Ask a Shadow to Dance (5 page)

He came farther into the room, studying Lisette as though she were a new species instead of his daughter. “You look familiar, but I don’t think … I’ve ever …” A light seemed to flicker behind his eyes. “Lisette?” Tears streamed suddenly down his face.

“Yes, Papa.
It’s me.” She held him, cried with him. Oh, God, what happened to this man, such a short time ago considered one of the most astute businessmen in Memphis?

“I thought you were gone for good.” He pushed her back. “How old are you, now? Sixteen?”

She tried to smile through the tears. “No, Papa, I’m thirty-two. I’ve been gone eight long years, but I’m home now, to stay.”

An odd look swept across his face.
“Home to stay? Well, sit down; sit down. I’m plumb worn out, myself.” They sat on the divan next to the front fireplace. He continued to smile in that blank way, nodding constantly.

Lisette glanced at Aunt Portia. Her eyes shone with tears. Looking straight into her father’s eyes, Lisette told him, “I had a fine trip, Papa, coming home from New Orleans. The
Cajun Star
is a beautiful riverboat. The staterooms were nice, even though small, and standing on the deck, I met—”

“Want something to eat? I’m starved. Where’s Portia? Portia’s my sister, you know.
Takes care of me and my little girl. Couldn’t live without her. Portia!”

“I’m right here, Jacob. Would you like something from the kitchen?” Her sad expression included a smile and a narrow shake of her head.

“Haven’t had anything to eat all day,” he told Lisette. “Want something?”

“No, thank you, Papa.”

He followed Aunt Portia to the kitchen, muttering all the way about empty cupboards.

“There’s no food in the house.
Can’t find anything to eat.”

“Now, Jacob, you had breakfast and lunch. Don’t you remember?”

“Don’t remember eating today. I ate yesterday though. Didn’t I? Starving!”

Lisette sat alone for a moment in the elegant parlor, fighting emotion, then, as a distraction, rose and slowly toured the room, drinking in the sight of familiar objects and furniture she’d not seen in eight years. The courting couch, Turkish chairs and sofa brought back wonderful memories of growing up in this house. The Chinese Ceremonial Prayer Chest, inlaid with mythical and realistic animal depictions in mother-of -earl, had been an antique before it was ever finished, such craftsmanship requiring over a hundred years of painstaking work. It stood exactly where it had always stood, in the corner beside the front windows.

The Chinese screen stood in the far corner, four panels illustrating four seasons—peony for spring, lotus for summer, chrysanthemum for fall and plum blossoms for winter, embroidered with the
Forbidden Stitch
— stitching so small, the women who sewed it often went blind. The screen provided part of the separation between the parlor and music room, where musicians sat during parties and dinners. Even now, birds and flowers on the screen appeared to have been painted instead of sewn. Such a treasure. It had stood in that corner since its arrival when Lisette was six, two years after her mother died. A lifetime ago. Lisette lovingly examined each item in the room. Victorian decor meant filling every inch of space with something pretty, something meaningful, something ornate and expensive.

She picked up a porcelain figurine from the gold cherub table. This delicate, dancing angel had belonged to her mother, Brianna Lisette Durand Morgan. Its eyes were closed, a contented smile gracing its lips and folded wings framing its face.

The soft glow from the pair of fireplaces along the outer wall, crackling, warm and friendly, cast a thousand interlacing shadows throughout the room, soothing her memories, shutting out harsh, painful realities.

Her father’s failing mind, his frailty, his helplessness, suddenly overwhelmed Lisette. Still clutching the angel, she sank onto the Oriental rug and wept for all that had been lost. Aunt Portia’s hands on her shoulders, lifting, holding her, sharing the grief, soothing with her presence and love, comforted Lisette as nothing else could. She was home. She would help Aunt Portia make her father’s life the best it could possibly be for as long as he lived. Home meant everything.

Jacob appeared at the door with something in his hand that he bit and chewed. His fingers were greasy and stained. “Want some? Not the best I ever ate, but pretty good. Don’t know what it is.”

Lisette replaced the angel on the table, pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dried her eyes and face.
“No, thank you, Papa. Do you know who I am?”

He squinted, pondered,
shook his head. “Never saw you before in my life. Staying long?”

She smiled, reached for his hand.
“Yes, Papa. I’m staying a long time. I’m Lisette.”

He nodded and smiled.
“Pretty name. Had a daughter named Lisette. Portia!”

“Yes, Jacob?”

“When’s dinner? I’m starved!”

Portia sighed. “We had dinner hours ago, Jacob. You just finished what I’d hoped to save for tomorrow’s lunch. Let me take you upstairs. It’s time for bed.”

“Bed? When’s breakfast?”

“In the morning, Jacob.
In the morning.” Aunt Portia led him to the staircase, smiling at Lisette over her shoulder. “I’ll be back soon. If you’re hungry—”

“I’m fine. Take your time.”

Lisette sank into the overstuffed Turkish chair, closed her eyes, and tried not to think about tomorrow.

A knock at the door.

She went back into the foyer and answered it without using the clear crystal in the stained glass window to see first who it was. She realized her mistake the instant she opened the door.

Andrew.

She tried to close the door in his face, but he inserted his foot and elbowed his way into the foyer.

“You aren’t welcome here.”

“You told me. I don’t have money for a hotel. I used every penny I had buying passage on that miserable boat. You can’t expect me to sleep in the street.”

“I don’t care where you sleep. You aren’t staying here. In New Orleans, I had no choice. But, this is
my
house. Get out.” She stood beside the open door, her spine as stiff as her resolve.

