A wave of awareness swept over Lennon, making her knees weak

She tried not to sigh, tried to maintain some semblance of control as Josh’s lips worked their way down her temple with tiny kisses. And she just might have managed it if Josh hadn’t chosen to lean back against the wall.

Lennon went with him, off balance, forced to press her hands against his chest and hang on. He braced her against him with his thigh wedged between hers, his hard muscles zeroing right in on the spot that made her ache.

A moan slipped unbidden from her lips and Josh caught the sound with his kiss. Delicious, dangerous excitement whipped through her. She was completely under his control…vulnerable, and she found the sensation both familiar and utterly irresistible.

Their breaths clashed, his ragged breathing as unchecked as hers, his mouth insistent, his kiss urgent. She scarcely had the strength to remain upright. Josh’s mouth trailed away.

“Ah, chère.” His voice was throaty and rough with passion. “You tempt me beyond my control. Either we stop now or I drag you into the nearest bedroom.”

Dear Reader,

My life usually involves family and friends jet-setting around the globe while I stay at home, waiting for postcards. But for once I actually got to make the trip—to New Orleans, a city I adore. My cousins Nick and Marguerite were wonderful hosts, touring me from the French Quarter to the bayou in a spanking new Corvette, which left me positively inspired to write a romance set in this awesome city.

Meet Lennon and Josh. Lennon’s a woman who knows what she wants—a husband, and not one of those romance-hero, make-her-crazy-with-lust kinds, either. She wants the stable, share-life’s-ups-and-downs variety. Josh is Mr. Wrong incarnate—a real-life romance hero who’s determined to convince Lennon he’s Mr. Right.

Blaze is the place to explore red-hot romance, a place where you’ll find spicy adventurous journeys to happily-ever-after. I hope Lennon and Josh’s story brings you to happily-ever-after, too. Let me know. Drop me a line in care of Harlequin Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9. Or visit my Web site at www.jeanielondon.com. And don’t forget to check out tryblaze.com!

Very truly yours,

Jeanie London

One-Night Man
Jeanie London

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To Susan Kearney, for everything.

And special thanks to Wanda Ottewell,

editor extraordinaire—wow!

I lucked out, big-time ;-)

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

1

“IF I HAVE TO LOOK at one more penis tonight,” Lennon McDarby whispered while lifting the glass panel from the display case, “I’m going to scream.”

This penis stood a good sixteen inches tall. The mammoth proportions would have made the sculpture crude had it not been crafted from marble with exquisite attention to detail.

And the piece was just one of many, because all the artwork in the Joshua Eastman Gallery had a connection to sex. This artist’s theme for The Promise, as the work was titled, was of the oral variety. The marble penis was half of a pair. Its partner—an equally detailed sculpture of a woman’s mouth—depicted lips opened wide enough to swallow sixteen inches.

Lennon sighed. The sound echoed in the empty gallery. She didn’t even have to glance at her watch to know midnight had come and gone. She’d become intimately acquainted with late nights these past few weeks while helping her great-aunt ready the collection for the opening. Lennon wouldn’t even think about how she’d blown off her own work, despite a looming deadline, to spend every waking hour in the National Trust Artists’ Museum.

But the collection finally neared completion, and Lennon cast a satisfied glance around the entrance hall. Along with The Promise and Great-uncle Joshua’s portrait—which presided over the room, welcoming guests to his memorial art gallery—a compelling array of artwork and artifacts represented each category of the collection. Select paintings, prints, drawings, photographs, sculptures and decorative artwork were displayed in and on various cases and shelves, introducing visitors to the scope and quality of the Eastman Gallery’s unique objets d’art.

Sex, sex and more sex.

With a tired smile, Lennon surveyed Solitaire, a 1792 watercolor of a nude young man stroking himself in a beautiful wash of transparent colors. Auntie Q had displayed the painting, declaring, “We want men to feel welcome, and this piece will prove they’ve been playing with themselves since long before Playboy hit the stands….”

On another wall hung a 1750 oil on canvas depicting a pastoral scene of a couple making love on a riverbank, a work that had been commissioned by Madame de Pompadour herself.

One of the more unusual items in the hall was a basin and ewer set, a gorgeous example of “Saint-Porchaire” ware, one of the rarest types of Renaissance ceramics. Ingeniously mounted on a low stand, the pieces had been fashioned into a makeshift bidet long before the bidet had come into vogue as a tool for personal hygiene. Lennon thought the set made an attractive addition to the entrance hall. Tasteful. Subtly erotic.

Since Auntie Q and Great-uncle Joshua—honorary great-uncle, as he and Auntie Q hadn’t been married—had devoted their lives to collecting these erotic pieces, the least Lennon could do was figure out how best to display them. Back to The Promise.

Repositioning the giant penis on the black velvet display base, she leaned back on her haunches to consider the effect. Still not right. She yawned widely, wondering if she would ever be content with the result.

“Playing with a penis shouldn’t put you to sleep, dear.” Auntie Q’s lilting voice broke the late-night quiet.

Rocking back on her heels, Lennon swung a weary gaze toward her great-aunt. Auntie Q—Quinevere McDarby to the rest of New Orleans’s society—stood silhouetted beneath the arched entrance, surveying the exhibition hall as grandly as a fairy queen.

And that’s exactly how Lennon thought of her. With her white hair and brilliant blue eyes, Auntie Q was petite, quintessentially feminine, and had been as exquisite in her youth as she was darling in her dotage.

“It’s so late nothing can keep me awake, Auntie.”

“The right man could.”

Too tired to argue, Lennon said, “You should be resting.”

“Why? I’ll have plenty of time to catch up on my sleep when I’m dead. Until then…” At Lennon’s stricken look, Auntie Q tutted reassuringly. “Shh, dear. I went online to check the weather report. If I didn’t, you would have, and I want you to finish your to-do list so the bachelors and I will have your undivided attention during the gallery opening.”

“I’m all yours this weekend.”

The cheeky old girl winked. “You should say that to a man sometime.”

Lennon only smiled, not up to another debate about her love life or lack thereof, and attempted to steer the subject toward the million and one things still left to do before the reception tonight. “What’s the forecast?”

“Cool Gulf breezes for the next two days, if I care to trust the weatherman. I don’t. I’ve arranged a contingency plan in case the weather doesn’t cooperate and we have to move the reception out of the sculpture garden.”

“Good idea, but I’ve got my fingers crossed the weather will be fine.”

She’d said a few prayers, too. Lennon wanted this weekend to come off without a hitch. The opening of the Joshua Eastman Gallery—the newest addition to New Orleans’s largest art museum—represented two years of Auntie Q’s hard work, a memorial to the man she’d loved for most of her life.

“Great-uncle Joshua would be touched that you’re opening the gallery to showcase his antiquities collection.” Sinking back onto the floor, Lennon glanced up at the portrait that hung above the display case.

Great-uncle Joshua peered down at her boldly from the canvas, a handsome man with deep green eyes and striking black hair. He’d sat for the portrait during the prime of his life, long before Lennon had been born, and she thought he looked like a real-life romance hero. As a romance writer, she was qualified to make that assessment.

Auntie Q followed her glance, her wizened expression softening as she gazed upon the man she’d loved in life. “He bequeathed me his collection specifically to keep me busy after he passed, otherwise he’d have opened this gallery himself. I’m sure he’s up there right now, throwing roadblocks in my way every time he doesn’t like one of my decisions.”

“Roadblocks?”

Auntie Q waved a thin hand impatiently, sapphires and rubies flashing when her rings caught a gleam of light from the after-hours lighting. “There’s simply no other explanation for why the painters painted the decorative arts exhibition hall the wrong colors. I mean, really, dear. Each and every paint can mislabeled? The project supervisor getting the flu just as the painters were about to start the project? And I’d have never been out of town if not for the opportunity to acquire that exquisite Italian Renaissance majolica dish that Joshua had been trying to purchase for a decade. All Joshua’s doing. He hated the bold colors I chose to offset the collectables.”

Frankly, Lennon thought the natural tones now gracing the walls of the exhibit better suited the collection of rock crystal vessels, ivory carvings and gilt and silver miscellany. But if Auntie Q believed Great-uncle Joshua sat up on a cloud critiquing her decorating choices, who was Lennon to argue?

“You made the right choice conceding to his wishes then,” she said. “The hall looks great.”

“It does indeed. All in all, I think he’s pleased.”

