Life doesn’t follow rules

Jazz pianist Dez Batiste knows this all too well. It’s taken him years to return to New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina swept away what mattered most. His musician’s soul is still lost in the wreckage, but he’s after a brand-new future by opening an Uptown jazz club. Too bad the distractingly sexy Eleanor Theriot is getting in his way. Sure, she may be protecting her community, but there’s passion underneath that upper-class exterior of hers.

With a little seduction from Dez, that passion sizzles to life and soon they’re enjoying an exclusive friends-with-benefits arrangement. The intensity between them reawakens his music and Dez knows they’re more than temporary. Now to convince Eleanor to bend those rules she lives by…

“You know I want you.”

Eleanor took a step toward Dez. “You’re almost too beautiful to be human, but you’re like a doughnut. I love doughnuts and I want to eat them every day, but I can’t because I’ll get fat.”

“Yeah, but what would life be without the occasional nibble on a doughnut? Maybe just a taste.” He wanted her to say yes, wanted her to toss away those crazy inhibitions that held her back.

“I could so easily, you know.”

“I won’t hurt you.”

“That’s what they all say,” she whispered.

“Let’s make a deal.” Dez cupped her jaw, studying those delicious lips. “If things feel too much, too serious, we walk away.”

Eleanor closed her eyes with a harsh laugh. “You can’t walk away when the heart gets involved.”

“You’re thinking too damn much,” he said.

Then he slid his arms around her and pulled her into his embrace. He was tired of talking. There were better ways of convincing Eleanor this thing between them was worth exploring.

Dear Reader,

In a city crumbling, weathered by time and the waters surrounding it, music is a living, breathing entity. If you’ve ever visited New Orleans, you know exactly of what I speak. The melding of Spanish, French and African cultures creates an essence unique from any other place, a gumbo of food, music and a way of living that’s slower…and yet full of energy. It’s easy to fall in love with New Orleans.

This book is a Hurricane Katrina book, yet not. His Uptown Girl is about healing, forgiveness and finding courage…discovering beauty among ruin. These characters grabbed hold of who they were and ran with it—they’re likely the most complex and interesting ones I’ve written.

So come with me to New Orleans—to Uptown Magazine Street and Downtown Frenchmen Street. Listen to the rat-a-tat beat of jazz, blues and soul mixed with a hint of bounce. Taste the stuffed crab and andouille sausage…and don’t forget a cocktail. It’s the Crescent City, the Big Easy and the place where Eleanor will learn to love again, Dez will find his mojo and a young sax player will discover dreams don’t fade…even when you bury them in your soul.

I hope you enjoy His Uptown Girl. For more information on my books and to contact me, visit www.liztalleybooks.com or write to P.O. Box 5418, Bossier City, Louisiana 71171.

Happy reading!

Liz Talley

His Uptown Girl

Liz Talley

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

From devouring the Harlequin Superromance novels on the shelf of her aunt’s used bookstore to swiping her grandmother’s medical romances, Liz Talley has always loved a good romance. So it was no surprise to anyone when she started writing a book one day while her infant napped. She soon found writing more exciting than scrubbing hardened cereal off the love seat. Underneath Liz’s baby-food-stained clothes, a dream stirred. She followed that dream, and after a foray into historical romance and a Golden Heart final, she started her first contemporary romance on the same day she met her editor. Coincidence? She prefers to call it fate.

Currently Liz lives in north Louisiana with her high-school sweetheart, two beautiful children and a passel of animals. Liz loves watching her boys play baseball, shopping for bargains and going out for lunch. When not writing contemporary romances for the Harlequin Superromance line, she can be found doing laundry, feeding kids or playing on Facebook.

To two of my favorite uptown girls:

Phylis Caskey and Cindy Lott.

You’ve taught me about the finer things in life, but most importantly you’ve taught me the value of friendship. So glad to have both you classy ladies in my life.

And to the city that never gives up, that continues to find the beauty beyond the destruction.

I know what it means to miss New Orleans.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Excerpt

PROLOGUE

Uptown New Orleans, September 1, 2005

LOOKING OVER HIS SHOULDER, Tre Jackson ducked between the buildings and then slid behind an abandoned car. For several seconds, he focused on gulping down the soggy air pressing in around him. Okay. Just breathe, Tre. In. Out.

Breathe.

His heart galloped, slamming hard against his ribs. Shadows enveloped him, but he worried his grubby white T-shirt stood out too much. He crouched to make himself smaller, peeking out from behind the grille of the Honda. The street before him looked empty, but Tre knew eyes were everywhere—eyes belonging to desperate people who could grab him, shake him down and leave him for dead.

Crazy white folks with guns.

Effed-up brothers with guns.

Police with guns.

Made an eleven-year-old kid holding shit he stole feel like he couldn’t breathe too good. After all, what was one more dead black kid?

Fear washed over Tre, hard and fast, but he beat it back with the baseball bat he kept in his head. No time for thinking too much. Had to act. His mama and brother, Devontay, counted on him to be cool.

He clutched the junk he’d taken tighter to his chest, wishing he’d been brave enough to break the window of the grocery store—the place had looked empty, but Tre knew some store owners sat inside with shotguns. So he’d passed it and rooted around in a store with windows already busted. Not much anyone would want left—bunch of junk—but he’d found a weird box filled with junk wrapped inside an old shirt. It had been hidden on a high shelf. He’d grabbed it, and climbed back out into darkness. Tre had no clue if any of the stuff would score food and water in a trade, but he’d find out.

Stepping softly, he crept around the side of the old Honda, its gaping windows reminding him of the man he’d seen several blocks back. Vacant. Abandoned. Dead.

A rat ran across his grave, but Tre ignored the shiver creeping up his back. He didn’t have time for no rats or dead men lying like trash in the gutter where black ribbons of sludge trailed into the clogged sewers. The water had gone down in some places, but that made it even more dangerous. Like a war zone he’d seen on TV once.

Yeah. Tre was livin’ in a war zone. But he always had. Magnolia Projects ain’t no cakewalk. He’d seen dudes shot. Seen bitches beat down. Kids ignored. Ain’t easy living in ’Nolia. But outside the projects, there had been order.

Until four days ago.

Tre searched around for something he could use to hit somebody...if they got the idea they could mess with him. He was afraid to look in the car. He’d seen other dead people. Old folks who thought they’d be all right, but found out quick the storm wasn’t like all the others.

He didn’t see anything he could use, but he had the kitchen knife in the back of his pants. He’d made his mama keep the gun. G-Slim hated his mama, and G-Slim was one mean brother, quick to anger. With no soul. Better Mama and Shorty D keep the gun.

Tre stuffed the stolen bundle down the front of his shirt, hiking up his pants and cinching tight his one school belt. Made him look kinda like a pregnant lady or one of those starving African kids, but it kept his hands free. He slid the knife from where it fit against the curve of his back and removed the cheap sheath, shoving it in the pocket of his jeans.

Time to go.

He listened hard before he moved, but the city was silent. Not like it normally sounded. No music. No laughter. No horns honking on the overpass. Like a whole ’nother place, a whole ’nother place that smelled of death...and fear.

Certain no one was about to grab him, Tre slipped out from behind the car, wishing for the third or fourth time he’d pulled on a dark T-shirt. He stepped over an old oil can and waded through muck and trash piled up on the sides of the street. Water still sat in some low areas, but he’d avoid them. He knew the way back to ’Nolia. He’d walked there from every direction.

Twenty minutes later, after ducking out of the beams of a few National Guard trucks and seeing a couple of boats with spotlights in some of the flooded streets, Tre waded through nasty water to reach the steps of his building in the Magnolia Housing Projects. He’d seen only one lone soul on his journey back to his place—some crazy dude sitting on his porch staring past Tre into the inky, still night.

Tre gripped the knife tighter as he crept toward the safest stairwell. He inched open the rusted-out door, wincing at the sound. Once he got inside, he’d be safe. The world would forget about him, his mama and Shorty D holed up like rats, sitting inside with rotten milk, the whole place smelling like shit. Even G-Slim would forget about them. About how much he hated Tre’s mama. About how she’d ratted him out to that detective a month back. About getting even with her.

The air left his lungs as he got jerked backward.

“What you doin’, lil’ Tre?”

He stumbled, losing his balance, and the knife flew from his hand, clattering onto the cement stoop.

A bowling ball sank in his stomach. Daylight protected him in the projects. Usually, the Dooney Boys left the little kids alone, but this wasn’t “usual” and night covered up stuff. Tre should have left earlier. He should have—

“Damn, son. Got you a knife. What you gonna do with that, cuz?” G-Slim asked, lifting Tre up by the back of his T-shirt.

Tre couldn’t breathe. He coughed and swiped at G-Slim’s arms.

The man let him go, laughing when Tre sprawled on his ass, hitting a stone planter Miss Janie had left on the stoop. She’d let Shorty D plant some seeds a couple of months ago. Now those planters held weeds and dirt. “What you got in your shirt?”

Tre almost pissed his pants. G-Slim had killed some Chinese guy a couple streets over when he wouldn’t pay for some smack. Tre’s friend had seen the dude’s brains and stuff. “Nothin you want.”

“How you know?” Another smile. And it wasn’t no good smile. Nasty and mean. Tre scooted back, teetering on the edge of the stoop, his heart tripping on itself with fear. He tried to think about how to get away, but his mind wouldn’t work. Tears filled his eyes and he forgot how to be hard. How to pretend he was brave.

G-Slim peered down at Tre. “Where’s your mama, boy?”

“She ’vacuated.”

“Why you still here?”

Tre tried to swallow but his mouth felt full of sand. “I—I didn’t wanna go. Mama took Shorty D on the bus, but I ran away ’cause I ain’t leavin’ Big Mama.”

G-Slim stared at him, and Tre prayed the man bought the lie. His grandmother had already left before the storm, but G-Slim didn’t know that. And he didn’t know Shorty D and Mama were still on the third floor.

In the moonlight, Tre could see only the whites of the man’s eyes. But he knew what lay in their coal-black depths. Revenge. “That so?”

“Yeah. I’s going back to get Miss Janie’s horn and then I’m going to Big Mama’s.”

G-Slim moved toward him. Tre shrank against the rough brick, feeling around for the knife, hoping somehow he could save himself. Maybe G-Slim wouldn’t kill him, but maybe he would.

A gun fired, the shot hitting far above Tre’s head. He squeezed his eyes shut as dust fell on him.

“Get your janky ass away from my boy,” Tre’s mom said from the doorway. Tre opened his eyes, shocked to find his mother standing on the stoop in a stained T-shirt. Talia’s braids were ragged, but both her gaze and the gun were steady.

G-Slim held up both his hands as if Tre’s mama was the police. “Whoa, now. I ain’t hurtin’ your boy.”

“I’m going to blow a hole in you a truck can drive through if you don’t back the hell up off my boy,” she said, eyeing G-Slim as if he was a cockroach sitting on their table. “Get upstairs, Tre.”

Tre moved quick as a snake, bolting through the space between his mama and the doorway.

“Oh, that’s how it is, bitch?” G-Slim said, his voice not sounding the least bit scared. G-Slim was hard. He’d been in prison a couple times, always out because no witnesses would testify against him...because they knew they’d bleed their life out on the street.

“That’s how it is, Gerald,” Talia said, her voice firm but sad. Tre felt the tears on his cheeks. He hadn’t even realized he’d started crying. And his pants felt wet. Maybe he’d peed them. He couldn’t remember.

“Go on then,” G-Slim said. Tre couldn’t see him, but he imagined he’d dropped his hands and turned toward Talia. G-Slim wasn’t afraid of a bullet. He wasn’t afraid of Talia. He’d beat the shit out of her many times before declaring her a waste of space. G-Slim didn’t even give Talia anything for Devontay, and G-Slim was Shorty D’s daddy.

“Oh, I am, and you better stay the hell away from me and my kids. I got plenty of bullets,” Talia said, inching back through the door. She didn’t take her eyes off the banger in front of her. “Tre, get your ass upstairs like I told you. ’Bout that time, baby.”

Tre turned and ran up the stairs two at a time, the bundle of stolen goods thumping against his belly. He and Mama had planned for every scenario in regards to the storm and G-Slim. He knew what he had to do even though it made him feel sick. His job was to get Shorty D out of ’Nolia. Mama had gotten bad sick over the past days, and she’d told Tre he had to be the man. It was up to him.

He ran into the apartment, ignoring the smell of vomit and spoiled food. Shorty D stood in his baby bed in the corner wailing, a lone sound in the still of the building. Most folks had left. Gone with the National Guard. Like they should have done. But Talia wouldn’t leave because she said the old people had to go first. And she hadn’t found Aunt Cici.

