Lucky's Lady (31 page)

Crying out in fury and frustration, he grabbed the unfinished painting from the easel and smashed the edge of it against the floor with all his strength, snapping the stretcher like a toothpick. He let the ruined mess drop from his hands and backed away from it blindly.

“Damn you, Serena!” he shouted to the heavens. He whirled toward his work table and swept an arm across it, knocking bottles and brushes to the floor. And he shouted in anguish above the crash, “Damn you! Damn you!”

He stumbled back across the room, reeling at the inner pain, exhausted from fighting his feelings. Slowly he sank back down to the floor, on his knees on the dropcloth where they had first made love, feeling as bleak and desolate inside as he had ever in his life. He tilted his head back, turning his face up toward the skylights and the cold white light of the moon. Tears trickled from the outer corners of his eyes, across his temples, into his hair.

He hadn't asked to fall in love. All he had wanted was to be left alone. Now he was so alone, he couldn't stand it.

This was hell on earth, and Gifford had the gall to accuse him of taking the easy way out.

Serena had called him a coward. She'd said he pitied himself, that he was afraid to give their love a chance to work.

Of course he was afraid. He had known they would only end up hurt in the end, and he'd had enough pain to last him a lifetime.

But Serena was hurting now, despite his noble sacrifice, and he'd never lived through this kind of agony. It was far worse than anything Ramos and his buddies had dished out because it was relentless and unreachable and nothing relieved it. He ached with missing Serena. He ached with the need to touch her. He ached with guilt and the knowledge that she was right.

He was a coward. He'd been afraid to feel again. He had been afraid to let Serena get close to him for fear of what she would see, but she had seen every part of him, every side of him—good and bad—and she'd still loved him.

What kind of fool was he to let a woman like that get away? What kind of fool was he to go on suffering like this?

A noble fool who had pushed away the woman he loved for her own good. A frightened fool who had been too wary of love. A fool who had nothing to offer her but himself because his life had been stripped down to mere existence.

Where did he go from here?

Lucky stared long and hard at the painting on the floor before him. It lay in a crumpled, twisted heap, ruined, worthless. He could throw it out or he could try to salvage it, restretch the canvas, start over on the painting.

A sense of calm settled inside him as the answers came to him.

If Serena deserved a better man than he was, then he would have to become a better man. If his life offered her nothing, then he would have to change it, because he didn't want to live without her. He didn't want to be a martyr to his past. It had taken so much from him already—his youth, his hope, his family—he couldn't let it take Serena too.

The time had come to leave it behind and try to take that first step forward. He had a long way to go before he would feel whole and healed, but he would never get there if he didn't take that first step, and his life wouldn't be worth living if he stayed where he was.

Slowly he reached for the ruined canvas and pushed himself to his feet.

CHAPTER
                        

21

SERENA STOOD ON THE SIDEWALK, LOOKING UP AT
the
sign above the black lacquered door.
RICHARD GALLERY
was spelled out in flowing gold script on a black background. The building was three narrow stories of old brick sandwiched between similar buildings that had been lovingly restored more than once in their long histories. There was ornate grillwork over the windows, and flower boxes spilling scarlet geraniums and dark green ivy over their edges. Two doors down, a young man sat on a stoop playing a saxophone for tips. Just beyond him locals and tourists alike had begun to gather for dinner at a sidewalk café. A mule-drawn carriage clomped by on the street, its driver reciting the history of the area for his passengers. Just another hot summer night in New Orleans.

The French Quarter address of the building matched the one on the invitation she held in her hands, but still Serena hesitated. It had been four months since she'd last seen Lucky. He had made no attempt to get in touch with her until now, and this could hardly be construed as personal contact—an engraved invitation sent out by an art gallery. All it meant was that she was on his mailing list. How flattering.

A group of tourists brushed past her, laughing and chattering, parting to go around her like a stream around a boulder. Serena didn't move. She looked at the invitation in her hands, remembering how she felt when she first opened it. There was a mixture of joy and sadness—joy that Lucky had taken this step, that he was making an effort to put his life on track, sadness that she wasn't being included in that life.

She acknowledged the fact that she wasn't getting over him. She was getting on with her life without him, but she doubted she would ever be completely free of him. In fact, she knew she never would be. She was carrying his child.

She nibbled her lip and stared at the door of the gallery. All the way to New Orleans she had told herself she was going for Lucky's sake, to show her support. But the truth was this was an opportunity to see him on somewhat neutral ground, and she needed that. She told herself she would be calm and cool and tell him that while he was going to be a father, she expected nothing from him. She would be the picture of sophistication and poise, and then she would probably pass out.

“So, are we going to go inside or is this all you wanted to see?”

Serena jumped at the sound of the voice. She glanced around at the man who had insisted on accompanying her to New Orleans. Blond and handsome, David Farrell looked down at her with kind eyes and a gentle smile curving his wide mouth.