“And so are a lot of people in New Orleans. You’re giving the art world an invaluable contribution.”

“Not everyone is happy.” She held up an envelope, which Lennon, in her exhaustion, hadn’t noticed before.

“Oh, no. Not another one.”

“I’m afraid so, dear.”

Lennon didn’t need to open the envelope to discern the thoughts of the harsh critics who’d opposed the gallery’s opening. She and her great-aunt had already had a few unpleasant run-ins with protestors. “Well, I still don’t understand the trouble.”

“Every collection has detractors.” Auntie Q gave a shrug, though Lennon knew each negative comment struck her hard. “The point is to showcase Joshua’s collection. He wanted people to embrace our collective erotic art history. ‘Don’t need a royal family to enjoy the royal family jewels,’ he always said.”

That he had. As a young man, Great-uncle Joshua had earned his fortune importing and exporting antiquities; throughout his later years, he’d become a collector and philanthropist. As far back as Lennon could remember, memories of her great-aunt and -uncle had always involved exciting treasure hunts to track down artwork and collectibles from all over the world.

That their idea of treasure included all forms of erotic artwork throughout history was a detail Lennon had become acquainted with only in adulthood.

“Are you sure you’ve chosen the right work of art to display beneath Great-uncle Joshua’s portrait, Auntie?” Leaving the glass display case on the floor, she pushed herself to her feet and eyed The Promise skeptically.

Auntie Q glided into the room. Meeting her halfway, Lennon plucked the letter from her grasp, tucked her finely boned hand in her own and led her back toward the portrait.

“Georgia Devine is an up-and-coming young artist,” she said. “Joshua loved boosting new artists’ careers. That’s why I’m exhibiting this piece.” She walked the few steps to a wall display that featured an exquisite seashell-and-pearl necklace. “This is a Reina Price original. I just acquired it last year when she opened her own gallery.”

Lennon didn’t think there was any comparison between the huge sculpture beneath the portrait and the necklace designed to resemble a woman’s genitals in soft pastel shades.

“This is a gorgeous piece,” she said, moving closer for a better look at the fine detail. “I mean really gorgeous. I wouldn’t mind seeing this artist’s other work.”

“We’ll go together, dear. After the opening.”

Lennon nodded. “This piece would be perfect beneath the portrait. It’s beautiful, tasteful, not…well, crude.”

“Crude?” Auntie Q glanced back at the sculpture as though the thought hadn’t occurred to her. “That gorgeous white marble? Think of yin and yang. The Promise symbolizes the wholeness of the universe, the sun and the moon, the unity of man and woman. What’s crude about it?”

The sheer proportions, for one thing. The blatant suggestion of oral foreplay, for another. Not that Lennon would try explaining that to Auntie Q. A waste of breath. She didn’t have anything against oral sex per se, but seeing it so deliberately displayed, almost flaunting… “I prefer the subtler pieces, I suppose.”

“The sculpture makes you uncomfortable because you haven’t seen a penis in a while.” Before Lennon could comment, Auntie Q tugged her hand. “Come on, let’s find you a man.”

They walked the few steps to the foyer adjoining the entrance hall. A dozen easels flanked the arched entrance, displaying promotional photos of the bachelors to be auctioned off during the gallery opening.

Auntie Q studied the photos, a respectable assortment of candid gazes, carved jaws and arresting smiles. “Any thoughts on whom you’ll bid for?”

Oh, she’d had thoughts all right. Lennon took a deep breath and waited until her great-aunt had turned her assessing gaze back before admitting, “Actually, I’ve been giving the bidding a lot of thought. Not only will the auction raise funds for the collection, but it’s an opportunity to find Mr. Right.”

Auntie Q’s face suddenly became wreathed in smiles and excitement. “Mr. Right, Lennon? Really? Are you finally going to allow yourself to fall in love?”

Lennon nodded. “I’ll be thirty in May. I’ve finished college, traveled the Continent with Mother and established my writing career. It’s time to settle down.”

“Are you talking about marriage?”

“Yes.”

“Marriage would be delightful, but don’t you think you’re getting ahead of yourself? Shouldn’t you be in love with a man before deciding to marry him?”

“That’s where the auction comes in.” Taking a deep breath, Lennon chose her words carefully. “These are the most eligible bachelors around. They’re all reputable, self-made men, from the best families. Where better to find a husband?”

That laser-blue gaze narrowed. “And where does love fit in?”

Lennon faced her great-aunt squarely. “My definition of love differs from yours a bit, Auntie. To me, love doesn’t necessarily include what you always call ‘grand passion.’”

It definitely didn’t include grand passion.

“You’re a McDarby,” Auntie Q said. “Passion is our special gift. It’s what we live for. You’re just a late bloomer.”

“I’m not a late bloomer. I do passion. I’m a romance writer, for goodness sake.”

Auntie Q shook her head, as though shaking loose whatever might be obstructing her hearing, since she clearly didn’t think she’d heard Lennon right. “You do passion on a computer, not in real life. When was the last time you went on a date?”

Lennon dragged her memory for a recent date to prove her point. Wow, had it really been that long? Apparently so, judging by her great-aunt’s smug expression.

“Okay, so it’s been a while,” she admitted. “But I signed a three-book contract and haven’t had time to do anything but write. It was a career opportunity I couldn’t pass up.”

“A while, indeed. You haven’t dated since before your book contract, since that handsome young man who handled promotion for the Saints. What was his name, Craig…Cliff—”

“Clint.”

“Clint, that’s right. He had a promising future, dear.”

A very promising future that involved delicious sex and equally delicious memories. Clint had been whirlwind romance material, not marriage material. There was a big difference. By the time she and Clint had parted ways, Lennon had needed a vacation to convalesce.

“Romance heroes are for affairs and books,” she explained. “Nice stable men are for marriage.”

Auntie Q blinked. “Are you saying you don’t marry heroes?”

“I want to marry a man I like, a man I respect and will still respect through all the ups and downs of marriage and rearing children.”

“And you don’t think you can respect a man you can love?”

“No, no,” Lennon said with a huff of exasperation. “It’s not that I can’t respect a man I love, it’s just that I want a solid, stable…comfortable marriage. I want to love my husband. And not that ‘grand passion’ kind of love, but the caring, companionable kind. The minute passion gets involved, love becomes an emotional roller coaster.”

“Emotional roller coaster?” Now it was Auntie Q’s turn to huff. “Of course it’s an emotional roller coaster. That’s the beauty—the excitement, the anticipation, the joie de vivre. It makes life worth living.”

“Passion makes affairs worth living. And affairs are wonderful, but I need a rest afterward.” Lennon spread her hands in entreaty. “You know as well as I do that the minute a man knows a woman is in love with him, he’s got the upper hand. He makes her crazy just because he can.”

“But it’s the best kind of crazy, dear. It’s a feeling of being alive, of being cherished—”

“I don’t want to marry a man who’ll drive me nuts. I want a husband who’ll be my partner and stick by my side no matter what life offers. I don’t want one who’ll consume my thoughts every single minute and distract me from everything else….”

Lennon lost her steam when she saw Auntie Q goggling like a pixie who’d been zapped by a lightning bolt. Apparently the thought of separating love and passion hadn’t occurred to her.

But Auntie Q had a mind as sharp as a Cajun spice. Understanding quickly dawned upon her, revealed in her impish features, and she cut a gaze back to the portrait inside the entrance hall. “Give me strength, Joshua, please.”

After fifty-five years of discussing all aspects of her life with Great-uncle Joshua, Auntie Q hadn’t been able to break the habit after his death. She still talked to him whenever she felt the need, no matter where she was or whom she was with. Lennon wondered if he ever answered her.

She couldn’t hear a thing but the drone of the museum’s climate control system as it cycled on, which was truly a shame. She could have used an advocate about now.

Taking her great-aunt’s thin hands in her own, she gazed down into that dear old face, needing Auntie Q to understand. Her great-aunt had been the mainstay of Lennon’s life, the doting darling who’d pinch-hitted for Lennon’s mother, who’d devoted her own life to chasing her Mr. Rights.

As usual, Mother was nowhere to be found to act as an advocate when Lennon needed one. She was currently residing in Monte Carlo chasing Mr. Right number forty-two.

But Lennon had long ago learned to make her own decisions, because sometimes her mother’s affairs d’amour had easily accommodated a child in tow, at other times not. During those times Auntie Q had always stepped in, bringing Lennon back to the huge family house in the New Orleans Garden District.

