Hard To Tame

She quickly unloaded the tray, giving far more concentration to the act than was warranted. As she set down the linen-wrapped silverware, Doucet reached for it. Their hands touched and she snatched hers back with a suddenness that had his attention shifting from Fairmont to her.

“I might be interested.” Although still addressing the other man, his dark gaze was fixed on Sara. “You can stop by and give me the details this evening, say, at seven?” Nick’s eyes traced her features as Fairmont stuttered out an agreement. “On the condition, of course, that you bring Amber with you.”

“No way, Douglas.” Sara gripped her purse and hurried more quickly down the sidewalk, unmindful of the heat. She worked a split shift that day, with a couple hours off before she was needed for the lunch crowd. She’d planned to spend that time dropping by the library, maybe picking up a few groceries. But the man glued to her side wouldn’t be dissuaded.

“Be reasonable. And slow down, for God’s sake.” He pulled out an embroidered handkerchief and wiped his broad forehead, which was already gleaming. “All I’m asking for is an hour of your time.”

“How many ways can I say it?” She never broke stride. “I’m not going.”

“There’s a hundred dollars in it for you.”

That stopped her. The look she fixed on him was fierce enough to have him backing away a step, raising his hands in mute surrender. “I meant no disrespect, Amber, honest.”

Forcing a lid on her roiling emotions, Sara took a deep breath, reached for calm. “I don’t mind doing you a favor, Douglas, but Nick Doucet…” She shook her head. “I don’t want to have anything to do with him.”

“But you won’t. Not really.” Seizing the opportunity to make his case again, Douglas went on eagerly. “My appointment is for seven. We’ll arrive, maybe have a drink, then he and I will discuss some business. Afterward, I’ll take you home. You won’t even have to talk to him if you don’t want to.”

Sara started walking again. The man’s wheedling tone couldn’t begin to quiet the alarm shrilling in her mind. Doucet was trouble. Maybe not the kind of trouble she’d originally imagined. At least she no longer feared he’d been sent to kill her. But he presented a different kind of danger. She was much too aware of the man for it to be otherwise. “You can just show up without me. He heard me say I wasn’t coming. He won’t blame you.”

“I can’t take that chance.” Fairmount reached out to take her arm, and she pulled away in an involuntary response that no amount of acting could effectively disguise.

He balled up the handkerchief in his hand, his fingers clenching and unclenching around it. “This is important to me. I have a deal in mind that could make my career—all I need to do is line up the financing. I’ve been to everyone else in town, but Nick Doucet might be the only one with the vision to take a risk on my venture. I know you don’t owe me a thing, but he may be my last chance. C’mon, Amber, whaddya say?”

People strolled past them on the sidewalk, parting for the drama being carried out between the pair. Seeing the cautious hope mirrored on Fairmont’s face, Sara felt suddenly ancient. She could have told him that hope was as dangerous an emotion as need or trust. Far better to have no expectations at all than to risk having them shattered.

She took a deep breath and steeled herself to do just that. “I’m sorry, Douglas. I’d like to help you. If it were anybody else…but there’s no way I’m going to have anything to do with Nick Doucet. Not even for you.”

An hour later she was ensconced in a comfortable chair near the entrance of the New Orleans main library, reading the newest selection from a popular horror writer. The cool, quiet environment was a welcome balm after the outdoor heat, and from the nerves that quivered to life whenever Nick Doucet got too close.

Sara turned a page, squelching a twinge of conscience as she remembered the crestfallen look on Douglas’s face when he’d realized that no amount of persuasion was going to convince her to change her mind. But she’d learned long ago the folly of allowing emotion to dictate her actions. Her instincts were keen, honed by years on the streets, and those instincts came screaming to life every time Doucet was in the vicinity. She knew better than to ignore them.

A woman hurried by, grasping a young child by the hand. She spared Sara only a cursory glance, a fact that relieved a measure of the tension that had been building in her for the last several days. She knew what the woman saw when she looked at her—a medium tall, slender woman with badly cut hair, twisting a cheap locket around her index finger as she read the latest offering from a popular horror author. The picture was exactly the one Sara meant to present, accentuated by the gaudy, obviously cheap costume jewelry. The image fit Amber Jennings, and would be easily shed when she decided to move on to another city. Another state. She never kept any of her identities more than a few months.

The next half hour meandered by, the pace a welcome contrast to her usually hectic work schedule. When voices interrupted her concentration, she looked up, frowned slightly. A group of women in filmy, flowery dresses was trooping out of an inner room toward the exit, their goodbyes disturbing the relative quiet of her sanctuary. They strolled out the door, trailing expensive perfume in their wake.

Returning to her book, Sara was once again lost in the author’s imaginary world when a slight movement to her left disturbed her again. This time it was a solitary female, upwards of eighty, she’d guess, with the patrician bone structure that reflected beauty regardless of age, and pale, almost translucent skin.

But it wasn’t the older woman’s beauty that held Sara’s attention; it was the way she was clutching the edge of a table, swaying slightly on her feet.

Hesitantly, Sara asked, “Are you all right?”

“Quite all right, thank you.” The crisp words were delivered with just an air of haughtiness, and usually would have been enough to deter Sara from inquiring further. She guarded her own privacy too zealously to be at ease poking into others’. But for some reason memories picked that moment to swarm to the surface. Sean had had a grandmother he’d loved dearly. She’d been, he’d often claimed, the only member of his family who’d given a damn about him. Hundreds of times over the years Sara had reached for a phone, longing to dial that rest home in Illinois just to hear someone else mention his name. Each time realization of the risk had overpowered the emotion. Sara still made sure the woman knew she hadn’t been forgotten, but she did so anonymously. It was safer, far safer for all involved.

