Tell Me Something Good

by Emery, Lynn

  “Smart and ambitious. I knew it from the moment we met. But I meant, tell me something about you personally.” He pushed his half-eaten salad aside.

  “Personally,” she repeated, gazing back at him.

  “It’s only fair, since you know so much about me.”

  “Not that much, really,” Lyrissa said. “All I know is that you have an MBA from Loyola. You became CEO of your family’s corporation three years ago, after your uncle was forced to retire. Since then you’ve reorganized the company.”

  “Very good. Now what’s my favorite color?” His mind- numbing smile flashed again.

  She was ready this time. Lyrissa wore a serene expression as she met his gaze. “My interest is professional.”

  Noel didn’t respond immediately. He seemed to be deciding on his next move. His expression didn’t change, but his direction did. “Okay, let’s talk business. What are collections like ours worth?”

  “Difficult to say, until I get at least a general idea of what we’re talking about. But obviously it’s valuable.”

  “Yes, we know that Has Taylor Gallery handled similar appraisals?” Noel drummed the fingertips of his right hand on the white linen tablecloth.

  Lyrissa took a small bite of fish and chewed slowly. Let him wait for a while, she thought. At last she dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “Similar, but not as large. I suppose Mrs. St. Denis is preparing her will and needs a dollar figure.”

  “That’s part of it,” he said vaguely. “Tell me this, how long will the appraisal take?”

  “How long will it take for you to get me the list and track down where each piece is?” Lyrissa asked.

  Noel drew a cream colored legal envelope from his in-side jacket pocket. “Here’s the list.” He opened it and took out the folded sheets.

  Lyrissa put down her fork and took them from him. She scanned five pages of the neatly printed list for several minutes. Each page contained two columns describing works of art.

  “You don’t have the artists’ names or locations indicated on over half the items. Do you have another, more complete list?” She held up the sheets of paper as though they were useless.

  He sighed deeply. “Now you see the problem.”

  “You don’t have any idea where fifty percent of the most valuable privately held collection of Creole and African-American art is?” Lyrissa said sharply. There was no mistaking the criticism in her voice.

  “We have a general idea,” Noel said, an abashed expression on his face. “But as we told you, it’s all in the family. At least, we’re pretty sure.”

  “You’re pretty sure,” she repeated.

  “It’s really not that bad, Lyrissa.”

  “Noel, I—”

  “We’ve made progress!” he cut in. “You called me by my first name.”

  Lyrissa pressed her lips together. “Let’s talk about how we can begin, despite the difficulties.”

  “Yes, let’s,” he said brightly and bent his head close to hers.

  They talked about how she would proceed with the appraisal for another thirty minutes. Lyrissa spent most of that time taming her reaction to being so close to him. She felt drained by the time they said goodbye. On the other hand, Noel had a decided spring in his step as he strode toward his car. She wanted to slap the arrogance from his stride.

  For the rest of the day she was in a bad mood without quite knowing why. Fighting New Orleans rush hour traffic to get home didn’t help her relax. She unlocked the front door to the two-story family home and tossed her leather briefcase on the foyer table. Her grandmother and Aunt Claire came from the living room.

  “Tell us all about it, dear. Is he as handsome as they say?” Aunt Claire bubbled, her dark eyes bright. “We’ve been dying to find out all day.”

  “Claire, please!” Mama Grace snapped. She turned to Lyrissa. “Where is our painting? I hope those thieving pi-rates haven’t sold it.” She wore a deep scowl.

  Lyrissa sighed heavily. The tight feeling in her neck traveled up to her temples. “Can I at least sit down?”

  “Of course, cher,” Aunt Claire clucked like a mother hen. “I have your favorite—iced mint tea.” She started off down the hall toward the kitchen, then stopped and turned around. “Don’t say anything until I get back.”

  Mama Grace took Lyrissa’s hand and led her to the sofa. “Take your shoes off and put your feet up.”

  Lyrissa knew very well the attention, though sincere, was to get her back on the subject of the painting. Aunt Claire came back and fussed over her. Soon Lyrissa had a tall glass of tea in one hand, a napkin on her lap, and two sets of eager dark eyes gazing at her in anticipation. Her grandmother and aunt sat on the long paisley print sofa facing her.

