by Francis Ray
“Hello, Claudette,” Kristen greeted, ignoring Maurice. She couldn’t believe he’d apparently managed to pull the wool over Claudette’s usually shrewd eyes again. But hadn’t Kristen had the same blind faith in Eric?
Seeing Maurice’s smug smile moments after the woman he’d been talking to had angrily walked away, Kristen remembered that she had run, too, rather than expose him for the immoral man he was. No more. She wanted to face him and show him that she had survived in spite of him. “Lovely party, isn’t it?”
Maurice’s jaw clenched. His hand moved from his wife’s waist to close around her bare forearm just as their host joined them.
“Hello,” said Jacques, looking like the successful man he was in his tailored black tuxedo. He stopped beside Angelique and glanced around the small group. “Glad to see you got here. Has everyone met?”
Silence reigned.
Jacques continued as if his question had been answered. “Then I guess you know that Angelique and Rafe are friends of Kristen, the new manager of St. Clair’s.”
Claudette, who had been staring straight ahead, finally looked at Jacques. Her eyes widened in astonishment.
“I’m lucky to have her,” Jacques said, speaking directly to Claudette. “I trust her implicitly and she has wonderful work ethics.” His gaze flickered to Maurice. “You can’t say that about everyone.”
“Excuse us.” Tight-lipped, Maurice pulled his wife away.
Kristen’s hand clenched around her red beaded bag, but she was beaming at Jacques. “You’ll never realize how much that meant to me.”
“It’s no more than the truth.” Jacques looked at a stern-faced Rafe by her side. “How are you holding up?”
“About as well as I expected,” Rafe answered slowly. “I thought I’d take Kristen and Angelique to the buffet table.”
“Excellent idea.”
“You two go on,” Angelique withdrew her arm from Rafe’s. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
As they moved away, Angelique studied Jacques’s tense features closely. “You make me want to reassess my opinion of men.”
He frowned. “Have they treated you so badly?”
“A few, but I was talking more about men in general.”
“But it’s been my experience that lumping any group is unfair. You struck me as a fair and very perceptive young woman.”
“That’s why I’ve got their number.” Angelique watched Jacques’s gaze search the room for the second time since they’d been talking. It was more than a host assuring himself his guests were having a good time because his gaze always stopped on Claudette Laurent, and when it did, a sweet longing would come over his face. “How long have you cared about her?”
Jacques casually brought his attention back to Angelique. “What if I said I don’t know what you’re talking about?”
It might have been years since Angelique had loved a man who hadn’t loved her back, but she still remembered the aching pain. Seeing her history professor in class or on campus always sent her into a tailspin. It hadn’t mattered that she had been the one to end their five-week affair. Pride couldn’t comfort her heart. It continued to yearn, to grieve.
She’d gotten a well-deserved A in the class. If he had tried to give her anything less, she’d already warned him that she would go to the president of the university. He may have taken her for gullible once, but he had known she wasn’t bluffing about her grade. Her degree was too important to her.
Months passed before she fully accepted the loss and moved on. She recognized the “look” on Jacques’s face immediately.
Sympathetic, she looped her arm though Jacques’s and briefly leaned her head on his shoulder. “I’ve been where you are.”
“He was stupid.”
“Yes, he was.” Angelique laughed softly, grateful that she could. “I guess you know she’s married to a user.”
“I know.” As if they were connected even in a crowd of people, Jacques’s gaze easily found Claudette on the dance floor with Maurice. She seemed completely enthralled by him as they moved to a soulful ballad made famous by the legendary Billie Holiday, another woman who’d had man problems of her own. “Would it make sense if I said I hate that for her just as much as it makes me happy that’s he a worm?”
“Very much. Your conflicted emotions are to be expected,” Angelique told him. “And although she’s not demonstrating it at the moment, if she’s as smart as Kristen says she is, Claudette will wise up and toss Maurice out before much longer and you’ll have your chance.”
