No More Lonely Nights (26 page)

Clay looked disappointed. “You still have to work?”

Dominique was flattered by his dismay. “Of course. Things can still go wrong.”

Clay looked up at the waiter. “Tanqueray martini for me. Up. Olives,” he said.

He looked like a martini sort of man, Dominique thought. Languorous, sophisticated, hedonistic. His outrageous good looks were set off by a tan silk suit. A fine shirt of pale blue cotton made his eyes appear even bluer. A striped silk tie completed a look that was tasteful and discreet. And yet, the startling perfection of his features made him appear almost flamboyant, as though he were the hero of a spy movie.

Dominique couldn’t suppress her curiosity about him. “You’re not originally from New York, are you?”

He shook his head slowly, still keeping his eyes fixed on her. “No, ma’am,” he drawled, “New Orleans.” He pronounced it “N’awlins.”

So that explained the accent, less extreme than other southerners, but softer than northerners. Dominique dropped her eyes, feeling the need to escape the intensity of his gaze. “That’s your headquarters, then. I’ve seen your company’s bills, of course, but they say you have offices in New York, Philadelphia, New Orleans, and Miami.”

A look of pride came over Clay’s features. “We’re pretty big, I suppose. Stay busy.”

One of the biggest shipping companies in America, Dominique knew, amused by his understatement.

The waiter brought their drinks and Clay raised his glass to Dominique. “You deserve a toast for putting together such an incredible party. And…” he added with a self-mocking smile, “I’m an expert on parties.”

“Oh?” Dominique leaned forward and gazed up at him. She couldn’t keep a flirtatious note of interest from her voice. “And why is that?”

“Don’t you know that New Orleans is the greatest party city in the entire United States? Our motto is
‘Laissez les bons temps rouler.’”

Dominique smiled. “Let the good times roll…. Sounds inviting!”

His voice dropped a register. “I’d like to show it to you sometime.”

It sounded like an offhand remark. “That would be nice.” Dominique smiled.

He sat up straighter in his chair. “No, I mean really.”

Dominique was taken aback. She gave him a questioning look.

“How about tomorrow?” Clay asked.

“Tomorrow!” Dominique gasped and let out a burst of incredulous laughter.

“My company plane’s here. We can go down for dinner.” He leaned forward, enthusiastic.

Dominique stiffened. Undoubtedly, he was used to girls swooning at the offer of such a glamorous evening. “I don’t think so,” she said, her voice cool.

Unabashed, Clay went on. “It’s perfectly respectable! We’ll be in public the entire time. The plane even has two stewards.”

Dominique couldn’t remain offended, his manner was so guileless. At the same time, she had no intention of getting on a private plane with a stranger, no matter how intriguing he was. She finished the last sip of her coffee and put the cup down with an air of finality. “I’m sorry, I really can’t,” she said firmly.

He regarded her with an air of mock exasperation. “All right! You win!” He threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “How about dinner tomorrow night? Here.”

Dominique gave him a severe look. Feeling contrary, she lied, “I’m busy tomorrow night.” If he was really interested he’d —

“What about next Saturday?” He pounced on the challenge. There was no doubt he was intrigued by her resistance. “I’ll fly up ’specially.”

How could Dominique say no?

Dating Clay was like being back in the halcyon days of Egypt. On Saturday, he took her to dinner at “21,” then dancing at the Copacabana.

Since Dominique couldn’t justify the extravagance of a new evening gown, she was relieved that Anton had finally sent the clothes she had left in San Francisco. At first, he had refused, but as soon as he had filed for divorce, he had evidently lost all interest in her. Dominique suspected that his eagerness to sever their ties was the result of a new woman in his life. Well, she was welcome to him. Dominique only wished she could warn the poor thing.

For her first date with Clay, Dominique wore a strapless gown of black silk, regretting that she had no real jewelry to set it off. If it wouldn’t have meant endless questions, she would have borrowed something from Solange. Still, when Dominique was dressed and ready to go, with her curls gathered up in a frothy hairdo and the sheer black scarf floating over her shoulders, she decided that she looked very good. More than good, she admitted to herself. Her shoulders were glossy and smooth, begging to be caressed. Her cleavage teased invitingly without revealing too much. And her eyes, carefully made up to emphasize their exotic slant and color, illuminated her entire face.

