Putty in Her Hands

by Lynn Shurr

  Shrugging out of the sports coat he’d worn to the tax auction in the lobby of the parish courthouse, Remy got down and studied the boot prints in the mud leading into the thicket. Yes, small in size, probably some teen who’d borrowed his daddy’s truck. No others, so the kid came alone. Remy figured he’d scare the bejesus out the boy and send him on his way. At least, the culprit had pushed through the brambles and cleared the path for him. Usually, Remy approached from the bayou side, tying up his motorboat to a rotting pylon from the old pier, but seeing the truck parked here on his way from the courthouse made him pull over to assert his new rights over the building.

  Hammering, sharp as gunshots, sounded in the moisture-laden air. Bang, bang, bang. For sure, some guy trying to break in or destroy Broussard property. Remy gripped his shotgun barrels-down, and moved between the two live oaks forming an arch with their intertwined branches. Once out of their shade, the brambles began. He should have been thankful to the kid for breaking the way, but the vandal wasn’t as tall as himself. A wild blackberry cane nearly whipped across his face before he deflected it with his free hand, earning a scratch and a spray of fine thorns across his knuckles. Lower vegetation tore at his dress shirt, but below that he wore sensible jeans and sturdy shoes up to the hike.

  The hammering continued in even, steady strokes more like a project in progress than haphazard breaking and entering. He followed the noise to the source. The banging covered the sound of his arrival. Keeping the shotgun muzzle low, he paused to observe the miscreant for a moment. Light build, small shoulders, slim hips, snug jeans that didn’t sag under the weight of a low-slung tool belt, tanned arms, strong but not muscular, and best of all a thick fall of dark hair showing glints of red beneath the hot sun—not a dude at all. Remy Broussard was about to scare the shit out of a girl who appeared to be boarding up, not tearing down.

  She finished driving in the last nail of the highest board, slung her hammer back into its loop, turned, and froze as Remy raised his shotgun to hip level and twanged in old-timey western cowboy style, “You’re trespassin’ on my property, little lady.”

  He expected her rather grubby hands to shoot into the air in surrender. Instead, they came to rest on either hip, one on the head of the hammer, the other on the crook of a crowbar. For a woman that he topped by at least six inches, she had a rather commanding voice. “I didn’t see any signs, so not trespassing. As you can see, I’ve been boarding up the place after a short visit to satisfy my curiosity. Nothing stolen. No harm, no foul. You can go inside and see for yourself. I’ll be leaving now if you lower your weapon and clear the pathway.” She took a few steps forward and unholstered the hammer. Looked like they had an old-fashioned standoff.

  “I just purchased this property. The No Trespassing signs are in my truck.”

  “I had no way of knowing that when I arrived, Mr. Broussard.”

  She had bright blue eyes shaded by dark brows and lashes set off by an olive complexion, one of his favorite combinations in women, though he always seemed to date blondes. He appraised her from the heavy soles of her work boots to the crest of her ponytail with a short pause at a high set of breasts. Unfortunately, those blue eyes looked pissed. Maybe it was the little lady remark—or his appraisal. Son of a lawyer and well-educated, he had none of the Cajun accent some of his older relatives possessed, but his mother had been a true Mississippi magnolia blossom and at times, he liked to mimic her soft drawl. “You seem to have the advantage, my dear. And you are?”

  “Julia Rossi of Regal Restorations.” She took a step closer, moving into hammer throwing range.

  He detected an undercurrent of anger in her tone. A preservationist, then, who’d somehow sussed out his intentions. He moved the stock of shotgun crosswise in front of his groin. He’d been hit in the balls by an irate woman when he called off their romance before offering a ring. A hammer to the gonads equaled unthinkable pain. He stepped aside and made a courtly gesture toward the overgrown path. “Your pickup truck awaits you, milady. Feel free to go unmolested.”

  He gave her plenty of space as she strode past him in her small, somehow endearing, work boots, but she stopped at the entry and pivoted to face him. Did she think he’d shoot her in the back? Remy laid the shotgun carefully in the weeds to make her feel safer. Julia moved toward him, hammer still in hand, so maybe not a good idea to disarm, but he thought he could wrest it from her hand if necessary.

