Wildest Dreams (The Contemporary Collection) Read online

  He felt like such an amateur. He had almost let her see him there at the perfume shop; he had thought the place was further along the street, hadn’t expected her to be quite so wary. He would have to do better.

  He hadn’t been ready to find someone else on the trail either. He had tried to give both Joletta and himself some space by waiting for her near the parking lot, a big mistake. That creep. Where had he come from? Had he really had a knife? There had been a flash of some kind, and it had seemed best to have a good excuse for stepping in when he had.

  But to kiss her? Unprofessional. Wrong. A clear case of taking advantage. He should feel worse about it, he really should.

  Joletta Caresse was something else, not precisely beautiful but lovely rather, in a soft, old-fashioned way, a loveliness mixed with pride and swift-moving intelligence that made a man want to move in close, to find out if what he thought he saw was real. She was fragile looking but amazingly fearless, and with an obvious inner strength. She smelled wonderful; there had been the scent of roses in her hair. The way she felt in his arms, soft and silken but firm where a woman should be firm, rounded where she should be rounded, made the muscles in his abdomen tighten just to think of it. Something had been so right in the size and shape and touch and smell of her that it seemed she could, if she would, step right into his dreams and take up where his fantasies of the perfect woman had left off.

  He must be crazy.

  And God, no doubt about it, had a weird sense of humor.

  There she was up there, just possibly the woman he had been looking for all his adult life. Here he was down here, waxing poetical about her like a lovesick teenager and burning his mouth on bad coffee.

  Any day now, something was going to tip her off about him, and then she was going to dislike him intensely, even hate him.

  It was guaranteed. It could be no other way.

  3

  MIMI’S LAWYER OF SOME TWENTY YEARS’ standing was a silver-haired charmer who had been refusing offers for political office for as long as Joletta had known him. He had tried to make a pleasant occasion of the meeting called in his office to explain the provisions of Mimi’s will, ushering them into a paneled conference room and offering coffee. Aunt Estelle, seating herself on the opposite side of the long table from Joletta, with Natalie and Timothy on either side of her for support, had demanded that he get on with the legalities. He had complied.

  There had been no surprises so far. The bulk of the estate, consisting of the French Quarter house, the perfume shop, and a certificate of deposit of no great size, had been divided in accordance with Louisiana’s forced heirship laws, with half going to Estelle Clements as Mimi’s elder daughter and the other half to Joletta as the only child and heir of her younger daughter, Margaret. Aunt Estelle’s lips thinned with irritation, but she made no comment as she waited for the lawyer to set aside one page of the document in front of him and turn to the next.

  “We come now,” the lawyer said, looking from one to the other with a grim smile, “to the personal bequests.”

  He read them out: to Estelle, the family silver she had always coveted; to Natalie, a few pieces of jewelry of great style but no great monetary value; to Timothy, the silver pocket watch and ivory shaving-brush set that had belonged to his grandfather and great-grandfather.

  The lawyer cleared his throat before he continued in firm, even tones. “And the final items read as follows: "To my beloved granddaughter, Joletta Marie Caresse, I leave the piece of furniture known as my memory chest, along with its contents in their entirety. These contents shall include, but not be limited to, the brass-bound journal written by Violet Marie Fossier née Villère, dated 1854—1855, which shall be for the sole usage and ownership of said Joletta Marie Caresse, with the full right and permission to dispose of same in any manner which she deems suitable."“

  The lawyer placed the copy of the will on the desk in front of him and folded his hands upon it. His manner businesslike, he asked, “Are there any questions?”

  Aunt Estelle drew a hissing breath before hitching the solid bulk of her body forward in her chair. Her tone was stringent as she spoke. “Do you mean the diary, this journal, was there in my mother’s old chest all this time?”

  “I assume so,” the lawyer answered.

  The older woman turned on Joletta. “You knew it, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

  Joletta felt an uncomfortable heat rising in her face, but she answered readily enough. “No, I didn’t, not immediately. I guessed it later.”