By the time Lennon had been ten, jet-setting around the globe for her mother’s wild affairs had lost its appeal. She’d longed for the stability of a home, a school and friends of her own, and the enduring love of her kind and fun Auntie Q.

Mother hadn’t argued when Lennon had asked to stay in New Orleans. She hadn’t asked Auntie Q if it was okay, either. She’d just kissed their cheeks on the veranda and departed with a breezy, “Call me when you’re ready to come home.”

Twenty years had passed and Lennon still hadn’t called. Neither had Auntie Q. And never once had her great-aunt ever seemed to mind the lifestyle adjustments that assuming the responsibilities of a child had entailed. She’d been the most loving of surrogate parents, and Lennon wanted her approval.

“It all boils down to Mr. Wrong and Mr. Right,” she explained. “A man who’s right for an affair isn’t what I want for my marriage.”

Auntie Q sighed. “If this is about your mother and the choices she has made, Lennon, don’t let her knack for choosing rogues frighten you off.”

“Mother chooses rogues because she lives for that rush of lust. She’s a junkie. As soon as the thrill wears off and her fantasy man starts to look real, she’s gone.”

Gazing into her great-aunt’s face, Lennon frowned when she saw worry there. “I enjoy the rush of lust, too, Auntie. You know that. I may not have had a romance in a while, but I’ve had some wonderful ones. I’m not frightened of passion, just rational about it. I want a real marriage, not some up-and-down roller-coaster ride. I know what my needs are, and I choose to fulfill them.”

“Love shouldn’t make you rational. It should make you crazy, even a bit foolish. It should make you feel alive.”

“That’s fine for an affair. I want stability in marriage.”

“Why can’t you have both? Look at your great-uncle and me. We endured fifty-five years of the most wonderful relationship.”

“You and Great-uncle Joshua lived a fifty-five-year love affair.” Lennon couldn’t bring herself to point out the obvious: Auntie Q had been Great-uncle Joshua’s mistress. “You once told me that you felt lucky because you shared your life with the man you loved. Living the legend, you said, because your namesake, the real Guinevere, hadn’t been so lucky. I always thought that was so romantic, but—”

“But we didn’t have a real marriage,” Auntie Q said. “No, dear, we didn’t, but we shared our lives and never once regretted the difficult choices we were forced to make.”

“I know.”

What her great-aunt and -uncle had shared had been special, even more so because their love had endured though they hadn’t met until years after he’d committed to an arranged marriage. At the time, a man didn’t divorce simply because he’d found a more suitable partner—even if his wife had decided she wanted a marriage in name only after providing an heir.

Though Auntie Q and Great-uncle Joshua had made the best of the hand life had dealt them, and had fun in the process, Lennon didn’t envision a future for herself even remotely similar.

She wanted home and hearth and babies. Lots of babies. Little girls to share tea parties with and little boys to help catch bugs in glass jars. She would work her writing schedule around her family’s needs and revel in the joys of being a wife and mom.

Auntie Q must have recognized her resolve, because she said, “Your mind’s made up.” It was a statement.

“It is. I’ve given my future a great deal of thought. Mr. Right for a marriage is what’s right for me. I don’t want a husband I’m head-over-heels in lust with. I want a husband I like, love and respect. I want a life companion.”

“A life companion?” Auntie Q rolled her gaze heavenward. “Old people have companions. I’m not even old enough for one and I’m eighty-two.”

Lennon didn’t point out that her assistant, Olaf, who cared for her in myriad capacities, could be considered a companion. She gently squeezed her great-aunt’s hands instead. “Trust me, Auntie. I know what I want. And with the bachelor auction, you’ve provided me the perfect place to find him.”

“You need grand passion.”

Lennon peered back into the entrance hall at her great-uncle’s portrait. Maybe it was the night lighting or staying up long past her bedtime, but Lennon recognized the underlying excitement in his green eyes, the zest for living that had been so much a part of the man she’d known. And admired.

Great-uncle Joshua had been the only steady male presence in her life while Lennon was growing up. A kind, fun and very noble man, he’d had the ability to make her great-aunt feel like the most important person in his world. And Lennon, too.

He’d been a part of every important step in her life, from dance recitals and graduations to helping her cope with her flighty mother. She’d always considered her great-uncle family-by-love. He may not have been officially related, but he’d always encouraged and supported her, and she still thought of him as her ideal, a man she modeled her romance heroes after.

“You had grand passion, Auntie,” she said, guessing that if Great-uncle Joshua had been free to marry, Auntie Q would probably have considered life perfect. “Maybe if there was another man as wonderful I might consider a different sort of marriage. But Great-uncle Joshua was one of a kind.”

Auntie Q regarded her from beneath a wrinkled brow. “I really wish you’d reconsider.”

“I know what I want, and it’s not a life full of emotional upheaval. I want to marry a man who’ll help me create a stable, normal family. I wouldn’t change a moment of my life with you, but we’re not exactly normal, are we?” She smiled lightly, hoping to ease her great-aunt’s concern. “Besides, I’ve had my share of affairs and romances. I’ll settle down with a man I can love, and keep passion for my romance novels.”

She kissed her great-aunt’s cheek. “Now will you go to your office and try to catch a few hours of sleep? The museum directors will be here at the crack of dawn and we won’t have a chance to slow down before the reception. I still don’t know when we’ll find time to check into the hotel.”

“We’ll manage, dear.” Auntie Q squeezed her hand. “Why don’t you come, too? A few hours wouldn’t hurt you, either. You’ll want to look fresh for the bachelors.”

Lennon couldn’t tell if this remark meant Auntie Q had accepted the game plan or not. Her bright eyes and easy smile didn’t reveal a thing. Too late and too tired for more debate when she still had so much to do, Lennon let the matter drop and focused on settling Auntie Q in her office, before she herself returned to the entrance hall to tackle The Promise.

Smoothing the black velvet drape over the display, she maneuvered the pieces around like men on a chessboard. The penis at a forty-five degree angle from the mouth. No. Too far apart, the pieces didn’t appear like part of any yin-yang whole. She moved them closer and thought the penis looked as if it stood sentinel over the mouth.

The Promise was the first piece of artwork the guests would see after Great-uncle Joshua’s portrait. Possibly the first, if their gazes didn’t follow the lines of the room to the portrait. The arrangement had to be right.

One hundred eighty degrees southeast? Ninety degrees northwest? The penis lying on its side, its huge marble head touching the open mouth?

No, no, no. With a disgusted groan, Lennon snatched the penis off the base and dropped it into her lap. There, no penis at all. Worked for her. And displayed alone, the mouth looked sort of like a huge white rose. Rather attractive, really.

Laying an arm on the display base, she wearily rested her head on the crook of her elbow and decided Auntie Q was probably right. She just didn’t like the sculpture because she hadn’t seen the real thing in a while.

2

IF JOSH EASTMAN HADN’T known better, he’d have thought he’d walked into a storybook illustration of Sleeping Beauty. Security lights washed the new gallery’s entrance hall with a pale gleam, illuminating the beauty asleep at the foot of his grandfather’s portrait. This woman was a late-night fantasy, all long, long legs and sleek blond hair.

Her filmy skirt and clingy sweater drew his gaze to willowy curves curled around a low display case, and to smooth golden skin where her bare arm draped over the black velvet.

But Josh knew better. She might be a sleeping beauty, all right, but not from any child’s version of the tale. Not with a huge marble erection propped upright on her lap.

Sleeping Beauty could only be Lennon McDarby, all grown up.

Moving silently into the new gallery, he drank the espresso he’d picked up in the museum’s security office and surveyed the woman before him. She’d been, what?—ten, maybe eleven the last time Josh had seen her, right before he’d headed off to college. A skinny girl, all arms and legs and conversation about things he couldn’t have cared less about.

He hadn’t thought much about her since, though he’d heard of her from his grandfather and Miss Q. But who’d have guessed that gangly kid would have grown into this golden vision? Not him.

Even if Josh had guessed, he’d never have pictured the erection—which wasn’t, incidentally, the only erection around. A watercolor nearby showed a man servicing his own needs.

“Don’t blame you a bit, pal.” He rested his gaze on a sleeping Lennon. “She’s definitely something to look at.”

Definitely.

