The Queen of Dauphine Street

by Thea de Salle

  Which delighted Maddy beyond words. Her celebrity afforded her the ability to be an asshole most of the time, up to and including intimidating hopeful real estate agents when they got pee-on-the-rug-like-a-puppy eager.

  “Susan, darling,” Maddy said, running her hand over the wall, the paint texture bumpy against her fingers. “I need to talk to my sweetbuns. Be a doll and give us a minute? Patrice!” Patrice knew her job, and she promptly ushered a fretful real estate agent outside to the gardens, the grip on Susan’s arm ironclad.

  Susan wasn’t escaping unless she gnawed her own arm off. By the furtive glances she cast Maddy and Darren’s way, she was clearly considering it.

  The back door closed with a resounding thud.

  “So?” Maddy spun around, her polka-dotted skirt flitting around her knees. Darren promptly took advantage by crawling toward her, stuffing his head up under her dress. She giggled and he bit her hip, eliciting a squeal from Maddy. “Stop that!”

  “Oh no. Susan might see. Whatever will she do?”

  “Kick us out, probably. I’ve been arrested for trespassing on this property once before, you know. Queen of Dauphine and all.”

  “Does this mean I fuck royalty?” The question was followed by a not-so-chaste kiss to Maddy’s panties. She snorted and bonked him on the head through the fabric.

  “Behave. And maybe, dove. Maybe.”

  Darren popped out from under the dress to flash his gorgeous smile two seconds before he stood and picked her up, his hands on her ass as he backed her into the wall. Maddy’s arms wrapped around his neck as he leaned in to nibble on her collarbone.

  “I like this neckline. What’s it called?” he asked, muffled against her.

  “A halter top. Dove. Darren. You need to focus. The house.”

  “Yes. The house. It’s very nice. Something about roots. You smell good.” He rolled his hips against her before he stole her mouth for a series of soft, flirty kisses that made her extra glad she’d worn the liquid lipstick so he wouldn’t come out the other side looking like Bozo the Clown.

  “I know I do.”

  She grinned. He grinned . . . and dipped his head forward for another smooch.

  She dodged at the last second.

  “Seriously, the house,” she said. “We shouldn’t keep Susan waiting. She might explode all over Patrice and I’m pretty sure those are Patrice’s favorite capri pants. I’d never hear the end of it.”

  He let loose with a long, exaggerated sigh. “Fiiiiiiine. What are you waiting for? You love it. I can do the work on it—would gladly do the work on it, even. I love antique construction. You should probably realize that this would constitute shacking up together, though.” He bounced her up and down and spun her around in a circle. “We’d be all legit and shit.”

  She clung for dear life, her face pressed to the side of his neck. “Could give the living-in-sin thing a try, I suppose. Sol will be delighted, though Alex will undoubtedly pray for our mortal souls. We’re such sinners.”

  “We really are. Especially after that thing we did with the pulleys last night,” Darren said, his smirk unrepentant. “At least Bob will celebrate. He was saying on the phone this morning that I’ve been six thousand times better about paperwork since I took off. I was apparently bad for productivity at my own company. Who knew?”

  “Oh, shit.” Maddy frowned. “Paperwork.”

  “Uh-oh. Still haven’t sent it over to Tempy yet, huh?”

  “No. She’s going to snap my legs off.”

  This didn’t bother Maddy nearly as much as it ought to, but only because Darren was kissing her again and his fingers were digging into her butt and squeezing. Her body burned for him, as it had almost every day since she’d met him because he was delicious and wonderful and funny and and and . . .

  “Call Tempy,” he said against her mouth.

  “Tempy who?”

  “Hos before bros, babe. Don’t fail the team.”

  She pouted prettily as he put her back on her feet, his hands running over the sides of her dress to smooth it. “Now then, we ready to pull the trigger on this? Get yourself a house?”

  “All right, all right. But if this goes poorly—”

  “It won’t,” he interrupted, slinging his arm across her shoulders and guiding her toward the garden and the waiting Susan. “I promise.”

