Legacy of Lies (11 page)

“Thanks, Alex. You're a peach.” He bent his head, gave her a brief unthreatening kiss, then headed toward the door, stopping momentarily in front of the mirror. After finger combing his wavy, collar-length hair to his satisfaction, he left the room whistling.

Alex laughed, grateful she'd withdrawn from the romance sweepstakes. Then, shaking her head, she turned the
sketch pad over again and began reworking the suit's lace-trimmed lapels.

 

Although Rio was a bustling metropolis by day, by night it truly came alive. The streets filled with stunningly attractive people and clubs were packed with dancing and singing bodies. Zach and Miranda's luxurious hotel suite boasted a breathtaking view of Guanabara Bay, but at the moment, Zach's attention was not on the lights surrounding the gumdrop shape of Sugarloaf Mountain.

Instead, he was pacing the floor, frustration pounding through every pore.

“I don't understand,” he repeated for the umpteenth time. “You have a purse filled with credit cards. Not to mention the five thousand dollars in traveler's checks.”

“A little more than that, actually,” Miranda said with a calm smile that made him want to shake her.

“So why the hell did you feel the need to lift those earrings?”

When he'd first received the telephone call from the manager of Mesbla, awakening him from a much needed nap, Zach had been certain it must be a mistake. When he arrived at the store's security offices, he'd learned it was all too true. His bride of three days had been caught red-handed stealing a pair of fifty-dollar earrings.

“They weren't even real emeralds, goddammit,” he said.

“But they were lovely, nevertheless. For costume jewelry.”

“So why didn't you just pay for them? Like everyone else?”

“What fun would that be?”

She sighed prettily as she went over to the bar and retrieved a bottle of champagne. Ignoring his smoldering
fury, she expertly opened it. A wisp of vapor followed the cork. She poured the champagne into two flutes.

“Please, darling,” she murmured, coaxing him to calm with her expressive eyes, her lush lips, “this is our honeymoon. Let's not spend it fighting.”

Resisting an overwhelming urge to punch a hole in the wall, Zach thrust his hands through his hair. “Goddammit, Miranda—”

“Take a sip.” She held the glass out to him. Zach grimly decided that Eve must have looked a great deal like Miranda did at this moment when she presented Adam with that shiny red apple to take his mind off that serpent hovering overhead. “It's a very special vintage. The concierge spent a great deal of time locating it. Just for you.”

Shaking his head with mute frustration, Zach took a drink. Although the champagne was excellent, for a fleeting moment, he had a sudden urge for a cold beer. A Jax in a long-necked bottle.

You're the one who was so all-fired eager to leave the bayou, he reminded himself. You're the one who wanted to be a big shot. He might have grown up without the right name or address. He might have grown up without ever hearing of Chippendale or Baccarat or Royal Doulton.

And his working-class family had not possessed any money at all, let alone the kind of old money—respectable, fuck-you money—that was stashed away in Eleanor Lord's vault.

Unable to count on social contacts, Zachary had gotten where he was on brain and guts and hard work, along with a willingness to take risks.

And it had all paid off. In spades.

He was now the very wealthy president of an international company. He was a registered Republican, despite the fact he usually voted Democratic; he worshiped in the
Episcopalian church, though there were times when his mind automatically responded in the Latin of his altar-boy days. He belonged to all the right clubs, even while secretly considering golf excruciatingly boring.

And last, but definitely not least, he was now married to an unbelievably sexy, stunningly beautiful woman from the gilded, fairy-tale world of the Social Register. So dammit, why did he feel as if something was missing?

Perhaps because he'd just found out that his society bride was also a common, garden-variety shoplifter.

“We have to settle this, Miranda.”

“Would it help if I told you that I'm terribly sorry?” Her voice was low and throaty. Her bedroom voice. “And that it will never, ever, happen again?”

She put her hand on his cheek. “It was just one of those crazy urges.” Her eyes were wide and guileless. “And you know how impossible it is for me to resist my urges. Please don't be mad at me.

“I'll do anything to make this afternoon up to you, darling,” she said breathlessly. When the tip of her tongue touched the top of her glossy red lip, Zach flashed back to this morning. The memory of the incredible things she had done with that tongue was all it took to make him hard. “Absolutely anything.”

She was manipulating him, using sex to get what she wanted. But even knowing that didn't make him want her any less.