Tre pulled out the bundle from his shirt and ran to the closet. They had a place they hid stuff. G-Slim had used it to hide drugs, but now Talia used it to hide the gun, bullets and other stuff they didn’t want anyone to find. Tre lifted the wood subfloor and jabbed the bundle into the space between the aged joists, tucking it in good, slamming the board back into place and tugging the tired green shag carpet over it. He’d just backed out of the closet when Talia came through the front door, sliding the dead bolt into place and doubling over in pain.

“Get Devontay and go. G-Slim ain’t waitin’. He mad and we ain’t got time.”

“Mama—”

“You do what I say, Trevon.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, grabbing Shorty D, who still cried. Tre jabbed a pacifier in the toddler’s mouth and Shorty stopped whining. “Come on, Shorty. We gonna play a game. Gonna be fun.”

Tre dragged his brother over the bed’s rail and sat him on his hip. He grabbed the dirty cloth diaper bag sitting on the table, shouldering it as he moved to the bedroom, sparing a parting look at his mother, and at the room where his only worthwhile possession sat on his bed—his saxophone. Couldn’t carry it with him. Shorty D was too big as is.

“I’m scared, Mama.”

“No time for scared. You’s a man now.”

“Come with us,” Tre said, shifting his brother to his other arm. He didn’t care that the tears fell on his cheeks. G-Slim would kill his mama if he got hold of her. Talia wasn’t strong enough. He couldn’t believe she’d fired a gun and stood up to G-Slim earlier.

“I’ll come when you safe. Go. Now.”

Tre moved quickly because it was all he could do. He flung open the closet, stepping over his few pairs of shoes, pulled the air-conditioning vent from where it sat under a makeshift shelf. It was a false front, put in by whoever had the apartment before them. The hole led to a small space in the wall, which led to a similar vent in the apartment next door—Miss Janie’s apartment. No one had ever questioned the vents, though the projects didn’t have no air-conditioning.

Shorty D fussed as Tre scraped his head on the crumbling drywall. “Shh, Shorty, shh.”

The toddler quieted and laid his head on Tre’s shoulder. Tre patted his brother’s back and pulled the grate into place. For a moment, he paused, trying to hear his mother. Trying to decide if he really had to take Shorty D and go find a policeman.

Then he heard the door break open and his mama scream.

Gunfire made him clap his hand over Shorty D’s mouth.

More gunfire before his mama yelled, “Run!”

Tre choked back a sob as he punched in the grate in Miss Janie’s apartment, pushed past a small cabinet hiding the secret entrance and headed for the window and the ancient fire escape.

Shorty clung to Tre as if he knew what was going down, as if he knew his life depended on holding on.

As if he knew his father was next door killing their mother.

Tre set Shorty D down so he could open the crumbling window. G-Slim would figure things out soon enough...unless he was dead. Tre couldn’t count on that so he snatched up Shorty D, climbed out onto the iron scaffolding and shut down his mind, focusing on simply breathing.

Just breathe, Tre. In. Out. Breathe.

CHAPTER ONE

New Orleans, 2013

“HOT GUY AT TWO O’CLOCK,” Pansy McAdams said, craning her head around the form mannequin and peering out the window.

Eleanor Theriot rolled her eyes and swiped her dust cloth over the spindles of the rocker she knelt beside. “You think half of New Orleans is hot.”

“No, I’m just optimistic.”

“Or need a good optometrist.”

Pansy didn’t turn her head from whoever had drawn her attention. “I have perfect vision, thank you very much, and this one is worth the drool I’ll have to wipe off the glass.”

Eleanor pushed past Pansy, who’d plastered her nose to the window of the Queen’s Box. Eleanor could only imagine the picture her friend and employee presented to passersby. Pig nose.

But no actual drool.

“Let me be the judge,” Eleanor said, playing along. Pansy had spent the past month reminding Eleanor of her resolution to get back into the dating game. When Eleanor had examined her life, as everyone is wont to do on New Year’s Day, she’d discovered her home felt empty, and most of her lingerie had been purchased from a wholesale club. Time to start dating again, to start claiming a new life for herself outside widowhood and motherhood. Up until now, Eleanor had been good at ignoring the male sex—hot or otherwise—but today, Eleanor felt game. Maybe it was the phone call earlier from her mom, who had cut out an article about healthy living for the premenopausal woman.

Not that Eleanor was going through menopause.

Yet.

So an innocent ogle sounded...harmless.

Across the street, in front of the place where tradesmen had been streaming in and out like worker bees, was a pickup truck. Leaning against the side of that truck was someone who made her swallow. Hard.

Pansy soooo didn’t need glasses.

The man resembled an Aztec prince. Like his honeyed skin should be twined in gold and turquoise, bedecked in a feathered headdress. And a loincloth. He’d be breathtaking in a loincloth.

“Told ya,” Pansy said, shouldering Eleanor out of the way. “He could eat crackers, chips and freakin’ beignets in my bed any day of the week.”

“Not sure your husband would appreciate an extra bedmate.”

“Eddie lets the dog sleep with us. What’s one more hairy beast?” Pansy straightened the ceremonial Mayan mask that sat next to the silver candelabra in the window display before sliding off the edge of the window stage, her long body loose and loping. Pansy was over six feet tall, flat-footed and thin to the point of painful, but she had a sharp sense of humor and a heart that was big, fat and full of good cheer. Like Santa Claus in Olive Oyl’s body.

Eleanor glanced again at the man standing beside the pickup, peering at his phone. He wore well-worn jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. His face had a sort of sexy Brad Pitt thing going on with sensuous lips, but his jaw was hard, nose straight, brows dark and drawn to a V as he tapped on the phone. His skin was a creamy café au lait and his hair jet-black, clipped close to his head. Broad shoulders and narrow hips finished off the visual treat. A damn chocolate cupcake from Butterfield’s Bakery wasn’t as tempting as this man. “Hey,” Pansy whispered over Eleanor’s shoulder, making her jump. “You should go get him and see how you like sleeping on cracker crumbs.”

“I already know I don’t like sleeping on cracker crumbs.”

“With the right guy, you’ll never feel ’em. Trust me.”

Running a hand over a well-crafted Federal chest of drawers, Eleanor turned to Pansy and wiggled her fingers. “Dust.”

“Chicken.”

Eleanor wasn’t going outside to talk to a guy leaning against a work truck. She wasn’t that kind of girl. Never had been...even if she was determined to get out there...wherever “there” was. “No way.”

“Candy ass.”

“Calling me names won’t work. Get the lemon oil and let’s make sure our pieces up front look pretty. Tourists will be pouring in with Mardi Gras weekend coming up. I could use some sales.”

Pansy propped her fists on angular hips and narrowed her piercing blue eyes. “Come on, El. What will it hurt to do a little flirting? You’ll probably never see him again and you need to get your feet wet. Beyond time, sugar.”

Yeah, it was way beyond time. That’s what her daughter, Blakely, had yelled at her over a month ago—to get her own life. But Eleanor wasn’t going outside and getting her feet wet with some random house painter. Even if she’d never see him again. Even if it was harmless, silly and somewhat daring. “I’m moving on, Pansy. I am. I even checked out that eHarmony site last night, but I’m not the kind of girl who goes up to a random guy and says, uh, I wouldn’t even know what to say.”

“Pretend you’re locked out and need a screwdriver or something to jimmy the lock. I’ll hide in the back.”

“Jimmy the lock? Who are you? Nancy Drew?”

Pansy faked an elaborate laugh. “You’re so funny. Share it with the sex god across the street. Unless you’re...chicken?”

Eleanor looked around the antiques store that had been her salvation, first after the hurricane and then after the sex scandal, and felt the security she always did when she really thought about who she was. Did she want to be another relic of the past like the beautiful pieces in her store? Hmm. Pansy was right. Blakely was right. She needed to step out and get a life. “Okay. Fine.”

Pansy froze. “Really?”

“Yeah, what’ll it hurt? Not like I’ll see him again.”

Pansy pulled Eleanor to her, snatching the ponytail holder from Eleanor’s hair. “Ow!”

“Hold still,” Pansy said, tugging strands of Eleanor’s hair around her face and studying it critically.

Eleanor batted her hands away. “Jeez, Pans.”

“Let me grab the coral-rose lip gloss I bought at Sephora. It will look nice with those new red highlights you just put in.”

“I’m—”

“Shh,” Pansy said, pressing a finger against Eleanor’s lips. “He’s a little out of your league so we need to prepare you for—”

“Please.” Eleanor pushed past her friend and tucked her shirt into her new gold Lilly Pulitzer belt. “He’ll be gone before you could perform all that magic. Besides, he’s not out of my league. Forget the lip gloss.”

“Whoa, that’s my sassy girl,” Pansy called, scurrying to the back of the store, thin arms and knobby knees moving so fast she resembled a clumsy puppy. She sank behind the counter, leaving only her eyes visible. “I’ll hide back here so he buys the story.”

“This is nuts,” Eleanor proclaimed.

Pansy’s hand emerged over the register, shooing her toward the door. “Just go.”

Taking a deep breath, Eleanor pushed the glass door, ignoring the dinging of the sleigh bells affixed to the knob, and stepped onto Magazine Street, which had started waking up for the day. She shut the door behind her, slapped a hand to her forehead and patted her pockets.

Damn, she was a good actress.

She started toward hunky painter dude, looking both ways before crossing the street ’cause she’d learned that rule when she was seven years old. The closer she got, the hotter—and younger—the guy looked.

God, this was stupid. Pansy was right. The man was out of her league.

Too hot for her.

Too young for her.

She needed to go back to her store and abandon the whole ruse, but as she began to turn, he lifted his head and caught her gaze.

Oh, dear Lord. Eyes the color of smoke swept over her and something shivery flew right up her spine. It wasn’t casual or dismissive. Oddly enough, the gaze felt...profound.

Or maybe she needed to drink less coffee. She must be imagining the connection between them. It had been almost twenty years since she’d tried to pick up a man, so she was out of practice. That was it. She imagined his interest.

He lifted his eyebrows questioningly, and she tried to remember what she was supposed to ask him. A horn honked and she turned her head.

Yeah. She stood in the middle of the street like a moron.

The Aztec sex god turned his head and nodded toward the car. “You gonna move?”

“Yeah,” she said, stepping onto the sidewalk. She licked her lips, wishing she’d put on the stupid lip gloss. Not only did she look stupid, but her lips were bare. Eleanor the Daring was appalled by Eleanor the Unprepared, who had shown up in her stead.

“Can I help you?”

You can if you toss me over your shoulder, take me to your temple and play sacrifice the not-exactly-a-virgin on your stone pillar of lust.

But she didn’t say that, of course.

“I’m looking for a screw,” she said.

* * *

DEZ BATISTE LOWERED his phone and stared at the woman. “I beg your pardon?”

“Huh?”

“You asked for a screw?” he repeated.

She turned the color of the red tiles that framed the doorway behind her. “No. I didn’t ask you—uh, I meant a screwdriver.”

He almost laughed because he could see where her thoughts had jumped to...which was kind of cute.

He’d parked in front of the club five minutes ago, pissed he couldn’t get his damn contractor to show up. He’d dialed Chris Salmon three times, but hung up each time he heard the voice mail. He wasn’t in a good mood, didn’t need some woman bothering him, but when he’d really looked at this one, he had put his bad mood on pause.

“A screwdriver?”

She nodded and a chunk of hair fell from behind her ear. She pushed it back.

“At first I thought you were propositioning me.” He smiled to let her know he wouldn’t bite. At least not hard.

Her face turned even redder. “Heavens, no. I just got distracted, uh, by that car.” She glanced at the antiques store across the street and rolled her shoulders.

“Why do you need a screwdriver?” he asked, liking what his questions were doing to her. Why? He hadn’t the foggiest. There was simply something about her that made him want to peel away layers.

“The stupid lock to the store is messed up, and I’m locked out. No one else is here yet, and I don’t have an extra key.”

He glanced inside the truck. “Don’t have one out here, but I can check to see if anyone left something you can use inside.”

She caught her lower lip between her teeth, drawing his attention to the perfect pinkness of her mouth. Soft. As if she’d been painted upon canvas and intentionally smudged. Her fire-streaked hair with a stubborn flip fell to her collarbone, which was visible beneath a shirt the color of ripe watermelon. “I suppose I could ask Mr. Hibbett at Butterfield’s. He might have one.”

Not wanting to miss an opportunity to make friends in the area, he held out a hand. “I’m Dez Batiste. Let me unlock the door, and we’ll see if there’s something you can use. Wouldn’t want to bother Mr. Hibbett, would we?”

Her gaze lifted to his. “Batiste? As in the guy who wants to open the nightclub?”

His fascination with the woman immediately nose-dived. Five months ago, he’d chosen to roll the dice on an Uptown location for his nightclub rather than a place on Frenchmen Street. Tremé might be the hottest jazz scene in New Orleans, but Dez was pretty sure his old neighborhood near the Garden District would welcome the upscale club opening in less than a month. However, there had been opposition to Blue Rondo from some of the merchants. He’d recently received a letter from the Magazine Street Merchants Association questioning the judiciousness of opening a business that could potentially harm the family-friendly atmosphere. It hadn’t been “welcoming” at all. More like holding a veiled threat of ill will. “I’m Dez Batiste, the guy who will open a nightclub.”

