Ciji Ware (29 page)

A sea of smiling faces beamed at her from all sides, but there were two people she hadn’t dared to look at even once during the evening: Cousin Maddy and Sim. A signal rang in her brain, warning her to focus only on the music, the beat, and the mysterious river of sound that had carried her successfully, thus far, through the miraculous performance, even if there was no drummer keeping time, nor the comforting presence of Willis McGee. She marveled, in fact, at the mystifying musical telepathy that had allowed Althea, Kendra, and her to play and sing all night as one instrument. Now, however, something else was called for, and she was scared to death.

She felt as if she were looking through one of Sim’s telephoto lenses when Althea began to thank the audience for their wonderful reception and introduce their last number for the night. She realized with a jolt that the group’s concluding song wouldn’t have as great an impact unless it was sung to a solitary male. The tune worked like gangbusters if the guy was good-looking and sexy as hell, and there was only one candidate in the room who fit that description.

In
for
a
penny, in for a pound
, she thought, silently quoting Cousin Maddy’s advice from years before when Daphne worried her about signing the loan for her forty-thousand-dollar harp.

“And so, ladies and gentlemen,” Althea announced with a wink, “we’ll let Daphne here take the lead in our final number. It’s by that genius songwriter, David Fishberg… and all you guys out there—I strongly advise you to listen up!”

Laughter masked the first four bars of the vamp. By the last count of the intro, Daphne finally summoned the guts to flick the air with one stiletto heel and cast a shameless come-hither look at Simon Hopkins that could have waylaid a humvee.

Peel me a grape…

Crush me some ice…

Skin me a peach… save the fuzz for my pillow…

Talk to me nice… talk to me nice…

You’ve got to wine me and dine me…

A flicker of a smile pulled at one corner of Sim’s mouth when Daphne arched an eyebrow and wagged her finger at him across the footlights.

Don’t try to fool me…

Be-jewel me,

Either amuse me… or lose me.

I’m gettin’ hungry…

Peel me a grape!

Appreciative chuckles rippled through the audience. Sim, however, held her gaze with such intensity that the four walls of the club seemed to vanish. It was as if there were just the two of them, as if they were alone in the Lovell Room, each wondering who would be the first to make a dive toward the towering plantation bed that dominated the room.

Daphne abandoned her harp during the musical bridge and began to prowl around the small stage area like a restless tigress, always keeping her eyes riveted on the good-looking man at the front-row table—much to the delight of everyone in the room. Daringly she broke the “fourth wall” and ventured into the sea of small tables, illuminated only by candles in cheap red glass containers, while Althea and Kendra pounded out the melody.

Daphne’s progress was tracked by the single spotlight to which the scruffy-looking assistant bartender was assigned when he wasn’t pouring tequila shooters. Enveloped in a glittering shaft of light, she made her way to Sim’s table and brought her face eye-level with his while running her fingers through his generous head of dark brown hair.

Pop me a cork…

French me a… fry…

She felt the thrill of the blatant seductress and knew, suddenly, absolutely, how drawn she was to this man she had met barely a week ago. She reveled in her power to beguile him with song, with her sexy attire, with all the feminine wiles she possessed, yet without feeling one whit like a magnolia!

Entertain me…

Champagne me…

Show me you love me…

Kid glove me…

She gently touched a forefinger to the tip of his nose and felt—bizarrely—
honest
!

Whatever this night might hold, she knew with certainty that this moment was authentic. Even so, she would proceed only if she could ask for what she wanted and have a better-than-even chance of getting it. And since she was returning to New York in precisely twelve hours, their relationship was unlikely to progress beyond the pure enjoyment of revealing to Sim what might have been. With a flick of an eyelash, a sultry, searchlight stare, she joyously indulged in the freedom the music afforded to put her metaphoric cards on the table.

When I say “do it”…

Hop to it!

By the last chorus, she had worked her way back, step by slinky step, to her harp. She took great pleasure in slowly, sensuously, drawing the instrument toward her body and finishing the song with a staccato flick of a string.

I’m getting hungry…

Peel me… a grape!

A moment of rapt silence hung in the air like secondhand smoke. Then someone near the back gave a piercing wolf whistle soon followed by others, as well as by shouts, foot-stomping, and thunderous applause. Daphne’s gaze swept the room. People were waving empty glasses over their heads. Others were clapping their hands and putting their fingers between their lips and whistling like New Yorkers in search of a cab.

At Sim’s table, everyone was laughing and hugging each other and clapping wildly as if they’d just won the lottery. Sim, however, sat motionless in his seat with a stunned expression on his face. Finally, he broke into a broad grin and, looking only at Daphne, patted his chest just over his heart. Althea then grabbed Kendra’s right hand and Daphne’s left and dragged them forward to take a bow.

“No encores!” she commanded her troops over the continuing uproar. “Let’s beat feet outta here while we’re still ahead!”

Daphne squeezed Althea’s hand in a signal of agreement, and the three members of the ad hoc Aphrodite Jazz Ensemble took one last bow, then made a dash for the exit with the sound of the audience demanding just one more song ringing in their ears.

***

Jack Ebert leaned against the bar for support. The sound of applause reverberated on all sides of the room while he tried to regain his equilibrium. This was not exactly what he’d expected when he’d read the brief announcement in the
Natchez
Democrat.