Once at “21,” Clay and Dominique were whisked past the crowd at the door to a table in the prestigious front room. As the captain, busboy, and maitre d’hotel hovered attentively around their table, ensuring that everything was to Mr. Parker’s liking, the sommelier brought a bottle of Krug 1947 vintage champagne in an ice bucket. Clearly, Clay was a regular patron, and a valued one.

Dominique looked happily around the room. It had been over a year since she’d been in such a rarefied setting. Despite the fact that the restaurant was located in a cozy brownstone with beamed ceilings and varnished wood, it was as unmistakably exclusive as the marble palaces that housed clubs in Egypt or Monte Carlo. At the bar, she recognized several famous faces.

“You’ve never been here before?” Clay asked.

Dominique turned back to him. She was too sure of herself— and too accustomed to places like “21”—to lie. “No, but I’ve heard about it,” she said, thinking once more how handsome he looked in evening clothes.

“Hmmm. I would have thought that a girl like you would have been everywhere in New York,” he teased.

Dominique tilted her head. “A girl like me?”

Clay took a sip of champagne and looked at Dominique over the rim of his glass. “Sophisticated, talented, beautiful, amusing.” He paused. “The men up here must be fighting over you.” He smiled and put down his glass. “If not, they’re crazy.”

Dominique raised her eyebrows and gave him an enigmatic smile. Then she changed the subject. “How long will you be in town?” she asked.

Clay gave her his wicked grin. “As long as it takes.”

Dominique’s heart fluttered. Oh, he was altogether too appealing. Dangerous. “Takes to do what?” she ventured, knowing the answer pertained to her.

“Get you to come to New Orleans.”

Dominique laughed. She looked squarely at him, her eyes twinkling. “How long does it usually take?”

Clay blushed, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but he laughed, too. “No comment,” he said. “That’s my safest course.” As his laughter died away, he cocked his head and studied Dominique. He looked at once puzzled and respectful.

“Maybe we should change the subject.” Dominique glossed over the moment with good humor. “Does your family live in New Orleans, too?”

Clay leaned back in his chair and rested his arms on the snowy tablecloth. “Since the 1850s. None of us have ever lived anywhere else.”

Dominique sighed. “That’s nice. That’s the way it was for us in Egypt.” She had told him a little about her background in the ride from her apartment—a ride that took place in a shining, black Cadillac limousine.

“How’d you end up in the United States?” he asked.

Dominique stiffened. She knew she was in treacherous waters. She didn’t want to lie, but she had no intention of divulging her history to someone she barely knew. Not even her friends at work knew about Anton. “The French are no longer welcome in Egypt,” she said carefully, “and my sister was here.”

Eager to turn the conversation back to Clay, Dominique asked, “Do you have brothers or sisters?”

Clay shook his head. “I’m an only child.”

Dominique wondered how old he was. He seemed young to be the head of his own company. Perhaps it was his father’s. She tried to think of a subtle way to find out. “And how long has Parker Shipping existed?”

Clay chuckled. “As long as there have been Parkers in Louisiana.”

“Oh, so your father must still be active in the firm.” Clay didn’t look older than thirty, so the father probably wasn’t more than sixty.

A shadow passed over Clay’s features, then just as quickly disappeared. He forced a smile. “He’s president of the company. They’ll probably have to carry him out on a stretcher.” He raised his hand and a waiter instantly appeared with long, leather-bound menus. A wine list, also thickly bound, was placed at Clay’s elbow.

Dominique sensed she had probed a touchy subject. Tactfully, she opened the menu. “Well,” she said, “what do you recommend?”

“The Dover sole is good. So’s the rack of lamb. Or we could split the Chateaubriand for two.”

“Is medium rare all right?” Dominique asked.

“Just the way I like it,” Clay said cheerfully.

After dinner, they entered the limousine for the short ride to the Copacabana. In the nightclub, Latin music pulsed, vibrating through the floor. Dominique’s eyes were immediately drawn to the orchestra—handsome men in flowing shirts with ruffled sleeves. At the microphone, the lead singer was belting out a lively tune in Spanish. Dominique was dying to join the sleek couples on the dance floor—it had been so long!

