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  Closer Than She Thinks

  Meryl Sawyer

  This book is dedicated to all my special friends in my Hoag group. With heartfelt thanks to our fearless leaders, Patricia and Gary, and our alter ego, Mike. Remember “keep coming back.”

  The best way to love anything is as if it might be lost.

  —G. K. Chesterton

  PROLOGUE

  The French Quarter, New Orleans

  Pale shafts of moonlight filtered through the banana trees and towering elephant ears in the courtyard concealed behind tall plank gates that went unnoticed by most people who passed along Conti Street. The low-slung branches of a crepe myrtle partially concealed a wrought iron bench beside a flowerbed profuse with primroses. The soulful wail of a trumpet drifted in from one of the jazz clubs around the corner.

  A man strode across the ancient bricks, passed the splashing lion’s head fountain built into the wall, and mounted the sweeping staircase to the second floor. Upstairs, he inserted his brass key into the door’s old-fashioned lock. The tumbler opened with a click that echoed across the courtyard of the Creole town house.

  “Hello, Clay.”

  The low throaty voice greeted Clay Duvall with its usual sultry allure, but the sensual impact on him was fleeting. His mind was on a woman. Not this woman, but another woman living an ocean away from the French Quarter.

  “Champagne?” Maree asked even though she knew he would want Johnnie Walker Blue Label. Expensive Cristal champagne was her favorite, not his. Offering it was Maree’s way of chastising him for arriving after midnight and not calling.

  “Champagne? You know what I want.”

  “You want me, darling?” she asked, her voice even huskier than normal.

  The honeyed syllables revealed a youth spent in a small bayou town within a shout of New Orleans, but it might as well have been another planet compared to Clay’s background. Not that it mattered to him. He’d learned to look beyond New Orleans’ inbred society for his opportunities.

  Maree slowly lifted her shapely body from the velvet chaise and moved toward him. A whisper of silk filled the candlelit room as the sheer negligee caressed her smooth skin. She repeated, “You want me?”

  “M-m-mm,” he muttered, unable to force a lie. What he wanted, the woman who obsessed him, was well beyond his reach.

  For now.

  He didn’t know what to say, but he had to terminate this relationship. Staying with Maree would hurt her more in the long run.

  “You desire me, no?”

  Before he could answer, her slender arms wrapped around his neck and her full breasts nudged his chest. Pouty lips met his, then parted as her dainty tongue flicked against his mouth.

  “Maree,” he half-whispered, half-sighed before he could stop himself.

  Maree was good, he had to admit. She was even better now than the night he’d met her at a political reception at the Windsor Court Hotel. Maree had stood off to one side, clothed in a black linen dress that only suggested the luscious body beneath the dark fabric. There had been a hint of shyness in her half-smile and gaze partially concealed by thick alluring lashes.

  Across the crowded room he’d detected an undertone of reserve in Maree’s manner, a bashful reticence in her refusal to fully return his smile. Even though Maree was a brunette, not a blonde, her attitude had struck a chord, reminding him of the only woman to have captured his heart. He hadn’t been able to resist walking over and introducing himself.

  It wasn’t until after he’d begun his affair with her that Clay realized Maree was obsessed with money and social position. She was nothing like his first love. Instead, Maree was disgustingly similar to his wife—Phoebe LeCroix Duvall.

  Maree guided Clay toward the bedroom, where more candles trimmed the fireplace mantel and lined the bookshelves while flickering votives adorned the dressing table. The soft light cast an amber glow across the black satin sheets on the bed she had turned back, obviously anticipating his arrival.

  Beep-beep! The chirp of Clay’s cell phone reminded him that he’d come to give Maree a bracelet as a parting gift. He reached into the pocket of his sports coat and pulled out the tiny telephone. He had to tilt it toward the nearest bank of candles to read the digital display.

  He shrugged out of Maree’s embrace. “I have to take this. Business.”