The heart-wrenching last note of the singer’s voice that sounded unerringly like Holiday faded with the long wail of a sax. Maurice kissed Claudette’s hand. Jacques finally looked away.
Even if Claudette divorced Maurice, that didn’t mean she would suddenly fall in love with Jacques. On the contrary, she’d probably be even more leery of a relationship. They were friends, good friends. She had no idea that his devotion to her had matured into love, and she never would. “What was that little scene I interrupted?”
“What scene?” Angelique asked with wide-eyed innocence.
Jacques wasn’t fooled. “When I came up, Rafe looked as if he wanted to tear Maurice’s head off, you looked like you’d help, and Kristen looked angry and determined.” His gaze suddenly narrowed. “He’s the one, isn’t he?”
“You’ll have to ask Kristen that.”
Jacques muttered a French expletive that needed no translation. “Sorry.”
“I’ve heard worse.”
Now he was the one studying her. “Once again I get the feeling that there is more to you than meets the eye.”
“You mean more than bump and grind?” she tried to say it flippantly, but it fell flat. She wanted Jacques’s respect.
He waited patiently.
“Can you keep a secret?”
“Damien won’t hear it from me,” he told her.
So much for not being obvious. “My dancing days at The Inferno are long gone. I worked there the last two years of undergrad school to help with tuition and pay off the loan my foster parents had taken on their house to get me into school. I go there now to gather data for my dissertation in psychology titled ‘Exposing the Double Society.’ I’m tired of men’s sanctimonious double standards.”
Jacques nodded as if he weren’t surprised by her revelation. “A woman of indeterminate measure and grit. Now, I’d better circulate and I expect to see you at the gallery. You could start by coming in tomorrow afternoon. The last Sunday of the month I always have a private get-together for area artists.”
“Will the artist who painted Disbelief be there?”
“Yes, and I just found out tonight that so will my friend, Henri, the art critic.” Jacques looked pained. “He savaged Disbelief.”
Angelique patted his shoulder in sympathy. “I’ll try to be there.”
“Thank you.”
She started across the floor to join Kristen and Rafe at the buffet table. Halfway there, she stopped. Her skin prickled. She glanced around the room, half-expecting to see Maurice. What she saw was almost as bad.
Across the crowded dance floor, Damien stared at her, his mouth pinched in disapproval. Just like a man, dancing with a woman who was wrapped around him like wet tissue paper and his attention was on another … even if it was with distaste.
He didn’t want her here. That much was obvious. Thought she shouldn’t be around “decent” people.
Tough.
Pushing away the little pang of hurt she felt, Angelique lifted her chin in a direct challenge. She went where she pleased and at the moment that was to the buffet table. She’d seen a plate of scallops earlier and they were calling her name.
* * *
Damien’s dark eyes narrowed on the graceful curve of Angelique’s slim, bare back. The floor-length gown flowed over her body like liquid darkness, making a man want to pull the material away slowly in brilliant light so he could see, then devour, what lay beneath.
For Angelique, that man would apparently have to be able to pay a price, a very high one. Damien knew clothes. Her gown wasn’t cheap. He didn’t have to guess how she’d gotten the money to pay for it.
His black eyes narrowed in determination. He couldn’t understand why Kristen and his father didn’t see Angelique for the opportunist she was. But one thing he knew for sure, she wasn’t adding his father’s name to her list of sugar daddies. Before tonight was over, he’d make sure she’d moved on.
* * *
By the time Kristen and Rafe had worked their way to the head buffet table, her anger had disappeared, helped by the frequent worried look Rafe kept throwing at her. She’d been aware of his anxiety when he’d picked them up, anxiety that had increased when they’d entered the drawing room. But after seeing Maurice, Rafe’s concern had been solely for her.
Strangely, his unselfish actions made her want to put him at ease and see that he had a good time. “What do you want to try first?” she asked as they neared the first table, laden with bite-sized delicacies.
“I’ll think I’ll pass.” Rafe frowned down at the table.
