Crimes of Passion

by Toni Anderson

  “How?” she asked on a startled gasp. “Why?”

  “There are ways. As to why, I just wanted to know. Call it an obsession, and you won’t be far from the truth. Men my age are allowed an obsession or two.”

  “I—I’m so embarrassed.”

  “For what reason? You have nothing to be embarrassed about. The shame is mine for spying on you, for taking away your privacy. For that I apologize.”

  “You know so much about me, and I know next to nothing about you,” she said, her tone dazed.

  “It’s a long way to Bonne Vie. Permit me to tell you.”

  “But I can’t go with you! Not like this, just—just driving off into the night.” She had done that once and look how it had turned out.

  “Why not?” he inquired. “What is there to keep you from it? Who is there, really, to care?”

  The words should have been cruel. Instead, they were spoken with such quiet sympathy and caring that Rebecca shuddered, barely controlling the urge to cry that made the back of her nose ache. He was right, wasn’t he? There was no one to care about her. No one at all.

  “What do you want with me?” she asked, her manner wary yet with a shade less resistance.

  “Just to take care of you and to love you, that’s all. Mostly just to love you. I would start by giving you a late supper, since you are so thin. Afterward, I’ll take you home. If, of course, that’s still where you want to go.”

  “You’re sure that’s all?” She felt the weakness invading her muscles caused by receding fear and the calm of beginning trust.

  “Positive, little one. It would mean a great deal to have you near me for a time, to have you see my home.”

  Somehow he made it seem so reasonable, so impossible to refuse. He had done so much for her that evening; how could she continue to be suspicious and disobliging?

  Seeing the house at the end of the tree-lined drive, shining in the moonlight like the most fabled white-pillared mansion, she nearly demanded to turn back. But Cosmo was talking, telling some tale of how he had fallen from one of the famous old oaks of the alley in front of the house as a boy, and of how his mother had been more concerned with the limb he had broken from the tree than his own broken collarbone. Then the limousine was sweeping up to the front steps and Cosmo was helping her out. The house door was opened by a black man who answered to the name of Abraham, and Cosmo ushered her inside with her hand held in the crook of his arm as if she were an honored guest.

  “Welcome to Bonne Vie,” he said, and the pride and joy in his voice echoed down the long, darkened hall and came back to them in rich, deep reverence.

  Then the tall, thick door to their left opened. A young man stepped into the hall from a library where mahogany bookcases with beveled-glass doors gleamed in the soft light. He held a textbook of some kind loosely clasped in his hand with his forefinger holding his place between the closed pages. He was thinner than Cosmo, and younger by many years. He wore his hair longer in the current style and was casually dressed in jeans and a cotton shirt. Still, the resemblance was unmistakable. A smile creasing his face, he said, “You’re a little late, aren’t you, Dad. Your little dancer must have been in rare—”

  “Noel,” Cosmo interrupted, turning so that Rebecca, hanging back on his opposite side, was drawn into the light, “here’s someone I want you to meet. Miss Benson, may I present my son? Noel, this is the young lady I’ve been telling you about.”

  She saw the younger man’s gaze flick over her from head to foot, saw the amazed contempt and embarrassment that stiffened his features. Heat flared into her face and her hand tightened on Cosmo’s arm.

  Cosmo glanced down at her, then at his son. The pleasure faded from his face. The eyes of the two men held in a brief, hard stare. Noel, as if in acquiescence to some silent command, looked back at Rebecca and inclined his head. “Miss Benson.”

  “H-hello,” she said.

  He met her gaze with his own clear gray one for what seemed an eternity. Rebecca had never been so examined and weighed in her life. That scrutiny was more devastating in its lack of approval than any she had ever endured on top of a table. She wanted to turn and run out of the house or else to slap Cosmo’s arrogant son.

  It was Cosmo who broke the tense silence between them. “Won’t you join us in a late supper, Noel?”

  “No thanks. I’m sure the two of you would rather be alone.”