  The kiss to the top of her head was perfect.

  What wasn’t so perfect was when he said, “So a rabbi, a priest, and a minister walk into a bar . . . ”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  THEA’S GOT AN interesting writing process. She gets into a Google Doc and invites her nearest and dearest to read along with her while she crafts romance. It’s some parts cheering squad, some parts “keeping you honest” live-time editorial. It’s gladiator spectator sport, only with words.

  This book wouldn’t be possible without the cheering squad. You know who you are. You’re loved and appreciated.

  Thank you, too, to the S&S team and Miriam Kriss for making these books a possibility. Without their push, the world would be a little less romantic and a lot less sexy.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from

  THE LADY OF ROYALE STREET

  Volume Three of the sizzling NOLA Nights series

  AVAILABLE FROM POCKET STAR BOOKS

  AUGUST 2017!

  ONE

  DARLENE NORRIS HAD six active offers on the table and was, for all intents and purposes, Cinderella at the ball. Everyone wanted a piece of her and she was loving it. She hadn’t considered taking a bribe until Tony Cappilliano from that New York paper called her directly, but he’d been so nice on the phone and he really wasn’t asking for much—just a tip-off or two. A time. A place. The vendors.

  So they’d take some pictures, so what?

  Everyone wanted the Barrington/DuMont wedding scoop. As their wedding planner, Darlene had been there for every step of the journey, from selecting the venue, the cake, and the invitations to making a call to L.A. to book their special musical guest—an artist whose singles were blowing up the charts. She had all the deets.

  Unfortunately, Carl Willis of the Crescent Times knew she had the deets, which was why he was on her phone. He had something of a beef with the Barrington/DuMont faction after Vaughan Barrington reshaped Carl’s nose in the early stages of Sol and Rain’s love affair. Running an exposé of their wedding would probably feel like a comeuppance.

  His problem was that he couldn’t pay.

  Her problem was that he wouldn’t leave her alone.

  “Mr. Willis, the offers aren’t going down. They’re going up, and you couldn’t play when they had four figures, never mind five or six.”

  Darlene looked at her watch: 2:10. She had twenty minutes before she had to meet Bonnie the Bridezilla at Clyde’s. She darted across the street, juggling the phone into her other hand. Her gel-manicured fingers clutched an iced soy latte with extra skim, no sugar, and double ice. The wind stirred her blond bob, sending a sheaf of yellow across her Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses.

  “What’s the amount at again?” Carl whined.

  “A lot. And it’s rising.”

  “Dang it. But hear me out, Darlene . . .”

  She didn’t hear him out. She tuned him out, scurrying along the street toward her next appointment. Carl droned on, she mmm-hmmmed politely and sipped from her cup.

  “Carl,” she interrupted when he’d been at it for so long she wasn’t sure he was breathing anymore. He kept talking. “Carl. Mr. Willis. CARL!”

  He shut up. Darlene gritted her teeth and hopped across Iberville, a taxi beeping at her as it whizzed by close enough to ruffle the skirt of her sundress. “It’s not going to change, sugar! Pay up or shut up, you hear?”

  “The DuMonts owe me,” Carl insisted. “I need this coverage.”

  “No one owes you shi
t, darlin’. Includin’ me.”

  She didn’t wait for a response, ending the call just as a text message popped up notifying her that the DuMont place-card settings were ready for pickup and could she be there by four. Bridezilla at 2:30 and over to the Garden District an hour later? Doable, but annoying, but everything about the DuMont/Barrington wedding was annoying. It shouldn’t have been a surprise with the names involved, but at a week until the big day, Darlene’s patience was at an end. Two bakers. Four caterers. Two calligraphers. Blown glass swan party favors done by a local artisan. Antique chairs imported from a plantation in Baton Rouge. Custom-made silk tablecloths. Three florists. A Parisian photographer. A Hollywood cameraman for a videographer.

  Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

  She should have commanded better rates. In her defense, she’d never taken on such a prestigious client before, so how was she to know that she could have asked for twice as much as her requested fee? Thirty thousand wasn’t enough. They should have offered more—a lot more—for the work involved. Really, it was their fault she was considering taking a bribe this late in the game. If they’d played fair, she would have played fair, too.