She had joined David and another psychologist in practice in Lafayette, and they had quickly become good friends. David was easy to talk to, understanding, intuitive. Serena had found herself confiding in him within days of meeting him, something that was very unlike her. There was something about him that seemed so trustworthy, so nonthreatening, everyone wanted to confide in him. It was a trait that made him very successful in his profession and popular with his friends. Serena had it on good authority he was considered prime husband material by every single woman in Lafayette.

He had insisted on driving with her to New Orleans to give her moral support. Now he stood beside her with his hands in his pants pockets, waiting patiently for a response. Serena gave him a look.

“Yes, we're going inside. I just wanted to be certain this is the place, that's all.”

David raised his eyebrows. “Mmm.”

“Save it for your patients, Dr. Farrell,” she said dryly, and led the way inside.

The gallery was cool and light. Stark white walls were used as backdrops for the paintings, lights were strategically spotted toward the works, bleached wood floors were polished to a brilliant sheen. An impressive number of people milled around, admiring Lucky's work, talking, nibbling on dainty canapes and sipping white wine from tulip-shaped glasses. Cajun music floated out of cleverly hidden speakers, too soft to be appreciated.

Serena found herself missing the bayou country, and she smiled a little at the thought. This was the kind of life she had enjoyed in Charleston, but she found herself wishing she were sitting on the gallery at Chanson du Terre, listening to Pepper and Gifford argue with a blaring two-step playing in the background.

She couldn't imagine Lucky in these surroundings. He was too big, too wild, too elemental. She moved through the crowd half expecting to see him in fatigue pants and no shirt.

“He's very talented,” David said over her shoulder.

They had stopped beside a study of the bayou cast in the last bronze light of sunset. Serena looked at the painting, remembering the day she had first seen Lucky's work, remembering how it had drawn her in, remembering how they had made love at the foot of his easel.

“Yes,” she murmured. “He's very talented. I'm glad he finally realized that.”

“It looks like a lot of people are realizing it tonight. I think your Mr. Doucet is going to be a reasonably wealthy man. Have you seen him yet?”

“No.”

“Well,” David said, snatching a glass of wine from the tray of a passing waiter, “just say the word and I'll melt into the background.”

Serena went abruptly still. She felt Lucky's gaze hit her like a spotlight, and she turned slowly, her breath catching in her throat as her eyes met his halfway across the room. He stared at her as if she were the only woman on earth, completely ignoring the two gallery patrons who had been speaking to him. A vague dizziness swirled through Serena's head as he came toward her. He moved with the grace of a big cat, and even the city folk knew enough to get out of his way.

Serena steeled herself against the wild mix of emotions seeing him set loose inside her. She gave him a wry look and said, “Gee, they even got you to wear a shirt. This
is
a special occasion.”

He frowned at her, but smoothed a hand over the tie he had already pulled loose around the collar of his dress shirt. He looked devastatingly handsome in his pleated coffee-colored linen trousers, ivory shirt, and brown silk tie. His hair was still unruly, still long, but the boot lace that normally tied it back had been replaced by something a little more discreet. Serena felt a nervous flutter in her stomach. She wasn't sure she knew this Lucky. She found herself wishing he had indeed come in fatigue pants.

“I wasn't sure you'd come,” he said gruffly. His gaze raked over the man standing beside her. His jaw tightened.

“Of course I came. I got my invitation,” Serena said, sarcasm edging her voice. She held the envelope up to him as proof. “I brought a friend with me. I hope you don't mind. This is David Farrell. David, Lucky Doucet.”

David stuck his hand out. “It's a pleasure.”

Lucky said nothing. Tension rolled off him in waves.

Fighting a smile, David stepped back. “Well, I believe I'll have a look around. You two probably have some catching up to do.”

Serena watched him move off into the crowd, then turned back toward Lucky. He was watching her, his gaze as disturbing as ever. Even after all this time Serena could feel her body responding to his nearness. Her heart had picked up a beat. She felt hot and too aware of her every nerve ending.

Forcing herself to ignore the sensations, she looked up at him with genuine warmth in her eyes. “Congratulations on the show, Lucky. I know what it means. I'm very happy for you.”

Lucky said nothing for a long moment. He was too caught up in looking at Serena. He had lain awake nights aching to see her, but he hadn't allowed himself to go to her, not until he had something to offer her. Now he drank in the sight of her, absorbing everything about her—her honey-colored hair in its smooth twist, the delicate rose of her cheeks and mouth, the liquid brown of her eyes, the stubborn tilt of her chin. She was dressed in one of her neat business suits, a navy blue skirt and boxy double-breasted blazer, and Lucky caught himself picturing her in nothing but the old blue workshirt he'd left with her. He wondered bitterly if he would ever get the chance to see her wear it, wondered if she had worn it for her “friend.”

“You look good,” he said, trying to decide what it was about her that seemed subtly different.

“So do you,” she whispered.

“How's Giff?”

“Fine.”