Kristen smiled at him over her shoulder. “We both eat or no one eats.” She picked up two plates trimmed in 14-carat gold, handed them to him, then proceeded to fill both as they moved down the buffet line laden with imported cheese, fruits, shrimp and lobster canapes, and smoked salmon.
“Hello, Kristen. How are you doing?”
Kristen momentarily faltered as she recognized Mary Oliphant, a museum patron and art collector, ahead of her in line. “F-Fine. And you?”
“Wonderful. We’re leaving for Italy on Friday,” Mrs. Oliphant said, taking some crabmeat and placing it on her plate. “Since you work for Jacques, are you still interested in acquiring nineteenth-century African-American art?”
Luckily, Kristen had just placed a cube of cheese on one of the plates Rafe held because she almost dropped the silver tongs in her hand. “Yes, but how did you know I work for Jacques?”
The woman laughed, full and throaty. “He was singing your praises last night at an art council meeting. Dr. Robertson was there and said he’d hated to see you leave the museum, but understood you wanted to broaden your horizons.”
Kristen worked hard to keep her mouth from dropping open. Bless Dr. Robertson’s sweet heart. First thing Monday morning she was calling the museum director and thanking him. “Having a permanent collection of nineteenth-century African-American art on display at the Haywood is a personal goal, not just because I worked there. As I recall, you have a couple of paintings from that period. I’d appreciate any help or suggestions you might give me.”
The woman’s long face became thoughtful. “Why don’t you come and sit with us and we’ll talk about it?”
She started to say yes, then looked back at Rafe. “Is it all right?”
“You lead. I’ll follow.”
* * *
The decision, Kristen acknowledged less than fifteen minutes later, had been a wise one. People at the Oliphants’ table, as well as those who dropped by, were interested in Kristen’s idea. And best of all, Mrs. Oliphant and her husband agreed to loan Landscape with Brook by Robert S. Duncanson if Kristen could get a firm commitment for a total of fifteen paintings.
“Thank you,” Kristen said, shaking both of their hands.
Mrs. Oliphant looked at Rafe, sitting patiently and quietly by Kristen. “I imagine you must want to get to the dance floor.”
“I’m not much of a dancer.” He almost smiled. “You’re saving Kristen’s feet.”
People sitting around the table laughed. Kristen thought of the many times he’d saved her. Perhaps she could pay him back.
“Rafe is an artist himself. He reproduces exquisite eighteenth- and nineteenth-century furniture. You should see the writing box he made for my desk. It’s magnificent.” She sent him a smile. “I can’t tell you the number of people who have seen it and wanted to purchase it.”
Fingering the emerald-and-diamond necklace encircling her throat, Mrs. Oliphant leaned forward, her interest obviously piqued. “Do you have others at your shop?”
“Kristen’s is the first and only one I’ve ever made,” Rafe told them.
Kristen observed the interested faces of the women seated around them. Having an exclusive on any item was a coup. “But he’s going to make tea caddies. Each one is unique since they’re fashioned by hand and fitted with antique hardware. I’ve ordered one for my mother’s birthday. After seeing Rafe’s sketches, Mrs. Moreau ordered one as well,” Kristen finished, smoothly throwing out the elderly woman’s name. Mrs. Moreau loved antiques, had a house full of them, and had strong ties to the New Orleans Historical Society.
Women and men looked at Rafe with new interest. It only took one person to ask for his card before they all wanted one.
To Rafe’s chagrin, he didn’t have any. Kristen came to his rescue. “I’m sure you’re all in Jacques’s address book. I’ll drop a few of Rafe’s cards in the mail Monday.” Like Mrs. Moreau, the people sitting around them were used to being catered to. However, once Rafe’s work was accepted, as Kristen was positive it would be, the women would shamelessly seek him out just as they did their favorite designer or decorator.
He wouldn’t be pleased by the attention. Oddly, she, too, wasn’t pleased by the prospect of women running after him.
