by Liz Talley
The man looked like a model. His honey-colored skin was smooth and flawless, his body honed and chiseled. He looked like the guys sporting hoodies and expensive gym pants in the Lululemon catalogues - determined, modern, beautiful.
“Told ya,” Pansy said, shouldering Eleanor out of the way. “He could eat crackers, chips and freakin’ beignets in my bed any day of the week.”
“Not sure your husband would appreciate an extra bedmate.”
“Eddie lets the dog sleep with us. What’s one more hairy beast?” Pansy straightened the ceremonial Mayan mask that sat next to the silver candelabra in the window display before sliding off the edge of the window stage, her long body loose and loping. Pansy was over six feet tall, flat-footed and thin to the point of painful, but she had a sharp sense of humor and a heart that was big, fat and full of good cheer. Like Santa Claus in Olive Oyl’s body.
Eleanor glanced again at the man standing beside the pickup, peering at his phone. He wore well-worn jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. His face had a sort of sexy Brad Pitt thing going on with sensuous lips, but his jaw was hard, nose straight, brows dark and drawn to a V as he tapped on the phone. His skin was burnished copper and his hair jet-black, clipped close to his head. Broad shoulders and narrow hips finished off the visual treat. A damn salted caramel cupcake from Butterfield’s Bakery wasn’t as tempting as this man. “Hey,” Pansy whispered over Eleanor’s shoulder, making her jump. “You should go get him and see how you like sleeping on cracker crumbs.”
“I already know I don’t like sleeping on cracker crumbs.”
“With the right guy, you’ll never feel ’em. Trust me.”
Running a hand over a well-crafted Federal chest of drawers, Eleanor turned to Pansy and wiggled her fingers. “Dust.”
“Chicken.”
Eleanor wasn’t going outside to talk to a guy leaning against a work truck. She wasn’t that kind of girl. Never had been… even if she was determined to get out there… wherever “there” was. “No way.”
“Candy ass.”
“Calling me names won’t work. Get the lemon oil and let’s make sure our pieces up front look pretty. Tourists will be pouring in with Mardi Gras weekend coming up. I could use some sales.”
Pansy propped her fists on angular hips and narrowed her piercing blue eyes. “Come on, El. What will it hurt to do a little flirting? You’ll probably never see him again and you need to get your feet wet. Beyond time, sugar.”
Yeah, it was way beyond time. That’s what her daughter Blakely had yelled at her over a month ago—to get her own life. But Eleanor wasn’t going outside and getting her feet wet with some random house painter. Even if she’d never see him again. Even if it was harmless, silly and somewhat daring. “I’m moving on, Pansy. I am. I even checked out that eHarmony site last night, but I’m not the kind of girl who goes up to a random guy and says, uh, I wouldn’t even know what to say.”
“Pretend you’re locked out and need a screwdriver or something to jimmy the lock. I’ll hide in the back.”
“Jimmy the lock? Who are you? Nancy Drew?”
Pansy faked an elaborate laugh. “You’re so funny. Share it with the sex god across the street. Unless you’re… chicken?”
Eleanor looked around the antiques store that had been her salvation, first after the hurricane and then after the sex scandal and felt the security she always did when she really thought about who she was. Did she want to be another relic of the past like the beautiful pieces in her store? Hmm. Pansy was right. Blakely was right. She needed to step out and get a life. “Okay. Fine.”
Pansy froze. “Really?”
“Yeah, what’ll it hurt? Not like I’ll see him again.”
Pansy pulled Eleanor to her, snatching the ponytail holder from Eleanor’s hair. “Ow!”
“Hold still,” Pansy said, tugging strands of Eleanor’s hair around her face and studying it critically.
Eleanor batted her hands away. “Jeez, Pans.”
“Let me grab the coral rose lip gloss I bought at Sephora. It will look nice with those new red highlights you just put in.”
“I’m—”
“Shh,” Pansy said, pressing a finger against Eleanor’s lips. “He’s a little out of your league so we need to prepare you for—”
“Please.” Eleanor pushed past her friend and tucked her shirt into her new gold Lilly Pulitzer belt. “He’ll be gone before you could perform all that magic. Besides, he’s not out of my league. Forget the lip gloss.”
