Tell Me Something Good

by Emery, Lynn

  TELL ME SOMETHING GOOD

  LYNN EMERY

  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

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Read the other three Louisiana Love Series: City Girls novels

  ~~~

  Tell Me Something Good

  Soulful Strut

  Good Woman Blues

  ~~~

  More Novels by Lynn Emery

  ~

  Night Magic

  A Darker Shade of Midnight

  Between Dusk and Dawn

  After All

  A Time To Love

  One Love

  Happy New Year, Baby

  Chapter 1

  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 co
llege 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.

  Mrs. St. Denis frowned. “Wei I don’t want another gallery or museum brought in. If you can’t handle a collection of this magnitude—”

  “I meant myself and Lyrissa,” Mr. Taylor broke in quickly. “No, no. Taylor Gallery would handle everything. Ms. Rideau has a master’s degree in fine art and is working on her Ph.D. in art history. She has over twelve hours of course work from Lindenwood University in professional fine art evaluation.”

  Mrs. St. Denis looked at Lyrissa carefully for the first time. “Really?”

  Lyrissa smiled. “Yes. My particular interest is Louisiana Creole art, especially the influence of immigrants who came to New Orleans from St. Dominique,” Lyrissa said, meeting Mrs. St. Denis’s gaze with confidence. Though upper crust Creoles could still make Lyrissa feel socially inferior, she had no doubts about her credentials.

  “Very good.” Mrs. St. Denis nodded to her slightly, then turned to Mr. Taylor again. “Noel’s secretary will get you a list of the collection.”

  Mr. Taylor smiled with relief and joy. “Excellent! Then we—”

  “Wait,” Mrs. St. Denis raised a hand as though she were a queen shushing a subject. “It’s not complete.”

  “I don’t understand. You don’t have a complete list?” Mr. Taylor’s bushy brows came together.

  Noel cleared his throat “Not complete in the sense that some of the descriptions are vague. For example, pictures may be described without naming the artist. And in some instances we’re not sure which relatives have what pieces.”

  “How many items are we talking about?” Lyrissa asked through clenched teeth. She’d thought locating her family’s painting would be the easy part.

  “We’re not sure,” he said with a lift of one shoulder.

  “You own possibly the most important private collection of Creole and French art in the south, and you don’t know where most of it is?” Lyrissa blurted out before she could stop herself.

  “All the pieces are in the family,” Mrs. St. Denis said crisply. Her light brown eyes flashed a warning signal.

  Mr. Taylor rushed in to head off the rising storm. “I’m sure the entire collection has been well cared for. The St. Denis family has a reputation for refined tastes and a keen appreciation of fine artwork.”

  “Precisely.” Mrs. St. Denis gave Lyrissa one last scouring gaze before turning to Mr. Taylor. “Apparently your employee isn’t familiar with our family history.”

  Lyrissa realized she’d made a tactical error. Her grand-mother had warned her hundreds of times about her smart mouth. She affected an apologetic expression. Noel seemed about to say something—to rescue her? She wondered—but hurried to reply, “I certainly didn’t mean to imply otherwise, Mrs. St. Denis. It’s just such a surprise, given the value of your collection. I do know that your hard work and attention to detail made Tremé Corporation what it is today.”

  The older woman’s severe expression relaxed in the face of a personal compliment “Well, my husband and I built the business together.” She sighed. “But the young woman has a point. There’s no excuse for not having a complete list.”

  Lyrissa said a silent prayer of thanks. At least her quick tongue had gotten her out of this tight spot. “Actually it’s not uncommon in large, wealthy families for art to be sprea
d out.” She smiled widely at the older woman.

  “Yes, yes,” Mr. Taylor said. “Now I’ll go over our con-tract with you.”

  “I’ll go out front to make sure Kevin doesn’t need help in the gallery. I look forward to seeing you both again,” Lyrissa said, smiling at Mrs. St Denis and then eyeing Noel. She closed the door behind her and clasped her hands together. “Yes!”

  She was still grinning when she walked to the main gallery. Kevin had arranged the placement of a cast iron sculpture of three dancers in flight on a granite pedestal. He stood back, both hands on his narrow hips, to examine his handiwork.

  “How’s that, Lyrissa?” he asked.

  “Perfect. Any customers here?”

  “A lady is in the red room looking at the paintings. I’ll bet she’s just killing time on her lunch hour.”

  “How can you tell?” Lyrissa played their usual game. Mr. Taylor had trained the young man to spot the serious customers with money to spend.

  Kevin grinned. “For one thing, she acted too snooty to me. Real rich folks don’t waste any time on us little people. They don’t see you at all.”

  Lyrissa laughed. “You’ve learned well, my son. Take those two,” she said gesturing toward Mr. Taylor’s office. “They’re the real thing. Old money and old family name.”

  “I gotcha. We better smile when they treat us like dirt.” Kevin joined her in laughter. “I’ll get back to the salt mines.” He headed for the storage room again.

  Noel St. Denis stepped from behind a wide decorative screen that came from Madagascar. “We’re not as bad as you think.”

  “Oh I, uh ...” Lyrissa looked into his shrewd eyes and decided flattery wouldn’t work She gave him her most winning smile. “You got me.”

  He smiled back. “It’s okay. Grandmother is used to being in charge.”