  Darlene snorted and skipped to the next block.

  “We expect the utmost discretion,” Sol DuMont had said upon hiring her. “Considering Miss Barrington’s family connections, our privacy is paramount. Talk to nobody but us. Especially not her mother. You understand?”

  She’d said she did because she’d say anything to a boy that pretty, but then the offers came rolling in. People. Star. The Enquirer. She’d understood all about DuMont discretion right up until cash dollars became her new reality.

  Sorry, sugar. I gotta get mine.

  She killed the latte and tossed it into a garbage bin. Her phone rang again, this time that sweet Tony fella from New York City on the line. She took the call, her voice more sugary than a freshly powdered beignet.

  “Tony! How are you?”

  “I’m good, sweetheart. Got your files. I’ll go up another thirty for the passwords but that’s all she’ll give you. The boss ain’t gonna give me another inch.”

  She went quiet a moment, toying with the idea of bouncing the offer off her other contacts, but she had so much to do with this stupid wedding and she liked Tony best. He’d been real sweet to her ever since she started singing his song. It’d be nice to get the whole thing done and over with so she could put the Barringtons in her rearview mirror.

  “All right. Lemme text you the first one, sugar pie. As soon as I see the transfer I’ll give you the second, which has the location and the names of the wedding party.”

  “Done. I’ll get it sent over now.”

  She stood at the intersection of Iberville and Dauphine as she texted him the password for the first file. Vendor names, locations, and the phone numbers of her contacts—all of it was there for greedy eyes to behold. Three minutes later, her bank account balance quadrupled. She giggled as her nails clicked over the touchscreen of her iPhone, texting Tony the second password with the real meat and potatoes about the year’s most secretive wedding.

  Tony texted back a half minute later.

  “You’re a doll. How you feeling now? Richer?”

  “Fine. Just fine,” she typed, stepping off the sidewalk and into the street.

  She pressed send a second and a half before the commuter bus barreled into her and sent her sailing sixty feet into oncoming traffic.

  “It’s ruined!”

  The shrill wail was the first thing Alexander DuMont heard upon stepping into The Seaside after fighting his way through a roiling sea of paparazzi. He didn’t recognize the voice; Arianna Barrington was the likeliest culprit, but he couldn’t be sure. He’d never met the woman. Sol’s cajoling lilt spilled down the hall and into the reception area shortly thereafter, though, ending the mystery.

  “It’ll be fine, kitten. We’ll come up with something. I promise.”

  “I’M SORRY THE WOMAN’S DEAD BUT DID SHE HAVE TO GO AND RUIN MY WEDDING FIRST?”

  “Maybe she got hit by a bus because she ruined your wedding. God works in mysterious ways. Come here, kitten.”

  Sol, you dick.

  Alex’s finger grazed his temple, his eyes narrowing. Coming to New Orleans early to help with a wedding when he knew nothing about wedding planning felt like a terrible idea.

  “Can you come a few days early? There’s been an accident,” Sol said.

  “What kind of an accident?”

  “Our wedding planner got hit by a bus right after she sold our wedding details to the press. Funny how that works, hmm?”

  “Sol! A woman’s dead. There’s nothing funny about it.”

  “Says you. But the point stands. You’re my best man. Come be best and manly?”

  “You’re a horrible person.”

  “I know. But seriously, we’re fucked. Hahahahahaha!”

  The memory of Sol’s panic-laughter stabbed at his brain. That’s why he was there. To help in any way he could. For all that Sol could and did make him crazy with fair regularity, he was his brother, and Alex was his best man, and if that meant running around the city of New Orleans like a lunatic so Sol could marry the woman of his dreams, so be it.

  Of course, Alex knew next to nothing about Dream Girl other than what he’d read on the Internet. She was pretty and roly-poly and fresh-faced in her pictures, and though there were some murmurings about a gardener and a sex tape, she was otherwise low-key—for a Barrington, anyway. Her father was a notorious asshole, but pinning that on the daughter didn’t seem fair.

