Now Ree stepped back. “You knew about Lucy?” She covered her heart. “And yet you weren't aware of Edgar's death. Just how long ago did you know him? You can't be more than thirty.”
He had to tread more carefully. He'd done some digging on Jamie, but he hadn't had enough time to gather information on her business partners. All he knew was that they were college mates. Could one of them be Edgar's descendant? She'd mentioned holding on to Edgar's property and that there was another Santini involved. A family squabble? He did a quick mental calculation. Edgar had been in his thirties back in forty-eight. Fifty-three years later …
“You wouldn't be his granddaughter, would you?” He didn't see any resemblance to either Edgar or Lucy, but one never knew.
“Where in the world did you get that idea?” She folded her arms, much as Jamie had back in the shop. “Why don't you tell me who you really are and exactly why you were in our shop?”
Perhaps she'd married into the family, then, he thought. A bitter ex-wife to this other Santini? He almost smiled. He didn't know Edgar's descendant, this other Mr. Santini, but he guessed the poor man had sorely mistaken his opponent if he'd ever referred to this woman as a … what did she call it? Bimbo.
“I was a friend of Edgar's a very long time ago, but we lost contact. I knew Lucy as well. I take it she has also passed?” The mournful note in his voice was not fabricated. As much as he had enjoyed the wilder side of New Orleans he and Edgar had avidly plundered, Sebastien had taken even greater pleasure in watching him fall helplessly in love with Lucille Bergaret. “They were so very much in love.”
He was unaware he'd spoken the words until he felt Ree's hand on his forearm. “You did know them,” she said softly. “You couldn't have been more than a child.”
Sebastien said nothing, deciding to let her believe what she would.
Ree Ann went on. “He loved her until she died and every minute afterward until he passed as well. I don't believe I've ever witnessed a more vivid love affair, though I knew him only after she'd gone.”
“After?”
She nodded. “Lucy passed away almost twenty years ago. I met Edgar only six years ago. He was a private man. In fact, he didn't speak of her until I'd known him almost three years. We were close friends by then.” She paused, as if waiting for a certain response from him.
Unaware of what that would be, Sebastien simply continued the conversation. “He never remarried, then?”
Something changed in Ree's expression, perhaps some of her wariness diminished. She shook her head. “No. He was still so in love with her. I was his … companion for the last several years of his life.” Her voice became more forceful, prideful. “He was a wonderful man. I loved him very much.”
She started to slip her hand off his arm, but Sebastien quickly covered it with his own. “I'm sure it gave him great comfort knowing he could talk of Lucy to someone who understood.”
Ree laughed as she dabbed at her eyes with her other hand. The tension dissolved. “Oh, I don't claim to understand that kind of love, sugar. But it sure was reassuring to know it could exist. You know?”
“Oh, yes,” he said quietly. “That I do know.”
Her smile was natural and warm, minus the earlier flirtatiousness. He liked this Ree Ann Broussard much more. He would have to find a way to tell her that, show her that she was diminishing her life and wasting needless energy keeping up the ridiculous front. Or, better yet, he'd find the right man who would show her for him.
She linked her arm through his and smiled up at him. “Thank you,” she said after a few quiet moments.
“You're quite welcome,” he responded gallantly. “What deed has honored me with your gratitude?”
“It has been my experience that most men would form a, shall we say, less than favorable impression of my relationship with Edgar.”
Now it was Sebastien's turn to laugh. “I am not most men, Mademoiselle Broussard,” he said assuredly.
“No, sugar, you most certainly are not.”
Chapter 4
Jamie plopped down on the stool and ran the back of her hand across her forehead. She took a long pull on a bottle of spring water, then surveyed the attic with satisfaction. She wasn't done, not by a long shot, but it was a start.
With the air working again and with strategically placed fans, it was actually bearable. All the boxes had been moved and stacked to the back brick wall. She'd started to go through them, but the first couple yielded nothing all that interesting—broken appliances, some old clothes, and a pile of newspapers. No swords or pirate genies. So she'd relegated future exploration to a rainy day and instead set out to organize the clutter as best she could.
She'd hauled up the boxes holding her tools and materials, along with several small trunks containing some of her earlier models. She looked over the table she'd fashioned into a makeshift workbench. She'd need to build some shelves and put up a Peg-Board before she could unpack everything, but she was already excited at the prospect of starting up her hobby again. She hadn't decided on the model yet, but she knew that whatever she chose would require a bunch of research first.
She swallowed another cool sip and found her gaze drawn to the antique trunk. She'd put all the Mardi Gras stuff back inside and shoved it over to the short wall space between the two front dormers. Of course, out of sight was not out of mind.
It had been a little over a week since Sebastien had shown up to claim his clothing and take Ree out for a stroll. When Ree'd come back all dreamy-eyed over the man, Jamie had opted not to reveal the details of their initial meeting. Ree had pressed her on why she'd thought him a bit nutty, but Jamie just brushed it off as a mistake on her part. It was clear Ree wouldn't have been opposed to being paid some further attention by Monsieur Valentin. Jamie knew this shouldn't surprise her. Nor would it surprise her if Ree got her wish.
