by Francis Ray
A knock on the door snapped her head around. “Are you all right?” Maurice inquired.
Telling Maurice to go straight to hell might be satisfying, but it wouldn’t give her the time she needed to think of a way out of this mess. Replicating gagging sounds, she repeatedly flushed the commode.
“Eh, I’ll come back.”
Hearing him move away, Kristen plopped down on the padded commode seat. She was safe for the moment, but she was also ten miles from New Orleans’ city limit and seventeen miles from her apartment. How could she get out of this sticky situation? A taxi wasn’t about to come this far out of the city for a fare, and even if one did, she’d have to deal with Maurice before she reached the front door.
Propping her elbow on her thigh, she rested her chin on the top of her hand and cursed Maurice’s deceitfulness. Having grown up where having a driver was the norm, she’d thought nothing of his offer to send a car for her when he’d called her office that afternoon to confirm her dinner appointment with Claudette. It had made perfect sense to Kristen, since she was unfamiliar with the location of the estate, that he didn’t want her traveling the winding, narrow road at night alone. She’d believed he was being thoughtful.
He had set her up and she’d fallen for it. She bit her lower lip. What was she going to do? Despite Dr. Smithe’s animosity, she enjoyed her job and didn’t want to lose it because of a loathsome man like Maurice. Besides, there wasn’t another museum or institution in the city where she would have an opportunity to increase awareness of nineteenth-century African-American art … if she were fortunate enough to be hired after they learned she’d been fired.
She didn’t have any doubt in her mind that Smithe would fire her on the spot if there were even a hint of scandal or the possibility of her upsetting a major benefactor of the museum. The director, Dr. Robertson, was a fair man, but he had the reputation of the museum to think about. Maurice had obviously taken that into consideration when he set his plan in motion.
Kristen had to think of a solution that would get her safely out of this situation without causing herself, Claudette, or the museum any embarrassment. Besides, she genuinely admired and liked Claudette. Apparently she wasn’t aware of the type of man she’d married. And Kristen wasn’t going to tell her.
Claudette was a gracious, courteous woman, but she struck Kristen as the kind who protected what was hers. Maurice was right about one thing: Claudette was madly in love with him. Kristen had no experience with a mutual loving relationship, but she’d seen how her mother, first with Kristen’s father and then with Jonathan, and her brother with his wife, stood behind their spouses. So would Claudette. There was no way Kristen would come out on top if word of this got out.
So … what to do?
Her gaze fell on the bronze bust of David beside the mauve embroidered hand towels on the marble vanity. Picking it up, she hefted it in her hand. The fantasy of hitting Maurice over the head lasted less than five seconds before she replaced the bust. Giving the husband of one of the largest benefactors of the museum a concussion, no matter how deserved, seemed a sure way to create a scandal that neither Claudette nor the museum would appreciate.
Frowning, she cut a glance at the closed door. With all the rumors flying around about Maurice marrying Claudette for her money and his lack of personal funds, Kristen hadn’t heard anything about him being a womanizer. She wasn’t going to be the one to spread that tale. The only person she’d confide in would be Angelique.
Angelique.
Kristen straightened, her fingers fumbling in excitement to open her purse. Grabbing her cell phone, she punched “speed dial” for her best friend and next-door neighbor, Angelique Fleming. In both her professional and her private life, Angelique handled men with ease. She would know what to do. After the tenth ring, Kristen slumped against the back of the commode. Angelique didn’t believe in cell phones or answering machines.
Disconnecting, she dialed information, then punched in another number. A deep, gravelly voice answered on the third ring. “The Inferno.”
In the background Kristen could hear loud music and the louder, rambunctious voices of men. “May I speak to Angel, please? It’s an emergency.”
“Angel’s not here.” The line went dead.
Kristen stared at the phone. What did she do now?
“Kristen. Kristen.”
Kristen jerked upright and stood.
“Come on out so we can talk.”
“Not until I know the driver is with you,” she told him flatly.
