Honest illusions(BookZZ.org) (23 page)

It suited Roxanne perfectly. First, because she enjoyed the process of learning. Second, because she had no intention of changing her mind.

The demands of her stage career and her education had the added benefit of leaving her limited free time. She spent as little as possible in Luke’s company.

She would have forgiven him for the shouting, even for the orders. Certainly she would have forgiven him for the kiss. But she would never forgive him for turning one of the most glorious moments of her life into nothing more than a lesson offered from master to student.

She was too professional to allow it to interfere with her work or his. When rehearsal was called, she rehearsed with him. They performed together night after night with none of their inner feelings bubbling up from beneath the slick surface of the act.

If the troupe went on the road, they traveled together without incident—polite strangers who shared a plane or train or car from place to place.

Only once, when Lily expressed concern that Luke’s escapes were becoming more complex and more dangerous, did any of the trapped turmoil escape.

“Let him be,” Roxanne had shot back. “Men like him always have something to prove.”

Her small and sweet revenge was in dating a succession of attractive men. She brought them home often, for dinner, parties, study groups. It gave her a great deal of pleasure to know her current beau—as Lily was wont to call them—was in the audience during the performance. It gave her a great deal more pleasure to know that Luke was aware of it.

She leaned toward the scholarly type, because she was attracted to a keen mind. And, deviously, because she knew that none of Max’s prodding had pushed Luke beyond his single year of college. It was so satisfying to mention, casually, that Matthew was a law student, or that Philip was working on his master’s in economics.

For herself, Roxanne had chosen to study both art history and gemology. Her purpose, much to Max’s delight, was to enhance her knowledge of what she now termed her hobby. If one was going to steal great works of art and fine gems, she’d informed her father, one should have a solid understanding of the background and value of the take.

Max was proud to have a daughter with vision.

He was pleased, too, that his reputation as a performer and respect for his troupe had grown. He treasured his magician-of-the-year award from the Academy of Magical Arts. He no longer found it necessary to avoid national exposure. The Nouvelles had two successful television specials under their belts, and Max had recently signed a contract to write a definitive book on magic.

A month before, he’d relieved a Baltimore matron of an opal and diamond brooch, with matching earrings. He’d used his share of the profits—after tithing—to pay for his research into what had become his biggest interest: the philosophers’ stone.

To some it was a legend. To Max it was a goal, one he needed badly now that his dual careers had reached their zenith. He wanted to hold it, that rock that was a magician’s dream. Not simply to turn iron into gold, but as a testament to all he had learned, accomplished, taken and given back over his lifetime.

Already he had gathered books, maps, scores of letters and diaries.

Tracking down the philosophers’ stone would be Maximillian Nouvelle’s greatest feat. Once he had it,

he thought—hoped—that he could ease into retirement. He and Lily would travel the world like vagabonds while their children carried on the Nouvelle tradition.

As New Orleans settled down into a chill, rainy winter, Max was at peace with the world. The occasional twinge the damp weather brought to his hands was overcome with a couple of aspirin, and easily ignored.

Roxanne liked the rain. It gave her a cozy, dreamy feeling to watch it patter on the sidewalk, run down the glass of the window. She stood on the covered balcony outside of Gerald’s apartment and watched the thin, chilly curtain chase away the pedestrians. If she took a deep breath she could smell the café au lait Gerald was brewing in his tiny kitchen.

It was nice to be here, she thought, taking this rainy night off. She enjoyed Gerald’s company, and found him smart and sweet. A man who liked to listen to Gershwin and view foreign films. His little apartment over a souvenir shop was crammed with books and records and VCR tapes. Gerald was a student of the cinema, and had already collected more movies than Roxanne imagined she would see in her lifetime.

Tonight they were going to watch Ingmar Bergman’s
Wild Strawberries,
and Hitchcock’s
Vertigo.

“Aren’t you cold?” Gerald stood inside the narrow doorway, holding out a sweater. He was perhaps a half inch shorter than Roxanne with broad shoulders that gave the illusion of more height. He had lank, sandy hair that fell—endearingly, she thought—onto his forehead. He had chiseled, leading-man looks that reminded her faintly of Harrison Ford. His mild brown eyes were given distinction by the dignified tortoiseshell glasses he wore.