  “As you say,” Cosmo replied, outwardly unperturbed, though Rebecca could sense the taut rein he held on his temper. He moved with her down the hall and out onto the back gallery, where he led her to a table.

  In a few short minutes, there appeared candles, wine, crusty loaves of French bread, and fluffy omelets stuffed with cheese and mushrooms and slivers of ham. Her appetite, at first small, enlarged dramatically under the gentle flow of small talk Cosmo made so that she was easily able to turn her attention to a dessert of bananas Foster. It was while she was eating the last of it that Cosmo asked her to marry him.

  She stopped with her spoon suspended halfway to her mouth to stare at him. She could think of nothing to say.

  He burst out laughing. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

  “Insane,” she echoed, her voice hollow and her eyes wide.

  “Be crazy with me. Say yes.”

  She put her spoon down with care. “You can’t do things like this.”

  He grinned at her with open amusement for her seriousness. “Can’t I?”

  “I’m a girl from Bourbon Street, a girl you’ve watched dance nearly naked.”

  “There’s not much about what you look like that I don’t know, then, you’ll have to admit that.”

  “I’m young enough to—I’m younger than your son.”

  “Such tact. How charming.”

  She looked down at her dessert plate, only shaking her head.

  “Do you find me too old?” There was as much apprehension as curiosity in his voice.

  He wasn’t too old at all. He was simply overwhelming. “No, but I may be too young.”

  “You’ll age. What else?”

  She picked up her spoon again, slowly dipping the tip of it into the melted ice cream. “You say you love me, but you haven’t asked how I feel.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “I don’t know! I sometimes think I don’t know what love is, what it’s supposed to feel like. I wonder if I’ll ever feel it.”

  “Do you feel nothing for me, then?”

  “I feel—” She stopped, then, meeting his eyes with great courage, started again, “I feel safe with you. I feel comfortable, the way I used to feel when I would get up on cold winter mornings and there was no one awake except me and my dad, and he would wrap me in his robe to keep me warm while he waited for the coffee to drip in the pot.”

  She was not sure where the memory had come from. She hardly ever thought of her dad, who had died when she was ten. Still, what she said was true. Cosmo Staulet did give her that same sense of warm security and privilege.

  He smiled gently. “I’m not your father, make no mistake about that. But it’s a fair beginning.”

  There was in his very gentleness an implacability that frightened her. She put down her spoon again and blurted out, “You know I’ve had a child out of wedlock.”

  “A terrible crime—but one committed by the idiot who allowed it.”

  “You have no idea what kind of wife I might make!”

  “A beautiful one. I don’t need to know more.”

  “Your son doesn’t like me.” She looked away as she said it, the painful flush of shame returning to her cheekbones.

  “You would not be marrying my son. Besides, he doesn’t dislike you. If anything, it’s probably me he despises because I saw you first and haven’t the generosity to let you go.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Marry me and we’ll see, won’t we?”

  There was more—more arguments, more discussion, more persuasion. In time she got used t
o the idea that he meant what he said, that he really wanted her to be his wife. She had no idea why men were so attracted to her. She knew she was not bad-looking, but she didn’t feel any different from a hundred other girls. It was gratifying to be desired, but also scary, because if she didn’t know why they wanted her it was always possible there was no reason, and if there was no reason, they could stop wanting her as easily as they started. She had had enough of not being wanted.

  Still, in the end, she became Mrs. Cosmo Staulet. That was after a shopping spree in New Orleans when Cosmo whirled her through the famous old department stores of Maison Blanche and Holmes, pointing at dainty underwear and daring gowns, elegant suits and dresses of casual style, handbags that smelled deliciously of leather and shoes that hugged her slim feet as if custom-made. To hold her finery for their honeymoon trip to Paris, he bought luggage of no particular style or value because, he said, they would replace it in London on their way back. He didn’t care for Vuitton pieces, which he considered flashy and an open invitation to theft. The ones he used were from the same firm that supplied the queen. They were, he said, incredibly ugly and as heavy as iron, but just as indestructible.

