Midnight Bayou (12 page)

Pressing his face to her belly, he sent her flying.

Her body was a mass of aches, of joys, with the sharp edge of sensation slicing through like a bolt of light. It burst in her, sent her helplessly hurtling.

She reached for him, closed her hand around him. He was hard as stone. She wanted him inside her as much as she wanted her next breath.

“Now. I want you.” She felt him quiver, even as she quivered. Saw herself in his eyes as he rose over her. “I want you to fill me. Fill me up.”

He clung to that slippery line of control, and as her legs wrapped around him, slid slowly, very slowly into her. Slid deep when she rose to meet him. Held there with his breath caught in his throat and everything he was lost in her.

Sighs now, and a quick, rushing gasp. They kept their eyes on each other and moved, an almost lazy pace that spread pleasure like a warm pool. Their lips met, and he
felt hers curve against his before he lifted his head to see her smile.

Flesh glided over flesh, silky friction. Music, the tragic sob of it from her living room, a sudden celebratory burst of it from the street below, merged together in his head with her quickening breaths.

She tensed beneath him, her head going back to bare the line of her throat for his lips. She tightened around him, shuddered, shuddered. Once again he buried his face in her hair, and this time, let himself fly with her.

Later, he lay watching the light play on the ceiling, stroking his hand along her back. Drenched in her. “Are you going to let me stay?” he asked. “Or do I catch a cab?”

She stared into the shadows. “Stay.”

H
e woke just after daybreak. She’d curved into him in sleep, but he saw that she had her arm between them and a fist curled over her heart. As if she were guarding it, he thought. The little silver key lay against the side of her hand.

He wanted to lift that hand, gently uncurl the fingers. Bare her heart to him, he realized. He’d already lost his to her. Had lost it, he decided, the moment he’d seen her.

It was a jolt, and a shock for a man who’d come to believe he simply wasn’t capable of love. Unless it was family or friendship. His personal crisis over Jessica, who everyone—including Jessica—had claimed was perfect for him, had convinced him he’d blown his one chance at a lasting, content relationship with a woman.

It had been tough to swallow for a man who, at the core, believed strongly in family, in home, in marriage. And swallowing it, he realized, had been largely responsible for the restless unhappiness that had trailed after him like a faithful dog for months.

Now he was looking at the woman who was the answer. And he didn’t think she was going to be willing to listen to the question.

So, he’d have to persuade her. One way or the other, and sooner or later. Because he’d meant what he’d said the night before. They were going to belong to each other.

He considered waking her up and reminding her how good they were together in bed. He couldn’t think of a better way to start the day, especially since she was warm and soft and draped around him.

But it didn’t seem quite fair to wake her when they’d barely slept. Her workday started a great deal later than his.

He slid away from her, with no little regret, and eased out of bed. She stirred, sighing in sleep, and rolled into the warmth he’d left behind.

He grabbed his trousers and headed into the shower.

In his opinion, you could tell a lot about a person by their bathroom. Hers was both rigorously clean and indulgent. Thick towels of forest green offset the white fixtures and picked up the small diamond chip pattern scattered through the floor tile.

Lush green plants lined the windowsill, and a trio of daffodils speared out of a slim bottle of pale green.

There were other bottles, jewel colors, and covered boxes that held fragrant oils and lotions, bath salts. She liked fancy soaps, he noted, and kept them in a pretty bowl.

He also discovered her hot water lasted longer than his. He smiled through the bliss of a fifteen-minute shower that steamed up the room like a Turkish bath.

She was still sleeping when he stepped out. Sprawled now over the sheets with the morning sun slanted over the lean length of her naked back. He turned his mind firmly from sliding back into bed with her and focused it on finding coffee.

Her living area had lofty ceilings and dark wood floors. She’d sponged the walls with a bluish paint that made them look like faded denim. Against one stood a fireplace framed in that same dark wood with a sunburst mantelpiece he immediately coveted. Its woodwork was distressed, its cream-colored paint peeling.

He understood why she’d left it that way. Its history and character came through.

To complement the faded walls, she’d hung colorful framed posters. Advertising posters, he noted. Elegant women selling champagne, sleek-looking men toting cigars.

A high-backed sofa in royal blue sat in the center of the room covered, as women mysteriously cover sofas and beds, with pillows.

He admired the style she’d formed here. Old, subtly battered tables and slashing colors. And he liked seeing his tulips on her coffee table.

He wandered through to the kitchen and found himself grinning. It wasn’t often you found black-and-white photos of nudes—male and female—on kitchen walls.

But he was happier yet to find coffee.

