by Linda Joyce
“Darlin’, a woman can look. Come with me? You’re single. You can touch,” she teased.
Touch him? No. He was too…vivid, too real. Virile. Oozed with sensuality. Just too male.
The man made her hear the blues. In the best possible way.
****
Stepping in front of the screen door of Fleur de Lis, Rex Arceneau observed a woman coming down the stairs. She appeared to float more than walk in a flowing flowered dress and high heels. Elegant. Classy.
Nice legs.
But a pang of disappointment hit him. She wasn’t the same woman who’d stared at him from the window upstairs. Too bad. That woman he wanted to meet. An air of sensuality swirled around her even from a distance. His breath had hitched, just for a second. Her sultry expressive eyes whispered to him the way melodic music tells a story. He wanted to hear the full score of her melody. An image of her lips barely caressing his flashed in his mind. Hot emotion surged through him. The urge to close his eyes and follow the sensual scene to conclusion pushed hard. She’d planted a seed of strong desire, something he hadn’t experienced in a long time.
“May I help you?” The woman in the flowered dress opened the door.
Rex straightened and pulled a business card from the inside pocket of his suit coat. “Arceneau.” He cleared his throat. “Rex. I believe my sister has a booth here. Could you point it out to me? I need to speak with her.”
“I’m Biloxi.” She took the card and scrutinized it. “X. Rex Arceneau. I’m one of the organizers of this event. What’s the X for, Rex?”
“Xavier.” She raised an eyebrow, and he smiled. He was used to people’s reactions to the rather old-fashioned name. “But no one calls me that.” His mother had, but no one else.
“Ahhh,” she said in a way that he couldn’t decipher whether or not she considered it good or bad. “I’ll be right back. I’ll ask my sister to escort you to find your sister. Arceneau’s. Great French Quarter restaurant.”
She left him standing outside on the porch. He hoped the sultry-eyed beauty upstairs was her sister. Turning to face the fountain and the circular drive in front of the house, he tried to distract his mind away from the daydream of her almost-kiss. He scanned the tents. No way to tell one from the other. In the future, if his sister participated in this kind of event, he’d insist on some sort of flag to identify her tent from all the others. Attention to detail set Arceneau’s apart from the competition.
Clasping his hands behind his back, he rocked back on his heels. He’d been clear with Kayla earlier in the week. In their conversation, she’d agreed to abstain from this event—all events—until he finished going through the account books of the restaurant and until her full month as head chef ended. But Kayla had lied and participated anyway. The lying part was something new for her.
The businessman in him squelched his anger because the big brother in him understood she would say anything to placate, smooth the way, and try to please him. Her pattern of behavior since she was a child. Since their mother had died.
“Rex?”
He turned when the screen door opened behind him.
“I’m sorry. I can’t find my sister. She must have taken the elevator down and scooted out the back door.” Biloxi looked at a tablet in her hands. “I have the layout here, and I’ll be able to direct you to your sister.” Her finger rubbed against the touch screen. “It’s the fourth tent”—she pointed to the right side of the driveway—“from the far end.”
“Thank you for the directions.” He started down the stairs to the driveway.
“She’s attracted a lot of guests today. Your sister didn’t just bring food for sampling, she’s hosting cake decorating demonstrations, too.”
Rex turned back at the bottom of the stairs. Raising an eyebrow, he asked, “And what, pray tell, is she cooking?”
Biloxi sniffed. “Do you smell that? Oysters roasting. Served on the half shell. With three different toppings. Also oyster artichoke soup.”
Lifting his chin to sniff as Biloxi directed, he caught sight of the woman with the sultry eyes inching along on the upstairs gallery, her back against the house. Obviously, she hoped to remain unnoticed. Carrying her shoes and a hat, she made a three-step dash and disappeared around the corner. Curious behavior.
“Kayla is a fine chef.” He redirected his gaze to Biloxi.
“We were honored she decided to join this event. And I’m remiss. My condolences on the passing of your father. It’s great to know your sister will carry on the family tradition at Arceneau’s.”
