French Quarter (3 page)

Five

Naked on top of the rumpled bed, Wilson Lamar stretched and yawned and slapped his flat belly while he smiled down at the only body he revered—his own.

“Aren’t you just a teensy bit wiggly, Wilson?” Sally Lamar asked her husband, watching him in her dressing table mirror.

Wilson was always partly erect—something else that brought him pleasure. It used to bring Sally pleasure before he’d lost interest in making love to her.

Brushing her long, dark red hair slowly, she caught his blue eyes in the mirror and smiled at him. “Just a teensy bit?” she murmured. “This is going to be a long, busy day. Let’s give each other something to remember while we get ready to charm the people tonight. Some encouragement?”

“We’ve slept the morning away. Where’s the remote? I’m going to miss the one o’clock news.”

Sally knew enough to make sure her smile didn’t slip. “On the table beside you, hon.” The bastard. He was nothing without her. “They’re putting those darling white lights in the trees, Wilson. I think I’m going to ask for more along the galleries. What d’you think of that, lover?”

If Wilson thought about anything at all at that moment, it was Wilson. Everything he ever did was calculated to the greater glory of Wilson Lamar, and the senate race he expected to win. He didn’t answer her question, but then, she hadn’t expected him to do so.

The fine silk nightgown Sally wore was white, with thin straps that didn’t want to stay on her shoulders. Only her breasts stopped the garment from succumbing to gravity. She got up to stand in front of the French doors she’d already opened, clasped her hands behind her head, and arched her back, taking pleasure in a warm breeze that passed over her body.

“Get away from there, Sally,” Wilson said. “How many times have 1 told you not to advertise your wares to the world?”

“Why, Wilson, you do care,” she said, and walked onto the gallery, catching up a robe as she went. She hummed, and played a game she liked. Inside her head she created a little roulette wheel and gave it a spin. Her white ball bounced around and the wheel slowed. “Red is yes, and black is no,” she chanted quietly. “Red, I do, and black, I don’t. Red, I get what I want, and black, well, I guess I’m not in the mood for black today. We’ll have to see what we can find at the party tonight.” She wouldn’t have any problem finding a willing playmate to pass a little time with.

She pulled on the robe and leaned on the gallery railing. The beautiful old double-galleried house was on the southern edge of the Garden District and had belonged to Sally’s parents. Her mother had died first and her father remarried but—good for Daddy, and good for Sally—when he died, the hopeful young widow discovered it was to Sally not her that the house had been left. The house and almost everything else wealthy Claude Dufour owned. After all, Sally’s lawyer had pointed out when the widow complained, Sally’s mother had been Claude’s bankroll, and it was only appropriate that Sally should inherit.

“Μοrnin’, Mrs. Lamar,” Opi called up from the front steps to the house. Caterers, florists, and sundry other people preparing for the evening’s event scurried in and out from vans parked in the driveway.

“Mornin’,” Sally replied to Opi. He had been with her family for more years than she had, and she’d long ago forgotten exactly what he did except that nothing happened in the house that Opi didn’t orchestrate. Rotund, bald, and the color of milky coffee, either he’d advanced in the household at a very early age, or he was an old man. Hard to be sure.

“Well, I’ll be,” Sally whispered to herself. She’d have pulled back inside if it wasn’t already too late—if that upstart boy hadn’t already seen her. He stood under a tree, watching as if he’d been waiting for her to appear.

She didn’t even know his name. He was a new member of the household staff. Not that she had any idea what he did. Yesterday he’d sauntered past her, his sweet ass tight inside Jeans washed so thin, she could see the shadow between his cheeks.

First she’d followed him through the oaks until she had a chance to speak to him alone. Then she’d taken him to the old gazebo, and it had all been so much fun—until he turned rough. He’d scared her and she’d told him to get lost, but there he was, smiling up at her.

Tonight there would be a big fund-raiser for Wilson’s campaign. The old house and its sumptuous gardens would ring with music and laughter, and the clink of fine crystal and china. Deals would be made. For a “small” consideration, Wilson would remember his friends who helped him get to the senate. Already the pot was gratifyingly huge, but it had to be a great deal larger. And Sally would be the gracious hostess, the bestower of sisterly confidences on rich women, suggestive winks on rich old men, and, as the hour grew late and the company became drunker, sly crotch squeezes on rich men who were not too old.