He started to lower his hand, but she took it. “I’m Eleanor Theriot, owner of the Queen’s Box.” She hiked a thumb over her shoulder toward the large glass-front store directly across the street from where they stood.

“Oh,” he said, noting the warmth of her grasp, the sharpness in her gaze and the scent of her perfume, which reminded him of summer nights. He knew who she was, had seen that name before. On the bottom of a complaint to the city council. One of his friends had scored a copy and given him a heads-up.

She dropped her hand. “I assumed you were a worker or something.”

“Why, because I’m ethnic?”

Her eyes widened. “No. That’s insulting.”

He lifted his eyebrows but said nothing.

“You’re dressed like you were coming to work or something.” She gestured to his old jeans and faded T-shirt, her face no longer as yielding.

Okay, he was dressed in paint-streaked clothes, and the truck had Emilio’s Painting plastered to the door, so maybe Eleanor wasn’t drawing incorrect conclusions. Because though his grandfather was black, his grandmother Creole and his mother Cuban, Dez didn’t look any distinctive race. “Yeah. Okay.”

For a moment they stood, each regarding the other. Dez regretted the shift in mood. He’d wanted to flirt with her, maybe score her digits, but now there was nothing but a bad taste.

“I’d wondered about you, a renowned New Orleans musician returning to open a club in the old Federal Bank,” Eleanor said, glancing up at the crumbling brick before returning her gaze to him. Those green eyes looked more guarded than before. “So why here in this part of New Orleans? Aren’t there better places for a nightclub?”

“Uptown is where I’m from,” Dez said, folding his arms across his chest and eyeing the antiques dealer with her expensive clothes and obvious intolerance for anyone not wearing seersucker and named something like Winston. “What? I don’t meet your expectations ’cause I’m not drunk? Or strung out on crack?”

Her eyes searched his, and in them, he saw a shift, as if a decision had been made that instant. “And you don’t have horns. I’d thought you’d have horns...unless they’re retractable?”

She didn’t smile as she delivered the line. It was given smoothly, as if she knew they were headed toward rocky shores and needed to steer clear. So he picked up a paddle and allowed them to drift back into murky waters. “Retractable horns are a closely guarded musician’s secret. Who ratted me out?”

Eleanor locked her mouth with an imaginary key.

“Guess a screwdriver wouldn’t help?”

She shook her head.

Again, silence.

It was an intensely odd moment with a woman he’d resented without knowing much about her, with a woman who opposed his very dream, with a woman who made him want to trace the curve of her jaw. He’d never been in such a situation.

“Just two things before I go back over there and walk through that very much unlocked door,” she said with a resolute crossing of her arms.

“Really? The door’s not even locked?” He arched an eyebrow.

“A ploy to come check you out dreamed up by my not-so-savvy salesclerk. Totally tanked on the whole thing from beginning to end. It’s pretty embarrassing.”

“I’m flattered. Thank your salesclerk for me.”

Her direct stare didn’t waver. “Oh, come on, don’t even pretend you’re not the object of a lot of ‘Can I borrow your pen?’ or ‘Do you know what time it is?’”

“Wait, those are pickup lines?” he asked with a deadpan expression. There was something he liked in her straightforwardness along with the soft-glowy thing she had going. Not quite wholesome. More delicate and flowery. This woman wasn’t lacquered up with lip gloss and a shirt so low her nipples nearly showed. Instead she begged to be unwrapped like a rare work of art.

He shook himself, remembering she was a high-class broad and not his type.

“Maybe not pickups per se, but definitely designed to get your attention,” she said, sounding more college professor than woman on the prowl. Or maybe she wasn’t really interested in him. Perhaps she’d known who he was in the first place and wanted to goad him, size him up before he made trouble.

Dez leaned against the truck he’d borrowed from his neighbor since his Mustang was in the shop. “So what did you want to tell me?”

“One.” She held up an elegant finger. He’d never called a finger elegant before, but hers fit the billing. “I oppose the idea of a nightclub in this particular area. All the business owners here have worked hard since the storm to build a certain atmosphere that does not include beer bottles and half-dressed hookers.”

He opened his mouth to dispute, but she held up a second finger.

“And, two, this little—” she wagged her other hand between them “—thing didn’t happen. Erase it from you memory. Chalk it up to midlife crisis, to a dare, or bad tuna fish I ate last night.”

“What are you talking about?”

She frowned. “Me trying to check you out.”

Something warmed inside him. Pleasure. “I don’t even remember why you walked over.”

A little smile accompanied the silent thank-you in her eyes.

Dez answered the smile with one of his own, and for a few seconds they stood in the midst of Magazine Street smiling at each other like a couple of loons, which was crazy considering the tenseness only seconds ago.

“Okay, then,” she said, inching back toward her store.

“Yeah,” he said, not moving. Mostly because he wanted to watch her walk back to her store and check out the view.

“So hopefully I won’t see you around,” she said lightly, turning away, giving him what he wanted without even realizing it.

“Don’t count on it,” he said, playing along.

She didn’t say anything. Just kept walking.

“Hey,” he called as she stepped onto the opposite curb. She turned around and shaded her eyes against the morning sunlight. “I’m going to change your mind, you know.”

“About?”

“My club and the reason why you came over here.”

He straightened and gave her a nod of his head and one of his sexy trademark smiles, one he hadn’t used since he’d left Houston.

And from across the street, he could see Ms. Eleanor Theriot looked worried.

Good. She should be...because he meant it. His club wouldn’t draw hookers or anyone who would smash a beer bottle on the pavement. Nor would it draw the sort of club-goers who would break windows or vomit in the street. No rowdy college crowd or blue-collar drunks.

Blue Rondo was different—the kernel of a dream that had bloomed in his heart when everything else around him had fallen apart. The idea of an upscale New Orleans jazz club had sustained him through heartbreak and heartache. Had given him sanctuary when the waters erased all he’d been, and the woman he thought would be his wife had turned into someone he didn’t know. Seven damn years wasted and all he’d held on to was the dream of Blue Rondo, the club named after “Blue Rondo à la Turk,” the first song his father had played for him when he’d been a boy.

And no one was going to take that away from him.

Not when he’d risked so much to get here.

Not when he’d finally faced his past and embraced New Orleans as his future.

So, yeah, she could strike number one off her list.

And as Eleanor stood staring at him on the opposite side of the street, he knew she could strike number two off, too. She may not want him to remember her “attention-getter,” but his interest was piqued.

Straightforward eyes the color of moss.

Lush pink lips.

Ivory satin skin.

Color him interested.

Dez tucked away that idea, turned and contemplated the faded building behind him—the old Federal Bank that would house his dream. He sighed.

Another wasted morning.

He could have slept in after a late night in the Quarter playing with Frankie B’s trio. They’d stretched it out until the wee hours, playing sanitized versions of tourist favorites, and he’d made plenty of dime. The city had started seeping back into him.

Dez checked his messages once again. Still no Chris. So he pulled up his schedule. He could spare a few hours cutting tile for the bathroom floors before he needed to head back to the place he’d leased a few blocks over and grab a shower. He had another gig at seven o’clock that night, but wanted to stop in and talk to a couple friends who’d opened some places in the Warehouse District about glassware and distributors.

Dreams could come true, but only with lots of work.

He pulled his keys from his pocket and headed toward his soon-to-be jazz club.

* * *

ELEANOR BACKED INTO the glass front door, spun around and yanked it open.

Pansy’s head popped up from behind the counter like a jack-in-the-box. “What happened?”

Steadying her nerves, Eleanor closed the door and flipped the sign to read Open. “Nothing.”

Pansy slid out. “Nothing?”

“He’s cute,” she said, busying herself by straightening the collection of early-American brass candlesticks displayed on the shelf of a gorgeous cypress cupboard.

Eleanor didn’t want to look at Pansy until she got her emotions under control. Dez Batiste had stirred up so many things inside her—anger, embarrassment...desire.

He’d been so damn sensual. Like a jungle cat, all powerful, sexy and dangerous. His body had been at once tight and muscular, yet he moved with a loose-limbed grace, a sort of lazy insolence. Up close, he’d been droolworthy, with stormy eyes contrasting against deep-honeyed skin, with his manly jaw contrasting with the poutiness of his mouth. Just utterly delicious like a New Orleans praline.

And he’d allowed her some dignity, playing along when she stupidly admitted her crappy attempt to engage him. It had been admirable, and somehow made him even sexier.

Pansy loomed over her like a winged harpy. “Cute? That’s all I’m getting? Cute?”

“What? You want a play-by-play?”

“Duh.”

“Fine. I said ‘hello’ and he said ‘hello’ and I felt stupid. And he said, ‘I’m Dez Batiste,’ and then I said—”

“The Dez Batiste?”

Eleanor stopped fiddling with the candlesticks. “The Dez Batiste who’s opening the nightclub. The Dez Batiste you threw your panties at back in ’04. The Dez Batiste who—”

“OMG!” Pansy clasped her hands and ran to the window. “Can’t believe I didn’t make the connection. He’s more filled out than he was back then. Seems taller, but then again he stayed at the piano the one time I saw him. Oh, but the way he played. Like he made love to that piano. I swear to God, I’d never seen anything like it. I got wet just watching him.”

“Pansy.” Eleanor made a frowny face.

“Oh, don’t be such a Puritan.” Pansy glanced at Eleanor. “But I’m not kidding. I felt guilty looking at Eddie for the rest of the week, but don’t worry, I didn’t throw those panties.”

“Too much information.”

Pansy laughed. “Uh, right. He was too young anyway, but I did have some of those The Graduate fantasies.”

“The man’s trying to bring in a bar when we just got rid of Maggio’s. Don’t you remember wading through puke to open the store? Or how about the night you worked late and someone broke into your car? Or maybe you’ll remember the drunk asleep in the alcove who pooped by the garbage bin?”

Pansy twisted her lips. “But it’s Dez Batiste. He’s back in New Orleans. And I can’t imagine that he’d—”

“A bar is a bar. It’s not going to bring us business. It will only be a headache. Trust me.”

Pansy walked toward the register. “You need to get laid.”

“You need to do your job,” Eleanor said, heading for the rear of the store and her small office, which was crammed into a room the size of a coat closet. Damn Pansy for not being on her side.

“I do my job every day,” Pansy called, her tone slightly hurt but more perturbed. Pansy didn’t take crap off anyone...not even her employers and friend. “And you still need a good f—”

“Don’t say it,” Eleanor growled, slamming her office door, blocking out Pansy and her unwanted advice.

Eleanor sank against the door and gave a heavy sigh.

Sweet Mary Mother of Jesus, she’d been such a fool.

Dez Batiste.

He wasn’t what she’d expected. Oh, Pansy had raved for days after finding out Dez Batiste and his partner had bought the old building across from them. Oddly enough, Eleanor had prayed for someone to snap up the old bank with its pretty mosaic tiles flanking its doors and the interesting fresco reliefs trimming the upper floor. But she’d hoped for a yarn shop or an organic health food store.

Not a nightclub.

Run by a hot young jazz musician.

Well, she wasn’t going to think about how hot he was or the sort of challenge he’d flung back at her.

He’d change her mind.

Huh.

Not likely.

Even if she’d likely have erotic fantasies about him all night long.

Pansy was right. She needed to get laid.

CHAPTER TWO

TRE JACKSON LIFTED the heavy bookcase with ease and placed the piece where Mrs. Dupuy indicated it should sit in her husband’s den. The bottom slipped a little on the slick Oriental carpet, but settled snug against the ornate baseboard.

“Perfect, darling,” the older white lady trilled, clapping together hands with fingernails tipped in fancy white polish. She then ran one hand along the aged wormwood that had been painstakingly restored. “Tommy loves pieces with history, and it’s perfect.”

Tre stood back and nodded, though he had no idea why anyone would want some old piece of furniture with marks and grooves all in it. He just didn’t get white people. Why buy something old when you could have something new, something solid steel, something that wouldn’t rot? But rich white ladies strolled into the Queen’s Box and dropped crazy money on old stuff all the time.

But he didn’t have to understand antiques junkies to do his job. For the past few months he’d been working for Eleanor Theriot, and he wasn’t sure how it had happened. One minute he was standing there looking at the help-wanted sign, the next he was filling out a W-2. Crazy stupid to be working for someone who could have him arrested in the blink of an eye, but he’d needed a job...and that sign had called out to him.

Mrs. Dupuy turned toward him, handed him two twenty-dollar bills and gave him a weird smile.

This particular crazy white people habit didn’t bother him so much. Rich ladies always tipped good unless they were real old. Real old ladies—black, white or purple-polka-dotted—didn’t part with money too easy. He bobbed his head. “Thank you, Mrs. Dupuy.”

