by Francis Ray
“Kristen always impressed me as a shy but trustworthy young woman,” Claudette said slowly, a frown wrinkling her brow.
“My nose didn’t get this way by itself,” he snapped, then tried to leave the bed. “Obviously you’re more concerned about Kristen than me!”
“No. I’m just surprised.” She placed both hands on his shoulders and applied gentle pressure. “Please lie back down.”
He complied, but he kept his unrelenting gaze on Claudette. “I won’t let this go unpunished. In the morning we’re going to see Dr. Robertson. I won’t have your name associated with any institution that has unprincipled people working for it. If your father were alive, he’d be outraged at what happened tonight. He wouldn’t let that woman get away with what she tried to pull. He’d see that she paid for her duplicity.”
“And so will I,” Claudette replied, her voice taut with anger.
He had pushed the right button. Claude François Thibodeaux. Claudette idolized the old fart.
Maurice relaxed back against the mound of down pillows and placed the ice pack over his face to hide his little smile of satisfaction.
No one got the best of him. Ever.
* * *
“Kristen, you’re wanted in Dr. Robertson’s office.”
Kristen froze at her desk in her tiny office in the museum. The smirk on Dr. Smithe’s thin face caused her stomach to churn. A picture of Maurice out cold last night flashed before her. Trembling fingers clenched around the pen in her hand.
“Well, hurry up,” the chief curator snapped with undisguised disapproval.
Swallowing, Kristen rose slowly. She wanted to ask what the director wanted, but couldn’t. If Smithe’s satisfied expression was any indication, it wasn’t good.
Leaving her office, she quickly went two doors down and entered Dr. Robertson’s outer office. His secretary, Mary Edmondson, glanced up from talking on the phone. Instead of her usual warm greeting, she said nothing.
Kristen rubbed her damp palms on her slacks. “Dr. Robertson wanted to see me.”
“Go on in—they’re waiting.”
They. Kristen didn’t need to ask who they were. Her feet felt like lead. Her stomach churning, she crossed the room and opened the door. The three people in the small office filled with diplomas, awards, and African art turned immediately. Dr. Robertson’s mocha-hued face was full of concern. But the expressions of the other two made Kristen want to run.
Claudette Laurent’s beautiful face was as cold and as hard as the large diamond on her finger. Her black eyes matched their glitter. She turned away, her body rigid and unforgiving.
Maurice’s entire being emanated hatred. In his set features she saw the promise of retribution that she had feared. She couldn’t even take pleasure in his swollen, and probably painful, nose.
“Kristen,” Dr. Robertson said. “Please come in and have a seat.”
Kristen noted that a third chair had been pulled up in front of the desk, but separated by at least four feet from Maurice. Claudette sat on the other side of him. Kristen perched on the edge of the straight-backed chair and clasped her shaking hands in her lap.
Dr. Robertson, a small man with horn-rimmed glasses, salt-and-pepper beard, and gray hair, propped his arms on his desk. “Kristen, Mr. Laurent has come here with a serious accusation against you. He says you tried to use sex to persuade him to influence his wife to support your acquisition of nineteenth-century art. When he refused, he was beaten.”
“He’s lying, Dr. Robertson,” Kristen denied angrily. “He’s the one who tried to coerce me to have sex with him. I refused and locked myself in the bathroom.” She cut a glance at Maurice. “He sent a car for me so I wouldn’t have a way home if I refused. He was hit by the person who came to pick me up because Maurice called me a foul name.”
“Oh, come on,” Maurice said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “This woman is obviously lying. I called her yesterday to tell her Claudette wouldn’t be available, but she insisted on coming and asked that I send a car for her.”
“You said no such thing!” Kristen said, wishing Rafe had hit him harder. “You set me up. You had a cozy little dinner all planned.”
Maurice turned up his bruised nose. “That dinner was for my wife and me to share on our four-month anniversary.”