The doorknob rattled. “This is ridiculous. Open this door!”
She jumped at what sounded like the flat of his hand banging against the door.
“Open up or you’ll be sorry!” he yelled, his voice rising.
“You’re going to be the sorry one when my friend gets here,” she said, hoping she was convincing and forever thankful that the oak door was solid.
“Whom did you call?” he asked, sounding worried.
Wishing she could take a small amount of satisfaction in the sudden fear in his voice, she said, “You’ll see when he gets here.”
Maurice pounded on the door again. “You’re lying. You wouldn’t dare call anyone and risk your job or having Claudette find out. Now open this damn door!”
“If I were you I’d leave. He’s built like a Mack truck and crazy about me.”
“Now I know you’re lying,” he chuckled nastily. “You aren’t dating anyone. Smithe thinks you’re frigid, but all it takes is the right man.”
“You both can go to hell!” she yelled, infuriated with them because they had discussed her, and with herself that she let it matter. She wasn’t frigid, she was selective. “I’m going to enjoy seeing him beat you to a pulp.”
The doorknob rattled. “I’m going to find the key and when I get back I’ll take you right there on the floor.”
Fear made her tremble. She had to get out of here. But how? Maurice was right. There was no man in her life.
two
Rafe Crawford was a solitary man. It was not the life he would have chosen, but he had been given little choice in the matter.
He’d come to New Orleans twelve years ago with little more than the clothes on his back. At first he’d just wanted to wake up without fear, but in trying to blot out the past by working long hours as a cabinetmaker’s helper, Rafe had discovered he had a talent for making furniture reproductions. He had an eye for detail and the patience it took to duplicate furniture the way it had been crafted a hundred years ago.
Rafe heard the phone ring and dismissed it. That’s what he had the answering machine for. He had few friends, and it wasn’t likely a client would call after nine at night. Besides, he didn’t like to stop in the middle of a cut. He prided himself on his workmanship.
His work was all he had. The only legacy he would leave behind, and he intended it to be the best. The Crawford name would mean something beside hate and cruelty. His hands clenched, but they remained steady. He’d had plenty of practice controlling his anger.
He heard the distinctive click of the answering machine and prepared to duplicate the straight cut on the other side of the walnut board in his large hands. The thirty-six-inch length of wood would be one of five shelves in a highboy he was making for an exacting and very wealthy client in Natchez.
“Rafe! Rafe? Please be there. This is Kristen. I need you.”
Rafe’s head came up, and he quickly drew the wood toward him out of harm’s way.
“Rafe, please be there.”
Flipping off the switch, he set the wood aside. Fear as he had known it few times in his life propelled him across the large room. The only reason he could think of for Kristen calling was because something had happened to his stepmother, Lilly, or her son and Rafe’s little brother, Adam Jr. He’d seen Kristen over the years. They’d been polite strangers, drawn together because her brother had married Rafe’s stepmother after she’d divorced Rafe’s father.
He snatched
the receiver from the wall. “This is Rafe. What’s the matter?”
“Oh, Rafe, thank goodness!”
“What is it? Is it Lilly or Adam Jr.?”
“No, it’s me! I couldn’t think of anyone else to call.”
His brows bunched as he heard a muffled noise. “What’s that sound?”
“Maurice Laurent. He’s beating on the door. That’s why I’m calling.” She paused. “This is rather embarrassing, but he has me trapped in the bathroom.”
“Trapped?”
“He’s a married man and he’s made some unwanted advances.”
“Son of a bitch! Hang up and call the police!”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?” Rafe asked, a forgotten anger surging though him as he remembered how helpless he had felt when his father used his strength to abuse Lilly.
“He’s being obnoxious, but so tar nothing more. The police will ask a lot of questions and I’d rather this not get out if at all possible. His driver picked me up. If you can come get me, I’d appreciate it.”
Reaching behind him, Rafe lifted his truck keys from the metal hook. “Where are you?”
