interjected, crossing her fingers at Riana before disappearing back inside her office.
Seated at her desk, Riana punched the speed dial to her sister’s house, knowing it was best to call Britt back first, before her kids returned home from swimming lessons, the library, a Scout meeting or wherever they’d been shipped off to for the morning. Britt was a stay-at-home mom with five children under the age of twelve who lived in the suburbs with her husband, John, a mild-mannered veterinarian. Even though school was out for the summer, Britt didn’t let her children sleep late and watch television all day. She made sure they followed as rigorous a routine of activities during the summer months as they did when school was in session.
“Hi, Britt,” Riana greeted, distressed to hear her youngest niece, Wendy, wailing in the background. “What’s up?”
“Do you really want to know?” Britt said on the edge of a sigh.
No, not really, Riana thought as she listened to Britt’s rundown of her hectic morning. Typical suburban-mom stuff. Nothing Riana could relate to, but she held her tongue and let Britt vent for a few minutes, her monologue interrupted by attempts to shush Wendy. It was difficult not to hurry Britt off the phone, but Riana knew her sister needed the release of talking about her troubles with someone. Today, it was Riana.
“Anyway, the real reason I called…” Britt finally got to the point.
“Yeah, right,” Riana prompted, eager to get off the phone and call George Allen back. “I only have a few minutes. An important call to make.” Tapping her pen impatiently on her blotter, she waited.
“I know. You’re always so busy. Anyway, I saw your interview with Sheri Sherman this morning,” Britt started, voice dropping a few octaves.
“Oh? Good. What’d you think?” Riana asked, pleased that Britt, who took little interest in Riana’s business, had been watching.
“I’m worried about you,” Britt tossed out, her tone a bit accusatory. “Don’t you realize how dangerous it was for you to say what you did?”
“What are you talking about?” Riana asked, sitting up straighter, puzzled. Dangerous? What was bothering Britt, who overreacted to everything?
“I’m talking about your comment. About not having time for a personal life,” Britt clarified. “You just told the world that you’re not interested in men. It sounded so strange, almost as if you were, you know…gay or something. Why did you have to do that?”
“Oh, my God! Britt. How can you say that? You know that’s not what I meant.”
“That’s how it came off.”
“I simply said that I don’t have any interest in pursuing a serious romantic relationship,” Riana defended herself. “It’s the truth. So what?”
“Well, you’ll never get married if you keep broadcasting the fact that you’re too involved in your work to give a man the time of day. I don’t understand you, I really don’t.”
Stiffening her spine, Riana kept all emotion from her voice as she told her sister, “I’m not concerned about what people think. If I never get married, that’s fine with me, Britt. I’m perfectly content with my life as it is and I have no desire to complicate it by bringing a man into the picture.”
Britt’s remarks stung Riana. After hanging up the phone, she sat quietly, unable to believe what Britt had said. Me, gay? Not hardly, Riana thought, shaking her head, her mind suddenly turning to memories of the time she had spent with Andre Preaux. Even though it had been four years since she had felt Andre’s lips on hers and held his body close, it seemed as if she had made love to him only yesterday. Why wouldn’t those memories fade?
Chapter 2
Andre paused to catch his breath when he came to the end of his circuit on the jogging trail that wound its way through Hermann Park. Holding on to the back of a park bench, he began a series of stretching exercises while studying the rain clouds that were beginning to darken the jagged Houston skyline. The hot, humid day was coming to an end, and he was glad he had made it to the park in time to get in a good run before the evening rain took over.
Running cleared Andre’s head and gave him time to review what he had accomplished at the office. It had been a satisfying day at A. Preaux and Associates, his newly established urban planning and architectural firm located on the top floor of Prairie Towers, a six-story art-deco structure he had rescued from the wrecking ball.
He had prepared a bid proposal for a warehouse renovation project, completed the preliminary sketches for a city-sponsored health center, and prepared his presentation for a gathering of area business owners to discuss his vision for a strip shopping center. Of the projects he was currently working on, the city contract excited him the most. The government design would add another valuable reference to Andre’s short list of satisfied clients and add to his renovation fund for Prairie Towers.
Years ago, when the business center of Houston had suddenly shifted westward, companies had vacated office buildings like Prairie Towers for steel-and-glass towers that shimmered in the sunlight. Andre had watched the property deteriorate during punishingly hot summers and through tropical storms that had ravaged it inside and out, while praying that no one would snatch it up before he accumulated sufficient money to buy it. Last year he had managed to purchase the deserted building for a fraction of its value, using every cent of his savings and going into debt, with little left over for the major renovations it would require. Though Prairie Towers was in a fairly dilapidated state, its address still drew respect, and that was what mattered to anyone purchasing real estate in Houston.
Andre had great plans for the 1950s structure, deciding to do most of the work himself, but for now, the building remained vacant except for the top floor, which Andre had divided in half with one side used for his loft-style living quarters and the other half converted into his office space—with two desks, a computer, his drafting table and a bookcase—sufficient furnishings for himself and Lester Tremaine, his part-time assistant, and the only associate at A. Preaux and Associates.
Now, Andre scanned the buildup of cars lining Fannin Drive, ready to head home and add the last coat of sealer to the hardwood floors he had just refinished in his living area. Once he’d completed that work, his loft apartment would be fully renovated and he could turn his focus on the unfinished walls of his office.
“Traffic’s gonna be hell,” Andre muttered to himself as he mopped his face with a small white towel and finished his stretching routine. The darkening rain clouds served as a warning that the weather was surely going to make his rush-hour drive time even more sluggish.
Just as he was about to head to the opposite side of the park where he had left his newly washed Pathfinder, the first drops of rain hit the ground, and within seconds, a full-blown downpour erupted. Twelve dollars wasted, he thought.
Seeking cover, Andre jogged over to a nearby pavilion where a lone man was watching the rain.
As he approached, Andre recalled that the man had been under the pavilion when he had first arrived at the park, and had stayed there while Andre raced past him repeatedly during his six-mile run. The stranger didn’t look like a homeless person, and didn’t appear dangerous or threatening, so Andre relaxed, thinking that he might be an office worker who had come out to the park to simply get some fresh air.
Ducking under the shelter, Andre nodded to the stranger. “I knew it was coming,” he casually remarked
