Read The Seduction - Art Bourgeau for Free Online Page A

someone,
humiliation was what she got. Men ....
    Felix saved her. They were now the only ones still at
the table. He reached across and put a hand on her arm in a gesture
that was both possessive and protective. It startled her. His hand
felt almost exactly like her father's . . . when she was little he
would do the same thing, put his hand on her arm just that way
whenever she'd get upset, and when he did she'd know everything was
all right. At least until the next time when he got mad at her and
made her scared and miserable all over again . . . Felix's eyes, they
were so like how she remembered her father's . . . she'd noticed it
when they were introduced but it hadn't really registered until now .
. .
    "I don't know about you, but I haven't eaten.
Would you stay and have dinner with me, or at least keep me company?"
Looking at Carl he added, "The party will still be going on a
while, won't it?"
    Missy didn't bother to hear Carl's answer. He had
made his bed. He was now a nonperson as far as she was concerned.
Except, of course, for the payback.
    "Good, we'll join you later," Felix was
saying, and thereby taking matters out of her hands.
    Felix was a pleasure, in control, on top of the
situation. A regular Cyrus Wakefield, early edition. As she turned
back and saw Carl and company walking away through the crowd, she
thought, We won't be joining you—not now, not ever.
    Tonight she had come to Lagniappe looking for Carl
and some support, even comfort. Instead she had found, it seemed,
something better. Something she had given up looking for . . .
    A man to match her father.
 
 
    CHAPTER 3
    LAURA RAMSEY woke up with a start, heart pounding.
Once again she had had the too familiar nightmare . . . She was on
the operating table. Masked faces were looking down at her. She was
conscious but unable to speak or move. One of the faces was saying,
"It has spread; we're going to have to take more," and then
they began to cut off her arms and legs . . .
    Usually when she had this nightmare the sight of her
cozy bedroom with its white walls and blue woodwork was enough to
quiet her, to remind her that she was safe in the little house she
loved so well. But not today. It took her a moment to realize why,
and then she understood. It was the sound of the sirens. She took a
ragged deep breath and pushed back the bedclothes. Tugging at the
bottom of the white T-shirt she slept in, she crossed the room and
opened the window.
    Her bedroom faced onto narrow, tree-lined Emily
Street. By leaning out her. window she could see nearby Front Street,
the concrete pilings of the overhead section of I-95 and almost to
the Delaware River beyond. From the way the police cars were racing
down Front to Snyder under 1-95, and up Water Street on the other
side, it looked like something big was developing. Laura pulled on a
pair of corduroys, a bulky sweater, and stepped into a scuffed pair
of Tony Lama cowboy boots. She stopped in the bathroom just long
enough to run a comb through her hair, brush her teeth and put on a
little lipstick and eyeliner. Downstairs she grabbed her tape
recorder and purse and was out the door.
    Neighbors were emptying from their houses and making
their way toward Water Street and the screaming police cars. Rushing
along with them, Laura once again felt the strong sense of
neighborhood that had first attracted her to this section of South
Philadelphia near the docks—a sense of belonging, even some mutual
concern not possible for an apartment dweller.
    She followed the crowd until they came to the
normally deserted train depot between Water Street and Delaware 
Avenue, which now, ringed as it was by at least a dozen police cars,
was far from deserted. Uniformed officers were busy trying to keep
back a small but growing crowd.
    Stopping at the rear of the crowd near a
silver-and-white coffee truck already doing a brisk business, Laura
found herself next to a long-haired young woman holding a baby in one
hand and a cigarette in