But that was tonight.

Sally deliberately ignored the boy—she didn’t even know his name—and studied the men at work threading lights among live oaks draped with Spanish moss. She glanced behind her and saw Wilson propped on one elbow, his expression rapt as he watched the only god he worshipped almost as much as himself, and money—the media.

She turned to the gardens once more. He was still there, and he was looking right back at her. Standing in the shade of one of the oaks closest to the house, he sank his hands into the pockets of his jeans and stared up at Mrs. Sally Lamar. Insolent boy. He’d pushed her down, ripped her underwear. Oh, he’d been good—good enough for her to want more—but there was something about him that made alarms sound in her head. Besides, she was thirty-six. This sun-tanned, hard-muscled, eager-to-be friend might be twenty-one or two, or a little more. Or he might not. A tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed, beautiful young thing. Possibly a dangerous young thing. She would ignore him.

His finger, pointed at her, mesmerized Sally. He kept right on pointing and strolled from the shade into the light.

Heading for the house. He was heading for the house!

When he reached the bottom of the front steps, he sent her a knowing look and folded his arms. He nodded toward the entrance, then disappeared beneath her, through the front door.

Sally felt the beat of her heart in her throat. She went back into the bedroom, keeping her steps slow. Wilson continued to stare at the TV screen that all but covered a wall, and acknowledged her presence only by letting out an
exasperated breath and shifting irritably when she walked in front of him and out of the room. She closed the door quietly behind her.

From the balcony that ran around the second story there was an unobstructed view of a central hall. Tessellated black and white marble tiles, walls hung with dark red brocaded silk, white stone urns overflowing with hothouse flowers already put in place by the florists—a small gold-draped dais where a harpist would serenade arriving guests. Daddy would have approved. Sally approved of it, but she didn’t have time to admire her taste while the sinuous, fluid-limbed man approached the stairs with the kind of nonchalance that belonged only to the foolish or the self-confident. Everyone was too busy working to notice when he climbed upward, one large hand on the gilded banister. His light denim shirt was unbuttoned to the waist, showing plenty of black curly hair on his chest.

And the way those soft jeans dipped and bulged over his crotch.

Heat and cold chased across her skin. She had to get rid of him. He was young, and wild, and could be difficult to control. Control was Sally’s thing. She always controlled the men she chose to play with.

This time she’d control the boy too. She’d show him who was in charge, enjoy him, and make sure he didn’t come near her again unless she did the approaching and the asking.

One of Opi’s Jelly Roll Morton tapes burst to life from the dining room. Sally snapped her fingers to “Black Bottom Stomp” and turned her back on the man who climbed the stairs. Sashaying to the music, she made her way into one of the guest bedrooms. She dropped her robe at the entrance to the bathroom and began to hum and clap. There were always plenty of big, fluffy towels in every bathroom. Sally pulled two from a cupboard and hung them on a rack near the shower before turning on the water.

Yes, this time her strong, young lover would learn about being used, and he’d want her again so badly that he wouldn’t dare to put another foot wrong.

The bedroom door slammed shut.

Sally boogied, her bare feet beating a rhythmic tattoo on the cool, deep-water-green tile.

He entered the bathroom, hovered by the door, watching her. Then he locked them in.

His eyes were dark, but dark blue, not brown, and maybe she’d misjudged his age.

“How old are you?” she asked softly.

“Old enough, me.” His liquid voice was deep, the cadence heavily Cajun. “You?” he asked.

“Old enough, me too,” she said, making herself laugh. He was too sure of himself. “Where did you get all that chutzpah so soon? Come on, how old? Twenty?”

He raised his chin. “Twenty-three. That too young? Or too old? I show you it’s just right, lady.”

Sally danced toward him and locked her wrists behind his neck. “You aren’t going anywhere until I say so, and I don’t say so. I call the moves around here. Dance with me, baby. Show me how you can move.”

