No More Lonely Nights (28 page)

“This is my favorite place in New Orleans,” Clay said in a dreamy voice. “St. Charles Avenue. It’s the main street in the Garden District.”

“These trees, they’re so huge!” Dominique looked up in wonder at the green canopy that spanned the broad avenue.

Clay nodded in approval at her praise. “Live oaks,” he explained.

“Spectacular!” Dominique breathed.

“How about these houses? Big enough for you?”

Mansions in a variety of styles—from neoclassical to Spanish—were widely spaced along sweeping lawns of rich, blue-green grass. There were pink stucco mansions with red tile roofs, brick ones with huge white pillars, white wooden ones with ornate terraces and verandahs. Dominique had never seen such a hodgepodge of styles. But it all worked beautifully together. It was one of the most inviting places she had ever seen.

“This is where I grew up, right here in the District. When I’m head of the company, I want to move back here, buy one of these big places on St. Charles.” Clay sounded determined.

This was the first time Dominique had seen any evidence of financial limitations. She had thought Clay independently wealthy.

Clay turned his mouth into a rueful half-smile. “My father doesn’t believe in making things too easy for me. I’m supposed to work my way up in the company like everyone else.”

Dominique gathered that he also received a salary like everyone else, rather than a blank check, as she had originally assumed. “Seems like good training,” she ventured.

Clay kept his eyes fixed on the road. “That’s the idea,” he said. “Except there’s something wrong when—” He stopped short and gave Dominique a furtive look. Then he turned back to the road. “Sorry,” he said, “don’t mean to sound bitter.”

Dominique’s heart went out to him. “I understand,” she reassured him. “Sometimes I feel unfairly treated by my mother.”

Their eyes connected. The communication, the mutual sympathy was unmistakable.

Clay sighed. “At least you don’t have to work for her.”

Dominique gave him a look of commiseration. “When will your father retire?”

Clay snorted. “Not until he thinks I’m old enough to handle the company. I’m twenty-nine now, so I estimate another twenty years, at least,” he said sarcastically.

Dominique laughed softly. She reached out and squeezed his arm.

Clay turned at her touch. The look he gave her was so needy, so grateful, that she caught her breath. Suddenly, he pulled the car to the curb and turned off the engine. With an urgency she had never seen him exhibit, he pulled her to him, kissing her fervently, devouring her.

Dominique’s heart hammered. She sank into his arms, meeting his passion. Like a dream, she was aware of the tree swaying overhead, the dappled sun on her face, the perfume of magnolia and jasmine. But mostly she was aware of the overwhelming need that telegraphed itself in his kiss. And her need was as great.

A streetcar clattered by and its bell pierced the air. Dominique and Clay drew apart, startled. Breathlessly, they gazed at each other.

Dominique, confused, drew back.

Clay’s eyes burned into her, his usual smooth nonchalance gone. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, his expression all at once grim.

“What is it, Clay?” she asked, alarmed at the rapid change.

“Don’t go back!” he appealed to her.

Dominique made a noise of disbelief. What exactly was he proposing?

He rubbed her hands in an agitated fashion. “Marry me instead.”

“Marry you!” Dominique might have anticipated a declaration of love, an act of seduction, but not this! Butterflies whirred in her stomach. She had a wild impulse to say yes. To forget objections and constraints, like any other girl her age, and simply give herself to this man who had galloped into her life like Prince Charming.

“You look like you can’t make up your mind.” Clay fixed her with an intense stare. “Don’t think about it. Come with me, now. We’ll get a ring. We’ll elope, unless”—he paused and looked at her from under his lashes—“you want a big wedding. Either way, it doesn’t matter. We’ll be happy, you’ll see!”

“But we’ve only known each other a month, Clay!” The objection sounded hollow, even to her.

“I don’t care,” he insisted. “You’re not like any other girl I’ve ever known. Down here, they’re all a bunch of daddy’s girls, spoiled rotten. You’re different. You don’t let anyone tell you what to do. You take care of yourself just fine. But you still make me feel like I’m the most important man in the world to you. You’re always on my side. The way you look at me—” He stopped.