  “I don’t know where the painting is. But,” Lyrissa hastened to add, when she saw their disappointment, “Mr. Taylor is busy with the Hayden exhibit and working with Dillard on its collection. Which means—”

  “You’ll handle the St. Denis appraisal. Bravo, Lyrissa!” Mama Grace clapped her hands.

  “Clever girl! We’ll have our ancestor’s magnificent painting back where it belongs in no time,” Aunt Claire added.

  “And we’ll knock Georgina St. Denis off her high horse once and for all.” Mama Grace sat back with a look of satisfaction.

  “Don’t get happy just yet,” Lyrissa cautioned. “Getting that painting away from Georgina St. Denis won’t be easy.”

  “You can do it. Don’t let her intimidate you,” Mama Grace said sternly.

  “Right,” Lyrissa whispered, more to herself than to Mama Grace.

  She sipped her tea as Mama Grace and Aunt Claire talked. Lyrissa could still feel Noel’s sensual charisma flowing over her like a satin sheet. A small voice told her Mrs. St. Denis might be the least of her worries.

  Chapter 3

  Lyrissa gazed at the grand St Denis family mansion as she approached it. Somewhere in there was the key to retrieving her family legacy. Mama Grace had told her stories about their magnificent ancestors for as long as she could remember. Past family glory was all Mama Grace and Aunt Claire had to hold onto. They had lived a life of genteel near-poverty for years before Lyrissa was born, always teetering on the edge of a financial crisis. Yet Mama Grace did have an abundance of pride to pass on. Her grandmother and great-aunt always held their heads high in public. Still she knew how much it hurt them to be treated inferior by the “best” old families.

  Pride helped Lyrissa deal with the subtle and blatant insults she suffered as a child. Feeling second-class, never good enough, had taken a toll on her sense of worth. With each accomplishment she’d had to overcome doubt in her own ability. Now she would deliver the mother of all pay-backs to those high and mighty New Orleans society Creoles. Lyrissa tingled at the prospect of throwing each taunt back in their smug faces. She’d show them what the Jouberts were made of!

  She parked her car in the circular driveway, and headed up the steps. For a moment she stared at the front door— made of beveled glass with an oak frame—then she rang the bell. A tall, dark woman wearing a white uniform dress opened it after several minutes.

  “Good morning, I’m here to see Mrs. St. Denis,” Lyrissa said.

  “You the lady from the art gallery?” The woman blocked the door as though she were a security guard.

  “Yes, Lyrissa Rideau.” She took one of her business cards from a side pocket of her briefcase and handed it to her.

  “Hmm.” The woman studied it as though considering its authenticity. “Come on in. Can’t be too careful these days. I’m Rosalie. Been keeping house for Miss Georgina fifteen years.”

  “Thank you,” Lyrissa said with a respectful nod, and then entered the foyer.

  The parquet floor gleamed. On either side of the wide hall were long antique tables. Each held a tall vase filled with fresh spring bouquets. Several feet ahead a staircase curved gently to the west and up to the second floor. There was also a small elevator of wrought iron. Lyrissa recognized it as o
ne commonly made around the turn of the century for private homes of the wealthy. Rosalie turned to give her another once-over.

  “Rideau, huh? I went to school with a Clarence Rideau. Know him?” Rosalie asked.

  “The name doesn’t ring a bell. But then, I’ve got a mil-lion relatives.” Lyrissa smiled and shrugged. “I’ll ask my grandmother.”

  Rosalie seemed to warm a bit. “Betcha he’s one of your cousins. And don’t get me started on having too many kinfolks. Most of the time one of ’em wants to borrow money or be fed.” She waved a hand.

  Lyrissa laughed. “And I’ll bet you can’t say no.” “Humph! Guess again,” she retorted with spirit. “So you gonna count up their fancy doodads.” Rosalie’s tone seemed to be the seal of approval.

  “Yes. I’m looking forward to it There are some beautiful things here.” Lyrissa walked over to an early nineteenth century ornate mirror that hung on the wall. Its wooden frame was painted an antique gold.

  “Yeah, if you like old stuff. Me, I prefer modern furniture. These things give me the creeps, buncha antiques from dead folks.”

