Masquerade by Janet Dailey Page A

makes you seem human."
    He caught himself wanting to respond to her as a man, and immediately steeled himself against that impulse. "I'll remember that," he said, wiping the smile from his face.
    "Other than occasionally sharing your digs with Tom, collecting sporting prints, and dining with your mother now and then, what else do you do? Are you interested in sports? Football? Soccer? Tennis?"
    "I don't have time."
    "You must do something to stay in such great shape," she said, running her gaze over the width of his shoulders and chest. "And somehow I can't imagine you working out in a gym with weights."
    "Actually I do try to make it to the gym a couple-three times a week to spar a few rounds."
    "You mean—you box?" She seemed uncertain that she had understood him correctly.
    "Yes." Dammit, why was he telling her this? Had it been deliberate, to remind him how he'd met . . . ? But Remy Jardin's reaction was different. There was no look of fascination for what many regarded as a violent sport, nothing that even remotely resembled an attraction to blood and gore.
    "An art collector who boxes. What perfect therapy it must be," she marveled. "Personally, I can't think of a better way to get rid of frustration and repressed anger than to unleash it on a punching bag. How long have you been doing it?"
    "I started boxing when I was a kid. My mother figured I'd be getting into fights anyway, so she decided it would be better if I did it in a ring under supervision, instead of with a gang in the streets."
    "Obviously it worked."
    "For the most part."
    "I'm almost afraid to ask what kind of music you like?"
    "A little jazz, a lot of blues." Too late, he caught himself and wondered why in hell he was answering these questions of hers. He knew better. She wasn't his kind. Nothing would come of it.
    "Then you must like Lou Rawls. Have you seen his show at the Blue Room? From what I've heard it's drawing rave reviews."
    "The tickets are sold out."
    "Really." She gave him a knowing smile and a bold glance. "It so happens I have two tickets for tonight's show. Gabe was supposed to go with me, but he has a heavy date tonight—with a weighty legal brief, he claims. I can't think of a single reason why I shouldn't take you instead."
    "I suppose next you'll try to convince me this invitation is all in aid of friendlier relations between ownership and management," Cole replied cynically. He signaled for the waiter to take away his plate, then ordered coffee.
    "Are you suggesting that that's wrong?" The coffee arrived, the matchless New Orleans-style coffee, a blend of dark roasted coffee beans and chicory, brewed strong and black, with the option always provided to dilute it with hot milk.
    Cole drank his straight, and he noticed that Remy Jardin did too. "I'm suggesting . . . that you find yourself another escort—one suitable for a Newcomb girl."
    She looked at him in surprise. "How did you know I went to Newcomb College?"
    "Considering it's a tradition in the Uptown set, it was an educated guess. No doubt your mother went there, and your mother's mother—right on down the line."
    "Where did you go to college?"
    "I can assure you it wasn't Tulane," he replied, trying not to think about the scholarship he'd almost gotten to that university, a scholarship that was ultimately given to someone else whose family had the "right" background and a depleted bank account. "Your brother went there, didn't he? And obtained the mandatory law degree to go with the rest of his impeccable family credentials."
    She propped an elbow on the table and rested her chin on the heel of her hand. "Your logic escapes me completely. What does all this have to do with refusing to go see Lou Rawls with me?"
    "Some relationships between certain people are deadends from the start. This is one of them, Miss Jardin. And I don't see any reason to start something that will never go anywhere."
    "How can you be sure of that?"
    "It's simple, Miss Jardin.