  “This is outrageous,” Aunt Estelle declared, turning on the lawyer. “That journal is the most valuable piece of property in the estate. My mother can’t have meant to leave it in such a way that my children and I would not benefit from it.”

  “The will was drawn up to my client’s specific instructions,” the lawyer at the head of the table replied in dry explanation.

  “Then she can’t have been in her right mind,” the older woman snapped. “I want it overturned, now.”

  “You can contest, of course, Mrs. Clements,” the legal representative said with a trace of steel entering his tone, “but I should warn you that there is little ground for it. My client appeared perfectly aware of what she was doing when she dictated the terms set down here, and there is nothing irregular about the way the matter has been handled. I can’t speak for the value of this journal, never having seen it, but I expect it is primarily sentimental in nature.”

  “You didn’t know much about my mother’s business if you think so,” Aunt Estelle returned. “But never mind. I believe that nothing specific was mentioned about the formulas to the perfumes. Is there any reason why these could not be sold, any legal obstacle to such a sale?”

  “None at all — subject to the agreement of all parties concerned,” the lawyer said in chill tones. “Since you and Joletta divide the estate between you, you would both have to sign the documents of sale and both share equally in the proceeds.”

  “I understand.” The older woman gave a nod that made her fleshy jowls quiver.

  “I’m not sure that I do,” Joletta said slowly as she turned toward her aunt. “You can’t mean to sell the shop?”

  Aunt Estelle gave her a hard stare. “Why not, eventually? But I was speaking only of the formulas at the moment, especially the one for Le Jardin de Cour.”

  “But Mimi would hate that. She would be so hurt if she knew you had even thought of letting it go.”

  “I don’t need you to tell me what my mother would have wanted, Joletta, thank you very much.”

  “Without that perfume, the shop will be useless,” Joletta protested, leaning toward her aunt. “The place is the heritage of the women of our family, a part of the history of New Orleans. You can’t just throw that away.”

  Beyond her aunt, Joletta saw Natalie look at her brother with an expressive grimace. Timothy only shook his head, though there was sympathy in the glance he sent in Joletta’s direction.

  Estelle Clements gave her son a brief look before switching her attention back to Joletta. Through tight lips, she said, “I don’t intend to throw anything away; I intend to sell it for a very high price. Much you should care, anyway. I’ll be making all the arrangements while you sit back and take half the money.”

  “I can’t believe you would do it,” Joletta said, shaking her head.

  The older woman’s expression sharpened into dislike and her massive chest heaved under its decoration of gold chains and ropes of pearls. “While I’m at it, Joletta, there is something I’ve been wanting to say to you. You lived off my mother for years, worming your way into her heart. You may think you’re going to push me and my children out of the way now while you take over, but I have news for you. As soon as that formula’s found, it’s going to the highest bidder, and there is nothing you can do about it.”

  Such shock at her aunt’s animosity crowded in upon Joletta that she couldn’t think what to say. She hadn’t known her aunt felt that way about her.

/>   It was Timothy who broke the taut silence. “Now, Mom, don’t upset yourself,” he said, drawing his lanky legs nearer his chair as he sat up straighter and brushed his hair back with a quick, nervous gesture. “I’m sure Joletta wouldn’t want to take anything from us.”

  His mother glared at him. “When I want your opinion, Timothy, I’ll ask for it. In the meantime I will remind you that your loyalty should be to me.”

  “I was just saying—”

  “I heard you,” his mother replied in quelling tones. “Please be quiet unless you have something to say to convince Joletta to see things my way.”

  Hot color rose under Timothy’s fair skin. He met Joletta’s gaze with a look of apology as he gave a light shrug.

  Joletta sent her cousin a small smile in return. She had always felt closer to Timothy than to Natalie; he was nearer her own age and had something of her own uncertain disposition. It had been good of him to brave his mother’s ill humor. His father, when Timothy was younger, before his parents divorced, had sent him to boys” camps and on Outward Bound excursions to toughen him up, make him more self-reliant. Timothy had always come back tan and fit, but no less dependent on his mother’s approval.