He swallowed, and his neck jerked sharply, and a thrill ran down her spine. He talked a great story, but the big boy was a bit nervous this time. Sally kept one hand behind his neck and used the other to play with the hair on his chest. She stood on her toes and ran her tongue along his square jaw and into his ear. He made a moaning sound low in his throat.

“You’re going to make love to me,” she whispered. “And afterward you’re going to go away and you’ll never do what you did out there again. No one saw you—at least, I don’t think so. But you will never risk arousing my husband’s suspicions. Next time, you wait for me to send for you.”

He shivered, actually shivered.

“Now let’s get close,” she said. “You can do anything you want. And I’ll do anything you want. And you’ll do
everything
I
want. Do we have a deal?”

“Maybe.”

Sally stood absolutely still. “Maybe?”

‘You want somethin’ I got. What you want I don’t give away not unless I’m offerin’

She slapped him hard across the face. She didn’t get a chance to hit him again.

He grasped her wrist, spun her around, and pushed her arm just far enough up her back to make her bite down a scream. The face Sally saw above her own in the mirror was very confident. He smiled at her, a tight, downturned smile, and his eyes narrowed against steam from the beating shower.

Placing his mouth on her left ear, he said, “Probably we should make no loud noise, no?” and eased the pressure on her arm. He slid his free hand around her waist and splayed his darkly tanned fingers over her belly. “You should be polite, you. Thank the guest for comin’. Ask him if he got everythin’ he want. Maybe he say yes.” He rested his mouth on the side of her neck but never lost eye contact in the mirror.

She had judged him right the first time. Dangerous. He could cause a lot of trouble. The “boy” had shivered with excitement at the promise of a chance to dominate a woman who should have been beyond his reach.

“What you say,
Mrs.
Lamar?”

Sally placed a hand on top of his on her stomach and smiled at him. “Tell me your name.” She dipped her head slightly, let the smile slip away slowly. The little touches that went into seduction came naturally.

“You love sex,” he said baldly. He bared very white teeth and sank them lightly into her shoulder. “Perhaps you love sex almost as much as Ben.”

“Ben.” Not a name she would have expected. Perhaps the white ball had landed on black after all. Despite the steam, she began to feel cold. “You’ve been gone from your work a long time. They’ll wonder where you are.”

“I work for myself, me.” He spread his legs, pressed her bottom into his pelvis. “Aquariums. You remember the new aquariums Mr. Lamar order? Today I stock them. Nobody watchin’ me. Nobody know if I leave for a while.”

She considered and discarded the notion of threatening him with an accusation of unprovoked attack. At least until she was safely away from him. “You are very handsome, Ben. But you know that, don’t you?” Her mouth was so dry. “I’m sorry if Ι offended you by thinking you’d want me.”

“I do want you. You’re lots of woman. Yesterday was very good. Any man want you. But I don’t like to be told what I want.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you not sorry, you are frightened of me. I like that too. Fear bring respect, and a man is not a man if a woman he fuck don’t respect him.”

Sally’s legs weakened, but she locked her knees and stood firm. Damn Wilson for ignoring her all the time. This was his fault, but if he ever found out, he would probably laugh and say she’d got what she deserved. Wilson wouldn’t find out; nobody would. Her dear husband never came looking for her; if he did, he might have walked in on her with a man long before then.

She wished he would walk in now.

“You like this?” Ben asked, stroking downward between her legs and making the thin silk gown instantly wet. “Tell me how you like?”

Sally grew warm again, then hot. What the hell. She could handle a twenty-three-year-old with a big head. “I like it a lot, Ben. But I want you to tell me what you like. I thought you were going to tell me.”

“I like it here, in this house. Ι get sick of aquariums.”

Horrified at what he might be suggesting, she covered his probing hand. “What do you mean?”

He trapped her tightly against the green marble counter. His penis might as well have been naked—she could feel its hard outline and its pressure on the small of her back. Her breathing grew shallow and her breasts stung.

“This what I mean,” he said quietly. “I want you give me a job, you. The pool. I look after the pool, maybe—and other things.”

He began to terrify her. “I’m not sure—”

“You sure.” Releasing her arm, he cupped her breasts and pinched her nipples between his fingers. “No man better than Ben. And all yours. Whenever you want, you come to me.”