To My Senses The Nicci Beauvoir Series Book 1 (3 page)

He appeared amused.
“Frequently.”

“
Must be tiring, fending
off so many female admirers.”

“
Oh, I don’t mind. But
you…I would never have taken you for such an avid
fisherman.”

“
Eddie just had too much to
drink.”

“
It takes more than alcohol
to get a man like Eddie to look at a woman.” He shifted in his
chair, seeming somewhat uncomfortable as he gazed off into the
distance.

“
As I said before, Eddie is
just a friend. Why are you so interested?”

“
Not interested… just
concerned.” His dark brows came together. “I think Sammy has plans,
other than friendship, for you and Eddie.”

“
Oh, that!” I waved my hand
about in the air. “Sammy has been plotting for years to hook me up
with her son. It’s not that she really wants it, but I know Eddie
does. Everyone knows Eddie wants it. And everyone thinks I’m insane
because I don’t want him.”

“
You are wrong. Sammy does
want you for her son. Many people here today think such a
relationship would be beneficial for both of you.”

“
Beneficial!” I leaned in
closer to the table. “You know, that’s the problem with everyone in
this town. They think they know everything about you. Know what’s
best for you, but no one ever bothers to ask what you
want.”

He moved his chair right
next to me. His shoulder was suddenly touching mine, but his face
was still hidden in the shadows. “All right, I’m asking. What do
you want? I would like to know.”

“
What?” I asked, unnerved
by his proximity.

“
What are your wants, your
desires, your dreams? I would like to hear about them.” His face
was inches from mine and I could feel his warm breath on my skin.
“Tell me,” he demanded.

“
My dreams,” I sat back in
my chair, “are not open for discussion.”

He folded his arms across
his chest. “Don’t ever hesitate to discuss your dreams, Ms.
Beauvoir. Otherwise, they may never come true.”

“
I thought it was the other
way around,” I said with some surprise. “If you tell people your
dreams, then they never come true.”

“
If you don’t tell people
what you want, how can they help you to get it?”

I looked him firmly in the
eye. “I don’t need anyone’s help to get what I want.”

He studied me intently with
his alluring eyes. “Eddie could never understand you. He would
never be able to keep up.”

“
Keep up?”

“
Most of these people,” he
motioned around the empty lawn, “will never get to know you because
they are afraid. You remind them of what they can never
be.”

I laughed. “Oh really, and
what is that?”

“
Alive. These are just
walking corpses. They have gambled away their dreams in hopes of
being safe and secure behind manicured lawns, afternoon teas, and
the social graces of the past.”

“
Sounds like you have
traveled in these circles before.”

“
Yes, I have.” He shrugged
and then frowned. “I’ve spent a great deal of time around people
like your Sammy Fallon and the others. They are all trying to be
what is expected of them. In the process, they have forgotten what
it is they wanted for themselves.”

As I traced the outline of his profile
against the amber lawn lights, I could feel my curiosity beginning
to stir.

“
What brings you into these
circles? You don’t belong here.”

“
I’m a painter. To paint,
you need sponsors.” He turned his eyes back to me. “And for me,
sponsors are usually found among wealthy women with no interest in
painting, but a genuine interest in telling their friends how much
they are supporting the arts.”

“
That’s why you were with
Sammy?”

“
Yes, that and she owns a
very successful art gallery on Magazine Street. So you see, in some
ways, to live out your dreams you must fill your life with
compromise.”

“
At least you’re honest.
But compromise with this group?” I shook my head. “Their prices are
too high for me.” I rose from my chair. “It’s getting late. I
should be going.”

He stood up next to me.
Looking up into his face, I shivered, as if enveloped by a cool
breeze.

“
What is your
name?”

He tilted his head to the
side, as he considered my request. “I don’t know if I should tell
you. I might enjoy being a mystery to you.”

“
Well, if you
prefer.”

I was about walk away, when
his hand gently grasped my shoulder.

“
My name is David
Alexander.”

I faced him. “David
Alexander. Sounds like a good name for a painter.” I extended my
hand to him. “Good night, Mr. Alexander.”

“
Good night, Ms. Beauvoir,
and thank you.” He took my hand and held it in his.

“
For what?”

“
For providing me with a
most stimulating conversation. I hope we meet again.”

I left him standing by our
table. I, for one, hoped we would not meet again. One meeting
allowed for polite conversation. A second time gave way to more
intimate banter, but a third meeting would always define the
intensity of any relationship. Whether the person would be a
friend, enemy, or lover would depend on a third meeting. David
Alexander struck me as the kind of man any woman should avoid
meeting again. Such men were dangerous for the heart…and difficult
to forget.

***

When I pulled into the
driveway at home, the lights were on from the first floor to the
attic. I made sure I bolted the front door once I was in, and then
set the alarm for the night. Uptown New Orleans was not as safe as
it used to be, and I often found my father forgetting to lock the
doors. I placed my purse and jacket at the base of the wide,
mahogany staircase and looked around the grand entrance hall, with
its glittering Waterford chandelier and Italian marble statues of
forgotten gods. The old oak floors moaned under my weight. Their
once shiny luster had dulled, but they still held their beauty,
despite the ravages of time and hard shoes.

