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  “I Want You, Vanessa,”

  he muttered thickly.

  His mouth moved roughly near her ear. His hands moved upward to caress her. There was an aching familiarity in his intimate caress, so arousing and possessive.

  With forceful pressure, he turned her around and spread his hand over the side of her face. He crushed her pliant body to his, and kissed her with a deep, raw hunger that flamed through her blood. She was helpless to combat the fires he started.…

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1982 by Janet Dailey

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  First Pocket Books ebook edition February 2011

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN 978-1-4516-3981-0

  WILDCATTER’S WOMAN

  CHAPTER ONE

  “NOW, THIS pearl mist makes an interesting contrast to the Sudan green.” Vanessa Cantrell laid the swatch of fabric against the square of thickly piled carpet so her client could study the combination together. “It would be an excellent complement to the patterned fabric you chose for the sofa.”

  “It is very attractive.” But the young Mrs. Dumond, a recent bride, sounded uncertain. Her indulging husband, a well-established member of New Orleans society, wanted her to redecorate their home in the Garden District, but the young Mrs. Dumond, barely twenty years old, was intimidated by the responsibility, unsure of her taste.

  It seemed Vanessa had to coax even the smallest decision from the girl. At twenty-eight, she felt very much that she was filling the role of an older sister instead of an interior decorator. It was a strain to be both.

  A restless impatience stirred Vanessa as her young client wavered indecisively over the choices of fabric for the chair coverings. Long, curling lashes came down to conceal the flash of annoyance that darkened her violet eyes. Nodding an indefinite response to a meaningless comment, Vanessa let her glance stray to the French windows, laced with grillwork, and the private courtyard beyond them. It was lush and green out there—a riot of blossoming spring flowers. She could almost hear the tinkling melody of the water spilling over the sides of the mossy fountain.

  She pulled her glance inside again and let it critically sweep the sitting room where she entertained her clients. It was flawlessly appointed, elegant with a discreet scattering of antiques. Lately, Vanessa had become dissatisfied with it. The room was so perfectly done that it lacked any life. It didn’t reflect her personality—or perhaps it did. Regardless of the outward trappings of beauty, poise, and a successful career, inside there was a lot of emptiness when she should have felt fulfilled. She had achieved everything she wanted. She had security, a beautiful apartment in the French Quarter, and a smooth, orderly life-style. She virtually had her pick of eligible men, so she never lacked for male companionship. Yet…

  The white enameled door connecting the sitting room with the offices swung partially open, the movement in her side vision attracting Vanessa’s attention. She glanced at her secretary with a questioning look.

  “Yes, Miss Austin, what is it?” The coolness of her voice held reproval. It was a rule that she not be interrupted when she was with a client.

  “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Cantrell,” her secretary murmured in apology. “But you have an urgent phone call.”

  A finely drawn brow shot up in sharp question as Vanessa eyed her usually unflappable secretary, who seemed rather worried. Her mind raced over the possibilities but couldn’t find a plausible source for this “urgent” phone call. Turning a calm expression onto her client, Vanessa let a faint smile appear on her delicately curved lips.

  “Would you excuse me for a moment, Mrs. Dumond?” she asked politely, rising from the lavender brocade sofa as she spoke. The young bride made an uncertain nod of permission, looking vaguely lost at the idea of being left alone.

  Again, Vanessa quelled the unnatural rush of irritation as she glided across the room, her heels making little clicking sounds on glistening hardwood floor. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the rococo wall mirror. It showed none of her inner restlessness and vague impatience, only satin brown hair sleeked away from her smooth, expressionless face into a French coil. It reminded Vanessa of the vacant, mannequin look of a model—beauty without any substance, like the room.

  As soon as she pulled the door closed behind her, she sent a sharp look at her secretary. “Who is on the phone, Carla?” Carla Austin was the same age as Vanessa, but on the plain side, with a wallflower’s ability to blend into the background. After four years, Vanessa had ceased trying to persuade Carla to choose a more flattering hairstyle, to wear a little more makeup, and to dress more fashionably. Carla simply did not want to stand out.

  “It’s Mrs. Devereux, your father-in-law’s secretary.” Carla Austin scanned Vanessa’s face with an anxious look. “I’m… afraid it’s bad news.”

  An unnamable fear gripped her throat, holding Vanessa motionless for a split second. She didn’t even bother to correct Carla that it was her ex-father-in-law as she hurriedly crossed to her desk. Something must have happened to Race. Regardless of the bitter acrimony that had surrounded their divorce, there had been something between them once, so Vanessa told herself it was all right to be concerned for him at this moment.

  Her hand trembled slightly as she lifted the receiver to her ear. “Mrs. Devereux? This is Vanessa.” Divorce had ended her marriage to Race Cantrell four years ago, but it hadn’t broken the close relationship with his father, Phillip Cantrell. He had sided with Vanessa in the divorce, blaming the reckless behavior of his son for the breakup. Phillip Cantrell had gladly assumed the role of father figure in her life, taking the place of her own parents, killed in a car crash when Vanessa was sixteen.