He closed the pocket door so the sound of grinding beans wouldn’t carry to the bedroom. And while the coffee brewed, he stood at her kitchen window, looking out at her section of New Orleans.

He heard the slide of the kitchen door.

She wore a short red robe, and her eyes were heavy with sleep, her smile lazy with it.

“Sorry, I thought I’d muffled the coffee grinder.”

“I didn’t hear it.” She drew a deep breath. “But I smelled the results. You making breakfast,
cher
?”

“Want toast? It’s my best thing.”

“Oh, I think I had a taste of your best thing last night.” Still smiling, she sauntered toward him, slid her hands
around his neck. “Gimme another,” she said and lifted her mouth to his.

She’d woken lonely, sure he’d gone. She never let men stay the night in her bed. It was too easy for them to slip out the door. Better to send them along, to sleep alone, than to wake lonely.

Then she’d seen his shirt, his jacket, his shoes, and had been delighted. Too delighted. When a man had that much power, it was time to take some back. The surefire way was to cloud his mind with sex.

“Why didn’t you just roll over and wake me up, sugar?”

“Thought about it.” Was still thinking about it. “I figured since you’re working tonight, you need more than ten minutes’ sleep. But since you’re awake . . .”

She laughed and slipped away. “Since I’m awake I want coffee.” She opened a cupboard door, sent him that knowing glance over her shoulder. “Maybe if you ask nice, I’ll fix you some breakfast.”

“Do you want me to beg standing up, on my knees or completely supine?”

“You tickle me, Declan. I’ll make you some toast.
Le pain perdu,”
she added when his face fell. “French toast. I got me most of a nice baguette.” She handed him a thick white mug filled with black coffee.

“Thanks. Since you’re good in the kitchen, we won’t have to hire a cook when we get married and raise our six kids.”

“Six?”

“I feel obligated to uphold the Sullivan-Fitzgerald tradition. I really like your kitchen art. Not the usual spot for nudes.”

“Why?” She got out a black iron skillet. “Cooking’s an art, and it’s sexy if you do it right.”

She got out a blue bowl. He watched her crack an egg
on its side, slide white and yolk in, one-handed.

“I see what you mean. Do it again.”

She chuckled and cracked a second egg. “Why don’t you go on out and put some music on? This won’t take long.”

They ate at a little gateleg table she had tucked under one of the living room windows.

“Where’d you learn to cook?” he asked her.

“My grandmama. She tried to teach me to sew, too, but that didn’t stick so well.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t open a restaurant instead of a bar.”

“I like to cook when I like to cook. Do it for a living, do it all the time.”

“There’s that. How did you end up running a bar?”

“I wanted my own business. You work for somebody else, they say do this, don’t do that, come here, go there. That doesn’t set with me. So I went to business school, and I think, what business do I want to have? I don’t want to sell souvenirs, don’t want a gift shop, don’t want to sell dresses. I think, all those things sell in New Orleans, but what sells even more? Pleasure sells. A little harmless sin and a good time, that’s what people come to the Big Easy for. So . . . Et Trois.”

“How long have you had it?”

“Let’s see now.” She’d already eaten her toast, so speared a slice from the four she’d piled on his plate. “Going on six years now.”

“You opened a bar when you were twenty-three?”

“Hey, how do you know how old I am?”

“Remy.”

She looked up at the ceiling. “
Et là!
Gonna have to take a strip off his ass for that. Man oughta know better than flapping about a woman’s age. What else he flap about?”

Declan gave his breakfast his undivided attention.
“This is really great. What do you put in this stuff?”

She said nothing for a full ten seconds. “I see. Men just can’t stop themselves from crowing about their sexual exploits.”

Uneasy, for himself and his friend, Declan replied, “It wasn’t like that. It was nostalgic. And it was sweet. You meant something to him. You still do.”

“It’s a good thing for him I know that. And that I feel the same. Do you remember the first girl you got into the backseat, Declan? Do you remember her fondly?”

“Sherry Bingham. A pretty little blond. I loved her desperately through most of my junior year in high school.”

She liked him for coming out with a name, instantly. Even if he’d made it up. “What happened?”

“She dumped me for a football player. Left tackle. Jesus, a football player with no neck and the IQ of a pencil. I’m still pissed off at her. But to get back to you—and by the way, you’re really good at deflecting personal questions, but I was a lawyer. Anyway, how did you manage to pull it off? Twenty-three’s pretty young to establish a business, one that’s proven itself out when most go under within three years.”

She leaned back. “What difference does it make? Counselor.”

“Okay.” He shrugged and kept eating. “I’ll just assume you robbed a bank, paid off the mob, seduced then murdered the previous owner—after he left you the building in his will. And continue to run illegal gambling and prostitutes out of the back room.”

