Thigh High

by Christina Dodd

  His lips looked delicious.

  The door swung open. “Miss Nessa. Miss Hestia sent a shirt down for Mr. Mac to wear.”

  Nessa snapped to attention—but not in time.

  Maddy stuck her head in. “Here it is…. Oh, Miss Nessa.” She took in the scene: Nessa scrambling to her feet, Nessa’s well-kissed mouth…. Jeremiah’s wide, bare chest. Her brown eyes twinkled. “Well! This will make your aunts very happy.”

  Nessa straightened her skirt. “Come on, Miss Maddy. Don’t tell them.”

  “I won’t have to.” Maddy shook out a white linen shirt with ruffles at the cuffs and a front that laced up from the breastbone to the neck.

  Jeremiah stared at it, his eyes narrowing.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Mac. You’re thinking you’re going to look like a damned fool. But Miss Nessa’s grandfather wore this for Mardi Gras, and so did her father. They were supposed to be a pirate, Jean Lafitte to be exact, and those two were the only men big enough to loan clothes to you.” Maddy looked him over. “You’ll look like a big brawn of a man in anything you wear.”

  Wasn’t that the truth? Most men—straight men, anyway—wouldn’t be able to carry off the pirate shirt, but the thought of Jeremiah in ruffled sleeves made Nessa drool.

  She took a long breath. She needed to remember—sex wasn’t on the menu. Not for her. Not tonight. Not with him…

  Jeremiah rose and walked to the door, and as he reached for the shirt, the muscles of his back flexed in an intricate, glorious network. “Thank you, Miss Maddy. I would be honored to wear Mr. Dahl’s costume.” His voice was deep, warm, respectful.

  Tiny Maddy smiled at him, the wrinkles on her soft old face deepening as she took in the magnificent sternum right before her nose. “You’re welcome, young man. Now, hurry up and get dressed. The caterers need that sink!” She whisked away, leaving the door open.

  The noise of kitchen work filled the room, dispelling the intimacy—but not the desire.

  The desire would subside soon. It always did. But Nessa knew damned good and well that until Jeremiah left, this desire would nag at her like a toothache that wouldn’t go away.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to need help getting into this shirt,” he said.

  “Well, of course you need help.” Because when every instinct was screaming at her to get away, she had to touch him, stare at that broad chest, get within range of those long arms again.

  She approached him cautiously.

  He stood waiting docilely.

  Docilely. Sort of like a bull mastiff trained to attack but waiting for the command.

  Just a kiss, huh?

  Then why did she feel like this was the morning after? It hadn’t been sex. It had been…just a kiss—and far too intimate for a first time.

  Not that he’d groped her boob or made a grab for her butt.

  No, she’d been the one who’d responded too completely.

  And why? She dated. She exchanged kisses; good ones, too. But not one of them ever sent her out of her mind with lust.

  In fact, none of them ever distracted her from the next day’s schedule.

  So it was Jeremiah. His fault. He’d done something to her. And he’d better not try to do it again.

  Because she might…um, she might not be able to stop, and if one taste of him made her that hungry, she’d hate to try the whole tamale. For the first time, Nessa realized she would have to put her brain to work to help solve the Mardi Gras robberies. If she didn’t, she’d be drawn into an affair with a Yankee from Philadelphia who fought like a hero, looked like a trucker, and kissed all too well.

  He was, she feared, an unforgettable combination.

  Mac stood in the foyer, watched Nessa scurry up the stairs, and smiled the kind of smile that, if she had seen it, would have made her very nervous.

  Some people would say he was a lucky man. He would agree, if luck consisted of knowing what he wanted, putting himself in the right spot at the right time, and making split-second decisions that took advantage of every opportunity that came his way. And if lucky was getting shot by a mugger on his first day in New Orleans.

  He breathed in the scent of Old English furniture polish and lilies arranged in a crystal vase, and glanced around at the Dahl House.

