Chances Are (13 page)

"Of course." The woman turned toward Veronique; her eyes swept over her. "How may I be of service?"

Veronique decided that she'd been right as a child—follow the leader wasn't much fun. She looked up at Brandon, batted her eyelashes coquettishly and said, "We need a gown for our engagement party."

Brandon put his arm around Veronique and pulled her into his side. "Now, darling, you know it's actually an engagement announcement party."

"Yes." Veronique placed her palm lovingly on his chest. "We're engaged to be engaged. I want the whole world to know."

"But it's a secret," Brandon added quickly, looking at the older woman. "No one knows, not even our families."

Veronique had to hand it to him, he was quick on his feet. Three generations of Latour women had built this business on as many clandestine affairs as legitimate ones. Mimi, like her mother and grandmother before her, could be—and would be—as discreet as the grave. Veronique stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, whispering as she did, "You're a crafty one, aren't you?" Brandon's answering smile said more than words could.

"Ah..." The woman's eyes moved speculatively from Brandon to Veronique and back. When she spoke, her warm words belied what Veronique was sure she was thinking.

"How wonderful to be in love. Your secret is safe with us. Girls!" The woman clapped her hands, and two teenage girls appeared at the door. Mimi turned back to Veronique and Brandon. "Gretchen and Susan will show you up to the Rose Room. I'll join you directly."

As they followed the two tittering girls, Brandon leaned down and whispered in Veronique's ear, "By the way, feel free to make a scene."

Veronique swallowed a laugh and shot him a pouting look. "I'm devastated—I've already started and you haven't even noticed."

"Ten bucks says you can't find the ugliest dress in this place in—" he checked his watch "—under an hour."

Veronique eyed him suspiciously. "Who decides if it's ugly enough?"

"We both have to agree."

"Make it twenty and you're on."

Thirty minutes later Veronique groaned. It didn't look good for the home team, she thought, eyeing the newest rack of dresses. Everything so far had been either understated and elegant or nauseatingly pretty. She'd finally instructed Mimi to bring in everything she had. The room was bursting with dresses.

"Ugly is in the eye of the beholder," Veronique muttered as Mimi held up a pink tafetta with ruffles.

"Now, now, darling, we both have to agree." Brandon's tone was deliberately mild. "And I think that's a lovely dress. Mimi, set that aside, will you?"

Veronique scowled at him. "I'd look like a piece of birthday cake in it." She stood, crossed to the rack of dresses and flipped through them. "Really, Mimi, these just aren't me. I had something a little more... unusual in mind. Something louder... something... Wait a minute, what's this?" Veronique pulled out the gaudiest dress she'd ever seen. Purple and red and midnight blue, shiny and sheer, with flounces. Good God, it had more ruching than palace draperies. It was floor-length and sleeveless, with a plunging neckline. She smiled. "It's perfect. What do you think, Brandon?" Veronique held it in front of herself and whirled around.

"It's pretty ugly," he admitted, grinning.

"The ugliest." She turned back toward the frowning woman. "Could I design a hat to go with it?"

"Of course, but—"

"And dyed-to-match opera length gloves?"

"Yes, but—"

"We'll take it."

"Oh, no..." Mimi said, obviously distressed. "That dress is for another type of occasion... an awards banquet or even a Mardi Gras ball, but not for an engagement... it's too eccentric..." Her words trailed off at Veronique's determined expression. "If you'll step into the dressing room so we can fit it," she said, disapproval dripping from each word. "Susan and Gretchen will help you."

In less than a half an hour the dress had been fitted and paid for. Gloves and shoes dyed to match had been ordered. Veronique had tried on a dozen hats, but none of them had been tasteless enough to go with the dress. Laughing, they'd left the boutique and, at Brandon's suggestion, had headed across the street for a drink.

They sat at one of the sidewalk cafe's wrought-iron tables. The red-and-white patio umbrellas were a festive spot against the backdrop of pavement and brick. Even though it was five o'clock, the sun was still bright and hot. But the edge had been taken off, Veronique thought, lifting her face to its heat.

Traffic noises mixed with the music spilling out of the cafe and the conversations from the surrounding tables. City sounds. Familiar and exhilarating. She was as at home in a place like this as most people were in their kitchens. Veronique leaned back in her seat and smiled. "Taking money from you is getting to be a habit. If you're not careful, you'll end up broke." Just then the waitress arrived with their drinks: Bloody Marys, hot with tabasco and fresh-ground pepper. After the young woman had deposited the drinks and a basket of pretzels, Veronique handed her the twenty she'd just won from Brandon, then shot him an amused glance. "I still can't believe Mimi showed me eyelet, lace and tafetta." She popped one of the tiny pretzels into her mouth and crunched it between her teeth. "Does that make any sense?"

"I still wish you'd tried on the pink." Brandon laughed and stirred his drink with the celery stick. "I would have liked to have seen you as a piece of birthday cake."

"It wouldn't have been a pretty sight; ruffles make me very nervous." Her laughing eyes lifted to his. "And mean."

"Poor Mimi." Brandon paused to sip the fiery drink. "The whole time, I knew she was thinking of how shocked my mother was going to be by our news. I'm surprised she didn't ask
us
to keep quiet about our visit to her."

The shaft of irritation was as quick as it was unexpected. He was right. Mimi had remembered her—her business hadn't become such a success by forgetting customers—and she'd been pitying Brandon's mother her future, oh-so-unsuitable daughter-in-law. And she
would
keep quiet about their visit because Brandon had asked her to... and because she knew it wouldn't be good business to be associated with such an improper liaison. "Yes," Veronique repeated, an edge to her voice, "poor Mimi. I'm sure she's shaking in her Manolo pumps right now."

