To My Senses The Nicci Beauvoir Series Book 1 (5 page)

Why not?”

“
Well you are….” He checked
himself. “Or should I say, you don’t look like a bookworm.” His
gaze glided quickly over my figure.

I felt an old, familiar fire burn in the pit
of my stomach. The same sensation I always had when I was being
judged.

“
Why? Because I’m not
wearing thick rimmed glasses or dressed like an old maid? So if a
woman is attractive then it would be difficult for you to think of
her as anything other than a bimbo.” I paused and grinned
sarcastically at him. “Do all men typically lump women into two
categories? Tell me, which do you prefer? The booby bimbo or the
ugly bookworm?”

He smirked. “Well, there is
always plastic surgery, so a woman can be both beautiful and
intelligent.”

“
Oh, I see. Then you must
feel right at home with Sammy and her friends.” I smirked back at
him.

“
Tell me, Ms. Beauvoir, are
you always so diplomatic?”

“
Please, call me Nicci.
It’s the least you can do when we’re insulting each
other.”

“
Somehow, I don’t think
anyone would consider you a bookworm. Bookworms are withdrawn and
avoid confrontation. I think you like confrontation.”

“
Let’s just say I don’t
care who I offend.” I leaned against a nearby bookcase. “I grew up
in the most rigorous of fishbowls, Mr. Alexander, and I have never
done what is expected of me. I don’t like being placed in a mold
and I have spent most of my life trying to break free of
stereotypes.” I paused and looked his face over, warily. “We may be
in the twenty-first century, but many of the people I know are
still living in ancient times.”

He held my gaze for what
seemed like an eternity before he spoke. “You don’t have to defend
yourself to me. I can see you aren’t one to wither under pressure
and follow the crowd. It is a very admirable quality.”

“
My father calls it my
stubborn streak.” I laughed, starting to feel a little more
relaxed.

“
Maybe to those who do not
understand you. People with goals don’t let anything or anyone get
in their way.”

I took a seat in the chair across from him.
The soft leather gave beneath my body. His eyes followed my every
move.

“
You have your whole life
planned, don’t you, Nicci?”

“
Is there anything wrong
with that?”

“
No, not at all. There are
too many who never plan. Never stick to their dreams.” He paused
and tilted his head slightly to the left, still watching me. “When
we last met we talked about dreams, I believe.”

“
You have a good
memory.”

“
Only for interesting
people.” He leaned a little closer to me. “You told me people never
bothered to get to know you or your dreams. But I want to get to
know you, Nicci, and therefore I should know all about your
dreams.” His gray eyes flashed.

“
Are you always this way?
You’re not like the others out there.” I waved my hand to the
window overlooking the party below.

“
God, I hope so.” He
laughed. “I’ve spent so much of my life around normal, boring,
uptight people. I would welcome the slightest suggestion of being
different.”

“
Well, you are the most
different person I have ever met.” I shook my head. “And the most
direct.”

“
I believe we waste too
much time trying to explain things,” he said, thoughtfully. “I
prefer to get to the point as quickly as possible. I think you are
the same way.”

I looked at the floor and heard him shuffle
in his chair. There was another brief period of nervous
silence.

“
So you are in college?” he
started again.

“
Yes, I go to nursing
school at LSU.”

“
Nursing school?” The
inflection in his voice changed oddly.

I raised my eyebrows. “Why,
doesn’t that suit me either?”

“
No, I don’t see you as a
nurse. I thought that maybe you would be studying something like
history or politics; something suiting a woman of your
character.”

“
Another uncharacteristic
venture on my part? Really, Mr. Alexander.”

“
David,” he
corrected.

“
Okay, David. You know,
you’re starting to sound like my father.”

“
He doesn’t want you going
to nursing school?”

“
No. He wants me to pursue
other interests.”

“
Marriage and screaming
brats, eh?”

“
Something like that,” I
snickered. “My father wants me to pursue the family business. He
cannot understand that I have my own goals—”

“
Your own
dreams.”

I shook my head. “I sound
silly, don’t I?”

“
No, not at all. You have a
great deal of passion inside of you. That is very rare. I had an
aunt once who said passion was a sign of creativity. All painters,
poets, and generals have it because it’s the spark that ignites
dreams.” He leaned back in his chair. “So which are
you?”

“
What?” I questioned,
distracted by his eyes.

“
Are you a poet, painter,
or general?”

“
None of the
above.”

“
I don’t believe that. I
would have pegged you as a general.” He nodded his head and added,
“It’s all right. I don’t betray secrets, Nicci. I don’t betray
friends.”

“
Friends? Funny, we don’t
seem like friends. You and I just met.”

“
People can meet only once
and be friends for a lifetime. Friendship doesn’t always have to be
in the form of a physical presence. As long as you have space for
someone in your heart, they will always be your friend.”

“
Did your aunt say that,
too?” I was no longer comfortable sitting beside him. I got up and
walked over to one of the bookshelves.

“
No, my father did. He was
an expert at leaving people behind. But that’s not the topic at
hand. We were talking about your dreams.” He stood up and
approached me. “Are you going to tell me about them?”

At that moment, there was a
knock on the door. We both turned to see Sammy standing, or
attempting to stand, in the entrance to the library.

“
Well, thish is where ya
been hidin’ yusef.” Her accent was thicker as she wobbled up to
David. I backed away from the two of them.

“
I was lookin’ all over fo’
ya, honey.” Sammy pitched forward and David caught her before she
hit the floor.

I watched him trying to collect her limp
body into his arms. He looked up and his eyes darted about the
room, purposefully avoiding mine. I could see the humiliation in
his face.

