Wildest Dreams (The Contemporary Collection)

by Jennifer Blake

  He would not finish the small portion he still had left to read. She intended to make certain the journal went into her shoulder bag right now, and stayed there. Rone must have taken it out the day before; there was no other way he could have had it to read last night. Somehow, with the upsets of the day, she had failed to notice.

  With the journal safely tucked away, she returned to the bathroom to shower. Afterward, she pulled her hair back in a simple wooden clasp and applied a bare minimum of makeup. She didn’t feel like fussing; besides, there was something about the clear light of Italy and the natural air of the Italians that made anything more seem too contrived.

  Taking a T-shirt and cotton knit skirt in periwinkle blue from her suitcase, she tossed them on the bed. Her gaze rested a moment on the pillow that still bore the indentation of Rone’s head. She looked quickly away.

  She had been afraid he would expect to continue as they had begun when she joined him in the big bed the night before. He had not. It seemed that he had an unexpected appreciation for her moods, or else he had felt something less than passionate toward her himself, after seeing her with Caesar. He had kept to his own side of the bed.

  As she skimmed into her clothes Joletta considered the situation between Violet and Allain once more. They had been so close, what they felt had been so certain, so fervent. How much of it had really been love, she wondered, and how much simple sexual attraction?

  They had been lucky, those two, she thought. People in their time period had not been troubled by such considerations. They had accepted everything they felt as part of a whole. They hadn’t analyzed their relationships to death, hadn’t questioned their dependency on the person they loved, or fought it.

  There was an affecting innocence about the passion that existed between them. It was pure in its way, untainted by decadent Freudian intimations or the constant bombardment of sexual innuendo from the media. There was sanctity in it, a whole other spiritual dimension that had been lost in the present day with its minute tracking of sexual arousal and response and its preoccupation with personal pleasure.

  Joletta’s reflections scattered as a knock came on the door. Assuming it was either Rone or the maid ready to clean the room, she moved to pull it open.

  “Hi,” the young man who stood there said. He lounged at ease with his hands in the pockets of his chinos and a grin of satisfaction on his face.

  “Timothy!” Surprise and the pleasure of seeing a familiar face in a strange place made her reach out to hug him before she went on. “Where did you come from?”

  “Corsica. Got in last night,” he said, returning the hug with enthusiasm. He stepped back, sweeping the sandy blond hair out of his eyes with a hasty gesture. “You had breakfast? Natalie said I’d never catch up with you here at the hotel, but I bet her a twenty I would.”

  They made their way to the hotel dining room for the usual continental fare. The rolls and croissants with butter and jam were already on the tables, along with carafes of hot coffee and hot milk. By the time they served themselves the coffee, he had told her how he had got bored with sunning and sailing and looking at ruins and decided to see how she and Natalie were doing with the perfume. He felt he ought at least to show an interest.

  “So, any luck?” he asked as he took a healthy bite of his croissant.

  His directness, after Natalie’s pretension, was refreshing. Joletta gave him an unvarnished answer.

  He nodded as he swallowed. “Didn’t think so. It’s a lost cause, if you ask me. Tell you what I’d do if it was me; I’d just amble around and have a good time.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve been doing that,” Joletta answered.

  “I mean, really. What’s the big deal, anyway?” he said reasonably. “How different can a perfume be? I don’t see why we didn’t just get our heads together, take something out of Mimi’s stock, and tell this Camors woman here’s the old family recipe. I mean, who’s going to know the difference?”

  “Lara Camors, if she has much of a perfumer’s nose.”

  He shrugged. “If you say so. You could always say the smell was off because some flavor wasn’t available anymore, something like that.”

  “That won’t help me if I decide to keep the shop open. There are women in New Orleans who have been using Violet’s perfume for decades, and I can guarantee you they would know if it wasn’t the same.”