Kristen’s mouth dropped open. What kind of man cheated on his anniversary? Her gaze went to Claudette, but the other woman stared straight ahead. “Claudette, I’m sorry, but Maurice is lying. I went to your house last night because I thought you were there and I wanted to discuss the paintings.”
“Surely you don’t expect my wife to take your word over mine,” Maurice sneered, placing his manicured hand over his wife’s.
Kristen watched the loving gesture with a sinking heart: then she recalled the answering machine. “I’ve got proof.”
This time Claudette’s gaze swung to her.
“She’s lying, darling,” Maurice said, his voice a bit unsteady.
Kristen ignored him and spoke to Claudette. “When I called a friend for help his answering machine was on. Part or all of our conversation should be recorded. It’ll prove what I said is true.”
“If there’s a tape, she faked it,” Maurice accused, his gaze locked on his wife’s.
“In the interest of fairness, I feel we should listen to the tape,” Dr. Robertson said.
“Are you saying you believe her over me?” Maurice asked with obvious indignation.
The director didn’t back down. “In the seven years I’ve known Kristen, I’ve never known her to act in any way that would bring discredit to her or this museum. If the tape would clear up the matter, then I see no reason not to listen to it.”
Kristen sent Dr. Robertson a look of gratitude. “If Rafe is home, he can bring the tape over.”
Dr. Robertson picked up the phone on his desk. “Call him.”
* * *
This was all his fault, Rafe thought as he entered Dr. Robertson’s office and saw the look of desperation on Kristen’s face, the hatred on Maurice’s. If he’d controlled his temper she wouldn’t be in this position. He wanted to reassure her, but couldn’t. His father’s prophecy that he’d ruin everything he touched was coming true.
“Thank you for coming, Rafe,” Kristen said, then introduced him to Dr. Robertson. From the way Maurice was hovering over the woman seated by him, Rafe knew she must be his wife.
“Haven’t you done enough to Kristen? I’m the one who hit you, not her,” Rafe said, his voice filled with contempt.
Maurice jerked back in his seat as if he expected Rafe to attack him again. “As I told you last night, she fabricated the entire thing. Did you actually see me try to force myself on Kristen?”
“I heard you banging on the door,” Rafe answered, his black eyes narrowed.
“You heard a banging, but it wasn’t me.” Maurice glared at Kristen. “She did it to try and get back at me for rejecting her. Well, it won’t work. I love my wife.”
“Perhaps we should listen to the tape,” the director said.
Rafe connected his answering machine to the phone and pushed “play.” Kristen’s voice came on. The fear and desperation in her voice was easily distinguishable. So was the banging.
The museum’s director stared at Maurice. Claudette leaned forward and stared at the answering machine. Maurice stopped glaring at Kristen and tightened his arm around his wife’s shoulders.
Kristen was sure Maurice was going to get his until she heard herself refuse to call the police and say he was only being obnoxious.
“See! See!” Maurice cried in his defense. “If she had been afraid, she would have called the police.”
Kristen said nothing. The disappointment on the director’s face said it all. When the tape ended with Rafe giving her his cell phone number, she realized how badly she’d handled the situation.
“That proves she lied,” Maurice declared, his face wreathed in a satisfied smile. “What frightened woman wouldn’t
call the police if she thought she was in danger?”
“I was trying not to cause a scandal,” Kristen explained. “I didn’t want the museum or Claudette embarrassed by what happened. I just wanted to leave.”
“You lied! My wife and everyone in this room knows that, don’t you, dear?” His other hand closed over Claudette’s.
Everyone’s attention centered on Claudette. She stood, rigid and regal and self-assured, aware of her wealth and her power. She knew how to wield both.
“Harold, I will not support any institution that employs people who pander, lie, inflict pain, or defame others to cover up their misdealing,” she said. “I have a great deal of influence in the art circles and in this city. I won’t hesitate to use it if this matter is not dealt with quickly. The decision is yours.” She walked briskly from the room, Maurice following closely behind.