  “You make it sound like the house is haunted,” Lyrissa teased.

  “Sugar, I wouldn’t be here if it was,” Rosalie replied with a grin. “But some of them old people was real mean.” She nodded to a line of oil portraits that hung on the wall along the staircase. Lyrissa walked over to get a better look. Two grim men and two haughty women stared straight ahead. All were dressed in period clothes from bygone eras. Small brass plates bore their names.

  “They don’t look too cuddly, do they?” Lyrissa murmured.

  “My granddaddy used to say that bad deeds get attached to things,” Rosalie said somberly. “Guess that’s why I don’t like antiques.”

  Lyrissa shivered at the tone of her voice. “There are happy memories attached to antiques, too.”

  “Uh-huh.” Rosalie gazed at the portraits a second longer, and then looked at Lyrissa again. Her expression brightened. “Better show you to her highness before she starts fussin’.”

  “I’m ready,” Lyrissa said and tugged on her skirt to straighten it. “Will Mr. St. Denis be here, too?” She tried to make the question sound casual.

  “Which one of her sons you talkin’ ’bout. Richard or Willie?” Rosalie gestured for her to follow.

  “I mean her grandson Noel.” Lyrissa felt the heat once again just saying his name.

  Rosalie looked at Lyrissa more closely and a sly smile spread across the housekeeper’s face. “I wondered why he showed up.”

  “They both met with my boss about the St. Denis collection,” Lyrissa said too quickly and blushed. Rosalie’s knowing expression was like an x ray right into her mind.

  “Uh-huh. Mr. All-work-no-play usually goes to the office by seven in the morning and don’t leave until six in the evening. He must really be interested in the collection. Here we go.”

  Rosalie walked off before Lyrissa could lob a come-back. They went down the hall past a set of beautiful carved oak doors. Lyrissa wanted to stop and examine them, but didn’t. They proceeded to another set of doors that slid apart.

  The lovely sitting room, smaller than the formal living room for entertaining, was decorated in soft pink, gray, blue, and moss green. An antique rug of pink roses with green leaves covered the floor. A set of dark rose-colored chairs matched a Queen Anne sofa in soft green-and- pink-pattered upholstery. Blue drapes covered large windows that overlooked a patch of lawn. Groups of family photos in silver frames lined the top of a console table. One larger than the rest stood alone on a marble mantel. The frame was sterling silver studded with marcasite. A handsome man with a thick mustache stood ramrod straight in the black-and-white photograph.

  “How wonderful!” Lyrissa forgot her reserve. She studied the pictures as though she were at a museum photo exhibit.

  “That’s my papa,” Miss Georgina said with pride from her seat at an antique desk.

  Lyrissa started. She’d been so absorbed in taking in the decor that she hadn’t even noticed Mrs. St. Denis was sitting quietly in the room.

  “Etienne Rohas. French and Spanish blood.”

  “And African,” Lyrissa added without thinking.

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

  “She said African. Most likely West Africa by way of Cuba.” Noel’s deep voice came from another comer of the room. He must have slipped in from a back entrance. There is no way she wouldn’t have felt his presence upon entering the room.

  He wore a wide smile. His even white teeth sparkled against the creamy brown skin of his face. A sky blue dress shirt stretched across his broad chest. Narrow hips tapered down to muscular thighs covered by navy pinstriped slacks.

  “Hello again, Lyrissa,” he said.

  “Hi,” Lyrissa managed.

  Miss Georgina shot Noel a glance heavy with meaning. “Interesting,” she murmured.

  “Our African ancestor came from St. Domingue, now known as Cuba, in seventeen eighty-two,” he said mildly despite his grandmother’s tight expression. “We do have African blood, Grandmother.”

  “I know that,” Miss Georgina snapped. She gave him a look that could have cut through steel.

  Lyrissa cleared her throat. “Your home is lovely,” she said to ease the tension.

  “Thank you. Please sit down, Ms. Rideau.”

  “Here. Best seat in the house.” He ushered Lyrissa over to a pair of leather chairs facing Miss Georgina’s desk He sat next to her.

  “My grandson tells me you weren’t pleased with our list.” Mrs. St. Denis fixed her with a stony gaze.