Reading the reluctant acceptance in her husband's eyes, Miranda put her glass down on a nearby table. And then she began to languidly undress, displaying seductive skills that a striptease artist headlining at the Folies Bergère would have envied.

Her eyes were dark with sex and sin as she unbuttoned
her silk dress and allowed it to slide down her body, where it drifted into ebony petals on the plush blue carpet.

Her wispy bra was next. She shrugged out of it, revealing breasts as full as ripe melons. Her nipples were already hard. She stood there, smiling at him, wearing nothing but a sinfully sexy garter belt, black lace-topped stockings and skyscraper-high heels, a statuesque marvel of female perfection.

By the time she'd dispensed with the last bit of satin and lace, Zach's body was throbbing.

Their lovemaking, although quick and frenzied, was as torrid as ever. But unlike all those other times, tonight Zach's explosive orgasm left him feeling strangely unfulfilled.

February 1984

N
ineteen months after Alex's return to the States the shooting for “Blue Bayou” began with a bang on location—New Orleans during Mardi Gras. Excited about seeing her designs in action, Alex had accompanied the crew to the city.

Even the knowledge that Debord and his sister would be in town for the opening of the new Lord's department store could not burst her bubble of pleasure.

“I cannot believe you,” Mary Beth Olson, the actress who was playing Tiffany, complained on their last afternoon in the city.

Alex glanced up from the skirt she'd been repinning, correcting minuscule flaws in the costuming that had shown up during taping. Although the location shooting had been completed, the costume would be worn again when the inside shots were taped back in California.

“What do you mean?”

“She means,” Olivia Drew, who played the oil tycoon's wife, said, “that you are turning out to be a stick-in-the-mud.”

“It's the next-to-last night of Mardi Gras and you still haven't seen a single parade,” Mary Beth complained.

“I've been working.”

“That's all you do. Honestly, girl, you're more industrious than one of Santa's little elves.”

“All the taping's been done,” Olivia coaxed. Even Sophie had not been fearless enough to attempt to get decent footage on the final two nights of carnival. Fortunately there had been large crowds and several parades during their five days in the city. The New Orleans footage would be mixed with that shot on the sound stage at the Century City studio. “Come out and play.”

The idea was appealing. Alex had admittedly been a little envious, watching the cast enjoying themselves while she'd remained behind in the hotel making last-minute changes to the extensive wardrobe.

She'd been working nonstop since her return to the States. And although her intense schedule had been self-imposed, perhaps it was time she had a little fun. As a hard, driving beat filtered up from the crowded French Quarter street below, Alex could feel herself weakening.

“I suppose it wouldn't hurt. For just a little while.”

That was all it took. An hour or so later, Alex was standing in front of the mirror, staring at the unfamiliar reflection. The off-the-shoulder dress, in Mardi Gras shades of purple, green and gold, and so diaphanous it skated the very fringes of decency, was one Alex had designed for Tiffany. Her arms were covered in gold bracelets; gold hoops swung from her ears to her bare, polished shoulders.

She looked good. Better than good, Alex decided. What was really surprising was that she felt as alluring as she
looked. After having worked so hard to subdue her image these past months since escaping Debord, Alex felt a stirring of the female sexuality she'd locked away deep inside.

“Lord, you look like a very wealthy, very sexy Gypsy,” Olivia drawled, putting in her two cents' worth.

For a woman whose role required her to wear Chanel knockoffs as she arranged flowers in Ming vases around the mansion, tonight Olivia had gone for broke with a jet leather mini and halter top, complete with a spiked necklace, over-the-thigh ebony boots and a vicious-looking black riding crop. She looked, Mary Beth had exclaimed, like a biker's wet dream.

No slouch in the costume department herself, after a visit to a shop on Chartres Street, Mary Beth had returned to the hotel dressed like a very sexy Pocahontas, complete with suede bikini and towering feathered headdress.

On this night before Fat Tuesday, Bourbon Street was, unsurprisingly, packed with boisterous merrymakers carrying paper cups filled with Hurricanes, the city's famed and lethal blend of rum and passion-fruit punch.

“I think I'm going to go back to the hotel!” Alex shouted to be heard over the din of a Dixieland jazz band two hours later.

“So soon?” Olivia swayed on her high heels and was helpfully steadied by a well-muscled man dressed like the cowboy from the Village People. She was obviously drunk, but so were most of the people in the bar and on the street.

