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  Copyright ©1978 by Patricia Maxwell

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  First E-Reads Edition 2004

  Other works by Maxine Patrick also available in e-reads editions

  THE ABDUCTED HEART

  1

  Struggling with a bag of groceries, a pot of Pothos ivy, and a carton of special ice cream parfaits fast melting in the sticky heat of the June afternoon, Sherry Mason pushed the door of her small car shut. She eyed with misgivings the flight of concrete steps which led to her second story apartment. It had been quite a day. Her boss at the St. Louis office of the Villeré Shipping Lines where she worked had a broken ankle and this had been the day he decided it was time to catch up on some of the backlog of work. Since he was still laid up in bed at home, Sherry had spent the day acting more as liaison between him and the office than as a secretary. She had zipped back and forth a dozen times carrying instructions and papers to be signed. On the last trip, she had not only been caught in a traffic jam, her own car had been struck from behind. Although the damage was minor, there had been an endless wait in the hot sun for a policeman to fill out the accident report. She had spent the entire time fending off the attentions of the man who had run into her car. Returning to the office, she discovered that she had missed several telephone calls, at least two of them from Lucien Villeré, the owner of the New Orleans based shipping line. Why he should be trying to reach her, she had no idea; she could only suppose it had something to do with her employer. Her temper had been tried yet again on the way home. At the supermarket the cash register at the checkout counter had run out of tape just as she pushed her filled buggy into place beside it. No, it was not an afternoon for feats of strength; on the other hand, she just did not have the energy to make two trips up the stairs with her purchases.

  Sherry was halfway to her front door when she heard the telephone. Its jangling ring inside her apartment had a persistent sound, as if the caller had no intention of being disappointed. Fishing her key from her shoulder bag, getting it in the lock and the door open, required a juggling act worthy of a circus. It was only bad luck in the form of a loose throw rug that sent the pot of ivy flying from her grasp.

  "Damn,” Sherry said, and annoyance was still strong in her voice as she reached for the shrilling phone and spoke into the mouthpiece.

  "Miss Mason?"

  ’”Yes?” Sherry tucked the receiver into her shoulder as she lifted the heavy bag of groceries onto the kitchen counter. The carton of parfaits needed to go into the freezer at once, but she could not quite reach it.

  "Lucien Villeré. I was told at the shipping office that I might reach my brother Paul at this number."

  Lucien Villeré, managing director of the Villeré Shipping Lines, a vast conglomerate with interests not only in river commerce and oceangoing freighters, but also in petroleum, large-scale farming, and sugar refining. As secretary to a minor official in the department dealing with river transport, Sherry was a small cog in an enormous piece of financial machinery. It was disconcerting to be singled out in this way. She had heard much of this man, but never spoken to him before. The deep tone of his voice with its seductive trace of a French accent was a surprise.

  "Miss Mason?"

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Villeré. Your brother is not here."

  "When do you expect him?” The small space of time between his first question and her answer had apparently aroused suspicion in his mind. His tone indicated a tightly leashed impatience.

  "I don't,” Sherry replied. “I didn't know Paul was in St. Louis.” Who had given this man her number? No doubt it was Sarah, the girl on the switchboard at the office. She worshiped power and men, not necessarily in that order.

  The disbelief that greeted this information came strongly over the wire. As the silence stretched, Sherry frowned. What on earth had Sarah told this man? She was not left long in doubt.

  "I understand that you have seen Paul often in the past few months?"

  "I have gone out with him, yes,” Sherry admitted. Paul Villeré was an attractive, fun-loving man with a Southern gentleman's appreciation of women. She had enjoyed his company when he was in St. Louis on business for the firm, but no more than that.

  "You have been his—constant companion, in fact?"

  "I don't think I would put it that way,” Sherry began with some heat, only to be interrupted.

  "Put it how you please. It is urgent that I find my brother, and I will not tolerate interference, whatever the motive. Believe me, Miss Mason, Paul has no need of your protection. Do you, or do you not, know where he can be reached?"

  Sherry hung on to her temper with the greatest difficulty. “I am not protecting Paul,” she said distinctly. “I have no idea where he is. I suggest you try his usual hotel."

  "I have tried it, as well as a half-dozen others where he might be staying. He was not registered."

  "You are certain he is in St. Louis?"

  "That was the destination he gave his secretary when he asked her to make the reservations."

  "Then I can only suppose he must have found accommodation elsewhere,” Sherry said, her voice rising.

  "My thought exactly,” Lucien Villeré replied.

  Sherry caught her breath at the implication of his words. He thought Paul was staying in her apartment. In business circles, Lucien Villeré had the reputation for slashing intelligence and a rapier manner which cut straight to the heart of a problem, coupled with a complete lack of either tact or mercy where the good of the firm was concerned. This, however, was carrying plain speaking too far.

  Before she could form a retort scathing enough to satisfy her, he spoke again. “All I require is for you to inform my brother that I need to speak to him, and ask him to contact me as soon as possible."