  “Checking in?” asked the statuesque blonde behind the counter. Alex eyed her. Tall, thin, green eyes, very large hair. She was new, Amanda’s replacement, and as Alex hadn’t been home to New Orleans in . . . two years now? Three? She wouldn’t know him as family.

  Time flies when you’re having fun.

  “I’m Alex DuMont.”

  If that was supposed to elicit some kind of friendly response, it didn’t. Somehow, she only looked surlier. “I’m Dora. Your brother’s in the back. I’ll call a bellhop to have your luggage put in your room.”

  “Thank you.”

  She didn’t answer, dismissing him with a curt jerk of her head toward the conference rooms. Alex eyeballed her as he passed the desk, wondering how anyone would want to stay in the hotel if the greeter at the desk was as pleasant as Cerberus on steroids, but that was a question for Sol on another day.

  “Kitten, don’t cry. We’ll figure it o— Alex!”

  Inside the first conference room, Sol had his wiry arms wrapped around a quivering pile of maybe-cute but it was hard to tell with the red eyes, red nose, and torrent of snot pouring down her face. She was not a pretty crier, Arianna Barrington, which was an unkind thing to think, and really none of his business, but the unbidden thought planted itself before he could stop it.

  I’ll confess to that later. Poor showing.

  “I . . . here.” Alex reached into his pocket and produced a handkerchief. Sol snatched it and pressed it to the short girl’s face.

  “Blow.” She did, and there was a sound like a goose being murdered followed by a barrage of sniffles. Sol kissed her atop her head. “She’s devastated. That horrible woman sold us out and there have been paparazzi everywhere. I should have known better. Brutus said a formal privacy clause in the contract was in order, but I didn’t listen and . . . I’m so glad you could come early. Truly, Alex. You’re a lifesaver.”

  The smile on Sol’s face was beatific. The boys resembled each other in some ways; similar noses, similarly shaped faces, but there were marked differences, too. Where Sol was thin and wispy like their mother, Alex was a mountain, thick through the chest and shoulders, like their father had been. Sol was platinum blond and wore it long enough he could tie it at his neck, while Alex’s hair was golden and kept short. Sol topped of
f at six foot three; Alex was six feet exactly. They were both arresting men but in different ways. Sol was leading-man-from-the-movies beautiful with high cheekbones and a lush mouth. Alex was . . . Maddy had called him Thor once as a joke. He was too clean-shaven to be a Viking, but in another life? Plausible.

  “I bet you could twist me into a pretzel,” Maddy had said. “Just pull me apart like taffy with your bare hands. Wanna try it?”

  Alex was pretty sure she was offering sex, and while she was a glorious creature of bountiful charms, he’d passed. Alex was devout, and random fumblings were forbidden, never mind random fumblings with your former sister-in-law. The priest would have a conniption. Besides, she’d shacked up with his best friend Darren some months ago and they’d been playing house everywhere from New Orleans to Dallas and on her yacht in between. That would have made things awkward.

  More awkward than the red-nosed reindeer of a girl sniveling in front of me.

  “Arianna, I’m so sorry to meet you under these conditions,” Alex said in opening. “I can’t imagine your strain.”

  “A-Alex. Call me Rain, please. Sol’s told me a lot about you. So glad you could come. I have no idea what we’re going to do. There will be people all over our venue and . . . I’m complaining. I’m sorry.” She pulled away from Sol’s chest to greet him, and much to his surprise, wrapped her arms around his middle to squeeze. He was used to the casual indifference of society women, their air kisses that never actually touched your cheeks because they didn’t want to smear their lipstick, but this was earnest affection. She was warm and inviting and very real.

  In spite of the . . . oh, God.

  “You have a . . . on your nose. At the end.” Alex motioned with his finger toward her nostril. If the presence of the offensive booger upset her, she didn’t let it show, simply snatching the handkerchief out of Sol’s hand and dabbing at her miniature green atrocity.