by Francis Ray
When she had gone. Kristen looked at Rafe smugly. “Told you.”
“But how does it taste?” he challenged, not willing to concede she was right.
“Bless the food and we’ll find out.”
He did and after several bites conceded that she could indeed pick a restaurant. The food was spicy and delicious, the service good. His tea glass was never more than half empty. Watching Kristen’s little pink tongue dart out while she ate, he needed it. “You have catsup on your cheek.”
“Where?” Her tongue flicked out ineffectually, missing it by a whisker. “Did I get it?”
If Rafe told her no, her tongue would dart out again and he’d probably lose it right there. His hand touched her cheek just as her tongue tried again and licked the side of his finger.
He stilled as a hot shiver of desire raced from his hand through his body.
Their gazes clung. For Kristen, everything narrowed down to Rafe and the need in his dark eyes. She began to tremble. “Rafe…”
He snatched his hand back. Beneath the cover of the table, he rubbed his hand on his jeans. It didn’t help. “I-I was supposed to call a client tonight. While you finish I’ll go see if they have a phone.”
Even if Kristen could have found her voice, she wouldn’t have tried to stop him. She was just as confused by the attraction as he was. The difference was, he resented it. His response wasn’t very flattering, but at least it wasn’t personal.
He didn’t want anyone in his life.
His father had done that to him. The thought that any father could inflict such misery on his child enraged her. Rafe was going to have some happiness in his life. If that meant putting a halt to whatever was happening between them, so be it.
“I took care of the bill. You ready?”
Kristen knew she would see the wariness in his face before she looked at him. Just as she knew she couldn’t let him retreat from her. There was one sure way to prevent it. “Ready.” She stood as he held her chair.
“Lilly asked me to check a few estate sales for a sleigh bed for Adam Jr. Do you think you have time to help?” she asked as they reached her car.
The majority of the time Rafe spent at their family gatherings, he was with Adam Jr. The two were almost inseparable when they got together. He’d walk through hell for his little brother. “Adam Jr. will be so excited to learn you helped find his bed.”
“I probably could make one,” he evaded.
She stared at him across the hood of her black BMW. “Lilly figured you’d say that. But it would cause you to fall behind on your orders. Plus, you have the sleigh and train to complete before Christmas. Have you started them?”
“Not yet,” he admitted reluctantly.
Perfect. Tucking her head to hide her smile, she dug in her purse for her keys. “You’re in demand and if Mrs. Oliphant and her friends start ordering, you’re going to be swamped.”
“I’ll always have time for Adam Jr.,” he said without a moment’s hesitation.
“I knew you’d help. We can start looking Saturday.” She almost felt guilty that he’d fallen into her trap so easily.
Lines of confusion were etched on his forehead as if he wasn’t exactly sure what had happened.
“We’ll start out early before all the good stuff is gone.” Getting in, she put her seat belt on, started the car, then backed out of the crowded parking lot. “I don’t have to go in until twelve. The ones farther out from the city are probably the best. Who knows? I might even see a painting or two.”
“I suppose I could spare a few hours,” he finally said.
On the two-lane highway, she sped around a car as if it were sitting still. “I’ll pick you up.”
Rafe pressed his hand on the dashboard when she came to an abrupt stop at a signal light. “I’ll drive. If we find anything, we couldn’t put it in your small trunk.”
“Is that the only reason?” She smiled over at him.
“Let’s just say I’m beginning to see what you meant about women drivers.”
She laughed and he laughed with her.
* * *
“Jacques, I’m sorry, but Rafe said no,” Kristen told her boss as she flipped St. Clair’s “open” sign to “closed.” They’d had a steady stream of customers all day and she hadn’t had the opportunity to give him the bad news before.
Jacques paused in straightening Memory, a haunting painting of a sunset on water that replaced Disbelief early that day. The artist who had painted both had come in that morning with a new attitude. “If he said no to you, I don’t think anyone else could get him to change his mind. He really could have helped them.”
“Rafe wants to help—he’s just not sure if he has the patience,” she told him, not wanting him to think badly of Rafe. “I haven’t given up. I just have to go slow.”
“Then I won’t worry about it another second,” he told her.
Kristen took her black bag from her desk and draped the long strap over her shoulder. “Don’t be so sure. Rafe doesn’t change his mind very easily.”
Jacques set the alarm, then followed Kristen out the door. “For you, I think he will.”
Kristen blushed. “We’ll see.”
As soon as they stepped outside, thunder rumbled. Lightning flashed. Kristen grimaced at the sky. “Good night. I’d better run before I get soaked.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Drive carefully.”
“I will. You do the same.” Kristen dashed down the street, her heels clicking on the cobbled street as she tried to dodge people on the crowded sidewalks. A few were trying to make it to shelter, but most were still enjoying themselves.
Just as she pulled onto the street, the sky opened up. Traffic quickly became a snarled nightmare. Her usual ten-minute drive took thirty minutes. The good news was that her parking space was vacant. The bad news was that it wasn’t underground. Berating herself for not putting her umbrella back in the car after the last unexpected rain shower, she put her purse over her head and made a dash for it.