She was the best sight he’d seen in a long time. More sexy than all the art in the room combined. With her long slender curves, silky blond hair and gold-dusted lashes fanned out in half circles on her cheeks, Lennon couldn’t look more delicious if she’d been spread out on a bed.

Unless she’d been naked.

Now there was an image to inspire more than a few late-night fantasies. Lennon, all gleaming gold skin and sleek curves, with her eyes closed and her lips parted as if awaiting his kisses.

An image that made Josh long to kneel down beside her, peel away her clothes and wake this sleeping beauty with a kiss right now, because the very idea of tasting those pouty lips and touching all that smooth golden skin clouded his thoughts and inspired an upsurge in his pulse rate.

Josh shook his head to erase the image. How in hell was he supposed to help Miss Q by protecting Lennon this weekend, when he’d spend his time protecting her from himself, instead of the bad guys?

A damned good question. This woman was passion personified. The closest he’d ever come to his perfect fantasy. And except for the unusual piece of art resting strategically on her lap, the only thing to mar the view was the portrait of his grandfather, which loomed above her head to remind Josh why he’d come. Guilt. Loads of guilt. Otherwise he’d never be in this new gallery wing at the crack of dawn. In the French Quarter during Mardi Gras, no less.

Josh didn’t celebrate Mardi Gras, hadn’t for years, anyway. When he’d been a kid, his grandfather had routinely commandeered him from his parents and grandmother, all of whom had believed the party in New Orleans proper was nothing more than a peasant festival. The real action, as far as they were concerned, took place uptown, in the mansions of the Garden District.

He hadn’t partied with his grandfather at Mardi Gras since he’d been seventeen years old. A lifetime ago. Nowadays, Josh scheduled himself out of town during the first half of February, and he’d managed that task for the past five years running.

This year he hadn’t been so lucky. A self-employed private investigator, he was just wrapping up a missing person case that had ended with a corpse, and he’d spent the past two weeks giving depositions to multijurisdictional authorities.

Just his luck. If he hadn’t been in town tonight, his answering service would have fielded the call that had turned out to be the last person on the planet he’d expected to hear from—Quinevere McDarby, his late grandfather’s mistress and the woman he’d known as Miss Q throughout his youth.

She’d worked him over in a big way, and here he was with the unenviable task of breaking the news to her great-niece.

“Lennon,” he whispered quietly, not wanting to startle her. “Lennon, wake up.”

She inhaled deeply, a soft sound that rippled in the quiet, and made the slight parting of her pouty peach lips seem as enticing as if she’d brushed that sexy mouth across his skin.

Josh swallowed hard. Without even opening her eyes, grown-up Lennon was having an absurd physical effect on him. An effect that had to be the combined result of his too-long-ignored libido and the giant phallus sitting in her lap. With that giant open mouth propped on the display case, firing his imagination with all sorts of tempting pImages**, no wonder the seam of his jeans suddenly dug into his crotch.

She tipped her heart-shaped face up and blinked open whiskey-colored eyes. Eyes he hadn’t thought about in years, but suddenly remembered with startling clarity.

Startling being the operative word, because Lennon shot bolt upright at the sight of him, inadvertently rolling the sculpture off her lap. It hit the carpeted floor with a thump.

“Penis envy, chère?”

She dragged her wide-eyed gaze down to the marble sculpture. Her mouth popped open. With jerky, panicked motions, she grabbed the huge phallus and lifted it off the floor.

Even with the low lighting, Josh could see the flush of color stain her cheeks as she repositioned the sculpture on the display base. But her flush was nothing compared to the heat rushing through him at the sight of her fingers wrapped around that smooth marble.

Taking another gulp of espresso, he barely noticed it scald his throat on the way down. “Long time no see, charity case.”

He called her by the nickname he’d coined during a long-ago conversation where he’d lamented his grandmother’s never-ending disapproval. Lennon had countered with her own tale of being quasi-orphaned and totally dependent on her great-aunt’s charity. He remembered thinking that she’d had the better deal.

Shooting a startled glance at his grandfather’s portrait, Lennon shook her head as if trying to shake off sleep, before turning back to stare at him.

“Black sheep!” She continued the name game, using a soubriquet he hadn’t heard since the last time he’d seen her, and that she remembered it pleased him. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he extended a hand and helped her stand—a fluid movement that drew his attention to every curve between her head and her toes. Then he noticed her whiskey gaze glued to the cardboard travel cup he still held in one hand.

“Espresso, black,” he said.

“Do you mind?”

He handed her the cup and watched as she sucked down an appreciative swallow. Her eyes shuttered briefly and she sighed as if she’d never tasted anything as good. “It’s uncanny.”

“What?”

“How much you look like your grandfather.”

He gazed up at the portrait again. No denying it. The resemblance was nothing short of remarkable—a fact that came as a mild surprise. His grandfather had been close to sixty by the time Josh had been born, so the only memories he’d had of the man in his prime had been from photos. No getting around the fact that besides their dark coloring and green eyes, the facial structures matched almost identically.

Though Josh had spent most of his adult life establishing himself independently of the Eastman family, he found it ironic that the shirt his grandfather had worn while sitting for this portrait some forty-odd years ago was the same green-gray shade Josh had on right now.

“Except for the hair,” Lennon observed, gaze darting back at him. “You’ve got a ponytail.”

He shrugged, unsure whether this was good or bad. The length of his hair had been a grooming concession for his latest investigation. When he went undercover with drug dealers, he looked the part. With all the red tape and police reports he’d been wading in lately, he hadn’t found time for a haircut.

“Life been treating you all right?” he asked, deciding that if her luscious appearance was any indication, she’d been treated very well.

“Sure has, thank you. How about you?”

“Better than I deserve.”

Except at the moment. Somehow when he’d agreed to help out Miss Q, he’d still thought of Lennon as a girl.

A big mistake, he now realized, but one that didn’t surprise him. Bottom line was he hadn’t thought much about Lennon, Miss Q or any of his own family since he’d gone to college and devoted his life to breaking away from his controlling grandmother.

She’d been hell-bent on grooming him to pick up the reins of the family art import-export business. The business hadn’t interested Josh, but the art had, so his grandfather had encouraged him to explore where that path might lead. There’d been tension between his grandparents over which direction Josh’s life should take. His parents had routinely swung back and forth between the opposing factions, wanting their son to be happy, yet wanting the demanding matriarch to stop making all their lives miserable with her efforts to get her way.

Thanks to youthful stupidity, Josh had simply walked away from the fight. He’d had a big chip on his shoulder at the time and felt as if he was disappointing everyone. Swapping the family mansion in the Garden District for a refurbished warehouse in the art district, he’d cut himself off so completely from his family’s social circles he may as well have been living on another planet.

His grandmother had written him off as a lost cause, but his grandfather and his parents had kept in touch through the years. They told him what happened in their lives, tried to find out what was happening in his. But Josh rarely picked up the phone himself. More often than not, he’d used work as an excuse to avoid meeting his mom for lunch, or dropping by his dad’s club for a drink, or making an appearance at his grandfather and Miss Q’s annual Mardi Gras masque.

With age and experience came the knowledge that he might have handled his rebellion with more maturity and less rebellion. He suspected that if he’d just stood up to his grandmother, he might have found his grandfather and parents supportive of whatever path he chose. Which was why he’d rushed to Miss Q’s assistance tonight. He owed his grandfather at least this much.

“Listen, charity case, we’ve got a problem,” he said. More than one, actually, but his starved libido was technically his problem and not hers.

“I assumed. Why else would you be here? Is your family all right?”

Josh nodded, surprised that she would inquire about people who’d never had the time of day for her. Then again, he shouldn’t be surprised. Quinevere McDarby had reared her, and she was a woman who opened her heart to everyone. Including him.

Which was another reason he’d come tonight.

Miss Q had always been full of the hugs and approval Josh had professed not to need, but had secretly placed himself in the line of fire for. He remembered thinking that fate had played a nasty trick by not allowing his grandfather to meet Miss Q long before he’d met Josh’s own grandmother.

Then again, if his grandfather had met Miss Q first, Josh would never have been born. That just proved how satirical love could be. One of the reasons he made no time for it in his life. He did short-term relationships. Period.

“The family’s fine.” At least he hadn’t heard otherwise. And what was the cliché? No news is good news….

“Then what’s up?” Lennon took another long swallow of espresso, appeared to brace herself.

“A few hours ago, Miss Q left the museum to get some papers from your car. Someone assaulted her with a flash-and-bang grenade. She wasn’t hurt, but we think it was a protest of my grandfather’s collection.”

