Wildest Dreams (The Contemporary Collection) (41 page)

“You all right?” Timothy was watching her, his gaze arrested. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know who Adamson was?”

She didn’t answer directly, saying instead, “Why isn’t his last name the same as his mother’s?”

“He’s supposed to be the son of a second husband or something; the woman has been married a million times at least.”

“You know her?” Joletta asked. “You’ve met Rone?”

“I was introduced to the old lady when I was being my mother’s "walker," last year, taking her around to parties and charity balls and so on in New York. I never spoke to her son until this morning; he didn’t have a lot to do with that scene.”

“I just can’t believe it.” The words were measured, and there was a glaze of pain in her eyes.

“You going to eat that last croissant? No?” Timothy reached across to take it from her plate. “People say his mother built the corporation, but she did it with his dad’s money. After the divorce his dad hung on to a majority interest in the business. Rone got that when his dad died, which makes him the powerhouse in the corporation. He’s the one who makes the final decisions these days.”

“Such as whether to buy the perfume, and how to go about seeing that they wind up with the formula?”

“You got it.” He shook his head in admiration. “And the guy’s been traveling with you around Europe without letting on who he is, putting up with a tour bus when he’s used to the Concorde. God, what an operator.”

She couldn’t stand it. She had to get away. She needed to think, to sort out the jumble of pain and rage that threatened to explode inside her.

She got to her feet and slung the strap of her big purse over her shoulder. “Look, I’m sorry, Timothy, really, I am, but I’ve got to go. I’ll take care of your breakfast.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he protested.

“I’ll still get it. Will you be in Venice long?”

He lifted a shoulder. “Depends.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The Cipriani with Natalie, for now,” he said before he went on with his cheery grin. “I expect it’ll be the hostel again tomorrow. I don’t mind; the company is friendlier.”

“That’s good then. Maybe I’ll catch you later.” She started to turn away, then swung back. “You have enough money?”

He grimaced. “The funds are okay, they just have to be made to last. Not to worry, I’m fine.”

She touched his shoulder, then walked quickly away. She was afraid to stay there, afraid that if she remained a moment longer, she would burst into tears. She felt like such an idiot. She couldn’t do anything right, even fall in love.

The thought brought her up short, so that a waiter moving behind her with a pot of coffee in one hand and one of hot milk in the other sidestepped with a sharp exclamation. She murmured an apology before she moved on again.

No. It could not be. She wasn’t in love; she wouldn’t allow it.

She wasn’t some sheltered Victorian female who had to give her heart to a man before she went to bed with him. She was modern and sensible. Making love was an excellent antidote for stress, she knew, also a pleasant diversion for a Sunday afternoon and a dandy way to get to know a person. She had no need for lace and perfume and flowers, did not require desperate sacrifices and eternal vows of devotion.

All she really needed was a warm body, a little expertise, and some occasional conversation.

Yes. And stability.

A tiny bit of tenderness.

Humor, maybe.

Concern.

And honesty.

That was all. Really.

Damn the man.

Damn him, damn him.

She paused at the hotel desk long enough to leave a message that she would not be going with the morning tour; she just couldn’t face it. Not now. She had turned away, heading toward the door that stood open to the street, when she saw a tall form approaching.

Rone. She stopped short. It was, however, too late to avoid him.

“‘Morning,” he called. He stepped over the wide marble threshold as he spoke, at the same time dodging a rotund lady tourist in a sweater woven in a Stars and Stripes design. His voice was low and insouciant, and his smile for Joletta shaded with a hint of intimacy as he moved toward her.

Joletta gave him a look designed to freeze him in his tracks as she swept past without stopping. A moment later she was out the door, blending with the foot traffic of morose and sleepy-eyed Italians on their way to work. She turned in the direction of the nearby quay.

Swift, firm footsteps sounded behind her. Rone caught her arm, dragging her to a halt. His voice curt, he said, “What’s the matter with you?”

She swung on him, her eyes black with anger. “Oh, nothing at all is wrong with me. I’ve just discovered the man who has been sharing my bed is a sneak and a liar.”

His brows snapped together over his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“You know very well what I’m talking about,” she said with scalding scorn. “And I hope you found something useful for your mother in Violet’s journal last night, because it’s the last time you’ll ever see it.”

She jerked her arm from his grasp, whirling away from him to walk on. He reached her in two strides and clamped a hand on her forearm to stop her again. “Just a minute,” he said, his features grim, “you don’t understand.”

The rage simmering inside her boiled over. “I understand just fine! Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Did you think you could go on using me until you had everything you needed to know? And what about Natalie? I should have known something was wrong when you went with her yesterday like a pet poodle.”

“It wasn’t like that,” he said. “I never intended—”

Joletta was aware of the interested glances cast in their direction by the people moving around them, a river of humanity dividing around an annoying obstruction. She ignored them.

“No? Oh, but once you started, it was so convenient to keep going, wasn’t it? God, but when I think of it, I could die — or kill you with my bare hands!”

“Joletta, don’t,” he said in low-voiced concern. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

“Me? You’re the bastard who did it. You did it with your low-down sneaking tricks. I should have known there was something fishy about you when your southern drawl started to disappear. I’ve had enough of you, New York Yankee. I want you out of my room, off this tour, and gone from my life. I don’t want to see you again. Ever.”

“Tough,” he said.