Wishes. Pirate genies. Soulmates.
She smacked the water bottle down on the workbench and jumped off the stool. She would be wise to forget she'd ever laid eyes—and lips—on the man. He was definitely not the type she needed in her life. Ree was welcome to him. He'd probably make a great boy toy for her.
Jamie, on the other hand, didn't play well with toys of that caliber. She always got emotionally attached. Then, inevitably, legally attached. So she was doing the wise thing. Which was to run screaming in the opposite direction.
She turned—and slammed face-first into a broad, well-muscled, linen-clad chest. So much for running in the opposite direction. She stumbled back, instinctively smacking him on the shoulder with her fist. “Don't ever do that to me again!”
Sebastien smiled, even as he rubbed the spot where she'd thwacked him. “What is it I've done?”
Her heart was racing, and it was only partially due to the shock of his sudden reappearance. Damn, but his chest was hard. And wide. And really—“You want it in alphabetical order, or in order of importance?”
Sebastien's lips quirked at her sarcastic tone but he politely replied, “Whichever suits you, mademoiselle.”
“What suits me is that you don't just pop up like that. Especially right in my personal space.”
“Personal space?”
She motioned with her hands in a small swirl around her body. “This space here. Mine. Do not enter. Clear enough, monsieur?”
His brow furrowed. “Clear enough. Are you certain you feel all right? You're a bit flushed.”
“I'm fine. Fine,” she lied. Knowing he sensed her panic did little to help her get a grip on it. “Why are you here? What do you want?”
He walked over to the side dormer. It was bigger than the two on the front of the building and she'd cleaned the windows earlier, so the sun gleamed through, shining on his dark hair and all-too-perfect profile. The slanting roofline only served to make him look more imposing as he prowled from one window to the next. She continued to study him as he paced. Even in a tailored shirt, pleated trousers, and Italian loafers, he looked the pirate. It was the wa
y he moved, she decided. Silently, with intent. Like a good smuggler should. She couldn't tear her eyes away from him. Maybe if she looked at him long enough, the strength of his impact on her libido would finally diminish.
He turned suddenly and looked directly at her. Her knees did that little dip thing and her skin felt like it had come alive as a separate part of her being. She sat down on the stool. Well, so much for that experiment.
“I have some questions to ask of you,” he said finally. “About your friends.”
“I thought genies did their thing without any outside help.”
“I'm not a genie.”
She waved her hand. “Whatever. Why should I help you win our bet?”
“Because you'd like to see your friends find eternal happiness?”
She laughed, but it wasn't quite as heartfelt as it should have been. “I think my friends are doing just fine for themselves, thanks.”
“But now you believe I am what I say I am?”
“I didn't say that. I'm just placating you.”
“Ah.” The teasing glint in his eyes reappeared.
She wasn't sure, but maybe he was less dangerous when he was serious. She didn't trust those twinkling eyes. “I'm on to you, you know. You just want the details on Ree Ann. She is pretty amazing.”
“Mademoiselle Broussard is an intriguing puzzle, oui. This will make my job more complex, yet more rewarding as well. There is much to her that she chooses not to reveal.” His smile deepened. “Ah, but the rewards that await the man who can plunder the buried treasures of her mind.”
Those words were not what she'd expected. She'd expected drooling and panting. Serious contemplation of Ree Ann as a person was new. He was dangerous. Twinkle or no twinkle. She'd have to warn Ree.
“And that man would be … you, perhaps?”
Now it was his turn to laugh, and it was as fullbodied and sincere as hers should have been earlier. “I do not involve myself personally with those I am destined to match. At least, not in that manner.”
“What manner is that?”
He looked directly at her. “Meaning I may well befriend them, but I do not bed them.”
Jamie was pretty certain there was an appropriate reaction to that announcement. One that would prove she'd grown and learned as a result of her previous disastrous relationships. Crushing disappointment was probably not it. “So … exactly how does this whole genie thing work? I mean, what are your special powers?”
Another tactical error. His grin turned decidedly wicked in response, and she winced as her nipples went rock-hard.
“I am not a genie.”
“Cupid, then. Your name is close enough to Valentine, right? That fits. Cupid with a sword instead of a bow and arrow.”
He smiled at that. “I am just a man.”
“A man on a mission,” she said wryly.
He nodded, quite serious. “Oui. That is what I am.”
Jamie honestly didn't know what to think about the whole thing. If he was just some nutjob on the loose, he at least seemed to be relatively harmless. Well, harmless in an I'm-not-going-to-chop-you-into-bits-andtoss- you-into-Lake-Pontchartrain-for-fish-food kind of way. In all other ways, he was totally dangerous. Yet she wasn't racing for the phone to call the cops.
And exactly what would she say if she did?
Hello, kind officer, I have a gorgeous guy in my attic, dressed in mmaculate designer clothes, who claims to be some sort of cupid genie.
Who would look like the nutjob? Yep, that was the kind of publicity the new shop needed, yessirree Bob.
And there was still the little matter of the sudden appearing and disappearing act he'd pulled that first night. Speaking of which … “How did you get up here today? We keep the door between the residence and the store locked during business hours.”
