All in all, she decided as she drew her fingertips along a dust-free mahogany dresser that she dated mentally to the late 1800s, it was a lovely, comfortable, cozy place. It was exactly the sort of home she would like to have for herself. Exactly the sort of home she couldn't begin to afford on her salary, not if she also wanted food, electricity and transportation.
How could Michael?
She had no idea what kind of salary cops made, but she didn't imagine it was enough to pay for an apartment like this … which meant he needed another source of income. Maybe he was on the take. Maybe he and the cops he worked with had their own little widows and orphans fund, generously if somewhat unwillingly supplied by the very people they were sworn to protect.
And maybe her imagination—her suspicions—had been working overtime lately. Maybe he had family money that helped income meet outgo. Or maybe it was his paintings. Maybe he sold enough to cover incidental expenses … like a gorgeous apartment.
Leaving his bedroom, she returned to the main room. The only area she hadn't yet explored—hadn't yet snooped into, she admitted with a wry smile—was the corner studio. It was the painting on the easel that kept her away. That damned portrait of herself.
Slowly she moved to the armoire. Its doors opened with a slight tug on the curved wooden handles. Inside were a supply of blank canvases and, more interesting by far, a few finished paintings. Kneeling, Valery reached for the first one. It was small, no more than ten by thirteen inches, and showed a little country church. The building was white, the windows stained glass, the tulips and daffodils around the foundation blood-red and yellow. It was a pretty scene. Peaceful.
Until she noticed that the doors were open and the church was totally empty. That the stained-glass windows were cracked, the colors bleeding together, distorting the biblical scenes. That the wispy white clouds in the sky overhead formed changing images—from this angle an angel, from that one something darker, more threatening. Peaceful changed to disturbing, welcoming to warning.
The part of her that admired talent admired what he had done, taking a pretty little picture that could have been painted by any intermediate art student and giving it such power, such strength. But the part of her that considered churches holy places, places to worship, to find peace and fellowship and love, disliked it. She disliked it intensely.
With a barely suppressed shudder, she put it down, facing away from her, and reached for the second canvas. This one was also a church, St. Louis Cathedral across the square. She'd seen the cathedral thousands of times, had seen hundreds of paintings and postcards of it, but she had never once seen it like this—dark, distant, distorted. There was such a degree of despair about the painting that she felt it deep inside. Such sorrow and anguish. When had Michael painted it? she wondered. Why? What had been going on in his life at the time he'd created such a troubling work?
Leaving the other pieces untouched, she returned the two canvases to the cabinet, then closed the door. For a moment she poked around among the items on his worktable. There was such a jumble there, everything lying where it was carelessly dropped—tubes of paint, mixing tools, rags and cleaning solvents. The brushes, in contrast, were meticulously cleaned and stored, handles down, in an upright position, grouped together by type and size.
Contrasts. He was definitely a man of those.
At last she was in front of the easel. She stared at the sheeting that covered it and wondered how he had depicted her. With the same sense of despair as he'd shown in the paintings of the churches? If she lifted the cotton and looked at herself, would she see fear on her own face? Would his aversion to the visions that haunted him come through on the canvas?
She reached out, touched the fabric, felt its rough texture between her fingers, then drew her hand back. She wasn't sure she wanted to know what he saw when he saw her. She was afraid of what darker part of himself might have come through into the painting.
She was afraid.
Of a portrait.
Painted days before the artist had met her.
She was turning away from the easel when, at the same time, the phone rang and the lock rattled at the door. Catching her startled cry, she listened to the answering machine click on and watched as Michael opened the door. His gaze, dark and steady, came straight to her as the message being taped filtered into the air. The voice was masculine, strong, New England softened by Old South. "Michael, it's Smith. Call me." As abruptly as the machine had started, it whirred to a stop.
Still shaken—by the churches, by the portrait, by the innocent scare—she weakly asked, "Smith who?"
Michael came on into the apartment, shifting the box and her pillow to one arm so he could close and secure the door behind him. "Smith Kendricks."
That was a name she knew. Her impressions had been on target. Smith Kendricks, of the U.S. Attorney's office, was definitely masculine, strong and powerful, and had spent roughly half of his life in New England and the other half here. "You work with him?"
"Occasionally." He laid his load on a chair, slipped off his jacket and hung it on the back of the same chair. "We're also friends."
Contrasts, Valery thought again. She had never met Smith Kendricks, but she'd read about him often in the pages of the Times-Picayune and local magazines. He was as much a fixture of the hard news stories, prosecuting this criminal or that, as of the society pages, attending some charity event or squiring some beautiful, wealthy and sophisticated woman. He came from wealth and sophistication himself, was considered the best prosecutor in town—even better than his boss—and also the most eligible bachelor in the city, if not the entire state.
And he was friends with Michael. With this simple, private, intensely serious man.
She gestured toward the answering machine. "Is this call business or personal?"
His smile was faintly reproving. "I don't know. I'm not a mind reader."
"Not at all?"
He shook his head. "Was that the only call?"
She nodded.