“She is talented.”
But she, like Papa, hasn’t a clue about the bottom line. Red isn’t good. Red means STOP.
Biloxi tilted her head. “Is there anything else I might do for you?”
“Yes.” He paused and cast a glance up to the spot where he’d last seen the captivating woman. Disappointment pricked him. She wasn’t peeking around the corner at him. “Does your sister have long, dark wavy hair, bedroom eyes with a fiery flash in them?” He didn’t mention her feminine curves in the navy blue, body-hugging dress.
“Ah…” Biloxi stammered.
“What’s her name?”
“Nola Bridgette Dutrey.”
“Thank you. I’ll find my sister now.”
Ohh…the famous Nola. Now I have a face to go with a name.
A moment later, he heard the tap of Biloxi’s heels on the wooden gallery above him.
“Rex.”
He turned and looked up at her.
“You might know her as Nola Belle.”
He lifted a finger in salute.
I know all too well about her.
Chapter 2
“No.” Nola gripped her cell phone tighter and stepped into the shade of a large oak tree on the front lawn at Fleur de Lis. The late afternoon delivered the full taste of fresh spring to southern Mississippi, but the conversation triggered a rage washing over her as bold as hot sauce made on Avery Island. “Non-negotiable.”
“Nola, your tone suggests you think I’m asking for something beyond the boundaries of decorum.” The voice belonged to a man who flirted with one foot in purgatory and the other in hell.
“It’s Ms. Dutrey to you.” She had a mind to give him a good shove, sending him to Hades. He was making her life miserable.
After forcing a smile and nodding politely to a passing guest, Nola moved farther away from the crowds at the bridal show. The fair-like atmosphere at her family’s antebellum home was surreal compared to her sordid conversation. The businessman and New Orleans councilwoman’s staff member for Constituent Relations made her itch like poison oak.
“It’s not uncustomary for me to meet with community members on weekends, or even before or after standard working hours. Everything will look respectable.”
“Mr. Broussard—”
“Sweetheart, we’ve got history. We’re past politeness. After all, I still have those photos of you, you know.”
Nola flipped her long hair back and squared her shoulders. Never before had the urge to slap a man welled so strongly. If she didn’t fear hurting her hand, she’d punch an oak tree, but the poor thing hadn’t done anything. It didn’t deserve her wrath.
“Emile—” she said sweetly, changing her tactic. Her momma hadn’t raised a fool.
“Now that’s better.”
“I am not going to meet you for drinks at the Carousel Bar at Hotel Monteleone.” He’d called it “their” place since the noted establishment was where he insisted she sign the lease agreement for the space she rented from him. At the meeting, he tried sliding his room key into her hand. But again, her momma hadn’t raised a fool. Had he really thought she was a member of the twenty-five-dim-watt club?
“Oh, sure you will,” he purred. “You want to keep that converted fire station as headquarters for your band.”
“That’s blackmail,” she snapped. The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them. Okay, so she wasn’t a fool, but too quick on
the draw when faced with an unsavory situation. As her daddy occasionally pointed out, her mouth tended to engage before her brain. But it was because she lived life from her heart. Passion should’ve been her middle name. “There’s a special place in Hades for people like you, Mr. Broussard.”
“This is business. I have other community groups that would kill for the use of that space…if you’re not willing to cooperate.”
“Politics has made you seedy.”
“The fact of the matter is to keep the space—you have to meet with me.”
Fury roiled inside her. Nola stormed toward the back of the house, lest her mouth have another blurt-before-brain moment. The control-hungry, power-abusing, douchebag’s “meet” had connotations that made her see red. Hot. Bloody. She couldn’t stomach him, but she needed to keep the lease on the space.
