The King of Bourbon Street

by Thea de Salle

Cylan poked his head inside and flashed her a smile. She’d never witnessed a real one of those before; he was so very serious all the time, but when he really smiled, the whiteness of his teeth against his dark skin was arresting. It didn’t hurt that he had cheekbones a supermodel would have shanked for.

  “You’re very handsome,” she announced. “Truly.”

  Cylan’s eyes widened. “Thank you. You’re lovely yourself.”

  “I don’t feel very lovely right now, but thank you. It’s sweet of you to say.” She finger-combed her hair and in doing so, caught a whiff of postwine awfulness. It smelled like Sour Patch Kids dipped in gasoline and rolled in BO. “Ugh. I need a shower.”

  “By all means. Sol had your bags moved up here instead of the third floor. They’re in the corner.” He gestured at a neat pile of luggage next to the bathroom. “Why don’t you get cleaned up and I’ll order you brunch. Sol’s tied up with Brutus. He should be back soon.”

  “Thank you. Is Freckles with you?”

  Cylan glanced behind him. “He’s chewing fuzzy hedgehog on the couch. I tried giving him rubber piggy but he didn’t like the oinking. He’s been walked and fed, though.”

  The idea of such a stoic man trying to coax a corgi into playing with a pig toy melted her heart. Serious though he may be, there was a kindness to Cylan Powell she hadn’t had the opportunity to appreciate before—for Freckles, for Sol. For her, too. “You’re good to Freckles. He likes you.”

  “You’re good to Sol. He likes you.” Cylan paused. “I don’t mean to suggest Sol’s my dog. He’s not. It’s . . . pardon.” Cylan adjusted his black skinny tie like it had suddenly gone off the rails. “Sorry.”

  Rain giggled. “I understand. We’d all be better people if we were as loyal as dogs. You and Sol are like brothers as far as I can tell.”

  “I’ll never admit it to him, but yes, I suppose.” Cylan eased inside the bedroom, careful not to let in too much light from the main suite. He deposited her phone on the nightstand beside her. “This has been ringing all morning. I didn’t want to wake you. I’ll be in the office working if you need me for anything.”

  She eyed the cell, fearful that it’d be her mother making a bad situation worse, but no, it was her dear sweet Richard on the last-call list. Six times. He was undoubtedly having a coronary that his brilliant plan to sneak her out of Connecticut on John Spencer’s plane had backfired.

  “Thank you. Breakfast would be wonderful. A full carafe of coffee sounds amazing right now.”

  “Of course.”

  As soon as Cylan disappeared, Rain dialed her brother. It didn’t even ring once.

  “I’m sorry, droplet. Mother’s stupidly stubborn. I want to shake some sense into her.” Richard’s voice was even keeled despite the urgency of his words, which wasn’t so surprising considering Vaughan often joked that Richard needed his pulse checked four times a day to be sure he was still alive. He didn’t get worked up about much, but since he was the CEO of the family business, that was probably for the best.

  “Don’t worry, Richard. Sol and Vaughan are taking care of me.”

  “She’s not taking my calls, which means she knows— Sol is? Oh, the hotel owner. Vaughan likes him. Do you?”

  Rain glanced at Sol’s pillow. There was a perfect Sol-head-shaped indent, and she reached out to stroke it, finding a single silvery hair there. She rolled it between her fingertips, smiling. “Very much. He’s wonderful. He smells really good.”

  “Oh.” There was an awkward pause. “That’s nice. That he smells good.”

  Was that weird to say?

  It was weird to say.

  “Sorry. He . . . well. He wouldn’t let Mama manhandle me and his accountant kicked Stuart in the nuts to steal back Freckles. I’m in capable hands.”

  “Steal ba— Oh. Well, no one likes Stuart.”

  “No, they really don’t.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear it.” Richard cleared his throat. She could picture him thoughtfully stroking his tie while he looked out at the back property of the estate. He did that when he was on the phone more often than not. “I’ll talk to Mother. She’s excessively riled about this Harwood thing, which is stupid considering the merger is in fine shape and Charles went on a date with some cocktail waitress last night. He’s obviously over it.”