"Come on into the bedroom. I'll find a place to put your stuff."
She had admired his bedroom earlier, had found it a safe place, but now she hung back. "I can put it in the closet over there. It'll be more convenient, since I'll be sleeping on the sofa."
Stopping in the doorway, he looked back at her. "I'll sleep on the sofa."
"No, don't be silly. This is your home. I don't want to put you—"
With a level, dry look, he stopped her in midprotest. She had already put him out, she realized, in ways far more serious, far more important, than where she slept. "I don't usually sleep much anyway," he said, further piquing her interest. "When I do, I can do it anywhere. You take the bedroom, where I won't disturb you."
But she would disturb him, she thought regretfully. She'd been doing it for the better part of a week.
She followed him into the bedroom and opened the box that he set on the bed. While he cleared a place in the closet and got her some hangers, she began unpacking, happy to see in the bag of toiletries her makeup kit and a cobalt blue atomizer filled with her favorite cologne. She spritzed her wrists and throat with the fragrance before setting it on the bed, pushing the pile of lingerie aside and removing two pairs of shoes.
The tennis shoes made perfect sense. The leather shoes she'd been wearing when she had arrived last night were still soaked, even though she'd stuffed them with newspaper. But the slippers? They were dressy, too dressy for the jeans and sweats he'd brought. She could imagine another man making such a mistake, but not Michael, with his artist's sensibilities, his unerring knowledge of what went together and what didn't.
She placed the shoes in the closet and hung her clothes on the rod he had cleared. As soon as he finished emptying one of the small drawers in the mahogany dresser, she carelessly, hastily dumped her lingerie inside and closed it. Leaving the bag of bathroom items on the bed, she knelt to push the empty box into the corner of the closet. When she stood and turned again, she came to an abr
upt stop.
Her dress. He was holding her dress.
Her first impulse was to smile. She loved that dress and had paid a small fortune for it, even with the discount her boss had given her. She'd never regretted the purchase, even if it had made money tight for a while, even though she'd had few opportunities to wear it. It was beautiful, old-fashioned and, oh, so romantic, and it made her feel beautiful and romantic.
But the smile never quite formed. He didn't offer any explanations as to why he'd packed jeans, sweatpants and an antique lace dress, but she knew. The answer was in the fierceness in his expression. In the knowledge that he hadn't wanted to bring the dress, that he'd felt compelled to do so. In the certainty that he didn't want to see her wearing it … and that maybe he wanted it too much.
The ivory lace looked so pale against his skin, so fragile compared to the powerful hands that held it. As she studied the contrasts, as she considered his ambivalence, she found herself wanting to sway him to the wanting rather than the not wanting. She found herself wanting to wear it for him.
To feel beautiful and, oh, so romantic in it.
With him.
With a stranger.
She approached him slowly, one small step at a time, and Michael watched her. He knew he should keep her at a safe distance, should offer it to her, hand it over and walk away, but he didn't. He held it, feeling the texture of the lace and the finely woven fabric—linen, he thought, not sure and not caring—against his fingers, and he waited for her to come to him.
When she was right in front of him, she stopped. He could smell her perfume, a subtle floral fragrance, Oriental in flavor. He could see the distinct shadings of blue in her eyes. He could hear her soft, steady breathing, the measured sort of breaths that indicated a conscious effort to maintain control.
Without releasing his gaze, she reached for the dress, her fingers brushing across his, her careful and firm tug removing the garment from his hands. She didn't ask why he'd brought it, didn't point out that she was in hiding, that she wasn't likely to find an occasion to wear it while she was secluded in his apartment. He was grateful for that, because if she had, he might have responded that they could make their own occasion. He might have told her that he would be as appreciative of her appearance in the dress as any crowd could be.
He might even have told her that his primary interest in getting her into the dress would be the pleasure of then getting her out of it.
Such pleasure. Such foolishness. Such danger.
He wasn't ready for a relationship. There was too much sorrow in his life, too much emptiness. He barely managed to care about himself; he had nothing left over to give someone else. He had nothing to offer. No hope. No faith. No future.
At the same time, as if in silent accord, they both turned away, Valery going to the closet, Michael into the living room and onto the balcony that looked out over the square.
It was a typical winter Saturday afternoon. There were artists set up along the iron fence, selling their paintings and caricatures to tourists who came from places cold enough that they didn't mind the chill in the air. A smiling group of Japanese tourists posed in front of the statue of Andrew Jackson in the center of the square, and over in front of the cathedral a band consisting primarily of horns played jazz for donations.
He envied all those strangers down there without a care in the world, with nothing more important on their minds than where to go for dinner tonight or which sights to see next. He had felt like that the first time he'd come to New Orleans, but that had been so long ago. It had been another world, another life.
Another Michael.
Now he had cares. He had important things to think about—such as the woman in his bedroom. Such as his job to protect her—and his need to protect himself from her. Such as Remy and Falcone.