The flicker of memory was enough to have her rising. Pulling up a chair, she said, “Why don’t you sit down until it passes?”

The elderly lady aimed one fierce look at her, visibly battling her infirmity through sheer force of will. Then, the struggle obviously decided for her, she sank into the chair with a frustrated sigh. “Darn dizzy spells,” she muttered, her eyes closing for an instant. “There’s little I despise as much as the weakness that comes with the years.”

“I suppose none of us like to show our vulnerabilities, regardless of age.”

The woman’s eyes snapped open again. “No,” she murmured, studying Sara closely. “I imagine not. What’s your name, young lady?”

“Amber.”

“I’m Celeste. And since I’ve inconvenienced you this much, perhaps you wouldn’t mind lending me your arm and walking me to my car.”

Sara leaned forward and Celeste rose, clinging to her arm for support. “You aren’t expecting to drive, are you?” she asked dubiously.

The older woman gave a surprisingly strong laugh. “Good heavens, no. My husband considered it extremely gauche for women to drive themselves, and although times have certainly changed, I suppose it’s a bit late for me to learn driving skills.” As they spoke they moved slowly through the door and down the wide steps outside. At their appearance, a gleaming black Rolls pulled to a stop beside the curb, and a uniformed driver got out, opening the back passenger door to the vehicle.

Once Celeste was ensconced in the back seat, she looked up at Sara. “I’d like to repay you for your kindness. Would you care to accompany me home for tea?”

The invitation took Sara aback. “I…I’d better not. I have to get back to work soon.”

Celeste waved a hand and the driver went around to the other side of the car, opening the passenger door. “I’ll have Benjamin drive you when you have to go. Please don’t waste time arguing, dear. I make it a point to get my own way. It’s one of the few pleasures left to me.”

Studying the woman, Sara noted the flush in her cheeks, which couldn’t be blamed on the heat. They’d merely exchanged one air-conditioned environment for another. No doubt Celeste had a full staff and a family at home to see to her health. But Sara still felt compelled to accept, if only to see her home safely. There was little risk. Surely this sweet, frail woman wouldn’t lead her to danger.

So she engaged in uncharacteristic small talk with the woman as the car made its way across town. After several minutes it turned off the street through an open gate and up a long winding driveway.

Sara fell silent in something approaching awe. The sprawling, ancient mansion was white, with small dormers marching along the roofline proclaiming its French architecture. She could almost imagine the centuries falling away to reveal hoopskirted ladies and gentlemen in cutaway coats sipping mint juleps on the wide veranda.

“Impressive, is it not?” Celeste said as the car drew to a stop before the house. “It was built by my ancestor Claude in 1722 for his wife, Pauline Fontenot.” Simple pride rang in the woman’s voice as she was helped from the car by the driver. Sara rounded the vehicle, and Celeste set her hand lightly on her arm as they climbed the steps. “Claude brought his young bride to New Orleans, after it was settled for King Louis XV. This house was damaged by the fire in 1794, but my great-great-grandfather, Jean-Paul, presided over the restoration himself, and made sure the structure was duplicated exactly, rather than allowing the Spanish style of architecture to influence the rebuilding. My grandson is the ninth generation to live here, although—” she made a moue of disappointment “—he doesn’t spend nearly enough time here.”

The long lineage the woman cited was difficult for Sara to comprehend. She hadn’t known her own grandparents. Family hadn’t meant a whole lot to her mother. Janie Parker had been most concerned with good times and handsome, fast-talking men. She’d made it her business to fill her life with both.

When they reached the huge, double front doors, Celeste showed Sara inside to a graceful tiled hall with vaulted ceilings supported by carved beams. After ordering iced tea from the servant who met them at the door, the older woman led Sara into an old-fashioned parlor, complete with furniture that looked as though it had traveled from France with Claude himself.

Celeste waved her to a chair facing the tall narrow windows gracing one wall. “This is my favorite room, partly because of its view of the gardens. If I were feeling more stable today I’d take you on a tour of them. It’s this awful blood pressure medication I’m on, of course. It sometimes causes the worst dizzy spells.”

“The gardens look lovely.” There was a note of wistfulness in Sara’s tone.

“They can be very peaceful.”

“Sometimes peace can be hard to find.”

“You are quite young, I think, to be so wise.”

“I’m twenty-one.” The lie came to her lips automatically as she shaved two years off her age. Amber Jennings was twenty-one. And Sara Parker’s age no longer mattered, since she’d ceased to exist six years ago.

“Ah, to be twenty-one again.” Celeste smiled at her, a dazzling display of charm that transcended her years. “I would be tempted to envy such youth had I many regrets.”

“But you have no regrets, have you?” The words came from behind them, the voice amused. Sara stilled, finding something about it ominously familiar. “Shall we credit that to clean living or a convenient conscience?”

“Nicky!” Delight sounded in Celeste’s tone, sparkled in her eyes. As the older woman offered a cheek for the tall, dark-haired newcomer to kiss, Sara stared, her feeling of foreboding changing to disbelief. Life, she’d often found, contained the cruelest of ironies. That had never been so apparent as right now.

Because the man straightening to greet her was none other than Nick Doucet.

“Amber, I’m thrilled that you will get to meet my grandson. Nicky, this is—”