The driver wound his way north on River Road. Erica looked out the window, but not only was it too dark, the levee was too high for her to see the Mississippi beyond it.
Soft music played from the tape deck. They drank their champagne with no conversation. Until—“Conner?”
“Yes?”
“You—you never married?”
He hadn’t expected the question. Marriage had meant Erica. When that didn’t happen, he’d never let any relationship go that far again. To cover the awkwardness of an answer, Conner drained his glass and placed it in the rack on the bar. Then, as if in slow motion, he took her glass and added it to the rack. Finally he reached out and drew her small hand between his larger ones. “No. There have been women, but I’ve never married, never even come close. You?”
There was a tightness about his answer that made her sorry she’d asked. Now that he’d answered, she was left with giving some kind of response, and she had none. In her own life there’d been men—a few, but never close enough to consider a permanent relationship.
For minutes they’d been staring at each other, neither ready to carry the thought further. “No,” she finally said, then to cut off any more questions, she said, “I mean I wouldn’t want Mr. Kilgore to think that I would become—intimate with a married man.”
“I’m sure such a thought would never occur to him.” Conner swallowed a smile. It seemed his Erica had turned into an old-fashioned girl. She hadn’t been a virgin when they’d met, but she’d been inexperienced. Like a flower slowly opening, every time they were together he learned something new. But they’d met and fallen in love so fast and furiously that they never had a chance to get to know each other the last time.
Now she was worried about her reputation, or maybe it was his. He liked that. Yes, Conner was learning a great deal about this new Erica. But the thing he was most intrigued with was that the new Erica and the old Erica were the same person. They always had been. And God help him, he wanted them both.
Moments later the car turned off the narrow black-topped road and into a long tree-lined drive. Erica drew her hand away and laid it on the plush fabric along the base of the tinted windows. “Look at the lanterns,” she said, pointing to the festive lights hung between two lines of ancient oaks, welcoming them to the estate. Only when they exited the drive and moved around the branches of a giant magnolia tree did the house come into view.
Not house, castle. Erica burst out laughing, then caught back the sound with her hand. “My goodness. He wasn’t kidding when he said it was different.”
The structure was a German castle, a fortress made of stone with turrets at the corners. It might have overlooked the Rhine River instead of the Mississippi. The only thing missing was a moat and a drawbridge.
Conner shook his head. “I can’t believe it started out looking like this. I think our host has taken a few liberties in his restoration.”
The driver opened the limo door and assisted them to the steps of the ornate mansion. Brighton Kilgore himself came through the door to meet them.
“Come in. Come in. Everyone here is most eager to meet you.”
They found the drawbridge, skillfully recreated in the foyer. Beyond the simulated wooden planks a slim, blond-haired woman headed toward them. “Mr. Preston. Miss Fallon, welcome! I’m Lillian Kilgore. Come into the Great Hall and meet our other guests.”
Once Erica got past the shock of a German castle on the banks of the Mississippi, she noticed the old wall hangings, the swords and torches that had been converted to gas. Unless she missed her guess, all were authentic to the time period and surroundings. Brighton Kilgore might be a showoff spending his new money to buy his position in the art world, but Erica had to hand it to him, he certainly knew his antiques.
“Do you get the feeling that we’ve stepped back in time?” Conner whispered in amusement. “He’s really worked at it. I’ll bet he has a dungeon.”
“Yes. And he’s done a pretty good job of making it an authentic trip.”
“I was afraid you were going to tell me that.”
Other guests were already gathered around a fireplace big enough to roast an entire cow and leave room for a couple of small pigs. A roaring fire provided welcome heat for the room whose ceiling vanished into shadows above.
“Everyone,” Mrs. Kilgore said, “come and meet Conner and Erica.” She introduced two local couples Conner had never met before, then said, “Erica, I believe you know Karl Ernst?”
Erica caught back a sound of surprise. “Of course. Mr. Ernst, this is my—my friend, Conner Preston.”
Conner’s first impression of the German art expert was one of surprise. Karl was short and round, hiding a double chin beneath a goatee.
