by Lori Foster
God, he’d seen her. And just how much? Her face? The vicious scars?
He knocked again, louder this time. “Hello? Are you there?”
No, she wanted to shout, but that was just ridiculous. She was a grown woman, not a blushing teenager embarrassed because she’d been caught dipping skinny.
“It’s late,” she said instead. Her hands trembled, so she grabbed hold of the lapels of her robe in hopes of steadying them.
Too bad it didn’t work.
“Good night, Mr.—” What was his name again? She couldn’t remember, that’s how much attention she’d paid to the signed rental agreement. All she’d been interested in was the certified check the rental company had sent, covering the half year of rent that her new tenant had offered in advance. The temptation had been too much, so she’d gone ahead and agreed to let him stay for six months. How could she say no? She’d been given enough money to squirrel some away and buy the materials she needed to expand her clothing line.
Sales had been brisk for POE-tential, the workout gear for women that she’d created and sold in a local boutique down in the Quarter. Now she wanted to test the waters by expanding to what she’d termed “sensible lingerie.” Items made for a woman’s comfort, not those scratchy, skimpy patches of lace made to fuel a man’s fantasy.
“Dupree,” he said. “Burnett Dupree.”
She didn’t care if George Clooney was knocking on her door, no way was she opening it. She turned and rested her forehead against the door frame. “It’s late, Mr. Dupree,” she said, hoping he’d take the hint and go away.
“Just a moment of your time. I won’t keep you.”
She detected the slightest trace of a lazy southern drawl in his voice. An accent he attempted to hide, she wondered, or an affirmation of southern heritage? His voice held an odd but interesting mix of the Deep South and places north. A Louisiana girl born and bred, not even the seven years she’d lived in New York City had she shed her accent completely. Regardless, it made her curious about him, and that bothered her. A lot.
Knowing she was on the verge of racking up yet another error in judgment, she put her hand on the knob and turned it, then cautiously pulled the door open a fraction. Opened it just enough for him to see her good side, the side of her face that wasn’t scarred and twisted. The side that hadn’t undergone countless surgeries that did little to return her to her former self, but at least allowed her to look in the mirror each morning. The side that wouldn’t have him recoiling in horror when he looked at her.
“I’m really sorry about earlier,” he said, but she barely heard him.
Goodness, he was one tall drink of cool water. Hardly a slouch herself at five foot ten, he still towered over her by a good five or six inches, which was a rare occurrence for a woman of her height. But it was his smile that had her uselessly wishing she wasn’t damaged goods.
He didn’t offer her a full-blown high-wattage smile but instead a mildly flirtatious one that registered a level or two above a smirk. That the smile reached his startling blue gaze didn’t miss her notice, either. They were blue, like the color of a cloudless summer sky, making her think of sunshine and grape Popsicles.
“Let’s just forget about it,” she said once she remembered to take a breath. Forgetting him, she wouldn’t be doing anytime soon, of that she was certain. Heavens, the man was . . . beautiful. It was the only word she could think of to describe him. Hair, black as a midnight sky, slightly ruffled as if he’d been flnger combing it, made her own fingers itch to touch the silky-looking strands. Beneath the dark-colored T-shirt he wore, the fabric stretched taut over wide shoulders and a chest to match. All tucked into a pair of jeans that looked as if they were custom made to fit his perfect body.
A perfect body. How ironic that the flrst man to actually stir her interest since the accident would be so bloody perfect. Just another of life’s little jokes.
She moved to close the door. “Good night, Mr. Dupree.”
His hand shot out and stopped her. “It’s Burnett,” he said. “I feel bad. Why don’t you let me make it up to you? Dinner? Tomorrow?”
Was he insane? Had she actually rented the apartment over the garage to a lunatic? He didn’t look like the dullest crayon in the box, but looks could be deceiving.
“I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“You have plans? No problem, how about Friday? I know a place. Best crawfish in Louisiana.”
Deep down, down in that place where she wasn’t damaged goods, where she didn’t have to hide her face or attempt to mask the injuries of her body, she really wanted to say yes. She’d been cooped up for so long, she was sick to death of microwave dinners and her own company. For just one moment in time, she’d love nothing more than to share a platter of crawfish and conversation with another human being. To hear more than her own voice or the drone of the television in the background.
“I wish I could,” she said, hating the wistfulness that had crept into her voice, “but it just isn’t possible. Good night.”
This time when she moved to close the door, he didn’t stop her. And that saddened her almost as much as turning down his offer.
three
Maya didn’t believe in voodoo, hoodoo, or fairy tales. She didn’t wish on falling stars. She didn’t cross her fingers when she drove over railroad tracks or hold her breath while crossing a bridge, but she knew that on occasion some things just couldn’t be explained. Logically she understood that the only reason she’d taken on a tenant had been so she could afford to work on taking POE-tential in a new direction. But what she couldn’t explain, and wasn’t even sure if she wanted to, was how she looked forward to seeing her sexy tenant again—even if it was only through her kitchen window.
Since their through-the-door conversation two nights ago, she’d only caught a brief glimpse of Burnett Dupree. The apartment had been dark when she’d used the pool, but she didn’t know if he was sleeping, hiding in the dark and still watching her, or if he was even home.