  “Oh. The cocktail waitress is from Leonard’s. He was admiring her legs the last time we went to dinner. I’m surprised he admitted it.”

  “He didn’t. I had him followed. I wasn’t going to let him slander you. A notorious womanizer has no business throwing stones at glass houses.” Richard paused. “I set up a joint account for you and Vaughan that she can’t touch. He has the information. Anything you need will be covered. Your old cards are no good but the new ones will be overnighted.”

  “Thank you, Richard.”

  “Of course. Now do me a favor and try to enjoy yourself while you’re there? I know it’s difficult with Mother tantruming, but she’s harmless. Loud, but harmless.”

  “We’ll see about the harmless part,” Rain said. “But I am having a good time.”

  “Good. If you need anything, ring.”

  “I will. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, droplet. Talk soon.”

  She hung up, unsure of what to think. Richard was a smart man, shrewd in a way that had made the family prosper since he took over the business reins, but he’d be foolish to underestimate their mother. Mama once had a maid deported back to Honduras after Mitchell impregnated her. She had offered to pay for the abortion first—which wasn’t so much doing a kindness as it was trying to avoid a paternity suit and a scandal—but it was a horrible thing to do to anyone, especially considering she’d attended a pro-life women’s charity luncheon the very next week.

  The hypocrisy was limitless.

  So was the pettiness.

  Oh, Mama.

  Rain’s walk from the bed to the bathroom felt interminable, her legs sluggish weights dragging from her torso. She brushed her teeth to degross before stripping and climbing into the stall. The hot water felt nice. The rising steam felt nicer. She was washing herself, desperate to be rid of the nasty tang of yesterday, when the door of the bathroom opened.

  “Cyyylan? Not a good time.”

  “Having an affair already, kitten? Do I bore you?”

  Her stomach fluttered hearing Sol’s voice. For that matter, her whole body fluttered, her toes curling, her breath catching in her chest. She couldn’t help but react to his presence, physically, mentally—she was excited, her hangover less of a hindrance because he was there and there was no room for anything other than happiness.

  I’m falling for him.

  Have I fallen for him?

  Uh-oh.

  It wasn’t an inherently bad thing, more that it was early and fragile. Sol sounded like he was considering long-term things with the baby conversation, but after a week? Not even a week? Should she be concerned?

  “Deep thoughts?” Sol asked, climbing in behind her. She hadn’t heard him get undressed, probably because he’d managed it in under three seconds flat. Either that or he’d shucked his clothes in the bedroom, which made more sense, and ooh, he’s kissing my neck.

  His lips skimmed along her shoulder. His hands wrapped around her middle and pulled her back against him. It felt nice. Right. Her rump curved into him just so, their shapes melding, soft against hard, yielding against unyielding. She closed her eyes as his hands traced up over her stomach and between her breasts before sliding over each generous mound, cupping and squeezing and pinching the hardening nipples.

  “I missed you,” he murmured.

  “I would have missed you if I wasn’t passed out. Maybe I missed you in a dream?”

  Sol chuckled. She was so glad she’d brushed her teeth before the shower and not after because he tipped her chin up to ki
ss her. His lips were pliant, his breath smelled like coffee. The backs of his fingers traced along the curve of her jaw and down, to her neck, his hand flipping around to clasp it like he might choke her but there was no pressure. It was a collar of flesh and bone, holding her, claiming her. His tongue delved between her lips, sweeping in to taste her, slow and thorough like he had all the time in the world.

  He danced her body around, spinning her until she faced the wall. His hands left her, and she braced, thinking this was foreplay, but then the smell of lavender and lemon filled the steamy air. Strong fingers sank into her hair, kneading her scalp and lathering her hair.

  “How was your meeting with Brutus?” she asked, succumbing to the siren’s song of relaxation.

  “Meh. We’re battening down the hatches. I wanted to be sure Cylan wouldn’t have trouble with Stuart and his smarting balls.”