Brandon shot Veronique a sharp look. She'd sounded so cynical just then, and cynical wasn't her style. What was she thinking? He reached across the table and took her hand. Turning it over, he stared at the tiny network of lines on her palm for long moments. He wished they would tell him what he needed to know.

"Are you trying to read my palm?" she asked with deliberate lightness.

"In a way," he murmured, running his thumb along the delicately ridged surface. "I'm curious about you," he said as he stroked the smooth, translucent flesh of her wrist. Her pulse scrambled under his finger.

Veronique held his gaze. "Oh?" The sound, breathless and feminine, belied her even glance. Annoyed with herself, she cleared her throat.

"Mmm-hmm." He slid his fingers from her wrist to toy with hers. Her hands were long, slim and strong; the nails were smooth and gently rounded. There was a tiny cut on the tip of her index finger; he lifted her hand to his lips and placed a kiss there. "I've wondered," he murmured, lowering her hand, "what it was like for you, growing up not knowing who your father was." He felt her fingers stiffen under his and softly stroked them.

At his words, her eyes lowered to their joined hands, then moved uncomfortably away. She could reply glibly; it wouldn't be the first or the last time she did so in connection with a question about her father. She'd mastered the snappy comeback years ago. But she didn't want to do that, Veronique admitted to herself. She wasn't sure why, but she wanted to share a part of herself with him.

When she spoke, her voice was low and sad. "I used to fantasize about him," she began. "I imagined him as tall, strong and handsome. He would sweep Maman and me into his arms, telling us it was all a mistake, that he
did
love and want us." A smile touched her lips. "Often in my fantasy, he would challenge Grandfather Jerome to a duel to avenge our honor."

Veronique picked out a pretzel and stared at it for a moment before dropping it back in the basket. "When I got old enough to understand the birds and bees, my fantasies changed. I'd look at my friend's fathers and wonder 'is he the one?' I'd pick out the best-looking men everywhere we went and spin tales about them being my father. And always there was some mistake, some soap-opera twist of fate that had kept him from us." Her eyes lifted to his. "Silly."

"No," Brandon murmured, not quite sure what to say. Her fantasy was closer to the truth than she would ever guess. He felt like a total jerk for keeping the truth from her.

But he didn't have a choice. The future of Rhodes was on the line. Uncomfortable, he shifted in his seat.

"Yes, silly," Veronique repeated. "And childish. When I realized that I'd never be able to change old traditions and even older prejudices, I gave up fantasizing about my father and began living for myself. I know now that you don't always get what you want and that often life isn't very pretty."

Brandon swallowed. All that pain. Senseless and cruel. It hurt him that there was nothing he could do about it—not yet, anyway. "Do you know anything about him?"

"No." Veronique slipped her hand from his and dropped it to her lap. "Maman refuses to talk about him. I used to ask her all the time... on occasion I'd even begged her to, but she—" Veronique's eyes filled with tears suddenly, tears not for herself but for her mother. "You know, she hasn't been with a man since. Not even out on a casual date."

"I'm sorry," Brandon said, his voice tight. Fury welled in his chest. He was furious at his father's greed and old man Delacroix's narrow-minded bigotry. And with himself for his unwitting part in it. "I need to go," he said suddenly, pushing away from the table and standing. "Where can I drop you?"

Hurt left a bitter taste in her mouth. She'd just shared with him her innermost feelings, had shown him a part of herself others rarely saw. And he'd tossed it back at her. She wouldn't make that mistake again. "Nowhere." Veronique tipped back her head and smiled up at him. She thought her cheeks would crack with the effort. "I'm going to finish my drink, then catch the streetcar up to Maman's. Maybe I can talk her into a pizza." When Brandon hesitated, she said too brightly, "Go on, I'm fine."

He gazed down at her upturned face for long seconds, his expression hard and unreadable. He didn't smile; he didn't try to touch her. Veronique silently cursed her own need for him to do both. Finally he pulled his keys out of his pocket and said, "I'm sorry, but I'd forgotten... I'm meeting someone."

"No problem." She shrugged and popped a pretzel into her mouth. She almost choked on it.

Brandon jiggled the keys in his right hand. "I liked being with you this afternoon. It was—"

"Fun," she supplied casually.

Brandon drew his eyebrows together. "Yeah, fun." He jiggled the keys again. "See you around."

Veronique watched him walk away. She didn't take her eyes from him until he'd pulled the small, too fast car into traffic and disappeared. Her throat was dry, her pulse fast. She stared blindly down at her half-finished drink. When had it happened? When had being with Brandon become more than a lark? When had she crossed the line between friendship and affection? She'd broken one of her own rules: she'd let him get too close.

Her fingers curled around the damp glass. He could hurt her. The realization was terrifying. For years she'd cherished invulnerability and independence above all else. And now—now she had this burning need to be with another person, even if it meant losing a part of herself to him.

Her expression hardened as she thought of the Christmas morning when she was seven. She and her mother had still been living with Grandfather Jerome, and she remembered watching her cousins open their presents—a porcelain doll collection for Tina and Louise, a complete train set for Barry, a Newfoundland puppy to be shared by all three—and realizing that there weren't as many gifts for her and that hers were somehow not as big or important.

She remembered the feelings—jealousy, disappointment and a longing so poignant that her chest had hurt. She hadn't felt that way since she'd decided to stop living for other people's approval. Until now.

She tilted her chin defiantly and narrowed her eyes. She wouldn't allow herself to care for him; she couldn't chance the pain. She and Brandon were acquaintances and would be nothing more. Any feelings she had for him could be ignored. Or controlled.
Sure they could.

Veronique left a tip on the table, dropped the rest of her change in her tote and stood. Her confident smile faded as she stared across at Uptown Finery's now-empty parking lot and wondered if he would call.

Chapter 7