  “I know what you plan to do!” she accused.

  “No, really, I won’t pepper your backside with buckshot or press charges.” He’d almost said cute, little backside, but she hadn’t holstered the hammer and didn’t seem in a playful mood.

  “You plan to destroy this wonderful old building and put up some modern garbage that won’t last forty years. Have you really taken a good look at her and imagined what she might become with some care and investment?”

  He hadn’t been inside the Bayou Queen in years, not since he tried to seduce the local girls during his summer visits to his grandparents by daring them to spend the night with him in the supposedly haunted precincts. Only one had gone along with it until she balked at laying down a sleeping bag over the crunchy carcasses of wood roaches and flushing a few live ones as well. Still, they’d had a good enough time in the back of granddad’s pickup while sharing a couple of six-packs of beer.

  All his defensive hackles went up. “I have investors and good plans for the property. Only the acreage is worth anything, and the hotel will be a bitch to tear down. This town needs some upscale condos, not another rundown relic.”

  “There we disagree. An historic hotel can bring in a continuous cash flow generated from many visitors, not simply from the immediate sale of condos.”

  She’d reached poking distance and lightly tapped the head of her hammer against the space over his heart to make her point. Julia Rossi smelled of dust and the light lady sweat that plastered her royal blue T-shirt against those two high, firm breasts almost rubbing against his chest. The lush, dark hair—the kind a man might like to run his fingers through—gave off the lemony scent of creamy, white magnolias. “We could discuss this further over lunch,” Remy found himself saying.

  Julia Rossi backed up. “I’m hardly in any condition to go out for lunch.”

  “Not at the Opera House restaurant, but Down by the Riverside is pretty rustic. Believe me, they’ve seen worse. As long as you have on a shirt and shoes, you’re good. Maybe you can change my mind, or I can change yours. Great crab cakes. Tempted?”

  “I do love a great crab cake. Okay, the sun is overhead, and we both need to eat.” She holstered the hammer.

  “Like a true gentleman, I will lead the way, hold back the brambles, and fend off the snakes.”

  Julia nodded and followed him into the wilderness surrounding the Bayou Queen. He deflected the thorny plants, holding them away from her with the sleeve of his dress shirt. After she refused an invitation to ride with him, he offered a hand up into the cab of her truck, which she also declined. Clearly, his southern charm hadn’t won her over, as it did most women, but Remy would figure her out eventually. He always did.

  Chapter Three

  Julia waited for the charming Mr. Broussard’s vehicle to disappear from sight. He drove a truck, far newer than hers, and a vibrant red color more suitable to a sports car. To give him some credit, the sides were splashed with mud as if he did take it out on the back roads to check on construction sites. Her uncles would show disdain for the color but respect the dirt. They often judged men by their trucks, and so did she after working with them for so long.

  She doubted if they carried the same equipment. Julia peeled off her soaked T-shirt and replaced it from a pile of Regal Restoration tees on the front seat. When working in the heat, she often changed several times a day. She shucked the tool belt and tucked in the shirt. From the glove compartment, she took a packet of Wet Wipes, cleaned her hands, and rubbed her face with another, as she wore no makeup today. Slightly grateful t
hat she kept her dark brows shaped and her lashes were naturally long and full, Julia swiped on a slash of hot pink lipstick using the rearview mirror. She took down her ponytail and finger-combed away the hat hair. A few little ringlets formed around her face as they often did in humid weather. Nothing she could do about the work boots. A quick spritz from a small bottle of perfume, and she was ready to go. No, she wasn’t primping. The man might be a future client if she could be convincing enough.

  Of course, Remy Broussard beat her to the bustling restaurant—judging by the crowded parking lot—serving a substantial lunch crowd. She spotted his truck at once, but had to wait for another to move before she could get a space. Like the gentleman he claimed to be, the man waited for her in the reception area. His long, lean form lounged against the distressed cypress wall covered with old advertising signs. He wore a white dress shirt open at the neck, complete with cufflinks, belted into jeans with just enough wear to seem authentic. Eyes dark as a moonless night, midnight hair side-parted, but combed back, definitely styled in a place without a barber pole outside like Ike’s of Chapelle. She studied him exactly as he’d leered at her not too long ago, from those compelling eyes to his rugged shoes with a brief stop at his crotch.