“Whoa, that’s my sassy girl,” Pansy called, scurrying to the back of the store, thin arms and knobby knees moving so fast she resembled a clumsy puppy. She sank behind the counter leaving only her eyes visible. “I’ll hide back here so he buys the story.”
“This is nuts,” Eleanor proclaimed.
Pansy’s hand emerged over the register, shooing her toward the door. “Just go.”
Taking a deep breath, Eleanor pushed the glass door, ignoring the dinging of the sleigh bells affixed to the knob, and stepped onto Magazine Street, which had started waking up for the day. She shut the door behind her, slapped a hand to her forehead and patted her pockets.
Damn, she was a good actress.
She started toward hunky painter dude, looking both ways before crossing the street ’cause she’d learned that rule when she was seven years old. The closer she got, the hotter—and younger—the guy looked.
God, this was stupid. Pansy was right. The man was out of her league.
Too hot for her.
Too young for her.
She needed to go back to her store and abandon the whole ruse, but as she began to turn, he lifted his head and caught her gaze.
Oh, dear Lord. Eyes the color of smoke swept over her and something shivery flew right up her spine. It wasn’t casual or dismissive. Oddly enough, the gaze felt… profound.
Or maybe she needed to drink less coffee. She must be imagining the connection between them. It had been almost twenty years since she’d tried to pick up a man, so she was out of practice. That was it. She imagined his interest.
He lifted his eyebrows questioningly, and she tried to remember what she was supposed to ask him. A horn honked and she turned her head.
Yeah. She stood in the middle of the street like a moron.
The sex god turned his head and nodded toward the car. “You gonna move?”
“Yeah,” she said, stepping onto the sidewalk. She licked her lips, wishing she’d put on the stupid lip gloss. Not only did she look stupid, but her lips were bare. Eleanor the Daring was appalled by Eleanor the Unprepared who had shown up in her stead.
“Can I help you?”
You can if you toss me over your shoulder, take me to your temple and play sacrifice the not-exactly-a-virgin on your stone pillar of lust.
But she didn’t say that, of course.
“I’m looking for a screw,” she said.
DEZ BATISTE LOWERED his phone and stared at the woman. “I beg your pardon?”
“Huh?”
“You asked for a screw?” he repeated.
She turned the color of the red tiles that framed the doorway behind her. “No. I didn’t ask you—uh, I meant a screwdriver.”
He almost laughed because he could see where her thoughts had jumped to… which was kind of cute.
He’d parked in front of the club five minutes ago, pissed he couldn’t get his damn contractor to show up. He’d dialed Chris Salmon three times but hung up each time he heard the voice mail. He wasn’t in a good mood, didn’t need some woman bothering him, but when he’d really looked at this one, he had put his bad mood on pause.
“A screwdriver?”
She nodded and a chunk of hair fell from behind her ear. She pushed it back.
“At first I thought you were propositioning me.” He smiled to let her know he wouldn’t bite. At least not hard.
Her face turned even redder. “Heavens, no. I just got distracted, uh, by that car.” She glanced at the antiques
store across the street and rolled her shoulders.
“Why do you need a screwdriver?” he asked, liking what his questions were doing to her. Why? He hadn’t the foggiest. There was simply something about her that made him want to peel away layers.
“The stupid lock to the store is messed up, and I’m locked out. No one else is here yet, and I don’t have an extra key.”
He glanced inside the truck. “Don’t have one out here, but I can check to see if anyone left something you can use inside.”
She caught her lower lip between her teeth, drawing his attention to the perfect pinkness of her mouth. Soft. As if she’d been painted upon canvas and intentionally smudged. Her fire-streaked hair with a stubborn flip fell to her collarbone, which was visible beneath a shirt the color of ripe watermelon. “I suppose I could ask Mr. Hibbett at Butterfield’s. He might have one.”
Not wanting to miss an opportunity to make friends in the area, he held out a hand. “I’m Dez Batiste. Let me unlock the door, and we’ll see if there’s something you can use. Wouldn’t want to bother Mr. Hibbett, would we?”
