Needing Nicole (The Cantrelle Family Trilogy Book 2)

By

Patricia Kay

Copyright © 2013 by Patricia Kay

PatriciaKay.com

These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Patricia Kay.

Cover art by Web Crafters

www.webcraftersdesign.com

Editing by Patricia Kay

[email protected]

Dedication:
This book is dedicated to my long-time "PAL" Patricia O'Day Rosen, who has, for many years, been reading and reviewing and, in the last five years, giving me critical feedback and support, on my books -- both newly published and in their creative process. Pat, you'll never know what your friendship has meant to me. You truly are my "fourth" sister and the second Mama to my cats, who love you, too. I hope we'll be friends forever.

New Orleans, late January, 1997 . . .

That man was watching her.

Nicole Cantrelle hated it when men stared at her, and usually she just ignored them. But something about the way this man watched her gave her a creepy feeling, and she couldn’t dismiss him so easily.

He stood sheltered from the heavy rain in the recessed doorway of one of the many pricey antique shops on Royal Street. He was tall and broad-shouldered and wore some kind of army green all-weather jacket. On his head was a camouflage hat, and the front brim was pulled down over his face.

She knew his eyes followed her as she walked past him; she could feel them even when she could no longer see them. Because it was early morning, and there were dozens of other people walking the streets of the French Quarter— most on their way to work as she was—she wasn’t really nervous.

Still... she frowned, clutched her big totebag more securely against her body, and walked faster through the deluge. For three days New Orleans had been subjected to a steady downpour, and the early-morning sky looked leaden.

A half-block past the antique shop, Nicole’s spine prickled.
He was following her.
She stopped so abruptly that a woman walking behind her plowed right into her.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman said.

Nicole looked back at the shop, but she didn’t see the man. She searched the faces of the people on the street. He wasn’t among them. What had happened to him? Shivering, she continued on her way.

When she reached St. Peter’s, she turned left. She couldn’t rid herself of that peculiar sensation of being followed. Her heart pumped erratically, and she whipped around. An older man with a cane shuffled slowly about six feet behind her. There was no one else on the street.

“You’re getting paranoid,” she muttered aloud. “Maybe he was just admiring your legs.”

Pulling the hood of her yellow slicker closer to her head, she sprinted the last block and a half to her office, careful to avoid the puddles. She was wearing new boots, and she didn’t want to ruin them.

She didn’t look back again.

* * *

“Nicole, have you finished the Menard brief?”

Nicole tapped the Save button on her keyboard, then turned to face her boss, Julianne Belizaire. “It’s printing now.”

“Good.” Julianne, a petite brunette with hazel eyes that blazed with intelligence, stood at Nicole’s desk and sorted through the mail Nicole hadn’t yet distributed. “Oh, swell,” she muttered, tearing open an envelope. “Another letter from Dr. Puckett. Wouldn’t you think the guy would get tired of his own hyperbole?” Still muttering to herself, she stalked off.

Nicole smothered a smile. She liked being Julianne’s secretary. Julianne always amused her, even when she was angry. Although Nicole at thirty was four years younger than her boss, she often felt motherly toward the only female lawyer in the old French Quarter law firm.

For the next hour Nicole worked diligently. When one of the other secretaries stopped by her desk to chat, Nicole waved her off. “I can’t talk. Julianne’s letting me leave at lunchtime today, so I’m trying to get everything done this morning.”

“Where are you going?”

“Home for the weekend.”

“Well, have a good one.”

Nicole bent back to her work. At eleven forty-five she backed up her files, printed the morning’s work and turned off her computer. She cleaned up her desk, then picked up the stack of letters that were ready for Julianne’s signature. When a glance into Julianne’s office showed it was unoccupied, Nicole headed down the hall to look for her boss.

She searched the other offices. Still no Julianne. Deciding she was probably in the big conference room, Nicole headed in that direction. Just before reaching the reception area, she bumped into Guy D’Amato.

His gray eyes lit up when he saw her, and he smiled. “Hi. I was on my way to your office to see if I could take you to lunch.” Guy was a partner in the firm, and she’d been dating him off and on for a few months.

Nicole suppressed the twinge of guilt she felt at his obvious pleasure in seeing her. She suspected Guy was in love with her, that if she encouraged him at all, he’d propose. The sensible part of her knew he was perfect husband material: hardworking, ambitious, considerate, dependable, solvent—all those qualities any mother wants for her daughter.

But there was no excitement, no
sizzle
between them. And the romantic, adventurous part of Nicole wanted that, even though it had gotten her into trouble before.

She’d tried to convince herself that sizzle was the least important element in marriage. She’d told herself that by its very nature, sizzle didn’t last. She’d reminded herself that she was a grown-up woman with a three-year-old daughter, and Guy could give them a wonderful and secure future.