  Her cousin’s intervention had allowed Joletta the time to marshal her thoughts once more. Keeping her voice as calm as possible, she said, “I really think we all need to think about this.”

  “There’s nothing to think about,” her aunt said with precision. “I happen to have a few contacts in the cosmetics industry. Lara Camors herself is interested; she’s ready to put the marketing division of Camors Cosmetics behind Le Jardin de Cour. She wants to run a huge ad campaign touting the old legends about Napoléon, Joséphine, and Cleopatra, calling it the perfume of women who want to get ahead, the perfume that increases a woman’s power and influence.”

  “You’ve already discussed marketing?” Joletta couldn’t keep the dismay from her voice.

  “You needn’t make it sound as if I couldn’t wait for my mother to be buried. The possibilities in the perfume came up some time ago, when Lara and I were guests at a house party. That woman started with a cleansing cream and developed a company that is an industry giant, a billion-dollar conglomerate; there’s no telling what she and Camors Cosmetics can do with the formula. Of course, there was no use saying a word about it while Mimi was alive.”

  “But — doesn’t it bother you, the thought of ending everything, closing the shop?” Joletta reached out in a gesture of appeal.

  “I never cared for the place, and I certainly don’t intend to spend my days pouring perfumes together. Lara will pay at least two million, maybe more, for complete rights to the Fossier’s Royal Parfums name and the formula for Le Jardin de Cour. I don’t intend to lose out on that money.”

  Joletta had always wondered why Mimi had never trusted the perfume formula to her eldest daughter. Perhaps she had had good reason.

  Estelle had left New Orleans when she was in her early twenties, taking a job in Houston. It was only a few hours away on the interstate highway, but to a New Orleanian of Mimi’s generation and insular outlook, it might as well have been the moon. A short time later Estelle had married a Texan, a man too tall, too loud, too wealthy, and too obviously sure of himself for Mimi’s liking. Mimi had never gotten along with Errol Clements and had forgiven her daughter for marrying him only when Estelle had had the good taste to divorce him while Natalie and Timothy were small.

  Afterward, Estelle had not come home, but had divided her time between Houston and the East and West coasts. She had grown extravagant and too much in thrall to designer labels, at least in Mimi’s eyes. The excellent French-style taste instilled in her in her childhood had been corrupted, so that her appearance was regrettably overstated.

  This was all bad enough, but Mimi’s older daughter had also proven that she lacked the perfumer’s nose, as shown by her deplorable taste in perfumes for her own use.

  They were all waiting for her to say something more, her aunt and her cousins, even the lawyer who watched the byplay with an air of weary impatience, as if he had seen such family disagreements before and feared he would again.

  Natalie, tall and blond, with the pouting expression of a runway model, appeared a little uncomfortable, but no less interested in the situation because of it. Joletta could not imagine why she should be concerned; her life-style could only be described as glamorous, filled with parties and jaunts to the Caribbean and the Riviera. She had married well, and divorced better, at least twice. Money could hardly be a problem, judging by her suit of silky-smooth black leather, the Fendi handbag she carried, and her Ferragamo shoes. Joletta studied Natalie’s carefully made up face with the delicately wrinkled skin around her eyes from the sun exposure necessary for a constant tan. There was nothing in her cousin’s expression to indicate that family feeling held any interest for her; still, there was always the chance.

  “What about you, Natalie? Wouldn’t you like to try running the shop?”

  “You must be joking,” Natalie said with the nasal vowels of New York grafted to a broad Texas drawl. “Where would I find the time?”

  “You don’t work that I know of; why should it be a problem? You might even enjoy having some worthwhile use for your energy.”

  “Oh, right. Can you see me peddling perfume to grubby tourists in T-shirts and rubber thongs? Thanks, but I prefer to direct my energy, as you put it, to better things. Such as the marvelous man I met last week. You wouldn’t believe him — stunning to look at, and the most darling manners. Money, of course. He’s my idea of a career.”