  "If I see him, I will certainly give him your message,” Sherry said, her voice as cold as she could make it. By a supreme effort of self-control, she refrained from slamming the receiver into its cradle as she hung up on him.

  Who did this man think he was? Being a multimillionaire, and in some sense her employer, did not give him the right to make insinuations about her character or her life-style. Simply because she lived alone and saw something of a young bachelor with the reputation of a playboy did not necessarily mean that their relationship was intimate. What kind of mind did Paul's brother have? Perhaps he judged the behavior of others by his own!

  With a scowl drawing her brows together above her turquoise eyes, Sherry moved to put her ice cream away. She slammed the door of the freezer with unnecessary force before turning to the rest of her groceries.

  The more Sherry thought of the telephone call, the more irritated she became. It did not matter, of course, what a man several miles away—a man whom she would probably never see—thought of her. Still, she would have given a great deal to have the opportunity back again to straighten him out. Cold hauteur was well enough, but she wished that, employer or not, she had told him what she thought of him. The slackness and low standards of the New Morality had no appeal for her. Though she covered it with an air of candor and brisk efficiency, she was basically a moonlight-and-roses girl, as old-fashioned as they came.

  What had prompted the call? Was Paul in some kind of trouble that his brother was combing St. Louis for him? She would hate to think so. He had charm, did Paul Ville
ré. Realizing that he knew it, and capitalized upon it when he could, did not lessen her fondness for him.

  There was always the possibility, of course, that the purpose of the call was a family emergency. Paul's mother was a globe-trotting widow whose greatest enjoyment of the shipping line, which she owned with her two sons, was in traveling on the freighters owned by the company. She spent months at sea every year in the company of other retired people like herself. She had started her family late in life and was no longer young. The last time Paul had mentioned her she was in the Orient, but it was always possible that she had been taken ill.

  Such an explanation did not account for the fact that Paul could not be located at his usual hotel, or his failure to let his family know his whereabouts.

  A long bath scented with lavender salts did much to give Sherry a new perspective on the problem. She could shake her head with a wry smile at her earlier wrath. Changing to the casual comfort of jeans and a pullover shirt, she piled her long, honey-blonde hair on top of her head for coolness and returned to the kitchen.

  She ate her dinner of broiled steak and salad with unimpaired appetite. By the time she had polished off her ice cream parfait, she had very nearly regained her usual even temper.

  There was a play on television she wanted to watch. She settled down to the quiet enjoyment of the story. The final credits were rolling past when the doorbell rang. She clicked off the set on the way to answer the door.

  A quick look through the peephole revealed a man on her doorstep. Of medium height, he was dark. He had crisply curling black hair, brown eyes with a gleam of humor in their depths, and a small mustache over lips that were both sensitive and sensuous. It was Paul Villeré.

  Frowning, Sherry swung open the door. There was an awkward moment while the smile faded from the face of the man on the doorstep.

  "Don't I rate a hello?” he inquired at last.

  "Hello,” Sherry said.

  "May I come in?"

  Sherry cocked her head to one side. “Not until I have decided if you are anything at all like your brother."

  "Lucien? Has he been here?"

  The response was too quick, too defensive. Under Sherry's steady regard, the color deepened beneath the olive skin of Paul's face. “No,” Sherry answered. “He hasn't been here, but he called."

  "I can see I have some explaining to do,” Paul said with a look of mock penitence.

  "Yes,” Sherry agreed, an irresistible smile beginning to curve her mouth. “And you can't do it on the doorstep. You may as well come in and have a cup of coffee."

  "Your hospitality overwhelms me,” Paul said, grinning as he stepped into the room. “I don't suppose you have anything stronger to offer to bolster my courage."

  "Afraid not."

  "Then I'll have to make do with that weak stuff you call coffee. I keep telling you, if you would only come to New Orleans, I'd show you what real coffee is like."

  Sherry's apartment consisted of only two rooms, a modest bedroom and a large living area that featured a sitting room at one end and a well-appointed kitchen on the other with a built-in dining nook dividing them. Paul followed her into the kitchen, where he stood leaning against the cabinet.

  "Don't change the subject,” Sherry told him, filling a kettle and setting it on the range top. “You were going to explain."

  "First of all, tell me what Lucien said to you."

  "So you can make your excuses accordingly?"

  "No, so I can find out what has put you in such a rage."

  Sherry turned to stare at him. “I'm not in a rage?"

  Paul smiled and reached out to tweak a tendril of honey-colored hair that had escaped her top knot. “No? You're as close to it as I've ever seen. I hate to sound like a grade-B movie and tell you how gorgeous it makes you, but—"

  "Then don't!"

  "Touchy, aren't you, for somebody that's not at all hot under the collar?"

  "Oh, all right,” Sherry said, laughing a little, and went on to tell him what had passed between his brother and herself.

  The teasing light died out of Paul's eyes, to be replaced by a frown. “I'm sorry that you were insulted,” he said. “Lucien sometimes jumps to conclusions."

  "Lucien,” Sherry said distinctly, “is rude, arrogant, and overbearing."