“Why I’ve been so busy. But I like your version better. Mine’s very dull in comparison. I worked after school and summers, saved my pennies. I’m very good at saving pennies if I need to. Then I worked, tending bar, serving drinks, and went to business school part-time. Just before I turned twenty-two, my grandpapa died. Fell off a ladder, broke his damn fool neck.”

Her eyes filled as she said it. “Guess I’m still pissed off at him.”

“I’m sorry.” He covered her hand with his. “You were close.”

“I loved him more than any man in the world. Pete Simone, with his big laugh and his big hands. He played the fiddle and always carried a red bandanna. Always. Well . . .” She blinked away the tears. “He had an insurance policy, bigger than it ought to have been considering. Half for me, half for Grandmama. In the end she made me take all of it. Nothing you can do to change her mind when she digs her heels in. So I invested the money, and a year later I opened my place.”

“There’s nothing dull about that. You run a good bar, Lena.”

“Yes, I do.” She rose, picked up the plates. “You’d best get yourself dressed,
cher
, if you want a ride home.”

H
e couldn’t talk her into coming inside. He had to settle for a mind-numbing kiss before she pushed him out of her car and drove away.

Arriving home at nine in the morning in a wrinkled suit gained him a grin and a wink from Big Frank as the man carted dead tree limbs to a burn pile.

“You fell into some luck last night, Mister Dec.”

Into something, Declan thought and, rubbing his heart, went into the house to get to work.

She wouldn’t see him that night, or the next. He had to content himself with phone calls that made him feel like a teenager as he wandered the house with his portable phone and rattled his brains for any conversational ploy that would keep her on the line.

Mardi Gras celebrations, and business, were under way, she told him. While they were, she didn’t have time to come out and play.

He knew when he was being tested and stalled and tangled. And decided he’d let her string out his line. Until he reeled her in.

Remy dropped by one afternoon wearing Hugo Boss and gold beads. He took the beads off, tossed them over Declan’s head. “When you coming into town?”

“I thought I might join the insanity over the weekend.”

“
Cher,
it’s Mardi Gras. Every night’s the weekend.”

“Not out here. Come take a look.” He led the way into the parlor, where Tibald was high on a ladder patiently detailing the ceiling plasterwork.

“Hey, Tibald.” Remy hooked his thumbs into his pockets and craned his neck back. “That’s some job.”

“It surely is. How’s Effie doing these days?”

“Driving me to drink with wedding plans. Picked out the cake yesterday, and you’d think it was a matter of life and death whether it has yellow rosebuds or full-blown roses around the edges.”

“Best thing a man can do in these situations is nod at whatever she likes best, and just show up on the day.”

“You might’ve said something of that nature before I told her I liked the big, fat roses when it turned out she had her mind set on the buds.” He pulled a small bottle of Tylenol out of his pocket. “You got something I can down this with, Dec? That woman’s given me the mother of all headaches.”

Declan picked up a half-empty bottle of water. “Did you come out here to hide?”

“Till she cools off.” Gulping down the pills and water, Remy wandered over the drop cloth. “You do these walls in here, Dec, or you hire them out?”

“I did them.” Pleased, Declan ran his fingers over the smooth surface of the Paris green walls. “Spent the last three days on this room.” And nights, he thought. “I think this color will make the room seem cooler than a patterned paper, and I like the way it looks with the trim.”

“You’re a regular Bob Vila and Martha Stewart combined. What do you tackle next?”

“The library. Still some details to deal with in here, and the kitchen, but the library’s on the slate for next week. After that, I’m hoping to move outside for a while. Give me a couple of those aspirin.”

“Sure.” Remy handed over the pills and the water. “You got work problems or female problems?”

“A little of both. Come out on the back gallery, take a look at what the Franks have done with the rear gardens.”

“Heard you escorted our Lena around in a big, white limo a few nights ago,” Remy said as they walked toward the back of the house. “Classy stuff.”

“I’m a classy guy.” He handed the water back to Remy and opened the French doors of the dining room.

“You got romancing her in mind, that’s a good start.”

“I’ve got more than that in mind,” Declan said as Remy tipped back the bottle. “I’m going to marry her.”

Water spewed out as Remy choked.

“Pretty good spit take,” Declan commented. “Keep the bottle.”

“Jesus, Dec. Jesus Christ, you and Lena are getting married?”

“I’d like to have the wedding here, in the fall. September maybe.” He scanned his gallery, his gardens. He wondered what kind of bird it was that was currently singing its lungs out. “The place won’t be finished, but that’d be part of the charm. Of course, if it takes me longer to pin her down, we could do it next spring.”