“Kristen, I—”
“Please, Dr. Robertson,” she interrupted the director, her voice and face resigned. “You don’t have to say it. You’ll have my resignation as soon as I can clear out my desk.”
“No,” Rafe said, his hands clenched at his sides. “This is all my fault. You did nothing wrong.”
“It doesn’t matter. Claudette believes I did.” Kristen’s fingers raked through her straight, black hair. “This museum can’t survive without private donations. Claudette’s threat is real. If I stay, the museum will suffer. I can’t allow that to happen. You have to see that.”
Rafe caught her arms and stared down into her troubled face. “You’re just going to walk away and let him win?”
“I don’t have a choice.” She looked at the director. “And neither does he. Do you?”
The older man slumped back in his chair. “With regret, I accept your resignation.”
three
Claudette Marie Estelle Thibodeaux Laurent had been taught since the cradle to adhere to her family’s strict code: honor above all else. Her ancestors had been free people of color and had lived and prospered in New Orleans since 1803. Thibodeaux was a name that was synonymous with integrity. Having recently celebrated her fifty-fifth birthday, she had no intention of abandoning the code.
“Claudette, I can’t begin to tell you how much your faith and devotion means to me,” Maurice said, cupping her elbow as they left the museum and walked down the stone steps toward the waiting white Rolls.
“You’re my husband,” she answered, trying to recall the breathless rush of joy that knowledge had brought just four short months ago. She’d been so lost and alone after her father’s death—then Maurice had come into her life. He’d been charming and so solicitous, catering to her every need, making her feel loved and cherished. The world had ceased to be so desolate and bleak.
His hand slipped around her still-trim waist, drawing her closer. His lips brushed her black hair. “Why don’t we go home and let me show you how much you mean to me?”
“I’m sorry, Maurice, but I have an appointment with Barrett to discuss the prospectus for a couple of businesses we want to sell insurance to.” She nodded to Simon, the elderly driver holding the door of her car open, then slipped gracefully inside.
Maurice placed one hand on the top of the car and leaned down to place the other one on her thigh. “I’d like to get my hands on you,” he said suggestively.
“Maurice!” Claudette’s gaze flickered to the uniformed driver who had been with her family for the past thirty years.
Maurice laughed roguishly, then removed his hand to take hers and kiss her palm. “My sweet. I do love you so.”
Or do you love my money? The thought leaped out of nowhere, but it had been nagging her for the past month as Maurice’s attentiveness to her waned, and he took more and more time off from work. He’d been scrupulously conscientious before their marriage, but now he had changed. Although her father’s company … her company … had over a hundred employees, she, like her father, knew everyone.
Maurice had been one of the many employees to offer their condolences after her father’s death. He’d found her crying in her office one afternoon when he had brought a contract for her to sign. Day after day he’d returned, cheering her up with his teasing banter and endless charm.
Soon she became aware of him as a man and herself as a woman. He’d proposed on bended knee in a room full of yellow roses, her favorite flower, barely a month after they’d met. For the second time in her life she’d followed her heart. She prayed nightly that she would not regret it as much as she had the first time, when she was sixteen.
Maurice’s work habits were deplorable. He went to work late, had long lunches, and left early. The only way she knew his whereabouts was from the bills that poured in. He spent lavishly and worked little.
“Barrett said you were behind on the policies for the Evans firm. Perhaps you could go in with me,” she said, studying him.
His smile vanished. He straightened. “Barrett may be the vice president of sales, but I’m my own man. I won’t be treated like a child or tattled on.” He spun on the polished wingtips Claudette had paid for and walked away.
She sprang out of the car and hurried after him. “Maurice!”
He turned, his face rigid. “Yes?”
“I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m sorry,” she said, trying to make peace, to find her way in a marriage that she knew was in desperate trouble. She wasn’t blind to the gossip that was going on about them. The general consensus was that she had “bought” herself a husband.