  Helluva place. The carpets were threadbare, but man, they had cost a bundle when they were new. The floor shone, but over the years, so many feet had walked across the threshold they’d worn a slope into the wood. Gilt frames hung on the walls, filled with nineteenth-century paintings and mirrors so old the reflective backing had worn away in patches. Two sets of double doors stood wide open on the left. One room was a living room with an antique desk, two sagging couches, and a window seat that looked onto the street. The other was a huge, bare, elegant room that sparkled with crystal chandeliers—the ballroom. Since an eight-piece band was setting up in there, he wandered into the living room and over to the oil portrait that hung over the fireplace. The lady was clad in mid-nineteenth-century splendor, sitting stiffly upright in her blue silk dress. Her jet-black hair framed her pale skin, and her exotically slanted sapphire eyes clearly insinuated he had no business sullying her home with his uncouth presence.

  “My God,” he said.

  From the corner, an elderly lady’s voice piped up, “It is amazing, isn’t it?”

  He turned to see a plump woman curled up in a large, worn easy chair, a book open in her lap. She studied him with a frankness that gave him leave to return the favor. She wore a fringed flapper dress and a turban wrapped around her head, her thick glasses made her blue eyes exorbitantly large, and she had such a marked resemblance to her sister he could safely assume she was Nessa’s aunt Calista. “What’s amazing?” he asked.

  “How much Nessa looks like Althea Dahl. That is what you were saying, ‘My God,’ about, wasn’t it?” Removing her reading glasses, she carefully folded them, placed them on the table, and rose.

  He looked up at the Dahl ancestor. “Yeah.”

  Calista came to his side and stared up at the portrait with him. “People in New Orleans say Nessa resembles Hestia in her figure and me in her face, but all you have to do is look at that picture of Althea Dahl, and Nessa’s face looks back at you.” She turned to him and offered her hand. “You’re Jeremiah Mac. I’m Miss Calista.”

  “Good to meet you.” He gently shook the fragile-looking fingers. “With looks like those, Althea must have been very popular.”

  “Before the war, she was the belle of New Orleans. She was also the woman who sacrificed herself by marrying the rich Yankee invader, John Dahl, and thus saved her family from ruin.”

  Sounded like crap to Mac. “It couldn’t have been much of a sacrifice. Not if he was rich.”

  “Well.” Without an ounce of compassion, Calista grinned. “It turned out he was the sacrifice, since the rumor claims that after she’d secured her Yankee husband’s fortune, she poisoned him and lived to a ripe old age as a cane-wielding matriarch.”

  “Wow.” He was impressed. “Don’t mess with Althea.”

  “Don’t mess with any of the Dahl women,” Calista warned, and he understood she was talking directly to him. Then she added thoughtfully, “Although Nessa has none of the malice necessary to poison anyone.”

  “Does she draw the line at murder?” He thought he sounded pleasant enough.

  But Calista must have discerned an undertone in his voice, for she whipped around and attacked. “Nessa? Nessa is a dear girl. My sister and I wish she were a little tougher—if she were, she wouldn’t allow That Woman at That Bank to take advantage of her the way she does—”

  He reeled from the unexpected attack from the gentle-looking lady. “Who’s That Woman?”

  “Stephanie Decker, the manager. Nessa’s the one who keeps things running smoothly. Nessa’s the reason customers prefer Premier Central over any other. Nessa’s the officer who secures the loans and brings in the savings accounts. That bullheaded man who runs the bank, Mr. MacNa
ught, has done Nessa a disservice, and he doesn’t realize it. Or care.” Calista’s voice dipped below freezing.

  Obviously, if her aunts knew all this, Nessa had done plenty of griping about her job. “She’s ambitious.”

  “Of course she’s ambitious.”

  Everything Calista said solidified the suspicions in Mac’s mind. “She could change jobs.”

  “When Nessa was just starting, she made a mistake. Now she’s nothing but a dogsbody for Stephanie Decker. She has tried to get another job, but That Woman has made sure everyone in New Orleans knows she’d messed up.”

  “In banking, news travels fast.”

  “It’s not fair. Nessa is honest. She’s loyal. She’ll do anything for her friends and relatives, and even though the bank doesn’t treat her right, she does everything for it.”

  “But she resents the bank.”

  “She’s not stupid. Of course she resents the bank. It’s been seven years since she made her mistake, and she hasn’t made one since.” Calista’s blue eyes snapped as she leveled them on him, demanding he agree.

