To My Senses The Nicci Beauvoir Series Book 1 (12 page)

David led me along the row
of cars, until we came to an open-top, red Jeep
Wrangler.

“
Where’s the
Jag?”

He opened the passenger
door for me. “The Jag is Sammy’s. This is mine.”

“
I like this better,” I
declared.

As I clicked my seatbelt, I
took one last glance at Eddie’s car. David followed my line of
sight and looked back at the rocking red BMW.

“
I never thought he had it
in him,” David remarked, starting the Jeep.

“
What do you mean?” I
asked, looking back to him.

“
I never thought the
little…I never thought he would ever make it with a woman. He
always seemed more afraid than attracted to them.” He pulled out of
the parking lot, and onto the street.

“
Colleen finally got what
she’s always wanted,” I stated, after we had left the lights of the
botanical gardens behind us. “I just hope Eddie knows what he’s in
for.”

“
Well, good luck to the
both of them.” He gave a perturbed grunt, and then added, “Sammy
won’t be too happy when she hears.”

That’s not the only thing
she won’t be happy about
.

I knew Sammy would hear
about us. There had been enough eyes at the party to give her a
blow-by-blow account of our stroll along the dance floor. She would
probably hear about David taking me home, as well. I knew for
Sammy, Eddie’s escapades would pale in comparison to David’s
attentions toward me. I had spent enough years in the midst of the
infamous Samantha Fallon to know how she would react to our evening
together. And that worried me. What I didn’t understand was why
that didn’t worry David, too.

Chapter 6

“
Where do you live?” I
inquired, as we headed into the city.

He only grinned at me. I
did not pursue the question further. I watched him steer the Jeep
through the dark streets and realized how much more I liked him
driving this type of car. The wind from the open top made his once
sleeked back hair dash wildly about his face. He had thrown his
jacket into the back and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Unencumbered
by the trappings of Sammy or high society, he seemed more at ease
with the world around him. There was no pretense to impose, no
impression to be made. He could just be, without having to be
something for someone else. I liked him this way.

As we drove, he would
occasionally glance over at me, and I could see a strange
uneasiness furrowing his brow. It was as if he was having some
great inner debate and was not quite sure of what action to
take.

Soon, we entered the New
Orleans suburb of Lakeview. A quiet area of town, filled with
families and small businesses. The houses were modest in design and
size, reflecting the post World War II era in which many of the
homes had been built. David parked in front of a double shotgun
style cottage.

A shotgun was a local
phrase, used to describe the thin, long houses that were popular in
the city. They were so-called shotguns because you could, in
theory, fire a shotgun through the front door and the bullet would
go right out the back door without hitting anything. They were also
easier to keep cool in the summer, allowing breezes to flow
uninterrupted through the home.

There was a long porch,
with hanging swings located at opposite ends and potted plants
scattered all about. Two tall, live oak trees were situated in
front of the cottage to perfectly shade the house from the
afternoon sun.

“
I rent the left side,”
David informed me. “It’s enough for one person. The lady who owns
the place lives on the right.” He climbed out of the Jeep and came
around to my side. “She likes having me around. I keep the place up
for her and she gives me a break on the rent.”

David took my hand and
helped me from the car. I could feel my heart beating faster. He
must have sensed my apprehension, because he leaned over and gently
kissed my shoulder. The sensation sent ripples down my
spine.

As we walked up the steps
to the porch, he his retrieved his keys. When he opened the door,
the air conditioning hit me like a cold winter blast. David ushered
me inside and quickly closed the front door. He took my hand and
led me into a small living room.

It was very sparsely
furnished, with a sofa, a plain wood and glass coffee table, and
end tables. A flat screen television was in an open armoire against
the far wall, and a laptop computer sat on a desk next to the
armoire.

The second room was a stark
contradiction. It was meant to be a dining area, but David had only
canvases and tubes of paint scattered about on the floor. In the
center, an easel stood alone, supporting a work in progress. The
roof held two wide skylights that bathed the room with traces of
moonlight.

“
I paint in this room,” he
explained. “The light is best in here.”

He walked farther into the
house, turning on more lights as he went. I followed him into the
kitchen, which opened directly onto his studio. A black
granite-covered bar divided the studio from the kitchen area. A
door beyond the kitchen was half-open, revealing only darkness.
Assuming that was the bedroom, I was relieved when he made no move
to venture into it.

“
Would you like something
to drink?” He set his jacket across a stool next to the bar and
went to the refrigerator. “I have wine and champagne.”

“
I’ll stick with the
champagne.”

“
I’m glad you said that. I
was going to open it anyway.” He smiled from behind the
refrigerator door.

I returned to his studio to
get a closer look at his work. Against the far wall were more of
the same scenic pictures he had done of the Quarter. The floor was
scattered with scraps of crumpled paper. Some had drawings
scribbled on them. I bent down, picked up one piece and unfolded
it. The hastily sketched image was of a young woman. Her head was
tilted to the side and her eyes had a dreamy quality to them, as if
she was thinking of some place far away. I thought her features
looked strikingly familiar. I inched closer to the easel positioned
in the center of the room. On the canvas, I saw the same face of
the woman I had found on the scrap of paper, but her features were
more somber than the hurried sketch. The smile was subtler, and the
turn of the head was up instead of to the side. Auburn colored hair
had been painted in around her shoulders and framed her delicate
features. It was the eyes that I found the most distracting. They
were piercing, almost like the eyes of an Amazon before battle.
They were filled with fire and the desire for a fight.

“
Do I really look like
that?”

