by Нора Робертс
Julian had knocked the candlestick off the mantel, and it had chipped the tile. Drunk again. Raging again.
The cell phone in his pocket rang and had Declan sitting back on his heels. Blinking, displaced, he gazed around the empty room. What had he been doing? Thinking? He glanced down at his thumb and saw he'd rubbed it raw on the jagged tile. Disoriented, he dragged out his phone.
"Yeah. Hello?”
"There he is. I was about to give you up." Remy's cheerful voice jangled in his head as Declan stared at the tile. He'd been thinking about the tile. Something …
"I'm, ah, doing a room by room. Measuring. Stuff.”
"How about you get yourself out of there for a while? I got me a late meeting, thought you could meet me for a drink after. Effie, too, if I can drag her out.”
"What time is it?" Declan turned his wrist to check his watch. "Midnight? It's midnight?”
"Not yet it's not. You been drinking already?”
"Just coffee." He frowned at his watch, tapped the face. "Battery m/'ve gone.”
"It's just after six. I should be able to wiggle loose by nine. Why don't you come on in? I'll meet you at Et Trois, in the Quarter, on Dauphine about a block off Bourbon.”
"Yeah." Absently, he shoved at his hair, found his forehead was lightly beaded with sweat. "Yeah, that sounds fine.”
"You need directions, Yankee boy?”
"I'll find it." He rubbed his throbbing thumb. "Remy?”
"That's my name.”
Declan shook his head, laughed at himself. "Nothing. See you later.”
He drove in early. He wasn't particularly interested in drinking, but wanted to see the metamorphosis of New Orleans from day to night. The streets gleamed under the carnival of lights, teemed with the crowds who streamed along, looking for entertainment.
It was neither the tourists nor the merchants who ran the show, in Declan's opinion. It was the city itself. And its wheels turned on music.
It pumped from doorways, cool jazz, hot rock, melting blues. Overhead, restaurant galleries were thick with diners who warded off the January chill with spicy sauce and alcohol. The strip club hawkers promised all manner of visual delights, and in the shops cash registers rang as tourists gorged on T– shirts and Mardi Gras masks. The bars served hurricanes to the Yankees, and beer and liquor to those who knew better.
But it was the music that kept the parade marching.
He soaked it in as he strolled down Bourbon, past doorways, bright lights, and sudden, unexpected courtyards. He skirted around a group of women who clutched together on the sidewalk chattering like magpies.
He caught the scent of them-flowers and candy– and felt the typical male reaction of pleasure and panic when they burst into giggles.
"Nice ass," one of them commented, and Declan kept on walking.
Women in packs were dangerous and mysterious entities.
It occurred to him that if he were going to meet Effie, he should take her a token. Some sort of engagement gift. He didn't know what she liked, or what she was like, come to that. But if there was one thing he was good at, it was buying gifts.
Wishing he'd thought of it earlier, he poked through a couple of shops without much hope. Nearly everything in this section was geared for the tourist trade, and he didn't think a wind-up, plastic penis was quite the thing for a first introduction. A gift could wait, he reflected, or he could just fall back on the basket of girl lotions and potions.
Then he saw it. The silver frog squatted on all fours as if it was about to take a good, springy hop. It had a cheerfully wicked face and a big, smart-ass grin. And reminded Declan instantly of Remy.
If this Effie had fallen for his old college pal, she had to appreciate whimsy. He had it wrapped in fancy paper with a big red bow.
It was still shy of nine when he turned onto Dauphine.
He was ready to sit in a bar, away from the center ring of the circus. Maybe listen to some music and work on a beer. For the next several weeks, he was going to have to tow the line. Spend his days tearing into the kitchen, his evenings planning his next point of attack. He had to track down specific craftsmen. Get bids. Get started.
For tonight, he'd spend some time with friends, then go home and get a solid eight hours' sleep.
He spotted the sign for Et Trois. It was hard to miss as it danced cheerfully in cool blue over the scarred wooden door of a building barely two good strides from the street.
