“Yes.” She understood. Completely. “I told you I’m a control freak. I know exactly what you mean.” Glancing up at him, she asked the obvious. “So why now? What makes it okay now?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. It just felt right. I’m in control. And I enjoyed doing this.”
“It shows.” She felt her cheeks pinken as she saw how truly far apart her legs had been. “I thought I was alone.”
“I know. That’s what made it so enticing. You were completely unaware of me.”
“How long were you dangling out of that window? You just about gave me a heart attack.”
He laughed. “Not long. And I have very good balance.”
“So do cats and they fall sometimes too.” She rolled her eyes to finish off her point.
Gabriel startled her by running his fingertip along her cheek, softly, slowly. “Don’t worry. I have nine lives.”
The touch felt good, and she struggled against the urge to close her eyes, to lean into it. “Nobody lives forever, Gabriel. Don’t take unnecessary risks.”
“Maybe every day feels like I am going to live forever. Maybe it feels endless.” His dark brown eyes bored into her as his finger fell away.
He had a deep voice, at odds with his delicate bone structure, and it washed over her, his face closer to hers than she had realized. Their bodies were brushing casually, no sense of personal space between them, and she gave in to the urge to touch his hair. Just the end. Lightly. Smoothing it. It was as silken and soft as she had imagined. “Maybe it’s time to rediscover some of the things that brought you joy before.”
She meant painting, the piano. But he got a licentious look in his eye. “Oh, yeah? Like what?”
“Whatever you like. Sketching, for one.”
“Maybe. If you’ll model for me.”
Sara stood still. He was so close to her his breath danced across her face. His eyes studied her, challenging her. He was going to kiss her. She was sure of it. And every inch of her welcomed it, wanted to feel his body against hers, wanted to taste his mouth, dip her tongue inside him, and have permission to plunge her fingers into his hair and tug.
“I’ll think about it,” she whispered. “But I’m a very self-conscious person, so if I model, it will be stilted.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said. “I think if you decide to do something, you do it, without hesitation.”
She wasn’t entirely sure he was right. Nor was she sure if that was all he meant, or if he was asking her something. All she knew was that if he wanted her to initiate a kiss, it wasn’t going to happen. She wasn’t going to risk ruining their working relationship, the budding friendship sort of thing they had happening.
“Like dancing,” he added. “Once you decided to go out there, you went for it.”
That embarrassed her. Maybe because dancing, putting it out there, reminded her of the flaws in her mother, that lack of control she had frequently displayed. Sara backed up, broke away, both physically and emotionally. He wasn’t going to touch her, she could sense that. And she was too raw to make a move, wasn’t sure it was a good idea at all. “Yeah, and when you decide to sketch, you climb out of a window to do it.”
Gabriel didn’t answer, just watched her with eyes that spoke volumes, yet not in a way she could understand. “Is there somewhere I can get some coffee?” she asked. She needed to get away from him.
“Turn right on Royal and go down a block.”
It never seemed to jar him that she switched subjects clear out of the blue, and he never missed a beat. Maybe it was because he was as random as she was.
“Thanks. Want anything?”
He shook his head no. But he gave a soft laugh, a sort of scoff of disbelief.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
It was possibly the most irritating word in the English language.
So without bothering to pursue that any further, Sara dug into her purse for her sunglasses and headed for the door.
Chapter Nine
Gabriel wanted to find the child. If the coroner claimed Anne had given birth, then it was possible the child had been stillborn. Or died shortly thereafter. But if the child had died at birth, or some point after, there would be birth records. Assuming that Anne hadn’t given birth before the age of fifteen, Gabriel had ordered the birth records for children with the surname Donovan for all of New Orleans for the years 1841-1849. He didn’t think it was possible that Anne had given birth the year she had died, because he had known her most of that year, but it wouldn’t hurt to scan the results.
While Sara was off getting coffee, he sorted through the data, which had been e-mailed to him. Since he didn’t need to see the actual physical birth certificates until he found a viable name, he could just search and scroll through the list of names.