  “If everything you say is true, then…no, it’s not fair.” But if Nessa was taking her revenge by robbing Premier Central banks, that was even less fair.

  “If that sweet girl would leave New Orleans, she could have the job of her dreams.” Calista clasped her hands below her chin. “But she won’t leave Hestia and me.”

  “You want her to go?” He liked Hestia and Calista, but he could hardly believe they’d want to lose their living wallet.

  “No, we don’t want her to go. But we want her to have a life! Just this morning, Hestia said…” A pang of…something—horror? Amusement?—brought Calista to a firm stop. “Well, what Hestia said doesn’t matter. The point is, Nessa feels responsible for us, and we Dahl girls want her to spread her wings.”

  Calista sounded as if she believed it. And maybe she did, especially since Nessa showed no signs of leaving. “Maybe she’s afraid.”

  “Of course she’s afraid. When a child loses both her parents at a young age, it’s not a blow from which she can easily recover, and Nessa is—was always—a sensitive child.”

  He lifted his eyebrows, a silent command for Calista to go on.

  She stared back, not a bit cowed.

  “I didn’t know any of that,” he said. “You could tell me.”

  “That depends. What’s your interest in Nessa?”

  In astonishment, he realized he was being interrogated. Interrogated by an eighty-year-old woman about his intentions for her niece.

  Had he fallen into a time warp?

  No. He’d arrived in New Orleans.

  “I met her this morning. She’s smart. She’s attractive.”

  “You kissed her.”

  He would not discuss his inexplicable passion for Nessa with anyone. “If I did, it is my business and hers. But not yours. Not Miss Hestia’s. Not Miss Maddy’s or the caterer’s or the mugger’s. Just Nessa’s and mine.”

  “You know where to draw the line.” Calista studied him. “You’ll do.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “The guests are arriving!” she said.

  “Tell me about Nessa,” he insisted.

  “Ah, but I know where to draw the line, too. If you want to know about Nessa, you’ll have to ask her. “Calista smiled, hooked her hand in his arm, and started toward the foyer. “Mr. Mac, I understand you dance.”

  Eleven

  Throughout the ground floor, guests in the Dahl House, resplendent in costumes and masks, held filled plates and half-filled glasses. Music from the ballroom wove its way through the crowd, animating them in conversation, dance and laughter.

  As Nessa made her entrance at the top of the curving stairway, cries of delight greeted her.

  “Brava, darling, brava.” Daniel tossed his boa around his neck and clapped in appreciation. “You look dashing!”

  Nessa smiled mechanically. She knew she looked dashing, the image of a World War II movie star in her red jacket with her matching red skirt, and a hat with a great spiked feather. She wore her hair up, seams in the back of her hose, basic red pumps, and shoulder pads. Huge shoulder pads. She’d scavenged in the attics of the Dahl House for this outfit, altered the skirt and the jacket, and searched the Internet for the hose. She’d spent a year, ever since last year’s party, planning her entrance—and she didn’t even glance in the mirror as she descended the curving staircase. All that occupied her mind was Jeremiah.

  Where was he? What was he doing? Was this Yankee, at the most traditional carnival party, holding his own with the people of her city?

  “As always, Ionessa, the Dahl girls have outdone themselves.” Nessa’s sophomore science teacher kissed her cheek. “Do you know my bride, Angelina?”

  Nessa shook hands with the twenty-two-year-old he’d married. “I’ve heard so much about you.” About how, when Mr. LeJeune inherited a small fortune from his aunt, Angelina had broken up a four-kid marriage.

  “Yeah, a lot of people say that.” Angelina took a deep breath and her impressive breasts quivered beneath her low-cut, sequined gown.

  Nessa wanted to cover her eyes and yell, I’ve been blinded! Instead, as Mr. LeJeune handed her a half case of wine, she said, “We’ll enjoy these.” She handed the wine to a passing caterer. “Have a good time.”

  “Laissez les bons temps rouler!” Angelina tripped off toward the ballroom, Mr. LeJeune on her heels.

  And Nessa still hadn’t caught sight of Jeremiah. She started for the ballroom when Maddy caught her. “Child, you look grand. Look at that! That idiot Gauthier Lavache is spiking the punch bowl! As if it wasn’t flammable enough!” She plowed fiercely through the crowd.