Saturday evening, classically trained harpist

Daphne Duvallon will be joining Willis McGee’s

group for a one-night-only performance at the

Under-the-Hill Saloon.

There had been no Willis McGee on the bandstand tonight, and what in the world was that black bitch, Althea LaCroix, doing on stage posing as the leader of the pack? Daphne had acted like a whore up there dressed in that miniskirt and that thing that pushed up her tits till they were practically under her chin.
Yes
…
a
whore!
Jack thought, resentful of the faint throbbing between his legs. He
hated
having a physical response to a woman he loathed, especially when she’d flaunted her hooters in the face of that goddamned photographer tonight.

“Peel me a grape!”

Yeah, sure
, Jack thought.
I’d like to peel her
—

Jack reminded himself that he had another agenda. He’d figured that Simon Hopkins might show up for this gig. Antoinette Duvallon had told Alice Ebert—and his mother, of course, had told
him
—that the pair had hung out together all during King’s wedding reception and obviously had something going between them.

Briefly, Jack wondered if they’d slept together yet. Probably not, he concluded, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the back of Hopkins’s head. Daphne might flaunt her ass in public like she did tonight—little cock teaser—but she’d sure been slow to come across with the goods during their engagement.

Jack would just as soon forget the night he’d finally got into her pants—and then couldn’t do anything about it. She’d been silent and accepting of his failure to get it up that first time, and that made it even worse. He liked it hot. He liked it dangerous. Daphne had wanted moonlight and magnolias, and he found all that a total turnoff. In fact, she was probably the
reason
that sometimes he couldn’t get a—

Jack gulped down the rest of his drink and summoned a vision of the flame-haired Cindy Lou Mallory standing in a dark corner of WWEZ-TV’s tape vault. She’d shown up late one night after he’d broadcast one of his film reviews. He’d made
her
hot enough that time, hadn’t he? Now, there was a woman who was so oversexed she’d do it upside down in a trash can.

The group at Simon Hopkins’s table stood up as if preparing to depart. Jack set his empty glass on the bar and strolled purposefully in the direction of the deserted bandstand. He halted ten feet away from Daphne who, by this time, had changed into slacks and a demur white, long-sleeved cotton shirt.

Jack watched as his ex-fiancée received plaudits from family and friends.

“Bravo!”

“Hey, great job, Daphne!”

“Splendid, my dear!”

He ambled toward the group with greetings of his own.

“Hey, Daphne. Quite an act you had goin’ tonight. Can’t wait to give your mama my review of your… ah…
performance
.”

What he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell anyone was that he’d checked on a few things when he’d heard she had the hots for this guy and couldn’t believe what he’d discovered about Simon Chandler Hopkins of San Francisco, California. Meanwhile, Daphne had turned her head and was staring at him with an expression that went from shock to fury.

“Why do you do this, Jack?” she demanded, surprising him with her directness, especially in front of all these people. “Why do you follow me around like some stalker, or something? And why are you still in Natchez? Don’t tell me that you traded your Texas job for running your daddy’s mortuary here in town?”

The bitch knew that was just the sort of thing that would rile him the most, he thought, as cold, hard anger swept over him. However, he forced himself to smile and shook his head.

“Much as it may surprise you, Daphne, I didn’t come here to see
you
.” He nodded at the silent group clustered around her, and said with forced geniality, “Sorry to interrupt.” He put out his hand to Simon Hopkins. “I’m a former journalist and TV arts critic and a great admirer of yours, Mr. Hopkins. I just had to come over and say hello. Over the years, I’ve reviewed a couple of your books. I recognized you tonight from your picture on the jackets and I just wanted to have a chance to meet you in person.”

The photographer looked at him skeptically, but made no challenge.

Jack glanced swiftly at the others standing nearby. “I once ran an Internet search on this man when I was doing those pieces, and I’m sure he’s far too modest to tell you ’bout all the things he’s accomplished.” He returned his attention to Hopkins and smiled in a fashion he hoped the jerk found ingratiating. “Pretty impressive credentials. A double PhD in biology
and
ornithology from Stanford, huh? Plus a wife who’s considered one of the smartest, most hardworking young attorneys in San Francisco ever to make full partner in one of the city’s big law firms out there, am I right?”

“Ex-wife,” Simon corrected. “I guess you need to update your Internet information.”

Oh. Well, so what, sucker
, Jack thought.

All the better for
his
purposes that Francesca Hayes wasn’t married to the guy anymore, although it would have given him great pleasure if Daphne had picked another married man to make a fool of herself over.

So, he thought, making his farewells, he’d succeeded in nailing what he came here to find out. The toughest anti-environmental lawyer in the country was the former wife of
this
particular Simon Hopkins. What a piece of luck. He could kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. He nearly laughed aloud at his own joke.

He was startled when a short, white-haired member of Daphne’s party took a step forward and rudely waved a finger at him. “Didn’t I see you up in Jackson last week?” the old man demanded belligerently.

Jack was alarmed. He preferred that no one in Natchez know what was going on in the state capital. Let everyone think he was merely checking up on the latest funeral home his parents had purchased. The deal in Jackson was a stealth operation, and, for sure, Able Petroleum wanted to keep it that way.