  There was a delay of some weeks as it was necessary for Rebecca to convert to Catholicism. During that time, she lived in an upstairs bedroom at Bonne Vie and slept alone. She tried once to see Dante, when she went to pick up her few belongings left at the apartment. She meant to tell him what she intended and invite him to the wedding. He wasn’t at home. The girl Rebecca had seen him with on that memorable afternoon took her message, but Dante didn’t call, didn’t get in touch with her.

  The wedding was small and private, with only a few of Cosmo’s closest friends and his son in attendance. Rebecca wore a gown of delicate cream silk trimmed with peach ribbon and with its many layers of fragile material edged with handmade lace. It was Cosmo’s choice, naturally. Just as naturally, he would not permit her to see the price tag. She stared at herself in her finery before she left for the church, also looking at her hair and makeup that had been done by a man who had come to Bonne Vie for that sole purpose. She was pretty, as ethereal as some fairy princess, though she took no credit for it. In truth, she didn’t recognize herself, didn’t feel like herself. It was as if she were slowly being transformed into someone she didn’t know. It was both frightening and exciting.

  Panic beat inside her and she forced it down. She had made a choice, hadn’t she? She couldn’t back out now, didn’t really want to, if the truth were known. It would be too embarrassing for Cosmo, too hurtful. And she was too curious about what it would be like to live at Bonne Vie, to belong there, and to be Mrs. Cosmo Staulet. It wasn’t the money, it really wasn’t. It was the position, the respect. And it was also the man. She was slowly becoming addicted to his gentle care, his protective cherishing.

  The wedding reception was held at Bonne Vie, and it was not so small. Rebecca stood beside Cosmo to greet their guests in the hall. She was nervous, her mind spinning with names and faces. The smile she held in place had a tendency to tremble at the edges. She repeated the same phrases over and over until they seemed inane beyond belief, if not downright imbecilic. Everyone who came through the door seemed so sophisticated, so at ease. They knew everyone, were known by everyone, and moved from one group to another, certain of their welcome, certain they belonged. Their easiness with each other made Rebecca feel like an outsider. She was also aware of their whispers and glances and knew she was under discussion, knew she was being judged.

  The one who made her feel most self-conscious, however, was Cosmo’s son. Noel stood to one side, watching her through lash-shielded eyes as he sipped his champagne. He was undeniably handsome in his evening clothes, though he would have been more so if he had smiled. He did not. With sober thoroughness, he studied her every word and gesture as if intrigued by her performance.

  It was a habit he had acquired, watching her, always watching. It made her intensely conscious of him also, as well as of herself. Though in the beginning he had been less than friendly, a nebulous truce had been established between them. They were not so far apart in age after all; it was not surprising that they should like the same music from rock to jazz or have the same offbeat sense of humor, humor that Cosmo often found incomprehensible, if not ridiculous.

  On this evening, Rebecca had the feeling that Noel knew about the fluttery beating of her heart, could sense her terrible need to belong and understood perfectly the uncertainty that twisted inside her when she thought of the wedding night that lay ahead. She could see the empathy in the gray depths of his eyes as they rested on her. It was as if there were already an instinctive kinship between her and the young man, who after this evening, as incredible as it seemed, would be her stepson.

  The pace of arriving guests dwindled to the point that Cosmo suggested they leave their posts at the door if no one else showed up in the next two minutes. It was then that Noel moved toward Rebecca. At the same moment, Cosmo turned away, distracted by a murmured consultation with his butler about the catering.

  Noel took the hand Rebecca extended, but then, instead of kissing her cheek as so many others had done, he leaned to touch his lips to hers.

  His mouth was smooth and warm and tasted of champagne. The contact was just as heady as the wedding wine, sending waves of vibrant pleasure along her nerves to coalesce in the lower part of her body. She drew back as if she had been burned. Her gaze met his and was held by the look of disturbed pain in his face.

  “Congratulations,” he said, his voice soft yet flavored with irony. “Dad was right after all; you’ll do fine as the mistress of Bonne Vie.”