“Nice place. When I asked for directions to get here, they called this street Millionaire’s Row. You never told me your father was a millionaire.” He went into the parlor and sat on the Turkish sofa beside the front fireplace, holding his hands out to warm them.

She reluctantly closed the door. The chill night air would overwhelm any warmth produced by the fireplaces.

“Andrew—”

“We’re going to have a talk.”

“No, we aren’t. You’re going to leave. My father—”

“Is a doddering old fool. I learned that just after I found out how to get to Adams Avenue.”

She burned with shame and anger. How could she evict this obnoxious excuse of a man without help? Andrew wasn’t that bright. Surely, she could come up with a way.

“Like it or not, Lisa, you have a responsibility to me. I am your stepson.”

A shudder of revulsion shook her. “Don’t call me Lisa. Any relationship we had died with your father. I had to endure his treatment of me because he was my husband. You are nothing but an intruder in my home. Leave this house.”

“Not until I’m ready. We’re going to talk. And we’re going to get some things straight between us, right now, so there won’t be any . . . scenes . . . in the future, like that one you pulled tonight on the boat. After we talk, you’ll understand exactly what I expect of you—and what you can expect from me.”

It took every bit of control she had not to scream at him. How dare he speak to her this way? If he thought she would do
anything
because he told her to, he was not only arrogant and repulsive, he was daft, too. If the Morgan family had any influence in Memphis at all, there would not be a person in the city who would hire Andrew or allow him room and board. He’d be forced to go back to New Orleans.

Lisette knew she had to plan carefully what to say—and what
not
to say—and, above all, stay calm. She took several deep breaths, trying to regulate breathing and organize her thoughts.

Andrew went to the front window, pulled the draperies aside and peered into the night. Moonlight filtered through the window, illuminating his face in such a way he appeared demonic.

She drew in a slow breath when she saw how angry he was. She knew he’d been upset, but this look was entirely new. Rage fired his eyes, and his thin lips, tensed into a straight line, made his otherwise passably handsome features downright ugly. She reminded herself to stay calm at all costs.

“All right now,
Lisa
.” Andrew left the window and offered his hand to her. She refused to take it, so he grabbed her wrist and dragged her across the room, throwing her onto the sofa.

“Take your hands off me. How dare you treat me this way? I’ll have you horsewhipped.” She got up quickly and retreated several steps away, terrified at the change in him, searching her mind desperately for something, anything, to distract him. She had to have help.

“You and I have to get some things straight.”

She didn’t dare challenge him. Clamping her lips shut, she tried to clear panic from her mind.

Andrew came toward her. She took another step back.

“Stop!
If you move another inch, I’ll beat you senseless. Do you understand me? Don’t think for one minute I wouldn’t do it.”

She stood still,
then spoke in the quietest voice she could manage. “I understand you care nothing for me. You are no gentleman. I’ll give you money for a hotel. I cannot possibly think straight with your threats and brutal treatment of me.” By virtue of birth, he was supposed to be a gentleman, even though he’d never been considered such in New Orleans. If he ever cared for his father, she might have been able to appeal to that side of him, but they’d hated each other and fought constantly. She knew nothing about Andrew’s mother. Mentioning her might lead to disaster.

Andrew smiled, chilling her. Instead of warmth or mirth in the gesture, she saw, rather, a twisted sense of triumph. She felt fear again, more intensely than before.

“I’ll give you money for a hotel.”

“No.”

“Your father would never approve—”

He moved so quickly, she had no time to react. He grabbed her shoulders, then her wrists when she tried to push him away, and with one quick motion, slapped her face so sharply her head pounded, her vision blurring with hot tears.

Terrified, she glared into Andrew’s twisted features and saw a side of him more cruel and vicious than she’d ever seen before. His fingers bit deeply into her flesh.

“I have a surprise for you. You are going to invite me to live in this house. I’m going to take over my father’s business and responsibilities—and your father’s business, as well. You are
not
going to tell anyone about this little talk we’re having. If you do, I’ll beat you to death and drop you into the river. If you don’t believe me . . .” He raised his hand, curling his fingers into a tight fist.

“No! No, please. I believe you. Don’t hit me again. Please.” The words were bile. Her only choice, though, was to agree with whatever he said
, to escape this nightmare by whatever concession necessary.

“That’s better. I expect you to listen carefully. Are you listening?”

Bastard. She nodded, wishing with all her heart and soul for a knife or a gun.

“When we are in public together you will tell everyone how happy you are that I’m in Memphis. You will take my arm when I offer it, and you will smile and convince everyone you have full confidence and respect for your stepson and his ability to run Morgan Enterprises. And—are you listening,
Lisa
?—you will say nothing to your father or your aunt. Nothing. Because you are not the only one who will be hurt if you breathe a word of our little conversation to them or anyone.”

She felt a different kind of fear now. “What are you insinuating?”

“Your father is not exactly young. A lot of things could happen to a senile old man. And your aunt—”

“You wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t I?” His expression hardened. “Try me. Dear Aunt Portia will go along with whatever you tell her.”

What choice did she have?

“I’d like to go to my room now, Andrew.” Lisette swallowed hard, despising what she had to say next. “I’m sorry there isn’t a room ready to accommodate you tonight. I’ll give you money for a hotel. In a couple of days …” The triumphant smile on Andrew’s face sickened her.

“I knew you’d see reason. I’ll be going.” The cruelty in his eyes left no doubt he meant every word. “But not until we’ve gotten to know each other a little better.”

He grabbed her shoulders and forced his mouth on hers before she could turn her head. She planted both hands on his chest and pushed hard. “How dare you!”

He hit her again, harder this time, with his fist instead of his open palm. A maelstrom of pain whirled through her. She could scarcely think with the intense pounding in her temples.