She blinked at the stoniness of his tone. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that where you go, I go. Drawl or not, the blood of the Stuarts who produced Confederate General J.E.B. of the same name runs in my veins, and I’m as stubborn as you are any day. You don’t take a step without me right behind you, until this mess is over. What in hell do you think it was all about?”

“If you think I’m going to let you stay anywhere near me, you can think again.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

She lifted her hand and punched him in the chest with an extended forefinger. “You are dead wrong there.”

“Am I?” he said, his voice even. “We’ll see.”

This time when she whirled to walk away from him, he made no move to stop her. Instead, he moved at her side, keeping pace with a long and effortless stride. The drop-dead look she gave him caused not even a flicker of expression. He only met her gaze with impassive determination.

She halted. “Go away,” she said, “or I’ll yell for a policeman and tell him you’re molesting me.”

“Do that,” he said tightly, “and by the time one gets here, it may be the truth. Will you please stop long enough to listen to me?”

“What can you possibly say that I would want to hear? And how can you think I’d believe it even if you said it? Leave me alone!”

“If you’d just let me explain—”

“Explain what? How you just happened to be walking down the street near the perfume shop in New Orleans? It was probably you who was following me to begin with. Or maybe you’d like to tell me what a wonderful coincidence it was that you were around when my bag was stolen in London? I may have been gullible, but I learn fast. No, thanks.”

She was breathing so hard as she swung and walked on that it felt as if she had been running for miles. She refused to look at the man who fell in beside her once more. She kept her face turned away, even as he began to talk.

“I followed you to the shop in New Orleans, all right. I didn’t mean to give you such a scare, but I got too close because you reached the shop sooner than I expected. Later, I saw the creep who was following you, but had no idea exactly what he was up to, so I circled around and staged that little scene to scare him off. Since I was watching you, and getting concerned, when I found out you were going to Europe, I tagged along. I was at the airport because I was on the same plane, in a seat as far as possible from where you were sitting. I never meant to get so involved with your life; it just seemed, once I got to know you, that it would be easier to keep an eye on you if I was traveling with you.”

“Right,” she said waspishly, “and it just got easier and easier, didn’t it?”

He drew a deep breath, as if striving for control. His voice was rough when he answered. “Yes. It did. But if you think I went through all that just to get Violet’s perfume, you’re wrong.”

“Oh, I don’t think that. You did it for Natalie, didn’t you? She thought I was such a stranger to male attention that I would be bowled over by any handsome man who happened along. Well, she was right. I hope you enjoyed it.”

“As a matter of fact—” he began, then stopped, folding his lips tightly for a moment before he started again. “It wasn’t like that.”

“No? Then you did it for my smile,” she said in derision, though there was a stabbing ache inside her.

“I did it because I was afraid of what might happen to you.”

“Oh, please.” The sudden weariness in her voice also weighted her shoulders.

“I know it sounds crazy; I’ve thought several times that I must be out of my mind. But my mother hasn’t been rational about this perfume since she first heard of it. She has been possessed with the idea that it could become the next Joy, a perfume so wonderful that it would take the country by storm. She meant to make it the best loved, most enduring — and not incidentally the most expensive — perfume in the world. A perfume with history and romance and a kind of grandeur that can’t be found in some concoction out of a laboratory. But what bothered me most was not knowing exactly what she was willing to do to get her hands on it.”

“You could have asked her,” Joletta said. She was not sure when she had begun to listen to him. It didn’t mean a thing that she had, of course.

“You don’t ask Lara Camors much. She started her company out of her basement, a backwoods girl from Arkansas with an accent you could wade through who had been deserted in New York by a salesman who may or may not have been her first husband. She built it with guts and hard work, and a few convenient marriages. She didn’t take it kindly when I used the shares my dad had been holding for years to muscle my way in after his death.”

“Why not? You are her son.”

“Her son whom she had deserted, along with his father, at the age of three.”

The difference was small, but it was there. Her footsteps slowed. She met his gaze for long moments. A small portion of the tension that gripped her neck and shoulders began to ease.

“Anyway,” he went on, “things began to really worry me after I walked in on her in her office while she was speaking on the phone about the perfume. She shut up fast, but I heard her say something about it being too soon to celebrate just because Mimi Fossier was dead. There was still, she said, the other granddaughter.”

“Meaning me.”

“I had heard enough about the deal from her to know she wasn’t talking about Natalie.”

Joletta walked on a few steps. Finally she said, “Not saying I believe all that, but if you really thought I was in trouble, why didn’t you tell me?”

“And admit I thought the great Lara Camors was dealing in extremely shady industrial espionage? Or worse? It would have sounded crazy; it still sounds crazy. I respect my mother; we’ve learned to work together over the last few years. I thought I’d fly down to New Orleans and check things out, then make up my mind. That turned out not to be so easy.”

“But why lie to me about who you were later?”

“I didn’t lie; I just didn’t tell you the whole truth.”

“You let me think you were some kind of adman, a producer of commercials.”

“I am. I control the promotion for Camors, among other things. I just didn’t spell it all out for you. It seemed entirely possible you would tell me to get lost, and I — didn’t want to do that.”

There was something in his voice that she refused to acknowledge. She said instead, “And I suppose you’re going to tell me that you have no interest in the perfume, that nothing you did had any bearing on getting the rights to it for your company.”

They had reached the quay. He stopped and shoved his hands into his pockets as he stared at the shifting waters of the canal, where a transport boat rumbled past with its decks piled high with cases of Coca-Cola. At last he gave an abrupt shake of his head. “No, I’m not going to tell you that.”