What she had done was Google him. The Internet was ever so useful. And because she now knew her tenant was a womanizing playwright once considered the Prince of Broadway, she’d started wearing a swimsuit during her nightly exercise ritual. She’d had no choice because if she didn’t work out, her leg and lower back muscles would cramp and tighten enough to bring her to tears until the muscle relaxers that she’d have to take took effect. Two years after the accident and she still couldn’t complete a full cardio workout, the pain was that excruciating.
She hadn’t seen him and she really didn’t like that she was starting to look for him in the two days since their confrontation. But she couldn’t seem to help herself. This morning when she’d been making her breakfast, she’d watched him leave. By 6 P.M., he hadn’t returned. Where had he gone?
It’s none of your business.
Nearly midnight, his car still wasn’t parked in the carport on the left of the garage. She knew because she’d looked.
Twice.
And you care because . . .
Because it was Friday and he’d asked her out for a crawfish supper.
You turned him down, remember?
She sighed. Yes, she had turned him down. It had been for the best, really. Going out in public wasn’t particularly enjoyable. For the most part, people were polite, but there were always more than a few stares. More often than not, she detected pity in their gazes, and that bothered her more than the ones who pointed and stared at her outright.
“Oh, get over yourself,” she muttered, then slid the straps of her swimsuit in place. Until she could leave the house without frightening small children, she wasn’t about to accept a date with a man. Especially a man who had her peeking out her windows at the slightest sound, looking for him after one very brief encounter.
She’d even dreamed of him last night. Could she be any more pathetic?
She let out a disgruntled sigh and promised herself she wouldn’t waste another minute thinking about Burnett Du
pree. Or dreaming about him. Hot, wild, and sexy dreams, in particular. If the man was half as good in reality as he was in her dream, she’d . . .
What?
She had no answer.
That’s what I figured.
She limped to the closet and yanked open the door. She had to stop this nonsense. Really, what good did it do to spend so much time fantasizing about a man she could never have? Okay, so it gave her something else to think about other than the pain that was her constant companion. But she had to stop romanticizing.
Frowning, she dressed in a longer robe than she usually wore, this one of her own design in a robust emerald silk that teased her ankles, then left her first-floor bedroom. The room had originally been a den and still held a trace of the vanilla pipe tobacco her grandfather, then her father, had smoked. The room had always comforted her, but stale pipe tobacco and dusty flrst editions were a distant second to the comfort of a man’s arms around her, holding her close enough that she could feel his heart beating.
Burnett’s heart?
She hadn’t converted the old den into her bedroom because of some misguided belief she felt closer to her father or grandfather. She hadn’t only done it because climbing the stairs to the second floor still caused her far too much pain. She lived on the first floor because she couldn’t stand to think of the flve unused bedrooms upstairs. Bedrooms that should have belonged to children. The children she’d always dreamed of having but never would unless she went the artificial insemination route. Problem was, she held what some would call an old-fashioned belief that a child needed two parents, not a single mother and a turkey baster.
The formal dining room served as her workroom and the sitting room was now her front room, where she watched the evening news while she ate a boring microwave dinner. Night after night after night. No one but Pat, the woman who came to clean for her once a month, ever ventured upstairs, nor did she comment on Maya’s living arrangements.
But damn it, she still held on to those foolish dreams and couldn’t let them go. Dreams of her own someday. A someday that would probably never come. But she clung to hope. Only she knew better than most how dangerous hope could be.
Frustrated with the limitations of her body and furious with herself for daring to hope that maybe her some day would come, she stalked to the back door. She swung it wide, only to come face-to-face with none other than Burnett Dupree.
four
Poe. In the flash of a nanosecond, Burnett immediately knew the identity of his sexy muse. No wonder she’d been familiar to him as he’d watched her night after night, because he’d seen her before. Plenty of times, in fact. Despite his memory, booze-soaked and fuzzy at best for the past few years, he would swear he’d spoken to her once or twice at some party or another.
She moved to close the door, but he stepped into the threshold and blocked the move with his body before she managed to escape him again. “Poe.”
She turned away in an attempt to hide the scars of her accident from him. He couldn’t immediately recall the exact details, but seeing her now, he remembered there’d been some scandal linked to her.
“No one has called me that in a long time. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t.”
“What shall I call you then?”
She peeked at him from behind her curtain of hair shielding the worst of her scars. “Maya,” she said, her tone laced with reluctance. “Maya Pomeroy.”
“You remember me?” he asked.
She did. He could see it in her clear, green eyes. Large and round and framed by the same dusky lashes in his fantasies.
“I know of you,” she clarified. “Burnett Dupree, the playboy playwright. Rumor had it you never attended a play that wasn’t your own. You only attended opening night, and that was if you were sober. Which wasn’t all that much, according to various accounts I’ve read, courtesy of the Internet.”
Damn. Why hadn’t he thought of doing a Google search of her name? Because he’d had no reason to, until now.
“Don’t believe everything you read online,” he cautioned.
She smiled coldly. “One critic claimed you had more women than hit plays. So yes, Mr. Dupree. I think I know exactly who, and what, you are.”