“What are you…Auntie Q…someone threw…” Lennon’s features blanked in the sort of stunned expression he knew all too well, from being a frequent bearer of bad news. She finally zeroed in. “A grenade? As in…hand grenade?”

“A flash-and-bang,” he explained. “It’s a nonlethal stun device used to disorient an enemy.”

A clever device, and one he’d been grateful for on more than one occasion. But the way Lennon gaped drove home the differences in their interpretations of nonlethal.

A flash-and-bang grenade was useful in his line of work, but he doubted Lennon had ever heard of one, which reminded him why he didn’t invite pretty, pouty-mouthed blondes into his life for more than a quick visit.

“It’s a nonfragmenting type of grenade,” he offered, hoping to reassure her. “The kind that doesn’t explode.”

Lennon didn’t look reassured. “Josh, you must be mistaken. Auntie Q is in her office, asleep.”

“It’s almost six in the morning and I just put her in the car with Olaf. She’s on her way home.”

“I’m confused.” Lennon ran a shaky hand through her hair, sending waves of honey-gold tumbling around her face, and inspiring thoughts about what that silky blond hair would feel like beneath his fingers. “Auntie Q couldn’t just go out to my car. We’re in a secure museum. The security guard has to let her out of the building after hours.”

“The guard was asleep. She didn’t want to disturb him when she can disable the system for the Eastman wing herself.”

Apparently Lennon didn’t have any trouble believing her great-aunt capable of that sort of recklessness. A frown creased her smooth brow and she shivered.

Plucking the cup from her hand, Josh marched her toward a nearby bench and forced her to sit. He didn’t dwell on the awareness that ripped through him the minute he touched her bare arm. And he refused to acknowledge the naked lovers twined around each other on the canvas directly above her head.

“She’s okay?”

“She’s fine. The noise startled her.”

“Thank goodness.” Breathing deeply, Lennon cradled her face in her hands. She shivered again.

“Are you okay?”

Looking back up at him, she nodded. “But I don’t understand why you’re here. Where are the police?”

Josh shrugged. “Miss Q decided she doesn’t want an investigation. She’s afraid the museum will postpone the gallery opening. Instead of reporting the incident so the authorities can conduct an inquiry, she hid the discharged grenade in her handbag, lied to security and called me and Olaf.”

“Where have I been while all this has been going on?”

He glanced over his shoulder at the phallic sculpture resting beneath his grandfather’s portrait. “Given the way you were hanging on to that penis, chère, I’d say you were dreaming.”

“Josh.” Scowling, she grabbed the coffee cup and slugged back the remains defiantly.

He couldn’t contain a laugh at her look of outrage.

“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised,” she finally said. “Auntie Q isn’t about to let anything come in the way of this opening. Great-uncle Joshua loved Mardi Gras. ‘A celebration of being alive,’ he used to call it. She has had her heart set on this weekend ever since he died. I won’t even bother trying to convince her otherwise.”

Great-uncle Joshua. Damn, but that reference to his grandfather brought him back a lot of years. Lennon wasn’t related, yet his grandfather had been as much a part of her family as his. Her posthumous concern for this memorial showed a graceful acceptance of the sordid triangle of man-family-mistress that Josh couldn’t help but admire.

Though he’d grown up knowing his grandfather divided his time between two families, he couldn’t help perceiving the entire situation as strange. True, people had done things differently back then. Otherwise his grandmother might have divorced his grandfather after realizing she wanted no part of marriage save the social and economic position it provided her.

She hadn’t. Instead, she’d suggested her husband tend his needs outside their marriage. Her solution had offended his noble grandfather, who’d resisted for well over a decade—until Quinevere McDarby had come to work for Eastman Antiquities. Thus the Eastman-McDarby connection had been born, and this gorgeous woman before him had become a part of Josh’s life.

“I tried reasoning with your great-aunt,” he admitted. “Didn’t work.”

“So she wants you to investigate. Isn’t this a little out of your normal line of work? I heard you freelance for a bunch of government agencies. Looking for missing people and heavy stuff like that.”

Evidently Lennon knew a lot about him, and for some reason the realization pleased him. He nodded.

“How’d Auntie Q rope you into this, then?”

“She called me Josh Three and I caved. I haven’t been called that since she gave me the nickname to distinguish me from my father and grandfather. It was a time warp.”

“Joshua Eastman the third sounds so…highbrow.”

“Confusing.” At least while he’d been home.

“That’s it?” Lennon eyed him doubtfully. “All a girl has to do is call you Josh Three to get her way with you?”

“And heap on the guilt. Works every time.”

She tipped the cup at him and said, “Aha! I knew it.”

“She laid a whole trip on me. Told me that she and my grandfather had been watching every move I’ve made during my career. She knew all about my college education, the civil and criminal programs, the certifications and the police training seminars. She even knew the exact date when I graduated with my master’s degree.” He shook his head, still staggered by Miss Q’s revelation. “She said they’d thrown a party for every damned milestone, that they still had the right to celebrate my accomplishments, even if I chose not to be there.”

“Whoa. She worked you over big time.”

“Like a pro.” He had to force a smile. “She resorted to threats, too. Told me my grandfather would haunt me for the rest of my life if I let her—or you—get blown into bits all over the parish. Then there’d be no one left to fund-raise for the Eastman Gallery until the museum can afford to support it. It would be sold off piecemeal…all my grandfather’s acquisitions, his life’s work—”

“Gotcha.” Lennon laughed, then sobered. “Is she in danger?”

“After fifteen years in my business, I’ve learned it’s never wise to ignore this type of incident. I can’t rule out the possibility of a threat, and that’s enough for me.”

Lennon nodded and jumped on his reasoning like a speeding bullet. “We’ve already had some trouble.”

“What sort of trouble?”

She rose in a lovely display of slim curves and sleek lines, then strode toward his grandfather’s portrait to retrieve an envelope from beside the display case below. “Negative letters and some picketing. Given the, er, sensitive subject matter…” she said, studiously avoiding the marble sculpture propped erect beside her. “There are always supporters and detractors.”

“Let me see.”

She sat back down and passed him the envelope, which he opened to reveal a bold message in computer-generated type: “Erotic art is just an upscale name for smut. Smut doesn’t belong in our museums.”

“Have they all been like this—computer printouts with no signatures?

Lennon shook her head, sending pale hair slipping over her shoulder in a sleek wave. “Most, but not all. Some have been handwritten.”

“I’ll investigate and find out what’s going on.”

“Thanks. But I’m still worried about Auntie Q’s safety.”

“For the time being Olaf will be a more than adequate bodyguard. Not too many people would want to mess with him, based on his size alone, and he promised me he won’t let her out of his sight. But I’ve got to tell you that Miss Q has the exact same concerns about you.” Josh paused for effect before adding the kicker. “She wants me to be your bodyguard.”

A golden brow arched skeptically. “Oh?”

“She hired me for round-the-clock protection. She’s afraid if there’s a personal threat it might place you at risk, since you’ve been active in opening the gallery, too.”

“What do you think?”

He brushed stray hairs from her cheek, knowing he had no right to touch her, yet unable to help himself all the same. “I’d hate to see anything happen to you, chère.”

She leaned away from him and forced a smile—an act of sheer determination if ever he saw one. “Well, it’s very nice of you to be concerned, but you don’t want to get stuck baby-sitting me through all the erotic activities we’ve got scheduled.”

Josh could think of any number of erotic activities he’d willingly get stuck in with Lennon, but before he could see past pImages** of her long legs naked and twined with his, she said, “I’ll be fine. I understand why Auntie Q is worried, but no one has thrown a grenade at me.”

He shrugged. “I promised.”

Leaping off the bench, she handed him the empty coffee cup, cocked her fists on her hips and glared at him. Josh settled back against the wall while she came up with an astonishing number of reasons why she didn’t need protection.

He didn’t buy a single one. Her heart-shaped face revealed barely suppressed panic. He considered the possibility that he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the chemistry between them. The lady clearly found something disturbing about sharing close quarters for the long weekend.

“What’s the trouble, chère?”

“I just told you—”

“The real trouble. You’ve got loads of reasons, but no explanation why having me undercover as your bodyguard won’t work.”

To say Lennon looked offended would have been an understatement. Josh bit back a smile.