Dominique could see that he was revealing something profound and unspoken. A need for her strength and support.

But suddenly, Clay took hold of his emotions. His intensity gave way to a sexy grin. He leaned toward her, his manner once more polished. “You have to admit, darlin’, we’ve got the chemistry.”

Dominique smiled tremulously. One minute he was a supplicant—needing her. The next, he was a man of the world, a suave charmer. Dominique loved both sides, his power and his vulnerability. She looked at Clay with a grave expression. “What will your parents say about you running off and marrying a stranger?”

Defiance fired Clay’s eyes. “Dammit, I don’t care! I’m tired of doing everything just to please my father. He’s run my—” Clay stopped and took a deep breath. After a second, he regained his self-possession. “He won’t disown me. I’m his only heir and he’s said a million times that he doesn’t want the business to go outside the family.”

He changed tacks. “It’s clear you come from a fine family…. Besides, you’re French, and in New Orleans that’s like aristocracy. Father spent two years in college over there just so he could pick up the language!
His
father told him it would be useful when he took over the business.” He shook his head and gritted his teeth and said, “So he’d better not have any criticism.”

Dominique was silent. His family life was more disturbing than she had realized. And yet, surely, there must be love between father and son or they wouldn’t be working together. “What about your mother?” she asked. Why did he never mention her?

Clay shrugged and gave a half-smile. “She’s okay. Follows my father’s lead.”

None of it sounded terribly reassuring, but Dominique had learned long ago to get along without parental approval. Furthermore, she had enough self-esteem to believe Clay when he told her that his parents would be pleased once they met her. Something else was troubling her far more.

“Clay,” Dominique said, haltingly, “there are things about… my past that you should know. I’m afraid… they may change your opinion of me.” Then she added, “And your parents won’t be pleased.”

Clay gave her an understanding smile and whispered, “What could be so bad?”

Dominique took a deep breath. “There’s no way to make this easier…” She looked straight at him and put her hand on his arm. “Clay, I’m divorced.”

Clay looked as though he’d been socked. The air went out of his lungs in a gasp. For a long moment, he said nothing. He simply stared at Dominique, his face growing paler with each second that passed. “That’s… a… a… shock,” he stammered.

“I know,” Dominique said, chilled by his reaction. She was frightened as she saw happiness slipping out of her grasp. For a second, she wished she had kept her counsel. But, no, she couldn’t do that. He
had to
be told.

“Tell me about it,” he commanded, looking squarely at her.

Where to begin? With Stephen? No. No one had the right to know that. No one. Then how to explain her crazy marriage? She thought back to the weeks preceding it. There had been the threat of war. The disaster in the customs house. But the reasons really didn’t matter, he would either accept the news or not. Accept
her
or not.

She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, trying to find moisture. She wished she could have a sip of water. She wished her confession were already over and that she didn’t have to think about it anymore. She gathered her thoughts and began, her voice deceptively calm. “There was a man who wanted to marry me. Our families pushed us together.… That’s the way it is in the Middle East.” She told Clay of the anti-European atmosphere in Egypt. Of the incident with the customs police.

Clay’s face went from stubborn disbelief to empathy as her story unfolded.

“But why did you leave him?” he asked.

“It was a mistake from the start. He didn’t really love me. He only wanted my family’s money. And I”—she cast down her eyes in shame—“didn’t love him,” she murmured. “After I left, he sued me for desertion.”

“Where is this guy now?” Clay asked, his expression worried.

“San Francisco. Why?”

“Do you think he’ll ever try to contact you?”

“Once he found out we lost everything in the war, he had no more use for me,” she said bitingly.

Clay averted his eyes. He seemed to study the cars as they made their way up St. Charles Street.

What was Clay thinking? Dominique wondered. She fidgeted with the handle of her purse as she anxiously watched his profile.

“Dominique”—Clay turned back and scrutinized her—“who else knows about this?”

“Well… my family, of course.”

“No one at Orman’s?”

“Of course not!”

Clay nodded. He sank into a brooding silence that Dominique was hesitant to break. After several moments, he said wistfully, “I thought I’d be the first for you.”