  His face, also lean and clean-shaven, delivered a wicked, white, deep-dimpled smile in Julia’s direction. Damned if he hadn’t enjoyed her inspection. “I thought you might have gotten lost.”

  Oh, a woman could get lost in those dark eyes, be seduced by that devilish smile. She felt a pulse of lust not experienced lately, a year or more actually, if she were honest with herself. Too bad they were already on opposite sides, but not too deeply in conflict yet. Still, nations rose and fell, battles were won and lost in the bedclothes at times. She tried to shake the idea out of her head, but it wouldn’t leave voluntarily. He took that as part of her response to his question.

  “No, just wanted to clean up a little. I’m more convincing without a soaked T-shirt.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on that.” Before she could come back with a snappy retort, he said, “They’re holding a table for us,” and pointed the way to a cozy spot for two with a view of the bayou and a gaily painted Victorian house across the water.

  Julia led the way and almost reached their destination before she heard, “Hey, Jules, over here! We got plenty of room for you.”

  Oh great, the uncles had decided to dine out instead of making hero sandwiches in the motorhome. They sat behind massive seafood platters half devoured, the delicate leg bones of frogs stripped of their meat, the crab shells empty of stuffing, and a central cup of seafood gumbo drained. Plenty remained: fried oysters and shrimp, a fish fillet, and a patty of some kind. A crab claw appetizer plate still held a few pinchers ready to dip into sauce. The waitress stopped to ask if they want a second beer. Glancing at Julia, they shook their heads and stuck to ice water. “Say, our niece and her friend are going to join us. Okay?”

  Since that meant a bigger tip, the server hurried to grab napkin-wrapped cutlery from a vacant table and ask for their drink orders. With no choice left, Julia slipped into the chair Remy held out for her next to Uncle Sal. He offered a hand to Uncle Sammy, who wiped his greasy fingers with a napkin before accepting, and leaned across the table to shake with Sal, smooth as if no plans had been upset.

  “Remington Broussard,” he said in introduction since Julia hadn’t taken care of that.

  She dove in. “My uncles, Sal and Sam Rossi, the most important members of the Regal Restorations team. Mr. Broussard is, um, a potential client.” She noticed his dark brows rose, but he didn’t deny it. She had to establish a business relationship before her relatives started to interrogate him as a potential husband instead of the sexual playmate she had in mind.

  “Polish off those crab claws while you wait, why don’t ya,” Sammy offered, his broad face made even wider by his grin. “So, what’s the nature of your project?”

  Since Remy casually selected a claw by the tip, dunked it into spicy cocktail sauce, and sucked the bit of exposed meat from the cartilage, Julia rushed to answer for him. “Mr. Broussard owns the old hotel I checked out this morning. You should see the coffered ceiling in the ballroom. It’s not nearly as bad as it seems. We could do molds from the best of the squares to replace the worst, and repair the others. Some new gilding and it would be magnificent. The walls have cracks of course, but those can be patched.”

  When Remy failed to match her enthusiasm, Uncle Sal chipped in. “Nothing like lime plaster. Withstands damp, doesn’t mold or mildew, not like gypsum or Jesus God, that wallboard they use today. Jules knows her plaster, and if she says it can be salvaged, she’ll be right.”

  Remington Broussard mustered a polite smile. “An unusual profession for a woman, plasterer.”

  “We taught her all she knows. This kid could do perfect flat work on walls and ceilings by the time she turned seventeen. Her daddy wanted better for her, though. Sent her off to college to study history, then historic preservation, and picked up some business courses too, but she worked with us summers saving the money for her education. Some of the old guys around gave her training in ornamental plaster, but we all thought she’d fly the coop once she had those fancy degrees.” Sammy made a pair of fluttering wings out of his thick fingers since Sal was busy attacking his baked potato side dish. “But, turned out our girl liked getting her hands dirty more than working up stuff on a computer. Now, she does both. No one puts on a finish coat as well as Jules.”

