by MI
She eyed him suspiciously and he tilted his head while sending her his trademark wicked grin. “Okay, that was a lie. See? I don’t do it very well. Let’s just say I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing than seeing a beautiful woman home. Particularly one who appreciates good music.”
Without waiting for her to respond he turned and started walking again, his fingers still laced with hers. The sparks continued humming beneath her skin, heat pooling in her stomach and lack of oxygen making her dizzy.
She didn’t want it to end.
Unfortunately, two minutes later they arrived beside an old, beat-up green Mustang that looked like it had seen better days and he dropped her hand. “Here we are.”
Etta raised an eyebrow in disbelief when she forced her eyes to focus on the vehicle instead of the fit of his jeans. “This is your car?”
He opened the door for her, his expression playfully defensive. “I know she isn’t looking her best at the moment, but trust me, she’s a keeper. She just needs some love and attention and she’ll be good as new.”
She slid inside, wincing as a scratchy piece of the torn leather seat poked her through her pants. The small discomfort was replaced with the relief of getting off her feet. She was still shaky, but that was more from her racing thoughts than any ink-induced aftershocks.
It had been close to a decade since a tattoo gun had come close to her skin. Since she’d been—
No.
The point was she’d done it. She’d faced her fear of getting tattooed and now had a beautiful piece of art over the mess of scarred lines that had marked her leg for too long. When she’d looked down at it before Rosie applied the ointment and covering, she couldn’t see a trace of what had been there before. It was beautiful.
It didn’t make her forget, but it gave her hope that someday she would.
Thank goodness for Christie’s guitar. She hadn’t been sure she would last through the session at first. Hadn’t been able to relax her muscles or remember to breathe without gasping. Not until she’d heard it—a melody that swirled around her and eased her tension. Transported her. Made her forget about the needles entirely and just listen.
Only when Rosie called out to him had Etta realized who was playing. She’d gestured to her friend and quietly begged her not to make him stop. After that, the buzz of Rosie’s machine disappeared. Everything disappeared and she lost herself in a fantasy where he was playing only to her. For her. If, for a moment or two, they both happened to be naked while he was strumming his invisible guitar that left nothing to the imagination...well, no one else had to know about that. But she knew, and she’d never think of tattoos the same way again.
He folded his long frame into the driver’s side and put the keys in the ignition, sending a curious glance in her direction.
“Thank you,” she blurted.
He seemed surprised. “For what?”
“The ride? The music?” Inspiring one hell of a fantasy? “It helped, and possibly saved a friendship. We were only a few minutes in but I could tell I was going to drive Rosie round the bend.”
“I doubt you were that bad. I know for a fact she’s had more difficult canvases to work with than you. Screamers and control freaks and tough guys who’d get physically ill as soon as the needle pierced their skin. You were quiet as a mouse, and I didn’t see anyone reaching for the bucket Sassy so thoughtfully put out. That’s a win in my book.”
Etta bit her lip. “I wouldn’t have been quiet for long if I weren’t so skillfully distracted.”
His blue eyes darkened at her compliment as he asked for her aunt’s address. She gave it to him and he started the car, grimacing comically as the engine made a sputtering sound of protest before starting. “I’ll get that fixed eventually.”
They drove for a minute or two in silence, Christie tapping out a beat only he could hear on the steering wheel before he spoke again. “So you’re here visiting your family? Did you come for the holidays or…?”
Etta leaned against the headrest and studied his profile. It was hard to concentrate when he was this close. Why did he have to smell so good? Like spice and heat and sex.
Stop thinking about sex. Stop staring. Stop breathing him in. Speak.
“Not Christmas. I spent December on the job so I could be here for the baptism, the preparations and everything. My cousin’s baby girl. They had to delay for a few months because she was sick, but Celestin says she’s healthy as can be now. And I know from personal experience that she’s got quite a set of lungs, but then, so does her big sister.”
