Mac's Angels Page 8

  Finally she retreated to her room, pacing and thinking, asking herself more questions than she had answers for. Most frustrating of all were her feelings for Conner.

  Having him touch her was sheer hell. It was all she could do to keep from giving away her heated response. He was the most attractive man she’d ever known, but it was more than that. She was still in love with him. And she was afraid that if she weren’t careful, she’d end up like she had ten years ago—hurt and alone.

  No, she was a different woman now. She’d survived his belief that she’d betrayed him, his callous desertion. She wouldn’t let that happen again. She’d look at the relationship for what it was—a grand masquerade, a hoax, a charade. Sure she would. All she had to do to accomplish that was wear eye patches and stuff cotton in her ears.

  No, she’d call Mac. Insist that he send someone else. Demand another room. Leave New Orleans.

  Then she heard a knock on the door and Conner’s voice asking, “Ready for some lunch?” And all her resolutions committed hara-kari in her stomach.

  “Just as long as it’s not chocolate.”

  “Aren’t you worried about leaving the hotel in the daytime?” Erica asked as Conner moved her through the front hotel entrance and onto the sidewalk.

  “Not now. The person looking for the book is convinced that you’re the key to finding it. He isn’t going to hurt you and lose his source. Besides I’m with you. And I’m ready for him.”

  And he was. She could see the steely determination in his eyes, the concentration, the total awareness of everyone and everything around them.

  “Where are we going, Conner?”

  “To the Napoleon House, a little bar in the middle of the French Quarter.”

  “A little early for liquor, isn’t it?”

  “Not liquor, muffuleta.”

  “Fine,” Erica agreed, glad to be out of the hotel. She was fond of the Cajun sandwich.

  They walked through the narrow streets of the French Quarter, dodging garbage cans filled with refuse from the night before and a patron or two still sleeping off the results of whatever he’d been celebrating.

  Neat private residences were tucked between the dingy little shops. They passed a woman wearing a white apron, her hair covered with a three-cornered print handkerchief like some servant from the time the house was built. She was sweeping dirt down a tiny sidewalk and through the fence opening into the street. Beside the walk a dark red camellia bush was in fall bloom. Erica smiled. In spite of her trauma of the night before, the morning sun was warm and the day bright and invigorating.

  Conner led them across the street out of the sunlight toward a building on the corner that was so dark and dingy, Erica drew back. “This is where we’re going?”

  “Yep.”

  “But the walls look as if they’re about to fall and there isn’t even a sign.”

  “Yep. That’s why I come here in the daytime. You really have to know where you’re going to find it at night. Come on, you’ll like it, I promise.” Minutes later they were sharing a monstrous sandwich of meats and cheeses on a huge round bun. It was a relief to be making normal small talk without playing out their charade or discussing missing books. But more than that, it was nice to be with Conner again, exploring dark, dingy little bars, enjoying good food and each other.

  Yes, he still liked motorcycles.

  And, yes, she still cried over animals and—she couldn’t bring herself to say babies, finishing with old movies, instead.

  “What kind of man is the ambassador?” Conner asked.

  “He’s very dedicated. I think he had a hard time when he was young. He came from a poor family. Getting where he is wasn’t easy. You know, he was appointed by Nixon and has served every president since.”

  “I didn’t know that.” In fact, neither he nor anybody else knew much about Collins. He was one of those people who did his job quietly and was constantly overlooked. “Where else have you been posted other than Paris?”

  “Just here in the States. He’s on temporary assignment at the United Nations, but that may change. He isn’t sure where they’ll send him next.”

  “Is there somewhere else he’d like to go?”

  Erica took a long time to consider that question. “He’s never said. But if he could pick and choose, I think he’d really like to go back to Berlin. His wife was German.”

  “She was?” Conner leaned forward and took Erica’s hand. He hadn’t known that and he couldn’t think of any bearing it might have to their search. But he liked holding Erica’s hand. He liked looking at her and having her smile back.