  “Well, something may have to be done if things don’t look up pretty soon. Mother is fit to be tied. You’d think she was going to become a bag lady if this deal doesn’t go through.”

  “I can just see that,” Joletta said with a twitch at the corner of her mouth.

  “Me too.” His face turned gloomy after a moment. “She’s threatening to cut my allowance and send me out looking for one of those terrible things called a J-O-B. She gets like that when the budget gets out of whack.”

  Joletta tilted her head. “Would that be so terrible, joining the rest of us in the work force?”

  “I don’t know, maybe not if I had been trained for anything. Trouble is, I never did the college bit. Mother couldn’t decide what I should do, finally said I made a better beach bum than anything else.”

  “She wasn’t, by any chance, the one who suggested you might cut short your beach time and come help Natalie check up on me?”

  His thin skin showed a flush of color. “You know how she does — or maybe you don’t. She never really said I was to come, just talked and talked until I got the hint.”

  Joletta sipped her coffee before she said, “I can’t believe the money is that important to her.”

  “You have no idea. Folding cash. Dinaro. Argent. We always need it. We are expensive people, my mother and her children. It’s a strain keeping up with the folks who have it in buckets.” He gave a low laugh. “Poor Natalie may even have to get married again. She won’t like that. Or maybe she will, depending on the man. She had a good prospect cornered this morning.”

  “Did she? Here in Venice?”

  He nodded as he swallowed hot coffee. “The CEO of the Camors cosmetic conglomerate, actually the son of the woman who owns it. Natalie had a breakfast date with him at the Cipriani, where she’s putting up.”

  “Did she?” Joletta said dryly. The Hotel Cipriani was not cheap by any standard. It was also interesting that someone from Camors was in Venice just now.

  “That’s how I knew you’d be free.” Timothy looked at her, his gaze a little apologetic, as he took another roll.

  “Oh?” Joletta considered putting apricot jam on her croissant, but decided against it.

  “My darling sister seemed to think it was a coup of sorts; she was as pleased with herself as a biker with a new Harley. The guy had been hot for you, but she nailed him.”

  Joletta looked up. “For me?”

  “So she said. Actually, he’s just your type, I’d say; straight as they come, all-American, manners coming out his ears. Great boss, so they say: super-efficient and even creative; oversees his own in-house advertising and promotion. It’s a shame, but all’s fair in love, war, and business.”

  Joletta put down her roll. Suddenly she had no appetite. Her voice sounded hoarse and not quite steady, as she said, “This CEO, what is his name?”

  “Now let me think,” Timothy said, chewing slowly. “Something a mile long that fairly shouts Four Hundred family. Adamson, I think it was, with a third or fourth or fifth tacked on maybe.”

  “You’re sure?” she asked, though she already knew there was no mistake.

  “Oh, yeah,” Timothy said. “Tyrone Adamson, that’s him.”

  Sickness rose inside her. She swallowed hard against it; still, it brought gooseflesh to her arms and a sudden chill around her heart.

  “You all right?” Timothy was watching her, his gaze arrested. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know who Adamson was?”

  She didn’t answer directly, saying instead, “Why isn’t his last name the same as his mother’s?”

  “He’s supposed to be
the son of a second husband or something; the woman has been married a million times at least.”

  “You know her?” Joletta asked. “You’ve met Rone?”

  “I was introduced to the old lady when I was being my mother’s "walker," last year, taking her around to parties and charity balls and so on in New York. I never spoke to her son until this morning; he didn’t have a lot to do with that scene.”

  “I just can’t believe it.” The words were measured, and there was a glaze of pain in her eyes.

  “You going to eat that last croissant? No?” Timothy reached across to take it from her plate. “People say his mother built the corporation, but she did it with his dad’s money. After the divorce his dad hung on to a majority interest in the business. Rone got that when his dad died, which makes him the powerhouse in the corporation. He’s the one who makes the final decisions these days.”

  “Such as whether to buy the perfume, and how to go about seeing that they wind up with the formula?”