“Oh, no. Thank you, Tre. And please tell Eleanor she made a good find with that piece. Exactly what I envisioned,” she said, smiling at walls the color of blood and sweeping a hand toward blossomy drapes. “Now if I could only find an antique secretary’s desk to fit between those two windows. You tell her to be on the lookout, you hear?”

“Yes, ma’am. I will.” He slid toward the wide double doors that opened to the marble foyer. Mrs. Winnie Dupuy was a lonely woman, spending much of her time shopping for things her too-busy husband might like. Which meant she could talk a blue streak if someone took up the other end of the conversation. Tre wasn’t. He had another delivery to make and it was across town. Had to get going if he wanted to make his brother’s game on the West Bank later that afternoon.

“You want a drink or something? I can get you a Coke or...maybe something stronger? Bourbon maybe? Or vodka?” Mrs. Dupuy asked, cocking her head like a little bird. She wore a pink dress that showed off her bosom and little clicky heels that rat-a-tatted on the hardwood floors. A strange bored-housewife gleam in her eye made him hurry his steps. She followed, running a tongue over her top lip then biting her lower. “Or if there’s something else you want? Something not on the menu maybe?”

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t had fantasies about a little something-something with a client or two. Some of the women he made deliveries to were fine, but Mrs. Dupuy was too skinny, too straight, and her husband was a judge. Besides, he had to get to Devontay’s game in three hours.

Better not even think about it.

“No, thank you, Mrs. Dupuy. I gotta get back to the—”

“Oh, sure. No problem,” she said, looking nervous, as though she knew he could read her thoughts and suddenly her unstated invitation was too real. She followed him out the room into the foyer and opened the large door painted black as sin. Sunlight tumbled in like a smack of reality upside the head. Mrs. Dupuy blinked, appeared confused. “Well, thanks again.”

“Sure,” he said, stepping onto the brick stoop.

The door shut behind him softly, like an apology, as he walked to the delivery van. He didn’t really blame Winnie Dupuy for not wanting to feel so empty. He knew what it was like to feel as if no one cared, to want some simple comfort, a human touch. He didn’t fault her...but he couldn’t oblige her and still be the man he wanted to be.

The man he’d promised his mama all those years ago.

The van was warm, which was good, considering a cold wind had picked up. New Orleans wasn’t cold in February, but it wasn’t warm either. The seat felt good against his jeans. He’d just pulled out of the driveway when his cell rang.

It was Big Mama—she always called this time of day.

“Yo, Big Mama, you get your applesauce cake yet?”

“I’ve done got it, sugar. Merlene had some with me, though she ain’t as fond of it. You workin’?” Big Mama’s voice was still frail. His grandmother had been sick a long time and he hated she had to be in the nursing facility. But what could he do? Neither he nor his aunt Cici could take care of her.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m getting off in a few hours for Devontay’s game. They playing at Erhet today.”

“You gonna call me and let me know how he do, ain’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am. I know you’d skin me alive if I didn’t.” Tre smiled as he swerved around the oncoming traffic and headed toward the store on Magazine. Luckily, he had only one more delivery, and it was a Queen Anne settee. Since the delivery was on the West Bank, Eleanor said he could take the van over the bridge—as long as he locked it up tight—and make Shorty D’s game.

“How’s Cici getting on with that new job? She going in on time, ain’t she? I worry about her.”

“Yes, ma’am, she doin’ fine.” Kind of. His aunt had missed work a few weeks ago and had to plead with the shift manager to put her on probation. Since then, she’d done good, making it on time every day, but he was worried because she’d started hanging with her former girls, going out, leaving Kenzie with him. Tre had threatened to call Child Protective Services if she went out anymore. He didn’t like threatening his aunt, but his cousin Kenzie needed a mother who wasn’t strung out and banging with the 3-N-G, a local street gang that hung on Third and Galvez.

He wasn’t worrying Big Mama about Cici or anything else. Her health wouldn’t tolerate no worrying. He wanted her to get stronger so maybe she could come back and breathe some life into that rambling house of hers where they all lived. Things weren’t the same with Big Mama gone. It had been too long since he’d smelled greens and hocks cooking and tasted her fried corn bread. Been too long since he’d heard her laughter in the kitchen and felt the tenderness in her faded hands.

“The doctor says maybe I can come home ’fore too long. They still working me to death, but I’m walking pretty good now. Maybe won’t be long, chile.”

Big Mama had fallen and broken her hip almost seven months ago. After extensive surgery, she’d done well, until the pneumonia had set in several weeks later. She’d been in a nursing facility ever since, determined she wouldn’t live out her days at Plantation Manor.

“That’s good. You keep doin’ what they tell you. Dr. Tom said you’ll be home to dye Easter eggs for Kenzie.”

Big Mama cackled. “Lordy, that’s in two months. I need to see that baby hide her eggs. Gotta make her a dress, too.”

Tre drove through the alley between the Queen’s Box and a vintage clothing store, and put the van in Park. A loading platform on his right led up to rusted double doors. “I’ve got to go now. Got to make another delivery before I can get out of here.”

“Tre, you don’t worry about me. You got enough to worry about. Try to take some time for yourself, chile. You not even twenty years old yet.”

He felt a hell of a lot older. “I know. I got time.”

His grandmother huffed but didn’t say more, and after promising again to call her about Devontay’s game, he hung up.

Pocketing the keys, he slid from the van, careful to lock it. As he came around the side of the van, Eleanor met him.

“Hey, Tre, we need to talk if you have a minute.”

He looked up, sensing what was coming. Winnie Dupuy had called. “Yeah?”

“Mrs. Dupuy called me a few moments ago.” Eleanor held tight to the door, looking embarrassed. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Oh, well, she said you made her feel uncomfortable. Uh, like in a sexual way.” Eleanor stared him in the eyes and he could see her discomfort, but she didn’t shy away. He, at least, liked that about her.

“No, ma’am.”

Eleanor looked hard at him and nodded. “She’s lonely.”

Folding his arms over his chest, he met her gaze. “Yeah, I guess she is.”

For a moment they were both silent. Her studying him. Him bearing her scrutiny, defensive on the outside, hoping she believed him on the inside. As the seconds ticked by, Eleanor’s posture changed. Relief gathered in him because he knew she’d worked out the facts rather than jumping to conclusions.

“Winnie propositioned you?”

“What you mean?”

Eleanor rolled a hand, still looking as though she’d rather clean toilets than have this conversation with him. “Make a pass? Come on to you?”

“Why you think that?”

“Because the more I think on it, the more I see the flaw in this accusation. Winnie’s husband ignores her, she’s lonely and you’re awfully nice-looking,” she said, holding open the heavy steel door and jerking her head toward the black yawn that led into the back room. “She’s a good customer, but I don’t necessarily believe you’d have to hit on older ladies when you’ve likely got plenty of girls your own age blowing up your phone.”

The knot in his gut unraveled as he started up the steps. Eleanor believed him over Winnie Dupuy. The thought startled him, put a dent in the shield of mistrust he kept between him and his employer. Between him and everyone. “Did you just say ‘blowing up my phone’?”

Eleanor made a face. “Blakely says that all the time. Guess it seeped into my vocabulary without me noticing.”

Tre didn’t smile much, but he had to smile at her admission. He hadn’t yet met her daughter, since Blakely was away at college, but from the way Eleanor talked about her, she had attitude to spare. He liked a girl with attitude. Someone who wasn’t all mealymouthed. His Big Mama had always said to never trust mealymouths. They’re the sneaky ones.

“I’m sorry Mrs. Dupuy accused you of something so awful.”

He shrugged. “Don’t matter.”

Eleanor stopped him, pressing a hand to his shoulder. He flinched, but didn’t pull away. “It does matter.”

“She just embarrassed is all.”

He met Eleanor’s gaze and an understanding lit in them. He knew she saw he tried to be an honorable man—the kind of man Big Mama would be proud of. The kind of man who didn’t screw lonely old white women just ’cause he could. He had pride, integrity and respect for himself.

Eleanor could see all that in his gaze.

The dent grew wider.

“Maybe so, but I’ll take care of it. She can’t make those kinds of accusations against my employees and think it’s okay. Go ahead and wrap the Queen Anne and get it over to the Wilkies. Sign out for three o’clock and then you should be able to make Shorty D’s game.”

Devontay’s nickname sounded funny on Eleanor’s lips. “Thank you.”

Eleanor closed the door and started for her office. “Oh, and tell Shorty D I’ll buy him a Tastee doughnut for every point he scores.”

Tre shook his head. “He scored ten last time.”

She smiled. “I know. I’ll plan on picking up a dozen.”

* * *

ELEANOR SHRUGGED OUT of her khaki pants and tossed her new T-shirt on top of the laundry hamper in the corner of her bathroom. Fragrant lavender perfumed the air as her bath filled, automatically soothing her, pulling her mind away from Winnie Dupuy’s tirade, Blakely’s request for more money and her mother-in-law’s message on the answering service. Margaret Theriot didn’t like to be ignored. Or so she said.

So many people giving her grief.

And no one to take it away.

Eleanor eyed the old claw-foot tub, hoping her best bath salts would do the trick. Her day had been longer than most because she’d had to run errands after work, including the dreaded grocery store. Before she could blink it was a quarter of eleven o’clock and past her bedtime.

She snorted as she grabbed her toothbrush. “God, you’re acting like an old person, Elle. In bed by ten o’clock is sealing your doom, baby.”

She didn’t respond to her own taunts. What could she possibly say? Then the cell phone sitting on her dressing table buzzed. She picked it up and eyed the number. Margaret. Again. Shouldn’t her mother-in-law be in bed?

She tossed the phone down, peeled off her underwear and put her hair in an old scrunchy. No friggin’ way would she let Skeeter’s mother ruin the most precious time of the day: her cocktail bath.

Grabbing the highball glass, she sank into the tub and used her big toe to turn off the hot water.

“Ahhh,” she said to the wall on her right.

The wall said nothing in return...as well it shouldn’t. After all, she’d only started on the drink.

The swirl of the water around her felt like a sweet embrace as she slid down, burying her nose in the soft bubbles as the phone jittered again. And then again. Then the home phone jangled in the hallway.

“I’m not answering you, damn it!” she called out, studying the chipped polish on her left toenail as she took a sip of her vodka tonic.

Vodka tonic—one of the many good things her late husband Skeeter Theriot had taught her to love. Every night before they’d gone out to art exhibits or political fund-raisers, they’d indulged in the drink and conversation about what they should say, who they should pander to and why they needed to keep the goal in mind.

Ha.

An illusion built like a house of cards.

But the past didn’t bear dwelling upon, did it? All that hurt and bitterness was supposed to be locked up, chained with determination and dumped in the nearest pit of forgotten dreams.

Eleanor closed her eyes and focused on the good things she had in her life—a store, a healthy daughter, another year before she turned forty. And Nutella. A whole new jar in the pantry.

She’d just grabbed the handmade green-tea soap and a soft cloth when the doorbell rang.

“Really?” she said to the ceiling, blowing an errant bubble off her shoulder. “All I want is a bath. And a drink. And some blasted peace!”

She stood, grabbed her plush terry-cloth robe and padded to the door, not bothering with the water streaming down her legs. She’d mop it up once she dealt with whatever person continued to lean on her doorbell. Eleanor stomped down the stairs, shouting, “Coming!”

When she peeked out the door peephole, her heart stopped.

A uniformed police officer stood beneath her gas lantern porch light, hat in hand. A cruiser was parked in her drive.

With a shaking hand, Eleanor set the crystal tumbler on the late-nineteenth-century telephone table next to the door. A cannonball landed in her stomach; her mouth suddenly became a desert. Last time a policeman had stood on her porch, she’d learned her husband had been murdered...by a mistress she hadn’t known existed.

Please, dear God, don’t let it be Blakely. Please.

Eleanor tugged the belt tighter and turned the lock, pulling the door open. Cold crept in, matching the fear in her heart. “Yes?”

“Eleanor Theriot?”

“Yes?”

“We’ve been trying to call you on your cell and home phone,” the officer said, his dark eyes shifting away from her disheveled appearance.

“Why? What’s happened?”

He read her fear. “No one’s hurt. Nothing like that—”

“What then?” Eleanor fussed with the collar of her robe and peered around the police officer as if he might be hiding something horrible behind his back.

“Someone vandalized your store. Some guy from one of the other businesses hit gave us your numbers, but you didn’t answer. I was in the area, so dispatch sent me over.”

Sweet relief stole over her. Blakely was safe. This was not about her daughter. But then realization hit her. Her store had been vandalized. What did that mean? Broken windows? Items stolen? Her heart skipped a beat. “I’ll head down there. Thanks.”

“Dispatch said other merchants are on-site, so you have time to, you know...” he stammered, nodding toward her. She looked down at where her robe gaped and jerked it closed.