It seemed to Alex as if all restrictions of gender, manners, morals and social status had been dispensed with. Old and young, male and female, rich and poor, seemed to have been mixed together and blended like one of the frothy red Hurricanes.

“I'm getting a headache.” She wasn't, though she would be if she stayed out much longer.

“I've got some aspirin,” Mary Beth offered, digging through her shoulder bag.

“That's all right. Really.”

“Just a minute. I know they're here somewhere.” She dumped the entire bag onto the bar, sending coins scattering to the floor along with a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a small pink plastic case. “Oh my God,” she cried drunkenly, “I dropped my diaphragm!”

As three men, one dressed as Marie Antoinette, immediately bent down to retrieve it, the actress dissolved into giggles. She was still laughing when Alex left the bar.

Returning to the hotel was easier said than done. A parade float passed, preceded by musicians dressed as creatures from the sea: pink coral, sea horses, exotic fish and shells, moving with sinuous twists and turns as they played, as if buffeted by undersea currents. Following was the float itself, depicting Odysseus tied to the mast, resisting the Sirens, who stopped their seduction efforts every so often to throw plastic doubloons and strings of beads to the enthusiastic, masked and costumed spectators.

Jazz poured out of every open doorway. Battling her way through the raucous, jostling crowd, Alex had reached the corner of Bourbon and St. Peter's Streets when she suddenly found the sidewalk blocked by three very young and very drunken sailors.

“Well,” one of them drawled, eyeing her with lust in his glazed eyes, “if it isn't a little Gypsy fortune-teller.”

Alex stepped into the street to move around them. Unfortunately the trio moved, as well. “How about reading my palm, sweetheart?” another sailor suggested.

He held his hand out to her. Alex ignored it, glancing instead over his shoulder, looking for the mounted patrolman she'd seen on this corner earlier.

“If you'll excuse me…” She moved the other way, her unease building as they moved with her.

“Don't be in such a hurry, sugar,” the first man said. He took hold of her arm and leaned close enough for her to smell the whiskey on his breath. Anger churned with a growing fear inside her, but when she tried to pull away, his fingers tightened, digging into her flesh.

If these three weren't enough, another man appeared behind her.

“There you are, sweetheart,” Zach said to Alex with feigned cheer. “I thought I'd lost you in Ryan's.” He'd been returning to his hotel from the new store when he'd spotted the woman in obvious trouble.

Didn't she realize, Zach wondered, that for a woman to appear alone on what was, during this week at least, the most hedonistic street in America, dressed in a ridiculously sexy outfit like that was like waving a red flag in front of a bunch of crazed bulls?

When his arm looped possessively around her shoulder, Alex stiffened.

“Where the hell did you go?” An edge of irritation crept into Zach's tone. “I came back from the john and you were gone.”

Alex was nothing if not quick. Although she had no idea who her rescuer was, she read the reassuring message in his eyes and picked up on the conversation.

“It was so crowded I went out for a breath of fresh air and got swept away with the crowd.”

“I was worried.” He brushed her gilt bangs from her forehead with a tender, concerned gesture, then turned to the trio who'd begun muttering among themselves.

“Thanks for watching out for the little woman for me,” Zach said, acknowledging the trio for the first time. He
reached into his pocket and pulled out some folded bills. “Let me buy you a beer for your assistance.”

The others, weaving on their feet, eyed the steely determination in Zach's eyes and mumbled their agreement. The one who'd been manhandling Alex was not so malleable.

“We were about to have ourselves a little party.”

“Good night for it,” Zach agreed. He flashed a smile that failed to reach his eyes. “Have fun.” He turned, taking Alex with him and began to walk away, only to have the sailor step belligerently in front of him.

“We were planning to have a party with the little Gypsy.”

When Zach felt Alex begin to tremble, he tightened his arm around her shoulder. “I'm afraid there's been a small misunderstanding.” His voice was amiable enough, but his dark eyes had turned as hard as obsidian. “This lady's taken. So why don't you boys go find yourself some more-willing companionship. Unless you'd rather talk with the Shore Patrol.” Along with the deepened bayou patois, a dangerous edge had crept into his voice.

There was a long, silent moment as both men held their ground. Finally the sailor shrugged. “Hey man, she's all yours,” he muttered. With that he turned and staggered away, his companions following drunkenly behind.