It was possible that if Anne had actually had a child, it had been left behind in Ireland, but Gabriel doubted that. Anne had told him she was thirteen when she’d made the trip across the Atlantic, and he had no reason to doubt that. Though he supposed his next search should be passenger lists to verify her arrival, along with her name and age. He had no birth certificate for Anne, only her word at the time that she was twenty-three.
Donovan also was her unmarried name, and Gabriel wondered if she had given birth to an illegitimate child what name it would have been given. Most likely Donovan, but it was also possible that the child had been adopted, or given to friends to raise.
It was a long shot, but something told him it mattered. Or maybe he just wanted there to be a child. Maybe he wanted to know that a piece of Anne had continued, that she hadn’t died before really living, before leaving a legacy.
There were fifty-five children born with the last name of Donovan in New Orleans Parish during the eight years in question, some listed solo, others with birth parents. Those who were listed alongside their parents’ names had their mother listed by maiden name and married name, then the father next to her. Three had mothers named Anne, though one was spelled without an “e” on the end. Then one was listed simply as A. Donovan, with no married name and no mention of a father.
Gabriel flagged those four and sent an e-mail ordering copies of the actual birth certificates for them.
Then he changed his mind. He didn’t want to wait. If he went to the library himself, he could view them on microfilm, then order copies as needed.
He would just leave a note for Sara and leave the door unlocked.
The idea of waiting for her and walking over to the library together was appealing, but he had felt her withdrawal from him earlier. He had done or said something wrong, obviously, though he had no idea what. But she had definitely bolted. Which was just as well. He had been severely tempted to touch her, and that was an extremely bad idea.
So he would stick with the note and give her some space. They’d known each other less than a week, yet their relationship felt intense, advanced, for the time span. It made sense to back off, to limit the time they were together.
Even if he didn’t want to.
Sara went in to the same coffee shop she had a few days earlier and ordered an iced coffee to go. She was too restless to sit and drink it. Gabriel had nicked at her calm, and she felt the need to walk, to burn off the nervous energy.
She had wanted him to kiss her. Badly. She had wanted him to talk her into modeling, then she had wanted him to put down his sketch pad and make love to her, touching her everywhere intimately, his lips on her body. It wasn’t why she had come to New Orleans, and while part of her felt like it would only end in utter disaster, another part of her kept whispering,
Why not?
Why couldn’t she have a hot affair that reminded her of the pleasure of being alive?
It wasn’t why she’d made the trek from Florida, but it could be a serious fringe benefit.
Of course, she had also come to New Orleans to try to discover bits of her mother, the way she had been in life, as opposed to death. To try to understand the girl she’d been, the careless woman she’d become. As Sara walked back down Royal Street, she realized it was a futile effort. Her mother had been emotionally distant, and in death she wasn’t going to give what she hadn’t in life.
But Sara knew that her grandmother’s death had altered the course of her mother’s life. She had been only sixteen when her mother was murdered. And Jessie Michaels had been the one to find her mother, stabbed to death in their suburban home. It was only six months later that she had run away from her father and taken up dancing on Bourbon Street.
None of those radical choices had ever been explained by her mother. She had never elaborated any more than her standard “I didn’t like rules.”
On impulse, Sara cut up Orleans Street toward Bourbon. The sun was relentless on her bare shoulders, and she pushed her sunglasses up, checking for sidewalk holes. It amazed her that every street in the Quarter shared the same basic characteristics—the narrow thoroughfare, the buildings flush to the sidewalk, the wooden shutters and doors, and the wrought iron railings. Yet each street took on its own personality, its own tone. Some were seedy, others elegant, some quiet, some boisterous. Orleans was calm and reserved, with a hotel that extended for most of the block to Bourbon, which suited her. This was truly her first stroll around the Quarter on her own, and while she wanted to like it, enjoy herself, she could never seem to shake the sensation that she didn’t belong. That she was vulnerable. A target.