“Do you now?” He’d detected a hefty dose of distaste in her icy voice, and damn if he didn’t resent it, and her, for pointing out his past weaknesses. Annoyed with her for believing more rumor than fact, he almost walked away. But the truth was, he was no longer that guy, rumored or real. No longer the one who’d had little respect for himself and anyone else for that matter. And in some crazy, roundabout way, he had her, his muse, to thank. Although she didn’t know it, she had him writing and kept him sober simply by her poolside appearance every night.
“Good night.” She attempted to close the door, but with his body in the way, the door remained wide open. She looked at him then, full on, with fiery annoyance burning in her gaze when he didn’t move. “What do you want from me?” she demanded.
He didn’t flinch at the sight of her scarring, although he suspected that was exactly what she expected of him. Instead, he flashed her one of his best smiles and held up the bag he’d been holding with the orange logo proclaiming Cat’s Crawfish was the best in Louisiana. “Dinner,” Burnett told her. “I promised you Friday night crawfish. Regardless of what you may have read online, I do keep my promises.”
She stared at him for several heartbeats as emotion battled within her gaze. Equal quantities of fear and a wanting that had nothing to do with sex—yet. Eventually the wanting won the skirmish. Despite the wariness still banked in her eyes, she smiled at him, tentatively at first, then as bright as a spotlight, and he forgot to breathe.
“Do you mind if we eat outside?” she asked.
Under the cover of darkness? Not a chance. Besides, they’d be the prime target for every night bug nature had to offer. “How about the kitchen table?” he suggested. “No bugs to flght off that way.”
He knew the minute panic set in because her eyes widened and she sucked in a sharp breath. He imagined if he were in her position, he’d feel the bite of panic as well. “I’m not put off by a few scars,” he told her.
She made a sound that could’ve been a huff of caustic laughter, but he wasn’t sure. “You and the reconstruction team that put me back together again,” she said, her tone most definitely dripping with sarcasm.
“Look, we can stand here and argue about it all night, but I’ve got a few pounds of food here, and I’m starved.” He pushed off the door and strode right past her before she could protest. Through the mudroom and into the kitchen, he hit the switch for the overhead light as he went. “Got any Tabasco?” he called out to her.
A white wicker ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, and Burnett counted the revolutions waiting for Maya to join him. He’d made a bold move but a calculated one. He didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to understand her apprehension. She was scarred. Badly. Once stunningly beautiful, tall with sleek curves, the darling of the runway, the good girl who had bad written all over her incredible body, had received a hard dose of reality. Whispered accounts he’d overheard, the world as she knew it was forever changed, all because she’d gotten in the car with a friend who’d had too much to drink. He seemed to recall hearing that if Todd Cantrell, one of the fashion industry’s celebrity photographers, had survived the crash, he would’ve blown a 3.6 on the Breathalyzer.
“In the fridge,” she said, her tone cautious and resigned. She joined him in the kitchen and limped her way to the overhead cabinet for dishware, the drawer near the sink for cutlery, then moved to the table. Turning to the fridge, she pulled it open and peered inside. “What would you like to drink? I have no alcohol in the house. You have a choice of sweet tea, juice, Coke, or water. Or I could put on some coffee.”
He liked the fact that she didn’t keep alcohol in the house. After what she’d suffered, he understood and frankly was grateful, considering his own issues with booze. Besides, in his bid
for continued sobriety, he figured he could only handle one temptation at a time—and that temptation was none other than Maya Pomeroy, the supermodel formerly known only as Poe.
After snagging the Tabasco and another bottle claiming to be the hottest sauce in Louisiana from the fridge, he went to the cabinet where she’d pulled the plates and found a heavy, round serving platter. “Tea’s good,” he said as he unloaded the crawfish, corn on the cob, and roasted potatoes onto the platter. While she fixed their drinks, he finished setting the table, then waited for her to be seated before taking the chair opposite her for himself.
He lifted his glass of sweet tea for a toast. “To not eating alone.”
five
Maya wouldn’t exactly say she was comfortable being so physically exposed in the presence of Burnett, but so far he hadn’t so much as flinched when he looked at her. His seeming indifference made her curious, even though she half expected him to turn away in revulsion at any minute, not sit down to share a meal with her.
She let out a weighty sigh. Maybe she should just shut her inner voice the hell up and enjoy the moment while it lasted. Hadn’t she complained that she was sick to death of her own company?
Lifting her glass of juice, she lightly tapped the rim to his. “To not eating alone,” she concurred, then took a long swallow. She had enough trouble sleeping at night, and the last thing she needed was the caffeine in a glass of sweet tea at this hour.
Burnett heaped a large helping of food she’d never be able to eat in one sitting onto her plate, then piled his own high. “So, can I ask what you do now that you’re . . .”
“No longer on the runway?” she finished for him. Making do with second best, she thought, but that was just her inner self-pity talking. Her clothing line might sell well locally, but Bergdorf’s or Macy’s certainly weren’t knocking on her dining room–turned–studio door. “You mean when I’m not entertaining the Garden Club or volunteering with the Junior League?”