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He hadn’t asked her for her address, she thought suddenly.
Not that it mattered. She had no doubt James Forrester would find her with no difficulty at all.
CHAPTER THREE
Gabrielle held a pale pink dress against herself and looked into the mirror. The colour was good, it was the perfect foil for her glossy black hair and light olive skin. But perhaps it was too dressy, with its low neckline and pearl-studded belt.
She tossed the dress on the bed and snatched another from the open wardrobe. Too drab, she thought, eyeing her reflection critically. This one was a grey twill, bought when she’d finished business college. The perfect interview dress, her father had called it with a teasing smile when she’d modeled it for him.
‘It’s important to set the right image,’ Gabrielle had said, repeating with earnest conviction the words Miss Mullins had spoken to the school’s graduates.
‘You do not need to worry about image, Gabriella,’ her father had said with a smile. ‘I told you, Uncle Tony will give you a job right in his office. He wants you to go see him tomorrow.’
Gabrielle had turned away from her father’s smile. ‘No,’ she’d said sharply, and then she’d swallowed hard. ‘I mean, tell him I said thank you very much, but I’d rather find a job for myself.’
Her father had sighed. ‘I don’t understand you lately, Gabriella. You would not go out on his boat when he invited us last week, you turned him down when he was nice enough to offer to take you to the theatre…’
‘I was busy, Papa. I told you that.’
Her father had put his arm around her shoulder. ‘I know you’re all grown up now, but you will always be a little girl to your Uncle Tony and me.’
‘He’s not my uncle,’ Gabrielle had said, and her father’s face had registered surprise.
‘He might as well be. He loves you as if you were his own flesh and blood. Why, he’s all the family you have, except for me.’
It was true. Gabrielle’s mother had died soon after she was born, and there were no other blood relatives. Her earliest memories were of the man she called Uncle Tony. He was always there: she and her father lived in a little house behind his, and she’d grown up as much in his home as in her own.
When she was little, she’d loved to climb on Uncle Tony’s knee, laughing as he pretended to pull coins and sweets from her ears and pockets. It was Uncle Tony who had bought her expensive Christmas and birthday gifts, who had paid for her private schooling and the clothes that went with such exclusivity.
‘My favourite little niece,’ he’d say, and open his heavy arms to her.
It was hard to remember when she had first begun to suspect that Uncle Tony thought of her as something other than his niece, but, during her late teens, his kisses sometimes slipped from her cheek to her mouth, his hands seemed to linger on her a little too long when he greeted her.
She’d told herself it was her imagination. Anything else was insane even to contemplate. Once she’d tried discussing it with her father. But he’d misunderstood her completely. He’d laughed and assured her that she’d never be too old to be hugged and kissed by people who loved her.
People like Uncle Tony.
She tried to tell herself her father was right, that Tony Vitale was just a big man with an equally large exuberance for life. Still, she avoided being alone with him. But she took the job in his office because it pleased her father, and because otherwise there was no way to avoid saying things he didn’t want to hear. There was no difficulty: she began in the stenography pool and saw little of Vitale and the other union bosses.
Away from the office, Gabrielle made sure they were never done. After a while, she began to think that either she’d been wrong about Vitale’s interest in her or it had been a passing thing. He went back to treating her with familial cordiality, although there were still moments when she felt his eyes on her.
The charges against Vitale had stunned her. All his employees, not only her father, treated him with respect. And, as leader of a powerful union, he was friend to both politicians and public figures. The walls of his office were hung with photos of himself in the company of mayors, judges, and religious leaders. Never mind what the papers always hinted; surely a man who was a crook wouldn’t enjoy such powerful friendships?
His ‘friends’ fled his side when the charges were brought. Gabrielle had a thousand questions to ask, but of whom? Her father, already showing signs of the illness that would kill him, muttered only that the federal prosecutor was creating a case against Vitale so he could make a name for himself, and then he was too sick to say anything more and she was too worried about him to care. Anyway, Vitale couldn’t be a criminal. If he were, what did that make of her father? She’d even said as much to the chief prosecutor, but he’d only laughed.
‘Just give your testimony when the time comes, Miss Chiari, and your father won’t have to be involved in this at all.’
Her ‘testimony’ struck her as meaningless. All she’d done was overhear Tony Vitale make a phone call to someone named Frank.
