away. She wouldn’t allow herself to fall into Jacques’s sensual trap again. She couldn’t. She had too much to lose—even more than she had when she’d run away three years ago.
The hum of voices grew around her, but Liza ignored them. Ordinarily she would have joined in the after-meeting chatter. She enjoyed these people, and a number of them were potential clients. In fact, she had even planned to follow up on several inquiries about her services as a fund-raiser. But not tonight, she told herself, as she retrieved another handful of folders from the table and stored them in her briefcase. Not when the shock of seeing Jacques again was still so fresh. Not when she was so keenly aware of his presence in the room. She’d have to face him again. Of that much she was sure. But not yet, not before she had figured out what to do.
“I think I’m in love.”
Liza looked up from the stacks of papers to Jane Burke, her friend and co-worker on the committee. At just over five feet, with jet black hair and dark eyes, Jane was her direct opposite in appearance and philosophy. The other woman was as reckless and romantic as Liza was cautious and pragmatic. Yet the two had become fast friends. “Again?” Liza asked casually, used to her friend falling in and out of love at the drop of a hat.
“Don’t be snide, Liza.”
“Who is it this time?”
“The committee’s new co-director, Jacques Gaston.” At the arch of Liza’s brow, she insisted, “This time it’s the real thing.”
“Need I remind you that’s what you said three weeks ago when you met that Bobby What’s-his-name from Texas?”
“I know.”
“And let’s not forget about Beauregard Jefferson Davis from Mississippi.”
Jane laughed, the sound light and carefree. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for a fellow with an accent.” As if on cue, the deep rumble of Jacques’s voice carried across the room to them. “Who could blame me? Can you imagine what it would be like to hear him whisper sweet nothings in your ear.”
She didn’t have to imagine, Liza thought at the sound of the deep voice, heavily accented by his native French. Memories came rushing back to her of those nights she’d spent wrapped in his arms, listening to his stories about the vineyard in France where he’d lived as a boy. She had envisioned him easily, a handsome boy with a devilish twinkle in his eyes, racing through the vineyard, laughing as he swiped grapes from the vines and popped them into his mouth. For a short time during their brief affair, she had even been foolish enough to fantasize that the two of them would travel there together one day. She had so wanted to see the valleys he had described to her, the place he had painted for her so vividly with his words.
But that had been before she had realized that Jacques didn’t love her. That he would never permit himself to love her or any woman. And even worse that there was no place in his life or his heart for her love.
“I wonder if it’s true what they say about Frenchmen,” Jane murmured. “You know, about them being better lovers.”
Unbidden, Liza’s gaze followed her friend’s to where Jacques stood flanked by three of the female board members. One of the trio murmured something to him and Jacques tossed back his head and laughed. A swift pang shot through Liza and she jerked her gaze away. “If I were you, I wouldn’t be too anxious to find out—not if you still want marriage, motherhood and that white picket fence.”
“Why not?”
“Because unless he’s changed a great deal, you’ll never have any of those things with Jacques. He’s allergic to even the thought of marriage or commitment.” After all, she should know, Liza added silently.
Jane wrinkled her nose. “Don’t you know that no man ever wants to settle down? They fight it tooth and nail until the right woman comes along and changes their mind for them.”
“You make marriage sound like ... like taming a pet. Trust me, Jane. Jacques Gaston is no domestic house cat. And I wouldn’t count on changing his mind on the subject, either. There certainly have been enough women who’ve tried.” Not that she had been one of them. She had only wanted to love him and be loved by him. But even that had proved too much for Jacques.
“I didn’t realize you knew him so well,” Jane said, a curious gleam in her dark eyes.
“I don’t.” Despite the fact that they had been lovers, she had never really known Jacques. She had been too caught up in their passion to discover the sad, lonely man that had lain beneath the happy-go-lucky facade he presented to the world. Until it had been too late. “We met a few years ago in New Orleans while I was working for Aimee Gallagher. Jacques was one of her tenants.”
“So, then you two are old friends?”
“More like adversaries. We didn’t get along very well.” Except for that short time when they had been lovers. But even then, their relationship had remained volatile. And despite the fact that she had fallen in love with him, she and Jacques had never quite managed to become friends. If they had, perhaps things would not have ended as they did. “We still don’t.”
“Adversaries, huh? I guess that explains why he’s looking at you like a hungry cat eyeing a tasty little mouse.”
Liza looked up. Her eyes tangled with the tawny-colored ones staring back at her. For a moment she forgot to breathe. When Jacques winked, she jerked her gaze away. “Don’t read anything into it. Jacques takes his role as a Frenchman seriously. He thinks it’s his duty to flirt with any female from eight to eighty.”
Her friend gave her a speculative look, then went back to sorting papers. She handed Liza a pile of the agendas that had been scattered on the table. “Still, it sure would be interesting to find out if what they say about Frenchmen is true.”
“And just what is it they say about Frenchmen?” Jacques asked.
Liza whipped around. Her heart thundered in her chest.
Jane’s face split into a welcoming smile. “Why that they’re—”
“That they’re very...French,” Liza offered quickly, while struggling to keep the color from crawling up her cheeks. Noting the amused look in his eyes, Liza tipped up her chin. “Jacques, I’d like you to meet Jane Burke. Jane, Jacques Gaston.”
“Mademoiselle Burke.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. The other woman practically swooned.
“Jane is the person responsible for organizing the committee’s volunteers,” Liza continued, unsure which irritated her more, the dazzled expression on her friend’s face or Jacques’s easy charm. “I was explaining to Jacques earlier that it really wasn’t necessary for him to take Peter’s place on the board and suggested he might want to work with your group of volunteers.”
“Why, of course, we would love to have you work with our group, Mr. Gaston.”
“Jacques,” he corrected.
“Jacques,” she repeated, her face beaming. “And please, you must call me Jane.”
“A lovely name for a lovely lady,” Jacques said smoothly. “And I am sure you will understand, Jane, that as much as I would enjoy working with you, I believe my time would be better served working with Liza to ensure the success