“Thank you for coming by,” she said, as he backed down the front porch steps and turned toward the open door of his police car. She shut the door, twisted the lock and scrambled up the gleaming stairway.

Fifteen minutes later she pulled her Volvo to the curb in front of her store and hopped out, clad in an old sweatshirt of Skeeter’s and a pair of jeans. Her teeth chattered as she approached the glass glittering beneath the streetlights.

“Damn,” she breathed, surveying the damage. Whoever had vandalized the store had done a bang-up job. Like serious bang-up. How had no one seen him...or them?

“Got me, too,” said a voice over her shoulder. She turned to find Dez Batiste standing behind her. He wore a beat-up army surplus jacket and straight-legged jeans that fit him like sin. In the lamplight, his skin seemed darker, making him appear more dangerous, and it finally hit her who he resembled—that wrestler-turned-actor who’d done a movie in a tutu. She couldn’t recall his name, but she and Blakely had gone to the movie a few years back.

She peered across the street to the spidered glass in Dez’s window. “How did this happen? And why didn’t my store alarm go off?”

“Don’t know,” Dez said, his gray eyes probing the depths of her store. “You sure you set yours?”

“Always,” she said automatically, even as her thoughts tripped to the actual process of locking up. She always set the alarm before slipping out the back and slamming the dead bolt into place. But she’d been distracted by a last-minute customer who wanted a rush delivery...and by her failed attempt at stepping outside herself to flirt with a man she opposed enough to pen a letter to the city council, a man who now stood before her very much doing his part within the community she wanted to protect. She swallowed the guilt. “At least I usually do.”

Dez propped his fists on his hips, making his shoulders look even broader. The planes of his rugged face were exotic in the glow of the streetlight. “Wouldn’t have mattered. They think it was kids driving by and shooting pellet guns, so an alarm wouldn’t have changed the outcome. Mr. Hibbett has a street cam, so maybe the police can get the license plate off the tape or something.”

Maybe they would...or not. Didn’t really help the short-term situation. She needed lumber to cover the gaping holes and prevent the current open invitation to her stock. After Hurricane Katrina, and the looting that had followed, she was more cautious than probably necessary, which was why the whole not-setting-the-alarm thing didn’t make sense. She slid her phone from her back pocket and started dialing Pansy’s number. Her husband sometimes helped with big deliveries and lived close by. Eddie would have plywood ready for storms in his storage shed. He would let her use some until she could get the glass company to come out in the morning. “Better see if I can get some lumber to patch this up.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got plenty left from the remodel,” Dez said, jerking his head toward his bar across the street.

She hung up before the call could connect, and nodded. “I’d appreciate it. It would keep me from troubling Pansy and Eddie. And since we’re already up...”

Mr. Hibbett approached carrying a toolbox. “Sons of bitches busted my stained-glass rooster. If I get my hands on those little bastards, I’ll plant them in Cemetery No. 1.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hibbett, but Eddie can probably fix it. Let’s see how many whole pieces we can salvage and we’ll call him tomorrow,” she said, giving Mr. Hibbett a pat on the shoulder. The older man had been on Magazine Street for over twenty years, and ran one of the best pastry shops in the Crescent City. Butterfield’s, with its sunny decor, delicious cupcakes and strong coffee, was a local favorite, and the stained-glass rooster had been created by Eddie, who was a glass artist. Somehow the fearless visage of the fowl was welcoming.

Mr. Hibbett shook his head. “Maybe so. I’ll gather the pieces. Here’s my toolbox if you two want to get started on boarding up your windows. I still have to fetch the video loop for the detective.”

Dez took the old-fashioned toolbox from the man and set it by her door, which fortunately hadn’t been hit. “Let me grab some plywood and I’ll be back.”

“I’ll help you,” she said, stepping over the shattered glass and following his broad shoulders.

“I can probably get it myself if you want to stay here.”

“And do what?”

“Sweep up the glass?”

His suggestion had merit but for some reason she didn’t want to be alone. Which was stupid. The perpetrators were likely random kids, and there was little danger with a policeman standing yards away. Dez must have sensed her hesitation because he waved his hand. “Come on, then. I might need an extra set of hands after all.”

She followed him across the street, wincing when she saw that the vandals had knocked holes in his art deco door and the one large window that had earlier held the name of the place—Blue Rondo.

She stopped and stared at the ruined window. “That sucks.”

Dez looked at the destruction. “Yeah, but it can be fixed.”

He opened the front door and stepped back so she could pass. When he reached past her to flick on the light switch, she caught his scent—something woodsy and primal that suited him, and made her very aware of how masculine he was. Of how long it had been since she’d been close to a man she found attractive. Hunger stirred within her. She wanted to touch him, breathe him in.

Light flooded the room and she squeezed her eyes shut against the startling brightness.

“So here we have Satan’s lair,” he said, wryness shadowing his voice along with humor.

She opened her eyes, wondering how he could be jovial when what he’d been working on had been damaged. “Okay, I’ve never actually called it Satan’s lair.”

“Den of iniquity? Palace of prostitution?”

Eleanor snorted, shifting back a step because Dez’s presence overwhelmed her. “I never said any of those things, Dez. Besides, we don’t have time to wade into those waters right now. Maybe another time.”

His gaze flickered over her worn jeans and ragged sweatshirt. She didn’t flinch, but a silly voice that sounded a little like her mother’s whispered she should have taken a bit more time to fix herself up. At least a brush through her hair.

Shut up, voice. It was an emergency.

“Definitely,” he said, with not quite a purr in his voice. Okay. Nothing in his voice indicated he wanted to strip off her clothes, but her fragile ego needed to cling to something, right?

“So where’s the plywood?”

He jerked his thumb at the bar. “In the back. Stay here.”

With the grace of a jaguar...or maybe just a natural athleticism...Dez disappeared behind the bar, giving her time to look around the club.

Clean gray walls met tiles that glowed with metallic patina, making a unique pattern of charcoal and onyx. Several black tables were piled in a far corner, awaiting placement. Cool cobalt-and-gold-glass pendants hung from the ceiling, above where the tables would eventually sit. A covelike stage with plenty of room for a good-size band was on her left, with a grand piano created by the gods sitting front and center. She’d never thought to see a Fazioli in a club across from her shop, but then again, she’d never thought there’d be a jazz club in her sedate block of Magazine either.

“A Fazioli?” she asked Dez when he returned lugging several sheets of plywood and then sliding them onto a piece of cardboard.

He glanced at the piano, and in his gaze, she saw incredible pride. “Yeah, that’s my baby.”

The piano didn’t look like a regular piano, but she’d known exactly what it was, having seen it in a magazine once. The design was called M. Liminal, and it had a futuristic appearance that seemed at odds with the art deco...yet oddly right.

“I hope you have a crazy-good alarm system.”

He slid the boards closer to her. “Who do you think called the police? I was playing a gig on Frenchmen when I got the call from the alarm company.”

“Thanks for being Johnny-on-the-spot,” she said, walking toward the piano. “This piano’s beautiful in a weird way.”

Dez leaned the plywood against a support column and joined her next to the stage. “It was a gift.”

Eleanor ran a hand over the shiny silver top. “Some gift.”

His gaze shuttered as he stepped onto the platform. “Yeah.”

He lifted the lid and ran his fingers over the keys, his hands masterful, playing a light run of exceptional beauty. How ironic to see such exquisiteness in the chaos of destruction.

Something shivery skipped up her spine, and the moment felt prophetic, as if there was always the possibility of beauty in the midst of ruin, a truth held tightly in a city crumbling away.

The click of the lid jarred Eleanor from her musings, from her appreciation of the man before her.

“We better get back. It’s late,” he said, his voice sounding faraway, as if he, too, felt something in the moment.

She glanced at the Timex on her wrist. 11:56 p.m. “Morning’s one blink away.”

Looking up she caught his gaze and her stomach trembled at the raw desire she saw in his eyes. This time she didn’t have to imagine the invitation. The moment crackled with electricity, making her lean toward him rather than take the steps toward the door. For a moment, she wanted something she shouldn’t with a man who was so far away from her normal kind of guy he was completely off the charts.

His gaze slid to her lips.

Instinctively, she caught her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Y’all coming?” The voice at the door grumped. Cranky Mr. Hibbett.

Eleanor blinked the intense moment away. “Uh, sorry. I’d never seen a Fazioli before.” She pointed to the piano as the older man, whose fuzzy eyebrows knitted together, waved a hand at her and headed toward the leaning plywood.

“Bah. Stare at pianos later. We’ve got work to do.”

Dez leaped off the stage and grabbed the opposite end of the boards, helping Mr. Hibbett maneuver them out the club door.

Eleanor stood there like a fool, watching.

What was wrong with her?

She scratched her head, jerked the ugly scrunchy from the ponytail and scraped a hand through her hair, wishing she didn’t feel so inept, so awkward, so...old.

Dez Batiste was too young for her. Too hip. Too cool. If she wanted to get back into the dating pool, it would be better to don a conservative tankini and slowly descend the steps into the water. Not bling it out in a string bikini and do a swan dive off the high dive into deep waters.

’Cause that’s what Dez Batiste was.

Deep waters in a string bikini.

She needed a nice sedate man who sipped Scotch and talked about the stock market. With gray around his temples and an enviable golf handicap. A guy who wore Dockers and Ralph Lauren. Her type of guy.

Right?

Right.

So Dez could haunt her fantasies, but he wouldn’t be part of her reality. Because he was a young, hot musician and she was a middle-aged mom and antiques dealer.

God. How boring was that?

Sounded as if she’d given up.

Dez popped his head back inside. “You coming?”

She wished.

“Oh. Sorry. Flashback of Katrina,” she said, hurrying toward the door.

Actually, she hadn’t been thinking about Hurricane Katrina, and the way her store had once stood with gaping black windows, the debris from the looting scattered around the sidewalk. She hadn’t been thinking of the empty display case holding the moniker for her store, but Dez didn’t have to know her little moment wasn’t about the past. And he damned sure didn’t need to know she wanted to rip off his clothes and have her wicked way with him.

“I understand,” he said with a reassuring nod. “Not easy to be reminded of a time when we all felt helpless, but we’re not helpless any longer. Let’s get the windows covered, give the police a report and then move forward. Everything here can be restored easily.”

“Right.”

As she passed him, he reached out and patted her shoulder. As though she was his maiden aunt.

Exactly.

She’d totally imagined the thing they had had a few minutes ago. One-sided desire felt by a woman who’d been sidelined too long.

“You okay?” he asked, his eyes kind, searching hers.

“Yeah, I know this vandalism is easily fixed, but—”

“Can we get on with this without all that touchy-feely crap? I want to see the back of my eyelids in the next century,” Mr. Hibbett complained.

Eleanor retwisted her hair into a ponytail. “Lead the way.”

After spending the next forty-five minutes boarding up the broken windows, signing the police reports and sweeping up, Eleanor turned to where Dez stood across the street, depositing the last of the glass fragments into the curbside garbage can.

She walked across and studied the wood covering his window. “Thank you.”

Dez dusted his hands. “Of course.”

“I’m opposed to a nightclub in this particular vicinity, but beyond that, you were a good neighbor tonight.”

His gray eyes swept over her once again. This time she didn’t worry about the way her hair fell out of the pony and the fact her crow’s-feet were probably deepened in the shadows. Because he wasn’t attracted to her. And he wasn’t an option.

“I’m still determined to change your mind. My club will help the neighborhood. All it takes is seeing things in a new light. Maybe one of my patrons will see a table in your window and come back the next day, or pop back by Butterfield’s for morning coffee, or remember she needs party invitations from that kinda strange dude. You have to try things from a new angle. Step outside your expectations.”

His words echoed those of Pansy, who constantly nagged her to expand her mind and see possibility. But Eleanor wasn’t good at breaking out of the safe cubby she’d created for herself these past years. She knew she needed to take chances like she knew she needed to clean out her front closet...but some things were easier when ignored.

“Maybe so, but I still have doubts. We’ve worked hard to make these couple of blocks of Magazine reputable and safe.” She peered around at the scene that made her words false. “Or as safe as it can be.”

“Right,” he said, surveying the freshly boarded windows, giving her a nice vista of hard jaw and broad shoulder.

“This could have happened anywhere, but feel free to convince me otherwise.” She almost groaned at the suggestion he must convince her. Sounded as though she’d issued a challenge. Like she wanted to spend more time with him.

You’re overanalyzing. He’s not into you, Eleanor, baby, so forget about the imaginary vibes. Stick to your guns on the opposition to the club and finding Mr. Fortysomething with silver temples and a pet wiener dog.

“Well, I’ve got a bath to finish and some z’s to catch. Good night,” she said, walking backward.

Dez’s gaze sparked. “I’ll take that image with me.”

Good God. He had a dimple in his right cheek—a small one that begged to be kissed. Her body thrummed at the thought of placing her lips in the slight indention...and on other parts of him. Eleanor stopped in the middle of the street. “Flirting will get you nowhere.”