  Clay walked back into the living room of the apartment he’d leased for Maree a little over a year ago. Her perfume hung in the air like a noxious vapor, then he realized the cloying scent was coming from what Maree called aromatic sandalwood candles. With a sigh of regret for the good times, he hardened his resolve to end their affair.

  “Everything is in place,” Burt Anders told him the moment Clay came on the line. “Just say the word.”

  “I want her … company,” Clay said. “Make the offer, and remember what I told you earlier. Be sure to keep my involvement secret. I don’t want Alyssa to know I’m behind this.”

  He snapped the cell phone shut, then tucked it back in his pocket. Alyssa Rossi. The name alone made him smile as he anticipated seeing her again after being apart for almost a dozen years. A lifetime.

  “Darling.” Maree had come up behind him and was touching his shoulder.

  He slipped the small box out of his pocket. Knowing how she adored antique jewelry, he was positive this Edwardian bracelet encrusted with diamonds and sapphires would ease their parting. He regretted what he was about to do, but assured himself that it wouldn’t be long before she found another wealthy man. With luck, the new guy would love and marry her the way she deserved.

  “I went to see Dante this afternoon,” she told him.

  Her psychic had moved from the Bahamas to New Orleans to practice voodoo. He’d given it up when his so-called visions had lured him to the more lucrative realm of psychic readings. Maree’s obsession with having her future predicted had made her one of Dante’s best customers.

  “What did he have to say?” he asked, wanting to let her down gently and hoping he could manipulate the flaky psychic’s message into a way out of this entanglement.

  “Something exciting is about to happen.”

  “Dante’s right. I have a present for you.”

  “For me?”

  “I think you’ll like it.”

  “Just a minute.” Maree accepted the small package, then dashed into the bedroom and returned with an envelope. “Dante sent this to you.”

  “What?” Clay took the envelope from her, noticing the back flap had been secured with a dollop of burgundy-colored sealing wax. “You know I don’t believe—”

  “I didn’t ask Dante to predict your future. This was his idea.”

  Clay edged away from her, a shadow of alarm troubling him. He put it down to conscience. Dropping Maree was more difficult than he’d anticipated.

  He recalled another night long ago. Another woman. The woman he still loved. Leaving a woman was never easy. Not then, not now.

  “It’s been fun, but—” He charged toward the door, embarrassed and rushing the speech he’d silently rehearsed. “I—I don’t know what to say.”

  She stared at him and the unopened present slipped from her manicured fingers and hit the Oriental carpet with a dull thunk.

  “The rent is paid through the end of the month.” He twisted the brass knob and yanked the door open. “Take care of yourself. Ah … Good-bye.”

  Behind him, she gasped, but Clay shut the door, blocking the sound. He descended the stairs two at a time, crossed the courtyard, and was out on the street in a matter of seconds. He didn’t stop unt
il he reached the corner, where a trash can stood outside an espresso bar that was closed until morning.

  Clay almost tossed Dante’s note on top of a heap of Styrofoam cups, but a surge of curiosity stopped him. He ripped open the envelope, shattering the seal, and chips of burgundy wax plinked onto the sidewalk. Removing the single sheet of paper, he held it up to the streetlight, where palmetto bugs were chasing each other in circles, their wings clicking like tiny castanets. The script on the paper appeared too fine to have come from Dante’s blunt fingers.

  Ashes to ashes,

  Dust to dust,

  If God won’t have you,

  the Devil must.

  CHAPTER 1

  Ten Days Later: Florence, Italy

  The air along the narrow cobbled streets was fragrant with the scents of spring in the city. The smell of blossoms tumbling from window boxes combined with the aroma of fresh-baked bread while a trace of mildew seeped out of the cracked stone of the ancient buildings. A cat’s paw of a wind delivered a moist whiff of the dank Arno River. The setting sun darkened the mazelike streets and cast the thick plank doorways in shadows that appeared ominous to those who did not realize the forbidding entrances concealed elegant palazzos with formal courtyards.

  Ghosts from centuries ago when Florence had given birth to the Renaissance now kept watch on their beloved city from behind the cloistered walls. Dante. Michelangelo. The Medicis. Their spirits had long departed, but they had marked Florence for all time, bestowing on it a priceless treasure of art and architecture.