Her gaze lifted to his. “Batiste? As in the guy who wants to open the nightclub?”
His fascination with the woman immediately nosedived. Five months ago, he’d chosen to roll the dice on an Uptown location for his nightclub rather than a place on Frenchmen Street. Tremé might be the hottest jazz scene in New Orleans, but Dez was pretty sure his old neighborhood near the Garden District would welcome the upscale club opening in less than a month. However, there had been opposition to Blue Rondo from some of the merchants. He’d recently received a letter from the Magazine Merchants Association questioning the judiciousness of opening a business that could potentially harm the family-friendly atmosphere. It hadn’t been “welcoming” at all. More like holding a veiled threat of ill-will. “I’m Dez Batiste the guy who will open a nightclub.”
He started to lower his hand, but she took it. “I’m Eleanor Theriot, owner of the Queen’s Box.” She hiked a thumb over her shoulder toward the large glass-front store directly across the street from where they stood.
“Oh,” he said, noting the warmth of her grasp, the sharpness in her gaze and the scent of her perfume, which reminded him of summer nights. He knew who she was, had seen that name before. On the bottom of a complaint to the city council. One of his friends had scored a copy and given him a heads-up.
She dropped her hand. “I assumed you were a worker or something.”
“Why, because I’m not white?”
Her eyes widened. “No. That’s insulting.”
He lifted his eyebrows but said nothing.
“You’re dressed like you were coming to work or something. Had nothing to do with…” she trailed off, looking upset.
Okay, he was dressed in paint-streaked clothes and the truck had Emilio’s Painting plastered to the door, so maybe Eleanor wasn’t drawing incorrect conclusions. Because though his grandfather was black, his grandmother Creole and his mother half-Cuban, Dez didn’t look any distinctive race, except not white. “Yeah. Okay.”
For a moment they stood, each regarding the other. Dez regretted the shift in mood. He’d wanted to flirt with her, but now there was nothing but bad air because he’d jumped to conclusions.
“I’ve wondered about you, a renowned New Orleans musician, returning to open a club in the old Federal Bank,” Eleanor said, glancing up at the crumbling brick before returning her gaze to him. Those green eyes looked more guarded than before. “So why here in this part of New Orleans? Aren’t there better places for a nightclub?”
“Uptown is where I’m from,” Dez said, folding his arms across his chest and eyeing the antiques dealer with her expensive clothes and obvious intolerance for anyone not wearing seersucker and named something like Winston. “What? I don’t meet your expectations ’cause I’m not drunk? Or strung out on crack?”
More tension.
Her eyes searched his, and in them, he saw a shift, as if a decision had been made. A glimmer of something. “And you don’t have horns. I’d thought you’d have horns… unless they’re retractable?”
She didn’t smile as she delivered the line. It was given smoothly, as if she knew they were headed toward rocky shores and needed to steer clear. So he picked up a paddle and allowed them to drift back into murky waters. “Retractable horns are a closely guarded musician’s secret. Who ratted me out?”
Eleanor locked her mouth with an imaginary key.
“Guess a screwdriver wouldn’t help?”
She shook her head.
Again, silence.
It was an intensely odd moment with a woman he’d resented without knowing much about her, with a woman who opposed his very dream, with a woman who made him want to trace the curve of her jaw. He’d never been in such a situation.
“Just two things before I go back over there and walk through that very much unlocked door,” she said with a resolute crossing of her arms.
“Really? The door’s not even locked?” He arched an eyebrow.
“A ploy to come check you out dreamed up by my not-so-savvy salesclerk. Totally tanked on the whole thing from beginning to end. It’s pretty embarrassing.”
“I’m flattered. Thank your salesclerk for me.”
Her direct stare didn’t waver. “Oh, come on, don’t even pretend you’re not the object of a lot of ‘Can I borrow your pen?’ or ‘Do you know what time it is?’”