“Mr. Preston. It’s my very great pleasure to know you. Of course I’ve heard a great deal about Bart’s brother.”
There was a sudden silence, as if all the guests had inhaled at once.
“Did we meet when I was stationed in West Berlin?” Conner asked, knowing that they never had.
“I don’t think so. But your brother was very proud of you. I think he envied you your free spirit. I’m so sorry about what happened to him. There was a certain amount of unrest when the decision was made to reunite Berlin. After you returned to the States, several other American soldiers were attacked. It was a bad time for those of us who lived there and others caught up in the change. How is the ambassador, Erica?”
“He’s improving, thank you,” she answered, confused over his unexpected presence. “I didn’t know you were coming to New Orleans, Mr. Ernst.”
“I hadn’t planned to. When Mr. Kilgore learned that I would be celebrating Christmas alone in New York, he insisted that I come home with him.”
“So you’re an old bachelor like me?” Conner asked.
“I am. After I lost my wife, I never remarried. I greatly regret that we had no children.”
“A personal sorrow we, too, share,” Brighton concurred. “When I bought this house, I’d thought it would be a fine place for a family.”
Conner wasn’t sure about that. It would have scared the hell out of him. He expected some gargoyle to leap down from the balcony above at any minute.
Brighton Kilgore beckoned to his servant, who brought a tray with a bottle of wine, two glasses, and hors d’oeuvres. Erica declined the wine, but did take one of the small biscuits filled with seafood.
The final member of the dinner group was a stranger to Erica. A man, standing with Karl Ernst. As Erica caught his eye he gave her an odd little smile that seemed to suggest they shared a joke. If she’d had to describe him, she couldn’t have found one outstanding characteristic that would make him memorable. He was quite simply average, until Brighton called him over.
“William, come and meet our other guests. Erica, Conner, this is William Boykin, my secretary. He’s another orphan.”
“Very nice to meet you, ma’am. I’ve heard a great deal about you. Is New Orleans your home?”
For a moment Erica could only stare. She didn’t know the man, but the voice was familiar. She’d heard it before. Where?
“Eh, no. Do you live here?”
He laughed. “No, I guess you’d say home is where I hang my hat. Mr. Preston?” He nodded and gave a half-bow.
Karl Ernst took Erica’s elbow. “Have you seen Brighton’s Christmas tree? It’s an authentic old world tree. You know that Christmas trees came to this country from Germany?”
“No. I don’t think I did,” Erica answered, allowing herself to be led over to the tree at one end of the room. It was real, a fir. The paper and porcelain ornaments were very old. But the lights made the tree exceptional. In Germany the candles on the end of each branch would be made of wax. But in the spirit of safety, Brighton had used electric candles. Only close examination revealed that they weren’t authentic.
“I never had a tree when I was growing up,” Erica admitted. “We always seemed to be traveling or visiting someone else. It’s very beautiful, Mrs. Kilgore.” Erica turned to Karl Ernst, who still stood at her side.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Kilgore replied. “By the way, where did the ambassador disappear to? My consulate wanted to send flowers, but he’d left the hospital.”
“He’s staying with … friends,” Erica explained.
Mrs. Kilgore came to stand beside Erica. “Such a lovely dress,” she murmured. “Understated elegance. I see you, and I wish I were young again and petite.”
Mr. Ernst moved back toward the fireplace and the other men. Erica gave a light laugh and wished she were standing with them instead of her hostess. “But you’re so nice and tall. I’ll bet you were once a model.”
She was rewarded with a warm blush. “Well, I did do some catalogue work for a lingerie company. But when Brighton and I married, he insisted that I give that up. Not suitable for the wife of a man on his way to the top.”
“I know Brighton is in the chemical business now,” Erica said. “Was he always?”
“Oh, no. He was with the government when we met. He was an inspector of some sort. He investigated companies who broke the law.”
“Like a detective?”
“Something like that. Then he bought into one of the companies he inspected. Straightened it out and now he owns it.”