  The locals, gathered at the bar, cast curious glances at two strangers who were so obviously enjoying themselves.

  When their plates were empty, the waiter brought a tray containing two icy sherbets. “Compliments of the house,” he explained. “For two lovers on this most special holiday.”

  “But we aren’t—” Erica began to say.

  “Thank you,” Conner interrupted, taking Erica’s hand. “This is a very special time.”

  They ate the fruity ice with relish. Their hosts were right. Erica knew it was a special time and she’d stopped examining the reasons or the ramifications. Today just was.

  Tomorrow would take care of itself.

  Later, as they walked the streets on the way back to the hotel, it seemed only natural to hold hands. They stopped in a small shop, where Conner bought Erica a sequined carnival mask with feathers. Erica bought Conner a voodoo doll complete with a long, wicked pin. They laughed and said it was the man behind their troubles and they ought to give it a jab in the heart.

  They stopped on the street and watched a small boy tap-dancing for tips, ate sticky pralines, and took a ride in a carriage pulled by a horse wearing daisies on her hat.

  For now they were content to be Conner and Erica, who were getting to know each other again.

  At the end of their ride, Conner helped Erica out of the carriage and glanced at his watch. “I hate to end this, but it’s getting late.”

  Erica looked at her own watch and grimaced. “Goodness. If I’m going to be ready for Brighton Kilgore’s party, we’d better hurry.”

  Conner took her hand once more and started back toward the hotel. “How about that red dress?”

  “You destroyed it, remember? Besides, that dress wouldn’t be appropriate.” She knew he hadn’t understood her choice of that dress and explaining could change the tone of the mood they’d captured. “It’s too—too bold.”

  “Not for me.”

  This time Erica followed her own taste and dressed in a simple black sheath with cap sleeves and a fitted skirt that stopped just above her knees. This time her hose were black sheers and her shoes were simple black pumps with hourglass heels. Obsidian stones set in antique silver graced her ears and matched the oversize pin on the dress. Satisfied that she’d pass inspection, Erica remembered the bonfire and reached for a fringed black woolen stole that would cover almost her entire body.

  Tucking a lipstick and small comb in a postage-stamp-sized evening bag, she glanced at her watch and left the room.

  If her dress were one of understatement, Conner’s gray Armani suit and matching silk shirt were a statement. Donald Trump would have envied the man she was seeing. His only concession to the brash young Conner she’d known were the tiny cream-colored hearts on his red tie.

  She took a long look at the tie and smiled. “A bit early for hearts, isn’t it?”

  “Well, I can’t wear my heart on my sleeve, so I’ve put it somewhere else. Besides, these aren’t hearts, they’re ornaments.”

  “Sure, and I’m the tooth fairy.”

  “Damn! My mother told me the tooth fairy would come only if I were asleep. Just think what I missed for a few lousy quarters.”

  That exchange set the tone for the evening. The chilled champagne waiting inside the polished black limo in front of the hotel simply continued Conner’s illusion that they were two lovers celebrating
having found each other again.

  The driver closed the window between them and they were left in soft darkness, the only illumination coming from two lights over the bar.

  “I suppose you’re used to this kind of travel,” Conner said. “Ambassadors tend to go for show.”

  “Like you?” Erica countered. “I mean Conner Preston doesn’t drive himself, does he?”

  “He does. Unless he has no choice. That way I’m in control of when I come and when I go.”

  Control, that was the key. Conner Preston would always have to be in control. Was that really such a bad thing? So long as the person in control was kind and caring, did it really matter?

  Erica answered her own question. Yes. It did matter. For too many years she’d been controlled by disinterest and omission. Once she lost the baby, Erica had done what she should have done long before; she changed the direction of her own life. She’d had enough school to last forever. She knew a little bit about a lot of things, but nothing consumed her. Now she wanted the security of being cared for.