“Your cousin, Monsieur Jack Sullivan, directed me. An interesting fellow, quite personable. I'm not certain why you think he would have hired me to play a joke on you.”
Jamie rolled her eyes. “You don't know Jack.” She'd been given the luxury of a full day off when Jack had popped in that morning and begged to play the part of shopkeeper. He was wonderful with the customers—young, old, male, female … and all the variations in between—so she'd let him have his way and headed up here instead.
She almost wished she'd been downstairs when Sebastien had come into the shop. She could well imagine Jack's likely reaction to such a specimen entering his temporary domain. She had to stifle a smile. She also had to stifle Jack. “He shouldn't have let you up here without asking me first.”
“He was about to turn me away, but Mademoiselle Broussard, wonderful woman that she is, waved away his concerns.”
“Wonderful woman. Of course. Thanks, Ree.”
“Oui, you are fortunate to have such friends to care about you.”
“Care about me by letting strange men into my home?”
“I am no longer such a stranger, am I?” He paused, then said, “You did not tell them about me. About my … mission, as you called it. Why?”
“I didn't think that was really wise. In fact, this whole thing is really—”
“Inevitable,” he broke in. “You cannot undo the summons. But I agree with your decision to leave my true purpose unheralded. I should have mentioned that the first night. Things tend to go much more smoothly when only my master—or mistress, in this case—knows who I really am.”
“And just who are you?” He was very convincing, and yet she knew it was utterly ridiculous to allow, for even one second, that he was truly what he said he was. Ridiculous and dangerous.
He walked over to the stool where she sat. Her every muscle steeled itself for … whatever it was he planned to do.
You are in no danger from me, mon amie,” he said quietly.
Had he read her thoughts too? Did he know she was remembering their kiss? The feel of his lips on hers, so confident, so certain. So damnably brief.
“That all depends on how you define danger,” she answered. She scooted back and slid off the stool, slowly sidling away from him until she stood looking out the side dormer window. She needed distance.
“What questions did you want to ask?”
“I want to hear more about these lessons you spoke of.”
“Lessons?” She turned back to face him. Tactical error number … hell, she'd lost count. The sun seemed to track him, always bathing him in that golden, ethereal light. In that moment she could almost believe he was exactly what he claimed to be. If he vanished right then and there, she doubted she'd be surprised. Maybe she just wanted to believe.
Not a good sign at all.
“The lessons you spoke of that first night, when you summoned me. You and your friends have learned from them not to trust love. Who taught you this?”
Now she really wished he would disappear. He had this intent way of looking not just at her but … into her. But she didn't turn away. Another thought had occurred to her: Maybe this was a good way of testing herself. He was the one she could judge her recent life-altering decisions by. And Lord only knew he was a good measuring stick. She was absolutely attracted to him. He was totally and completely unsuitable for her. Perfect.
More than perfect, really. Her first husband, Chad—good-looking, three-timing, jerkface slimeball that he was—had admitted he was a good-looking, three-timing, jerkface slimeball. Well, only after she'd caught him in bed with not one but two of the most unnaturally built race-circuit bunnies she'd ever had the displeasure to see. And she'd seen way too much. Even he, Chad of the Golden Tongue, hadn't been able to sweet-talk his way out of that one. Of course, he'd tried. There was a lot of money riding on her swallowing that Golden Tongue of his. He'd been pretty inventive too.
But never once had he claimed to be a genie. If she dealt with her attraction to Sebastien and controlled herself, she would know for sure she'd really matured and finally gotten a grip on her biggest character flaw. And, at age thirty, it was about damn time.
“Jamie?”
Okay. She loved the way he said her first name. And why not? So she nixed the experiment idea. It didn't mean she couldn't fantasize about the man, right? She could only imagine what he'd be like in bed, whispering naughty nothings in that French accent. She felt her skin grow even warmer.
“These lessons of love. Who taught them to you?”
She sighed. Fantasyland was much more fun than Harsh Reality Land. “What difference does it make?”
“Knowing where things went wrong before will help me with the matches I will make for your friends. And then for you.”
“You seem rather confident about this.”
He simply nodded, then waited with an expectant smile.
She blew out another, deeper sigh. He really was totally charming. For a delusional person. “And I should help you why?”
“That eternal-happiness thing?”
She laughed at his awkward, French-accented attempt at modern lingo. It occurred to her then just how un-modern he generally sounded. She'd chalked it up to his accent, but now her curiosity was piqued. “How long have you been here? In the U.S., I mean.”
He smiled at the question. “I am from Corsica originally. I was pressed into service with our navy against the Ottomans by Napoleon when I was eleven years old. Over the next dozen years events transpired that resulted in my being taken on, not altogether willingly, by a privateer named Dominique You, who worked out of the Gulf. I ended up here when they began … trading out of Barataria Bay and the bayous of New Orleans.” That mischievous twinkle surfaced. “As it happened, I took to their way of life rather quickly.”
Their way of life was the pirate life. Jamie knew who Dominique You was. He had worked very closely with another famous “privateer”—Jean Laffite and his brother, Pierre. Which would have been in, oh, around 1810. Give or take a year or two.
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