David came alongside me and
offered me a highball glass filled with champagne. “To me you do.”
He took a sip from his glass and had a seat on a stool by the
bar.

“
You paint people better
than buildings,” I admitted, admiring the painting.

“
No, I only paint you
better than buildings. I have never been any good with people or
animals. They always came out one dimensional and lifeless.” He set
his drink down on the bar. “You come alive on that canvas. I see
your eyes and your face in my mind, and then I can paint it. I have
never been able to do anything like that before.”

I stared at him,
dumbfounded. This was something that happened to other women; women
who had vivacious personalities and conquered men’s souls with the
zeal of hungry crocodiles. This kind of thing had never happened to
me before.

“
I’m flattered, I think.” I
took a big gulp of my champagne.

He rose from the stool and
came toward me. “You are my inspiration. I hope this is the first
of many portraits I will paint of you.” David took my drink and put
it on the bar next to his.

Before I could catch his
eyes, his lips were on mine and his arms went around me. The
unexpected thrill of that kiss was breathtaking. I wasn’t sure what
to do, or how to act. I was frozen against him. Then, abruptly, he
broke away. His eyes searched mine and his grip on me
relaxed.

He backed away. “I also
have a very difficult time keeping my hands off you, as I’m sure
you’ve noticed.” He picked up his drink, went into the living room,
and sat down on the sofa.

“
I’ve noticed, but I
haven’t exactly put up much of a fight.” I smiled, remembering my
mother. “Nothing complicates friendship more than sex.” He looked
over at me, seeming more shocked than surprised at my boldness. “My
mother used to say that to me,” I quickly added, taking a seat next
to him.

“
Wise woman. You must be a
great deal like her.” He brushed the hair away from my
face.

“
In some ways, I hope. She
was very calm and good with people. She could charm anyone into
doing anything.” I leaned back against the sofa. “I don’t have her
patience or her generous nature. I do look a lot like her, but
inside, I’m more like my father.”

He put his arm around me.
“What’s he like?”

I settled against him,
getting comfortable. “Oh, my father is difficult to describe. He
keeps very much to himself. He’s not good with people. I think he
finds people something of an annoyance. Sometimes, I don’t feel I
know him at all.”

He took a sip from his
champagne. “I felt the same way about my mother. I never really got
to know her. She was always a mystery to me as a child.”

“
Are you like
her?”

“
Hard to tell. I don’t
remember enough about her. Just her laugh and her smile, that’s
all. She drank a great deal and was never very happy. When she
died, my father didn’t know what to do with me. That’s when I ended
up with my Aunt Flo.”

“
Where’s your father
now?”

“
He died a few years ago.
Somewhere in Thailand, I think. They buried him at sea. I never saw
him much. When he did visit, he brought loads of presents and
exotic trinkets from all around the world. He would stay for a day
or two, and then he’d be off on another ship to some far away
place. I never really got to know the man. I think in my entire
life, we only spent a few weeks together.” I sat up and turned to
look at him, but he kept facing straight ahead. “When he died, they
contacted me by telegram. A few weeks later, a small box arrived
containing his belongings. All he had was a wallet with some money
and a few pictures of me.”

“
I’m sorry. That must have
been difficult.”

“
No pity. I don’t use my
past as a crutch, only as an inspiration. The first is too easy to
do. The second takes more imagination.” He got up from the sofa and
headed for the kitchen. “Want your champagne?”

“
Yes.” I kicked off my high
heels and massaged my sore feet.

He returned with the bottle and my
glass.

“
My father says I have too
much imagination,” I disclosed, taking my glass from him. “He
thinks I spend too much of my time thinking up stories and not
enough living in the real world.” I took another long sip from my
drink.

He put the bottle on the
coffee table and took a seat next to me. “What kind of
stories?”

“
Oh, just stories that
haunt me and won’t leave me alone until I write them down. It’s
really a mental illness, I think. It’s silly to even talk about
it.”

“
Never feel silly about a
passion, Nicci. Sometimes I feel that if I don’t get out and put
something on a canvas, I’ll explode. I’ve never felt more alive
than when I paint.”

“
Writing is not a practical
way to make a living. It would be nice to live such a life, but
it’s not for me. I have to concentrate on starting my nursing
career and getting ahead in the world.” My head was starting to
swim from the champagne and the words were starting to slip out
before I could stop them.

He raised his eyebrows.
“Then what?”

“
Then I’ll make some new
goals for myself. Perhaps go to graduate school and teach or
something.” I shrugged. That was too far into the future to think
about now.

“
Eventually, we all have to
come to terms with what we are. One day, my dear Nicci, you will
have to come to terms with what you are. And I’m afraid you will
find that you are not a nurse.”

I glared at him. “Are you
saying you don’t think I would be a good nurse?”

“
No, not that.” He
shrugged. “I’ve encountered many different people around the world,
and found that there are basically two types of personalities. The
majority of individuals just exist…like the accountants, lawyers,
and Sammys of the world. Then there are the people who create, like
artists and writers. Unfortunately, to express yourself you have to
understand who you are. It took me a long time to find myself. I
think you are still searching, Nicci. But you must never be one of
those who just endures, because you will never be
happy.”

“
Are you happy,
David?”

He stiffened next to me.
“I’m happy right now, with you.”

I raised my eyebrows.
“You’re avoiding the question.”

“
No, that’s the truth.
Happiness, in my opinion, changes with the setting of the sun. It’s
never constant. It’s an achievement to strive for, but something
you can never maintain. It all depends on the moment.”