  “You got it.” He shook his head in admiration. “And the guy’s been traveling with you around Europe without letting on who he is, putting up with a tour bus when he’s used to the Concorde. God, what an operator.”

  She couldn’t stand it. She had to get away. She needed to think, to sort out the jumble of pain and rage that threatened to explode inside her.

  She got to her feet and slung the strap of her big purse over her shoulder. “Look, I’m sorry, Timothy, really, I am, but I’ve got to go. I’ll take care of your breakfast.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” he protested.

  “I’ll still get it. Will you be in Venice long?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Depends.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “The Cipriani with Natalie, for now,” he said before he went on with his cheery grin. “I expect it’ll be the hostel again tomorrow. I don’t mind; the company is friendlier.”

  “That’s good then. Maybe I’ll catch you later.” She started to turn away, then swung back. “You have enough money?”

  He grimaced. “The funds are okay, they just have to be made to last. Not to worry, I’m fine.”

  She touched his shoulder, then walked quickly away. She was afraid to stay there, afraid that if she remained a moment longer, she would burst into tears. She felt like such an idiot. She couldn’t do anything right, even fall in love.

  The thought brought her up short, so that a waiter moving behind her with a pot of coffee in one hand and one of hot milk in the other sidestepped with a sharp exclamation. She murmured an apology before she moved on again.

  No. It could not be. She wasn’t in love; she wouldn’t allow it.

  She wasn’t some sheltered Victorian female who had to give her heart to a man before she went to bed with him. She was modern and sensible. Making love was an excellent antidote for stress, she knew, also a pleasant diversion for a Sunday afternoon and a dandy way to get to know a person. She had no need for lace and perfume and flowers, did not require desperate sacrifices and eternal vows of devotion.

  All she really needed was a warm body, a little expertise, and some occasional conversation.

  Yes. And stability.

  A tiny bit of tenderness.

  Humor, maybe.

  Concern.

  And honesty.

  That was all. Really.

  Damn the man.

  Damn him, damn him.

  She paused at the hotel desk long enough to leave a message that she would not be going with the morning tour; she just couldn’t face it. Not now. She had turned away, heading toward the door that stood open to the street, when she saw a tall form approaching.

  Rone. She stopped short. It was, however, too late to avoid him.

  “‘Morning,” he called. He stepped over the wide marble threshold as he spoke, at the same time dodging a rotund lady tourist in a sweater woven in a Stars and Stripes design. His voice was low and insouciant, and his smile for Joletta shaded with a hint of intimacy as he moved toward her.

  Joletta gave him a look designed to freeze him in his tracks as she swept past without stopping. A moment later she was out the door, blending with the foot traffic of morose and sleepy-eyed Italians on their way to work. She turned in the direction of the nearby quay.

  Swift, firm footsteps sounded behind her. Rone caught her arm, dragging her to a halt. His voice curt, he said, “What’s the matter with you?”

  She swung on him, her eyes black with anger. “Oh, nothing at all is wrong with me. I’ve just discovered the man who has been sharing my bed is a sneak and a liar.”

  His brows snapped together over his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know very well what I’m talking about,” she said with scalding scorn. “And I hope you found something useful for your mother in Violet’s journal last night, because it’s the last time you’ll ever see it.”

  She jerked her arm from his grasp, whirling away from him to walk on. He reached her in two strides and clamped a hand on her forearm to stop her again. “Just a minute,” he said, his features grim, “you don’t understand.”

  The rage simmering inside her boiled over. “I understand just fine! Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Did you think you could go on using me until you had everything you needed to know? And what about Natalie? I should have known something was wrong when you went with her yesterday like a pet poodle.”

  “It wasn’t like that,” he said. “I never intended—”

  Joletta was aware of the interested glances cast in their direction by the people moving around them, a river of humanity dividing around an annoying obstruction. She ignored them.