  Then releasing her, he turned abruptly and walked away.

  Rebecca drew in her breath as if she had suddenly surfaced from underwater. Cosmo turned toward her and leaned to brush her forehead with his lips. “What is it, love?”

  “Nothing,” she said through dry lips. “Nothing at all.”

  He said no more, but there was a scowl between his brows as he looked beyond her and watched his son’s back as Noel walked away.

  Their official wedding night was delayed until they reached Paris. When the reception was over, Rebecca had been so exhausted, and with nerves so tightly strung from the strain of the past few days, that Cosmo had plied her with champagne, then bundled her into bed with brusque assurances that he was too tired himself to be romantic. He had held her until she slept.

  Their flight for Europe left early the next morning from New Orleans International. They would be gone indefinitely. Their destination was Paris, and Cosmo wanted to return by way of London, but the rest of the itinerary was open, subject, Cosmo had said, to Rebecca’s whim.

  Paris was a fantasy come true. Their hotel suite overlooked an ancient square lined with limestone buildings. The bedroom walls were of pale green satin and the drapes edged with gold fringe, and there was a balcony with an ornate railing that reminded Rebecca of New Orleans. There was champagne waiting and a bowl of fruit. The two of them shared a pear and toasted the City of Lights while watching from their balcony as the day faded in a pink haze above the gray rooftops of Paris.

  Afterward, Cosmo, with a solemnity belied by the soft gleam in his dark gray eyes, explained to Rebecca the use of the bidet in one of the bathrooms of the two-bedroom suite, then left her to luxuriate in the deep tub filled with mounds of scented bubbles while he went to make use of the other bathroom.

  When she emerged at last, tying the belt of a silk housecoat around her, there was a gift lying wrapped and beribboned on the bed. Cosmo sat in a chair nearby wearing a soft navy cashmere dressing gown and holding a newspaper that he appeared to have forgotten the instant she appeared. As she gave him a tentative smile, he nodded toward the present.

  “Open it,” he said, his voice deep.

  “What is it now? You’ve already given me too much.”

  The past weeks had seemed like Christmas, with hardly a day that went by without a gift of some kind, from
bath salts and perfume to the enormous oval diamond on her left hand. It had become embarrassing, and even wearisome, to keep having to say thank you.

  “This one is only partly for you. It’s also for me.”

  Rebecca saw that her new husband was not quite as relaxed as he seemed. In fact, there was a flush under his skin and a shadow of doubt in his eyes. She could feel the heat of her own blush gathering across her cheekbones and the flutter of nerves in her stomach as she realized that the moment for intimacy had finally come. She had had a great deal of time to think about it, almost too long. She was half fearful and half intrigued, and all too aware of a sudden wild impulse to make a dash for the door.

  “Please,” he whispered, and, folding his paper, got to his feet and moved to stand beside her.

  She turned away slightly as she reached for the gift. It was heavier than she expected and from inside came an odd subdued rattle. It was easier to pull away the ribbon and tear off the paper than to look at Cosmo. She uncovered a shell-shaped box of worn blue velvet. The catch gave her a moment of trouble, then she raised the lid.

  Inside lay a double strand of pearls on a bed of shimmering white silk. The pearls moved slightly with the jarring of her heart as she held the box against her. So lustrous and iridescent were they that they seemed alive. They were the largest and most perfect she had ever seen, and though she had only a vague idea of how to appraise them, she knew instinctively that they were priceless.

  “These are the Staulet pearls,” Cosmo said as she stood staring down at them. “They were bought by one of my ancestors on a voyage to the Orient and given to his bride on their wedding day. My first wife, Noel’s mother, never cared for them since she believed pearls to be a sign of tears. I hope you won’t be as superstitious.”

  “No,” she said, her voice low. “They are truly beautiful, but I don’t know if I can ever wear them. I’d be afraid I might lose them.”

  “I doubt that. The catch is very secure. But you can begin by wearing them for me. They should go well with—with this.”