“Wait, those are pickup lines?” he asked with a deadpan expression. There was something he liked in her straightforwardness along with the soft-glowy thing she had going. Not quite wholesome. More delicate and flowery. This woman wasn’t lacquered up, looking for fun. No she was more subtle, perhaps even gauche. But he liked that in a woman.
He shook himself, remembering she was a high-classed sort and not his type.
“Maybe not pickups per say, but definitely designed to get your attention,” she said, sounding more college professor than woman on the prowl. Or maybe she wasn’t really interested in him. Perhaps she knew who he was in the first place and wanted to goad him, size him up before he made trouble.
Dez leaned against the truck he’d borrowed from his neighbor since his Mustang was in the shop. “So what did you want to tell me?”
“One.” She held up an elegant finger. He’d never called a finger elegant before, but hers fit the billing. “I oppose the idea of a nightclub in this particular area. All the business owners here have worked hard since the storm to build a certain atmosphere that does not include beer bottles and half-dressed hookers.”
He opened his mouth to dispute, but she held up a second finger.
“And, two, this little,” she wagged her other hand between them, “thing didn’t happen. Erase it from your memory. Chalk it up to midlife crisis, to a dare, or bad tuna fish I ate last night.”
“What are you talking about?”
She frowned. “Me trying to check you out.”
Something warmed inside him. Pleasure. “I don’t even remember why you walked over.”
A little smile accompanied the silent thank you in her eyes.
Dez answered the smile with one of his own, and for a few seconds they stood in the midst of Magazine Street smiling at each other like a couple of loons, which was crazy considering the tenseness only seconds ago.
“Okay, then,” she said, inching back toward her store.
“Yeah,” he said, not moving. Mostly because he wanted to watch her walk back to her store and check out the view.
“So hopefully I won’t see you around,” she said lightly, turning away, giving him what he wanted without even realizing it.
“Don’t count on it,” he said, playing along.
She didn’t say anything. Just kept walking.
“Hey,” he called as she stepped onto the opposite curb. She turned around and shaded her eyes against the morning sunlight. “I’m going to change your mind, you know.”
“About?”
�
��My club and the reason why you came over here.”
He straightened and gave her a nod of his head and one of his sexy trademark smiles, one he hadn’t used since he’d left Houston.
And from across the street, he could see Ms. Eleanor Theriot looked worried.
Good. She should be… because he meant it. His club wouldn’t draw hookers or anyone who would smash a beer bottle on the pavement. Nor would it draw the sort of club-goers who would break windows or vomit in the street. No rowdy college crowd or blue-collar drunks.
Blue Rondo was different—the kernel of a dream that had bloomed in his heart when everything else around him had fallen apart. The idea of an upscale New Orleans jazz club had sustained him through heartbreak and heartache. Had given him sanctuary when the waters erased all he’d been, and the woman he thought would be his wife had turned into someone he didn’t know. Seven damn years wasted and all he’d held onto was the dream of Blue Rondo, the club named after the first song “Blue Rondo a la Turk” his father had played for him when he’d been a boy.
And no one was going to take that away from him.
Not when he’d risked so much to get here.
Not when he’d finally faced his past and embraced New Orleans as his future.
So, yeah, she could strike number one off her list.
And as Eleanor stood staring at him on the opposite side of the street, he knew she could strike number two off, too. She may not want him to remember her “attention-getter,” but his interest was piqued.
Straightforward eyes the color of moss.
Lush pink lips.
Ivory satin skin.
Color him interested.
Dez tucked away that idea, turned and contemplated the faded building behind him—the old Federal Bank that would house his dream. He sighed.
Another wasted morning.
He could have slept in after a late night in the Quarter playing with Frankie B’s trio. They’d stretched it out until the wee hours, playing sanitized versions of tourist favorites, and he’d made plenty of dime. The city had started seeping back into him.
Dez checked his messages once again. Still no Chris. So he pulled up his schedule. He could spare a few hours cutting tile for the bathroom floors before he needed to head back to the place he’d leased a few blocks over and grab a shower. He had another gig at seven o’clock that night but wanted to stop in and talk to a couple friends who’d opened some places in the Warehouse District about glassware and distributors.