Needing Nicole (The Cantrelle Family Trilogy Book 2) (5 page)

They reached home a little before three, and Nicole was glad to see the Reed-Douglas’s Lincoln in the garage. It always gave her a feeling of safety to know Margaret and Caldwell were home and if she needed them for anything, they’d respond immediately. She still had to pinch herself now and then to remind herself how lucky she was to have found the cottage she rented from them. The cottage used to be slave quarters and had been renovated and modernized by Margaret and Caldwell into a pleasant two-bedroom dwelling that Nicole loved.

As she unloaded their bags from the trunk of her car, the back door opened and Caldwell walked outside onto the back porch. “Hi, there,” he called. “Glad to see you two made it back safely.”

“Hi, Caldwell.”

Aimee dashed toward the older man. “Hi, Uncle Caldwell,” she called. “Look what Grandma gave me.” She held up a Raggedy Ann doll.

“Your grandparents certainly love you,” Caldwell said. He turned to Nicole, who had walked up more slowly. “Margaret’s made some peanut butter cookies and a pot of tea. Would you like to come in?”

The Reed-Douglases had lived in England for a number of years and had happily adopted the English custom of tea in the afternoon. Although Nicole really wanted nothing more than to go into her own snug home, she knew the older couple was lonely. Their only daughter, Emily, lived in Australia with her husband and two children, and Margaret and Caldwell didn’t get to see them very often. Although they were retired and had plenty of money and could spend as much time with Emily as they wanted to, Margaret had once told Nicole that she believed it was best for young people to live independently.

So Caldwell, a retired museum curator, spent his days in his beloved garden, and Margaret, a retired symphony violinist, spent her days watching over Aimee and baking cookies.

And Nicole tried to spend as much time with them as she could.

Soon Aimee was contentedly eating peanut butter cookies—her favorite—and Nicole was sipping the strong Earl Grey tea Margaret favored. Margaret, as usual, had put the ornate silver tea service and accompanying dishes on the small gateleg mahogany table that sat in front of the fireplace in the formal living room.

“So how was your trip?” Margaret asked in her cool, reserved way—a manner that masked a loving, generous heart.

Nicole smiled at her. “Great. I always enjoy going home.”

“I know you do.” There was a wistful expression in Margaret’s green eyes.

“What did you do with your weekend?” Nicole asked. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Aimee reach for another cookie. “Young lady, you’ve already had three cookies. That’s to be the last one, or you won’t have any appetite for supper.”

“Okay.” Aimee pretended to feed the cookie to her doll, then snuck the last half of it into her mouth.

“Nothing much. Caldwell took me out to dinner last night. It was our forty-fifth wedding anniversary.”

“Oh, dear, I forgot!” How could she have forgotten? “Where did he take you?” Nicole asked, mentally making a note to get a belated present for them.

“My favorite restaurant—Commander’s Palace.”

“And you had the turtle soup and crab cakes, I know....” They both laughed because Margaret was a creature of habit, and Nicole was always admonishing her to be more adventurous.

“And the creme brulee,” Margaret said sheepishly.

“Margaret, what are we going to do with you?”

Caldwell, who had been a silent listener, said, “Meg, darling, tell Nicole about that nice young friend of hers.” Margaret clasped her hand over her mouth. “Talk about forgetful! A friend of yours was here yesterday, Nicole. A really charming young man. I so enjoyed talking with him.”

“A friend?” Nicole said blankly. Who in the world . . . ?

“Yes,” Margaret was saying. “That handsome Mr. Forrester—”

“Mr. Forrester!”

Margaret, who had been poised to say something else, stopped. She looked at Caldwell, whose tall, lanky body had stiffened. Then they both looked at Nicole.

Margaret frowned. “I hope it was all right to talk to him...” Her voice trailed off uncertainly.

“Nicole, my dear, is something wrong?” Caldwell asked.

Nicole’s mind whirled. Jack Forrester! He had been there while she was in Patinville.

“Nicole—”

Belatedly, she realized Caldwell was speaking to her, alarm evident in his tone. Ashamed of herself for frightening the older couple, Nicole forced herself to answer lightly. “No, of course nothing’s wrong, Caldwell.
Really,”
she added when his blue eyes still held a flicker of doubt. “I was just surprised, that’s all.” She hated lying to them, but what choice had Jack Forrester left her? If she told Margaret and Caldwell the truth, they’d worry themselves sick.

