daughter of Senator Branford Lawson. In the cacophony of those larger-than-life personalities in the Lawson home, Desiree felt lost, a shadow. But here on the track she had found her footing, which wasn’t one of a political celebrity, “the daughter of,” “the twin sister to”—here she was a person with her own identity.
Weekend racing had become her secret passion over the years. She had always had a love for fast cars and would spend hours as a teenager watching the Indy 500 or the NASCAR races on television. She’d confessed to her twin sister, Dominique, that one day she would get behind the wheel of one of those babies, which Dominique had summarily dismissed as being ridiculous, dangerous and out of the question. What man in his right mind would want a woman who always smelled of fumes and gasoline? Not to mention that their father would be apoplectic and the press would have a field day.
So Desiree kept her dream to herself and began taking lessons in New Orleans, away from prying eyes. She could never come out publicly, she mused as she stripped out of her gear and got into the shower, but she could still enjoy her passion. The idea that it was her very own secret made what she did, twice a month, that much more exciting. The only one who knew about her “getaway Saturdays” was her best friend, Patrice Lamont, who was waiting in the lounge.
“You do realize I now have a heart condition because of you,” Patrice said as the two walked through the building and out into the parking lot.
Desiree laughed. “I’m sure you’ll be fine after lunch.”
“Humph. So you say.”
They’d driven down in Desiree’s very conservative black Volvo, a far cry from the lightning-fast Ferrari. Desiree’s door locks chirped and they got in. She pushed the key into the ignition. “Where do you want to go for lunch?”
“How about Emeril’s place in the Warehouse District?”
“Sure. We haven’t been there in a while.”
Desiree zipped the car out of the space.
“And, uh, try to keep the speed under seventy.”
“Maybe.”
Patrice sat back and held on—just in case.
Of course they arrived at Emeril’s New Orleans in record time. Patrice barely had enough time to get her story out about the latest scandal on Capitol Hill in D.C. before they were being escorted to their table.
“This is not a good time to be under an ethics investigation in the middle of an election year,” Patrice was saying as they sat down.
“No time is ever good. My biggest issue is that the Democratic Party, whenever they come into full power, winds up getting beat up on every issue by the Republicans. And instead of taking a stand, they collapse. They need to learn to fight below the belt, too.” Desiree fanned open her menu.
Patrice shook her head. “I have to agree. We need some backbone.”
“My two favorite guests.”
Desiree and Patrice looked up into the ruggedly handsome face of Paul, the general manager.
He leaned down and kissed each of their cheeks. “How are you ladies today? It’s been a while.”
“Just fine, Paul,” Desiree said. “I’ve been salivating thinking about the andouille and chicken jambalaya.”
“I will oversee it myself.” He turned his Mediterranean blue eyes on Patrice. “And what about you, Ms. Patrice?”
“I think I’ll have the Creole fried chicken.”
“Excellent choice. But, of course, whatever you choose at Emeril’s is excellent. I’ll put your orders in myself and send your waiter to get your drinks. Enjoy your meal.”
“Hmm, if he wasn’t gay, I would eat him up,” Patrice said under her breath as she watched him walk away.
Desiree snickered. “I know you would. But what else is new?”
“Oh, don’t go hating. Just because I have a lusty appetite for men …” She took a sip of her water, then took a lemon wedge from the china bowl on the table and squeezed it into the water.
Desiree looked at her from beneath her lashes and bit back a smile. Lusty was putting it mildly. Patrice had more men and more dates than she could keep up with. What she needed was a personal assistant to help her keep it all straight. There were times, though, that she envied Patrice and her cavalier attitude about men and sex, and her sister Dominique, as well. Certainly, she’d dated off and on, nothing really serious. Most of the men she met really wanted to get close to her sister Dominique or sought entrée into the political life dominated by her powerful father. So she tended to keep her love life, such as it was, to a minimum. But if she was truly honest with herself, the real reason was her attraction from afar to Spence Hampton. She’d spent too many nights wishing that it was her in the passenger seat of his car or that she was the recipient of his dimpled smile and hungry stares. They’d known each other since their late teens, when Dominique brought him to the house for one of the family’s massive Independence Day barbecues. She thought her heart would stop and she had to concentrate on not staring at him. But Spence was her sister’s friend, always had been, and that was a line that she didn’t cross.
“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said. What are you thinking about?”
Desiree blinked. How long had she been daydreaming? She gave a light toss of her head. “Sorry. Just the race.” She focused on Patrice. “So … what were you saying?”
Patrice pursed her lips, feigning annoyance. “I was telling you we should double-date next weekend.”
“Why?”
“Because you need to get out and I want to make sure that you do. Jay has a really cute friend.”
Desiree propped her elbow on the table and rested her head in her palm. “And who is Jay, may I ask?”
Patrice frowned. “Didn’t I tell you about Jay?”
“Uh, no.”
“Oh.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I met him at the Laundromat.”
“What? Why were you in the Laundromat? You have a washer and dryer in your town house.”
“And your point is?” Patrice picked up her glass of lemon-flavored water. “You can always tell who a man lives with by his laundry.”
“Oh, right. What was I thinking.” She shook her head as the waiter approached and placed their entrées in front of them.
“Can I get you ladies anything else?”
Patrice glanced up and ran her cinnamon-tinted eyes up and down his lean body, zeroed in on his name tag, then back up to his face. She ran the tip of her tongue across her bottom lip. “What would you suggest, Felix?” she asked, clearly not interested in anything on the menu.
Desiree had a mind to kick her under the table but watching Patrice in action was always fascinating.
A slow, lazy smile eased across his wide mouth. His lids lowered