“Not really.” But she came back inside. “It doesn’t look like there’s a soul in the city tonight. Everyone’s snuggled in.”

He set the sweater aside. “I’m glad you’re snuggled in here.”

“Me too.” She gave him her lips in a light kiss. “I like it here.” They’d been seeing each other on and off for nearly a month, but this was the first time Roxanne had been to his apartment.

It was pure struggling student. Movie posters adorned the walls, the sagging couch was covered with a faded bedspread, the scarred wooden desk shoved into the corner was laden with books. His electronic equipment, however, was state-of-the-art.

“I guess these home-movie things are the wave of the future.”

“By the end of the decade, VCRs will be as common as television sets in the American home. Everyone will own video cameras.” He grinned and patted his own. “Amateur directors will spring up everywhere.”

He touched her hair, a wild tangle of curls she’d recently cut to chin length. “Maybe you’ll let me make a movie of you sometime.”

“Of me?” The idea made her laugh. “I can’t imagine.”

He could. Taking her hand, he led her to the couch. “Bergman first, okay?”

“Fine.” She picked up her coffee and settled back into the crook of his arm. Gerald pushed some buttons on his remote. One to engage the VCR, the other to start the camera he had strategically placed between stacks of books.

Roxanne supposed she was plebeian, but Bergman didn’t grab her. Give me a car chase any day, she thought as she struggled to keep her mind on the slow-moving black-and-white art flickering on the screen.

She didn’t mind having Gerald’s arm around her. He smelled of peppermint mouthwash and mild, inexpensive cologne. She didn’t object to the light trail his fingers made up and down her arm. When he shifted to kiss her, she had no trouble tilting her head back and accepting the offer.

But when she tried to ease away, he tightened his hold.

“Gerald.” She gave a light laugh as she turned her head away. “You’re going to miss the movie.”

“I’ve seen it before.” His voice was thick and breathless as he ran kisses down the side of her throat.

“I haven’t.” She wasn’t worried, not really. A little annoyed perhaps that he was making such an obvious and fevered move, but not worried.

“Don’t you find it erotic? The imagery, the subtleties.”

“Not really.” Tedious was what she found it, just as tedious as she found the fact that he was pressing her back against the cushions of the couch. “But then I’m probably too literal-minded.” She blocked his mouth, but wasn’t quick enough to stop his fingers from fumbling with the buttons of her blouse. “Stop it, Gerald.” She didn’t want to hurt him, his feelings or otherwise. “This isn’t why I came here, and it isn’t what I want.”

“I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you.” He managed to pry her legs apart and began to grind his erection against her. Roxanne felt the first licks of panic sneak through the annoyance. “I’m going to get you naked, baby, and make you a star.”

“No, you’re not.” She struggled in earnest when his hand closed over her breast and squeezed. Growing fear had her voice shaking. A mistake, she realized instantly as his breathing quickened with excitement.

“Damn it, get off me.” She bucked like a bronco, heard her blouse rip.

“You like it rough, baby? That’s okay.” He grabbed at the zipper of her jeans with sweaty, impatient hands. “That’s good. Better visual. We’ll watch it after.”

“You son of a bitch.” She never knew whether it was timing or terror that had her elbow swinging over, knocking hard enough against his temple to make him rear back. She didn’t hesitate, but balled her hand into a fist and slammed it against his nose.

Blood fountained out, splattering her blouse, making him yelp like a kicked puppy. His hands flew up to his face, knocking his glasses askew. Roxanne scrambled up, grabbed her canvas bag and brought it against the side of his face in a vicious, two-handed swipe.

His glasses soared across the room. “Hey, hey.” Blood dripped through his fingers as he goggled up at her. “You broke my fucking nose.”

“You try that again with me, or anyone else I hear about, I’ll break your fucking dick.”

He started to rise, then sank back down again when she lifted both fists in a boxer’s stance.

“Come on,” she taunted. There were tears in her eyes now, but they weren’t from fear. It was pure rage.

“You want to take me on, you bastard?”

He shook his head, grabbing a corner of the bedspread to stanch the flow of blood from his nose. “Just get out. Jesus, you’re crazy.”