  “Besides that,” Aunt Estelle interrupted in resentful tones, “Natalie knows nothing about the shop; Mimi never saw fit to discuss it during her visits.”

  Joletta studied her aunt for long moments before she said quietly, “But I know about it.”

  “And just what does that mean?” The words carried a threatening edge.

  “It means,” Joletta answered, her gaze steady, “that I might run the shop myself.”

  An odd look crept into her aunt’s eyes, one of half-concealed cunning. “You could do that, for what good the shop would be without Le Jardin de Cour.”

  “You’re forgetting something,” Joletta said. “If Violet’s journal is mine, and the formula is in it, then Le Jardin de Cour also belongs to me.”

  “And you’re forgetting that there is another way to find out what is in a perfume.”

  Joletta shook her head. “Chemical analysis? You know what Mimi thought of that.”

  A method without soul or accuracy, her grandmother had called it. Like most creative perfumers, Mimi had nothing but scorn for a process that was used, most notably, for making cheap copycat blends of famous fragrances. No machine, she said, could capture the finer nuances of a scent, could identify those minute quantities of rare oils that gave a great perfume its subtlety of character, its true essence and secret heart.

  “It will serve the purpose,” Aunt Estelle said shortly.

  Joletta considered her aunt. At last she said, “I don’t think it will, not without the journal.”

  Aunt Estelle made no answer, though the high color in her face took on an alarming darkness. Natalie stared for brief seconds at her mother before she turned toward Joletta. Her voice sharp, she said, “What are you saying?”

  “It sounds to me as if Camors Cosmetics is interested in the whole package, journal as well as formula. Even if a chemical analysis should come close to the original, Le Jardin de Cour is just another perfume without the background that goes with it. More than that, the government is picky these days about unsubstantiated advertising claims. Camors needs the journal to back up the legends.”

  Her aunt gave a humorless laugh. “Bright girl. But you know, I don’t think you’ve found the formula yet, or you would be a lot more interested in the money.”

  Joletta made no answer, since she did not want to admit the truth.

  “There’s another thing,” the older woman we
nt on with hardly a pause. “If you want to own the shop, you’ll have to buy out my interest in it and the house. Where do you think you’re going to get the money? Who do you think will lend it to someone your age, with no business experience, no credit record to speak of, no collateral? You’ll soon see how hopeless it is, then you’ll come begging me to help you sell.”

  “I’ll find a way.”

  Those words echoed in Joletta’s mind long after she left the lawyer’s office. Where they had come from, she had no idea. She had a little money saved, the money that was supposed to have gone on a house. Even if she added what would come to her from Mimi, it would not be nearly enough.

  More than that, the thought of running Fossier’s Royal Parfums, stepping into her grandmother’s shoes, had never crossed her mind. Somehow, she had always assumed her aunt would do something, maybe bring in a manager, when the time came.

  It wasn’t going to happen. She would have to take over. But was it what she really wanted?

  She had so recently taken charge of her own life, so recently stopped allowing things to happen to her instead of making them happen herself, stopped letting the people around her do what they wanted, walk in and out of her life without protest. Was it actually a decision, then, declaring that she meant to run the shop, or was she letting circumstances control her actions again?

  She couldn’t tell. And yet, what other choice was there?

  It was the next morning that she was called to Mimi’s house. The three women who worked in the perfume shop, and who had been keeping it going for the last few days, were upset; two of them were in tears. The shop and Mimi’s quarters above had been ransacked during the night. Glass cases had been broken, perfume spilled, and pages ripped from the formula ledgers. Upstairs, antiques had been overturned, upholstery slashed, and the contents of drawers and cabinets thrown into a heap like so much trash. The destruction looked deliberate, the result of frustrated rage. The explanation seemed obvious also. Someone had been searching for the formula, but had not found it.