He looked over at her, surprise once again shaping his features. “Celestin? Celestin Rousseau, the owner of Café Bwe, is your cousin?”
Etta nodded, smiling. “The very same. You know him?”
His lips quirked and she had the strangest desire to suck the lower one between her teeth. “Even if my cousin wasn’t his regular customer and I hadn’t heard any of the tall tales surrounding his...” he paused, as if searching for a politically correct word, “…prowess, Rousseau and I are both members of the local small business alliance. After I took over for Henry Lee at Midnight Ink, he told me to seek him out. Said he was a good man to have on my side. And I need good people on my side, since I know more about how to tune a guitar than talk to accountants.” Christie shook his head and laughed softly. “Small world, huh? At least now I have a few of my other questions about you answered.”
A microscopically small world. “What questions?”
“You’re the single physical therapist from North Carolina that he hasn’t seen in years. He asked you to be little Marcella’s godmother and he’s been thinking about friends he could set you up with while you’re in town. So far no one’s been good enough.”
“He’s been doing what now?” Etta blinked at him. Wow. Apparently fatherhood had turned the silent sentinel Celestin into a matchmaking chatterbox. Etta was going to have to nip this plan in the bud as soon as possible. “I’m not done with my residency yet, but yes, that’s me on all counts.” She bit her lip and glanced at him sideways. “I’d feel like I was at a disadvantage if I didn’t know so much about you.”
“That sounds ominous. What have you heard?”
“You once dated a Victoria’s Secret model, you’ve never learned to ski, and you turned down posing for Playgirl magazine’s Guitar Hero issue because you ‘still believed in the romance of boxer shorts ’. Oh, and your favorite type of pie is pecan. I read those juicy details in a magazine in line at the grocery store.” She grinned. “We won’t even go into the things Rosie’s told me over the years.”
He chuckled, his expression wry. “See how quickly we’re getting to know each other? Most people take months to gather this kind of intel. And of course it’s pecan. It will always be pecan. No other pie exists in my world. Now tell me something I don’t know and I’ll do the same. Where’s your new tattoo and what did you get? Or is that too personal? Should we keep talking about underwear and pie?”
She pointed to her leg. “A gorgeous little hummingbird hovering over a red and gold trumpet flower. I know, it sounds very girly, but I love it and it has a special meaning for me. Rosie is an artist.”
“She’s the best,” he agreed. “Always has been. And a hummingbird doesn’t sound all that girly. In South America it’s the symbol of resurrection and regeneration. Sorry,” he added ruefully. “I hung out with Rosie during a few of my uncle’s lessons. Henry Lee was very into respecting cultural symbolism. I guess it stuck, though I never had the desire for the art that they did.”
He lifted his hand off the steering wheel and bent his arm, showing her the tattoos that covered his forearm. Black and grey skulls, roses and stars. She’d already seen the Japanese dragon wrapped around the other. The sleeves made him look dangerous. Sexy.
“She’s done all my work, and interestingly, your cousin Rousseau’s as well. She told me he got his during his wild-oat-sowing period.”
Etta was starting to wonder if th
ere was anyone in Louisiana who hadn’t heard rumors about her cousin’s “legendary” sex life. “You’d think this was a one-horse town the way everybody seems to know everyone else’s business.”
Christie shrugged. “He stood out. So do you, by the way. Must be a family thing.”
“No, just a height thing. We’re the mutants of our clan.”
“That’s not what I meant.” His voice had deepened. “And you’re perfect from where I’m sitting.”
At five eight she may as well have been a giraffe next to her shorter, curvier female relatives. He’d said she was perfect. For him? For kissing?
She had kissing on the brain. And sex. Sex and kissing. Sure, he was one of the sexiest men she’d ever been within touching distance of, but he was not the right man for her to break her dry spell with because… Well, just because. He was a business acquaintance with Celestin. He was Rosie’s cousin. He was too many adjectives that all pointed to a single word—trouble. A bad boy, retired or not, with strings. Complicated.