‘Riley refuses to come around, Frank,’ Vitale had whispered into the receiver. ‘I want him taken care of tonight.’ His broad face had blanched when he’d
looked up and seen her in the doorway. ‘What are you doing? How long have you been spying on me?’ Gabrielle had stared at him in amazement. It was the first time he’d ever spoken harshly to her.
‘I’m not spying on you! I’m looking for my father.’ Vitale’s dark eyes had burned into hers, and then he’d let out his breath and smiled. ‘Sure. He’s out back, getting the car ready.’ His smile had twisted just a little. ‘Come give Uncle Tony a big kiss, Gabriella.’
She’d stammered something about being in a hurry and fled his office. Only weeks later, her life had changed forever. The charges against Vitale had made headlines everywhere, her father had fallen ill, and the tabloids, always eager for dirt, had discovered her, the coolly beautiful young woman living in the little house behind Tony Vitale’s. And nothing had ever been the same again.
The musical peal of the clock on the bedside table brought Gabrielle back to the present. Her eyes flew to it. Eight o’clock! It was so late. How was that possible?
She stared at the dresses tossed across the bed. It looked as if she’d tried on everything she owned, as if it really mattered how she looked tonight when she and James Forrester went out to dinner.
This wasn’t a date. It was a way of saying ‘thank you’ for what he’d done and ‘I’m sorry’ for her own foolishness.
Besides, he’d tricked her into this. She’d never intended to go to lunch with him, much less dinner.
Gabrielle looked at the bed again. And yet, she’d spent the afternoon thinking about the evening ahead; she’d been so caught up in her own musings that she’d even managed to be polite to Mrs Delacroix when she’d telephoned for the fifth time.
The doorbell rang and Gabrielle tossed her head impatiently.
‘Such nonsense,’ she whispered to her reflection. ‘Just pick a dress and put it on. An hour of polite conversation in a brightly lit restaurant and it will all be over.’ She reached for the closest dress to hand and slipped it over her head. The doorbell chimed for a second time as she slipped on her high heels. She staggered out of the bedroom, one foot half out of its shoe. ‘I’m coming,’ she called, and she clattered down the stairs.
She reached the door just as a heavy fist pounded against it. ‘For goodness’ sake,’ she said, flinging the door open, ‘don’t be so…’
The words died in her throat. James Forrester stood on the narrow porch, bathed in the faint pool of light from the lamp that lit the courtyard. His face was a stone mask.
Gabrielle swallowed. ‘I—I’m sorry I kept you waiting. I didn’t realise it was so…’
His hands closed on her arms and he half lifted her from her feet as he pushed her back into the house. ‘What the hell took you so long?’
His voice was grim and angry.
Gabrielle’s pulse raced as she felt the bite of his fingers into her flesh.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ she said. ‘You’re hurting me.’
He glared at her through eyes as hard as ice. ‘And what kind of way is that to open the door? Don’t you even ask who it is?’ Her shoulders hit the wall as he pressed her into the hall. ‘This is New Orleans, not some little town painted by Norman Rockwell.’
She looked at him in bewilderment. ‘But I knew it was
you. It’s eight o’clock. And you said ’
‘It damned well could have been anybody.’ He nodded towards the still-open door as if it were an enemy. ‘Why didn’t you look through the grille?’
‘I suppose I should have. I ’
‘Start doing it.’
Gabrielle stared at him. Her heart was still galloping, but anger was replacing fear. Who did James Forrester think he was, anyway?
‘I appreciate your concern,’ she said coolly. ‘But this is my house, not yours. And I do not take orders from you.’
Their eyes met and held. She thought she saw something in the depths of his that chilled her, but it was gone so quickly that later she was sure she’d imagined it.
Drawing in his breath, James lifted his hands from her with exaggerated care. ‘Sorry.’ He smiled tightly. ‘I guess that was a hell of a way to say hello.’
Gabrielle crossed her arms over her chest and rubbed her shoulders. The skin beneath her hands was tender, and she wondered if James’s hard grip had left her bruised.
‘Yes,’ she said warily, ‘it certainly was.’ She dropped her hands to her hips and tilted her head as she stared at him. ‘Do you always come through the door like that?’
His smile grew sheepish. ‘Not always.’
‘Good. Otherwise, your dates would be few and far between.’
The pale blue eyes darkened. ‘Is that what this is? A date?’
She felt a wash of colour rise to her cheeks. ‘You know what I mean.’