The second floor boasted the typical gallery and lacy iron baluster. Someone had decked it out with fat clay pots of hot pink geraniums and strung little white fairy lights along the eaves. It made a pretty, feminine picture. The kind of spot where you might sit, drink a glass of wine, and contemplate the people strolling by below.
He opened the door to a blast of jumpy zydeco, the scent of garlic and whiskey. On the small stage was a five-piece band– washboard, fiddle, drums, guitar, accordion. The little dance floor was already packed with people executing the quick, fancy two-step the music cried for.
Through the dim light he could see that none of the round wooden tables scooted to the side were free. He turned toward the bar. The wood was nearly black with age, but it gleamed. A dozen backless stools were jammed together. Declan copped the single one left before someone beat him to it.
Bottles lined the mirror behind the bar, and interspersed with them were salt and pepper shakers in a variety of themes. An elegant couple in evening dress, dogs, Rocky and Bullwinkle, Porky and Petunia, the round, naked breasts of a reclining woman, carnival masks and winged fairies.
He contemplated them, considered the sort of person who would collect and display fairies and body parts, and decided it was someone who understood New Orleans.
Onstage, the fiddle player began to sing in Cajun. She had a voice like a rusty saw that was inexplicably appealing. Tapping his foot, Declan glanced down to the end of the bar. The man tending had dreadlocks down to his waist, a face that might have been carved by a very skilled hand out of a polished coffee bean, and hands that moved with balletic grace as he worked taps and poured shots.
He started to lift his hand to get the bartender's attention. And then she walked out of the door behind the bar.
Later, when he could think clearly, he would decide it had been like having a sledgehammer plowed into his chest. Not stopping his heart, but jump-starting it. His heart, his blood, his loins, his brain. Everything went from holding pattern to quick march in an instant.
There you are! something in his mind shouted. Finally.
He could hear the race of his body like a hard hum that drowned out the music, the voices. His vision focused in on her so completely it was as if she were spotlighted on a black stage.
She wasn't beautiful, not in any classic sense. What she was, was spectacular.
Her hair was midnight black, a gypsy mane that spilled wild curls over her shoulders. Her face was fox-sharp– the narrow, somewhat aristocratic nose, the high, planed cheeks, the tapered chin. Her eyes were long and heavy-lidded, her mouth wide, full and painted blood-lust red.
It didn't quite go together, he thought as his brain jumbled. The elements in the face shouldn't work as a whole. But they were perfect. Striking, sexy, superb.
She was small, almost delicately built, and wore a tight scooped-neck shirt the color of poppies that showed off the lean muscles of her arms, the firm curve of her breasts. Tucked into the valley of those breasts was a silver chain with a tiny silver key.
Her skin was dusky, her eyes, when they flicked to his, the deep, rich brown of bitter chocolate.
Those red lips curved-a slow, knowing smile as she strolled over, leaned on the bar so their faces were close enough for him to see the tiny beauty mark just above the right curve of her top lip. Close enough for him to catch the scent of night-blooming jasmine, and start to drown in it.
"Can I do something for you, cher?”
Oh yeah, he thought. Please.
But all that came out was: "Um …
" She gave her head a little toss, then angled it as she sized him up. She spoke again, in that easy Cajun rhythm. "You thirsty? Or just … hungry tonight?”
"Ah …" He wanted to lap his tongue over those red lips, that tiny mole, and slurp her right up. "Corona.”
He watched her as she got the bottle, snagged a lime. She had a walk like a dancer, somewhere between ballet and exotic. He could literally feel his tongue tangling into knots.
"You want to run a tab, handsome?”
"Ah." God, Fitzgerald, pull yourself together. "Yeah, thanks. What's it unlock?" When she lifted her eyebrows, he picked up the bottle. "Your key?”
"This?" She reached down, trailed a finger over the little key and sent his blood pressure through the roof. "Why, my heart, cher. What'd you think?”
He reached out a hand for hers. If he didn't touch her, he was afraid he might break down and sob. "I'm Declan."
"Is that right?" She left her hand in his. "Nice name. Not usual.”
"It's … Irish.”
