Ciji Ware (30 page)

“Hmm?” Jack temporized, reluctantly giving his attention to the pesky gadfly he’d seen at the hearing. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.” He addressed Hopkins again. “Well, it was nice meetin’ you in person. So long, everybody. Take care, Daphne,” he said, smiling faintly in her direction.

“Now, just you wait, young man,” the old goat persisted, visibly agitated. “You were with all those folks at the legislative subcommittee hearing who are trying to force those blasted toxic chemical dumps down our throats here in Mississippi.”

“Bailey, I think you may be mistaken,” Madeline Whitaker intervened gently. “Mr. Ebert works for Able Petroleum out of Texas.”

“My point, exactly,” the elderly physician exclaimed. “Able Petroleum also manufactures those pesticides and defoliants they’ve been spraying on cotton and everything else ’round here for forty years. It’s been killing the birds, and probably the
people.
This fella and his ilk are wanting to bury that crap right next to my Caroline’s bird sanctuary.” He slammed his fist on the nearby cocktail table so hard that the red candle wobbled precariously.

“Of course, y’all know that there’s another side to this story,” Jack said smoothly, for the benefit of those standing nearby, “but you’re probably too fatigued after Daphne’s electrifyin’ performance to listen to it, so I’ll just say good night.”

And as swiftly as he could, Jack Ebert headed for the exit.

***

Bailey Gibbs calmed down sufficiently from his discussion with Jack Ebert to gallantly offer to give Cousin Maddy a ride home so Sim and Daphne could take a walk by the river after the show.

Daphne faced the gentle, cooling breeze that swept up the bluff to where she and Sim stood looking down at the moonlit Mississippi far below. They both leaned against the encircling railing of a bandstand where summer concerts were offered for the enjoyment of Natchez’s citizenry. The band gazebo was in the park adjacent to Rosalie, an impressive red brick mansion fronted by tall white columns built near the spot where once an eighteenth-century military fort had stood.

“I can’t believe Jack Ebert had the nerve to show up at the club like that,” Daphne fumed.

“What do you think he’s actually doing up in Jackson?” Sim asked, gazing below at the path of moonlight dancing on the water.

“Spin doctoring. He’s the public relations point man for Able Petroleum. He’s probably orchestrating his company’s entire campaign to site some of those toxic dumps in Mississippi, and that’s why he’s still hanging around here, more’s the pity. Maybe it means that he’s not deliberately bugging me,” she said hopefully. “I should have known he’d be involved in something disgusting like this.” She turned to study Sim’s profile, and added, “Doesn’t it give you the willies to know he’s done a search on the Internet about you… and your wife?”

“Ex-wife,” he reminded her gently.

“He even could describe her as the ‘most hardworking attorney in San Francisco.’ How would he find that kind of detail?”

“Newspaper clips online… that kind of stuff. Hey… it’s a free country—and now it’s a
wired
free country. There’s very little privacy anymore.” Then he smiled and glanced around at the grass carpet that blanketed the bluff. “However,” he added with a wolfish grin, “it’s pretty secluded right here at twelve thirty at night. I finally have a chance to tell you… privately… just what a terrific performance you gave tonight.”

Daphne stared at her hands clutching the white wooden railing. “Thanks,” she murmured. “It will seem really strange to go back to my normal life in New York on Monday.”

Except it won’t be normal because I’ll have to scramble fast to find another steady orchestra job.

“So… you head for New Orleans tomorrow to get a plane back to Manhattan?”

Daphne glanced at her watch. “Yes. In less than… ten hours, in fact.”

Sim pointed toward the river. “By tomorrow night, you’ll be looking at the Hudson.”

A moment’s silence ensued.

“Hard to believe,” she murmured.

“You know, Daphne, you were
more
than terrific tonight. You were sensational.”

“I was
lucky.
Thank God Althea’s such a pro. She saved my fanny more than once tonight. Literally. But,
really
thanks,” she said with a grateful smile. “I was scared out of my wits to appear on public looking like I did… but Althea reminded me that it was time to retire my angel act.”

Sim gently rested the fingers of one hand under her chin. “That was what was so fabulous about it,” he insisted quietly. “You still looked like an angel… but no man in that audience tonight could possibly not want to—”

Sim didn’t finish his sentence but instead leaned forward and slowly closed the short distance between them. His kiss was firm and confident, as if no heavenly intervention could save her from experiencing the softness of his lips, or the faint smell of the cognac they’d shared at the bar after everyone else had said their farewells. When the tip of his tongue gently, inquiringly brushed her mouth, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to welcome his touch. They moved toward one another as easily as if they’d decided to dance, pressing their bodies together to steady their kiss, which deepened, and was heading for the stratosphere. A warning voice in Daphne’s head began its usual chatter, but all she wanted was to
feel
… feel Sim’s thighs pressed against hers, feel his pelvis and the broad expanse of his chest crushed against her breasts.

Peel
me
a
grape
…

The seductive tune flitted through her consciousness with a consuming awareness that all she felt like “peeling” were the clothes off his back. When Sim’s arms tightened around her shoulders, she felt an irresistible urge to pull his shirttail out of the waist of his trousers so she might touch his skin there… and in other places… intimate places. Sim’s thoughts apparently mirrored her own, for he had begun to tug at the hem of the white blouse tucked neatly into her slacks.

“Telepathy…” she whispered.

“Do you have any idea what that last song of yours tonight made me want to do?”

“Me too.” She reached up and framed his face with the palms of her hands, telling him wordlessly that she was perfectly aware that the attraction she felt when she was singing “Peel Me a Grape” was mutual.

