. I often come down here in the evening for a hamburger rather than cook for myself.”
Clare glanced doubtfully at the dingy bar as she stepped out into the sunshine, which was softly filtered through a chinaberry tree. “Oh. You eat here?”
He laughed. “It’s not all that bad. And it’s handy. I live just up those stairs over there.”
“Oh.”
A balmy breeze rustled through the dark green umbrella of leaves above her and she heard the music of the small white fountain. The sultry scent of flowers unfamiliar to her hung heavily in the air.
“This courtyard is amazing,” she said to cover the excitement she felt whenever he looked at her. “One would never know it’s here from the street. I can’t even hear the traffic.”
“The walls are very thick,” he said. “I’ve missed you.”
Clare’s eyes met his and she felt herself melting into their green-gold depths. “I tried to call you the next day, but you were gone. I wanted to try to explain why I left the way I did.”
“Why did you?”
I had never… That is, Elliot…” She drew a deep breath and plunged on. “I had never made love before with anyone other than my husband, and not even with him for a long, long time. I woke up and was afraid you’d think badly of me, so I slipped out.”
“Out of sight, out of mind?” he suggested.
“Yes, something like that. But I felt bad about it later, and I tried to call and explain. By then you had checked out.”
He nodded and sat down next to her on a bench beside the fountain. “It didn’t exactly work that way. I didn’t stop thinking about you. When I woke up and found you were gone, I worried at first, then decided you’d had second thoughts about me. That’s why I didn’t phone before I left town.”
Clare relaxed somewhat. “I feel so silly. You must think I’m really dumb not to know how to do that casually.”
“No, I find it very refreshing.” His eyes caressed her face as he took her hand and held it firmly. “Did you come all the way to New Orleans to explain this, or do you have other reasons for being here?”
Clare smiled. “I’m here for two reasons. This afternoon I had to take care of some business with some art galleries that are showing a few of my oils. My other reason is to offer you a proposition.”
Ryan lifted his eyebrows and grinned.
She hurried on. “Huntly Oil is taking too long to start operations. I want to get a well underway on my unleased land. Therefore, I’ve decided that I want to invest two hundred fifty thousand dollars of my o
wn money, and I want you to wildcat it for mefor a percentage of the well.” Clare’s voice was strained.
Ryan studied her in surprise. “Are you serious?”
“Of course,” she answered abruptly. “I’ll need two or three days to liquidate some assets, but I assume that will be no problem for you.” She had calculated that it would take that long to get a second mortgage on the Marshall house and borrow the rest, with the mineral rights for the farm as collateral. Under no circumstances did she intend to ten Ryan how hard up she was for money. She could never explain the gnawing fear of poverty she felt. No one would understand, and the embarrassment of trying to explain would make it all worse. Besides, as the principle backer, she had to appear very secure financially to coax him into the deal. He just had to agree; everything had to work. Her stomach churned violently.
Ryan whistled softly and got to his feet. Two hundred fifty thousand would go a long way toward getting a well started. And he could realize his dream twofold. Not only could he prove his theory right, but could wildcat the well himself. Yet the way Clare’s personality seemed to change the minute she started talking business concerned him. She sounded so cold and overbearing. He gazed into the rippling water of the fountain as he thought.
He recalled the house Clare lived in. It was a mansion, really. But as the heir of several generations of wealthy ancestors, he could easily read people’s finances Clare’s money was new money. Despite her aristocratic bearing, her family had clearly not been accustomed to wealth for long. Was it possible that she was one of those grasping people he saw occasionally who never had enough wealth to satisfy them? He hoped not.
“Huntly will drill eventually,” he said. “What’s your hurry?” A flicker of what fear? lit her gray eyes, then disappeared.
“I just don’t want to wait. If oil is there, I want it to be produced. As soon as possible. Besides, you and I both know that they may never even start to drill. Most oil leases are never even touched by the company.”
Ryan tried to read her expression but failed. She looked perfectly composed now, but he couldn’t ignore the brief moment of desperation he had seen. It had been the same when she had signed the oil lease.
“Do you have the money?” he asked bluntly.
“Not on me,” she replied with a startled expression. “As I said, it will take me a couple of days to have it in hand. But I assure you, I’ll have no trouble producing it.”
Ryan stroked his chin and sighed. She sounded quite certain, and he had no reason to disbelieve her. She probably played with a quarter of million dollars the way other people did with a hundred. He’d seen that type before, unfortunately.
“An oil well isn’t a toy,” he said dryly. “There may not be anything at all down there.”
“I realize that. I know it’s a gamble, but I want to do it.”
“You don’t even know if I know what I’m talking about.”
She lifted her chin and smiled confidently. “You’re Huntly Oil’s head geologist. You must know what you’re doing.”
He glanced at her questioningly. “I didn’t tell you that. But it’s true.”
“Why did you tell me you were a landman?” Clare asked, as the smile faded from her lips.
“It’s not how it seems. I had a reason, and a good one. You see, Huntly Oil is in direct competition with the company drilling the two deep wells near you, and I didn’t want them to know that Huntly’s head geologist was snooping around leasing land.”
“Then your company must believe strongly that there’s oil to be had, or they wouldn’t be so secretive,” Clare said hopefully.
“I never said my company was behind me fully. It’s my theory that there’s oil under your property. But my view is in the minority. Are you still convinced you want to drill?”
“Yes,” Clare said simply, as she watched Ryan with renewed confidence.
“Okay. Do you have any other investors in mind? That’s not nearly enough money for the whole well. It’s enough for a good bit of the equipment and to get the well spudded in, but we’ll need much more.”