Or maybe it would get him a free ticket into her bed.

“You seem like the kind of woman who needs a little flirting in her life.”

“Me?” she asked.

“Oh, definitely.”

Undeniable purr. No mistaking his intent. Dez had tossed out a sexual overture, and suddenly she climbed on a roller coaster, embracing that pent-up expectation as the car ticked up the incline, knowing the plunge would soon take her belly away.

“Well, then, I—” Eleanor didn’t really know what to say. She hadn’t flirted since Bill Clinton’s administration. Maybe she needed to buy Flirting for Dummies. “See you later.”

And then she hurried back to her car like some buttoned-up virgin who’d just caught the eye of the football captain. Pathetic. Screw Flirting for Dummies. She needed a copy of Cosmopolitan, stat.

Beneath the feeling of being sort of lame was the celebration she wasn’t a withered, used-up old hag just yet. The hot guy liked her. The hot guy thought she needed some flirting...and maybe more. So, yeah, there might be hope for Eleanor Theriot.

CHAPTER THREE

DEZ SLID ONTO a worn stool and held up a finger. “Scotch and soda.”

Bigmouth Sam waddled toward where Dez sat at the end of the bar. Sam wagged his head like an old hound dog. “That’s heartache medicine. You got a sweet thang I ain’t know about?”

Dez tapped the bar. “Nah, just need something to make me forget about the money falling out of my pocket.”

Bigmouth Sam swiped the bar with a damp cloth and leveled bloodshot eyes at him. “Hate to say—”

“I told you so,” Dez finished for his friend. Bigmouth Sam had run the Bigmouth Blues Bar on Frenchmen Street for over forty years. The bar was an institution, frequented by musicians and tourists alike, revered for its strong drinks, smoked oysters and sassy-mouth waitresses wearing short skirts and tight T-shirts that read Open Wide. And that was the icing for the serious cake of music that was served nightly. The older man had talked a rare blue streak trying to stop Dez from opening a club. He’d said it would suck out his soul and take his money with it.

Maybe Big Sam was right.

But Dez was as stubborn as he was talented and couldn’t be convinced. He knew this about himself and accepted it. Besides, he wasn’t all the way alone in the venture—Reggie Carney, a Pro Bowl lineman for the Saints, was his silent partner. Somehow, having a partner, one with some clout, comforted. “Guess I’m a slave to my mistress. I don’t want a different gig at a different place every night.”

Johnny Durant elbowed his way between Dez and a pretty-decent-looking coed and called to Sam, “Give me a Heiney and put Dez’s drink on my tab. The tips are hot tonight, my man.”

Dez held up his glass, clinking it against the icy bottle Sam handed Johnny. “Get it while it’s good, bro.”

“Damn straight,” Johnny said, downing several gulps. Perspiration glistened on the man’s brow. Most drummers who played like Johnny D would be drenched by now, but Johnny was a cool cat, sliding out easy tempos, his voice verging on a croon, his songs tight with a traditional bass line. “You got any new stuff yet?”

Dez’s gut twisted. Everybody wanted new stuff from him. Didn’t matter where he played, who he ran into, what he delivered behind the piano, everyone wanted something new. Something different. Something revolutionary.

But Dez had run out of new long ago.

Everything started with the storm. After years of collaboration on other people’s albums, Dez had written some good solo stuff. His turn in the spotlight had been washed away by Hurricane Katrina. He’d been in the studio cutting the demo two weeks before the storm hit. And then everything, the only recording that had tasted like magic, that had the whole music scene in New Orleans buzzing, had been destroyed. The entire studio had been under five feet of water. No demo. No debut.

His grief had lasted for almost a year, and every time he tried to write music, he failed. He couldn’t feel it anymore. What had once flowed in him like life’s blood had vanished.

Old standards weren’t a problem. Those melodies weren’t his. He hadn’t poured his soul into those runs, into those words, so he’d gotten a gig playing at a hotel bar in Houston, subbing in for other bands when he could get the work. The few visits home he’d made to fulfill his obligations with a youth music program called Second Line Players or to back up Trombone Sonny at a festival or two, only filled him with a weight he couldn’t explain or drink away.

And then he’d met Erin Garcia.

And shut himself off from his dreams, jumping into a life he’d never imagined—a life of grilling burgers, going to movies and making love on Sunday mornings. He’d gone to work overseeing her father’s upscale restaurants, paying a mortgage on a house they’d bought together, taking the dog for a walk every night, scooping up poop and convincing himself he could walk a new path and forge a regular-Joe life.

But even that couldn’t make him whole again. Eventually, he’d realized he couldn’t take his city out of his bones nor could he pretend to be someone he wasn’t. Maybe he had more of his rambling daddy in him than he thought...at least when it came to settling down with one woman. Or maybe he’d hidden long enough from who he was...a songwriter and musician.

“Come play with me, man,” Johnny D said, jarring Dez from his thoughts. Johnny jerked his head in the direction of the old upright standing in the corner awaiting a loose-limbed rollicking New Orleans rag.

“Nah, man, I ain’t in the mood,” Dez said, downing the rest of the Scotch, willing the fiery liquid to wash away the memories, as well as the image of the shattered glass outside Blue Rondo.

“Horseshit. You’re always in the mood. Let’s go,” Johnny said, slapping his shoulder and disappearing into the crowd, heading for the stage.

Bigmouth Sam jerked his head. “This crowd wants a beat, but do ‘Take Five’ for last call.”

Dez slid off the stool. “I want to find my bed, man.”

Bigmouth Sam grinned. “Yeah, but you’s a Batiste, and music’s in that blood. You ain’t turnin’ down hittin’ that piano any more than I’d turn down hittin’ Beyoncé if she’s standin’ here wantin’ it.”

Dez snorted, grabbed an almost-empty bottle of Crown and turned. “Beyoncé’s married and so are you.”

“You think thatta matter to me? Hell, naw. And I charge for that drink.”

“It’s my fee for playing,” Dez called over his shoulder, slugging back a few gulps of the Crown as he made his way to the piano. Several ladies eyed either him or the bottle of booze appreciatively. Maybe he’d take one of them home...or maybe he’d just go back to his place uptown and enjoy the peace of his bed and the cool satin sheets he’d bought a few weeks ago.

Johnny had started without him, backed up on guitar by Jose Mercury, who played enthusiastically if not technically sound. Denny Jay handled the bass and Carl Van Petzel took a break from the piano at a nearby table. He held his drink up with a grin as Dez passed him, sat down at the bench and joined in on “Where Y’at?” settling into the groove, letting the music flow through him. It wasn’t like before, but he allowed the chords to wash over him, heal him, soothe those pains he’d never faced with the sweetest of balms—music.

It was the only way to feel again.

Maybe the only way he’d ever get back to his own music. Ever since the waters had come and tried to wash New Orleans away, Dez hadn’t been able to find what had made him who he was—the man who could create, tying beats and chords together with reckless abandon that somehow worked to create a distinctive sound of funk, jazz and blues with a thread of Bounce.

The fact of the matter was Dez Batiste could play the piano, but he’d lost his mojo.

* * *

ELEANOR SET THE PHONE on the desk as Blakely outlined all the reasons she needed a new Valentino bag, and picked up the freight slips on the new shipments from England. Two tables had been damaged beyond repair and she’d need to file a damage claim with the shipping company.

“Mom? Hello?”

Eleanor picked up the phone. “Yeah?”

“Were you even listening?”

“No. Because I’m not buying you a new purse. Too much money and you’re lucky you have the Louis Vuitton. Your grandmother’s a generous woman, and I do not want you asking her for this money. It’s not a necessity.”

Silence sat like a bullfrog on the line.

“Blakely?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you listening to me?”

“No. Because you aren’t telling me what I want to hear. I know it’s selfish, but I really love it—it’s shiny pink with the cutest bow.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes. “And you’re a Phi Mu. Everything must be pink.”

“Of course,” Blakely said with a smile in her voice, something that gave Eleanor a dollop of joy. She missed teasing Blakely. She missed a lot about having her daughter home...at least the daughter she used to know. This one seemed so distant, so not like the Blakely she’d raised to be smart, selfless and independent. “But Grandmother would—”

“Honey, Margaret and Porter already pay half your tuition.” And, Lord, didn’t Margaret love to remind Eleanor. Didn’t matter the Theriots had paid the full bill on their other grandchildren, Margaret liked to remind Eleanor of the power they still possessed over her life in the form of their granddaughter, the last vestige of their precious angel of a son Skeeter.

“Fine,” Blakely said, her voice showing not total acceptance, but at least acknowledging the truth in Eleanor’s words. Blakely had turned nineteen several months ago, and had suddenly fallen victim to the spoiled New Orleans debutante her grandmother pushed her to be. Eleanor had done her best to ground her daughter, but it was hard for Blakely to resist the lavish gifts, the fancy school and the convertible BMW sent her way. The Theriots had money, position and shitty self-control when it came to their grandchildren.

“So, how’d you do on your last psychology test?”

“Okay,” Blakely hedged and Eleanor could almost see the panic in her daughter’s eyes. Blakely had always been a B student in high school and wasn’t a serious academic. “Hey, Mary Claire just texted me. We have to set up for the Kappa Alpha mixer, so can I call you later?”

“Sure. Have fun. I love you.”

“You, too,” Blakely said, hanging up.

Eleanor sighed and tossed the new invoices down onto the desk as Tre passed by.

“Hey, Tre?”

The boy stopped and shifted backward to look into her office. “Ma’am?”

“How was the game?”

His normally guarded expression softened as it always did when he talked about his younger brother. “He did good. Only seven goals, but he had a lot of assists. Word’s out about him and they double-teamin’ him.”

“That’s great.” She really liked Tre’s ten-year-old brother, Devontay “Shorty D” Jackson, who possessed more swagger than any hip-hop star and wore sunglasses à la Usher. Brash, funny and hiding a sweet heart behind his bravado, Shorty D was a favorite at the Queen’s Box. “Bring him by for doughnuts tomorrow after school.”

“Yeah. I’ll do that,” Tre said, glancing about as if he were in a prison warden’s office. Always guarded to the point of looking hunted, Tre was the opposite of his younger brother. Tre graduated from St. Augustine, a traditionally African-American boys’ school, over a year ago and was saving up for classes at Delgado Community College in the fall. So far, he’d been a good worker—respectful, industrious and trustworthy—but Eleanor still didn’t know him well because he rarely talked about himself.

“No deliveries this afternoon, but Pansy wants to rearrange the back room with the brass bed and steamer trunks, so if you’d give her a hand...”

“Sure.”

The phone rang and Tre backed out of the office, heading up front to where Pansy conversed with a customer who wanted a Tiffany-style lamp with a peacock shade. Eleanor answered the phone, hoping it was the guy from the glass company. “The Queen’s Box.”

“Well, about time you answered my call. You’d think you’d have more respect for your husband’s family.”

“Margaret,” Eleanor said, closing her eyes and banging a fist softly on her desk. Why hadn’t she checked caller ID?

“Yes. Your mother-in-law. Or have you already forgotten so quickly?”

“How could I?” Eleanor purposefully made her tone light...for her daughter’s sake. Blakely never saw past her grandmother’s veneer to the controlling nutcase beneath the cashmere sweater sets. Years ago, after a heated discussion with the Theriots, ending with Blakely in tears, Eleanor had promised to tolerate Margaret’s meddling, if only to keep the peace. “My shop was vandalized last night, and I’ve been quite literally picking up the pieces.”

“When will you let that store go? It’s been nothing but trouble—a complete money pit—and Skeeter left you more than comfortable. Why don’t you spend your time more wisely, working with the family charities and taking care of your daughter?”

Eleanor gritted her teeth and begged her temper to take a hike.

“What’s that noise?” Margaret asked.

“What? Oh, nothing. We’ve been over this before, Margaret. The Queen’s Box belongs to me. The insurance money and Skeeter’s trust have been set aside for Blakely when she’s of age. I can earn my own living.”

Barely.

“Stubborn mule,” Margaret quipped.

“Meddlesome cow,” Eleanor returned, slapping a hand over her mouth.

“What did you say?” Margaret squeaked.

“Oh, I didn’t mean you, Margaret. Sorry. I was talking to Pansy about an item someone wants to buy,” Eleanor said loudly, hoping like hell Pansy would hear and save her.

Like an angel, Pansy appeared in the doorway, holding up a finger to whoever stood at the counter.

“I found the cow creamer set! Sorry to bother you,” Pansy yelled.

“That’s okay. You didn’t know I was on the phone with my mother-in-law,” Eleanor said, pointing to the phone before slapping her hand once again over her mouth, this time to prevent laughter. Pansy grinned before ducking out. Sometimes it was a blessing that Pansy was nosy.

“You talk very loudly, don’t you?” Margaret said with ice in her voice. Eleanor wasn’t sure the older woman had bought her white lie.