  The waitress arrived with the unsweet tea for Julia and a glass of red wine for Remy. He ordered the large bowl of chicken-sausage gumbo, which came with French bread and potato salad. She selected a lady-like seafood salad. The server carried away empty salad bowls and beer bottles to make room and allowed the conversation to continue.

  “Very interesting,” Remy said.

  Sal took over. “Yep, Jules made contacts, turned us into Regal Restorations when we were once only plasterers working on old buildings in New Orleans. Now we can do the whole shebang. Her daddy would be so proud of his baby girl if he’d lived to see this day. And you, what’s your game?”

  “Architect, mostly high-rises and condos. I generally supervise my own projects.” He sipped his wine.

  Throat suddenly dry, Julia gulped her tea.

  “Remington Broussard, Remington Broussard.” Sal pondered. He pointed a finger across the table. “You’re the guy who lives in the house they call the Black Box across the bayou and a little upstream from the Alleman Plantation. Marv Holcomb is planting non-invasive bamboo to blot out the sight from Getty’s backyard.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I designed the building. I’m aware the locals don’t appreciate its style and call it that, but I believe the world has enough room for all types of architecture. No need to be mired in the past.” Apparently, Mr. Broussard took no offense.

  Uncle Sammy, always the more jovial of the pair, said, “I bet that place is a chick magnet. Can’t see much inside because of the tinted glass, but at night that staircase to the stars shows up when the lights are on. I do believe I’ve seen some female forms moving up and down too.”

  “Possibly my mother or sister visiting, but maybe we both need bamboo hedges,” Remy remarked mildly. “The first floor is my office with an outside deck and dock. The second is my living room and kitchen, the third my bedroom and bath. Both have balconies overlooking the bayou. I’d be glad to give you a tour anytime—day or night.”

  He said those last words with his eyes on Julia’s face, closing out the uncles for a moment that appeared almost intimate. Sammy missed the suggestion, but not Sal sitting next to Jules. In his youth, he’d possessed the red hair that sometimes popped up among the appropriately named Rossi family. Now with it mostly gone, what remained was shaved close to the scalp. However, his temper remained fiery. Sal’s wide face, full of faded freckles, colored. “You hitting on my niece? Because we stand in for her father now.”

  “Aw, come on, Sal. He don’t mean
nothing, do you?” Sammy elbowed Remy with a brawny arm covered in dark hair, maybe a little harder than necessary for a friendly gesture.

  The man straightened in his chair and offered Sal a cordial smile. “The invitation extends to all of you of course.”

  The arrival of the gumbo and seafood salad saved the day. Their waitress deposited a refilled bread basket on the table. “Anything else I could get for you, boys?”

  “Maybe some more of the honey butter. Bet it’s as sweet you are, babe,” Sam answered. Despite toting a sold middle-aged gut, he still had all of his hair, a crown of salt-and-pepper curls, and his tendency to flirt intact.

  The waitress, also middle-aged, plump, busty, and experienced, smiled. “Not half as sweet as our white-chocolate bread pudding, a house specialty, Junior Polk’s own recipe. Can I interest you in dessert, cher?”

  “Love when women talk to me in French. Yeah, I’ll take some,” Sammy said.

  Sol, scowling, added. “Yeah, make that two.”

  Clearly, he had no intention of leaving Julia alone at the table with the Broussard guy. Both uncles would stay protectively by her side until they finished eating, not allowing her to get down to the nitty-gritty concerning the Queen. Sometimes working with family was so frustrating. Whenever they left New Orleans, Aunt Franny exhorted her niece to keep Sam away from other women, and Aunt Rosa begged Julia to make Sal stay out of bars where he’d likely get into a scrape. Usually, doing heavy work in the heat took care of both problems as the men turned in early to get a sunrise start before the temperature rose, but sometimes Julia got tired of babysitting them both. At times, she’d posted bail and warned off Sam’s latest conquest. They in turn guarded her virtue like two giant foo dogs whether she wanted them to or not.

  “We got the time to see your place today. We’re waiting for the brown coat to dry. Shoulda been finished by the end of February, but all the goddamned rain this year set us way back. Good thing our slate man finished up the roof early or there could have been more damage. Most of that was in the attic.” Sal helped himself to more bread as the waitress carried away the remains of the stuffed potatoes still encased in foil.