"Uh-huh." She turned his hand over, leaned down as if reading the palm. "What do I see here? You haven't been in New Orleans long, but you hope to be. Got yourself out of the cold, cold North, did you, Declan?”
"Yeah. Guess that's not hard to figure.”
She looked up again, and this time his heart did stop. "I can figure more. Rich Yankee lawyer down from Boston. You bought Manet Hall.”
"Do I know you?" He felt something-like a link forged onto a chain-when his hand gripped hers. "Have we met before?”
"Not in this life, darling." She gave his hand a little pat, then moved down the bar filling more orders.
But she kept an eye on him. He wasn't what she'd expected from Remy's description. Though she was damned if she knew what she'd expected. Still, she was a woman who liked surprises. The man sitting at her bar, watching her out of storm-gray eyes, looked to be full of them.
She liked his eyes. She was used to men looking at her with desire, but there'd been more in his. A kind of breathless shock that was both flattering and sweet.
And it was appealing to have a man who looked like he could handle anything you tossed at him fumble when you smiled at him.
Though he'd barely touched his beer, she worked her way back to him, tapped a finger to the bottle. "Ready for another?”
"No, thanks. Can you take a break? Can I buy you a drink, coffee, a car, a dog?”
"What's in there?”
He glanced at the little gift bag he'd set on the bar. "It's just a present for someone I'm meeting.”
"You buy gifts for lots of women, Declan?”
"She's not a woman. I mean, not my woman. I don't actually have one-it's just … I used to be better at this.”
"Better at what?”
"At hitting on women.”
She laughed-the low, throaty sound of his fantasies.
"Can you take a break? We'll kick somebody away from a table and you can give me another chance.”
"You're not doing so bad with the first one. I own the place, so I don't get breaks.”
"This is your place?”
"That's right." She turned as one of the waitresses came to the bar with a tray.
"Wait. Wait." He reached for her hand again. "I don't know your name. What's your name?”
"Angelina." She said softly. "But they call me Lena, 'cause I ain't no angel. Cher." She trailed a finger down his cheek, then stepped away to fill orders.
Declan took a deep, long swallow of beer to wash back the saliva that had pooled in his mouth.
He was trying to work out another approach when Remy slapped him on the back. "We're going to need us a table, son.”
"View's better from here.”
Remy followed the direction of Declan's gaze. "One of the best the city offers. You meet my cousin Lena?”
"Cousin?”
"Fourth cousins, I'm thinking. Might be fifth. Angelina Simone, one of New Orleans's jewels. And here's another. Effie Renault. Effie darling, this is my good friend Declan Fitzgerald.”
"Hello, Declan." She wiggled between him and Remy and kissed Declan's cheek. "I'm so happy to meet you.”
She had a cloud of blond hair around a pretty, heart-shaped face, and eyes of clear summer blue. Her lips had a deep, Kewpie doll curve and were a rosy pink.
She looked like she should be leading cheers at the local high school.
"You're too pretty to waste yourself on this guy," Declan told her. "Why don't you run away with me instead?”
"When do we leave?”
With a chuckle, Declan slid off the stool and returned her kiss. "Nice job, Remy.”
"Best work I ever did." Remy pressed his lips to Effie's hair. "Sit on down there, darling. Place is packed. Bar might be the best we do. You want wine?"
"The house white'll be fine.”
"Get you a refill there, Declan?”
"I'll get it. I'm buying.”
"If that's the case, get my girl here the good chardonnay. I'll have what you're having.”
"Look what the cat dragged." Lena sent Remy a grin. "Hey, Effie. What's everybody drinking tonight?”
"A glass of chardonnay for the lady. And two more Coronas," Declan told her. "Then maybe you can call nine-one-one. My heart stops every time I look at you.”
"Your friend's got himself a smooth way once he gets rolling, Remy." Lena took a bottle of wine from the cooler.
"Those Harvard girls were putty in his hands.”
"We southern girls are too used to the heat to melt easy." She poured wine, topped the beers with lime wedges.
"I do know you." It bounced back in his memory. "I saw you, this morning, playing with your dog. Big black dog, near the pond.”