Erica accepted another hors d’oeuvre from the circulating waiter.
Across the room she could see Conner and Brighton Kilgore talking. Her eyes were automatically drawn to Conner. He stood out like a polished jewel honed to perfection with an icy exterior that never quite concealed the raw fire inside. As she watched, he glanced up, their gazes melding.
Just like in the song, across a crowded room. And she knew. Nothing had changed. She was as much in love with him now as she had been ten years ago, when he’d let her down. No matter what resentment she still harbored, that fact didn’t change. He hadn’t answered her letter. He hadn’t cared enough to give her a chance to explain. If he’d wanted to come back to her, nothing would have stopped him. The Conner she knew then would have said to hell with any warning she’d been given. She was his woman and nobody would keep them apart.
Why hadn’t he?
Because of Bart.
It always came back to Bart’s death and her responsibility for it. At least in Conner’s mind. She pulled her gaze away, searching for something to focus on. Even if they did discover what happened, it wouldn’t change Conner’s lack of faith in her. It wouldn’t bring back her trust in him.
As if he sensed her thoughts, Conner broke away from the men and headed toward her. Only the waiter’s announcement that dinner was served kept Erica from turning and rushing out the door.
Mrs. Kilgore intercepted Conner and took his arm possessively. “Come along, Mr. Preston. You’re going to sit beside me and tell me all about that lovely company you have. I intend to commission you to spend lots of my husband’s money on a piece of jewelry I heard about.”
“I’ll be glad to. Your husband told me he has acquired a new piece of artwork for his gallery, the Virgin Mary,” Conner said with a smile. “I know he must be excited.”
“Oh, yes. You have no idea. Personally,” she confided, “I don’t see the point in having something you can’t put out for company. But he is positively ecstatic.”
“I would be also. He’s promised to show it to me.”
She looked at him in surprise. “He did? I mean, he’s usually so secretive about his collection. But then, fine art is your field, isn’t it? Come, let us sit down.”
Conner allowed her to direct him to the chair beside her. On the other end of the table, Kilgore was fussing over Erica.
Conner was beginning to wonder if bringing Erica had been wise. There were always unknown dangers in a search for the truth.
When that feeling of danger came to him previously, it acted like a catalyst for the senses. Everything was magnified. Colors were even more brilliant. Sounds were intensified. Paths became clearer. Slapping past the danger was second nature.
Except on the morning Bart was killed. The color and the senses were there, but not as harbingers of danger. Every part of him had been focused on Erica. He hoped that he wasn’t making that mistake again.
The meal was a surprise. Rich, pungent gumbo, red beans and rice, were washed down by great pitchers of beer.
“You know,” Mrs. Kilgore explained, “many of the Cajuns were actually Germans. They were more accustomed to eating turnips, cabbage, and potatoes, which were in short supply here. But the baron, the merchant who built our castle, apparently had an African housekeeper who quickly converted the family to the local fares. We thought you might enjoy a typical Louisiana feast.”
“Of course, if we really wanted to be typical,” Brighton interrupted, “we’d be serving you salt pork, corn bread, rice, and wild turkey.”
A twitter of laughter rose and fell.
Conner raised his goblet in a toast. “On behalf of your guests, I thank you for the delicious gumbo.”
Erica took a spoon of the stew and silently agreed. She was often called on to take part in long-drawn-out official functions where chicken or beef was the main dish. This was turning out to be a pleasant surprise. She was seated between one of Brighton’s neighbors and Karl Ernst. The opportunity was being presented to gather information on a social level and she ought to make use of it.
Turning a bright smile on the rotund little man, she asked, “Do you really think the committee will learn anything about the missing artwork?”
“It won’t be easy,” he admitted. “After all, unscrupulous treasure hunters have been searching for nearly fifty years. Some of them may even have had a part in hiding the stolen goods. My guess is that most of it was destroyed in the bombing of Berlin or melted down to pay war debts.”
“Have any of the artworks been found?” Mr. Boykin asked.