She quickly gave him the address. “I really appreciate this.”
He heard the relief in her voice and clenched his fist against his own helplessness. “I’ve delivered furniture out that way. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” He gave her his cell phone number. “Call me back in one minute. I want you to stay on the line with me until I get there.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m on my way.”
He ran for his truck. Jumping inside, he backed out of the driveway and sped off.
He bumped stop signs and ran signal lights when he could. He did his best to keep Kristen talking about her family. He knew they were close. He’d long since stopped regretting that his wasn’t.
Having grown up in a small town in east Texas, he was used to driving narrow, winding roads. He made better time than he thought, but whenever he heard the noise of the man beating on the door, his insides would clench and he’d remember his father, his face hard, hate spilling from him.
“I see the lights of the house, Kristen. I’m almost there.”
“Please, hurry!”
Rafe took the next curve without slowing down. The Silverado hugged the road. Then he was speeding up the long driveway. Lights shone from every window in the antebellum home. Screeching to a halt, Rafe slammed out of the truck. “I’m here. But don’t come out until I tell you.”
“He may not let you in.”
“He’ll let me in.”
Bounding up the steps, Rafe transferred the phone to his left hand, then pounded the door with his right fist. “Police! Open up!”
As expected, it didn’t take long to get a response. The double lock disengaged. The door swung open to reveal a tall, trim man who outweighed Kristen by thirty pounds. Rafe’s anger escalated.
“Officer—you’re not the police!” Maurice started to close the door.
Rafe shouldered the door open and entered the house. “You’ll wish I were if Kristen isn’t all right. Kristen, you can come out!”
Maurice ran after Rafe as he strode down the wide hallway. “You can’t just barge into my house. Get out!”
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay out of my face,” Rafe said, his voice as hard and cold as ice.
“Rafe!” Kristen cried as she came out of a door off the hallway. By the third step she was running. “Rafe, you came!”
He thought she’d stop. She didn’t until her arms were wrapped tightly around his waist. His initial reaction was shock. He automatically reached to push her away, then felt her trembling. His arms closed around her protectively. This time he’d been able to help.
“It’s all right. It’s all right. I’m here.” Awkwardly, his hand brushed down her slim back. “I’m here.”
“Please, let’s go,” Kristen said, her voice unsteady.
His arm around her waist, Rafe turned to leave. The man who’d answered the door blocked their path. “Move!” Rafe ordered.
Moistening his lips, Maurice held up both hands. His worried gaze flickered from Kristen to Rafe’s hard visage. “Now, wait a minute. I don’t know what she’s told you, but she came on to me. She was trying to get me to influence my wife. When I rebuffed her, she locked herself in the bathroom and started making threats.”
Kristen gasped. “That’s a lie!”
Maurice kept his gaze on Rafe. “I’m a married man. She came on to me.”
“Rafe, he’s lying!”
“I’m not. The bitc—”
Rafe’s fist cut off the foul word Maurice had been about to say. He went down like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Unmoving, he lay sprawled on the Oriental rug.
“Come on.” Rafe’s hand clamped tightly around Kristen’s upper arm as he led her outside to his truck. Opening the door, he helped her in, then slammed the door. Kristen jumped and Rafe cursed under his breath.
Rounding the truck, he worked to get his anger under control. He tried, he really tried, but after five miles he couldn’t contain it any longer. “Why the hell did you go out there?”
Kristen flinched at the whiplash in his deep voice.
He shoved his hand over his head, knocking his baseball cap off onto the seat. He didn’t appear to notice.
Kristen glanced at the hard profile, the clenched jaw, and swallowed. She didn’t think she’d ever seen anyone so angry. “His wife was supposed to be there.”
“When you saw she wasn’t there, why didn’t you leave?” he asked, taking a turn with only a marginal decrease in speed.