My grandfather had bought
the house as a wedding present for my parents. It had been a
rundown mansion, broken up into several apartments. My parents
worked for years to restore the place to its original 1870’s
design. As with any old New Orleans home, the downstairs was the
most opulent part of the house. Most of the downstairs rooms had a
grapevine motif engraved into the plaster moldings decorating the
ceilings. There was a marble mantle in the living room, and a
walnut mantle with a painted harvest scene in the dining room. All
the rooms included operating fireplaces. Even the original brass
light fixtures had been lovingly restored throughout the first
floor. My parents had updated the upper floors of the home to be
more comfortable than historically accurate. The second floor
offered five large bedrooms, each with an adjoining bath, and the
third floor held an oversized game room, complete with pool table
and jukebox.

“
Did you have a good
time?”

I wheeled around to find my
father, a book gripped in his hand. “Dad, you scared
me.”

“
You’re very jumpy.” He
frowned. “Bad party?”

I followed as he turned and
headed toward the library, his favorite room. On any given day, he
could be found in his worn leather chair with the hearth ablaze. As
expected, the fire was going, despite the fact that it was the
beginning of May.

“
So how was it?” he
interrogated, settling into his chair with the book across his lap
and his reading glasses perched on the bridge of his
nose.

“
Fine.” I sat down in the
chair across from him. “Hattie and Colleen were in rare
form.”

“
Both Hoovers drunk again,
eh? Well, that doesn’t sound too different from all the other
social soirées of the season. Did you meet anyone new or was it the
same boring old stiffs again?” He opened his book. “Hypocritical
crew of fools. I can’t stand the lot of them.”

“
I did meet
someone.”

My father did not look up
from his book, but I could hear the strain of hope in his voice.
“Really? Anyone interesting?”

“
Not that interesting. In
fact, Hattie seems to think he was some kind of gigolo.”

My father slapped the book
down on his lap. “What kind of people are they inviting to these
things?”

I laughed. “It’s not like
that. He was with a friend of yours. Sammy.”

“
Now I know he was a
gigolo.” He picked up the book again and began thumbing through the
pages.

“
She asked about
you.”

“
I’m sure I would cost much
more than her, uh, friend.”

“
It
is
the running joke around
town that Sammy has been in love with you for
years.”

“
Or at least in love with
my business,” Dad added from behind the shelter of the book. “So
who was the gigolo?”

“
I don’t really know. He
said he was a painter.”

“
That figures,” he snorted.
“Sammy is always luring some poor dolt into her lair with promises
she never keeps. She probably told him she could get him a show or
something.”

“
I guess, but he was
nice.”

The book was down in his
lap again. “Nice.” He stared at me for a moment or two. “Is that
it?”

I shrugged. “I mean, he was
just…different.”

“
Careful, Nicci. It’s
usually the ‘different’ ones that get a girl into
trouble.”

“
You know I have no room
for a man in my life.” I paused, looking around the room at the
piles of books scattered about. “School is the only thing I’m
interested in right now.”

“
Yes, I know. You’re going
to finish that nursing program you’re in. You’re just like your
mother. You want to heal the world.” He sighed, the way he always
did whenever he mentioned my mother. “I told you if you wanted to
have a career you could work at the scrap metal business with your
Uncle Lance and me.”

“
Dad, let’s not get into
that again. I told you I want my own life. Anyway, you’re the one
that said there’s not much left of the business.”

“
Well, there is enough left
for you to take over if you want. Lance hasn’t gambled away
everything yet. Besides, it will all be yours someday.”

I picked up a nearby book,
thumbing through the pages. “I don’t understand why you don’t do
something about Uncle Lance. Can’t you just fire him?”

“
He’s my brother. If he
chooses to gamble away his half of the business, then that is his
decision. I won’t interfere.”

My father never interfered
when it came to his brother. Even though he was the older brother,
Uncle Lance had acted like an uncontrolled adolescent all his life,
complete with raging hormones, an insatiable liver, and an affinity
for betting on a sure loser. He had failed out of three different
colleges, two law schools, and four marriages. It was said that my
grandfather died trying to get Uncle Lance to finish something
other than a card game.

“
Maybe you should try and
talk to Uncle Lance about his gambling,” I tentatively
suggested.

“
Talking to Lance is a
waste of time.” My father shook his head. “Man never listens to a
word I say.”

My father and Uncle Lance
had always been a difficult duo to figure out. My mother told me
once that the two had been very close when they were younger. That
must have been before I was born, because my earliest memories of
my family were of my father and uncle fighting.

“
I’m off to bed.” I
approached his chair and kissed his receding hairline. “Good night,
Dad.”

“
Night, Nic.” He picked up
the book again and started reading.

As the glow from his
reading lamp reflected off his forehead, I noted how his brown hair
showed additional touches of gray along the sides. His green eyes
had become lackluster, and the dark circles underneath were more
pronounced than before.

“
You all right,
Dad?”

He glanced up from his
book. “I’m fine, sweetie. Why?”

“
You look tired, that’s
all. You sure you’re okay?”

“
There is just a lot going
on at the office. You know, the regular hassles. I’m in another
bidding war with Sammy’s company over some ventures and it’s
getting nasty.”

“
Why don’t you just marry
her and get it over with? Then you could merge the two companies
and have the biggest scrap metal business in the South, and leave
Sammy to run it all.”

“
Have Sammy Fallon as my
wife? No thanks. Do you want Eddie as a stepbrother?”

“
You’re right. Fight her
with everything you’ve got.”

My father laughed. “Go to
bed.”

Once in my room, I closed
my door to the world outside and got ready for bed. My parents had
always called my room, my “sanctuary.” There wasn’t much furniture,
only a bed and a desk. The walls, however, were lined with
bookshelves spilling over with all kinds of books. It was here I
practiced my favorite obsession, reading. I could sit for hours,
undaunted by the outside world, and indulge in my
imagination.