Alex released a long, pent-up breath and was prepared to thank him when he turned on her. “Are you always this reckless, lady? Or are you merely stupid?”

He was standing in front of her in a spread-leg, feet-planted stance that made her think that, instead of that dark suit, he should be wearing a pirate costume. All he was lacking, she thought, was an eye patch and a cutlass.

Alex had already had enough trouble with men tonight; she didn't need any lectures from this one, no matter how well intentioned.

“Are you always this rude?” she countered.

“If you're so concerned about manners, you're definitely in the wrong town at the wrong time. You're just damn lucky I came along when I did. Where are you staying? We'd better get you back to your hotel before some other drunk decides to play king of the Gypsies.”

Her palms were still damp from fear. “I'm more than capable of getting back to the hotel on my own.”

“Dressed like that, you probably won't make it to the next corner. This isn't exactly a Boy Scout convention going on in town. And you, lady, are a rape just waiting to happen.”

“This dress isn't any more seductive than any other costume on the street. And it's a lot less sexy than most.” Her eyes, as gold as a buccaneer's doubloons, flashed sparks.

“True enough. But most of the women out here aren't you.”

Alex supposed his words could have been taken as a compliment, but there was nothing complimentary about his tone.

“Are you always this charming?” she asked sweetly. “Or does rescuing strange women just bring out the best in you?”

They stood there, toe-to-toe, face-to-face.

And that's when it happened. Zach smiled. An unexpected smile that changed his features, humanizing the man and making him horrendously, dangerously sexy.

“Hell, I'm sorry,” he said with absolute honesty. “I don't suppose it's any excuse that I've had a lousy day and I took out my frustrations on you.”

Alex shrugged. “You were probably right about a woman alone in this crowd,” she admitted reluctantly. “Although I didn't start out alone.”

“Lose your husband somewhere along the way?”

“I'm not married.”

“So you were with a date?” he probed with a casualness he was suddenly a long way from feeling.

“Actually, I was with friends. But I wanted to go back to the hotel and they wanted to stay out and party.”

“If I apologize for being such a jerk, how about letting me walk you back to your hotel? I'm not quite ready to call it a night,” he said, conveniently forgetting that only minutes before he couldn't wait to get back to his suite on the top floor of the Royal Orleans.

Something was happening between them. Something more charged than mere sexual tension. All around Zach and Alex, the Mardi Gras festivities flowed, but the pair remained in the center of the celebratory throng of people, an isolated, private island.

“I'd like that,” she said in a perfectly rational voice although her eyes displayed her own suddenly turbulent emotions.

“Terrific.” He held out his hand. “By the way, I'm Zachary Deveraux.”

“Alexandra Lyons.” As she took his outstretched hand, the vibrations the seemingly casual handshake set off hummed inside her like a tuning fork.

The Jean Lafitte Hotel, named for the legendary New Orleans pirate and smuggler, was a restored eighteenth-century town house, a romantic place of courtyards filled with tropical plants and private, wrought-iron balconies, in the heart of the Vieux Carré. The walk to the Jean Lafitte from Bourbon Street normally took no more than five minutes. Tonight, with the crowds, it took almost half an hour.

“Would you like to come in for a drink?” Alex asked. She was unwilling to let him get away so soon.

Zach reminded himself that he was a married man. That
these feelings he was experiencing for Alexandra Lyons were not only wrong, but dangerous.

Although his marriage was turning out to be a horrendous mistake, Zach never played around. Not that there weren't always available women, both married and unmarried, who let it be known they would not be adverse to spending a stolen afternoon indulging in illicit pleasures.

But Zach had always considered himself a man of his word, and marriage vows were exactly that. Vows.
For better or for worse.

“I'd like a drink,” he said, ignoring the nagging voice of caution in the back of his mind.

Not surprisingly the Jean Lafitte's All That Jazz bar, along with the l'Escale dining room and the Gazebo Salon were packed.

In for a penny, in for a pound
. Telling herself she had no other choice, Alex said, “I suppose we could go upstairs and call room service.” As she waited for his answer, Alex realized she'd forgotten how to breathe.

Zach knew it was wrong. He realized he would be treading on very thin ice. But at this moment, on this freewheeling, carnival night, with the sound of Louis Armstrong floating on the breeze, Zach felt his usually dependable self-control slipping away like grains of sand—or strands of her magnificent red-gold hair—between his fingers.