  For the last years her life had been neatly defined. She lived in the embassy. She worked in the embassy and she liked both. The dinner tonight was no different from a hundred others she’d attended. She would be interesting and she’d find a way to get what she needed from the other guests. She was good at that.

  Except tonight, she was with Conner.

  Conner uncorked the champagne and filled two glasses. He held one out to Erica. She took it, holding it in both hands so that he wouldn’t see how her hands were trembling. Taking his own, he lifted it in salute.

  “To us, Erica. Shadow and his Dragon Lady.”

  “Yes,” she murmured, touching her glass to his. “Together again.”

  EIGHT

  The driver wound his way north on River Road. Erica looked out the window, but not only was it too dark, the levee was too high for her to see the Mississippi beyond it.

  Soft music played from the tape deck. They drank their champagne with no conversation. Until—“Conner?”

  “Yes?”

  “You—you never married?”

  He hadn’t expected the question. Marriage had meant Erica. When that didn’t happen, he’d never let any relationship go that far again. To cover the awkwardness of an answer, Conner drained his glass and placed it in the rack on the bar. Then, as if in slow motion, he took her glass and added it to the rack. Finally he reached out and drew her small hand between his larger ones. “No. There have been women, but I’ve never married, never even come close. You?”

  There was a tightness about his answer that made her sorry she’d asked. Now that he’d answered, she was left with giving some kind of response, and she had none. In her own life there’d been men—a few, but never close enough to consider a permanent relationship.

  For minutes they’d been staring at each other, neither ready to carry the thought further. “No,” she finally said, then to cut off any more questions, she said, “I mean I wouldn’t want Mr. Kilgore to think that I would become—intimate with a married man.”

  “I’m sure such a thought would never occur to him.” Conner swallowed a smile. It seemed his Erica had turned into an old-fashioned girl. She hadn’t been a virgin when they’d met, but she’d been inexperienced. Like a flower slowly opening, every time they were together he learned something new. But they’d met and fallen in love so fast and furiously that they never had a chance to get to know each other the last time.

  Now she was worried about her reputation, or maybe it was his. He liked that. Yes, Conner was learning a great deal about this new Erica. But the thing he was most intrigued with was that the new Erica and the old Erica were the same person. They always had been. And God help him, he wanted them both.

  Moments later the car turned off the narrow black-topped road and into a long tree-lined drive. Erica drew her hand away and laid it on the plush fabric along the base of the tinted windows. “Look at the lanterns,” she said, pointing to the festive lights hung between two lines of ancient oaks, welcoming them to the estate. Only when they exited the drive and moved around the branches of a giant magnolia tree did the house come into view.

  Not house, castle. Erica burst out laughing, then caught back the sound with her hand. “My goodness. He wasn’t kidding when he said it was different.”

  The structure was a German castle, a fortress made of stone with turrets at the corners. It might have overlooked the Rhine River instead of the Mississippi. The only thing missing was a moat and a drawbridge.

  Conner shook his head. “I can’t believe it started out looking like this. I think our host has taken a few liberties in his restoration.”

  The driver opened the limo door and assisted them to the steps of the ornate mansion. Brighton Kilgore himself came through the door to meet them.

  “Come in. Come in. Everyone here is most eager to meet you.”

  They found the drawbridge, skillfully recreated in the foyer. Beyond the simulated wooden planks a slim, blond-haired woman headed toward them. “Mr. Preston. Miss Fallon, welcome! I’m Lillian Kilgore. Come into the Great Hall and meet our other guests.”

  Once Erica got past the shock of a German castle on the banks of the Mississippi, she noticed the old wall hangings, the swords and torches that had been converted to gas. Unless she missed her guess, all were authentic to the time period and surroundings. Brighton Kilgore might be a showoff spending his new money to buy his position in the art world, but Erica had to hand it to him, he certainly knew his antiques.

  “Do you get the feeling that we’ve stepped back in time?” Conner whispered in amusement. “He’s really worked at it. I’ll bet he has a dungeon.”