Mr. Ernst spent no time acknowledging the secretary. All his attention was focused on Erica. “Some, yes. There was an American soldier who was part of the first team in after the surrender. He gathered up everything he could, packed it up, and sent it home. Only when he died and the family found the cache of paintings and religious icons did we learn it still existed.”
Erica glanced down the table, wondering if Conner could hear, and decided that their hostess was doing a good job of preventing that. “That’s illegal, isn’t it?”
“Technically yes. But every invading army has done the same thing throughout history. The treasures probably didn’t legally belong to the churches and museums that housed them in 1940. Hitler’s troops claimed them as the spoils of war for the glory of the German Empire. Your soldier just looked at it as souvenir hunting. Same results.”
“Like Bart’s marble arm?” Erica asked.
A flash of surprise appeared on Karl’s face, then disappeared just as quickly. “Bart’s arm?”
“Yes. In one of those tunnels we were mapping out we ran across a piece of broken marble. Bart thought it was probably a piece of one of the statues behind the altar. Didn’t he show it to you?” she asked.
Karl shrugged his shoulders. “Me? I’m afraid not. Bart came to me only once about anything out of the ordinary and that was the night before he died. He wanted to know about the police.”
Down the table Conner turned his attention to Ernst, no longer pretending to listen to his hostess.
“The police?” Erica repeated. “Why would he ask you about the police?”
Karl took a bite of the beans and rice, chewing thoughtfully as he answered. “Apparently he was afraid he had been followed. He wondered what the police would do to a foreign student who broke the law.”
“He didn’t say what kind of law?” Erica asked.
“No. I told him not to worry. If I ever saw a student who was law-abiding, it was Bart. I got the idea he was asking for his brother.” Karl glanced at Conner. “I understand that your—friend was pretty wild back then.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I sent him to the American embassy. If he or Conner got into trouble, the consulate was his best ally.”
The rest of the dinner passed uneventfully. But Erica was uncomfortable with what she’d learned. She’d been sure that Bart had told her he’d shown the piece of broken marble to his adviser, that Karl had even kept it. But it was so long ago, she might be remembering wrong.
Or was Karl Ernst lying?
Once the after-dinner coffee and liquors were served, Brighton tapped on his glass for attention. “Conner, are you and Erica ready to see my little collection?”
“We certainly are.”
“I promised Ernst a look at her too. If you’ll come along.”
As Brighton flicked on the wall sconces, Conner and the others followed him up the stairs and down a corridor to a heavy locked door. On the side panel next to the door was an elaborate security system into which Brighton punched a series of numbers. Finally the door opened and Brighton entered, standing aside while his guests filed into the room.
Erica had been in many home galleries, but this one was unique. There was one long wall devoted to paintings, each with its own light above. The other wall displayed flat sculpture, photographs, lithographs, and other unusual pieces. But the table in the center was the focal point of the collection. Beneath a clear dome, drenched in soft light, was a small, intricately molded gold statue of the Virgin Mary standing on an ornately carved base. She was barely twelve inches tall. Her small face was so beautiful, every detail in the skin so realistically drawn that Erica expected to see her cry.
“She’s exquisite,” Conner whispered. “I can see why finding this would inspire such dedication to search for the rest of the treasures.”
“Do we know the artist?” Erica asked.
Brighton smiled. “You tell me. You’re the art historian.”
Erica shook her head. “I’m afraid this was never included in any of my classes. Maybe Professor Ernst knows who the artist is.”
“I don’t,” he replied. “Though I recall a description of such a piece in the list of missing treasures. There were two of them, identical. They came from a small chapel in France.”
Brighton Kilgore beamed from ear to ear. “Isn’t she extraordinary?”
“Extraordinary,” Conner agreed. “Would it be possible for me—for Erica to have a photograph of the statue?”
“Yes,” Erica added. “The committee needs to begin compiling a reference file.”
Conner gave Erica a grateful smile. “I could have my office run a check on the photograph. I keep an extensive file of artists and pieces. For my work.”