As she reassured Caldwell and Margaret, cold fury filled her. How dare Jack Forrester take advantage of these two wonderful people?

Calling on all her acting ability to keep the indignation and wrath out of her voice, Nicole smiled and said, “I’m sorry I missed him. Did he say how long he’d be in town or where he was staying?”

Margaret relaxed against her chair, the cloudy concern in her green eyes slowly fading. She smiled back. “No, he didn’t. But he
did
say to tell you he’d be in touch.”

Nicole gritted her teeth. So he’d be in touch, would he? Well, she could hardly wait. The next time she saw Jack Forrester, she’d tell him a thing or two! Just because he was so good-looking and had such great eyes didn’t mean he could do anything he wanted to do. It certainly didn’t mean he had a right to invade her home. To pretend to be her friend. To dupe two of the nicest people she’d ever known.

She pushed her irate thoughts away as she saw Margaret’s forehead knitting again. Although Nicole wanted nothing more than to march over to her own home and rehearse all the cutting things she intended to say the very next time Jack Forrester showed his handsome face, she knew she’d have to put off this self-indulgence a while longer. “So,” she said brightly, “how long did Jack stay, and what did he have to say? I suppose he’s just gotten back from some country with an unpronounceable name.”

Margaret’s forehead smoothed out. She reached for the teapot and refilled both her cup and Nicole’s. Then she lifted the delicate Sevres cup and cradled it in her slender hands. “We visited for over an hour, didn’t we, Caldwell?”

Nicole looked at Caldwell. He nodded. “Yes. Mr. Forrester is an interesting and intelligent young man.”

“You sound as if you liked him.” Caldwell was a shrewd judge of character; he wasn’t often fooled by surface charm.

“Yes, I liked him very much. He was telling us about the Middle East and some of the volatile situations he’s covered.” Caldwell studied her over the rim of his cup. “How did you happen to meet him?”

Nicole thought fast. She was getting in deeper and deeper. What should she do? “Um, well, it was just one of those things.” She avoided Caldwell’s wise eyes. Darn it. She was such a lousy liar.

“Have you known Mr. Forrester a long time?” Margaret asked.

“No, uh, not long.” Oh, God. Surely they could see right through her. Nicole was sure she had a big red letter L plastered across her face.

“Are you...” Margaret hesitated, then smiled her lovely smile. “Are you interested in him, Nicole?”

Perhaps because she’d spent so much time over the weekend thinking about Jack, Nicole’s denial was more vehement than it would ordinarily have been. “Interested in him?” She laughed. “Absolutely not!”

Margaret glanced at Caldwell. Amusement brightened her eyes. “I see.”

“In fact,” Nicole continued, ignoring the look her friends exchanged, “he’d be the
last
man I’d ever be interested in!”

A couple of hours later, Nicole repeated the same words, muttering them as she stirred a pot of minestrone soup. She said them yet again as she buttered four slices of wheat bread, then placed two of them butter-side down in a hot skillet. She unwrapped two slices of American cheese, placed them on the bread, then slapped the other two slices on top, butter-side up. The buttered bread hissed and popped as it fried. Kind of like her temper, which was still hissing and popping from Margaret’s revelation about Jack’s sneaky visit.

When their light supper was ready, Nicole called Aimee. Seconds later Aimee raced into the kitchen, her new doll clutched securely in her right hand.

“Supper’s ready, honey.” Nicole pulled out Aimee’s chair—her high chair minus the tray—and lifted her up.

While Aimee, who had definitely eaten too many peanut butter cookies, played with her food and talked to her doll, Nicole ate and thought about Jack.

Damn him! She was still furious with him for going to Margaret and Caldwell’s house. He must have been watching her as she walked home on Friday. He must have seen which driveway she entered. Maybe he’d even waited and seen her leave for Patinville. How else would he have known who to talk to?

The question was, why had he done it? Did he still believe she knew this Elise Arnold? What was she going to have to do to convince him she didn’t? Hit him over the head?