“No, I thought perhaps you might know of someone.” She smiled disarmingly. “I’ve never drilled a well before.”
“You’re asking a lot. You’re risking a great deal of money on the chance that my findings will be correct, or even that I’m in a position to know what I’m talking about.”
Clare felt a keen disappointment. “Then you won’t do it? I have to find someone else?”
Ryan scowled. “I didn’t say that. No, I’ll do it. I just want you to realize it’s not a sure thing.”
Momentary panic chilled Clare, but she pushed it aside. “I know what I’m doing, Ryan. I have confidence in you;” She stood up and held out her hand. “Then we have a deal?”
He hesitated only a minute. Her brief panic had not gone by him unnoticed. “Yes,” he said slowly, taking her hand, “we have a deal.”
Clare relaxed imperceptibly. “Good. I know you’ll be able to find oil. Do you have anyone in mind for the other backers?”
“I know a couple of people that might be interested,” he said thoughtfully. “If you’ll be in town for a few days, we can talk to them together.”
“Yes, I can stay over. I don’t have any commitments until Tuesday afternoon.” She felt a moment of relief that her art classes met Tuesday and Thursday, rather than earlier in the week.
“Great,” he grinned. “Now let’s go out and celebrate. It won’t take me but a few minutes to change, and I’ll buy you the biggest steak in town.”
She was willing to put aside her planned supper of a tuna sandwich. “I’d love it. I’d like to freshen up, too. Why don’t I meet you someplace?”
“Better than that, why don’t I come by and pick you up. Where are you staying?”
“What?”
“Your hotel. Don’t you have a room yet?”
“Oh, of course. I’m at the Fontainebleau,” she said, naming the first prestigious hotel she thought of. “But I don’t want you to go to all that trouble. I can meet you.”
“Nonsense. I know my way around town, and the Fontainebleau isn’t that far from here. I’ll pick you up at,” he glanced at his watch, “say, eight o’clock? No arguments now, or you’ll have to settle for a hamburger from the Blue Crystal.”
“You know how to get around my objections, all right,” she said with a grimace. “I’ll meet you in the lobby at eight.”
Clare drove as quickly as possible to the Seven Fountains. All the way across town, she worried as to whether or not she could get away with her deception, yet knew she had to try. Ryan would never understand why the wealthy Clare Marshall might choose to stay in such a place. And if he thought she had to stay there, he’d certainly back out of their business agreement.
She bathed as fast as possible and brushed her hair until it gleamed, then fastened it back neatly. Fortunately, she had brought clothes suitable for going out, as she had hoped Ryan would suggest that. With one eye on her travel clock, Clare put in a call to Betty to tell her she wouldn’t be home the next day.
After a brief hesitation, Clare decided to leave behind the jacket of her cherry-red dress. With it, the dress was far more proper and would be perfect for a business dinner with the prospective backers; without the jacket, the low cowl neckline, which dipped daringly in front and plunged provocatively in the back almost to her waist, could be seen. The dress was a marvel of engineering design that looked as if it were made of gossamer dreams but fit her body perfectly. The full skirt gathered at her small waist and flowed about her knees in a lightweight fabric that swirled with her movements. She slipped on red evening sandals that matched the dress perfectly. Fastening her gold chains at her neck and wrist, she was ready to go.
She put on lipstick at the first stop light and perfume at the next. The clock on the bank sip read seven forty-five, and since Clare never wore a wristwatch, this was her first indication of how close she had cut the time.
Whi
pping into the Fontainebleau parking lot, Clare jumped out of her car and ran to the lobby’s side door. It was ten minutes after eight.
Breathlessly, she hurried around a potted palm in time to intercept Ryan, who was on his way to the desk, presumably to ask for her room number.
“I’m sorry I’m late, she said, trying to breathe normally. “Have you been here long?”
“No, not long. You look a little flushed. Did I rush you?”
“No, no. Not at all. I’m just excited over having reached our agreement. Are you ready to go?” The desk clerk was watching her suspiciously and Clare wanted no questions to be asked.
“Yes, I’m parked out back.”
Ryan escorted her to the lot, where he opened the door of his Trans-Am for her to get in. Fortunately, her Mercedes wasn’t parked nearby.
“I thought the French Quarter was the other way,” Clare said, as Ryan turned his car in the opposite direction.
“It is. I want to take you to a very special place for dinner. Then, if you want to, we can go to the Quarter and hear some jazz.
Ryan turned down St. Charles Avenue
and stopped in front of the crimson-covered walkway of the Pontchartrain Hotel. A doorman instantly appeared to help Clare onto the sidewalk, then whisked away the car. Inside the front door, she caught her breath in awe. The entrance was lined with white marble columns, topiary trees and an ornately gilded mirror. Oriental rugs silenced their footsteps, and above their heads the vaulted ceiling was brilliantly illumined by crystal chandeliers.
Ryan grinned at her apparent awe. “Do you like it?”
“It’s fabulous!” she exclaimed. “I never expected to come here.” She was quickly reevaluating Ryan’s financial situation. No matter how well Huntly Oil geologists were paid, this must be well beyond his income. Yet he fit easily into it. Much more so than she did.
At the door of the Caribbean Room, they were met by the maître d’hôtel, who escorted them to a table set with elegant china and candies in hurricane glasses. She sat on the striped satin upholstered chair and looked around. A gold medallion design in the red carpet gave warmth to the dark wood in the room, and the huge mirrors which hung between groupings of fine prints on the tan leather walls added additional dimension to the spacious surroundings. Discreet lighting created an ambiance, romantic in the extreme.