Brighton pursed his lips as he considered the request. “I suppose so. As long as it isn’t released to the public. You see, I have a state-of-the-art security system, but I’d rather not test it. Joseph? Bring the Polaroid.”
As Brighton made several snapshots of the statue, Conner and Erica gave lip service to what otherwise would be an enviable collection. By the time they’d covered the room, the pictures were ready and Conner stuck them inside his coat pocket.
“Now,” Brighton announced. “Let us move to the levee, where we’ll light our annual Christmas bonfire.”
Conner spoke briefly with Mrs. Kilgore, then disappeared while topcoats and furs were donned. He rejoined the guests on the porch. Conner, Erica, and Brighton were three of the first six guests ferried by limo down the long drive and across River Road. Uniformed servants stood along the steps, holding lanterns to guide them to the top of the levee while the limo went back for the others.
“In the old days,” Brighton explained, “the house was much closer to the water. But the Mississippi is a lady with a mind of her own. Until the Army Corps of Engineers built this levee back in the thirties, the river changed course every few years.”
Conner was holding Erica’s hand as they topped the grassy ridge and walked across the road-wide strip of gravel along the top. A blast of cold air swept in from the river, almost pushing her back. Conner pulled her closer, sliding his arms around her waist, enclosing her inside his topcoat next to his body.
“Thank you, Father West Wind,” he whispered in her ear. “I’ve wanted to do this since dinner.”
“What?”
“Hold you close. You look good enough to eat, and I had to satisfy myself with gumbo and rice. Pure torture.”
“No gun tonight?”
Conner didn’t mention the one strapped to his ankle. “No, if we’re attacked, you’ll have to defend me.”
In the darkness, Erica allowed herself to lean against him, grateful not only for the warmth, but for the sense of belonging she’d felt ever since they’d arrived. Gradually her tightly drawn nerves began to relax, then tingle in subdued but definite excitement.
With his arms around her, Conner burrowed beneath her woolen stole and caught her wrist. “You’re cold,” he said.
“Only on the outside.”
“Don’t talk like that, Dragon Lady. You know what that does to me.”
“What?”
“Makes me think of midnight and chocolate.”
“Maybe if you speak to Mrs. Kilgore she’ll brew you a cup of hot cocoa when we go back to the house.”
“She’d better not.”
Conner’s fingers laced with hers, his middle finger drawing little circles in her palm. Viewing the Kilgores’ Christmas tree earlier, she’d felt an unaccountable sadness for all the Christmases they had missed, she and Conner and the child he never knew he’d lost. Now she needed his touch. She wanted to know that he needed her. If just for this one night, she needed to feel wanted.
“This is some levee,” she said, trying to distract herself from the sensations of his body and hands on her. “It’s certainly nothing like the ones I saw on television when they were filling sacks with sand to hold back the flood waters.”
“Ummmmm.”
“It must be more than fifty feet across. It’s like a dam.”
He slipped his other hand beneath her arm to her abdomen. Erica’s heart, already beating rapidly, began to pound so hard that she was sure the others could hear it. Approaching footsteps announced the arrival of the rest of the guests.
“As you can see,” Mrs. Kilgore was saying, “we have already constructed our frame. Bring the lanterns, Joseph, so that our guests can see what you’ve done.”
As the servants moved toward the large, dark shape, there was a gasp of astonishment. The castle had been recreated in the eight-foot-high structure, even down to the turrets on the corners of the edifice.
“I see you’re surprised,” she went on. “Some of our neighbors build a simple cone shape from logs, driftwood, and sugarcane stalks. But most are more elaborate—boats, animals. In honor of our special guests this year, Brighton had our home recreated.”
“Oh, my. I can’t imagine that you’d want to burn this,” one of the women observed.
“And Christmas Eve isn’t until tomorrow,” another voiced.
Privately Erica decided it was the height of conceit for a man to torch his home. Still, perhaps the symbolism was such that his gesture was one of warmth instead of ego.