  “More information on the items would certainly make the process easier,” Lyrissa replied carefully. She wondered just how much Noel had told her about their meeting.

  “Your job is to catalogue and appraise our family art,” Mrs. St. Denis said.

  Lyrissa swallowed a tart reply itching to slip from her lips. She couldn’t afford to get tossed out on her butt the first day of this assignment. She would have to face her furious boss. Worse still, Mama Grace would throw a fit that would make Mrs. St. Denis seem like a pussycat. Noel seemed to take great delight in watching the two strong women face off. Lyrissa ground her teeth with the effort, but succeeded in plastering on a subservient smile.

  “Of course. I only meant you would have the report faster if the list were more complete,” Lyrissa said.

  After a few beats, Mrs. St Denis gave a slight nod. She wore the expression of a queen granting reprieve to an of-fending subject. “Time is a consideration. But I don’t think you’ll have a difficult task.”

  Rosalie came in. “Miz Olivier is on the phone for ya. Somethin’ ’bout a problem with the St. Augustine charity ball.”

  “Can’t Beatrice do at least one thing without calling me?” Mrs. St Denis muttered in irritation. “I’d better take this call.”

  Noel stood. “I’ll show Lyrissa where to begin. My grandfather’s study has a small display room next to it,” he said to Lyrissa.

  Mrs. St. Denis flashed him another silent message, but merely nodded. She watched them leave, and then punched a blinking button on the phone before her. “Yes, yes, Beatrice. Now what?”

  Lyrissa walked beside the tall, handsome man very much aware that Mrs. St. Denis was not pleased. “Rosalie can show me the way. I know how busy you must be.”

  “No problem,” he said with a charming smile.

  “Uh-huh,” was Rosalie’s arch comment as she headed off in the opposite direction.

  As she followed him back to the antique doors she’d so admired, Lyrissa had the distinct feeling she was walking into trouble. Being alone with Noel would be a distraction. She wanted to get rid of him so she could snoop around. The fact that he had an uncanny knack for turning her on was an even better reason.

  “Here we are. Grandfather’s inner sanctum.” Noel swept a hand around, indicating a large study. Two walls consisted of floor-to-ceiling bookcases.

  “What a marvelous collection of ol
d books!” Lyrissa crossed the thick carpet to read the spines. Many had titles in French.

  “So you’re a book lover, too.” Noel joined her.

  “I could spend hours in here,” she said, brushing her fingertips along the embossed leather covers.

  “What a great idea. We could spend them together.” Noel wore a bland expression when Lyrissa glanced at him sharply. “—Working on completing the list, of course.” “Of course.” Lyrissa stepped away from him. He was far too sure of himself for her taste. “You mentioned a display room?”

  “Through here.” Noel went to a door set in the opposite wall. He opened it and waited for her to follow.

  To her dismay, the door was narrow and she brushed against him as she entered the room. Her pulse raced at the brief contact. Still she remembered her real purpose for being here. She looked around. There were four long glass display cases. Two contained old documents. The others held antique eyeglasses, writing pens, and other items no doubt owned by St. Denis ancestors. Framed antique maps of New Orleans, Louisiana and Haiti hung on the walls.

  “This is a small museum,” Lyrissa said and looked at Noel. “These should be catalogued as well.”

  “Taken care of, ma’am. The Amistad Center will get these on permanent loan from the family.”

  Lyrissa nodded. The Amistad Center had been established to preserve African-American history. “Very good.” “We’re not completely irresponsible,” Noel said dryly. “Why didn’t you have them catalogue the art as well?” “We need a professional appraisal.” Noel stood aside so she could lead the way back into the study.

  “I see. I assume I can work here after a tour of the house’s art. I’ll sit at this small table.” Lyrissa started for-ward, but he put a hand on her arm. Her skin tingled at his touch through the fabric of her jacket.

  “You’ll need more room. Sit at the desk.”

  “Your grandfather’s desk? Mrs. St. Denis might not like that at all.” Lyrissa moved away to break contact and clear her head of bothersome fantasies forming.

  Mrs. St. Denis came in. “I don’t mind one bit. You’ll have more room and your work will go faster.”