She shrieked, then laughed as the cool rain quickly soaked her jersey knit dress. At least it wasn’t silk. She entered her condo to the ringing phone. Ignoring it, she went to the bathroom. Undressing, she heard the ringing stop. Slipping on a robe, she began towel-drying her hair on the way to the kitchen for a cup of tea.
The phone on the end table in the living room rang just as she passed. “Hello.”
“I was beginning to worry.”
Rafe. The deep voice took away the chill she’d felt from getting wet. “Did you call a few minutes ago?”
“Yes. I just wanted to make sure you got home all right.” The worry was evident in his voice. “I was out when it started and could barely see the car in front of me.”
“Sorry I didn’t answer.” She sat down on the sofa. “I didn’t have my umbrella. I got wet and had to change.”
“Oh.”
The little word seemed to send a spiral of heat through her. She pulled the collar of the terry cloth robe away from her throat and searched her mind for a way to get the conversation going again. Friendship, and nothing more. “Traffic was crazy.”
“You need a bigger car.” There was a slight pause. He was trying, too. “And a lighter foot on the gas pedal.”
She drew her slippered feet under her and curled up in a corner of the sofa. “I grew up driving in San Francisco. If you didn’t get out of the way on the freeways, you were run over. This is child’s play.”
“Just be careful.”
“I will. Don’t worry. Since we’re leaving so early Saturday, why don’t we plan on eating breakfast on the road? I’m sure we’ll find a place.”
“Rustic with a crowded parking lot.”
She heard the smile in his voice, wished she could see it on his face. “You got it.”
“I’d better get back to work.”
Was there reluctance in his voice or was it wishful thinking on her part? “Thanks for calling.”
“You just take ca
re of yourself.”
“You do the same.”
“’Bye.”
“’Bye.” Kristen slowly hung up the phone and scooted down further on the sofa. She didn’t need tea to warm her up or mellow her out. Rafe had taken care of that quite nicely. With an impish smile she wondered what else he could do.
* * *
He shouldn’t have come.
Damien stared at the recessed red door of The Inferno, trying to crystallize the reason for seeking Angelique out here instead of at her apartment. He knew Kristen’s address, knew Angelique lived next door. There was only one reason. Not even the torrential downpour earlier had kept him away.
He hoped that once he saw her dancing, he’d be able to put her out of his mind. Certainly nothing else had worked. He’d close his eyes and she’d be there. He’d turn a corner and see her. The notions were idiotic and romantic. He’d never been either. Or jealous. But that hadn’t kept him from wanting to tear Henri apart for putting his hand on her.
Damien could kick himself for wanting to do that and much more. He jabbed the bell.
The door opened and the business transaction was quickly conducted. There was no secret password or handshake, just cold, hard cash. Less than fifteen seconds and a hundred dollars later—credit cards weren’t accepted—Damien entered the club. The music was surprisingly loud, considering the cover charge, but then so were the men. A few had the same rabid look he’d seen on the faces of the men panting after Angelique at his father’s party.
“Would you like me to show you to a table near the stage? Starlight is a favorite.”
Damien barely glanced at the waitress, who had a smile on her face and a tray in her hand. “I’m fine back here.”
“What would you like to drink?”
“Scotch and water.” He pulled out a chair at a small, round table near the back of the club. The few tables around him were vacant. Apparently most men liked being up front where the action was.
The noise increased and he realized he’d hadn’t looked at the dancer. If Angelique were up there, he didn’t want to see her wearing bits of cloth, then taking even those off for men to salivate over her. His hand raked over his head. Was he trying to save his father or save himself?
“Here you are, sir.” The redhead set the glass on the table along with a little bowl of beer nuts. “Shall I start you a tab?”
“No.” He reached into his pocket and gave her a twenty.
“Do you need change?”
He shook his head.
“Thank you, sir. If there’s anything else you want, just let me know.” She strutted off, her hips swaying.
Had she just sent him an invitation or was he imagining things because of where he was? He was about to take a sip when he heard a woman’s laughter. Angelique’s laugh. He had absolutely no idea how he knew it was she, then realized it was because of the sudden shiver that had raced through him at the sound.
He jerked around, straining to see in the shadows behind him. He was on his feet when he heard her laughter again. It had come from behind a seven-foot arched wall. He hadn’t noticed the area before. It was obscured from the entrance and the dance floor. There was only one reason he could think of why she would be behind that wall.
He rounded the partition, rage pulsating through him and saw … Angelique sitting with another woman.
Angelique’s eyes widened, something flickered in them. “The stage is the other way.”
She was dressed in black, her hair in a single braid as it had been the first time he’d seen her. She was stunning in whatever she wore. “What time do you go on?”
“You just missed my act,” Angelique said with a derisive twist of her mouth. The look on her face said he was just like the other men.
Fury pulsed though his veins. His fists clenched.
“Angel, don’t tease the man. You know you don’t dance anymore. But I do,” the tiny blonde beside Angelique said. With a practiced shrug, the red silk wrap slid off her smooth, tanned shoulder.