Bon Dieu
, he thought, there was so much he wanted to say to her, but he stood like an oaf exchanging bland pleasantries as if she were little more than a stranger to him. Maybe when he had gotten his fill of looking at her—as if that could ever happen—the words would come. But then, he'd never been much for talk. What he wanted to do was kiss her. He wanted to take her in his arms and feel her against him, soft and warm. He wanted to pull the pins from her hair and run his hands through the silk. He wanted to lay her down and join his body with hers and feel that incredible sense of peace he'd known only with her.

But she had come with another man.

A finger poked Lucky's biceps and he turned his head to glare at the gallery owner, Henri Richard, a slender man in his forties who was just a little too cosmopolitan for Lucky's tastes. Lucky had needed to remind himself too many times over the last few weeks that the man was the owner of one of the best galleries in the city and that Danielle, Lucky's sister-in-law, had gone to a great deal of trouble to get the two of them together. Respect for Danielle was about the only thing that had kept him from telling Richard to go hang himself. That and the fact that this was his big chance to show Serena he was ready to turn his life around.

Richard ignored Lucky's glower and motioned to the exotic-looking woman standing beside him. “You really must meet Annis, Lucky,” he drawled. “She's the art critic for the
Times
.”

“They don' teach manners where you come from?” Lucky asked in a silky voice. “I was speaking with Miz Sheridan, here.”

Richard's high cheekbones reddened. The art critic eyed Lucky with open interest.

Richard took a step closer to Lucky and spoke in a low, stiff whisper. “Annis is a very important person in the art community.”

“Then I'm sure you won't mind kissing her ass,” Lucky muttered. “Me, I've got better things to do.”

Serena cleared her throat delicately. “Lucky, I can see you're busy. We can talk later.”

“We can talk now,” he said, swinging toward her, a dangerous look in his eyes. He took her by the arm and started for the back door. “Let's get outta here. I can't breathe in this place.”

“But your show—”

“Can take care of itself.”

“Lucky!” Serena protested through her teeth, trying not to attract too much attention to them. “These people came here to see you.”

Lucky kept moving, his brows low over his eyes, jaw set. “If they came for the paintings, fine. If they came for the free booze, I don't care. If they came to gawk at me, they can take a flying leap; I'm not on display.”

The guests parted like the Red Sea as he made a beeline for the door with Serena hurrying to keep up with him. They cut through the small kitchen, past the curious stares of the catering people and out into the courtyard that was shared by several buildings on the block.

Cobbled paths radiated out from a central stone fountain that gurgled gently. The warm evening air was fragrant with the scents of the flowers blooming in riotous profusion all around. Strategically placed brass lanterns had just begun to glow as the natural light faded.

“You're fortunate it's considered amusing for artists to be rude and eccentric,” Serena commented dryly as Lucky led her toward a bench at the far corner of the garden.

“Yeah, I'll be a real hit, won't I?”

“A sensation. Do you think I might get the feeling back in this arm anytime soon?”

Lucky swore in French and let go of her abruptly as they reached the wrought iron bench that was sheltered by an arbor of bougainvillea. “I get a little tense in a crowd,” he said by way of an apology.

Serena gave him a gentle smile. “It looked to me like you were doing just fine.”

His big shoulders rose and fell in an uncomfortable shrug. “I'm working at it.”

That dangerous need to reach out to him surfaced in Serena. She wanted to offer him her support. She wanted to offer him a hug and tell him how proud of him she was. But she made herself sit down on the bench instead. Lucky had managed just fine these past months without her. It was clear he was making a real effort to work through the problems his past had left him with. Serena told herself she could be glad for him, but she couldn't allow herself to share in his victory. If she was to survive, she would have to keep her distance from him emotionally as well as physically.

“You've been all right?” he demanded abruptly, his amber gaze boring down on her like a searchlight from above.

“Sure,” she answered slowly and without conviction. “I've been fine.” If
fine
meant heartsick and lonely. She could have told him the truth, but she had promised herself she would hang on to her pride, at least.

The quiet of the garden closed in around them. The fountain babbled to itself. From beyond the building came the faint sounds of the city—a car honking, someone calling across a courtyard, jazz drifting out a window somewhere above them.

Lucky heard none of it. He stood there, uncomfortable in his new shoes, wondering if he'd missed his chance at a future with the only woman he'd ever really loved.

“I've missed you,” he said suddenly.

Serena stared at him in amazement. She thought her heart might have stopped. She knew she quit breathing.

“I've missed you like hell, Serena.”

“Then why didn't you come to me?” she asked, some of the pain she'd known these last months rising up to tighten her throat on her words.

“I couldn't. I had nothing to offer you. I couldn't come to you in pieces.”

“I loved you anyway.”

“Do you love me still?” Lucky asked. His gaze captured hers and held it prisoner as he waited for her answer.

“I've spent the last four months trying to get over it.”

“And have you?”

Serena said nothing. She stared up at him, hating him for doing this to her, for knocking down all the walls she had spent these last weeks building, for taking away her pretense of calm control. He leaned down over her, bracing one knee against the seat of the bench, his arms effectively corraling her in place.