But did it matter? Blakely was no longer living at home, and thus, the uneasy peace she’d kept between herself and her former in-laws seemed not as important. The Theriots made her unhappy, and she was tired of allowing their machinations to affect her outlook. Margaret knew how to suck the joy out of the happiest of occasions. “I wanted to discuss Blakely’s upcoming debutante season. I’m taking her to New York over spring break to shop for her wardrobe. I’ve already purchased airfare and secured a room at the Seasons.”

Eleanor closed her eyes and counted to ten. Margaret knew very well Eleanor was taking Blakely and a few of her friends to the beach over spring break. She’d told the woman last weekend when she’d dropped by to help plan a bridal brunch honoring one of the Theriot cousins. Margaret’s presumptuousness was another attempt to gain control of Blakely’s life.

“If you remember, Blakely and I already have plans. The cottage in Seaside I booked for a long weekend? I can’t—”

“You’ll have to cancel, of course. The parties will begin in the summer, and since I’m chairing the benefit for St. Jude’s this year and Justine’s getting married, I won’t have another chance to get away. We must have Blakely looking her best. She’s—”

“My daughter,” Eleanor finished, steel creeping into her voice. Eleanor knew very well Blakely was a Theriot and didn’t begrudge her grandparents that disclaimer, but Blakely was also a Hastings. Eleanor’s family was intelligent, hardworking and didn’t suffer put-on airs. Eleanor would be damned if she let Margaret turn Blakely into a soulless, snobby bitch. “I don’t mind you spending time with your granddaughter, but I’m standing firm on this. Ask Blakely about the last half of the break. Perhaps you can work something out.”

For a moment there was nothing but cold silence on the line.

“I should have called Blakely in the first place,” Margaret finally said with a sniff.

“No, you were right to call me.”

“But she’s old enough to make her own decisions, isn’t she?” Eleanor knew there would be trouble. And probably a new Valentino handbag on Blakely’s arm as part of the bribery.

“Maybe so, but we have to keep what is best for Blakely in mind.”

Margaret sniffed. “I always keep what’s best for Blakely in mind, Eleanor. It takes a village.”

What should have sounded reasonable sounded snide. Margaret liked to be thought a strong Christian woman, a philanthropist, a most judicious person, but beneath her well-moisturized skin was a despot, tripping on her own power and determined to organize the world according to her wishes. Eleanor had learned long ago Margaret got what she wanted.

“I have to go now, Margaret. Pansy has her hands full.”

“Really? I heard you had little business these days. The antiques market isn’t what it used to be,” Margaret said, feigning camaraderie but driving her barbs in all the same. “I’ll give Blakely a call. Bye.”

Eleanor didn’t bother saying goodbye. Just clicked the button to disconnect.

“How’s the devil incarnate?” Pansy asked from the doorway.

“Still alive,” Eleanor said, grabbing her keys. She needed a drink and then maybe a walk down the back of the Target store to shop off the bargain end caps. Retail therapy and booze cured anything. “Can you close for me today? After last night and dealing with family, I need a—”

“Afternoon in bed with a hot guy?” her friend teased.

The image of Dez Batiste popped into Eleanor’s mind. Good gravy, she was deranged to think about the hunky pianist.

But was deranged such a bad thing anymore?

Last night while lying in bed, she had mulled over Dez’s words about seeing life from a new angle, and had decided that she would burst out of her safe box built of tasteful linens and blouses that covered her from throat to waist. Of course midnight decrees looked different in the light of day.

“So order him up,” Eleanor cracked with a smile. “Until then, I’ll console myself with vodka and extra olives.”

* * *

DEZ HAD SPENT the entire morning and half the afternoon working on the tile in the bathrooms, stopping only because he’d run out of black tile. Which was just as well since his stomach growled with the intensity of a wolverine.

Dropping the boxes of alabaster tiles he’d need to return on the bar, Dez brushed off his shirt and searched for his cell phone. Across the street a flash of color caught his eye so he moved toward the newly installed thick-paned glass. Never before had he looked for movement across the street.

But then again never before had he known a beautiful woman that ran an antiques store across from him.

Eleanor Theriot had been on his mind for the past twenty-four hours, and he couldn’t figure out why.

Sure, she was beautiful.

But not his usual type.

In fact, she was about as far from his usual type as possible. His type wore hoodies, motorcycle boots and big earrings. He liked dark, overblown beauties who drank straight from the beer bottle, wanting a good time and little else. Erin had been the grown-up version of this party girl—spoiled, sexy and three years younger than he. She’d been his match, or so he’d thought, until things crumbled beyond repair. He was man enough to shoulder the blame for the demise of their relationship because he never should have tried to hide from himself.

Opening the door, Dez found the flash of color was indeed Eleanor, clad in black pants, a bright green cardigan and high-heeled boots. “Eleanor.”

She turned, her purse over her shoulder, keys in hand.

“Wait up.” He didn’t know why he’d opened the door and called out. Couldn’t think of a good reason to stop her from wherever she was heading other than he wanted to see her...maybe touch her. He definitely wanted to taste her.

Turning, he spied his phone, grabbed it and locked the door before jogging across the street. “Where you headed?”

“For a double martini.”

“That bad of a day?”

“It’s always a bad day when I have to deal with my former mother-in-law.”

“If you’re drinking, I’ll join you,” he said.

She paused as if thinking about it. “Not sure I should be seen consorting with the enemy.”

“Is that what I am?”

She shrugged. “Well, I am the president of the Magazine Merchants Association, and there has been opposition to the nightclub.”

“But the association can’t stop me from opening.”

“True, but we don’t have to like it.”

Did that mean they would cause trouble? He couldn’t see Eleanor clasping a torch and leading villagers armed with pitchforks to the club door. “No, you don’t.”

“Ah, well. I’m heading to the Bulldog.”

“Should I be the designated driver?” He held up his keys.

She shook her head, looking a little trapped. Maybe he shouldn’t press her, but something in him wanted to spend more time with her, wanted to figure out why the attraction was so strong.

Dez put his hand on the passenger door. “It’s smart to know your enemy better, right? So let’s see, I already know you’re divorced and civic-minded.”

She clicked her key fob and the Volvo SUV chirped to life. “Civic-minded? Yes. Divorced? No.”

“Wait, you’re still married?” His hand fell from the door handle.

“No.” She gestured he should climb into the passenger’s seat, waving at the strange dude who owned the stationery shop. “See, I’m already busted.”

He hesitated to open the car door because he drew the line at messing around with married women. Once he’d slept with a barfly he hadn’t known was engaged and it had left a bitter taste in his mouth.

She gazed across the top of the car at him. “You do know I’m widowed?”

“Was I supposed to?”

Pressing her lips together, she shook her head. “My husband was Skeeter Theriot.”

“Skeeter? You don’t look like a Skeeter’s wife.”

“He was a New Orleans Theriot. Actually he was running for the U.S. House of Representatives when his mistress killed him and then herself. You didn’t see it in the papers...for, like, weeks on end?”

For a moment he could only stand and stare. How did one respond to an admission like that? “I don’t pay attention to politics much. Sorry.”

She stood still as a puddle, her face unreadable. “I am, too.”

Then she opened the door and slid inside. Dez stared at the streetlight festooned with a Mardi Gras mask, grappling with that tidbit of information. Eleanor had been married to a man who had cheated on her and then been killed by his mistress. Heavy shit.

So did she still love her husband? Was she grieving? Or maybe mad as hell at the bastard? He couldn’t read her enough to guess.

Leaning over, she peered up at him from inside the car. “Are you coming or not...? ’Cause I really do need a drink.”

He climbed in. “Think I need one, too.”

Pulling away from the curb, Eleanor performed a perfect U-turn and drove down Magazine toward the Business District. Silence reigned as she kept her eyes straight ahead and chewed on her bottom lip. Finally, she pulled into a vacant spot in front of the Bulldog Bar and Grill.

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” she said with a heavy sigh. “This is weird.”

She sat, hands dangling on the steering wheel, lips glistening from the constant attention she’d given them as they drove. Again, it struck him how soft she looked, like a Monet painting, slightly out of focus but begging for contemplation. Pink lips, delicate throat, velvet skin. She made him want to breathe her in, explore the feminine curve of her neck. Relish her essence. “I thought we were going to have a drink. Get to know each other better.”

“Yeah, but why? So you can change my mind?”

“Actually I hadn’t had lunch and I figured any bar in New Orleans worth its salt has a burger on the menu.”

She shook her head. “Don’t play games. I’m too old for you. Too—”

“Too old for me? What? You’re thirty-three, thirty-four tops?”

The groove between her eyes deepened. “No, I’m thirty-nine.”

“Really? Don’t look it.”

“Yeah, really.” Eleanor seemed put out. “This is stupid.”

Dez tried not to laugh. He really did. But she looked so adorable, so flummoxed at the thought of admitting her age.

“What are you laughing at? This is serious. I’m too old for you, and you’re too...too—” she waved a hand at him “—sculpted and hip.”

“Sculpted and hip?” He leaned his head against the seat, a deep belly laugh welling up within. “That’s the strangest word combination ever.”

“Stop,” she said, punching him on the arm. “You know what I mean. We’re from two different worlds. This is a Volvo.”

Dez couldn’t stop laughing. Her reasons were so funny. He was sculpted and she drove a Volvo?

“Dez,” she said, her eyes plaintive.

He stopped, pressing his lips closed. “Huh?”

“Why are you laughing?”

“Because you’re funny...and beautiful...and I really want to kiss you.”

Eleanor’s eyes widened. “You do?”

He clasped the back of her neck, drawing her to him. Her hair was silk, her neck small. She came to him willingly, breathing notched up. With his right hand, he brushed an errant strand of hair from where it stuck to her lip gloss. Wild horses couldn’t drag him from kissing Eleanor.

With his lips hovering close to hers, he stared her straight in the eye. “I wanna kiss you ’cause I totally dig old ladies.”

Her mouth fell open just as he intended and he took full advantage.

“Mmm,” she said, struggling for only a moment before succumbing. Desire, hot and heavy, raised its head in his belly. She tasted like spring rain, healing and fresh. Cupping her jaw, he drank from her, thrilling when her tongue met his. Pulling her closer, he embraced the essence of Eleanor...and wanted more.

She broke the kiss, pulling back, her breath quick and her eyes clouded with passion.

“I’m not an old lady,” she breathed, her eyes crackling. “And if this is some crazy ‘needing a mother’ thing, climb out, buddy.”

“You think I’d kiss my mother like that?”

“God, I hope not,” she said, swallowing hard and looking out the window, avoiding his gaze. She pressed a hand to her chest and sucked in a deep breath. “I can’t believe I did that.”

“You didn’t. I kissed you.”

Her eyes met his. “But—”

“I kissed you because you’re all I’ve been thinking about since last night, because you’re beautiful, desirable and sexy...even if you are a few years ahead of me. You think age matters that much?”

She searched his gaze. “It should.”

“Age is a number.”

She gave a wry chuckle. “Spoken like a man who brushes convention aside.”

“I brush aside what doesn’t make sense. You’re a woman. I’m a thirty-year-old man. Not a kid.”

“God, this is silly. Let’s go get that drink and slow this down a little.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m thirsty,” she said, tugging on the door handle. “By the way, I hope you have your fake ID.”

He opened his door. “What?”

Her teasing gaze met his over the top of the car roof and he caught a taste of a mischievous Eleanor. “I’m not contributing to the delinquency of a minor.”

“If you’re going to contribute to the delinquency of a minor, I’d rather it be for something more exciting than a tequila shot.”

“Yeah?” She arched one eyebrow.

“Oh, lady, you’re so in trouble.”

Eleanor shook her head. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

He gave her his best charming smile. “We’re just having a drink. Relax, okay?”

“Feels dangerous, Dez. Like we should stop this right now.”

“But where’s the fun in that?”

CHAPTER FOUR

TRE STARED AT CICI sprawled on the couch and shook his head. Passed out in the middle of the day, which meant she hadn’t gotten Shorty D up for school. More important, it meant she’d missed work again, and this time the manager of the Pet Pro wouldn’t give Cici the benefit of the doubt. Three strikes and you’re out. That’s how it worked in life. Everywhere.

He kicked the couch. “Get up, Cici. You missin’ work.”

She didn’t move.

“Cici,” he said, kicking harder. Twice. Three times.

“Mmmf...” she groaned, throwing an arm over her face. She still wore the clothes she’d gone out to the club in—a bright blue skintight shirt and a skirt that rode over her thin thighs. “Damn, Tre, I tryin’ to sleep.”

“You missed work. Kenzie’s been crying for an hour straight, and it’s my damn day off. I shouldn’t have to do your job for you.”

Cici smacked her lips and groaned, rolling over as if she could hide from his words. “I don’t give a shit. I’m sleepin’, bitch.”

“Bitch?” he said, anger curling in his gut. “That’s all you got to say to me? Callin’ me a bitch?”