Damien’s attention on Angelique never wavered. “What does she mean, you don’t dance anymore?”
“Disappointed?” Angelique sat back in the booth and folded her arms. To think she had wasted precious sleep over him. He was just like all the other men she despised.
“I dance,” the blonde said, leaning over to give Damien a better look at the ample breasts spilling from her demi-bra.
Once again she was ignored. “I asked you a question.”
“Which I am under no obligation to answer,” Angelique replied.
“Trouble here, Angel?” asked a gravelly male voice.
Damien turned to see the baldheaded and burly man from the front door. “Only if you make it.”
The man grinned. “I live for trouble.”
Seeing Damien wasn’t going to back off, Angelique said, “It’s all right, Mack. I can handle it.” She told herself she was keeping Damien from major bodily injury for his father’s sake, not because, despite everything, he made her yearn.
“Just remember you have to pass me before you leave.” With that ominous threat, he walked away.
“I hate to miss how this turns out, but my number is next.” The little blonde scooted out of the booth and approached Damien. She moistened her red lips with a pink tongue. “My name’s Honey. I get off at midnight.”
“I won’t be here,” he said, then slid into the seat in the booth she had vacated, already forgetting her. “I’m waiting for my answer.”
Angelique didn’t want him near her, tempting her to act foolishly. After Sunday’s fiasco it had occurred to her that she was almost afraid to tell him the truth. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she’d wanted to believe that once he knew the truth, his opinion of her would change. But what if it didn’t?
“Angelique?” he snapped out her name.
Screw it. “I danced here the last two years of undergrad school.”
“Why are you here now?” he asked, his voice heavy with accusation.
The way he was behaving, he didn’t deserve an answer, but she had finally decided to take the advice she dished out to her patients: never try to circumvent the truth—it always came back to nip you on the rear. “I’m gathering information for my dissertation.”
She had the satisfaction of seeing the surprise on his face. “You’re working on your doctorate?”
“That’s right,” she answered and waited for his apology. It didn’t come. If anything, he looked even angrier.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
She couldn’t believe her ears. “You were the one who jumped to conclusions and got all sanctimonious.”
“You could have explained.”
Her temper blew. “Why? I don’t need yours or any other person’s validation. I’m who I am, and I’ve worked hard to get where I am. It wasn’t easy taking a full load and dancing here.”
He glanced around the little alcove, trying not to envision her here with a customer or what they might have done. He gritted his teeth. “You could have found another way.”
Her hazel eyes flashed. “It’s so easy for you, sitting there in your tailored suit with money in your pocket, an expensive car to drive, a luxurious place to live, spouting all that garbage. We weren’t all born so lucky.”
Damien didn’t back down. “I’m aware that I’ve led a privileged life, but there are student loans, social services, scholarships.”
“They don’t give scholarships to non-athletic, average students. As for loans and social services, you ever tried to work through the system? Of course not.” Her finger jabbed him in the chest. “I have, and unless you’re assigned to the right caseworker who doesn’t act as if the little money you might receive is going to come out of his or her check, you’re up Goose Creek.”
Damien opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “You had parents growing up. My father left me at a bus station when I was three. Heaven only knows where my mother was. I used to dream he’d come back or my mothe
r would find me. I was in six foster homes by the time I was eight. At eighteen the money from the state stopped. Without my foster parents scrimping and doing without to put me in Xavier, I probably would have ended up back on the street, homeless.”
Remorse and regret went through him. “I didn’t know.”
“And you didn’t ask. You just accused. You think it’s easy having men leer at you and think you’re for sale? It’s not. Women have always survived the best way they know how. You won’t make me feel ashamed for surviving.” She stood, unbowed and unbending. “You should try dancing in five-inch heels for hours, then tell me I took the easy way out.”
She stalked off again, her long, auburn plait swinging down her back like a beacon. This time he didn’t blame her. He slumped against the booth. He was usually more fair-minded. As a lawyer, he’d been taught to be analytical. However, his objectivity had flown out the door when she mentioned The Inferno. Right or wrong, he’d always been possessive.
Perhaps because he was an only child of a favorite child. He’d been pampered since birth by a large, gregarious family. He might have ended up sitting on the right of the judge instead of the left if his father hadn’t locked him out of the house when he stayed out past curfew one too many times.
He’d slept in the car. He’d thought he’d apologize the next morning and it would be over. He wasn’t particularly worried when his parents had knocked on the car window, waking him up, but he began to be when his father calmly asked for the car keys and handed him a suitcase.
“Since you like the streets so much perhaps you’d like to live on them,” he had said.
His mother, the woman he could always get around, had stood stoically by his father. “If you ever decide you can follow the rules, the door is open. Otherwise, have a wonderful life,” she said.
Being no fool, he’d straightened up. But even in his “bad days,” he hadn’t shared his girlfriends. As an adult he liked fast cars, but not fast women. So where did that leave him and Angelique?
Damien got up and was about to step into the aisle when Maurice Laurent and another man he didn’t recognize passed by him. They worked their way to the front and sat down on the right side of the rectangular stage just as the announcer finished introducing a new dancer.