  “No? Oh, but once you started, it was so convenient to keep going, wasn’t it? God, but when I think of it, I could die — or kill you with my bare hands!”

  “Joletta, don’t,” he said in low-voiced concern. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

  “Me? You’re the bastard who did it. You did it with your low-down sneaking tricks. I should have known there was something fishy about you when your southern drawl started to disappear. I’ve had enough of you, New York Yankee. I want you out of my room, off this tour, and gone from my life. I don’t want to see you again. Ever.”

  “Tough,” he said.

  She blinked at the stoniness of his tone. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean that where you go, I go. Drawl or not, the blood of the Stuarts who produced Confederate General J.E.B. of the same name runs in my veins, and I’m as stubborn as you are any day. You don’t take a step without me right behind you, until this mess is over. What in hell do you think it was all about?”

  “If you think I’m going to let you stay anywhere near me, you can think again.”

  “You don’t have a choice.”

  She lifted her hand and punched him in the chest with an extended forefinger. “You are dead wrong there.”

  “Am I?” he said, his voice even. “We’ll see.”

  This time when she whirled to walk away from him, he made no move to stop her. Instead, he moved at her side, keeping pace with a long and effortless stride. The drop-dead look she gave him caused not even a flicker of expression. He only met her gaze with impassive determination.

  She halted. “Go away,” she said, “or I’ll yell for a policeman and tell him you’re molesting me.”

  “Do that,” he said tightly, “and by the time one gets here, it may be the truth. Will you please stop long enough to listen to me?”

  “What can you possibly say that I would want to hear? And how can you think I’d believe it even if you said it? Leave me alone!”

  “If you’d just let me explain—”

  “Explain what? How you just happened to be walking down the street near the perfume shop in New Orleans? It was probably you who was following me to begin with. Or maybe you’d like to tell me what a wonderful coincidence it was that you were around when my bag was stolen in London? I may have been gullible, b
ut I learn fast. No, thanks.”

  She was breathing so hard as she swung and walked on that it felt as if she had been running for miles. She refused to look at the man who fell in beside her once more. She kept her face turned away, even as he began to talk.

  “I followed you to the shop in New Orleans, all right. I didn’t mean to give you such a scare, but I got too close because you reached the shop sooner than I expected. Later, I saw the creep who was following you, but had no idea exactly what he was up to, so I circled around and staged that little scene to scare him off. Since I was watching you, and getting concerned, when I found out you were going to Europe, I tagged along. I was at the airport because I was on the same plane, in a seat as far as possible from where you were sitting. I never meant to get so involved with your life; it just seemed, once I got to know you, that it would be easier to keep an eye on you if I was traveling with you.”

  “Right,” she said waspishly, “and it just got easier and easier, didn’t it?”

  He drew a deep breath, as if striving for control. His voice was rough when he answered. “Yes. It did. But if you think I went through all that just to get Violet’s perfume, you’re wrong.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that. You did it for Natalie, didn’t you? She thought I was such a stranger to male attention that I would be bowled over by any handsome man who happened along. Well, she was right. I hope you enjoyed it.”

  “As a matter of fact—” he began, then stopped, folding his lips tightly for a moment before he started again. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “No? Then you did it for my smile,” she said in derision, though there was a stabbing ache inside her.

  “I did it because I was afraid of what might happen to you.”

  “Oh, please.” The sudden weariness in her voice also weighted her shoulders.

  “I know it sounds crazy; I’ve thought several times that I must be out of my mind. But my mother hasn’t been rational about this perfume since she first heard of it. She has been possessed with the idea that it could become the next Joy, a perfume so wonderful that it would take the country by storm. She meant to make it the best loved, most enduring — and not incidentally the most expensive — perfume in the world. A perfume with history and romance and a kind of grandeur that can’t be found in some concoction out of a laboratory. But what bothered me most was not knowing exactly what she was willing to do to get her hands on it.”