A slow smile slid across her face. Yes. Maybe that’s exactly what she’d do. Jack Forrester would soon find out he’d gotten much more than he’d bargained for when he’d messed with her!

* * *

Jack wasn’t sure what time Nicole left for work, but based upon the time she got off the streetcar in the morning, he figured she’d leave by seven-thirty. Just to be sure he didn’t miss her, he parked at the corner of her street at about seven-fifteen on Monday morning. He turned off the ignition and settled in to wait. The rising sun had streaked the eastern sky with pink and gold. It promised to be a beautiful day—clear and mild. The front that had brought the cold and rain had passed through the lower Louisiana coast and was on its way to the Eastern Seaboard. Jack was glad to see the last of it. He hated rain.

He fiddled with the radio until he found a station playing zydeco music. The driving beat was contagious, and he rapped his knuckles against his steering wheel in time to the music. When the song was finished, the announcer, voice rich with the upper-class New Orleans French accent, began to give the traffic report. The first time Jack visited New Orleans, he hadn’t realized there were two distinct accents: the first a seaport accent commonly referred to as a Channel accent, the second this cultured soft drawl of the announcer.

Just as another song began to play, Jack, whose eyes were trained on the driveway of the Reed-Douglas home, saw Nicole emerge from the shadow of the live oaks lining their property and turn onto the sidewalk. For the few seconds it took her to walk the distance from the house to his parked car, Jack studied her, a pleasant tingle of anticipation skidding through him.

He loved the way she walked, with a lilt to her step. He’d be willing to bet she was a great dancer. She looked great, too, he thought. He was sure she brightened up that staid old law firm she worked for.

Today she wore a kelly green suit with a skirt that stopped a good four or five inches above her knees, showing a long expanse of shapely leg. Slung over her left shoulder was the huge paisley tote bag she never seemed to be without.

When she reached the front end of his car, she stopped. Jack opened the door and got out. He met her gaze and immediately saw the smoldering anger. Uh-oh. Trouble. She knew he’d talked to her landlords. Well, his old boxing coach subscribed to the same theory Jack’s father had always espoused in his business dealings: the best defense is a good offense.

Jack agreed.

So he smiled at her.

He certainly had a lot of nerve, Nicole thought. Look at him standing there grinning as if he hadn’t done a thing wrong.

She tried to ignore how the blue of his eyes matched the blue of his jaunty Miata.

She tried not to notice how sexy his smile was.

She tried not to see how his jeans hugged his legs and how wide his shoulders looked under the white sweater he wore.

“Good morning,” he said cheerfully.

She felt like slapping him.

“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” he added.

She stared at him. What audacity!

“I thought I’d come by and give you a ride to work.” His smile broadened. “Save you eighty cents.”

“I have no intention of riding anywhere with you. Now or ever.”
Oh, great. Now he knows he’s managed to get under your skin. You were supposed to play it cool.
She’d promised herself last night, when she couldn’t sleep for thinking about what he’d done, that she wouldn’t lose her temper when she finally saw him. She’d decided that instead, she’d be very calm, very cool, and she’d tell him off in such scathing tones he’d slink away with his tail between his legs, just like Réne’s old hunting dog used to do when he got caught digging around in the trash.

His smile faded, to be replaced by a look of contrition. “You’re angry. I guess I deserve that.”

“You’re darned right you deserve that. What does it take to get through to you, Mr. Forrester? I told you on Friday that I’m not the person you want, and that I don’t know anything about her. What does it take to convince you?”

“Look, I can explain—”

“If you persist in bothering me,” Nicole interrupted, her anger finally spilling over, “or if you come to my home or my office again, I fully intend to call the police!” She stuck her chin up in the air and stalked off.

She heard him coming after her, but she just walked faster. He grasped her arm from behind.

“Nicole—”

She whirled around. “Damn you!” she said through gritted teeth. “What gives you the right to spy on me? That was a despicable thing to do—pump Margaret and Caldwell for information! They’re decent, honest people, and they
liked
you. They believed you when you said you were my friend. How could you lie to them? Which then forced
me
to lie to them, too!”

He winced. “I’m really sorry. I never thought of it in those terms, but of course, you’re right. I shouldn’t have gone there.”

“You’re damned right you shouldn’t have. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to let go of my arm. I’m going to be late for work.”