  Along with this legacy came an aura of mystery and intrigue.

  This mysterious quality had captivated Alyssa Rossi from the moment she’d first come to live with her aunt over a decade ago. Like her hometown of New Orleans, Florence was a unique place with history, charm … dark secrets.

  But today Alyssa’s mind wasn’t on either city. She was too preoccupied with a business proposition to even notice the colorful skiffs drifting down the Arno or the throngs of scooters zipping by her in the gathering dusk.

  Harry’s Bar was more crowded than usual when Alyssa angled her way inside. Being taller than average gave her an advantage, and she caught Mario’s eye immediately. The bartender smiled, his insider’s smile, not the vapid grin reserved for the tourists who made the bar one of their stops just as they did the Pitti Palace or the Uffuzi Museum.

  The bartender winked and inclined his head toward the sidewalk terrace overlooking the river. Alyssa had called ahead to request Aunt Thee’s favorite table. No matter how packed the bar and adjacent café was, Mario always reserved this special table for his old friend, Theodora Rossi Canali.

  “Ciao. Come stai?” the waiter greeted Alyssa, recognizing her as a regular.

  Alyssa smiled, replied she was well, and sat down, taking care not to rumple her clothes. She had to meet Burt Anders in less than two hours. She didn’t want to look as frazzled as she felt when she joined the American businessman for dinner. Adjusting the vibrant rose and lime green scarf around her shoulders, she sensed someone watching her, trying to get her attention.

  An Italian man, she decided without looking up. Harry’s Bar was a tourists’ haunt, but a number of local men stopped by for a drink after work, hoping to get lucky. To Italian men, flirting wasn’t just a means of picking up women, it was a way of life. They did it with charm and a sense of humor that Alyssa usually enjoyed, but not this evening.

  Mario sent over two glasses of Campari in the crystal goblets he kept under the counter for special customers. Alyssa sipped hers, watching the entrance for her aunt. It wasn’t like Aunt Thee to be late, but Alyssa had to admit her aunt was slowing down. Her seventy-fifth birthday was less than a week away. Of course, Aunt Thee didn’t have the energy she did years ago when Alyssa had left New Orleans in disgrace with the only person on earth who believed her.

  “Signorina,” the waiter spoke to her in Italian, his voice low. “The gentleman at the bar would like to buy your drink.”

  “No, grazie.”

  Alyssa answered without looking toward the bar that had been a gathering place for American travelers since Hemingway had made it famous. She realized her shoulder-length blond hair and hazel eyes complemented her tall, slim figure. Most women would envy her, but Alyssa wasn’t impressed. The world was full of women who were truly beautiful.

  It was her talent that had Alyssa worried, not her looks. Was she ready to take the gamble? Was she ready for the big time?

  “Sorry, I’m late.”

  Alyssa jumped up and gave her aunt a hug. “Is everything all right?” she asked as the older woman sank into the chair opposite her.

  The glow of the setting sun burnished Aunt Thee’s pewter hair, softening the steel-gray color and bringing amber light to her dark brown eyes. A skein of fine lines netted the corners of Aunt Thee’s eyes, saying she’d smiled often. Deep brackets on either side of her full mouth confirmed her good nature.

  Despite her congenial manner, Theodora Canali could be serious when necessary. She had a head for business, and had proven it by investing in talented designers in Milan years ago on the eve of its becoming a fashion mecca. Alyssa was counting on her aunt’s business acumen to help her make this decision about her own company.

  Alyssa tried not to be impatient as she waited for her aunt to drink her Campari, but the years she’d spent in Italy hadn’t tempered her enough. She was still an American at heart and found it difficult to adjust her attitude. She was driven, and it was hard for her to live in the moment and enjoy life the relaxed way Italians did.

  “Well,” she finally asked. “Tell me what you think of TriTech’s offer.”

  Aunt Thee set down her glass, saying, “Take it.”