It was important to confront those feelings, to recognize that she was just outside of her comfort zone, and nothing more. There was no danger, and no one was out to get her.
She debated which way to go on Bourbon, but opted for left, figuring there was more in that direction. The club her mother had danced at no longer went by the same name, but the night she’d died, her mother had been drinking a steady stream of margaritas at dinner with Sara and Rafe and she had suddenly started reminiscing about her days dancing. She had mentioned that the club was in the four hundred block of Bourbon where there were several gentleman’s clubs. Then she had told Rafe it was a shame he hadn’t seen her table dancing, because, to quote her mother, she had been hot shit.
Sara had been appalled, but Rafe just smiled and told her she still was. Then he mildly suggested maybe another margarita wasn’t wise if she wanted to be able to walk to the car. If Sara had said that, her mother would have torn into her, and defiantly kept drinking, but she hadn’t been offended by Rafe’s comment. She just laughed and said maybe he was right, but that it was still a shame that he had been in diapers when she’d been dancing.
And just four hours later, her mother was dead.
Sara was walking right past strip clubs, posters plastered all over their exterior walls, advertising barely legal girls and world famous sex acts. None of the pictures looked very appealing to her, and the one with a woman sitting aggressively on a bike seat looked downright painful. The pictures went on and on—smiling women, naked and airbrushed. Sara had never been inside a strip club, and for some reason, she paused in front of the door of one after spending a few minutes perusing their posters, wondering how the dancers themselves compared to the cheerful images on the wall. Were strippers really that happy and perky? She wanted to see inside, wanted to know, wanted to picture how her mother had been bold and sassy enough at sixteen to lie about her age and dance partly naked in front of men.
“Are you looking for work?”
Glancing over at the doorman, Sara willed herself not to blush. “No.”
“Are you sure?” He smiled at her, a man in his mid-thirties, attractive and wearing a suit. “The money’s good, and we could use a blonde. One of our best customers already saw you and asked about you. You’re guaranteed fifty a night in tips from him alone if he likes you.”
“What do you mean he saw me? I just walked up.” Sara hadn’t seen anyone on the sidewalk but her and the doorman. Though admittedly she had been busy studying the pictures with morbid fascination.
“A minute ago. He saw you when he was going inside.” He tipped his head to the door, giving another charming smile. “Come on in and watch a few of the girls, see what you think.”
It amazed her that dancers were on stage at noon on a Monday, but it was Bourbon Street, after all. Bars were advertising three for one, and karaoke was going. “No, thanks.” Though she couldn’t prevent herself from glancing in the open door. All she could see was a dark hallway, and a woman’s legs on the stage.
And she suddenly had the feeling that someone was watching her. From inside the club.
Sara shivered, rubbing her hands over her arms. Maybe the customer the doorman had referred to was still checking her out. Which she didn’t like at all.
“Well, have a good afternoon then, and if you change your mind, stop on back.” The guy waved and diverted his attention to two men passing by on the street.
Giving one last backward glance into the club and seeing nothing noteworthy, Sara started down the street, returning the way she had come. She wanted to go back to Gabriel’s apartment, to the security of his courtyard. Finding pieces of her mother’s motivation on Bourbon Street wasn’t going to happen. She had to accept she was never going to have answers to those questions. Hell, maybe she wouldn’t want them if she did have them. Ultimately, she and her mother had been diametrically opposed to each other in the core of who they were.
Funny that she had never given much thought to her biological father. It would seem logical that if she were nothing like her mother, she must be like her father, yet she had never been interested in finding him. Only once had she asked for his name, and her mother had told her she didn’t remember his last name, only his first, which had been Brian. The last name "started with an S” but beyond that her mother couldn’t recall. Sara had never asked again. Who Brian S. had been and why he had been a bouncer and what he had seen in her sixteen-year-old mother had never really mattered to her.