  "He doesn't mean to be,” Paul said. “It's just his manner. Half his attitude was probably caused by his irritation with me. He doesn't approve of my leaving New Orleans at this particular time."

  "So I understand, though I don't know why,” Sherry said pointedly, and turned to pour the water as the kettle began to boil. Steam rose from the prepared coffeepot. Taking it up with a pair of mugs in the other hand, she moved to the dining nook and sat down at the table.

  "It's a long story,” Paul said, sliding into place on the bench across from her.

  "I have plenty of time,” Sherry said.

  "It started about six years ago, the summer before I enrolled at LSU. In New Orleans, the French Creole families—that is, the families of the French people who settled in Louisiana over two hundred years ago, French men and women born outside of the mother country—have always been close. Intermarriage was a necessity in the old days, before the Americans came. Then it became a defense, and now, finally, it has achieved the status of a tradition. That's all right, as far as it goes. One of the families closest to the Villerés has always been the Dubois family. My great-grandfather went to Europe on his grand tour with a Dubois, they had plantations that marched side by side along the Mississippi. My grandfather fought in the trenches in France with a Dubois in World War I, and so it goes. Now my mother's best friend is an elderly Dubois woman who lives next door to our townhouse on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain. The summer I was nineteen, her granddaughter came to visit. She was only fourteen or fifteen, a pretty, quiet child who used to follow me around. I took her sailing on the lake, we fished, swam, water-skied, played tennis, attended a few of the dances at the country club. Aimee was incredibly sweet and gentle. I thought after a few weeks that I was in love. We talked about getting married when we were older. I don't know, maybe Aimee said something to her grandmother about it. Her parents came and took her away to school in Switzerland. One day she was there, and the next she was gone. We were told we could write to each other, but you know how that goes. We exchanged letters for a while, then gradually there seemed to be less and less we had in common. After a time we stopped writing."

  "Yes, I can see that,” Sherry said. She poured the coffee and pushed cream and sugar toward him.

  "I suppose it's a common enough story. Anyway, Aimee completed her education and then attended a finishing school. Now, after six years, she is coming home again to New Orleans. Her grandmother is giving a welcoming home party for her, and I, the faithful suitor, am expected to be on hand. Everybody seems to think that if I don't show up it's going to be like Evangeline looking for her Gabriel all over again. That Aimee is going to go into a decline like some heroine in a Victorian novel if I'm not there."

  "Oh, come on,” Sherry said, a smile in her eyes.

  Paul had the grace to laugh at himself. “Well, maybe it's not that bad. But words like duty and moral obligation are flying thick and fast down in New Orleans, I can ten you! If I don't watch out, I'll find myself tied to a sweet worshipful young thing who cries if you look at her the wrong way."

  Sherry sipped her coffee. “Wouldn't you like to see this girl again, at least out of curiosity?"

  "Sure I would, if that was all there was to it. I'd like to see how she turned out, but I don't see why I should be bound by something I said six years ago when I was only half-grown myself."

  Sherry slanted him a quick look over her coffee cup. “You did propose marriage, then?"

  "I don't know,” Paul said with a weary shake of his head. “I guess I must have, but who can remember after all this time? I seem to recall talking about where we would live and what we would do. Even then, Aimee wanted to buy one of these old
plantation houses and modernize it, like the old Villeré Plantation Lucien fixed up as a retreat. Young as she was, Aimee knew where she wanted to live, how many children she intended to have, and whom she wanted for her husband."

  "I believe you're afraid of her,” Sherry teased.

  Paul flung her a sardonic look. “Go ahead, laugh,” he said. “It's not your freedom that's at stake."

  "No,” she agreed, attempting to lift him out of his air of gloom, “but then I don't go around proposing to people."

  "No,” he sighed. “What I really ought to do is propose to somebody else. If I had a fiancée, Aimee would realize there was no way we could pick up where we left off. I wouldn't have to say a word."

  "The only trouble with that,” Sherry pointed out, “is that you would only make more trouble for yourself, since you would have another proposal to wiggle your way out of, another woman to avoid."

  "True,” he said, his eyes narrowing with sudden thought, “unless I proposed to you. If I asked you to marry me, Sherry love, you wouldn't agree, would you?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You've told me often enough that I'm shallow and immature, that I take my responsibilities too lightly, and that I have precious little attraction for you as a man."

  "Did I say all that?” Sherry asked, nonplussed.

  "At one time or another. But you haven't answered my question. You wouldn't marry me, would you?"

  "No, I don't think I would."

  "Good, then you can be my fiancée!"

  "You,” Sherry said with a shake of her head, “are out of your mind. There is absolutely no reason to go to such lengths. This Aimee may not have any idea of holding you to your word."

  "You're wrong there. She wrote her grandmother that the summer she spent with me held some of her most precious memories and that she was anxious to see me again."

  "I don't see anything so terrible in that."

  "Put it together with the fact that her grandmother is having the family silver—heirloom sterling—taken out of storage and polished as a gift for her granddaughter."