She wished her body was paying more attention to her head, but it was currently staging a coup that had her squirming in her seat and thinking about what Rosie had said about the new man she’d met. How she’d been spun. Etta had been spun too, and it was all Christie’s fault.
She aimed for lighthearted instead of lightheaded. “Thanks. Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“I’m easy. I’d settle for an after-dinner drink and some company.” He sent a hopeful glance in her direction. “Unless you have birthday plans for tonight, I promised an up-and-comer that I’d check out his band and I’d love it if you joined me.”
No one could have been more surprised than she was when she said yes without hesitation. Without thinking at all. “Sounds good.”
He pulled up to the curb in front of her aunt’s two-story white clapboard house with its bright yellow shutters and put his car in park, turning toward her. “For clarity’s sake, can I ask you to repeat that?”
Etta could feel her cheeks heating. “Was I supposed to refuse? Is this another Midnight Ink full-service tattoo tradition no one told me about?” Or had her ready agreement sounded too eager?
Christie shook his head vehemently. “Absolutely not. ‘Yes’ was the correct answer. Just had to make sure.” He smiled again, and her body vibrated with a low, sensual hum of need. Oh yes, definitely the sexiest man she’d ever seen.
Opening his door, he hopped out and jogged around the front of the Mustang to open hers before she had the chance, then reached for her hand to help her out. She could really get used to this kind of attention. To his touch.
“I’ll be back here at eight. Does that sound good?”
She ducked her head. It sounded like a date. “I’ll see you then.”
Large, warm fingers with rough calluses slid beneath her chin and made her shiver. Her gaze met his. Christie was staring at her face as if committing every feature to memory. “I’ll see you first. And when I do it’ll be your turn to find out something about me that you don’t know.”
For a split second she swore he was going to kiss her. Her heart raced and her mouth went dry as he focused his gaze on her lips, his thick lashes lowering, shielding those deep ocean-blue eyes. Anticipation made her body tremble and sway forward.
He dropped his hand abruptly and whirled on his booted heel, heading back toward the driver’s side without a word.
She watched him drive away and pressed her hands to her cheeks. What was she doing? Why had she said yes? And why was she this disappointed to see him go?
She sighed as she walked up the narrow cement steps that led to the house. She’d said yes because it was him. As irresistible and crush-worthy now as he’d been at nineteen. She would have regretted it forever if she’d turned down the opportunity to spend more time with him. To get another taste of those never-experienced-until-today sparks.
Her body had won the rebellion and knew exactly what it wanted…who it wanted. And it wasn’t in the mood to settle.
“It’s just a drink,” she whispered. “He didn’t ask for anything else.”
He didn’t have to—she’d seen it in his eyes before he turned away. Today was her birthday. Tonight, Christie Ryder was going to kiss her. Or she would kiss him. And if she had her way, there could be more, and she would finally know what genuine passion felt like. She already knew she was going to love it more than she loved the chocolate caramel rolls at her cousin’s café, and she really was addicted to those things.
Etta reached for the doorknob and heard the sound of women laughing. The Mamas. She’d forgotten. If they really did practice voodoo, maybe they could cook up a spell for her.
She needed all the help she could get.
Chapter Four
Damn, he had a problem.
Christie turned to lean his elbows on the bar, waiting for their drinks and watching Etta fiddling with the small candle at the table. She looked…sweet.
Sweet and innocent, wearing a brown broom skirt and a pink long-sleeved top that covered and clung to her skin. It was a casual and concealing outfit that screamed “unattainable”.
Add that to the simple gloss on her lips and the natural healthy glow of a face not covered by layers of makeup, and to the outside world she might look like a lovely but harmless kindergarten teacher. A beauty purposefully camouflaged as a wallflower.
The camouflage wasn’t working on him. She may as well have been naked the way his body was reacting.