He would call Remy, he decided. Lying to his best friend didn't set well with Michael, and that was exactly what he was doing by not telling him about Valery. He would arrange a meeting, would explain everything. He would tell him that she was safe, that he was looking out for her, but that he had to deal with her on his own for now. Remy would understand. He would trust Michael to know what was right, then trust him to do it.
For one weary moment his fingers curved around the iron rail. He wasn't sure he wanted Remy's trust, wasn't sure at all that he wanted Valery's. Trust could be a gift to be well guarded. It could be a reward for hard work and effort. It could just as easily be a burden. Trust was what had brought him to where he was today. If Evan hadn't trusted him, he never would have offered his help last time and he wouldn't be dead. If Remy and Smith hadn't trusted him, they wouldn't have gotten him involved this time. They wouldn't have put Valery's safety—maybe even her life—in his hands, and she wouldn't be somewhere in his apartment, her clothes hanging in his closet, her pillow on his bed, her perfume scenting the air. She wouldn't be eating meals at his table or bathing in his tub.
She wouldn't be sleeping in his bed tonight.
But since she would be, he thought with a cynical grin, it was too damn bad that he wouldn't. He could use the diversion of a few hours' pleasure, of mindless, meaningless sex. Unfortunately he'd never learned how to have mindless diversions or meaningless sex. Maybe it was because his father was a minister, and in their small town, everyone had expected certain standards of behavior from the preacher's kids. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that his parents had been happily married for more than forty years, maybe because commitment and devotion had always played such a strong part in his family's relationships. When a Bennett married, he did it for life, until-death-do-us-part. His had been the first—and still the only—divorce in family history.
Whatever the reason, he'd never had affairs—no one-night stands, no brief encounters. He'd never been to bed with a woman he hadn't been serious about.
And he sure as hell couldn't start with Valery Navarre.
As if summoned by his thoughts, she spoke from behind him. "Michael?"
He turned and leaned back against the railing, bracing his hands on each side. She was standing inside, well away from the door. He liked that about her—that she took her situation seriously, that he didn't have to remind her to stay out of sight.
"Do you mind if I make some cocoa?"
"No, go ahead." For a time he remained where he was, unable to see her but all too easily able to match her movements with the noises he heard—the opening of the refrigerator, the sound of the microwave, the clink of a spoon against a ceramic mug.
A moment later she reappeared in his line of vision, carrying two mugs. She offered one silently. Pushing himself away from the railing, he took it, then closed the doors and joined her in the living area. She went to the couch, making herself comfortable, propping her feet on the table and holding her cup in both hands. He sat down once again in the chair where he had spent most of last night.
"Do you have insomnia?" she asked as soon as he was settled.
"Why do you ask?"
"You said you usually don't sleep much."
So he had. She was observant, paying attention even to casual conversation. "Yes, I do." His trouble sleeping had started so long ago that now he couldn't recall exactly when. He had never tried to determine the cause, had never tried to do anything about it. He'd just learned to live with it, to sleep when he could and do something productive—read, usually—when he couldn't.
He'd read more than anyone he knew.
"When I first went to live with my aunt and uncle, I had problems sleeping." Her tone was casual, as if going to live with the Sinclairs hadn't been traumatic, as if her move to Belclaire had been just a normal, everyday thing. But, in spite of her airiness, he didn't believe that was the case. Like him, Valery Navarre must carry some scars. She just hid them better than he hid his.
"You were going through some major changes," he remarked, his voice as neutral as hers had been.
She flashed a surface-deep smile. "Yeah, moving from the city to the
country—and from a tiny two-bedroom apartment to a fourteen-room plantation house—is quite a change."
"To say nothing of being abandoned by your parents."
Her phony, glittering smile froze, then slowly faded. "I don't believe I said anything about being abandoned by my parents," she said slowly, warily.
"You said your aunt and uncle raised you after your parents divorced." He was observant, too. He'd heard what she had said in their earlier conversation. More importantly, he'd heard what she hadn't said. "It's customary in most divorce settlements for custody of the children to go to one parent or the other, not to an aunt and uncle."
After a moment, she sighed. "After nearly twelve years of marriage, my mother decided that she didn't want to be married anymore, and she didn't want to be a mother anymore. So one day, while my—my father was at work and I was in school, she packed up everything and left. And since he was no longer a husband, he saw no reason to be stuck playing father. He took me to his sister, and I lived with her family until I started college."
He wondered about the way she'd faltered in referring to her father. There was more involved, he suspected, than a man deciding to wash his hands of responsibility for his daughter. What was she leaving out?
He didn't press. There would be time enough for that later, if it became important, and the only reason it might was if she became important. Too important.
He didn't intend to let that happen.
"Did your aunt and uncle have any kids of their own?"
"One. A son." Her eyes darkened, and her manner grew stiffer, more guarded.
What was between her and Remy? Michael wondered. Why had they spent most of their adult lives not speaking? What problem could be so serious between them that, when her life was in danger, she couldn't turn to him for help?
"Sort of a big brother, huh?"
"No." She spoke very clearly, very firmly. "We didn't get along."
MICHAEL'S GIFT Page 7