The room began to close in
on me. I couldn’t watch this scene any longer, and ran out of the
library. Once downstairs, I nearly tripped over Colleen on my way
out of the patio door from the hall. She was hunched over the side
of the steps, leaning against a potted fern.

“
Colleen, are you all
right?”

I couldn’t understand her
garbled response. I lifted her up, as best I could, and dragged her
to the car.

Before I could pull around
the pile of cars that blocked me in on the driveway, I saw a tall
figure emerge from the front door of the house. I drove over
Sammy’s front lawn to the street. There was no point in stopping to
see if it was David. There was nothing left to say.

Chapter 3

June marks the beginning of the full heat of
summer in New Orleans. If you are lucky enough to survive the day
indoors, you are almost always greeted by an afternoon
thunderstorm. The rain brings a brief moment of relief to the
wilted city.

One particularly hot
morning, my professor canceled one of my summer semester classes. I
found myself with no constructive way to fill the time until my
afternoon class began. I had no intention of boring myself even
further in the library, so I decided I would take the morning off
and do something I hadn’t done in quite some time. I headed to the
French Quarter.

The French Quarter was the
tourist hot spot of New Orleans. For the locals, the Quarter can be
an escape from the hectic life of the city, built around the old
town. The Quarter is our link to the past. It’s possible to lose
yourself amid the cobblestone sidewalks, the antiquated
architecture, and the thousands upon thousands of
tourists.

I made my way to my
favorite spot in the heart of the Quarter. It’s where the
Mississippi river curves, giving New Orleans it’s nickname, the
Crescent City. I had always felt the river to be a source of
strength for me. Despite whatever upheaval may be occurring in my
life, the river was always there, always flowing. I stood for a
while at the railing overlooking the swirling muddy water, then
decided to set out for Jackson Square.

I slowly maneuvered through
the throngs of camera-toting tourists, to my favorite perfume shop
in the shadow of St. Louis Cathedral. Unfortunately, my perfume was
out of stock, so I went to investigate the other shops around the
square. Walking in front of St. Louis Cathedral, I spied a shop
window, displaying dozens of perfume bottles, in the recesses of
Pirates Alley.

As I headed down the shady
alley, I stopped to admire the work of one of the artists whose
paintings were spread along the cathedral’s black iron fence. This
particular artist’s renderings were mostly skylines of the French
Quarter during daybreak. The dew on the city streets reflected the
bright reds and oranges of the early morning sun. There were a few
still-lifes scattered along the fence, as well. One was of workers
laying out produce to be sold at the French Market. Another
depicted an early morning deliveryman bringing long loaves of
French bread to a baker’s shop. The most captivating of the group
was an intimate painting of a dark haired woman dressed in a
cream-colored robe. She sat on her balcony at a black wrought-iron
table, reclining with her feet on the chair in front of her and
drinking coffee from a bright red mug. The bold colors seemed to
jump out at me, conveying a sense of frustration. It was as if the
artist felt limited by the image on the canvas.

If this befuddled soul had
been around, I might have questioned him, or her, about the
painting. I figured this painter, like most of the peddlers around
Jackson Square, was probably catching a cup of coffee—or something
stronger—in one of the nearby bars. I left the pictures and went
along to the store.

Later, I emerged triumphant
from the small perfume shop and headed back down the ally. I had
squandered away enough of the morning and it was time for me to get
back for my class. I was halfway down the alley, when I saw a man
sitting in front of the paintings I had previously admired.
Tentatively, I approached, as he frantically splashed paint across
another canvas. I stood behind him and watched him work, but he
didn’t appear to notice me. I stared, transfixed, as his head
bobbed and weaved about with every stroke of his brush.

“
If you are going to stand
there and stare the least you could do is buy something.” His voice
was hard and cold.

Then he turned to me and,
from the instant I saw his profile, I knew the face.

“
So you weren’t lying when
you said you were an artist,” I remarked when I looked into David’s
eyes.

“
Nicci!” His face lit up.
“How wonderful to see you here.” He stood and wiped the paint from
his hands. “What are you doing down here?”

I raised my bag of perfume.
“Shopping.”

“
I’m glad to see you
again.”

“
Thank you, David.” He just
stood there smiling at me. “So ah…tell me about your paintings.
They are quite remarkable.” I turned away from his piercing
eyes.

He frowned. “Is that your
diplomatic way of saying you don’t like them?”

“
No! God no. I like them
very much.”

“
I’m very glad to hear it.
For a moment I was a bit worried you didn’t approve.”

“
I like your use of color.”
I pointed to one of the paintings on the fence, and then hastily
added, “I really don’t know anything about art.”

“
You don’t have to know
anything about art, except what you like about it.”

“
Yes, but I’m sure my
opinion is rather meaningless.”

“
What do you like about the
paintings, besides the colors?”

He stepped back, and I
stood alone for a moment, taking in the full scope of his
work.

“
You have a way of brushing
the canvas that makes the painting appear like a blur, but it
doesn’t distort, only enhances the subject. But the subjects are so
plain, so lifeless. They almost seem to detract from your style.
Except for this one.” I pointed to the portrait of the lady sitting
on the balcony. “This one I really like. The style and colors
complement her beauty and make her seem alive, as if only posing
for a second…as if caught in time.” I turned to him and smiled. His
eyes were bright and beaming. They burned into mine. “Like I said,
I don’t know anything about art.” I hastily looked away.

“
You know a great deal.” I
could feel his eyes on me. “You are quite something, Miss Nicci
Beauvoir.”