Going undercover as Lennon’s anything worked on a personal and professional level. His connection to the McDarbys and the Eastman Gallery would be an asset to solving this mystery. And this mystery needed to be solved. The whole flash-and-bang attack struck him wrong on a gut level. He’d learned long ago to trust his gut.

This attack meant someone had been waiting outside for Miss Q—or more likely both of them—to leave the gallery and head to Lennon’s car. And though that someone had obviously meant to frighten rather than physically harm, that someone already knew too much about the McDarby women. He’d known their schedule, what vehicle they were driving and that he’d catch them together without Olaf, who’d been sent home before midnight to tend to details there.

For anyone to know this much about their activities meant they were being stalked. And stalkers made Josh nervous.

“Olaf can keep an eye on me, too,” Lennon suggested.

Josh didn’t think so. “Olaf will have trouble keeping up with Miss Q. From what I hear about the schedule, you two will be so busy entertaining and fund-raising, it’ll be impossible for one of us to keep track of you both. You need me.”

“I refuse to let people see me being…guarded.”

That Lennon’s argument had deteriorated into semantics about appearances meant he almost had her.

“Miss Q hired me, chère, so I’m on your tail until you convince her to fire me.”

Lennon scowled. “You said Olaf took her home?” Before he had a chance to answer, she spun on her heel, gifting him with a lovely shot of her departing backside. “Let’s go. I’ll talk some sense into her.”

Josh followed. Inclining his head at his grandfather’s portrait as he passed, he decided he wasn’t sorry he’d picked up the phone tonight, after all. The ensuing fireworks should prove entertaining, and he quite enjoyed being on Lennon’s tail.

3

“I’LL WAIT IN THE CAR while you unload the suitcases,” Quinevere told her assistant from her comfortable seat in the limo. No sense standing on the sidewalk when she needed a moment to collect her thoughts and evaluate her game plan. “I want you with me when I meet with the sales director.”

Olaf caught her gaze in the rearview mirror. “Problems?”

“I want to check on a few details and make sure the hotel doesn’t make any last-minute changes to our room assignments.”

He held her gaze before nodding, curiosity written all over his smooth features. With his dark skin and bald brown head, Olaf looked like he’d be at home in a South American jungle. He was also strapping enough to make any prizefighter think twice about raising a fist his way. Exactly how his Goliath proportions and Scandinavian name factored into his French Guianese–Creole background was a question Quinevere had frequently asked through the years, but had yet to receive a straight answer to. She’d known the boy since he was nine years old and didn’t think he’d ever get tired of spinning outrageous tales about his unusual name, not when she suspected he knew how much she enjoyed his fabrications.

And that wasn’t all he knew. The smart, streetwise kid Joshua had brought home from a trip into the jungle had matured into a keenly intelligent and insightful man. He eyed her in the mirror with a look that told her he wasn’t for a second buying her explanation about room assignments.

“Why are you worried, Miss Q?” he asked. “I thought the LeBlancs confirmed their reservation yesterday.”

She smiled. She would let him in on her little secret when she was ready and not a moment before. “They did.”

“Then what’s the trouble? The extra room?”

Evidently Olaf didn’t want to wait until she was ready. He knew something was up and intended to pick her brain. “I’ll have management release the extra room from our block. With Mardi Gras, I’m sure they’ll have it booked before we unpack.”

“I wouldn’t do that. I’d hang on to it for a day in case Mrs. DesJardin changes her mind again.”

Quinevere grimaced. “Oh, phoo on Lisette. I’d forgotten about her. She’s just yanking my chain to see who shows up before she consents to grace us with her presence.”

“You’re right, but think about Tête-à-tête. You don’t want to miss the chance to acquire the drawing for the collection.”

“Or a monetary contribution to alleviate her guilt if she decides she can’t part with the piece.” Quinevere wanted Lisette to feel good and guilty if she hung on to the superb black chalk on paper, a François Boucher original. “You’re right. I’ll keep the spare room, but I’ve got to confirm that the room assignments will stay exactly as I’ve arranged them. No last-minute changes.”

Olaf narrowed his gaze, but he knew when to ask questions and, more importantly, when not to. She silently thanked Joshua for leaving behind someone so intuitive to help care for her. Most of the time a blessing…

“I’ll see to the luggage,” he said, maneuvering his six-foot-plus frame from the front seat.

Closing the door behind him, he sealed her in the cool interior of the car. “Olaf dotes on me almost as much as you did, Joshua,” she whispered above the hum of the running engine. “And he’s going to help me fix this mess, whether he knows it or not.”

She sighed, leaning back into the plush leather seat and fixing her gaze through the tinted window on the valet entrance, where Olaf supervised the bellhops.

“I intended the auction to provide Lennon with a place to fall in love, not choose a companion. If I didn’t know my great-niece so well, I’d think this was another trick of yours.”

The drone of the engine was the only reply. But Joshua could hear her, she knew, and he would approve the steps she’d taken to disabuse her great-niece of the ridiculous notion that she should marry for anything but passion.

Life was far too precious to waste even a second. If Lennon wanted safe, companionable love, she should adopt a pet. A cute little Maltese, maybe, or a needy mutt from the pound.

Companionable was not a defining quality in a husband.

“Boring,” Quinevere said with a shudder.

Some women might be content with that sort of life, but not Lennon. Even though she’d been buried in her writing lately, she’d had relationships before with some very suitable men. Nice, healthy romances that had put color in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes. She thrived on love, so why she’d convinced herself she would be content with a companionable man while keeping grand passion reserved for her books…

Then again, why wouldn’t Lennon think passion belonged outside marriage, given the examples she’d seen?

Her mother had made a career of one-night stands or affairs that never lasted much longer, while Quinevere’s relationship with Joshua… She twisted the antique sapphire ring on the third finger of her left hand, finding comfort in the motion, feeling a connection with the man who’d given her the beautiful piece to symbolize their marriage of the heart—a marriage not recognized by the laws of Louisiana.

“There were times, my love, when I wished we could have lived more conventionally, maybe even had our own family,” she whispered, a sad, lonely sound that contrasted sharply with the activity outside the car. “But I knew what I was getting into when I decided to spend my life with you. I’ve never once regretted my choice.

“Oh, Joshua, all Lennon has ever seen is that she can’t have marriage and passion together. We showed her that, and her mother did, too. Why else would she think she has to choose?”

A heavy sort of sadness—the kind that weighted a person all the more because there was no way to rewind the clock and say things that should have been said long ago—seeped through Quinevere like the muggy air of a New Orleans summer afternoon right before a rainstorm.

Oh, Joshua. Tears prickled her eyes—she cried so easily now. Whether her tears were a function of old age or simply loneliness for the man she’d chosen to share her life with, Quinevere couldn’t say. She only knew that she wanted so much more than companionship for Lennon, a great-niece who was her daughter in every way but by birth.

Blinking furiously, Quinevere caressed her wedding band and took a deep breath. “I’ve got this under control, my love. I’ve got a plan to get Lennon back on the right track again, and maybe even that grandson of yours, too. I can’t join you in the ever after until I’ve taken care of the details down here.”

And that meant ensuring those she and Joshua left behind had a chance to find happiness, too.

By the time Olaf appeared at the passenger side of the car, Quinevere managed a smile. Perhaps with luck, and Joshua’s divine assistance, she’d soon smell grand passion blooming beneath her nose. Given the way Lennon had fought tooth and nail this morning to convince them she didn’t need Josh Three around, Quinevere suspected she’d smell grand passion blooming sooner rather than later.

Especially given Josh’s reaction to Lennon.

He’d sat in her parlor, just as comfortable as you please, all respect and attention and stoic deliberation of Lennon’s rants, but his beautiful green eyes had twinkled devilishly.

Quinevere recognized that look. She’d seen it in his grandfather’s eyes too often not to know exactly what it meant.

Josh Three was interested in Lennon.

So Quinevere had simply told her great-niece to cope with her bodyguard or stay home. That was that. Lennon had chosen to cope.

Ah, l’amour.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN you can’t upgrade my suite to one with two bedrooms?” Lennon asked the desk clerk incredulously. “I know there’s a spare suite with the art gallery reservations.”

This was the Château Royal, a hundred-seventy-year-old establishment in the French Quarter known for its five-star hospitality. That was why Auntie Q had chosen this hotel. That and the fact it was within walking distance of the art museum. Fighting Mardi Gras traffic from their home in the Garden District didn’t make sense when they had activities scheduled between the hotel and the museum practically all weekend.