Etta Santos was a tempting bite of cotton candy, and he wanted to taste her melting on his tongue. Wanted her lips wrapped around his—
He shifted and subtly adjusted the fit of his jeans, trying to think about anything else. Drinks. He’d offered to get them both another drink as an excuse to take a beat. To stop this train of thought from going off the rails. To stop himself from reaching for her hand again just so he could touch her skin. To keep from nibbling on her tempting neck to discover if she tasted as good as she smelled.
Etta was smart, she was funny and easy to talk to—or she would be if he weren’t so damn distracted by the sexy rasp of her voice. It made it hard to concentrate on her words.
Hard and distracted. That seemed to be the theme of the night.
Patience.
He turned around just in time to pay the bartender for the drinks and carried them back to the table. “Hey, pretty lady. This might sound forward, but do you mind if I sit down?”
Etta smiled shyly up at him. “Since you come bearing gifts and there’s this extra chair that happens to be empty—why not?”
“Good answer.” He set their drinks down and lowered himself into the chair beside her. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“I am.” She sounded surprised.
“Ouch.”
“No, I mean, of course I’m enjoying the company.” He’d flustered her. It was adorable. Sexy. “But I’m enjoying this, too. The bar. The energy. You know how it is to grow up around here. It’s just where you’re from. Excessive revelry and tourism aside, you don’t really appreciate how unique it is when it’s all you know.”
Christie knew exactly what she was talking about. “In my house they would always complain about the crime, the mess people left behind after Mardi Gras. No one understood why people were so anxious to hang out in a cemetery or so desperate for cheap jewelry that they’d flash perfect strangers.”
She nodded, smiling softly as he continued. “But now that I’m back and talking to the old locals, I can see how much more to this city there is than that—the culture, the architecture, the music—and I’m appreciating it in ways I never did before.”
He lifted his beer and clinked his glass to hers. “Here’s to coming home. Others may try to imitate it but there is no place like it. A truth only we expatriates of the Big Easy can understand.”
She leaned forward, toasting him in return. “Yeah, you right.”
They grinned, staring at each other in silence while Christie beat back images of
her laid out naked on his sheets and repeated his patience mantra. He tried to think of something diverting to say before he let his instincts take over and had his way with her on the table.
“So you’re a physical therapist? Resident,” he corrected himself. “What’s your specialty? Sports-related injuries? Hip replacements?”
Etta’s smile widened. She liked her work…
Don’t make notes. Just listen.
“Actually, I’ve been working with an amputee rehab team treating veterans at the VA clinic in Durham.”
Christie set his drink down with a node. “I see. You’re an angel, then. I had a feeling.”
“Hardly. Anyway, I saw one of the flyers at Midnight Ink. You’re doing your part.”
Christie chuckled. “I just pay the rent, but you…you’re making a concrete difference. Helping people heal.”
Etta’s hand covered his and his body reacted as if she’d lowered her head into his lap. “Christie, you don’t know—take me—”
“Okay.”
“For example,” she continued emphatically, but her lips were fighting off a smile. “What Rosie did for me today? It made a difference to me. So did your music.” Christie caught her hand before she could pull it away and she licked her lips. “You’re both artists.”
“And you’re beautiful.” He tilted his head, studying those lips again in amazement. “How are you still single?”
The hand in his tensed and she shrugged, “Just lucky, I guess.” She glanced up at the stage. “Looks like the band is taking a break.”
Way to go, genius.
Even if Etta wasn’t a widow, that would have been a foot-in-mouth moment. But she was. Celestin had mentioned her status in passing when he was talking about finding her a date—she hadn’t had a serious relationship in six years, since her husband died.
That was a long time for someone so young to be in mourning. He’d thought it a shame before he met her. Now it was a crime, one he was determined to rectify. But he’d have to take his time. This wasn’t the kind of situation he could afford to get wrong by letting his escalating lust guide him. It—she—felt too important. It was insane and he knew it, but there it was.