Clay seemed to sense her mood, for no sooner were they seated at their table for two overlooking the dance floor—another bottle of champagne at their side—than he invited her to dance. As Clay led Dominique around the semicircular tier to the red-carpeted main stairs, she gazed at the other colorful patrons. The crowd was more diverse than any Dominique had seen in Egypt. There, Parisian chic had been the standard for women, no matter what their nationality. But in New York, there was more glitz. Many of the women wore long white gloves with diamond bracelets over them. One exotic brunette held a red lacquered cigarette holder which her escort, a much younger man, lit with a gold lighter. The women wore more makeup and jewels than their European counterparts, and their dresses were adorned with more frills, sequins, and feathers. It made for a lively, interesting scene, Dominique decided, though she would never have dressed that way herself.

As Clay took her in his arms, he remarked, “You have the tiniest waist I’ve ever seen. My hand almost spans it.”

Dominique smiled up at him. She knew his admiration wasn’t feigned. The way he treated her, the things he said, made her feel genuinely beautiful. She had so long shied away from romantic attachments that the feelings he aroused made her light-headed—like smoking a cigarette or taking a drink after a long abstinence. She melted into his arms, matching her steps perfectly to his.

As it turned out, Clay was an expert dancer. “My mother tortured me with four years of cotillion,” he laughed. “Every afternoon, from the time I was ten till I was fourteen. Of course, just about the time it ended, I really started getting interested in girls.” He rolled his eyes. “If only she’d waited, I would have been a willing victim.”

“I have no complaints,” Dominique bantered. “I think your mother did just the right thing.”

They danced five tunes, then Clay pled exhaustion and they went back to their table. Dominique noted that, once again, they occupied the club’s prime spot. “You must spend a lot of time in New York,” she remarked.

“My father likes to keep me busy,” Clay said lightly. “Sends me from one branch to another.” Before he even completed the sentence, he turned to summon the waiter.

Dominique’s earlier intuition seemed confirmed. There was definite strain between father and son. Well, she could sympathize, given her relationship with Solange. She made sure to avoid the subject for the rest of the evening.

At three-thirty in the morning, Clay and Dominique left the Copa. Dominique’s feet were sore from dancing, but she was wide awake. When Clay suggested that they stop for breakfast on the way home, Dominique saw no reason to say no.

There were many other people in evening clothes in the coffee shop across from the St. Regis Hotel. Early breakfast, Clay told her, was a tradition among New York revelers. They had an authentic American meal of bacon, scrambled eggs, hashed browns, toast, and coffee. And they talked about everything from classical music to the Louisiana bayou.

It was dawn when the limousine finally drew up in front of Dominique’s apartment. Clay walked her to her door, admiring the rural silence of her street. “You don’t find that very often in New York,” he commented.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Dominique sighed. “It won’t stay that way. Things get noisier after the sun comes up.”

As they reached her door. Clay turned Dominique toward him. “I’m not going to ask permission,” he murmured as he drew close.

“I wouldn’t expect that from
you,”
Dominique smiled. Then she went into his arms, willingly succumbing to his kiss.

What finally convinced Dominique to go to New Orleans with Clay wasn’t the dinner at the Stork Club, nor the helicopter tour of Manhattan. Not the roses he sent each week, nor the giant bottle of Chanel No. 5 he bought to celebrate their two-week anniversary. None of his extravagant gestures charmed her as much as the luncheon date at the relatively modest Taft Hotel. For it was that flight of fancy that made her fall in love with him.

“You have to take two hours for lunch today,” he insisted good-naturedly when he phoned her on the Monday a little more than three weeks after their first meeting.

“I can’t.” Dominique laughed indulgently. She was constantly surprised—and flattered—at how often he arranged to be in New York. They had gone out ten days out of the last fourteen. On the days they didn’t see each other, he took quick trips home or to branch offices. Whenever he was in town, though, he picked her up after work in the limousine. Sometimes he would drop her at her apartment so she could change for one of their elegant dinners, but other times they would simply take a walk, then stop at a neighborhood restaurant for a light meal. Dominique never offered to cook for him, however. She only knew how to make a few basic things, none of them particularly well, and she had noticed that Clay was exacting about cuisine.