Brighton took a torch and walked toward the castle. “True, but any bonfire tomorrow evening is likely to be drowned out by the rain. So we decided to light our fire tonight in honor of our guests.”
“Where did the tradition originate?” Erica asked.
“Every year, on Christmas Eve, the people along the river build fires of welcome for Father Noel, who comes downriver in his pirogue to deliver gifts to the children. Another custom which is said to have originated in Germany.”
“Joseph, bring the champagne,” Mrs. Kilgore commanded.
After everyone was served, Brighton Kilgore lifted his glass. “To friends both old and new and to all those things that link the present with the past. Merry Christmas to one and all.”
As they drank the icy liquid, Brighton lit the torch and touched it to the bottom of the replica of his castle. As they watched it burst into flames, as if on signal other bonfires were struck, lighting a path up and down the river.
“It’s a beautiful tradition,” Erica murmured. “If I were Father Noel, I’d bring everyone along the river wonderful gifts.”
“What would you like Father Noel to bring you?” Conner asked Erica.
“Me? Don’t be silly. My parents explained the myth to me when I was five years old. After that I pretty much gave up on gift-giving of any kind. I mean going into a store and buying your own Christmas present just isn’t much fun.”
She might have given up, but Conner didn’t have to be told that she hadn’t given up the dream. Even he and Bart had held on to their belief in Santa as long as possible, “else,” Conner had explained to the brother who was six years younger, “he won’t come to see us anymore.” He’d known Erica was an only child and she’d never shared any of her childhood experiences, except for the well-worn bunny on her bed. Now that he looked back on it, they’d spent all their time in the present.
The glasses were returned to the tray and Erica gratefully reclaimed her spot of warmth in Conner’s arms. As the fire stretched toward the heavens, Conner remembered Erica’s confession that she’d never had a Christmas tree. At that moment he resolved to give her a tree with all the trimmings, including a visit from Santa. Back at the house he excused himself and found a phone. He didn’t have much time, but if you had money, an hour was long enough.
On the way back to the hotel later, Erica lay in the curve of Conner’s arm, resting her cheek on his chest.
“Karl Ernst thinks that most of the treasures were destroyed by the bombing of Germany at the end of the war,” Erica said.
“Could be.” Conner planted a kiss along Erica’s ear, then chastised himself for letting his pleasure interfere with her attempt at sharing information.
“Did you know about the American soldier who gathered up all the paintings and religious icons and shipped them home?”
He moved his lips lower. “I think I read something about it. He kept them in a bank vault, didn’t he?”
“Until he died and his family discovered his secret.”
“What else did Karl say?”
“He said that Bart only came to him once, the night before he died. He was worried about being followed. Professor Ernst said he sent Bart to the American embassy.”
“You don’t believe him?”
“It isn’t that. It’s just that I’m sure Bart told him about the piece of marble we found in that hidden room.”
Conner stopped his assault on her face and listened. “You mean the elbow we found?”
“That’s the one. Bart said that the professor kept it. At least I thought he did. Of Course, I could be wrong. I did have something else on my mind.”
“Something like this?”
The memory of past kisses made this one even more potent. Her response destroyed the tiny thread of control Conner had left. Without relinquishing his lips, Erica twisted around so that she was lying across him, giving him complete access to her neck.
But that wasn’t enough. He wanted all of her, wanted to feel her purring beneath him, to plunge inside of her. She might want no part of him in her life, but, by God, she still wanted his body. He glanced up at the closed window in frustration. Taking Erica here, in the back of the limo, was not what he wanted.
He felt Erica’s finger run down his cheek and across his chin, drawing his attention to her face. And then he saw it, the sweet smile of regret. It wasn’t just lust between them; it couldn’t be. Yet it couldn’t be anything else.
Once more he leaned down and brushed her lips, then arranged his body so that he could continue to hold her. They didn’t speak; he was sure that neither of them would know what to say. Content merely to be close, they held each other as they flew through the night back to their hotel.
Back to their past.
Back to thwarted desire.
And it was growing closer to midnight.