She had little experience with romance. After that one youthful indiscretion, she’d worked hard to restore the faith and trust her parents had lost in her. When her mother died a year later, Claudette had become her father’s hostess, his confidante. His passion was Thibodeaux International, and it became hers.
After graduating from private Catholic high school, she’d enrolled in a university in New Orleans to remain close to him. Rather than pursue her own desire to become an artist and major in art, she’d taken business courses to please him. He reasoned that, as his daughter, she was destined to marry a man of wealth and prestige and raise a family. She was not going to be a painter if he had anything to say about it.
She’d listened to him, and tried to enjoy her life and not see it as settling or repentance. She’d always thought her time would come.
She’d like to think she hadn’t waited too long.
“Maurice, I don’t want us to have an argument,” she said when he remained silent. “Please try to understand.”
“You know how this business is,” he said angrily. “It takes time for a company to decide to spend millions on an insurance plan for their employees.”
“Of course,” she said, trying to placate him, realizing she’d been doing that a great deal lately. “I have to be going. I’ll see you later. What are your plans?”
His mouth tightened for a brief instant; then he shrugged and said, “I’m going to Antoine’s to see if the shirts I ordered are ready.”
More money. Antoine had made her father’s shirts. A cotton shirt with French cuffs, the kind Maurice wore, cost upward of $375. She’d taken him there after they returned from their honeymoon in the south of France. He’d ordered twenty shirts. “I’ll see you later then. Good-bye.” She started for the car.
“You forgot something,” he said, catching up with her. Before she could ask what, his lips, warm and persuasive, pressed against hers. Lifting his head, he tenderly cupped her cheek. “I love you, Claudette. Skip the meeting.”
She stared up into his mesmerizing black eyes, wanting to believe that she hadn’t made a mistake, needing to believe that last night had happened just the way he had said. He was a handsome man. Kristen had been very insistent about her art project. Maurice wouldn’t try to seduce a woman in their home. Of that she was sure.
“Let’s go home,” she said.
He kissed her cheek, “You’re the only woman I love.”
Leaning against him, Claudette walked back to the car, determined to do w
hatever was necessary to save her marriage. Maurice loved her. Only her.
* * *
Fighting tears, Kristen packed her possessions in a cardboard box she’d found in the copy room. Each article she placed inside made the knot in her throat grow. The Seth Thomas desk clock from Adam. The day planner from Lilly. The engraved, black-and-gold pen set from her mother. The desk set from Jonathan.
Her family had been so proud of her. She’d accepted the museum position after graduating from Stanford, determined to get on with her life and forget about Eric, who had used her as a shield to hide his own perversion. She’d been gullible enough to believe every lie he’d told her.
Just as she’d been naive and gullible enough to believe Maurice Laurent.
“Kristen, I’m sorry,” Rafe said.
“It’s not your fault.” She picked up the English ivy from the windowsill and placed it on top of the box, then looked around. Nothing of hers remained. It was as if she hadn’t spent the past seven years carving a niche for herself. She felt an emptiness inside.
Despite Smithe, she’d enjoyed her work. She could have made a difference. She blinked back tears. What was she going to do now, and how was she going to tell her family?
“I’ll get that for you.” Rafe picked up the box.
Not sure she could speak without bursting into tears, she nodded. After one last look, she opened her office door. Praying she wouldn’t see anyone, especially Smithe, she hurried out the back door to the parking lot.
“I’ll put this in my truck out front and follow you home.”
Kristen shook her head, then activated the trunk on her BMW coupe. “I can manage.”
Rafe put the box inside, then closed the trunk. Watching Kristen swipe her eyes with the heel of an unsteady hand, his insides twisted. “You shouldn’t drive.”
“I’ll be fine. Good-bye, Rafe.” Opening the door, she got inside and started the motor. Putting the car into gear, she backed up and drove off.
Rafe’s fists clenched—then he sprinted around to the front of the building to his truck. No way was he letting her drive home without making sure she reached there safely.