“We’ve been told we’re not allowed to reassign any rooms.”

“But I’m with the art gallery.”

“I’m sorry,” the desk clerk said apologetically. “You’ll have to take it up with the coordinator.”

Auntie Q.

She should have known. No doubt her great-aunt had foreseen the trouble with Lennon and Josh’s room arrangement and wasn’t about to allow for plan B.

Lennon wouldn’t give in so easily. “I’m booked in the Carriage House. Can’t you just move me into the main hotel?”

“It’s Mardi Gras.” The desk clerk shrugged in entreaty, silently begging Lennon to cut her some slack. “I don’t have a suite in the main hotel to give you.”

Staring at the uniformed clerk, she tapped her credit card on the desktop. Didn’t this woman realize she was asking her to share a king-size bed with her new bodyguard?

Of course not. How could she know? Most of the normal population—which included anyone not related to Auntie Q—couldn’t appreciate the ramifications of living with a great-aunt who played life by her own rules.

But Lennon knew what that king-size bed would mean—an awkward conversation about sleeping arrangements. It was bad enough being forced into such close proximity with a man who looked like a romance hero in 3-D, a hero who didn’t seem to mind the logistics of guarding her body 24–7.

Sure, this assignment probably seemed like a dream to a man who routinely hunted down criminals, bail jumpers and the ilk that hid from government authorities, but it was a nightmare as far as she was concerned. She’d known it the instant she’d awakened to find Josh staring down at her with those green bedroom eyes.

At first she’d thought she’d been dreaming, that the handsome man in the gallery portrait had come to life. Which was certainly an understandable reaction on her part, given how exhausted she was and how much Josh looked like his grandfather.

But once Lennon had realized who her visitor was, she’d recognized trouble in Josh’s potent gaze, in the quick smiles that made her heart beat too fast. He’d been watching her sleep and she knew with that fluttery sense of intuition deep inside that he’d liked what he’d seen.

“Is there a problem?” Mr. Hero himself asked, suddenly appearing behind her.

Yes, a big one, but Lennon wasn’t going to tell him that. She could sense him towering over her, and his voice resonated through her like a caress.

Jeez! Who’d have guessed the black sheep would have grown up to be the stuff sinfully delicious heroes were made of? Not her, for sure. She hadn’t thought much about Josh Eastman since she’d been ten years old. She may have heard about him from his grandfather, but for some reason Great-uncle Joshua hadn’t mentioned how seriously attractive his grandson had grown to be.

Taking a deep, calming breath, Lennon turned around and lifted her gaze.

His eyes, greener than the lawns along Rue St. Charles, gave her a jolt. Another deep breath. “They can’t upgrade my suite to a two bedroom.”

“I don’t mind sharing a bedroom with you, chère.”

He smiled, only his wasn’t a smile as Lennon had ever thought of one. His smile lit his face with arresting candor, drew her attention to how his white teeth dazzled in contrast to the dark shadow of stubble along his chiseled jaw.

For her last three books, she’d begged her editor to find a cover model with such strong, cut features, only to have Ellen laughingly tell her that those heroes didn’t exist anywhere but in the stories she wrote.

Wrong. She’d be sure to tell Ellen when they next spoke.

Turning back to the desk clerk, Lennon handed her the credit card, but Mr. Hero plucked it from the clerk’s grasp.

“Use mine,” he whispered in her ear, a burst of warm breath that tickled her hair and sent goose bumps down her arms. “You’re my client, which means I pick up the tab from now until the case is over. Standard procedure.”

Lennon didn’t argue. The man was a reputed professional, after all, and she had no desire to wind up scattered in pieces all over the parish. She had to do whatever she could to help Josh contain any threat to her great-aunt’s safety.

But she didn’t have to abandon her own plans.

Auntie Q may have thrown her a curve by providing her with a roommate, but Lennon was here to scope out Mr. Right. Josh Eastman was not Mr. Right. Near as she could tell, he lived in the wrong part of town, worked in the wrong career, and he didn’t even look the part of a decent husband with his too-long black hair, rugged hero face and green bedroom eyes.

And, jeez, he must be nearly as tall as Olaf, a strikingly obvious fact as he towered above the bellhop after they arrived in the Carriage House. An intimidated bellhop, if the way the young man jumped at his directions was any indication.

Lennon wanted to rear normal children, and any child of Josh’s might grow to be a giant. Not such a bad thing for sons, when she thought about it, but she didn’t want her girls to tower above their classmates. Of course, tall girls could always become fashion models or basketball players….

That settled it. Josh was Mr. Wrong incarnate. And how difficult would it be to find Mr. Right with Mr. Wrong dogging her heels all weekend? Lennon didn’t want to think about it.

Placing her laptop on the table, she checked out the suite. As a turn-of-the-century addition that occupied the rear of a lovely inner courtyard, the Carriage House afforded her privacy.

If not for her new roommate, the suite would have been perfect. Though not large, it comprised a bedroom and living area spacious enough for a neat arrangement of antique chairs and a sofa. With fourteen-foot-high ceilings and French doors that opened onto a small balcony, the airy layout should offset the addition of her unexpected guest. Hopefully.

“That looks like the last of it, sir,” the bellhop said, and Lennon couldn’t miss the hopeful note in his voice. “Was there anything else you needed?”

“That’s it.” Josh tipped the boy.

Lennon hoped he’d been generous, given the ridiculous amount of electronic equipment he’d brought, and decided he must have been when the bellhop disappeared with a smile and an enthusiastic, “Let me know if you need anything else.”

An adjoining suite with another bed would have been nice.

But Josh seemed more interested in taking stock of their surroundings than with the sleeping arrangements.

Lennon opened her laptop case and checked the battery. She’d brought it to try and catch up on her deadline. This manuscript was due on her editor’s desk by the end of the month, and she had to leave time to edit, make corrections, then add Ellen’s revisions…. Lennon shook her head. She just couldn’t think about all she had to do without getting overwhelmed.

Heading into the bedroom, she exhaled in resignation. What she’d considered quaint and charming on her tour of the hotel a year ago seemed completely inadequate now. The petite Queen Anne sofa occupying the living room would be nowhere near large enough to accommodate a man of Josh’s size, leaving this king-size sleigh bed as the only alternative.

Hefting her garment bag over her shoulder, Lennon headed back out to the living room.

Josh stood from where he’d been crouched beneath the table, presumably connecting a surge board to the power supply. “Problem with the closet?”

“I want my things out here, where I’ll be sleeping.”

His green gaze caught hers, potent with amusement, making Lennon suddenly feel self-conscious. “Problem with the bed?”

“No. But there are only two places to sleep—this sofa and that bed.” She glanced through the doorway at the item in question. “A rollaway won’t fit because the suite’s so small, and the sofa won’t work for you. You can have the bedroom.”

Josh followed her gaze and a smile curved his lips. “All right, charity case, let’s cover some ground rules.” Half sitting on the edge of the table, he folded his arms, drawing her attention to the way his strong biceps stretched the cotton of his white Henley shirt. “I’m here to protect you, and I can’t do that if I’m asleep in the bedroom while you’re out here.” He inclined his head toward the balcony. “Especially with those French doors. Anyone could break a pane and come in for a visit. Not safe.”

The man had dressed in jeans, a casual outfit markedly similar to the one he’d shown up in at the gallery. While it wasn’t inappropriate for check-in at the Château Royal, he might have worn newer jeans, or at least a pair that didn’t ride so low on his hips they were distracting.

“All right.” She willed the observation from her mind and hoped she sounded nonchalant. “If my suggestion won’t work, what do you recommend?”

“We’ve only got two choices, chère. I sleep out here with you or you sleep in there with me.”

“Are you offering to sleep on the floor so the bad guys have to crawl over you to get to me?”

“That wouldn’t be my first choice, no. I’m not real fond of tile floors when there’s a bed big enough for two.” His smile widened, carving deep lines in his cheeks and narrowing his eyes to lushly fringed slits. “Afraid you won’t be able to resist me?”

Lennon sighed. The only things missing were a cape and a sword to make him a perfect rogue. “I’ll control myself.”

Eyeing him with what she hoped was unruffled coolness, Lennon swept back into the bedroom with her garment bag. She wouldn’t dignify his teasing. He might find the situation amusing, but she had concerns. How could she concentrate on finding Mr. Right with Josh under her nose—and in her bed?