You’ve got to wine me
…
and
dine
me
…

The man had certainly done that, and now he was kissing her again in a fashion that could lead only in the direction of the huge plantation bed in Room 23 at Monmouth—and what a delicious idea
that
might be…

Sim sensuously brushed his lips against the base of her throat and then worked his way around to the sensitive spot near the nape of her neck. Not to be outdone, she bowed her head slightly and returned the favor, flicking her tongue against the hollow near his collarbone, sampling the salty taste of his skin. She felt as giddy as a teenager necking in a car. When Sim’s hand cupped her breast and his thumb strafed her nipple through the fabric of her cotton blouse, she pressed her own hand on top of his, wanting more.

“This is getting… kind of silly…” he whispered into her ear between nibbling kisses. “We’re both grown-ups, aren’t we? Come to Monmouth with me tonight?”

“Oh… Sim…” she murmured, not wanting him to speak but merely to continue kissing her hair, her eyes, the tip of her nose.

“The song said you’re hungry… remember?” He slid both his hands down to her hips and pressed their bodies together, the evidence of his stimulated state impossible to ignore. “Well, so am I.”

Strangely, the exquisite feel of this man fully aroused brought her back to reality with an unwelcome thud.

Don’t try to fool me
…
bejewel
me
…

Who was she kidding, demanded the sane part of her cerebral cortex. This man was just passing through town. There were no jewels in her future, no commitment of any kind. This was the classic setup for a one-night stand. The shocking thing was: part of her said “Why not?” while her core fought against any action that would leave her feeling bereft—again.

Breathless, she broke their kiss and shook her head.

“This isn’t silly… this is nuts!” she said, meeting his puzzled gaze.

“What do you mean?” he asked warily.

“I come to Monmouth with you, and then what? Rush home to Bluff House, pack, and drive like a madwoman to catch my plane in New Orleans for New York? And after that, what exactly do you see happening?”

“We’ll have a chance to see where all of this is leading,” he proposed.

“Long distance?” she asked, attempting to make her voice sound light and pleasant. “Honestly, given the geography involved, how realistic is it that this could lead to anything other than a great, big diversion that, eventually, we’d give up?”

Sim studied her thoughtfully. “Since it’s true… living on opposite coasts is definitely a challenge, why don’t we just take this thing one step at a time?” He shot her a crooked grin, and said teasingly, “Step one: the Lovell Room at that temple of Southern romance, Monmouth Plantation.”

Daphne stiffened and took a step back. She turned toward the river and spoke into the darkness that stretched toward the
Lady
Luck
below.

“Here’s the deal, Sim. There is absolutely no question that I’m highly… drawn to you,” she began, searching for words that would express how she truly felt. “But at this point in my life, I’m not interested in casual—or difficult—relationships. I’m just not.” She turned to gaze directly into his eyes. “So I guess I’m not the type of woman that a traveling man should ask back to his hotel room. And I totally apologize for not thinking all that through before we started… kissing,” she finished lamely.

“But
you’re
the one who’s traveling this time,” he protested.

“Right—and I’m not coming back to Natchez.”

“There’s always our cell and video phones, not to mention email and texting each other,” he pointed out. “And of course, frequent flyer miles, of which I’ve banked thousands.”

“I don’t think so…”

“But we haven’t had enough time to know where this… this obvious attraction for one another might go. Can’t you take a chance that if we’re together tonight, it could lead toward something very important for both of us?”

“With an emphasis on the
could
, I presume?” Daphne asked tartly. “What you’ve just said makes my answer easier. I can’t afford to take any more emotional risks right now. Frankly, I just don’t trust
my
judgment.”

Sim seized her hand and pressed it against his heart. “Can’t you trust
this
?” he demanded, almost angry.

“I’m sorry… but no.
Especially
not that.”

They stared at each other in silence.

“Well, then…” he said with finality, “I guess that’s it. I seem to remember we wandered down this road a few days ago.”

“You’re right. We did,” she said, her voice tight. “I’m so sorry, Sim.”

Ignoring her apology he replied, “Shall I take you home?”

She nodded and they walked silently back to his car. Thankfully, the drive to Bluff House took less than three minutes. Daphne smiled sadly at Sim.

“Good night,” she whispered finally, turning toward the passenger door to make her exit. Then she looked back across the short distance between them, gazing at his striking profile one last time. “All the best with the Audubon project. I can’t wait to buy the book.”

Sim merely nodded as he stared out the windshield. Then he turned his head toward her, and said softly, “Good night, Daphne. You were great at the club tonight. Whatever you decide about your musical future, you have a fan who’ll buy all your CDs.”

Daphne did her best to ignore the lump in her throat as she fumbled for the handle to the car door. Once she’d made her escape, she strode quickly toward the welcoming beacon Maddy had left on to guide her to the veranda.

“Hey, Ms. Magnolia!” Sim called after her in the dark.

She turned.

“What’s your email address?” he demanded, and then exclaimed, “Oh, damn! I don’t have anything to write with.”

“It’s really easy,” she announced, unable to suppress a pleased smile. “HarpHoney—all one word—at Gmail dot com.”

“I can remember that,” he said. Then, Sim put his well-traveled Range Rover in gear and swiftly disappeared down the drive.

Chapter 13

March 28

The next morning, Daphne opened her eyes in her room atop Bluff House and immediately felt a blanket of depression settle over her as heavily as the handmade quilt that rested on the bottom of the mahogany bedstead.