Cici didn’t say nothing. Just nestled into the back of the couch, dismissing him. She was still drunk. Probably high, too. He beat down the fury inside because Kenzie needed to be dealt with. Along with his brother.

Tre grabbed the empty beer can tottering on the edge of the scarred coffee table and walked toward the bedroom where Cici slept, where her three-year-old daughter stood wailing at the threshold. “Come on, baby girl.”

He scooped up Kenzie, ignoring the snot pouring out of her nose, and strode into the kitchen. After tossing the beer can in the trash, he sat his cousin on the counter, shoving a dirty cereal bowl aside. Kenzie didn’t stop crying. He figured if his mama was a drunk ho and ignored him, he’d cry, too. “You hungry, baby girl?”

Kenzie immediately stopped crying. Sniffling, she rubbed her eyes. That meant she was.

Tre grabbed a paper towel, wiped Kenzie’s face and looked for a sippy cup in the nearly empty cupboard beside the sink. There were obviously none clean.

Shorty D came in holding a bag of chips and a game controller. “Ugh, she stinky.”

Tre hadn’t noticed, but, yeah, Kenzie needed a diaper change. Panic rose in his throat as he surveyed the sink full of dirty dishes, the stack of unpaid bills, the toddler sitting in her own crap, and his brother, who’d stayed home from school for obviously no good reason.

What the hell was he doing?

All those dreams he’d woven in his mind, wearing a nice business suit, with a sweet ride in the driveway of a condo in a nice Uptown neighborhood, were so ridiculous...so damn far away he couldn’t even taste them anymore. The money he’d squirreled away in an old Nike shoebox in his closet laughed at him—it wasn’t enough to buy the books he’d need for college much less pay for a semester of tuition.

And the only thing he’d taken pleasure in, his music, was gone. The saxophone rescued from his bed many years ago by the police had been sold last summer.

His life was shit.

“What you doin’ home?” Tre asked his brother, giving Kenzie a somewhat stale granola bar from a box sitting on the counter.

“I didn’t get waked up and missed the bus. Besides, I don’t feel good this morning,” Shorty D said, picking up a drinking glass sitting beside the sink and squinting at it to determine if it was clean.

“You look fine to me so go get dressed. You’re going to school.”

“No, I ain’t,” Shorty D said, not even looking at his older brother.

“Yeah. You are. You already missed three days this semester and I saw that progress report. You gonna get held back.”

“Nah, I ain’t.” Shorty D went to the fridge and grabbed a two-liter bottle and poured a glass of soda. “Ms. Barre don’t even take roll some days. We don’t do nothing in her class no way.”

Tre grabbed a package of diapers he’d picked up at the dollar store the day before and walked toward the bathroom, Kenzie in his arms. “You’re going, Shorty.”

Something set Kenzie off and she started screaming in his ear, drowning out the curses Shorty D popped off. Pieces of granola dropped onto his clean T-shirt as Tre realized he’d left her sippy cup on the counter.

“Yeah, yeah. I could use a drink, too,” he said, walking behind the couch and kicking it as hard as he could. “Get the hell up, Cici. I gotta take Shorty D to school since you didn’t do it, and your baby needs to be fed.”

Cici’s reply wasn’t fit for Kenzie’s ears, but that never stopped his aunt. Disappointment filled him. This wasn’t good for no one. His mother’s younger sister had fought against her addiction problems ever since she’d been Shorty D’s age. Tre’s own mother had led her sister into a life of drugs, booze and prostitution. Talia had kicked her habit before Shorty D had been born, but Cici never could pull that monkey off her back. Cici had Kenzie while in jail, and he and Big Mama had been taking care of the little girl, waiting for Cici to get clean and straighten the hell up, but it was a daily fight. And with Big Mama not in the house to pray over Cici, fuss at her and force her hand, Tre was just plain tired of fighting for his auntie.

He cleaned up Kenzie, combed her hair into two puffy ponytails and put her in a clean dress Big Mama had sewed. The dress was too small, but Kenzie liked the funny green frogs on it. He tied green ribbons in her hair with looping lopsided bows. After brushing her teeth and finding her shoes, he dragged Shorty D’s clear plastic backpack from under the coffee table. With sorrowful brown eyes, Kenzie watched her mother as she slept on the couch, its stuffing peeking out the arm.

Cici’s snores made him want to punch his aunt.

Lazy-assed bitch needed to go back to jail. He didn’t need nobody else to take care of.

“Maaa?” Kenzie asked, touching her mother’s face, making Tre’s heart hurt. He pulled the small girl back but not before Cici’s hand slapped the child’s hand away. Tears trembled on Kenzie’s lashes, and she stayed away as if she understood there was no hope left in the woman.

Tre jerked his thoughts away from the pain and sadness—two feelings he had no use for. A man can’t change the world around him...only himself. He had to keep moving, sheltering Kenzie and Shorty D because they were innocent. They shouldn’t have to pay for everyone else’s selfish choices. Yeah, life wasn’t fair, but he’d do his best to even it up for them.

Shorty D appeared in the doorway of the living room, wearing khaki pants that sagged too low to meet dress code and a wrinkled school-uniform shirt. Normally, Tre would make his brother change, but today he had to choose his battles.

“Let’s go,” Tre said, picking up Kenzie, settling her on his hip before pushing out the wooden door of the old house in Central City. He stepped off the porch, wishing he’d grabbed his shades because the sun wanted to battle him, too, but he didn’t turn around. The bus would stop at the end of their street in five minutes.

“Shorty D, today, son.”

“I ain’t your son.” Shorty D slammed the door as laughter bounced across the street. Tre turned his head to see Grady Jefferson and Kelvin “Crazy Eight” Parker leaning against Grady’s Charger, a new 2013 model with twenty-inch rims and a custom paint job.

“Damn, son. You runnin’ day care or what?” Crazy Eight called out, his laugh high and clownish. Tre didn’t like Crazy Eight much, but Grady was cool.

“Yo,” Tre said, giving them a nod as Kenzie turned her little head toward the two gangsters. “What up?”

Crazy Eight giggled again but Grady nodded. “A’ight. Later, bro.”

Tre nodded, ignoring the knot in his gut. Grady ran with the 3-N-G boys and he’d mentioned a couple times about some easy ways Tre could earn money. Tre had always resisted the thug life, but lately he wondered why he bothered. He told himself it was because he’d made his mama a promise to take care of Shorty D, but couldn’t he do that a lot better with a roll in his pocket?

He kept his chin high as he marched down the street, pretending like he wasn’t carrying a little girl who should have been potty-trained by now, followed by a ten-year-old who had remembered to grab his shades and who kept darting glances back at Grady like he was the man.

Tre couldn’t blame Shorty D.

Grady looked cool as shit.

Tre would want to be him, too...if that kind of life didn’t lead to prison or getting his ass shot by a rival gang.

“Hurry up, Shorty D. You already late.”

“Man, this is bullshit. I’m tired of school and livin’ like this.”

Tre didn’t say anything, because he couldn’t make things better for Shorty D at present. The kid had to go to school. Cici needed to beg for her job so they could pay the electric bill. And Tre had to figure out some way to get Big Mama strong again so she could take care of Kenzie. The woman who’d been minding his little cousin while Cici worked had just taken her own job. She’d told Tre he’d have to find someone else by next week.

No one to help him and he needed to make more money than what he did lugging furniture around town for little more than minimum wage.

He pulled out his bus pass and said a small prayer.

God, help me through another day. Help me be strong and be the man You want me to be. And, please, God, help me say no to Grady when he asks me to ride with him.

As he reached the bus stop at the corner of Carrollton, he caught the exhaust as the bus pulled away, heading toward the city and away from them.

Shorty D looked up at him with a smirk. “Now, that’s some bullshit.”

“Watch your language around this baby girl.”

Shorty’s eyes were an old man’s as he slid off his sunglasses. “Like she ain’t goin’ find out soon enough.”

Maybe God was tired of listening to Tre.

Maybe, despite his best intentions, life was some bullshit.

* * *

ELEANOR LOVED THURSDAYS because it was delivery day, and today she was getting a new carton from the Cotswolds.

However, the carton arrived late. There were only twenty minutes left before closing time, and the afternoon was dead. Maybe just a peek? She shoved the keyboard back and pulled her screwdriver and hammer from the bottom drawer.

“Hey, Pans,” she called out her open office door. “Want to open the crate and see what’s inside?”

She accidentally dropped the screwdriver and rooted under the desk for it. Grabbing it, she emerged to find Pansy staring at her thoughtfully.

“Creepy Gary said he saw you and the jazz pianist climbing into your car together the other day. Is there something you want to tell me?” Pansy asked, bending over Eleanor’s desk, dropping her pointed jaw on her folded hands and batting her eyes like a deranged debutante.

“No.”

Pansy narrowed her eyes. “No?”

“Why does everyone make a big deal about going for a drink?”

“Uh, because your girl parts haven’t been oiled in a decade, and you went for a drink with sex in a pair of tight jeans....”

Eleanor leaned back in her chair. “Oh, Jesus, Pans. It’s liquid and they pour it in a glass.”

“Is he circumcised?”

Eleanor stiffened, causing her office chair to shoot upright. “What?”

Pansy giggled, doing a little finger-pointing thing that accompanied a jaunty wiggle. “Come on. Spill the beans. What’s he got down there?”

“You’re seriously cracked.”

Pansy dropped into a wing chair with carved cherubs etched into the wood. The dressing chair had been damaged in Hurricane Katrina, but Eleanor couldn’t bear to part with it even if it were no longer worth kindling. “That’s why you keep me around.”

“Who told you that? Your dusting skills and witty repartee with the customers are the only things that keep you gainfully employed.”

“You call this gainful?”

“As gainful as it gets, chickadee.” Eleanor rose from her chair and tugged one of Pansy’s farm-girl braids. “Let’s go see what Charlie sent us this month.”

Pansy sighed, but struggled to her feet. “Right-o,” she said in a bad British accent. Charlie Weber was a buyer from England who scoured auction houses and estate sales for the perfect antiques for Eleanor’s store. The man had a notoriously good eye for spotting masterpieces beneath grime and paint, even if his stuffiness and fondness for responding with right-o drove Pansy bonkers whenever she talked to him on the phone.

“Just one crate today, but there should be an eighteenth-century cupboard inside along with some rare French books. Charlie said he wasn’t certain about the quality, but several were first editions. And there’s a painting he found in a widow’s attic that could be a—”

“You’re a pro at avoiding things, you know that?”

Eleanor moved some empty cardboard boxes aside and ignored her friend.

“So you’re not even going to tell me about Dez? About the drink? It shocked the hell out of me when Gary sidled over and spilled those delicious beans. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

Eleanor spun. “Why? Like I can’t do something...atypical? Besides, it was a drink.”

“With sizzling-hot Dez Batiste. So is he still the enemy?”

“Having a drink with him doesn’t change the opposition I have for the club he’s opening. I needed vodka and Dez wanted to convince me his club could be an asset to the community. That’s it. Practically a business meeting,” Eleanor said, not daring to meet Pansy’s gaze. The woman could have been Sherlock Holmes had she been male, British...and a fictional character. She didn’t want her friend to see how much her odd afternoon escape with Dez had affected her. Even now she couldn’t sort out what it had meant.

“So did he?”

Eleanor studied the nails in the crate. “Did he what?”

“Change your mind?”

“No.” But he’d made some good points.

“Oh,” Pansy said, holding out her hand.

“What?”

“The hammer and screwdriver. I’ll break the fingernail this time.”

Eleanor handed Pansy the tools. Pansy had better leverage with her height.

While her friend struggled with the crate, Eleanor allowed her mind to drift back to her strange afternoon at the Bulldog pub. Back to the way Dez looked gulping down the bitter German beer, his neck strong, masculine, nicked by the razor. The way his hands had cupped the mug, the flash of his teeth, the hum of electricity between them, unacknowledged but allowed to hang in the air. She’d wanted to touch him again, but didn’t.

It had all felt too dangerous.

Had there been three or four years between their ages, she might not have worried. She might have asked him to come to her house for supper. Or a drink. Or a roll in the bed she’d slept in alone for too long.

But she was eight years and nine months older than him.

Too much to bridge.

Even for mere sex.

Maybe it didn’t matter—just like Dez said—but she saw the difference in the way they approached life.

He ate a double cheeseburger with hickory bacon along with a side of fries and a hearty beer to wash it down. Dez wasn’t far removed from the buff frat boys her daughter chased, who didn’t know what statins were and had never thought about cholesterol intake.

And then the phraseology he used. Some of the words she wasn’t familiar with. He knew the music played in the bar. He caught the eye of college girls. He dressed like a twentysomething...even if he was nearly thirty-one.

As she sat there, discussing the weather, the Saints and the music scene with Dez, she felt more and more he wasn’t the man to take her first steps back into the dating jungle with.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.