But she
still
wanted sizzle.

“I’m sorry, Guy. I can’t go to lunch with you today. I’m heading out to Patinville for the weekend, and Julianne’s letting me go at noon.”

He couldn’t hide his disappointment, and once more, guilt nudged at her. Guy D’Amato was very nice. She was very stupid.

“When are you coming back? Sunday?”

She nodded.

“Early?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe I could take you and Aimee to dinner Sunday night.”

“I don’t think so, Guy. Aimee is usually worn out after a weekend with her doting grandparents, and I’ll probably be tired, too. Maybe next weekend, okay?”

“All right.” He pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up on his nose. “Be careful driving.”

“I will.” She hurried off toward the reception area. Just as she entered the small room, she caught a glimpse of army green as a man went out the front door. Her heart leaped up into a throat suddenly dry. She gasped.

Was that the man from the antique shop?

Kathy, the receptionist, turned. “Oh, hi, Nic.” She frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Kathy, who was that man?”

Kathy’s frown deepened. “Why? Do you know him?”

“No. Who
was
he, Kathy? What did he want?”

Kathy flinched. “Uh, well, that’s the funny thing. He was asking about someone I thought was you.”

Fear jacknifed through her. “What did he say?”

Kathy’s puzzled gaze met hers. “When he came in he was very polite, said he was looking for someone he’d been told worked here. He described her, and I thought he meant you, but then he said the woman’s name was Elise Arnold, so I told him we didn’t have anyone by that name working here.”

“That’s all he said?”

“ Well... uh... no.”

Nicole gritted her teeth. Kathy was new and young and she looked as if she were rattled by Nicole’s questions. Nicole took a deep breath and told herself to calm down. “Kathy, that man was following me this morning. I’m sure of it. Try to remember everything he said, okay?”

Kathy’s big eyes got even bigger. “Okay, uh, after I told him there wasn’t anyone by that name here, he said he was sure the woman he wanted worked here, because he’d seen her come into our office earlier today.”

Nicole could feel goose-bumps pop out on her arms. She hadn’t been imagining things. He
had
been following her!

“Anyway,” Kathy continued, wetting her lips nervously, “I said I was sorry, but he must have been wrong, and then he said it was very important that he talk to the woman because someone was trying to reach her.” She gave Nicole an apologetic half smile. “I’m sorry, Nic. He... he said it was an emergency and I—”

“You what?”

“I told him your name!”

“You told him my
name?
Why?”
Good God. He knew her name!

“It... I don’t know... it just happened. You know how sometimes you say something and the minute it’s out of your mouth you know it’s a mistake?”

Nicole wanted to shake Kathy, but she forced herself to be calm and speak quietly. “What exactly did he say to cause you to tell him my name?”

“He said it was vitally important—an emergency situation—that he reach this Elise Arnold.” Kathy winced. “And I...I said, well, I really wished I could help him, but the only woman answering his description was one of our secretaries—Nicole Cantrelle—so I couldn’t help him.”

Oh, God. Was that the reason he’d come into the office? To try to find out her name? Was his story about this woman just a clever ploy to obtain his
real
objective? But why was he stalking her?

“Nic, I’m so sorry. I really am. But he seemed so
nice,
and... oh, dear, I hope I didn’t do something terrible.”

“Well,” Nicole said, trying vainly to push her fear away, “I can’t say I’m happy about this, but what’s done is done. I just hope—”

“Please don’t tell Mr. Villac,” Kathy said, naming her boss, the office administrator.

“I wouldn’t do that, but Kathy, don’t
ever
give out information like that again. To anyone. I don’t care what they tell you.”

“I won’t. I promise. Oh, God, I’m sorry. Do...do you think you should call the police?”

“And say what? I don’t even know who this guy is, and I hardly think his coming in here asking questions constitutes a crime.” She made herself talk in a normal voice. “No, let’s just forget it. Maybe now he’ll realize he has the wrong person, and I’ll never see him again. Well,” she continued briskly, “have you seen Julianne? I need her to sign these letters before I take off.”

“She’s in the conference room.”

Fifteen minutes later, Nicole was on her way out the door. She’d tried to put thoughts of the man out of her mind, but she was still on edge. She walked down the stairs to the first floor and let herself out into the courtyard. Rain dripped from the branches of a shiny-leafed magnolia tree.

She opened the wrought-iron gate and quickly scanned the street. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until she let it out, relief washing over her. She’d been half afraid she’d see him on the sidewalk, but he was gone.

Walking rapidly over to Royal Street, she turned right. When she reached Canal Street, she crossed and walked to the corner of St. Charles Avenue and Common Street, where she would catch the streetcar. The rain had stopped, but the sky still looked like somebody had taken huge balls of cotton and dipped them in dirty dishwater.