  It was meant as a jest, but Arianna felt shame hearing it. Sol was a good man who’d done nothing but worship her since he’d met her, and yet her mother behaved like a petty bully because she wasn’t in control of the situation. That was it. That was all it boiled down to. Elise couldn’t tell Rain what to do and so she punished everyone for Rain’s offenses.

  It wasn’t fair.

  “I am sorry,” she said quietly.

  “For? You’ve done nothing wrong. Now tilt your head back and close your eyes like a good girl.” She did, and he rinsed her clean before going at her with the conditioner. “We’ll persevere, kitten. We survived Hurricane Katrina. We’ll survive Hurricane Elise.”

  I hope you’re right, Sol.

  I really hope you’re right.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  RAIN HAD TOWELED off until she was pink and flush all over and was sitting in the corner chair eating a croissant. Sol knelt before her, licking his way up her leg, from her knee to that soft thigh and oh, the things he planned to do. She was fresh from the shower and perfectly sweet and she would spread so nicely for him. He eased closer, his hand wrapping around her calf with the full intent of hiking it up over his shoulder.

  Except.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  “Sol. It’s Nash. He says it’s an emergency.”

  Cylan’s voice was the cartoon anvil dropping on Wile E. Coyote’s head. Sol slumped forward, straight into the pussy he wanted to devour, except the position had become anything but sexy. It was exhausted resignation. Stuart could press charges against Cylan if he wanted to, though the likelihood was he’d refrain because Sol could press countercharges for theft against Elise and Stuart if Arianna allowed. There’d been papers to sign regarding the bat lady settlement and there’d been witness accounts to give regarding Vaughan’s arrest. He’d had to approve last week’s payroll, field a booking miscommunication, and sort the first résumés for the night manager position and the security staff because his office had wasted no time posting the opening. Last but not least, he’d had to soothe a panicky bride needing a last-minute stage in the function room for her hired band.

  All he wanted was to drown his sorrows in Rain. But no, instead he’d have to deal with his nerdy twin.

  Rain’s hand dropped to the top of his head. “Go. I’ll be here when you get back.”

  “You’re a saint, woman.” He licked her bare belly and went to collect his robe. Cylan knocked again.

  “Did you hear me? It’s Nash.”

  “If you don’t let me dress you’re going to see my dick again. I know how you feel about that!”

  There was a pause. “The phone’s on the table next to the door,” Cylan said.

  Retreating footsteps.

  Sol winked at Rain. “Works every time.”

  She smirked and finished her croissant, sucking the grease off her fingers, and didn’t it just make him want to go right back to doing what he’d been doing when Cylan interrupted them. His eyes strayed down to those thick thighs and between them, at pink folds oh so delicate and begging to be explored.

  All I want to do is wear the cupcake’s thighs as earmuffs.

  Is that too much, Nash?

  Is it?

  “What, Nash?” Sol barked into his cell. Realizing that was rude, he added an obligatory, “How’s Chicago? How are you?”

  “Hello, Sol. I’m well, thank you. It’s inordinately cool for this time of year. The weatherman says El Niño is responsible for the extraordinary weather patterns we’ve been having. There’s an unusual jet stream—”

  “That’s great. Jet streams are great. Is that why you’re calling?”

  “Oh no. Not at all. Pardons. It’s that The Golden Goose has been shut down for the evening.”

  The Golden Goose was Nash’s Michelin Star–awarded restaurant and the claim to fame of the DuMont hotel chain’s Chicago location. Antonio Abbatellio was their head chef, and while Sol would never replace Gustav for reasons that included the world’s best jambalaya and French dip sandwiches the size of his head, Antonio was an artisan. Sol had wet dreams about his gnocchi in Bolognese.

  “Why?”

  “The health department demanded an immediate inspection after the kitchen fire the other day. We’ve had to cancel all reservations for tonight and there are reporters at registration inquiring about public safety.”

  How? How? How?

  Elise? I’d put nothing past her.