Kristen stood. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I think I’ll see if my feet are in as much danger as Rafe claims.”
Laughter followed them as they made their way to the edge of the dance floor. The five-piece band was playing a heavenly melody by Duke Ellington. Rafe glanced around the room as if looking for the nearest exit. Kristen took charge again by putting her left hand on his broad shoulder and extending her right.
He stared down at her and gulped. “Thank you for what you did back there, but I wasn’t kidding about my dancing.”
“I’ll chance it.” She laced her fingers with his strong, calloused hand. Her brow puckered at the unexpected spiraling of heat that radiated from their joined palms. Rafe’s hand jerked in hers and she wondered if he felt it, too, or if he was just nervous. Probably nervous.
“The song will be over before we take one step,” she teased.
Rafe stared down at her. She had a smile on her winsome face that said she could conquer the world. He liked it, liked to think he had helped put it there.
“I’m not sitting down until we dance,” she warned him.
Slowly he drew her closer. He tried not to notice how good she felt or how the exotic fragrance she wore teased and stimulated his senses. He couldn’t. He was the little boy with empty pockets staring through the plate glass window into the candy shop, wishing and dreaming. “This is not exactly my kind of music.”
“Stop stalling,” she told him. “Dance.”
He cautiously took a step, then another, and miraculously discovered that his size twelves kept missing her small feet. He hadn’t forgotten. He hadn’t danced since a junior high sock hop. His mother had given him permission to remain at school, but his father had met him at the door with his belt when he’d gotten home.
“Why the frown?” Kristen asked.
Once again, her perception caught him off guard. “Just concentrating on missing your feet,” he told her. More lies, but as far back as he could remember, lies and secrets had been a part of his life.
“I think you can stop worrying.” She moved closer and laid her head on his shoulder. “You dance beautifully.”
He waited for his body to tense. And waited. It never happened.
Instead he felt a curious unfurling of warmth and protectiveness as Kristen’s soft, warm body snuggled against his. They fit flawlessly. With her cheek against his chest, they moved in perfect harmony.
He searched his memory and couldn’t recall feeling this way before. With her so close to him, she made him feel as if a candle had been lit in the dark places of his soul.
He’d ceased thinking his lif
e would ever be normal, that he could have friends or a loving relationship with a woman. His unruly temper and his father’s bad blood made that impossible, but tonight … just for a little while … perhaps he could get a little glimpse of what that kind of wonderful life would be like.
His body relaxed. As he drew her closer, he let himself dream.
* * *
Damien was a patient man and it was finally paying off. Angelique had just stepped onto the terrace, and for the first time in the past hour, there wasn’t a slack-jawed, drooling man by her side.
Disgusted with the men panting after her and more than irked with Angelique, he checked to see that his father was on the other side of the room, busy with his guests: then he slipped through the folding glass doors. Luckily, there was no one else outside. When he was a few feet away, she turned. Even in the half-shadows, he saw the anger glinting in her eyes.
“So you finally stopped skulking around and worked up enough nerve to face me.” She stood there, beautiful and seductive and bathed in moonlight, a trailing bougainvillea loaded with dark red blossoms behind her.
He’d expected her anger, had been prepared for it, but not the sudden, strong sexual pull she exuded. He stopped in his tracks.
“You have something on that bigoted, self-righteous mind you want to say to me, so here I am.” She lifted her hands and held them wide in challenge. “Take your best shot.”
Her attack on his character effectively got him back on track. “You know nothing about me.”
“Ha! So you can dish it out but you can’t take it.” She folded her arms. “Your knowing nothing about me didn’t seem to stop you from declaring me unfit to be around your father.”
That she was partially right fanned the flames of his aggravation. “My father is a wonderful man.”
“I bet he wonders where he picked you up from.”
Her taunt hit home. His father had often said similar words to Damien when he had tested his parents’ love and patience to the limits as a wild teenager. “I want you to leave my father alone.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “Jacques is old enough to make his own decisions about his friends.”