Leaning against a black ornamental fence post, Nola drew in a slow ragged breath as a soft breeze whispered across her bare arms. She grabbed for the crown of her wide-brim hat in case it took flight. The hint of coolness caused an involuntary shiver. Releasing her breath slowly, she planned her next move in this chess game of wills. To save her kids, to save her band, she had to suck it up. Make nice with Emile. After all, as he’d said, it was business. Nothing personal. The man was lucky she preferred to fight her own battles, otherwise her cousins-in-law, Jared and James, along with her brother-in-law, Nicholas, would make gator bait out of Emile. As much as the man needed to learn some manners, she needed to keep the use of the building more.
“I will agree to meet you.” She pursed her lips, while trying to decide which public place would have the right ambiance. “Not at a bar. Remember, I’m working with children. I want to maintain a respectable appearance.”
Deep throaty laughter on the other end of the phone reminded her of what had first attracted her to him at a karaoke contest the night they met years ago. His joie de vivre intrigued her and that led to a date, but never again. Instead, she mentally made a list of expletives she could mutter about him—they would shock the saltiest tugboat captains on the Mississippi.
“That’s rich! Remember, I was there when Nola Belle made her burlesque debut.”
“You jackalope!” Pushing off the fence, she stalked to the parking area on Loblolly Lane. She couldn’t risk anyone overhearing. “It was a dance show. I never took off my clothes. I shimmied fully dressed. That was a charity event. I had just turned eighteen.” The man would make a good reporter for a sleazy tabloid.
“And what a night to remember. Luscious breasts. Creamy. White. Small waist. Rounded hips made—”
“You have an extraordinary imagination. I was covered head to toe. You could make communion with the Pope sound tawdry.”
“Yes. I. Can.” His voice was low and gravelly like Barry White. Coming from someone else, it would be sexy.
“Mr. Broussard. I will have coffee with you at Jolt. Tuesday, the week after next.” She smiled. He wouldn’t be caught dead in the grunge coffeehouse.
“Not Jolt. And this week. It’s important.”
Dang his countermove!
“I’m working at Harbor House.”
“I know. Perfect. Tuesday it is. I’ll take you for a late supper afterward. We can talk. By the way, I love hearing you sing. Sultry and angelic. Satisfying in the best way.”
The innuendo made her skin crawl. As soon as she ended the call, she would need a shower. Mentally, she ran through a list of nouns and adjectives for his epitaph. Her G. G. Grace had a plethora she’d taught the girls in the family because she strongly objected to twenty-first-century potty mouth. Lecher fit Emile Broussard as well as his custom-made shirts, just enough room around the collar to hang him.
“Nola, I look forward to seeing you at Harbor House.”
She ended the call, but between now and then, she had time to come up with a plan to ensure Mr. Broussard stayed far away from her in the future.
Maybe she could convince the hot guy with the pocket square to act as her date on Tuesday night to squelch any ideas Emile might have.
In the meantime, she had to take the Fleur de Lis Café stage in ten minutes, then hightail it back to New Orleans. The best nights of the week were when she sang at Arceneau’s. And Kayla promised she’d finally get to meet her older brother.
****
Fuming, Rex stepped into the limo. Sometimes his sister could irritate him like a loose tooth. He hated deception. Especially from her.
“You okay?” Marquis, the limo driver, asked. He navigated around the fountain and headed down the long driveway to the main road taking them to New Orleans.
Rex sighed. “Yeah. Let’s go back to the city. All this country air is too much… So, tell me who was fool enough to give you a license, let alone a limo to drive?”
“My day job.” Marquis adjusted the rearview mirror. “Besides, somebody’s got to carry your sorry ass around while you’re here. Might as well be me. And look at you! Last time we broke bread, man, you were wearing a white chef’s coat splattered with finger-lickin’ good sauce. That cool New York chef style at your place, 29N & 90W.”
“That’s only one of my three restaurants. You’ll have to try the others next time.”
“Like I was saying. Never seen you dressed like this”—he flicked his wrist—“like you’re ready for a wedding. You’re so pretty, you could be a groom. You cleaned up again just to come south?”
“Naw, I did this just to see you.” Rex laughed. The suit had been a gift. He’d worn it for a photo shoot that morning. He’d been reluctant to accept it, but the tailor had insisted because the garment had been custom fitted just for him.
