Tell Me Something Good

All names, characters, stories, and incidents
featured in this novel are imaginary. They are not inspired by any
individual person, incidents or events known or unknown to the
author. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is
coincidental. TELL ME SOMETHING GOOD was originally published in
2002. This is a reprint.

2002 Margaret Emery Hubbard

Smashwords Edition

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of this author.

~~~

Lyrissa Rideau stood beside her boss, barely
able to believe he was about to introduce her to the Georgina St.
Denis. She’d chosen her clothes for the occasion with great care.
The soft dove gray silk suit was conservative without being too
severe. A rose blouse beneath the jacket softened the look

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs.
St. Denis.” Shelton Taylor’s voice dripped old New Orleans Creole
charm. “Welcome to Taylor Gallery.”

Georgina St. Denis held a carved mahogany
walking cane, but didn’t lean on it. Her iron gray hair was brushed
back into a French twist at the nape of her neck. “Thank you, Mr.
Taylor.” She inclined her head ever so slightly and gazed at
Lyrissa, a question in her eyes.

“This is my assistant, Lyrissa Rideau.” Mr.
Taylor turned to Lyrissa.

Lyrissa nodded to Mrs. St. Denis with
deference. “Hello.” Mrs. St. Denis gave her a cool smile that was
more a dismissal than a greeting, yet Lyrissa was hardly
intimidated. In fact, she was practically giddy at her own good
fortune. No, that wasn’t accurate. Good fortune implied luck. But
luck had had little to do with this meeting. Lyrissa had made this
day a reality. A careful word in the right circles she’d carefully
cultivated for the last three months had borne fruit. Today the
plum had dropped right into her lap. Perfect.

“Come this way to my office.” Mr. Taylor
paused and turned to Lyrissa. “Would you please get us some
coffee?” “Of course,” Lyrissa said.

“I’ll have decaffeinated cafe au lait,” Mrs.
St. Denis said over her shoulder as she walked on ahead as though
she owned the place. “Doctor’s orders.”

Anxiety flittered across Mr. Taylor’s face.
“Would you mind, Lyrissa?”

“No problem. I’ll get it from CC’s Coffee
House,” Lyrissa said quickly.

“Thank you,” he whispered, handing her a
twenty- dollar bill. “Here. Say a prayer for me. This woman is just
as likely to eat me alive as hire me,” he muttered before scurrying
off after the imperious woman.

Lyrissa laughed. Georgina St. Denis had a
reputation for being a Rottweiler in pearls. She should feel
guilty. After all, Lyrissa was the indirect cause of the poor man’s
panic attack. Yet she was too happy at the prospect of getting
close to the St. Denis family art collection to feel anything but
triumph.

She strode past Mr. Taylor’s office and
around a corner down another hallway. The storage room had a wide
door that led to the alley and a loading dock. A muscular young man
was unpacking a massive cast-iron sculpture.

“Kevin, I’m going out to get coffee for a
potential client. Do you want something?

He stood straight and wiped his forehead with
the back of his hand. “Nah, I’m okay. What’s wrong with the coffee
we got?”

“It’s not decaf cafe au lait,” Lyrissa
intoned in a voice to imitate Georgina St. Denis.

“ ’Scuse me!” Kevin grinned at her. “Guess
we’d better start stockin’ the good stuff.”

Lyrissa waved a hand. “Not necessary. Her
highness won’t be back soon. We’ll be visiting the royal palace
from now on to see her art collection. Sure you don’t want
any-thing?”

“No way. I’m in training. Nothing but bottled
water for me these days.” The young man was on the Southern
University wrestling team.

“What discipline,” Lyrissa said with a grin
and left.

She walked back down the hall toward the side
en-trance and paused outside Mr. Taylor’s office door. The murmur
of voices came through the smooth oak, but she couldn’t make out
the words.

“Maybe if you pressed your ear to it you
could hear better,” a deep voice said.

Lyrissa jumped and turned sharply. “I, I work
here and...”

Her voice died away when she looked into a
pair of eyes the color of dark amber with a hint of green. Shapely,
masculine eyebrows lifted above them. The man stood at least six
feet three inches tall. His skin was the color of vanilla caramel
candy. His face was framed by dark thick bronze curls cut into a
short, neat style that suited him. The custom fit navy linen and
silk jacket did not disguise broad shoulders. Lyrissa imagined an
equally broad chest covered in downy curls. For a moment she forgot
to be embarrassed as she pictured this man naked to the waist.
Before she could undress him further he spoke again, breaking the
spell.

“You get paid to eavesdrop?” His full mouth
lifted at one comer as his dark eyebrows arched even higher.

“Yes. I mean, of course not!” Lyrissa blinked
her way back to reality. His smart-ass tone pinched a nerve. “May I
help you?” she said in her best chilly tone.

“Nice collection,” he said, untouched by the
frost in her voice. He waved a large hand back toward the main
gallery. “Mr. Taylor deserves his reputation, Ms?”

“Lyrissa Rideau. I assist Mr. Taylor in
acquisitions and appraisals.” She extended her hand. She felt a
shock of warmth like a soft electrical charge at the sensation of
his large hand closing around hers. His palm was dry and smooth. He
smiled and revealed even white teeth. Her breath went shallow for a
split second at the sight. This man went from being merely tall and
good-looking to drop-dead gorgeous in the blink of an eye. He let
go of her hand too soon.

“I’ll just look around a bit more.”

“Yes.” Her answer was more a sigh than a
word. She watched his broad back retreat.