"Rufus." It gave her a little jolt to realize he'd watched her. "He's my grandmama's dog. That's her house back the bayou. I go out sometimes and stay with her if she's feeling poorly. Or just lonely.”
"Come by the Hall next time you're out. I'll give you the tour.”
"Just might. I've never been inside." She set a fresh bowl of pretzels on the bar. "Y'all want something from the kitchen?”
"We'll think about that," Remy said.
"Just let us know." She swung around and through the back door.
"You gonna want to mop that drool off your chin, Dec." Remy squeezed Declan's shoulder. "It's embarrassing.”
"Don't tease him, Remy. A man doesn't get a little worked up around Lena, he's got some essential parts missing.”
"You definitely should run away with me," Declan decided. "But meanwhile. Best wishes." He nudged the gift bag in front of her.
"You bought me a present? Aren't you the sweetest thing!" She tore into it with an enthusiasm that made Declan grin. And when she held up the frog, she stopped, stared. Then threw back her head and let out a hooting laugh. "It looks like Remy. Look here, honey, he's got your smile.”
"I don't see it.”
"I do. Dec did." She swiveled on the stool and beamed up into Declan's face. "I like you. I'm so glad I like you. I love this moron here so much I can hardly stand it, so I'd've pretended I liked you even if I didn't. But I don't have to pretend.”
"Oh now, don't start watering up, Effie." Remy dug out a handkerchief as she sniffled. "She does that when she's happy. Night I asked her to marry me, she cried so much it took her ten minutes to say yes.”
He pulled her off the stool. "Come on, chиre, you dance with me till you dry up again.”
Declan got back on the stool, picked up his beer, and watched them circle the floor.
"They look good together," Lena commented from behind him.
"Yeah. Yeah, they do. Interested in seeing how we look together?”
"You are persistent." She let out a breath. "What kind of car you going to buy me?”
"Car?”
"You offered to buy me a drink, coffee, a car or a dog. I can buy my own drinks, and I like my own coffee. I got a dog, more or less. A car, too. But I don't see why I shouldn't have two c
ars. What car are you buying me?”
"Your choice.”
"I'll let you know," she replied, then moved down the bar once more.
He worked solidly for three days. There was little, in Declan's opinion, more satisfying than tearing something apart. Even putting it back together again didn't reach into the gut with that same primal zing.
He gutted the kitchen, ripping out the center island, the counters and cabinets. He steamed off wallpaper and yanked up linoleum.
He was left with a shell of plaster and wood, and endless possibilities.
In the evenings he nursed his blisters and strained muscles, and pored through design books.
Every morning, before he started the day, he took his first cup of coffee out on the gallery and hoped for a glimpse of Lena and the big black dog she'd called Rufus.
He contacted workmen and craftsmen, ordered materials, and in a frenzy of enthusiasm, bought a full-sized pickup truck straight off the lot.
The first night he was able to build a fire in the downriver parlor, he toasted the occasion, and himself, with a solitary glass of Merlot.
There'd been no more sleepwalking, but there had been dreams. He could remember only snatches of them upon waking. Music-often the tune had seemed to be lodged in his brain like a tumor. Or raised voices.
Once he'd dreamed of sex, of soft sighs in the dark, of the lazy glide of flesh over flesh, and the need rising up like a warm wave.
He'd woken with his muscles quivering and the scent of lilies just fading from his senses.
Since dreaming about sex seemed to be the best he could manage, he put his energies into the work.
When he did take a break, it was to pay a call, and he went armed with a bouquet of white daisies and a rawhide bone.
The bayou house was a single-story cypress, shotgun style. Tobacco-colored water snaked around it on three sides. A small white boat swayed gently at a sagging dock.
Trees hemmed it in where the water didn't. The cypress and live oak and pecan. From the limbs hung clear bottles half-filled with water. And nestled into the gnarled roots of a live oak stood a painted statue of the Blessed Virgin.
There were purple pansies at her feet.
A little porch faced the dirt drive, and there were more potted flowers on it along with a rocking chair. The shutters were painted a mossy green. The screen door was patched in two places, and through the checkerboard net came the strong, bluesy voice of Ethel Waters.