Dominique met his gaze evenly. “I’m sorry,” she said. She drew herself up. “But it’s important for you to make a decision based on the truth. If you want to take back your proposal, I’ll understand.” Oh, but she would be devastated!

There seemed to be nothing more to say. Once more a pall fell over them.

Clay rubbed his temple with his index finger and seemed to consider a moment.

Dominique couldn’t stand the suspense. It was shocking to realize how important he had become to her. He had filled her life, he had given back her youth, he had wiped away the hurt and disillusionment of her failed marriage.

Clay abruptly reached for her hand and pulled her close to him.

Then he caressed her cheek. “Thank you for telling me those things. I know it was hard for you.”

Dominique was overwhelmed with emotion, but she continued to look squarely at him. “I couldn’t keep them from you… now.”

“Dominique,” Clay said, gently brushing her forehead with his lips, “you’re no different than you were an hour ago. I haven’t changed my mind.”

Dominique’s heart soared. She had given Clay news that might have caused another man to condemn her, but Clay still wanted her. He still loved her! She had trusted him and he had rewarded her trust. She felt heady with renewed faith and optimism. She smiled up at him, her eyes shining.

Clay continued. “I want to forget about what you told me. And, if you don’t mind, I’d like to keep it between us.”

Dominique’s smile faded. “I have no desire to tell anyone else,” she said quietly.

“Then”—he turned and started the engine—“let’s get married.”

IT WAS late Sunday evening when Dominique and Clay returned to New York. The past twenty-four hours had passed in a magical blur, and Dominique tried to recapture the images as they drove from the airport. The flight to Maryland, where they were able to marry in the middle of the night and without a waiting period—Clay once more arranging things seamlessly. The drive in the rented convertible to Washington, D.C. Top down, warm breeze blowing, stars shining in the onyx sky. The surprise of the grandly lit Memorial Bridge and the Lincoln Memorial itself gleaming silver in the night. The White House, its fountain scattering mirrored rays. And, just across the park, the Hay-Adams Hotel, where a beautiful suite awaited the newlyweds. Their first night together.

Dominique inhaled deeply and closed her eyes. She reached across the soft leather of the seat to find Clay’s hand and twined her fingers in his, recalling their more intimate encounter. The thought of Clay’s body, tall and bronze and even more magnificent naked than dressed, made her shiver. He had engulfed her petite form, surrounded her with his protection and warmth and ardor. And how he had aroused her! She had almost forgotten that such feelings were possible. There had been none of the bittersweetness of her coupling with Stephen. On the contrary, the knowledge that Clay was
her
husband,
all hers,
added a new dimension to her excitement.

The first time they made love was swift and eager, the joining of two young people venting their desire. There had been little foreplay and Dominique hadn’t missed it.

The second time, toward dawn, had been more leisurely. Clay had moved with hypnotic deliberation, knowing exactly where to touch, how to arouse the soft skin on the insides of her arms and thighs, the back of her neck, the soles of her feet. His strokes were fluid, almost silky, as he trailed his hand from her nipples to her waist, then lower. Dominique was hardly aware of their bodies shifting, of Clay entering her. It all seemed to glide, flow, come together like the crescendo of a masterfully composed symphony. What moved Dominique most were his words of endearment—words that made her feel bound to him—truly married. Whereas Stephen had been reticent, Clay’s emotions overflowed. And Dominique, naturally discreet like Stephen, was freed by Clay. Again and again, she told him of her love, and he never tired of hearing it. “Do you love me?” he would ask. And she would tell him so once more, for she never tired of saying it. Not once did she have second thoughts about her rushed marriage. Clay was the kind of man women fantasized about. This, the kind of marriage she had always hoped to have. The bad experience of Dominique’s first marriage seemed a hazy nightmare.

Clay’s brandied drawl broke into her reverie. “Happy?” he asked.

Dominique gave her husband a smile of elation, her expression transmitting all that was necessary.

Clay looked satisfied. “Wait till you see our place at the Waldorf Towers. It’s really something.”

Dominique gave him a look of inquiry. “I thought we’d go back to my place. I’ve paid until the end of the month.”