  Sol flashed a smile Rain’s way and headed for the door. “Business call, kitten. I need a few minutes.” She waved before plucking another croissant from the platter and nibbling on the corner, flaky pastry crumbs raining down over her bare midsection. It was a terrible taunt. His feet went to lead as he shuffled his way not toward the enticing cupcake awaiting her gobbling, but into the main suite and to his office, where Cylan worked on his abacus or whatever it was accountants did on the clock.

  Cylan didn’t even lift his head from his ledgers when Sol locked them in the office together.

  “I’ll pull in Brutus,” Sol said into his cell. “I think he’s done everything he needs to do here. I’m sure this can be cleaned up quickly.” The legalities were easy enough with a portable lawyer, but Nash talking to the press was a sideshow waiting to happen. Nash was clean cut and presented himself well with his dorky bow tie and black-rimmed glasses, but he was also guileless. If someone was looking to get an out-of-context quote to misrepresent the DuMont family, Nash, as their resident blond Clark Kent, was the easiest target.

  Or he’d talk about El Niño for an hour straight and everyone would fall asleep.

  Nerding as an offensive tactic.

  “Is Antonio all right?”

  “He’s upset, of course,” Nash said. “His kitchen is spotless. I assured him this would be rectified posthaste. I think I’m going to read up on the health code in the meanwhile. It can’t hurt to be prepared, and frankly, the legalese can be fascinating when you look at it in the historical context. Do you know anything about Typhoid Mary? Many of our laws about food preparation—”

  “Typhoid Mary? Jesus Christ, Nash. I’ll contact Brutus.”

  Sol could hear the smile in Nash’s voice when he said, “Excellent! Tell him I look forward to seeing him again. What would you like me to tell the reporters in the meanwhile?”

  “Tell them a formal statement will be released by my office later. I’ll have them write something up as soo—”

  A call buzzed in. Irritated, Sol glanced at his phone, only to see Alex’s name.

  Not him, too.

  This can’t be good.

  “. . . I’ll have something to you within a few hours. Is there anything else?”

  Beeeeeeeep.

  “No, no. I think that’s all.”

  “Alex is on the line. You’ll hear from me.”

  Sol hung up on Nash before Nash could say goodbye, switching over to his other brother and bracing for the worst.

  “Mrs. Cotton’s determin
ed she doesn’t want a settlement. She’s taking it to court. Worse, she’s taking interviews and insisting the hotel is infested with rodents.”

  Alex didn’t even bother with a greeting and practically shouted the announcement, which meant he was riled, and when Alex was riled, he turned funny colors and tended to shoot steam out of his facial orifices. It took a lot to push him to the brink, but once there, it took a lot more to talk him down.

  “Bat Lady?”

  “Yes, Bat Lady. She’s on Channel 4. How does a bat in the hair get on Channel 4 news?”

  Elise Barrington, that’s how.

  “Don’t do anything. Don’t talk to her. Don’t even look in her direction, especially not when you’re upset—”

  “I’m not upset.”

  Sol paced through the office. Cylan, still not looking up, threw a pencil at him to make him stop. He sagged into the corner chair, his hair flopping down to cover half his face. “Nash has a problem in Chicago, too. I’m guessing this has something to do with Rain’s mother.”

  “Who the hell is Rain?” Alex snarled. Then he breathed and hissed and made all sorts of strange dragony sounds on the other end of the line. “Forgive me. Who is Rain again?”

  “The Barrington girl, Genghis.”

  “Who’s Genghis?”

  Why are they like this?

  “You’re just as thick as Nash sometimes. Rain’s my girlfriend. Her mother is upset with me because I wouldn’t let her steal Rain’s personal effects. Something-something restraining order. It didn’t come to that, but it was implied, and I think she’s taking her shots. We’ll survive this. Call the health—you know what? You don’t call anyone. You’d terrify them right now. We’ll have an inspection done and present your clean bill of health to the public. Just . . . do nothing. Go lock yourself in a room. What color are you right now? Are we talking gala apple or vine-ripened tomato?”

  Silence.

  “Tomato it is. I’ll have Najmah schedule an immediate inspection to present to the same news outlets to refute Mrs. Cotton’s claim. You don’t pay that girl enough. She’s your perpetual dustpan.”