  “Take it?” Alyssa repeated, stunned. In the years she’d been with Thee, the older woman had always played the devil’s advocate, debating each decision with Alyssa, yet allowing Alyssa to reach her own conclusion.

  “Yes. Accept TriTech’s offer. Isn’t this what you want? Are you going to allow know-nothings to knock off your designs forever?”

  Alyssa shrugged, then signaled Mario for more Campari. Rossi Designs, her costume jewelry line, was the most innovative in Italy. Her special creations were being copied ruthlessly. The second she sketched a design, someone was duplicating it.

  “Of course I want credit for my jewelry, but I’m concerned about becoming part of a big corporation. TriTech sounds like a software company or something techie. Will they understand the fashion world?”

  “I read the documents you sent to me. This appears to be a fabulous offer. Before you accept, find out more about the owners of the company. Then, well, you know what I always say.”

  “‘Get it in writing.’” Alyssa smiled at her aunt, but knew enough to ask, “What’s the real reason you want me to accept this deal?”

  Aunt Thee drained her glass. “It’s time for you to go home.”

  “Home? This is my home. I’m happy here.”

  Aunt Thee’s dark brown eyes were steady. “It’s time for us both to return to New Orleans.”

  Alyssa didn’t know if she had the mental fortitude to go back to the city she left after nearly being arrested. It would mean facing her past. It would mean she would be confronted by Phoebe Duvall.

  It would also mean she would have to avoid the man she once had loved—Clay Duvall.

  “Why go back there?” she asked her aunt. “I’m happy here.”

  “Are you really happy, or are you merely existing?”

  Alyssa rushed down the winding side street toward the Piazza della Repubblica, where the Savoy Hotel was located. Her aunt’s question still drifted through her mind. Alyssa believed she was happy, but just the thought of Clay Duvall brought a hollow ache deep in her chest. After what he’d done, how could she still miss him?

  She forced her thoughts to the acquisition offer. Was Aunt Thee correct? Did TriTech expect Alyssa to move Rossi Designs to New Orleans, where the corporation had its headquarte
rs?

  Nothing in TriTech’s offer suggested this was the case, but Alyssa had too much respect for her aunt’s shrewd business sense to doubt her. Aunt Thee always said: Read between the lines.

  It was possible TriTech would want her to relocate, Alyssa conceded. Their offer was simply too good not to have a down side, and returning to the city where she’d been raised was a major downer.

  She rounded the corner and hurried by the shuttered stalls of the Mercato Nouvo, where vendors sold leather goods, scarves, and souvenirs during the day. A group of Japanese tourists with garlands of cameras around their necks were clustered around the Porcellino Fountain. Rubbing the bronze nose of the wild boar’s statue was supposed to bring good luck.

  Alyssa was half tempted to give it a try, but long ago Lady Luck had turned her back on Alyssa. She’d learned to rely on herself.

  The bustling cafés lining the piazza opposite the Savoy filled the soft night air with music and the aroma of meat being grilled Tuscan style. Pausing for just a moment outside Gilli’s, she admired the artful boxes of chocolate. The window display featured egg-shaped containers covered with sequins to look like priceless Fabergé eggs. Inside each was a selection of handmade chocolates.

  She admired creativity, prized it for its uniqueness in a mass market world. But even the most innovative design could be duplicated, Alyssa reminded herself as she turned and walked across the narrow street to the Savoy.

  “Buono sera,” the doorman greeted her.

  She stepped through the double-wide glass doors into the ultramodern lobby. To her right was the Art Deco bar opening onto the piazza. She spotted the American businessman already seated at a small table near the windows.

  Burt Anders had noticed Alyssa coming across the square. Although Florence’s streets were filled with elegantly dressed, beautiful women, Alyssa Rossi stood out. Not only was she taller than most, but she was strikingly blond in a country known for its attractive brunettes.

  Adding to Alyssa’s appeal was an air of remoteness, Burt decided as she walked toward him. It seemed as if she was always preoccupied, her mind on more important things.