  “Vanessa.” There was a desperate ring in the woman’s voice that seemed to reach through the phone lines. “There’s no easy way to say this.” Sybil Devereux’s voice wavered. “Phillip has had a heart attack. A mild one, the doctor said, but… Please, he wants to see you.”

  “I’ll come immediately.” The first breath of relief that it wasn’t Race quickly fled when the realization sank in that it was his father. Panic churned in her stomach at the phrase “heart attack.” “Which hospital?”

  Not trusting her memory, Vanessa jotted down the hospital on a notepad and tore off the sheet. As she hung up the phone, she was mentally trying to estimate how long it would take her to reach the hospital in the city traffic.

  “Is your father-in-law very bad?” Carla murmured with concern.

  “I don’t know.” Vanessa kept her inner apprehensions contained, but it was difficult to regard any heart attack as mild. “He’s in the intensive
-care unit. I’m going there now.”

  “What about Mrs. Dumond?”

  Vanessa had forgotten about the young woman waiting in the sitting room. Agitation darkened the violet color of her eyes. “Is Peter free?” She demanded to know the status of her assistant, recently hired to keep pace with her expanding trade.

  Peter Benoit, or Pierre as he was known to his clients, had previously had his own decorating shop. A creative genius with colors and fabrics, he totally lacked any business sense. When his shop failed six months ago, he had readily offered his talents to Vanessa’s flourishing business.

  “Yes. He’s in his office. Shall I get him for you?” Carla offered.

  “Just tell him to explain to Mrs. Dumond that I’ve been called away on a family emergency. Brief him on the color schemes and styles Mrs. Dumond has already chosen.” While she gave the orders, Vanessa was collecting her purse and searching through the contents for her car keys. “And tell him not to let Mrs. Dumond select that brocade. It’s much too dramatic and it wouldn’t work at all.”

  “I will,” Carla Austin promised. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Vanessa paused to take a deep breath, then shook her head. “No. I don’t know when I’ll be back. I’ll try to call.”

  “Shall I cancel your luncheon appointment?”

  “Cancel all my appointments,” she instructed, and walked swiftly to the shop’s rear exit.

  The traffic seemed abnormally heavy, although Vanessa suspected it was merely because she was in such a hurry. The air-conditioning of her car cooled the morning temperature but it alleviated little of the humidity. The teal-blue material of her blouse began sticking to her skin while the draping flare of her white skirt hugged her legs, as she alternately shifted her foot from the brake to the accelerator in the stop-and-go, bumper-to-bumper traffic.

  Her concentration on driving was haunted by the image of Phillip Cantrell lying in a hospital bed surrounded by all sorts of tubes and monitors. Only last week she had lunched with her ex-father-in-law, a tall, distinguished banker. She owed him so much. It was his moral support that had helped her through the often cruel wrangling of the divorce proceedings. Later, his financial support had allowed her to start her own decorating business.

  Not for the first time, Vanessa wondered how things might have turned out if Race had been more like his father. Both she and Phillip had believed Race would settle down after the wedding, but he hadn’t. Vanessa had never been sure from one day to the next where he was or when he was coming home. There wasn’t a dependable bone in his body. No matter how much she and Phillip argued with him, he had refused to change. He wouldn’t give up the excitement, adventure, and risk of wildcatting for oil and gas.

  The final straw had come when he had gambled everything they owned and more on a hole in the ground that came up dry. The day the court served papers on Vanessa to foreclose on their house and personal possessions, there had been a moment of hope that Race might have learned his lesson. But that hope was dashed to the ground when he came home that night and informed her he was leaving for Houston to meet a potential investor interested in buying into his next drilling venture.

  The next day, Vanessa had gone to Phillip Cantrell’s attorney and had papers drawn up, suing for a divorce on the grounds of desertion, nonsupport, and mental cruelty. Looking back, she could see now that their problems had been more than financial ones. They were poles apart, wanting different things out of life. Vanessa craved security and a stable home life, probably because she had lost her parents at such a critical age. She liked beautiful things. Race cared about none of that. He was a loner, a gambler, selfsufficient, needing no one—as it turned out, not even Vanessa.

  If there had been time, she probably would have seen it, but she had been blinded by his background. She had looked at Race’s father, Phillip Cantrell, and seen a conservative, socially prominent man. Foolishly she had believed “like father, like son.” His bold, reckless ways she had thought were just the sowing of wild oats before settling down. Within a month after meeting him, Vanessa became Mrs. Race Cantrell, and she discovered just how wrong she had been.

  Reaching the hospital, Vanessa left the car in the parking lot and hurried into the main entrance. She paused at the information desk long enough to obtain directions to the intensive-care unit and inquire as to Phillip Cantrell’s condition. She was not reassured by the information that he was listed in stable, although still-critical condition.