She had no easy answer, but luckily Josh gave her time to mull over the problem while he remained in the next room unpacking his equipment. She did manage to put their sleeping arrangements from her mind—until he turned up in the bedroom with his own garment bag.

Hanging it over the bathroom door, he helped himself to a seat on the bed. “I need to assess potential threats. I’ve studied the information available online and what the press has written, but you need to fill in the blanks.”

Lennon smoothed a dress into place on the rack, giving herself a chance to school her expression and calm her jangled nerves. Josh wanted to discuss business. She could do that—she could discuss anything but sleeping arrangements. Especially with him sprawled out on the bed he expected both of them to sleep in.

“What can I tell you?” Good, her voice sounded normal.

“Define a ‘risqué buffet of events designed to advance understanding of erotic antiquities’.”

She recognized the quote from the invitation. “Tonight starts with a cocktail party in the sculpture garden. Let’s see…” she ticked off the events on her fingers to keep track “…then there’s a scavenger hunt, masque, musicale, poetry reading, several fine art showings featuring different artists, a modeling session and of course, the bachelor auction.”

“A modeling session?”

Judging by the frown etching his chiseled jaw, Lennon could see he didn’t know what to make of that one. “Try your hand at becoming a model or an artist.”

“Exactly how are these events risqué?”

“Aside from featuring erotic art?”

“Obviously.”

“Well,” she drawled, wanting to rattle his air of bored calm, as if lying on a bed discussing risqué events was all part of his normal workday. “The modeling studios are set up like boudoirs, with props to create a sexy mood, and locked doors for privacy. The photography equipment is digital, of course, so our guests can get creative without worrying about anyone else seeing their artwork.” She inhaled a deep breath for dramatic effect. “Just pop the disk out of the camera and take it home to view or print.”

Even from this distance, she could see the lightning flash of surprise smoldering in the depths of his eyes. Lennon paused in her unpacking, holding a slinky beaded sheath in front of her, and met his gaze with a carefully blank expression of her own.

He must have seen right through her, though, because he recovered with impressive speed and rose to her challenge. “What’s risqué about the masque?”

“The guests have to impersonate characters who’ve contributed to enhancing erotic culture.”

“I hope you’re going as Lady Godiva. Riding naked through the village…I’d say she did her bit to support the arts.”

At his quicksilver grin, Lennon’s heart thudded dully in her chest. “I can’t tell you or I’ll spoil my debut.”

She couldn’t tell him or he’d know her bravado was all an act. She might sound unaffected by discussing risqué events with this man, but she wasn’t. The sight of him sprawled across that shiny bedspread—long muscled lines of his body making it impossible not to think of how it would feel to snuggle against him—disconcerted her completely.

Mr. Wrong, Mr. Wrong, Mr. Wrong.

His grin widened, and Lennon suspected her efforts went for nothing, because he probably already knew she was bluffing.

“Seeing you dressed in nothing but hair will be worth the wait, chère.”

He was definitely on to her.

Lennon jammed the sheath dress onto the rack and tried to segue back to business, without appearing to admit defeat. “Auntie Q likes to mix business with pleasure, so fund-raising isn’t so dry and stuffy. Talking business with Lady Godiva should liven things up, don’t you think?”

“The Eastman Gallery could expect some hefty donations.”

“Humph.” Lennon didn’t need to turn around to see his grin. She heard amusement loud and clear in his voice.

“Okay, I got the risqué part. Now I need to know how the finances work, but let me grab something to take notes on.”

From the corner of her eye she saw him sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed. Lennon waved him off and said, “I’ll get something. Where?”

“My briefcase on the table.”

She sailed out of the room without a backward glance, relishing the activity and the breather from being bombarded with testosterone at close range. “Do you think money could be the motive, Josh?”

“I always cover all the angles. You never know what’ll motivate people.”

Lennon didn’t reply, just dug through his briefcase and told herself to get a grip. She couldn’t think of Josh as a romance hero. Sure, he looked the part of some Navy SEAL or Cold War spy, but he needed a quick demotion to a more human plane.

Palming a day planner from his briefcase, she weighed its worn leather cover in her hand. Businessmen used day planners. Businessmen from the twenty-first century. Day planners hadn’t been around when swashbuckling romance heroes had inhabited the earth. Except the hero she currently wrote about. A spy for England during the Napoleonic Wars, he was also a titled lord, which meant he had an estate to manage and would own a leather-bound journal to record his activities, one very similar to this….

Arrgh! Heading back into the bedroom, she tossed the day planner at Josh, ignored his politely murmured thanks, and sought refuge in the closet. “The finances are really very simple. In a nutshell, your grandfather bequeathed his collection to Auntie Q along with the pieces they owned jointly. She took those and included some she owned herself and donated them to the museum. Together, they included a financial endowment large enough to construct the gallery and the sculpture garden.”

After hanging up her dress for the cocktail party, she stowed her empty garment bag on the closet floor, out of the way. “Technically, the museum owns the collection now, but there’s overhead it can’t swing until the exhibition starts bringing in income. That’s where the fund-raising comes in. We need to collect enough to carry the Joshua Eastman Gallery until it establishes a name for itself.”

Lapsing into silence, she stacked her shoe boxes to the sound of Josh’s pen strokes.

“Sounds like a lot of work,” he finally said.

“It has been. Pulling this together has consumed Auntie Q for the past two years.”

“I’m sorry my grandfather wasn’t around to help her.”

Lennon didn’t have to turn to know he watched her. She sensed his gaze, felt her heartbeat thud in response. “Auntie Q’s convinced he meant to keep her busy after he died.”

“What do you think?”

“She’s probably right.” Steeling her nerves, Lennon swung around, leaned back against the wall and tucked her legs beneath her. “Great-uncle Joshua used to talk about his plans for this gallery. It was his passion. But whenever I’d ask when he was going to break ground, he’d just smile and say he wasn’t done collecting yet. He told me not to worry, though, that he’d been given Auntie Q as a gift to help him focus on what was important, and that she’d make sure things got done. I remember thinking he knew he might not be around to get the gallery started because he was older than she was.”

“You knew an entirely different side of my grandfather.”

She heard regret in Josh’s voice, a realization that he’d missed out on something special. She wanted to reach out and smooth the tight edges from his mouth, say something to erase his hurt, but squelched the crazy urge. She had no right to comfort this man. She hadn’t seen him in years and hadn’t really known him even back then.

Sure, he’d sometimes showed up on their doorstep, and Auntie Q had whipped out her stash of cookies. But Lennon had been eight years his junior and not particularly interested in hanging around to listen to whatever her great-aunt coaxed out of him.

“Damned bizarre situation.” His gaze pierced the distance, and Lennon felt the connection as if it were physical. Two people bound by the actions of others, each clinging to their parts of the whole and wondering what they were missing.

Then, in an instant, Josh shuttered his expression behind a grin. “Are you scarred forever?”

“Naw. Just focused. Despite the unusual gestalt of the situation, what’s not to like about love?”

“Ah.” He gave a brisk shake of his head that sent his black ponytail brushing his collar. “The romance writer.”

“I can write it however I like it.”

“And how do you like it, chère?”

The intensity of his expression made her pulse quicken. “If you want to know, you’ll have to read my books to find out.”

She hadn’t meant her reply as a challenge, but it was definitely taken as one. She could see fire leap into Josh’s eyes, his smile broaden appreciatively.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Swinging those long legs over the side of the bed, he planted his booted feet on the floor. “Right now I’ve got to get hotel security on the phone about the letter that was waiting for Miss Q when she arrived. I want them to question the desk clerks to see who dropped it off. Be ready to leave for the cocktail party at four.” He crossed the length of the bedroom in a few quick strides. “I’ll need a copy of your guest list. Miss Q said you had one.”

Lennon nodded, feeling a bit off balance, disappointed that she’d been so easily dismissed from their bantering.

She squelched that feeling fast. “I’ll get it for you. Josh?” she added, causing him to stop in the doorway. “Auntie Q got a threatening letter last night at the museum, one this morning at home and another today when she arrived here at the hotel. Do you think whoever’s harassing her may decide that frightening her isn’t getting the point across? Do you think he might try to really hurt her?”

His expression sobered, but he met her gaze with a promise in his. “Don’t worry. Olaf and I won’t let anything happen.”

For the first time since Josh had shown up, Lennon felt that perhaps Auntie Q had been right to call him.

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