“The hell you say. You’re not my type. I like curves.” Marquis waved his hands, outlining a curvy silhouette. “Got my eye on one.”
Rex fidgeted with his cuff links and wondered where he might find his father’s missing gold pair. “No doubt. But I thought you musicians had a woman in every town.”
“Don’t believe the rumors. That’s how words become lies.”
Rex raised an eyebrow.
Not the only way.
Rex rolled down the window as they reached East New Orleans and breathed. How humid air managed to smell distinctly unique was amazing. A tingling sensation spread through his body as though oxygen in his blood carried shouts of “welcome home.” The scents of brackish water and spices filled him. The Cajun and Creole influences found in the cuisine remained a hallmark of the city. Almost drunk on it all, he realized how much he needed recharging. New Orleans provided an energy he soaked up and carried with him everywhere he traveled.
“Sorry about your old man,” Marquis said, as he changed lanes.
“Thanks, but I’m glad the funeral is out of the way.” Was it only three weeks ago? Digging through all his father’s personal and financial affairs had required more time than he anticipated. Daily phone calls to his sister wore him out. It was as though he were fighting a war with her all to ensure she got exactly what she wanted. Why she continued to see him as a threat was baffling. He’d come home for a face-to-face, hoping to preserve his relationship with her.
“How long are ya stayin’ this time?”
Rex shook his head. “That will be determined by several factors. At least a few weeks. Maybe a month.”
“Then I’ll see you in June when you’re back in New York.”
“Yeah? You got a gig?”
“Studio work on a few records. One’s for our hometown piano player. I really appreciate you introducing me to people when I was up there last.”
“Least I could do. Your playing is impeccable. Let’s not wait until then. Let’s have dinner at Arceneau’s one night while I’m here. I’ll introduce you to my sister, the chef.”
“Why have I never met her before? I have seen ads for that sultry thing singing in the upstairs lounge. She’s singing tonight. I’m gonna try to make it by to hear her one night—we can have dinner then. She’s a neighbor of mine.”
“You could
only be talking about Nola Dutrey.”
“Sweet thing, that one. Fiery. Doing some good stuff in the community.”
Rex fought from refuting Marquis’ assessment of the female in question. Once he began reviewing his father’s accounting records, he discovered the Miss Dutrey was associated with some questionable entries. The restaurant paid the woman nearly double the amount listed in her contract. A reason for the improprieties? Regardless, it contributed to the bleeding of the business and Arceneau’s debt. Kayla hadn’t even been aware of the amount of red in the books.
He had a mission. After he fixed the business issues, but before he returned to New York, he had to tell his sister the truth about Papa, and he prayed like hell she wouldn’t slam the door in his face forever.
As the limo traveled surface streets, Rex noticed familiar houses flipping by like pages in a picture book. Purple with white gingerbread trim. Green accented with yellow. He wondered who lived in the pink one with lime-green shutters. Only in New Orleans.
As they drove farther, the neighborhoods transformed from colorful shotgun houses to stately and large homes. The familiarity of home dispelled some of the apprehension lodged in his chest. He loved his childhood Garden District neighborhood. Cherished it. Kayla couldn’t be serious about selling. Their mother’s touch remained everywhere. He needed that connection, the same as he needed the energy from the city, especially now.
“Arceneau family residence,” Marquis said proper-like, pulling to the curb.
“Appreciate the ride.” Rex climbed out of the limo.
“Come by the 12/8 one night when I’m playing.” Marquis leaned against the driver’s door and pushed up the brim of his chauffeur hat. “It’s a new blues bar.”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll bring you up on stage. You can play backup for me.”
Rex shook his head. “Not sure I’m good enough anymore.” He hadn’t picked up his trumpet in six months. Enough time for rust to set into his fingers. But the offer was tempting. There was no feeling as complete as performing in front of a live audience. Maybe if he practiced he could rehab his playing.