  The high heels of her teal-blue shoes clicked noisily down the tiled hospital corridors. Vanessa slowed her pace as she neared the waiting room of the intensivecare unit. It suddenly occurred to her that Race was probably there. She had not seen him since their last bitter shouting match in divorce court four years ago. Nervous churnings began attacking her system.

  Even though they both resided in New Orleans, it really wasn’t so strange that their paths hadn’t crossed. By choice, Race didn’t travel in the same social circles as Vanessa or his father. In addition, Phillip’s support of Vanessa’s position had created an estrangement from his son, although Vanessa didn’t believe the rift would keep Race away from his father’s bedside. His work also kept him away from the city at various drilling sites or chasing down leases or investors. The rare times Vanessa had needed to communicate with Race, she had done it through her lawyer. The whole traumatic marriage/divorce experience had left her extremely wary of men and any kind of intimate relations with the opposite sex. Sometimes Vanessa felt she had survived only on the strength of pure, unadulterated hate.

  She searched for that armor of violent emotion as she reached the doorway to the waiting room. There was only one occupant inside. Relief shivered through Vanessa as she recognized Sybil Devereux, Phillip’s longtime friend and secretary. Sybil was an attractive widow in her early forties. Vanessa had always suspected that someday she and Phillip would marry. But, unlike his son, Phillip didn’t rush into commitments without long and careful consideration.

  “Vanessa…” Sybil’s voice wavered on a sob when she saw her. A shimmer of tears rimmed her dark eyes. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “I came as soon as I could.” Vanessa crossed the room to sit on the edge of the vinyl sofa next to the older brunette. “How is Phillip? Have you seen him?”

  The woman dabbed at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief and tried to put on a brave face. “No. They’re only allowing members of the family to see him. The doctor did tell me that his vital signs have stabilized, and he’s responding to treatment.”

  “That’s good news,” Vanessa insisted in an effort to assure the woman and herself. Her glance strayed to the closed door across the hall from the waiting room, marked “ICU.” An inner tension brought her teeth together. “Is Race with him?” There was an edge to her attempt at a bland inquiry.

  “No.” Sybil shook her head and breathed out a shaky sigh. “I haven’t been able to contact him. He’s out of the city. I left word with his secretary that it was urgent he contact me.”

  “Oh.” It was a small sound of relief that she wouldn’t have to be confronted by Race’s presence, at least not right now. “Did you explain the urgency?”

  “I…couldn’t,” Sybil admitted. “It seemed much too cold to leave a message that Phillip had suffered a heart attack. I couldn’t be that blunt and unfeeling.”

  “I doubt if Race would have noticed,” Vanessa replied with a dry note of sarcasm. He had never been one to cloak his remarks in gentle phrases.

  Sybil Devereux wasn’t listening, distracted by the appearance of a green-coated figure in the doorway. She rose anxiously to her feet. “How is he, Doctor?”

  Turning, Vanessa slowly came to her feet while she studied the professional smile on the man’s face, but his features showed no more than he wanted them to see. “He’s doing very well under the circumstances, Mrs. Devereux.”

  “I’m Vanessa Cantrell,” Vanessa identified herself when the doctor sent a questioning glance
her way.

  “I’m sorry.” Sybil immediately apologized for not making the introduction sooner. “This is Mr. Cantrell’s daughter-in-law, Dr. Foley.” Then she explained to Vanessa, “Dr. Foley is the cardiologist.”

  “Vanessa?” He repeated her name on a slightly questioning note. “Mr. Cantrell has been asking for you. You may see him if you wish, but I must restrict your visit to a couple of minutes.”

  “Please, I’d… like to see him.” She faltered a second, her voice choking up on a throb of concern.

  The doctor must have read the silent plea in Sybil Devereux’s expression, because he added, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Devereux, but only members of the family are allowed to see him. Perhaps tomorrow.”

  “Yes.” It was a resigned answer as the older woman partially turned away. “I suppose I would be more useful at the bank than waiting here. I left everything in shambles when Phillip—Mr. Cantrell—started having chest pains during the board meeting. I…” Sybil paused to glance at Vanessa, her gaze clinging.

  “I’ll phone you the minute I know anything,” Vanessa promised, and put an arm around the woman’s shoulders to hug her briefly.

  “If you’ll come with me, Mrs. Cantrell…” the doctor prompted. After an exchange of strained smiles, Vanessa left the secretary to follow the doctor out of the waiting room into the intensive-care unit across the hall. “Have you managed to reach your husband yet, Mrs. Cantrell?” he inquired in a low voice.

  She opened her mouth to explain their divorced status, then decided against it in case he wouldn’t regard her as a family member. “Not yet,” Vanessa murmured in an equally subdued voice.

  When they stopped at Phillip’s bedside, it was exactly the way she had envisioned it on the drive to the hospital. Intravenous tubes were feeding medication into his bloodstream. A string of wires hooked him up to the various monitoring machines beeping out his heartbeat and respiration rate. The oxygen tent enveloped him in a clear plastic cocoon. The streaks of gray in his dark hair seemed less distinguished and more an indication of his vulnerable years.