“Yeah.” She felt the hysteria bubbling up. She wanted to hit him again, she realized. She wanted to beat and punch and pummel until he was as frightened and helpless as she had been moments before. “You remember that, creep, and stay away from me.” She slammed out, leaving him babbling about hospitals and lawsuits.

Roxanne was a block away and searching for a cab when it hit her. Make you a star? Watch it after? A scream of rage burst out as it sank in.

The son of a bitch must have been filming the whole thing.

It was like falling into a nightmare. Though the rain had slowed to a drizzle, it was a cold, miserable night.

Nothing could have suited Luke’s mood more perfectly.

In his hand was a letter, a letter that had dragged him back over the jagged distance to the past. Cobb.

The bastard had found him. Standing in the Nouvelle courtyard with the thin rain sneaking under the collar of his jacket, Luke wondered why he had ever allowed himself to believe in escapes.

No matter how clever he’d been, how successful, how strong, he could be jerked back into that small, frightened boy. It had only taken a few words on paper.

Callahan—long time no see. I’m looking forward to talking about old times. If you don’t want to
lose your classy situation meet me tonight at ten at Bodine’s on Bourbon. Don’t try no
disappearing act, or I’ll have to have a nice, long talk with your pals the Nouvelles. Al Cobb.

He’d wanted to ignore it. He’d wanted to laugh and tear the paper into tiny, insignificant pieces to show just how little it had meant to the man he’d become. But his hands had shaken. His stomach had twisted into slick, tiny knots. And he’d known, as he’d always known, that he couldn’t escape from where he’d come from. Or what he’d lived through.

Still, he wasn’t a child afraid to face the monster in the closet. He balled the paper into his pocket and stepped toward the street. He’d face Cobb tonight, and somehow find a way to vanish him and everything he stood for.

The rain dampened his jacket, his shoes and his mood. He hunched his shoulders, swore at nothing in particular and started toward the corner. When a cab veered toward the curb, he hesitated, debating about whether it would improve his frame of mind to take a dry ride rather than a wet walk.

He forgot both possibilities as he watched Roxanne alight. She was a handy target for his frustration.

“Back so soon?” he called out. “Didn’t your four-eyed friend keep you entertained?”

“Kiss ass, Callahan.” She kept her head down as she hurried by him, hoping to slip into the house

unseen. But Luke was feeling just ugly enough to taunt her.

“Hey.” He snagged her arm and spun her again. “You got some—” He stopped dead when he saw the state of her clothes. Beneath her bright jacket, the boxy cotton blouse was torn and splattered with blood. Panic hammered through him as he grabbed both of her shoulders, fingers digging in. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing. Leave me alone.”

He gave her one hard shake. “What happened?” His voice seemed to be caught in his throat, squeezing out over razor blades. “Baby, what happened?”

“Nothing,” she said again. Why was she starting to shake now? she wondered. It was all over. Over and done. “Gerald had a different idea on what I was doing in his apartment than I had.” She tossed her chin up, ready for a lecture. “I had to disabuse him of the notion.”

She heard Luke suck in his breath—not in shock. It was more like an animal snarling. When she glanced up at his face, her unsteady pulse went haywire. His eyes were like glass, the kind that leaves deep jagged gashes on flesh.

“I’ll kill him.” His fingers dug into her shoulders hard enough to make her yelp. He released her so quickly, Roxanne stumbled back. By the time she’d regained her balance, she had to run to catch him.

“Luke. Stop this.” She snatched at his sleeve. Though her heart dropped to her knees when he rounded on her, eyes glowing, teeth bare, she hung on. “Nothing happened. Nothing. I’m all right.”

“You’ve got blood all over you.”

“None of it’s mine.” She tried a smile, scraping her wet hair out of her face. “Come on, I appreciate the white knight routine, but I took care of it. You don’t even know where the jerk lives.”

He’d find him. Somehow Luke knew that he could track the bastard down like a wolf tracking a rabbit.

But Roxanne’s hand was trembling on his arm.

“Did he hurt you?” It was an effort to keep his voice steady and calm, but he thought she needed it. “Tell me the truth, Rox. Did he rape you?”