Kristen braced her hand on the dashboard. She thought about telling him to slow down, then just as quickly dismissed the idea. He didn’t appear to be in the mood to listen. “He said Claudette, his wife, wanted me to stay and talk about my project for acquiring nineteenth-century artwork by people of color. Since he’s never shown the slightest interest in me the couple of times we’ve met, I believed him.”
Rafe snorted and took another turn. “Talk about naive.”
Kristen took exception to the statement. It wasn’t easy growing up the baby in a family of overachievers. She’d been working hard to develop her independence and a backbone long before the fiasco with Eric. “Anyone can make a mistake in judgment. And as satisfactory as it was to see Maurice’s prone figure, he struck me as a man with a big ego. I was trying to avoid a scandal. He’ll want retribution when he wakes up.”
Rafe jammed on the brakes. Tires screeched. The truck fishtailed, then stopped. Kristen rocked forward until the seat belt jerked her back.
“Do you want me to take you back?” he snapped.
Realizing he was angry on her behalf, she didn’t take offense. “Of course not. Please take me home.”
Shifting the truck into gear, he pulled off. Looking at his stern profile, she didn’t think he planned to break the heavy silence. She wrapped her arms around herself. After his help, she owed him an explanation.
“I’ve worked hard to secure my position with the museum. It’s my own special project to build the African-American permanent art exhibition into one of the finest in the country. It’s something I can do and that I love doing. I’d hate to lose my job before I’m finished.”
“Men like that are cowards,” Rafe told her. “Your job is safe.”
“I hope you’re right.”
* * *
Maurice was ready; the stage was set. Reclining in the middle of the king-sized canopy bed he shared with Claudette, he gingerly positioned the ice pack over his throbbing nose and listened to her hurried steps coming down the hall. She was surprisingly fit and trim for a fifty-five-year-old woman, but she was too inhibited to satisfy him sexually. All she had going for her was her endless bank account. While that satisfied one craving, it left his carnal desires needing a discreet outlet.
He thought he had found it in Kristen Wakefield.
He scowled
, then winced as pain shot through the middle of his face. He’d miscalculated. The couple of times he’d seen her she’d shown herself to be easily intimidated by Dr. Smithe, eager to keep her job and establish her own program, and naive despite her wealthy background. He’d been wrong, but so had she.
No one got the best of him.
Claudette Laurent, slim and elegantly beautiful, entered her bedroom, then came to an abrupt halt, her dark eyes widening. She rushed across the room to her husband. Hitching the slim, plum-colored skirt over her shapely knees, she climbed on the bed. “Maurice, what happened? Simon said you’d been attacked.”
Maurice groaned and slowly removed the ice pack. The chauffeur had told Claudette exactly what Maurice had instructed him to say. “Kristen’s friend hit me.”
“Kristen?” Claudette’s black eyes rounded in bewilderment. “Why? I don’t understand.”
His hand closed over hers. Gently he replaced the ice pack on his face. “I-I wish I didn’t have to tell you this,” he said, regret heavy in his halting voice.
“Maurice, I want to know who hurt you and why.” Tender fingers touched his cheek. “Please, what happened?” she demanded, but her hand was gentle as she touched his cheek.
The ice bag lowered, he brought her left hand to his lips and kissed the five-carat, flawless white diamond wedding ring that had been her mother’s. A heavy sigh drifted from his lips. “Since you insist. I warn you it isn’t pretty. Kristen Wakefield tried to seduce me to gain my assistance in getting you to help with her acquisition of nineteenth-century paintings. When I refused, she locked herself in the bathroom and called some guy. I think she told him that I had tried to attack her. As if I’d ever be interested in any woman but you.” Maurice snorted in disgust, then groaned in pain.
“Are you all right?” Claudette inquired anxiously. “Maybe we should call a doctor.”
“No, I’ll be fine now that you’re here.” He squeezed her hand. “It’s best you know what happened next. When the man she’d called arrived, he forced his way into the house. Coward that he was, he hit me when I was trying to explain what had happened.” The look in his black eyes went cold. “A woman like that shouldn’t be allowed to work at the museum.”