Mr. Taylor opened his office door. “I’ll just
check on that, Mrs. St. Denis.” The short wiry man literally bowed
his way out into the hallway. He bumped into Lyrissa. “Where’s the
cafe au lait?”

“Um, just on my way,” she said, craning her
neck to keep the stunning vision in sight

“Excuse me,” Mr. Taylor said sharply. “This
is Georgina St. Denis, okay? You don’t keep this woman waiting for
anything.”

Lyrissa took in a deep breath, and then let
it out. “Right, right. It’ll just take me a few minutes to get
it.”

She flashed an encouraging smile at her
jittery boss, then scurried out the side entrance. Thankfully the
coffee shop wasn’t very crowded. Frank, one of the owners, helped
her. He filled a small black insulated pot with decaffeinated
coffee, then added hot, frothy milk that formed white foam on top.
As she’d promised Mr. Taylor, Lyrissa was back at the gallery
within five minutes. She went to the kitchen and put the pot, white
china cups, and a matching sugar bowl on a red lacquered Chinese
serving tray. With skills gained from working her way through high
school and college as a waitress, she balanced the load expertly on
one hand.

The handsome gentleman appeared from nowhere
again. “Need help?” he asked in that sonorous voice that could melt
the clothes off the coldest woman.

“I’ve got it, thanks.” Of course, Lyrissa
stumbled and the cups rattled ominously.

“Here, let me.” He opened the door to Mr.
Taylor’s office.

Lyrissa rushed to block his view into the
room. She imagined Mr. Taylor’s eyes bulging with alarm. Mrs. St.
Denis was known for her obsession with privacy.

“Thanks, but I’m fine. This is a private
meeting and— damn!” she muttered when the carafe of coffee
wobbled.

He steadied it with one quick motion. “There
you go.”

Mrs. St. Denis sat in one of six forest green
leather chairs arranged around an oval table. “What in the world is
going on? Well, it took you long enough to get here!”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. St. Denis. But—” Lyrissa
began, then realized the royal disapproval was directed at the man
be-side her.

He smiled at Mrs. St. Denis. “It’s not easy
finding a parking space around here, Grandmother. Let me help you,
Ms. Rideau.” He took the tray from Lyrissa and set it on a long
rosewood table against the wall.

Her mouth open in surprise, Lyrissa barely
registered his action. She held her arm up as though the tray was
still there. “Grandmother?” she repeated.

He flashed another dazzling smile at her.
“Noel St. Denis at your service. I’ll pour.”

Mrs. St. Denis accepted a cup from him. “We
don’t have much time, Noel Phillip. We have a meeting at the office
in another hour.”

Noel St. Denis shook his head. “We’ve got
plenty of time. Henderson cancelled. Ms. Rideau?” He handed Lyrissa
a cup.

“Thank you,” she managed to mumble as she
sank into a chair across from Mrs. St. Denis. Noel sat in the chair
next to his grandmother.

“Ah, here we are.” Mr. Taylor came back in.
He looked at the newcomer.

“My grandson, Noel. He’s the CEO of Tremé
Corporation,” Mrs. St. Denis said with obvious pride.

“Pleased to meet you.” Mr. Taylor shook hands
with him. “Here is a sample of the kind of report we would complete
for you if you hire the Taylor gallery to catalog your art
collection.”

Mrs. St. Denis put her cup down on the table
and took the report. The others were silent as she read one page,
then flipped to another. Lyrissa studiously avoided gazing at Noel
St Denis. She was sure her concentration would dissolve if she
looked into those arresting eyes again. A St. Denis, she reminded
herself. The phrase “forbidden fruit”- popped into her head. Noel
St Denis was from a wealthy old New Orleans Creole family.
Correction: make that the old New Orleans Creole family. The St
Denis clan was on the A+ list. These were the same people who
Lyrissa had learned to love to hate. Mrs. St. Denis seemed to
epitomize the breed. Her long, thin nose tilted up so that she
continuously looked down at everything and everyone. Lyrissa
revised her impression of Noel St Denis. The fluid walk that had so
captured her was more arrogance than grace, she concluded. That
charming smile held a trace of condescension. Nice reality check,
girlfriend. Lyrissa knew their kind only too well. Her family had
been slighted and snubbed for at least two generations by these
people.

Fortified, she glanced at Noel. He was
staring at her intently. Lyrissa assumed an impassive expression.
Despite her effort not to be affected, a tingle traveled up her arm
as though he’d touched her again.

“What does provenance mean?” Mrs. St. Denis
tapped a page with one polished fingernail.

“It means the origin or source of the
item—how it was acquired,” Mr. Taylor replied.

“We would list which auction company or
dealer sold you the item,” Lyrissa put in. “But of course, in your
case, most of the items were inherited.”

“Yes, such a fantastic family collection!”
Mr. Taylor’s eyes gleamed.

“Of course, we would describe how your
ancestors acquired each piece,” Lyrissa added and watched the older
woman carefully.

“I see,” Mrs. St. Denis said. She closed the
folder. “Most of our collection is spread out. Over the years we’ve
had a tendency to exchange and lend out paintings, sculptures and
the like. Among only family, of course.”

“Naturally,” Mr. Taylor purred. “More cafe au
lait?” “Thank you.” Mrs. St. Denis reached out the cup to Lyrissa
without looking at her.

Lyrissa pushed down the urge to snap at the
old bat. In-stead, she smiled sweetly and rose as though serving a
St. Denis was a pleasure. When she returned to her seat, Noel was
studying her with a hint of amusement in his eyes.

“We would do our appraisals on-site. No
problem,” Mr. Taylor said, beaming at her.