  “Yes. And he’s done a pretty good job of making it an authentic trip.”

  “I was afraid you were going to tell me that.”

  Other guests were already gathered around a fireplace big enough to roast an entire cow and leave room for a couple of small pigs. A roaring fire provided welcome heat for the room whose ceiling vanished into shadows above.

  “Everyone,” Mrs. Kilgore said, “come and meet Conner and Erica.” She introduced two local couples Conner had never met before, then said, “Erica, I believe you know Karl Ernst?”

  Erica caught back a sound of surprise. “Of course. Mr. Ernst, this is my—my friend, Conner Preston.”

  Conner’s first impression of the German art expert was one of surprise. Karl was short and round, hiding a double chin beneath a goatee.

  “Mr. Preston. It’s my very great pleasure to know you. Of course I’ve heard a great deal about Bart’s brother.”

  There was a sudden silence, as if all the guests had inhaled at once.

  “Did we meet when I was stationed in West Berlin?” Conner asked, knowing that they never had.

  “I don’t think so. But your brother was very proud of you. I think he envied you your free spirit. I’m so sorry about what happened to him. There was a certain amount of unrest when the decision was made to reunite Berlin. After you returned to the States, several other American soldiers were attacked. It was a bad time for those of us who lived there and others caught up in the change. How is the ambassador, Erica?”

  “He’s improving, thank you,” she answered, confused over his unexpected presence. “I didn’t know you were coming to New Orleans, Mr. Ernst.”

  “I hadn’t planned to. When Mr. Kilgore learned that I would be celebrating Christmas alone in New York, he insisted that I come home with him.”

  “So you’re an old bachelor like me?” Conner asked.

  “I am. After I lost my wife, I never remarried. I greatly regret that we had no children.”

  “A personal sorrow we, too, share,” Brighton concurred. “When I bought this house, I’d thought it would be a fine place for a family.”

  Conner wasn’t sure about that. It would have scared the hell out of him. He expected some gargoyle to leap down from the balcony above at any minute.

  Brighton
Kilgore beckoned to his servant, who brought a tray with a bottle of wine, two glasses, and hors d’oeuvres. Erica declined the wine, but did take one of the small biscuits filled with seafood.

  The final member of the dinner group was a stranger to Erica. A man, standing with Karl Ernst. As Erica caught his eye he gave her an odd little smile that seemed to suggest they shared a joke. If she’d had to describe him, she couldn’t have found one outstanding characteristic that would make him memorable. He was quite simply average, until Brighton called him over.

  “William, come and meet our other guests. Erica, Conner, this is William Boykin, my secretary. He’s another orphan.”

  “Very nice to meet you, ma’am. I’ve heard a great deal about you. Is New Orleans your home?”

  For a moment Erica could only stare. She didn’t know the man, but the voice was familiar. She’d heard it before. Where?

  “Eh, no. Do you live here?”

  He laughed. “No, I guess you’d say home is where I hang my hat. Mr. Preston?” He nodded and gave a half-bow.

  Karl Ernst took Erica’s elbow. “Have you seen Brighton’s Christmas tree? It’s an authentic old world tree. You know that Christmas trees came to this country from Germany?”

  “No. I don’t think I did,” Erica answered, allowing herself to be led over to the tree at one end of the room. It was real, a fir. The paper and porcelain ornaments were very old. But the lights made the tree exceptional. In Germany the candles on the end of each branch would be made of wax. But in the spirit of safety, Brighton had used electric candles. Only close examination revealed that they weren’t authentic.

  “I never had a tree when I was growing up,” Erica admitted. “We always seemed to be traveling or visiting someone else. It’s very beautiful, Mrs. Kilgore.” Erica turned to Karl Ernst, who still stood at her side.

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Kilgore replied. “By the way, where did the ambassador disappear to? My consulate wanted to send flowers, but he’d left the hospital.”