  Nessa felt sorry for the unfortunate Gauthier Lavache.

  “Hey, chère.” Ernie Rippon stood before her in his police uniform. “I can only stay for a few minutes. They called me back in to help with crowd control down in the Vieux Carre.”

  “Go pick out a pretty girl and dance one dance.”

  “I can’t. The only pretty girl is standing here greeting her guests.” He grinned at her with all his old-guy charm.

  “You are so sweet.” She shoved his shoulder, then kissed his cheek. “You be careful out there tonight, Ernie.”

  “Always.” He headed for the dining room.

  Debbie Voytilla circled the foyer, looking worried. “Nessa, I haven’t seen Ryan. Have you?”

  “I just came down.” Nessa glanced around, but not because she cared about Ryan. She wanted to see Jeremiah. “Is Skeeter here?”

  “I haven’t seen him, either.”

  “Then I suppose they’re still playing. The tips must be good tonight.”

  Debbie floated across the floor, a wonder of lingerie in chiffon and feathers, toward the clump of people blocking the door to the ballroom. “I wonder what’s going on in here.”

  Nessa’s fertile imagination immediately conjured a multitude of scenarios, all of them involving Jeremiah, all of them involving some kind of strife. She elbowed her way through the throng to the front—and stopped short at the sight that met her eyes. “I don’t believe it,” she whispered.

  “Believe it,” Aunt Hestia said.

  Jeremiah and Aunt Calista glided smoothly across the polished wood of the Dahl House ballroom floor, their waltz perfectly in sync with the music provided by the jazz quartet. They were beautiful together, the elderly woman in flapper outfit and the tall, rugged, scarred man in the white pirate shirt.

  The other dancing couples had moved aside to give them room. The walls were packed, and the double doors that opened to the outside held a crowd.

  “Who is that gorgeous man?” Georgia’s gaze was plastered on the dancing couple.

  “Jeremiah Mac. Insurance inspector for the bank. Investigating the Mardi Gras Robberies.” Nessa took a breath. “I’m his assistant.”

  Georgia turned on her like a furious wolverine. “His assistant? You had this fabulous beast of a man this morni
ng and you didn’t tell me?”

  By Georgia’s slight sway and the slur of her speech, Nessa judged that her friend had already celebrated with one too many glasses of punch. Nessa only wished she’d had time to soften the edges of reality with a good, stiff drink, but patching up Jeremiah…and kissing him…had made her late for the party. Now she yearned for a milk punch or a mimosa or a hurricane…. Or that she was in Jeremiah’s arms as he smoothly led her through the waltz.

  “I didn’t know him this morning,” Nessa told Georgia.

  “Can I have him?” Georgia asked.

  “No. If you don’t want Antoine, then you most certainly do not deserve Jeremiah.” Nessa’s gaze returned to the dance floor, to the couple swirling in glorious unison.

  “My God. He already got to you.” Georgia flung her arm around Nessa’s neck. “He already got to you!”

  “Would you lower your voice?” Nessa hissed.

  Aunt Hestia moved closer. “How did he do it?”

  “He didn’t do anything,” Nessa said.

  “You’re looking flustered, Ionessa Dahl, and nothing flusters you. So what did he do that got to you?” Georgia insisted.

  Nessa backed out of the crowd, around the corner, and into the living room, where a few people had found chairs and sat quietly to eat.

  Nessa’s great-aunt and best friend followed close behind, their gazes focused on her.

  When she was sure they were private, Nessa quietly admitted, “He kissed me.”

  “Tongues?” Aunt Hestia asked.

  “For the love of God…” Nessa began.

  Aunt Hestia lifted her eyebrows.

  Nessa surrendered. “All right. Yes. Tongues.”

  “Glory hallelujah!” Aunt Hestia lifted her arms in praise.

  “Fast mover. And with you. I’m impressed. It’s been so long since you’ve been kissed you’ve got dust on your lips.” Georgia looked closely at Nessa. “Yep. Now all the dust has turned stardust in your eyes.”

  “Shut up.” But Nessa laughed.

  “I want to hear every last detail, and I’m not leaving your side until—” Aunt Hestia stopped in midsentence.